King for a lifetime, fool for a... lifetime...

Whoa. That last post was more doom and gloom than I intended. Looks like we have an unreliable narrator on our hands. This weekend is all about having a good time and say fuck all to the rest. Whether it be going to the track and betting on the ponies with the guys or poker (seems I have a secondary vice), I'm good. Now on to today's BBQ which seems to have started an hour before I woke up. Oh, its at my place too. Curious. Happy Memorial Day. Cheers.

It's going to sound annoyingly stupid, but this long weekend has sort of displaced me mentally. By that, I don't mean I'm crazy, however I don't feel quite myself either. Maybe it's because I went to bed three different times on Friday. Maybe it's because this first Sunday (tomorrow -- Monday -- will inevitably feel like Sunday, too) is enough to jolt me out of the constant work rut I'm in and allowed me to take a step back and reflect. There's been a good mixture of new faces among this weekend's activities, so the last couple days haven't been typical, per se. But I don't know. Something is not right. It's like I'm an android who is trying to avoid reaching their natural frequency for fear they'll explode. That sounds looney. That sounds lonely. I suppose this all boils back down to the void I've written of earlier in this page of rambling foolishness. I've almost given up entirely on actively searching for a plug to gap that void. I feel like I meet enough random people that one of these days, things will fall into place. But as with the law of diminishing returns, I don't know that my surroundings are producing any quality results. I don't really feel like posturing any more than I might do (and I rarely do). I don't feel like I always have to be "on." And I'm resisting the urge to cease putting forth any effort at all. If I let that happen, then I'm just a fool. Curse these bloody standards of mine! Curse them. Apparently, they're not the only thing about me that has been cursed.

It's a beautiful day outside. Cool, sunny day.

Okay. In the last 9 hours I've had two somber goodbyes. *sigh* At least I get to pick one up at the airport next week.

Running through my head: She Sends Kisses by The Wrens

Seems like every month a friend of mine is leaving town. Last month, lost one to New York. Tonight, one's off to Chicago. Next month, losing one to Phoenix. It's all fine and well and I'm still keeping/plan on keeping in touch with them all. Just a bit odd that its coming in such a flurry. But as a subscriber to the Rule of 3s, I can't worry too much about it. In each case, its a move that is definitely in that person's best interests. I'm happy for them all.

Other comings and goings. Giving one of my sweetest and loveliest friends a ride to the airport tomorrow... at 4:30... a.m. Yeah, you can say it: I'm a great friend. You can also say, I'd do practically anything for her. Just to be clear, I volunteered to take her (lest any of you think I was severely whipped. But if you do, then that's beside the point. Just obliging is all).

Thank god that the three day weekend coming up -- hallelujah -- because I felt like I went through three consecutive Mondays this week. I can't tell up from down, we've been so slammed at work. Fortunately, tomorrow is a half day. Score! Now, if only my weekend wasn't already completely booked. Like I'll ever get any rest. Pfft...

It's midway through the 3rd period of game 2 and Tampa is spanking Calgary 4-0. So far the first two games are blow outs. Go figure.

Okay, weird exchange today. I was picking up my lunch from across the street and set to walk back to the office. I'm waiting at the crosswalk for the light to turn green and suddenly this goober, (early 20s, baseball hat, t-shirt, and sweatpants) comes up to me and the following unfolds...

Goober: How old are you? (I'm a total goober)
Me: Excuse me? (Did you just ask me that question? Who are you?)
Goober: May I ask your age? (I'm creepy. Check out this stain on my sweatpants!)
Me: 24. (You want to know this because...)

Goober: Do you know where the closest community college is around here? (I couldn't have asked a more random question)
Me: Um, no. I don't live around here. (You couldn't have asked a more random question)
Goober: Okay.

Goober: I'm 23. I turn 24 next month. (I don't appear to be retarded, but I'm trying to fix that)
Me: Oh. Great. (That was random. He's probably borderline retarded. I'm hungry.)

He turns up the street. Probably jaunting off to some goober paradise, I'm sure.

# posted by Alan : 5:49 PM

NHL Stanley Cup Game 1.
Last night's game was a pretty one-sided affair, not so much because Tampa didn't show up, but because Calgary just went about their business like they always do. They out-hustled Tampa and really pounced on scoring opportunities. Especially Iginla's shorthanded break. That guy is so clutch. Kiprusoff looked strong, too. Calgary winning game 1 isn't a surprise, really, considering that they've been excellent on the road. 9-2 road playoff record. That's incredible. What is surprising is how convincing their victory was. Now Tampa has to answer or they could be in some shit.

NBA Lakers/T-Wolves Game 3.
Are you kidding me? Gary Payton finally shows up (and shows up in a big way!) and LA cruises. This team is going to be just fine. It still boggles the mind how pathetic they looked in game 2. But that's the Lakers. You never know which team is going to show up. Still, I can't see them having too much trouble with Minnesota. Timberwolves still don't (and never will) have a way to stop Shaq and Kobe just seems to be Mr. 4th quarter this post-season. Lakers are staring another title in the face. It's very clearly their's to lose.

Coming to you from Cape Town. Stunning that this idiot didn't think twice about what she wanted on her vanity license plate. I like the how the writer of the article states that "the personalised number plate has upset Jewish people." Actually, I kinda hate that. Everyone should be repelled by this. And I don't think I'm overreacting, here. I'm the last person to censor anything or anyone. But there's a line here and this woman was oblivious to it. Nickname, my ass. Pick up a damn history book!

Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals is upon us and I couldn't be more excited. Tampa Bay vs. Calgary. Two young, aggressive, attacking, hungry teams going at it. Two of the lowest payrolls in the NHL, too! Both represent small markets, which could reflect heavily in the ratings, which is a shame because this is really a series everyone needs to watch. If it comes anywhere close to the intensity and quality of this year's conference finals, then sports fans are in for a treat.

Calgary is the prototypical underdog. They were expected to lose to Vancouver, Detroit, and San Jose. But they beat all of those teams due to three consistent factors.
1. Outstanding play from the stars
MVP finalist, Jarome Iginla has shown that he is a true leader and capable of carrying this team. He's provided clutch goals and has been a driving presence this entire playoffs. Craig Conroy is coming up huge, both in the goals and faceoff departments. Additionally, no hockey team goes anywhere without outstanding goaltending. Calgary has been lucky enough to have Vezina Trophy (best goalie) finalist, Mikka Kiprusoff dominating in net.

2. Grit
What the Flames lack in speed and defensive organization, they make up for in toughness. Hard checking and intense play have leveled the playing field in their last 3 series, all of which they were outclassed in talent. They're getting physical and have been able to hinder their opponents' star players.

3. They want it
"Hungry" is the word that best describes this team. There's no quit in them. They are prepared to outwork and outlast and have never settled into a feeling of complacency.

Tampa Bay's keys to success aren't too different. Yet even as the 1 seed in the East, they weren't fully expected to be here because (like the Flames) they had little-to-no playoff experience.
1. Stars are shining
Martin St. Louis (who'll probably win the MVP) has been clutch. Nikolai Khabibulin has been amazing in goal. Like Calgary, the Lightning stars are leading the way.

2. Attacking with the quickness
Tampa has lots of speed and they like to use it. Their m.o. is attack, attack, attack. They're going to pepper the opposing keeper with shots and elude checks deftly. If the Lightning are up by 3 goals, all they want to do is score 3 more. They play quick transition defense, too.

3. Confidence
The resilience this team showed by winning game 7 against the Flyers (after blowing a chance to wrap the series in game 6) is proof that they have the metal to win it all. Granted, that was their first real test of these playoffs, but that's only because they dominated in the first two rounds and did so, primarily, by believing they were going to advance before they even hit the ice. Before these playoffs, Tampa was thought to be a question mark. They won the top seed in the East, but no one seemed overtly intimidated by them. A place in the finals has definitely earned them their credentials.

This series is going the distance. I like Tampa in seven games. If it's a tightly contested, tight-scoring series like I anticipate, expect Nik Khabibulin to take home the Conn Smythe (playoff MVP).

Woot! Stanley Cup!

... but it seems like every single girl at my office is constantly in crisis mode on the telephone with their mother. Their mothers, invariably, are living in a different state. Two girls I work directly with in the office, always seem to be tied up with their moms and lately its been precluding them from getting anything done at work. Which, obviously, is becoming a pain in my ass because guess who gets to carry the extra weight? I've mentioned it off-hand a few times, but I can't very well say, 'Hey, quit chatting with your mother about what dress you're going to wear tonight and help me the hell out.' Or can I? Yeah, I actually can.

You have to understand that I'm not making a mountain out of a molehill, here. Our office is laid out in a very open manner. Such that the boss is essentially right in here with us. But these phone calls! They're not at any sort of indoor volume, like any normal person might expect. No. They're rambling, sprawling, cackling, gasping, intrusive exchanges that everyone can hear. Often times private, family issues, too. Could be talking about the most insignificant, miniscule thing in the world, but the mood is like armageddon is upon and we should all run screaming into the hills. Whatever happened to professionalism (I wonder as I type in my blog at work)? Whatever happened to trusting that your daughter has set up a life for herself away from home where she has a stable job that she loves, a place to live, and a strong network of friends? I've never once heard, "Mom, I'm really busy right now. We'll have to talk about cousin Eric's date another time." Never. Anyone feeling like they still have to be such a dominant presence in their child's life (their child who is a college graduate and independant) and constantly harrassing them throughout the day might not be suffering from separation anxiety so much as possible guilt or inadequacy or just a sense that they didn't do everything they could to prepare their child for the real world. But maybe I can just chalk this up to mother-daughter relationships because, as I've said, I have never seen a guy have to deal with this. I've gotta say, I'm in the dark on this one.

Sadly, I can't shake the feeling that this is who we are as a society. Rude, panicky, and nervous.

Apparently, Hitler has an heir in Austria. Said heirwants no part of the royalties for Mein Kampf. I should hope not. Pretty amazing gesture considering that pure evil courses through his veins. Even more amazing is that anyone would confess to having any ties to history's greatest monster.

So remember how I was going on and on about how my friends and I were glorious kings of the universe for throwing each other down stairs? Yeah, well there's some bruising today. Pretty much all across the small of my back. Little pain in the side, some stiffness in the shoulders. Good times. Maybe we aren't glorious kings of the universe after all. Then again, we probably are.

This past week is pretty much a blur. It just went by so ridiculously fast. Yet Monday (the 17th) feels like it was ages ago. Busy. Hmm... Interesting. Anyway, I find it a little off-putting that an entire week managed to slip by almost undetected. Kind of makes you paranoid that all future weeks will follow the same innocuous path. But how can I say that when this past weekend included a party in honor of my friend who just got a vasectomy (the fuck?!) and a day in which my friends and I wrapped each other up in pillows and rolled one another down a staircase into a landing full of cushions? Honestly, its like we're all 10 year olds working 50+ hour-a-week jobs. We're all dead tired and somehow have boat-loads of energy just dying to be spent. So why not throw each other down the stairs? I mean, we all lived, right? What a great Sunday. The perfect way to follow up going to bed at 6 a.m. after the vasectomy party the night before. Vasectomy party. Yeah, that better catch on. A beautiful turn of phrase, I must say.

