Blogger Gets Fancy Pants

Since Blatherblahg is inherently boring and mind numbing, Google is always trying to think of ways to spice it up. The latest is DYNAMIC VIEWS.

• Flipcard: available at http://blatherblahg.blogspot.com/view/flipcard

• Mosaic: available at http://blatherblahg.blogspot.com/view/mosaic

• Sidebar: available at http://blatherblahg.blogspot.com/view/sidebar

• Snapshot: available at http://blatherblahg.blogspot.com/view/snapshot

• Timeslide: available at http://blatherblahg.blogspot.com/view/timeslide

ALLEGEDLY these magical views should be some kind of button or something on my blog, but I'm not seeing it. So there are the URLs, for people who have so much time on their hands, they require something really useless to do. 

Playing the Sentimental Fool, So You Don't Have To

Well, the final round of boxen arrived from back East. Finally. The contents prove that my mother and I were definitely dropping acid or doing meth or something that severely compromised our mental faculties.

Lots of stuff in this last batch that were meant for "deep storage." Yearbooks, assorted birthday card collections, photo albums from high school. Detritus from the inescapable clutches of nostalgia that have gripped me from a much too early age.

Among the sappy debris:

• A half finished photo album. Several pictures of the first boy I ever fell in love with. I looked at these photos and remembered feeling so much for him, but strangely feeling nothing at all for him today. I was so very in love with him, immensely and hopelessly. And to remember that feeling, without experiencing that feeling, or any feeling other than bemusement--so odd.
• Within the same album and a scant few pages later, a picture of another great love. And when I saw his face I smiled and my head immediately filled with Etta James singing "My Funny Valentine." I sang a verse outloud while I leafed through the pages interspersed with snapshots of him and the people that made up my life in those days. So yeah, that's right. I sang a love song to your old photo. Born in the wrong age, I suppose. It was a good feeling, a gentle tug on the heart, a whisper of a great and true affection that once was. 
• Three poems of love, all from girls I've known at different stages in my life. Yes, dear readers, it's true. The boyfriends never wrote me love letters--it was the girls who put pen to paper and told me I was beautiful and worthy of love. Thank you, you gorgeous girls: Elizabeth, Amy, and Hazel.
• My father doesn't write much, but every once in a while a note would get passed to me. One counseled me against grief and advised: "Hope does not equal agreement, only acceptance. Hope is acknowledgement without purchase." Thanks, Dad. I love you, too. 
• I had a roomie, and somehow we got in the habit of leaving messages to each other on yellow legal pads. Those pads got used for other things, including the beginning of my life long attraction analyses, silly poems, drawing with feet, and general goofiness in our apartment in the projects. He's out there in the world, being the good person he always has been. I find comfort in that. 
• Two stray photos that wouldn't seem connected to anyone else--a cat and a girl. Two things I love beyond all reason and rationale. Two loves that don't require logic or analysis. In some ways, I have forever lost both the cat and the girl. In some ways, I will never lose them, at least not how I feel about them. Cloyingly wrought with saptrified nostalgification, but true.
• An old birthday card, wishing that all my dreams would come true. Except for the ones about the circus peanut alligators. From the same person, a graph depicting the fun quotient versus money expenditures for a vacation plan. This person was my best friend for a long time. And then they weren't. But isn't that how it always goes?

I figure I've been pretty lucky in life. I've had some good times with good people, good times with not so good people, and bad times with people who cared standing by. I try to remember this, and be thankful. Like the man said, nothing gold can stay. 

