Axel Foley's Corner

I wasn't serious

2008-04-16T22:26:00.001-04:00

(What I said about being faithful to this blarg.)

I'm Hungee

2007-08-03T11:48:00.001-04:00

I now also write for a food-based blog founded by my coworker Catherine. The address is www.gobellyup.blogspot.com. Don't worry, I'll still be faithful to this blarg, especially since I'm under so much pressure with Beverly Hills Cop 4 on its way and everything.

I'm Moving

2007-07-31T20:52:00.000-04:00

My new address is:

187 Murder Court
Crooklyn, New Jack City 69666
United $tate$ of Amerikkka

I'm not actually moving.

Find Yourself A City To Live In

2007-07-19T15:09:00.000-04:00

I was in Chicago (The City of Big Shoulders, The City That Eats, The Windy Apple) last weekend to attend the Pitchfork Music Festival, as well as visit my friends Josh and Alex. Gaby tagged along because she heard that you get an LOL Cats sticker with a deep dish pizza at Giordano's. That turned out not to be true.

I consider myself pretty well-traveled, but changes of scenery are always eye-opening to me. Hell, even driving to the airport is a bit strange. Here is a whole stretch of run-down Brooklyn and Queens that I never, ever see except when I'm flying out of JFK. Who knows what kind of interesting stories are hiding in the rowhouses and shitty bodegas flying by? I guess what I'm saying is that when one is confined to a certain corner of the universe, it's hard to imagine most of the human race getting up for work every morning, working at job all day, doing whatever it is they do for fun, and going to bed. In a somewhat related story, there's a lot I don't understand about the concept of celbrity. But that's another post for another time.

Chicago itself is a city hard not to like--it's friendly, has great, innovative architecture (excuse me, starchitecture), and is adjacent to scenic Lake Michigan, where I was lucky enough to be taken sailing.

A few other observations about Chicago. First of all, every time I go there I'm blown away by its cleanliness. Now, granted, I didn't go to the shitty parts of the city, but even in the somewhat marginal parts, things were really spic and span, a striking contrast to New Jack City, where in the summer, you get a whiff of urine and/or feces every half block. I don't really understand how the city does it, and I'm not sure if I want to know, since I enjoy chalking it up to some Midwestern character, and I like it more that way. (I'm endlessly fascinated by how places, in our modern, transient age, still retain characteristics they've had for decades, even hundreds of years.)

Second of all, I dig the emphasis on food. The more I think about it, the more eating should be the centerpiece of everything. It's the only pure thing left in this world. Also, the large contingent of morbidly obese people in Chicago make me feel better about myself.

Thirdly, and this one's for the hipsters--the cool folks in Chicago are not in your face with their ridiculousness. And by that I mean, as Gaby observed, nobody is trying to be the #1 hippest person on the planet. Go up to Bedford Ave. here in New Jack and you'll see that in spades. And it's pretty fucking annoying.

Fourthly, I don't think I'd ever want to live in Chicago. But Axel, I hear you cry, you just said the town was clean, has good eatin', and is refreshingly laid back! What's not to like?? Well, I suppose this is why I can't stand any of those reports that come out claiming the best place to live in America is somewhere like Greensboro, North Carolina. They analyze tons of factors, but they don't place great enough weight on the really important ones. Like, say, the people. Chicagoans are friendly, but New Yorkers (and northeasterners in general) are self-deprecating, loud, sarcastic, somewhat dickish. In other words, my people. I don't think I'd fit in there. Also, Chicago isn't near an ocean and it's fucking freezing in the winter. And, as Mr. Jackson says, all of the young people are too happy to be there. and they all went to state schools. Generalization complete! Close the generalization capsule!

Enclosing, geography and setting is very important to me. I've never understood people who don't really care where they live. I could talk about the merits of New York, Boston, London, Barcelona, and Washington DC for hours. It's one of those topics, like the weather, that people traditionally use to fill awkward silences but which I actually enjoy discussing.

I Hope The "Urban Market" Likes Guided By Voices

2007-07-11T19:58:00.000-04:00

So, my 80 GB video Ipod was stolen last week. Thank you, I know it sucks. Yes. Well, it's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault, Will. It's not your fault.

I don't really have much else to say about that particular event. Some kid snatched it from me while I was walking in Fort Greene. I chased him for a while, called 911 (three cops showed up--I guess the murder rate in NYC really is down), and almost trapped the guy in a subway station. All in all, it was a high voltage thrill ride reminiscent of the final scene from THE FUGITIVE. Except that I didn't get my Ipod back, so I guess the one-armed guy won. Boo urns. For a more thorough account of this misadventure (complete with the mandatory recriminations that follow the reporting of a robbery on neighborhood message boards around here), look here.

Oh, and my flight to Chicago (I'm going to the Pitchfork Music Festival this weekend) got cancelled today. And I wanted to come home and permit myself the simple pleasure of doing the New York Times crossword puzzle (I've mastered Tuesday--can I beat Wednesday???). Lo and behold, everywhere in my neighborhood is either out of the paper or too fucktarded to carry it. Well, don't that just beat the band?

I'm sick of this heat. Hmm, anything else to complain about? Oh yeah, Iraq's still fucked up. Could somebody fix that?

You Have The Mark Of The Beast On Your Left Foot

2007-07-04T16:53:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago I visited my friend Sara in Santa Monica, CA. One of the highlights of the trip was my first-ever manicure/pedicure (for those reading this blog who don't know me very well, I'm not a gay homosexual; I just enjoy reading Redbook while getting my toenails buffed to a healthy shine).

Shortly after this picture was taken, I received a happy ending.

My Standup Comedy Routine For Today's Modern World

2007-06-30T12:45:00.001-04:00

AIDS. Rape. Abortion. All these things are funny.

Thank you, you've been a great crowd!

My Name's Paul, And this Is Between Y'All

2007-06-29T23:54:00.001-04:00

Today I found myself in one of the less hellish parts of Midtown--57th St. around Broadway. Still pretty hellish, but not the ninth circle of the Penn or Grand Central Station areas. (Every time I visit one of these profoundly awful sections of town, with their crowds of blue-shirted businessmen plethora of soul-destroying soup and sandwich lunch places , I feel a flutter in my chest for Brooklyn, suburbia, and the countryside.) By the way, I love New York.

Anyway, I was in the mood for a burger, and thought I'd hit up Burger Joint at Le Parker Meridien hotel, which for my money offers one of the top three burgers in New Jack City (but that's another post for another time). The place is located in a small, almost hidden room in a roped-off corner of the hotel, and is always crowded with tourists and locals alike. You might say it's famous with people looking for a tasty, juicy burger smothered with ketchup, mayo, mustard, tomatoes, and onions. And today was no different--well, actually, it was even more crowded than usual. And yet I decided to stand in line for a good 25 minutes, trying to read my New Yorker while listening to a greasy dude behind me telling his teenage son about how much credit card debt the kid's mom/dude's ex-wife had racked up. Then I waited for another 15/20 minutes, standing shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of people on their lunch break, hardlly able to move, waiting for my burger. And you know what? IT WASN'T WORTH IT. No food is worth waiting for in those kind of conditions. The whole experience reminded me that people are cattle, and that even I am not immune to the cattlelike mentality occasionally. But why are people (even so-called savvy New Yorkers) so willing to wait in huge lines for things? I guess the mentality rewards people who are slightly more intelligent and get their lunch at, say, 1:30 instead of 12:30. So I guess I don't want it to stop or anything, because then it would all be a big guessing game, whereas now you can count on people being reliably dumb. But I don't really get it.

Hey, remember Insomniac with Dave Attell? That was a pretty reliabe B+ TV show in the halcyon days of 2002.

The Legend of Baggy Pants. That's what came into my head when I watched five minutes of "The Legend of Bagger Vance" tonight. It's not funny, but it made me smile (internally) I don't know.

Andy Kindler, an underrated stand-up comic, says that Jewish people hate Hitler, but they're also obsessed with him. "If you ever want to rob a Jewish person's house, just tell 'em there's a Hitler film festival down at the multiplex, and watch 'em file out." Wow. He's spot on there. Hitler totally fascinates me. Totally true, Kindler. Funny, but also true. Kind of like most good comedy.

Fart.

Terrorists 1, Spicoli 0

2007-06-22T01:41:00.001-04:00

Whenever I read something in the Times, or a like-minded publication, about how a movie or an album is a product of our post-9/11 mindset, or how we live in a "culture of fear," I laugh (internally). The media loves nothing more than a convenient way to explain everything it reports on, a sort of unifying theory of culture. In my opinion, it routinely and unnecessarily projects the anxieties of the world onto every last corner of society. I'm not saying that Americans' attitudes haven't been altered at all in the last few years; they have. But art has always been about fear and loathing. People have always been fucked up and crazy. The themes of life are not very different than they have ever been. The world doesn't change nearly as much as a newspaper wants it to, but a grand statement makes for a snappy headline.

Having said all that, yesterday was kind of an eye-opener for me, and one case in which the theme of American impotence seemed valid. I attended my cousin's high school graduation (even though everyone knows the class of '07 is worthless) in suburban Ardsley, New York, where the gardens are well-manicured and the people are nice and Jewy. Every time I leave New York and go to the suburbs, whether it be pastoral Lexington, MA, Westchester, or anywhere else, I'm dumbstruck by how weird, wonderful, and soul-sucking the landscape and the lifestyle is. All those open spaces, the clean air, the stars in the sky, the neat little houses, the cars...it's like a wonderland coming from New Jack City, and I never, ever get over it.

Where was I? Right, the graduation. So, the first two speakers were the valedictorian and the salutatorian. I believe they both mentioned 9/11, and how "we live in an uncertain world." Hardly any humor was injected into either speech. Uh, congratulations class of '07!

But the strangest speech came from the superintendent, who started out by saying something like "There's a town...where the kids get up at 6 every morning, go to school until noon, go home until 2, then go back to school until 5, then do homework for hours in a row." Guess what? The school is in China. Watch out, America! Yes, "millions of people want what you want. It's competitive out there." Jesus Christ, what a downer! What happened to that dumb speech about wearing sunscreen?

