Oxen In The Mire.

True Story. Compadre and I were at a bar in Seattle on Friday night. It is not something I am particularly good at or even proud of, but it nonetheless happened just like that. In Seattle for a total of 90 minutes and I end up at a pool table. I mean who writes this stuff? Anyway, I'm in the middle of a game and in order to make the ideal shot I would have to ask one natural hue clad carbie amongst six similarly clad carbies to move. I pointed out my dilemma to Compadre, and he told me to ask him to move which I naturally considered rude and pushy, but Compadre insisted. So I walked up to this bra.

"Sweetie, sweetie. Can I get you to move so I can take this shot?"
"Well, I'm straight so it ain't sweetie, but that's OK."
"Oh thank you. You are too kind."

That last part never actually left my mouth. Did I mention it was 90 minutes? The rest of the evening was pleasant, and proceeded without having to put a homo-ninja beat down on some random ignorant mother-fracker.

The following morning I had to rush to get my hair did, and then coordinate the rest of the day which included a trip to the Salon for Dermalogica, a stop into DeLaurenti's for a quick bite, a nice tour of the wine section where we picked up a Pinot Noir at the staff's recommendation, left the invitation to that afternoon's wine tasting open, perused the cheese selection and ended up purchasing a wondrous assortment of something called Charouse, and Petite Grand Mere, and others I could not pronounce. Off to Belltown where we stopped into Kuhlman and I picked up a tight Surface To Air Hoodie. Stopped into another boutique whose name escapes me, but nonetheless had some fresh and expensive Allesdandro Dell Acqua. I declined, but may return. Then it was back up the hill, and more shopping. Went to sneaker streetware mecca Goods for a Crooks & Castles shirt, but they were all mysteriously missing. Go figure. Tried to find someone that would serve us an afternoon pint, and that took us over an hour and back all the way up to my neighborhood. Safe and sound at Anonymous D's I spent the rest of the night cooking, or rather watching other people cook for me, and a meal with Anonymous D and Compadre that I will not get into because it may just hurt your feelings.

Went to a faux Irish pub Saturday night and the Death Rock the D.J. was turning out forced most patrons to the sidewalk, and we were no exception. Met up at another bar in an even less desirable part of town, but the casual atmosphere of the back patio nicely bookended the evening. I say bookended since we were dissuaded from attending an after party, but then later changed our minds, but couldn't manage to find a cab willing to take us. For the best really.

Sunday began with brunch, then shopping with one of my dear friends where I picked up Swan Lake, and couple of fresh Nom De Guerre shirts. Oh click here for their Spring/Summer 07 Lookbook. Nice lunch at a place called Matador, but I accidentally ordered meat, and it was a mind scramble from then on. Ballard Farmers Market was a little too cold and Boheme to really enjoy. I learned to play dominos and lost. Enjoyed a truncated version of a multi-course meal, and really have nothing good to sat about Sunday's Battlestar Galactica. Sub par to be sure.

Played Dominos again and lost. The taxi driver taking us to the airport was good enough to give us an unabridged history of the Professional Golf Association. Did you know you can't jump out of a moving taxi even if you want to? Several cocktails and a heaping dose of Venture Brothers on the plane. While waiting for the Fly Away at LAX Compadre and I both noted how since being back in Los Angeles breathing had become a little more burdensome.

Get Your Hands Off Him Bitch.

I'm not going to say that I knew it was inevitable because I didn't know. I suspected. I worried. And I may have even trembled with fear on occasions. But it has indeed happened. I am watching 24. Temporarily at least. One of my favorite actors in the Star Trek franchise is appearing in the current season of 24. Alexander Siddig who plays Dr. Julian Bashir on DS9 is playing some, you never would have guessed, middle eastern terrorist, or former terrorist, or terrorist on the wagon, or terrorist whose found his wings, or terrorist whose seen the light. Not sure, but the word terrorist is thrown around so much these days it's lost all meaning. There's actually a word for that when that happens, but it escapes me.

As much as I love Alexander Siddig, he could not possibly save this fetid piece of shit of a show from itself. But he tries. The fantastic scenarios they envision are always meant to convey the feeling that although it's not happening, it could. This could be the United States god save the Patriot Act or something. Please buy our shit. And it has broad appeal because it's suppose to. It's written that way.

It's actually a sick mind that could watch this shit and be entertained by it. Well not sick so much as weak and fragile. The best part is that the star of the show is actually convinced that the morally bankrupt stance of the story line is real and in some cases justified. I won't link you to the interview, but in it he basically says people are stupid if they think that this couldn't happen because it could, and he should know because he's a drunk actor with all the answers.

Just watch BSG. They really cover the same material, but BSG doesn't insult the viewers intelligence. It actually promotes thinking and reflection on some of the issues 24 tries to raise. Among them:

1. Is the use of biological weapons justified.
2. At what point does interrogation become torture, and does it matter that the interrogatee doesn't look like you.
3. Is genocide ever morally defensible.
4. When and how is terrorism justified. (This is prolly the most controversial. At least in the eyes of some Rolling Stones writer)
5. Even fundamental and basic questions like when and how can deceit be justified.

