Jim Hall Sleeps All Day

I SUFFER FOR MY ART

2009-10-06T19:52:00.000-07:00

I shaved my head a few months ago. I did this for a few reasons and I'm really glad I did. But one bummer of not having hair to dye black anymore is that I can actually see my gray hairs. This sucks.

What's worse is, about a month ago I got an idea for a great Halloween costume. What is it? You'll just have to wait and see. But I will say that it requires a bit of hair. So I haven't had a cut in a while and I don't plan on trimming it until October 31 (my costume involves a particular hairstyle and that's all I'm gonna say).

With the fuzz atop my head growing in, it seems like I find a new gray hair everyday. Today I noticed one right in the front of my widow's peak. That's in addition to the bunch that seem to be taking over the left side of my head and a rebellious bunch in the dead center of my head.

There's not really a point to any of this, but someone in Internetland must feel my pain. Right?

KIDS SUCK

2009-09-20T17:08:00.001-07:00

The neighbors are having another kids party. One of the little monsters is blowing on some horn and it's really fucking annoying. There I was, reading a book of Raymond Carver's poetry on a beautiful afternoon, not in a bad mood, and this failed abortion goes and fucks that up.

If you are a parent and you are reading this, don't let your kids be assholes. When they make noise, tell them to shut up. My mom did and I turned out just fine.

JIM HALL AND THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS

2009-08-22T12:55:00.001-07:00

After 29 years of lying to myself about how totally lame New York City would be if I ever went, I finally had the chance to find out if I was speaking the truth or if it was a West Coast jealous thing. Turns out, it's the latter.

Manhattan is by far the coolest place in America. In fact, it's one of the coolest places I've ever been. Top three at least. Too bad I was there for less than twelve hours.

The flight from Long Beach to JFK was pretty awesome thanks to Xanax and JetBlue. I landed just before 11 p.m. and had a choice to make: $40 for a cab to my room at the YMCA or be a real man and hit the subway. When I discovered the subway from airport to room would cost $7.25, the choice became clear.

The ride was slightly more than an hour and it was everything I imagined it would be. About ten feet from me were six Puerto Rican/Dominican/black/some sort of race we don't have in LA girls passing a bottle of what appeared to be wine. Saying they were loud, rude and obnoxious is the understatement of the year. The Spanish tourists sitting across from me couldn't keep their eyes off the girls, who couldn't have been a day older than 17. I got tiny glimpses, but I didn't need to get shanked by a drunken New Yorker, so I made minimal eye contact. Anytime one of the girls caught someone staring, they'd tell their friends (and everyone else on the train), then one of the girls would say something like (and I'm paraphrasing here), "I don't give a fuck. Let them motherfuckers stare and shit. We partying!" If I wasn't Xanied up, I might have been more upset. Besides, this is exactly what I expected on a Saturday at midnight subway ride through Queens, Brooklyn and Manhattan.

I wish the rest of the ride was as memorable, but you see one subway stop, you seen them all. The only thing that kept me sane was crossing stops that I recognized from Beastie Boys lyrics. There was Mike D's "every morning i took the train to the Hyde Street station/doing homework on the train/what a fucked up situation" and Adrock's "Penn Station/up on 8th Ave/listen all a yall/you get the ball bath." After an hour and fifteen minutes, we came to my stop: 59th Street/Columbus. I walked up the stairs to the street and did what every person in every movie I've ever seen set in New York does: I looked up and spun my body in a 360 degree motion. I didn't even know I was doing this, but the sight is that awesome. Especially on a Saturday.

Walking to my room, I couldn't help but look up. Then I remembered these New Yorkers I met in Vegas a month ago. I asked them about what not to do in the city and they all said, "don't look up." Apparently, New Yorkers are used to skyscrapers for as far as the eye can see. Tourists aren't. I decided to do what I do at home, which walk with my eyes tattooed on the ground, until I hit my room because my luggage was an open invite for a mugging and I definitely didn't need that.

The walk from subway station to the Y wasn't far, but it was far enough for me to recognize that I had no real reason to be concerned because Manhattan was safer than I expected it to be. I saw two homeless people (who were actually really friendly. They asked me to help them carry some of their bags and didn't even bother to hit me up for change. They even smiled after I left.) and one woman living out of her car. Shit, we got worse than that in Long Beach and I live in a good part of town.

I dropped off my bag at the Y and hit the streets. BTW...it was 80 degrees past midnight and the Y didn't have air conditioning. I thought to myself, "how very New York of this building."

First stop was food. I found a 24-hour diner and took a seat at the bar. A veggie burger and Corona was $16.50. New York, New York. The burger hit the spot and the beer was good, but once I stood up, I realized why people suggest not mixing alcohol with Xanax. I easily could have fallen asleep on the counter, but I had to be a trooper. It's New York ferchrissakes.

I'd love to say I did some real awesome shit like clubbing or talking to hookers or anything, but the fact of the matter is, I just walked. Other than the inordinate amount of cabs, the thing that jumped out at me most was the fashion. Every female, and I do mean every, was wearing a cocktail dress. Even the girls at the Irish pubs were dressed to the nines. This is very unlike LA. Sure, we got some places like that, but you can always find a dive bar with girls in jeans. Not in Manhattan. I felt like I was in Sex in the City, except I'm a straight male and have never seen the show/movie.

Another thing I noticed was how so many of the buildings on the numbered streets had stairs that let down somewhere. Many of the bars' front entrances were in the basement. And the apartment buildings like this all had teenagers hanging out in them. Just like tv.

I got back to the room around 3-ish, but didn't fall asleep until 4:30. I'm a night owl and with West Coast time, sleeping was very difficult. Knowing I would be out of the city around noon, I got up at 8 and hit Central Park. Pretty effing amazing. You know, there's all this shit about New York and the debauchery, but the only time I was approached for anything was in the park. A white guy in his early 30s wearing a tucked in plaid shirt stopped me and said, "we're about to start service soon. Would you like to attend?" I looked at him funny and maybe it was the lack of sleep, but I couldn't say a word. Then he said, "do you go to church?" I smiled and said, "no thanks." He wanted to keep talking, but I high-tailed it outta there. Even in New York, where I hear there's plenty of drugs, prostitutes and who knows what else, my square-looking ass gets hit up by God.

You can read the photo captions to find out what I thought about the park...

My dumb ass decided to bring chanclas instead of flip flops on this trip. I thought I had a room with a private shower, but I was wrong. So I bathed at the Y with nothing to protect my feet. It's nearly a week later and there's nothing green growing on them, so I think I'm fine.

As I dropped trou, I saw that the white curtain in the shower did a real poor job of hiding me. So there I was, naked at the YMCA, waiting to get into a shower that was not only going to give me foot fungus, but wasn't going to hide my junk. And what song was playing in my head? The Village People's "YMCA," of course. I just knew a train of gay dudes were going to barge through the door thinking I was trolling for ass. I'm very lucky that I didn't catch a foot disease, but I'm even luckier that I was the only person in the three-shower bathroom for the duration of my stay. Granted, my shower took all of forty-five seconds, but still.

The rest of the trip was not nearly as exciting as Manhattna. Whodathunk that New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado, Utah, Arizona and Nevada wouldn't be as awesome as New York City?

I left Newark Airport at 10:30 a.m. Sunday and got home Tuesday around 11. For one man in a fifteen-passenger van, that's gotta be some sort of record. People ask if I saw anything cool and the only thing that jumps out at me was a 60-year-old man driving a truck with a large Air Force sticker on the back. He was towing a ten-foot missle. Everything else has already turned into a ball of green pasture mush.

I experienced a few moments when I thought I'd go crazy before making it home. Once in Nebraska, a state that decided to put its two largest cities thirty-four miles apart. After that it's five hundred miles until the next city, which is Denver. The next was when I got on the 91 from the 15. Sure, I've done this drive countless times, but the idea of seeing the finish line caused me to want to be home right then. I couldn't take the extra hour. Keep in mind, I'd been on the road for seven hours without a break. The radio didn't work and my phone needed to be re-charged.

The drive is a story unto itself, but I'll save that for another day. For now, let's enjoy the beauty that is New York. Like the Beastie Boys said, it's a helluva town.
Here are some photos to help visualize what I'll never be able to put into words.

The view from my YMCA window on Saturday night.

I think this is the Lincoln Jazz Center. But I could be wrong.

When you own a shitty camera, good pictures can be hard to come by. I learned this in Manhattan because the first twenty photos I took all said they were blurry. I knew it was either one of two things: 1. Either my camera, which has been tripping balls lately, was on its way to the great photo lab in the sky or 2. There was so much action in the city that I couldn't get one clear shot. So I decided to take a picture of something that wasn't moving. This is that picture. And yes, my camera, while shitty, is fine.

Somewhere in my attempt at becoming a fancy photographer is a sign that says "Jerry Orbach Way." Seriously, he was my favorite actor on Law and Order too, but naming a street after him? He must have a backstory that I know nothing about.

And here we have a $4 orange juice.

Next door was the Unethical Cultural Center.

Central Park is the coolest thing I've been to in the United States. You walk through some trees and then through a sliver of an opening is the most amazing view of skyscrapers. The contradiction is 100 percent New York.

I'm no fan of animal slave labor, but I gotta admit that the horse buggy through the park is pretty charming.

More skyscrapers...

...and more skyscrapers...

...and even more.

Central Park (or should I say, the tiny section of Central Park I roamed for two hours) has these strange rock formations that look prehistoric and are a pain to climb when you're wearing chanclas.

This busy street just ends at the park. How ruling is that?

Of course there's a jazz saxophonist playing under a bridge.

Just when Central Park seems to have everything, you stumble upon a carnival.

Close up of the rides through a crack in the fence. No was I spending money, but if I was six, I bet riding the Loop-de-Loop in the park would be a killer way to spend a Sunday.

A few months ago I realized I own nothing but white t-shirts. Now I'm on a mission to buy shirts that aren't technically underwear. Unfortunately, I don't know what to buy because I don't like feeling like a walking billboard. Plus, I'm almost 30 and I won't wear band shirts anymore. So what's a boy to do? Be a tourist and buy shirts of places I've been. In this old dairy factory is where I scored a Central Park shirt because not only did I need some new gear, I enjoy looking like a pretentious asshole who's been to places the little people haven't.

My first job was working at a park two blocks from where I lived. My first duty was to keep score of adult softball leagues. When you're 15, it's pretty cool. I even got to play a few times when one team was short a man. The park had this fence built that I shit you not was forty feet high because directly across the street were homes that didn't like getting softballs rained on them. When you're an old man reliving your glory days in Manhattan, your view from home plate is this.

Central Park West. I didn't have time to walk any farther than this, but it sure seems like something cool is going on.

It's fun to stay at the YMCA.

After driving for twelve hours on Sunday, I decided to sleep in the van. I'd never done this by myself and I figured it would be very Kerouac-ian of me to do so. Sleeping with a seatbelt in my side took a minute to get used to, but then this massive storm (seen here) hit. I swear, the weather was super nice from Newark to wherever the hell in Illinois I was. Then, BAM! Thunder, lighting and more rain than I'd ever seen. It lasted about an hour and was gone. Needless to say, I was scared shitless. This video doesn't do the storm justice, but I filmed it and it ain't doing no good sitting on my desktop.

TAMPONS AND A SIDE OF EMBARRASSMENT

2009-07-27T21:13:00.000-07:00

Today's been kinda shitty. Out of nowhere this afternoon, a wave of anxiety hit and I've been jonesing for a Xanax since. I think I'll have one in a few minutes.

But something just happened to me that made me entire day.

I was standing in the 15 items or less line at Ralphs. It was taking forever and one of the things I've learned about anxiety is that for some reason, it hates standing in lines. I was on the verge of bailing of my three items when I turned left to get out of line and saw the guy behind me. He was black, mid-20s, baggy basketball shorts and an Ed Hardy t-shirt. Then I saw what he was purchasing.

Behind the stick that separates people's food was a large package of tampons. And nothing else.

Poor guy. At that moment I knew I had to stay in line because whatever fucked up shit my mind was putting me through at that moment was nothing compared to what he was dealing with.

LONG BEACH GAY PRIDE 09

2009-07-25T13:46:00.000-07:00

I'm sick and what better way to pretend like I'm productive than to update photos and semi-silly captions to my blog?

Last night it was the day trip to Carpinteria. Today it's more pictures of gay pride than you'd ever want to see.

The parade takes place a few hundred yards from my apartment, so I have to go. This year (and last year) the girlfriend couldn't make it, so I went with my friend John, who is gay. He showed up wearing a white V-neck shirt, which is exactly what I was wearing. I asked my girlfriend if I should change and she said no one would even notice. Continue reading to find out if someone noticed or not.

This is from the porch of the house John takes me to every year. The dude's super rich and has an open bar and breakfast buffet. This year he actually had someone at the door asking who you knew. John said the right name and we were in, but we got there so late all the booze was gone. So we left. Anyway, we're standing on the porch when two guys John knew started talking to him. One of them looked at me and asked John, "is this your partner?" We laughed and John said no. Then he replied, "oh. Well, you're wearing the same shirt..."

This (and the next four) show how many people come out (no pun intended) for the parade. And this is just a very tiny sliver of the route.

Dykes on Bikes always begin the parade because if there's one thing you don't do, it's say no to a lesbian. Especially a biker lesbian.

The house with the big party.

"Oh my god! He walked right past me!" Really doe, this is Gavin Newson, San Francisco mayor and California gubernatorial candidate. Homebody has to win because I've never seen someone who radiates politician like this guy. He's got that smooth character that comes off as genuine but probably isn't. In his defense, he's got great hair and he supports the gays. I don't vote, but I think it's awesome that he's not only in favor of gay rights, but he's marching in a parade. Sure, it's a political move, but even in 2009, it's not a popular one.

Speaking of politicians, here are two people responsible for making Long Beach a great place to live: Robert Garcia and Suja Lowenthal. PS Sarcasm doesn't come across on the Internet.

That takes talent.

These were two of the three DJs who came on after Howard Stern when he was on terrestrial radio. So of course I yelled "Baby Booey" at them from across the street. After four shouts, they looked around and found me waving my arms at them. They saw me, laughed, looked a bit uncomfortable and turned away. John didn't know what I was doing. Neither did the 300 people standing near me. But these radio people knew and they knew I knew and knowing is half the battle.

The pigs were there and I booed them. I take that back. I didn't just boo. I raised my hands above my head and gave them two thumbs down while sticking out my tongue. John grabbed me by my shirt and said, "ohmygawd. Will you knock it off?" I replied, "They might be gay, but they're still pigs." Then he booed them too.

Gay or not, hippies are still irritating.

I'm willing to bet my left pinkie that she was born with a vagina.

John said, "ohmygawd. I'm afraid of them."

That's one helluva sun burn. And a massive overhanging gut.

His dad is very proud of him.

??????????

Not after drinking all the alcohol in the state of California, hopping to Nevada and drinking all their booze, then jumping on a plane to Germany and downing all their beer would I be fooled into thinking this was a real chick.

I gotta be honest. This girl was standing directly across from me for a few hours. From my side of the street, she looked gorgeous and I had to take a pervy shot. I swear I'm not that guy, but when there are 30,000 gay dudes around you, tell me you don't zone in on the lone hot chick within your line of vision.

"Right to reject religion." Amen.

Seriously, straight guys, there are like four straight women at this event and each one is a ten. All you have to do is deal with fat dudes in blonde wigs and buff dudes with better bodies than your fat ass will ever have rockin' a mermaid costume.

Pervy pic of a nice ass.

Damn you Johnny Depp and your mainstreaming of pirates.

Back story: This is NOT a cock shot. Rather, that plant just fell off the float and I was taking a picture of the hilarity. That's my story and I'm sticking with it.

I snapped this pic because I've never seen so many people in/on such a tiny car before. It's a two-seater, but the marketing team might want to check out this picture and re-tool their image. There are no fewer than five people riding in this car.

This guy was...You see he kept...And then my friend...fuck...I can't even come up with a joke. Make your own.

This disco car is in the parade every year. Or at least for the past five years. That's how long I've been going.

OK, so maybe I busted some balls here, but in all seriousness, I love the gays and the gay pride parade. It's really an uplifting feeling to see lots of people who get shit on every day just be who they are in the public. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't get goosebumps whenever the friends and family of gay people walk past.

There are plenty of straight spectators, which I think is nice. We need to show our support for people being themselves and if that entails watching what is easily the best annual event in Long Beach, I'll gladly participate every year.

DAY TRIP TO CARPINTERIA

2009-07-24T20:03:00.001-07:00

The ol' ball and chain and I headed to Carpinteria a few months ago. I've been lazy and didn't get around to posting these til now. But that probably won't matter by the time you read this.

Carpinteria's a great day trip for Angelenos. It's about an hour and a half away and is amazingly quiet. There's even a restaurant with plenty of vegan options. What's not to love?

We began our day on Linden, which I suppose would be considered downtown if there had been more than 12 people walking the streets. Traffic moves slow and the people who are out are very friendly.

After a few hours of window shopping at a handful of antique stores run by grandmas, we headed to a secluded portion of the bluffs where there's a nice hiking trail and supposedly a killer view of seals. But we're dumb and couldn't find any. The hike was still nice.

If you're in the LA or Santa Barbara area and have a day to kill, hit Carpinteria and tell 'em Jim Hall sent ya. They'll just look at you funny, but getting weird vibes from strangers can be entertaining in a pinch.

The Worker Bee Cafe. I am too afraid to crack a joke about this one for fear that some commie will behead me in my sleep.

The Chamomile Cafe. Plenty of vegan food.

The sign in the window at the Chamomile Cafe. But don't let that fool you. There are some vegan options for breakfast and lunch and plenty of vegan baked goods.

Looking down Linden toward the Pacific Ocean.

Chinatown? What Chinatown? I wish I could say I was trying to get this blonde teenager's ass in my shot, but I wasn't. But it sure makes the picture a helluva lot better, don't it?

Linden looking toward the Santa Ynez Mountains.

Linden has this killer old timey barbershop. Black and white checkered tile and really old sinks. But they were closed.

Carp (that's local slang, ya dig?) has lots of seals, hence the statue. It's located near a grocery store and a makeshift visitor's center comprised of a few bluehairs and a guy who's probably gay sitting on the sidewalk. Pushy lil fuckers too. They wouldn't let us leave until we signed some mailing list.

No explanation needed.

The train drops off passengers about 300 yards from the water and 200 from a taco stand. You can't see that from this picture, but they're there.

Each palm tree on Linden (trust me, there are plenty of them) is dedicated to someone. I wonder if I could get this when I die. Someone look into that for me, will ya?

A plaque of some sort. In journalism school, they taught us never to use lame photos like these, yet it's all I ever take pictures of. Go figure.

Cool hiking area where you're lucky if you pass three people in an hour.

The train runs right through the hiking area. Pretty cool. This shot almost makes me look like I know what I'm doing with a camera.

JIM HALL THE CLOWN

2009-07-24T19:51:00.000-07:00

My nose is so freakin' red right now I could host a children's television program. I've gone through one entire box of tissues and the second one is headed rapidly toward a quick and painless death. The weather was nice and I wanted to go for a run, but I can't be more than five feet from a tissue.

And to make matters worse, when I was in the backyard, I got stung by a bee. First time ever. I was catching some rays, a mere moment from falling asleep, when something penetrated the middle of my left hamstring. I wondered what it was, reached down and came up with a bee in my hand. Fucker. The stinging was like nothing I'd ever felt before. In some ways, I now understand the female side of sexual intercourse.

IF IT'S UPDATES YOU WANT...

2009-07-24T00:26:00.000-07:00

...then it's updates you'll get. I'm fucking drunk. I sang karaoke for the first time in a long time and it was fun. First up was "What's My Name" by Snoop. Then "Gin and Juice." Then "Baby Got Back." Booyah!!!!!!!

Sometimes shit sucks. Then I get drunk and it doesn't suck anymore. I really dig this.

10:03 ON A TUESDAY NIGHT

2009-07-21T22:03:00.000-07:00

I never thought anyone read this stupid blog, but I've had a few people inquire about my lack of updates lately, which leads me to believe that some of you actually care. For my loyal readers, here's a little news.

It's 10:03 p.m. on a Tuesday night. I'm wine drunk. Too much shit's in my head and I had to run from it. Story of my life. I can't deal so I bail. I'm making dinner so I can't type too much, but this is what's going on.

I've been hiding from all forms of writing, including this blog. I went a little crazy a few months ago and now I'm doing anything and everything that has nothing to do with words. I haven't written in my journal for a while, no blog posts, no money for writing, no nothing. In its place I've been running, hitting the gym and playing basketball. If only that could be my entire life.

Part of me wants to tell the entire story and the other part, the part that has dominated the majority of my life, is telling me to retreat, to keep my shit to myself. No one cares and I'm not all that comfortable revealing just how fucked up I am.

Maybe more later. Maybe not.

DRINKIN' WITH THE DISTRICT

2009-07-13T11:46:00.000-07:00

Here are links to two stories from recent issues of the District. Yes, they are both about booze.

This first one is about the dollar beers at Fantasy Castle. My friends say it makes me sound gay. You decide.

This second one, which ironically mentions one of my gay friends, is about the white Sangria at Sevilla. It rules.

WTF???!!!!!!

2009-06-08T17:00:00.001-07:00

No. 1: Yesterday I saw a grown man having an intense conversation with a suit of armor. I was driving down Broadway. There's this antique shop that has had this piece of junk sitting out front for God knows how long. So, I'm driving home when I see this guy, how do I say this nicely?? Um, I don't think this man has a permanent address. Anyway, even from a block away, I can tell he's really fired up about something. I get closer and I see he's yelling at the suit of armor. "Probably talking to someone through the door," I think. Nope. The door was closed. Shop was not open. Homeboy was yelling at the suit of armor.

