Neil Cavuto? My neighbor?

My neighbor listens to Fox News at full blast all day. This is starting to become somewhat distracting. Take a fer instance. I noticed today, while revising my conference presentation, that I had, in a previous revision, written "civilians" instead of "citizens". Not cool.

What can I say? I'm headed for the door.

An old, old, buddy of mine, Fink-Nottle, called me last night. (We haven't seen each other for a long time, but we keep in touch. Grew up together in WVa.) He hasn't had the best luck with girls in the last few years (hey, who has?), and last night his girlfriend called it quits. I feel bad for that guy. They hadn't been together that long, less than a year. But he was definitely excited about this girl. He really, really liked her I think. The though part is, as far as I can tell, she doesn't really want to break up, but that there are other, extenuating circumstances (things were a little vague). Just Fink-Nottle's bad luck, I guess. He's confused about what to do; she still wants to call and hang out and stuff, but you know, it's tough. I feel bad for that guy.

On the good side, another buddy of mine sent me a text message a three in the morning (or thereabouts) declaring that he was in love. I guess that makes me like Jerry in that one episode of Seinfeld. You know the one.

Correction.

Apparently, my praise of "Shake the Disease" applies only to the live version on "101". The single doesn't have the extended melodic intro I like so much. D'oh!

Hopelessly adrift in the eyes of the ghost, again.

I think I've stopped trusting everything. The mail, people, everything. If I can't do it myself, I fret about it until it finally gets done. If it finally gets done. I guess it's just the case that there have been too many times when really important stuff to me has been in the hands of other people (mailpersons, ex-roommates, ex-wives), and has been completely screwed from start to finish. I don't trust my roommate to send me the money he owes me, despite the fact that I really really need it. I don't trust the mail to deliver it if he does. The check should have gotten here, along with five hundred smakers from Geico. Neither showed up. I'm starting to get a little hot under the collar. If I were wearing a collar, which I'm not.

Is this unrealistic? Is it the case that it is part of the human condition to rely on others for our own happiness? It certainly seems true in my case. I watched a movie which suggests it's the case last night. "Blue" - the first one in the Three Colors Trilogy (Blue, White, Red; Liberty, Equality, Fraternity). It was an interesting exploration of a woman trying to be completely liberated from everything in her old life, material, spiritual, everything. The director didn't seem to think it was possible. After that, I went to the 7-11 and bought some Jiffy Cornbread Mix and made it in a pan on the stove. Yummy.

Take another example. I'm convinced that someone is pilfering my books. Now, this may not seem like a really big deal, but philosophy books are expensive. A standard paperback runs $30. Why so much? Well, publishers have to recoup costs somehow, and they know the people that buy these things have to buy them, whether for educational or professional reasons, and it's not as if someone strolling by Barnes and Noble would say: "Well, I wasn't thinking of buying Essays on Moral Realism, but it was on sale!" So it costs a lot to buy books. Now, the books in my office aren't arranged in any sort of order on my bookshelf, but I know where everything goes. And I know if one's missing, because there's a gap on the shelf. Ordinarily, the shelves are completely book-laden. Anyway, I come in today to find my copy of A Critique of Pure Reason out of its normal spot, and a blank space between A. J. Ayer's The Foundations of Empirical Knowledge and Charles Taylor's Multiculturalism. Earlier this month, my copy of Susan Haak's Evidence and Inquiry was totally misplaced by someone who was, apparently, ransacking my office. Society is crumbling.

In other news, does anyone seriously doubt that "Shake the Disease" is Martin Gore's best writing? Listen to that counterpoint!

Crappy.

So, here's something that pissed me off. Once again, I had no Netflix to watch, so I decided to check out some of the extras on my super-deluxe-version of The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly. One of which seemed very interesting to me, a documentary on Ennio Morricone, and the music for the movie (which has got to be, like, the greatest score ever). Anyway, there was this talking head, some film music historian, but it was clear that he basically had NO IDEA what he was talking about, and resorted to pure speculation: "I speculate that the theme was composed like this because..." Horseshit! No interviews with real people? No people who know anything? What the hell is this, some kinda' dog and pony show? And then, there's an "in depth" discussion of the music of the film, which only has audio, no video (which is fine, I mean, it's about the music, right?) - but the problem is that as this jerkweed is talking about the music, THEY NEVER PLAY A NOTE OF IT. I mean, he's making all these interesting points, and describing the music in detail, but they never think to say, "Oh, hey, you know this part where this guy goes on for ten minutes about the showdown music? MAYBE WE SHOULD PLAY A COUPLE OF SECONDS OF IT!" Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, I tell ya'.

He can breathe ok, so long as nobody unplugs 'im.

Man, Bladerunner is such a great movie. I watched it again last night, after having gone a few years without watching it all the way through. Last Christmas, Klaus got me the BFI book on it, and it said that Philip K. Dick was upset about the noir conventions being tossed around in the script, but I think that totally makes the movie so much more dynamic. It's got some really interesting stuff about the future, the nature of humankind, etc., but it's also got one hell of a good detective-based narrative, with the dialogue to go with it. Very very cool.

Today's the day of the special mayoral election in San Diego, so I drove all the way up to Clairemont (near my old apartment) to go vote. A whole two questions. Gotta be a record low for a California election in the midst of the referenda-based form of government we've got going on here. Man, direct democracy sucks. Anyway, as a treat, I got a haircut and put it on my credit card (money's tight). I think the lady left the back a little too long, but other than that, it's ok. Just like normal. The good thing about the haircutting experience is that, unlike previous examples, there was actually more than one good song on the speakers, and they didn't happen while I was getting doused with a waterhose. This time it was: "Electric Avenue" by Cameo, "I Love Rock 'n' Roll" by Joan Jett, and "Let's Go Crazy", by His Royal Badness. Not bad for a 20-or-so-minute excursion.

