June 27, 2008

 Is my heart dying fast or am I just living? Am I missing something? Should I embrace what I haven’t? I should work harder, drink less, and try to move in a direction that is more honest? But when you do what I do, well..

Evening Commute Drink Club

The first rule of evening commute drink club is that you do not talk about evening commute drink club. The second rule of evening commute drink club is that you do not talk about evening commute drink club.

This should be obvious.

The third rule of evening commute drink club is that you do not talk or text on your cell during ECDC. You only have two hands and to be toooo greedy, well, that hazard speaks for itself. CHP is in a deep budget crisis and they are just looking for an excuse on the 405, the 110, the 10, the 60, the 105, and of course the 91. Besides, you will probably say something you truly regret to the friend or lover who jilted you years a go (which you keep in your contacts for this very reason) but don’t press those numbers. It can but open another can of worms for you to deal with on top of keeping your car in the proper lane.

Leave it.

The fourth rule of ECDC is to always use an inconspicuous container. A Bud Ice can screams stop me for I want the attention and drama of getting caught. If you are still in this stage you do not belong in ECDC. Make you way home and lay your head in your Mother’s lap. If she is no longer around, search out the legally youngest friend you have and split a six of Zuma and tell them all about it.

The fifth rule of ECDC is do not give into the temptation of checking out your fellow motorist no matter how hot or insane or rich they may be. There is only one reason to take your eyes off the road during ECDC and that is for the world-shattering occurrence of a dog or cat darting out in front of you.  ECDC is hard-pressed to give advice in this triptych so suffice it to say hurt yourself before you hurt others (or your cocktail)

The sixth rule of ECDC is do not, no matter what high school anthem comes on the radio or you manage to punch up your Ipodwalkman, turn up the volume to murderous levels. The desire to lip-sync, or even worse, start dancing in the saddle only attracts unwanted attention and we all know where that leads to while sipping on a Nail Bomb in a plastic gator-aid bottle; jail, or worse.

A word to the wise. More to come.

" You dirty old baboon, you dirty old baboon. For as long as I can remember it seems to me that whenever I'm trying to go to sleep I can hear you saying dirty things. You say the dirstiest things in the whole world, you dirty filthy, horny baboon. There will come a day when you get yours, when all the bananas in the house will disappear and you will be forced to eat salt peter by all the women you have ever wronged."

Singer-Songwriter Amy Winehouse on the way to her dayjob, a cramped office where she answers the phone for a satellite office of a Japanese caster manufactuer. She buys her lunch from the nice lady who sales loose cigarettes in the lobby, thank you very much.

Ever feel like your day job as a caster salesman is interfering with your efforts to become an artist? Like you have not paid your dues, put anything really of value on the line (like your life? freedom? your veins??) Ahh, it happens to us middle-class folks who feel we just have a bit toooo much to lose when it comes down to living or dying for your art.

Well, we can always dress the part if nothing else. Here's bohemian Pete on his way to see of all people, Amy Winehouse. Try as I might, I just can't see him in a day job.

There are indeed many things to pray for on this February Friday. Oh, that one does not marry one's fetish, one does not answer the phone while plowed, that Michael Bay retires from filmmaking and takes up real estate sales, etc. etc. Hollywood seems flat these days, no? Not even the strike settlement could get the natives riled up. Maybe come Spring-time, things might get more exciting.

From our good friends at Fark:

- "When guys like Federline and Sheen are the sensible ones, it's time to take all of Hollywood out for an afternoon of electro-shock."

- Johnny Depp relaxes by playing with Barbie dolls. Nuff said

- I-Mockery takes a look at "Tattoo Assassins" - one of the most insane fighting games ever created in which you could kill your opponent with anything from a DeLorean to explosive diarrhea (includes video of 60 fatalities)

With all apologies to The Beach Boys and the Magnetic Fields, I give you the best quote about girls in LA I have ran across in quiet some time:

"From thirty-feet away she looked like a lot of class. From ten-feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from 30-feet away." - Raymond Chandler.

"Presently, he returned, followed by the boy from the public-house, who bore in one hand a plate of bread and beef, and in the other a great pot, filled with some very fragrant compound, which sent forth a grateful steam, and was indeed choice purl, made after a particular recipe which Mr Swiveller had imparted to the landlord, at a period when he was deep in his books and desirous to conciliate his friendship. Relieving the boy of his burden at the door, and charging his little companion to fasten it to prevent surprise, Mr Swiveller followed her into the kitchen. 'There!' said Richard, putting the plate before her. 'First of all clear that off, and then you'll see what's next.'
The small servant needed no second bidding, and the plate was soon empty.
"'Next,' said Dick, handing the purl, 'take a pull at that; but moderate your transports, you know, for you're not used to it.'" (Old Curiosity Shop)

3 pints ale * 5 oz gin * Bitters
Heat the beer until it's hot. Add the gin and a good few dashes of bitters; pour into warmed mugs.

Have a wonderful holiday folks. Heres to 08. Chin Chin!

