But I Didn't Miss You.

A brisk walk in the country is just what is needed to clear the head sometimes. My trip to Seattle was relaxing and enjoyable. I spent a good deal of the time walking in the rain in my new Barbour Field Jacket. Spells country. Walked into a great many shops, and generally marveled at how Seattlites don't get hysterical over a bit of weather.

Picked up some new music. I am quite enjoying The Good, The Bad and The Queen as well Fujia & Miyagi. I knew I would enjoy these as they came highly recommended from reputable sources. I also finally picked up Tim Hecker's Harmony In Ultraviolet which is as one might expect breathtaking. Hit some bars Saturday night and I couldn't get my head around how some people went out at night wearing close to nothing.

Ate some pizza with Anonymous D at this pizzeria that had simply the most painfully gorgeous Italian delivery boy. Again wearing shorts in inclement weather, but in this instance it just came across as screw.

Watched the Academy Awards with Anonymous D and I vacillated between amusement and embarrassment. I was appalled that The Queen did not win best picture and the utterly forgettable Departed won. But it is not that I'm surprised. I simply don't have the same tastes as people that wear free clothes.

The trip home from Seattle was less than delightful. As we were taking off from Seattle our plane was hit by lightning. We had to land in Portland where the plane was inspected and we were deplaned and rebooked on flights. I was on the 7:40 pm flight to Los Angeles that was taxiing at around 8:30 when an indicator light came on. We had to go back to the gate where they investigated. For over an hour. They then told us to get off the plane and wait for a working plane. We did. Given my history with airlines I was not at all expecting to see Los Angeles anytime soon. However, the working plane did indeed get us to Los Angeles at an unholy hour and en route the flight attendants showered us with complimentary booze.

Now I'm back at work and am curious as to why anyone thinks it's any of their business where I went and why.

Where Will Clemons Land?

I have a particular ilk! You can imagine my surprise upon hearing this news. That particular ilk, I'm assuming, quite enjoys impassioned and protracted discussions of the details of the Anna Nicole Smith Celebu-tragi-comedy the likes of which you might find here.

I accidentally had a conversation with one of our firm's receptionist-bots about the very subject yesterday which sent me into such a deep state of panic that I nearly called 911. I only wish I were kidding. I understand that the "judge" cried while reading his "order". Well. I suppose that's one way of doing it.

Many sports bloggers are likening the Derek/RoRo feud, specifically the hysterical media attention it garners, to the Anna Tragedy or even to the Britney shavings. But I think that's just rubbish. I mean I can't seem to find an intellectually satisfying way of distinguishing the two, but that doesn't necessarily mean I can't call it rubbish. I mean there really isn't a lot about baseball that is inherently interesting to the laymen. And baseball geeks. Well, I mean, they exist in a strata all their own, and it shouldn't be disturbed. So these little dramas are essential to maintain interest in an activity, where essentially, a man throws, and another man catches, a small round object. In sexy ass.

Muy Calienete! Perhaps underrated but no doubt hotter as a Dodger.

Next Derek Jeter my ass.

Can You Even Come Close?

Well it's hard to get past all the drama being stirred up about Derek and RoRo's "relationship". Actual news about spring training at Legends Field is pretty scarce, but innuendo and caricature run rampant. If my actual work situation weren't completely insufferable I might resist the urge to absorb myself in baseball, but tickets go on sale March 3 which by my estimation is a week from Saturday.

Forcing myself to dabble in other ponds of culture I've read with some satisfaction about the new Prada collection. Although I've shunned almost everything coming from anywhere remotely located around Italy for around 5 years now I have to confess a fondness for the expression "fake classic" used by Miuccia to describe her most recent collection.

And Sao Paulo may in fact be the most happening place on the planet outside my sheets. While perusing Cool Hunting, I happened upon this article about Parisian streetwear label Surface To Air opening a boutique there. This adds to their other two boutiques in New York and Paris. I mention it only because I've been, quite accidentally and without precognition, acquiring a lot of pieces from this label. So check it out. I like it. They actually sell it everywhere.

