Yesterday, I got into a discussion with a coworker regarding the controversy surrounding Rob Marshall’s latest film Memoirs of Geisha.

Basically, there are a number of people (namely the Japanese people) who are upset that most of the cast is Chinese. (You can read a little more about it here.) My initial reaction was, “Yeah, I can understand that.” He asked me if I thought that a Brit shouldn’t be able to play an American or an American a Brit. Obviously, I wouldn’t go that far.

Even if you don’t feel that the Japanese should have been cast in a film about Japanese culture, could this be misconstrued and therefore fuel the stereotype that Americans think all Asians look the same? I proposed this to him.

Well, this is Hollywood. They’re going to cast well-known actors and good ones to make their money.

So we’re ignorant with a side of greedy?

As far as I’m concerned if there are Japanese actors able to play Japanese roles in a film about Japanese culture, then those rolls should be saved for Japanese people. But I have been known to change my views. Especially views I am not passionate about.

Edited to add: Wow, I just reread this. I accidentally wrote “Yeah, I can’t understand that” instead of “Yeah, I CAN understand that.” Apparently, I was going for a New Yorker type post where my goal is to confuse you and make you ponder, What side is she on anyway? oops.

This makes me happy.

Clemency Granted.

Good for you, Mark Warner.

Clearly, I need to stop listening to Rachel Maddow. But I just find her show so on target. Not that I need any more fuel for the riling while riding the MTA in the morning, but it’s just so damn good.

Today, I discovered that the White House has chosen their 2005 Christmas theme song. The song is called “All Things Bright and Beautiful”. I like the way it begins. But the second stanza is my favorite part.

• All things bright and beautiful,
• All creatures great and small,
• All things wise and wonderful:
• The Lord God made them all.

• The rich man in his castle,
• The poor man at his gate,
• He made them, high or lowly,
• And ordered their estate.

Keepin’ it real for the holidays. Keepin’ it Republican.

Side Note: How do we feel about the fact that Brownie, you know, the same guy who did so well heading FEMA started a Disaster Planning Firm? We’re in good hands, America.

And another:

Randy “Duke” Cunningham, a congressman from California, faces up to 10 years of jail time for accepting 2.5 million dollars in bribes from numerous people/corporations. I understand he made very bad choices and should face any consequences he has coming to him.

My question is this: why aren’t they going after the people doing the bribing? A military contractor was granted 250 million dollars after Duke took a 200 thousand dollar bribe from them. Has that same military contractor faced any consequences? There is something very wrong with this picture. I want answers. Our government looks more and more like the mob every day.

This weekend, during our downtime, in between the previewing of movies, the making of dinners and the designing of logos, Toby Joe and I wrote 1.5 songs on our guitars. One of them I find to be rather catchy and I’m excited to try and record it as soon as I figure out how.

Then yesterday, I was sitting on the toilet having a good, long pee, when something kind of funny occurred to me. Now, this idea that came to me while on the pot has occurred to me before, but this time it was particularly funny because I entered the future.

You see, it’s easy to fool yourself into thinking something YOU’VE created is perfectly original and grand and will be accepted by others. I mean, look at all the horrible art hanging from the prestigious walls of some Chelsea galleries. Look at all the cliché TV programs on prime time (::cough:: All Reality Television ::cough::). Look at all the overrated novelists (::cough:: Jennifer Weiner ::cough::) filling Amazon and the shelves of Barnes and Noble. Look at those who once called themselves Graphic Designers (::cough:: mihow ::cough::) You’re left wondering how they pulled off such a thing.

What I do know is this: last night while on the toilet, I laughed at the image of myself, 2 months from now, listening to the recording I have yet to make and realizing, in retrospect, “Holy crap, that song is bad.”

I have my most rewarding and shit-kicking thoughts on the toilet. (No pun intended, I assure you.)

Ultimately, is it really possible to know what’s good and what isn’t when the judge is also the creator? Every mother and father thinks their baby is the smartest and cutest, right? Does time and refinement enable us to set the record straight? Does one need to produce and put out sophomoric work in order to (know) change and grow?

I’m against the death penalty. It’s no secret. I think the concept is downright bizarre, actually. But this isn’t about my viewpoints or what I believe, necessarily. This morning, I was listening to a Podcast of The Rachel Maddow Show on Air America. I do this every morning, actually. I load up my Nano and head into work. The hour goes by better if I’m listening to something other than the grunts and farts of my fellow commuters.

On Wednesday night, Robin Lovitt, a convicted murderer, is scheduled to die by lethal injection in the state of Virginia. Since his arrest, he has claimed he is innocent. And Gov. Mark R Warner, is the only person who can save his life.

Now, I know what you might be thinking, you might be thinking why would he want to do that? After all, Lovitt is a convicted murderer. Here, in lies the problem.

It would seem that an Arlington Circuit Court clerk threw away DNA evidence that could have otherwise proved Lovitt’s innocence. Well, that sucks.

Gov. Mark R. Warner is said to be a pretty solid candidate for the upcoming 2008 Democratic presidential election. Considering Virginia has executed more inmates than any state but Texas and Warner hasn’t granted clemency to one person since he’s taken office, I think it would send one heck of a message if he grants Lovitt’s plea. Especially considering the system planning on executing him lost the only evidence that could free him.