Another thing especially memorable that I witnessed this past week: animated clip of a baby getting a mini-bottle of Grey Goose vodka shoved up it's ass! Thank you, Daily Show.

Okay, if you name something "The Anti-Poverty Plan," you better deliver or it's your head. Mbeki has set goals and timelines. Although this article is admittedly brief, I didn't see any reference to education. Put all the cops on the streets you want, the sad fact is that very few of them can read. Economic and social betterment (that includes ridding crime and poverty) begins with education.

Aside from getting a chance to catch up with one of my great friends from college, Pint Night was a bit of a let-down. That wasn't meant to be an insult to anyone who was there. It was just the general feel similar to the mood at Three Clubs last weekend. I shudder to think that The Snake Pit may have lost it's flare already, but maybe it has. Perhaps it's just the beer upon beer I feel obligated to have every time I'm there. You might say I'm tired of that. It's noticeably affected the way I perceive everyone around me and I'm sure that opposite is true as well. There are loyal supporters, to be sure, but there are also those who are quick to criticize; quick to call me a pessimist who can't share in their joy. This is about to get tangential but, I'm sorry, I can't share your joy in expensive, frivolous purchases if you're having trouble bouncing checks. But I guess that's me being a depressing pessimist; a nay-sayer. My ass. I didn't get too involved with that last night, but we'll save the rest for another time.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand. I'm ready to take a break from bars all-together. They just drain me of cash and almost immediately after leaving one the sensation of "fun" and "enjoyment" fade relatively quickly. Such a strain on my wallet. Tonight is Friday night and some friends plan on going dancing. I couldn't be less interested. It's odd, but I don't really even feel in the mood to go out at all. Saturday night, my friend Jeff is throwing a party. That's something I'll be at. But I don't know at all about tonight.

So last night, after the meh experience at Snake Pit, I had a series of bizarre dreams. The majority of which involved me being trapped or captive in some capacity. I think there's definitely a correlation between those dreams and what I was feeling last night, what still lingers today. One dream, in particular, was especially upsetting. My friends and I were shooting a short film and I was directing. For some reason, I chose to go scout a location in the swampy bayou. Alone. Who knows why. Soon enough, I'm immersed in the murky bog and I, within my dream, awake at the foot of a tree surrounded by swamp. I didn't know how I arrived there, but what was disturbing is that I was covered in a thick layer of webbing. Very cocoon-esque and also something that only the largest of gianormous arachnids could spin. The mega-spider is nowhere to be found, but I can sense it's ominous presence. Naturally, I panic. I rip off spider-web chains that have pinned some of my appendages to the tree bark. I break them all except for one. That one, for some ghastly reason, was attached to the back of my throat. And suddenly I realized I had mass amounts of webbing in my mouth and was unable to break free. Then, for some reason, that webbing hoisted me into the air. I flailed and tried to scream, but the silk muffled my cries. All the while, I knew this giant spider was near. I'm stuck in this precarious, life-threatening position for a while until I somehow manage to break free and proceed to run all the way back to my house, brush past my friends, and make my way to the sink to wash and scrape the webs out of my mouth. They had the taste of bad cotton-mouth. Disgusting.

If dreams mean anything at all, I imagine that the webs in my mouth were actually alcohol; imprisoning me and detaining me until I succumb to some grim fate such as the spider (or death/depression). And perhaps my being alone in this nightmare was indicative of reality as well. That one might be a little iffy, but just maybe its a true feeling and not me projecting. Such is why I'm feeling so bored with drinking now. This dream tells me that it has lost it's charm. My mind and mood last night and this morning are of the same inclination.

Checking out of work two hours early because the boss has "somewhere to be:" freaking sweet. Plus it's PINT NIGHT tonight at the Snake Pit, one of my favorite drinking holes... and it is a hole. Feeling good. Getting tanked tonight. Tomorrow is Friday. Hot damn, I can even catch the rest of Lightning/Flyers Game 6. I'm such a lazy bastard. An alcoholic, lazy bastard.

Maybe it's better that they just don't procreate at all. Can you imagine having these two as parents? Sheltered much? What the hell kind of "religious environment" pins you under a rock and hides the world from you like this? My god, were they expecting a visit from the stork or something? I have so many questions and all words fail to provide explanation. Christ, even fucking cavemen could figure it out!

Well... shit. I really want to believe this, but the skeptic in me thinks otherwise. Still, it would be classic Kaufman to return in such a lo-pro form as a blog. However, it would also be in character for the eccentric comic to tell his friend, Bob Zmuda, to spread rumors of his return on the eve of his 20th year dead. Kaufman was, after all, a huge Elvis fan. Even if it's Zmuda in those Tony Clifton photos, its a good gag.

No thanks to the stupid government and their bureaucracy*, I'm on the way back to getting financially healthy. This is good. Money is good. Money is also evil. But mostly, it is good. As much as it is the bane of my existence it is very much what makes the world go round. Particularly your world. That is evident when your world stops spinning because of no money. Money. I remember when I was about 9 or 10 and the family was going through a financial crisis. I was walking with my father and he told me, "Money isn't everything. It's 9/10 of everything." In this life, he's right.

