[upon this tidal wave of young blood]

If I found myself oceanside,
    would I draw you with my swell?

    (Would you let me)

    coax you from the desert
        to a sleepy Venice apartment?

        I’ll teach myself guitar,
        learn three chords but nothing more
        as the bicycles zip by,
        their thin hum kicking
        broken glass and sand along the boardwalk.

        Salty Sunday newspapers,
        waiting by daisies and a cloudy ashtray
        to tell us what we’re missing
        beyond our Pacific front porch.

    We’ll toss the mattress down
        on the living room floor
        between the canary kitchen tiles
        and the coffee-and-cream bathroom.
        I’ll set my dad’s old record player up—
            I know how you love
            vinyl's velvety crackle.

        Warm nights,
        we’ll fall asleep with windows cracked,
        the tide singing gently
        as we lock and roll our knees
                                            till they pop
                            and marine layer fills our lungs.


Months pass,
    you've got a new boy
    with your same haircut and color.

        He borrows your jeans and cigarettes without asking
                                                while you’re in the shower.

    And California’s not as sunny as they say
        but you know how happy overcast makes me.






(Written 4 April 2006, Edited 15 April 2008.)

i've been a jim guy since day one; he's a somewhat perfected/slightly flawed version of my current self (scratch that, me over the past couple years) and i can only aspire to be as effortlessly funny yet subtle. HOWEVER--he's never been as sincere and relatable as he was tonight (and dwight still gets his last laugh); krasinki at his best, as well as the show as a whole.

as a viewer, i've never really invested as much time and heart into watching a tv show (it's ridiculous, when i think about it) as i have with the office. while it's arguably the funniest show on tv at this point (r.i.p., arrested) and it still leaves my cheeks sore the following morning from laughing too much, i'm completely attached to the jim/pam saga. pretty much everyone i know who shares in my love for the show knows this not-so-terrible-not-so-secret of mine, and i may never hear the end of it; but they're simply a little too good together sometimes. tonight's episode was nothing short of epic.

second season finale all over again.




(and if you don't watch the office... well, that sucks.)

"...and the message was 'don't lie.'
...and that was a smart movie."


since i was forced into therapy as a pre-teen, i've been fascinated with lies, liars, and, well, lying in general. at one point, my parents went as far as to call an 11-year-old me pathological. truth be told, my parents spent thousands on a safe haven for me to master the art of uno and elicit the following:

why'd you steal twenty bucks from [your dad's] wallet?
because i wanted money.
then why'd you lie and say you didn't take it?
because i didn't want to get in trouble.

(if i was being grilled by my parents and not my therapist, this would be followed by "why didn't you just ask for money," followed by "i did, but you told me to get a job, and i'm 10.")

that fucking simple.

in my defense, i'm positive that none of you (or anyone) can go 24 hours without lying in some way, shape or form. i know i can't. more than a decade removed from five hours a week of unprejudiced loathing toward my therapist, i consider myself an uncommonly honest person--far more so than the typical contemporary twenty-something. not to sound self-righteous, but if anything, i'm too honest (just not with myself, at times). when all's said and done, my mouth's gotten me in far more trouble than good, especially when concerning the opposite sex.

i may have pulled it off at some point without knowing, but i've never been able to get through a day without catching myself embellishing, fibbing, or flat out bullshitting. (my typical experience: i'll catch myself around the water cooler on monday with co-workers, someone will ask how my weekend was, and by instinct, i'll automatically say it was great, despite the fact that i sat at home, smoked pot and thought about everything i don't have in life that i want.)

today was my first conscious attempt in a few weeks. i figured i had an advantage: seeing i was holed up alone for a sick day in my place with a sinus infection and my only contact with the outside world before 3 pm being via IM, text, and an international video chat with katie on her birthday, i thought avoiding mindless bullshit and forced conversation would keep me honest. in theory, the less interaction, the fewer opportunities i had to prove my thesis correct. to the best of my recollection (and alberto gonzales'), i had myself in check until my dad called me at 6:58 (presumably to see why i hadn't shown up for dinner yet, which i just wasn't up for and hadn't the energy to explain myself, apparently), josh asked me who it was, and i said something along the lines of "random number." welp, there's always tomorrow.

the catch? the hardest part (for me, at least) seems to be remembering to even try. so challenge yourself tomorrow. break out the sharpie, cut yourself a ribbon, or leave a post-it on your mirror before you go to sleep tonight. just remember that lies are everywhere, from the "i can't get dinner with you" text (when you can, but simply don't want to) to "yes, i buried your mom's corpse in the alley behind the bowling alley like planned" when you actually buried it in the alley behind the bridal boutique that has complimentary champagne and smells like flowers inside.

one day. i double dare you.