The underlying philosophical debate posed in the show is always one of utilitarianism vs. deontology. Do the ends justify the means, or must the means in and of themselves be morally defensible regardless of the outcome? It's delicious.

Mercy! Here I am all being serious and shit. The point is that, unlike 24, BSG doesn't simply ask and answer these questions for you. They raise the issue, then allow you to reflect on it. And 24 sucks wicked bad.

I don't think I could be a bigger proselytizer of BSG. But I think I'm just a little bitter because whereas I could have spent last night having sex with some outrageously weak in the knees sexy cholo, I decided I wasn't in the mood, and wanted to catch up on shit bag sucks 24. And now, 11 hours later, the only thing I want, the only thing I long for, is having a naked cholo on my desk. God I hate that show.

.

Balancing The Below.

Some certifiable rail thin octogenarian tweaker that always manages to ride the same train as me almost trampled on my last nerve this morning. Slamming his tattered ugly attache case right next to me. Then proceeding to pace back and forth on the platform as though if the cameras saw how demented and impatient he was they would send a train. Mindless worker bee. I probably shouldn't even mention his disgusting sweater. He's a lot like the pushy over-eaters in walk-up diners that do whatever they can to get in front of you in the line. As if they waited 5 more seconds for their buttery pastry they may just whither away.

I forgot to mention that on Tuesday my precious little pony came downtown and we had the most wonderful lunch. For a brief moment the DT seemed a little less like a prison of slow walkers and bad dressers. Come back anytime Pony. You're always welcome.

I watched The Queen yesterday and it was so good I watched it again. I watched part of Babel yesterday and it was so bad I haven't finished it. The offensive sub-text of this film is so ham handed and patent it's a little hard to look past. I get it, it's sorta like Crash huh? A movie about as subtle and nuanced as a jack-hammer. Vacant and transparent with no sympathetic characters that hardly takes advantage of the incomparable Cate Blanchett. Although I'm going to finish the movie since there's a chance Cate may have more than 3 lines. If you're a fan of Cate and were thinking of watching this movie don't waste your time. I really love it when Brad Pitt tries to explain the meaning of the movie in interviews. As though there were any topic or subject he'd be capable of illuminating for anyone. Idiot.

Derek's celebrity golf tournament is this weekend, and despite the appallingly small amount of money these events raise ($600,000 last year are you kidding me ?), it's still a good time to regress to degenerate misogyny and womanizing ala Michael Jordan. It's a troubling and ugly side of Derek I struggle to overlook, but with an ass and a face like that I generally manage. And who am I to judge? I go to MJ's and as far as I can tell that place raises zero money for charity. Unless homeless crystal queens between sugar daddies constitutes a charity.

And on that subject, I was going to write at length about the ignorant homophobe pussy bitch power-bottom that is 50 Cent, but then I realized he is but a common rapper and should be pitied, but not heard. Never never heard. Not even in reference. Besides I'm all kinds of excited about the hot-water that cheshire faced uber dork Rachel Rae has gotten herself into. Priceless.

Off to Seattle tomorrow, and I'm busy getting things ready for my weekend in the rain. Can't you tell. Gonna get my hair did, and there's some shopping that needs to get done. The Queen really gave me some ideas for my Spring wardrobe. Some of you probably know exactly what I'm talking about.

God Hates Me!

Alan Dershowitz is nothing more than a common media whore. Mr. Dershowitz would have been keen if he pointed out the crumbling academic support behind Israel six or seven years ago while such support was less than ephemeral. But now he's just a Jonny come lately grasping for a microphone with nothing intelligent to say on really any subject besides himself. Maybe this support is crumbling because it's morally untenable (like with most forced relocations throughout history) or maybe it's a vanity thing. Mr. Dershowitz can speak more eloquently on the subject of vanity than anyone. Whatever the explanation, and make no mistake I honestly don't care, when Mr. Dershowitz refers to pro-Palestinian intellectuals as "junk academics" he lays bare his patent bias.

I can only assume by "junk academics" he refers to his nemesis Dr. Noam Chomsky. Of course this reference has less to do with Dr. Chomsky's views on Palestine than it does Mr. Dershowitz's penchant for media whoring generally. And Dr. Chomsky's strident nature aside, his published works on subjects far beyond the embattled mind of Mr. Dershowitz, quite simply embarrasses any of the hack professor's common jurisprudence and tawdry exposes about his own work that if not skirt the bounds of professional responsibility most certainly skirt the bounds of good taste.

Fucking Media Whore!

And this overwrought drama he's playing out over President Carter's articulate and informed book is simply more of the same. Media savvy media whore grasps at straws, formulates sound-bites based on a shallow and biased read of the work, and then proceeds to do what all cheap common lawyers know how to do best. Build up a strawman and then proceed to beat it to death. Then beat it some more. "Are you recording this?" Then beat it some more. "We're rolling." Really? then beat it some more. It's Mr. Dershowitz, not Dr. Dershowitz, and where this fucking common legal monkey gets off is beyond me.