I'm beginning to lose trust in the mail. As I have no cable, no friends, etc., I rely on Netflix to get me through those cold (hot), lonely nights. But if the mailman doesn't pick up your outgoing mail, or, say, forgets to give you your mail entirely, the whole system breaks down and causes unnecessary delays. Also, I was supposed to receive a check to the tune of $500, which they've already lost once. It better come tomorrow, or I'm gonna raise a stink. The check my ex-roommate was going to send me also didn't get here today. Not sure I should blame the mail for that one.

End transmission.

We are a collection of screaming jackasses.

Why is it that I need constant reminding that I'm too old to be hanging out over at the Turtle's neighbor's place? Why don't I just remember before I go over there? Why isn't it the case that the assurances that "people older than me" will be there are exposed for the irrelevance-eeze they actually are?

Nothing against them. No problem. They can act all under-grad-y, and pass out at 7pm, no problem. I think I'm going to retire, however. I think I'll be passing from now on. Those kids are too young for me.

Today has been a varies assortment of activities. I woke up early to the sound of some caterwauling in spanish across the way. Made my way to Lestat's, which has, apparently, the most unreliable wireless network connection in the history of the world. So I left after only a short while. Came back to my place and took a stroll around the Adams Avenue Antique Fair that was going on. If I had some money, I would have bought some stuff. There was some really really cool barware that I wanted, but had not the cash-ola to purchase. Too bad.

After that, I made some lunch and went to Twigg's, which has a much better wireless connection and got some work done. Came back and did some laundry. Screwed around on guitar. Made dinner. Watched Mr. Show.

Oh, this morning I watched a really interesting psychological drama called "Croupier", starring Clive Owen. It's about this writer who takes a job as a dealer in a casino, which then drags him down into sin and debauchery. Highly recommended, although some plot points were a little confusing, and there were some things that just didn't get resolved to my liking. But four out of five.

I feel like getting up early today has put my whole schedule off-kilter. I feel like it should be much later than it actually is. Oh well. I guess I'll go to bed early, and do it all again tomorrow.

Haven't done one of these in awhile.

Bill James, in his latest Historical Abstract says that, though he didn't rank Roger Clemens as the greatest pitcher ever to play the game of baseball, there's a darn good argument for that view. I'm beginning to think that as the years move on, it's becoming more and more clear that he is the greatest ever. Now, for those of you who know me, this might come as a bit of a shock, as I've done my fair share of "ROOOOOGGEERRRRRRR" yelling (mostly at my TV) in the past. But I think that nowadays most Red Sox fans have been able to make their peace with Clemens.

Look at the numbers for this year alone. His K-numbers are relatively modest; he's got 123 strikeouts in 135 innings. He's got only a 3-1 K to BB ratio. But his earned run average is 1.40. ONE POINT FUCKING FOUR ZERO. MLB.com's stats page is screwing up, so it's not giving me the season ERA leaders like I want, but I can bet, if the season ended today, that would be among the lowest ERA totals since the War. I mean, Bob Gibson beat it, pitching in a dead-ball era with a higher mound. People talk about Pedro Martinez's 2000 campaign as being the best season since Gibson's, but Clemens has a better season going right now. Better. The guy is mind-boggling. It's totally incredible. I can only imagine that whatever argument for Clemens James was citing is only getting better and better, and with this season, I would have a very difficult time seeing how he wouldn't be in at least the top two.

That is all.

The Blogger's Paradox

Have you ever noticed that there's a certain, well, paradox involved in writing stuff on a blog? I mean, it isn't a strict logical paradox, or anything, but one of the primary motivations for keeping a blog, I take it, is that people will read it. And not just a few people, but a lot of people. More and more people. But the more people who read it, the more you feel you shouldn't include certain things, lest there be people who are reading it you don't want to know all the intimate details of your life. But often, intimate details about your life are what attract readers. If so, one has conflicting rational decisions: say more, more readers, less privacy. Say less: more privacy, fewer readers.

It's a juggling act, I tell ya'.

Oh, there's a new song up on the Doctor's page, if you care at all.

Ev'rybody's learnin' how.

You know, I start to think that San Diego might just be the worst place in the world, and then it flexes its muscle and starts to dance. Or something. People don't usually flex their muscles and start to dance. They usually do one or the other. Whatever people do to show that they can still bring home the bacon, that's what San Diego did today.

It started waking up in extremely hot San Diego weather, a trip to the coffee shop. I discovered, much to my extreme glee, that the coffee shop takes plastic money, and not just paper money, which will save me many-a-trip to 7-11 to get a cheap bottle of water and five bucks cash back to use at the coffee shop. As I was drinking my small coffee, some crazed looking woman, who was wandering around outside, stepped into the coffee shop just briefly, and then took off again. Well, getting up, I saw why she stepped in. She dropped some sort of poorly made religious fanatic flyer - advocating a national "Worship On Sunday" law, that would prohibit people from worshipping on other days, and would also give law enforcement the power to throw people in jail who "bore the mark of the beast" and didn't go to church on Sunday. It was a little freaky-deaky.

I decided that it was just too hot.

Too

Hot.

TOOOOO

HOOOOOOTTTTTT.

So I went to the beach.

Got a hell of a parking spot right next to the sand, and spent the next three hours soaking up rays and swimming in the surprisingly warm water. The water was still a little crimson from the phytoplankton, but it was very refreshing. I just bobbed up and down to the waves. Also, I survived a huge jelly fish drifting past my leg, and saw an honest-to-God shark swimming past my feet. (It wasn't that big, but it sure was a shark, all right.) Had a delicious chicken sandwich from a nearby deli, and eventually made my way back to my apartment (by way of the department, where I expected a $73 check from my ex-roommate, who is now on the road to wherever the hell he's going - check wasn't there, as usual; he's supposed to send it; let's hope he does). I'm at a different coffee shop now (with wireless), and just enjoying the day. Maybe I'll get a little writing done. Who knows! At the very least, I'll make myself a dinner of bacon and eggs and watch Three Days of the Condor.

