Some Fancy Artwork and Whatnot

I drew this in 10 minutes, trying to do one thing, and then falling back into my normal half-assed artistic inclinations. It's got a few titles:

• Kindly Letting Down the Inept Artist at the Swanky Low-Brow Gallery Opening
• Am I Getting This Low-Brow Art Reference Right? Shag is Considered Low-Brow, Right? I Guess He's the Only One I Know.
• Aren't You Unemployed? Shouldn't You Be Applying to Jobs in the time You're Doodling?
• I Can't Believe I Like the Alkaline Trio Song "Burn" These Days. It's Bad Enough I'm Still Listening to Music I liked in 8th Grade.

And finally:

• Did Anyone Have a Running Pool for When Spencer was going to Start Going a Tad Insane? I Think Anyone Who Has This Monday Won the Pool.

I kid, obviously. But I'll probably start writing in this again. I may or may not spend at least a couple days formulating a really solid and then hastily (and definitely not proof-read) write something about Adventuretime with Finn and Jake. I'll give you a preview: I think it's swell, and I have an angry young auteur to thank for turning me on to it.

Man, Holidays Not Associated With Jesus or Pilgrims Are Lameeee

It seems like every non-religious/patriotic based holiday these days end up being kind of a downer for the ol' Spence-meister*. Even a holiday that seems infallible for a imbibing type fella like me seems to be a little less fun this year, for mainly two reasons.

Let's start with how I woke up. I couldn't hear very well out of my left ear. This had been happening regularly, actually, but it went away pretty quickly. The general consensus of the Amateur Board of Physicians of America that I've been consulting with is that I probably just need my ear rinsed by a doctor with their fancy doctor tools.

Me being me, I put that shit off until I couldn't hear well for a day and a half. I plan on seeing a doctor tomorrow, so I'll go two days without hearing much from good ol' left-ear. Imagine if you shoved a really effective ear plug in your ear, then for good measure, covered it with your hand as well. That's how I feel. Kinda weird.

So, not a good way to start things off, but nonetheless, I powered through the day. As you may remember from the last time I blogged, I am now an intern, so I went to said internship, and was (quite benevolently) allowed to leave early, which gave me time to venture to the delightfully dive-y sports bar right next door that I had been eyeing since I arrived here.

I thought to get a Guinness, because, you know, I'm a walking stereotype, but plans changed when I saw they had domestic beer food-colored to be green. That's even more gravy for the stereotype sect, and I had yet to have a green beer ever, because last St. Patty's (my first legal one, if you're keeping track) the Irish pub I was at didn't think to do that, not sure why (trying to be classy? I don't know; either way, their bad).

I digress though. Green beer. Me--tired, weird ear, but excited because green beer! I'm only having one because I have to drive home and I've been up for far too long, but I wanted to celebrate what is nominally one of the more fun holidays.

This is where shit goes wrong.

It starts with a pretty girl. I'll call straight talk on this one; I don't think I've ever been approached by a random pretty girl in a place where alcohol is. Me being tired and down one functioning ear, not to mentioned still very sunburned from being out in the sun all day two days prior, I am decidedly out of my element when this happens, more so than I'd usually be out of my element.

But, in my head, I'm like, maybe this will be cool. I'm not a terrible looking dude, and my shoulders are slightly broader due to me diligently exercising specifically my shoulders. Perhaps I've become a magnet to the opposite sex in the past three weeks.

I start getting nervous, but in an excited way. She finally sets her green beer down on the opposite side of the counter where I am sitting by myself.

"Are you Mark Zuckerberg?"

Shit. I don't even know how to respond in a clever way, because I woke up 14 hours ago, and had been in the office for 12. My brain was so excited about the green beer that it was too focused on that. I'm a sucker for novelty.

"No, I'm not," I try to stammer out with a chuckle.

"No, you areeeee. I loved you in The Social Network." She informs me.

But this is confusing. Am I Mark Zuckerberg, or Jesse Eisenberg at this point? Which is the lesser of two evils? Is this decidedly blonde woman an anti-Semite? Again, can't process this all, because, green beer.

We talk for a little more, she explains she's been drinking green beer all night and is just messing around. She introduces me to her brother from a distance, who looks drunk and ornery and very quickly shoots out at me, "Hey, that's my baby sister" with an ominous tone.

All the while, I can't hear shit. I tell her this was my first green beer ever and I was very excited about it.

"Ever?!" She asks. I nod yes.

"So, you're like, what, 22 and a half?"

"Like, 22 and a quarter, I think."

What followed was an "oh my goshhhhh" look, and a quick farewell.

"It was nice meeting you; you were a good sport," I barely hear her say. She goes back to her table.

I finish the rest of my beer, sitting again on my own. I start to think about watching more of "The Trailer Park Bo--" WAIT A SECOND. What was that look? Was I too young for her or something? Was she hitting on me? Holy shit, that would be awesome! Maybe I'm awesome!

But then again, if I was a surrogate for Jesse Eisenberg or Mark Zuckerberg (both?), maybe that wasn't the most flattering come-on that could happen.

So then I just went home and watched "The Trailer Park Boys," had a Guinness (Extra Stout!), and pondered over whether I should work on improving my posture.

It was a weird night I felt like sharing. Happy Friday, everyone. I'll spare you all a Rebecca Black joke here.

*Oh God, I just typed that. I should probably edit it out when I'm done writing all of this.

What A Ride

Well, of course it would be anticlimactic, me missing my first blog of the year.

I was shaving and thought, ah shit; it's 11:54 and I forgot to blog. Not even a cool coming of age story involving some manic pixie dream girl*

But there is a good reason I forgot. You see, I started the morning in San Diego as an unemployed loafer trying to be productive by at least writing once a day. By the end of the day, I was in Los Angeles as an intern, and am now prepping to be so I can wake up at the earliest time I've woken up since well over a year ago.

As it is mostly a full time gig for a while, the update schedule for this blog will switch from "once a day" to "whenever I have something good to write about." I'm not sure when this will happen, but let's assume it'll be this weekend.

Until then, thanks for putting up with the narcissism on my part for thinking people were interested in the most mundane things I had to say every day for about 71 days. Knowing there are people who will indulge this means that I keep good company, and the world is probably a mostly swell place, all things considered. Well, all things considered, maybe not, but take the good when you can get it, I guess. You probably know what I'm getting at.

*I assume most of you read the AV Club and understand this reference. If you don't, you should look it up, cuz it means you'll probably start reading the AV Club, because it's neat.

Losing

Alright, I suck, because I put off writing once again. But that's not important because I watched The Losers just now, and boy oh boy, is that one a treat.

Depending on whether or not you hate yourself, that is.

I kid, I kid.  But I also don't.

I oftentimes spend a lot of time thinking about films like this more than movies I just flat out like, because I find what I call "bad cinema" a little more interesting from an analytical standpoint. And The Losers is chock full of bad cinema.

Is it entertaining? I dono, kinda, not really. Are there a lot of explosions? Fuck yeah. Does it make effectively post-modern use of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing?" Absolutely it did.

If you're drunk, bored and watching HBO, are under the age of 16, in your twenties and haven't read a book since junior year of high school, it's definitely an enjoyable movie. But that's a lot of circumstance.
If you watch it as a 22 year old unemployed former film student who watched a lot of student films desperately striving to be "cool," not good, you kind of get annoyed.

But it's an interesting case study in bad cinema, because it uses every play in the bad action playbook. EVERY ONE. Hyper saturated overblown handheld cinematography, gratuitously long and mostly unnecessary sex scene, bad comic relief, strong silent type, scenery chewing bad guy played by a pretty good actor who is mostly underutilized but was obviously a character they were banking on to be popular... I could keep going, but I gotta go take a shower.

Anyway, I would recommend it if you're not a snob, or if you're a snob who thinks it's more fun to scoff at bad shit than talk about why Black Swan's adherence to the melodramatic style of ballet was brilliant, or something.

Remember What I Said the Title for Today's Post Was? I Lied.

My previously planned post is derailed by the fact that today is Mardi Gras, a holiday I've never celebrated as a result of being either underage, not an old school Catholic, or resistant to French culture*. But today, my mind isn't working well enough to pay tribute to something that was a pretty big deal in my insular home life, so I'll call a brevity day today as a result of a holiday. One that I fully intend to kind of celebrate this year.

That is to say, if at one point tonight I'm at a bar, and some girl shows everyone her boobs for beads, I'll probably not look away or anything. Not gonna not see some boobies and say "Nope! No Mardi Gras for me!"

You now realize, after that one paragraph, why I didn't try to write anything serious today.

*Totally joking, kind of.

Canonized

I'm going to tell you this flat out: I bought a really fancy DSLR camera today, and I'm not posting any photos, because I'm lazy today and didn't figure out how to put them on my computer. Also, I had too much fun, you know, taking pictures. Deal with it. And by deal with it, I mean wait until tomorrow.

I bought a Canon 7D for two reasons: 1) I wanted to take nice photos of the towering star pine that is a landmark of my home that will be dismantled tomorrow and 2) I never wanted to have to buy a Mini-DV tape whenever I wanted to make something. Check and check. I hope I become more productive as a result.