KATIE: how are you?
ME: weird ... trying to blog about it right now.
K: about how you are? something happen?
M: no, nothing at all. i think that may be the issue.

i never thought i'd find myself saying it, but i've begun to bore the staunchest of my critics: myself.

for the time being, i might have the rest of you fooled.

i haven't changed much over the last year or so; if anything, the decisions and compromises i've made have been rational (mostly), and despite recent developments, i've kept the train on the tracks. my routine hasn't changed much since i moved into the new place (can i still call it that?): i still spend 60+ hours a week at the office (of which at least 10 are in the car), i still get wasted every weekend, and i'm still single.

i've handled my situation at work as professionally and optimistically as possible, and the last few weeks have all but confirmed how sincerely appreciated my efforts are there; it's pretty comforting. at the same time, i'm forcing myself into a more vigilant state in order to avoid becoming complacent.

a major concern of mine (and others, bless their souls) is that while i see myself writing somewhere down the line, i don't write much--or at all. this year has yielded a minute litter of romantically inefficient poetry and spite-ridden essays, a plethora of conceptual notes on my phone (of which at least 2/3 were realized while drunk, stoned, or both) and an ill-fated myriad of titles, notes and concepts--all of which died with my laptop. frankly, i'm not sure how i managed to pull myself together to write this. the bottom line? i know what i'm capable of; i thrive on satire. my life is more or less built around my ability--and desire--to tear people new ones, and i can't even begin to fathom how many of my friendships are based in a large part on a mutual ability to laugh in the face of, well, everyone else.

all things considered, there's still something intangibly lacking. i have no reason to be unhappy; but at the same time, it seems to require more and more to spark my interest. it's not that i feel like i'm fizzling out after a great year, just anesthetized at times. i go through the same motions every morning, every day, and every night, and half the time, i don't remember a single thing that took place during the commute.


it's taken nearly a quarter century, but i may finally be open to the notion of therapy.

on september 11, baby jesus (my powerbook) perished at the ripe old age of 4.5 years. i have no reason to believe it was an act of terrorism, but i can't rule it out as of yet. that thing carried me through college, through work, and traveled the world (well, the country) with me. technically, it's still alive--i can start it in disk mode and pull things off, given i use the precision of mcdreamy. i spent the week doing precisely that, and thankfully, i didn't lose anything worth noting.

on the bright side, this gave me an excuse to impulsively part with money that i don't have, so i ran out and bought an imac on wednesday night, and it's understatedly the most beautiful thing in my life right now (sad, perhaps--but this thing is fucking gorgeous). while some (including myself) may consider tremendously irresponsible behavior, let me remind you--my impulse buy of 2006 was a CAR, so i'm downplaying this and patting myself on the back for showing a little resolve (i'm well aware this makes zero sense.) i'll provide some mandatory photo booth pictures later, as this is my duty as a mac user.

skip to friday; i mutually agreed with my producer that clip research wasn't working out for me. in my fifteen months at kimmel, the past month or so was the first point that i found myself unhappy (at all) with my job, namely due to the fact that i was watching tv ten-plus hours a day. i was stressed, sleeping poorly, and eating erratically. it was a little tough for me to willingly take a step back from an established staff position, but it should be for the best. unfortunately, it's a pretty drastic step--i'll be back at square one on monday as a PA. i'm relieved, despondent, and everything in between right now; i've realized that this is my very first professional speed bump since graduating. everything to this point has worked out better (faster, stronger, heh) than i could have imagined, and that fact is definitely something i'm banking on for optimism right now.

some week.


side note on how culturally (un?)savvy i am: while i spent the entire summer with a heroin-esque addiction to the national, okkervil river and the new stars/voxtrot albums, i more or less ignored anything considered "popular" (if you know me at all, you're undoubtedly aware that i don't lend much time, if any, to the radio or mtv). nothing new. however, i heard rihanna's 'umbrella' for the first time last week (yes, you read that correctly), and it's easily one of my favorite songs of 2007. sometimes i think my friends subconsciously force me into being some sort of musical snob.

i'm looking forward to jury duty on the 24th (for the record, my third time, at age 24; i know people twice my age who've yet to serve).

sitting here at my desk, i simply cannot digest this shit without venting a little. the following is what homeland security adviser fran townsend (i like to think of her as a hideous cross between jan from 'the office' and ann coulter) had to say to wolf blitzer on 'the situation room' about her recent calling out of osama bin laden as "virtually impotent." just another testament of how frustrated i am with this administration.