Edited to Add: I love it how one newspaper reports “mistakenly threw away DNA evidence that could have proved his claim.” and another reads “deliberately destroyed evidence that Lovitt’s lawyers claim might save his life.” If I hadn’t read it firsthand, I’d have guessed that second bit of reporting came from The New York Post.

A few weeks ago, I was flipping through the New York Times when I stumbled upon an amazing article. By now, everyone knows how I feel about my New York Times. Anyway, I think it was a weekend issue and therefore the articles seemed longer and the Arts section seemed more plump. I love a fat Art section.

The article was titled Want Stealth With That? The ‘Fast Food Nation’ Film Goes Undercover. I’d link to it today, but it’s old enough to have moved into the Pay For the PDF Section. Nevertheless, the article was about a Richard Linklater’s new film based on the book by Eric Schlosser called Fast Food Nation.

The part that really stood out to me, however, was the fact that Jeff Skoll, former Ebay founder, was backing production on this film. Not only is he backing production, but he’s specifically targeting movies that “Direct Reel Change.” His recent projects include North Country, Good Night, And Good Luck, Murderball and Syriana.

It’s my understanding that his organization, Participant Productions was created to help educate people, namely Americans, about politics and social issues.

Skoll states:

‘We don’t want the issues that are raised in the movie to be seen and then forgotten,’’ Skoll said. ‘We hope people will see it and go, “Maybe I shouldn’t be driving an SUV.” The non-profit organizations keep those ideas alive, and it becomes a virtuous cycle: The movie helps the non-profits, and the non-profits help the movie. In Hollywood, the system has not catered to those kinds of projects. We’re trying to help the system.’

Last night, Toby Joe and went to see Syriana at the Angelika Film Center in New York City. The theater was packed. We were more than a half an hour before show time and we were already halfway back in line. Some of the production crew was there handing out questionnaires. We were to answer them and turn them in after the movie.

While I do not have any intention to write about the specifics of the film, I do want to say that I hope all of America makes it out this holiday season to see it. In the end, this film does what people like Michael Moore should have done: It makes you question everything around you. It makes you feel anger and resentment, but most importantly, it leaves you with this overwhelming desire to make a difference. The movie, at times, gave me a feeling of helplessness, having just watched corruption run so deep that there is no foreseeable bottom in sight. But just when you’re about to throw up your arms with one big “I Give Up!” you’re given the opportunity to make a difference by way of online communities, organizations, and by spreading the word. The cast, the crew, and the producers used the medium in a remarkably powerful manner. It’s a call to action I am passionate about pursuing.

Skoll changed the world when he created Ebay. I can only hope that his recent endeavor does the exact same.

Updated to add: Toby Joe and I just saw a recent trailer for Syriana. It’s changed since having seen the movie. I get the feeling that based on some of the feedback received from the questionnaires, they adjusted the final version. One weakness during our viewing seems to have been “fixed” or answered in the trailer we’re seeing on television now. I have a feeling the version that will be released on the 9th of December will be different from the one we saw on Wednesday. Which pretty much means we’ll be seeing this on the big screen once more.

Tonight, we see this. One perk about living in NY, movies come out earlier than they do in many other areas. I can’t wait to see this movie.

I developed a roll of film yesterday. The images span about a month. Click below to see the rest. (All taken using a Pentax stuffed with NPC 160 speed film.)

My Italian Sausage Hero.

I discovered something today because it suddenly began to show up on my referral list. Apparently, the ACE Bar is for sale on EBAY. It’s up to 670,000.00 and there are 26 days left. I think they should give it to us for our wedding anniversary because that’s where I met Toby Joe.

(Moment In Life I Regret will continue after the holiday.)

When I was 14, I used to hang out at a public pool in Raleigh, North Carolina. Back in those days, I was usually with 4 of my girlfriends. We spent a lot of our time there within the extremity of a hot southern summer. We pretended we wanted to meet boys, but in all actuality, we enjoyed the greasy food, the fountain sodas, and the popsicles. We pretended we wanted to be away from our parents even though they’re the ones who taught us how to swim.

This particular day was cloudless and the summer was everywhere. Towels dotted the grass creating one massive protective quilt. The smell of suntan oiled skin moved through the air on visible waves of humidity as we sat on benches surrounding a snack bar. I could feel the wooden planks leaving their marks along my pale thighs.

Like most southern days, it was probably around 100 degrees and that didn’t include the asphyxiating humidity. Kids were playing in the grass. A mother held her 5-year-old son beneath the shade of the snack bar’s awning. From the protection of her folded legs, he made eye contact with me a few times. Finally, the boy stood up and walked over to me. He smiled.

Hello there.

Upon breaking the silence, I smiled back at the boy.

How are you today?

The boy bored a hole to the inside of his cheek with his tongue. His shyness battled with curiosity, He looked down and then up again. He looked at me and then at his mother.

Hi.

He walked back to his mother and plopped down again onto her lap. She ruffled his hair with her chlorine-wrinkled fingers. I watched and understood.

He’s F---ing with you.