Post As You Go, Blather As Ye May

Random things that mean nothing:

• I fought the iPod and the iPod won. So far. Fucking iTunes.
• Today's music has included Doris Day, Dean Martin, Maroon 5, Wham!, Massive Attack, and now Brian Eno. This is weird, even for me. 
• Sometimes, nothing is far better than something. Half of your attention can hurt far more than none of your attention. To be forgotten is one thing, and it is a painful thing, sometimes. But to be ignored, that's worse in this case. If you haven't the time, then don't bother. I can't support myself, ergo I can't carry the both of us. Apply the band-aid analogy here, and just cease rather than prolong the pain. Or in other words, call me back when you have the time and interest. 
• Got some CULTCHA! this weekend at the LACMA. My favorite moment was the surprise discovery of two pieces by Magritte. I'd like to find out where there's a larger collection of his works, as I think I'd really enjoy viewing this. 
• Saw someone pour a drink for a friend of mine that made me worry for her liver. It was called a "Culver City Slut." This could very well be my new drink. Except I'm still a little hung up on the vodka gimlets I had the other weekend. Oh, decisions, decisions. 
• I have watched a bunch of movies lately, and I'm pondering doing capsule reviews. Worth it? Not? Questions? Answers? Who will pay the dancers?
• BREAKING NEWS: Manolete has been released months prior to it's estimated VOD date of June 2011. Look for it as A Matador's Mistress on Netflix. 
• The rest of the books arrive soon. It's only taken 4 months to mail this stuff. I think I actually will have to buy some type of shelving at this point. This is at odds with my cash flow situation.
• Drone!Work is drone-like, but at least I'm helping somebody out. 
• I regret that I fell out of watching House the last few years. 
• Someone is grabbing me lunch from a local taco place today. This location was recently closed because a patron drove a car through the side of the building. Apparently, this is qualifies as a health concern in the city. If I die, it was the chicken tamales, y'all. Just saying. 
• If I can organize myself, I'll put some of the responses to my Whitman query up later. (Ha. Hahahahahahahahaha. Organize. I'm funny.)

Strange Patterns That Probably Aren't All That Mystical

I came home today and decided to watch Tin Cup, about a man dating a shrink who pursues a game where your head is your biggest enemy, and follows a path from west Texas to North Carolina. Common enough themes, but resonant with me today more than other days.

One of the moments I appreciated most about the film was when Costner shot a game of golf using garden implements and a baseball bat. The form required for a good baseball swing is pretty much the mechanical opposite of what's required for a good golf swing. The man has his limits as an actor, but I think he's pretty good at the physical stuff.

In a cruel and ironic twist of fate, I am no natural athlete. Not even close. I've no natural skill or grace, a terrible-to-nonexistent sense of spatial relationships, and I always choke. The irony is that among my close friends and family, as an adult I've consistently pursued athletic and physical disciplines. I'm just no good at them. From shooting billiards (20+ years of wasted effort) to bowling to batting to martial arts to yoga to ballroom dance to archery to weight lifting, I'm a clumsy oaf with no style, no substance, and no sense of body dynamic.

I'm not fast, I'm not strong, I've got shit for aim and jack for stamina. In short, I've no gifts to make the journey easier.

There are those moments, so few I could count them on both hands, but there are those moments when everything else fades away and you simply are. Whether it's trying a kata for the first time, kumite for the hundredth time, a waltz turn, a yoga pose, a modified deadlift, or a slice shot in a corner pocket---there are those moments when you step outside the past and the future and exist in a tiny slice of Here and Now. Those moments are nothing short of glorious and exhilarating, and you simply get to Be.

I envy the people that get there more often than I. I envy the people that get there with more ease than I. I envy the people that work just as hard as I do, but achieve more and look better doing it. I've all but given up my physical pursuits. Hell, I've pretty much given up my mental pursuits.

I do so miss a nice game of pool, though.

Four Chords to Rule Them All

Many of you might have heard of the immense legendary rock band that is "Axis of Awesome."


If you've ever wondered how to write an amazing pop song, wonder no longer. In fact, with this instruction, you can write EVERY amazing pop song:

But wait, maybe there's a special someone you need to impress. Wooing is called for. What can you do? AoA has the answer:

I'm not gonna lie. That takes me right back to Junior High. Boyz II Men, ABC, BBD--the East Coast Family! Back in Philly we used to dream about this every day . .