Oh, sweet mystery of life, at last I've found you.

Hot water: on.

Bon Jovi, and Other Reasons San Diego Sucks.

It's not particularly common that one runs across the same car in traffic more than once. Well, maybe it's more common than I think, but it certainly isn't all that common for you to notice one of the cars with which you're sharing traffic space, and then to share the same traffic space again with the very same car. Reason I say this is that a few weeks ago, I happened to be driving home from campus on the lovely 805 freeway, and happened to notice a car in the lane directly left of me. What originally caught my attention was a gigantic, you know, placard, or whatever you call those things that span the entire length of the top of one's back window (sometimes they say stupid things like NO FEAR, etc.). Anyway, this one said, in italics and a slightly tough-looking typeface, "BON JOVI".

Ok. Fine. So there's a Bon Jovi fan that unembarrasedly traverses the 805 in this day and age. What made this particular car stick out in my head was not just the placard (or whatever you call it). After this I happened to notice the license place frame that said: "I'd rather be at a Bon Jovi concert!" Hmm. I think I'm starting to pick up a pattern of strange obsession. I mean, I don't mean to trash on Bon Jovi, but even those people who listen to Bon Jovi nowadays don't develop the kind of fanatacism that would come along with a placard and a specialized license plate frame.

But then came the kicker.

The license plate frame was framing a license plate that read as follows: "I[heart]BNJVI". Really? You actually paid the DMV extra money, with a special little character, to declare your love for Bon Jovi? I mean, this car wasn't from the '80s. And it certainly couldn't have been either Bon Jovi or Richie Sambora, because it was a crappy banged up Saturn. Though their record sales aren't what they used to be, surely they could have afforded to drive something a step up. Maybe a Ford Focus, or a Honda Accord, even. And then, the other day, I happened to be travelling north on the beloved 805, and there chugging along happily was the aforementioned Bon Jovi car, placard, license plate frame, and all. I tell ya', it's a crazy world.

Speaking of craziness (how's that for a segue into a completely different topic?), San Diego just keeps getting crappier. I mean, the weather's nice and all, but this is quite possibly the worst-run city in the US. I mean, I've always known that the meteorologists are the largest bunch of incompetent fools on the face of the Earth, but now it appears it's worn off the the local politicians. Lemme recap (sorry if you're bored): in the last year, San Diego's credit rating has been suspended by Wall Street bankers because the city is something like $2 billion in debt over a pension fund that was never properly funded. An audit was performed, which Wall Street declared essential, but the results were sealed and never released. San Diego is still screwed. This led to the recent resignation of the mayor, a scant 2 months after he staged a long and costly court battle to wrest the election away from the properly elected write-in candidate Donna Frye. And it's just beginning. Last week one of our most important congressional representatives declared he would not run again because he is being investigated for graft and corruption. And then today, two city council members were convicted on a combined 20-some counts of extortion, corruption, and wire fraud for taking cash bribes to repeal San Diego's no-touch (read: no lapdance) rules concerning strip joints. What's worse, one of the guys convicted was the Acting Mayor (because the other mayor just resigned), and he has no responsibility to give up his office until he is sentenced. So we essentially have an official Mayor who is a convicted felon.

I tell ya', it's a crazy world.

Come on and try it! I got love for sale!

The stove dude showed up today and didn't fix the stove. I went out to buy dinner, he left, didn't leave a note, and didn't fix the dang stove. Sonofa!

I'm starting to identify my neighbors by their characteristics. There's the family (families?) two doors down. There are, as far as I can tell, 2-3 kids, two of which are young and one of which (not sure if he's in this family) is older. The parents constantly scream at each other/at the kids. Loudly. The mother is not the quietest person in the world. She is always coming over to my other neighbor, whose name is, apparently, "Willy". Weird times. 8am, I'll hear: "Hey Willy! Hey Willy! Open the door!" Sucks.

My complex is constructed slightly counterintuitvely. All of the apartment doors open to the south, on a street that travels north/south, so basically I'm looking right into the windows of the people living in the apartment complex next to mine. Which is a little interesting, considering they all have windows that open into their showers. Now, most rational people would close the blinds, or pull closed that frosted window they have. But not the person RIGHT ACROSS FROM ME. Caught him/her in the shower today. Singing. Luckily only the head showed up. Hence the him/her.

The girl who works at the coffee shop I've been frequenting referred to me as a "regular" today. Can you be a regular after only a week? Granted, I've gone there every day this week, but does that make me a regular? She also overcharged me for a medium coffee. And dammit, that shit is overpriced anyway. I think I'm going to see if I can't find another cafe from which to get my coffee. Only problem is, this place has the paper set out every day, and it's really nice to be able to drink my ocffee and read the paper like a civilized person. But is that worth $1.80 for a medium coffee? I ask you!

She was moving out in all directions.

My ass appears to be on the line with far too many people these days. Take a fer instance. My ex-roommate, when he moved in with me, was never actually put on the lease, because he claimed that his credit rating would never get him approved. Fair enough. In my haste to find a roommate I let him move in with just me on the lease. No problems, besides the other ex-roommate related problems, have cropped up with this arrangement. Except that when I moved out on the 7th, he was still left in the apartment, and I'm pretty sure he has yet to move out. He has 2 days to move out. Unless he moves out in two days, it's my ass in a sling. This jackass is quite possibly the least trustworthy human being on planet earth, and I'm supposed to trust him to have good intentions vis-a-vis my security deposit? Dang.

Then there are a few issues with my new apartment. The hot water is still MIA. I've taken to the rather off-putting habit of not showering until later in the day because I want to have time to warm up first, so the cold water doesn't feel so dang unpleasant. I have to trust my landlord and some miscellaneous "handyman" to fix the thing, which I'm not entirely sure (and which they are not entirely sure) he can. Fortuately, the guy who manages my apartment has used the word "compensation", so perhaps I'll get mine. I wonder how that's calculated. It seems to me that I should think: "How much would someone have to pay you to go without hot water for two weeks?" And I'm thinking, oh, $150. Something like that. I mean, I really love hot showers. Perhaps a little too much.

