Shields!

First day of unemployment and I was whisked up into Compadre's world. And world could scarcely describe it.

Step One: Drive to his commissary and prepare food for a BCBG shoot (I know, BCBG). I mostly tidied and washed dishes as Compadre systematically destroyed them. I washed the same food chopper thingy three times in one hour and almost flipped.

Step Two: Off to pick up trays, spoons and such for the photo shoot, but midway there we decide that they don't deserve anything fancy so we turn around and finished making food.

Step Three: Deliver the food to the people that earnestly believe that a fashion shoot cures cancer. Compadre let me nowhere near those people so I walked down to Burrito King to buy lunch for us while Compadre prepared.

Step Four: I tried to eat an oozing pile of beans and cheese, but ultimately opted for continued starvation.

Step Five: Drive to Restaurant Depot where I nearly throw a tantrum when I find out I can't buy a kilaton of Tecate because it requires a special license.

Step Six: Back to the commissary to prepare more food for some place that likes to buy his grub so they can sell it to their skinny jean and high-top wearing tragedy o' customers.

Step Seven. Drive back to the BCBG shoot to pick up the lunch service gear. Five minutes after we arrive the shoot moves outside to the parking lot. They start taking pictures of the model with myself and the Tangerine Fade (truck) in the background. A transparent attempt to get the fade and myself into their campaign. I wasn't worried. My lawyer knows what to do if someone misappropriates my image or likeness for some seedy bridge line shoot. You do, don't you?

Step Eight: Back to the commissary to finish aforementioned grub for aforementioned establishment and their fish net hat and faux western shirt rockin', pouty ass customers. I'm sorry, but if I'm going to go about my day pretending my life is a fancy dress party that's fine, but I seriously doubt I could do it with a straight face.

Step Nine: Back to the BCBG shoot to pick up something Compadre forgot from the breakfast service which I wasn't a part of, and if I were I would have quite frakkin naturally reminded him before we got back onto the 101 Freeway.

Step Ten: Finally deliver the grub to that place that really isn't that bad, but it has free Wi-Fi, so you know, it tends to attract the mindlessly self-obsessed hoi polloi that apparently have as much difficulty picking out a personality as they do buyng shoes.

Step Eleven: Compadre and I drive down Sunset for what seems like the 11th time of the day (weird I know) to my humble little rat hole which now that it comes to it I am almost sad to let go.

Step Twelve: Beer, herb, and if mushrooms were in the house I would have made some tea because after three years of 50+ hour work weeks, and on my first day of official government cheese eligibilty, I suddenly realized that it may have been in fact my first experience with what some people refer to as an "honest days work". Not at all like sitting at a desk all day and waiting for myself to find something interesting . So it was somewhat of an ironic existential crisis. Now that I'm unemployed I can afford such luxuries. And such was the need for the twelfth step. Some people just give up too soon.

Staying Up Late For Always.

The game last night against the White Sox was hateful. The girls won, and Mike looked incredible on the mound. But the announcers were totally biased and were actually rooting for the White Sox while they were attempting to comment on the game. Not only that, the fans in the audience were loud and rude. Some guy who was obviously standing too close to a voice feed kept screaming "Your a pretty boy Jeter!" over and over again every time Derek was at bat. Maddening. And although the statement is entirely true, perhaps even understated, I gather from the expletives that the screaming fan occasionally added that he was not in fact a true and loyal fan of Derek. Just a distasteful cow with a really loud voice.

There Are Days That Bring Me To My Knees.

Well it is finally official. Friday will be my last day of work, although I'm actually taking that day off so Thursday will have to suffice. And just in time. My newest neighbor could be described with only a few words, coked out + screaming + domestic violence = I'm so out of there. All night long, "You lie, you cheat!" and "All I do is fuck other guys!" and more of the "You lie! You lie!" I think she threw him out, but I can't be too sure. I understand that coked out two timing whore also goes to law school which is of course no surprise to me. My landlady has asked me for a referral to live in my place, but I really don't think I know anyone that I actually hate that much.

So once again, I'm off to the Emerald City. It all just seems so cyclical to me, but I simply go where the day takes me. What is it they say, turn to the right and carry on. Lazy summer days in the courtyard, thrifting, idle pursuits. It's like 2004 all over again, and I just can't wait.

The Yankees had the day off yesterday as they traveled to Chicago. Which means I also had a day without baseball, and that was quite a relief. RoRo has injured his quad thingy which is what Derek had hurt a couple of weeks ago. RoRo denies that it is a silly attempt to be more like Derek.