Oh, er, sorry. Got carried away.


But with all this great instruction, let us not forget those less fortunate than us. Let reflect with pity and piety on the godless heathens who suffer under the yoke of unenlightenment.

Via con dios, dudes. 



Links for those if your on a tetchy machine that doesn't do flash or embedded youtubez. I'm looking at you, freaking iPad.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5pidokakU4I&feature=player_embedded
http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/5f0cf25368/how-to-write-a-love-song?rel=player
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lFWA1A9XFi8&feature=related

Do B Movie Actors Dream of Lead (Pb) Oscars?

Man, I can mangle any phrase to suit my nefarious punny purposes.




Some of you regular readers may be aware of my old man's strange and useemly love for Rutger Hauer. And I'm not gonna lie, if Blind Fury were on right now, you know my ass would be watching it. (It could be on for all I know. We just lost power. Due to the...um...rain? What?)


But in ongoing signs of the Apocalypse and Imminent Doom, they have finally produced the ultimate Rutger Hauer movie. A movie only my old man could love. And possibly this guy Zogar. It has arrived. 

http://www.pajiba.com/film_reviews/hobo-with-a-shotgun-review-i-wupped-batmans-ass.php

That's right. The name of this film is "Hobo With A Shotgun." I bolded and italicized it for not only being a super-awesome but also a super-truthful title.

Most people don't know this, but my old man longs to *BE* Rutger Hauer, and in fact WROTE a screenplay very similar to this years ago. Except his was titled "Get Those Kids Off My Fucking Lawn" or "How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Just Reload." 

This could be the sign he's been waiting for. I'm by the phone, expecting relatives to start calling with sightings of him with a shopping cart, 5 day grizzled beard, shotgun and crossbow, screaming to the sky "Howsabout a bumper sammich, booger lips?!!!???"

In the midst of utter despair and wallowing in sorrow

One can sometimes find a moment of EPIC WIN.

http://www.youtube.com/user/jdryznar#p/u/7/CHLAq3VffHo

That clip is made of so much win, it blew my mind.

I heart Yacht Rock so hard, I wanna marry it and have ten thousand of its babbies.

ETA: Babby having inspiration here as well:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bOtMizMQ6oM&feature=related

It's like if Ed Grimley was an Elvis impersonator.

Ooof. Sucker punch, coming right up.

I try to maintain a spoiler free life. It makes it hard to keep up with fun stuff, like actor's side projects, special eps, etc. But it's usually worth iy, because you get to be pleasantly surprised by what could otherwise be completely predictable due to previews and trade news.

I'm at the point now where if I find a movie interesting, I won't even watch full trailers.

But every once in a while, I wish I had an inkling of what was coming. Tonight was one of those nights. To top it off, the change seems to be for really shitty reasons.

So fuck you, CBS, for fucking up a good cast and failing to really deliver on a key episode. Like we (I) needed something else to be depressed about. And fuck you for not letting me see every single cast member just bawl. You can do better with this show...the Reaper arc just about shattered my heart.

And p.s.....in case anybody cares, there's quite a dearth of admirable, capable, intelligent female leads or supports in films and tv today. Way to lower that head count, asshats.

P.p.s. . . This is seriously harshing my Joe Mantenga buzz, which has been in a nice cruise with the help of a recent re-viewing of "The Rat Pack."

The Remains of the Weekend

Time is funny, elusive and mercurial. Thirty minutes can mean the difference between the expanse of an evening laid out before you, or the desperate last hurrah before an inevitable surrender to a sensible bedtime.

To look at this room I live in, (and make no mistake it is a room, with a W.C., but a single room all the same) one wouldn't be able to discern that cleaning and organizing had been the sole occupation of its sole occupant today.

