It's Alexis' birthday! Discuss!

First, we're going here:

 

Then we're gonna drop a lot of money eating here.
 

1. Do you wish you could take back anything you've created and shared? 

Besides my nogoodnik son, Nicholas Nogoodnik? No, I don't think so. There are maybe two or three things I've done in the past 26 years that I wish I hadn't (I'm not so lucky to completely buy into the frattie philosophy of, "Regrets? Nah, bro, live life without regrets, bro."), but none of them are creation- or disclosure-oriented. I might not volunteer honest personal info all the time, but I got no problem sharing it when prompted. And there are many, many things I've done artistically speaking that might fill me with deep, deep chagrinning (like this very sentence), but none of them that I wish I could take back. Not even that macaroni minstrel mural I made. 'Cause, regrets? Nah, bro, live life without regrets, bro.

2. Do you even write spite-driven songs or scenes (or any medium)? Do you feel better once you share them (if you do share)? 

I do, indeed. A good portion of Pet Symmetry's songs were about my recent ex at the time. And pretty much all of Everybody Here Says Hi was about the crumbling relationship I was going through at that time. And there are a bunch of 'fuck off' songs on Words of Whiskey (in fact, one or two were written specifically to write a spiteful song in the vein of Dylan's angrier stuff). I do feel better afterwards, too, but not the reason I would think. Instead of feeling, like, a catharsis or something after it's written, the satisfaction for me lies in abstracting something personal and turning it into something palpable. Having something to show for it. The pain or anger or whatever is still there, but then I can listen to the song (it's a song in this scenario) and relate to it almost as an outsider. Does that make sense? It might not make sense. Fuck you if it doesn't make sense. [writes song about you. feels better.]

Here is the greatest (I think) example of my spitefulness at work. When I was 12 or 13, I sent an honest-to-goodness fanboy package to Stephen King, filled with my short stories and a few outlines for books I was trying to write, along with a gushing cover letter that essentially said, "OMG reed these and love meeeee!" Stuff somewhere on the top of the list of Things Never to Send to Other Writers Ever. Of course, a few months later, they were roundly sent back unread with a note from his secretary, Marsha DiFillipo, saying, "Mr. King cannot accept or comment upon your writing for copyright reasons, &c., &c." Totally understandable (and kinda cool that I got a response, at the very least), but at the time, I was fuckin' pissed. Like, as livid as I had ever been at that age. I had all of his books on a few totally-devoted shelves on one of my bookcases in my room and, just to show him!, I turned ALL of his books around so that their pages were facing me and their spines were towards the wall. I would not brook seeing his name in my house!!! Then (for I was in the middle of writing a superhero screenplay at the time, which, upon further thought, might be a good answer for Question 1), I sat down at my computer (which is what we used in the early 90s) and created a new villian who, before becoming a baddie, sends stuff to a favorite author, gets them sent back, and goes and throws the author off of a building. 

I left the books as they were for a long time--maybe a year or so. But the screenplay became The Legend of Bagger Vance. And now you know . . . the rest of the story.

3. Have you ever limited your art for fear of what people you know might think? 

Not yet. I have maybe changed or altered things afterwards, based on certain people's opinions, but never beforehand. I'm a stubborn bastard, too, and I like the idea of proving people wrong, so if there's something I think might get received poorly (or just differently than I intended), sometimes that might even encourage me to go ahead with it, just so I can then try and get them to think my way. I'm like a Nazi.

4. Are there paved roads in Heaven? 

What else are the celestial golf carts supposed to ride on? Clouds are bumpy, duh.

Wait. Is there tar there? Does that mean they have oil and shit? Fucking, let's invade those fucks!

5. Tell me the most entertaining story about yourself. Now. 

One time when I was really young I took a dump in a pool. During swimming lessons. With other kids in it. The entertainment value lies in imagining what happened next.

You are a Social Liberal (68% permissive) and an... Economic Liberal (20% permissive) You are best described as a: Socialist Link: The Politics Test on OkCupid.com: Free Online Dating Also : The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

Also, mark your calendars for November of 2053:

DEAD AT 72

cancer

 Well, once I read this, I couldn't pass it up. It was surprisingly stressful and difficult, I must say. I have so much to do today and this took like 2 hours. Dangit.