Replicate This You Mother Fucking Template.

It's past 8:00 am and I haven't even left my house which is so unlike me. I possibly may leave soon to take my place in the room which affords me such delicious views of concrete structures, but I really can't be sure. Maybe a little tea will help. But I see no use in even being with those useless twats any longer. The one and only thing that is even tempting me to go downtown today are crisp bean burritos from Taco Time. I'm sorry, from Taco Time!

But nothing else.

Galactica was brutal.

This is all a sham.

Destroy everything.

Were You On Your Way To Heaven?

I dreamt of spiders last night. This after going through heroic measures to remove one from my house without hurting it. I had to call Anonymous Dan and he was kind enough to talk me through the ordeal. And they reward me by tormenting my subconscious. Horrid, revolting, pulsating, translucent, vicious devil of a thing. All I remember was carrying it around in a ventilated pickle jar, I mean I wouldn't want to kill the poor thing even if it was just a figment of my imagination, but something awful must have happened because I woke up in what most people would consider the middle of the night to the sound of my own screaming. Well there isn't much to do after that except make a pot of tea, tidy up my bed which I had seen was absolutely torn to shit, shower, dress, set off a bug bomb, and head into the office. And I don't feel even slightly bad about it. I'm not killing the disgusting things, they just happen to die if they come within 20 feet of my bungalow. The choice is entirely theirs. All I need is a bug bomb for my subconscious mind and I'll be set.

Milo would ordinarily take care of those filthy things for me. Lacking any remorse or conscience he annihilates anything that creeps or crawls into my apartment which I'm sure he thinks is his apartment. Nothing really gets under his skin except the presence of any human being besides myself. Although I suspect he despises the word "slacks" as much as I do. Quite devoted to me. And I may be reunited with my muffin mitts even sooner than I had hoped. I may be scootin' back to SeaWa as early as the first week of May. Or maybe not. I was going to ask someone about it today.


-- Muffin Mitts enjoying a baseball game. To his right.

So there isn't much to say about last night's game. Michael had an awful time on the mound, and the girls quickly trailed 7-0. Derek had a double RBI single and a run in the fifth which brought some hope. Kyle Farnsworth threw a pitch at Manny Ramirez' throat of all things. I mean I think Manny in a ponce and a douche, but even I wouldn't chuck something at his throat. Those girls don't even want to try to get along sometimes. Following there monstrous 18 day road trip Derek is looking deluxe with his new fade. We're jealous. We can't get our hair did til' we get back to our lady in SeaWa. First week of May or no...Must find out.

Special birthday wishes to NCM. You don't look a day over imperishable.

Dusting Yourself Off.

I'm wearing one of those ridiculous Flippa K striped shirts today. I'm quite embarrassed for myself and Swedish fashion generally. But I watch this vid and it brings a smile to my face.

The Edwardian Days Are Here Again.

Well you may need to sit down for this, but I watched baseball last night. And it was a nail biting slug fest to the last. Seriously, my fingers are just nubs. More on that later. But I understand the real bread and circuses was being televised on an altogether different channel. In the form of a "political" debate between two presidential hopefuls whose names don't even bear mentioning. McCain I'm afraid has this one for no other reason than this country deserves no better, and consistently demonstrates that sad fact in an unashamed fashion. It is helpful to make people feel they're involved I suppose. In the form of scripted televised "debates" on issues which apparently matter to them no less. And for once I don't think I'm being glib. Machiavelli couldn't even dream this shit up. As noble as their pacifying hegemonic totalitarian intentions may have been, however, I think it was slightly in poor taste to televise this "incident" (which some people genuinely feel they have an interest in) during the Yankees game. Just crass.

The Yankees duked it out with the Red Sox to a 15-9 win. And that's where the slug fest part comes in. Derek had a two RBI single, Don't Call Me Whitney Bobby had a two run homo, and RoRo batted his 522nd career homo beating all sorts of records set by less attractive players of yore. Georgie and Jason both scored two run doubles, I mean it was all over the place. And I don't think any of these runs were wasted. The girls needed each and every one of these offensive flourishes to hold back the relentlessly saucy and impertinent Red Sox. I'm certainly not a man's man by any stretch of the imagination, but if ever such a thing existed (and please let me know if you find one) then this was the game for that imaginary person. Epic!


