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Happy birthday, Josh. Rob and I went shopping for a gas grill and a new refridgerator that doesn't pee all over the goddamn kitchen floor. I slipped and fell on my ass on it last night. All you could hear were my flip flops clapping around and I looked like a choda.
Thanks to Alton Brown, Rob and I are sharing a great mutual passion for cooking. We drank and he cut up a chicken for me to oven-fry. He even got me the rolling pin I needed. I just had to promise not to beat him with it.
May 16, 2004
We went shopping and bought paint, picture frames and lots of meat. I invited Joe and Al over for dinner.. Rob was making shark steaks and I cooked up some spicy steak fries, fettucini alfredo and parmesan scallops. We can't stop drinking Coronas. Rob surprised me with the Corky Romano DVD. I can't remember what else happened.
May 15, 2004
Thank god it was goddamn Saturday today, but we had to wake up at 10:00 and go out for breakfast with Dave, Jen, and Rob's mom since it's her last day here. We went to Mission Cafe and we were dying. We watched Vanilla Sky and cried. Rob grilled up some pork chops and I made fried rice with my new wok. And chicken dumplings that looked like cancerous testicles. I need a rolling pin.
May 14, 2004
Party for me Dave and Jen. No one puked. I started recovering at 4:30 a.m., after the last person left.
May 13, 2004
Saw Van Helsing with Rob, Dave and their mama. It was silly and everything that was either hairy or small that shrieked reminded us of Billie.
Undated
 | This is one of my birthday presents from Rob. It's a 10K amethyst promise ring, with a couple diamonds on a band of white gold. I wasn't a ring person let alone a jewelry person until Rob put this on me. |
Rob's other surprise for me was an embroidered purple apron that says "Spawn Ranch Kitchen", which is another reason I love him. Spawn Ranch was the Manson Family's residence. Speaking of which, I've been living with Rob for the last month. To make a long story short, I came home after staying over there Easter weekend to find that everything in my room had been taken apart, taken down, and in a pile in the corner in bags. So I decided to pack a few bags and just stay with him. One week turned into four. I'll be back in with my folks until I finish school, but if Rob gets the $400,000 that he might get for his script, I'm free to leave the nest. Then he and I and Billie can live in the harmony we've been living in since April.
I've taken up cooking and I love it. I never thought I could do it for myself or anyone else until I wanted to try a couple things out of Fitness Magazine and the Food Network website. I could have sworn that it was a phase, that I would make a couple things and throw in the dish rag. But I keep wanting to do more because they've all turned out great. I insist that they aren't my own recipes, but Rob says his mom would cook with a recipe and it would be a disaster. So I've made dinner every night I could for my whole stay here. Sometimes when I'm at home by myself I find solice in being in the kitchen. And last weekend, I made grilled tuna steaks on jasmine rice with wasabi and a Thai vinagrette, green bean salad, and piquant salmon rolls for his mom, his two brothers, their wives, Mike, Kyra and ourselves--a complete success. I've made about twenty different recipes, like soy-glazed salmon burgers, spicy Caribbean chicken, pesto tuna salad, asparagus melts, mustard-crusted pork chops, shrimp burgers and a wasabi tartar sauce, garlic and rosemary-rubbed lamb chops, shrimp salad pitas, fettucini with creamy vegetable sauce and chicken parmesan, etc. Over the past few weeks we've both lost weight and eating hamburgers makes us wantna puke. Rob surprised me once with a couple issues of Cooking Light and Cat Fancy after work. He buys the groceries, helps me clean, and best of all, eats what I cook. I couldn't ask for more.