To further help productivity, I watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind today. Holy gosh, I forgot how good of a movie that is. I forgot about how much I kind of liked it as a 10th grader eating Applebees to-go by myself while my friends were at their Winter Formal (it's cool, I was totally having a great time and don't need girls or socializing to be happy, so I told myself), but now how much I really like it as a 22 year-old who respects cinematic craft and sad-sack characters who can't make eye contact with women he hasn't met*. I'll probably write about it some time in the future with a little more depth. It deserves to be not glossed over, as it's one of the few films in recent history that really did something different. Cool stuff.

Anyway, tune in tomorrow for a very special blog: "Goodbye, Star Pine." Very special, in that I really like that title.

*Hey, me too, Jim Carrey! (Quick disclaimer: This is mostly a joke)

Big Prelude Sunday

Tomorrow, I'm going to make the largest (somewhat) recreational purchase of my adult life. As such, I've been quite distracted today. Nonetheless, here's a good point that should be made every once in a while:

Edgar Wright is a very good filmmaker. I say this as I watch Hot Fuzz and type without looking at the screen. Only an obsessive film nerd such as myself would ever really notice how good he is, but it's worth noting that his films have trivia tracks on the DVDs, which would help give someone a better clue as to how awesome he packs things into his movies.

I can't say enough good things about him, but for now, this will suffice. I'll see you tomorrow, journal-bloggy-thingy.

My Allegiances are Shifting

I oftentimes say weird and repetitive things to myself in an attempt to be clever. One I do at lot is, "Growing up means ________" followed by a self deprecating joke or something, or an honest observation.

One I came up with this week in that format was, "Growing up means developing crushes on women like Bonnie Hunt."

She was in the film I Want Someone to Eat Cheese With for a total of about fifteen minutes, and was quite possibly the most appealing woman I've seen on film in quite some time. But, still, it's weird to be attracted to a woman in her late forties that is by no means an age-defying beauty. That sounds wrong/bad, but I mean it in a good way.

But the thing is it's weird that I was attracted to her more than someone like that brunette girl from "Glee." I guess the shift to personality and likability over general hotness and stuff. It's weird, is all I'm saying.

But then again, I watched part of Doomsday in between napping and thinking almost constantly, good God Rhona Mitra is super hot. So maybe I'm not totally grown up.

I'm late to the game on this but...

Look at this.  Look at this baby.



It's adorable, yes. I watched this video and thought, shit, I should have a kid soon! Maybe he'll* be as awesome as that thing! I have never had that thought before in my entire life until then, which is a weird sign of me growing up I guess, which I'll go into more tomorrow.

But think about how weird technology is. That baby has been viewed six million times. Six million. I imagine at eight months, I probably would have been viewed by maybe a thousand or so, and I wasn't nearly as adorable as that baby, as I was probably asleep or doing less entertaining things than perpetually laughing at torn-up paper.

Six million people. Imagine if they get paid even cents per view; that eight-month old could pay for college. And more so, when that kid is in college, he'll have been viewed exponentially more than most human beings may be in their entire life.

Also, Charlie Sheen is apparently going to get paid tons of money to twitter.

All I'm saying is, the internet is crazy.

*I never imagine having a daughter in hypothetical situations, which means the joke will probably be on me if I have a kid, statistics be damned, forces in the world will conspire against me to defy stats and give me a daughter, I just know it.

Devastating Thursday

Without much thought, I determined my evening would be spent the way most of my Thursdays are--watching NBC's comedy lineup, minus "Perfect Couples" (due to a refusal to watch Olivia Munn*) and "Outsourced" (how do people not find that show kind of offensive? I guess because people don't watch it?). The problem was that the episodes tonight were not new. More so, they were all episodes of "The Office," which is honestly the one I can take or leave at this point.

I know the blame should be on me for not checking earlier in the day to see if the episodes were in fact new, that a lot of the reason I'm probably hanging out by myself playing video games for the night, but I spent a good half hour being mad at my television, an inanimate object.

Then I started thinking that the problem wasn't the TV, but the fact that I'm socially inept. But see, that's what's so great about TV, is that they make the socially inept part of a club of people who laugh together, learn together, and understand things socially because TV has a good way of subtly explaining things to people.

We're all a little bit of Abed ("Community" character, if you didn't get the reference, please stop reading and watch all of the show right now), and without a new lineup, I'm forced to realize I might be doing something wrong in terms of being a functioning human.

But then I realize I have video games and the first season of "Community" on DVD. So all's well. I'll stave off becoming well-adjusted for the next time there isn't anything new on, and the paintball episode gets boring (probably never).

*I begrudgingly watch some of her "Daily Show" bits, with me guffawing at her lack of sense of humor.

Notes From Wednesday

Nothing big to write about, also got sidetracked during the day. Here's some random thoughts.

I've been contemplating buying a DSLR camera for a long while. They're those digital cameras that real serious-like photographers use, but with technology getting better, they also have the capability to record some stunningly awesome hi-def video, real neat shallow depth-of-field type stuff that I won't go into for fear of losing your interest (if I haven't already). This was important today because I went through the mental process of contemplating selling my Panasonic DVX, the outdated (yet still quite pretty in terms of image) video camera I first bought with my own money after saving up my money from working at a movie theater for around a year. It has sentimental value for those reasons, but I rarely use it. Still, I feel like it's a good token of the few times I've worked hard to buy something I really wanted. It's still the most expensive thing I've ever purchased on my own.

As you can tell, I already talked myself into keeping it, for two reasons. The aforementioned sentimental value, and the fact that every day I don't sell it, it's value decreases exponentially. But, really, it's mostly just because I love the damn thing so much, and I think about the good times I had just messing around with it and my friends on the few projects I did with it in high school.

This made me realize two things: 1) I am a packrat, and 2) I'm obsessively nostalgic. I'm not sure either of these are good things, though I'd like to think nostalgia, if viewed as a vice, is probably a better one than, I don't know, being a dick.

Also, I saw The King's Speech last night. If I had seen it sooner, I could have predicted its Oscar win ahead of time.

Not because of the fact that the Weinsteins are good at buying their Oscars (I guess they are, according to people who know these things), or that the movie was in fact one of the best pictures of the year (it totally is, though not sure it's the best but this is neither the place nor time to rant about Oscars).

It's the only film in the best picture categories that have corgis in it.

No one can resist corgis.

Here's a video of a corgi playing around a dock. It's wearing a doggie life preserver.



If you can resist that, I assume you've lost use of your soul, and you probably shouldn't be reading my blog or watching movies. You should go on a vision quest and find your spirit animal or something. Not sure how one really goes about regaining a soul.

And Now For Something Completely Different

You guys all know I get really bored a lot of the time. But only my friend Grant knows that I spend a lot of my time being bored listening to samples of guitar effects, amps, and guitars in general. These things are endlessly entertaining, not so much for the pleasure of hearing the actual effects, but for how completely goofy the music often sounds. There's a term called guitar wanking, which, if you've ever been in Guitar Center, you've probably heard. That's about what happens on these equipment samples.

And if you're really lucky, Johnny DeMarco is the guy playing the samples and talking about them.



It's really goofy stuff, and obviously not indicative of any type of music that is actually popular in the world outside of people who really dig guitar virtuosity (of which there are few, and most of them only listen to Paul Gilbert and these clips).

Anyway, I mess around on guitar a lot when I'm bored of listening to other people play in a wank-tastic fashion during effect samples, which is already a result of boredom. So I'm doubly bored when I start playing guitar, which means I get sidetracked a lot.

I know, who would expect me to get sidetracked? I have such a straightforward blog that never goes on tangents.

Today I tried to record a surf rock-style song, but got too annoyed at my laptop microphone's inability to make things sound good. I was also bored, so my attention span was short, so I stopped trying to get it right.

The problem is, though, that I decided I as going to post a bit of music on this here blog. I figured it'd be a time to live up to the title of my blog in forcing myself to do things I relaly don't like.

And I hate showing any music I think of to anyone.

Alas, I still lost this round for the most part, because my combination of perfectionism/short attention span made me give up. But I decided I was still gonna do something musical for the blog. So I decided I would just try to emulate some of the wankiest-wanking I could think of.

I took a stock loop from garage band, laid down a rhythm that is my best approximation of something I might hear on Smooth Jazz 98.1, and then solo'd with all of the wanktitutde I could muster.

All in all, it took about 30 minutes, and I thought it was douche-y enough for me to share without feeling self-conscious about. It's supposed to be kind of bad, which means I still didn't totally do something I like, putting creative work I actually care about out for anyone to see, but I'm taking baby steps by showing the internets that I play music a lot.

Anyways, here's The Jazz Wank, as I hastily named it. Please God don't judge me. Or do, be brutal, I think it'd supposed to be made fun of for you to enjoy it.

  Thejazzwank by CA Condor PAS

The Sunrise Cafe

In theory, I am obsessed with exploring the California coastline. In practice, I usually just say that I'm obsessed with exploring the California coastline, and leave it at that, as when I make the trek back to San Diego from Los Angeles (or to any other location), I like to get from Point A to Point B in as little time as possible. Call it a short attention span or a lack of good music on my iPod.

Not so, today. My drive back finally involved exploration, and I'm glad it did.

The place was San Clemente, a town I recognize as the place Nixon hung out at in Frost/Nixon and more importantly, the city where the fantastic Brick was shot. The high school that the story takes place in is right off the freeway, and when I'm driving with people past it, I point it out to them. Their response is usually "What's Brick?" I then mutter that it's a good movie, and that it's on Netflix and people should watch it, if they're into noir-stuff or, you know, good movies.