I don't know about you, but I am about fed up and worn out by walking to and fro going about my daily business in a languorous wake of Prada fumes. It happened to me again yesterday, and I had to hold my tongue as well as maintain my gag reflex because this broad obviously thought she was the son and heir and she could scarcely handle any disappointing news to the contrary. Particularly if it came from me. And people call me cruel. No. The best defense is a good offense or something, and it's better to fight fire with something that smells a trifle bit better. Since the monstrous over marketing and cross branding of Comme des Garcons has made me all but lose interest in one of my most ancient and favored brands, I've been forced to look elsewhere for my olfactory delights. Like my bathroom cabinet. Where my favorite fragrances aren't some "series" of some "color" or "concept" wrapped in an altogether ponderous jigsaw puzzle of self-conscious packaging, but rather a simple fragrance from YvesSaintLaurent which admittedly comes in about as ridiculously self-conscious packaging, but that part comes with the territory I fear. Although I haven't tried this L'Homme fragrance yet, this limited edition butt-plug looking bottle envisioned by some French "designer" I'm sure I'm suppose to have heard of really looks kinda nice. It almost looks like poison. Or a pregnancy test!

Just Some Random Mutterings.

The interminably feisty Kyle Farnsworth was rocking the same hair don't during the eighth inning of yesterday's game, but he did come through in a big way, and he did it without punching anyone's lights out. Pop up, ground out, and strike out or something in a similar order to maintain the Yankee lead. Mariano then came in and did his thing. Kyle is seriously too cute for that hair, but he in no way shape or form deserves the type of grief he gets from NYC fans.

Derek was wearing number 42 in honor of Jackie Robinson day and that was really sweet. He spoke with Kim Jones before the game about the declining numbers of African Americans in baseball, and Derek just played it off as a declining interest in baseball generally. And I think he may have something there. Not myself of course. My interest waxes unapologetically, but even I notice the boys at work are incessantly involved with these lesser sports. Basketball for instance, seems to be as sophisticated as slamming one's head into a wall. But Derek also spoke eloquently and passionately about the fake American dream the ceaseless marketing of sports to youth perpetuates. He may not have used those exact words though. That man is as wise as he is handsome. RBI and a run yesterday by the way.

What else? Oh, I spent a good deal of time yesterday reading Slate.com which is something I could hardly recommend. I can't think of a bigger waste of time than reading anything Christopher Hitchens writes. Pompous turd. And all the writers just seem to go on and on and you wait and wait for them to make a point, but they seem to take the view that the thesis is superfluous. And the mindless snitty discussion boards? A laugh riot at times, but it's a singular enjoyment that quickly fades. Stick with bbc if you want to hear people discussing something other than how clever and insightful they find themselves.

And then there are the countless fashion blogs that tell me nothing that doesn't annoy me, and this place, one of my favorite joints in SeaWa, seem to think it's OK to buy into and replicate their own hype. That's something I hope to bring back from LA with me. The knowledge and awareness that media whore-dom may actually diminish one's reputation rather than enhance it. Too much. Crass.

I put it my 30 day notice on my bungalow last night so I guess that is that. I shall be leaving and never looking back. Well not until October at least. And just so there is no mistaking my intention I wrote "on the midnight train to Georgia" on the message board in the break room. I don't know how anyone could misunderstand that missive.

Yes And Only Slightly.

Derek is back in the line-up, and the Yankees walked away with the win despite losing a 6 run lead. Derek returned with 2 hits and 2 RBIs, but Robbie was the real hero coming in as a pinch hitter in the eighth and batting his first homo of the season to beat Tampa 8-7. Derek was welcomed back by almost being hit with a wild ass pitch, but everyone knows how I feel about that so we just won't get into it.

In addition to baseball I've been filling my idle moments keeping up with my soaps. The Tudors is getting very interesting, and the invincible Anne is starting the feel the water heat up a bit. Battlestar Galactica is as overwrought as ever. I almost lost it with all of Cara's screaming about "going the wrong way" and Admiral Adama and the President have altogether ceased being sympathetic characters. Baltar is hilarious and the whole Centurian revolt fiasco was delicious. So I've basically gone from watching zero television to doing little else. I would actually feel like a loser if I didn't have all these other people around me ceaselessly reminding me of the opposite.

Kinda diggin the new M83!

Turning Indolence Into Art.