In other news, I watched True Stories, the movie directed by David Byrne with John Goodman and a lot of Talking Heads music in it. It was a really interesting, bizzare little film. The thing is, with David Byrne (and with a lot of the Talking Heads songs), you can never really tell whether or not he's being ironic, or whether the sentiments he expresses are genuine. Take a fer instance. There's one sequence in which the "Narrator" character, played by Byrne, is examining a row of prefab metal warehouse buildings outside a fictional small Texas town and commenting on how amazing they are, that they're totally efficient, without all the mucky-muck of bricks and mortar, and they show up and guys put it together for you in a couple of days! This particular scene seems ironic to me. But another scene, where the camera is panning across a row of tract housing, where all the houses are constructed exactly identically, with only slightly changed colors, seems a little bit less clear. As the camera pans, Byrne's character asks: "How could anyone think this isn't beautiful?" And, I don't know, for a minute it does seem beautiful - the symmetry, the lines, etc. Of course, this might be ironic: who could possibly think such a suburban wasteland beautiful? But, I don't know, it's unclear. Which is why I like the Heads so much, I think, and also why this film is really interesting and surprising. There's a sense in which you might just read everything Byrne says as ironic, but I think some of the stuff he says really is in praise of the ways of life people have adopted. Take the lyrics of "(Nothing But) Flowers" for instance.

Anyway, that was too long on True Stories. See it, and let me know what you think. It's good stuff. Or maybe it isn't.

I face the morning with my customary sigh.

The San Diego Union-Tribune published my letter to the editor today. Check it out if you're bored and/or masochistic.

[Deleted]

[Deleted]

Like a new emotion.

Well, my hot water was finally supposed to have been turned on today. Notice that I said "was supposed to have been" rather than "was" for a reason. Because it wasn't. The guy from San Diego Gas and Electric finally found his way fit to showing up at my apartment, but then, after fifteen minutes, declared that he couldn't turn on the hot water heater, because the thing was busted. The pilot light, or some other such thing, wouldn't turn on and ignite the gas.

I'm starting to get a little pissed.

My landlord is trying to get a guy here today to fix the thing, but I'm really beginning to doubt that it will happen. Am I forced to walk through life without hot water? Am I forced to take over an identity as "The Cold Water Man", a cartoon-super-villian who, because of his inability to take showers, lost his mind and decided to take over the world?

I guess I shouldn't be complaining, really. My apartment is really stuffy today, so perhaps the cold shower might not be such a bad thing. But you know, it's the principle of the thing.

That is all.

Sweet sunset.

The following was a little diary I wrote whilst I was waiting in Los Angeles for Matt Barr and his wife to arrive, so we could hang out. I was waiting for awhile, but it was mostly my own fault. In order to miss rush hour traffic, I decided to come early. Oh well, live and learn. The following is unedited, as I typed it up by myself. You can probably sense my descent into boredom and madness. Anyway, without further ado, here is:

Dale’s Sunset Strip Diary.

3:10. Arrive at Sunset. The drive up from SD wasn’t particularly bad, but I had to kill my manual transmission trying to get up La Ciegna blvd (or however the hell you spell it) to turn right onto Sunset. It took a whole lot of tr-eye-in’ just to get up THAT hill - I’m not particularly good at working hills under pressure. It seems as though parking is going to be very difficult to find. Ideally, I’d like to find a coffee shop someplace to sit and wait for MB. But the Starbuck’s has a parking lot good for only a half-hour.

3:25. Pita Pizzaz. I found a parking spot that I absolutely had to take because I really had to, ahem, use the facilities. I bought a lemonade at some pita place, but the parking here says 15 minutes. Ugh. Time to take off again.

3:50. Xanadu. I found (incredibly luckily) a parking spot at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf coffee shop that doesn’t seem to have any sort of a time limit (no jinxes). I’m just going to pull in here and wait for MB to show; his hotel is like two blocks away.

4:25. CB&TL. I’m trying to do a little writing, but I’m finding it very difficult what with all the sunset strip related distractions. Women keep walking in here in incredibly high heels, obviously stretched faces. Really ugly. There was this one woman who had a son about 15 or so, and she looked like a botched Joan Rivers job. I feel bad for that kid.

4:47. Two girls just sat down next to me and are eyeing my table jealously. Mine’s in the shade. Their table’s in the sun. Too bad for them.

5:02. Got up to go to the bathroom, returned to find the two girls sitting at my table. Sumbitch!

5:04. Two girls get up and leave. HAHA! The table is mine once again.

5:30. Just talked to MB. He says they’re roughly 200 miles away. I’m not quite sure what the time looks like on that one with LA traffic coming from the North, but it can’t be super-good. Looks like I’m going to be working here for a long while longer. No worries. More diary!

5:32. There appears to be a couple of incredibly, you know, uptight business type jerks at the table next to me working the cell phones. They’re seem to be trying to salvage some kind of “deal” that’s likely to fail. I keep hearing the one (fat) guy saying over the phone: “I just want to make sure they’re not trying to fuck us.” News flash, pal. They’re trying to fuck you.

6. Apparently these guys are actually in the movie business, because some big shot showed up and started talking to them about “stars” and “international distribution” and “genres” and “series” and “seasons”. Huh. There’s a movie deal going down right next to my chair.

6:05. There’s a set of Target billboards across the street that I’m finding very distracting. One features a guy dressed all in white with 3D glasses on, sitting in a white theatre, eating white popcorn out of a white tub with little red Target logos on it. The other one features a girl, dressed all in red with 3D glasses on, sitting in a red theatre, eating red popcorn out of a red tub with little white Target logos all over it. It’s bugging me, however, that both of their 3D glasses are white. Seems to me that they should switch it up, make the dude’s glasses red. That would make it more symmetrical.