No. 2. Just five minutes ago, a teacher walked into the building where I work at a community college.
"Uh, someone had an accident in the elevator?"
"What kind of accident?" the receptionist replied.
"Number two."

After further inspection (not by me), indeed, a shit was taken inside an elevator. The latest report says it's still fuming.

The teacher walked into my boss' office, a mere three feet from where I type. After hearing this, my boss responded with, "is it big?" The teacher said, and I quote, "no. But there's a lot of fiber."

FAT TIRE IN THE DISTRICT

2009-05-25T15:14:00.000-07:00

Fat Tire now comes in a can. Read all about it here.

DAY TRIP TO THE GARMENT DISTRICT

2009-05-02T12:39:00.000-07:00

The girlfriend's a budding fashion designer and needed to hit LA's Garment District for some fabric. It was Saturday. The sun was up. I had shit to do, but nothing too pressing, so I said fuck it and hopped in the car. Plus, she promised we could hit what turned out to be an absolutely killer vegan restaurant named VegiSoul on the way home.

Here are some pics.

Random shot of some stores.

Intersection of 12th and San Pedro. Not quite a hotbed of activity. That's around the corner.

Part of the reason I wanted to take this trip was my love for old buildings. Downtown's got plenty of them. Here's one. I'd tell you what it is, but I don't know.

There is no great story behind this one except I was stopped at a red light and wanted to kill time. This is the result.

The final 100 yards before a swarm of people would make traffic nearly impossible.

A camera with a wider lens would show how there are garments on the sidewalk for as far as the eye can see. Of course, I wear glasses, so maybe that's just me. Anyway, there are lots. Here are some.

Pedestrians crossing on a green? What pedestrians crossing on a green?

Our destination was Michael Levine. There are two Michael Levine stores. This shot is of the one we didn't go to. Don't ask the difference; I'm just the boyfriend. If you're into fabric, it's like heaven. If you're not at all interested in that sort of thing, prepare to be more bored than you've ever been. Wait, I take that back. There are some Grade A women to people watch. Other than that, you'll be bored.

You wouldn't know it from this picture, but I had to wait a long ass time before I could snap one without a sea of people in it.

I tried to get a shot without a car, but that's like aiming your camera up and not getting a glimpse of the sky.

Maybe where the showrooms are is where families like this hang out, but not in the section we were in. I walked around and smelled piss and watched as people who didn't speak English sold hamsters on the sidewalk.

This is the back of the Michael Levine we went to. One hour validated parking!

Not sure why I took this one. Probably boredom. Or a desire to look like a tourist when I'm from a 20-minute drive from this location.

More cool buildings. Maybe in another life I'll live in downtown LA. There's just something about the area that has me intrigued.

Yet another cool old building.

A crowd of people usually means something interesting is going on. I took this pic, then crossed the street to see what was going down. It was nothing.

Santee Alley, home of knock-offs, pick pockets and parents who don't care that their children are walking into your shins.

This is just a guess, but after dark, I bet a lot of shady shit goes on in this alley.

Our photo tour concludes with a final picture of a cool old building.

Other than sitting in traffic for 20 minutes to get to a freeway offramp that without traffic was about three minutes away, I enjoyed myself. People from around the world think of LA as blondes, the beach, movie stars and all that. Sure, that's here, but when I think of LA, crowded downtown streets filled with people and cars and the smell of roadside taco stands is what comes to mind.

PS All that imitation crap and not one Lakers shirt. What gives?

SIRIUS RESPONSE

2009-04-19T19:18:00.000-07:00

I spent a long time crafting my complaint letter to Sirius. And for my trouble, I got a form letter.

I hate big business.

Dear Jim,

Thank you for contacting SIRIUS regarding the additional charge for
online listening. We are here to assist you!

Jim, we understand that you may be upset due to the fact that there is
now an additional charge to listen online. Upon the review of your
account it indicates that you will continue to listen online for free
until the end of your current subscription on May 08, 2009. You will
have the option of continuing your online service for only $2.99 per
month on our Everything and Best of plans. The monthly charge is NOT
automatic; if you want to continue online listening after your free
period expires, just contact us and we will set that up for you. In
response to Subscriber demand, we are upgrading all our online listening
platforms to higher digital quality. In order to support the technology
needed to provide such a premium benefit, a small monthly fee is
required.

The price increase complies with the FCC Order approving the merger and
is consistent in all respects with the voluntary commitments the
companies publicly made to the FCC. The FCC?s Order in July 2008
approving the merger, and the companies? voluntary commitments, only
froze for a limited time the retail price of the basic $12.95 per month
subscription package, the a la carte programming packages, the best of
both programming packages, the mostly music and news, sports, and talk
programming packages, and the discount family-friendly programming
package. The FCC?s Order did not limit the ability of the company to
change the price of its other offerings, packages or services.

We are committed to providing you with the best in customer care. If
you have any more questions, please feel free to contact SIRIUS Customer
Care. For your convenience, we are available 7 days a week at:

SIRIUS RADIO
1221 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.sirius.com
SIRIUS Customer Care: 1-888-539-7474

As well as by email at:

www.sirius.com/customercare

And you can always manage your account 24/7 by visiting our website at:

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Have a great day!

Sincerely,

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SIRIUS Customer Care

Did you know that SIRIUS has great money-saving billing options? You
can get 1-14 months free depending on the option you choose. Call us at
888-539-SIRIUS (7474) and we?ll help you choose the plan that?s right
for you!

SIRIUS Satellite Radio, The Best Radio on Radio

EARLY MORNING POEM

2009-04-13T22:46:00.001-07:00

cats pile on top
hoping to wake a sleeping angel
alarm clock is loud
obnoxious
and through the window

the birds sing

hot water is nil
the towel is damp
from last night’s cleansing
while
the toothpaste is low
and through the window

the birds keep singing

out of coffee
out of juice
last of the milk
used for stale cereal
and through the window

the birds keep singing

car is cold
traffic moves slow
destination time approaches
while the vehicle does not
somewhere
back at home
where it’s warm, spacious and
you are your boss
up in a tree

the birds still sing

apartment is dark, cold
smells like cats
dust bunnies everywhere
breakfast dishes in the sink
pounding headache
walk to the bedroom,
hang up your coat
and through the window

the birds sing

pjs on
lights off
blanket pulled tight
reality and dreams meet
in purgatory
with
one foot here
and
one foot there
through the window

the birds sing

SIRIUS SATELLITE RADIO COMPLAINT LETTER

2009-04-10T17:28:00.000-07:00

In March I was told that if I renewed my subscriptions before March 31, I would not have to pay any additional money to listen online. Today I logged on and discovered I now have to fork over another $2.99 for that service.

I called and your customer service representative gave me a scenario which was the exact opposite of what I thought I was signing up for earlier this year. This is not the first time I have had problems with Sirius and I suspect it will not be the last.

When Sirius and XM merged, customers were told all about the benefits and how programming would improve while the costs would remain the same. Both are lies.

The programming at Sirius is worthy of my $12.99 a month; the way customers are treated is absolute dogshit.

This is more fucking bullshit from your shitty fucking company. The day Howard Stern leaves, so do my two subscriptions. Until then, I will continue to listen in my car and download the show from a number of websites that provide these illegal services for free.
I just sent this letter to Sirius Satellite Radio. After the lying scumbags told me if I re-upped my subscription by March 31 I wouldn't have to pay an additional $2.99 a month for the Internet stream, I logged on today to discover that I do in fact have to pay.

I had a problem with Sirius about a year ago and it was worse than going to the dentist. For once in my life, I had to let them know.

So here's what I wrote.

In March I was told that if I renewed my subscriptions before March 31, I would not have to pay any additional money to listen online. Today I logged on and discovered I now have to fork over another $2.99 for that service.

I called and your customer service representative gave me a scenario which was the exact opposite of what I thought I was signing up for earlier this year. This is not the first time I have had problems with Sirius and I suspect it will not be the last.

When Sirius and XM merged, customers were told all about the benefits and how programming would improve while the costs would remain the same. Both are lies.

The programming at Sirius is worthy of my $12.99 a month; the way customers are treated is absolute dogshit.

This is more fucking bullshit from your shitty fucking company. The day Howard Stern leaves, so do my two subscriptions. Until then, I will continue to listen in my car and download the show from a number of websites that provide these illegal services for free.

I am tired of dealing with the bait and switch tactics of Sirius. The funny thing is, I am not the sort of person who complains and/or writes letters to companies. But this is too goddamn much. I filed a complaint with the Better Business Bureau regarding the poor treatment I received in the past. I would love to do the same now, but to be honest, it doesn't fucking matter anymore. No longer will I sing the praises of Sirius to my friends and family.
Instead, I will tell everyone who will listen (I'm a freelance journalist who's written positive things about you in the past, but no more) that they are better off with their iPods and sitting through the commerical-laden sesspool of FM radio. From now on, everyone I know will discover that you are a money-hungry corporation that doesn't give two shits about the promises you make.

And the worst part (for me) is, I love Howard Stern. So you've got my money for as long as he's on your airwaves. I'm trapped and there's nothing I can do. So I guess one of us is getting what they want. Congratulations.

LAUGHING AT ME

2009-04-10T12:08:00.000-07:00

you hum naysaying songs
and
I don’t care
you can snicker all you want
because
no matter
how hard the geeks at the electronic store
try to persuade me
I know you are nothing
but a
pile of drab silver coating
and a bunch of
messy wires
neither the vehicle nor the tool,
you are merely
an obnoxious obstacle
another hurdle
from here
to the finish line

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH

2009-04-03T18:37:00.000-07:00

I'm gonna try to post as many poems as I can this month to celebrate (or piss all over) National Poetry Month. This one's called Supposed.

SUPPOSED
At this stage in my life
I feel the weight of the world
resting on my shoulders
digging in like a pirate’s parrot
barking orders
while I can do nothing but cringe
I am supposed to be
someone
something
but I am not –
I am no one
nothing
The eyes, they stare
burn holes through my ragged clothes
I DO NOT CARE
Questions abound regarding my sanity
they believe there is a problem
namely, that I am a bum and a loser
they are half right
there is a problem
and that problem is
the fact that I won’t pretend to care about
god or money or politics or fame
I AM A BUM
I AM A LOSER
and goddamn it I love it

BAVARIA STYLE IN THE DISTRICT

2009-03-24T13:43:00.000-07:00

Here's a story I wrote for the District on the Bavarian Style Hefeweizen beer at Trader Joe's. It's pretty damn good.

MEET ME HALFWAY

2009-03-21T22:37:00.000-07:00

I’ve submitted hundreds of poems to countless editors

and to date

I’ve got three published –

all at once by the same website.

Each rejection comes with a similar note:

You’re good but not quite there

too much like prose

read other poets

please send more.

Any response – even a pass –

is better than

nothing at all,

and for that I am grateful.

But I can’t help but wonder

who’s got the problem –

me or them.

“Read more poetry”

Why?

So I can start to write

like everyone else?

I’ll read more

but only because I want to

not because

I’m interested in

aping someone.

What do they know?

writing either the kind of shit

boring housewives enjoy

or

pretending to be edgy

with

sonnets about booze

and drugs.

Go fuck yourself,

each and every one of you.

I might bend

but I ain’t breaking

and this shit

you’re turning down now

is

exactly

the sort of thing

you’ll call genius

once my work

falls into the hands

of

people who don’t give

two shits about poetry

and just want something

to relate to.

How many famous poets

do you know?

None.

Because they’re all too

concerned

with

keeping a lid on their

tight little scene

to notice

how no one

gives

a

fuck.

PORTLAND AND IDAHO PICTURE ROUND-UP

2009-03-14T14:27:00.000-07:00

The view from my bed into the living room.

Flat-screen tv.

Cool painting of a fisherman that my cousin nearly swiped from the wall after he saw it. He likes fishing.

This pattern was all over the carpet. Really cool when sober, but not so great to stare at after six beers.

I don't know why I took this picture.

If there was a contest for coolest cabinet designs of all time, this would win hands-down. All the people on the drawers are philosophers. My cousin mentioned something about how it probably had to do with how ridiculously smart people like their booze. Makes sense because behind the right drawer was a mini-fridge stocked with lots of alcohol. To the right, for the kids, was some sort of video game system. It wasn't Nintendo, that's all I know.

Not quite as awesome as the California King I have at home, but pretty damn close. The pillows were like sleeping on a woman's breast.

At home, I'm clean. On vacation, I throw my clothes all over the place and don't care. In this picture, that chair was where I tossed most of my gear.

The view out my window on Monday morning. Slightly overcast, just how I like it. I tried looking for people doing it, but I got nothing.

Opposite direction of the previous pic. This one looks toward all them bridges they got up there.

Straight out my window. I laughed at the schmucks who were at work while I was lounging in a hotel room. In fact, my favorite part about traveling has always been that amazing feeling of knowing I'm not at work while the rest of the world is stuck behind a desk. Next to sex and sleep, that might be the best feeling in the world.

Mi bano. Complete with coffeemaker, which was kinda weird, but when you need caffeine, anything will do.

Should shower curtains be this stylish? Is that even legal?

This was the nicest hotel I've ever stayed in. By far. So I don't know if this is a Hotel Monaco thing or a fancy hotel thing, but there were robes and underwear for sale in the closet. It goes without saying, but if I was single and had been fortunate enough to pick up a lovely Portland lady, you best believe I'da dropped the $39.95 for this quality garment.

The outside of the hotel. The same spot where I had to go in after 2 a.m. to ask them to open the garage. I have this funny feeling that I might have been the only person who didn't get to bed at 10 p.m. in the entire hotel.

Ah, beautiful Boise, Idaho. I can now cross you off my list of places I've been.

I want to be stereotyped...

...I want to be classified.

The trees were really something special. Maybe it was the time of the year, but they just had a very "awww" touch to them. I almost heard bells and saw golden beams of light coming from the sky. Almost.

The view from my window at Tamarack. And I always thought that winter wonderland was just a song.

Snow everywhere.

We were on the third floor overlooking the main entrance. Had there been a fire, I wouldn't have thought twice to jump because there was tons of snow right outside. In fact, I thought about busting out the window and doing in just for fun.

See all those pillows? Taylor and I created a wall of them and put that between us so our asses wouldn't touch. He said he was fine without it, but I wasn't taking any chances.

A TV we didn't use.

DAY TRIP TO CALICO GHOST TOWN

2009-03-09T18:59:00.000-07:00

This guy greets you as you enter the ghost town.

I swear I'm going to do my best to say only nice things about Calico, but this gift shop was creepy. Imagine dolls with eyes that seem a bit too real and knick-knacks that may or may not have human hair and that's what you get here.

Jeb: "Hey Cletus, you know what we could put on top of the roof?"
Cletus: "Nope."
Jeb: "Some fake Indians."
Cletus: "Yeah, that's a good idea."

This restaurant is large, serves beer and had a cute waitress. Oh yeah, and zero customers.

This sign tells you all about stuff you thought you cared about until you actually read it and then realized you didn't care at all.

This one too.

This is pretty neat. Turns out the guy who started Knott's Berry Farm, aka Mr. Walter Knott, was responsible for re-creating the Calico Ghost Town. I think there was also something about a time capsule that may or may not be opened fairly soon.

If I could grow a moustache, I'd look like this guy. And who doesn't want smooth lips?

Did someone say "beer garden?"

Leave it to me to find the most interesting thing at a replica ghost town to be the cat that wanders in front of the cafe where employees who should be working smoke and talk about how they aren't working.

If there's such thing as Zen in San Bernadino County, this is probably it. Atop this mountain, you can look down on Calico and get a killer view and an even more serene panoramic shot of the surrounding area. I spent a few minutes up there "just being, man."

This is the beginning of the mine that you have to pay an extra $2 to get into. I mean, if you already drove all the way there, you might as well pony up. But if you don't, you're missing a low-tech laser light show that teaches you all about rocks (exciting!) and some more of those fake people who are supposed to create atmosphere, only the miners aren't Indians. See below.

Seriously, what's wrong with me? I drove to bumfuck nowhere to check out this town that I've thought about stopping at for years and all I can do is take pictures of cats? I've got five of those little monsters at home ferchrissakes! But I am a sucker for felines. I saw the first two and was trying to pet them, but ferals don't like people. Then a women wearing a period piece dress came over and explained to me how she wished someone who come and take them to get fixed. I almost asked why she didn't do it, but this is Yermo. I didn't need to ask. She then showed me all the other black and white kitties and explained to me that, yes, they did have names, but no, she did not remember them. I tried doing the slow backwards walk, the one that tells most people you are leaving, but she wasn't getting it. I damn near hoofed it back to Long Beach before she figured out that I was trying to bail.

As you can tell, I'm practicing for when Vice calls me and begs for me to write their Dos and Don'ts. But in the meantime, I'll get serious for a second. As kooky as Calico Ghost Town is (and believe you me, it's kooky), I had a good time. This is my first ghost town and I was well aware that this is a re-built version of what the town used to look like. Some ghost town websites poo-poo Calico for not being authentic, but I was a newbie and enjoyed myself enough to recommend it to others. Besides, you get to stop at that killer Del Taco in Barstow on the way.

Whether it was constructed 100 years ago or last week, there's some great craftsmanship at Calico, the kind you don't see everyday in a big city. In fact, this was probably my favorite part of my trip. I must have looked like a weirdo staring up at ceilings for minutes on end, completely unaware of the useless leather junk they try to sell. That, and the fact that I was alone on a Wednesday afternoon and there were more employees than visitors really put me in the minority. Well, that, and the fact I have all my teeth.

In what's got to be a sure sign of the apocalypse, Calico sells veggie burgers for all those vegetarians stopping through Yermo.

On the way home I stopped at the Tanger Outlet Center in Barstow and got something like 10 Old Navy shirts and a sweatshirt for like $30. Yes, I am a fashionista sissy.

THAT'S HOT

2009-03-04T21:11:00.000-08:00

To know me is to embrace my love of Hispanic women. And today, I overheard the hottest thing of, maybe, all time.

I was at a community college, just standing against a wall, presumably looking old. To my right was a short, cute Hispanic girl talking to a tall dude with lots of zits.

This other Hispanic girl -- decked out in her pseudo-punk look that probably came from the mall -- walked by and passed us without saying a word. The mall punk Hispanic got about ten steps away when the Hispanic girl to my right said to the guy, "that girl has a nice ass."

I was floored. I really, really, really wanted to say something, but whenever I'm on campus, at 29, I'm the old creepy guy. Saying anything to her wouldn't have been a good move on my part. So I stayed quiet, but deep down, I agreed.

Then mall punk walked back. The dude checked her out (which he probably already did but was smart enough not to admit to) and then the first Hispanic girl says, "see. She has a nice ass."

What was even hotter was, the mall punk DID have a nice ass.

There's a million things wrong with today's youth. Girls talking about other girls' nice asses out in the open is definitely not one of them.

FAST FORWARDING TO THE GOOD PART

2009-02-15T17:04:00.000-08:00

There's a lot to write about concerning my Pacific Northwest winter trip. My previous post detailed the first day or so, and while I intend to continue in chronological order, there was a pretty major incident that needs to be addressed now.

This was so wild, I doubt I'll remember everything. But I'll try. Here goes...

I left Donnelly, Idaho, around 10 a.m. Sooner than later, I'll write about my stay there because it was beautifully awesome. Around 12:30, I rolled (back) into Boise, where I checked my email and bank account. There were pressing issues (ie, work and insufficient funds) and I decided to forgo my Friday night in this college town to get back home a day early.

My plan was to stay in Vegas, because, well, it's Vegas. Mapquest said it was 10 hours and I was up for the challenge. I've done that amount many times before and figured it wouldn't be all that tough. Besides, with Sin City as the destination, it's not that hard to press on when all you want to do is pull over.

Other than Boise, Idaho's a bunch of nothing. Literally. I drove for what felt like forever because there's absolutely nothing to look at. My directions took me through some small towns that were straight outta Mayberry, but other than that, it was pretty damn dull.

Crossing into Nevada felt good. Besides seeing the few ricky dink casinos and abandoned buildings of a town called Jackpot, I knew I was getting closer to California. For some reason, on any trip I take, I feel good when I hit Oregon, Nevada or Arizona because I know home isn't that far away. Plus, I am super paranoid about driving outside of the state. Once in Cali, my license plate doesn't say "tourist."

I'm starting to ramble, so here's the Cliff Notes version of the next five hours. I was driving a two-lane road. It snowed most of the time. I stopped at a Chevron because I had to piss real bad. I walked in and there was a cowboy with a grey ZZ Top beard sitting next to a guy wearing a turban. Neither looked at me or said a word, although I gave them the loner's hello, also known as the head nod.

It was raining hard, snowing off and on. My windshield wipers had begun to freeze, so I stopped at a gas station in Ely (it rhymes with "freely), Nevada, to wipe them off. But it was so cold I didn't have much success. Being the dumbass Californian that I am, I wasn't wearing winter clothes. Just my winos, regular socks, Dickies and a faded, stretched out black long underwear top from the Gap.

After leaving this gas station, I saw a sign that said I could get to Vegas by going straight or taking a right. My Mapquest directions said to stay on the 93 South (which in this case was staying straight), so that's what I did.

Staying straight meant continuing down a two-lane road, but now I was headed down a mountain with all sorts of twists and turns. After about five minutes of distance between my car and Ely, I noticed I was totally alone. No cars, no homes, no birds...nothing. The snow began falling even harder and the visibility out of my car shrank to nearly zero. Right where my eyes should have been looking out was a massive streak that was not being cleaned thanks to the frozen wipers. Needless to say, driving was becoming increasingly difficult.

I slowed my speed to adjust to the conditions. Looking at the spedometer, I noticed I was going 55 and decided to ease off the gas to get down around 45. Better safe than sorry. New speed and everything was fine for about twenty minutes. Howard Stern was on the radio helping guide me out of this nightmarish drive.