It is worth noting that I had never stopped and looked around that high school though, despite it being a pretty neat landmark for a film geek such as myself. Again, can't stop to smell the roses sometimes.

But this time, I tricked myself. Instead of going to Subway near my apartment, mostly because I went there last night and didn't wanna seem like the guy that always goes to Subway every day for nearly every meal, I drove straight to the way home. That way, by about 1:15, I was really hungry, forcing myself to pull off into the strange new land that was San Clemente.

I still didn't do much exploration; I basically pulled off of an exit and found the first eatery that seemed interesting. I like sunrises, and cafes are pretty neat, so on paper the Sunrise Cafe seemed a perfect place to eat.

That is not to say it is a perfect place. It's a strange corner shop, dimly lit, duct tape covering tears in their vinyl bench seats. Still life oil paintings that are technically proficient but artistically lacking on one wall, and posters of famous dead folk from the mid-twentieth century (Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, and James Dean) on the opposing wall. A place so dim and lacking in an identity it would be awkward and sad if it weren't so Americana and charming. Sounds confusing, but trust me, it's comforting. Also, it's ironic that I say Americana, because I think it is ran by an Asian woman who strikes me as not being from here, originally. But really, what's more Americana than that?

Service was quick and friendly, because besides myself, there was maybe one other person in there, seemingly a regular taking his time with his experience, and talking to the workers. Startled by their proficiency, I rushed into ordering a Reuben sandwich, which came out to me quicker than I think I ordered it. I was assured by the Asian lady that it was the best sandwich in the restaurant though, after she noticed I was running low on Diet Pepsi and my server had not rectified that yet. Not that the server really needed to, as it was still about half-empty at best. They were just really on top of service, I suppose.

Also, a dude mopping asked me how I was doing when he mopped past me. I said good, again surprised by how nice everyone was.

When I left, they questioned my turning up in their quaint cafe. They assumed I was going to San Diego, and then weren't surprised when I said I was coming from LA. They insisted everyone who comes from LA to SD comes through their cafe because they have great breakfast and a good Reuben. I saw a lot more cars on the freeway than I saw people in the cafe, so maybe that was an exaggeration, but who am I to argue?

Then they got even more personal by asking me if I worked in LA. I stammered that I had just finished school, and was still looking for a job.

"What major?"

"Oh, um, film."

"Ohhhhhh like Oscars? Fun."

The server/now cashier chimed in. "We'll put a star next to this and keep it in case you become famous so we can say we served you."

I probably blushed and laughed bashfully at this comment. "Fingers crossed; I hope I can help you out there," knowing that the chances are slim, but it's nice to have small bits of support like that.

More so, it was just nice that they asked me how I was doing, and what I was about. I didn't expect that from a place so strange.

The sandwich was good, not great by any means, but I felt good after the meal that could've very easily been quite depressing. Dining alone in a dim and non-pretentious restaurant in a foreign city can be quite the downer for a brightly pretentious person.

Instead, I felt good, and decided what type of introspective stuff I was going to try to write about when I got to my laptop at home. Instead of enjoying the experience for what it was, an adventure and a good payoff of said adventure, I thought about how it'd influence something I'd write, which I don't know is the right way to enjoy things.

Luckily, I saw an Arizona license plate that read a number, then the letters DYX. That threw me off my pretentious writer mode, and into 12 year old mode.

"HAHA, that license plate sounds like 14 dicks when read aloud!*"

It's good to know I can still enjoy some things without over-thinking them.

*The number was not actually 14; I didn't want to write out someone's license plate for all the internet to see.

Almost Lost This One

I forgot that I hadn't blogged today. Thank goodness I remembered, or else I'd lose all grips on being productive that I am already not good at.

Last night, I was at a bar with friends, and turned around to see my brother right behind me, who didn't notice me because I was in a suit (why, I don't really know).

We live in a big city. For something like that to happen, well, it's pretty interesting to me. Finding one specific person in a bar in a big city.

I can only hope this one day happens with Alison Brie, so I can not talk to her and awkwardly nod hi to her, definitely not strike up conversation and make her fall in love with me.

Anyway, if this didn't make any sense, it's only because I really didn't wanna write today.

I Can't Tell Anymore

I honestly have no idea if celebrities or nascent celebrities are just blatantly fucking with the general public at this point.

Last night, I had to process Twitter photos of Tyler, the Creator, rapper/producer/filmmaker on the up-and-up whose main claim to fame was a lot of gross imagery and lines about rape in his songs*, chilling with Justin Bieber on a tour bus and being legitimately excited about that. If that was all, I probably would have thought about something smart to write today about being young and recognized for hard work and artistic risk and junk.

But then that whole Charlie Sheen tirade had to derail that idea. How does that guy manage to say that many crazy words together with a straight face? My brother tried to explain it to me, something about drugs and lack of a superego or something, which probably would've made sense, but I just couldn't process things anymore.

And what sucks is that if I expressed this concern to Sheen himself, he'd just call me a loser that can't comprehend how awesome his life has been.

And you know what? That's an infallible argument. I don't have that money or freedom of lifestyle and choice of words. I probably never will.

And in my mind, that's fine, because I don't want to be like that guy. But maybe that means I really am just a loser.

Probably not, but I'm putting way too much halfhearted thought into this. I think this Friday has short-circuited my brain's ability to apply intricate thought to anything. I'm only good at Minesweeper for the rest of this week.

I think I'm going to watch Hall Pass.

*Which honestly shouldn't have been his claim to fame; it should have been that he is an artistic polymath that does basically everything with a high level of quality. Lines about rape in his raps are probably the least interesting thing about him, honestly.

A Recommendation Friday

The last few blog posts have gotten very journal-y, which is not a good thing. I specifically did not want that to happen, unless it was in the context of me doing something I didn't like. Although, to be fair, dealing with vomit on my car/parking space isn't something I particularly like, per se. But I digress. I'll make it up to you all with a recommendation.

Zach made me go to this stand-up thingy last night and--shit, no, no, too journal-y! Remove context from this, right now! No more personal shit for this post.

There is a comedian who oftentimes performs in the Los Angeles area. Sometimes, they perform in front of people who spend a lot of time blogging, as was the case last night. His name is Chris D'Elia. He is very funny on the right night. Some folks find his style of audience interaction pretty amazing, as he spends a lot of his set just making jokes derived from things in the crowd. He does normal jokes, but he's obviously a quick guy, kinda goofy and endearing in a strange way.

It's good stuff, check it out (this isn't that strong, but indicative of what he does a lot):



Also, his laugh is funny and he calls someone a "gigglepuss" in this video. Which has to count for something.

Have a good weekend.

Aftermath

So that vomit outside my apartment I joked about last night got decidedly unfunny today when I found out that some of it was splattered on my car. Why my car and parking spot were the chosen spot for heaps of vomit in different areas on and around my car, I'll never know.

What I do know now is that it is very hard to find a simple automatic car wash in the city. There aren't any simple one stop, put in seven dollars and get everything cleaned and dry places in the city, it seems. There's always a catch, and I'm not one for catches.

Anyway, this has all put me in a fairly bad mood, which severely inhibited upon me writing something of significance today*. So I'm going to leave you with this, and spare you of me just being in a bad mood and bitching about being inconsiderate with choice of vomiting-locations.

Also, "Community" is about to come on, so I wanna watch that instead of write.

Good evening.

*That and getting sidetracked by the Bulls-Heat game

Warnings From the Future

If you know me, you know how much I like wormholes, time travel, and the idea that I oftentimes return from the future to fuck with myself in the past.

Which is why I'm worried tonight.

You see, it started out like any other night. I sat in my room thinking that I should get food, but was too lazy to walk a block down the street to Pete's Burgers to get a pastrami sandwich before it closed. I was not lazy enough to ditch the plan altogether, however, and walked at around 9:30, when they were long closed. No worries, though, as I walked a half block away and bought a 12 pack of Miller Light, because we were out of beer at my place, and I like being calorie conscious when relaxing in the evening (ironic that I'm getting a pastrami sandwich then, I know).

That solved the empty spot in our fridge normally devoted to our favorite hops-based beverage, but not the empty spot in my stomach (and for that matter, not the empty spot in my soul that I'm hoping a woman will fill with her love one day, but that's really neither here nor there). Determined to get a slightly greasy sandwich and some fries while I'm at it, I resolved to drive out to Chano's*.

Now, the last time I had a pastrami from Chano's was freshman year. I felt awful afterwards. Like, really really terribly nauseous, and it should be noted that I was dead sober, because if you know what Chano's is, you know it is very rarely visited by sober folk. So I realized going into this trip that I'm rolling the dice, but you know, when I want a pastrami and fries, I can't be denied.

But my confidence was deterred when I returned to my apartment to find a sizeable pile of vomit at the top of my parking space.

I didn't inspect it closely, and it was dark out, and furthermore who really inspects vomit? But what I did see was frightening.

Fries. Lots of em.

Oh shit, I thought. Future Spencer is warning me about this pastrami! I'm going to get sick from it, then immediately learn how to time travel and warn myself with the vomit! Which I guess has its upside because I learned how to time trav--

I'll spare you the rest of my thought rambling, and bring you up to the present. I'm thoroughly convinced this ominous pile of puke is telling me I should not eat this pastrami, sitting wrapped and harmless in front of me.

But will I still eat it?