Then he started talking about Freakonomics (still not sure why), and got another bestseller mention in --"As Tom Friedman told us, the world is not flat." Congratulations, you read books. I thought he was going to go on a riff about all the popular books of the age: "And as 'The Secret' tells us, you need to think positive to achieve your goals. Spirituality will be important on your journey, though some believe that 'God Is Not Great.' I also read 'Marley and Me.'"

Anyway, everybody thought the speech was a garbled, messy piece of work, and I thought it was downright hilarious how everybody's general theme seemed to be all about anxiety. If I were a NYT reporter covering this thing, I would probably write a lede (I said "lede!") saying that if Osama bin Laden had been attending this graduation (while hooked up to his dialysis machine, of course), he would have laughed (internally). My God, I'm almost 25 and I still write convoluted motherfucking sentences. Will this never change?

Unadulterated Bliss

2007-06-18T22:39:00.000-04:00

Here's the sort of thing dancing around my mind at weddings, funerals, book readings (especially book readings), Yom Kippur services, at the grocery store, at work, during auto-erotic asphyxiation...really, most of the time. You can take your Picasso and stuff it in a sack. This is pure beauty, even though the video quality is lacking.

Also, this is pretty cool, even if it gets silly at the end.

Lemme Tell You A Couple Three Things

2007-06-14T22:16:00.001-04:00

Ok, ok, I'll finally write the Sopranos post everyone has been begging me to write*. First of all, I can't believe it turned out the whole show was an elaborate dream. That last sequence showing Tony waking up to find that he was just another worker bee in a hive somewhere on the planet Blorg was incredible. That was a brave decision by David Chase, but he never cared about alienating his viewers--only about creating art. That's what made the show so great.

BUT SERIOUSLY. I should have written this post a bit earlier, because I have exhausted myself talking about the finale. Mostly I have been arguing with a friend of mine who feels cheated for watching the last season and a half of the show. He thinks The Sopranos was once great, but that this past season (and even before that), the conflicts have felt more forced than ever, the show has gone off on tangents (Tony's gambling and peyote, for instance) when it should have been wrapping up crucial plot points, and that David Chase did not "earn" his "art school ending." Well, I agree to a point. The last few episodes definitely felt choppy.. Plot arcs that were once cultivated over the course of many episodes were treated with much less subtlety. The conflict with New York did not feel fully developed to me, and Phil's justification for war not quite rational enough. And yet--the last season was enormously entertaining, so I can't say that the show did not do its job. It was not the show it once was, but it was still really damn good. And I thought the ending was great. I love the fact that it has created a debate and pissed off legions of New York Post readers who wanted "sometihng to happen."

Yes, I was both bemused and annoyed by the chorus of retards (possible band name?) who thought their cable went out at the end (seriously, come on) or fully expected someone to get shot at the end. I heard people complaining about this at a bar, and I wanted to shout "Have you watched this show over the past eight years???" Despite joking about it above, I'm going to say in all seriousness that The Sopranos was never about fulfilling viewer's expectations. It was always about putting the mundane over the contrived, so to think that the ending would be wrapped up in a neat little package was complete madness.

As for the "did Tony die?" question, well...it seems that theory has been lent some credence over the past few days. I was totally anti-death a few days ago, but I have softened up on the issue just a bit.

On a different note, I find it amusing when people overreach and think every single thing in the show is all part of the genius of David Chase. He put in three obscure actors from the series' past in the last scene to reward viewers! Each of the last nine episodes was an allegory for Dantes' circles of hell! If you play the last episode backwards it says that Paulie was wearing a wire!

Guess what? David Chase is human. People love nothing more than to mythologize people or entities, whether it be New York Yankees or Karl Rove. Once they have been deified, they are treated as if everything they do is some sort of grand plot--but as Curt Schilling wisely put it, "Mystique and Aura are dancers in a nightclub." David Chase probably just had a hard time ending the show. Happens to the best of us.

*Nobody begged me to write this.

A Short List of People About Whom Nobody Ever Has a Bad Word to Say

2007-06-13T20:52:00.000-04:00

1) Johnny Carson
2) Paul Rudd

Clearly Canadian dreaming

2007-06-10T10:56:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, after a leisurely jog/walk through Prospect Park, I walked into a bodega on gritty Washington Avenue, looking specifically for a blue Powerade ("Mountain Blast" flavor--really refreshing), but knowing that the chances of finding one in my amenities-lacking neighborhood was slim. I was shocked, then, to find something much better in the soda case. CLEARLY CANADIAN! This carbonated, flavored water drink (best flavor: raspberry) was a staple of my childhood in the early '90's, when Nirvana was breaking and I lived a block away from a suburban convenience store. Never mind the Nirvana thing. Anyway, it was always a bit of a luxury--a dollar at the time--but well worth it. As I was drinking my CC yesterday, a friend suggested that perhaps the nearby bodega had been stockpiling the beverage since 1992, which given grocery stores' standards around here wasn't such a crazy idea. But given the picture of a circa 2007-Steve Nash on the back of the bottle, I concluded that it was safe to drink.

I had not been sure if Clearly Canadian still existed--I remember looking it up online a while back with inconclusive results--but here you have it--2006 was proclaimed to be the "renaissance" year for this unique and delicious beverage. And I, for one, am elated.

Hello

2005-07-24T16:45:00.000-04:00

Remember me?

A Man Should Know His Limitations

2005-04-11T19:51:00.000-04:00

I don't think I feel like writing on this thing for a little while, at least a few days. Sorry to all my loyal readers.

You Can Sleep When You're Dead

2005-04-09T12:39:00.000-04:00

Right now I feel like Al Pacino in "Insomnia," except that instead of getting zero sleep, I'm getting two hours less sleep every night than I want to. Night before last I got about five and a half hours, last night about six and a half (rough estimates from the land of Nod). I'm going to write a movie about it--instead of hallucinating or being in a state of altered consciousness, the main character (a detective like Pacino) will just be fairly drowsy all the time, leading to classic exchanges like this:

Protagonist's parter on the squad: "Well, I think we've covered all the leads possible for today. Wanna go get a drink? There's a lot of good bars in this town."

Protagonist: "Um... that sounds fun, but to be honest I'm really exhausted. I haven't been sleeping that well. I think I'm just going to head home."

(Fin).

Yesterday morning they started jackhammering outside my window, working on restoring a building where I can hopefully spy on people in a few months. Today I think the light woke me up--I have to keep the shade a bit up because I keep the fan on all night, and if the shade's down it grates against the fan with a loud buzzing sound. Fuck that shit. Why can't everything be perfect? Whine whine whine.

I'm convinced that a short-term addiction to meth (or some other form of speed) would be good for me. Let me clarify. First of all, I know a "short-term addiction" is practically an oxymoron. (Like your mom). This is all hypothetical. But if I could take meth every day for, say, two months, then stop completely, I think my productivity would fly through the roof, and the long-term negative effects wouldn't equal the benefits. I really wish that marijuana, a drug I never enjoyed that much and don't use anymore, was less of a "sit on the couch and eat chips" drug and more of a "get off the couch and rob an old lady" kind of drug.

And One

2005-04-05T02:25:00.000-04:00

I should also mention that when I try to write a story, it's always about some young, white kid (what a stretch!) who's sitting somewhere thinking about something, and then he almost gets in a fight but nothing happens. Kind of gets old after a while. But maybe that happens because I try once every four months.

Great googly moogly.

I'm Going To Blog All Over You

2005-04-05T01:47:00.000-04:00

The reason I haven't updated in a few days is that I hate writing. No, faithful reader, your eyes have not deceived you. You're thinking "How could Axel Foley, author of "The Remains of the Day," hate writing? Well, first of all, I didn't write that book. Some Japanese guy did. Second of all, hate is a strong word I toss around too much , so let's just call it plain old dislike.

You see, old chum, writing to me is, like so many other things, a means to pleasure through a laborious process. Maybe it has something to do with my New Englander's appreciation for austerity (probably bullshit--I enjoy assigning traits to people based on where they're from, sometimes where it doesn't really fit), but writing is like going to the gym for my brain. I don't really enjoy it while I'm doing it, but the afterglow and sense of self-worth makes it all worthwhile. Now, that's not quite fair. Sometimes, when I'm on a roll, which isn't often (self-deprecation alert!), it's enjoyable on the level of, say, watching a baseball game I'm captivated with or... I was going to go with something more scatological and/or vulgar, but these days I don't know who could be reading this thing. The walls have ears, as Tintin once said to Captain Haddock, or something.

I also don't truly enjoy watching most movies or reading most books or going to most concerts. I don't enjoy them to the point where I lose myself in them, anyway. There are few things in this world that don't make me look at the clock to see when they're going to end. Once they do end, I take pride in having consumed them, and move on. I blame the media.

I think I'd like to get out of New York this weekend, but it's doubtful to happen. I've hit that eight-week urban plateau where I have a strong desire just to get the fuck out. I used to go crazy in Washington when I didn't have a car, wishing to God I could leave just for a weekend, just for that restorative change of scenery one needs once in a while. I'd like to go camping, lie back and look at the stars with a cigarette and four or five beers in me with some idealized girl, talking about ourselves and the big issues, feeling like we're the only two people on earth (always a very attractive idea in my book). Don't think it's going to happen this weekend, somehow.

God, this blog is solipsistic. I I I I I I I I. Me me me me me me. My life isn't even that interesting, though I do think good writing could make my life seem pretty interesting. But from now on, this blog is going to be through the eyes of a fictional character name Dean Rivera. He's an ex-con who's trying to live on the straight and narrow, until his old partner in crime recruits him for one last job... a job that could mean early retirement.

ATTICAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

MUST CREDIT DRUDGE

2005-04-04T19:49:00.000-04:00

This is just to say that I'm going to update this baby later tonight, and from here on in I'm going to update it every hour on the hour. As David Ortiz once said, "Keed the fate."

I Buy All My Cars At Police Auctions

2005-03-30T01:45:00.000-05:00

James Joyce went from writing fairly straightforward, traditional--in terms of narrative, anyway--stories to weird, experimental prose to inventing his own obscure language. I kind of want my artistic arc to be like that--I want to be less and less accessible until I'm in my own little world that may or may not make any sense. Just kidding, I think.

