December 2004 Archives

Since today is my last day at work until January 3rd (and last day with a high-speed internet connection), I doubt I'll be doing much posting in the next week. But then, I could find myself marvelously bored while I have nothing to do but vacation.

That being said, I am marvelously bored right now, which is why I'm posting here, since I have nothing at all to say (the norm). There are five cars in the staff parking lot. The 3rd floor is deserted, except for me and Karin. I don't think I'll last the day. I've got gift wrapping I could be doing.

I was flipping channels last night before going to bed, because lately I tend to cling to my awake time like a little kid. I flipped past PAX and then quickly flipped back. Is that Hugh Hefner? Being interviewed? By that guy?
What a trainwreck. I only saw the last couple minutes of it (whether there was much more to it, I do not know). The interviewer, who was Mr. Christian (Sister Christian) -- nothing could sully his cheer, dammit -- after having credited Hugh with a large part in the sexual revolution said something like, "That was all good. But now, every year millions of people die of AIDS, millions of teenagers get pregnant, sexual crimes are on the rise, millions of abortions... Do you at all feel responsible for that?"
To which Hugh slightly leered and said, "You convinced me. Sex is the enemy. Murder, rape, genocide -- it's nothing compared to sex."
The interviewer smiled benignly and said, "Well, I can't agree with you on that." (He could not have been that naive.)
Eventually Hugh went off on how religion is just Man's way of answering questions which cannot be answered. He also said that he considers himself more fortunate because he can look at everything from a distant and more enlightened place.
At the end of the interview, the show cut to the interviewer in the studio, where he said, "I want to thank Hugh Hefner for his candor in coming to talk to me about his faith. Though we don't agree on all things, I can appreciate his forthrightness and willingness to discuss these matters."

Oh, man. I'm all for respecting other's opinions, in theory and not always in practice, and exposing one's self to differing points of view. I'm also all for letting go of one's anger, in theory and not always in practice. But, in this case, I don't know -- I don't feel particularly guilty or intolerant calling Hugh a shriveled old pimp. But I do respect his enlightening views on faith.

Got the majority of my Christmas shopping done. I don't know why I've been whining so much about it, considering I am really only buying for my parents, nieces and nephews, and a couple of my siblings. Not buying for friends or co-workers, which makes me a bad person. A long time ago we made a rule in our family that only the kids get presents. For a while there, I was included in that equation, which was kind of ridiculous and made me feel on a par with six-year-olds. Nevertheless, it was a good rule. Our family is an intimidating size.

Yesterday afternoon we were in Barnes & Noble. I went to the bathroom, locked the stall door, started to do my thing, and this woman carrying multiple shopping bags burst in. I made that feeble attempt to cover myself (you know... pull the waist of your pants up so that your knees are nice and covered) and laughed nervously. The woman looked embarrassed, apologized, and closed the door quickly enough (although she fumbled with it a little, considering she had all those bags in her hands). Then she called, from her new stall, You should have locked the door.

I was silent for a moment, but I really couldn't let this woman place the blame on me. So I called back, It was locked.

No, it wasn't, she replied.

I decided to leave it at that. No point arguing with her. It was clearly my fault for locking the door.

Today is the last day of the semester. This = things alternately boring as hell and terribly rushed. I've been surprisingly short-tempered today. Still as polite as always, of course, but perhaps less inclined to tolerate bullshit. I had a student come in here before asking why a new module for CEP isn't online. Because I have not received the new module. Well, would you mind getting in touch with my department and seeing if you could get the module up today? Even if they got the articles in to the office today, it would take some time to get them up. So they wouldn't be up today? No, they wouldn't be up today.
I couldn't really take it. She dropped in a second time to show me her syllabus and ask why it said Spring 2004 and not Spring 2005. She asked me if it was a typo and if I could correct it, if so. I don't write the goddamn syllabus. Oh, you don't? No, I don't.
Actually, that exchange never happened. She was nice. Thanked me. I had to force a close-mouthed smile and nod and "You're welcome."

Then a professor came in asking for Karin. I asked if I could help, seeing she was carrying something for ReserveWeb. I was about to take the thing, even though she didn't submit a form, but then I saw it was in Chinese. So I asked if she could submit a form. She agreed, though she seemed a little annoyed at the need for paperwork. (Without the citation, I don't know how I should be able to label the article. Contrary to popular belief, I don't read Chinese.) The kick in the head is when she asked, albeit nicely, if I am Karin's assistant. Oh, no, I'm a librarian. She seemed embarrassed. "I'm sorry! You just look so young!"