Yeah, I'm not gonna jet to Sao Paulo to the tune of 9 bucks to pick up a meticulously distressed hoodie when I have them all over thrift shops in Seattle and L.A. Some kids at work were speaking rather indignantly, and quite outside their class, about people who prefer not to travel outside the country. And I just thought to myself. I know 10 times more about the countries they visit to enjoy, as they profess, paintings, architecture and tourist food simply from books. Traveling really is television for intellectuals. I'm going to Seattle tomorrow. As promised:


"Mama says I'm the cutest"


They have people to do that for you.


"We're heroes to children and worshiped by the firm."


"You don't bring me flowers anymore."



"You married a girl you douche."

The Girls Get Along.

Circumstances quite beyond my control forced me to whole up at Compadre's last night. I really would rather not get into it since the details are unpleasant to say the least. I did, however, watch part of Science of Sleep with Gael Garcia Bernal. Although I didn't finish it I'm going to because it looks really good. The ass shot is really really good. Anyway, the buses run infrequently in Compadre's hood so I got into work a little late today. It's so weird going to work in the daylight. I don't think I've done that since July.

I'm trying to kick my coffee addiction and already it doesn't bode well. I'm filled with blinding rage toward one of my carbie counter-parts, and I've already shot this thing a look that made him retreat to the bathroom for 30 minutes with some intestinal drama. Fem.

The boys in pinstripes are now officially all at spring training, and they are rocking these awesome baseball inspired shirts. There is a gold mine of photographs at Newsday. Most of them of RoRo which I find odd, but I've culled what I humbly think are the best. The commentary is mine, not Newsday's. The Yankees Beat Blog is also something else you should check out. Yeah Anonymous D., you're suppose to click on that sentence to go to the Yankee Beat Blog.

Notice the shirt.


"I want surprises."


It takes a bit of concentration.


"I've got a secret."


"Maybe not so secret."

"Woolfphase does it so much better."

Oh and there are more. Lots more, so check back tomorrow for more spring training pics, and to find out what latest calamity has walked into my office.

Let's Pretend That's Actually A Word For A Second.

A fly inhabits my office. An annoying mumbling wisp of a thing that trembles whenever you speak to it actually inhabits my office and was employed presumably not to irritate me, but to perform some other perfunctory and mindless task the elements of which should be executed without addressing me or coming into any type of contact with me. I say it so often that it's starting to lose all meaning, but I dream the dream.

If I didn't have baseball and battlestar to look forward to I would most certainly go mad.

I referenced a similar article yesterday, but it is simply too too precious for me to let alone. Click here to read yet another article bout the pinstriped queer icons deluxe.

The rest of the Yankees appear to be reporting for spring training. Please enjoy these photographs I just nabbed. Also if you needed yet another reason to ignore the insipid work of Marc Jacobs then by all means check out these hideous hats. Gratis.


They aren't kidding. Not from spring training, but perhaps the most adorable image in the history of sight.



I dress better than you'd think.


"I have a function."


My ass has a separate address.

Famous Is Unique

Alright. I'm seriously too into this article I can't even stand it. I love the Yankees. Duh. Just click here to read it.

This weekend was just silly. Compadre may owe me an apology, but I certainly wouldn't remember. No. Much fun, things that looked like Margaritas in puce, shopping, shopping, I think I'm wearing a new shirt right now. Keeping up with spring training as best as I can. They have me looking at screen shots. I'm not joking. This is actually my job. They pay me for this shit. It actually might make you sick if you knew how much. And it's about to be a lot more since one of my co-workers asked for more money, which means I get more money, which is how to be a fat American, stupid American, someone I would never want to fuck. Lick my destiny.


Known for looking agreeable. Andy.



Still waiting for some action. pnp.


If I were cuter you would die.

Featured In Images.

Lurid. Simply lurid. That is the best way to describe the new line from the "let's not try too hard" label Phenomenon. "Attention to detail" being distilled to the science of choosing the perfect graphic or pattern, and by perfect they mean ironic. Stunning or superficial? You decide. Click here to see what I'm babbling about.

Pony sent me some shots of this fresh hoodie you see Kanye rockin. Obviously I'm impressed, but I'm also a little horrified because there is no way I'm as fat as that skeleton and this hoodie would just be a mess on me. Most non-Parisian streetwear is a mess on me. No jive. Although this Australian streetwear label Nique looks like it may work I am by no means traveling to Australia for track pants or anything else for that matter. I'll just wait a few months when they're closing up their shop on Robertston.