I hit a left-leaning turn that took me away from the side of the mountain and toward the mountain itself. Halfway through the turn, my car wasn't right. It felt like the time I played broomball and couldn't stop on the ice with my sneakers. During broomball, skidding out meant falling to my knees. This time, I wasn't so lucky.

As a native Angeleno, it was hard for me to remember whether or not I am supposed to brake or not brake when driving in snowy/icy/rainy weather. Now I know: Don't brake. I pulled the steering wheel right, but my Corolla kept going left. In the blink of an eye, I went headfirst into a four-foot pile of snow at 50 miles an hour.

Having never been in a crash before, I didn't know what to do. So naturally, I tried to drive my way out. That was a bad idea. I got lots of exhaust, but not much movement. I shut off the radio and searched for my cell phone in hopes of cashing in one of those 100-mile tows promised from AAA. "Searching for service" said the phone. Panic had now kicked in in full effect.

Both hands on the wheel, I had no clue what to do. Five minues passed before I saw the headlights of another vehicle approaching. I jumped into the driver's seat, threw open the door and flailed my arms. Where I come from, we don't stop for people in need, but this wasn't California. A guy pulled up in his mini-van with two kids in the back. I pleaded for help, but he said he didn't have any chains. I told him about not having cell phone service and he gave me a look that suggested he already knew that. His solution was to call the highway patrol once he got into an area where his phone would work. That area was ten miles away. He asked how much gas I had and luckily, I was full. He told me to stay in the car with the heater on. So I did.

But there was no way I was waiting for the highway patrol. If this guy wasn't calling for ten miles (mind you, he's driving uphill in the snow, so his drive could have taken a while), there was no guarantee that a cop could have been to my car in a quick manner. With desperation now engulfing me, I hailed each passing vehicle.

The first was a family that asked if I was ok. I said I was. Then they kept driving. I sat for about five minutes when a car being tailed by a monster truck passed. Neither stopped.

I like to think of myself as a smooth brother, but I was way out of my element. I began to shake, partially from the near 25-degree weather and partially from the fact that I was fucked.

Time has this funny way of moving in super slow motion and a rapid-fire pace when the shit hits the fan. It could have been five minutes, it could have been twenty. All I know is it felt like a motherfucking eternity before another vehicle was within eyesight.

A car stopped coming down the mountain. For some reason, it was parked about fifty yards from where I was. A figure emerged from the darkness and I started hearing the song from Deliverance. I thought I was going to get killed and no one would ever know what happened to me.

But I was wrong. It was a teenager. Two, in fact. They asked if I was ok and I told them I was. A minute later a man of at least 70 pulled up and offered help. Kind of.
"There's a shovel and chains in the back if you pull 'em out," he said. Before I could get to his truck, one of the teenagers jumped in and got to work. I explained to everyone that I was from LA and was completely useless when it came to all things snow. No one seemed to mind.

The kid was scooping out snow like there was a million dollars hidden somewhere underneath, looking for a spot to hook the old man's chain to. Just then another guy in -- what do you think -- a truck rolled up. He was rocking a cowboy hat, a scarf, thick moustache and even thicker Western accent. Right away he introduced himself to everyone there. The thing that got me was, he used his first and last name. Then so did everyone else. He took one look at the other teenager and said hi as if he knew the kid. That's because he did. Something about him knowing the kid's parents. This was fucking Mayberry.

I had been in the snow for too long wearing improper clothing. I didn't want to seem ungrateful, but I had to get back in the car to warm myself. I watched as these four men dug snow and hooked the chain. Once the chain was on, I got out so I wouldn't seem like a jerk. They asked where I was headed and I said Vegas. They suggested heading back to Ely and taking the other route because it was quicker. I was very shaken at this point and wanted the entire thing to be over. I asked if they thought that was a good idea and they all said it was. Each assured me the weather would be better on the other road and I told them I'd think about it. First, we had to get my car out of the snow.

Before I hopped back in the car, I shook everyone's hand. No way was I taking off my gloves because it was freakin' freezing. But one by one, each dude pulled off his. I probably offended them, but I didn't care. Staying warm was far more important.

The old man got in his truck and gassed it. Like a dentist with a wisdom tooth, my car popped out in a herky jerky motion. I rolled down my window, thanked everyone for all their efforts, flipped a U and followed the cowboy back to Ely. On the way back, not only did it stop snowing, but two plow trucks came marching down the hill. I had a good mind to follow them, but I had already battled this road and lost. I wasn't in the mood for round two.

I thank you if you are still reading what is turning out to be my longest post ever, but there's more.

I pulled into a gas station with a Mexican food joint called Taco Time and a Subway inside. A burrito always hits the spot, so I got one to calm my nerves. Inside there were three people eating -- two men and a woman. I got the impression that they were brothers and sister. Don't ask why, but that's what it felt like. Each had skin more leathery than the next. One guy -- the loudest one -- had long greying greasy slicked back hair and he was dropping f bombs like nothing. I ordered a veggie burrito and somewhere between me walking in and my ordering, the dude goes into a full-voiced rant about wanting to fight the other guy. A minute earlier, these three wastoids were laughing about the sort of shit that only spaced out freaks could laugh at and the next, they're literally physically fighting. And here I am, sitting about four feet away, hoping they don't turn their backwoods rage toward me.

As far as burritos go, this one at Taco Time was by far the worst I'd ever had. My rice was crunchy. CRUNCHY! The lettuce tasted like it was a week old and the guac smelled like the gloves I use to wash dishes. But the food served its purpose as I got some clarity: I was going to stay the night in this town, even though it was only 7:30-ish.

I got in the car and called my girlfriend. Not sure why, but I did. I explained what happened and told her I was alright. Then, through my foggy driver's side window, came a knock. I freaked the fuck out because there was no reason for anyone to do that. I opened the door, and BOOM, there's the cowboy. I told my girlfriend I had to go and promised to be safe. Minutes later, that turned out to be a lie.

Cowboy tells me that he stopped at the store after seeing me pull into the station. He explains that he's headed down the other highway and that I should follow him. At this stage, I'm not so sure, so I ask him if that's such a good idea considering I just crashed my car because I can't drive in this mess. He tells me I've got one summit to go, which will be no longer than thirty miles. He swears up and down that the weather will be different. Like an idiot, I believe him.

Before we leave, he tells me to stay close behind and watch his lights. He lived somewhere down this road and knew exactly where he was headed. All I had to do was follow. Unlike my previous venture, this highway was comprised of a slow-moving caravan of about ten cars.

Three minutes in and I knew this was a mistake. The snow is kicking my ass and I've got zero visibility thanks to the windshield wipers, which have to be on but really, they were only clearing a tiny section of the bottom of my windshield. To compensate, I hunched over and drove with two hands on the wheel like my 90-year-old grandma. The defrost was on full blast, but I'm still not sure how effective that was.

Pitch black. I want to pull over, but it's so dark I can't tell where that would be safe. The headlights of cars behind me meant I couldn't stop. I was stuck with no way out. For assurance, I kept telling myself that my cowbowy friend would get me through this. Him, and Scott Ferrall.

Ten minutes in and cowboy decided to pass a slow-moving mini-van. PASS! This is like the single most dangerous moment of my entire 29 years of existence and this guy is passing on the left with no regard for oncoming traffic that no one can see until it's too late.

The cowboy was gone, so I opted to throw on my brights for more visibility. All that did was show me the snow, not the road. A second later, I turned them back off.

The road was horrendous, worse than the one I crashed on. It had not been plowed in possibly hours, which meant I was riding my chain-less tires on nothing but snow.

Only once in my life have I prayed. It was about 10 years ago. I had a girlfriend who thought she was pregnant. One night in bed, I talked to the big man upstairs. Yadda yadda yadda...ten years later and I don't have a kid. So I'm one-for-one in this whole praying thing. Batting a thousand. With the cowboy gone, I almost prayed again, but choose not to because -- let's face it -- there's no God. Praying wasn't going to help and it would have been the second (or possibly third) stupidest thing I'd done this evening and my stupid quota was filled for the night.

I don't know how long it was, but the caravan had to make a left turn. My tires skidded and I nearly ran into a big rig on the other side of the road. Once I got back into the proper lane, to my right was an area where a few truckers had pulled over to sleep. Here is where I learned a valuable lesson that I will share with anyone reading this: If truckers -- professional drivers -- aren't willing to carry on in apocalyptic-esque weather, neither should I. Or you.

Twenty minutes after we made the left, the mini-van with the bikes on top decided it didn't want to be first in the caravan anymore, so it pulled over, leaving me with no one to follow. One time, when I was about 12 years old, this car pulled up to me and my friends and pointed a gun at us. It could have been fake, but it was scary as shit nonetheless. This moment was more frightening than that.

This road was like an ice skating rink and each time a car passed in the opposite direction, a large splash of snow, water and dirt covered my windshield, meaning what little visibility I had was gone for about five seconds. Maybe I was being dramatic, but I honestly thought I was going to die and cursed myself for not getting a room in Ely. I've been burned badly many times in Nevada, but those usually had to do with drinking a bunch and handing over way too much cash to some stripper who was milking me for her baby's diaper money. I would have given anything to be in that position.

A more verbose writer would be able to depict the mess I was in. But I am a simple man. All I can say is, I was scared and wanted out of the situation in any way that wasn't death. Then, like a lake in the middle of a desert, there were lights to my left. Whatever it was, that's where I was stopping with the intent of sleeping in my car. The closer I got, I saw the lights were a gas station and a motel. In literally the middle of nowhere, a ray of sunshine beaming through the darkest, most overcast day of all time.

The finish line was near. I slowed my car from the 25 miles an hour I was driving in hopes of making the left turn into the parking lot. But without chains, that wasn't happening. I missed the turn and panicked. Not stoppping was the equivalent of driving the rest of the three-plus hours to Vegas and there was no fucking way I was doing that. So I did what made perfect sense at the time: I hooked a left into a football field - sized patch of snow just off to the right of the driveway. I wasn't thinking this at the time, but once I got stuck it became clear what sort of mistake I made. There was a separate entrance for the gas station about ten yards ahead that I could have made, but I had to intentionally drive into a patch of snow.

I got stuck and gunned it hoping to move to the driveway. No dice. For the second time in about an hour, my car was immobile thanks to snow. This time was intentional, but I was still very concerned.

At least I'm off the road, I told myself.

I threw on my gloves and beanie and hoofed it about 200 yards to the motel's entrance. Walking through three feet of snow for that much distance made my feet go numb within a matter of seconds. Still, I pressed forward. Behind the counter was a woman of about 70 years old wearing a grey shirt with a USA flag on it. Before I could finish asking for help with my car, she said, "Oh. Are you the guy who just drove into the snow? I watched you do that and wondered what you were doing?" If I wasn't so shaken by the night's events, the usual piss and vinegar that spews from my mouth would have had a great comeback, but tonight was not the night for vitriol conversation.

The woman was much more concerned with small talk regarding where I lived in California and how she spent thirty years of her life there than she was with my car being three feet away from cars on the road. I kept veering the conversation back to my vehicle, but she wouldn't budge. I gave up hope and figured my car was fucked, but I wasn't, so not all was lost.

Finally she called over to the gas station to inquire about whether or not they could help. They couldn't. Then she told me how she thinks the gas station shouldn't have women working at night, totally unaware of the hypocrisy spewing from her peabrain. She dug through the phone book, but each tow driver she saw listed came with a "nope, he ain't gonna help you." I asked about AAA and got no answer.

A man entered asking about room rates. I thought he was crazy. Shit, this place could have been $500 a night and I was going to pony up. She told him it was $56 and he headed out the door. I ran after him and asked if he'd help me. His face said no, but his mouth said yes. Good enough for me. Like a smart person, he changed his shoes and put on three coats. While he was doing this, I went back inside to fill out paperwork.

He came to get me and we walked to my car. He asked where I was coming from and I told him Ely. He and his family (wife and four young kids) were going in that direction and he wanted to know what it was like. In no uncertain terms, I told him that was not a bright idea and basically begged him to stay. But all he could talk about was how he'd done that drive before and it couldn't have been that bad. I took a mental note not to pick up a morning paper for fear of the headline "Man Who Wouldn't Fork Over $50 for a Motel Room Kills Family."

I swear I'm not making any of this up, but as we're getting to my car, the cowboy pulls up in his truck. Somehow he saw my idiotic manuever and decided to help me for the third time that night. I got behind the wheel and hit reverse while the two men pushed. Nada. We tried again. Still, nada. Just like before, another truck pulled up and a man got out. He didn't have a shovel, but did have a large stick that he used to scoop out the snow from under my tires. With three men, we tried again. These guys picked up my car from the hood and got me out of the snow, but not before the cowboy fell face first, which in hindsight, is really making me laugh. At the time, it wasn't so funny. My car moved, but I wasn't out of the snow yet, so we gave it another shot. I had to wait until I saw no headlights on either side of the road because I wasn't taking any chance. This time the men got me out with relative ease and the cowboy stayed upright.

Slowly I flipped a U and rolled into the parking lot, but not before I rolled down my window and thanked the three men. I told the cowboy I would never forget him and I meant it. Still do. I don't remember his name and I would bet everything I own that he doesn't have the Internet, but if he ever reads this, I owe you big time my friend. The best I can do for him is to pay it forward, which I will do in some capacity.

I went back inside to finish the paperwork. I couldn't see my face, but I know I had a major grin that suggested a weight of epic proportions had been lifted. I was alive. My car was in one piece. And I was out of the snow.

It was a pain in the ass getting my stuff out from the trunk and my feet were beyond numb, but it didn't matter. I set the car alarm and it went crazy, turning itself off after I locked it. It did this three times and I gave up. There was nothing of any value in the car and anyone who wanted to steal my ride had to endure what I had just gotten out of. Had someone decided to do such a thing, I would have wished them luck.

I undressed and left major chunks of snow in the room. For a second I tried cleaning it, but I was too tired to care. I washed my hands and face and tried to get online because moments like those don't happen often and I was in the right frame of mind to create something really special. But there was no Internet access and I took that as a sign that I needed to go to sleep.

I watched Jeopardy on the Game Show Network for five minutes, flipped off the TV and went to bed.

The sun was shining when I woke up. I went to drop off my key, but the front desk was locked and there were no employees. So I left it on the door handle. I thought the sun would mean a clean ride to Vegas. Wrong again.

The roads had not been plowed and I still could not see out of my windshield. Passing cars meant less visibility. But I could see outside the side windows and pulled over at a few rest stops to break off the ice from the wipers and to pour drinking water on my windshield before wiping it with tissue.

It took forever to get to Vegas and I almost gave way to the fact that I might never get out of wherever the hell I was. I drove slow and had the closest thing to a nervous breakdown that I've ever encountered. About an hour outside of Vegas, the weather cleared up. Sun was shining and there was no snow or rain. Of course, there was construction in North Vegas that caused a major delay. But I didn't care.

I stopped for a few hours in Vegas and hit Ronald's Doughnuts, this little mom and pop shop that makes vegan donuts. It was Valentine's Day and I needed a gift for my girlfriend. I knew these, along with my being home, would hit the spot.

My brakes are now acting strange, my car is filthy and my alignment, which I just fixed on Christmas Day, is off. That seems like a small price to pay for not dying.

These were shot from my motel room the morning after all this happened. I should have taken more pictures when the situation was actually going down, but when your life is an inch away from being taken from you, for some reason acting like a goddamn tourist doesn't cross your mind. From these, you'll get the point.

MY TRIP SO FAR

2009-02-12T15:36:00.001-08:00

SHIT!

I had a ton of this typed and then Blogger just lost it. So now I am pissed and don't really want to re-write this shit. Motherfucker.

Here's what this piece of fucking shit saved...

I bailed on Long Beach last Saturday. It's now Thursday. I think.

Before I get into it, let me begin by saying how angry I am at myself for forgetting my nail clippers. I need to get some asap because I can't stand long fingernails.

Now on to the trip so far.

I left home around 1 p.m. Saturday and worried the weather would make it a long trek to Portland. Light rain from Dodger Stadium to Santa Clarita. After that, it was smooth sailing for the entire drive.

For the first time in all my travels north, I stopped in Weed, California. And yes, the people of Weed get the joke. All their souvenir stuff said things like, "I'm High on Weed" and then in real tiny letters, it would say "California." They had shirts, hats, shot glasses, the whole nine. I looked into getting something, but it was expensive and I'm broke.

The drive through California was really great. Apparently, people don't drive to cold weather states in February during a recession because the highways were almost 100 percent clear. I got all the way to Roseburg, Oregon, and could have made it all the way, but that would have meant rolling in around 4 a.m. I wasn't going to wake up friends for that, so I crashed. I got to my Motel 6 room (which had an elevator --I'd never seen that in a Motel 6 before), brushed my teeth and passed out.

The supposed two-hour drive from Roseburg to Portland was an absolute nightmare. Two lane roads. Sunday. Families. (HERE'S MY NEW VERSION OF SHIT I JUST WROTE. FUCK YOU BLOGGER. I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU DID, BUT I'M PISSED.) Truckers. People who don't understand the rules of the two-lane road (drive on the right, pass on the left) drive (no pun intended) me nuts. Three hours later and I was ready for a beer.

Luckily my cousin was there to help with the drinks. We hit an Irish pub in the Southwest and asked them to put on the Lakers game. Since this wasn't LA, they gave us funny looks and kept asking, "isn't the game on at 3?" We had to explain that we wanted the LAKERS, not the BLAZERS. This is something I will have to get used to once I move. The Lakers whooped on the Cavs and I had two Hefs. Feeling fine.

We bailed on the Irish pub and in passing I mentioned the my cousin how I'd never been to Mary's, Portland's oldest strip club. So of course, we went. It was about 2 p.m. when we got there. Two girls took turns while some dude who more than likely had a mental disability was yelling things and biting into an empty Mountain Dew bottle. We got some drinks and I noticed that tittie bars in Oregon are different than California. For starters, they don't do that whole "dance with my clothes on for one song" routine. They just get right to the main event. Secondly, the main event is really THE MAIN EVENT. Booze and full nude. Now, I love women, but I don't need to see the bottom unless it's me and her and a bedroom. Or the backseat. Or a bathroom. You get the point. The other crazy thing was these women were their own DJs and had to change songs in their birthday suits. Kinda embarrassing for them and kinda hilarious for us.

Then we hit a spot called the Olympian. Cool biker bar with the Pro Bowl on. The joint was about 50 yards from my hotel and the next thing I knew, I was wayyyyy-sted on a Sunday afternoon. My cousin walked me back to my room. I walked in through the front entrance and stumbled to the desk, where I asked the very Portland-esque girl (ie wrist tattoo, plug earrings, short dyed hair) where the jacuzzi was. She looked at me strange and said, "we don't have a jacuzzi." Not knowing what to say and feeling super bummed about not taking a dip, I just walked away with my tail between my legs.

The next thing I knew, it was 10 p.m. I passed out with my shoes on and when I woke up, I thought it was morning. I was wrong. Somewhere between drunk and hungover, there was no way I was leaving my room. So, for the first time in my life, I ordered room service. The veggie burger was $16. The $3.50 tip was added. So was the $2.50 delivery fee. Grand total for two slices of bun, a veggie patty, tomato and lettuce with a side of fries and ketchup: $22. The burger was good, but not $22 good. The next morning, when the hangover had pretty much gone away, I wondered how in the world a hotel could charge a delivery fee. I'm new to the whole room service thing, but isn't that what room service is? A delivery?

Thanks to Blogger losing my shit, I'm going to stop here. I need to take a nap. But don't worry. You don't want to miss my re-telling of the time I went by myself to the vegan strip club and how I think a certain employee was hitting on me.

HOLY LONG MOVIE BATMAN

2009-02-04T13:13:00.000-08:00

Last night I finally saw The Dark Knight. It was good, but man was that a long flick.

Two suggestions if they make another: 1. Shorten the fuckin' thing. and 2. Don't do that flashy intro shit where you just don't come out and tell the audience what's going on. Not only is that confusing (I don't watch movies to think, goddamnit), but it adds to the length of the film.

Other than that, I was pleasantly surprised. I thought Batman Begins was good and The Dark Knight held up. Another bummer is now I have to admit to seeing a Heath Ledger film, but with the good comes the bad.

There was so much hype surrounding Ledger's performance and rightfully so. He was a great Joker. Not so good that he needed to die for it, but pretty darn good.

In other news...did ya hear Bush got re-elected? And what about these cell phone thingys?

UPDATE ON YESTERDAY'S POST

2009-02-01T10:34:00.000-08:00

So the Press-Telegram has a story today about the Long Beach City Council's attempt to ease laws regarding public smoking.

Could this have anything to do with why so many in the Long Beach tobacco smoking industry are donating money to First District candidate Robert Garcia?

RICKY BERRY FOR LB CITY COUNCIL PART 2

2009-01-31T12:45:00.001-08:00

LbReport.com has a story about this guy named Robert Garcia and his campaign for the First District's open city council position. The article begins with a detailed description of who has donated to Garcia's campaign and how much they've given. Later, Garcia responded by saying most of his contributions are from people giving $100 or less. Sure, dude.

When you've got the fire and police unions giving $2,500 each, you don't care about the little guy. If my math is correct (and it's usually not), $2,500 from one group equals 25 $100 donations. And with this money coming not from people but from city-backed groups, where do you think this guy's allegiance lies?

The story also mentions how "cigar/smoking/tobacco related businesses" have donated, some up to the maximum alloted $1,000 amount. Garcia disputes this claim, saying, "I recieved contributions from a few Cigar Lounge small business owners that I know, not smoking firms or companies." Well, one look at this list and you can see seven different people associated with smoking lounges donated money. Call it what you want, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out something's up when seven seemingly random business owners who just so happen to be in the SAME business give money to one candidate. That's a bullshit move, the kind the city can expect more of if this clown's elected.