Yeah, probably. But at least I won't be able to say I didn't warn me. 

*This was going to be what I originally blogged about today, and my title was going to be "Triumph of the Will," which would mean the blog would service as a long setup to me realizing that I named a blog post after an infamous piece of Nazi propaganda filmmaking at the end of said post. Because I think stuff like that's funny.

Manufacturing a Muse/Mentor

I won't say writer's block has finally settled down in full on me at this point in trying to blog every day, because honestly it's probably more a result of laziness that I'm less jazzed about writing a big ol' post in the last few days, as Monday's post might have indicated.

As such, I took it upon myself to create a muse and/or mentor this morning while I was waking up and half-awake because I made plans too early (and yes, my "early" plans were at 11:30,  but early is relative so whatever). I didn't realize this at the time, but I certainly did at 5 PM when I was like, "alright, let's get today's damn blog done," followed by grumbling and watching a few videos on Youtube.

Anyways, here he is:

He currently is chilling in my desk drawer, positioned at an angle where his thoughtful/intense gaze is positioned to either look at me disapprovingly for not having written my blog that day or his eyes are looking up and into space, so I can imagine that if he were real, he'd tell me something profound and cryptic, such as "I'm still surprised that this cement ditch is what we call a river in these parts," which would hopefully jar my brain onto some profound stuff about cities and whatnot.

But since I drew him today, I'll worry about the things he has to say tomorrow. Creating a mentor from a doodle is enough creative energy spent for a Tuesday, and I didn't even have time to give him a background. I'm feeling pretty tired right now, so maybe I'll do that while I'm half-way into nap territory.

That or think of a name for this guy.

By the by, I mentioned a while back that I might start trying to incorporate drawing or comics and stuff into this blog, and this is me kind of trying to segue into that. You, kind readership, have the power of stopping this by saying my drawings are boring.

Silverlake

My roommate and I, being without a lease in a few months as we will have both graduated, decided to test the waters and look around at places to live once this whole college thing is out of our systems.

Me being as lazy as I am basically just tagged along as we went to places Zach had decided he wanted to see. That's not a bad thing, it just means a lot of them are in Hipsterville, USA, also known as the Silverlake/Los Feliz area. We both walk the line when it comes to being actual hipsters, so I guess it made sense, but I made sure to wear my Nike t-shirt and do some push-ups before I went there just to separate myself from the pack*.

When we got to the first location on our stop, we came down a street void of hipsters, and full of older, working-class folk. Not what I expected.

Then a brown rooster walked out in the middle of the road and two pitbull-looking dogs sat and stared at our oncoming car from the roof of the garage of the place we were hoping to look at.

Definitely not what I expected.

Here I was worried about hipsters when my primary concern should have been poultry and pitbulls. It seems like I learn a new lesson about Los Angeles and the consequences of being presumptuous every day.

*I didn't actually do any push-ups.

My Week Back in SD in a Nutshell

I thought for thirty minutes the other day about how it's kind of lame that I don't have a job, and spent a whole lot of time just hanging out on a couch doing nothing this week other than playing NBA 2k11.

Then I thought, how many people with jobs have gotten their players in Create-A-Player mode up to an 83 overall rating?

I think it's those working folk that have their priorities in the wrong place.

Throwback Friday

Yesterday, I planned to go to the movies in my 85 Toyota Pickup while wearing clothes I would've worn (or actually did wear) in high school. As a fan of nostalgia, I thought this was a great idea; I have fond memories of the parts of high school where I was able to drive, and I was going to see The King's Speech, which I hear is good.

Then I misread the time, my stereo didn't work, and I'm pretty sure I almost crashed three times on the way there because the weather was so bad. So I ended up keeping my car in the Edwards parking lot while I waited for the weather to clear (hopefully) overnight. So instead of having a throwback Friday, we ended up going to TGI Fridays and then watching a few episodes of "Louie" before I fell asleep because I do not have the impressive insomniac skills my friends do.

Just goes to show that you can't go back to the good ol' days, no matter how hard you try.

But so as to not end this post on a negative note, there were some pretty good dunks in the dunk competition today. I thought it kinda sucked that Griffin won with such a pageant type dunk when he was so solid for the first few without gimmicks and whatnot, but it was also nice he got to dedicate it to his friend who died of cancer, which was a sweet button to the night. Either way though, it was a fun one.

Bowling

Something rings wrong about the Lucky Strike bowling alleys.

I think it's the fact that they have a guest list on their website.

And it's not even that the first two names on said list list are Christina Aguilera and David Arquette. That's fine, if a bit dated; it's that the list is even there.

I'll paraphrase Squeak Scolari from Baseketball here: bowling is "A game where guys with bad backs and bad knees can get together and compete on the same field as guys that are all goosed up on steroids." It's not a night club, and therefore there should be no guest lists or celebrity quality to a bowling alley. That ruins the fun of bowling alleys.

East County San Diego is a one-bowling alley type of town. San Diego county, I believe, is a four-bowling alley type of county. None of which are Lucky Strike lanes.

Rather, and I mean this as a compliment, I think most of them are shitholes. I know the Parkway Bowl in East County is, because I bowled there today. And again, I mean "shithole" as a compliment. That's what bowling alleys are supposed to be. A place where elitism isn't allowed. Salt of the earth, you know.

I enjoy bowling, but equally so I enjoy the feel of a bowling alley. The fact that most of them feel like they've been around for forever, and they were never quite funny, but the place you'd hang out with with your friends when you were anywhere other than cool and in your twenties, if that makes sense.

Lucky Strike ruins that. I bet you there's no wood paneling anywhere in a Lucky Strike lane, and the drinks are expensive.

That being said, I've enjoyed places like that. Zodo's in Santa Barbara is quite neat, even though it's a little futuristic and trendy looking. But there's a key difference: they have White Russian specials during happy hour. That means they know their audience--not so much cool trendy folk, as their aesthetic would let on to, but rather college kids who like booze and The Big Lebowski. For that, Zodo's gets a free pass on lacking wood paneling.

Also, they don't have a guest list.

And I realize that writing all of this about aesthetics and qualities of bowling alleys thereby makes me elitist and invalidates a lot of what I just wrote. But hey, it's the internet, and a blog, and pretentiousness is needed to make a point every once in a while. Plus, only about fifteen people read this, and much like me, are quite willing to give me free passes if I don't make sense every once in a while. Thanks.

An Odd Future Filled with Wild Things

I was going to dedicate this whole blog post to Odd Future, a precocious group of folk that what may well become my newfound obsession after two of them tore shit up on Fallon last night, but I realized that was the easy pitfall for a bored blogger to blog about today.

They're young, nuts, provocative, whathaveyou, Wu-Tang comparison, punk rock rap hybrid, do a whole lotta rape lyrics.  Ponderings follow, opinion.

There; I just summed up what most people will write about them today, or have written about them already. I'm kind of late on this game, so eff it.

What I will say is that it's almost annoying at how precocious their leader, Tyler the Creator, is. It's not annoying, just almost. He's a pretty interesting producer, an alright rapper, and apparently alright at graphic art. But the fact that he seems like he could be a pretty neat visual filmmaker or music video director, as evidenced by the video in the first link on this post (Note: it's kind of gross, on both visceral and thematic levels, just as a warning), makes me feel quite inept. But like most of this blog, that's more about me, and less about this dude.

On that note, I'm not writing much about them because I just found out that Where the Wild Things Are is apparently playing on HBO now, meaning two things: 1) I'm gonna have to make sure my parents don't catch me getting misty-eyed over giant monsters traipsing about and 2) watching it got me sidetracked on my blog again today.

I've written about it before after I first watched it, so I don't wanna repeat myself, but I will say that for as divisive as the movie is, I think it's probably the most accurate and perfect coming-of-age story you could ever make. Spike Jonze made more sense out of monsters on an island being a realistic metaphor for what growing up means than John Hughes or John Hughes high school flick-imitators ever could*. Imagination, confusion, and sadness-without-knowing-why all balled up into one flick about finally being able to reflect on what one does and how it affects others and how the world actually works versus how you want it to work is really an amazing thing, even if you think it's a bad movie. And plenty of people do think it's bad.

I think they're wrong, but mainly because this transformation is what I spent so much of my life going through. It's not unusual that Spike Jonze makes a movie that caters (in my mind) specifically to me. I walked around with my imagination taking precedence over what the physical world provided me, and when people weren't in on my games, I got sad for no reason, and pissed people off for reasons unknown.

I'm rambling too much about a movie that deserves not to be rambled about, but experienced and quietly reflected upon, so I'm switching the emphasis of this to my point. People seemed to not like it because they figured it should be a childrens' movie that kind of ended up catering to, well, me, or adults in general.

So what would it be like if I had watched this movie as a kid? Back when I was feeling those things, would I still feel a kindred spirit in Max and Jonze's flick in general, or would I hate it?

It's a question I'll never be able to answer, and I don't know how to feel about that: glad I'll never know and love it the way I do, or sad that maybe I could've figured out a little bit quicker that people kind of get what was happening in my crazy mixed-up brain of mine as a kid.

Alright, sentimentality over. I'm off to go download some mixtapes of strange shocking rap by precocious kids.

*That is not a knock on either of those groups; I love those movies, but they don't exactly provide the best template for what growing up should be, says the bitter late bloomer.