We've also been jamming more and more since the birthday party was planned. He and I compiled a few songs we would fool around with when Dave and Mike would come over, and some that we personally like, and we've been practicing to play them for the people at the party. This is what we've got so far: "Son of Preacher Man", "Burned" by Acidnine, "Superstition" by Stevie Wonder, "Scorn" by Acidnine, "Noticable Ones" by Missing Persons, "Pistola" by Incubus
March 31, 2004 Harry Goldfarb
Talked to Rob on the phone today. Stuttering Russ called him on the other line and spent fucking ten minutes trying to tell Rob that Shane West was given an ultimatum, and that if he doesn't sign a letter of intent by Monday, the role of Jesse will be offered to Jared Leto. Russ always has news about the script and I like being the one to hear it first, so I stayed on the line. I was very excited to hear about this.
March 29, 2004
The Blue Eyes budget is now at 8 million. Russ and Rob are expected to get a letter of intent from Shane West, who wants to play the role of Jesse, this week. Now that's some news. But today I read about a religious lady in Texas who stoned two of her kids to death because God told her to do it. I thought that was kind of sad, and silly. I would totally take a pool cue and smack her right in the breasts. I’ve added a couple things from last weekend that I didn't have time to post below. No big happenings, just a typical weekend in the life of the Quillens. Congratulations, Robear-a-go-go.
March 28, 2004
We woke up at lunchtime today. Rob played Mech Assault in the living room while I made lunch. That was weird to see, Rob playing video games. Thank god his attention span for them is about half an hour. I thought this whole time that Rob and Mike were talking about the game, that it was called “Mecca Salt.” See how dumb I am? Rob finally told me how it was spelled and I felt like a total load. Then we ran out to run a few errands, hopped up on energy pills, which combined with some allergy medication made me feel like I was going to die right there in the Kmart. We came home with Mexican food, a new vacuum, and new DVDs to watch. I bought a jump rope. We watched the first half of Me, Myself and Irene until and So I Married an Axe Murderer and played three games of Scrabble until 2:00 in the morning. That last one we just quit right in the middle because we were so damn tired and Billie was sleeping in our laps. I was winning it, though.
March 27, 2004
I jammed with Rob and Mike today in their garage. I'm not so microphonobic anymore, but even with just Kyra sitting and watching us I was very nerous, and I sweated a bunch. We did a couple AcidNine songs with just the bass and drums because Dave was too tired to come over. Without the guitar it was difficult for me to find the right key. That’s embarrassing. Rob and Dave and Mike have been playing for years together and to sing the songs they’ve done a billion times put an enormous amount of pressure on me. But It still felt so good to sing again, even though it wasn't jazz. Last night, Oliver came over to jam. He did his “blues in an A” thing and Diane was high as a kite. Dave was also there and together with Mike, they all played until the electricity went out. I called Ryan to come over to hear them and he pulled up just as all the lights and sound blew out. Mike Brooks was there too. We all hung out in the backyard and everyone was drinking and talking, but Mike, Oliver, Diane and Mike had their own conversation and me, Rob, Ryan and Dave had our own little circle. It was like high school. Anyway, after they all left, Ryan and Rob and I played a game of Scrabble. And we let Ryan win.
March 25, 2004 Bad actresses turn me into Ed Gein.
"This is a pain in the ass to do but it's so worth it."
=)
March 24, 2004
I put up a little page for me and Rob and Billie's pictures. Rob told me today that he's reached the limit of pictures that he can send from his phone. That means we're actually gonna have to use one of those real cameras. Haha.
I've been meaning to post updates on the status of Rob's screenplay since it made its way into Hollywood's hands, but I'm really fuckin lazy. Here's the lowdown thus far. Let the dropping of names begin!
It's called Blue Eyes, and it's a kind of morose, modern day re-telling of the Bible. I look at the script as a symbol of the millionth incredible thing that Rob's capable of, because it's great, and apparently others agree. Rob's been in a handful of bands and has since experienced a much greater handful of disappointment and frustration (which of course led to skepticism and pessimism and faithlessness in the music biz), so he's acquired quite an ability to contain and question the excitement that accompanies the progress we hear his script is making every day. It's a strange thing, to follow the journey of a screenplay from its modest beginnings, to the hands of its "connections," and consequentially to James Woods, Jason Lee, Christina Ricci, Neve Campbell, and Christian Slater. Christian Slater's mom even wants to cast it. Huh? A baking powder? Bwut-bwut-bwut?