*Unemployment is for suckers. Didn't get that check because I "was to return imminently to employment status." However, this is kind of a blessing in as much as I still have my pride intact. I would prefer to get a loan from a friend (unbearable enough) and pay them back immediately rather than suck away tax dollars because I'm out of a job. Now I can say that I still do so.

I've been beaming the last couple days over the news that South Africa will be hosting the 2010 World Cup. It truly gives me a great deal of pride and despite the country's severe problems socially, politically, economically, etc, etc, this really is an achievement to hang their hats on. You can hear them signing and cheering from Cape Town to Jo-burg, from Durban to Pretoria. It's the sound of a soccer-mad country, elated at the prospect of an economy-boost that will go a long way to bringing them stability. It is the sound of ecstasy.

First off, I'm stoked about the Lakers advancing to the Western Conference Finals. Someone predicted they'd move past San Antonio in six games. Oh yeah, it was me. Anyway, so thrilled about that and still beaming over Derek Fisher's miracle shot in game five. Wow. I will reaffirm, now, that they are going all the way.

Secondly, fuck everyone. Well, wait, fuck girls. Well, wait again... I don't even know where I'm going with this. All I know is I'm sick and tired of harboring strong feelings for someone who isn't even remotely interested in me. I know that this is the case. Yet, I am still stupid enough to continue feeling like I can be something to her. I hate it. I hate it so much. The girl could give a shit about what becomes of me. I suppose that's just how it is. The heart wants what it can't have. Perhaps that's just my heart. As if in some past life, I raped and murdered a thousand babies and now, in this life, am paying dearly for it. Paying in a way that hurts myself without any others being conscious of it. Shit. Yes, I've been drinking tonight. What's fucking new? But I've been drinking the past few nights. I feel like its an unrelenting cycle of need and squashed desire. The sauce distracts me, but not long enough. And certainly not to the point where I can pay for all the alcohol I'll need for a given night. Tonight's tab ran $40. Sadly, that's moderate for me. Cheap is now considered a tab of $20. Much has changed since college.

Even now, she "sleeps" out on the porch, refusing any and all offers from me to help her to a bed. But this is only naturally so. It wouldn't be a weekend if I wasn't so helplessly retarded over this. This... Scenario. This scenario that has a magical way of playing itself out over and over and over again. And why do I care so much? I don't even know. I haven't a clue. But all I know is that I do. I care deeply. I care, knowing that she doesn't. I care, knowing that I should probably move on with my pathetic existence and look for someone else. I care, knowing that I don't obsess over girls like this because I find an exorbanent number of them to be worthless. That actually goes for people in general. I found out tonight that a few of my friends were under the distinct impression that I didn't like them upon first meeting them. I was pretty surprised to hear this, considering that I am quite fond of them. But they're probably telling the truth. I have a very critical eye when meeting new people. Sure, I'm easy to talk to and I don't have any problems meeting people, but I do tend to weed out almost immediately whom I will and will not associate myself with after meeting someone. That's only natural. We all do it. We know instantly whom we are tolerant of and whom we can't stand to be around within minutes of meeting them. Occasionally, our instincts are wrong, but not usually. So, with that in mind, I find it agonizing that so many people are completely worthless and can only, at the height of their being, disappoint you.

But the stupid part is I never seem to blame them. I don't really like the concept of "blame" in this sort of instance. However, if I lay any blame on disappointment, I lay it on myself. But why? Why would I beat myself up over something so stupid, so artificial, so abstract that no one could actually say, "Hey, so-and-so really fucked you over?" Because I'm the one who let them in. I let my guard down. I exercise poor judgment in determining who I let myself get emotionally attached to. I fuck myself over. I've always considered myself an excellent judge of character. That's why so so so many of my friends are excellent people of impeccable character and quality and why I've cut ties with everyone I considered an asshole. But the fact that this doesn't extend, yet, to a deeper level is not only disappointing, but makes me feel like I've done something wrong. Like I'm the one who fucked up everything for himself by letting someone in.

It's true, I'm a cynic. One of the worst kinds, at that. And I guess there's no denying that I'm feeling a little sorry for myself right now even though, in reality, I probably have no reason to feel bad at all. I'll chalk it up to equal parts alcohol, fear, and insecurity. Really, I'm so adjusted. I swear. It's incredibly human, I believe, to be so self-aware of these things. That, I think, is what pisses me off so much. There's an emptiness right now. A void. It's there. It doesn't make for complete happiness and it sure as hell pisses me off to know that I can make mistakes on such a colossal level. This whole feeling, right now, this whole diatribe of a post (sans Lakers) is a giant mistake on my part that I can't bring myself to accept. I suppose this is why I'm here typing at SO FUCKING TIRED O'CLOCK wondering why I can't get out of this mindset.

Still, she lays on the porch outside. Feet propped up, snug in a felt green blanket. I do believe she is actually asleep now. Just as well. All the Goldschlager in the kitchen is gone. The Popov, wretched and vile liquid that it is, is also dissipating. Perhaps I should just turn to sleep. Tomorrow is another day. With any luck, that day will include a "Drunken Waffle" breakfast. Hopefully, that will entail me spiking the original syrup at IHOP with cheap vodka. I think it could be a momentous occurrence. We shall see.

To know Yorghos is to know divinity.