I'd respect his work on animal rights if Peter Singer hadn't already done it. Media whore!

Mr. Dershowitz current sound bite is that there are no simple Middle-East solutions. It's a good sound-bite to be sure, but that doesn't make it true. There is a simple solution, not ideal, but one most the world agrees on, and it involves firstly not being racist and recognizing the rights of the displaced indigenous population.1 Media whore!

Oh and there's a cute pic of Derek, and the ho bag seems to be out of his life. Someone by the name of Gabrielle Union is the newbie.

I missed Dubya's speech last night, but I'm pretty sure I know what it was all about, and I really don't give a shit about Victoria Beckham anymore. I never really did. Freak monkey face cunt!
_____________________________________________
1. See: Chomsky, Noam; Chronicles of Dissent, 1992

The World Keeps Turning.

Listening to Superpitcher's Today on the train almost made me not mind the smell. That's not true. I always mind the smell. One of my co-carbies was out most of yesterday buying a car, and it got me thinking. Maybe there's something to this car owning, insuring, fueling, parking, driving, parking ticket paying thing. I could avoid the $3 train altogether. But then I saw some shoes I liked. They were $1700, and all of a sudden a car seemed really expensive, and quite an indulgence.

Been looking in at the men's Fall 2007 runway shows with some interest. I am predictably all about the Allesandro Dell' Acqua silver gloves and puffy jacket. The puffy jacket reminds me of something the poor kids at school used to wear. I bet they're laughing their fool heads off.


While researching Sunday's Page Six Blind Item I unearthed a scurrilous report depicting Derek cozying up with Ralph Lauren super-hottie Tyson Beckford. The thought of it, I mean the very thought, gives me a spasm. Mama needs to hit the gym, but compadre refuses to act as both body guard and personal trainer. Conflict of something or whatever.

Since we always seem to be on the subject of spasms, it seems that the fast food industry, McShit, et. al. has it's very own lobby. The Center For Consumer Freedom is the militant arm of low priced and convenient fat shit slingers everywhere. When I first heard of this I was stunned even with all the talk of Washington special interests, but these people are seriously fucked. Check out their web-site and see what I'm talking about. This "non-profit" (ie. new pyramid scheme) is entirely funded by the likes of KFC, Burger Slut, and Mega-crisis, and passes itself off as an organization dedicated to defending the consumer's right to eat poison, shit, and mechanically separated bone fragment, and slaughter animals in the process. All things need to feed.

Oh and check this article out about the logistical/environmental issues that are raised by making sure America is well stocked with pig flesh. Then you can visit the Center For Consumer Freedom and tell them how much they blow. I've sent dozens of emails, but I grow weary. And I don't think they're listening.

Goodness. It seems I got myself atop a soapbox or similar cube. I'm gonna scoot and check out the status of Blohan's recovery and see how the average person spells volition.

Long Live The Queen.

Compadre began the weekend with the most delicious, subtle, and sensuous meal. Accomplished and complex yet decidedly user friendly. I took detailed notes while he prepared the polenta cakes, seared the scallops and fried the goat cheese. I'm continuing the process of organizing these scribblings into a coherent recipe. Patience. This was followed by a quick trip to gayest gay piano bar ever The Other Side where I may have had my ass grabbed a total of 9 times. Our party decided to retreat to MJ's, haven and sanctuary from sexual harassment it be. The music was loud dubby and one note. The boys weren't even hot enough to look at. Off night for MJ's. Got to bed late, and woke up sans gym slut Compadre. 9:00 am on a Saturday and at the gym already. Ambitious.

Brunch on Saturday at Square One where apparently famous actor Jason Lee from a show I'm told is called My Name Is Earl was either eating in the restaurant with us or waiting to eat. Probably waiting. I hear they won't let Oprah into that shop where I buy my towels. It's good to know pedigree still counts for something.

I'll be spending an extended weekend in Seattle with Anonymous D and associated parties. So much music to buy, I opted to ease the stress of a frenetic weekend by postponing all music purchases until I'm in Seattle where music, and music shopping, is taken a little bit seriously. Tim Hecker's Harmony In Ultraviolet, and Donnacha Costello's 6x6=36 are on the top of my list in case anyone cares. Oh and Lindstrom. I can't buy a Shins album. The universe is simply not constructed in such a manner.


A friend back-channeled a piece from Page 6's Just Asking section which I have never had the opportunity to read. Jist of comment;

"WHICH famous athlete isn't as interested in women as his fans believe? He has been able to keep his sexuality under wraps, but the question is for how much longer".

I didn't say a thing.

Oh For God's Sake.

Well it certainly didn't take long, but I have indeed discovered the new suck. The unfortunately Iphone similar Prada LG Touchscreen Phone soars up and beyond the tragic lameness terminator that is Ed Hardy. In several discernible ways in fact. The most obvious one is the Prada branding. The Iphone similarity is of course another, however, I haven't read anywhere that the Prada phone has widgets. Who the fuck cares. Tech leads to a vicious cycle of more tech. We knew that going into this. And now we die slowly. But does it have to be at the hands of Prada? I don't know why I find Prada so detestable, but I do.

