Tuesday, October 31
Their music is boring, but it's all worth it for the band sketch at the bottom.
Sunday, October 29
Bill came into town. Bill’s this gonzo journalist cum dot com whore. Thing is, he’s not really whoring because he likes what he’s doing. He went from being a journalist to being a PR person for crypto-freaks and data-liberating ebiz types. Coming from journalism, he knows how to speak to tech writers to get the best possible story out of them. Now he’s working for Mojo Nation
, a group of people essentially doing Napster services, but striping the data across thousands of drives and using payment systems in cash or resources. You can upload and download what you want and pay in bandwidth, drive space, or Benjamins.
Bill is now making shitloads of cash and called me up to announce his desire to come to L.A. for Halloween. The last time I saw Bill at Halloween he was just coming back to the U.S. from reporting from Kosovo. War-torn Kosovo. He had seen some awful parts of humanity and as a result he wasn’t too enamored with mundane things like tact. I suppose when you’ve unearthed a mass grave, watching out for someone’s feelings at a party just isn’t a priority. Bill dropped by about six months ago for a brief revel, and along with his English reporter Steve, we dropped into Jumbo’s Clown room where Bill chatted up the busty octogenarian barmaid. In German. Bill’s just a man of the world, a living specimen of a modern, lewd Renaissance man. He’s bawdy, ribald, smart as fuck, and a snappy dresser to boot. He engages me in conversation like few others and he’s got a fearlessness about him that encourages freedom of voice. I don’t know that I can say that about too many people, and certainly none that I’d share a limo with.
Bill chose to share his extravagance with me, so we rented a limousine and hit the Sunset strip. We were denied access to Skybar, so fuck them. The Gate was a better choice, on La Cienega, where Bill and I chatted up 30 year old British birds on holiday celebrating their birthdays, and two young women from south Boston. They were accompanied by a guy who was eagerly pitching his "Fight channel" idea. I asked him if it was anything like Fight Club, where the first rule was he couldn’t talk about it. But he did. 24 hours of men beating the snot out of each other should appeal to lots of people. I’m not one of them. The five of us jumped into the limo and we hit the Viper Room, Johnny Depp’s club. It was dead, everyone at private Halloween parties. One of the girls grabbed a cab home, and Bill magically waved his fingers and the girl from south Boston who recited poetry with hyphens and fingers along with her Fight Channel companion were left behind. It occurs to me now I gave him one of my cards.
We got our driver to suggest a few options, and we drove past Madonna’s club, Factory. The doors were being guarded by a mook squad. The guy who answered the phone sounded rather disappointed to confirm that there were mostly a lot of wolfish men inside as well. We had the driver take us to Trader Vics, where we saw Tony Danza in a state of undone neckwear, chasing down his wife who was leaving in a hurry. From there, we went to the Century Club as it was closing. The mass of tight pants and g-strings confirmed we should have gone there earlier. The driver suggested The Body Shop strip club, which for some reason is where I always end up on nights of Sunset Strip debauchery. We were there from two to three, and we were swamped by the sheer number of men. They had understocked the kitty, if you get my drift. Bill and I left, and had the driver take us back to the pad.
I enjoyed the evening immensely. It was a unique opportunity and I can say that I’d never make it a habit. L.A. bar culture is noisy, smelly, and people tell too many lies. When they tell the truth you wish they were lying. When they’re lying, it’s not interesting. Some of them look really good, but they’re far too busy being themselves to have time to be human. The ones that really expose themselves cost $20 for a look, and a heart to heart involves pancake makeup and fake groaning.
I feel good about finally getting to know more about Bill. He’s remarkable, memorable, crass, witty, observant, bellicose, and excessive; someone I feel fortunate to have as a friend. He engages me in ways I don’t find in Los Angeles, and he lives a lifestyle in which I take vicarious pleasure. I look forward to his biannual visits. He’s had to hit the dirt under gunfire. He’s hung out with terrorists and nationalist rebels. He’s dug up bodies and reported war crimes. That he still likes to come and visit me, a cynical hermit in city of seven million self-involved wackos is flattering.
Friday, October 27
Sunday, October 22
Humans really are this stupid:
"But Bobbi McCaughey says those moments are offset by the times when the children will be playing together and break into a chorus of ``Jesus Loves Me.''
``I think it is times like those that keep you from killing your kids,'' McCaughey said Saturday."