You know, I don't know whether anything can replace the pure, unadulterated bliss of listening to a kickass song while driving a car. Listening to music in one's room doesn't have the kinetic power that makes for the best aural experiences. (I almost sounded like a music critic there! "Aural" is used by music critics like "lyrically" is used by rappers--it's a handy word to have that doesn't mean much.) But walking around midtown after work today, with the throngs of people, the balmy temperature, and M83 on the trusty old Ipod after a day cooped up in an office--it made the whole scene seem like the last, cathartic shot of the pilot episode of a one-hour dramedy about my life in the big city. And that was nice. Not "driving a car" nice, but nice nonetheless.

From Dar es Salaam, Peter Dinklage, BBC news.

Alex, I've Wanted To Say This For Years--Let's Make It A True Daily Double

2005-03-28T02:06:00.000-05:00

This weekend I saw a Basquiat exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum, watched "Amelie," (I had never seen it), and some quality episodes of "Arrested Development," saw my friend Carl play with his band at a bar in Manhattan, played trivial pursuit with a few people, got taken out to dinner by my roommate's parents, and went to three bars. That would have qualified as a fuck-all blockbuster of a weekend just two short months ago, when Lexington, Massachusetts was sucking out my soul from the inside. But these days, I'm only satisfied if there's hookers and PCP involved. Everything truly is relative, I guess.

The Basquiat thing was pretty intense. First of all, it was crowded and stuffy--the Brooklyn Museum, like my bedroom, always seems to be overly warm--and I was characteristically sleepy, probably because I had ingested a copious amount of platypus tranqulizer. I've been to a lot of art museums in my day, and since I was a lad, I've never been able to walk around for very long before I take a seat on one of them benches they got there in the middle of the room. There, I contemplate my exhaustion (I think I've had an undiagnosed case of mono persistent since the age of six) and maybe gaze at a painting, trying to gauge whether it's "cool" or not. (That's how I judge art.)

Crowd density, temperature, and sleepiness aside, Basquiat's work is pretty amazing. Art is one of those things--like most things in the world--that is very foreign to me, both in execution and in concept. Execution, as in I can't draw for shit. Concept, as in I'm not sure what any of this MEANS, man. I really dig Basquiat's stuff on a purely visual and reaction-based level, and I think lots of art people say that that's half or more of the battle. I guess I'm just questioning all art right now, not just shit I could never see myself doing. I can safely say that a good song can change my short-term frame of mind, like when I used to psych myself up for those steel cage matches with "Ride the Lightning." But I don't really know what a good novel or a good movie, two art forms I feel pretty close to, do for me other than make me enjoy the time I'm engaged in them more than if I weren't. It seems the vast majority of what I read and watch evaporates into the recesses of my mind pretty quickly, and maybe helps me out at pub quiz (which is almost worth the effort by itself, actually). I know these aren't earth-shattering revelations to anyone--I'm assuming the question about the value of art has been asked since the first caveman took a piss on a rock and called it neo-realist expressionism--but it certainly makes me wonder. Even this movie I saw a few days ago, "Head On,"--did it really change my perspective on anything? It's an incredible movie, and it's stuck with me like few movies have, but I'm not sure why or what effect it's having. These things can teach me facts and historical perspectives for sure, but I'm not sure if I'm convinced about the possibility for real emotional change. Is all this shit just about enjoying craftsmanship and aesthetics? I don't feel like writing much more about this, and I've been quite unclear, I think. If I tried to write an essay on this topic, I'd probably get a B/B plus with comments about an inconsistent/muddled thesis.

Oh, one other thing. Comedy is good because it makes you laugh, and laughter is awesome. So if I make a lot of money off that I'll feel completely pure. Also, if your comedy is unfocused you can just say you're being absurd. This is clearly the medium for me.

Life: what's the deal?

Roger Federer is a tennis poet, and I look forward to watching him destroy all comers this week at the Nasdaq-100 Open in Miami. I imagine these great tennis points in my head all the time--back and forth rallies that go on forever, with some incredible, impossible winner to close out the point. Federer actualy plays like that, and it's a joy to watch. I wish he said something really anti-Bush at a press conference and became a polarizing figure, and that he had a really biting sense of humor. Tennis needs something like that.

Lastly, Hulkamaniacs, you should check this shit out. http://profiles.myspace.com/users/20082729 is my friend Josh's MySpace profile. He left it in a comment a couple of entries ago, but I'm including it here in case you missed it. Josh just cruised down to Buenos Aires to teach English solely because he heard from some guy at a party that Depeche Mode is really popular in Argentina. He's got a unique perspective on things, though, for real. My name's Paul, and this is between y'all.

Now Look Here, See, You Work For Me Now, Get It?

2005-03-25T01:59:00.000-05:00

So much to talk about. So much to talk about! War in Iraq, man. War in Iraq, man. You know why? Because American wanted to blow some shit up. Because AMERICA wanted to blow some shit UP!!!

Whoops, I started writing a Chris Rock routine. Sometimes I do that--just comes naturally.

Let me give you a brief rundown of the headline news of my life in a segment I like to call "Short Takes with Neil Cavuto." First off, the gas cooking still isn't functional in my apartment. It's been almost two months, and I'm down to 72 pounds soaking wet. After the first three days of starvation, the sharp stomach pains subside dramatically. Weirdly, they come back around the eighteenth day, then go away the twenty-second, then come back with a vengeance when the nimbus moon sets at a 32 degree angle with Polaris. Go figure. Anyway, we got a 40 percent rent reduction the first month, and we're about to send a letter demanding a whole month rent-free (there are a multitude of other, smaller problems, though the apartment does look very nice and people really enjoy it, including me, most of the time, except that these little things can drive me crazy, like the fact that my room smells like weed frequently--has something to do with the heating, I've determined). Sometimes I have violent fantasies where I storm into the real estate office that acts as our landlord and I beat this motherfucker that works there, fellow by the name of Nick Conway, to a bloody pulp. Since everyone else seems to know about this blog, maybe you're reading this, Nick Conway. Well, you're a motherfucker and I want to beat the shit out of you. It's worth knowing.

Let's see... what else... pizza pie is very hot right now... ah yes, so I was filling in for someone at Writers House this week, meaning that I was acting as an agent's assistant. I was in this agent's office when she said, apropos of nothing or very little, something like "By the way, I enjoyed your blog." Needless to say, I was stunned. I confess to having accessed Axel Foley's Corner on some computers in the building, but not hers. I told one intern that I had a blog, but didn't give her the address. Did I just leave this site up on a computer? I've done a lot dumber shit than that in my life, so maybe. Is there a mole in Writers House trying to ruin me? Probably. Am I writing the way Robert Evans talks? You bet your ass I am. Either way, this means I can't talk shit about people from work or their clients. All the details of those crazy, quaalude-fueled nights at Studio 54 with Stephen Hawking, Ken Follett, Nora Roberts, Neil Gaiman, and Michael Lewis will have to wait until that Vanity Fair article I've been writing for the past seven years finally comes out.

With work and a lot of my personal life off limits--this blog would be a hell of a lot different if I actually wrote honestly about my interpersonal relationships the way some people seem to--there's only one topic in my life that's still kosher and that I enjoy talking about. FANTASY BASEBALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This next segment goes out to Alex Sherman, who fervently requested it. Alex, I just want you to know that all of us here in the booth--and all of America--appreciate what you're doing for our country over there in Iraq. We're glad we can bring you this slice of home every once in a while.

This is the ninth year that a core group of Lexingtonians have been in the same fantasy baseball league. Since college, the league has morphed into a mixture of us and "them"--them being our college friends who try in vain to understand the unspeakable bond that was formed in 1997 with one man's dream for a cheaper, more durable plastic fantasy baseball league. That man was Dan Chamberlain, and though he has since gone to that great fantasy baseball game in the sky where Ricky Henderson's always got a lead off first even though he's also not dead, the league has lived on and thrived. I'm very proud that we have such a devoted base, and that we've been able to keep it together for so long. Fantasy baseball is truly one of the most enjoyable things in my life, and, I suspect ,in the lives of many of the league's members. Wow, this must be boring to read.

Last Friday, Josh Glickman flew in from Chicago and Keith Wilson drove up from the DC area, where he DOESN'T work for the National Security Agency. This year's league includes a pick of GW, Harvard, Michigan, Brown, Swarthmore, and Alex's roommate kids. On Saturday, everyone and their laptop came over for about five grueling hours of draft pick after draft pick. Now, I enjoy situations where everyone's sitting around, not moving. A captive audience, like in a car. That's where the Ben Hart school of comedy thrives. Here's how it works: say a phrase or person's name early on in the proceedings, then keep repeating it over and over until it becomes funny or until someone punches you in the balls. Rinse and repeat. On Saturday, this phrase for me was "Ben Broussard," Cleveland Indians first baseman/DH extraordinaire (I'm not sure what he plays, frankly). Every few turns, I would comment that Ben Broussard was still available, and gradually at least one person, Josh Jackson, began to find the Ben Broussard joke humorous. I think another couple of people also thought it was pretty funny. I personally thought it was dynamite material. When I actually picked Broussard to the disbelief of the masses, the joke came full circle. You gotta do this shit at these kind of occasions or you just have a bunch of people sitting around jerking off to Barry Bonds' on-base percentage.

Anyway, this year I instituted some new rules for the draft. I didn't allow water or bathroom breaks, and I made people come prepared with their own theme song. Mine was "The Boys Are Back In Town," because I fucking hate that song and I wanted to make myself angry so I would crush my opponents. When everyone else chose Elliott Smith songs, I knew the day was mine. And sure enough, I had a good draft. Sorry, Alex, I didn't really write about the draft, just my stupid joking and some other bullshit. I just couldn't bring myself to get any more descriptive. Next year I'll do a Bill Simmons-like running diary.

Remember The '80's?

2005-03-22T00:10:00.000-05:00

After seeing a pretty incredible movie--"Head On"--it's highly recommended by Axel Foley and the entire Beverly Hills police force, and I should really be writing the whole post about it--a man randomly rushed up to my friend Leslie in the manner of a friend joking around, pretending to be some lunatic--except this guy was a lunatic. He sort of grabbed her by the shoulders and I sprang into panicky action mode, whereby I actived my primal human reflex of "shit's going down." My reaction was to take a step forward and say "Hey" meekly. The guy didn't end up doing anything, which is good for him, because I was about to say "Hey" again. No, seriously, I would have at least said "Hey, stop!"