6:23. The guys sitting next to me keep calling the movie they’re trying to sell: “the property”. That strikes me as weird. It’s not property, it’s a freakin’ movie. Corporate buzzwords. Ugh.

6:24. Some guy in a yellow jeep and a really loud engine just pulled up and sprayed exhaust into my face. Screw him.

6:26. The bigshot just asked the other guys who they would cast as the lead, the other guy said “someone in the mold of Jessica Biel”. I’m not quite sure what I think of that. I’ve been able to gather, however, that it’s definitely some kind of super-hero movie.

6:40. The movie deal has just concluded. No big handshakes. This was probably just, as they say, a “pitch”. I say “as they say” because I have no fucking clue what a pitch is, and am pulling that term completely out of my ass.

7:03. The guy with the yellow jeep, who also turns out to be a generally annoying person in his own right, has apparently camped out with a bunch of his Baltimore buddies, each of whom is equally annoying if not more so. They’re all smoking these incredibly disgusting cigarettes. In addition, I don’t think a single one of them has purchased anything yet from the coffee shop. You know, not that I’m a big fan of huge corporations or anything, but that strikes me as a little childish. One of them keeps talking about his upcoming trip to Morocco in an extremely loud, grating voice and (possibly fake) French accent.

7:09. The traffic on Sunset Boulevard seems to be backing up in an eastward direction. That strikes me as strange. I thought West Hollywood was supposed to be the hip, where you wanna be area of Hollywood. Maybe I’m west of West Hollywood. Maybe I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.

7:19. I think I disagree with Huey Lewis. He says, if you recall from “The Heart of Rock ‘n’ Roll”, that the Sunset Strip is something everyone should see. I’m not sure I’m seeing anything that is particularly worth seeing. There are some girls dressed scantily, but their status as “pretty pretty” has somehow eluded me. Just seems to be just another LA street with some restaurants and hotels on it. And by that, I mean, a shithole.

8:23. Just spent about fifteen minutes playing that music quiz game on the iPod. I find that it’s difficult to accurately select the song you want in a timely manner with the clickwheel. I only legitimately missed three out of seventy-four, but it told me I really missed six. I’m startin’ to lose it. I need to use the facilities again, and I think the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf people are starting to look at me funny. Am I being paranoid? You betcher ass.

8:26. The sun has set over Sunset Boulevard, and it’s starting to get a little chilly. I should have brought a jacket or something. You would have thought that the sheer number of cars traveling my direction would have kept me warm by the incandescent glow of their headlights but hey, sometimes the world’s counterintuitive. I’m thinking of making the move to that Starbucks that only has half-an-hour parking. But it’s risky. There were only a few spots when I went there earlier today, and there’s no guarantee they’re going to be there again. I’ve also come up with a plan for the bathroom. I’m going to wait until someone ELSE goes in with the key, and then intercept them before they go back inside, avoiding the CB&TL staff altogether. It can’t fail! I’m also running out of battery power on my laptop. Only 17% left. According to my computer that’s 39 minutes, but that estimate is highly suspect. Sweet. Here comes someone with the key.

8:39. That plan worked like a charm. And, whilst I was in the bathroom, MB called me! WOOHOOO! I’m leavin’ here in a paltry fifteen minutes. It’s time to close up Dale’s Sunset Strip Diary. It’s been a lot of fun. A lot of laughs. A few tears. A lot of annoying LA residents. So, as I bid you goodbye:

DALE SINGING:
I’ll bee seeeeeeeeing you,
in alll the ooooooold familiar plaaces....

8:45. As I’m reading over Dale’s Sunset Strip Diary, about to close up the ol’ laptop, some woman exits the coffee shop, tosses a half-full cup of coffee into the trash bin in a way that causes a decent amount to splash all over me. Fuckin’ a. Piss on you, Sunset Strip. Piss on you.

Following that, I had a very enjoyable time with Matt and Sarah. But LA, you suck.

And they prey on you.

Well, my hot water was supposed to be turned on this morning. Notice that I said "was supposed to be" rather than "was" for a reason. Because it wasn't. The gas company does this always-awesome scheduling thing where they tell you you have to be home for four hours during the day. So I was up bright and early at 8am, moaping around my house waiting for the dude to show up. At around 11, I called the company, and was told: "we attempted to turn on your gas, but were unable to gain access." Gain access? What the hell does that mean? "Gain access, what the hell does that mean?" "That means we were unable to get into your apartment." Well, no shit. It's tough to actually get into an apartment when you never set foot anywhere near it. This woman proceeded to tell me that the guy actually did show up, knocked, waited around for a few minutes, and then eventually gave up. Fat freakin' chance. I mean, I didn't spend the whole time with my ear to the door, but I was in the place. I was awake. Pisses me off.

After nearly breaking my phone in half as a result of that heartwarming conversation, I decided I had to get out of here. I moseyed over to the local market and bought some stuff to make for dinner and then took off to campus, which was largely uneventful besides yet another in the innumerable times I've left my phone somewhere, either on campus, or at home, when I need it. Ugh. Pisses me off.

Now I'm just killing time between organizing my CDs and DVDs. The CDs were a big job. There are about six shelves worth of them, and they were in no discernable order whatsoever. But now they're in the ideal CD order: alphabetical by artist, chronological within artist. I really hate that iTunes puts things alpha by album within artist rather than chronologically. There might be some way to change that, but whatever, it should do that automatically. That's clearly the correct way to organize one's CDs. Next up are the DVDs, and I'm having trouble deciding what scheme I should use. Should it be straightforward alpha by title? Or should it be alpha by director? By genre? Should the TV shows be grouped in a separate category from the movies proper, or should it just be a big mish mash? These decisions really get in my way sometimes. After a half-hour of debating this absolutely inane topic, I'm going to end up giving up on organizing at all, going to 7-11, and buying a thing of ice cream and sitting on the couch all night. Ugh. Pisses me off.