Some cross-branding I can actually get on board with is the capsule collection Thom Browne has designed for Brooks Brothers. I always walk briskly past Brooks Brothers, but this is obviously brills since this fall I intend to walk into one of these haberdasheries and purchase several things. Like gloves. I like gloves. No lady should be without let's say 4 dozen pair.

And will someone tell me where David Beckham gets off rockin a sweater cardigan dress. I actually love the look, but really!!!

In less nelly news, there is little word yet on whether Roger Clemens will be coming to the Yankees. Still letting the news of Andy Pettitte sink in, as well as his affinity for hunting and all things make believe. Pettitte does talk about Clemons and the possibility of him pitching next year in this video. He does it in a most evasive and adorable way. The accent is really nice too. Yes homo.

I tracked down some nice Derek media on myspace. Click here for a funny SNL skit that Derek starred in. And the boy in this video has a serious man crush on Derek which of course is fine, but I don't really think this boy is gay. This gave me pause.

Functions At The Side.

I suppose it's best to just get the truly tragic news out of the way. Our favorite soap, The Passions, is being canceled after 8 demented years of monkey nurse witch glamorousness. August is the execution date. Execution, how topical. Earlier this month we lost our O.C. and now this. Not happy in the least especially since someone refuses to cancel 24. But at least we'll be able to catch The Scissor Sisters cameo which I believe is next month, but I'll check on that.

The SciFi channel, home of my favorite show Battlestar Galactica, is beginning work on a six hour mini-series based on Neal Stephenson's The Diamond Age: Or a Young Lady's Illustrated Primer. I absolutely love this book, and true story, I purchased my copy in a used book store, and I read the entire book; put it away for a year and forgot all about it until I was packing up some books and discovered that it was a signed copy. Fresh.

Watched Children Of Men on this awesome web-site peekvid. This obviously solves the whole dark room with strangers aversion I've been experiencing lately. If you haven't checked out the media they have available on this site then you are missing out because something tells me they ain't gonna be around too long. Aye Matey.

Received some Netflix love in the form of Annapolis. Watched it last night and all I can say is vivid and stirring. Honestly I can't think of anything else to say about it. Did you know the movie is actually about boxing? You wouldn't really think that would you? But it is. So yeah, that's basically it. I've been spending a lot of time with media. Media Slut I be. Media and my precious gummis.

Oh, I'm going to try to put together a petition or something to address this growing problem of slow walkers. And not just the fact that they walk slow. They seem to walk slowly and take up as much space as humanly possible. Literally. Making it quite difficult to navigate around them. Maddening. I'm sure it may have something to do with their carriage, but in an appalling number of instances the problem is rooted in an inability to walk in a straight line. Whatever. Steps have to be taken. My first idea involved a modified tazer that functions more as a vaporizer. Cost prohibitive and perhaps a touch too murderous. Up to now, I simply addressed the issue with an icy glare that I only assume they could see from the back of their fat corn-fed slow walking wobbly heads. Pollyanna-ish I admit.

Whatever is done about it, it would mark a startling precedent and pave the way towards deporting people who can't manage to use an ATM in less than 17 minutes.

Flavor In The Divide.

Something called the Golden Globes has effectively clogged the flow of relevant data. I sat down at my desk yesterday and I was, in short order, aghast at the font of inane blather re Golden Globe Celebutard Jack-Off Party (GGCJOP) my beloved internet had regressed to. Maybe digressed who knows. But it continues even today, and I'm not pleased.

I mean my commonly accepted as unhealthy celebrity obsession aside, one can not deny the raw appeal of knowing the intimate details of someone's awkwardly exotic and fractured life. It's tantalizing and satisfying I admit. So to have the internet box, something I have come to rely on and trust, dispense nothing but the florid details of a tacky Sadie Hawkins spectacle I couldn't give a shit less about is disquieting to say the least.

No matter, my actual work has become oddly fascinating. I'm sure the sensation will pass in time. Today, if it warms up, is tamale day at Farmers Market sans Pony. There was a time when tamales at Farmers Market was all about marveling at the embroidery on some hot slice of talent's jeans, but Hot Slice has moved on to bigger and better things it seems. Power bottoms.

Interesting tid-bits. The Kim Jones for Umbro Spring/Summer 07 line is available at Shotgun. I just found this site, and find it easy to use and tasteful.

I was also reading this morning that The Smiths are apparently a shoo-in (sp) for the 2009 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Whatever that's suppose to mean.

And someone really needs to do something with Nigo. It apparently is more than some random photograph I found on the internet machine. Bapekids is a reality and comes with a complimentary vat of foam bananas. I wont even get into the bape line of toilet paper that I only wish I were joking about. Like I said, something should be done about this dude with the impossibly too transparent to be cute trademarked name.

And like I said, the choked trickle of interesting gossip has rendered me parched, averse to women's evening dresses, and possibly craving actual human interaction. I'm sure that sensation will pass in time as well.