Yeah, I get that a lot.

It's enough to make me want to draw crow's feet on my face to make me look older. Oh wait, I already do have crow's feet. But they don't make me look older. I still look like a 12-year-old. Just a 12-year-old with crow's feet.

I'm in the early stages of dismantling Chinqwamania, because I'm a big grown-up now and don't want that kind of garbage to ruin my career. I'm putting my domain registration through the proverbial paper shredder by way of letting it expire in February. If it makes the image any more appealing, think of me as a politician, the time as midnight, and the light source as flashlight. Nothing will hinder me on the rocky climb up that ladder. My reputation is stellar.
Fairly soon, I'll be taking the videos offline. I'll save them for nostalgia's sake, so that years from now I can dig up my old external CD-ROM drive (by then the media will be obsolete, you see), pop in the scratched polycarbonate plastic disc, and weep in front of the images because I am young, so young. By this time, I will be a disembodied head floating around in a hovercraft.
Jake Monstrosity suffers a different fate. I have already moved him over to this site. You can find him here. He is also available via a link on the random page. See nav bar to the left. I'm attempting to come up with new, fresh ideas for Jake, considering it's all getting a little stale.... Any input would be appreciated and ignored. No, kidding. Appreciated.

Yesterday I forgot to include two useless pieces of information that it was just as well I omitted:

1) I have finally gotten threaded comments to work on this thing. Amazingly, all it took was for me to use my noggin and actually LOOK at the code, rather than cut and paste whatever was given to me and place blind faith in developers. Forgot about that little thing called "brain" (no, wait, I mean "Krang"). So, if this should ever be flooded with comments by those amazed by the wit and stupidity of my entries, you, yes you, can reply to any comment you choose, and the comment will appear nested. Because I adore livejournal, is why.

2) I have named my car. At first I was going to call it "Subarobot" (because it's a Subaru and it's metallic gray), a name I still kind of love and may use on occasion, but I finally decided on "Mister Sulu." Because it's a Japanese car, and when I put the pedal to the metal I can say, in my best Sulu impersonation, "Warp 8, cap'n." You see, I'm not much of a Trekkie, so I can. It is impossible for this name to at all reflect on my coolness. I am not a geek. I am a human being.

Update: All I want for Christmas.

Friday

Though the weather was miserable, Toni and I hopped a freight train to the city for the Bard Holiday Party and Young Alumni/ae After Party. We stayed at the holiday party for about 10 minutes, mostly because we were late and there was no food (this being our only reason for showing up, of course). I saw a number of people I would have really liked to talk to, as well as Prof. Sourian, who accosted me as usual and eventually professed his love for me. We left to go to the after party and found that the bar it was being held in had no seating and a sadistic DJ. You should be able to hear each other shouting over the 80s music at a function meant to reunite old college buddies. So we left that too. By this time, T and I were separated, and I was with the boys. Eventually we gave up trying to have fun, went and ate at some trendy Chinese place in Gramercy Park, and ended up having fun anyway watching Saved with Anna in Astoria. Got home with D at about 2 AM, after an invigorating 20 minute wait for the train at Ditmars.

Saturday

Spent the whole day doing sing-a-longs, after R came home from his work and D lost interest in his Gorillaz DVD. Well, um, actually, it was me who lost interest in his Gorillaz DVD, but that is NOT to say I don't like Gorillaz. IT'S NOT, D. The day was very mellow, but we were all tired anyway.
Spent the evening at A's, watching Spiderman 2 ("Go get him, tiger!") and playing half a game of Trivial Pursuit, before going back to Steinway St. and having the following, the best, exchange of the night (paraphrased and partially made up, since I don't remember it all). Roleplaying to us involves no dice and no kinkiness. Just creepiness.

***

[Lights up on a Burger King, with a sign saying, "SpongeBob Live in Person! Saturday 1-3 PM."
R. points to sign.]