For some horrible reason -- possibly because The O.C. is on hiatus -- about five of us watched this utter piece of garbage known as Summer Lovers last night. It's a film forgotten by time and rightly so. You'll see in this link that the film stars Daryl Hannah (from now on known as "D-Han") and one Peter Gallagher, known amongst today's youth as "He Surfs" from The O.C. Anyway, a boss of my roommate owns this crap and suggested that we watch it for a laugh. There were definitely laughs. The premise of the film is that this young American couple visits the Greek islands (Santorini, from the look of it) for 8 weeks, bump into this French girl, and they all live happily ever after. If you think I'm doing that summation injustice, you're dead wrong. And my is there a lot of nudity in this movie, especially for 1982. But alas, no sex scenes, cheesy or otherwise. Not to give the wrong impression, I don't watch movies exclusively for nudity. But you have to understand that the first ten minutes of "Summer Lovers" is the rubbingest movie ever. I mean that literally. It's all naked couples on the beach rubbing suntan lotion on each other. And after that, no sex. Doesn't add up.

Anyway, the movie is totally insipid. It's only saving grace, and my tongue is buried deep in my cheek when I say this, is an inconsequential side character named Yorghos. Yorghos is a really creepy Greek guy with and afro reminiscent of some really gay late 70s rocker. And he's consensual. Early on, he tries to seduce D-Han by bringing her up to his place and turning on some freak music. Doesn't rape her though, which we were all expecting. No. Actually, he's rather consensual. Offers her qualudes, some wine. He's Consensual Yorghos! Judging by his filmography, he's also a man of discerning taste. That scene lasts about three minutes, is fairly early in this looooooong 90 minute shit-fest, and the last we see of Consensual Yorghos... UNTIL! He pops up for thirty seconds towards the end of the film to pick up on this 70 year-old corpse of a woman who plays the friend of D-Han's mother. Truly magnificent. And by "magnificent" I mean "Yorghos."

It doesn't have an American release date (actually not sure if it has US distribution at all), but The Football Factory sounds like it'd be right up my proverbial alley. Soccer! Hooligan! Oy!

I support Liverpool in the English Premiership. Been a pretty big fan for several years now. Anyway, great news from across the pond that Newcastle stumbled against Southampton today, thus ensuring Liverpool a spot in next year's Champions League competition. Suh-weet! That means more money dollars and a chance to upgrade their depth. Whether or not the Reds deserved the spot is another story, but for now I'll take what I can get.

You'll Never Walk Alone

Holy damn. I am a wee bit bored here at work. What am I doing to pass the time? Working? Nah. I don't feel like it right now. Instead, I can't stop tinkering with this... splendiforous... yet compulsively addictive blog.

For now, I'm throwing some more links on the sidebar. As if that's an indication as to who I am. Well... I suppose it kind of is. But whatever, that's neither here nor there. I'm lumping all things music under music which is why I put The Troubadour under there. The Troubadour is not some new indie, lo-fidelity, acoustic rock star. No. Rather, it is my favorite concert venue to date. I could probably stand to see more shows elsewhere, but this place is great. Customer service is a little dodgy, but a strong venue. Those in LA know what I'm talking about.

The Olsen twins have two siblings. How fucked up do you think those kids are? I bet it would be pretty sweet being their brother. I'd be mooching off their billions so much I wouldn't be able to hear the droves of 40 year old perverts clammoring to sleep with them.

A friend of mine was telling me and others last night over dinner that he finally made the purchase. He bought Hulk Hands at Target for only $14.99. For those who don't know, Hulk Hands are a toy conceived of last summer to help promote the Hulk movie (A film that I really enjoy, but others don't... Whole different story). Anyway, they're large, green, dense foam hands molded into fists a la The Incredible Hulk. They're actually fairly soft and I have to imagine if this toy was around when I was a kid (blessed be the 80s) they would've been made out of a cheap, crappy, hard plastic that would break instantly and probably have a picture of the Hulk across the knuckles yelling, "Hulk!" But alas, that never came to pass. The hands make sound effects whenever they're "in action," which is to say, "when they move at all or touch anything." The noises range from the sound of broken glass and furniture to a sound byte of the Hulk arghing, "Hulk smash!" Yes, truly, things are better with Hulk Hands. I imagine Target is trying to clear them out to make room for new merchandise and also because Hulk Hands inexplicably underperformed. So if I hurry to Target, for a mere $15 I can (AND WILL) do the following with my Hulk Hands...

Thing to do with Hulk Hands:
Drive
Wear a suit and carry a briefcase in public
Punch a wall near a busy street for five minutes
Do dishes
Eat a Carl's Jr. Superstar
Lift weights at the gym
Wreck my roommates' furniture
Go grocery shopping
Have Hulk Hands fight with others who have Hulks Hands*

A couple of those might dirty up the Hulk Hands, but I think it'll be worth it.

*Some of my friends and I definitely plan on doing this once we get our Hulk Hands. It will be glorious.

If you said yes, then you're a good person. It seems lately that my tolerance for small-talk has dwindled. So much so that its turning me into a bitter curmudgeon. I'll give you an example. I'm making some copies today at work and this guy who I've seen around but never really bothered to talk to shows up. He's got some copies to make as well, but he waits for me to finish. Just waiting isn't enough, though. He fidgets and shifts his weight while throwing out any number of topics from the generic conversation file in his head. It's always with the 'how abouts.' "How about this weather?" or, "How about those Lakers?" or, "How's the show going?" I appease him, but I don't really care about talking with him. I just want to make my copies, grab a P.O. sheet, and get back downstairs so I can finish up on some work. Am I a bad person for thinking this way? I don't think so. I'm just not interested in talking right now, much less having a forced conversation because this jackass can't stand the silent hum of his own thoughts rattling around in his head.