'Cuz I love you baby, that's no lie.

Can a cafe be stalked? I know it can be "cased". It can be "staked out". It can also be "stalked around" or "stalked about". But can it be stalked? Reason I ask is there's this great cafe that I really like a block from my new apartment. Bagel and coffee joint, you know the type. Anyway, I go there like every day, sometimes twice a day. This, really, just takes over the function of the bagel shop around the corner from my old apartment. But in the new place, the girl who works there has been there every single time I've been there, and I'm wondering if she's beginning to think I'm a cafe-stalker. This new place has me missing, just a little, the cold, impersonal nature of the mega bagel conglomerate that operated near my old place. I could go in there five, six times a day without anyone batting an eye. In this place, I feel like I have to account for myself. And as we all know, there's no accounting for me.

I hate the sunless saturday.

What to say about the Fishbone show?

Start from the beginning. Des Moines, 1998. Fishbone playing at the Safari for $5, Dale skipping out because of some lame-ass study-related reason. Regretting it.

Flash forward to today. I find out that Fishbone is playing at 'Canes tonight for $15 bucks. I hurredly talk Math Rock into accompanying me. We are able to get tickets, and settle in for a long winter's night.

The first band was a totally worthless hard rock/reggae band. The guitarist's tone was way too bright, and he relied far too much on the wah pedal. Not that the wah pedal isn't fun to play, but every damn solo? Anyway, they were pretty terrible.

The next band was a total mixed bag. Apparently they were called "Alfred Howard and the K23 Orchestra". Well, the K23 Orchestra was pretty cool. Alfred Howard, on the other hand, was a totally cliched "socially-conscious" rapper, the kind of lyrics that Bob and David made fun of in the 'Spank' sketch from Mr. Show, season 1. The K23 Orchestra, however, was a well put-together fusion band of some decent invention and sensitivity. Some serious Mahavishnu Orchestra influence. Once the rapping started, however, instant crap.

Next, Fishbone.

You know there's going to be a problem when the band takes the stage and your bass player is obviously shitfaced drunk off his ass. OBVIOUSLY. I mean, he was able to handle himself, but he definitely had that 20-yard stare goin', if you know what I mean. Angelo Moore was his regular energetic self, but his frequent instrument changes required there to be a roughly 10 minute break between every song, during which Norwood Fisher would scream "I like to get drunk!" into the mic over and over.

For some slightly stupid reason, they brought out the lead singer from Slightly Stoopid to do a few verses on one of the songs. Total mistake. They also did a cover version of that "Gang Rape" song. Why? Also, their version of "Party At Ground Zero" was totally fucked up - the drummer was off, somehow. From the very beginning, it looked as though it was going to be a sloppy performance, and it lived up to its advance billing. Even Angelo, who was trying his best to pull the show together, seemed ambivalent by the end.

It also didn't help that the sound was clearly engineered by someone who was incredibly hard of hearing. The sound was totally muddled. It was virtually impossible to make a distinction between the instruments being used. I mean, I'm ok with it being loud, but this one was ridiculous. It was actually very very difficult to hear much of anything, because it was so freakin' loud.

During one of Fisher's "I like to smoke weed" between-song rants, Math Rock (who had disappeared, presumably to find a place where the sound was better) came up to me and announced that he had had enough, a sentiment with which I strongly sympathized, but I decided to stick it out, given my $15 investment, and my general faith that a Fishbone show somehow had to be a good show. HAD TO.

Don't get me wrong. There were some good moments. They did play 'Sunless Saturday'. They did play 'Ugly'. But they played with a real lack of energy (probably because a) they were shitfaced or b) they didn't much care or c) both).

Dang. If I had it to do over again, I would have spent $5 to see the show. The ghost of the missed Des Moines show remains unexorcised.

Dontcha' cry no more.

Finally.

The lost city of gold.

Xanadu.

The city in the clouds.

The fountain of youth.

King Solomon's mines.

The lost arc.

The oddessy.

Princess Toadstool.

None of these epic quests has proved more difficult than my tedious, sometimes dangerous, mission to find decent karaoke in San Diego. At long last, my search is at an end.

Why is it that all the good karaoke joints are in bowling alleys? Last night me and a bunch of folks (it would be tedious to come up with names for all of these freakin' people, especially since most are likely to crop up on this space this one time; suffice it to say, the Turtle, the Turtle's roommates, his neighbors, and Math Rock) headed over to Kearny Mesa Bowl near my old abode. I watched them bowl a game, and then we sang the night away at a pretty good karaoke setup. HUGE book. I did a reasonably decent rendition of "King of Pain", although I made the mistake of following that up with "Suspicious Minds." The latter, though cool, is another example of a cool song that doesn't work as a tune over karaoke. Or so I found out. In any event, the Turtle did his rendition of "Baby One More Time" and Math Rock did "Our House" (not the "is a very very very fine house," but the "in the middle of our street").

Being in a blowing alley reminds me of the last time I had a decent time at a karaoke bar, at the Town Line Bowling Alley in Malden, MA with a bunch of Tufts people. That was pretty fun. I got to sing more that night, though, and picked better songs. Next time, next time.

After waking up this morning and taking another cold shower (aren't there supposed to be health/cosmetic benefits to taking cold showers? There freakin' better be), I headed out into the great unknown of my new neighborhood (which implied turning left on Adams Ave. rather than right), and found a pretty good-looking sandwich place I'm going to frequent for lunch, I think. In addition, I confirmed that there is a bevy of tickets available for the Fishbone show tonight at 'Canes, so I'm going to try to convince some sucka's to go with me. Who's in? Eh? YOU? Yeah. YOU.

Lockbox: redux.