I watched an interesting albeit altogether unaffecting film Death of a President. The movie proposes a hypothetical story-line following the assassination of George W. Bush. The film is composed largely of staged interviews and news footage, and it basically doesn't work well at all. But check it out. I could be wrong.

More spring training pics as baseball fever is heating up. Some of my co-workers are already planning on catching the Dodger's opening day. It sure sounds fun, but you know, it's just The Dodgers. I wish The Yankees sold travel packages, and they had their own hotel chain with pinstriped pillow cases and baseball poofs.

Pinstripes and palm trees. Canape?


Got Nip?

Paunchy? Andy needs to work on that.

"Utility power top at your service."

Classified For Comfort.

Despite the shadow conspiracy at work to drive me out of my mind I have managed to find some solace in the knowledge that The Yankees are hard at work in spring training, and in just over 2 weeks I'll be buying tickets for games. Derek regrets to inform us that he really doesn't think Bernie will be coming back. Boo Boo Aboo.

Enjoy the pics of spring training courtesy of Newsday.

Picture Freeze Daylight Shadow.

Someone neglected to tell me it was Valentines Day. One of the soul sucking urchins at my work was good enough to bring it to my attention. At the rate my employer is putting soul sucking urchins in my unisphere I should be back in Seattle by the end of March. There's nothing significant about the end of March whatsoever. These emotional vampires constantly lob inane questions at me, and one in particular tries to couch questions into some form of lawyer trickery watch out. Not that sneaky if you can actually appreciate the attempt. It's irritating. I'm quite seriously unhappy, but I'm able to enjoy the farmer's market and tamales later today. And a Lady Diana docu-drama this evening.

I tried really really hard to watch The Illusionist last night, and it was just too stupid. And Jessica Biel was just too much of a ho-bag. So I finished watching The Last King of Scottland instead and it was almost as good as it could have been. It was really nice and well done, and I loved Gillian Anderson. And I'm a huge fan of Forrest Whitaker. The film included some fresh vintage gear and hairstyles, and many of the sets were breathtaking. You should check it out.

Passions On The Inside.

Some nut-job went ape shit with a shot gun in the Salt Lake City shopping mall Trolley Square. Such random violence in a city which houses some of my most favorite people as well as the best mole I've ever tasted certainly sent a chill down my spine so early this morning. Although news is bountiful you can click here for a quick story. I really hate to be glib, but I'm beginning to think some church or commune (Lotsa communes in Utah) grows these people in pods somewhere. It was almost a year ago to the day that some similar trench coat clad nutso took a shot gun to a house full of people in Seattle. Something about disaffected youth or the like.

Here in Los Angeles life progresses at much the same pace. Minus the warcraft. I'm desperately trying to find a merchant or haberdashery that sells House of Cassette. I've made calls, sent emails, yet nobody seems interested in giving me the information I need. These people would be wise to realize that in the long run it's in their best interest to simply give me what I want. I would also like information regarding this Folk label, but I know no one can help me with that.

And this is just precious. Spanish fashion designer Paco Rabanne has put the smack down on fellow designers John Galliano and Alexander McQueen by criticizing them as nothing more than common design hooligans. We're the hooligans. Yes the hooligans. The nasty hooligans. Sorry it was a song someone sang to me once. Try to get through the day and not call someone a hooligan. I dare you.

I'm also tres excited about this new movie Hot Fuzz. It looks hilarious. You can click here to watch the newest trailer. Well, maybe you can. My computer lacks some plug-in or API or something. But the trailer at least sounds nice.

And last night I had an epiphany. Although I've long held fast to my scheme of a toast themed restaurant, and by that I mean a restaurant that only serves toast bread, last night I was inspired by a new idea for a macrobiotic restaurant. It would include a selection of raw cuisine, flavored barley water, a bean and chutney bar, and most importantly it will be called Pizza Gay Cabron. That's actually the most important part.

No One's Listening So You Can Use Your Indoor Voice.

My workplace has regressed into something so intellectually retarded and bankrupt it honestly doesn't warrant mentioning anymore. Seriously. It has officially lost enough relevance to even comment on.