I wasn’t sure what his mother said. It almost sounded like the F Word, a word even my 14-year-old impressionable self hadn’t yet agreed to.

What?

He’s F---ing with you.

I’ve always been hard of hearing. My ears and what they’re meant to do have always frustrated me to say the least. They frustrate me because I often hear something entirely different from what someone is actually saying. If I don’t hear a person, I try and fill in the blanks on my own. I’ll put together the scenario (who said it, what we’re doing, what was said before, how they said it, their tone of voice, etc.) By process of elimination I’ll hopefully eventually figure out what they said and whatever words or syllables I didn’t hear. (Unfortunately, when I was 14, I lacked tact, experience, and maturity. I’ve gotten better at this process since.)

His mother smiled at me. All I could think was why would a mother say this sort of thing about her son? Why would anyone say such a thing? This time, instead of using another “What?” I opted to repeat what I thought I had heard. A repeat I’d tack a question mark onto.

He’s fucking with me?

The southern humidity began to erode the moment. And in spite of desire, I couldn’t stop it from happening. The moment I spoke, I had begun to erase it, a destroyed moment I would ironically never forget. The color drained from her face as did the summer around us.

I would never say that in front of my son. I said, ‘He’s flirting with you.’

I wanted to explain to this woman that I had thought the same thing. I wanted to explain to her that I was hard of hearing and surprised and apparently a bit naive. Feeling angular within a circular moment, tucked somewhere uncomfortable between childhood, adolescence, and the desire for independence, I felt like disappearing into the humid air. Instead, as everything else began to fall apart around me, I became louder and more hideous. She collected her belongings, scooped up their towels, and put out her open hand for her son to take hold of. As they moved away from me, my yearning for independence began to dissipate. I imagined taking her hand, my upper arms draped in orange Swimmies, my head stuffed into a blue bathing cap. I imagined running away from me, diving directly into the pool, and washing off these words associated with independence and ignorance and the ugliness of adulthood.

Most everyone hates sitting on urine. And if you’re a woman who pees outside of the house more than once a year you’re bound to have noticed the ever so prevalent splatter that covers toilet seats across the United States of America. It’s one of the small things about the breaking down of the Social Contract that infuriates me. But I’m willing to let that one go in order to work on more important ones such as insisting drivers let people merge or asking that people not speak during live music shows.

I hover. Sometimes, it’s just downright hard to do if it’s not totally annoying. Especially while wearing winter clothing and there is no hook. And sometimes, it’s annoying because you just don’t want to have to hover.

I wish the first person to enter a public restroom and discover that the seat is not actually covered in another person’s urine would just sit their ass down and pee. I’m not sure what the rest of America’s women do with their asses, but I’d much rather sit on something touched by my ass than sit on something touched by my urine. New Yorkers are the most hypocritical of all. If one is willing to ride the MTA, they damn well should be willing to let their cheeks touch the bowl from time to time.

But I digress. I noticed something about those puffy, soft, vinyl seat covers. I noticed they are less likely to be covered in urine. I rarely discover them in quite the same piss-covered state as their porcelain cousins. And this weekend, I wondered why that might be. Are people more comfortable with sitting on a puffy vinyl seat cover? Do they make for better deterrents? Or am I just not seeing the splatter?

Although I only heard snippets of yesterday’s Murtha speech the parts I did hear were unbelievably moving. Who could doubt a man with such a military track record?

President Bush, in South Korea, continued on Friday to be questioned by reporters about the debate over Iraq. His press secretary issued an unusually blistering statement responding to Mr. Murtha’s call for a pullout, declaring that the Democrat was “endorsing the policy positions of Michael Moore and the extreme liberal wing of the Democratic Party.” Page A16.

Hmmmmm excellent. Comparing a House member to Michael Moore is classy.

And then there was this:

House Speaker J. Dennis Hastert (R-Ill.) accused Murtha of delivering “the highest insult” to the troops. “We must not cower,” Hastert lectured the old soldier.

And this:

And Rep. John Carter (R-Tex.) said the likes of Murtha want to take “the cowardly way out and say, ‘We’re going to surrender.’

Read more about it here.

Again, someone explain why our still being there is helping Iraqi people and the American people at all. Really. I’m actually asking for an explanation. Is it because if we pull out now the people behind our going to war in the first place won’t be seen as heroes? Do we need to wait until history allows us to look back on the administration and say, “Wow, good thing they did that?” When is enough, enough?

I really want a clear answer (preferably one that doesn’t say something about how we’re fighting terrorism.)

Toby Joe captures my love for mint chocolate chip ice cream over at 50 Millimeter.

It seems like lifetimes ago that Toby Joe and I were living in D.C. It seems like a lifetime ago we then picked up everything and moved to San Francisco. And it seems like not so long ago we were packing everything back up and moving back to New York City. And it seems that as I remember it all, I’m making it all up.

Toby Joe and I have moved five times since we met. That includes once while living in New York City (the first time.) It includes twice during our time spent in D.C. It includes two cross-country moves; one to San Francisco and one back to New York. As it states in the About Section of this Web site, Toby Joe and I have moved a lot. In just four short years we have moved more than some folks do in a lifetime.