I talked to Neil Gaiman on the phone today. He's a very popular science fiction/comics writer... that's what some nerd told me as I was beating him up, anyway (note: joke stolen from Todd Goldstein). I had something written here about Mr. Gaiman that was mildly amusing, but I just found out that the agent I'm working for right now is hip to this blog (hi, Merrilee!), possibly because the link was lying around on someone's computer. So, just to be safe, I have stricken it from the record.No more humorously intended implications about Gaiman.

I need a drink.

BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME. LET'S TALK ABOUT WHAT YOU THINK OF ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hi, We're Megalopolis, This Is Off Our First Record...

2005-03-17T00:55:00.000-05:00

Megalopolis. That's my new idea for a band name. It doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, but neither does "The Rolling Stones." Ok, so that one does. Bad example. Megalopolis, though--I dig it. I like the word, I like the concept--it's always brought to mind some towering, dystopian collection of urbanity--and I've lived in or near three of the four main Megalopolis cities. It's a natural fit! I don't know if "urbanity" is a word--probably not. If it isn't a word you get a free certificate to punch me in the armpit eight times.

This paragraph was about work but I edited it out after "people at work find out about blog" gate '05.

Here's a typical blog entry that you might find on blogger, written by a sixteen year old Malaysian girl or something: "Today I pass geography test. Very diffifcult. Then I go to Church and worship Jesus and my family was there. I so excited for summer!!!" I can't bring myself to make the requisite spelling mistakes. The point is that most of the blogs I read are either really shitty or in another language (which is just as bad--I don't know why you'd want to write in some dying language that's NOT English), but today I read the blog of a 25-year-old Wiccan, and one of her blog entries detailed the five best sexual encounters of her life--and her current boyfriend only made the list once, I think. That was pretty entertaining.

Today I was riding the subway and a guy got up, dropped his pants, and took a giant shit in the middle of the subway car. Just kidding, that didn't happen.

Huckabees And The Women Who Heart Them

2005-03-15T02:06:00.000-05:00

You know what's a fucking great song and a solid video? (I've noticed I start a lot of inquiries this way--"you know who's a good singer?" "You know what's a good Indian restaurant?" I wonder if I would find this annoying if someone else did it). "It Was a Good Day," by Ice Cube. I've been a big fan since the song came out in nineteen diggity three or so, but I was watching a countdown of the best West Coast rap videos on our newly installed digital cable (this is also the first post on my own internet--after Apartment 513's charity all these weeks, we decided to be assholes and password-protect it so someone doesn't hack into the mainframe--sorry for the parentheses) and was reminded of the quality of the video. It's a very simple concept that most of us can relate to, even if few of us (and by "us" I mean the ten crackers that read this thing--I hope if I ever get famous I don't always comment on the fact that nobody watches/reads/listens to whatever I'm famous for the way Conan O'Brien does--it's one of his most annoying habits) live in the hood. Ice Cube wakes up and everything, for one day in his life of difficulty, seems to go right. The video is very simple, not flashy, basically just interspersing Cube's awesome day with him standing still and rapping in some sunglasses. I simply don't think you can deny that. As the people commenting on whatever MTV or VH1 this was on commented, the video just tells the story of the song. And it does so in a way D.W. Griffith would admire. But seriously, I've loved that song for years because it sets a mood so well, like so many of those West Coast songs do. I think summertime, I think relaxation, and I think about trying to appreciate the things that go right in life. "It's ironic--you know I had the booze she had the chronic, the Lakers beat the Supersonics" has to be up there with my favorite lines in rap history, despite the misuse of "irony" (I emailed Ice Cube about that, and he has since written a lengthy apology that appears on the liner notes of the album and his website). I really like the way the sporting event, while not at all the most important thing on Cube's mind, nonetheless makes the day just that bit sweeter. I can relate to that. And of course I can relate to not having to use my AK.

And that's how babies are made.

A Day In The Life Of Bobcat Goldthwait

2005-03-11T16:54:00.000-05:00

Ok, time to cut the crap. My stolen internet's been fine most of the time since my last post. The reason I haven't updated lately is that there was a significant break in the case I'm working on (need I remind you, my name is Axel Foley--refer to the first post of the blog). I've been working with these two joker detectives from the Hollywood police force, Detective William "Billy" Randolph and his partner, Detective Sargeant John Taggart. At first they didn't want my help, since I tend to get them in trouble and, after all, I'm not even supposed to be working on this case (they got an angry call from my boss back in Detroit). Now, though, we're pretty chummy, and I think they're on board with my plan to expose this asshole Brit Victor Maitland for the crook he is.

Things have settled down a bit now, so I should be able to update with more regularity--I'm hoping every two to three days. Every day would be nice, but I'm not a fucking miracle worker, ok? I'm just a humble black detective from Detroit, Michigan, and I want to nail the guy who killed my goddamn friend.

I don't have too much else to say right now. I'm sick of cold weather and I have no desire to use hallucinogens.

I'd Rather Be Muckracking

2005-02-23T16:19:00.000-05:00

I'm at my internship right now, crushing hopeful writers' dreams with one flick of the wrist as I throw their manuscripts away after agonizingly deliberating over them for way too long.

I'm writing this to say that the internet in my apartment is down again--that mercurial bitch-Goddess Apartment 513 has suddenly vanished off the wireless radar--and it will be at least a few days before we can get our own internet installed. If 513 doesn't come back, I may not be writing here too much for the next few days. Yes, I could step out on my balcony and pick up "linksys," then step back inside, write the damn entry, and then step back outside to post it, but you know what? Homie don't play that.

Anyway, I hope to post more often when I do have the internets. But for now, just remember: old interns never die; they just fade away. A great man named Arsenio Hall once said that, and his words still ring true today. Peace.

WHOLE FOODS GROCERY RECEIPT

2005-02-19T03:56:00.000-05:00

Alright, the internet's back! Feed me, mold me, you fucking technological slave-master. Apartment 513, you win the award for best cable modem at 699 Classon Ave. Congratulations, you win a free $10 gift certificate to Chuck E. Cheese. Fuck you.

The comment about the Roman waffles... yeah, you're right, you pedantic asshole. The Super Bowl score was my prediction, which wasn't too far off the mark.

Ok, so I'm a little drunk. Yeah, I had 34 Yuenling Black & Tan's, what of it? Is this some sort of intervention? Oh, Jesus. Are you fucking kidding me? Yeah... look, it's been a little crazy. You're meeting me at a strange time in my life. Come to think of it, every time's been a strange time. But really, this is unnecessary (note: I am correcting my spelling errors as I go; I really am drunk). I just don't need this shit, man. I'm supporting my family, I'm holding down a decent job, what else do you want from me? I'm fulfilling my responsibilities. So what if I have a drink or two every now and then? I'm not hitting my kids, man, I'm just trying to unwind. Fucking hell.

My stories about alienation are going to be better than anyone else's stories about alienation. I have more motivation now than ever. Am I being sarcastic? Ask me again in eight years. Oh, and fuck you.

Lindsay Lohan already has a rolax!!! Want yours???

2005-02-15T01:36:00.000-05:00

Wow, has it really been over a week since I've updated? Time flies when a representative from the Gary Steelheads of the Continental Basketball Association calls your cell phone accidentally, but you convince him that you would make a perfectly serviceable point guard, and they fly you out to Gary and then you're on the road all the time in places like Akron, Tacoma, Fresno... I'm writing this from Pierre, South Dakota, where I'm stealing internet from a network called "BISMARCKLICKSCOCK." I'm enjoying the HBO at the hotel here, but my fellow CBA'ers and I haven't really bonded yet. They like to listen to DMX to pump themselves up before games, and didn't appreciate it when I put on some Elliott Smith (it was a joke!) Also, I'm the only white guy, and they call me stuff like "cracker motherfucker," "crazy cracker," or sometimes simply "cracker." I can't tell if they're kidding around or not.

I just made all that shit up!!! I'm not really in the CBA. Wow, you're fucking gullible! I'm only 5'6" and I suck at basketball! How could you believe any of that?

One of the real reasons I haven't written lately is that Apartment 513's internet no longer works for me with the sad exception of instant messenger. Since my roommate Brian received Final Cut Pro over the internets from a friend, it has been out of commission. Coincidence? Sure, if you think it was a coincidence that John Wilkes Booth AND George Bernard Shaw went by three names. Anyway, I'm using a different network that may or may not be reliable in the future. When's the internet going to be ready to go in my apartment, you ask? Who knows? Same can be said for the cooking gas, the mail, the fucking everything... basically, as somewhat predicted, we got fucked over and now can't do too much about it. I've been on the phone, trying to get some answers and finding out that things are even more fucked up than I thought. (I like swearing, it makes me feel cool). I feel like I'm in the movie "The Super," since I also resemble and sound like Joe Pesci.

So yeah, it's a long story, but I spend a lot of my non-working time on it right now, unfortunately. Let's just say there's a strongly worded letter, the threat of rent not being paid, and a whole lot of pistol-whipping involved. But having the internet makes everything better. Without it, I feel impotent (and I'm not just talking about my penis here). With it, I feel empowered, vibrant, ALIVE, DAMMIT!

On the positive tip, we had a very fun housewarming party on Saturday night. The apartment, on the surface, looks great and drew rave reviews. People from different phases of my life mingled and found each other agreeable if not "cool." I got nicely drunk, and the next day found my roommates and me sitting on our couches, listening to Joanna Newsom, the ethereal-voiced freak-folk singer who I figure must be of Icelandic origin (those people aren't really human, are they?) Brian said that he was glad that we were listening to her on a Sunday afternoon in our apartment. I'll always remember her CD as the one that some guy called in to ask about at Barnes & Noble last summer (I had never heard of her at the time), and I told him we had it because it said we did in the computer, but of course we didn't, and then he showed up and was pissed off and said he had driven a long time to get there, and now Joanna Newsom has made a name for herself and I like her music and now I think that guy must have had good taste in music and it is hot in my room and I complain a lot but I find it hard not to and I'm in a slightly better mood that I was a few days ago and I'm going to bed now.