We learned today that Neve actually turned down the part of Mary. Sounds like bad news, but Rob was elated. The producer of the movie had the idea that Neve could play Mary first as a teenager and later as an older woman, which involves the special effects of makeup ("That's just cheesy," Rob said). In some disheartening news, Russ wants to cast the co-producer of the film to play Maggie, one of the lead roles. I've never met this woman but Rob has, and even worse, he's seen her screen test. Nervousness, desperately bad googley bedroom eyes, a manly voice and bad acting is all I had to extract from that story to know why that made Rob upset. Ahwooga! Mrs. Slater, some help here?
March 15, 2004 Lady Day
We found her.
We'd been looking for a kitten since I told Rob I wanted to get him one for Solstice, four months ago. I don't know if anyone out there has tried to obtain a baby kitty during the wintertime, but our search at shelters and through adoption services was so unfruitful, we were close to settling on a retarded three year-old cat in a box at the PetSmart who was feral and plagued with runny stools. Okay, we weren't that close. Luckily Rob stopped into the pet shop in the plaza where I was getting my hair done and saw our little baby there, jumping around in that shitty little cage. She was going to be eight weeks-old the next day, which was exactly the age we'd been looking for. Rob bought her and we were able to take her home yesterday. The more we spent time with her, she went from inept and skiddish to lively and energetic. And she darts all over the room like a bullet.
We named her Billie, after Billie Holliday. We thought about going through Rob's books and naming her something different and historical or mythological, but the truth is that she loves to play so much, that type of name would be too sophisticated. So we thought about jazz artists in the car. After Ella and Bix and Bessie and Louis, we just decided on Billie. Because she's a bit of a tomboy. We made her a bed with a Miller Lite box and a towel, but she likes sleeping next to Rob.
Today after a short interview for a second job (I might be working with soft serve) I went shopping for Billie and her daddy. I bought her a mouse on a string, a water bottle for her dish (Evian.. fancy), some Cosmic Catnip that she can trip out on, and a brush. I felt like a new mother. Then I got Rob some cologne since I noticed he'd run out. And I had to work. Tonight I damn near cleaned the whole salon.
In other news, I found one of those sites where you can make your own t-shirts and I was overwhelmed with the possibilities. So I made up a tank top with the logo from Rob's heavy metal band from the 80's on it. I rock!
Rob was hooking up his mini DV camera to the TV. He wanted me to see the screen tests for one of Russ's movies, because it featured the girl whom he wants to star in Rob's movie. So I sat with him and we watched it.
Jesus.
Before I go off on the undescribably horrendous... Have you ever been so disgusted and sorry for people you wanted to kill them? Oh. Me either.
Rob stopped to fast forward the tape. "Agh, I just want to kill her!"
Yeah, me too. There was nothing about this broad's reading that would make you not want to strangle her. I can't even begin to describe the way she was acting. Never before have I wished to put a video on this website so much because if you watched it, don't get me wrong. You'd want to commit murder too.
First of all, I hate the world. I mean first of all, this chick was acting if someone dared her to make porno faces as she read the script, because between every word and in every take she'd purse her lips, raise her eyebrows, suck her fingers, lick her fingertips, moan... I mean, this is a serious "actress" trying to get a part, and she's looking at the camera like it's.. a goddamn piece of tupperware and she's a bulimic. I really thought she was joking. And the producer, who wants more than anything for her to jump his bones, is granting the part of Maggie to her? This chick was giving me chest pains. I'm begging you guys to see this screen test. I've never felt so goddamn homicidal in my life.
I just hope the casting director will take a little interest in how serious actors should be taking their part and not how much the producer wants his casting couch to look like egg drop soup when everything's said and done.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a couple prostitute skins I need to make lampshades out of.