Another case, this past weekend I'm renting my tux and the proprietor of the store, upon finding out that I worked in television, regaled me with a story about how The Jimmy Kimmell Show did a bit at his store. Nice enough story. Seems like a nice man. Know what, though? I just want to get my tux and go. I've got errands to run, parties to set up. So save the Kimmell story for another time. I don't know if I could ever tell him that because I didn't want him to over-charge me on the tux. But damn it, I just didn't have the time for his string of anecdotes.

Ah... patience is a virtue.

Well, I don't really know the rhyme or reason of it, but I was Kirk Cameron in this dream. Not really Jesus-loving Kirk, just regular Kirk. And I had a mission. Break into my younger brother's high school and trade sandwiches with him at lunch, then flee the scene. What?! Really? Yes. That was the mission and, might I add, it was very dangerous. Why it was dangerous, I do not know, but there was a definite sense of covert, rebellious mystery around it. So I, Kirk, find my brother who is paranoid that we'll get caught. He's sweating bullets, nervous as all hell. "We're going to get caught," he fears. But I assure him, as only the star of Growing Pains could, that we're going to get away with this and we're sticking it to the man big time. We bust into his locker, exchange sandwiches in the bathroom, then I make my deft escape through the bathroom window and run out into the suburban streets. Got away with it, right? Mission accomplished.

But wait...

Somehow, the principal found out about it and alerted the police. So now, I, Kirk Cameron, am on the run from the law with a bologna sandwich in hand. The cops are literally in a foot race with me. One has his night stick out, the other has a pair of cuffs, and the principal is not far behind. I trip, they grab me, but I'm not going down without a fight. Both the principal and the cops got bloody noses courtesy of the fist of Cameron. However, I got a bloody nose, too. I was charged with "resisting arrest and absconding with a traded sandwich." I don't know what happened to my brother. Possibly detention. But I got the slammer.

The madness, it would seem, is far from over.

I called my mom for Mother's Day to wish her well and all that fun stuff. However, she could tell from the sound of my voice that I was hurting bad from the night before. What was meant to be a simple 'thinking of you' phone call turned into a mini-AA meeting. "Alan, you really need to slow it down," she sighed. Well... shit. She was light-hearted about it, but the last thing I needed was mom worrying about my health. Um... Happy Mother's Day!

People keep telling me that the last two days were the weekend, but I don't know if I believe them. Prom in Space was an amazing success. We got the place all space-afamafied, tons of people showed, everyone looked snazzy. Awesome. I was sporting a sharp black tux with a red shirt and black button cover. Looked sharp, received lots of compliments on it. Felt good to look so good. I kinda wish now that I just bought the tux rather than rented it. But really, who cares? Oh, and I also purposely matched my date's dress (she wore a nice black dress with red accents) which, admittedly, made us a sickening yet cute couple. Then came the boos...

Somewhere between a slew of picture-taking and schmoozing with every guest -- must've had at least seventy people show up -- I consumed mass quantities of alcohol. So much so that by the end of the night -- well, the end of my night, at least -- I was jostled awake after being passed out and forced myself to puke in order to avoid alcohol poisoning. Even now, I still feel a bit dehydrated. But yeah, when you've downed twelve cups of "punch," a couple beers, two glasses (not shots) of Goldschlagger, a shot of Early Times whiskey, and some straight Popov... It tends to makes sense that you'd want to -- if not have to -- throw up.

The next morning, I awoke with a terrible hangover. But wait! I got something around eight hours of sleep! So what gives? Why the hangover? Oh that's right, it's because I still had more alcohol coursing through my body than I did blood. So I stumble downstairs, grab a drink of water, then collapse on the living room floor. I'm laying there on the hardwood, the dirty hardwood from the night before, still in my tux pants and shirt, just hopelessly splayed out. I'm told that just out of my reach was a pillow, but I didn't have the strength nor the willpower to grab it. My roommate actually brought me a glass of water, but when I found it impossible to lift my head off the ground, she brought out a bendy straw that hung within reach of my lips. Quite the accommodation. I was like that for an hour. People would enter the house to find me sprawled out on the floor, laugh, and then check my pulse to see if I was still with the living. Eventually, I got some food in my system. But that food was Arby's*. I kept it down, but ho damn... Maybe not such a good call.

So the bulk of today (Sunday... I think) was spent recovering and motionless. Totally managed to miss the Lakers win over the Spurs. Did catch the overtime of Calgary beating the Sharks, though. And then there was a barbecue to attend. And my friend's concert/live CD recording. So, really, not that much recovery time. I feel bad about not cleaning a lot of the house. But the nice thing about prom is that it left little mess. There is still furniture and pictures that need re-arranging, though. Oh God...

*Sidenote: Arby's has a "healthy menu" that features market sandwich wraps. These wraps are... wait for it... low in CARBY'S. Yeah, that's right, CARBY'S. Needless to say, everyone associated with Arby's loses.

So our Prom is set to go off tomorrow. Yeah, its in space for no other reason than to force a cheesy "theme" onto what will otherwise be a fun night. I'm renting a tux, getting a corsage for my date, and hopefully having an amazing time shmoozing with guests, getting loaded, and dancing the night away (even though I don't dance... I figure the vodka-heavy punch will help me along). Getting loaded will probably be the best part. Just a guess. The set up is going to be a bit of a pain in the ass and I don't really have anything to "space up" my outfit, but I'm working on it. This whole thing, actually, is a bit of a bother. But, shit! It's a party! And its one of my own, so it better be damn good. Who knows where the night may lead us...

