Saturday, July 31, 2004

My schedule is changing. I hate that, it's like moving a cat's food bowl.

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

We made dinner tonight. I don't think she was feeling so well. She called just after I got home, my roommate wasn't around. She said he'd just left her place; he said he'd left something on the stove here. There was an dirty pan, but the heat was off. There was also a casserole dish she'd brought over. She sounded sad. I didn't know what to say. She offered to come over if I was going to cook a recipe I'd found the previous night; a baked mushroom dish (the reason for the casserole dish. Her mother moved to California a while ago and left her with tons of kitchen stuff.) I had planned on it but I was tired and had almost forgotten. I agreed since it might put her in a better mood and I haven't eaten much this week. He made it back here just after, then walked back to retrieve her after I said she wanted to eat. Living a block away can be nice. The dish was supposed to have mushrooms, butter, parsley, bell pepper, onion, and spices. I substituted cilantro for the parsley, green onion for the white onion (a mistake I think), and vegan butter-type stuff for the real kind. In a feeble attempt to make a real dinner I made some rice and heated up canned corn. Very filling and tasty, even if canned corn isn't as good as a real side dish. Rice is always welcome. There was more than enough for the three of us. Imagine me with leftovers! There's enough for five there. I feel so domestic. I wish I'd had some wine to go with it. Newcastle had to make due. I've found that I like to cook; I like to eat. With my ersatz family these few times we cook at home bring us closer together. Here's to many more.

Monday, July 26, 2004

Sunday, July 25, 2004

Das Glück ist nicht immer lustig
Last night we watched Angst essen Seele auf AKA Ali: Fear Eats the Soul.  It's directed by this German named Reiner Fassbinder.  Complete nutbag, but a compelling director.  He doesn't want to fight the revolution for you, only present the compelling reasons to revolt.  In Fear Eats the Soul, he presents the difficulty of an interracial marriage between an older German woman and a young Moroccan.  [Of course the man who was playing the Moroccan was Fassbinder's lover.]  In most films, this would either end with one of them dying or else the people around them learning to accept them.  Fassbinder, not wanting to give you the catharsis of a fight won or lost only shows the struggle and won't pander to our desire to show how the fight is resolved.  If he shows the resolution then you won't want to fight yourself.  I guess.  What an artfag.

Saturday, July 24, 2004

"Acts of creation are ordinarily reserved for gods and poets, but humbler folk may circumvent this restriction if they know how. To plant a pine, for example, one need be neither god nor poet; one need only own a good shovel. By virtue of this curious loophole in the rules, any clodhopper may say: Let there be a tree--and there will be one." - Aldo Leopold.
“House of Fun” by Madness. 

Walking to Cheers; left one block, right, two blocks forward.  Just on the left, behind the 7-11.  Two A.M.?  It’s difficult to tell in Las Vegas.  “If you serve, I’ll be on my way.”  The bars never close; the ambient heat presses down on you heavier than a Sumo wrestler.  I just got off the phone with a girlfriend in San Francisco.  We’re worse than Freda Kahlo and Diego Rivera; nothing but boozing and whoring.  She’s sprung on some rocker and can’t stop talking about him.  Born in Bakersfield, about my age, in a cow-punk band, and drives dead people around for a living.  Sounds hot to me.  She can’t stop talking about him, but I still listen anyway.  I’m jealous.  I should be living in San Francisco and dating hot punk boys.  I should be able to pick up random tattooed and pierced chicks on Craigslist.  Instead, I’m listening to dramas from a million miles away and contemplating stumbling over to the local dive for some brew. The Newcastle there is cheap as hell at night and the bartenders have a generous pour.  I usually know at least 6 people by name and more by face every time I walk in.  “Where everybody knows your name” I guess.