"what i was responding to when i said 'virtually impotent' is this is what bin laden does--he's the spiritual leader; he's the propagandist in chief, if you will, of al qaeda. this is what he can do--this is his contribution to the fight; but he's--in a bit of our parlance, he's a bit of a coward. he's the guy who talks big, but he sends other people to do his dirty work, in this country and around the world."

sound like anyone familiar? fucking hypocrites...



almost forgot, happy september 11th.

a week after returning, i finally get around to hammering these out.
rather than go back and post and date everything individually...

SUNDAY, 8/12 - Poignant

two things i (and most people, i'd imagine) hate doing while high:
1) laundry
2) packing

this is not a good night.


MONDAY, 8/13 - A hard day's flight

this is what it takes for me to (actually) write. pure desperation. i'm currently somewhere over the gulf of mexico en route from a (suprisingly quick, surprisingly pleasant) layover in houston. my ipod's running on about a third of a battery (i got stoned last night and forgot to charge it) and my headphones are busted (the standard ipod headphones suck dick, both functionally and aesthetically--they never seem to stay in place when i run, which is only once every couple months, therefore making this inconvenience all the more catastrophic).

[i'm interrupted by the person sitting in front of me, who is apparently playing charades with his company (and apparently, the clue is terror squad's 'lean back'). there goes half my economy class-sized workspace.]

back to 'this is what it takes for me to actually write': music--budgeting. in terms relevant to my demographic, i'm somewhere around chimney rock, i've wasted my ammo shooting more buffalo than i could carry back to the wagon, and my wife's got dysentery. did i mention i'm a fucking TEACHER? (if you didn't spend an ungodly number of hours playing oregon trail in 256 colors as a pre-teen, i'm sorry i put you through that.

speaking of turbulence, something like 187 people died last month when a passenger plane failed to stop in time on the notoriously short runway at sao paulo, which is where we'll be touching down in eight hours and change. i'm not sure why that was necessary to write.

on another note, if this chicken (dinner) is "grilled," i'm "seducing" every devastatingly beautiful brazilian girl i encounter on this trip.

i'm not going to sugarcoat things. right now my programming options are as follows: ‘house,’ ‘spiderman 3,’ and ‘charlie and the chocolate factory’ (the one i’ve got zero intent of ever watching, aka the one that came out when i was in college, aka the one that sucks). thankfully, i've always enjoyed the channel that rotates between vague maps of where the plane is located, ground velocity, and other insignificant statistics—boring shit, really. (i later realize ’30 rock’ was an option, but i've seen—and savored—every episode at least thrice, so leaving it out conveys my lack of options far more efficiently.)

[based on my passively irritated observations, the passenger in front of me is now apparently getting a lapdance (i had no idea said service was available in coach.)] it seems his chair can lean back a good two feet, and when i try to recline, i honestly feel like I move back and down a good three inches. (i'm sure they’re all the same; it’s just an issue of relative perspective. your chair will never recline enough for your own comfort-related satisfaction, yet it will absolutely piss off whoever happens to be sitting behind you.)]

earlier today, i was picking through the most abundantly delicious plate of orange chicken i've ever come across at a panda express (and i've come across quite a few, seeing a) i fucking love panda express, and b) the only thing i ever—and i mean EVER—get there is orange chicken) in the houston international airport (which is all the more ironic, because they don’t allow chinese people in texas), and i lamented to alex the agony i endured at the hands of some little shithead during the first leg of my flight, from los angeles to houston. while on my network-supported soapbox, i advocated my new favorite cause—the ability of airline passengers to carry and implement tasers (namely by me, namely on children.) there’s a baby crying its fucking head off a few rows up from me right now, but if i had to take one over the other, i wouldn’t hesitate for a moment before shocking the hell out of whoever’s sitting in front of me.

the best part? he's got no clue he’s being (or ever will be) written about. after i induce a pharmaceutical coma and wake up in south america, i'll dwell--well, try to dwell--on why i live to antagonize.


TUESDAY, 8/14 - Waking up is the worst

rio (finally). the pilot stuck the landing in sao paulo, and this blog lives to see the light of day (this is one of those "good/bad" things). oh, and nobody died, which is nice. i flirted with snapping in the airport (it appears, seeing i'm traveling with two middle-aged women, i'm the designated luggage-carrier-guy. this will all but certainly impose on my desire to relax on this trip).

as soon as we got to my mom's cousin's (after myriad attempts at understanding simple genealogical terms over the last decade, i've simply given up) condo no more than a couple hundred yards (i refuse to go metric, regardless the indie cred i'm sure to lose over this) from the beach, i passed out. when i woke up, i had no clue where i was, i felt stoned (but with a headache), and it was dark outside. i had a strange dream involving yogi berra (apparently as some kind of fascist overlord), a girl named india (with whom i had one class with in high school, and recently sent a thorough yet inarticulate facebook message while high), and a series of dauntingly unstable fire escapes. now i'm stuck thinking about someone with whom i've literally spoken fewer words than the number of women i've slept with.

i started chuck klosterman's 'IV' last night on the flight, and it's become evident that whenever i'm reading any of his work, i'm compelled to write. i can't finish an essay of his without thinking about starting one of my own. if only he'd accept my myspace friend request.