The weather this weekend was as hateful as we anticipated. All I could do was stay indoors, watch baseball and try to stay cool. Saturday's baseball game was marred by an unspeakable rain delay which forced us to order Thai food and watch something called Balls of Fury. Miserable experience. I did catch sight of Boston's pitcher during the game. Sweet little thing was wearing a heart shaped pendant all through the game which I thought was just precious. Too too precious, and too too much. The Yankees didn't "win" the series against Boston, but they weren't "swept" either. Just wait until Derek gets better and that will change everything.

Sunday morning was all about chores and brunch. This unfortunately wasn't until after I endured the Sunday morning political analysis drivel with the likes of George Stephanopoulos and Tim Russert. On Tim Russert their was this dowdy, seething, and scouring school marm that declared right there before God and everyone that "people are sick of all this Bush bashing". I said quite aloud "Really!" because I for one can not get enough of it. Thinking I might be living in a delusion I called a few people to test the waters, and sure enough I couldn't find a single soul that this woman was referring to. These people who are sick of "Bush bashing" don't seem to exist outside the rarefied world of Sunday morning armchair political analysis programming. Perhaps I simply move in other circles.

Compadre and I went to this place called Good on Sunset for brunch. Seemed simple enough. We ordered their mimosa which was quite good, perused their menu which was uninspired despite it's best attempts to be cheeky (They have a dish called The Total Eclipse Hipster Scramble and, no, I did not just make that up). Compadre noticed far too many "No's" on the menu. No substitutions, no potatoes, no this, no that, so Compadre made an administrative decision and chose no us. We handed the clever as can be expected menus back to our server, asked for our check, finished our mimosas, and went elsewhere for brunch. The lengths one must go to in order to find a pleasant meal in Los Angeles is mind boggling. One's better off just hopping on a plane to San Francisco for the afternoon. I suppose you could always cook for yourself, but who has the time, and cooking in this weather is simply not an option.

The trip to Amoeba was ghastly. I could have hitched a ride on a retarded ant and gotten down Sunset faster. Once I was there I was surrounded by all manner of person. The people in the documentary DVD section where I spent most of my time were actually quite cordial and polite. Not at all ape like. But as soon as I ventured in any other section I was simply assaulted by ass hole-ishness. One individual thought it would be appropriate to start up a conversation with me about Sean Young of all people. All I could do was say "I think she was in Dune" and walk away. Compadre found some nice tunes, all I did was snag a copy of The Madness of King George and ran like hell out the door. I did pay for it first though.

A part of me is really into this one size fits all Libertine shirt from Ron Herman. That's Chopin on the front you philistine, and since I'm willing to consider dropping hundreds of dollars on some tee shirt that was made in a rat hole Korea Town studio I'm able to make comments on other people's relative level of sophistication with regard to such matters. Sorry if no one told you, but I'm sure you're no stranger to disappointment. Just as I'm sure Obama wishes he were an actual snob, but alas, still a poseur. I've politely informed his camp that going to law school is not a ticket, gateway or even a welcome mat into belted nobility, but I'm sure my sage like words fell on stupid ears. I'm still ponderously amused by people that think politics actually matter in a dictatorship. Seriously, I just roll myself to sleep laughing. But overpriced tee shirts do tend to keep me up at night so it usually balances out.

I Make Lists Of Things I Intend To Forget.

Not sure what to make of this. Well first off it's positively glacial in my office and I'm seconds away from calling someone about it and giving them the what for. But more importantly, some incomprehensible article written in some form of mono-syllabic half English is claiming that neither Derek nor Georgie will be playing in tonight's game against Boston. I never! This is certainly going to be a crushingly boring weekend without baseball. And it's going to be something like 88 degrees in Los Angeles so there are so many things to do outside: heat-stroke, sunburn, dehydration, and tea! Whatever the case, circumstances, the weather and time itself have all conspired to place me in a filthy mood, and the weekend is yet to begin.

Did I mention that some dude I work with finds it necessary to wait until he's at the wash basin to do up his pants? Yes. Yesterday while washing my hands I was assaulted with a glimpse of this common ass mother fucker's temple garments. For a second I thought I may have been transported to The Cuff where such social foibles are encouraged, even rewarded. But I quickly found my senses and realized I was still in an office, this dude's wearing a rugby, and Jean Paul Sartre may actually have been right all along. All I could do was go back to my office and stare at the wall for half an hour and pretend I was somewhere else.