“Party Girl” by U2

A Latina I know from the Goth club is inside.  She’s been all over the world in the past year.  At least to Mexico and the Far East; far enough for me to say “all over the world.”  A slightly round face, palest olive skin, and jet-black hair frame the brightest smile.  She just put two deep green streaks in her hair; on each side of her face.  She comments that it’s the same color as her apron at work.  She’s a barista at the Evil Café ©.  I guess she only wants a part time gig and at $7 and hour plus tips she’s making enough to pay the rent.  I buy her a beer since I think the rent is about all she can pay.  We go outside to see her scooter.  It’s smaller than the ones I’ve owned.  She’s spray-painted it metallic silver.  The rear brake is on the handlebar instead of the floorboard like most scooters I’ve seen.

“Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac.

 People fade in and out as the night goes on.  Three becomes four becomes dawn.  I catch a ride from this chick with a Mohawk and lots of facial piercings.  I almost want to go home with her, but I need more sleep than I’ll be getting before I have to leave for work.  I fall asleep quickly, thankfully. 

Friday, July 23, 2004

Shit, I accidentally set my alarm clock an hour ahead.  So now I’m at work an hour early and I just want to curl up and die.

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

Sherman Austin was just released from prison into a halfway house.  He was arrested for thought crimes.  He spent a year in federal prison.  The charge?  A teen posted bomb making information on Austin's web site.  Sherman didn't write it, approve it, or anything like that.  It was just in a comments section of his web site.  Feh.

Monday, July 19, 2004

Never make the mistake of calling an angry latina an angry chicana.

Saturday, July 17, 2004

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

I'm actually *playing* a wrechord I paid $100 for. It's a crime.
We went out to the pool today; roommate and his girlfriend wanted to hang out for a bit. We took some pinot noir for her and I; roommate took a Guinness. The hot tub wasn't heated, so we spent most of the time swimming in the main pool. She wore a two piece bathing suit. I'm accustomed to the women I’m closest to wearing one piece suits. Spuds even wore a t-shirt over her one piece. It takes some confidence to show off one’s belly. I wore some faded denim shorts and took my shirt off. Our compatriot left his grey wife beater on over long cargo shorts. I’m not sure what he’s afraid of; we don’t judge each other here; well at least we won’t admit to it. It made me miss naked hot tub time in Santa Cruz in 1995. Godzilla bootlegs on the big screen drinking champagne with strawberries, laying back in the hot tub with 5 friends talking about everyone's body art. After we'd tired of the pool, we sat near the edge and read. I had Love in the Time of Cholera; she had One Hundred Years of Solitude. Almost a bus stop moment; two people realize that they're reading (college level) books by the same author. Ian was reading something like looked like those awful teenage (and arm chair soldier) spy novels. On closer inspection it was something by Philip K. Dick, so it was okay. Just poor cover design. I've never read by the pool before. I so rarely even consider going outside unless it's to go someplace else. I can't even remember the last time I went swimming. I think it was when 3 friends came to visit from Santa Cruz in 2002 or thereabouts. After we came inside, I really wanted to hear Perfect Day by Lou Reed but I couldn't find the CD; I settled on the Pixies. It rounds things off nicely. I think it might be time for some Italian splatter horror soon.

Friday, July 09, 2004

25 foot Blue Click for larger photo

Inflatable gorillas.
A federal appeals court has rejected Nevada’s plea to block the federal government’s plans to turn Yucca Mountain into a nuclear waste dump. I’m ambivalent about this. Of course I don’t want a metric fuckload of the most dangerous shit in the universe within pissing distance of my favorite bars, but where the hell else would they stow this shit? The NIMBY syndrome is bullshit. If not in our backyard, then where? Shoot it off into the sun? Of course I’m always in favor of sending it to Utah. Nothing worth saving there.
Just finished watching Trois couleurs: Rouge I haven't seen it in 10 years. It's such a beautiful film. I didn't remember anything about it, but once it started memories started flooding in. I remember the woman I was living with at the time; the fun we had watching this on the television in our bedroom. We only had a television in the bedroom and a stereo in the livingroom. We didn't have a computer. Fond memories.

Sunday, July 04, 2004

The History Channel is playing a program about sex in the 20th century. I find it so difficult to understand how people can't be forward and honest about their bodies and desires. Maybe I was just brought up strange.

Friday, July 02, 2004

Thursday, July 01, 2004

Insert bad joke here.