Monday, September 30, 2002

30 September 2002

In Search of Inspiration

"Writing is making choices, and the choices we make can be generic, which will cost us our reader's faith, or specific, which will gain our reader's trust.... The reader trusts us because we give enough detail for oiur eyes-- which they are using-- to be trusted."

-Julia Cameron

After this weekend I am in search of inspiration. Sitting in bed, looking up at the ceiling; staring at books looking for the urge to read; staring at dinner, waiting for the urge to eat. Watching my favorite football teams lose very badly. Trying to sleep. Attempting to organize. Waiting for a spark.

This weekend was the bachelor party, as previously mentioned. I am not as sprightly as I used to be, I realize. One would think that after an evening of drinking and games and titty I would be such a happy young man. I was tired, that's what I was. It was kind of poor. I enjopyed chilling with the guys, meeting the other male members of the wedding party. I liked the games-- my hockey slap shot kept going in. I might have to play blacktop street hockey after all.

But by the time the flagrant nudity and lap dances came up, I was all tired out.

In truth I think the nature of the strip club doesn't do it for me. There you are, crisp dollar bills in hand, in a place that looks like strip clubs in b-movies. With the exception of the hard nosed cop who has fallen out of grace, it was all there. Lots of mirrors to make the dimly lit area look even bigger. Large neon sign to the champagne room. Some fella who couldn't cut it as a wedding DJ or a local Opie & Anthony knockoff is playing the hits of the 80's and hip hop from today. Skinny girls with heavy accents keep massaging your neck or grasping your hand and asking how you are and if you want a dance. Especially to your little friend.

There is a lot of reaching, and a lot of fellas staring at some thangs they can't touch. It's tiresome, in a way. Personally, I like to touch. And it is good to see your friend get a dance from the good looking stripper. But not all of them are that hot. I expected fake boobs all over the place. And there weren't too many. I thought I'd get the "Jenny Jones Show" and instead I got slatternly high school girls. At least the one I got a dance from was FUNNY. Ah, well.

Mr. Conroy, good to run into you. Outside the strip club, of course.

Now, I am off to find inspiration. And a paying part-time job, because I have no income, and no money. Sigh.

Saturday, September 28, 2002

Blog Against Song Against Sex

Well, that's not so true. While I can applaud Marla for the Jud Timberpond link, and while I am bringing a bunch of boys who keep reciting lines from Dr. Dre's the chronic-- and I don't mean the weed-smoking lines-- to a strip club, I also want to talk about the coolest song I have heard this week.

But that will wait until tomorrow. I got to go see some oversized titty and bikini wrapped kitty. Drink some beer and spread some... cheer. I don't have anything more to say, really. I am leading cats to a strip club and I have never been to one before. Nope, never. That's right. Maybe that's why I'm such a gol-danged nancy boy. But after tonight, oh, after tonight, you are going to see a completely different pico.

Wednesday, September 25, 2002

Lake of Burning Branches

I could talk about the long conversation I had with the man who railed against G-Dub da Prez' reactions (overreactions, this man felt) "when they kill another fucking Arab."

Or I could go into whether of not it is right to assail G-Dub for his economic handling, and the fact that his handle has the economic indicators dropping like they're hot.

Or I could discuss the this British report on Iraq's ability to launch weaponry during an episode of Smallville.

Instead, I want to touch on Justin Timberlake. I saw the video for his new single "Like I Love You" on MTV a couple of late nights ago. I was bored. There was a commercial in the dating show I was watching, I think it was the Fifth Wheel. Mmm, Aisha Tyler... mmm...

Jud Timberpond's song was kind of HOT. I couldn't stop singing it. I went out and downloaded it. I wanted to rub it on my tummy like pudding and in my hair like Afro-Sheen drops. I realized that was a level of excitement better saved for better music, and I listened a little closer to this catchy candy bar of a song.

I am still a little impressed with his ability to hit some notes, and sing r & b with some passion. "And then," as he sings with drama and style. And then some rent-a-rapper comes into the scene and ruins the whole bitch. This guy rapped about something-or-other with no consequence. I can't even string his words together into a coherent thought. Before he came in, it was like Justin created a song that was about lust and passion and and high notes and asking someone to hold your coat while you style across the floor. And then we get some cat rapping about how "a few words lead to sex," and he's rapping with "J" and that is an impressive feat.

that last line alone makes it a much less impressive feat. Then I realized that the Neptunes produced the song. The hitmakers that they are, they knew the key to pop cash is the requisite rapper in the middle. You know, for the kids. And the street cred. Sometimes I forget that this is a business to produce radio hits, not tear up the mic with some hot lines and spit some lust into a sweating and salivating horny l'il squealing girl crowd. After all, no one can resist a squealing girl, least of all their moneymaking daddies. Cash motherfucking money.

Monday, September 23, 2002

Castles Made of Sand

It's been a while since I have written, I know, I know. So it's up to me to come up with enough entertainment and softcore porn to keep all of you kids up and active at your computers.

I know, I know.

This is my job. Well, I have started graduate school and everything is jake, aces, capital, prime, et cetera. Meanwhile I am thinking hard about how I am going to produce the dirtiest bachelor party ever seen. This saturday. if you have any input, oh, please, you can email me. Touch me with your knowledge.

Thing is, I have a basic plan, which is Manhattan based and will be beer-soaked. But I don't have the specifics as of yet. Or anything so filthy sounding it's apalling. That's what I am looking for.

Perhaps when I am done with my statistics homework, then I will turn my attention to writing something more exciting and invigorating...