New York state of mind.

Patriots 31, Eagles 21

2005-02-06T11:55:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I ate one of the most decadent things I can remember eating--a Belgian waffle with vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, and a bacon. This must be what the Romans ate while they were fucking each other in a massive orgy right before everything went to shit. Maybe they called them "Roman waffles," though, since they probably thought they were the cat's pajamas. (That's an expression, right?) Anyway, my gut is still churning almost 24 hours later. It probably didn't help that I had to meet up with my family at 7:00 PM for a cousin's birthday dinner in Carroll Gardens (neighborhood a couple miles away from here for you non-Brooklynites), and decided to jog there since I was (shock!) running late and the subway would have taken too long. I arrived dripping with sweat and wheezing like Fatty McGee to a family impressed that I was in good enough shape to make the trek in that fashion. It also didn't help that I had smoked around six cigarettes the day before, which is close to my all-time high, I think. But the appetizer of snails with garlic and puff pastry, and the main course of something called "cassoulet" (basically a vegetable casserole), plus the non-embarassment of being very late, supplied my exercise with a nice reward.

But enough about me. Let's talk about what you think of me.

The effort of getting to know prospective dates is frightening. Starting at the beginning of my personality basically terrifies me, and though I'm sure this is a common thought, I'm going to elaborate anyway. It's been 22 years, how can you really get to know me like someone I've known since I was 10? Does it just involve me telling you about my life, or can a general sense of my personality be enough? I'm looking for human connection here, not just "You're funny." Couldn't there be some sort of "Demolition Man"-type machine where you hook up your brains and get the jist of someone in like thirty seconds? There's a lot I have to reveal about myself before I feel truly comfortable, I think, and not like some sort of fraud or an actor playing a role. I want to relate all my weird habits and perverseness, all my personality flaws, all the stupid moments in my past... and I want to do it immediately. (Not that I ever actually do). The good stuff I'm not in such a rush to get out, because, well, finding out about it is pleasant, not wraught with possible tension. I have a strong desire to want someone to know what they're getting into. Then we can go from there. Maybe reading this blog will be a start! Hooray for technology!!!!!!!!

But like a lot of other things--going to the gym or packing, for example-- the reluctance to begin the task and the accompanying lethargy is worse than the actual thing (probably). I find what I've puffed up in my mind as some unknowable or untellable thing isn't so bad when you just smoke a joint dipped in embalming fluid.

Welcome to Brooklyn: Go Fuck Yourself OR Incident at Prospect Place

2005-02-02T01:14:00.000-05:00

Well, it's official.

No, silly, not the Iraq election (world events are so 2004). I'm referring to my relocation to the commercial and cultural capital of the world. No, Virginia, I don't mean Virginia, you fucking inquisitive bitch. I mean New York City, or as retarded tourists who think they're in Boston refer to it as, "The Hub." That's right, I'm big-time now, you fucking plebeian!

Yes, I figured Brooklyn needed another neurotic, witty, Jewish white kid from the suburbs, so I decided to hop on board the gentrification train and command the conductor to speed up despite a Rhode Island-sized iceberg looming up ahead on the tracks (it's been cold lately). You know, writing like this is fun, if a little gimmicky. But it's fun. But also gimmicky. And yet still fun.

Anyway, I began my internship today, officially joining the rat race of this fair city. I take the 2/3 train to the 1/9. Doesn't that sound cool? I think so. I like spouting nonsensical best-route talk like, "Yeah, sometimes I take the ACE to the FDR, then swerve back around on the 2/3 to the GWB. Sometimes it's faster that way." Well, I like it in theory, anyway.

The last few days have been hectic. My roomate and dear friend Mike's dad rented a truck from Uhaul, a company which I swore I would have nothing to do with for the rest of my life (end-of-summer incident involving a trailer coming loose from my goddamn car). But this was out of my hands, as was a lot of the moving process. When it comes to wrapping things in boxes and assembling objects, I sometimes stand around and look like I'm paying attention to whomever is doing the work for me, and when they explain what's going on technically I nod knowingly, like I do when a mechanic is talking about my car, or when a drunk guy is telling a rambling story. Other times I don't even pretend to care. Just set up my desk and let me write so the world can hear all the new and interesting things I have to say about our cultural climate. Good old American know- how is impressive and all, but not as impressive as my take on the shortcomings of "Million Dollar Baby." (Perhaps I'll delve into that white-hot topic some other time).

Anyway, it's been weird. I've known for a while I was coming here, and I've spent a good deal of time in Brooklyn visiting by now, so this move doesn't have that overwhelming jolt of the unknown that some do. Also, I haven't taken advantage of my surroundings much yet (hell, it's only been two days), because of all the logistical shit that has to be done, and which I obsess over rather than do. But things are looking better in the apartment, which is really a cool place. We've got mega-high ceilings, hardwood floors, a view of the Chrysler building from the kitchen, visible pipes high up above... the place was just renovated. It used to be a Jewish hospital, so I'm probably lying in a room where more than a few poor schmucks bought the farm. Makes you think, doesn't it? Well, no, not really.

At my internship today I had to read a bunch of manuscript summaries and/or samples and decide whether or not to throw them out (meaning that a form rejection letter would be sent to the author) or kick them up a notch, as my old friend Emeril Lagasse might say if he worked at a literary agency. I had trouble with it, because while most of the proposals weren't stellar, I don't really trust my judgement on anything these days (you want flip-flopping? I'll show you flip-flopping). I kept putting letters aside to read later, but after some counsel from an assistant to an agent, I started throwing out letters that weren't grammatically sound (or letters that were not clearly written). It is true that if an author writes a muddled letter, there isn't too much hope for a book deal. But somehow I wouldn't be shocked to find out that I tossed out the next "Bartleby the Scrivener."

Jeezum Crow, I'm tired. The pleasures of this city of great possibility lie before me. I am wicked psyched to be here, even if I still complain a lot. Also, as expected, this blog is sort of devolving into "what happened to me lately" drivel. Sorry about that, I have to post more often and write stranger stuff.

By the way, big ups to the residents of apartment 513 for getting a wireless network, naming it after your apartment, and not bothering to password-protect it. You truly are the men/women now, dog.

Pat Neal Lives in California

2005-01-28T01:44:00.000-05:00

Two things I should probably stop doing for my own good: 1) reading so many reviews of things. 2) Thinking about my life in the past tense as if I were fifty years old.

Now, the reviews thing I've been harping on for years, but I can't force myself to stop. More than one person has made fun me over the years for letting Entertainment Weekly influence my taste in movies, and I must say that once I read a well-written piece on a film and I can't argue with its logic, I find myself agreeing with it to some extent, even if the judgement goes against my instincts. I think I'm pretty suspectible to cogent prose, in other words. If you're a good enough writer, you can convince me that Clint Eastwood is gay. And then I find myself conversing thusly: "well, this guy at Slate thinks Clint Eastwood is gay... I can't really remember his arguments, but they were pretty convincing." (I often can't remember the pithy parts of people's arguments, perhaps because I read a lot of articles/reviews, partly on account of the heart murmur).

Second, and more seriously, reading reviews--especially music reviews and double especially Pitchfork's music reviews--depress me because I always come out feeling like the writing is much better than mine, they can describe music much better than I ever could (which is probably true), and that too much in my life I just think of as ethereal and impossible to put into words (like music). I don't feel like going the review thing more now, but I've been telling myself and others what I just wrote for years now--the problem is that I like to keep up with the world and I also like to appear sophisticated and above the riffraff of the hoi poloi. I also like to have an opinion that is validated by someone else. I also like to separate the wheat from the chaff without actually having to sift through the latter like so much chaff. What the fuck is chaff, anyway? What's the deal with chaff?

So, I got a part-time internship at a literary agency in the big, scary city. If you saw a guy in an ape suit sprinting around 26th and Broadway last Friday at around 4:30, and then sprinting and looking really confused and angry around 53rd and 5th Monday at around 2:15, that was me being late for interviews (the latter "informational"). But I got the internship because I uttered this killer line as I walked in the door, sweaty and panting uncontrollably: "I just flew in from Munich, and boy are my arms tired." Granted, it's a line from a years-old Becks commercial that I often repeat, and it made no sense in the context of the interview and I didn't actually say it, but everyone there ate it up and hoisted me up on a chair, Bar Mitzvah-style, and then proclaimed me Leader For Life. Fin. In a future entry, topic number two: what I'll be thinking as I'm smoking a cigar, taking a walk around some eerily quiet suburban neighborhood on August 15th, 2032.

Federer lost. Long live Federer!

My Kharma Ran Over My Rubix Cube

2005-01-24T01:27:00.003-05:00

Ok, so I had just urinated but hadn't yet flushed the toilet, when this facewash cream I use fell into the toilet. This wouldn't have happened in comfortable old suburbia, but I'm staying at a friend's place here in Brooklyn, and all my toiletries are perched precariously on a shelf above the porcelain throne. I had to fish this thing out, then wrap it up in toilet paper and throw it away. Why am I telling you this? Because it makes me feel less alone in this topsy-turvy universe. Sooner or later, this blog will be solely devoted to the description of masturbation-related antics and we can all revel in the comedy of my private life.

I wonder what Ulysses S. Grant would think if he knew that in 2005 you could write about facewash falling into a toilet on a newfangled invention called the internets. He'd probably think that civilization had come a long way since his oldfangled days.

Regarding Sunday's football, as Josh Glickman said, I think I now know what it feels like to be a Yankees fan. It's definitely a lot of fun, but the old, pre-title flaming desire just can't be replicated. (Note: I wrote something here earlier which the first comment is in reference to, and which I've decided to reword (sorry, anonymous))... what I meant was that being a Patriots fan, you're expecting success every time out. It's like going to a bar and expecting to go home with whoever you want--perhaps the sixtieth time you did it it wouldn't be as cool as the first). It's important to savor these moments, though, because I may never see another team like this. Like everything else, during the lean times it's hard to imagine success, and during the fat times (right now), it's impossible to imagine the Patriots being average again. But they will be, someday. Just as I will fall from the dizzying heights of success, cut out the people closest to me, and withdraw into my drug addiction until it almost kills me. Then I'll discover Jesus.