Oh, and twice in his statement Garcia mentions he doesn't smoke. For a guy who doesn't smoke and never has, he sure has a lot of connections within the smoking community.

Later he writes, "However, if a responsible adult wants to smoke a cigar in a cigar lounge, that is their business and I support the current state law guiding that issue." For once, I agree. But does he feel the same when what those responsible adults are smoking ISN'T tobacco?

Everyone I know has nothing but terrible things to say about Long Beach city government. They drop the ball at every chance they get because they want to squeeze out this town's character in favor of glossy high rises and outdoor malls. If the people of Long Beach -- and more particularly, the people of the first and second districts -- were in charge, Acres of Books would still exist, the Pike would never have been built, CityPlace would have stores people actually want to shop at and the Vault would be a viable club. But no, we get shit on every chance the city gets. That's why I'm moving to Portland.

You want more of the same bad ideas, vote for Garcia. He's the guy who's backed by the same people responsible for all those terrible ideas. You want someone with a fresh perspective on things, a person who hasn't been running for political office for all of his adult life, vote for Rick Berry.

OCTUPLETS?

2009-01-31T12:42:00.000-08:00

So this woman in Bellflower just had eight babies. And the icing on the cake is, she already had six kids.

Instead of everyone asking what's she going to do with all 14 offspring, shouldn't we be asking why someone who already had six kids wanted even one more?

FERNET-BRANCA IN THE DISTRICT

2009-01-29T11:38:00.001-08:00

Fernet-Branca is one helluva drink. Read all about it.

http://thedistrictweekly.com/print/food-drink/drink-of-the-week/drink-of-the-week-21/

RICK BERRY FOR LONG BEACH CITY COUNCIL

2009-01-26T14:59:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows me is aware that I don't back politicians. I think they are slimy, egotistical and lame. But there's a guy running for Long Beach City Council who I can get behind.

It's my friend Rick Berry. He's an absolute great person and very deserving of someone's vote. He's not like all the other politicians out there, which means he's a real human who places fresh ideas over bureaucracy.

Rick has set up a weekly get-together at Zephyr in Long Beach. Last week was his first attempt. I was there. So were a few others. Check it out and ask him some questions. He's very friendly and will bring about more change than any of the people he's running against.

JIM HALL SLEEPS ALL DAY BECAUSE...

2009-01-15T18:08:00.000-08:00

When he doesn't, he turns into a mess.

I got up at 7 a.m. this morning. Try doing that after months and months of going to bed at 3 a.m. Trust me. It sucks.

Four hours sleep last night. Total bummer. I've been paying for it all damn day.

It's 6:09 p.m. right now and I'm hurting. I have to do it tomorrow too. Let it be known that work sucks.

I can't think straight, can't get anything done. I'm worthless when my sleep is interrupted and it usually takes 24 hours to recover from days like today, which means Saturday is going to be a sleep-a-thon of epic proportion.

Is 6 too early for bed?

TWO STORIES IN THE DISTRICT

2009-01-14T12:31:00.000-08:00

Here they are folks. Enjoy!

http://thedistrictweekly.com/print/shelter/the-price-is-right/

and

http://thedistrictweekly.com/print/food-drink/the-sides/sides-58/

MORE PRESS-TELEGRAM LAYOFFS

2009-01-09T14:13:00.000-08:00

This issue with the Press-Telegram laying off more employees strikes a chord with me. I worked there for three years and there wasn't a single employee who ever came to my aide when I needed it. The only time I went to the union, they ended up fucking me as much, if not more, than the company did.

That said, I don't like what's happening there. I haven't bought a PT in ages and wouldn't recommend anyone doing that either. I go on their site daily to check headlines. Then I get frustrated seeing, or should I say NOT seeing, what should be covered. More babbling from the codgers who've been there forever, but nothing about what's going on in the community. It's a slap in the face to readers, one of which I won't and don't put up with.

Don't get me wrong. My lack of interest in the PT shouldn't be construed as a knock on the reporters because it's not. It's more of a fuck you to MediaNewsGroup than the remaining journalists.

In fact, I read the Stress-Telegram (http://lbguild9400.blogspot.com) as often as the PT. Unfortunately, that site depresses me just as much. As a former insider, I know firsthand the level of bullshit fed to PT employees. Yet ST readers don't get any of that. We're spoonfed these links to sites that people in Long Beach simply don't care about.

Everyone I know asks me what's up at the PT and I tell them I know as much as they do. That's sad. One way to remedy this would be the Stress-Telegram, but it appears these people are too afraid to report on the newsroom meetings that involve the "lucky" few being caught up on the new round of layoffs. Why not report that instead of a canned message from a union rep who doesn't work at the PT?

I agree with the ST's sentiment that the PT needs a better staff. But please, give those who never worked there the opportunity to know what's going on without the use of whitebread filters. Everyone's job is in the toilet and telling us about their situation in such a manner isn't winning over readers; it's just pushing more people away.

I've written this before and I'll write it again: Stress-Telegram, start saying something. It's sad when your comments section is more interesting and informative than your actual site.

On a related note...I heard the powers-that-be laid off Fred Murdoch, the mailroom guy. If there's a more awesome person on this planet, someone please introduce me to them. Fred was like a bartender to me. I'd go into his office, bitch about everything and somehow leave our conversations feeling much better about myself. He offered a glimmer of hope into what was already a sinking ship. It's too bad more outlets aren't playing up his loss as much as they are a reporter who was employed there for a matter of months.

SEAN WHEELER & ZANDER SCHLOSS

2009-01-08T19:11:00.000-08:00

I saw this band last night. They go by the name of Sean Wheeler & Zander Schloss. Wheeler sings in Throw Rag and Schloss plays bass in the Circle Jerks. But they don't sound anything like those two.

It was at this incredibly awesome bar/venue called the Redwood Bar and Grill in Los Angeles. This wasn't some bullshit "we're in LA but it's really the Valley or the South Bay" shit. No, this was in Bunker Hill LA, the real deal. The bar's got this amazing nautical motif that whoever designed should be given credit for. It's really worth going to just to check out all the attention to detail.

Anyway, I saw this duo at the Buddyhead Xmas Party and the Hotel Cafe and they were by far the best thing there. I picked up their 5-song demo and it rules. I had to see them again.

Now that I know some songs, I was excited. They played all five, a few new ones and even one they claimed they wrote earlier that day. Each one was awesome. Schloss absolutely shreds the 12-string acoustic and Wheeler's got pipes that send chills down my spine.

They talked about "the people," and while that might sound like bullshit, these two are playing some real honest, no-thrills tunes, the kind not often heard these days. Imagine a soul/gospel singer over folk/country/bluegrass and that's what they sound like.

They are by far my new favorite band and I'll be seeing more of them. In fact, they're doing every Wednesday in January at this place. I went assuming I'd be the only person there. I was wrong. It was packed. You should go. Trust me.

BUMMER MAN

2009-01-06T18:50:00.000-08:00

Woke up today to discover Stooges guitarist Ron Asheton passed away. Like the title says, that's a bummer to the nth degree.

To say the Stooges are important to rock 'n' roll is a major understatement. The band's first two records are hailed (now -- they weren't when they were first released) as seminal listening that paved the way for punk. But the band was so much more than that. There's a very primal, raw energy in those first two discs that come from a background of blues and jazz. I used to hear people say that to me, but I didn't know what it meant. Then I got into those genres, and as I started to drift from punk, I began to enjoy the Stooges even more because they couldn't be pigeonholed into one category. Just listen to "Dirt" from "Fun House" and tell me that's not "Born Under a Bad Sign" played in a modern way.

Asheton was a wailer whose voice really came through in his playing. I can't imagine the Stooges carrying on without him, but then again, money talks. And with James Williamson still alive, they could have a second reunion and continue if they wanted.

I saw Asheton live once. It was the first and only time I saw the Stooges. 2003 at Coachella. I had no desire to drive to the middle of the desert for these annual festivals (and still don't), but once I heard the Stooges were playing their first gig in decades and later discovered I could get in for free, well, I would have been a fool if I didn't go. As far as reunions go, the Stooges were solid. And I'm not saying this because he died, but the one thing that really stood out for me (aside from never seeing Iggy in the flesh, which is a treat unto itself) was how much Asheton's playing stood out. He was on point and played in the most primitive, tribal way. He killed it on "Dirt" and I'll never forget that.

The Stooges are still one of my all-time favorite bands and "Fun House" is the "Pet Sounds" of rock. I listen to it regularly and no matter how many times I hear it, I always pick up on new things hidden in the songs. It's as fresh and alive as it was the day it was released. I can't say the same about a lot of the records in my collection.

RIP Ron Asheton and say hi to Dave Alexander for me.

NEW YEAR'S EVE GIFT

2008-12-31T13:55:00.000-08:00

Here's a poem I wrote last New Year's Eve. Seeing how I didn't have a blog then, you're getting it now.

Enjoy.

MONDAY NIGHT
Another year down whisked away from contemporary
to history.
Another year on the horizon
approaching rapidly
gaining speed like the five horse on the back stretch.
In less than six hours, we’ll all be that much older
and not much wiser
Who are we to think this date holds any real relevance?
Tomorrow is nothing more than Tuesday to me
Or is it Wednesday? Pretty sure Tuesday
But others see hope, a new path, a clean slate
Like religion, whatever gets someone from point A
to point B – what do I care?
We love to make promises we know we won’t keep
yet we do it anyway
because the idea is more important than the doing.
No, the thought isn’t what counts
In my mind, I think I’m a great writer with an overflow of cash in the bank
and legions of fans worldwide.
Red carpet treatment galore, no waiting in lines or paying full price
The rest of society might take issue with me if I acted like this were true
but I don’t pretend so I don’t disappoint
Tonight’s the night for washing away failure and the realization that
we’re all stuck on the same sinking ship
Nowhere to go but overboard

SNOOP REVIEW AT THE GLASSHOUSE

2008-12-27T16:29:00.000-08:00

Saw Snoop at the Glasshouse in Pomona last night. I thought it was going to be tha Doggfather, Warren G and the Twins, but it turned out to also include the Lady of Rage, tha Dogg Pound and Suga Free. Not bad for free tickets.

I caught the tail end of the Twins. Holy shit did it smell like weed in there. There were people freely smoking pot everywhere for the entire show. In all my years of going to shows, I've never seen such a high percentage of smokers mixed with a venue with such a hands-off approach. Even Daz lit up a doobie on stage.

Well...when in Rome, do as the Romans. So I sparked one during a song by Rage and the DPGC. I was about 10 people deep from the stage. Through the crowd I saw a security guard watch as I smoked. I looked at him, he looked at me. I exhaled and kept smoking. Nice!

Each act used the same deejay, which led me to wonder...remember when the DJ was like the drummer? A couple people know his name and he gets a few minutes to strut his stuff? Not anymore. DJs circa 2008 are glorified karaoke jocks responsible for playing the right backing track. No cutting. No scratching. No hyping. Weak.

The crowd was mixed, mostly young people I'd say. There was a small group of dudes who were yelling something about East LA at Warren G. This was the only tense moment of the night as most of the young white people expected a shootout. But cooler heads prevailed.

Rage was good, better than I expected. Tha Dogg Pound was also really good. Warren G was tight, even if no one seemed to know anything but "Regulate." I have his debut and it's classic. I dug hearing those songs live. I can't say the same for anyone else.

Seeing Snoop up close was killer. I hadn't seen him in a small venue since 1997 and man, can he still rock a mic. I wished for more Doggystyle songs, but that was 15 years ago. The good news was, Snoop's such a good live performer that I was interested in whatever song he was doing, regardless of whether or not I knew it. He didn't take a moment for a small chronic break, but that's ok. He did plug his TV show and C walk a little.

Compared with the Snoop show opening for 311 in June, this was as good a show, but for different reasons. For starters, I didn't have to deal with 311 fans. Snoop was closer, but he didn't use a live band, just a DJ. Apples and oranges, I suppose.

The show was much better than this review. I'd tell you more, but I was high as a kite. The one thing I took away from the show was this...There isn't a more weed friendly crowd than Snoop's.

NOVEL EXCERPT

2008-12-16T23:36:00.000-08:00

As a holiday gift, I am sharing a chapter from my still-incomplete novel that has to do with the season. PLEASE comment on this. Tell me what you think. Even if it's negative. I don't care.

I didn’t know what to expect from the office buffoons regarding my first Christmas season at the Daily Gazette, but as a devout agnostic and overall holiday hater, I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. I was right.

It didn’t take long for me to understand the nature of the daily newspaper business. Days off were few and far between and those we observed always came with a price. For example, we got off President’s Day, but the Thursday and Friday before and Tuesday and Wednesday after were guaranteed stress days that made even me, a guy who took every opportunity he could not to go to work, say fuck it and come in to avoid four miserable days.

MLK’s birthday? Forget it. I had a dream too. That dream was to get his birthday recognized as a reason to sleep in. No one agreed. But Thanksgiving and especially Christmas were not in the same category as Busch leaguers such as the Fourth of July and Memorial Day. I just knew the time off procedure would be different, but the stomachache and hangover I endured behind my desk the day after Thanksgiving proved me wrong.

This wasn’t the first time I went to work with a pounding headache and it wouldn’t be the last. But something was different. Just after my lunch, which consisted of pretzels and a large Gatorade, a singing quartet wearing bonnets and stockings floated into the features department. They came from around a corner that separated the so-called respectable reporters of the city desk and the perceived hacks in my section. They turned to face the string of employees and, to no one in particular, began singing.

“”Tis the season to be jolly…” The night before I drank too much Thanksgiving wine, but I was one hundred percent certain I did not drop any acid. My head shook left, shook right. For the first time since I was hired, the people I worked with looked as confused, upset and embarrassed as I was. Finally, we all shared something in common: A complete lack of comprehension for what the hell was going on.

After their song, the foursome walked in front of me and decided that was the perfect stage to perform another tune.

“You better watch out, you better not cry…” I thought twice about whapping each one of these suckers with the mouthpiece of my phone, but didn’t for fear that I might have to pay for the damages to the equipment.

We clapped politely as they were finished and deep down I knew everyone wanted them to leave as badly as I did. Twice in my life I was so desperate I prayed to God. The first was when I was 17. I fucked a girl and she missed her period, but had one four days later than normal. This was the second. Both times, I got what I wanted, but still I doubted God’s existence.

Behind the singers – literally and figuratively – was Gerald, an old man who worked as the paper’s librarian for thirty seven years. Sometimes I had to make small talk with him, but conversing was more difficult with him than with the other schmucks because Gerald couldn’t breathe thanks to a distended belly that might have come from the personal coffeemaker he kept on his desk. I needed my java as much as the next guy, unless the next guy was Gerald. Mainly I knew this mammoth of a man as the dude you did not want to walk in on when he was taking a shit. All that caffeine really got to him as he’d go into the handicapped stall and huff and puff until he birthed a grandchild. His grunts and groans conjured images of hemorrhoids bursting from his ass. He’d talk to himself during the procedure, which made it hard not to laugh while taking a leak.

Gerald walked slowly behind the singers because Gerald could only walk slowly. He was too fat for anything else. When the group was on to the sports department, Gerald spoke up.

“Hey everybody… these guys are working for free… so let’s show them some appreciation.” I thought that meant clap some more, but then I saw Sally contort her body halfway to reach for her wallet. Fuck that. No way I’m paying for that shit.

The incident left me speechless. It was Friday, November 26 and here we were ushering in Christmas? There were photos to download, emails to print and a feel-good story about a local man who got through chemo by growing tomatoes on his balcony to get to, but I couldn’t do it. For once, I wanted to be working, so that’s what I pretended to do. I opened a new screen and wrote what turned out to be lyrics to a song called “It’s Not December.”
It’s November 26
and I don’t care what they say
It’s just way to early
to celebrate the holidays

It’s not even Decemeber
and maybe I can’t remember
but the last week of November
is not even December

Puzzled looks on faces
all around the office
How did they get in here?
and when are they leaving?

Thankfully, Gerald retired soon after and the carolers never returned.

That was one memory from my first Christmas at the Daily Gazette that I soon wouldn’t forget. But it didn’t stop there. Three weeks before the birth of Christ, Sally informed me that I was volunteered to create a list of every holiday-related event going on within a fifteen-mile range of the Daily Gazette’s downtown Long Beach office. “Call every city and ask them what they are doing for Christmas,” she said, “and make sure you don’t leave anything or anyone out. You’ll get calls if you do.”

I didn’t know where to begin. Luckily, Sally gave me a copy of the previous year’s list and I went off that. Some cities were easy, others were not. I preferred getting information via email so I could cut and paste the text into my story, but nothing at the Daily Gazette was ever that easy. Most I talked to wanted to fax their programs, which meant manually typing all the whos, whats, whens and wheres. Others wanted to recite the info over the phone as if I knew the correct spellings of all the unknown musicians and actors they were using in their plays and concerts. And some wanted to send the info through regular mail, which would have delayed the process by however long it took the Postal Service to deliver the letters. Still, by the end of the day, I had seventy-five percent of the necessary information and the story wasn’t due for four days. Of course, that time was spent calling the cities of South Gate, Paramount, Norwalk, Seal Beach and Wilmington to ask where the hell their info was. The first two had absolute idiots working for them who must have had a parent high up at the city. Norwalk still hadn’t decided on what they were doing for Christmas and the last two were nothing but phone numbers that no one answered. I dialed the Seal Beach City Hall to inquire and the woman who answered told me to call the number I already had. I explained my predicament, but she said the city had nothing to do with those events. Then I tried Wilmington, a port town run by Los Angeles. With all the shit going on in LA, you can imagine how much a priority it was for those officials to return my calls.

South Gate and Paramount came through on the day my story was due. Norwalk emailed me the info three days after the story ran and I’m still waiting to hear from Seal Beach and Wilmington.

I rolled my bike in slightly past 10:30 a.m., took my seat and checked the phone messages. The recorded voice told me I had fourteen new voicemails, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. I was jotting down the info from a woman who wanted to place an ad when the red light lit up, telling me someone was calling. I clicked the receiver and answered.

“Daily Gazette.”

“Yes. Is this Jim Hall?” I was shocked. Almost no one ever asked for me by name.

“Yes it is.”

“Well, I’ve been a subscriber for fifty-two years and never have I been as offended as I was this morning.” This sounded good, so I put down my notepad, leaned back in the chair and actually listened to the old bag.

“Ok. Why?” At previous gigs, I’d written all sorts of offensive things, some intentionally. But my hands were tied so tightly at the Daily Gazette that I couldn’t have pissed off anyone intentionally or not.

“I was reading your Christmas round-up story and you have at least four mentions of cities with ‘holiday’ events. Why can’t you just say ‘Christmas’ like the rest of us?”

I had no clue what the old lady was talking about, so I picked up the phone and stretched the chord as far as it could go so I could lean over and pick up a paper sitting at the vacant desk nearby. Combing through my story, I saw what she was talking about, but was confused as to why it bothered her. “Ma’am, can you explain this to me again? I understand what you’re talking about, but I don’t see the problem.”

“Goddamnit, it’s Christmas. Not ‘holiday.’ Christmas is the celebration of the birth of our lord and savior Jesus Christ. Show him the respect he deserves. He died on the cross for chrissakes.”

Now I got it, but wasn’t sure if it was worth the effort to explain to her that I didn’t name these events, I just reported them. The person, or people, she should have called were the ones who organized these gatherings. Not me. But I didn’t get the chance.

“And another thing…how dare you put Xmas in your article? It’s one thing to say ‘holiday,’ but if you’re going to say ‘Christmas,’ say ‘Christmas.’”

This woman sounded like her decrepit head was about to explode, so I did my best to calm her down.

“Ma’am, I didn’t name those things. The cities did. I just reported it.”

“Well why’d you do that? If you knew they were wrong, you should have corrected them.”

“I never said I thought they were wrong.”

“Oh, so you do think it’s ok to use ‘holiday’ and ‘Xmas?’ What’s wrong with you people? First you switch to ink that runs all over my hands and now this.”

“I didn’t say that either. It’s my job to report the facts, ma’am. I can’t add or subtract information based on personal beliefs or I’d get fired.”

“Maybe you should be fired.” Then she hung up. I wanted to trace the call, track her down and slit her throat while I shit in a copy of my story to shove down her old ass throat. But I didn’t. The holidays already put me in a bad mood and I didn’t need to go to jail for killing someone who was bound to die soon anyway.

A day later the entire office got a message from someone named Erin. It read, “Come see me to sign up for Secret Santa.” I deleted it instantly and thought nothing of it. By Friday, Erin, whom I’d never met before, appeared at my desk.

“Hey Jim, I’m Erin. I noticed you haven’t signed up for Secret Santa yet, so I wanted to make sure you got your name before the weekend.”

“Got my name?”

“Yeah, of the person you’re shopping for. Here, it’s Todd, the night janitor.”

I was caught so off guard that for once in my life I had nothing to say. “You wha?”

“Every year we do Secret Santa here. You know what that is, don’t you?” I nodded yes. “You’re the only person who didn’t sign up and I tried looking for you Wednesday, but Sally said you had already left. And I was gone all yesterday. That’s why it’s taken me so long to get to you. Sorry.”

“But I don’t want to be in Secret Santa.” Erin’s demeanor went from annoyingly bubbly to depressed with a hint of confusion. Her shoulders slumped, her smile turned upside down and her brow was filled with lines that indicated she was trying to process what I had said.

“You don’t want to be in Secret Santa? Why not?”

“I just don’t want to.” It was the truth. I had no real reason other than not giving a fuck.

“No one ever says no. It throws off the balance because somebody has you and now you need to have somebody.”

“No I don’t. What I need is to get back to work. Please remove me.”

“But it doesn’t work that way. You have to.”