Look at the cat food dish we got today for Billie! It's a little Chinese take-out box on a sushi placemat. Heeeeee.
=)
smiley
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happy
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Disneyland is quite a spectacle. Taking the cynical stance to narrate our trip to the "happiest place on Earth" is almost so obligatory I don't want to do it. Anyone who knows me would sooner expect me to target my pessimism at a Christian wedding (like the one Rob and I attended last month... oy vey) before they'd imagine me gleefully spinning around in a goddamn teacup. Still, the Tragic Kingdom was entertaining, and we had a great time being away from San Diego. The Splash Mountain camera captured Rob in the most symbolic representation of a mid-life crisis he could imagine. And I bought a hand-painted parasol. But back to the hate! We really did give Disneyland an optimistic chance to brighten the black aura of our agnostic hearts, but mostly because Rob procured two passes for $40.00 from a co-worker. Still, I not only speak on our behalf, but for everyone else whose fun also usually includes alcohol and the inhaling of mad toxins: Disneyland has in fact evolved into quite the antithesis of the happiest place on Earth. Could it have been that the designated smoking areas (a.k.a "How-Dare-You-Poison-the-Air-of-Our-Magnificent-Utopia-You-Jerk" Areas) were not only separated from the holiness of the park, but also scarce, fenced, and fashioned to isolate its inhabitants like victims of a Disneyland Auschwitz? Or was it our ears deceiving us with each melancholy confirmation of other adults in the smoking areas, who couldn't utter the words "happiest place on Earth" without an iota of sarcasm? I digress. It was fun watching people from our seats in what was literally arranged as a pen for smoking pigs. We watched and heard the pathetic whirr of the Mark Twain raft floating circuitously in its three-foot river, confusing the unentertained cattle thereupon. (Charlize Thereupon.) It only looked to us like they were wondering how long it would be until their yawning captain would return them to the platform where their misery trip began with licks and promises. |  |
To be continued...
 | Ryan's back! And man, so is his hair. |
 | Undated: Christians vs. Devil Incarnates, The RematchDon's wedding, an infected dog, and Rob loudly crunching on celery during a solemn prayer circle. |  | <-- The Infected |
January 23, 2004 It's not vibrato.
“I listen to you when you do it, and it sounds just like what I hear when other singers do it, because you do it well. Which is why I kind of wonder. Is it hard to do?”
Rob asked me about this once when we were in the car and the radio was on. I sing along with the radio a lot to be annoying. What he was talking about that night was something I hope somebody reading this will get, because I sure as hell don’t know how to describe it. You have to hear it. Listen to Mariah Carey (the older albums, before she started to suck) Stevie Wonder, pretty much any R&B singer. And Christina Aguilera does it. It’s their style of singing. The way they ad lib, or what I call “adding lib.” The moans and yeah’s and baby’s that they use to accentuate melodies between lyrics. They’re short fluctuations of the notes that make up the chord, sometimes repeated motifs. Not just between lyrics but also at the very beginning of the song, or even in the middle of a word. What is that called? Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie map out it out in their heads when they improvise. The notes aren’t audible in the main melody, they’re just ingrained, and they have to be found.
It's the reason why Kice once taught me arpeggios and triads, because “You’re gonna need to know these if you wanna scat well.” I hated doing those. Not because I didn’t think it helped, but because I already knew them from listening to Mariah and Boys to Men and Aaliyah in middle school. I didn’t like learning them technically. I’m pretty pompous. But the blues-y notes. What are they? Thirds? Fifths? Romeo didn’t explain it too well. Forget it. Just download “Who’s Loving You” by the Jackson Five. It’s better than Smokey Robinson’s version. That’s my favorite song right now. I’m writing this right now because I’m thinking of that song.