There's dust everywhere, belying the multiple wipe downs and dry moppings of various surfaces. Dirt and grime, even though there was scrubbing and spray and misting and sponging.

Dishes were washed, trash taken out, counters cleaned, boxes unpacked, items repacked and stored out of sight, shelves reorganized, papers filed, laundry folded, and more.

But to walk in a look around, there wouldn't be a clue. Somehow these small living quarters have achieved a discordant homeostasis, and manage to look dirty, unkempt, cluttered and wrecked. There's no indication as to the immense and intense effort and thought (for it requires massive concentration and planning for me to organize anything) that made up my whole day today.

I believe I could have spent the day away from this place, rather than ensconced in it, and achieved the same effect.

This feels somehow representative of a greater and, depressingly, constant theme in my life: no matter how great the effort, the observable and appreciable results are consistently minor. And easily undone. I have never been able to strike the proper balance between working hard and focusing correctly. Whether it's physical health, mental health, skill development, whatever, it just doesn't go anywhere. Except for the recurring Nowhere Fast--my standard destination and acceleration.

It's been like this for several decades, so I fear I'm stuck with it.

********

I inadvertently liked in an earlier post. I have been to more than one bar. There's a place called Rick's. And if you're worth a lick you'll know that everybody comes there sooner or later.

At Rick's yesterday, stopping on my way home. I witnessed two things.

Thing One: I ordered an mixed app plate. It was all fried--gross. But it was also the only thing that had vegetables on it. Compromise. The platter was enormous, and some folks at the end of the bar (seemed like regulars) commented on it.

I offered to split it with them, which engendered a curious set of responses. One guy seemed almost offended, asking if I had assumed that he was angling for some of my food. One of his companions said my offer was probably the nicest thing she had ever heard anyone say at a bar. I just noted that the amount of food was enormous, and I was certainly not going to finish it.

Thing Two: Quite suddenly, the bar began to fill up with people in feather boas and plastic fedoras. They had slips of paper and in a matter of 15 minutes a second bartender appeared because it was Pub Crawl time.

Now, apparently, this Pub Crawl (one of two occurring that day, per the bartender) was for charity. None of the participants I spoke to seem to be aware of what charity they were supporting, but all seemed very enthusiastic about their support. From what I could glean, some organizer makes a deal with some local bars for discounted drinks. Participants in the Crawl buy a wristband and commence to drinking and wandering about.

There are teams, and some type of contests as well. (Who can get the drunkest? I don't know.)

It was an intense experience. I would have liked to stay longer, just to witness the deranged but familiar insanity of it all. However, my parking meter was just about up.

And to think, all this time I've been selfishly drinking for my own amusement, when I could have been guzzling philanthropically. I'm ashamed.

**********

I gave a friend a birthday card this week. I'm pretty sure I watched him throw it away in front of me later the same day.

Ironically, one of the boxes of my crap from back East arrived this past week. It contained an entire shoebox filled with various holiday and birthday cards I've received the last few years.

I received one Christmas card this year. I've spent two weeks shuffling it into various piles around my apartment, trying to make myself throw it away.

I have often wished I was much less sentimental than I am. It doesn't do me much good, and worse, I certainly don't get any credit for it. I'm often accused of the opposite--of being harsh, callous, cold, brutal. What's the use in a box full of old cards? I think I give them more meaning than the senders intend.

*********

I wanted to sit outside in the sun today. My neighbor, nice enough guy, likes to refinish cars on weekends. The fumes of primer and various other chemicals make it hard to enjoy the otherwise pristine air of this place. I also suspect that once side of my car is going to end up a different color in the next couple of months--slowly accumulating the paint dust that's drifting the 10 feet across the back driveways.

***********

This is the part where I could post about all the things that are bumming me out. But who wants to read that?

*********

This entry was brought to you by Mt. Beanaminjaro and LB3, assisted by two afghans, with tech support from a temporarily purloined MacBook from work. I still don't grok this OS, but I love wi-fi and a laptop.