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you 5 questions of a personal nature.
3. You will update your LJ with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this and an offer to interview someone else in the post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them 5 questions.


My questions, from the Deaner:

1. No seriously, did you eat all the potato chips?

Yeesh. I didn't realize they'd be this personal. Okay, just give me a second to, y'know . . . ease into this. Um . . . (deep breath, avoids eye contact) . . . No. I did not eat ALL of the potato chips. But I did have sex with all of them. And the ones I didn't eat I made into a chip-based diorama that is now sitting in your living room . . . It's a scene from the first Fern Gully movie. I recommend handling the diorama with protective hand- and eye-wear.

2. How many times have you seen a movie you liked very much (maybe even favorite)?

A lot. A lot a lot. I go through fugues with particular movies, where I try and make everyone I know watch it (with, of course, me next to them, watching and judging them the whole time). This happened to a retarded amount with the movies Dead Alive and Wet Hot American Summer. The former was during High School and the latter during a summer stock job, so there was ample time and a lot of people in a small location. And I must've seen each movie maybe 40 times in 2 months. And I watch just a little bit of Black Knight before going to bed every evening--does that count?

3. What shitty movie have you seen a lot too?

I'm gonna answer this based on theatrical viewing. I went and saw both Twister and Batman & Robin in the movie theatres 4 times apiece. Why, you may ask? Because I was 13 and just getting into dating and learned not-so-quickly that sometimes you have to put your foot down and say, "No, I've seen that, it's a piece of shit, and you are no longer worth knowing, based on your enthusiasm to put me through pain."

4. What have you ever been embarrassed to have been caught reading?

Heheh--I'm actually going through that right now. I have this urge to read Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles (or, at least, the first three books, before it apparently fell into self-parodic bodice-ripping pseudometaphysical shite), and couldn't even concentrate on the train because I was actually preoccupied with trying to hide the cover. Also, when I was working at Playboy, there would be times I'd have to read the magazine, or competitors' magazines, and every time someone walked by my desk, I had the urge to shout, "I'm doing this because I was asked!" Instead, I quietly continued masturbating.

5. Kittens or bunnies? 

Fuck you, Dean. You crossed a line. There's such a thing as TOO personal.

 Yay, I could name at least 90% of these:

100 movies in 2 minutes.

***
We had us some drayma this weekend.

Here's the setup" Alexis and I get home Saturday night, around 12:12am. Our hall-neighbors' door is ajar. Not a lot, but definitely noticeably open. All the lights are off in their apartment, from what we can see.

As far as we can tell, it could mean one of a two things: robbing or negligence. Maybe someone broke in, maybe the neighbors got home and went to bed without realizing the doors wasn't shut, ohmigodmaybesomeone'sinthererightnow . . . Between the prospects of waking everyone in the apartment up in the middle of the night and alerting an intruder to our across-the-hall presence, we decide to just leave it. There's no sign of forced entry, so it was most likely just a late-night accident. Our building's front door locks and we're the only other people only the floor, so it should be fine to leave the door as is overnight.  

The next morning, it's still open. But it's early, so maybe they're just not up yet. We go about our day and when we get home around 9pm, it's STILL open.

So we call the landlord and tell him what's going on. He tells us that he'll call the neighbors and let them know (we, of course, do not have their phone number).

About an hour later, we hear a knock on our door. It's our neighbor. He asks us, "Did you guys see anything or anybody suspicious this weekend?" And we're like, "Well, your door's been open since yesterday--we didn't know what to do, and we don't have your number, so we called the landlord." He says, "Really? He never called me." Turns out, he was in Connecticut all weekend at a wedding and just got home. We ask him if everything is alright with his apartment. He says, "Well . . . " and lets us inside.

They didn't have much stuff to begin with, but even so, you can totally tell that the place was picked through. The apartment was furnished pretty slightly, but the big empty space in the living room, and the disconnected speaker wires are a dead give away. Apparently, a large plasma screen TV and a DVD player used to reside right where we're looking. 