I heard this girl sing it on Live at the Apollo. She sounded like Alicia Keys, the beginning of “Falling.” It sounds naïve, but I try to sing like that. Whatever you call it, it can turn a soft lullaby into a loud gospel hymn. It’s powerful and moving, and it can really annoy Rob. So I do it to bug him. Boy am I over the top with it. I sang this song he wrote once and it came out sounding like Christina Aguilera. It wasn’t supposed to sound that way. Can you imagine, how obnoxious? That's what happens though. I think of it like an SNL skit. I sound so bad you have to laugh. But like the comedians, they're serious about getting laughs. So while I'm actually trying to sing well, I'm also doing it to be funny. Isn't that veerd? Kay bye.
Michael Jackson could really belt it out when he was a kid. Someone tell me what happened. Maybe his vocal strength went away with his nose. I’m elaborating so much on this because I don’t believe people really listen to music anymore. Sure, they hear it. But Good Charlotte has a career! Listening to music is dead. Just wear eyeliner and bang away at your guitars, boys. Now Brandon Boyd, he can sing. I can't decide how I feel right now about music that makes people want to mash themselves in a pit. By the way have you seen that Good Charlotte video where they're on the roof? God damn. I was tying paper towels together into a noose, it made me want to die that much.
I guess I’m trying to explain what I appreciate about good singers and why they inspire me. And maybe get someone to appreciate it with me. Not many of my friends do. Josh does. I know Rob does, but he finds it amusing when I trill like Gwen Stefani. I think people that dance to Al Green do... Maybe I’m just caffeinated and figuring out why Mariah Carey waves and wiggles her hand around when she sings. It’s like a subconscious visual to help her find the right notes because the range is all over the place. This is a disclaimer to anyone who might see me do karaoke one day. I don’t want to be laughed at.
All I know is that whenever I listen to music closer and pick out all the elements that make it so good, I’m really inspired. Perhaps the Jackson Five won’t do it for you, I dunno. I also don’t want to hate MTV so much, so I’ve just begun trying to decipher Jessica Simpson’s musical talent. What a rack on that barbecue. I mean, "boy can she sing." N't.
November 15, 2003
I never realized how covertly satanic Rob and I are until today when we had to attend his brother Don’s baby shower. It was being thrown at such a hard-core religious household that we thought being in there would make us start melting.
We anticipated the party to be just the apocalyptic avalanche of phony-smiles-and-overweight-yentas-cooing-over-baby-clothes that it was. Walking into the house was probably, for me, the most uncomfortable moment, with everyone’s eyes staring at my hair like there were a pair of horns sticking out of it. Rob’s oldest brother Dave and his wife Jen were with us, but without Jen’s jovial presence, the brothers Quillen looked like they had just wrapped up a white supremacy meeting and taken a blue-haired hostage. “Is there any beer here?” Rob asked Don. His brother shook his head violently and whispered, “They’re Christian.” Then, as if we were in a movie, I imagined a camera quickly zooming in on our expressions of horror. A flask of Jagermeister left over in my bag from last night suddenly seemed like a vial of holy water.
When Rob and Dave decided to go out for a cigarette, they asked the host where the smoking area was. His eyes got wide and he blurted “Outside!” as if he were telling a mangy mutt to relieve himself anywhere but in the house.
“Do you have an ashtray?” Rob asked. I really felt like we had to convince him what polite and considerate people we are. What the hell kind of party makes you feel like that.
“Dig a whole and bury it for all I care.”
“We can walk over towards to the neighbor’s house if you want,” Rob finally suggested, and God Boy just replied with a blank stare. This conversation took place over what seemed like a long, awkward, tension-riddled couple of minutes. Eventually Rob, Dave, Don and I just ventured onto the back porch to take a smoke break. As if our Cigarette Club and the fact that we were mostly wearing all black didn’t alienate us from the rest of the house, all the women gathered in the kitchen started glaring and gawking at us through the sliding glass door with big, round, condescending eyes. Rob would later recall, “They looked like the owls I saw on National Geographic.”