Watching Dean Martin makes me want to

..remake Rio Bravo
..get a better tan
..resign myself ton the life of a drunken drunkard from drunkytown
..shoot some fellers
..burst into song whenever i damn well please
..give up bathing (will also help with tan appearance)
..visit my old boss, who walks like ole Marion hisself
..sport a bandana and drink rotgut whiskey
..smoke cigarettes. A lot of cigarettes.
..get a rakish hairdo
..be awesome in general

One bar down, one thousand to go

But if you are in the area, Saints & sinners is pretty cool, so check it out.

But keep an eye on your friends, bc they will ditch you in two flat and there you are, drink in hand trying to pay the whole tab, but everyone is out the door.

Unfortunately, the mini-ABrods tending the bar doesn't notice you for shit. despite multiple specific drink orders and good tips.

-sigh-

I can't compete with all the insanely pretty and young ppl here.

Home again. Safe and . . . Well, as sound as I ever was.

Goonight ladies. Goonight ladies.

Goonight.

1:30 Wake Up Call

This morning I was dreaming of this lagoon or bay. I was watching some kind of engineering event, and they were sinking an aircraft carrier. As they sunk it in this lagoon, it produced a massive whirlpool.

I watched and wondered if anyone had anticipated this, as it seemed the whirlpool was sucking in all the boats moored along the docks and anchored further out in the shallows. (How could you sink an aircraft carrier in a shallow lagoon? Dream physics, I guess.)

I worried about the sharks. There was some kind of problem with the sharks attacking people in all of this.

At some point in this I finally gave up and woke up to answer my phone, which had been ringing constantly for about half an hour.

I checked the number, half expecting it to be some random drug addled or drunken friend who was about to get told off for SRS. When I saw it was my mom's number, my first thought was "Who's dead?"

I called her up and, bless her heart, she was making sure that I knew TEH TSUNAMI WUT WAS COMING TO GETZ ME.

I spent the next 15 minutes with my my iPad, my t.v., and my one good eye half open, checking every major news outlet and weather report and reassuring my mom that I was not in imminent danger and that it really was okay for me to go back to sleep.

I think she would have preferred that I responded by jumping in my car and driving east as fast as possible. However, I'm pretty sure my place of employment wouldn't have appreciated that, as it is business as usual today. (Or IS it? The office is strangely empty).

And anyhoo, I just would have driven to Vegas. And I can't afford that right now.

It's nice to know that my mom still loves me. Even at 1:30 in the morning.

************

A note on part of the reason why I don't watch the news anymore: newscasters are bloodthirsty, drooling, vuluturish little trolls.

I can't bear watching their eyes light up as they cross the line from reporting the same scant facts over and over to speculating on the bounty of possible horrors to come. Like children peering at a candy display and smearing their already grubby hands on display case, fogging up the glass with their anticipatory pants of breath--they salivate over not just what has been wrought but the possible carnage to come.

The worst are the portions of "talent" that are generally the most useless. I swear, the CNN weatherman was popping wood as he described the terrible weather battering Hawaii, and the the unpredictable nature of tides and weather behavior in such conditions. His eyes were alight as he pointed out possibility after possibility, each more dire than the next.

One of the regular anchors interrupted him to voice the only logical thought in the ten minutes of catastrophe masturbation that made up this chunk of television: what could the folks along the CA coast expect? What areas would be affected?

The weather-douche stammered and stuttered about, again, the UNPREDICTABILITY of all this and how we could all, hypothetically, be IN TERRIBLE PERIL. Then he quietly conceded that local authorities would be advising the CA residents on what to do. This saved him the embarrassment of having to report the actual facts that no major inundation is expected, and last report showed swells increased by a maximum of 12 inches.

These people are parasites on par with the paparazzi and the gossip hounds that chase around cracked out starlets and cover Anna Nicole's death for weeks on end. Actually, there used to be a difference between a newscaster and a tabloid journalist. Now they are one and the same.