Our neighbor shows us one of his windows that has one of those small, rectangular box fans--the fan has been bent in a little, and the window gives purchase out to their fire escape. Whoever did this must have climbed up their ladder (their side of the building doesn't face the street), come in through the open window, taken their stuff, and gone out through their front door. That's super fucking creepy, for sure.

We give our condolences, tell him the hours when we noticed the door was open, and go back to our apartment. Then, some more knocks on our door. It's his sister and her boyfriend. We tell them the same things. They're all, totally understandably, quite bummed and upset (and no one, of course, blames us, as what the hell could we have done?). We go back to our apartment. Then, 15 minutes later, some more knocks on our door. It's a police officer. We tell him the same things. He makes a joke about our IMPEACH BUSH bumper sticker on our door ("You guys got a lotta ideas up there"). We go back to our apartment. Then, 15 more minutes later, another knock on our door. It's a detective. This shit's getting serious. Apparently, another house nearby was hit and they think it might be the same people. Eeee. We give the detective the same information, and go back to our apartment. No more knocks that evening.

Of course, after such an episode, you immediately start cataloging everything you own to see what might be appealing to a robber. Our guitars might get nabbed, which would be awful, but, other than that, our TV is way too big to carry (the plus side of not upgrading to a flatscreen), we have far too many CD books to be taken at once, and, unless they're rogue used paperback enthusiasts, they're not gonna find much of interest on our shelves.

God help us if any LORD OF THE RINGS fanatics ever climb up our fire escape, though. 

***
In other news, I have an irritated hair growing right next to my mouth. It's stupid and I don't like it.

I, too, am sincerely saddened that George Carlin is no longer with us (actually, to spare him the inanity of a euphemism that sounds like he got a better offer at a new law firm, let's just be plain: he fuckin' died). He was the first comedian with whom I was ever diligently obsessed, and I probably can't overestimate how much of an influence his stuff had on shaping my sense of humor (always safe to blame a corpse). Up to and including You Are All Diseased, I had every album, including the Little David pressings, and listened to them with almost as much regularity as I did to the Beatles. As I grew a little older, my attention turned to more relatively contemporary comics like Bill Hicks, David Cross, and Patton Oswalt, et al, but Carlin was always held in the highest esteem in my opinion, and his influence on nearly every comic I've since appreciated is undeniable. If he turns out to be wrong, and there is some sort of afterlife, I hope he's back with his wife and everything's cozy. But it's a sad day for the rest of us down here.

It's in times like these when one must ask the hard questions. Lord, why not Carlos Mencia?

Just ganked this list from the AV Club, who ganked the list from AFI, who just posted their 10 Best Films in 10 Genres list. I'm kinda bummed they excluded horror from consideration--there are more than enough great films in that genre, and they could certainly always use a critical shout-out. Otherwise, though, whatcha think of these?

( Why isn't this even longer? Surely I've done MORE )
Same with what Angelrod said: you wanna know about something, just ask.

One of the many problems with my sense of humor is that, when I have nothing better to say (usually in a retail setting), I tend to spout things that I know are cliched non sequiturs, purely for the sake of voicing something hoary and lame. I find it funny. The irony is generally lost on those to whom I'm speaking, but fuck 'em, I know the truth, and that makes me a better person than they. Occasionally, though, something will go wrong in the final stages of this attempt at "humor," and I'll neglect to say whatever I'm saying in a way that is anything but 100% genuine, which tends to just leave both parties confused for the rest of the day.

Case in the point:

I went to Borders yesterday (which I do just about everyday and ohmygodIneedtostopdoingthat) to get the new Martha Wainwright album. I had with me a $5 coupon (one of the "rewards" for having bought so many goddamned things from that store already). I get to the register, I hand over the CD and the coupon, and then the clerk does somethin' sneaky and ALSO rings up a 60% coupon that the last person left lying on the counter. So I ended up getting the CD for like $5. Sweet.

"Thank you so much!" I say to the clerk.

"It'd be a shame to waste that coupon," she says to me.

Beat.