R: I saw SpongeBob. Did you see SpongeBob?
Me: No, honey, I didn't see SpongeBob.
D: Was it fun seeing SpongeBob?
R: Haha! I saw SpongeBob, and you didn't.
Me: Now, you do know that that wasn't really SpongeBob, don't you, honey?
R: What?
D: (whispering angrily) What are you doing? Just let him have his illusion!
Me: (whispering back) He needs to know. He's 24 years old.
D: (whispering) And at a 5th-grade level!
Me: (To R.) Honey, that's a man in a suit.
R: No. No!
Me: Yes, it is. He's a man who puts on a SpongeBob suit and pretends to be SpongeBob for all the kids.
D: (whispering) Stop it! What kind of a mother are you?
R: No! It was SpongeBob!
Me: (whispering to D.) It's about time he faces the realities of the world.
D: (whispering) He's on a 5th grade level! He doesn't have to!
Me: (whispering) Most 5th graders realize SpongeBob is not real.
R: No! No, I don't believe you!

[D. pushes me away from R. and puts his arm around him.]

D: It's all right. Don't you listen to Mommy. She doesn't know what she's talking about.
R: It was SpongeBob! He talked to me.
Me: (frantic) Did he touch you?
D: What? No... wait, did he?
R: He--um--there was an Econoline van.
D: Did you go in the van?
R: Um, yeah.
D: Were there any other kids in there?
R: There were two other kids.
D: Were they alive?
R: Yeah, um, they were bleeding.
Me: Oh, honey, you don't have to be alive to bleed.
R: They were twitching.
Me: Honey, you don't have to be alive to twitch.

***

And I think at that point we just broke down and couldn't continue. Too much laughter. We're going to hell.

My recount just doesn't do that exchange justice. D suggested we start an awfully creepy and disturbing sketch comedy team. I'm all for it. It'll go to the top of the list of our possible ventures, right next to our restaurant chain, Awful Waffles, with the all-waffles menu, waffle-themed go cart track, and waffle-themed drive-in movie theater. Waffles in the Mist. Desperately Seeking Waffle. I Am A Waffle from a Chain Gang. And, my favorite, Waffle.

Sunday

Came home. Very uneventful. I officially started living in my apartment, however. Even parked my car in the garage. Odd, this. I hope that I have the strength of character to buckle down and do some major unpacking tonight. I'm tired of stepping over boxes.

I'll probably just end up playing computer games though. Such is the way of life.

Oh maggot, I don't think I can stand the hipsters anymore. From now on, my tolerance of people cooler than me is zero.

1) On Friday night, suddenly thrown together with both Dave and Curran for the first time in two and a half years, we did something kind of bad. Just to be pathetic losers, we decided to go visit Rovere and maybe harrass the students now living in "our" room, 303. (I was an honorary roommate, though my room in Rovere was 302, and I miss it still.... Well, not really.) I got to the 3rd floor landing first, so was the first to see the upper half of a desk lying there, abandoned, as those upper halves so often were. Why did no one want the shelf? I loved the shelf! More room for putting books and bottles. Also, there was that handy fluorescent blinding light underneath that made my rooms look so cold and empty and my face look jaundiced and dead. I loved that part of the desk.
Anyway, the thing that grabbed me about this abandoned piece of furniture was the plank along the top that was branded "ROV 303." I pointed at it, and Dave and Curran went mad, and we decided we had to have it. This was some kind of sign. A plank, with our room number burned into it. Some kind of sign.
So we got a screwdriver, unscrewed the very top, and eventually had to pull the thing off and splinter it a bit.
I maintain that the desk was broken already. Though I feel kind of guilty for it now. Anyway, we scampered off with our bit of wood and sinned no more. We also left a note behind, saying, "Sorry! It had to be done."

2) This morning the subject of stage mothers came up. Mama said, "I think those stage mothers just wanted for their kids what they never got themselves, so they pushed them to do what they didn't want to do." Mom then said, "Yeah, I always wanted Sara to be a go-go dancer. That's what I always wanted to be, anyway." And then Mama says this:

Or one of those strippers. They dance around and all the fellows jump up and clap and all. And they put the money in their little bikinis. But they're just doing it to put their kids through school. Because that's the only job available to them. Easy money, huh?

3) Last year, I made a Friendster profile for Dean Stockwell. I don't know why, but I just did. Sometimes people find the profile and request to be friends. I always grant it. A few people have even left testimonials, although these are mostly my friends. But today I received this message from some 18-year-old named Anthony:

I was wondering if you are currently in the process of developing or elaborating an acting portfolio and or video resume?