Trader Joe's Chocolate Truffles Are Delicious

2005-01-22T17:11:00.000-05:00

I drove to New York the other night because I was sick of the jostling claustrophobia of the Chinatown bus, and because I love to drive. Now my car is being covered with layer upon layer of snow, and Matt Drudge has graced his website with an unusual blue headline to illustrate the gravity of the situation. (UP TO 21 INCHES, 50 MPH WINDS). I'll have to dig my car out of this massive God-orgasm on Monday, but I'm still glad I brought it, even though its headlights dim when you cut the wheel all the way to either side, it squeals at seemingly random times, it runs like a retarded '47 Studebaker, and so on and so forth. I treated it like shit for years, so it's not a big surprise.

Anyway, I'm glad I brought it because I'm caught up in the romantic American ideal of the road. It had been months since I had taken a trip longer than a couple of hours--after last year's run of trip after trip and my car racking up miles like never before, I've been using it like a granny--sparingly, just to go to church and the supermarket, as some cliche that might not really be a cliche could go.

On Thursday, I was having a pretty shitty day--I woke up with notions of packing up everything for the big move so I wouldn't have to do all the work when I got back, but I ended up lazing around in signature fashion while my mom grew more anxious about my departure with every passing minute. She began to yell, I began to yell, punches were thrown, the whole megillah. I finally got in my hoopty at around six in the o'clock, and let me tell you something: once you get on that open road (the Mass. Pike, I-84, I-91, and I-95 in this case), your troubles don't exactly vanish, but, well, if you're playing the right music, you feel like you might be a character in the closing scene of one of the 800 movies that end with a character driving away. I can see why it's so common, because it's a very attractive option.

That movie sequence thing feels good, because it implies promise and change, transformation. There's something awesome and mystical about being able to pick up and leave--also some notion that things will be different and better wherever you end up. The other night, I knew my anxieties and such would dissipate somewhat as soon as I got on the road, and sure enough, they did. Driving also requires a sort of robotlike focus on what's in front of you, which can be pretty damn refreshing in today's frenzied world full of beer commercials and lascivious underwear models.

Also, I enjoy being alone a lot of the time, and driving makes you feel like you're in your own little moving bubble, immune to all the little criticisms that bother me when I'm talking to people. (Like, nobody can tell me that there's an easier way to defog my windshield. If I'm doing it the wrong way, so be it. I'm not the wiser, but I'll never know, either. Ignorance is bliss. This is difficult to explain).

Also, I ate dinner at Rein's Deli (old standby for everyone who drives between Boston and New York), and there's something great about walking into a restaurant by yourself, scanning everyone, and imagining that people are giving you the once-over, trying to figure out who you are and what you're doing there. Being alone lets you focus on all kinds of things that you wouldn't pay attention if your friends or family were around. Of course, it's lonely to have something funny happen and have nobody to share it with. But it also makes you feel like a grizzled, mysterious traveler who's seen it all, and is used to laughing with strangers. In short, it, too, makes you feel the movie thing. It's liberating, if not always exciting, to be out of your element, completely without connection to your usual world (except for that goddamn cell phone).

There's often something disappointing about the end of a drive, when you have that slightly frantic, unreal sense of dislocation that travel brings. When you arrive, you're not quite sure what do with yourself. Your whole trip has been leading up to this moment, and you usually just end up sitting on a couch and doing something boring like catching up or watching TV. There's something about it that feels like a letdown. I don't feel like trying to explain this one more. Fuck it.

That's it for now. Remember to have your pets spayed and neutered.

Absolut Post

2005-01-20T01:00:00.001-05:00

CNN really must have some rigorous screening techniques to let this poll become an article. I think I'll blame my friend Danny, who works there. Pretty funny stuff.

http://www.cnn.com/2005/ALLPOLITICS/01/19/poll/index.html

Thanks to the excellent Talking Points Memo blog for bringing this to my attention. Ah, I sounded like a real blog there for a second.

One of my problems is that I too easily feel like I've accomplished something. Today I was changing addresses for magazines, phone bill, etc., and just doing that made me feel deserving of a break and a chance to watch Roger Federer's highly entertaining match with an Asian fellow by the name of Suzuki. I like saying a (blank) fellow by the name of (blank). It makes me sound old-fashioned, which is always good.

I just skidded several feet turning onto my street. It was snowing like a motherfucker, that picturesque fluffy kind. See my comments re: "godforsaken hellscape" yesterday. Good thing Brooklyn will be slightly (five to seven degrees, I estimate) warmer than this. I keep telling my brother I'll notice the difference.

Coach Carter Takes Manhattan

2005-01-19T01:13:00.000-05:00

Has it really been five days since I've updated? Oh, these January days do fly by, don't they? When it's one degree outside, as it is right now, you lose track of time like a one-legged mule digging for fool's gold.

Folksy, nonsensical similes aside, this medium is proving difficult to manage. But I'm going to soldier on for now, because someone at the Boys and Girls Club of Compton told me that giving up is for pussies, and that someone is Samuel L. Jackson. He also told me I had to maintain a 2.3 grade point average if I wanted to continue to not give up. I told him that I had well over a 2.3, but he shouted me down and stared at me intimidatingly. I've since used his tactics whenever I'm losing an argument. The tactics usually don't work.

I think that last paragraph was funnier than most of what passes for humor at the New Yorker. But do they publish my shit? No! The fact that I've never submitted anything should not stop David Remnick from coming to my house for some sort of recruiting interview. I could set up a brothel, like in "Risky Business," and he could look over my writing and say "It's good, but it's not exactly 'The New Yorker,' is it?" (Or whatever it was that dude said). And then he could fuck any one of the hookers in my house, and then publish my writing, and then I'd be on the path to stardom. Yeah, that's the ticket!

It's very goddamn difficult, as Holden Caulfield might have said, to write without these annoying pop culture references, isn't it? If I ever do get around to writing that novel, future college students (who would surely be reading it) would need footnotes like "Samuel L. Jackson--popular African-American actor of 1990's and 2000's, most famous for role as hitman in Quentin Tarantino's classic 'Pulp Fiction.'"

And this post was supposed to be about how I'm an asshole to my mother... looks like I"ve gotten off-topic once again. This Lee-Waters gal is really giving Sharapova a run for her money. I hope Sharapova doesn't lose, because she's hot and Lee-Waters isn't. I think all blogging should just consist of unreadable stream of consciousness, or the blogger looking around their surroundings, like I am right now, and commenting on what they see (in this case, the TV).

Like I was saying, my mother and I have a close, good relationship on the whole, but a long time ago I settled into this comfort mode where I can just be a whiny bitch and criticize her all the time. I think it's got to stop, but it's not easy. Just because I've identified the problem, it isn't immediately solveable. And of course this doesn't apply to her solely at all. The limitations of this blog mean I can't elaborate further there, so I'll just say I'm a critical guy, in part because everyone I know annoys me in some way, as I was telling an old friend over lunch last week to her amusement. I'm a very, very easily annoyed person. Loud eating, mispronounced words, feigned stupidity. You name it, it annoys me. But fuck that, it doesn't give me a license to run my mouth, because I can give it but I sure as hell can't take it, even when I deserve it. See, I don't really like writing about semi-weighty personal topics like this, but it's nice to get it out there. I'm sort of giving it the short shrift in this post, but I'm giving you a general idea of at least one though process in my head.

My future landlord told me today that the elevator may not be working by move-in day, and that the gas for the stove may not be working for a month after we move in (we'll be provided with hotplates). My dad had raised very reasonable concerns about this sort of thing happening, which I raised to my future roommates, who didn't seem to care nearly as much as I did. I feel frustrated by this turn of events, and only want to be settled in New York with my new (used) file cabinet in order, the cable and internet working, and the Brian Eno song I mentioned earlier on the hi-fi. Somehow I think it might be a while before that happens.

Seriously, it's one fucking degree outside. I'm becoming increasingly impatient with cold weather in my old age. Why the fuck do people live in this godforsaken hellscape? But it its lovely in the summer and fall... in conclusion, Theodore Dreiser's uses water imagery in "Sister Carrie" just for the hell of it.

How does the world work?

2005-01-13T23:01:00.000-05:00

I hate logistics. Moving things from one place to another, setting things up once you get there, figuring out what goes where, filling out all the paperwork involved, etc. Just thinking about doing these sorts of things stresses me out and makes it difficult to focus on anything else (right now I'm thinking about how to get my stuff from here to Brooklyn in the next couple of weeks).

I look around me and see so much movement and activity. Today I was at the mall, and just walking through the department stores is (for me) kind of awe-inspiring. So much material--tons and tons of clothes, racks to put the clothes on, little items they're selling, tables for display, and all the rest of it. There's so much goddamn STUFF in the world, and thinking about where it all comes from, how it's made, and all the human ingenuity that goes into selling it can make one's head spin. There really is something to be said for living in a rustic setting, away from all of this.

Be more clear, Ben. You're not backing up your points with evidence. Well, it's hard to explain. I'm just constantly amazed at and overwhelmed by this world's complexity. If I had to guess how many people lived in America, it would be a lot more than do, I think. As a society, I don't think we're as stressed out about logistics as I am as a person. If we were, none of this shit would ever get done.

Someday I will summarize this point eloquently. Today doesn't seem to be the day.

Roger Federer

2005-01-09T02:40:00.000-05:00

This guy is inhumanly good. I really wanted to watch a tennis match today, but nobody in this country gives a shit about tennis unless there's an American involved, and even then they'd rather watch Arena League football. Would it be too much to televise Federer Vs. Lubijic (sp?) in the Qatar Open final?

Complaining into an online void is almost as fun as watching "Boyz 'N the Hood" (I'm continuing with the "urban"-themed programming this morning).

Peace.