Yesterday, it occurred to me that on November 22nd of last year we began our move back across the United States. I remembered this because as the Thanksgiving Holiday draws near, I remembered that last year we held our Thanksgiving dinner at a Cracker Barrel in Indiana.

Because of all our moving, we’ve had the opportunity to meet some of the most amazing people. Sadly, we’ve also had to say goodbye to them. While living in D.C., more specifically in Adam’s Morgan, I frequented a yoga studio called 18th and Yoga. (Now, it’s called Inspired Yoga.) I took classes there for a year straight. Toby Joe and I even flew to Turks and Caicos for a weeklong yoga retreat. While studying yoga with Kyra, I met some of the kindest people during the 31 years I’ve spent alive. Some of whom I still desperately try and keep in contact with.

This morning, I received a mass email from Inspired Yoga. They mentioned that this year they’d be traveling to Hawaii for the annual retreat. After reading about what everyone there is up to, I felt a wave of bittersweet sadness compress me. So much has changed over the past several years, it’s as if parts of my life were merely memories I adopted after reading an extraordinarily vivid novel. Parts of my life just don’t seem real to me. And I’m left wondering if that’s normal.

Today, after I convinced myself that Kyra was indeed someone I not only once knew but was also someone who meant the world to me, I decided to break time’s silence and write her an email. There is a part of me who wants to fly to Hawaii this February and join them all, try and relive that part of my life as much as I can. And then there is another part of me who is terrified of revisiting a period of time I can no longer get to.

Mike and Dee arrive today from San Francisco. Their existence and the fact they are visiting us pretty much proves that I actually did once live there. This realization surprises me time and time again.

As people exit your life, whether they pass away or they grow tired of you or you of them, does that extraction work to blur or erase life’s film a little bit? Is one’s history better set with the proof of other people?

I want to remember to not forget that these experiences, while distant, are indeed my own. I want to keep people with me no matter how far we move or how long it’s been. And I place shame on myself for not raising my hand more.

Yesterday, I went to my first office happy hour. I’m pretty sure the Devil came up with this concept of the “Happy Hour”. I feel a bit fishy today. But that’s not why I’m writing. I’m writing to say that last night after we got home, I decided to leave notes on several of the cars on our street. This was particularly horrifying for Toby Joe who stood there watching me in a frozen terror.

This morning, a few of them were still there and so I completed the circle and removed them. One of the ones I removed read:

This Is A Big Car.

Another read:

You Should Drive Quieter.

Someone needs to keep a better eye on me. In all honesty, I sincerely need to grow up. I know this.

I Don’t Belong Here.

About a year ago, I was a member of an online message board. Normally, I don’t do the whole Internet discussion thing. But this time I knew most of the folks involved personally so I figured it’d be O.K. Usually, I try and stick to only posting here. I will do so at a few other Web sites where I feel I can get away with potentially idiotic ideas, bad grammar, and implement a total stream of consciousness (which usually leads to bad grammar and potentially idiotic ideas).

Today, I am going to write about why I try and avoid online communication.

During this post, I will cover all of the following:

• 1). I will discuss what happened on that particular message board a year ago. I will remain as unbiased as possible.
• 2). I will discuss why I left and what happened this weekend that brought it all back up again.
• 3). I will open the comments section up for:
• A). Public ridicule
• B). similar stories from other people or
• C). A chorus of song reiterating the fact that I am not only human but I’m a weak one, too.

Now, I shall begin.

The message board I was a member of consisted of the usual banter. The difference one might find there, however, was that its member-base consisted of those who knew one another and could therefore put faces behind each comment. That being said, many discussions - while heated - could also be pretty informative and tended to avoid those all-time lows where someone would call someone else’s mother a dirty slut all the while comparing her son (or daughter) to an innocent member of Special Ed. (Who, incidentally, treat people better than most online persona.) We talked about photography, politics, computer languages, recipes, programs, driving directions, pet information, resume help, appliance recommendations, we talked about everything. It was 1 part Informative and about 13 parts Total Waste of Time.

One day, someone posted a link featuring the work of a published photographer. People critiqued. Responses like “Cool” and “Awesome” And “Meh, they’re alright” were thrown out there immediately. And then someone wrote in saying how bad he or she felt the photographer was. People asked them to back it up. They didn’t really do so. But I do remember that one of the responses from this person was that “They’re cliché. The only thing he did that might be considered special was using an underwater lens.�? This got me to thinking.

Let’s take a step back for a minute. For those who know me well, they know that I often brainstorm. I’ll ask questions that come to mind. Usually I save these thoughts for people I know well as there have been times in the past where something I ask is taken the wrong way. But on this particular day, Toby Joe was away for business and nowhere near a phone. Had he been near a phone, I’d have probably called him to ask him about it. But he wasn’t. I chose to brainstorm online with a group of people I considered friends. How bad could this turn out?