Exposure to the North

I put off today's blog for a majority of the day, mainly because I was quite void of any substantial thought today. Not that it was a bad thing; I'm a firm believer that too much thought, or prolonged thought, especially in a negative quality (as my mind is wont to wander towards, sad to say) can lead to some bad shit. I don't think it's a mistake that many of the outrageously brilliant people I've met in my life, or even read about, were a little bit off-kilter or kinda down most of the time. Not to group myself in with the brilliant sect or anything, I'm just saying it was a nice day off from deep thought*.

I was gonna draw something and post it on here, because forcing myself to write once a day has been pretty effective in reminding me that I enjoy writing a ton, and I used to be madly in love with doodling and comic-style art, but it fell to the wayside as college (and, by that extension, lethargy in mass amounts on the weekends) came around. My doodles in margins lowered exponentially throughout those four years, so I may try to institute a comic day, or two, on this blog, to reinvigorate that.

But you're not here to read about that, because I didn't draw anything today. What I did do was finally launch myself back into the world of "Northern Exposure." I don't readily talk about it, as it isn't on Netflix and kinda isn't really my friends' cups of tea, but it probably ranks as either my first or second favorite show ever. It's sweet, funny, and smart in ways that still knock me out every time I watch an episode. They pull off a lot of the aspects of two of my other favorite shows of all time would do much later in the decade or the new millenium, and what shows from this decade seem to lack in a way that "Northern Exposure" has. There are a few that come close, and many of them are good, but none of them, I think, will have the emotional impact that "Northern Exposure" has.

Anyways, this got me thinking about my favorite shows of all time, as I usually do when I watch one of the select few. The list is obviously constantly evolving as more shows come on (not to jinx things, but "Community" is orbiting the list depending on how strong it stays, and "The Wire" would probably be on there if I watched the whole thing), but there's something I've noticed about the television I enjoy.

Most of the shows I love all come solidly from the 90s and 2000s. There could be confounding variables at work on this one, as I was only in existence for these two eras, and missed out on the must-see-TV from eras B.S. (Before Spencer, that is, because I am that vain). But that doesn't mean I haven't given episodes of "Cheers," "Mash," and a bunch of Norman Lear television shows I watched in my Intro to Television class a shot. They don't have as much of an effect on me as something like "Northern Exposure" or "Friday Night Lights" does. Heck, none of them are as creative and awesome as "Arrested Development," another favorite but not quite in the same category as those other two. I take my television watching seriously.

Now, is this because television has constantly evolved over time, and I just got around for the apex of it? I just did the math, the first television broadcasts as we know it happened around 53 years before I came along. Likewise, film as a commercial art form started getting serious around the fifties or sixties, which puts its prominent period right around a half-century after the technology was first around.

Did I arrive at the truly awesome era of television, with more good years yet to come, or am I just making up weird numerical comparisons because I just generally like things from my era better? And if the fifty year rule is true, how awesome are video games gonna be in a decade or so?

I'm not sure. This blog was meant as a conversation starter, or at least it is now, because I feel I've blown the bliss of my non-thinking day at this point, and I'd much rather watch a few more episodes of "Northern Exposure" before it gets any worse.



*Also, getting a job would probably help. Still working on that.

A Futile Gesture

I think that most of you people that read this follow Spencer Myers' blog as well, so I won't go into depth about the story of how us two and Andres went last night to a place that has a giant sign on Jamacha that advertises half off drinks and appetizers EVERY NIGHT (emphasis on the "every night" part) to find out that we all spent double what we usually spend there, as for some reason they didn't want to give us half off as normal on Valentine's Day.

My mom noted that we could have probably argued through this and gotten our half-off (again, I point to the giant sign on the main road in Rancho San Diego), but we didn't because we fancy ourselves polite folk, which translates to us mostly being pushovers on matters like this.

So I did something to express my distaste in the establishment in a way that wouldn't involve direct conflict.

I grabbed a shitton of their complementary chocolate peppermints. I think I got seven or eight total, five of which remain as a symbol of my dislike for paying full price at a place where full price is only nominal for the late night happy hour time frame I usually visit the place at.

Now, let's evaluate how much of a blow I struck to the egos of the proprietors of the Savanna Grill.

I stole complementary mints. Yes, I did intend for that statement to be contradictory.

It was possibly the most useless thing I could do to express my distaste for what transpired. In the history of the Savanna Grill, this will not go down as a great "screw you" moment for them.

But did I feel better?

Hell yes I did.

Just remember this the next time you consider crossing me. If you treasure any form of after dinner mints you have, you best not do wrong by me.

Random Thoughts on a Holiday I'm Wholly Ambivalent Towards

I was hoping to write something heartfelt and insightful regarding Valentine's Day, preferably something that involved a profound lesson and some sweet sadness and whatnot with some good self-deprecating jokes. You know, sappy stuff.

As it stands though, it seems like I spend every Valentine's Day not really caring about much of anything. Seriously, I can't even rebel against the idea of it being a manufactured type holiday and whatnot. In fact, when I look back on the past couple of years around this time, I'm generally having a good time, or doing something unusual for me with a newfound (and short-lived) coolness and confidence, and never does this translate into normal Valentine-y stuff. I think this has a lot to do with just hanging out with my friends and having little obligations at this time of the year. Maybe I should buy my friends chocolate.

Anyway, with nothing insightful to talk about, how about I tell you about the least insightful thing I can? A snippet from my dream, with that in mind: I had a bowl of cereal and was talking to my roommate about how he left a carton of milk out that had since gone bad. Once I had finished pouring milk into my Frosted Flakes, I realized that I had been pouring half and half in to my bowl, not milk. My roommate smiled smugly at my gaffe and said "I told you so."

But here's where I call bullshit, because he definitely didn't tell me so. Apparently, my roommate is a dick in my dreamscape*.

Hoping to counteract the fact that I poured half and half in, I thought it'd make sense to pour some milk in on top of the half and half. This time I made sure I got the milk out, and began to pour.

Only to find out the milk was chunky and had gone bad, even in the fridge. That plan backfired real bad.

But I was resolved to not waste food for some reason in this dream. So I tried to eat the rotten milk-half and half-Frosted Flakes concoction anyways.

I took one bite while roomie looked on, very entertained at my misfortune (what a dick*). "This was not a good idea," I said.

Now, if I took dreams as anything regarding meaningful, I'd stay away from cereal for a while, or at least put champagne in the cereal to make sure I wouldn't get screwed by sour milk.

But, much like Valentine's Day, dreams are pretty arbitrary. If I do get got by sour milk, it's probably as random as any badass happenings that occur around this time of the year for me.

Hey, look at that, I ended up making my random thoughts relate to my opinion of the holiday I don't care about. I wish I could say I planned that, but I think it's just the law of averages that I'd do something clever every once in a while if I wrote on this thing every day.

*He's not in real life; he's decidedly nice.

Sunset Limited

I watched almost all of the Tommy Lee Jones/Sam Jackson/Cormac McCarthy joint The Sunset Limited today. I hope to catch the first fifteen minutes of it quite soon, as it is really really neat.

Don't go in hoping for sunshine though. Expect a long conversation about mortality, life, and whatnot. Expect eloquence and gravity that is the exact opposite of a majority of my blog posts. But it's much more fulfilling and quality too. And that's not a knock on me, just Cormac McCarthy is really good, y'know.

Anyways, it's was interesting to me because it was an hour and a half of two actors talking in a single setting. Pulling off something like that is uber-impressive. I can't imagine making a single-setting movie, let alone a good one. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is a good one like that too, as is Clerks to a lesser extent.

If anyone has mostly one-location movie recommendations, let me know. I'd like to see them and be wowed and whatnot.

ConGRADulations

I'm at a joint graduation party for andres and to a lesser extent myself. Therefore I'm writing exactly this much. Hoorah

Billionaires Makin' Movies for Funsies

As a young person who is not outrageously wealthy or easily successful, I spend a lot of my time getting angry at young people who are outrageously wealthy and easily successful. Although it'd be pretty lame of me to get all "class warfare" on my blog-reading populace, seeing as how I'm definitely nowhere near destitute or anything, I thought I'd mention something I literally just read about.

Some billionaire's daughter is paying Paul Thomas Anderson to make movies. She's 25, which is approximately three years older than me.

This causes a malfunction in my systems, like a robot given an illogical answer set and completely crashes mentally (those that have seen "Clone High" get what I'm talking about that).

I can't like a young person who basically comes from such ridonkulous good fortune that she can quite easily force herself upon Hollywood via gigantoid checks (notice how I used two made up words in one sentence; I'm patting myself on the back for that).

But she's also financing PTA's movies, the ones no one else would! This does not compute!

And what's more perturbing is she financed True Grit! And she's paying for a John Hillcoat movie about bootleggers in the 1920s starring Tom Hardy!

But then I realize I'm sitting here, blogging, because I don't have several million dollars or a marketable name. And I'll be damned if I'm going to actually work to get my foot in the door in Hollywood*. So then I get angry again at young successful people and blog about it.

*That part was a joke, intended to be read as sarcasm, in case that wasn't obvious. I do intend to work and stuff, so please don't panic family members who might read this or people in the movie industry. Realize the whole tone of this was meant to be satirical, kind of.

On the Topic of the Kids Who Spoon Awkwardly Outside my Apartment

When I walk and/or drive out of my apartment at around 2-3, I get a good look at the nearby park, and by extension of that, I get a good look at the schoolchildren canoodling in the shade.