They are all fear mongers, rubberneckers who wallow in filth and tragedy, social arsonists who fan the flames of hysteria under the guise of providing information services. They don't have to get a life, because they get their rocks off watching yours deteriorate.

Who makes your list?

When it's shit news?

When there's nothing to be done for it?

When there are no answers?

When there's nothing of worth to say, you just want to scream and rail and sob?

Who do you call?

The older I get, the shorter and more elusive that list gets. Most folks don't know you well enough, and you'll just be an imposition, making them uncomfortable.

Others know you, but they don't want to hear it. That's why they're not around in the first place. If they hear from you at all it should be either good news ornall about them. Usually they prefer the latter.

Then there's the folks you can't tell, because they just get more upset than you. And doesn't do either of you any good.

There's a small group who could definitely handle the news, but it's usually because they are already dealing with some monstrous shit of their own. And when you stop to think about it, it would be a pretty shitheel move to dump on them.

So, yeah. That list gets mighty small, mighty quick. Even more so when you get to feeling all sorry for yourself.

So when you see that decrepit drunk at the end of the bar, or the nervous lady babbling in the doctor's office, or the rando dude at the vending machine who just blurts out the craziness of their lives to you, I counsel forbearance.

They probably really don't have anyone else to tell.

Weekend Recap

Well, it was an auspicious weekend here at BlatherBlahg, consisting of more than two whole instances of leaving the house!

How do I afford this rock n' roll lifestyle?

Now, it's true that several of these out-of-cave experiences were necessitated by the obligation of feeding my friends' cats, but still. More stuff happened too!

Just about everyone who has the misfortune to communicate with me for more than 10 minutes is aware of my extreme lack of furniture and my seemingly endless and fruitless quest to find some.

A while back I decided I would go dorm style and do bean bags. This was before I realized that bean bags had become a designer niche market. A half decent (and half sized) bean bag starts at around $50 and goes up to $300 or  higher for what I guess would be "bean couches" or "bean chaise loungers." Just Google "bean bag sale" and see what you get.

Lost in a sea of designer microsuede bags, I buckled and bought a $30-$40 bag from Amazon.com. The picture looked good, the person sitting on it looked comfortable, and it could arrive the next day. Yay!

Or not. As it turns out, the person posing out the bean bag had undergone some kind of shrink ray treatment, which reduced them in size by about 25% but maintained all their proportions. That is to say, the bean bag was tiny, yo. Like kid sized. And I may be small in many ways, but my ass is not even remotely child sized.

So, bean bag disappointment. I vowed never to buy another such item without seeing in in person.

This weekend I drove past a local bean baggery, and decided, "What the hell?" They had all kinds of pillowy options, and one I really liked that was about $150. I just couldn't. But  I spied another, larger one that was less. It got kind of confusing, trying to sort out what bags were what and cost how much. I left with a $70 bag that seemed like a good choice.

I got home and put it in my living room and realized: I had purchased the bean bag Mt. Kilimanjaro. It's like a someone dropped a giant, slightly melted hershey kiss in my living room. Here's a photo. My forensic training comes in handy, and I cleverly remember to use a dollar bill to show you the scale of Mt. Beanimanjaro:

You might be thinking, "That's not so bad." But you are not Little Blue Bean Bag. LB3 now feels small and inadequate. And in truth, I had to use LB3 as an ottoman for my legs, because Mt. Beanimanjaro lifted me so far off the ground.

However, there is some happiness to this tale. Both Mt. Bean and LB3 got used this weekend, because I had an unexpected house guest. And no, I'm not making an oblique reference to bed bugs. But before I get to that, I must mention my bowling excursion on Saturday.