You Were Asked To Leave.

The weekend started Friday when I braved the Ticketmaster Morrissey pre sale fiasco. With a few emails, telephone calls, and a moderate supply of adrenaline I acquired all the necessary tickets. Pony, Compadre and some other luminaries will be in attendance at the Pasadena Civic Auditorium on the Third of February. This February. If you would like to join, you best try ebay cuz this show is Sold Out.

Friday night saw the return of home cooked vegetarian curry with tofu and green beans. A statement of flavor, but never over-bearing. Saturday morning was a quick stop in at Alcove on Hillhurst for brunch. The scene was frenetic and claustrophobic. The place was filled with, you're never going to believe this, loud girls wearing skinny jeans and boots. Everywhere, not just a peppering. I feel like I met a bunch of new people, but I didn't, I simply ate in a room full of outdoor voice employing over-eaters.

As for the food, it's always a nice attempt. Nothing groundbreaking here. However, they do allow you to customize your own omelet and I decided to try grilled eggplant, kalamata olives, and feta. Mistake. The feta was served in hunks, and I really don't like eggs. I had a few bites, and really enjoyed my toast bread. It's best not even to mention the potatoes. I don't think I will ever return to Alcove. Too sceney, too noisy, and too too average. The Mustard Seed across the street is much more vegetarian and normal person friendly. Usually a wait, but worth it if you want to leave brunch in a good mood.

Yesterday's lunch at Los Burritos on Vermont was a nice return to normal food done well and with a minimum of static. Nothing fancy, just tasty. I'm secretly itching to try El Grande Burritos on Santa Monica. The steady crowd makes me curious about what they dish up.

Food blog moment over.

The remainder of the weekend I spent shopping for "creature comforts" for my sub-let. And just when I got everything I thought I would need to be comfortable, something unsettling happened. I mean really unsettling.

Someone surreptitiously and in the middle of the night got into the building and slid Scientology propaganda under my door. At first I flipped thinking I was being targeted. The image of L. Ron Hubbard staring up at me from the floor didn't help. I looked out my window to check for flying saucers and noticed the entire neighborhood littered with these pamphlets. So I guess they weren't targeting me.

I don't know much about Scientology other than the craziness aspect of it, but I have to say it seems they take a rather liberal view on litter. And breaking and entering.
___________________________________
Picture, Banskey

Supertramp.

Made it to work via Jan Jelinek scored red line trip and I predictably haven't a goddamn thing to do. But rather than bitch about it I thought it would be a skosh more fun to talk about something that effects us all, and I'm sure is on everyone's mind. Homophobia on Ice. Or at least that's the fun term coined by outsports.com who also provided the delightful picture of euro-swimmer deluxe you see above. Outsports does an amazing job of compiling the best pictures of the most obscure and hot semi-clothed athletes from around the world. Oh, one thing, there are basically just semi-clothed guys. I just realized that. So when they say "out" they must only mean "out" in a good way.

I have what is sure to be a tedious meeting around noon. Which is why I imagine they feel it's necessary to bring pizza. I was more than happy to revisit my attempt at pasta puttanesca owing to yesterdays miserable failure that resulted in a b-line to Quiznos and some breathless dingbat making my sandwich only after she had the opportunity to finger a steaming stinking pile of what I think they dubbed prime rib, but in reality was a stinking steaming pile of mechanically separated beef and shit. All meat sold in the United States contains fecal matter. Even at the co-op kids. Lick it up bitches.


Perez Hilton called Britney Spears' baby a retard, and people have just gone hog nuts. Girl hasn't posted anything else since. I think it's mostly disaffected young working dimwitted mothers with unfortunate looking babies that are mostly in an uproar. But we've only heard of such people. Heard they were mountain folk we did.

I thought I was just being jaded or possibly glib last Friday, but I think I may have been right all along. See for yourself. Streetwear = violence, violence = rearmament, rearmament = proliferation, proliferation = accidental launch, accidental launch = first wave counterstrike, first wave counterstrike = bye. Streetwear (like Bush) is going to kill us all! In all honesty though, Theme magazine is the shit.

I satiated my boredom yesterday by throwing down some trademark smack on some tech and legal blogs over the Cisco lawsuit against my innocent and innovative bitches at apple. But this shit I found on youtube via defamer is hilarious.

Actually found some decent shopping in the dt that happens to not be in Little Tokyo. Shop called situationnormal just blocks away from my work locale. There's some fresh A.P.C. gear and a Maharishi Mark Gonzalez track jacket I simply must must. I've added a link on the right. Your right. I've tried to organize the links generally by category, and always alphabetized onward. I'm always adding soothing links to places that will tell you what to wear and what to want, and how to avoid the always critical and judgmental eye of people like me. Knowledge is your only defense.

Filling Me With.