I never take a long look or anything because, let's face it, even at my relatively young age me looking at high schoolers macking is probably a bit inappropriate, but today my vantage point when waiting to make a left turn had me looking straight at a couple with nothing to do but wait until I could actually turn. They were entwined in the grass, quite close to each other, and what was perturbing about that was that they were completely still.

Like, asleep still. This didn't sit well with me, as it looked like the most uncomfortable way to take a nap in the history of naps. It wasn't a standard spooning position or anything, either; it was as if they were trying the spooning thing but forgot to use two spoons put together visually as a point of reference, messed that up, then just went with it because I guess they wanted to act like adults in love or something.

I really can't do justice to how uncomfortable this looked. I'm sorry I didn't take a picture for you, but see paragraph two for my reasoning behind not taking one.

This is the topic of today's blog not because I was shocked by the discomfort these kids were forcing upon themselves, but because it made me flash back to my days as an adolescent. In case you didn't know me then, I can tell you I was as much looking on the outside in on teen relationships as I was today.

The difference is back then I thought I was missing out.

Nowadays, I see those kids every day, laying in that uncomfortable position for a long freaking time. I can't help but think how boring their afternoons must be.

This is something I can see in hindsight pretty well. When I was in school, I was slightly jealous of the people who spent the days macking away, feeling a slight tinge of sadness when I reflected upon why I as sprinting to my car to get back home by 2:30 to watch last night's Colbert Report alone, followed by some more television and probably a movie or two.

Now I realize that is how I prefer to spend my days. I wish I could spend every day like that, not having to worry about a job or anything, and reclining on my couch without having to awkwardly avoid breathing in the warm breaths of the person I'm incorrectly spooning with in a park because I can't have girls over at my parents' house*. My adolescent life turned out to be pretty sweet, looking back on it all.

But if my life was bitching, then why did I talk myself into developing an awkward sense of humor as a coping mechanism for being a total nerd?

Shit, I need to reevaluate the way I do things. I'm going to start by patting myself on the back as I watch "Party Down" all the way through for the second time in two weeks. All this time I thought I was supposed to be making fun of myself for that, and I just didn't talk it through to realize that's kick-ass, I guess.

*If I actually did a tally of all the non-relative girls that visited my parents' house my whole life, I think I could come up with five, maybe six tops. This could be because of the menacing "No Girls Allowed" sign I put up in my bedroom window (I never did that, really; that was a joke)

Kyle Kinane's CD is Neat

I brought up Kyle Kinane recently in the context of having seen some Youtube videos and watched him at a standup showcase.

In case you didn't know, if I get something I enjoy in my head, I will throw myself headfirst into scouring the internet for all available information on a given topic. Lord knows that in the years I became a football fan I have looked at so many non-professional mock drafts to see who the Chargers might draft with their first (and if it's close enough to the draft, second and third) pick(s). This is honestly not a good thing; for every mock draft I read in the year 2008, I'm pretty sure no one saw Larry English coming.

Quick tangent that I mention anytime that guy comes up. My friend posted a facebook status regarding the pick, saying "Larry who?" And to this day, I wish I had a Youtube clip on hand of Jules Winfield saying "ENGLISH MOTHAFUCKA, DO YOU SPEAK IT?!?" in classic Samuel L. Jackson yell. I still hope that one day English becomes a top flight linebacker so I can post that video somewhere on the internet after he has like a four-sack game when it matters. Not that any of this matters for this post, just thought it would be clever. Just be lucky I'm not talking about my hypothetical Jonathan Crompton headline situations.

Anyway, Kinane became my obsession for the week. I discovered multiple good things that came from being obsessed with him.

1) I'm Dead and it's All My Fault. Quick little quips of a fictional obnoxious idiot outlining horrendously dangerous situations to his roommate/friend/bandmate Doug. I have yet to show someone this website while I scan through the page on my own and not have the person reading over my shoulder chuckle aloud. Granted, this is only Zach, my roommate, but I showed our friend Chris the website too, and he seemed to enjoy it.

2) I mentioned earlier that Kinane is a master of downer comedy. This much is true. But I bought his CD "Death of the Party" last night after a podcast with him on it I was listening to said I should buy it post-haste. I then made the mistake of listening to the whole album while I was trying to go to sleep, which got me way too amped to sleep, forcing me to stay up for a couple more hours watching less-great comedy on Comedy Central.

Again, I'm getting away from the point. Listening to Kinane's act as a whole reveals a lot more than downer comedy. I was jumping the gun on that. He is definitely a bit of a downer, but to serve a purpose.

Said purpose is a tempering of romanticism and idealism, and honestly, that is needed nowadays. He has moments of clarity where decidedly small moments can remind people of the good stuff in the world. They're not what are outlined in movies, tv, or even overly-idealistic Facebook statuses as the magic in the world, but rather just small tidbits of human decency.



But I guess I'm getting away from the main benefit of Kyle Kinane, which is that the dude is just really, really, really funny. You guys should all check out Death of the Party. Since I probably will be driving at least half of my readership at a car at some point in the near future, you will definitely all hear it when you're in my car. I'm doing my best to fight the good fight.

By the way, I have yet to write a feature script, and getting one done by Sunday will be nothing short of miraculous. I'll keep you updated, unless I fail. If I succeed though, expect me to laud myself on this blog.

One-Week Screenplay and A Distraction

I'm a bit preoccupied today, as I'm trying to put thought into writing a screenplay in one week. This challenge started when I mentioned in passing that I wanted to write more to my roommate, which he didn't realize was just something I tell myself to make myself feel better about sitting around and doing nothing, thinking halfheartedly in the future that I will do stuff. Instead, he took it seriously, and now I'm stuck writing a screenplay in a week.

What's worse, is that I decided to write something incredibly convoluted and strange, which means I'll probably write a bad, bad script. Have fun reading that, Zach.

Anyways, that's why I don't have much to write today. I'll post my Darkness retrospective later this week, and a weird anecdote from my youth that seems more dangerous in retrospect.

To distract you, though, here's a badly-written blog from M. Ward and Jim James, popular indie musicians that make up parts of Monsters of Folk, She & Him, and My Morning Jacket.

I only bring it up because of the premise of the blog. It is entirely about creme brulees they taste around the world, told in weird language with very little capitalization.

But still, you have to give it to rock musicians who enjoy creme brulees. I personally love the dessert, even though I've only had it a handful of times. I love the blog idea because I actually have done Yelp searches to find good creme brulees in San Diego and Los Angeles, so the fact that I'm not the only one who seeks out the dessert with fervor is comforting.

What a Professional Athlete's Penis is Thinking Right Before Said Athlete Takes a Cameraphone Pic of It.

Aw, dude. No. Really? You can't be serious right now. Please think this one through. I assume you have the internet, or at least watch ESPN at least a couple times a week. This never ever works well. EVER. You're better than this, or maybe you're not, but please don't drag me into this bullshit.

I get it, you're a brazen dude with a lot of money and athleticism, and for you and maybe fifty other guys in the world, sending a picture of your naked body to a woman with a suggestive line or two will lead to sex, and that's great for you. And hey, I'm no slouch either; I don't have anything to be ashamed about or anything with this situation, but you will have to deal with the press, because, think about it, it's the law of averages. You send enough cock-shots as a professional athlete (it really probably takes just one), at least one lady won't take it as the creepy-ass "compliment" it is and just forward it to Deadspin for a sum of cash. In case you didn't know, they've got the cock-shot game on lockdown.

Also, think about whatever message you forward it with. Sending a masseuse a message asking about one-on-one massages along with me just flapping in the breeze (also, as a side note, why stand next to an air conditioning vent when taking the pic? I know that's where the mirror is, but come on, there are other mirrors in this condo) is not a clever thing to ask, especially in written word, where there's no allowance for hammy winks and nudges. Your delivery of me, your penis, leaves much to be desired. What happened to dinner and a movie? Just be gentlemanly about it; I know there's a lot to be said for bravado, but there's such a fine line between bravado and just being a douchebag.

And you know, I keep going back to the Deadspin thing. Didn't you read GQ's article about it? That Daulerio guy really has stuff on lockdown. He'll find your wang shot, and he'll put it on the internet, it doesn't matter what you do or how big you are; shit, he got the third string running back for the Vikings recently. It's going to hurt your PR somehow man. I mean, I know you really don't think about it in that context, but it's my ass on the line, and I'd rather prevent it.

It's remarkable and a tad sad where technology has taken us. Privacy is a luxury afforded only to those of the past; journalism has transformed to a new form of irrelevant muckracking for the sake of keeping the wired-in public sated until the next giant scandal of a story comes along. Sites like Deadspin need you and me to fuck up until the next Brett Farve story comes along, and honestly I think playing into that machine will reinforce the negative stereotypes of young professional athletes, and perpetuate a form of journalism that is detrimental to national discourse of Americans, whose attention spans are getting smaller and smaller, and who think that folks like Daulerio, Perez Hilton, and TMZ provide relevant news, or even more insulting, interesting news that is essential to staying up to date in our times. It is... just discouraging, I guess.

But then again, I'm just a penis.

Superbowl

I reread yesterday's blog twice yesterday, once feeling the effects of the night before, and once to consider deleting it, as it's pretty embarrassing.