Rob, Dave and I congregated in the kitchen by the food, probably because the exhilirating hue of the carrots and celery sticks were more inviting than the Ten Commandments on the wall that Rob refused to let me read to him (even jokingly). Then the hostess started passing out little half sheets of paper to everyone so that we could all play one of those lame let’s-get-to-know-each-other games.
“Come on, it’ll be fun. You guys can play as a couple!” she squeaked, and Rob and I damn near fell over. For the second game, a lady made us reach into a bowl filled with rice and safety pins. We were supposed to reach in and grab as many safety pins as we could in thirty seconds without looking. I can see your eyebrows are raised with sympathy, dear reader, but I have to admit this game was mildly entertaining due to the fact that the bowl was literally filled with a hundred or so safety pins and the rice made it impossible to detect even one. Rob and I both had a shot at it and we kept saying “There aren’t any safety pins in here!” And because I am enough of a pompous windbag for the both of us, I highly commend any game that evokes feelings of borderline retardation. Touché, douches! Anyway, I got flustered and suddenly competitive and evil, so I sneaked a peek at my handful of rice as the lady holding the bowl turned to yap to someone in the kitchen. But I still only ended up with one safety pin. I can’t even win cheating.
Christians 1, Devil Incarnates, 0.
The opening of the gifts was all we had hoped it would be—fuel for our cynicism machines to crank out and exchange sarcastic comments. The giddiness of all the women surrounding us—as each diaper bag and pajama set and teddy bear mobile was unveiled—enveloped us and contorted our faces until Rob muttered through gritted teeth, “My face is starting to hurt from wearing this fake smile.” The host of the party bullied poor Dave into smiling for the camera, even though Dave expressed blatant disinterest in having his picture taken. Towards the middle of the gift unwrapping, the mother-to-be’s 11 year-old daughter burst into tears and ran into her grandmother’s arms. By the time wearing my fake ass grin started hurting too, it kind of felt like the party was getting started.
And then we saw a statue in the living room.
We didn’t think we would walk away feeling anymore enlightened until we encountered a sculpture of Jesus playing football with his children. Rob and I took our fascination of this particular statue with us for the next few days, until I just had to search “God playing football statue” on Google and found this link. God plays all kinds of sports. You can imagine our excitement when I discovered this site, but I think our AOL conversation says it all:
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GypsyMnett: I found them. 20 bucks. Jesus Playing Sports Statues a9rob: OH MY GOD!!!!! GypsyMnett: Look at all the other ones they have. Soccer, basketball, hockey...there are three pages of these things! a9rob: No way! I'm in fucking heaven! GypsyMnett: Look at em! Look at em! a9rob: I think I love you more than mayonnaise now. GypsyMnett: I gotta put that picture on my site to illustrate what we saw at the baby shower. We saw this in real life! It’s real! a9rob: Must have. Must have. He's fuckin with those kids holding the basketball over their heads!! What an ass. GypsyMnett: I want the whole set a9rob: I didn't really think I'd ever see it again. a9rob: I'm giddy. GypsyMnett: I can't believe this a9rob: he's so competitive GypsyMnett: He's wearing skates a9rob: he's molesting the golf girl. GypsyMnett: This is by far the best shit I've ever seen for sale on the internet a9rob: I want everyone in the world to see this. GypsyMnett: The tennis ones are overstocked and only 10 dollars! Let's get it! a9rob: let's get them all god damn |
My jazz teacher still has an agenda against Britney Spears. Today he reiterated the point he made in his introduction to us on the first day of school. “Britney Spears’s music, however functional as dance music, isn’t made for listening, but for showcasing Britney Spears.” Big on the importance of the listening element of enjoying music, Mr. Romeo is clearly stating the obvious. Meanwhile all the guys are probably thinking he’s half a fag. But what I love, is how I can sit in the comfortably cushioned, stadium-style seats of that class at 9:30 a.m. and hear the guy tell us how swing was and always will be strictly made for dancing. I believe so much in the study of Jazz History and Development that this class could be my church. I attend it twice a week and hear new hymns each day—hymns by Art Tatum, Fats Waller, Glenn Miller, Louis Armstrong. Romeo’s CD binder is his bible. Today he played us Slim & Slam, whose music I enjoyed. I have a new song to download after every session. And while I once liked punk, I like hip hop, and I listen to rock, I will always be the most enamored and perpetually devoted to jazz, lounge, and big band. Oh music, will you marry me?