I woke up this morning and my ear was bleeding! Seriously. Not gushing blood, but there was definitely blood coming down the right side of my face mercifully avoiding my freshly pressed Jil Sander reverse pinstripe button-up. Every crisis has a threshold. I decided it must have been some kind of shaving malfunction I overlooked. I need to get more sleep. I'm having Pasta Puttanesca for lunch. It must be done. I've already come close to destroying this shirt I just have to tempt the furies.

DJ is doing a nice job of brushing himself off after his run-in with hussling ho-bot Jessica Biel. According to the opaque ramblings of the Kansas City Star, Derek will be attending the Legacy Awards where he will presumably be accepting the Oscar Charleston award for the museum's pick of AL MVP. It really isn't all that clear, but like I always say, everyone's a VIP to someone.

Compadre contacted me yesterday. Not knowing how to post a comment he buzzed me via talkee clock. He wanted me to know, and I've come to concur, that he never once became hysterical over J.T. as perhaps indicated in the previous post. Compadre was present, to the credit of my memory, but it was actually an adorable Hate City fem who shall remain nameless that went ape shit over J.T. My mistake.

I have to say, and I'm sure most of you already know, that I'm all over this Japanese Raw Selvage Denim craze shit. I'm about to place an order for the Iron Heart 21 oz indigo straight cuts pictured here. Since someone has to sign for them they may have to be shipped to the readily present Anonymous D. The Sugar Cane's I want I can pretty much get anywhere and have shipped anywhere so I may steer clear of those for a while. Resource scarcity = balkanization.

There's always the option of going down to the Melrose/La Brea nightmare clusterfuck and pick them up in person, but no thank you. That may work for some, but I prefer to have my clothes shipped directly to Seattle, so that I might fly up at a later date to inspect them, and if need be, bring them back to Los Angeles to be rocked or sent back FOB. However you acquire your Japanese denim I suggest you act promptly and with all deliberation.

Oh this is classic! For obvious reasons it's taken me this long to listen to the new Built To Spill. It's playing right now and in the middle of the third song Doug reflects, "And if thoughts are all you dream of..."

WTF?

Seriously?

Someone needs to put the pipe down and it isn't me.

Skipping The Second Course.

So I'm just going to shut up about the price of the Morrissey tickets. 47, 62, and 77 dollars for balcony, loge, and orchestra was it I believe respectively. Anyway, I've been counseled toward the loge, but it really doesn't matter because Justin Timberlake is charging 97 dollars per ticket for his shows. I mean where in the name of Christ and all that is holy does that fug nut get off charging these kids one hundred dollars for a show? He isn't Cher, he sure as shit isn't Dolly, but he does appear to be some type of carbie magnet. Get this:

Jessica Biel the ho-bag beer chugging power lifter that could get no bigger attended one of these drag shows, and afterward tried to get all up in JT's business. And to his credit and based on the wildly unsubstantiated account on perezhilton.com, JT was having none of butch fem beard's antics hell no. He probably heard of that callous tart's tryst with Derek just a few days prior and decided that all things being equal claws beat skin. Fems!

I actually don't mind JT. True story. One day a couple years ago I happened upon a photograph. I glanced at it and had no idea what it was. Compadre said
"Holy shit, that's Justin Timberlake", and I naturally replied
"Who?".
"He was in Sync".
"Oh."
"You've never heard of Justin Timberlake?"
"Who has time for the theater these days?"

I pocketed the photograph of JT posing with some youth basketball leaguers. It may have been someone's cherished possession. But they lost it, and now it's a place holder in one of my many underused cookbooks.

Everyone has seen and heard of the new apple phone and are already formulating plans for letting their cellular providers down gently in favor of Cingular, but something you may not have heard of is the Apple TV. Equally impressive in it's array of features I couldn't possibly understand, and quite sleek. Check it out.

I was quite pleased that the infinitely handsome Cal Ripken Jr. was elected into the Hall of Fame. The real story seems to be how poorly Mark McGwire fared in his first year of eligibility, but that doesn't concern me.

The newest issue of Streetwear Today is about to drop so check it out. You can't fight the system and sustain the system at the same time. That's dysfunctional.

Lost It Down.

Rockin' out to Luomo's Paper Tigers on the way to work. Fresh. The Santa Monica Metro Station is a mammoth submerged block of concrete which oddly always feels comforting. Perhaps because of the surveillance I'm not really sure. But Luomo certainly helps take the edge away.

Starfucks was graced with perhaps the gorgeousest German boy/man/fuck puppet I have ever come across. Of course the accent helps I won't lie about that, and I'm not sure anyone in Starcocks wanted to know that much about his vacation, but he was telling us and it was adorable.

Can't wait to see the iphone or whatever.

I'm all about Cal Ripkin. His biography is probably a masterpiece.

I'm thinking I may need to invest in a new suit and I'm thinking something in Thom Browne or Maison Margiela. Not sure. I really don't need a new suit, but they're nice to have around, and I like having the pants, and the jacket is always nice for coat check. And with all the pockets it's like a wearable purse. Mama just needs some good old fashioned retail therapy no matter how.