I really hope nobody keys my car tonight. My landlord called me this morning and told me to park in a spot that has been, via convention, eliminated from my apartment complex's parking lot. As far as I can tell, everyone can still park, but it's not obvious that somebody isn't going to break my windows in a fit of "who does this new guy think he is"? After that, it took me a hell of a long time to get in touch with the dude who was supposed to get the lockbox off my front door. I don't like the idea of some miscellaneous person who just happens to have the combo being able to waltz in and steal my Police Box Set. Or any other box set for that matter.

In other news, that was one flippin' cold shower this morning. Dash it all. Good thing I didn't have any shampoo or I would have been tempted to put my head under that freezing cold water, potentially causing long term brain damage. Problem is, I stupidly bought shampoo today. Wait for tomorrow's post to see if I've gone completely off the rails.

Why is it that merely walking into either Target or Wal-Mart teleports you to some distant time-free zone, such that the reading on your watch is almost always twenty minutes after you expected to leave the store? Is it metaphysics, or just incompetent store design? Or perhaps a bit of both? Or perhaps a bit of that, plus annoying customers in front of you in line that are asking for a price check on every single item when all you want to do is pay for your dish soap, shampoo, and trash bags? Is this an unsolved mystery? Should we get Robert Stack on the line? I think we should.

In the blink of an eye, thank you and goodnight.

It's been a pretty hectic day. It started for me at 6:30am, with my alarm going off, me angrily hitting the 'snooze' button. This action wasn't particularly well thought-through. Ya' see, I was supposed to move today, and there was still a little bit of packing/trash-taking-out that needed to be done before I had to head downtown to get the keys, drop my first month's rent off, and whatnot. Anyway, I wake up about an hour late and have to book it in a serious way. I do a little packing, get a cashier's check from the bank, and drive it downtown, where I get the excellent keys to my new apartment. Woohoo!

So after that, I ran to Uhaul, where the guy behind the desk was getting chewed out in a serious way by his boss. Apparently, the kid forgot to bill a customer for something, or some other such thing. Whatever. Anyway, I get the trunk (which, frankly, scares the shit out of me when I drive it. Ugh. Scary in a serious way) and drive it back to my old place. The Turtle, The Graduate, and Ironman Jack show up to give me a hand loading the truck, although The Graduate spent most of the time carting out couch cushions and discussing the finer points of bong mechanics with my former roommate ("So, uh, how does this work?"). Anyway, as per our agreement, I bought the sumbitches lunch and we went to the new place, sans Graduate. Anyway, The Turtle, Ironman Jack and I burned rubber getting the stuff off the truck. Took us like 10 minutes. Well, maybe that's an exaggeration. 15 minutes. Anyway, it didn't take much time, so we were basically just looking for stuff to do before I agreed to take them to Hodad's. Did a little arranging of the furniture, and took a nice walk around my new neighborhood (which, actually, made me a little tired given my decision to cart my bag and computer along to check my email at Lestat's).

Hodad's was fun. Sausageman and his girl came along, and I had a chocolate milkshake. Good stuff. After that, I spent like 45 minutes in Wal-Mart trying to find where their dishracks were stationed. Wal-Mart was a bit on an interesting experience this time. I remember in my previous life that I hated going to this place, that I couldn't understand why anyone would spend more than five seconds going over the votive candles trying to select the best scent. But there I was, spending ten minutes trying to decide between Tropical Breeze and Honeysuckle (eventually settled on Honeysuckle). Perhaps it's different when you feel like it's really your place, as opposed to someone else's that's being improved. Or perhaps it's just that married life left me a little scarred. In any event, I'm back at my place now, new shower curtain, new set of votive scented candles, new dishrack, tying this on my computer over one of my neighbor's wireless networks. The signal strength isn't the strongest, but hey, it works.

The upshot is I'm in my new place. My place. My damn place. Ain't nobody's place but mine. It's not perfect. It's a little dirty in places, and I'm going to be taking cold showers for the next five days, but it's mine. Mine all mine.

Observations from a weekend.

1. I'm incredibly adept at ordering people to clean. At the Turtle's place on Sunday, I was a drill sergeant. I was the Josef Stalin of cleaning (without, you know, the killing). Although I did a reasonable amount of cleaning myself, I take most of the credit for pointing out what was dirt, what wasn't, and what needed to be cleaned. Satisfying, indeed. Now all I have to do is do this to my place before I move out in two days. Tomorrow is going to be a serious trash-taking-out/box-putting-in day. I'm looking forward to it with a high degree of anticipation.

2. Songs I most often imagine myself as the lead singer of (in reverse order). To clarify: I imagine that I am the lead singer of the song, not that I imagine myself as the person who is actually the lead singer of the song (see #'s 4 and 5). If you're bothered, this list is essentially just the songs I sing most loudly in my car:

5. Joga
4. Money Changes Everything
3. Welcome to the Working Week
2. Blue Sky Mine
1. Sunless Saturday

3. The Turtle's apartment complex has become an official den of sin.

4. Uncle Barry is getting on my nerves in a serious way. I have reservations about the next trivia night. As I was sitting in my car, about to perform a reasonably sensitive medical procedure on myself, Barry appears at the window, knocks on it, and cheerfully asserts: "They're showing the Burgess Meredith Twilight Zone episode!" As I was holding the syringe in my right hand, in plain view, I think he eventually got the picture to leave me alone, but not before I shot him a look that said: "Get the hell out of here, Barry, or I'm going to go all Claus von Bulow on your ass." Later in the party, after staring at me for, like, ten minutes, he asks me what brand of blood glucose monitor I use. I couldn't stand it any more. I had to take a break from the party at that point. I was mad as hell, and I just couldn't take it any more.

5. I gotta start hanging out with people my own age. Or, at least, reasonably close to my own age.

6. Hodad's on Thursday is going to taste soooooo gooooooood.

Sometimes I wonder if we're livin' in the same land.

Lancer's was dead last night. Too bad, too. I was in the mood to have a few drinks and get insulted by the local townies. But as I still live out of walking distance from the place, I had to stop at two drinks. Too bad, indeed.