But then I realized that post probably gives people good insight as to a lot of how I spend my life. I try to make things as strange as possible for myself as a compulsion, not by choice. It might not be the most exciting life or as rewarding as playing by the book, but I hold out hope that someone is watching with morbid curiosity at any given time, and have a weird laugh about a drunk person babbling about little Wayne.

Anyways, happy Superbowl, everyone. My gift to you is I'm going to stop writing this right now.

Bitch, Real G's Move in Silence Like Lasagna

What up brevity weekend? How you doing?

Full disclosure, it's 3:40 AM as I type this, and I'll call straight talk when I say I'm pretty drunk. I'm also listening to Lil' Wayne's "6 Foot 7 Foot" on repeat as I type this.

Fuller disclosure, I don't know what the heck I wanna write about. It is really dark in my room, and, well, my whole experience right now is facebook chat and the aforementioned song.

Honestly, my main thought is how I'm going to get another beer past the air mattress that someone is sleeping on (I said "our buddy" originally, but that sounded really bro coming from the last conscious person in this apartment tonight).

My best guess is honestly just to tiptoe. You know, real quiet like.

Was this what you guys were expecting from me at this point in time, blog readers? At one point I'd just be pretty fucking drunk and ramble?

I guess y'all win the pool.

Look towards Sunday* for a more coherent bloggin' experience.

*almost spelled that Sonday. Not at all sure why.

I Honestly Don't Even Know How to Title This Post

I had a lot of good ideas for today's blog, most of which I'll probably write about in the coming week.

First I thought I was going to write about the debilitating 10-hour headache I got from inhaling too much cigar smoke, as opposed to puffing it. Luckily, when I was smoking it in public, I was kind of drunk off of beer and red wine, which certainly didn't help later, but proved invaluable to me looking like what I expected was a badass with a cigar and an Orange Crush shirt strutting like Melvin Van Peebles to his friend's car.

My brother then sent me a link from Deadspin regarding rumors of Mark Sanchez having a romantic tryst with a 17 year-old. Before I get to where this was going to take me in terms of writing, I would like to say, really, Mark Sanchez? You have to resort to illegal sexcapades as a ridiculously attractive sports superstar in New York, and frowny-pouty mcgee Jay Cutler is dating the hottest girl from "Laguna Beach?" I thought you were supposed to be cool, and also thought that your sexual assault days were long behind you. Old habits die hard, I guess. Thank gosh Matt Barkley is a devout Christian so I have someone from my school to cheer for and not have to worry about creepin' and underachievin'.

Long tangent aside, that link was going to make me steal an old Holy Taco gag, the "inner monologue" trick. I was going to write the inner monologue of an athlete's penis right before the owner of said penis was going to take a picture of it with his camera phone. I'll probably write that on Monday, actually, that could be funny, and for once I'd have a blog that doesn't mention myself in it in a self-deprecating fashion*.

Then I thought about a critical reassessment of The Darkness' much loved by me and hated by everyone else second album, "One Way Ticket to Hell and Back." I was going to write about this simply because I had the urge to listen to one of their songs, and that got me on a memory kick to the time and place where I was listening to The Darkness a lot. I'll probably write about that on Tuesday, because the withdrawal from making fun of myself will have kicked in at that point.

What derailed several good ideas came from the last idea. I decided to look up the song "America" that Justin Hawkins, the lead singer/guitarist of The Darkness recorded after leaving the band in the mid-2000's. The first video I found baffled me to no end.



I have no idea what language the writing is in, or why there is a picture of Obama and Bush morphed together. Also, the switch from an American flag to a God-knows-what flag was pretty baffling as well. I was going to look up the language, but I decided against it, if only to preserve the mystery and on the outside chance that me posting this video does make me a Communist sympathizer (is the Cold War still going on? I haven't watched the news in like, forever), I can at least claim absolute ignorance before I'm placed on some sort of list.

Anyway, a deceptively simple video and song really derailed my creative thought today. Just thought I owed you all an explanation.

*Although knowing me I'll find a way to sneak it in there. See, I just kind of did it right now; I'm a genius at putting myself down.

Future Me

I'm going to drop a weird recurring thought of mine on you guys today.

Let's say you're at a public establishment, preferably by yourself because it works better that way. If you're with people and do this, you kind of come off as a jackass or autistic (I think I can pull off both at different times). You start people watching, because let's face it, you only brought the book to look cool, even if you did try to convince yourself you were going to read five pages before your food got there, rendering you unable to continue reading without sacrificing an eating hand.

You see someone significantly older than you. There's something strange about this person, be it posture, a movement, a facial feature, or even a shirt they're wearing.

Now, in your mind, do you immediately assume this person could very well be you from the future, spying on yourself when you were younger?

Because I sure as hell do. And not even in a joking way. My mind actually tricks itself into thinking this for five seconds before I can say, "fuck off, that would never happen."

But even after I say that, my mind still kind of believes it could be me. It's an impossible-to-correct compulsion, I think. No matter how much I can convince myself that time travel is a near-impossibility, the promise of a non-linear existence in time and space proves to be way more comforting and totally neato in compared to the accepted truths.

And when I finally do get the opportunity to time travel, I'll jump for joy (embarrassing whatever scientist gave me the opportunity) and say, "Fantastic, take me to the Blockbuster Video off of Avocado at around 3:45 on July 14th, 2003. I got some thoughts that need confirmin'"

Whatever Happened to the 90s

The title of this blog post is an inside joke that only I understand, but I'll let you in on it. Back in the late 00's, I decided I would start a blog that would spend most of its time alternating between being angry about the state of MTV and relentless self-deprecation (which you'll probably notice is a trait I have retained in my writing style and life in general to mixed reviews). With the MTV critical analysis being the main shtick however, I decided a good title would be "Whatever Happened to the 90s?"

Then I realized I was 19, was strongly suspicious of my major being complete bullshit and something I could easily put minimal effort into (which is half true, but an unemployed 22 year-old saying this has a lot less validity than one still in school and teeming with potential), and had multiple sources that could buy me alcohol. I was also kind of depressed, because apparently that's what you're supposed to do if you're a college student who can't find a solid niche.

So I basically just spent the next two and a half years not writing in the blog and drinking too much, but I assume most of you guys know this already.

Unintended gigantic tangent aside, I followed the Youtube rabbit hole from Len's seminal jam "Steal My Sunshine," after Andres recommended to check out the highest rated comment for the video. It is quite comical, if you wish to see for yourself, but the song only exists to think about in the context of "wow, I can't believe this was ever popular" territory. Like, seriously, how did that happen?

But this video did lead me to watch the video for the Natalie Imbruglia song "Torn," which brings me to what I really want to talk about today.



Natalie Imbruglia is hot. Like, super hot.

And I never knew this, because I didn't care about girls when it was the 90s*. But goodness, the woman is wearing baggy men's clothing and still gorgeous, it's mindblowing. She does talk about being naked on a floor a lot in the song though, so maybe it's a weird juxtaposition that is creating this insecure sexuality she has (by the by, insecure sexuality is quite possibly the sexiest sexuality in the spectrum of sexiness, and I wrote this sentence almost purely for alliteration's sake).

This is a dangerous new territory for me, because I've never plunged the depths of old music videos to find out which one-hit wonders from my elementary school years were hot. And that will lead to me desperately trying to find out if they're still hot in modern times (Imbruglia totally is, by the by), or if their lives have tapered into either sadness or relatively comfortable anonymity.

This could be the nadir of my internet obsessions. But "could be" is the operating term, and I will tell you why right now.

This music video sucks. Hard.

It's boring, and while I kind of understand the concept, I don't get why she is with a guy straight from an Old Navy ad in the first place. She's wearing baggy clothing, for gosh sakes, she should be with some alternative dude who ignores her because of a heroin addiction. Were we past that part of the 90s at this point? I think not.

It's at this point in my rambling where I realize I've learned a lesson or two about myself. One, although I'm all for ogling attractive women from 90s music videos, I won't put up with bad filmmaking.

Two, my aloofness at noticing pretty women in the 90s (also see the asterisk) has perks. For example, here was my favorite music video from my childhood:



Totally awesome, right? And all the music videos I watched ended up being like that. Most of them ended up being by Michel Gondry or Spike Jonze (and Hype Williams, to a lesser extent), and a lot of them were way more fun to watch than a static shot of a pretty girl. And it's probably not a coincidence that a lot of the music videos I enjoyed as a kid were made by someone I consider probably my favorite filmmaker in terms of what I wish I could do with film.

Now, as a bonus lesson, it occurs to me that maybe my major being bullshit and easy to get good grades in because I was obsessed with the medium before I even knew the cool music videos I watched were made by cool filmmakers. I just was along for the ride, attractive girls be damned.

*Any woman that has tried to get me to notice them in modern times will probably note that I still don't care about girls.

Jill

(I realize titling a blog post with a single feminine name is tantalizing, but temper your expectations. As I'm wont to often warn you, this story will not be as cool as you think. But they taught us in journalism school to title things in a way to bring viewers in, and I'm trying that. Wait, did I say "journalism school?" I'm sorry, I meant to say The Newsies.)

Since I'm back in Los Angeles and taking care of myself (or at least a loose interpretation of the phrase "taking care of myself"), I don't have to worry about my parents judging me for staying up til four in the morning, then waking up at near-noon, spooning one of my pillows and staring with a vacant sadness at the seconds on my digital alarm clock, noting that the shift from 2 to 3 kinda looks like what I'd approximate numbers dancing to be like.