This weekend on the other hand was a frenzy of neo-bourgeois activity. Having a hankering for something of the Ann Demeulemeester variety I began my weekend earlier than Jesus on Robertson boulevard, where upon entry into the local Starbucks I noticed that I had been marching around with a missing sunglass lens. Realizing I either looked immensely chic or horribly tragic I ditched the one lens wonder and began to assess and quietly judge the patrons of this strangely busy Starbucks. I had to wait behind two loud talking girls with cheap clothes coordinated with their best pair of marked down True Religion jeans. Robertson ultimately had nothing for me.

While trying to make my way to Sunset Plaza I was caught, quite unaware, in the gravitational field of The Beverly Center. It happened so suddenly I had to revert to my consumer instincts. There was obviously nothing for me in the Beverly Center. There was a nice Suicidal Tendencies t-shirt I thought might be nice for Compadre, but I wavered too long and the staff repelled me.

I finally made it up to Sunset Plaza where I slinked into H. and they only had five miserable shirts. Five. Predictably in a choice of white or black. I wasn't feeling it. They had some Literature jeans I should have tried on, but I was weary and I still hadn't picked up my dry cleaning.

The dry cleaners was a mess albeit an insanely hot latin stud telling me why my shirts weren't done mess. I killed the time by heading over to Undefeated where they luckily had a pair of Nike Air Max skull packs in my size. Gray green colorway. Fuck street culture and it's tired ass lingo.

The Velocity Of Mediocrity.

I operated a motor vehicle for the first time in nearly two months. In Los Angeles. Everything was fine until I was no longer able to ignore the fact that there were other motorists on the road. It was at this moment when I realized how common "driving" yourself to work actually is. More common than taking the train even. For example, I had to yield to oncoming traffic, activate a blinking light to "request" lane changes, and perhaps most humiliating of all, I had to stop at intersections when no other motorists were nearby and wait until some inanimate blinking box indicated it was OK to proceed. Need I even go into the parking. No there is very little about "driving" that I find even remotely compatible with my personality.

In an altogether separate matter I was shocked to look at the headlines today and be told that I actually cared about Anna Nicole Smith. Yahoo, MSN, and a myriad of other news agencies were emblazoning headlines all over my computer screen insinuating that I cared about this individual. Well ordinarily I just find the news insipid, however, this indeed was a revelation so I forced myself to read on, and then I got bored. But it made me think about a conversation I had last night over dinner. In the conversation I came to realize that I had no independent recollection of the woman known as Anna Nicole Smith. In my mind she was an amalgamation of other similar looking "blond bombshells" and all details of her life were interchangeable with the others. When talking to my friend about Ms. Smith, I came up with all manner of stories which my friend was good enough to tell me had nothing to do with Ms. Smith, but some other blond celebrity whose name escapes me, and will never conceivably stick in my mind. Such is the way with constructing beauty myths, and gender stereotypes. It remains a way of making everyone interchangeable and altogether average. Or you could say common. I really like that word since my experience in the motor car.

Derek on the other hand is starting to recover from the pain and anguish of last seasons early play-off dismissal. In a candid interview he discusses the cathartic effect of spring training and turning over a new leaf. I've included a link to article here, and you can read it although I'm sure it will bring a tear to your eye like it did mine. However, for all I know you could be one of those Hegelian supermen that can "drive" a motor vehicle without breaking down in tears. And if that's the case then congratulations. You win.

I Think It Would Look Better In Grape.

It's become more tedious than cliche to bitch about Starbucks. But this morning I encountered a seething disagreeable heifer of a beast who in addition to flaunting her most heifer-ish traits right in front of me couldn't seem to manage to make change for a hundred. Seriously?

"All I have are fives and ones." Sheepish Heifer says.

I thought she could honestly use the walk to the back room for the lockbox or maybe just a bending motion toward the underside of the counter might benefit her cardiovascular system, but no. Heifer was content to gaze at me with some stupid vacant gooey eyed dripping expression and refuse to make change for a hundred. I mean where the fuck am I Tacoma? And Mario. Mario was no help at all. Mario just stood behind the counter dim and gorgeous and a messin up my coffee. I don't have a lot of patience with businesses that refuse to take part is various essential aspects of being a business. Like making change. I think they should just keep their doors shut until they get up the gumption to actually participate in the marketplace. No it's moments like these that I realize I could actually use a can of mace.