I love these Korean kids. They win so much.
-----------
Bush was a push,
People ripped out his boobs,
He ate mussel in the shower,
He broke his nail and said,
Oh my gosh I broke a nail,
He ripped his dick,
He got to head surf in the lava,
In front of naked women,
I got a gum and stuck it on,
His ugly balls.
He got his cotton balls and threw it,
On his wife Elaine*
In the beauty contest he showed his ball sack to everyone.
One day Mr. Piggypants killed him,
His blood went all the way to a star,
An alien cooked his head,
In the alien festival they were watching,
His guts moving to his balls,
Then Bush farted,
The alien said "wai5eofhImibcHizzz226ousxot"
Bush turn alive and said to the alien,
Why am I naked?
Bush blasted off and said,
"I am a hero."
In Earth a real hero sawed him,
Bush said "I am the hero."
The hero cut off his head.
Bush head said "Where's my dick?"

The End


After the poem there's something listed as a song...

Fuck little Bush
He ate his mother
Why can't he suck
his mother's boobs?
It is not fair to
Fart on his stupid father.
His father's dick was plastic,
His ball was made of
His lovely wife.


You can come up with the tune on your own I suppose.

*Elaine is an adorable little girl in the class with a learning disability. The other kids, being cruel little bastards, hate her. So saying she is the wife of Bush is a supreme insult to both her and Bush. FYI.
------------
Love 'em.

Many shots of Early Times whiskey = headache the next morning. Let me tell you, downing Advil at work is awesome. Among the many nicknames I've acquired, "The Earliest Time" is the newest one. I think its got some charm.

A friend of mine temporarily teaches 4th grade at a Korean prep academy here in LA. English is not the first language for any of these children who somehow have managed to cultivate a very extreme distaste for George W. Bush. Very extreme. It's bizarre, given the parents of these children are conservative and reserved, yet these kids (according to my teacher friend) credit Bush with "leading us into a war that will kill us all." She was cleaning after class one day and found this absolute gem; a poem of sorts about President W.

----------
Bush ate bush
He has plastic boobs
He likes Britney Spears
Bush say I worship you Britney
In a war Bush was battling Google* soldiers
He had 0 soldier
He die
He had a dog named Fartzo
Fartzo turned Bush alive again
Bush went to a burger house called Pain
The waiter said "Want a fist?"
Sure
Bang!!!!
Bush married his dick
He said sexy me babe!
He betray Dick and marry Yoda
He was squeezing Yoda's ball sack
Yoda said oh my gosh you freaking rock
BABY!
---------

Simply marvelous.

I'm sorry, but you can't tell me a shelter for homeless beagles being firebombed isn't funny. You just can't.

Last night really got off to a shitty start. The Lakers got burned by Tony Parker and are now down 0-2 in their best of seven series with the Spurs and the season finale of The O.C. sucked big fat donkey balls. Words fail to describe how inept and worthless that hour of television was. So things were lame until...

My friends and I are discussing, in passing, the sexual harrassment case that a former writer's assistant on "Friends" is filing against the Friends' writing staff. This woman's motives and thought process are in serious question given that she didn't make a peep about feeling "uncomfortable" there until after she wasn't working. Very suspicious, but also very ignorant on her part to think that men don't act crudely amongst each other, ESPECIALLY when they are confiding to private meetings about a flippant yet dull sitcom. Anyway, we're talking about it and we come to find out that this woman's laundry list of complaints are on the internet. God bless thesmokinggun.com.

http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/0423041friends1.html

After perousing the list and cackling hysterically at some of the things these writers did and said, one thing became painfully clear to us: Friends staff writer, Greg Malins, is a comic genius who apparently, given the lack of funny in Friends, is completely untalented. But what I would give to work with this guy! To have writer's meetings with him! It would be a party. Read the list on the link I posted above and tell me I'm wrong. I dare you. Favorite examples of his brilliance include:
a. hitting the bottom of the desk, pretending to masturbate furiously
b. continuously suggesting that they turn the character of Joey into a serial rapist (Friends would instantly be worth watching, then)
c. scribbling and changing the "Friends" header on the script so that it read "Penis," then showing it to the assistant and joking that "This is the most important thing you'll ever learn."

The hits go on. You won't be disappointed. The Malins. Truly, a great man.

Yeah, did karaoke last night with the usual crew. Good times, etc, etc. Rocked some Neil Diamond, Journey, and Bon Jovi. Then this girl who I haven't seen in forever because she managed to alienate herself from the group (let's just say she has a rep for being clingy and insane) gets up to sing. She's never done karaoke before, so whatever, people are supportive. She sings that Four Non-Blondes song, the name of which I can't recall but that shouldn't matter seeing as how they only had that one song. Oh yeah, "What's Going On?" That song. Anyway, she performs it, nails it, gets a big applause. I tell her she was dead on after she joins the rest of us. No big deal. End of story. I've talked to her for maybe 5 minutes before that out of the 2+ hours we'd been there. Come to find out today that she thinks my compliment was intended as a come-on. But her reaction was such that she felt an air of superiority about her. Very 'oh that was nice of him to say, but he's probably hitting on me. *turns nose up in the air*' This gurgling twat thinks I was hitting on her. Really? Honestly? I couldn't have been more matter-of-fact about saying, "hey, you really nailed that song." That was it! End of dialogue! I actually moved over to the other side of the room afterwards to talk with other people. You know... friends. I don't have any of her contanct info. As far as I'm concerned, I never have to see her again which would be a pleasure. That neurotic little twig, I swear. I don't even know why I care about this. She can think whatever she likes. In the end, she's fooling herself. I suppose the socially disfunctional stories I heard about her were true.