And since my parents can't judge me for that, I spend a lot of time doing that. Luckily, I justify it by thinking about what I should write in this blog, and today it came to me quicker than usual. Thanks, dancing numbers.

Onto the actual topic. This morning, I became acutely aware that I have never known a person named Jill in my entire life.

I don't know why this occurred to me, nor why it mattered. But for a moment, it was an earth-shattering revelation. I searched for evidence to my belief as urgently as I could--after fifteen more minutes of laying in bed and then getting a cup of coffee from the Magic Coffee Machine. Then I checked my Facebook search bar to see that, yes, people named Jillian turn up before any Jills.

And I sure as hell don't know anyone named Jillian. But that's because that's not a wholly common name. I was always under the impression that Jill was.

All of this makes one reconsider the name Jill. Did I think it was common because I had an unhealthy obsession with the video game Resident Evil as a child, and one of the characters in that game was named Jill Valentine? Or maybe I put too much stock into the popularity of the Jack and Jill story, particularly because of another childhood obsession with the song "Jump, Jive n' Wail?"

This is what happens when you give one too much time to think during the day. Simple things such as not ever knowing someone named Jill* can become an earth-shattering revelation that makes one take stock of their whole lives.

And now, I'll probably spend the rest of the day hyping up the moment I meet my first Jill. If she's not uber-attractive and also my soul-mate whom I will marry and live a happy life with, then that is going to be a major letdown.

*I'm hoping at this point in writing this that someone who reads this will inform me that I did in fact know someone named Jill my entire life, thus invalidating everything I wrote, if only because that would be a better punchline than I have written in this post.

Kyle Kinane and Downer Comedy

I went with a couple of dude's to a stand-up showcase for Conan's show last night at the Comedy Store. That's a neat place; despite being enamored with stand-up for quite some time, I've never been to a legit venue for that, so it was nice to be there, even if the gin and tonics were nine freaking dollars.

The guy I liked the most from the performance was Kyle Kinane. I recognized him from one comedy bit posted on the AV Club's website, who enjoyed his comedy album enough to call it one of the best of 2010.

He represents the type of downer comedy that I feel is a big part of me. I think this is kind of a problem. Take for example this clip of his:



I thought that was hysterical. Like, really really funny. And his jokes are mostly like that. Hopefully you'll see him on "Conan" one of these days.

But is that bad if I like that a lot? Because the more I think about it, that's almost exclusively the type of comedy I like. It's weird, a bit sad, and mostly angry with itself. I hope I don't enjoy it solely for the fact that I relate to it; I already like Punch-Drunk Love way too much, and thought "Party Down" (which I finished today, if I may brag about that*) was awesome because though there were occasional rays of sunshine, but always closely followed by more depressing shit that makes me laugh too much. There was a sweet end though, kind of.

It worries me though how enamored I am with this stuff. I think the days of being a sad sack and looking cool doing it has come and gone with Eddie Vedder's popularity (dated joke for a blog, I think). I realize nowadays that looking sad and making fun of yourself constantly doesn't evoke utmost confidence, or even laughter for the more normal sect of people. I hope I'm not setting a bad example for myself by watching all this funny sad shit.

Then again, I may be reading into this. I did go to this showcase because it was sponsored by Conan, and I like Conan O'Brien a lot, and he's not a downer.

I guess I'll just focus my media obsessions squarely on Conan's shoulders now. And maybe Mike Birbiglia too.

*Why would I brag about watching television all day and not socializing or working, you ask? Good question... I don't really have an answer for that, actually.

A Suggestion Sunday

I wrote a lot more yesterday than I planned to, and today my head isn't in the best condition, so I'll make this my most brief blog post yet.

If you're bored and looking for something to do (and have Netflix), you should watch "Party Down." I'm a couple episodes into it, and so far it's way wayyy better than what I would expect from it.

It's a show that somehow ends an episode with a woman crying hysterically and a man vomiting, a sad scene normally, but it made me laugh hysterically. Seriously.

Okay, that's it today.

Learning One's Place

If you acknowledge yourself as an active fan of hip hop and/or good music and I've seen you recently, there's a good chance I've mentioned Jay Electronica to you in the past couple weeks. He's been around for a while, but his lack of solid albums or single releases to the mainstream means he's eluded me for about three years (not that this is a hard thing to do; I don't exactly think myself as being incredibly hip hop savvy). I first heard a popular song of his, "Exhibit C," on one of Donald Glover's mixtapes.

The time I heard Jay Electronica rap over it was out of the corner of my ear one evening when "Late Night with Jimmy Fallon" transitioned to "Last Call with Carson Daly" without me really noticing. Here's the song, followed by why I'm writing about this:



It's a neat song, but today I was thinking about the fact that I heard about it from Carson Daly's show. For those who don't watch it (and why would you? It was really bad for a long time), the format of the show has switched from a normal talk show format to a guerrilla style interview show where they take little equipment to remote locations and talk to people.

More important to note, is that Carson Daly has tried to stop being anything other than conversationally droll. No more comedy bits, monologues, etc. This is probably because Daly realized he is decidedly not funny, and never was funny. He just spends his time making dopey kids who stay up late notice some small cool stuff, such as Jay Electronica. This doesn't mean I watch his show all the time, it's just nice to know that this is what happens after Fallon now, as opposed to something painful.

I'm proud of him for realizing that he's not funny, and cutting it out altogether. It's something I'm still coming to grips with, and probably never will.

Embarrassing Admissions Friday: Shit Gets Personal

Well, it was either talk about camera phones today (they're super neat, why didn't anyone tell me that?), or embarrass myself in some succinct way, because I don't feel much like writing today. I chose to embarrass myself, because let's face it, that's like 80% of my shtick.

I've mentioned it before that I was very much into what most people would acknowledge as bad music of the pop punk variety*. I look back at the CDs I collected and feel a bit of shame knowing that not only did I listen to what was very much a type of fad music at the time I was listening to it, I didn't even get the ones that the hip kids who were into "real" pop punk condoned. The sole exception to that might be the fact that I listened to and enjoyed thoroughly The Descendents' "Everything Sucks."

Still, there was a line that even I refused to cross for a long while, and that line started at Dashboard Confessional.

I bought one Dashboard song off of iTunes as an integral piece to a school project, a retelling of The Great Gatsby by way of an episode of "The O.C." which is something I'm still actually pretty proud of. Not sure what that says about my productivity or confidence in the things I did post-high school, but that's neither here nor there. I bought the one song, "Standard Lines," because I heard it in the first episode of "Clone High," and it was really perfect for a scene.

This project also led to me purchasing all of Death Cab For Cutie's "Plans," which I was deeply ashamed of at the time, but not so much anymore. Again, though, not important.

I justified these purchases as important parts in my send-up of "The O.C." although it probably reads more like a love letter than a send-up. It's not like I would buy those things otherwise, right? Of course not!

So how I ended up with a purchased, not stolen, digital copy of Dashboard Confessional's "Hands Down" really eludes me. I have dark periods, where I'm not sure what I'm doing, or how ridiculously emo I get. Luckily, those episodes are short, and I don't remember them most of the time (partially by just selective memory retention, but more often by alcohol these days), I just have to live with the consequences.

This was all kind of a prologue to the actual embarrassing story. Sorry for the rambling, but I assume you kind of know what you're getting into at this point, after a near month of posting.

The real embarrassing story comes as the tender age of 18, where I was experiencing what most of the world gets out of the way at around ages 12-15: their first acted-upon crush. I was a horrendously awkward late bloomer, but don't worry, the story gets worse.

I was finishing up what I remembered to be the second date of my entire life. This second date was important, as it was the first date where I kissed the person on the other side of the date equation at the end of the night. That part was cool, if you don't take into account that I was too big of a wuss to just do that on the first date (there was a long courtship prior to the first date, I kind of knew what was expected, so it's not like I was just being polite in feeling out the situation), or if you don't remember the fact that I was a legal adult at the time all of this awkward, nervous freshman-in-high-school-style date was happening.

Still not the embarrassing admission I was getting at (although as I read this out: holy shit, why am I telling anyone this story?). What made this event all the worse was that after we finally parted ways, I went back into my '85 Toyota Pickup, put in a specific mix CD, and went to a specific track.

It was "Hands Down," what may be the only happy Dashboard Confessional song ever recorded. I listened to it, and reflected on the awesome night I had, and felt myself a kindred spirit to singer-songwriter Chris Carrabba, and drove home, fairly happy.

That is honestly something I don't think I've even admitted to my best friend. And I tell him about the most embarrassing moments of my life on a regular basis (or he'll tell me about them, depending on who remembers what from a given night).

Upon reflecting the next day at what I did, I think I reevaluated the feelings I had at the end of a given good date, and how that made me react, specifically, what type of music it made me like.

All told, I went on approximately one date after that one, give or take a couple depending on your exact definition of a date. This means I have a no-date streak of somewhere around three and a half years, which I suppose is another embarrassing admission. This whole post is basically a string of embarrassing admissions, I guess.

But I'm blaming the majority of the things I just admitted, and my romantic ineptitude on this goddamn song:



*"was" is kind of a mislead, actually, considering I'm listening to the last part of Say Anything's "In Defense of the Genre" and the beginning of "...Is A Real Boy" as I type this all out. I still like some of it, and that's yet another bonus embarrassing admission for y'all dear readers.