Once again, I'm shopping for something to do on the 4th. When I was married this was so much easier. Kyra had all these friends who would throw fourth of july parties with all sorts of food and beer. We would go, she would disappear, I would be left to fend for myself in a crowd of miscellaneous strangers, most of whom were slightly hostile to the idea of someone being a "philosopher" professionally. Then I'd get pissed off, then they'd be pissed off that I was pissed off, and the whole thing would blow up before we got home. Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, the 4th. The Turtle seems congenial to doing something, which would be cool, especially considering that he has access to a big pool and hot tub. If I can avoid a big undergraduate grope-a-thon, that would be even better. I can taste the Miller Lite (tm) and see the black snakes already. Hopefully Uncle Barry won't invade with all sorts of anti-Bush stuff. Not that I don't like my fair share of anti-Bush stuff, but I mean, there are other things in life to talk about. I shouldn't offend him, though. He's the anchor of the award winning trivia team.

The upshot, I think, is that I'll have to go over to the Turtle's place tonight to help him clean up. No problems. He's helping me move on Thursday; one hand washes the other, so to speak. He's also talking about watching Napoleon Dynamite which I've seen a few times now. I hope it's not one of these things where everybody recites the lines over and over. I mean, it's ok when I'M doing it, with STAR WARS, but with anyone else, it would be too bad. Too bad, indeed.

Let's sway under the moonlight - the serious moonlight.

Another late night last night. Went over to Math Rock's place for a little fun and games, and ended up drinking far too many Pabst (tm) Blue Ribbon lagers. The fun was generally marred because the Turtle, after playing what he could only describe as a disappointing game of Dance Dance Revolution (I was in Tower Records at the time, ogling the sales of which I could not partake, given this month's moving-related poverty), he was forced to undergo the indignity of losing his wallet and apparently a bunch of cash. That sucks. If I had an extra wallet with duplicates of all his stuff in it, I'd give it to him. Alas, apparently because there's a "nationwide shortage of Visa Checkcards", he's going to have to wait a hell of a long time before he can get any money. What the fuck is that? How could there possibly be a shortage of Checkcards?? What do you need? Plastic? Numbers? A name? Anything else?

I was getting extremely tired at around 1:30 or so, so it was a serious internal struggle when the Turtle's neighbors called and wanted all of us to go drinking over at their place. I relented, although I immediately regretted my decision, given that his neighbor's place was your basic undergraduate sex-talk/grope-a-thon. There may have been one time in my life where I could have drank enough to have enjoyed myself at one of these. No longer. I left after about 15 minutes.

After laying down the law with my roommate and officially committing myself to moving out on Thursday, I went up to campus with the mother of all caffeine headaches. This was compounded by the fact that I'm avoiding the bagel shop for clear examples of price gouging. I was forced to attempt to find coffee on campus, which on a Saturday during the summer is not the easiest thing in the world. Luckily (crazily?) the Grove is open until 2, so I was able to procure an overpriced 12-ounce cup. Sweet, sweet music.

It's another gorgeous day here. I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do to fill it. Maybe I'll go to Lancers and shoot a little stick tonight. I need to start getting myself organized for the move, however. I'm going to bribe the Turtle, and hopefully one other person, into helping me move, so I need to be on the ball when Thursday rolls around. There's a ton of crap left over from my previous life as a married man that I need to either throw away or do something with. If anyone out there wants some outdated computer books, now's the time.

Maybe it should be Bruce Vain!!

A new song is up on the Doctor's page, FYI.

There's only one man who would dare give me the raspberry.

You might recall in a recent post that my dad just accepted a job in Redlands, CA. He doesn't start officially until the beginning of August, but he was out here this week just to take a look around, go to meetings, and select furniture for his new house that they're building (or, I should say, renovating) for him. I went up there yesterday to see the place and ended up staying the night.

DALE'S REDLANDS TRAVELOGUE:

1. Morning. No clean clothes. Must do a hurried laundry job. JERKS didn't realize that you're supposed to wait TEN MINUTES before touching your clothes in the dryer. I hate that. I hate it when people don't wait and are all touchy-feely with your clothes. Anyway, laundry done. Realize I don't have firewire cable, can't charge iPod, essential for trip. Go to campus.

2. Campus. Get firewire cable. Realize I'm parked in a 15 minute spot and have to leave soon. Run to convenience store to grab bottle of coke and bottle of water. Get to car. Realize the bottle of water was not water but was rather Dasani RASPBERRY water. Ugh. I mean, I like me some raspberry, but in the water? Trip starts out on a bad note.

3. Riverside, CA. Riverside has got to be the worst place on planet earth to get caught in a traffic jam. Smog, total lack of scenery, no clear stations conducive to clear iPod FM transmission. Getting madder.

4. Riverside, CA. Getting madder.

5. Redlands, CA. Arrive at the prescribed hotel, but early. Get key left at hotel desk, proceed to chill out in hotel room. Unfortunately, no wireless in hotel. However, there's a baseball game on TV, and I'm able to get a little dissertation work done. Actually, this was the best part of the trip. What I got done was not pretty, but it was a conceptual breakthrough. Booyeah.

6. Redlands, CA. Dad arrives. We go to look at the new house. It's gaudy in that "not-able-to-tell-it's-gaudy-from-the-street" kind of way. It has two, count 'em, two hot tubs (one indoors, one out), a pool, a basketball court, a tennis court, a mini-orchard with lemon, orange, avacado, nectarine, and peach trees, multiple fireplaces, etc., etc., etc. Pure opulence.

7. Redlands, CA. Dinner at the macaroni grill. Muy bien. Too much wine. Too much beer.

8. Redlands, CA. Check email at business center in hotel. Wrote what were probably some rather embarassing emails given my status qua drunk.

9. Sleepland, USA.

10. The 15. Traffic is much better on the return. Smooooooooooooooth sailin'.

I'm on campus now, and dang hungry. Lunch anyone?