THURSDAY, 8/16 - Beetles, they don't need board shorts...

i had my worst existential crisis ever today. i could never go suicidal, but this almost felt like it, even though i couldn't have been further from that state; i was completely depressed (and fascinated) at the thought of how much we as humans require not only to survive from a biological standpoint, but even worse, from our own societal one. this was triggered by my wondering what the chances were that i was born into the only species that requires clothing.

this was far worse than watching 'now and then' (or anything else rosie o'donnell has been a part of...even 'exit to eden') in 8th grade. this just happened to be the first time i truly understood that we all eventually die (and lose one another). the movie was purely coincidental. i may as well have been watching 'ghostbusters.'

at least i'm still funny, even under duress. sometimes i wonder if i'll ever be able to turn that off.

that, and i've learned that nothing--not even inevitability itself--can ruin andrew bird's 'masterfade.'

i think i have a sore throat. i miss katie.


FRIDAY, 8/17 - America? Fuck no.

so about that sore throat--don't get sick abroad.

as far as getting medication? it's better to be an american in brazil than an america in america. fucking america.


SATURDAY, 8/18 - Separation anxiety

whenever i get testy, alex gets a txt.
so i'm having withdrawals right now.

this trip is bedlam and bliss, no middle ground.

i miss my bed. my big, beautiful, mattress-not-covered in plastic bed.


SUNDAY, 8/19 - It's much easier to shout "fucking retard" in a small hotel lobby when nobody speaks english...

276 + 42 = 318
318 / 3 = 106 (not 109)
318 x 2/3 = 212
106 - 42 = 64
(did i leave anything out?)

my first time in brazil, i got bit by something and my eyelid swelled shut overnight. i woke up the following morning and thought i'd lost my left eye.

this time, strep. a little less dramatic. i did pet a capuchin in a park on wednesday, however. while that'd make for a much better story (honestly, i'd willingly battle strep for a few days--knowing i'd come out fine--if i knew for fact i'd gotten it from a monkey eating a cookie out of my mouth.) i'm an idiot.

instead of 3 tylenol pms and jerking off, i've taken a couple ambien tonight, and i'm gonna try and plow through a few klosterman essays.
yes, it's a win-win.


MONDAY, 8/20 - Talladega gospel

bear with me on this one. a couple days back, i realized cristo redentor (christ the redeemer) has no beard.

thus, according to my (repeated and nonsensical) use of 'talladega nights' as a theological reference:
the statue is (obviously) not of baby jesus and (clearly) not of bearded jesus, and therefore must be teenage jesus.

that being said, the 100-foot-tall monument, which "watches over" some 11 million people (6 million in the actual city, but the redeemer can be seen far beyond) with arms spread, is a teenager. i think i just single-handedly solved rio's crime problem. get the jesus a beard, stat.

this trip has rekindled my love affair with coconut. on the other hand, i'm wondering if it ever fizzled in the first place.


TUESDAY, 8/21 - Karate kid

it deeply annoys me when people rush me.

but when people rush me, then spend ten minutes being abstractly busy while i wait around primed and ready, i want to smash wooden planks with my head. sweet.


WEDNESDAY, 8/22 - In the can

this is far from the worst trip i've ever been on, but i feel so broke up, i want* to go home.

the monitors come on in the headrest in front of me, and the first thing i see is a cosmetic ad featuring sarah jessica parker. i may be somewhere over a the brazilian jungle, but it's already painfully clear--welcome back to america, where THIS is pretty. i'm instantaneously despondent.

i had the chance to act out one of my favorite lines ever:

stewardess: can I get you anything to drink?
me: i'll have a (diet) coke.
stewardess: do you want that in the can?
me: no, i'll have it right here.

i know what you're thinking. it was a moment for me at least.

after some self-reflection in the lavatory (planes seem to be the only place i refer to these as anything other than 'shitters'), i realize i'm the only person with their overhead light on. i feel so insensitive for the better part of a moment, then i take a few additional minutes to document this fact.

ambien, my one and only. i can't wait to wake up in houston (last time i'll ever write that) and txt again.