Romeo followed up our Dixieland quiz with “Sing, Sing, Sing”—probably the song that I’ve heard the most times by the most bands out of everything else—and it still made me want to get up and shake my ass right down the aisle of the classroom. The dude behind me was snapping his fingers so hard that his face was beet red. He was laughing maniacally at himself and everyone was laughing with him. It was Reefer Madness at 10:30 in the morning. I could just feel this fervor take over each and every one of the hundred dopes in that room. I wouldn’t care if it were all in my mind. Because even as everyone filed out at the end of class, letting the seats of their chairs spring back up to the cadence of the ongoing clarinet solo (it wasn’t even close to the end!) people were hooting and hollering, talking excitedly, completely and subconsciously exhilarated by the instrumentation that overwhelmed the whole room. I stayed in my chair long enough to let my excitement bleed from my pen into this journal entry. Was I the only one who could feel it?
Romeo neared the mic on his podium wanting to address the half of the class dawdling towards the door, as the song neared its finale. The fact that he reminded me of a preacher only amplified my perception of his delivery. “If that doesn’t make you want to dance," he announced, "...you gotta be dead.”
Incredibly, incredibly giddy is how I left class today. The beauty of it is, there are a million songs out there, in every genre, that evoke that kind of feeling. One good thing about the industry is that it thrives on the awareness of these works of art (for the most part) and the appreciation of everything that goes into making such a composition. Music. A language understood universally and just as inevitably accompanied by a common sentiment. I will always be amazed at the sound of an able soloist playing a complicated melody. I could obsess for the rest of my life over the hope that one day I could match every key of that melody with my voice. And on top of a possibly flawless arrangement are the prospects of improvisation—limitless and even more suggestive of true ability—a concept that can turn a thousand great songs into a million even more superior—and in my 22 years, I’ve only heard a fraction of them.
What a reason to stick around this crazy place.
November 11, 2003 Ain’t No Party Like a Butt Naked Party
Rob generally doesn't like PB Bar and Grill.I forgot I went there about a year and half ago until we had to go tonight for Mike Brook’s girlfriend’s birthday. Rob told me on the way there that it was probably going to be crowded with a bunch of young punks. “Little kids,” I think he called them. “You'd even see them as kids.”
Luckily it wasn’t as packed as it is on the weekends. We stayed there for an hour or two before it was time to go to a different event—one tainted by No Cover Magazine’s Midas touch of failure (if you’re reading this Mark, I’m sorry).
“Aint no party like a butt naked party cuz a butt naked party don’t stop!” That was the guy with his Casio on the corner, Downtown San Diego’s own Wesley Willis incarnate. I saw him again, singing and entertaining street-crossers, bums trying to sleep nearby, and perhaps a few cops. You’ve seen him before. I thought that was great. I couldn't leave that out.
Everyone from the magazine was supposed to meet up at E Street Alley tonight for some CD release party (I guess). When Rob and I arrived at the door, Mike and Kyra happened to be passing by with a look of panic and uncertainty on their faces, and then we saw Barf Assmullet at the door. We walked into the place, felt the music, checked out a whole lot of rooms, walked through a whole lot of fog and unsurprisingly, a whole lot of nobody. The dance floor was so vacant that the people who happened to occupy the tables would greet other strangers with a look that questioned, What are we doing here? We resolved to make the best of it. “Let’s have a couple drinks and leave.” So as he and I sat there, letting the Jager and beer float around inside, Rob started zoning out on the colors of the lights on the wall, and I stared at the dance floor.