Since Pony bolted from the stable the d.t. lunch scene is a bit dreary. There's always the standard with a bunch of uptight tweakers, and the customers on top of that. And any number of delis and le petite bulangerie. I never have the will to even clop down to the Gas Cafe. I'm going to force myself to walk down to the Farmer's Market tomorrow cuz I need to get out while I can. LA is about to get some rain. And it could have come a little sooner for some.

The Calender for The Pasadena Civic Auditorium is confirming the dates of Morrissey's shows. Hoo effing ray! Still no seating charts so there's no way to figure out the meaning behind the three different prices for these exceptionally expensive tickets. Girls' charging almost as much as Dolly.

Feel The Absence.

The weekend started with a spot of breacky at The Comfort Cafe ie. that small spot next to Body Builders Gym in Silverlake. They are boasting a new brunch menu, and a menu generally that resembles more of a codex than random wall scribblings. It was a bold and dedicated statement. I ordered their tofu scramble since I'm sampling everyone's tofu scramble, and I have to say this is the first time I've ever had a tofu scramble with egg. Or rather scrambled eggs with tofu. Daring and brash. Compadre and I were discussing the meal and have decided that LA restaurants are completely unbridled by tradition. There's no barrier they won't charge. Like the ubiquitous nicoise salad sans nicoise olives. Outrageous or fun? You decide.

Then word came that our dear dear Morrissey will be playing 3 nights at the Pasadena Civic Auditorium on February 1, 2, and 3rd. Well what word this changes everything. Tickets go on sale this Saturday, and I'm yet to formulate my plan of attack. But there will be one rest assured.

Avoided seeing Children Of Men yesterday because I wasn't really feeling dark rooms with strangers. Vegetarian burrito at Machos Tacos was as always heavenly.

Have moved into my new temporary Los Angeles residence, however, my email will stay the same. Soon I will be hunting for a more permanent part time residence. My present accommodations are adequate, but they lack a certain something. Something black and furry and with claws.

There Were A Lot Of Things Floating.

It may be the prettiest thing I've ever laid my eyes on I'm not sure. The New York Post is reporting that the world's butchest co-beards frolicked in Puerto somewhere for NYE, and someone was there to take pictures, and someone put those pictures inside my computer machine, and now I have them in perpetuity. Except for the pics of the beard with the extra chromosone. Those can stay. For reasons I'll later explain I'm in no condition to get excited about this. I did scream slightly, but I was not alone in the office. It was fair warning since the first person to mention this to me is going to get cut.

I think I actually beat Perez in posting this, but since he's not in the pictures he prolly doesn't care.

Randy is finally officially going somewhere else. Somewhere close to Yuma I believe. I think it's better for Randy honestly. With Derek and RoRo and Mike and now Andy, Randy would start to feel like one of those schmucks standing on the beach next to Derek. If you can honestly pull yourself away from Derek's tummy then click here to check it out. Take it slow though.

After yesterday's blog I tried to make a resolution to try to be less jaded. I hadn't decided if that meant to appear less jaded or to act less jaded, or to try to actually be less jaded. The last one posed numerous existential quandaries, but it all became academic when my bus was 40 minutes late on one of the windiest mornings in recorded time. I inquired with the bus driver who in a matter of 24 hours seemed to have lost the ability to speak English. Whatev. So I got to work, and someone spoke to me, and I was in no condition to be spoken to, and then I heard about the co-beard's being on the same island, but nowhere in one another's general vacinity, and then I heard the walls in my office creak and then I remembered that the building sways in the wind, and then I thought I should just reel it in.

Personal growth can wait for a day when I'm feeling less fractured.

If You Brand It They Will Buy It.

I'm really not one to stand on a rooftop and decry consumerism, but it remains nonetheless, an observable social phenomenon which relates to and expresses and conflates other social phenomenon, and as such must be examined. Nowhere is consumerism more at play than in the tawdry middle-class hussling cesspool that is streetwear. Which isn't to say that I don't love it. I do I do I do I do, but I can still hate myself for loving it, and hate others for loving it which probably makes me a "hater" in the minds of people with no vocabulary or cheekbones, but you have to really think about what motivates these people, and by these people I mean these people, and then simply ponder the implications for society at large. Some may call this social consciousness while others may see it simply as a tempering of mindless consumerism. Who knows?

That being said:

Someone asked me about this over a fairly nice lunch so I paid no mind, but I looked into it and of course had to draft an opinion letter to some effect, and bill someone, but the end result is the same. Billionaire Boys Club is the brainchild of former New York Giants wide receiver Pharrell Williams and power bottom social climbing dingbat Nigo (of bape non-fame). Everyone prolly knows what was in my opinion letter so I shouldn't bother, and let you make up your own mind. What I will say is that unlike bape, BBC and icecream is pretty much available everywhere including Macy's, so the only reason anyone ever cared about bape has been removed, but the clothes remain just as unfortunate. See fo yo self bra. Oh and not quite as expensive. So really there was two reasons. Oops.