My question went something like this:

“Do you think it’s easier for people to call themselves a photographer especially given the amount of digital cameras one can buy these days? I mean, you can give a person a digital camera and put them in the middle of Iraq right now and chances are they’ll come home with at least one great picture. Especially since you’re now able to take hundreds and hundreds of shots and not care too much for waste and/or cost. Take that same person and tell them to write something about it and I imagine it’d be harder to accomplish. After all, you can give a person and endless supply of computers, pens, or typewriters, you can even give them the most spectacular experiences with an unlimited amount of time and no matter how hard they try they might not ever be able to tell a great story or write something captivating. I imagine that line for photographers is blurred a bit more with the introduction of digital cameras.”

I further went on to add that I hadn’t thought this out prior my posting it, but I figured that since my normal sounding board was unavailable, I’d throw it out there and see what folks thought.

Bad idea. The very same person who initially disliked the photographer in question attacked me. Not only did he call my comment stupid, but also went on to further insult my character, something I never would have expected from a friend who I had had met face-to-face before I even knew what a message board was. He said that I rarely make sense and that given my online history, it would probably be best for me to avoid conversations about anything that matters and stick to topics like weather. What bugged me the most wasn’t what he said, it was the fact that there were only a few people who spoke up letting him know he was out of line. A few others wrote to me personally saying as much but mostly everyone just let it slide. I guess one might say I had my feelings hurt. One might also say, I wanted people to recognize that.

I posted less after that. Eventually, I stopped going there at all. I figured my time was probably better-spent working or baking, hanging with Toby Joe or writing, even.

That was almost a year ago.

I still talk to several of the people from that board. Two of its members live up the street from us. One of them used to be a roommate. And still another is one of Toby’s best friends. Even one of Toby’s coworkers are on there. And there are a few more people I keep in touch with regularly via email or AIM.

Last weekend, Toby Joe and I were invited out to celebrate as someone was visiting from the Midwest. We met at the ACE bar. Many of the online people were present. We had a few drinks and talked about what we’d been up to. Out of everyone there, we were the only two who were no longer a part of that forum. Halfway into the evening, I began asking about some of the other folks and found out that the original forum had broken into two. I joked about this with the two women I was chatting with suggesting that when someone is irritating on one does the irked run to the other and bitch about them? Because there were a few people on the original board who were constantly being threatened with being voted off the island. One of the girls answered that, no, one was more political and very private whereas the other was more gossipy and anyone was welcome. She then said, “The private one was the one Toby Joe was invited to.�?

Now, this didn’t really sink in until the following morning. It suddenly had become clear to me sometime while I slept that I had been invited to the gossipy “lighthearted�? forum and banned from the private, more “adult swim�? variety. While I turned down the invite to the first one almost immediately, I found myself totally worked up over the fact that I wasn’t invited to the other one. I was insulted and hurt by the fact that I wasn’t invited to something I wanted no part of at all.

The best part, however, was the night before I kept asking one woman about WHO was boycotted from the private forum not even realizing I may have been on that list. And this bothered me the next morning as well. (Exclusion is one thing, ignorance is another.)

I told Toby Joe about it first thing that morning. I premised it with, “I realize this is the most pathetic confession ever because I don’t even want to be involved, but I have to share because it’s consuming my thoughts.�? That’s when I told him about how badly I felt knowing I may have been excluded by an online forum I wanted nothing more to do with. (Now, that’s the point where I reached Level Criminal on Board Pathetic.)

Are we all disinterested until we discover how little our disinterest is about us? After I got over the initial misinterpretation, what about this has upset me? Was it the fact that in all actuality we have only ourselves who care, that no matter how close we feel we might be to someone, when we’re not around our absence isn’t noticed much at all? After all, to miss someone is to remember them, thereby proving we actually forgot about them. Do we all really want to be noticed when we’re not around? Is it important to us that we’re desired even if we have no real desire to be desired by that particular person at all? Furthermore, does online communication perpetuate this desire or merely magnify its existence?

Lately, I’ve been wondering about the point. When it comes down to it, I wonder if we’re all merely searching for that special someone (or some ones) to say, “You know what? I can’t imagine my life without you.”

I received a text message from a girlfriend on Saturday night. It read:

What time is babes open til?

12:14 AM 13-NOV-05

For those of you unsure of what “Babes” means click here. (Landing page is safe for work. But other pages might note be.)

Edited to add: If you can’t get in, it’s just a link to Toys in Babeland. They specialize in sex toys and other fun stuff. (Very tasteful store, I might add. When I visited the one downtown, I didn’t feel an overwhelming need to visit the nearest confessional.)

Toby Joe and I took Friday off and headed up to Beacon, New York to check out the town. (We’ve been toying with moving upstate so we can make hundreds of babies and adopt thousands of cats and drink honey and eat tea and grow stuff.) Beacon is about an hour north on Metro North. If we moved to Beacon, we could still work in the city. We’ll see. (Dare to dream?) Either way, the town is lovely. I was immediately swooned.

We met a woman who moved there a year ago from Williamsburg. She opened a shop called, Feel Designed. I purchased a new hat (which I promise to take pictures of) and a new pair of earrings. She’s amazing. And she loves it there. Anyway…

I took a very few pictures. See them by clicking the image above.

Today, i have decided to get soup from The Soup Nazi. He recently opened a store on the corner right below my office. (Yes, the guy who inspired that Seinfeld episode.)