I finally talked Gunkle Blip and his Special Lady Friend into leaving their Hollywood lair making the epic five mile trip to my neck of the woods. It was his birthday, so I ponied up for a few sessions on the lanes and some really overpriced drinks and the barely functioning bar. I mean, seriously, how do you NOT have a bartender on staff at a bowling alley at 4:00 pm on a Saturday? Don't you realize those parents their with those screaming kids NEED a drink? Don't you realize that us folks next to the parents and their screaming kids NEED a drink?

Anyhoodle, after an embarrassing couple of games, I walked home and flew into a whirlwind preparing for the arrival of my last minute guest. This means I bought some booze and ordered delivery food.

The one and only Blackhawk the Destroyer swooped into town around 9:30 pm. What a cool cat. He's about an hour and half away from my current locale, doing work. So he worked all day Saturday and then drove out to see me. He is a very good friend. I had decided about two weeks to month ago that he needed to grow a goatee. So I was ready to start the Goatee campaign as soon as I saw him. But guess what? He has already got one! WAT? Just like the time I dreamed about him shaving off his moustache. Some people are psychic about lotto numbers, plane crashes, personal danger. I am psychic about my friends facial grooming habits. Go fig.

How did the night go? Well, I think we were pretty well behaved, all things considered. It was pretty low key. We had some big ideas about what we would make of our Sunday, but those *might* have been a little compromised by Saturday night. If I had to sum up the evening, I would say:

I would also strongly recommend that port. It was excellent. All 89473973 ounces of it.

Sunday I awoke at my customary usual disgustingly early hour. I had mercy on my houseguest, and just sort of creeped around for a few hours to let him catch up on his zzzz's. Of course, at Rancho de Hawkeye you only get the finest entertainment and accommodations. Look at the luxury BtD was awash in:

Only the finest Taiwanese imported air mattresses for our guests.

My knee was a little twingey, but we decided to wander Abbot Kinney area. There I got to show BtD what shopping for furniture was like in this magical land. If the paint peeling child sized antique rocking chair for $425 didn't do it for him, by the $3,800 leather club chair (Not Vintage, by the way) he got the gist of it.

We wandered back to the HawkCave, and were generally useless. My knee hurt more and more, and I can't figure out what I did to it. Bowling? We tried to watch Robin Hood. We came in halfway through the movie, so maybe we missed something vital. But overall, we spent most of the time going, "Why is that guy.....who is he. . . why would anyone do that. . . wait, is that the same guy who. . . ?"

It was very confusing. We really couldn't make out the plot. Apparently Ridley Scott has picked up a new camera trick. In addition to his constant Shaky Epileptic Action Scenes With Missing Frames, Scott now has a bizarre Zoom In and Pan Right On the Emotional Musical Cue move. In case the actor's facial expressions and the change in music weren't enough to indicate An Important Moment, Scott is really driving it home by whipping that lens around like it's a home movie with Cousin Ricky who just learned how to use the zoom bar and has been watching the IFC channel too much.

Some popcorn and my Announcement of Intention to Start My Life Of Whoredom later, (hey, that's what the Big City is all about--it worked for Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman), Blackhawk was back on the road and I was passing out on the couch.

So endeth another epic and glamorous weekend. BtD really is a good friend, and it was wonderful to see him.

As of this morning my knee is officially really screwed up. I guess trying to walk it off yesterday wasn't the best idea. It only hurts when I walk or put weight on it, so I guess it's time for me to get that Hoveround I've been wanting. Seriously though, it really does hurt, and there's no bruising or swelling or anything. How? Why?

BtD

In Da HOOUUUSSSEEEE!

That's right bitches. Mah first house guest. I boughten him liquor and he no pee on rug. Lack of rug may be a factor.

Choke on it, fuckwads.

Love,

Blatherblahg.

Things That Piss Me

Oh man. I've been working on a Sneaky Rage Spiral this week, and it's about to blow.

I find it incredibly rude and a major turn off when you are trying to make simple plans, or even inquiries about plans, and the person you are talking to can't be bothered to be responsible for any of the information. They can't even be bothered to listen to you.