What with Charlton Heston telling NRA members that it's their sworn duty to put George Bush into the White House, I think the NRA is missing out on a valuable marketing opportunity. What Would Charlton Heston Do? Gun toting NRA fucknuts obviously can't see that the rampant sales of guns and loose restrictions on sales has been causing murder rates to climb and has been providing criminals with the means to their ends for years. These morons need someone to tell them what to do, who to vote for, and how to live. Who better than Moses?! What Would Charlton Heston Do? Imagine NRA necklaces and wristbands featuring the "WWCHD?" logo. You'd go to the airport to deal with some snotnosed airline attendant and they'd be wearing their WWCHD name-card ID holder necklace. You'd think twice about grabbing them by their butterfly lapels and jamming their brass wings through their nipples, wouldn't you? Because you'd know Charlton Heston would tell them to blow your brains against the customer next in line! Someone giving you guff? WWCHD? Not sure if Mexicans belong in the U.S.? WWCHD?
I searched all over the web and couldn't find this article to offer a proper link, so I cannot validate its authenticity. Even the Kyodo news service doesn't list it in their searchable archive. I suggest reading this as an anecdote only, not as fact - unless you can find substantive evidence. (Though, Dr. Kiyu does exist and is deputy director of the Sarawak health department.)
"AIDS Misconceptions Spawn Coca-Cola Remedy in Malaysia"
Kyodo News Service (home.kyodo.co.jp) (10/19/00)
Lack of knowledge regarding AIDS is creating unsafe
misconceptions in Malaysia. According to the Sun newspaper, the
Sarawak AIDS Network (SAN) said that some prostitutes believe
they can prevent HIV infection by using Coca-Cola as a
disinfectant. The sex workers and their partners reportedly
spray the soda on their genitals before having sex, possibly
believing that the cola bubbles can kill HIV, SAN's Dr. Andrew
Kiyu explained. Kiyu, the deputy director of the Sarawak health
department, noted that other myths in the Borneo Island state
involve ways to identify HIV-infected individuals based on their
appearance or body odor.
Sunday, October 8
Finished the first draft of the outline for a new script I am cowriting with my friend in San Francsisco. This means, of course, I am in San Francisco and being fed well and reminded of how empty Los Angeles is. Real used bookstores, truly attractive an interesting people, and beautiful scenery. My partner is working for a friend in the Presidio
simultaneously, and though it has gorgeous ocean views I could not live in a former military barracks. Apparently, Stirling, Scotland's University has the highest suicide rate of any college due to the fact its dormitories were designed by the architect who designed prisons. Dorm rooms are 6x9 concrete blocks. The Presidio has the same feel, I worry for those residents. San Francisco proeprty being what it is, it's full, expensive, and fucked up.
Friday, October 6
As a systems administrator I've seen thousands of forwarded letters, both jokes and religious chain letters. At my two day a week day job
I check the "postmaster" account, so I also see all the mail sent without proper email addresses - all the stuff bounced around the mail system that never gets to where it's supposed to go. This means if there's a chain letter, I've seen it in 10 different ways, always with the same punchline.
What confuses me the most is when people at a workplace send religious chain letters out to "all", or everyone in their email mailbox. I find it offensive when someone sends me a religious email, or a fable meant to deliver some eccesiastic message. It's like a God-grenade. "Think of poor Billy, who without the heart of Jesus on his side would not have lived through his terrible ski ordeal." Or the ever popular "without the love of God, you might be lost. Send this email to 100 of your friends to receive blessings." Most offensive to me is the assumption that I would be made anything but neauseus by God in my email.
This morning I woke up thinking about conception, cellular division, and the gestation of a human life in utero. To that end, I started laughing because I could not imagine how any sane person could invest this dividing mass of cells that eventually forms a person with a soul. At what point does the soul get 'inserted' into this perfectly logical group of healthy cell tissue? Christians think it's at conception. Jews think it's when the fetus is able to survive outside the mother, which in most cases is at birth. Muslims eat their young in barbaric rituals, or at least, that's what National Geographic tells me. At any rate, I further stretched my heathen wings in just laughing at the whole notion of a soul, or other divine invested quality to people. We're all individuals who are pretty incredible in our diversity. I find it amazing people need a "soul" to recognize how amazing our universe is in all its complexity and to dictate their lives. I'm a pretty good human being for being a heathen agnostic.
Waking up chilly in SanFrancisco, they're shooting a movie up Potrero Hill. I had to come here from L.A. to see them shoot a movie day for night, lighting up the streets with Klieg monsters.
Monday, October 2
I am so sick of eating.