“Look, I don’t want to, now please leave me alone.” I was getting upset and it was showing. “I don’t celebrate Christmas with my family or friends and I’m sure as hell not celebrating it here.”

“Fine. I guess that means I have to buy Todd’s present.”

“I guess that’s what you get for being in charge of Secret Santa.”

Monday, December 27. Late afternoon. I was sitting at the communal Mac downloading some pictures for Sally. Her chair and this computer were separated by a makeshift wall that a previous power-tripping editor erected as a form of distancing themselves from the other peasants in the department. They sat about six feet apart, close enough to see and hear what the other person is doing.

The rarest of rare occurred. Dick Thompson, the paper’s editor, number two man at the Daily Gazette, came over to the features department. In my eight months on the job, I’d never seen him in this part of the building. He approached Sally, who had to put on a pleasantly surprised face, and handed her something.

“Hey Sally, workin’ hard? Can you be a doll and do me a favor and give this to Jim Hall? Thanks so much.” Hearing my name, I looked up and saw him leave my boss’ office. Sally looked at the piece of paper she was given, stood up and called me in.

“Hey Jim, can you come here a second?” I thought I was in trouble, for what, I wasn’t sure. Sally reached out her left hand without looking up and said, “this is for you.” I took it back to my desk and opened it. Inside was a Christmas card from the Thompson family. The inscription read: “Thanks for all your work Jim. You really help make the Daily Gazette the best paper in Long Beach.” Hmm, I thought. The Daily Gazette is the only paper in Long Beach.

Then I got to looking at Dick’s two college-age daughters. One was a plumper wearing a Colorado State sweater, but the other was a gorgeous brunette with a UCLA t-shirt. How nice, wearing your college gear for daddy’s Christmas card. I took a mental note and instructed myself to remember her name. Holly. If I ever met a Holly Thompson from UCLA, I’d do my best to not just fuck her, but cum in her hair.

It wasn’t until I was rounding up my thermos before heading home that I realized the idiocy of Dick’s card. First, Christmas was two days prior. Second, I was within earshot of him when he handed it to Sally, which meant he was excused for not giving me my card on time because he had absolutely no idea who I was or that I even worked for the paper. To top it all off, the card lacked anything of monetary value. No Christmas bonus, no $10 gift certificate to pay for half of an overpriced CD at Best Buy, no raise, no health insurance, no new car, no nothing. Season’s greetings indeed.

MY FRIEND'S BLOG

2008-12-16T00:33:00.000-08:00

For weeks I convinced my friend to start a blog to detail her life. You see, she lives with her 93-year-old grandmother, her mother, her husband and her daughter. Not to mention the dogs and cats and fish.

Everyday she told me about the wackiness that is her home life. "You gotta document this stuff," I kept telling her. Well, like a smart individual, she took my advice. Here's a link to her site. I hope she continues because I won't get to hear these stories any more and I'm way too deep to not find out how this ends.

http://fourgenerationsinonehouse.blogspot.com/

BUDDYHEAD HOLIDAY PARTY LINEUP ANNOUNCED

2008-12-09T23:22:00.001-08:00

I've got a bunch of friends performing at this thing. I'll be there. So should you.

A casual and intimate evening involving a festive gathering of friends, family, and foreigners... All performing in sparser, and mellower ways than you might usually expect from these artists. Featuring...
The Duke Spirit

Dead Meadow

The Entrance Band

Josh Homme (Screaming Trees, Kyuss)

Jeordie 'Twiggy' White (Marilyn Manson)

Sweethead (feat. Troy Van Leeuwen of QOTSA)

Aaron North, Troy 'Boy' Petrey & Fiends (Jubilee, Rob Gnarley)

Alain Johannes (Eleven)

Nick Jago (BRMC)

Xu Xu Fang

Dean Fertita (QOTSA, The Raconteurs)

Alessandro Cortini (NIN, Modwheelmood)

Wires On Fire

Dios Malos

HT Heartache

Sid Brown (feat. Bryan Brown of Bluebird)

Todd Congelliere (The Underground Railroad To Candyland, Toys That Kill, F.Y.P)

Tony Bevilacqua (Spinnerette, The Distillers, The Drips, Darker My Love, Har Mar Superstar)

Birthday Twin (feat. Fred Sablan of Goon Moon)

Brandon Intelligator & The Sheriffs

Tsk Tsk (The Breeders, Work Sucks, Balloon)

Ryan Ritchie (performing short stories, rantings, poetry, etc.)

...And many, many more VERY special guests to be announced soon! There will also be a photo / art exhibition including contributions (which will also be available for purchase) from Nick Jago, Chrissy Piper, Aaron Farley, Sonny Kay, and Travis Keller. Also, a raffle contest giving YOU the chance to win multiple boxes of over 4,000 brand new, useless, old, and shitty Buddyhead cd's! Plus giveaways, and various other underwhelming and anticlimactic surprises!!!

Sunday, December 21st, 2008

@ The Hotel Cafe in Hollywood

1623 1/2 N. Cahuenga Blvd., 90028

Doors @ 7pm

$10

21+

www.Hotelcafe.com

www.Buddyhead.com

WEIRD DREAM

2008-12-07T15:38:00.001-08:00

Last night I had a weird dream. It went like this...

I was driving on what I think was the 5 freeway somewhere in the middle of California. Instead of a car, I was behind the wheel of a Radio Flyer, those red thingys kids have. I pulled into one of those towns that just appear on highways in the middle of nowhere. There aren't many of them in the Golden State, but hey, this is a dream, not reality.

For some reason, I needed to make a U-turn. So I did. about fifty yards ahead of me was a cop car waiting for someone to mess up. That's what these towns are for -- speed traps for people who have been driving 90 miles an hour all day to suddenly slow down to 45. Like that's gonna happen.

The pig pulled me over and my dream fast forwarded to me being at the police station. The cop, a female, was asking all sorts of questions in a very condescending way. This obviously was a dream because cops never do that sort of thing. She was pulling out backpacks and luggage from my Radio Flyer and inquiring about the contents. I told her she had free reign to look for whatever she wanted.

At this point I was fairly calm, even though I knew I had a stash of weed and a pipe on me. I just didn't care, probably because I had one of those medicinal cards that seemingly everyone in this state has.

The cop pulled out a bunch of clothes and asked me to unfold them so she could see if anything was inside. I obliged, knowing eventually what she was looking for was in another bag, not hidden at all. The pig took out my clothes, my asthma inhalers, my CDs and journal and started flinging them all over the room. Then I got pissed.

Just then this family from my hometown showed up. I used to play Little League and basketball with the oldest son. I kid you not when I say I have not seen or thought about these people in probably 15 years. But there they were. I recognized them and they me. I never bothered to ask why they were at the station, but somehow their presence combined with the cop making a mess of my stuff turned me into a raging lunatic.

I started yelling at the officer and told her to speed up. I was in a hurry and just could not be bothered. She wasn't amused. Bag after bag, she searched and found nothing. I remember being amazed at how much stuff I had inside a Radio Flyer, but that's what dreams do, or should I say don't do, which by that I mean they don't make sense.

I wanted to just point out my stash so I could get back on the road. But before I could, the pig found it. She turned around and had a big "AHA" look on her face. She asked why I didn't tell her about the pot and I told her I didn't think I had to. Then she went into a long diatribe about how busted I was and all that jazz. Knowing I had a get out of jail free card in my pocket (and a very tiny amount of weed), I let her continue with the song and dance. But I spoke up once she tried to cuff me. I reached in my pocket and showed her my doctor's recommendation and her jaw fell to the floor. I told her I'd own this sorry excuse for a town if she wanted to make a big deal of this situation. I could tell she didn't, so I pressed harder, explaining how much of a big shot I was and went into explicit detail about my pending lawsuit even if she left me off Scott free. And then I left.

Unfortunately, I don't remember anything after this point. My guess is my Radio Flyer and I made it home safely.

OK all you dream interpreters out in cyberspace...tell me what this means because I sure as hell don't have a clue.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO ME

2008-11-27T17:06:00.001-08:00

Eleven years ago today (ok, maybe not on this date, but you get the point) I gave up eating meat. It was supposed to be a one-day thing, but here I am more than a decade later with no regrets.

I had turned 18 years old a few weeks prior and was the furthest thing any living (or dead) person could have been from a vegetarian. I absolutely despised vegetables and fruit. I ate hot dogs, hamburgers and chicken taquitos all the time and was so far removed from any semblance of healthy eating that I didn't put lettuce or tomatoes on my burgers -- just bun, ketchup and meat.

I don't remember how or why I decided to give up turkey, but I vividly recall the word "protest" being a major force behind my decision. This was very similar to why I never drank or did drugs in high school; if everyone else was doing it, I wanted to be as far away as humanly possible. This motif continues today.

As long as I can remember, animals have always had a soft spot in my heart and the thought of thousands -- if not millions -- of turkeys being slaughtered just for selfish reasons was enough to turn me to the dark side. In fact, one of my earliest memories is going to the LA County Fair in kindergarten. My parents took me out of school (which turned out to be the ONLY time they ever did that) and I had what I remember was a bonding experience with a horse. Before you get your mind in the gutter, I'll explain...My memory of this day is nill except for how much I loved petting the horse's head and talking to it. My parents probably thought I was strange, but you know what? They still do. Anyway, leaving the horse made me very sad. I don't know why, but I felt some sort of connection with the beast, all cramped up with no movement for anything other than his or her head. Somewhere there's a shrink analyzing that thought, but I don't care to do such a thing.

I got to my aunt's cramped Torrance apartment (I have a large family) and shoved everything on my plate except turkey. This meant taking more potatoes and stuffing than normal, but I was fine by that. As far as I could tell, no one noticed and my turkey-free Thanksgiving went off without a hitch.

I woke up the next morning and had challenged myself to see how long I could keep up the no-meat diet. Trust me, it wasn't easy. My family is not veggie-friendly and I had no idea what I was doing. The first month or two was filled with more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and grilled cheese than I'd ever consumed before. When mom microwaved a can of Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup, I did my best not to eat the chicken, but I enjoyed the noodles and broth. Like I said, I was lost.

I don't have an exact date, but roughly two weeks into my vegetarianism was the last time I purposely ate meat (there have been a few times when someone swore there wasn't meat in something and there was, but I don't count those as I unknowingly ate flesh and threw away the food once I realized that). Mom threw some chicken taquitos in the oven and I put a few on my plate. As I was doing so, I told myself it was ok because the vegetarian experiment was over. "I'm not a vegetarian," I said to no one but me. I thought of my friends giving me shit for it and how, until then, I never told anyone I was a vegetarian because a few days of something is not long enough to start labeling yourself.

Like always, dinner was served in my bedroom. I took one bite and the taste was fine. Then the food hit my stomach and I knew something was wrong. I didn't vomit or have crazy poop, but the best I can describe this moment would be like this: Imagine a balloon expanding in your gut and not stopping. I felt like my belly was about to explode and there was nothing I could do about it. I writhed in pain, tossing and turning on my bedroom floor. This lasted a couple of minutes. Once the pain subsided, I put the extra taquitos back on the tray for someone else to eat.

It's been a pretty fucking awesome ride ever since.

Instantly I dropped 10 pounds. My diet was not what anyone would call healthy, but I was trying. I started buying veggie burgers and they tasted like shit. Just a big onion, which was definitely not what I wanted. But I kept at it. Veggie dogs? Yuck. More shit taste. But I kept at it.

I hate to be a sappy boyfriend, but it wasn't until a year later, when I met my girlfriend, when I was exposed to proper vegetarianism. She was a veggie too, which was a huge reason why we hit it off. I've heard of lots of couples in which one person converts for the other. That's noble, but ours was different. She knew way more about the subject than I did and started cooking me food that I'd never heard of and taking me to the now defunt Papa Jon's on Second Street in Long Beach. Oh how I miss you and your mush and tofu balls, Papa Jon's...

Our first visit, she ordered stir fry broccoli tofu. I looked at the menu and the dreadlocked hippy waiters and wondered where the hell I was. On paper, the food looked very unflattering and I went with an old standard -- a plate of black beans. Her dish came out and I was glad I didn't order it. Too much green for the young me. My beans were bland and dry and I pushed them around the plate more than I ate them. A while later, she cooked me falafel, something I'd never heard of. She promised I'd love it -- and hummus -- but she was wrong. I couldn't finish it and she made no bones about how this upset her. But she had the last laugh as I would inject falafel and hummus into my veins if I could. Her, on the other hand, she's over both of them. More for me!

I won't bore anyone with the details, but once I discovered fruits and veggies, there was no turning back. Tofu was and still is an awesome thing and my palette and awareness began cutting out more animal-based foods. Unfortunately, I don't have a vegan anniversary date, but my best estimate is about five years.

Like I said earlier, I gave myself a one-day challenge and upped the ante to see how long I could keep this up. Once I had a few months distance between me and meat, I was still telling people how one of these days I'd eat flesh again. Eleven years later, I say the same thing about dairy. But you know something? I can honestly say I'll never be a carnivore again, and if history tells me anything, I probably won't go back to milk, cheese and milk chocolate either. Not only is it the right thing to do on a compassion level, my body is much happier without all that shit in it. And if they could talk, I'd bet the animals are in favor of my decision as well.

Anyone who knows me will tell you I'm not the type to preach my beliefs. No one forced vegetarianism or veganism on me and I don't wish to do the same. Now, when people ask, I give them honest, blunt answers. But it's not for me to tell others what to do. I came to this on my own and I believe people who make choices for themselves have a greater shot of sticking with things for the long haul. Veganism is right for me. On so many levels, I'd say it's right for you, the Jim Hall Sleeps All Day reader, but that's just my opinion. It's up to you to decide what you put in your body and why you do so.

Just yesterday a college student told me the thought of eating Tofurkey disgusted her. I told her she could think whatever she wanted, but I explained how there is no way she was more grossed out by fake turkey than I am when I think of the blood, guts and flesh of a formerly living creature entering my mouth. No thanks.

I still get crazy looks for non-believers and I don't care. Diets are not pissing matches, but I can always walk away knowing I'm doing what's right for me and for the greater good of humanity. I'm amazed at how many so-called religious people condemn me for my hedonistic ways (and trust me, there are plenty of them), but they still can't comprehend how they are contributing to torture and murder by eating meat. Again, I get the last laugh because religious nuts are destined to live a miserable life anyway.

And now it comes full circle. I am in the (incredibly slow) process of moving to Portland, Oregon, where veganism has taken over. As a vegan, I never thought I'd move somewhere because of food. That just wasn't possible until I went north. I'm not saying that's the only reason I want to live in the PDX, but it's a pretty big part of it. Even greater is knowing that I'm surrounding myself with like-minded people who don't think I'm weird for caring about fuzzy little creatures who can't speak up for themselves. Well don't worry my animal friends -- I'm here for you and I'm not the only one. I don't think we'll win this battle (or the war) but we can't go down without a fight.

Geez...this is one of my longest posts ever and I didn't even get into the raping and pillaging of Native Americans. I'll save that for next year.

PERFECT

2008-11-25T22:49:00.000-08:00

perfection lies in the eye of the beholder
but for me,
it’s going to be difficult to beat
an evening alone
free of responsibility
and the ability to do as I please
the Lakers won and I cooked a plate of pasta,
washed it down with vino
and
sat in my favorite chair with the lights low
listening to the first rainy night in a long, long time

PICTURES FROM TONY O'NEILL AND DAN FANTE AT SKYLIGHT BOOKS

2008-11-21T16:34:00.000-08:00

I was going to review this reading, but this asshole beat me to it. So instead, here are some photos.

http://blogs.laweekly.com/ladaily/general/last-night-underground-literat/

DAY TRIP TO BERKELEY or THE DAY I ALMOST KILLED MYSELF AND THOUSANDS OF OTHER PEOPLE

2008-11-16T15:25:00.001-08:00

Day trips are fun. At least that's what I tell myself. So when the opportunity arose to head up north to Berkeley to catch my friends' bands, the Taylor Texas Corrugators and JAMBANG, I said what the hell and made the six-hour trek all by myself.

I'm learning that I need to get out more. It helps keep me sane. Repetition has never been a friend of mine and hitting the open road is a perfect remedy for the Groundhog Day blues. Plus, I hadn't been to Berkeley in years...

I left Long Beach Friday at 11:30. The goal was to leave around 8 or 9 a.m., but we all knew that wasn't happening. I hit no traffic anywhere and was on Telegraph around 6 p.m.

The drive up was fairly uneventful. Highlights include stopping at Taste of India in Buttonwillow for killer samosas and a massive vegetable biryani wrap. Vegetarian food in truckstop towns is the modern day oasis, but this place exists and I make sure to stop there every time I'm on the 5. Sometimes I'm not hungry, but the food is bomb and I like to support them to make sure they're still around for my next trip. The second highlight was the gray skies caused by massive fires in Montecito (Montecito -- isn't that a hotel in Las Vegas?) The first three pictures are of this.

Berkeley was GOING OFF when I arrived. Literally a thousand people walking, talking, having a good time. I found a good parking spot and strolled around, taking in all that the college town has to offer.

It didn't take long before I began to feel strange. Not like I was gonna puke strange, but more like "holy shit, am I old or what?" kinda strange. Kids passing me by talking about the most ridiculous stuff. Two pimple faced punks were singing "I Saw Your Mommy" by Suicidal Tendencies, a group of high-heeled girls were pontificating the merits of Wet Seal, two gay guys were sharing horror stories of their respective hometowns and these three computer nerds were waxing poetic about the good ol' days of the Internet, back when AOL 2.0 was a big deal.

I was invisible to these kids. Maybe that's why I had such a good time. I never thought I'd be 29 years old, but I am and I'm learning to deal with it. It pains me to call college students kids, but for the first time in my life, I see that they are. Stuck between childhood and adulthood, away from mom and dad for the first time and exposed to things they only read about online. What I wouldn't do to be 19 again.

I thought about that last statement and realized I wish I could be in college again, but only because I am older. What I saw was no different than the Berkeley I saw when I was 18. You think I'm angry now? Try me a decade ago. I didn't want the college experience and that's probably why I didn't move away to school. Yes, now I see how this might have changed who I was and who I am, but I wasn't ready to participate in the herd mentality that seems to be ever so popular. The whole thing was a large cliche, the kind that made me feel like I was watching "Felicity" and not living real life.

The homeless punks and hippies are still bumming change. So are all the cleanest crazy people I've ever encountered. And there's the sweet sweet smell of weed EVERYWHERE. In the bookstore -- weed. The vintage store -- weed. The three headshops -- weed. The three guys standing in front of that plot of land that's been empty for 15 years -- weed. Not sure how cool the rest of the town is, but I'm ready to pronounce Telegraph the marijuana capital of the country.

Ate dinner at Blake's on Telegraph, where the show was held downstairs. Got a vegan burger. Usually these are nothing special, but this was really tasty. Highly recommended.

The sound guy was awesome. Not only did he give the obligatory history of the venue speech, he later offered us a bag of weed for sale. He didn't normally sell, he told us, but just this once...Sure dude.

First two bands were what I'd call college bands. Five guys who don't have much in common other than they want to play music. Maybe that's where the expression "the ol' college try" comes from. In any case, these groups had a strong following and girls were screaming for them, so they musta been doing something right.

The Corrugators were first. I've seen them a few times now and this might have been the best show yet. It's heavy, it's mellow, it grooves, it rocks. For a three-piece, they sure sound like a full band to me. Not that three pieces aren't full bands, but you know what I mean.

Luckily for me, the band had fun at some wineries the day before, resulting in drink tickets galore for me. Hooray for other people's hangovers!

JAMBANG closed the night with by far the best performance I've seen from them. I should be better at explaining bands' sets, but I'm not. To me, groups are good or bad. I don't see why anyone would ever go on and on about nuances and minutiate. Just believe me when I say JAMBANG was killer.

After the show I eyeballed this group of girls on the street. They were smoking, so I figured they must have been at least 18. But the more I looked, the tattoos and smokes hid nothing. The man in me knew they were attractive, but I was not interested because they were goddamn children. I wondered what I'd do if one of them approached me and wanted to party (this is assuming I didn't have a girlfriend of course) and I gotta say I think I woulda turned them down. Fuck. I'm old.

Went to bed at 3:30 and got up at 9:30 to head home. I wanted to get some work done and a different set of friends were having a shindig that I wanted to attend. For most of the drive home, I was flying around 90mph. There's no one on the 5 on a Saturday afternoon, which made that incredibly dull trip more tolerable. Then all hell broke lose.

Somewhere near Castaic was one of those neon signs telling me to expect a 75-minute delay due to the 5 being closed. I called home and asked the ol' ball and chain to get online and see what was up. "Fires," she said and it was then I knew I was screwed.

I got within ten minutes of Magic Mountain in Valencia when traffic came to a screeching halt. As in dead. No movement. At all. For two hours. I had one drop of water and two stale vegan donuts which tasted like shit. I rolled up the windows. I rolled down the windows. Changed the radio station. Made more phone calls. Anything to break the monotony.

This guy next to me was playing a mandolin. I thought about busting out my harmonica, but this cat could play and I totally suck. So I took some pictures instead. I was officially in hell.

Traffic was diverted onto the 126, a freeway I'd never heard of. False hope sucks even more than honest hope. Everyone thought this shift would get us moving, but it didn't. More traffic. Two hours more in fact.

I began to curse humanity, cars, people, fires, freeways, the strawberry stands we crept past on the 126, my radio, my phone, the heat, idiots who live in these fire-torn areas, the cars driving 80 mph in the opposite direction and life in general.

The 126 is a five-lane road. Two in each direction and one turn lane in between. I said fuck it and drove down the turn lane, which was pretty dangerous considering how fast traffic on the other side was moving. But I wasn't the only one. Lots of us did it only to get shitty looks whenever we had to merge into the regular lane. Yes, it's a shit move, but it was a shit time. Whaddyagonnado?