It's that specific situation where you say, "Hey, I don't know what your plans are for XYZ span of time, but maybe somewhere in that timeframe we could. . . "

And they respond with "Oh, I don't know what's going on/This completely unrelated thing is going on and I have nothing to do with it. Talk to my spouse/friend/pet turtle because they have organized it."

Note--there could be absolutely NOTHING organized, but they are still getting ready to pawn  you off on someone else.

You interject, "I'm not trying to change any pre-set plans. I'm just wondering if you have time or interest in doing LMNOP any time in this upcoming timeframe. . . "

Again, you are cut off. Usually you are told to call the other person. Wait for them to call you back. I just want to ask these people, how do you even manage to get through the day without soiling your undergarments and drooling out all your unchewed food? You can't even express an opinion about a possible preference for a hypothetical situation---a situation who's execution hinges specifically on your interest.

Perhaps I am being too circumspect. Let me clarify: I don't give two flying fucks if your girlfriend/boyfriend/goatfriend wants to fart or blow a tin whistle. I am calling to ask if YOU are interested in something. All you have to do is listen for 30 seconds, and say yes or no. Hell, you can even listen for 30 seconds and THEN launch into your incredible tale of decision making handicaps and how NOTHING can be decided without consulting the Oracle, Your Pet Turtle.

Just do me the basic courtesy of hearing me out before you are lobbing the phone across the room at someone, screaming "INCOMING!" and then wandering off to sit in the john for a few hours.

Because you know what? I called YOU. I might get more than just YOU, I understand how these package deals work. But I called YOUR NUMBER. Not theirs. Please try and bear through a few torturous moments on the phone with me. Here's a little bit of helpful info--if you'll just sac up and tell me "No" from the get-go, then the conversation will be OVER. No need for pointless follow up. Imagine that! The mind boggles! The senses reel!

This kind of crap makes me want to turn off my phone and just avoid everyone. I can't imagine anything good coming out of such muddled and pointlessly laborious beginnings.

In summary: humanity sucks. Coast to coast.

ETA: Just because I don't want to harsh your mellow, let me share another incredible moment from Allie at hyperboleandahalf:

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/05/sneaky-hate-spiral.html

There's something in the air

And it ain't Spring.

Local and nationwide b.s. news has a lot of certain kinds of hate in it this past week or so. Some of it very pointed, bigoted, racialist type hate.

Now, I'm not calling any of these fools out by name. Because I don't want them getting anymore press. We don't encourage hate here at BlatherBlahg. We're not even gonna dignify ourselves with a response to these insults. (We are also going to keep trying to order litres of cola. If you are not with me at this point, don't worry. It get's relevant again below).

What we ARE about here at BlatherBlahg is beauty, love, truth, sneaky manipulation of the legal system to avoid stalking charges, unrequited love, wasting time, and eating bagels.

So while we will not be directly addressing the spiteful little wankers and their hate-filled crap out there, allow this to be the retort. I think it gets the point across.

That's right! Wladyslaw Szpilman and Sol Star in the house--REPRESENT!

They're here, they're talented, they're cute as pie, and they ain't going anywhere. Haters can feel free to form a line to left and kiss my tuchas.

Hope everybody has a great weekend. Shalom, y'all. 

I Have Had A Day

It shouldn't have been A Day, but it was. Snuck up on me from behind and and walloped me but good.

My final shot at peace was blown out of the water when my new conditioner turned out to be some type of quick-crete product that is apparently meant for use to twist and lock your natty dredz. Fookin L.

Maniacal hair scrubbing, vinegar dousing, and general inanities later, and here I sit.

I wish I could find a mindless show to run in the background, one that would allow to climb into that boat with my ever elusive shipmates, Wynkles, Blinkenheimer, and the Nodster.

I wish I knew a good place to shoot some pool.

Seacrest out.