If I do not report back within the next day or two, send help to 42nd and Fifth Avenue.

For Christmas this year, my family is going to have an early dinner at the Rock Center Café at Rockefeller Center. We’ve done this for two years now. IT’s quite lovely especially if it snows.

This was taken last year. Look how happy we are. It was really really cold last year, bitterly so.

This year, I thought it’d be a great idea if I treated the entire family to a Christmas show of The Rockettes. I haven’t ever seen these ladies do their thing. Much to my surprise, the cheapest tickets I could find are 195.00 dollars each. Which leaves me wondering why those band fellas are on strike.

I still might go ahead and do this. But I’m wondering if anyone out there has seen The Rockettes before. Are they worth it?

Say you’re at a bar and you see a girl and she’s hot. Say she thinks you’re hot, too. Say you go home with her. Say the last thing you remember before falling asleep was being in her bed. Then how was it you woke up the following morning on a couch being spooned by her naked husband?

The other night, I decided to look through old photographs. And by “old” I mean from 2001 (not that old). Please, if you ever take anything you read on here seriously, embrace the next sentence with both hands: Do not take a walk down memory lane especially if you’re premenstrual.

The good news is, I’m back to the gym. The bad news is, I’m dieting again.

I flat out refuse to embrace the lyrics:

You can’t be what you were So you better start being Just what you are.

Pennsytuckey surprises me. The Intelligent Design idea has been nixed.

‘We are all for it being discussed, but we do not want to see it in biology class,’ said Judy McIlvaine, a member of the winning slate. ‘It is not a science.’

Only barely not even close to the topic, Toby Joe and I had a discussion last night about educating the youth about safe sex. Abortion isn’t a pleasant thing. We all know that. But the problem is, many of the groups who are typically anti-abortion also want to cut social programs. Which leads me to believe that many people feel that abstinence is the only answer.

I have said it before and I’ll say it again, show me a teenage boy who doesn’t want to have sex and I’ll give you whatever vote you want. You have my word.

Instead of pushing for intelligent design to be taught in a science class, I wish they would use those efforts and aim to have a safe-sex class instead. Why not allow the schools to teach kids about safe sex? No matter what we do teenagers are going to have sex. You might convince a few of them to abstain, but it’s biologically impossible to stop the desire all together. (Unless they come up with a reversal to a Viagra pill. Now, there’s an idea.)

Right after we discussed social programs and the pipe dream known as abstinence, we began talking about the influence musicians have on our youth. I suggested, that instead of blaring the National Anthem in schools (do they even still do that?) they play songs like It Wasn’t Us By Ludacris. No matter what parents tell their kids, they’re going to be influenced by musicians.

For example, when I was a teenager, metal was all the rage. And those long-haired freaks wanted to do nothing more than have sex with as many skanky hoes as humanly possible. They wrote songs about it. They took pictures. They made videos with girls on girls and boys on girls. It was the “cool” thing to do—bang chicks. Which was pretty ugly because, inevitably, that inspired a bunch of 15-year-old girls into trying to look like Tawny Kitaen. (Oh, if only we had a couple of Jaguars lying around.) I could not think of one metal band that sang about VD or monogamy or how uncool having a sore-covered penis was. (And I’m sorry but Stryper sucked.)

So, as Ludacris as the idea may sound, why not teach kids about the truth? Why not show them what a wart-covered penis looks like? (We have an image here at work that made a married man say he wanted to give up sex.) Why not have someone cool show how uncool an STD is? Why not teach safe sex in schools? While sex can be unbelievably fun, it’s also unbelievably ugly.

(Wanna hear the song? click here. It’s a great song. 4.9 mgs.)

Something remarkable happened at the Boudreaux household last night. It was a most extraordinary event. Grab those notepads, pull out those pens, this is breaking news, my friends.

Toby Joe not only cooked a most excellent fish meal for me, but he ate it too. That’s right, vegan boy Toby Joe ate fish. And the angels sang and the cherubs came to me and my life became a little easier.

I think he enjoyed it, too. Although, he didn’t like the fact that bass gave him that same sticky-toothed feeling that chicken does. I know that feeling. And I understand.

So here’s what I’m thinking, the French, all along, should have been sending their youth to fight wars for them. Apparently, those 13 – 15 year olds really DO want to fight.

Just think of the recruiting opportunities.

Hey, kids, you wanna go to Iraq? You can kick the shit out of some American troops for fun. Screw lighting cars on fire, would you rather bomb the hell out of some American military vehicles instead?

Oh, the Unrest. Oh the other words used to name other punk rock bands.

Before I start this post, I need everyone to know that while I am pro-choice, I’m not pro-baby-killer. I like babies. They’re a little funny looking being bald and all, but I like them.

The tornado that recently swept through the Midwest killing at least 21 people was a tragedy. Nature hasn’t been very kind to us this year. That’s indisputable.

Yesterday, on my way to the office, I read about the recent event in the New York Times. Later, after I got to work I read CNN online. CNN reported something that resonated with me. And my first reaction was “Well, that’s a little weird.” The NYT mentioned nothing. (I’m sort of curious as to why.)