LA based clothing label Fremont, which I think I've mentioned before, has opened a small boutique on 4th street quite near the Comme des Garcons guerrilla shop I promised myself I'd visit. I may just have to pop in there as well and see these guys' latest take on the deconstructed tee and the casual separate. Not really sure what these folks are going to do when the guerrilla shop pulls up stakes and moves out. Not really much of an appeal alongside the cosmically desperate Situation Normal and your run of the mill sneak shops. But it's nice to see the beginnings of some whisper of a retail scene in downtown. The Grand Street revitalization project is moving along at full steam and little shops like this really need to do their part in tidying up for the impending Crate & Barrels. I see slatted wood, exposed duct work, barren white walls, a taste of fresh with a peppering of homey sterility. Actually I'm pretty sure these guys just moved into Situation Normal. I can't see why they would move next door and decorate their shop in exactly the same fashion. I do hope they've removed that infernal door bell.

Filthy mood.

I Never Said It Would Be Painless.

I really should stop getting drunk and buying crap on Ebay. I think the British have a word for it. It's called BLOTOED (Buying Loads Of Tat Online whilst Exceedingly Drunk or something). Lucky for me, however, the seller was quite unscrupulous, and tried to bid me up. I was far too out of it to even notice that I had been outbid. The seller offered me a second chance bid not even 5 minutes after the close of the auction. I think I may send him a note stating that I was only interested in his crap when I was completely out of my mind and under the impression that he was not a douche. Since both those condition seem to have passed I find myself totally lacking any need for tat from a douche. Something to that effect anyway.

Schadenfreude is the word that best describes my time at work recently. The petty pathetic machinations are ceaseless and amusing. Bike Boy One and Bike Boy Two (who are always ready to leave the office and engage in other lucrative work) were glued to their desks yesterday desperate to convey the impression that they may actually have a function. I understand one of them resorted to a type of begging. I would have loved to have seen that. How it will all play out is something that honestly doesn't concern me. I'm putting my 30 day notice on my bungalow today. One thing is for certain, I am going to be treated to a show of complete human desperation and supplication before I take my leave. Oh! I'm almost squeaking with excitement. And I can leave at anytime so I better have me some tears.


Not sure if someone misunderstood the intentions of someone else, but Derek and Don't Call Me Whitney Bobby share an intimate word before yesterday's debacle.

Can we talk about the debacle? Bad weather forced a change in the Yankees starting pitcher. The change came during the national anthem which is when I always find I make my most startling decisions. Ian Kennedy was told that he would pitch the game seconds before it began, and he was most likely fit to be tied. The Yankees lost 4-0 so whatever Ian did, he did it without a speckle of run support. Alberto Gonzalez was called up to replace Derek who is still recovering from his owie. Georgie is having shoulder issues, but management decided to place neither on the DL which is a shade more bright then switching pitchers during the national anthem. Instead they sent the spaz Shelley Duncan down to Triple-A Scranton where hopefully he learns not to kick other players in the nuts and whatnot.

So check this out. I recently scored (if you can call it that) a Love & Eight shirt at about a 90% discount from some McBoutique. I received it in the mail and I was a little amused at the glaring similarities to my Free City gear. And the similarity doesn't end with the labels. No, the entire aesthetic of the Love & Eight brand is one of neo-hippie rip off and duplicate. And they aren't even trying to hide it. Love & Eight is made in Venice and is available at CoOp, Revolve, Kitson, and anywhere else you can find Rogue Gallery. Free City is made in Malibu and can be found in Malibu. A boo.

OK. Snitty retail awareness moment is over, but it does bring something up. Yesterday I was at a loss as to what to do before I quit Los Angeles. Today I realize that I would like to visit the Comme des Garcons guerrilla shop down the street from my office and the Free City Supershop. Compadre, that is directed at you. Get my ass to Malibu. A boo.

Facless Images Of Background Noise.

My world has suddenly changed in a day, and it honestly feels like an enormous weight has been lifted off of me. For the first time in well over a year I have no immediate plans to get on an airplane, or plan a vacation, or schedule something or other to help me alleviate the pain of my job. I spoke with several people yesterday afternoon, and there was near universal congratulations for my new found position in this world. Near universal is all one can hope for I suppose.

So I'm left looking around at all these things that have become so familiar they ceased being scenery a long time ago. Little tweaker on the subway platform with the suitcase full of meth, no, no won't be seeing you any longer. Last night I tried to make a list of all the things I wanted to do before I quit Los Angeles, and I could only muster two words: Pack and leave. Something may come to me, but I'm simply in no mood to force it. Pony made it look almost effortless so I see little need in making a big fuss over the whole thing.