I'm amazed I didn't get hungry or have to pee, but that's the frustration kicking in. There was nothing but hate and anger. The animal was unleashed. If ever I could have done real bodily harm to a total stranger, it was yesterday on the 126 freeway. Every person glancing over at me was dead if they looked just five more seconds. Then I realized they were just killing time too and I decided to let them live.

The 126 turned into a town with min-malls and Taco Bells all over the place. I got a bean burrito and fries at Green Burrito, which, by the way, was the shiznit before they were converted into Carl's Jrs. Then I got some gas because I was at a quarter tank and had no idea what to expect.

I coulda ate at CJ, but I got it to go because there was no way I was going to wait any longer than I already did. The fries went first to let the burrito cool. One bite and there's beans all over my shirt. Each chomp was more food on me and less in my mouth. Oh, did I mention I was now driving in total darkness on a windy two-lane road that was supposed to take me to the 23?

My car seat was littered with beans and my steering wheel was sticky from all the food dropped on my hands. But I did not care. Like a commando trooper longing for peace, I pushed forward until I hit the 101. Finally, something I recognize.

An hour later and I was home. I dropped my shit at the door, took a shower and was done. Normally I unpack first thing, but my day and night were over. No friends' party. No nothing. Just my bed.

If I had a piece of paper and a pen, I woulda wrote the best shit ever while this was happening, but a day later and I'm afraid to really tap into the details because I am finally in a good mood and don't want to ruin that. So I'll say this: When people ask why I want to leave Southern California for Portland, I'll have one more reason to give them: the fires, terrible asthma conditions and chapped lips caused by a goddamn motherfucking shit ass piss bitch whore cunt called the Santa Ana winds. And you thought Santa Ana was just a terrible place to live and socialize...

UNTITLED

2008-11-07T22:44:00.000-08:00

I cannot feel it
I cannot see it

but
the gun must be there

why else would I voluntarily put one foot in front of the other,
head toward the bathroom for a shower
and walk out the door
through the driveway
and down the street
to get to my car
turn the key and
drive
to the freeway, on the freeway, change freeways?

ARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

it’s all too much
my mind is screaming “NOOOOO”
but my feet keep moving
the screams get louder...my feet move faster
there is no stopping this avalanche
something takes control of my body
and it is then when I am no longer me

I belong to them,
the gun-toting invisible criminals
threatening my life
all for pity wages and mercy raises

I thought I was smarter than this
I am starting to think I was wrong

ELECTION FEVER

2008-11-04T12:40:00.001-08:00

I could write for days about this election. But I won't. Let's leave it at this...

Whether you're for Obama or McCain or voting yes or no on Prop 8, we can all agree that it's time for this election to be OVER.

JUBILEE'S FIRST LOS ANGELES SHOW

2008-11-04T12:22:00.001-08:00

Sorry, no pictures or video this time...

Saturday I caught Jubilee's second American show, which was also their first Los Angeles performance. The crowd was much larger than the Chino show and, in a very obvious statement, the sound was 100 times better. The band played nearly an identical set, which was fine because I didn't have any complaints about the first time I saw them.

Jubilee's strength lies in its ability to shy away from repetition. They play fast songs, slow songs, heavy songs, mellow songs and songs that have a bit of everything. Right when I think they are the best power-pop band in the land, they break into a feedback-laden jam that rocks.

Usually, bands have more than one lead singer because one guy just won't shut up about how he HAS to sing his songs. Well, Jubilee isn't like that. The combination of singer/guitarist Aaron North and singer/bassist Michael Shuman gives the quartet options that don't leave audiences waiting for the other guy to reclaim the mic.

Mid-set, North told the crowd that they didn't like playing LA because Angelenos suck at behaving properly. I couldn't agree more, but in this case, I had to give the shoegazers and arms-crossed crowd some slack because it ain't easy spending an hour of your time listening to a band you've never heard before. Hell, I can't do it. There was an apparent contingency of those who came out to see not necessarily the band, but the band members and that's fine too. I think that's called having fans, but judging by the lack of comments I get on this page, I have no idea what that concept means. By the time they were finished, Jubilee got the naysayers and the too-cool-for-school crowd on their side. At least I think so. Who the hell knows with those LA types?

I've decided Jubilee should sign to Sub Pop because they really are the culmination of what that label produced (and maybe still does, I don't know). But my guess is they'll stick to releasing their own stuff, which I can't argue with either. Sometimes it's nice to be the boss.

BONFIRES BURNING BRIGHT

2008-10-31T17:37:00.000-07:00

Let's face it...Christmas sucks, Thanksgiving's nothing more than a turkey slaughter and your birthday is a reminder that you're getting old. But Halloween, that's something different.

Halloween rules. We get to dress up like fools, pig out on candy and party like New Year's Eve. What's not to love?

I won't pretend that I listen to the Misfits all that often anymore, but there's no better Halloween band than the four guys from Jersey. So pop it in your CD player or iTunes or whatever the fuck you have and rock out.

Hail Satan!!!!!!!!!

PORTLAND PICTURE ROUND UP

2008-10-26T18:21:00.000-07:00

I've been swamped with more work than I know what to do with, hence the lack of updates. Well, some of that business (that's busy-ness, not business) is over and you are the winners! Yeah!

Here are some pics from my recent trip to Portland. I'd write more, but photos are what people want, not words.

Powell's on Hawthorne. Much easier to navigate than the downtown one. Notice the overcast sky. I can't wait to make that a daily occurrence.

Hawthorne...I love you.

Mt. Tabor Park is the most amazing thing in a city full of amazing things.

People ask if I really want to move to Portland. This picture says it all. I mean, come on, I'm already parking my car on the wrong side. What's more Portland than that?

Karaoke at Chopsticks Express II was GOING OFF! I've retired from taking the mic at home, but I had to show Portland how Long Beach do it...what? what? Also, the guy with his back to my camera in the striped shirt was sitting next to me all night. We made very small talk for about an hour. Then, out of nowhere, he leans over, and above the killer rendition of "Sweet Home Alabama", he asks, "do you smoke weed?" I said I did and he said, "you look like you do. Wanna go outside and get high?" How did he know?

This girl was WAY-STED. She was talking to me outside the karaoke bar about something. I don't remember what it was, but she was definitely into whatever she was saying. Her arms her flailing and she kept pointing her fingers in my face. I totally coulda practiced making babies with her, but I have a girlfriend and an unreasonable fear of a girl vomiting on me while we're sharing a moment.

DAVID SEDARIS IN LONG BEACH

2008-10-26T18:16:00.000-07:00

If you read my story in the District (and I know you did), you'd understand that readings are boring. But David Sedaris was different. He wasn't boring.

I thought he might read a bunch of his published works, but a lot of what he read seemed to be works in progress. Fortunately, they were each funnier than the next.

I have mixed feelings about David Sedaris. On the one hand, I think he's a goddamn genius and by far the funniest writer around. On the other, I am so freakin' jealous of him that it's hard to comprehend. I envy his career and wish I was doing the same. I feel like he beat me to it and if I was to write in a similar manner, the influence would be way too obvious. But you gotta admit...he lives in France, is number one each time a new book comes out and charges $45 to see him. That's the life I want.

The crowd was a mixed bag of young white hipsters, old white people in sweaters and lots of gays. I wasn't sure how many of the gays would be in attendance because of the gays I know, none of them know who David Sedaris is. Maybe he's a straight icon like Madonna is to their team.

JUBILEE'S FIRST AMERICAN SHOW

2008-10-26T16:58:00.000-07:00

Chino? Isn't there a prison there?

That's basically what everyone who lives in Southern California says when asked about that city. Or is it a town? Who the hell knows?

Anyway, there was a show there last night, and similar to the strange mystique that is Chino, the venue was very untraditional. Held at a mini-mall (what else would there be in a middle of nowhere suburb?), the show was called the Meeting of the Minds Fest. To celebrate, I got a haircut earlier that day to make sure nothing was in the way of my brilliant melon.

I went alone and for most, that might be a problem. But I don't mind. Flying solo gives me a chance to see things in a different perspective than when I'm in a group. I've often said I live inside my head and this fits that mentality just fine.

Who played, you ask? I don't know. It was an all-day thing with bands I'd never heard of and two I have: Jubilee and Earthless. I missed the latter, but their drummer stood next to me for a while. I wanted to tell him (his name's Mario Rubalcaba) how awesome I think he is and how Rocket from the Crypt is my favorite band of all times, but I kept it in my pants. He did say "excuse me" as he passed by me and that's gotta count for something.

After a much-delayed downtime between bands, Jubilee hit. Hear you me: This band is going to be HUGE. At least they should be. You never can tell with all the idiots out there. I'm a journalist, so in keeping with my professional integrity, I have an announcement to make: I have known Jubilee singer/guitarist/Uniform Choice t-shirt wearer Aaron North since 1995. We went to high school together and he was my best friend throughout my teenage years. We were like this (I'm wrapping my middle finger around my index as I type). Aaron's one of those guys who has that thing, you know, the one that makes a certain person different than the rest of us? In tenth grade I knew he'd become something special. I also said the same thing about yours truly and look where that's got me.

Most people know Aaron as A. the guy from Nine Inch Nails, B. the guy from the Icarus Line, C. the guy from Buddyhead.com or D. the guy who broke into Stevie Ray Vaughn's guitar case in Texas. While he is (or was) all of those, my money's on Jubilee being the band he'll be remembered for. The rest of the group includes some tall bassist dude named Mikey who plays in Queens of the Stone Age, a guitarist who's quick to run out a door when a car alarm goes off named Jeff and a drummer who I don't know from a hill of beans, but based on the other two guys, he's probably pretty cool too. Jubilee travels with this other Mike. He's their sound guy/engineer/person who says "1,2" into the mics while the band gets blown backstage.

It's impossible to know whether or not I'd dig Jubilee if I didn't know Aaron, but I'm going to say I would. They combine enough of everything I like without ever overdoing it. There's the right blend of pop, dissonance and rock and I can get behind that. Imagine Mudhoney and Oasis formed a supergroup -- that's Jubilee.

So the show...Jubilee was louder than I'd expect considering they played in front of a Wahoo's Fish Tacos, but not louder than your average rock show. They didn't say much, but their songs are so good who needs talking? I've always said, "More rock less talk." They played all the hits ("Rebel Hiss," "In With the Out Crowd" and "Pioneers Get Show With Arrows," the most badd-ass bass riff I've ever heard) and a few songs I hadn't heard before.

I suck at this concert review thing, so here's a video of their first song from their first North American show and a few pictures that maybe some of you in Photoshop land can clean up. I'd try, but I don't care enough to do that.

PS As good as Jubilee was, did anyone else catch the suh-moking hot Mexican bartenders upstairs wearing matching corsets? If that's the norm, then I take back everything I ever said about Chino.

DAVID SEDARIS

2008-10-24T13:06:00.001-07:00

I've been super busy, so this is all you get for now.

http://thedistrictweekly.com/print/arts/books/he-talk-pretty-friday/

AND PORTLAND HERE I GO

2008-10-05T23:08:00.000-07:00

Final night in Portland. I leave sometime tomorrow. Bummer. Big, big bummer.

I knew the weekend would go quickly. It did. I saw a lot, did a lot, drove a lot and am not even close to being ready to go home. Why? Because this is starting to feel a lot like home. I've got some great friends here who treat me well and I know these streets like I know Long Beach.

I told people about wanting to move in December/January. Most think it's a bad idea due to the weather. While I agree, I can't wait until next summer to do this. The time is now.

You know how I know I'm getting old? Tonight I ate dinner at friends' house. Killer vegan soup and cornbread with banana instead of eggs. Both were amazing. We caught the season finale of I Love Money (sorry Whiteboy -- booyah!) and I decided to split to where I was staying. Mind you, this was 10:30 p.m. (about 45 minutes ago) and I leave tomorrow. This is the old me:

"Damn, I gotta leave tomorrow, so I'd better get all kinds of party tonight."

This is the new me.

"Damn, I gotta leave tomorrow, so I'd better get some rest for the long drive." Please kill me.

I did a real stupid thing this morning. OK, two stupid things. First, I went to bed at 5 a.m. and woke up at 10. Fuck, three stupid things. I thought the couple I was staying with was still asleep and I needed to use the phone, so I tip-toed through the house and made my calls from the backyard (the same one that neighborhood cats use as a litter box). Make my calls and I open the back door. Except it didn't open. The motherfucker was locked. I went to the front of the house to knock on the door so they'd let me in. That's when I noticed a vehicle missing from the driveway. I knock. No answer. I'm in pajamas, it's starting to drizzle and I'm locked out. I check for potential windows to climb through. None. Then I remember that last night the guy I'm staying with told me that window opened. It might have been a pretty meaningless comment at the time, but boy did that tidbit come in handy. I took a desk that just happened to be outside and pushed it against the wall. With my left hand I pushed open and held the window because it wouldn't stay up. I wiggled the right side of my body through the tiny opening. The dog was watching the entire thing and although we've known each other for years, I thought she might attack. Hey, a guy breaking in -- isn't that what most dogs would do? Anyway, I got my torso in, but my legs were another story. I curled them and slid them through the window and the faucet while not knocking over the wine glasses in the sink. Where there's a will, there's a way. And when it's raining and you're in pajamas with shit to do, you find a way.

I gotta split. Like I said, early to bed. Massively major big ups to everyone who let me crash and showed me a good time and the wig-wearing tranny who started smashing shit from her purse in the parking lot of a karaoke bar last night. What's that? I didn't tell you that story? Maybe when I get home.

PORTLAND HERE I COME

2008-09-30T23:29:00.000-07:00

I am leaving for Portland tomorrow night. Work all day, then drive as far as I can. I am very excited about hitting my second favorite American city (you're still No. 1 New Orleans!), but very nervous about my trip.

You see, some publication is paying me an ungodly amount of money to write 3,000 words about the city. I know most of the things they want me to cover, but there are a few I don't know, so it's up the 5 I go. Luckily I have my Sirus Satellite radio, so I'll have Howard Stern, Bubba the Love Sponge and Ferrall to keep me company.

This is my first big travel writing story and I don't want to blow it. Pray for me Argentina.

If you know me, I'll be back next week. If you don't, then you don't care. I'm bringing a camera and hopefully will be blogging in my free time, assuming I have any. I'm sure my devoted readers in Internetland can't wait to hear all about the yummy vegan food and smog-free skies. I know I can't.

Please God/Jesus/Moses/Noah/Virgin Mary/Guadalupe/Buddha/Jah/... don't let me fuck this up.

GOOD SAMARITAN

2008-09-26T18:58:00.000-07:00

Getting home from the bank today when I saw two dogs running down my block. Didn't recognize them, but still...

I tried to get one to come see me, but these two were running as fast as they could down the street. They came charging at me and I almost ran, but stopped. Running might not have been good.

They crossed the street, so I did too. Then my neighbor two doors down asked if they were my dogs. "Why the fuck would I be out here not calling them by their names if these were my dogs," I thought. She told me she would have helped, but she was too busy drinking a beer with her toddler and friend. Nevermind the guy trying to do a good thing. No, don't bother helping him. Just keep drinking your beer, which, by the way, was in some froo-froo glass. If you're at home, it's straight out the can or not at all.

Finally, Max, the larger one, came up to me. They were camped underneath a tree that I hoped was in front of their house. I petted his head while looking for an address on his tag. No dice. But there was a phone number. I didn't want to leave them, but I had to go get a cell phone.

I walked back to my car when a loud crash sent the two scared dogs racing down the street in the opposite direction. I ran to my car for my phone and chased after them, all the while wondering what the yuppie two doors down was thinking of me.

I turned the corner and they were gone. Like 100 percent missing. I hoofed down the street a little longer, but they were out of sight. Slowly I walked back home and looked over my shoulder every so often. I got to an intersection when I heard the clanging of dog collars. There they were, coming right at me.

Max got into a woman's front patio while the other got in the shade of a car. From her window, the woman yelled "scram" real loud. I told her they weren't my dogs and she came to her senses. She offered food, which calmed Max. We saw he was bleeding, but couldn't tell from where. He was happy and able to run, which were two good signs.

The woman brought water and Max drank it like a champ. This gave me the opportunity to get the phone number from his tag. I made the call. It went like this.

"Hello."
"Hi. Do you have two dogs?"
"What?"
"Do you have two dogs?"
"Why?"
"Because they got out and I've got them."
"WHAT??????"
"Max is bleeding, but he's ok. Your other dog is underneath a car."
"Where are you?"
"Corner of CENSORED and CENSORED."
"I'm right around the corner."
"OK. I'll be here."

A white car pulled around the corner. It wasn't the owner, but his neighbor. I have no idea how this guy knew what was happening. Maybe he saw the dogs. I don't know.

The owner came about a minute after I hung up. He got out and I asked if these were his dogs. Max's face lit up and he climbed on the guy. "I guess these are your dogs," I said. The guy looked like he saw a ghost. He stuck out his hand and thanked me and the woman. Then he grabbed them by their collars and threw them in his car before thanking us again and telling us he was taking them to the vet.

I'm the first to admit that I don't care all that much about people, but I'm also the first to pull over whenever I see dogs running loose. I was very bummed when I thought I lost them and even more excited when I got them and found the owner.

Life can be good sometimes.

BUSY BEE

2008-09-26T18:52:00.000-07:00

The only thing worse than being busy is being bored, so I guess I shouldn't complain. But shit, I have way too much going on.

PS Portland, here I come.

NOT AT SCHOOL

2008-09-18T23:57:00.001-07:00

I walked into work, something I don't normally do on Fridays. They needed a sub and I needed the cash, so there I was. Open the door and there's a student about three feet away from me. He's got his back turned because he's talking to the young Mexican girl about something. Keep reading and you'll find out why you need to know she's Mexican.

I get closer and this wifebeater-wearing blonde kid, no more than 20 years old, scrawny little fucker who looked like he had just started lifting weights, has "White" tattooed down the side of his left bicep. My initial reaction is it's his last name. I look to his right. Down the side of the bicep is "Power."

Both were written in that really creepy old English style, the one that is reserved for white supremacists.

He turned around and we were face to face. We looked each other in the eye. For a second, I thought about confronting him, but didn't. We were but two ships in the night and he probably had no idea the venom coursing through my veins at that moment.

"Interesting student," I said to the Mexican girl.

"Yeah," she replied, totally unaware of what the hell I was talking about. I thought about telling her, but I decided not to. Let her think I was a weirdo; she didn't need to know why.

I took my seat and thought about what kind of an asshole this kid was. Not only was he such a racist douche that he tattooed that on his arms, this motherfucker walks around a college campus -- stereotypically known as the most liberal places on the planet -- with that shit hanging out for all to see. I work in a very racially diverse environment and prayed a group of Mexicans, blacks, Jews or Asians was a mere moment away from seeing what I saw and poudning the shit outta him. I don't make a habit of condoning violence and I'm all about free speech and free thoughts, but not when we're talking ignorance. I have zero tolerance for that shit. Sure, I don't want to be the one stomping this kid's head into the pavement, but I wouldn't break it up if I was walking by.

JOHN FANTE BUS TOUR

2008-09-18T23:57:00.000-07:00

I was outside King Eddy Saloon near the corner of Los Angeles and Fifth streets when a guy wearing a beat-up Dodgers hat started yelling at me. “Why’d you have to come to my bar?” he repeated three times before I knew he was talking to me. There I stood, minding my own, wondering what his problem was. Then it hit me: Between bites of a juicy red apple, without thinking, I took a picture of the bar’s logo, a tell-tale sign that I had something to do with the tour bus parked out front and the nearly 50 patrons who commandeered the watering hole without warning.

More drinks in me and I’d have considered punching him, but he was right. What was I doing at this dive? And on this tour? I’m not a photo-snapping tourist from the heartland. I was born in Torrance, raised in Lomita and live in Long Beach. I’ve been downtown more times than Angeleno transplants name-drop theater groups.

But there I was. Camera in hand, I sat in the bus’ back row for a two-plus-hour trek through Bunker Hill in search of author John Fante’s old stomping grounds. Born in Colorado in 1909, the late writer moved to the neighborhood and penned some of the best books you’ve never read. If the name doesn’t ring a bell, perhaps you’ve heard of Charles Bukowski. He called Fante his god and that’s got to count for something.

The luxury ride sat out front of Skylight Books before loading up a group who looked like they could have been this 28-year-old’s parents. Stocked with air conditioning, clean seats and televisions showing pictures of the author-turned-screenwriter, the journey began with a reading by Fante’s daughter. Armed with a first edition of 1938 novel Wait Until Spring, Bandini, Vickie Fante Cohen shared an amusing blurb written by her mother Joyce about her father’s penchant to begin his process fully clothed and ending up naked by the end of the night.

Our guide instructed us to look left, for what I can’t remember. Perhaps that had something to do with the modern-day view of the 101 north interrupting what was supposed to be of some significance to the elder Fante. Next was a stop at the Old Plaza Church, where our leader read a passage from the criminally neglected 1939 novel Ask the Dust, recently ruined on film by director Robert Towne and stars Colin Farrell and Salma Hayek. Fante protagonist Arturo Bandini sits at the steps of the holy site while a hooker asks for a date. He turns her down and the dichotomy versus good and evil was more profound as I looked toward Olvera Street for a sea of fanny pack –wearing weekend warriors overthrowing city culture. This summed up the entire trip: Amazing tales and pictures drowned by the drab concrete that come with redevelopment.

The remainder of the tour was focused more on Bunker Hill and how it related to Fante. Unfortunately, I was hoping for the opposite. We hoofed it to the new Angels Flight before heading to the third floor of the Angelus Plaza for a showing of Kay Martin’s 1950s paintings of Bunker Hill. Exquisite as they were, one guest summed up our stop when she asked if any of the featured works had any Fante connection. No, they don’t, she was told, and we were off to Pershing Square, where we were given a treatise on the poor planning of this supposed public space.