CNN reports:

Besides the 18 dead in Vanderburgh County, four people were killed in neighboring Warrick County. Authorities there are counting as a fifth death the 8-month-old fetus of a victim.

Fast forward to this morning when I was reading the New York Times Metro Section and I stumble upon the grim article about a 25-year-old woman who recently had her children returned to her after her boyfriend burned her older (2 at the time) son with scalding hot water for soiling himself.

The NYT’s reports:

Mr. Gillians was babysitting Tramel on May 26, 2004, and placed the boy under scalding water because he had diarrhea and soiled himself. Though the hot water badly burned Tramel’s back, arms and legs, Ms. Vaughn and Mr. Gillians waited for two days to take him to the hospital. By then, the burns had become infected and had started to leak pus, a spokesman for the Brooklyn district attorney, Charles J. Hynes, said.

The mother was given five years probation, the father is serving four years in prison. That’s great. Good for them. Whatever.

How does one set of authorities report that an 8-month-old fetus counts among the dead, yet another set of authorities returned these living, breathing babies to their 25-year-old mother in good conscience after she left her son’s burns become so infected they began to fill with pus? Furthermore, why are we NOW reading that the one-year-old baby boy recently drowned in a bathtub after she left him alone with his 3-year-old brother?

If we’re going to count an unborn fetus as a living being I wish we’d extend this same ideology to the breathing babies around the world. I will find it downright impossible to take the pro-life ideology seriously as long as we continue to disregard the living.

Will someone please explain this to me…

... like I’m an unborn, 8-month-old fetus?

Another great photo from Toby Joe. (Actually, I think I like it because it doesn’t actually show the ocean. Good stuff.)

Side note: I wish those two wouldn’t post over-top of one another all the time. As it stands, pictures are sometimes up for a very short amount of time (sometimes, it seems like only a few hours) and then quickly covered by a new one. Why is this?

Last night, Toby Joe, Missy, Gerry and I went to the Warsaw to see Mary Timony, American Music Club and Spoon. For an excellent recap of a recap of The Live Music show click here.

Toby Joe almost got into a fight with the entire O.C. Fan club. The two girls in front of us spoke about emailing boys the entire time AMC was on (the band I most wanted to see) and would clap wildly between songs. Pretty arrogant of them to clap at their own conversations. The sound at The Warsaw leaves a LOT to be desired. But, man, they have one kickin’ disco ball.

I have said it before and I’m sure I’ll say it again, I really have to give some of this crap up which is why I left during Spoon’s fourth song.

People don’t talk during piano recitals, do they? Missy told us that doesn’t happen. Why do folks feel the need to do so during other music shows? What happen?

Hey music-goers everywhere: SHUT THE HELL UP.

On Saturday, Toby Joe and I left the house to get some grocery shopping in. I, of course, had to wash the car because she looks much sexier when she’s cleaned. We were driving down McGuiness Boulevard when Toby Joe noticed something.

“It seems that some crackhead may have broken off our antenna.”

“WHAT?! YOU’RE KIDDING ME!”

Sure enough, the very top of the the car antennae had been removed. And suddenly, I wanted to run down every crackhead in site.

“How do you know it’s the crime of a crackhead?”

“They use the top to smoke out of. 98 percent of the time, if you have your antenna taken, it’s the work of a crackhead.”

“I know this is wrong, but I want to kill all the crackheads.”

“Well, in all fairness, it could have been removed by someone wishing to smoke heroin.”

“That’s fine. I’ll kill them, too.”

We pulled up to the car wash. I got out of the car and quickly gave it a once over before handing the guy my keys. That’s when I noticed the back of the car.

“TOBY! LOOK AT THIS SHIT!”

And that’s when I noticed that someone had clipped my car. The rear, left-hand taillight was busted. The rubber was dangling down, holding a piece of plastic like some pathetic baby tooth. I fought back the tears. The guy getting ready to wash my car shook his head as if to say, “Yeah, but this ain’t nothing.”

We’re pretty sure we know where and when it happened. And we’re pretty sure it was done by some drunk driver. That’s the only way this could have happened. I mean, unless they started giving licenses out to the blind.

I am going to have it fixed. I waited too long to have a car like that not to. But I am in need of a decent auto body mechanic preferably one who has a thing for Volvos. (New York people, email me if you know of anyone. Please. Make me happy again.)

Every time I think about it I become enraged. And then last night while moving my car to another spot, someone screamed at me calling me an asshole because I was apparently driving too slowly. Why are people so horrible while driving? For someone who has a thing for cars, I find myself ready to hate the folks who drive them.

This is, by far, the best video of all time. Holy sweet jesus, I am crying from laughter. It’s brilliant. And I can’t be sure, but I think they just made me like the song.

(Thanks, Gina, for the link.)

Last night, I visited the guitar shop on 1st Avenue and 10th street to get some strings for my hand-me-down acoustic. I left with a new guitar.

My fingertips are killing me.

My friend called me yesterday to discuss his doctor’s appointment. He hadn’t been in a while and his regular doctor was replaced by another gentleman. But he decided it was time for a check-up nevertheless.

They talked about the normal stuff. He was asked about smoking, his family’s medical history, eating habits, etc.

How much alcohol do you consume a week?