Even Don't Call Me Whitney Bobby likes his boy butt every now and again.

Still no solid word on the state of Derek's injury although it does look like he's going to sit out this series against Kansas City and rest his quad. I looked up quad yesterday and it has something to do with the leg. Whatever it is, mine apparently functions normally, and Derek's is in a somewhat tenuous state. The girls lost last night, and I simply didn't have the heart to watch the game. Actually, I had my headphones on, and was dancing like a hooligan, taking notes of all the things I needed to throw out, send to the Goodwill, and pack, and there simply wasn't much time for baseball.

Luckily my schedule is about to clear up mighty fast, and Derek should be quickly on the mend. Yesterday there was some scurrilous and hurtful talk of RoRo taking over for Derek at shortstop, but after RoRo struck out four times in a row yesterday I'm confident such rumors will disappear.

I bought one of these Cavern tee shirts when I was in Seattle. Most of them looked hideous and boring in the same breath, but one of them struck a note with me. It had this creepy wilderness horror movie graphic that didn't seem too overly baroque. Some bloggers are writing about them today, and I guess they have a new denim line coming out (shock). They really don't seem to be the thing in Seattle. I picked mine up at an 80% discount. I never would have considered it otherwise. An "original take on the graphic tee" is something akin to a "radical reformulation of the way we view dust". The one I picked up will be peddled off on ebay some time next month, but you can take a gander over at Oak if you be interested.

Goodbye LA!

Merciful news! Too too wonderful. I just got back from a delicious weekend with Pony and Anonymous Dan. Nearly cried when I got on the plane. Well, actually cried when I found out they bumped me out of my spacious exit row, but no matter. Got back in time for a meeting where it was mentioned that this project I've been working on for the last 3 years is nearing completion. And I mean seriously near. I may not have to spend a single minute of Summer Time inside this humidity smog bag. Saints be praised.

I had to let everyone know, and I know given the news of Derek's injury this must all seem to be in appalling taste, but I just can't help myself. Everyone in the office is really depressed. Wondering how they're going to pay off their new cars, or their last night out, but not me, and I think it better if I just leave and celebrate in private. Back in the morning.

The Hell And The Fire.

Well if this morning is any indication then I may have done well to just stay in bed for an extra two hours. Messed up order at Starfucks, dirty poor tweaker tripped me with his baggage at the train station, and everything around me has generally lost quantifiable significance. But I'm not one to dwell endlessly on such things.

I did get my whole office hooked on Conservapedia yesterday. Everyone was just rolling around having a go of it. I have to admit that myself and others were convinced it was a joke. Something from the Onion or the like, but I eventually tired of the sad site which I understand caters to people that are interested in the homosex, and had to watch something on this "myth of the big bang". I was bemused and kinda flattered by the fact that people like that dwell and ponder on my sexuality far more than I do. I mean the homosex accounts for .00000000000014% of my life. Nothing more. I've done the calculations. Sleeping accounts for 31.6%, and I have to work on getting that up. No, I believe their real problem isn't about what I happen to do with an infinitesimal amount of my time whilst between the sheets, but rather they take issue with the way I speak, my mannerisms, the way I dress, not being macho enough, not conforming to this or that. I suppose if we were in the wild it would be an issue being the only white wolf in the pack, although the unquenchable desire to sniff my ass would remain. I mean with all their talk of spirituality they actually end up being the most superficial and shallow people I've ever heard tale of. Honestly. Pitiable. Small.

The real travesty of Conservapedia and something that is unforgivable, is the 4 line paragraph they have on Derek. Hardly enough space to even outline his myriad accomplishments. I give far richer coverage here on this little blog of mine.

About that. There was something in the third inning that doesn't bear mentioning. The girls made a day of it though. The brutish Dustin McGowan plunked Derek with a wild ass pitch, but part of me has to blame Derek. He easily could have gotten out of the way. He actually turned into the pitch, but I guess he did get on base, and that's sorta the point. And it worked. After Johnny scored his run Derek scored off a double play. Derek tagged the base before the double play was competed so he got the tying run. Don't call me Whitney Bobby scored the winning RBI single in the eighth I believe, and Joba seems to have taken someone's advice and put down the fork and picked up some exercise. He's looking lean, toned and much like a proper Yankee. It can only get better from here.


