Monday, February 28, 2011

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.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

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.

Saturday, February 26, 2011

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.

Friday, February 25, 2011

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.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

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

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

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.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

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.

Monday, February 21, 2011

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.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

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.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

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.

Friday, February 18, 2011

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.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

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.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

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.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

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.

Monday, February 14, 2011

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.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

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.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

ConGRADulations

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

Friday, February 11, 2011

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.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

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)

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

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.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

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.

Monday, February 7, 2011

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.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

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.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

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.

Friday, February 4, 2011

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.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

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'"

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

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.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

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.