About 10 beers a week.

You really have to stop that. Try and stick with 2 a week.

What’s the main worry?

Your liver.

We discussed this notion over the phone. When you live in a place like Greenpoint and you compare yourself to the plethora of inebriated Polish men, it’s easy to get the idea that you don’t drink that much. Actually, these blokes can convince you to drink more and you’re certain you’ll be just fine. Basically, it follows that idea that if someone else is consuming more booze, and you’re not the winner of said consumption contest, you’re A-OK.

My friend decided it was time to stay in a bit more and maybe forgo the beer or two he’d usually have in evening. Still, the conversation begged the curious question; How much alcohol is too much?

If anyone is reading this and they would kindly take a minute to discuss their personal life with me (heh, sorry.) that would be great. Because, I, too, am curious.

How much do you drink a week? And what is it you drink? And if you’re feeling really generous, how long have you been drinking said amount?

If I have asked this before, I apologize in advance. I just can’t remember every post after 4 years.

These two mountain goats songs need a little work. But I don’t have time to fiddle with Sound Studio today.

The first one is an oldie but a goodie. And I love the way he sings/says “Shut Up.” The second one is quiet (and you can hear a group of nimrods to our right talking about Long Island Iced Teas. Yay.) and it’s about his Portland friends who were/are junkies. I have been told he, too, once was.

I find his comedic outlook on looking at the negative events making up his past inspiring. Not everyone survives that sort of history and still manages to laugh about it.

click here to download.

Enjoy! (They’re both together so it’s 8.3 mgs or something.)

To hear more click here and here. And then thank me. ;]

Sometimes, while I’m reading the New Yorker, I get confused. I don’t get confused by the editorials. Nor do I get confused by the interviews. It’s those damn reviews that throw me off sometimes.

I’ll be reading something, perhaps it’s a review of a new TV show or movie, and I know how he or she feels about the film. I’ll think, “clearly, they liked this movie. I mean, they used the word charming and the word refreshing.” But sometimes, and it’s usually tucked somewhere near the end, they throw something in that either makes no sense to me at all especially because of what led up to it, or it’s there just to confuse someone. It’s almost as if the ambiguity tactic is used just incase some other more reputable reviewer saw the same film and thought the opposit of whatever they’re not saying.

I can’t believe you liked that movie.

Me? No, I DIDN’T like it. Didn’t you read that last paragraph?

Did you really NOT like it, New Yorker Reviewer person? Or are you just so unique it’d be wrong to admit liking anything at all.

Then again, I am fairly braindead in the morning. So it could just be me.

Check out this image of George over at 50 mm. Toby Joe is the greatest. :] But I am biased.

Toby and I have decided to start playing music together. Toby Joe is on the prowl for a new resonator. He likes this one. He also likes sevearl found over at Liberty Guitars. And then he wants to learn how to play it properly. And by “properly”, I mean stuff like notes and chords and things that people use while writing music. Me? I’m gonna stick to what I know which is the acoustic. I know chords. Oh, and I named us The Freckles.

This is going to be a slow process. For starters, we need to buy some equipment and some books. What do people use to record with their computer? I have laid down recordings using a standard 4-track but haven’t ever used the computer. If anyone has any buying suggestions and/or words of discouragement and/or wisdom, we’re all eyes and ears. But if you dislike the name I chose, you can bite me.

Please note: We’re starting this project in order to keep away from the TV set a little more. It won’t interfere with the other project(s) we are working on. There is only so much TV someone should and can watch. I guess you might say we were in search of new evening hobbies.

Ideas? Suggestions?

I took some photos this weekend. I used my Pentax. To see more click the photo below click here.

Missy turned 5 years old!

Wish her a happy five. In 13 years she’ll be legal. Ahhhhh lucky 13.

At one point during the evening, John Darniell began joking about the bassist, who was dressed as a reaper or the “Black Face of the Void” as John put it. He looked pretty creepy. John Darniell did the pretty funny bit leading up to to song Dinu Lipatti’s Bones. You can also hear Toby Joe and I laughing. You can also hear the door squeaking behind us. It’s not the best recording because it’s a really quiet song, but the dialogue is kinda funny.

Anyway, enough of my babble, click here to hear it. Enjoy.

(Annoyed yet?)

I uploaded a song from last night. They opened with Going to Georgia. (4.8 MGS). You’ll hear some of us folks talking at the beginning. A little background: John Darniell was dressed up as a priest for Halloween.

I also took the liberty of uploading Dance Music. They’re both great songs.

Please note: I didn’t tweak the sound yet. So it’s not absolutely perfect. But it’s pretty good considering. Enjoy, people.

The Mountain Goats show was amazing. I haven’t been to a show that special in quite some time. I decided last night that The Knitting Factory is where I want to see all future shows. What a most excellent adult swim. It was nothing like the MMJ show.

It’s early and I have to leave for work. We didn’t finally fall asleep until about two. I am tired. I did, however, bootleg the entire show. And this time, the outcome was much better. We were much closer and NO ONE spoke. I will put up a few songs once I’m at the office.

In other news, I received my first ever rejection letter in the mail yesterday. I think I will have it framed.