You can also check out the new Kanye West Nigo collaboration. The Kanye bape sta is actually pretty cool, but they say it's hard to get a hold of so I'm discouraged. But it's like supply and demand, but different. The more something is in demand the less I want it. And once Kanye West gets involved then I truly truly don't care. He is one sexy mo tho. No homo.

And my real problem probably lies in the fact that the last time I rocked bape some mo called me a fag for wearing pink (I was in a gay bar), and the time before that some fembot asked me if I was wearing Jonny Cupcakes. And it's not that I'm sensitive so much, I just prefer not to be spoken to when I'm at a club. That's all. Too too flashy. Ladies, get outta my face with that bullshit.

Will the brand slut spell the down fall of Louis Vuitton? I dream the dream, but I live the nightmare revolving door blah of corporate casual.

The other night, a "friend" of mine interrupted the most amazing amuse bouche by shoving his overstuffed Louis Vuitton wallet under my nose and asked me to tell if it was real or fake.

"Guess." "I beg your pardon." "Guess if it's real or fake?" "What difference does it make?" "Just guess!" "Look, they market that shit to the Chinese upper class, and by that I mean people who make somewhere between $30,000 and $32,000 per anum roughly 15% of the population which I don't have to tell you is around 150 million people, and I think it's cute that you would buy something like that, real or fake, as a means of signifying your social status I really do, I think in marketing they call that collateral acquisition or something, but Jesus you feed your pet, I mean your companion something called Alpha Chow, I mean what do you expect me to say to something like that?"
"Oh you're so funny!"

He didn't really say that I was funny. I don't really have a lot of friends. I think because I'm such a nasty cunt. Either that or they're just jealous.

Someone who isn't a brand whore/slut/dinner wrecker is Jakey Gyllenho. Actually he may be all of those things, but like Oscar kinda said the only people we truly like are the ones we don't know very well. Check it out yo.

Derek has been named the official spokesman and cover star for Major League Baseball 2K7 which I think is a video game, and I think he's always the cover model and is of course a natural choice having perfectly sculpted legs and so on. Check it out yo.

And there is finally some solid reports that Randy will finally be going elsewhere.

I'm excited about this news about Randy most of all. I'm saddened by the news of co-beards JT and Cammy, but sometimes you just have to pick yourself up and dust yourself off.

Oh Holy Shit! I just got word that the OC has been cancelled. This probably sucks worse than not getting my Kanye heat.

If you will excuse me I need to get in the elevator and go downstairs and have a moment, and then consume an entire bag of gummis.

The Elevator Was Dark.

I listened to The Orb on the way into work and am feeling generally detached. There is absolutely no news on the baseball front. Although "sources" (I love and worship their work for In Touch) reveal that the Yankees will trade him today.

I have no idea who this person is or why they matter, but I'm pretty sure and I don't mean to be harsh, but John Mayer = Douche. Am I wrong about this?

My barista has done something unchristian to my coffee.

Watched an amazing movie last night. It's called Bad Boys and it stars and early era still uncute Sean Penn. The hair and the clothes alone are the reason for putting it in your queue. There's also a good story, semi-annoying music, some brief boy butt. three and a half stars.

Not at all like the clandestine footage of Saddam Hussein's assassination/execution/public mauling/spectacle/feast which has been floating around. I watched that and it was twisted. Seriously fucking twisted and disturbing. It utterly destroyed my yesterday. And I'm not like Richard Perle or some other right wing lap dog that's comfortable being tautological in pleats. I'm just an ordinary guy who's not a member of The Council of Foreign Relations, The Trilateral Commission, Bilderberg, et. al. I'm just a regular guy with a small penchant for Belgian clothes and I'm saying T fucking M fucking I.

Perez is getting lame and I need to do some housecleaning so look for some new celebrity gossip blog links on right.

On the right all the way down if your computer is lame.

The Orb has left me.

Time has left us.

The Faces Echoed Nothing.

It's seven in the morning, and I've already spent 3 dollars on shit coffee. I'm probably in LA. Actually that sounds exactly right.

I've been rockin the nano since 5:30 square and I really have to say that LA is a lot better with a soundtrack. Life is better with a soundtrack. Something in cape. I think some homeless person was screaming at me, but I guess I'll never know.

C-Town was the best. Clear and sunny the whole time. Thrifting til my knees gave, trip down to the market to acquire 3 dozen oysters, and other produce, Pho and cream puff at Than Bros., shopping, more shopping, more thrifting, amazed how people expect you to care about their bullshit, two trips to the liquor store because they have special stores for that kind of thing, falafel at Broadway Market, The Canterberry, tragic pool hos, wound up at a Hate City party and had to excuse myself once the boys started chopping wood in the backyard, believed I was flying into Burbank, wasn't informed until the plane took off that we were going to LAX. Long ass cab ride back home, shorter motorcycle ride to a house party, tried my best to polish off a a keg, didn't happen, rode on the back of a motorcycle and didn't flip, back in the office alone, and paranoid, the printer is making voices at me, work isn't making a lot of sense right now, adjusting to stasis, reading Joyce Carey and enjoying it, hated The Last Temptation of Christ. Hated it serious. No homo.