I need money dollars to spend on alcohol... Now.

From "Growing Pains" to a growing pain, Kirk Cameron shows us that there are no boundaries when it comes blind faith and ignorance.

http://wayofthemaster.com/wotm_flash.html

This website is beyond words. Particularly noteworthy are "the evidence bible" and the blurb on the second commandment -- logic that damns all except Jesus worshipers as idolaters. Just go to this site. Go! It'll make your day.

Watching Calgary upset Detroit in game 6 of their second round series last night, knocking them out of the playoffs, was something special to watch. Two contrasting team personalities: Calgary, the blue-collared hard-nosed worker bees lead by their superstar. Detroit, a virtual all-star team more reliant upon their skill than their drive.

But on the running ticker espn2 has at the bottom of the screen, there was a tidbit of "NFL news." I use quotes because that news was the replacing of Monday Night Football sideline reporter, Lisa Guerrero, with Michele Tafoya. Who cares? No one who watches football, I'll tell you that. To sound completely chauvinist while still maintaining a sense of irony, it's never mattered who the sideline reporter was, what kind of outfit she's wearing, how she does her hair, because the result is always the same: a pretty face asking mundane, stock questions, to athletes and coaches who are spent by the end of the game and determined to answer every question with the same answer. So now the skirt on the sideline has another name. Big deal.

Returned from hiatus at work to find that -- hot shit -- not much has changed. Although one of my friends did leave while I was on break, so that kinda blows. The production company I work at isn't the most generous, financially-speaking, and their development is, shall we say, out of touch when it comes to latching on to new ideas. The latest project to enter our myriad of shows (numbering somewhere around 6 or 7 now) is a cross between "The Apprentice" and "The Amazing Race" with Fox set to broadcast... which means it'll be garbage. But who knows? The Trump character is the far-lesser known Branson, owner of Virgin. TV: one recycled idea after another.

As I sit here, readying to head home, my eyes hang heavy. I've been out of it all day, which is all sorts of trouble when you've got a whole new season to prep for while clearing out everything from last season. Multi-project boy. That's me. Promising note: my boss recommended to HR that next season (regardless of what happens this season) I should be promoted to senior story editor. Fucking great! Would've happened sooner only no openings were available. Now, I just have to make sure I stay the course and continue destroying every obstacle in my path. I am a ball of fire and tonight I will sleep well.

Somehow, its over. The 24-hour mayday film festival is complete (sans screening at tbd time and date). My group was a strong band of four. Confident and overzealous, we had no fear that we could write, produce, perform, edit, essentially create a short film between the hours of 12:22 pm Saturday and 12:22 pm Sunday. But we had reason to panic, for at about 2 in the morning, we had all succumb to writers bloc and rapidly descended into madness. Having already written and dismissed a multitude of stories beforehand and losing potential actors by the second, the downward spiral into the hellmouth of depravity had begun. But it wasn't met with despair and hopelessness on our part. No. Instead, we entered the realm of the absurd -- cackling hysterically at anything and everything that had anything and everything to do with how incredibly fucked we were and how we would never be able to submit an entry to this friendly competition (that we were hosting!) on time. It dawned on us that we, in fact, had no bad ideas but rather were riding a highway of good ideas that for some reason we were compelled to ignore. The premise of this film-making sprint is several groups/teams create a film from a common title that was under 10 minutes long. The title chosen by the masses: "Martyrs of Circumstance." Truly, it began as a wonderful title. We could make anything out of those nominal words. Then came the need amongst my group to somehow be thematically consistent with the title while not overloading the short on plot. This was the real challenge. And as 2:30 am hit, we were sure there was no way we could do in ten hours what everyone else had 24 to do. And then, the bizarre and surreal genius that most of you refer to as "delerium" took over. While wallowing in a page of dialogue entitled "Universe Soup," we all snapped. Our film had a beginning and an end, but no middle. It struck me as obvious that our film needed to center on a character, like ourselves, who was going crazy. And sure enough, we all went crazy and churned out a product so silly, so utterly absurd that we could only have concocted it in a fever-state, hovering somewhere between tired beyond the point of sleep and hungry beyond the point of hunger. I have not slept in over 36 hours and tomorrow, I'm back to work. The film, given the circumstances, is something to be proud of. Our finale centers on the last man on women on Earth who, for no other reason than our own amusement, decide to crucify each other. Don't ask how. The production design for that scene required us making two large crosses out of 4x4s and hoisting them upon high at Runyon Canyon. Truly, it was a sight to behold and the many hiikers and joggers at the park would have to agree. One ugly woman could be overheard muttering incredulously, "What the hell is this shit" upon seeing two of our actors tied to giant crosses with cameras and boom mikes jammed in their faces. Glorious. But the best was when I carried one of the novelty-sized crosses down the canyon back to street level. That, my friends, was a lesson in irony. Hurm...

And now, I'm tired and hungry. I will eat spaghetti, watch Sopranos and Deadwood, then fall fast asleep knowing that my weekend was a trip to hell and back. Only in this hell, I and my compatriots laugh derisively at our own failures and eventual triumphs. I hope I make it to work on time tomorrow.