The website ran by Esotouric, the company that hosted the event, mentioned stops at important Fante-related places such as the Goodwill, Clifton’s Cafeteria, the library’s reading room and the Terminal Annex Post Office. We got none of those. In its place were complaints about the heat, a stop at a massive hole where the Hippodrome used to sit and dangling a carrot regarding the location where Dust was written. Organizers mentioned the address and said the tour visited the spot last year. But not us. Omitting 826 Berendo Street felt like flying to Memphis and not going to Graceland.

A blend of disappointment and appreciation struck as I exited the bus. I longed for more Fante, but was content with any morsel I was given, which is exactly how I feel about his work. The Buk tour is in December, but there are no less than 10 bars within walking distance from my apartment. Hitting those would be a more fitting tribute to Fante’s most well-known disciple.

SINKHOLE

2008-09-16T23:25:00.000-07:00

bitching, moaning, complaining
it’s all a bunch of bullshit
nothing more than masks to hide behind for the downtrodden
too afraid to confront life,
look it in the eye and say
“let’s go, you and me, right now”
this sinkhole exists in our heads
we created it
and
now it’s time
to dig our way the fuck out

3:10 A.M.

2008-09-16T03:10:00.000-07:00

One of the best parts about not having to set an alarm is not having to go to bed at any given time. It helps on nights like tonight. It's just after 3 and I can't sleep. I got what my gf calls "the Jimmy legs," which has nothing to do with my name. I feel like I could run a marathon right now. Unfortunately, there aren't any to participate in on a Tuesday morning. Thankfully, Howard Stern's on, so I got something to do.

Been sick since Thursday. Better now. I think. I puked a little and man, does that suck. My stomach muscles ached for days after the first vomit. But my flat stomach is worth it.

Had a 102 temp. That really sucked. I got this flu from the gf. She owes me.

Saturday I did nothing except watch a Project Runway marathon and then the USC/Ohio State game. Thank the lord for both of those. At some point I'm going to give a Project Runway roundup, but that's for another day.

Cats are wild in the living room right now. People sleep and the cats...who the hell knows what they do while we're dozing off.

Haven't watered the garden since Thursday. Probably doesn't look good. That's ok. The end of summer has put a stop to the amazing tomatoes I've been eating from my backyard. Anyone have any suggestions for some fall/winter crops? I've got plenty of room.

That's all. Let's hope I fall asleep before tomorrow.

WHATEVER

2008-09-10T21:53:00.001-07:00

Today I got this really depressing email from my bank. Turns out I'm not totally broke, but I live next door. It really got me down and I felt like writing to get it off my chest. Sometimes I feel, ah fuck it. Project Runway's on.

NIGHT MARCHERS AT ALEX'S (PART DEUX)

2008-09-03T16:22:00.000-07:00

I was going to rant and rave about how awesome the Night Marchers were last night at Alex's Bar, but this guy beat me to it. He's pretty good if ya ask me.

http://blogs.ocweekly.com/heardmentality/last-night-reviews/last-night-night-marchers-alex/

DUMB AND DUMBER

2008-08-31T22:09:00.000-07:00

People give me all kinds of hatred when they discover that I don't vote. Not only do I not vote, I highly encourage others to do the same. As if you didn't know why, let's look at this presidential race. Or more specifically, the vice presidential candidates.

So Obama picks this Joe Biden guy. Obama's the future, the great half-white hope, down with the kids, hip. And what's he do to ruin that? He picks a boring ass white guy to "balance" the ticket. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. People don't want more of the same. Agree or disagree with her, we can all admit that picking Hillary would have meant difference for two reasons. But no, he picks a guy who looks like every other politician in the history of United States politics (except Taft, that fat motherfucker). Either Obama and his people are completely stupid or they are the exact same group that they claim they aren't -- politicians. If Obama's not playing the game, then why's he picking such a lame ass? Shit, Bill Richardson from New Mexico would have been the same old shit but wrapped in a Hispanic body. Friends, that's called two birds with one stone. But no, he does the same thing everyone before him has done. What he fails to realize or is afraid to devote himself 100 percent to is the fact that his supporters and a great deal of undecided voters like the idea of him as Commander in Chief because he offers an alternative. Why not push that even further and pick a running mate who isn't safe, isn't ordinary, isn't the same old song and dance? Why? Because that's taking a leap no politician wants to face. Guys like Obama want to get elected. Nothing more. Nothing less.

As if that wasn't bad enough, McCain selects a woman with zero experience. I mean, like at all. Two years ago she was the mayor of an Alaskan town with a population smaller than the street I live on and now she's supposed to be the second most powerful person in the world? Even a blind person can see how degrading this is to anyone with any level of intelligence. No wait, that's offensive to blind people (believe you me -- this blog's HUGE with the blind). Even someone from Oklahoma can see how degrading this is to anyone with any level of intelligence. I'd explain, but luckily, I don't have to. I was at the meeting between McCain and the tape was rolling.

McCain: "So he didn't pick Hillary?"
Some white guy: "No, sir. He picked Joe Biden."
McCain: "The white guy?"
Same white guy: "Yes, sir. That Joe Biden."
McCain pauses a second before rubbing his hands together and grinning: "So all those Hilary supporters are still out there?"
Different white guy, very eager: "Yes, sir. They are."
McCain: "Hillary wouldn't say yes, would she?"
Third white guy: "Probably not, sir."
McCain: "Can we get another female?"
First white guy: "Yes, we can, sir. There's a woman from Alaska named Sar..."
McCain: "Get her on the phone, pronto."

I'm a guy, so I can't speak for the female mentality, but if I had boobs and a vagina, I'd feel like McCain's choice of running mate was the most sexist (what's wrong with being sexy?), insulting, 1950s mentality thing he could have done. What better way to show voters how in touch with females you are than to pick one for vice president? Even one no one's ever heard of because there's never been a reason for the rest of the country to know anything about her? There goes that whole "Obama's got no experience" argument because anytime the Republicans bring that up, every journalist in the world will ask about Palin.

I don't believe in God, but if there is one, please God, I'm BEGGING you, pretty pretty please let this rumor about Palin's fifth kid really being her grandchild true. That would SO rule.

Gun to my head, I'm going with Obama. In fact, I agree with some of the things he says. Problem is, I don't trust politicians. Maybe it's childish of me to harbor insecure thoughts about a man I've never met based on the history of those who held his job title, but when you've being in existence for as long as politicians have been around and you've got that sort of track record, I can't be anything but skeptical.

CHUCK BERRY RUINS THE HITS

2008-08-31T17:07:00.000-07:00

The Long Beach Blues Festival was this weekend. It's always on Labor Day, which sucks because I want to go out of town and I want to go to the shows. What's a boy to do?

Well, free tickets change everything. So I went. This year's big attraction was none other than Chuck Berry. Anyone who knows me knows about my Elvis infatuation. But let's face it -- Elvis didn't invent rock 'n' roll. Chuck Berry did.

We got there way too early and walked around a bunch. The move from the athletic field at Cal State Long Beach to Rainbow Lagoon was a good idea. But I'm not here to review the show, so take my word. It's better.

Anyway, John Mayall played a good set. Then Berry came on after the quickest downtime between sets in the history of music festivals.

It's well known that Berry (or whoever manages him) hires back-up bands every show he plays. Supposedly, this results in either great shows or total nightmares. Luckily for us, we got the total nightmare.

Chuck comes out wearing his sailor hat and a sparkly blue sequined shirt. He opened with "Roll Over Beethoven" and it was a bit rocky to say the least. When white rock bands go overboard (I'm looking at you Rolling Stones, Guns n Roses, Sting, etc...), they hire back-up singers. A studio engineer I recorded wtih once called this "the black chick version." Well, Berry's black, so I guess he was playing the white frat dude version.

After the song, he introduced himself not to the crowd, but to his band, which consisted of a bassist, keyboardist and drummer. They followed along as best they could and I hoped things would pick up once they found Chuck's groove.

They didn't.

May God strike me dead right now if this isn't the truth: Last night Chuck Berry's performance was the absolute worst thing I've ever seen in the 14 years I've been going to shows. Worse than teenage garage bands. Worse than bands too drunk or high too play. Worse than anything.

Because they had no practice, Berry began each show with his voice and guitar, but couldn't sing and play at the same time. He's the inventor of rock 'n' roll, but at his age (he's reported to be 81), he slows down his songs to make them sound like traditional blues. Or maybe he did that because this was at a blues festival. I don't know.

In an ironic twist, ya remember that scene in "Back to the Future" when Chuck's supposed cousin Marvin calls him from backstage after Marty McFly instructs the band to follow him on a blues riff in B ("watch me for the changes and try to keep up")? Yeah, that's basically what Chuck did to his band.

He ran through "Sweet Little Sixteen," "Reelin' and Rockin'," "Nadide (Is It You?)" and "My Ding-a-Ling," which no one say along to. He'd start songs, then change the words to other songs. The bass got turned WAY down once it was determined that there was no way in hell to follow Berry's playing.

He didn't say much to the audience and started taking requests. He said something about how people were trying to kill him by asking for the fast songs. Well, you're goddamn Chuck Berry. Of course we want the fast songs. But he's got plenty of slow songs (my all-time favorite CB song is a slow one, "Memphis." He didn't do it).

Of course someone yelled "Johnny B. Goode" and he said he'd play it if girls got on stage to dance because it was a rocker. One by one the old ladies came and the band jammed for about 20 minutes. The festival let the VIP barrier down, so we got about 10 feet away to see him up close. A word to the wise: Don't.

In fact, don't go see Chuck Berry. It pains me to say that because I freakin' love his music. Or, I love what he did 50 years ago. It's not only a total debacle on stage, last night he showed ZERO respect for the thousands of people who paid at least $50 and sat in the heat all day to see him. His set was a total joke and lots of people left early.

The highlight was one of the 40-something women on stage who kept dancing next to him, acting like she was going to fuck him after the show. It was embarrassing to watch her as he did his best to stay away from her.

Seriously, I am a writer and I am speechless as to how to properly describe how bad this show was. I wish there was a way to inflict the sort of uncomfortable vibes from the performance through these computer keys and onto your screen. It's best for you that I can't.

God, I'm really searching for something good to say, but I can't. Even for free, it was a complete waste of my time. There were moments when Berry's playing sounded like the voice of Jesus, but those were few and far between. He couldn't keep up with the lyrics and his band sounded timid and confused. I felt for them because it wasn't their fault, although I wondered where they came from. A few tunes they seemed to be oblivious to, but maybe it wasn't that. Here was their 15 minutes: A headlining festival set with Chuck Berry and it sucked.

Check the video above, but don't believe what the person who posted it on Youtube said. The show was a joke.

On the way home, my girlfriend had a good idea. She loves CB as much as I do. She suggested people bring iPods to his shows, turn them on and then watch him. That's the best idea I've heard in a looooooooooong time.

Just to make myself feel better about this posting, I HIGHLY recommend getting his Chess Records greatest hits volumes 1 and 2. There are a ton of amazing songs -- Maybellene, Thirty Days, You Can't Catch Me, Downbound Train, Too Much Monkey Business, Brown Eyed Handsome Man, Havana Moon, Oh Baby Doll, Little Queenie, Sweet Little Rock 'n' Roller, Back in the USA, Promised Land, No Particular Place to Go, I Want to Be Your Driver -- all incredible songs that he did not play.

Old people don't do the Internets, so I doubt Chuck will read this. But if he does: Chuck. I'm sorry for the things I said. I love your music and wanted more than what I was given. Please ditch the hired guns and give us your A-game. You deserve it. We deserve it. The music deserves it.

PS No duck walking! Bummer.

THE LIFE AND TIMES

2008-08-27T22:52:00.000-07:00

if writing is a motherfucker
then what’s that make me?
a goddamn crazy fool,
that’s what
the weight of the world on my shoulders
is not something I asked for
nor would I wish it on anyone else,
no matter how much I despised them

I wear glasses because of this stupid obsession
I can’t think straight
my concentration is nil unless I’m behind a keyboard
and I don’t care all that much about the real world,
only the one that exists inside my head

I’m shut off and shut down
with no consideration for anyone but me
everything in life –including the good shit –
is nothing more than a hurdle
between
me and my words

the pressure drips like a leaky kitchen faucet
I’ve taken out the proper tools
but nothing fixes it
not booze or sex or drugs
but sometimes a good book buys me some time
before my mind begins to regain control of my body
I become limp, paralyzed to the demands

I am a shitty human being for a myriad of reasons
and the only way to make myself feel like I’m worth
half a damn
is to keep going
regardless of how much I’d rather be anyone
and anything
other
than a writer

BORED AT WORK

2008-08-26T19:29:00.000-07:00

I'm at work and for the first time in my life, I have a headache caused by boredom. Two days in a row of not doing a single thing. Why can't I go home?

THE MOJO MODE

2008-08-24T12:59:00.000-07:00

Local whining blog the Stess-Telegram (aka the most disappointing site on the Internet) posted this info about a new initiative called the MoJo Mode. I'd explain it to you, but here it is.

"We've heard chatter about a MediaNews “mobile journalist” program called the MoJo Initivative.

The idea isn't new: other news organizations, Gannett being among the first, have undertaken programs that provide mobile kits (laptops, audio recorders, video and/or digital cameras, cell phones and Internet access) to people willing to work out of their home or cars.

With journalists working from the field instead of the newsroom, media companies can significantly cut overhead, needing only a small office to house assignment,news and web editors with maybe a few additional desks reporters can share. For example, The Record in Hackensack, N.J reported recently that it was moving out of Hackensack (savings: $2.4 milion), that most of the news staff would become mobile journalists, working from the field, while others would also relocate to one of the paper's eight weekly newspaper sites. “They will share desks as they are rarely in the office. The office/work concept is called ‘hoteling’. Employees actually reserve desk time to cut down on the number of desks and square footage needed.”

There are up-sides for reporters and photographers doing mobile journalism: most want the training and the equipment to hone their skills so as to be all-platform. Almost all understand that “technology has made people more mobile, and journalism has to react.” Journalism from Inside a Car

But the down-side may be that with more and more journalists expected to work remotely, employers may eventually seek to cut the umbilical chord (but not editorial oversight, hopefully) and sever the employer-employee relationship entirely. The line between a staff journalist and a freelance journalist that works from home is virtually nonexistent - except for the compensation and benefits paid to the staffer. The working conditions, the work itself, and all the rest of the traditional differences are essentially erased once you separate the journalist from the newsroom. Or so it would seem. What do you think?

Are you already operating in the mojo mode? How is it working for you?"

Well, they asked, so here's my answer.

Any person who turns their back on the opportunity to work from home is a goddamned fool. As someone who worked at the PT and now works from my apartment, let me tell you the world is a much better place from the friendly confines of my couch (where I type this lovely post).

Pajamas are better than suits. Frizzy hair is better than combed. Sleeping in is better than being somewhere at 10 a.m. Being in control of my destiny is better than listening to codgers tell me what to do, where to be and what time I can go home. Lunch tastes better, my visits to the gym are longer and I have more personal time to do whatever the hell it is I want. A few days ago I packed myself a picnic and had lunch by myself at the park. Try doing that in an office environment.

A good journalist suffers when they sit behind a desk answering phones all day. Believe you me, this happens A LOT at the PT. The public wants, no NEEDS, the best stories they can get. The only way to do this is for reporters to get out in the field and see what's going on. Too much time in an office is what kills journalism, not technology or the Internet or cell phones or blogs or whatever excuse the dinosaurs in the industry want to come up with. The reason newspapers are suffering is because they operate using old techniques. We don't use horse-drawn buggies to get around town -- we have cars. People don't hop on boats to get to Europe -- we fly. Times change. Maybe this MoJo mode is the remedy.

Perhaps I'm in the minority. The older I get the more I think people are sheep who need others to dictate their daily routine. I don't. I hated every second I had to be inside that office (or any office for that matter) and regardless of how difficult it can be to provide for myself without a paycheck every other Friday, the benefits far outweigh the negatives. I'm in control. I'm in charge. I am the boss, the employee, the secretary and the human resources department. When things go well, I get the credit, not some company masthead that don't give two shits about me. When things go poorly, the finger is pointed at me. When I fuck up, I don't mind the blame. It fuels the fire.

I think this MoJo mode is a good idea. Cut the ties and let the cream rise to the top. Those afraid of not having a tight relationship with their job are those who would drown in the freelance ocean and are the same people who turn in lackluster stories. Newspapers are cutting back left and right. I'm not in favor of people losing their jobs, but a solid argument can be made that those who are good at what they do have nothing to worry about. It's those who aren't A-list material who should worry. And in journalism, the public should demand nothing but A-list material.

One of the biggest problems with freelancing is having the funds to get decent equipment. Once you have that, the largest hurdle (sorry -- I got Olympic fever) is selling stories. Here is where the adults are separated from the kids. I'd jump at the opportunity if a news organization wanted to give me the tools I needed and assured me that I had a strong chance of publishing my work on a consistent basis.

So Stress-Telegram, keep complaining about your shitty union that hasn't gotten a single thing done for you in the past five years. Keep linking to sites from other parts of the country while you fail to realize that they few supporters you might have in Long Beach couldn't care less about negotiations in the Bay Area or Minnesota or Colorado or Bumfuck Egypt. You're outsourcing your info, which ironically is the same issue you rail against at the PT. Take it from me -- you've got plenty of in-house stories to tell. Why don't you try focusing on those?

MY NEW FAVORITE ACTRESS

2008-08-22T15:18:00.000-07:00

From MSNBC...

An actress who appeared on the HBO series "The Wire" has been arrested on minor drug charges.

Court records show Felicia "Snoop" Pearson, who played a killer of the same name on the television series, was charged after police went to her home in Northeast Baltimore to pick her up for refusing to cooperate as a witness in a murder trial.

She was arrested Wednesday after police served a warrant that would allow them to detain her, if needed, until the Sept. 16 trial of Steven Lashley. Court documents say Pearson is accused of having two cigars containing suspected marijuana in a bedroom and loose plant material. She was charged with one count of drug possession.

Authorities say Pearson witnessed Lashley stab three men, killing one, during an argument in 2005.

I've never heard of this person or the show she is on, but her nickname is Snoop and she grows weed. Two for two if ya ask me!

By the way, when is our law enforcement going to stop wasting our time and money with marijuana?

FOR ALL MY WELL-TO-DO FRIENDS

2008-08-22T00:16:00.000-07:00

I keep hearing the word "elitist" get tossed around when blowhards start talking about John McCain and Barack Obama. Each side uses the term as a negative, a description no sound candidate would want to be associated with.

Before I begin my diatribe, let me remind you that anyone running for president is the furthest thing from a regular person, which makes them an elitist. The working man doesn't do politics because he's too busy busting his ass to cover his rent. The fact that these political machines want to fool the rest of us into thinking they aren't elitist is, ironically enough, a form of elitism. They act like we don't know, as if we don't see the smoke and mirrors.

Now that we've agreed that politicians are creeps with low-self esteem, let me make a larger point.

Who in the fuck doesn't want to be elite? You seen some of the scum on this planet? Pardon me and my elite ways of thinking, but my life be would a whole fuck of a lot better if my only concerns were fine art, fancy dining, dressing like a stud and five-hundred dollar dog collars.

OK, so maybe in the first time in this here blog's history, I'm going to admit that the above paragraph should be read with a large dose of sarcasm. Or should it?

OK

2008-08-15T22:20:00.000-07:00

ah
can it be?
another stoned Friday night
with
Snoop on the speakers
and
weed in the veins
yuppy neighbors with yet another
backyard party
but it’s ok
because
I’m over here with what I got
and
they’re over there with what they got

GRAPPA

2008-08-13T12:46:00.000-07:00

I bet if you search long enough, you'll find my post about drinking grappa in Venice. If you don't have all day, peep this.

http://thedistrictweekly.com/print/food-drink/drink-of-the-week/drink-of-the-week-16/

DOWN THE DRAIN

2008-08-12T13:03:00.000-07:00

There's no quicker route to getting me incredibly pissed off than going to the doctor. I've had this weird blister thingy on the top of my left ear for about two months. It hurts when I lay on it, but other than that, it's not been a problem.

I've got this friend who's had skin cancer a few times. Friend came over and told me I HAD to get it checked out. I don't know why, but I took Friend's advice and now I'm down $229.50.

On a positive note, I was in the waiting room for less than ten minutes, a new record. Once I got into the room, it was just another few minutes before the doctor looked me over. He suggested we deal with my ear right then, but failed to mention how the price would increase.

The male nurse moved me into the operating room or whatever the fuck it's called. I sat there for at least twenty minutes. Thankfully I brought a book. Finally the doctor arrives. He had me lay on my side with my left ear sticking up. He pokes with some numbing shit that worked and then bailed for three minutes. He returned, did what he had to do and it was over.

I got off the table and saw a bandage covered with my blood. I don't like the sight of blood, particularly my own. Now there's a band-aid on my ear and it stings like a motherfucker. All this for what I'm guessing is going to be a complete non-issue, one that costed me precious sleep time (I had to be there at 11:15) and the money I was planning to use on a trip this week.

There's got to be a better way.

UNTITLED

2008-08-09T20:06:00.000-07:00

I look forward to the day when I can write about butterflies
because when that happens
I’ll know I’m in a better spot than the one I’m in now

MY FUTURE HOME

2008-08-08T12:55:00.000-07:00

Sooner than later I will call Portland home. Until then, here are some pics from my recent trip to the great Pacific Northwest.

Before hitting Portland, I stopped in Sacramento for all of twenty minutes. I've lived in California my entire life and had never visited, so I figured what the hell. I got there around 7 p.m. on a Wednesday and the city was dead. Later I found out the city is always dead after 5.

This is a portion of a seal in the ground at the capitol building. Silly if you ask me.

Another seal. This one had all sorts of California stuff, like waves and 49ers and the like.