Every town got two malls

2005-01-09T01:53:00.000-05:00

Today, as I was sorting through some old stuff with my mom (now that I'm moving, I feel a much-needed sense of urgency to take care of some shit), I looked through my old high school records and was reminded of how awful my grades were in high school--and when I say awful I don't mean awful in the same way annoying good students mean after they take a test they're not sure they aced--"I really think I fucked up that test," they'll say, and then they get a 92. When I say that, I mean I'm expecting like a 55 or less. I also encountered numerous comments on report cards that indicated I wasn't working up to my potential, which I've been hearing since I was a wee lad. You might say it's the theme of my life so far. Even a recommendation from a good but ornery english teacher (I got a B- in the class, so you can really see I was reaching for someone to say something good) opened his letter by saying that I was in the middle of his students in terms of grades, and that "Someday everything will click in a Ben Hart paper." He proceeded to say that I was a talented writer, etc., but that I seemed to have too much fun writing (not really true) and don't spend enough time developing my point. Another thing I've been hearing for yonks and yonks.

I'm not sure why I'm writing about this, since as I've said roughly 300 times I don't want to turn this into some sad-sack "I'm angry/confused/depressed/annoyed" kind of blog. I've realized that with my problems--whether it's something that's happening to me now, or the dwelling of shitty things past, I (like the rest of the world, I guess), have a real confessional tendency. Basically, here's my criteria to feeling better. Let's say (as an example), I'm in a bank, and the teller asks me how she can help me, and I say "Um, I'd like to close my vagina" instead of "my account." Let's just say I've got vagina on the brain that day, and I slip up, as it were. I might walk around after that thinking about the incident constantly and not being able to get anything done or think about anything else seriously. But then let's say I tell my friend Joe Bloggs about the incident (Bloggs is the British version of Smith, use it at a party sometime). Bloggs doesn't laugh excessively or say "That's awful, I can't believe you did that"--if he says that, I'm fucked until I find someone better. Bloggs either says "That's funny" in a muted sort of way, or says "Oh, I told a bank teller to lick my grundle once, whatever."

Telling one person about this and not having their reaction be shock or outrage goes a long way toward mental convalescence. And I do a lot dumb shit on a daily basis, so this strategy comes in handy quite a bit.

Man, people reading this, especially people I haven't talked to in a while, might get the wrong impression. I'm just very neurotic, that's all, ok? Deal with it! I'm moving to New York in three weeks, and despite my fears that working a regular job (when, NOT IF, I get one), combined with adjusting to a city that eats pieces of shit like me for brunch will cause massive brain damage, I think it'll be a fun time. I got a lot of friends there, which is more than I can say about Falluja.

I was just watching "Bring the Pain." That Chris Rock is really going places.

Argh, writing is fucking hard.

Wilford Brimley on retards

2005-01-02T18:29:00.000-05:00

Within a few hours of the dawn of the new year, I found myself in a kitchen arguing with a young idealist from southern Oregon. Good thing I didn't make any resolutions about being less argumentative this year. (My resolutions were to correct all of my character flaws and to stop picking my nose so much. I don't think either has much of a chance at success).

Anyway, this girl and I were arguing about (in simplified form) whether violence is ever the answer. I take a certain pride and pleasure in arguing to the right of liberals, even though I'm one myself, in most senses--of enraging their moral sensibilities so that they come to see me as some bogeyman, some representative of the massive oil-fueled machine out there that they are so certainly against. Usually the topic is something like free trade or sweatshops (I've been heavily influenced by my father, who could outargue me on most issues very quickly, and who is also certainly not a Republican--in fact, he can't vote, so he's not anything--but he sees through bullshit better than anyone I know and doesn't stick to one side, which I think is a sign of intelligence).

This time, it wasn't overtly political, but comparisons were made between punching people and bombing countries, and since I was on the punching people side, I may as well have been Paul Wolfowitz.

Ah Christ, I went out for a while, then came back, and now it's been hours since I wrote that last sentence, and now I don't feel like doing this anymore. Too bad for you, because this was going to be an amazing post.

I'm in a shitty mood.

Hmm, It Does Go Well With The Chicken

2004-12-28T23:25:00.000-05:00

I'm very sorry I haven't updated the blog in almost ten days, but I went on a dizzying bender to Monte Carlo with the cast of "Babe: Pig in the City." Let me tell you, those people (and the pig) know how to have a good time, and when a roomful of rich tennis players and race car drivers is cheering you on at the craps table, you forget about your measly little place in the blogosphere right quick, as the minorities are saying. I've probably lost three quarters of my readership, so for the two people reading this (self-deprecation is in these days, ask Conan O'Brien or Jon Stewart), thanks for sticking around.

I've had a lot of ideas for this post, and yet I sort of abhor the thought of writing anything, ever. Perhaps I need to work through my hatred of the craft I want so desperately to be respected for. Right now I'd rather be watching TV, or reading with a perverse sense of excitement about the mounting death toll in the Pacific (one of the 436 things that makes me feel guilty on a daily basis--I guess I enjoy extremes in my news and weather), or sleeping, than writing this entry. But of course my sense of self-worth while doing any of the other things will be that much higher after doing this thing. And so I write for you, the people, so you will tell me that I write well. Oh yeah, and to practice.

Right now I'm in an undisclosed location in northern New Jersey visiting my grandarents. I suppose now is a good time to tell y'all that, barring any stunning revelations about my parents' credit history, I am going to move to Brooklyn, New York City in the near future. I've been scouting out apartments with my associates (friends are for pussies), and hopefully the four of us will all be in agreement about something soon. You see, the situation is kind of complicated. Oh, fuck it, you wouldn't understand. The point is that I'm moving.

What's that you're asking? Do you have a job?

Anyway, have you ever noticed how white people dance? It's like they don't have any rhythm. Somebody should really teach them how to dance. Now I'm sounding like McSweeneys.

I've been struggling, as I've mentioned before, to figure out how much of my personal life to include in this blog, and I think one of the better solutions is close to zero. Unless I feel like bragging about something or I shit my pants in a public place, I should probably leave it out. I may have expressed exactly these sentiments in a previous post, so if I did, sorry. If you want to know what's happening in my life, you can talk to me, though you probably won't get the whole story, since I'll leave out a lot of embarassing incidents and thought processes and pretty much tell you about living situations and job prospects and maybe we'll talk about baseball. It depends on who you are and the mood I'm in and the mood you're in and the location of Sirius relative to the North Star.

One of the most comforting noises to hear when you're lying in bed is a far-off train (whistle, or just the sound of the train moving, though then I guess it can't be that far off). I just heard a whistle here, and I definitely enjoyed it. Wow, all this writing has tired me out. I feel a little better for having done it, though this post was about as cohesive as "The Salton Sea." The next post may focus on the mindset of incompetent politicians.

What It Means To Be From Maine

2004-12-18T19:40:00.000-05:00

Last night I went with my parents and my brother and his wife to a performance of Handel's "Messiah" in Boston. It includes the "Hallelujah" chorus, and is apparently Handel's most famous work (I know pretty much nothing about him). The thing as a whole loosely chronicles the life of Jesus, with a small orchestra playing and various singers belting out words that are oftentimes the gist of Bible verses. Jordan Hall, which is where the performance took place, is old and grand, and the group is world-famous. My parents love this sort of thing. Here's what I was thinking about most of the time, when I was awake (I slept through much of the first half):

1) Can I name every American League MVP from 1995 to the present?

2) What are my top 10 favorite movies of all time?

It's not that I don't appreciate the musicianship, which is incredible, or the spectacle of the thing. There's usually something refreshing about going to any theatrical performance; in a culture that's used to things coming at it from a distance, getting up close and personal at a concert or a play or whatever is a reminder of how powerful raw human artistry can be. But for me, this sort of music, and I hate to say it, classical music in general, just doesn't connect. I used to say "maybe when I'm older," but I don't know if I think it will ever click. In the end, all art is personal, and if something doesn't move you, that's it. I've learned that I usually enjoy things more the second time I hear them, and of course you can come back to music you once enjoyed and find it awful and vice versa. All this supports the idea that music is subjective--not only to personal taste, but to time, place, age, etc. Arguing about music (or film, or books, I guess) is sort of a funny concept because all of these things are so intertwined with the arguer's inner life.

But enough about that. My favorite movies of all time, in no particular order, are:

Pulp Fiction
American Psycho
A Fish Called Wanda
The Big Lebowski
Fargo
You Can Count On Me
Terminator II
Adaptation
Coming To America
Dazed and Confused

If some fanccy-booklearnin'-lovin' critic made a list of the BEST movies of all time, there would be like one after 1970 on the list, and it would be "The Godfather." I almost put "Some Like It Hot" on here just to include something old, but it felt forced. I love a lot of old movies, but, call me a product of the times, these are my favorites. More on this later, perhaps.

By the way, I couldn't remember who the 1998 MVP was, and I'm not sure about the '96 (Griffey?). I'm about to look it up.

Triceratops Vs. Stegosaurus

2004-12-15T01:16:00.000-05:00

I wanted to write a whole entry about Pedro Martinez's exit from the Red Sox, but now I somehow don't feel like it. But I do want to say that when I was a young lad growing up in County Cork, we used to listen to those Red Stockings games on the Voice of America and say to each other "If only we had a few more potatos, we could throw a ball that hard too! Only in America!"

Actually, Pedro is my favorite athlete of all time, and it seems doubtful to me that I could be as excited about another one again (sometimes I used to masturbate to his games. Just kidding). Over the years, he has shown himself more and more to be a prima donna who cares only about "respect," which, as Dan Shaugnessy and Peter Gammons both pointed out, really means money. His accusation that Peter Gammons voted for Barry Zito over him in the 2002 Cy Young Balloting because Gammons was racist (or some bullshit like that) was ludicrous, and though people never seem to talk about it, I think it may have been the proverbial straw that broke the spiny anteater's back and made me think of Pedro as, well, kind of a dick. There are a million other incidents, but that one stood out to me, perhaps because I was tripping on a dose of DXM recommended for "shamanic purposes only" when I read about it on ESPN.com. Again, just kidding.