"I owe you one," I say to her. Completely genuinely. Before I even know what I'm saying.

She looks at me with confusion. Justifiably so, as I am now confused, as well. I take my purchase and leave.

Had I said it in a way that she knew I was kidding, it would have been one thing. But it came out like I meant it. I owe you one? What, praytell, did I owe her? $5? A favor? A date? Did it sound like a come on? Or, worse, is this going to be one of those things that will come back to haunt me? Will I run into her in a couple of years and she'll say, "Remember me? It's time to make good on your promise?" And then I'll have to kill her husband or something? What the fuck was I thinking, I owe you one?!

This new Martha Wainwright CD very well may have ruined my life.

I think the Beck album Guero deserves some critical reevaluation.

Taking a cue from this, what is/are the worst movie/s you've ever seen?

I nominate the remake of Thirteen Ghosts.

EDIT:
Despite having been an Obama fan since 2003, I have arrived very late at the Will.i.am "Yes We Can" phenom. I just watched the video, and it almost made me weep at work. Man. Everyone but me has seen it, but I'll post it anyway, if not for people to rewatch it while paying special attention to just how dumb Scarlett Johansson is. "Do I sing now . . . no, now? . . . tee-hee . . . " Can we please take her career away yet?

But almost even better than that is this:

Hey Livejournal friends,



The world premiere of THE RECKONING OF KIT & LITTLE BOOTS is almost upon us! Crazy, eh? It's like I just finished writing the script like 6 months ago. We're all very excited; it's shaping up to be quite a special production. For those that don't know, my show is running in rep with a play called Hope's Arbor, by Rich Espey, receiving its NYC premiere. I encourage y'all that can to see that show, too. But, my livejournal, my specs, right?

Here are the dates:

You know what this is, right?


EDIT
You know what this is, right?

That's right, an embarrassment.

Here's my capsule review of the new Indiana Jones, ( a la Shacmeister )

Oh, man, "Bell Bottom Blues" is one of the best unrequited love songs ever written. Fuck "Layla." That chorus just rips your goddamn heart out.

Here's an odd "video" that someone posted of it on YouTube. It's just a picture of a sulky girl in bell bottoms for five minutes. But goddamn, what a good song.

You know what never ceases to amaze me? Whenever I introduce myself to someone and, for one reason or another, they are absolutely incapable of understanding my name. Now, you all know my name. It ain't hard at all. Three letters. N-A-T. Easy-peasy, right? You don't need to stretch out beforehand, you don't need to learn the morphology of some distant land's linguistic system. And yet, I'd say 8 times out of 10, it is met with befuddlement and, occasionally, scorn.

Here's how it usually goes:
"And what's your name?"
"Nat."
"Sorry?"
"Nat."
"Matt?"
"Nat."
"Nate?"

That's generally where I give up. That's the moment that really confuses me. When I've said my name three times already and the person on the receiving end thinks that, maybe, I've been pronouncing it wrong this whole time. Oooh, it drives me crazy. HOW, I ask you, does one get "Nate" from "Nat?" How?

The diphthong "ei" is totally, totally different from "ae." I know I've had a buttload of semantic and phonology classes in my 26 years, but anyone with a functioning earhole can tell the difference. Dan and Dane. Man and mane. Plan and plane. "I have a plan!" "You have a plane?" "I'm wearing a hat." "You're wearing a hate?" It's not like the difference between pen and pin; it's a completely different buttfucking sound! And the fact that, when my name is guessed to be Nate, it is usually with the unspoken attitude of, "Oh, you meant THIS?" is what really chafes my crawfish.

But here's the most interesting thing, to me. The above madness is almost invariable when I am introduced to a white person. Black people, on the other hand, get the name Nat immediately. That fascinates me (fascinats me?). Either black people have much better hearing, or they're more acclimated to so-called unusual names, or--and this is what I think--they actually remember the existance of people like Nat Turner and Nat King Cole. Whereas many of the white people to whom I've been mistaking the sound of my own name only know those names every February.

From the choogle.

Angela: Do you think I will die alone?
Nat: We all die alone.
Angela: I am going to the hardware store and to buy new album! bye!!