Enough about that. Someone somewhere has decided that it would be a good idea to do a remake of Barbarella. A movie so epic and formative I'm a little spooked by the prospect. And someone by the name of Sienna Miller whose name sounds familiar, and I think I should know who she is, but no, it's not really ringing any bells, is rumored to be in consideration for the title lead. Click here to read about it.

And this, I just got a glance at this article, but upon a cursory reading I have to wonder whether Marc Jacobs thinks this isn't transparent bullshit. Hate him. And his ugly rags. And his 2 dollar plastic rings. There's a name for that, but it's rarely uttered in polite society.

Peekvid is still down, but I found a semi-suitable alternative. I also purchased a Rogues Gallery shirt for no particular reason. Anonymous D, you know what to do.

Haze It May Be.

Peekvid is down and I can only hope for some non-litigious reason. What would under normal circumstances constitute a catastrophe has actually given me the opportunity to scavenge for cute Derek and Ro Ro pictures. Oh and I bought a fresh Rag & Bone shirt. Anonymous D. should be expecting it. Seriously though, the sooner peekvid is back up the better.

Ro Ro was on Martha Stewart yesterday promoting his new Children's book Out Of The Ballpark. I imagine the book doesn't contain the word preemptive. Because of my cursed job I missed it, but luckily you, me and everyone in between can watch via The Martha Stewart Show Web Site starting next week, but only for the week. I think.

And pre-spring training warm-ups have already began and the most adorable man is baseball is there giving interviews about of all things Roger Clemons.

And this news is hysterical. Some fans of a local South American group were outraged when the lead singer came out sporting a baseball hat that they thought read RAPE in capital letters. The hat in fact read BAPE in capital letters. Now the good people of this South African club are obviously myopic, but that is probably the least of their concerns because someone has clearly failed to mention to them that their country has been mysteriously relocated to another planet and strategically placed under the most obscure of rocks in an ocean of indiscernible rocks. Oops. Seriously though, if you want to read this article it is hilarious. The author claims that BAPE actually stands for Bathing Apes (sic) and is a clothing line designed by singer/producer Pharrell Williams (sic). Oh the rubes. The speckled rubes. Endless fields of rubes. I'm such a fucking snob.

And in terms of my musical agenda, something I can't seem to get enough of is the Wighnomy Brothers. Everything I hear from them is top grade. I found this little remix album on Amazon, but I'm gonna check Amoeba and Wall of Sound just to be sure. And Sonic Boom. And probably Everyday Music.

She Lost The Memo And Came Anyway.

Why would they call it expresso at Starbucks? Why? Why not call it expresto patronus or something insane? I was giving serious thought to laying in bed all morning and just rolling into work whenever I felt like it, but Starbucks boy was obviously in a hurry to murder my espresso in more than name only, and thereby ruin my morning. Actually two of the Starbucks boys get a lot of leeway owing to their cuteness and what not. The ladies across the street in the other Starbucks lost me at Hola Como Estas?

So got up to my office, and someone and I don't know who, came into the suite last night and closed all the office doors. Didn't lock them. Just closed them. Almost in a definitive way. Spooky. This whole place is spooky at 6:00 am.

I discovered that the off hand comment I made in yesterday's blog about downtown being ablaze was actually a bit of national news. Fire gutted some historic building yesterday morning, and in Los Angeles historic merely means that someone famous had sex there, not that the building is actually old in an architectural sense. Lucky for me it isn't the same building that houses situation normal. That cute little boutique I've been trying to visit. I best not dawdle though. I think I'll head down during lunch today before an earthquake crushes my Maharishi hoodie.

The Proenza Schouler line for Target seems to be all the buzz. I think I may actually know around 2 people that would even care about that. I heard Keenan Duffy had a line at Target, but that may have been a language barrier thing. Anyway, they'll be selling the Proenza Shouler line through March 5th.

The megapolis electric.

OK so there is really something on fire downtown. I mean blazing. It's consuming the sky. Someone should probably call someone, but as you can see I'm in the middle of something.

I spent yesterday convalescing from the Morrissey show which it goes without saying was enormously moving. My voice is still recovering from the screaming. Hopefully no one will be so insensitive and crass as to actually speak to me today, but I can only dream the dream.