Thursday, September 05, 2002

Lab Explorations 9.5.02

Still haven't gotten a good night's sleep. Went to Jersey for the weekend. Been snatching uncomfortable naps. Now I am in a computer lab as part of my exploring of this NYU school thing. I have no idea where I'm going most of the time. I hate that shit.
Ocean Beached 8.29.02

While my school is having Orientation, I am sauntering westward to Ocean Beach in San Frisky. I take a cable car? Trolley car? Overground subway thing? From Mr. Kara's and up and over through some sleepy Queens-like neighborhoods, where everyone is Asian (hey, it is Queens! Good stuff!) and finally to a beach enshrouded in mists and clouds.

I imagine Ireland might look like this. Nova Scotia and Portland, Maine looked like this. Even the people looked different. Dressed in relaxed clothing and built... uhm... "hardy?" Something like that.

Had coffee, read some woman's NY Times. Took the train back. Barely made the plane, after being adventurous with public transportation. Mr. Kara, from your house it took about 1 hour and 20 minutes.

I am on my way. After being searched and having my bag irradiated again. Like in Chicago. I don't mind, and I know it's the security measures and all, but I still feel like I just picked up my second whammy and the Whammy is laughing at me like "ech, ech, ech, ech, wipeout!" If you have no idea what that means you should have been watching Press Your Luck in your free time instead of playing with your Legos or climbing trees or doing extra homework. Ya nerd.

Good bookstore in that SF airport. Bought John Feinstein's "The Last Amateurs," about Patriot League basketball schools like Bucknell, Army, and Lehigh.

And I am on my long, long, long way home. Looking for a good night's rest.
On a Mission 8.28.02

These fucking hills. They're killing my ankles. These fucking hills.

And some doggy just gave me the drive-by treatment. I was asleep, my body flat on a hill, head facing the bottom of the hill, and it's chilly, but sunny. The clouds are high. The wind is hard. The grass is green. Lots of young people out, their dogs unleashed upon the grasses. I have my tourist booty from the nearby and beautiful Mission Delores.

I sleep the rest of the content. With my headphones on.

I hear a rustling knocking me out of sleep. As a nervous character-- consequence of being a New Yorker?--I of course stir easily. I shift my head up only to see the squat body of the white bulldog barreling in my direction, crunching grass and spraying spit all over.

Now, I'm also good and afraid of dogs. My heart goes into overdrive. My bladder is ready to unload any liquid weight. My eyes bug out like Buckwheat. And just before I can scream, the dog flies by me.

One of those Croakland dogs, I bet, practicing the doggy drive-by.
North Beached 8.27.02

I suppose I should tell you about last Tuesday's trip up from the Montgomery Street BART station, and up the slight grade to the Transamerica Building; then onwards to search the North Beach neighborhood. It was a hot day in San frisky, for once. Hot and almost a little humid. So I was walking in search of a Gatorade and the Coit Tower's views of the city.

I found Larry Flynt's Hustler Club. "Yeah," the extra-sized bouncer told me, his circular girth straining the waist-high desk he sat behind, dressed in a shiny gray suit with matching shiny blue shirt, "Larry comes in here all the time. He comes up from LA all the time." I wondered how they'd wheel Mr. Flynt's fat wheelchaired ass in. I think I did see a ramp, though, on the side, blue-carpeted and lit with strips on the ramp's border.

This club is just up a hill from the main drag on Columbus Avenue, near the City Lights bookstore, near the Transamerica. There are hills, there are directions to the Coit Tower. There is Chinatown a few blocks away. And then there is this block of smut. The Hustler club with a bulb-lit border. Two stores advertise that they sell the full line of Hustler products including all or Tara (or Tera, depending on the day) Patrick's movies.

Around the corner, again, is the City Lights bookstore. Home of the Beat poets. Or something like that. Their favorite bookstore or some malarkey. It is a good bookstore. I stayed away from the beat section-- I've read On the Road and Howl and a lot of the subsequent works subsequently make me want to pull my hair out. But downstairs I perused books until I found Mr. Lee"Scratch" Perry's biography. Which I read for a restful hour.

It was a hot day in San Frisky. And I still couldn't find a corner store. So I got a cappuccino instead. To paraphrase MC Lyte, it was a cafe on the North Beach, downtown, I had a cup of the finest cappuccino around.

Somewhere near where I was the Coit Tower loomed overhead. And I still couldn't figure out how to get there, and it was a hot Gatorade-free day. So I sat in Washington Square on the left coast, smelling a mix of fresh air and freshly mixed B-O. Everyone was sunbathing, I was sitting on aerated grass. Or turds. There were punk kids. Dogs running. Meditators. It was a hot day in San Francisco and I was peaceful.

I found the Coit. It was an anticlimactic hollow pole.

I walked down, gave someone directions. Like I know where I'm going. Walked through Chinatown. Took more pictures that would look like nothing in a week. Walked into a bar that survived the 1906 earthquake. It's called the Saloon and if it wasn't for the local bluesman and cheap beer, I never would have spent any time inside of the bar.

His name was BJ Papa. He plays in various places around Frisky whose names mean about the same to me as Woody Dantzler means to you. But there I am, reading the local news in the Sf Chronicle and trying to get a sense of the city's politics. And the bartender offers me a beer. The bluesman begins talking to me in a soft, weathered voice to match his weathered beard. Of course, we talk about how women are tough, and how men never know what they've got. I'm young but I listen. I have another beer. We talk about NYC and the blues and the Midwest and the music scene in Omaha. Or was it Oklahoma City? Couldn't tell ya.

Props to CJ, Mr. Kara, and Jeff. No props to American Idol. Extra props to Mr. Clute and Eliza for putting me up or putting up with me.