So I have to admit that I bought the new Moby album. I know his "views" are questionable, and he was spotted at the non-vegan friendly square one, and he has some iffy associations with the Scientology, but I tend to enjoy his albums regardless. Now obviously the kids at pitchfork hated the album, but even they think Last Night is twice as good as his last two albums, and they also give it higher marks than the groundswell that was Play. But you can't blame them. It's such a crushing blow to them whenever anyone releases anything other than OK Computer. Poor things. Oh the album. I like. There really isn't much not to like. The gospel screaming gets a little old after a bit, but I'm not so cool and suave to deny that I found myself hoppin' round my apartment last night just having a gay ol' time. And I do mean gay.

Some traveling this weekend. I just popped into the office for a second, and will be off soon. Gotta go meet up with Pony and the crew. Crew = Dew, Tater & Anonymous Dan.

Au Reservoir.

Apologies To The Sensitive.

Sorry, but that man below is too ugly and ignorant to be on the top of my blog. I don't know what I was thinking. Pondering intelligent design no doubt. Perhaps the Young Earth Theory. Or solidity.

Even The Stupid Replicate.

Alright I rarely blog twice in one day, but this is just too precious. So this douche is someone by the name of Andrew Schlafly who has started something called conservapedia. It's like wikipedia without all the liberal anti-american anti-christian mumbo jumbo thrown in. Well almost. It lacks the self-described bias that wikipedia so wantonly flaunts, but it also lacks something else. Like information. My new thing is to just type in things to see what conservapedia has to say about it, and 9 times out of 10 I get nothing. Nothing at all. And some of this stuff isn't even obscure. Concepts, ideas, philosophers, designers, authors, places, fisting. Conservapedia simply can't be bothered. They don't even have an article on Thomas Pynchon. I could seriously spend hours laughing my ass off at this shit. And it really is shit. An orgy of self-induced celebratory ignorance. But at least it's "conservative" ignorance. It kinda makes me feel a little smarter than I actually am. Although feeling smarter than people like this is a lot like imagining your life as a rocking chair. Try it out though if you need a little pick me up.

There Are Some Things We Never Mention.

Well the girls did not have a good night. Which isn't to say it was a bad night. Michael pitched as well as could be expected. RoRo hit something like his 519th career homo to no effect. Kyle Farnsworth wasn't completely ineffective despite his newly acquired and unfortunate hair don't. There was some unpleasantness in the sixth inning which we simply won't mention, but eventually the girls stood aside in a 5-2 loss to that Canadian team. Canada, so far from God, yet so close to America.

And I had a bone to pick which has essentially turned into a policy. I was upset that mlb.tv would not cut out God Bless America from their broadcast. And it wasn't that they didn't cut the pathetic song, rather they left it conspicuously present. Cutting away moments before the final note had ended. So I decided that from now on whenever I'm watching baseball or attending a game I'm going to play or sing God Save The Queen instead. I mean both songs are rubbish. Fanciful, cloying, nationalistic, jingoistic, God spewing rubbish, but I'm simply partial to God Save The Queen1, and for reasons I'm about to get to it seems the most appropriate song for baseball.

Paul O'Neill really is the biggest queen this side of the Faultline. I brushed it off last year as simple minded ignorance, but no one could be that patently obvious without actually intending something. There are the constant teasing and mincing comments about players and coaches that always underly a perception of femininity or at best lack of machismo, the ignorant comment about Derek's flirtation with cross dressing on SNL, and there's the accent which is unmistakable, but who honestly refers to a bunch of Canadians as young strong pitching studs? Who? A cock hungry pussy bitch power bottom that's who. I mean he could include the words sculpted, smooth, hard and toned and at this point it wouldn't even raise an eyebrow. I think they're all gay for that matter. And who could blame them. Who else spends more time with sweaty men in the gym than the staff at Micky's? Well no one obviously, but you have to tip your hat to major league baseball players for at least giving it a shot. Fems!
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* God save our gracious Queen

Long live our noble Queen,

God save the Queen:

Send her victorious,

Happy and glorious,

Long to reign over us:

God save the Queen.

O Lord, our God, arise,

Scatter her enemies,

And make them fall.

Confound their politics,

Frustrate their knavish tricks,

On Thee our hopes we fix,

God save us all.

Thy choicest gifts in store,

On her be pleased to pour;

Long may she reign:

May she defend our laws,

And ever give us cause

To sing with heart and voice

God save the Queen.*

Like Church Going Mother Fuckers.