*need.


THURSDAY, 8/23 - One first/last hypothetical

pick your favorite actor.

now replace him, in every role he's ever played, every single way he has existed in real life, and so on, with nicolas cage.

how do you kill yourself?

"this record isn't tainted..." --barry bonds

i rarely blog about sports. of the dozen (i'm probably being generous) people who actually read my "musings," i'd say two--three tops--give a lick about sports.

...but watching barry bonds break one of the most hallowed records in all of sports makes my stomach turn and my head ache. why would i bother watching? i'm a baseball fan first, a barry bonds basher second. watching him trot around the bases and into the record books tonight, my demeanor wasn't far from the one i had watching bush "win" the 2000 election, or even worse, witnessing the american public vote him back in, four years later.

i know i've got every bias one could possibly think of against our favorite anti-hero. i'm a dodger fan (he plays for the giants), i went to the university of arizona (he went to arizona state), and i have character (he's somewhere between former enron CEO ken lay and lindsay lohan). i've promised myself to conduct myself in a mature yet sincere fashion in writing this. not once will i call him an "arrogant fuck" or a "callous piece of shit," although if you know me at all, you're well aware how i feel about him. (and if you don't know me that well, let's just say my contempt for bonds goes unmatched...even by our executive branch.)

i wasn't alive in 1974 to see hank aaron hit 715 (off dodger al downing, of course), but the first time my dad played me the video (i couldn't have been older than 7 or 8), i got goosebumps. i appreciated it so much. i knew relatively little about the history of baseball history at that point, but it was those moments (and characters like aaron) that made me fall in love with the game; this is why we fall in love with sports--we form emotional ties. i still get chills every time i see two fans running alongside hammerin' hank, patting him on the back in a genuine display of joy and acceptance. obviously, security is an entirely different issue 33 years later, but while i was not-so-secretly rooting for an over-the-top, blade-wielding "purist" to charge the diamond, i somehow found peace in bonds rounding the bases completely alone; since 2000, the only thing he has succeeded in doing (other than tarnishing the national pastime and painting himself as a villain we all love to hate) is alienating himself from his teammates, the media, and most importantly, fans.

the first sporting event i remember watching was game one of the 1988 world series (i was 5); with a runner on, an injured, steroid-free kirk gibson took dennis eckersley over the right field wall in the bottom of the ninth for a 5-4 win, sending the dodgers to the most recent of their six championships. it's a moment i'll know and love the rest of my life; gibson charging out of the box, chugging his way into second, a jolly tommy lasorda racing from the dugout. when aaron passed the babe, he ran after 715 as if the braves were down a run with two out in the bottom of the ninth in a game seven--and he'd hit a double down the line. when bonds hit 756 tonight, before he even had the chance to run, he was admiring its flight, dropping his bat, undoing his robotic-looking pads, pointing to the sky, and probably making sure the necessary cables were on hand and connected for the subsequent media circus.

individually directed disdain (and baseball, for the moment) aside, i haven't felt this detached from sports since baseball went on strike in 1994 (i still feel my dad has never--and likely never will--recovered from this). when referees are (allegedly) fixing games and the highest-paid player in the NFL (and arguably, at one point, the best athlete on the planet) is (again, "allegedly") electrocuting dogs, how am i supposed to invest so much heart, energy, and (increasingly more) money to see my heroes play?

thank heavens i don't have a 10-year-old in little league right now; i surely don't envy any parent with the task of explaining to their kid why the "greatest of all time" is a fraud. i'd rather explain where babies come from...at least that's a naturally occurring process.

records are meant to be broken, and i respect barry bonds' incredible ability to hit a baseball. he will never be cal ripken jr, however. nor will he ever be half the man hank aaron was. roger maris. lance armstrong. the fact that bonds credited magic johnson as someone he looked up to in his post-game press conference appalls me, solely in that yet again, we've learned that barry is a man possessed by greed and hubris, with such dizzyingly little respect for every other gifted athlete who succeeded before him.



(...and in case anyone needs a testament of how worthless bonds is as a "teammate": nationals 8, giants 6.)

to greg oden and lebron james on becoming the first father and son to both be selected first in the NBA draft (2007 and 2003, respectively).

this is especially impressive because lebron is technically older than his father.

...died tuesday. he was 89.

not only was mr. a successful wizard and a pioneer in the field of wizardry, but he also used his wizard powers to make me wake up without assistance at 5 AM on saturdays to watch him get high from blending household chemicals with kids my age.

thanks for looking the other way when our parents wouldn't, mr. wizard.


[big ups to ms. yang for the graphic.]