The city of Pasadena is no doubt one of the most sterile Americanized hamlets in all of California. I mean simply to arrive at the show and be frisked by an altogether unattractive man we had to navigate a car park, a P.F. Changs, an outdoor/indoor shopping center, and something called the 134 Freeway. It really had me at my wits end. Morrissey began his set with How Soon is Now, and ended it with First Of The Gang To Die. Magical. There are reports that the evening was marred by some senseless violence. 3 Mexicans allegedly beat up a white man over a piece, I mean a shred, of Morrissey's tattered shirt. Moz I believe threw 2 shirts out that evening. I saw nothing of this since we were in the Loge, but the threads are basically reporting that being Mexican, and a Morrissey fan = violence. Since Morrissey sings about violence in poor neighborhoods it is something we should simply expect and tolerate, and I have to admit the logic as well as the aesthetic is compelling. The dude, allegedly called the dudes greasers, in which case he deservedly got his ass beat proper.

Luckily we didn't have to endure such horrid and sexy violence. Although Pony and companion were harassed by some horned up sour things. Compadre sent me to retrieve the girls, which I did, and we were able to watch the remainder of the show together.

Finished the evening at the Tiji which was a mind scramble. I of course paid no attention to The Superbowl, but I understand that The Bears lost (sucks for compadre), and we are just that much closer to baseball.

Somethings On Fire In East LA.

Well unless you live in some type of self-sustaining cocoon of despair you know that I'm going to see Morrissey tomorrow night with Pony and the gang. It would be silly to even get into the excitement of it all. Moz was on the cover of the LA Weekly, and I got a copy yesterday which was good because they seem to be curiously missing today. I'm sure it has nothing whatsoever to do with the store of copies I'm keeping in my filing cabinet. You can read the article by clicking here. I'm using their picture. Just to warn you the interview is very sad, and it kinda made me cry. At work.

The first show was last night, and I've looked over the set-list with satisfaction. I've nearly decided on an outfit although I'm going to situation normal tomorrow to see if I can't pick up a Special Needs Viva Palestina Libre t-shirt in a more suitable size. That should go over well.

Someone by the name of Jay Z has just paid a ludicrous amount of money to live next to Derek. $16 million dollars or something. Now I certainly have a man crush on Derek, yes homo. But even I would think twice before dropping that kind of change on a flat in Trump Tower. The name alone gives me pause. Click here if you think I'm lying.

And this is priceless. Apparently Turner is going to pick up the bill for the colossal stupidity of The City of Boston. What this possibly means for every upright thinking individual would concern me if I weren't immediately horrified with the state of the pea coat in mens fashion. I mean I see them everywhere chunky and slouchy and thrown over all manner of garb, and I'm tired of it. I get it. It's a pea coat. You're wearing it. Congratulations. Is it cozy?
______________________________________________

1. Picture, Kevin Scanlon, LA Weekly, February 2-8, 2007

You Never Said I Couldn't Turn Around.

Compadre was none too slow in pointing out that in my previous post I had bastardized the pronunciation and spelling of the cheeses that I did "remember". Oh fiddle. I tried to repay him by not revealing the secret leaked contest winner of the Top Chef Television Contest. I succeeded in that endeavor. However, the tweaker with the impossible hair did not succeed. He failed. In many ways too numerous to mention he is a loser. However, most people agree that the show is about as rigged as one of Martha's soufflees. Click here for an interesting article on Top Chef that you wouldn't ordinarily find interesting.

So this obviously has nothing to do with baseball, but it may as well since it appears that the people of Boston are too stupid to even be allowed to hold objects. I received many transmissions into my work chamber regarding the "scare" or I think CNN referred to it as a "misunderstanding". I suppose misunderstanding is the right word. If by misunderstanding you mean drawing an incredible amount of media attention to how stupid Red Sox fans are generally, and how hysterical Americans are specifically then yes, that was a bit of a blunder I suppose. Ordinarily I would have to say it simply has to stop, but it amuses me, and that is really coming in short supply lately. Click here to watch the notorious deed being done.

And click here to watch The Aqua Teen Hunger Force colon Movie For Theaters trailer.

Oh, and the new and final Harry Potter book will be released July 21st.