My name is Anthony and I am a young screenwriter who is trying to create a network of actors. My goal is to recruit or be in contact with as many actors as possible in the Los Angeles area (where
I reside). By doing this, I can then move forward with a film project, and contribute to my portfolio as a film director. Of course my actual
goal is to become a professional film director, yet to achieve that goal I must accomplish the smaller goals first.

There are many benefits for a passionate actor when developing either a reel, video resume or acting portfolio -if not all three. It is crucial for all actors to analyze their career goals and determine which path is most effective for them. I am providing assistance to at least one effective path in achieving the goal as professional actor.

If you are interested, or want to be a contact please inform me. If you would more information about acting career paths and or my actors network, please feel free to ask.
Thank you very muh.

At first I thought, "Jesus, this kid must think this is really Dean Stockwell." And then it hit me. He probably doesn't even know who Dean Stockwell is. And that's crazy. I'm tempted to write him and give him advice, perhaps refer to Hollywood as the Great Satan.

5) I bought a car. Pictures to come, thank you very muh.

I just discovered, in attempting to clean up the chinqwamania site, that I still had a few remnants of an old blog there from last March. God, I was depressed. I'm about to delete all that forever, but before I do that, I'd like to include part of an entry that reminded me of something forgotten: my "second script," set in space.

No aliens, no A.I. Gone Bad, no Jason, no Leprechaun, no zombies even -- although someday I will write a zombie movie, when I can come up with something that has not been done before. (Why do you think I meditate? This is something that has to be attained. Like Nirvana. A zombie movie.)

Space makes for a pretty boring setting unless something goes wrong. Well, this is a stupid argument. Any place makes for a pretty boring setting unless something goes wrong. But a space freighter (Freighter of what, who knows? I just like Alien, is all.), running smoothly, same crew working steadily -- that is boring. Dare I say, maddening. Has anyone other than Ren & Stimpy dealt with the subject of space madness resulting from nothing but BOREDOM? Did I mention that this would be a comedy?

OK, the characters, as they are now, are two:

1) A grease monkey of some sort, whose name rhymes with "truck" or at least has a syllable very close to "truck"... like DRUKKER. Or BROCK. Or MACK. He's as steady as a rock that's steady. He's also always dirty, and probably just a tad hot.

2) A woman, whose name I had but now I can't remember because I never write things down. She's socially inept, because she's in space. And has been for a long time.

What a hack I am. Solaris. 2001. That guy in Matrix named Dozer. It's good for me to occasionally look back and say, "God. What an unoriginal dork I was 9 months ago."

Last night, I had an absurd anxiety dream. I dreamt I was sitting at the reference desk, and there were problems with the printers and copiers (as there invariably are -- every day something freaks out and stops working). So this one girl stands up and says, "Until you librarians get your act together, I'm not going to answer any more questions."
So I say, "What about this one..."
Everyone turns and looks at me. I stand up and leave the reference desk, approaching the girl. Inwardly, I am panicking, because I have absolutely no witty comeback for this little twit.
I come up close to her and say, "Why don't you leave the library?"
The girl huffs and starts to leave, so I clap my hands on her shoulders and say, in the friendliest way possible, "I was kidding--I was kidding!" She turns and leaves anyway.
I was totally flattened. Not only was my comeback lame, but I apologized for it, and I was right next to all the first floor librarians' offices. They saw my utter lack of both creativity and resolve. I spent the rest of my dream feeling stupid and worrying about having said this to this student. Then I woke up and, with relief, realized it was not real. Whew! What a nightmare. Revealing my true colors to the world!

***

Tonight, or maybe tomorrow night, I go for a trial run at my apartment. Trial run, meaning I really have very little furniture over there, so it will probably take me some time to get everything I need into place. Add to that the fact that I still haven't gotten a car, which I may do tomorrow after work if possible.
I may party (or rather, "party") with D and C this weekend, as it is the last time we will see Curran before he heads for Tikrit (or thereabouts).
Good thing my mother separated all my alcohol from the house alcohol and packed it in a paper bag for me to bring to my apartment. In the bag: one large bottle of Mezcal, complete with worm; an oblong bottle of tequila, Silver Patron, very smooth; one large bottle of Bacardi; two miniature (plastic) promo bottles of Mezcal.

... Why? Why is everything that is mine so vomit-inducing? What I should say is, Why does everything I drink turn to vomit?