What I'm trying to say is that when Pedro was on his game, especially in 1999-2000, I would practically be counting down the hours to his next start. Four days between them seemed unbearably long. Almost every time he pitched during those years, you really did have the sense that you were watching something historic and, if you're a fan of the way baseball looks, amazingly beautiful. Pedro not only dominated hitters more thoroughly than anyone I've ever seen, but he did it in the most thrilling fashion. His pitches moved effortlessly and unpredictably, his command was simply unreal, and he had that cock-of-the-walk attitude that, at the time, seemed justified and refreshing. Every time he didn't strike someone out, I was disappointed. Every time he gave up a hit, I was shocked, especially the first hit of the game, since I pretty much expected him to throw a perfect game on every occasion. I know I'm repeating a lot of what Bill Simmons said in his column today, but I genuinely feel the same way, so go light yourself on fire.

What's amazing to me is that in those years, when I would watch myself wind up and throw in various mirrors or reflective surfaces and probably imagine myself as Pedro (I still do this all the time, but I'm not sure who I imagine myself as now), I thought I would be crushed if Pedro were to go to another team. But watching him slowly decline since about mid 2001 (he was good up until this year, but not the same as he was) has been painful. Knowing what he used to be, it's hard not to think every time he pitches that he might just revert to old form. And once in a while there are flashes of brilliance, but usually it's him throwing too many pitches, working out of jams, walking way more guys than he used to, and not striking many people out. I wouldn't be surprised if his pride played a part in his fall--if he learned to pitch a little more craftily, he might be a lot more efficient. Anyway, when I heard he was off the team, it didn't affect me that much. Partly because my general passion for baseball has waned lately compared to the old days when I was truly obsessed. But partly because I know that the real Pedro will just exist in my memory and the occasional ESPN Classic game.

Sniff, tear.

Well, I guess I did write a post about Pedro. It's amazing what you can do when you've been up for three days on a crank binge. Again, kidding. I like to kid. I'm a kidder, and I've said that from day one. And that's a credit to this administration. Alright, fuck this shit, I'm going to bed and dreaming of being a war correspondent for a London newspaper in some far-flung locale where all I do is hang out at a hotel, drink, and go on about the pointlessness of it all. Oh yeah, I also have a fetching mistress in the dream. I recently read "The Quiet American," where I lifted a lot of this from. Good book. In my next entry, I'll talk about how I don't understand how anything in the world works. Peaceout!!!!!!

Whoops

2004-12-13T21:05:00.000-05:00

I accidentally removed a comment, which claimed that Gandhi didn't actually say that. Sorry to whoever put that there.

Australia: What Went Wrong

2004-12-13T01:37:00.000-05:00

I wrote in my first post that I didn't know what I was going to write about post-first-post. As of now, I feel myself shying away from detailing the daily events of my life--not only because a) they're sometimes dull and b) the whole thing feels kind of self-indulgent, but also because doing so would give this enterprise a flavor of more responsibility than I want. For example, right now I'm keeping a dream log, because I've been experiencing the most prolonged period of consistenly vivid dreams that I can remember. Whenever I don't write something down in the dream log, I feel bad about it, because the whole point is to thoroughly record what happened between 2:30 and 10:00 (roughly my usual hours). Having a journal or an outlet to record everything--or even just the interesting things--that happen in my life would quickly become a burden for me, I think. I've tried to keep daily journals before and they died out pretty quickly. I don't feel like trying to explain this any more, so I'll just say that even if I don't write about current events in the land of Foley, current events do happen.

Note: I'm about to negate what I just said. Yesterday night, for example, my parents had a festive Hanukkah get-together with some of their friends, and my mom gave out novelty presents like a lighter in the shape of a fish (you open the tail to get to the lighter). Good times and latkes were had by all. Then my buddy Mike and I visited our friend Josh a few towns away, and then we went into Boston to a bar, and then to someone's apartment where I had a lengthy conversation with a guy I didn't know about whether Tim Wakefield is better as a fifth starter or coming out of the bullpen (I say fifth starter). This guy had a theory that the reason Derek Lowe's numbers dropped off so dramatically from 2002 to 2003 was that he started drinking. He called it a "hunch." After that comment, I felt his credibility was somewhere near (insert Bush administration official here)'s. Anyway, I didn't get to bed until 5, and then today I watched football, applied to a couple of jobs, ordered a large steak, cheese, mushroom and onion sub to be delived to my house even though the restaurant (Villa Pizza, one of the staples of my life) isn't far away, began a letter in Spanish to my homestay parents in Barcelona from last year, ate and cleaned up dinner while singing some Bob Dylan songs in the Bob Dylan voice to chuckles from my mom, and went on a walk in Lexington with my friend while he smoked a joint.

See, that wasn't all that exciting to write about. I should probably restrict that style to particularly amusing moments or anecdotes. Sorry, people, I'm working out the kinks here. As Gandhi once said, if you wanna make an omelet, you first should not be on a hunger strike, because the process will make you unbearably hungry.

Commenting Shock Horror

2004-12-10T22:34:00.000-05:00

I have changed the settings to allow anyone who reads this to comment--I didn't realize that you needed to be a registered user to do so before now. Please feel free to go back over the first two entries and explain their shortcomings in detail.

Commence with the Whininess

2004-12-10T02:29:00.000-05:00

Right now, it's 1:00 AM, and I'm smoking a post-coital cigarette in my comfortable Brooklyn apartment, listening to Brian Eno's "Deep Blue Day" and the traffic noises outside, tired but satisfied after a long, rewarding day at my comedy-writing job. Katie Holmes is in the kitchen making me eggs benedict from scratch.

Hey, it could happen... MCWORLD!!!!

Dreaming up this sort of scenario doesn't seem to lead me any closer to gainful employment. See, right now, I'm kind of in a rut, and have been for at least a couple of months. I came home to Lexington after the summer convinced that I would a) write more than I ever have in the past (which isn't saying much) and b) throw myself into getting a job if only to once again live in an environment where people leave weed lying around on the kitchen table. Since then, though, my days have slipped by like stealthy MI-6 agents. (Or is it MI-5? I didn't want to use CIA because they've proven themselves to be utterly incompetent). I see friends, I read books, I have intellectually stimulating conversations with my parents, I watch movies, I watch porn, I go out to bars sometimes, I visit that land of milk and honey, New York, sometimes. Today I had a full day which left me in a better mood than usual. But a hell of a lot is missing, and sad to say, my lack of effort to extricate myself from my house is probably the leading culprit in this crime of boredom (I like being able to overwrite with zero consequences).

A couple of things happen to me when I'm in a rut like this. One is that in the short run, it seems impossible to get out of--even though I haven't tried hard at all (story of my life, people! Or so insist the people that say I have talent), and a small push in the right direction would probably do wonders for me. The lack of stimuli sets in to form sort of a general state of constant, intractable ennui. (Dictionary.com's #3 definition for "intractable"--"difficult to alleviate, remedy or cure." Probably not the optimum usage of the word, but you get the idea).

Anyway, time becomes something to fear when you pay this much attention to it. I want to learn Spanish fluently and play more guitar and write something great and find women and jump out of a plane and see all the right movies, all in the span of the next few years. Is this possible for a lazy fucker like myself? The fact that I am asking myself this question may not be good for me in the first place. Constant motion in life can be great because it allows for mimimum thinking and reflection time, and then one day you find yourself looking in the mirror at Mel Gibson's villa in the island he bought near Fiji and thinking, "I've seen a lot of interesting shit in my day." That has, to some extent, happened in my life before, and I'm pretty damn sure it will happen again soon, but thinking about when it's going to happen rather than beginning with the constant motion now (maybe by running really fast in place like Roadrunner) is no good. That's why STARTING TOMORROW, I am going to get some shit done. Seriously, I mean it this time. One last hit, I can quit anytime.

Next entry preview: I'll either whine some more about my current situation and regale the reader with various unpleasant memories, or do NFL picks. Or both, or neither.

My name is Axel Foley

2004-12-07T01:20:00.000-05:00

Let's get the introduction out of the way. My name is Axel Foley, and I'm a detective from Detroit. I started this blog because my good buddy Mikey got killed back home, and, against the orders of my boss, I'm attempting to solve the mystery of who killed him by myself. I figure a little internet exposure might get me in contact with people who might know something. So far, my investigation has taken me to Beverly Hills, where I'm marveling at the beautiful women, eccentric characters, and well-appointed police station. I'm pretty sure this sinister Brit Victor Maitland is somehow involved in what went down, so if anyone has any information on him, let me know.

Ok, time to come clean. This isn't actually Axel Foley writing. It's Ben Hart (jesus, I hate my name). Benji/Benjamin/Benjilien(my grandmother's nickname) Hart. Anyway, I'm not a detective from Detroit who's experiencing culture shock in sunny California. I only wish it were that simple. Actually, the reason I'm starting this blog is that for someone who always talks about writing as some nebulous career goal ("nebulous" is one of my favorite words), I sure as hell don't write enough. It is foolish to think I can improve at something I always put off, so my hope is that by writing semi-regularly, I can use words like "avuncular," "edification," and "peripatetic" more regularly and dispense with those tiresome articles. (Honestly, who wants to see another "the?") I consider obscure vocabularly the mark of a talented writer, so once you don't understand me, I can move on to bigger and better things, like music reviews.

I don't really know what I'm going to write about, though the idea of ranting about which friends/family members are pissing me off, my various neuroses and so on and so forth (as Schwarzenegger would say) doesn't particularly appeal to me. On the other hand, I don't just want to write about how much I fucking hate Republicans, either. So I'll need to strike some sort of balance between the personal and the global (or something). I should probably mention that judging by my past track record, you can expect this blog to last about four days before I discontinue it.

To set the scene for this historic launching, and to update that guy/girl who has my IM name and whom I haven't talked to in four years: after having graduated from GW (that's THE George Washington University, if I ever get introduced on Monday Night Football), I am currently living in scenic Lexington, Massachusetts, with my parents (awesome!) Actually, they're not so bad (except for the beatings! I have to stop using so many fucking parentheses). But my life is, shall we say, not at its optimal enjoyment level. The reasons are many, and I'm sure I will delve into them in subsequent entries, if this venture lasts past tonight. Who knows, if I get drunk enough, I might sloppily and ungrammatically elaborate way too much for my own liking, and expose my life as the absurdist comedy it sometimes seems to be. But for now, I just want to say hello to everyone on the internets and announce my coming reign as king of all whiny journals.