Well that was certainly a shock. I've been working twelve hour days which is an altogether monstrous amount of time to have to spend with one's coworkers. It also means that I was awoken by my alarm clock this morning of all things. I had quite forgot how that thing sounded, and how disagreeable I find the noise. Only a couple more days of the grind, and then I can take a few days well deserved rest in the country. Someone once said that life is all about toil. I'd like to think that life is all about jam.

I dare say I think Anonymous D may have been right. I was bemoaning the public transportation I have to endure due to my extended stays downtown, and he simply brushed it off saying "that's why I walk to work." I thought he was being glib, but this morning's ride was so ghastly I'm forced to explore the possibility. First, some troll is sprawled out on the bench on the platform as if someone had placed the bench there (which seats 6) just so he could sprawl his ugly fat cow body over it. I had a mind to spray the dude with mace, but then I remembered I didn't have any so I pulled out my shopping list and wrote it down. Has to be easier than finding batteries. Second, someone wanted to know what book I was reading, and I was frosty to say the least. It was 4:30 in the frakin morning after all, and I was in no mood to discuss cosmology, but then I sort of regretted it because, as I looked at the douche, I noticed that he did seem rather fine. He said my book was a trip, and I thanked him for the intrusion. And finally third, the smell on the train was something akin to paprika and vomit. How much longer must I endure these torments?


The first game of the last season in the old Yankee stadium was yesterday, and although I know every moment of this season is going to be a milestone, the Yankees walked away with a win. Thanks to some excellent defensive plays by Derek and Melky. Melky had back to back saves which makes me think he's about to get very expensive. Melky also batted a single homo to tie the game in the sixth. Marvelous! I of course missed most of the game owing to this lousy work I have to do, and the inexplicable lameness of mlb.tv. There was some unpleasantness in the second inning, but we won't discuss that here. That's for other people to talk about. Lesser people.

I'm being subjected to some taunts and teasings from one of the boys at work. I suppose he feels it necessary in a spirit of sports fan camaraderie, but I do take exception to how he seems to taunt not the Yankees generally as every ugly person does, but Derek specifically. I find his jabs at Derek wildly inappropriate and unprofessional, but he is the closest thing I have to a friend at work, so I better just make the best of it. I also just rearranged all the keys on his keyboard.

First Last And All The Time.

Riding home from work on the train yesterday I was harangued mid chapter by some all too curious cyclist who could not help but comment on the train's automated voice system to the only person who would listen. Since I was the only other person in the coach I was the natural and exclusive choice. Despite the ghastly intrusion I was gracious and warm as I looked up from my book to acknowledge him while still attempting to convey that I was actually quite engaged. He eventually realized he was being boorish and rude and let me be. However, when I got on the train this morning I discovered that I had absolutely no idea what a tau neutrino was, and I had to reread everything from yesterday. What a tool.

And I suppose it may not have been a bad thing if I'd quit my job on Wednesday. This morning I received a barely comprehensible email from one of my coworkers, and last night I received a call from a firm in Seattle regarding a two month project they have. Of course they left out many pertinent details like start date, hours and rate, and essentially any information that would assist me in coming to a decision. Best of all, and just like God almighty, they informed me that the interview would be on Wednesday morning. Can you believe that? Telling me when I would come in for an interview like some common step and fetch associate?

In an instant it all came back to me. What those people are really like. Working in an office that looks like ass, on minor elements of trivial matters yet constantly maintaining an air of smug self importance whilst rocking their Nine Wests and hideous color job. Plus Pony will be in my place through April so it's quite out of the question. I'll send a suitable declination later this morning.

I know there may come a time when I'm crushingly unemployed and desperate and I may actually regret those words, but the simple fact of the matter is that I'm employed now. Although not happily. So it's not as if I'm opting for unemployment over the chance to be demeaned by the shoddily dressed staff of what apparently passes for the who's who and what's left of some prestigious Seattle law firm. And I'm not one who mindlessly grasps at whatever low lying fruit happens to be along the road. My life is the product of hesitation, calculation, evaluation, reevaluation, ponderance, inaction, reflection, sublimation, oh yes I said it. And consequently I don't look anything like the people I find myself surrounded by. And I do take endless comfort in that.


Well all that buildup for nothing. Yesterdays home game opener was postponed due to rain. I remember that happening far too frequently last year, but I wasn't expecting it. Some of my coworkers went to a bar to watch the Mets game which ordinarily would be fine, but seeing as the Yankees game was rained out I thought it was insensitive and in very poor taste. Well the whole affair was in poor taste.