 In the 6^th grade there was a girl named Angelina Jolie. I don’t know if her parents were expressly trying to evoke the famous film star when they named their daughter-I never met them- but we have to assume that with the 24-7 saturation of celebrity coverage, they were aware of the screen goddess. That being so, we also have to assume they either a, had a  perverse sense of humor or b, were gently retarded for you see ,their daughter, Angelina, was shockingly ugly. She was morbidly obese and her head got by without a visible neck. Her skin was so pock-marked it made you wonder if she were wounded in a chemical-related accident. Her filthy-brown hair was naturally damaged and grew in different directions and different links. Beady brown-yellow eyes set close together shown dully in even the brightest of light. He skin color suggested a liver or pancreas problem. At this point a reptile would have committed suicide but Angelina came to school everyday. Actually, she was not a bad student although she never opened her mouth once as I recall. Perhaps she could have finally gotten by the gauntlet of middle school torture that everyone knows so well if the above tribulations were all there was to it but no, fate had more punishment to mete out when it came to Angelina Jolee.

One, her parent s insisted on dressing her (We were sure she did not choose her clothes herself but really, who knows? We never asked) like a circus clown with mild cerebral palsy. There were no outlandish color schemes she would not sport, no ensemble that was too incongruous, or no accessory that was inappropriate for a 6^th grade child. Even teachers did a double take when she took her seat. Two, Angelina Jolee, out of nervousness or inconsistency, peed herself so often the smell had seeped into her skin, her desk, her chair, her immediate atmosphere. To say her classmates tortured her is to put it lightly. She became numb, much like a animal that has taken so much abuse it stares blindly as it is being viscously beaten with a stick, and went into another world as she took her lot in life. Her eyes, having stopped tearing up long ago, would glaze over and she would collapse onto the ground as folks like John Rook and Tommy Morefield prodded her with a stick, pulled down her pants with needle-nosed pliers, as the rest of us shouted and screamed with pleasure. The insult of that 6^th grade year was to “eat Angelina Jolee.” Students would say “Your mother wears combat boots.” “Oh Yea? Your mom eats Angelina Jolee!”

I have to admit right here I was considered a bit weird by my classmates. This you must know. Nothing overly serious but still. I also have to admit that I often wondered about Angelina Jolee and what she did when she went home. Did she watch TV with her mom and dad? Were there stuffed animals in her bedroom and posters of the ‘Teen Dreams’ of the day tacked or taped to her wall? Did she look at them as her private parts began to ache and touch herself? Was she AWARE of the fact that so far in this life, when it came to love, she would never, never experience it? That in fact, she inspired the opposite emotion in every boy and girl she met?

I wondered about these things.

Looking back, I don’t know why I did what I did. I just did it. One day right after recess was over and Angelina had had dirt stuffed into her mouth and panties, I pulled my desk close to hers. I touched her arm and smiled at her. For two weeks there was no response at all, nothing. Then one day when I touched her arm and smiled and chatted mindlessly about a class assignment, the yellowed skin of her face turned bright red and she almost smiled. At the end of the day, I walked with her almost all the way to her home despite the other kids pelting us with dirt clogs and pieces of trash. The next day she showed up to class with a bow in her combed hair and a trace of pink lipstick in the area where her lips should have been!

The laughter reached a point where some of the students were starting to hyperventilate. Even our teacher made a witty remark as I recall. Angelina set frozen in her desk until the teacher called the class to order. Angelina, like a tortoise that perhaps has seen to many moons, began to draw herself back into her young shell. She opened her textbook and took out her notebook as the other students reluctantly did the same. I noticed, from four desk away, her hand trembled for a moment and then was still.

If we have said it once, we have said it a thousand times: The possiblity of an oyster getting up and hitting the dance floor can happen at any time. The fact you might get sick as a dog has nothing to do with said oyster's mad skills. How do I know? I called the FDA and they said "hell yeeahh." (via losanjealous)

Writer Andrew O'Hagan on always being connected

 In the days before office life was subverted by the cult of personality, your average working stiff was always looking for ways to be out of contact. Phones were left off the hook, smokers popped down to the mailroom, phantom meetings were arranged in mystery locations across town, time-serving professionals sat alone on park benches and secretaries were regularly entreated by semaphore to deny one’s availability. That was in the lazy, hazy days before the mobile phone. Nowadays, being unavailable is understood to be an act of aggression equal to driving tanks through the walls of the Danzig Post Office. To fail to answer your mobile phone, or to turn it off completely, is merely to announce that you are deep in the throes of a secret life. You don’t care, you’re not reliable, you’ve got something to hide, you’re screening. There are few modern crimes so remarked on as the crime of unavailability. Answer or you’re evil. Answer or you’re dead.

Suicide Girls have a very funny non-pc list of the 9 Worst Asian Characters of all Time:

9) Tom Cruise from The Last Samurai. Remember that formula that worked so well for David Carradine? Let's do that again, only this time we won't even bother making the character asian. White guy in samurai armor and gear who, like, kills a bunch of asians and then teaches them to get along, or something.

But, he's the last samurai, okay? It's got to be him, no one else. If we have to we can make the asian guy the "last railroad worker"? Is that cool?

Count backwards to Numero Uno. Hilarious!

How did you spend your summer? Oh, training lizards to pose like bored humans on sofas.

My old friend Stewart Pittman has the story of A Motley Lot. Enjoy.

Who couldn't use a laugh on Tuesday? Sit back and enjoy the asinine barbs from Fark.

- Michael Bay threatens to not ruin any more movies with Paramount if they drop Blu-Ray, starts crying, runs to his room

- Internet terrorist video threatens David Beckham and Justin Timberlake, leaving many conflicted about now supporting Al-Qaeda

- Nicole Kidman's new movie "Invasion" a huge flop. Wait, it came out?

- What is M_rv Gr_ff_n w_s g_y?