The capitol building.

Some sort of courthouse thingy.

More capitol.

Seriously, this is the best drink of all time. It's a Thai basil mojito sold at a place on Alberta Street called Thai Noon. I went there last year and it was the first place I went this year.

There are many vegan-friendly resturants in Portland, but the Vita Cafe is atop my list.

I was walking down Alberta after the mojito and dinner when I noticed a large amount of artists hanging out on the street. Then my friend said we lucked out and caught the last Thursday art walk. Long Beach, your art walk ain't got shit compared to this. There were people everywhere for about a mile. The street was not officially blocked off, but it could have been. People walking, bikes, dogs. It was crazy. Even the cops were looking at the goods for sale. This sort of thing could happen only in Portland.

In Long Beach, we feel special when there are neighborhoods full of cool old homes. In Portland, it's the norm.

I thought the Rose Garden was where the Trailblazers played. Turns out there's an actual rose garden with an amazing park attached to it. Who knew?

I was pretty freaked out when I found out we had to cross a bridge to get downtown. Something to do with the bus route being closed forced us to hoof it. Imagine my fear when a distorted voice came over the intercom to announce the bridge was opening up to let a sailboat pass. I kept my composure thanks to the knowledge that I wasn't high up enough to die. I said that to my friends and then realized you are never supposed to talk about suicide. So I had to qualify my statement by explaining how I was afraid of heights and just needed to calm myself down. They understood.

Seriously, you can say whatever you want about Portland. All I know is Voodoo Donuts makes vegan donuts. Any city cool enough to do that is alright by me. We chowed these down so quickly I had to go back and buy a dozen to take home. Those didn't last long either. I dare any non-vegan to eat these and tell me you can taste the difference. You can't.

PORTLAND

2008-08-03T17:43:00.000-07:00

As some of you know, I am in Portland, Oregon. Have been since Thursday. I'll be here until Tuesday or Wednesday.

I know I have legions of devoted fans who want to know everything and I apologize for the lack of minute-by-minute updates. There was more downtime in Europe, which afforded me plenty of opportunities to blog on almost a daily basis. Not in Portland. Truth is I've been so busy going off that there hasn't been time for blogging. Can you imagine? No time for blogging?

I don't have nearly enough time to get into details, but let's say I love this city. I came here last year for the first time and said I wanted to move here. Now I am serious. Long Beach, I love ya, but it's time to move on.

In a nutshell...Lots of walking. Vegan food up the ying yang. Beautiful weather. Friendly people. No traffic. No sales tax. And an amazing group of people who let us crash with them for a few days. (If you are one of the four people who let us stay with you -- you rule.)

My stomach has never been happier. Vegan donuts. Vegan Philly cheesesteak. Vegan bbq chicken. Vegan fish sandwich. Vegan strawberry chocolate slice of cake. Soy milk everywhere. Vegan french toast. Vegan pancakes. Stumptown coffee. Two-dollar PBR. This is food heaven.

Taking lots of pics and will post those once I am at home, along with a more precise description of each day's events. Or something like that.

Oh, I almost forgot. Someone paid me real money to sell my zine at Powell's (the one on Hawthorn, not downtown). What's this about a zine, you ask? I have one and I think it rules. I've been leaving them for free, but Powell's actually bought them. I am a paid writer!

Yesterday we went all over town, including a store that sells nothing but zines. Amazing. I bought two. Next to this store is a freakin' zine library called the IPRC (iprc.org) where, for free, people can check out zines. They had what appeared to be hundreds, if not thousands.

Portland is the most vegan and artist friendly city I've ever been to. And the best part is, I'm both of those. I can't get up here soon enough.

STILL ROLLIN'

2008-07-29T11:42:00.000-07:00

WOAH! Haven't had one of those earthquake type things in a long, long time. Gotta love California!

So far everything is still on the shelf and the cats are just a tad bit scared.

OUT OF THE CLOSET

2008-07-23T17:01:00.001-07:00

The store, not me.
http://thedistrictweekly.com/print/commerce/dept-of-commerce/ready-to-wear/

SO CRAZY I CAN'T THINK OF A CLEVER TITLE

2008-07-18T14:42:00.001-07:00

Sometimes writers take liberties with their stories. In the biz, it's called embellishment. Interesting things happen, but with a twist or a tweak, all of a sudden you've got a home run. The following has none of that. This is 100 percent true.

I've been spending late nights in North Hollywood hanging out at recording studio owned by a long-time friend. He and his band have no real schedule and neither do I, which has made for some fun.

Last night I was getting ready to leave around 2:30. Guitarist was in the middle of laying down some tracks (industry talk) when the five of us heard a car alarm. Knowing we were the only people in this industrial wasteland, it became obvious that it was one of ours. Instinctively, we ran to the front door to see what was going down.

I was third in line. We leap-frogged a Fender amp and ran down the hallway. Engineer popped open the door and looked left. So did I. Guitar player and Engineer look right and so did I. That's when we saw a mid-30s Mexican dude with a shaved head and a glazed look on his face no more than five feet away. Naturally, we were all scared, but once he took a step towards us with what appeared to be a six-inch screwdriver in his right hand, you bet your sweet asses we bolted back inside the studio. Engineer was the smallest of the bunch but had the biggest balls. He made sure to lock the door behind him even with the culprit a few foot or two away.

Door locked, we all panicked, not knowing what to do. We started a frentic search for something to defend ourselves. Someone handed me a hammer while everyone else picked up whatever they could find. Once we were armed, we went to the roof, afraid he might break in.

It dawned on us that we'd now backed ourselves into a corner. If this guy followed us, there was no place to go. Luckily, he bailed.

While atop the roof, we saw what appeared to be his lookout car in a parking lot across the street. Again, people don't hang out in these parts after dark and it was odd that a vehicle would be stationed directly at the studio with its lights on. Guitarist saw the car and pointed it out. Then the ride took off, which pretty much validated our assumption.

Engineer handed me a phone because he called the cops. I was nervous, shaking and couldn't speak. I was half-listening to the phone and half-listening to the other guys as we whispered to each other. The cop on the phone told me I had to start paying attention to him or he couldn't help. It wasn't that I didn't want to listen, I just couldn't due to all the shit going on around me.

We didn't know this until later, but in all our rooftop mess, Friend got in his car and tried to follow the lookout. The four of us hunched over and walked across the roof, afraid that someone might see us or worse, shoot us.

We got back into the studio and noticed Friend missing. None of us were going back outside, so we waited a few minutes until he knocked on the door. We opened the door and saw a cop car waiting for us.

So here's my theory...Thief knew the cars belonged to the people making noise. Maybe he'd been staking out the spot for a while. He figured the sound (that can be heard from a block away) would drown out his thievery. What he didn't account for was my alarm and Guitarist stopping right when said alarm went off. The reason he was close to the studio door was because he was leaving the scene after getting spooked by the alarm. We just so happened to run into him as he was bailing.

I walked up to the cop driving the car and he told me to get Friend away from him. "He's hammered," he told me. Friend was not hammered. Friend has never been hammered. Soon I discovered that we'd been given a pig, not a cop.

Pig was condescending and didn't want to fingerprint my car. He asked me if I wanted to. I asked if I should and he had no answer. Then I said something like, "Look, I know you'll never catch this guy, so is this worth my time?" He told me about if the guy has priors blah blah blah and basically made up my mind for me. He gave me the number to the downtown LA fingerprinting department because he didn't want to do any more work. I know attempted robbery isn't much to the cops, but it sure as hell is to me when it's my fucking car someone's trying to steal.

Another cop car showed and those guys talked to the band while I dealt with Pig and his 22-year-old looking partner (who was not a pig). Three cops, one Pig. Not bad.

They took some pictures, asked for a description and that was about it. Pig asked if I had a parking garage to leave my car in that night. "Nope," I said.

Before they left, Pig pulled me aside and asked about Friend, saying Friend was intoxicated and any other cop would have arrested him for driving under the influence when Friend took off after the would-be thief. I tried explaining once again that Friend was on nothing, that we were five scared guys whose shaky personalities were attributed to the events of that particular evening, not any booze or drugs. He didn't believe me, but I swear it's the truth.

Pig left and I swept out some glass from my seat. Driving from North Hollywood to Long Beach at 3:30 a.m. with no window really fucking sucks, especially when you can't lean back because there are shards of glass along the seat. I sped home, assuming that if a cop pulled me over, I'd have a pretty good reason for doing so. I had the paperwork to prove it.

I got home around 4 and pulled into my driveway, worried that my car was now just asking to be stolen. I woke up my girlfriend who had to be at work at 6, so it wasn't that bad for her) and told her what happened. She went back to sleep for a while and I stayed up calling my insurance and looking for 24-hour glass repair. Kiddies, the ads in the Yellow Pages might say there are 24-hour glass repair, but I can assure you there are not.

Girlfriend got up around 5, which gave me a chance to try to get some sleep. I had a massive headache and a strange blend of insane sleepiness mixed with copious amounts of adrenaline. Every sound from the alley behind my bedroom window scared me. The cats ran through the house, I got freaked out.

I finally started to fall asleep around 9 a.m. when the same neighbors who were yelling "I love women, nigga!" about two months ago got into an even larger fight. They are two houses down and were so loud they got me out of bed with the windows closed. With nothing else to do, I went outside to check on my car and noticed a cop in front of their house.

The phone rang as I walked back inside. It was my insurance telling me they were sending a repairman sometime later today. All I said was, "Call me before they get here. I'm going to sleep."

MORE GROSS STUFF

2008-07-15T16:07:00.000-07:00

I swear there is a God of Gross Stuff somewhere watching over me, making sure I catch life's most disgusting nuances. Take today for example.

I was walking home from the dentist (which is disturbing enough) when I came across two teenage boys in front of Taco Bell on Broadway in Long Beach. One kid had his left arm in a sling. The other was a tall chubby wannabe rapper with oversized shorts and t-shirt and his hat off to the side (Kids, why do you do this?)

I approach them and I swear I looked up at just the right time to catch the sideways hat-wearing puke on the street. It looked like even he didn't know it was coming. Like BAM! Puke.

His friend laughed (can't say I blame him) and the vomiter looked embarrassed, puzzled and pale. They kept walking and so did I.

Perhaps someone is trying to tell me I should carry a camera at all times and be a documentary filmmaker.

BREAKING NEWS

2008-07-04T20:15:00.001-07:00

I think it's official. Yeah, probably. We now have five cats.

I wrote all about this little guy a while ago, so if you care to hear that story, do some searching on this here blog. If not, here's the short version.

There was this ghetto cat that came around about six weeks ago. We started feeing him and he started coming around more. Then he let me pet him. Then he came inside the house two days ago. We got him looked at. He's clean and now lives with us.

His name is Ghet, short for Ghetto, but he's so not ghetto that that might change. He was introduced to the other four today and so far so good. That too could change.

Here are four pics I snapped of him. He spends most of his time in the office because he's not used to the rest of the apartment just yet.

PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE SOCKS

2008-07-04T00:50:00.000-07:00

http://thedistrictweekly.com/print/commerce/buy-curious/the-quiet-man/

RAY BRADBURY AT ACRES OF BOOKS

2008-06-29T17:34:00.000-07:00

Sorry about the camera angle. I never used that function before. Now I know.

Famed author Ray Bradbury is known for lots of things, namely his books, which include Farenheit 451 and The Martian Chronicles. Locally, people know Bradbury as a proponent of Long Beach's Acres of Books, a world class destination soon to be hit by the city's figurative and literal wrecking ball. Bradbury ain't no spring chicken, so he called the store (and the media) to make what could be his final appearance.

I'm lucky enough to be on the good side of Acres of Books and jumped when manager Raun Yankovic called me with the news. Yes, it took four days for me to post this, but that's the beauty of this blog thingy - I can update whenever I want.

Bradbury talked for about fifteen minutes in the store's music room, which doubles as the open mic lounge. It was hot outside and even hotter inside that cramped space during the middle of the day. He couldn't hear well, sat in a wheelchair and took his time. Most of the questions asked were of the amateur kind ("Why are bookstores important?" "Are you sad to see this place go?") and made me glad I wasn't covering this. Shit, now that I read this, I guess I was, which means my question of what he reads now is probably pretty lame too. Damn.

He talked about diplomas not meaning a damn, how stupid it is for the greater Los Angeles area to lack quality bookstores, how places like Borders and Barnes & Noble have a place if done properly, the meaning of the French medallion around his neck and a bunch of other stuff I can't remember. But it was good, in a press conference sort of way. Most of the reporters seemed like an editor sent them there and I was disappointed that fewer fans didn't show up, but it was Wednesday at 1 p.m. Score one for the unemployed!

As you can see by my pictures, there were a lot of photographers. Most pissed me off. I mean, get your shot and get the fuck out of my way, but don't push two inches in front of me and stand there for a few minutes and expect me to move. We're in the business together, but come on people, show a little respect. I mean, look at my pictures below. They're just as good as anything the so-called pros produced from this event.

FREE11

2008-06-29T12:00:00.000-07:00

Of course this is the only song to hit Youtube so far.

Scored some freebies to see 311 last night. No, you didn't read that wrong -- I went to a 311 show. Why would someone with such fine musical taste torture myself in these sorts of unnecessary ways you ask? Maybe because Snoop Dogg, the S-N-DOUBLEO-P opened up, that's why.

Smooth drive from Long Beach to Irvine. No traffic. Good sign. Roll into the parking lot and hitch a right for the cheap parking, which turned out to be FREE! Girlfriend then announces this show is called FREE11, hence the headline.

Roll through the largest sea of bros and their accompanying chicks I've ever seen. We ain't in Kansas or Long Beach. We sat in the car and smoked a bowl. I mean, it's Snoop, you know we're getting fucked up. Roll down the window and it reaks of puke. Look down. The open spot next to mine? Full of vomit. Roll the window back up.

Cops, bros and Orange County girls everywhere. Yes, some were incredibly gorgeous, but I can't deal with all that fake shit.

Eavesdropped on some converastion while waiting for my tickets. "Dude, I drank like eight beers earlier." No you didn't. No drank three. If you drank eight, you'd smell like it and be way more fucked up than your 22 year old ass is. Fucking bros, always streching the truth to make a party sound better than it is. Look bro, you're a lightweight. Deal with it.

Security feels me up and asks "That's just keys, wallet and a chain, right?" Sure, whatever you say. I mean, what if it wasn't? It sure woulda been easy to get a weapon in there.

Snoop starts as we make that long trek from the entrance, down through the ravine, past the vendors and into the arena. Oh snap! We got fourteenth row seats! Snoop literally is upside my head. And he's got a full band. That's right -- drummer, bassist, guitarist, percussionist, dj, and a guy who played keyboards and sax, not to mention tha Dogg Pound (Daz and Kurupt) and Soopafly. Pretty dope setup.

FULL DISCLOSURE: I wanted to see Snoop at Irvine Meadows (I refuse to call this place whatever company sponsors it now. Cell phones have nothing to do with live music. At least they shouldn't.) so I could spark a doobie while he was playing. I've probably inhaled a few pounds while bumping his shit. I've seen him twice before, but a third was needed.

Dressed in a long white shirt and baggy black warm-up pants, Snoop was on fire. It took me second to see it, but above his stage was a massive prop pot leaf. Nice. I figured he'd play a decent mix of old and new and he did. Personally, I know all his recent singles and don't mind them as much as I should (but that's cuz I'm a fanboy), but Doggystyle shit got everybody moving. Gf pulled the joint from her bra during I Love You Mary Jane and we puffed the hell out of that thing. It's nice to know in the heart of the lamest place in the world to see a show (Orange County, not the venue itself), a guy and his lady can still blaze some chronic outdoors to some Snoop Dogg.

Good and fucked up, I bounced, threw my hands in the air, waved them from side to side and yelled out all the backups (SIX IN THA MORNIN'!!!!!). Sometimes I get paid to be a critic, but this evening I found nothing wrong with tha Doggfather.

I thought I heard tha Shiznit while we were walking in. Oh well. He did his verses from "Deep Cover," "G Thang" (in which he said "Death Row is still the label that pays me" -- I haven't heard him say "Death Row" in that part for a long time)and "Bitch Please," along with a fully rocking version of "Pump Pump" that was the highlight of the show. He did "La Di Da Di," "What's My Name" and "Gin and Juice," along with that R. Kelly song, that Akon song, "Drop It Like It's Hot," "Sexual Eruption" and a few more newbies.

At some point I looked at the crowd in front of me and noticed how many people were recording the show. Welcome to live music circa 2008, huh? I'll try to find a link and post it here. I wanted to bring a camera, but forgot.

Highlights -- bringing out Warren G (dressed in khaki shorts for the cool Cali night) for his verse on "Ain't No Fun" and Everlast coming out to do "My Medicine" and OH SNAP! "Jump Around." That was pretty cool, even if I felt like I was at the biggest frat party of all time for those three minutes.

Snoop asked people to blaze the weed for "My Medicine" and shit, that's why we came, so we did. There was a dude three rows in front with a pipe. How do you get a pipe into a show?

I wish he woulda done "Gzas and Hustlas" as I think that's the dopest song of all time (seriously), but overall I had a great time, which I hardly ever say about seeing live shows these days. If it's a weed-friendly venue, go see Snoop. I'm hoping his own show (ie, not opening for 311) would mean a few more old songs and a longer set, but I guess that means I'll have to go see him to find out.

Last song and we split. Finally we see the black people. They're the ones leaving too. I told the gf: "See these people walking out? These are the cool people, the ones we want to be associated with." She agreed. Although we were the two palest people in the room, I think we fit in better with the 40 black people than the 40,000bro dudes.

Best part? We were in the car by 9:45 and there was no traffic on the way home.

SOME ADVICE FOR THE WNBA

2008-06-24T13:13:00.001-07:00

UPDATE: SHE DID IT AGAIN -- THIS TIME EVEN LESS CLEAN

As most of you probably know, oh wait, who am I kidding? Nobody follows the WNBA.

Ok, so the Los Angeles team is called the Sparks. They have this rookie named Candace Parker. From the little I've seen and what I've heard, she's pretty good. A few days ago she dunked in a game, which is only the second time that's happened in league history. The first was also by a Sparks player named Lisa Leslie.

This made national news, but really, who cares? It's not like it was that clean of a dunk and she just went straight up.

The WNBA has been showing these commercials with some of their "star" players where they say things like "girls can't play," "nothing exciting ever happens," "you couldn't pay me to watch," etc. The campaign is called "Expect Great Things" and wants people to view the league in a positive light. Well, anyone who knows me knows I'm no sexist, but let's face reality. The WNBA blows.

I love basketball and I love women even more, but the combination doesn't work. Why, you ask? Well, the problem is simple. They are playing a men's game. What the WNBA fails to realize is their version needs to be adapted to fit their players. For example, the league uses a smaller ball than the NBA. Makes sense, right? So why not apply that logic to more than just one aspect of the game.

For starters, you want to see more dunks? Lower the freakin' basket a foot. Men play on 10-foot rims, but there's no reason why the women should have to. Make the court smaller. Bring in the three-point and free-throw lines a foot or two. Do something. Anything.

Collegiate teams don't play the NBA rules. Why? Because their governing body knows two important things: 1. The players have different bodies than those in the NBA. Forcing them to play the same style creates for a worse game. 2. The NBA is the pinnacle of American basketball. Any other league that attempts to mirror the NBA will be viewed as lesser in comparison. Make your game different and people will watch.

Congrats Candace Parker. The closest I ever got was dunking a softball the summer between eighth and ninth grades. I doubt I can touch the rim anymore. But that's because I'm not a pro. The rules are different for people who aren't.

WHEN YOU'VE GOT FOUR, WHAT'S ONE MORE?

2008-06-23T20:21:00.000-07:00

This homeless cat's been coming around for about a month. I noticed he was dirty and real skinny, so I started putting out some food and water. He's been real sneaky, coming up for food but running whenever I tried to get close. It's been my mission to touch this cat. I mean, I am feeding the damn thing after all.

Lately he's been warming up to me, hasn't given me what I wanted. Until an hour ago. I opened the door with a fresh plate of food and some ice cold water. He rushed me, but right when I thought I could pet him, he put his butt in my face. Not one to be had, I leaned over and touched him. He got scared and ran like he always does.

But it was a start.

I sat three feet away from where I dropped his dinner and watched him eat. After he was done, he started pacing in front of me. I knew I had him. Sitting on my porch, I leaned over and stuck out my fingers. AND HE CAME!!!!!!!!

I know enough about cats to know to start slow. I rubbed his butt for a few minutes, then moved to his head. He started purring like crazy and was loving it. I got up to go into the backyard and he followed me there and back to the porch. I stayed outside for twenty minutes playing with him. He's dirty as hell, but I made sure to get my hands way into his fur. Poor guy probably hasn't got much love in his life and I'm going to make sure he gets some.

I'd love to adopt him, but one of my cats hisses and bites and scratches me whenever he comes around. Is it wrong to want to build him a home in the backyard and keep him there?

I've been calling him Ghet, short for ghetto, ya know, cuz he's a homeless cat and all. It's probably not nice to call a person that, but he's a cat. He don't know.

GO SEE THIS BAND AT THE PROSPECTOR

2008-06-22T18:18:00.000-07:00

You don't call. You don't write. You don't leave comments. And you certainly don't email. Except someone from Texas whose been writing me about a band from Austin playing at the Prospector on June 24, which is in two days.

He's been contacting me and I've been flaking (sorry dude). But he sent me this link and I thought I'd pass it along in case anyone in Long Beach or SoCal is interested. I was just at the Prospector getting all kinds of drunk on Friday and it still rules there, so go. They're called the Boxing Lesson. I like boxing. And I like Texas, particularly Austin.

http://billboardpublicitywire.com/releases/theboxinglesson/darksideofthemoog/prweb1035684.htm