“This place is so sad I’m even starting to feel bad for the lights,” I yelled to Rob. I couldn’t help but notice how the lights on the ceiling seemed to be working with such conviction to maintain an atmosphere that now haunted the room, like a ghost yearning for the nights of past events that didn't involve Bark Assmunchin. A row of five green lights pointed directly at the floor evoked a sort of sympathy, moving and gyrating as if it were searching for crowded, sweaty bodies to writhe drunkenly beneath it. Instead, the cold floor just reflected a green glow of indignant solitude. “Right now those lights are more worthy of being behind a t.v. screen.” I kept commenting to Rob about the poor lights. “They would rather be cathode rays.”
Eventually, on our way out to smoke and after noticing that escapees Mike and Kyra were nowhere to be found, we made a sly getaway ourselves and slipped across the street to the Star Bar to see if they were in there. It didn’t seem to us that anyone else was going to attend what I look back on now as "the No Cover Fog Machine Demonstration Party", so we decided to head home. It started raining as we lamented about not staying in PB longer, only to look up and realize we couldn’t find the car because we walked right past it. And on the way back, we encountered another street performer—a guy singing “My Girl,” and snapping with his gloved fingers. He didn't sound bad. The rain sprinked on our heads as the last lyrics of the first verse came to mind, so I accompanied him in ending it. My urge to continue singing still lingered after we got back to the car and started driving home. But I think that feeling, and our quick visit to Jack in the Box for a Greek salad dinner at 3:00 in the morning, was a good way to wrap up an eventful night.
| November 5, 2003 I played the drums for the first time in my life today. Word. |  |
Of course, it was following Rob’s practice after everyone had left. He and I had some beers and Jager to finish, and I started eyeing the kit like it was a cute girl or something. So I got behind it—ha—and Rob taught me how to play a basic 4/4 rhythm. He could tell that I was eager to unload all the beats in my head on my first try, like a backed-up virgin having sex for the first time. So I asked Rob to show me how to do a fill just because I was so damn excited that I could coordinate the movement of all my limbs. I wanted to play faster than a homo with four dicks. And maybe if Rob keeps teaching me I’ll be able to sing and play the drums. I could be like the White Stripes, except without the guitar and MTV and pasty makeup. Hot.
But anyway, Rob is used to teaching, so thank oz for his patience. If I got nervous, he's pace around the garage to make me feel like I was just by myself, but when I had it down, he clapped and praised me like a special ed teacher. And I never felt so alive, heh. He noticed the look of concentration on my face as I listened to the rhythm I was making. He says he would describe it as my “stern look and deepened concentration that was broken frequently with "aarghghgruru.” Cool. Thank you beer. I'm still a dork.
| October 31, 2003 The cedar fires didn't ruin our Halloween plans, yay. This is kind of the only picture I have up so far from the festivities, courtesy of Alida. We spent the whole day mopping, washing, moving furniture, hanging tarps to hide Lee's crap/working station, and decorating the household for the hundred or so friends that came to celebrate Satan's holiday with us. This is Alida, her boyfriend Greg (a Rasta-fairy.. get it?) Mike (a mess), and me and Rob (playing a little game of cops and robbers). We were handcuffed to each other for the majority of the night, which I still think was a good idea, even though Rob wouldn't admit that the metal cuffs were bugging him as much as the bandit mask he also ended up ditching that night. Boo hiss. Still, he's cute isn't he? |  |
For one thing, the magic punch was quite worthy of a caveat. It wasn't what put me over the edge (like that shot of Jack in Mexico.. jesus) but goddamit, when will I ever not pass out on Halloween? The sound of laughter surrounded the house as I slipped into my last state of consciousness, overwhelmed by my senses and Rob excitedly reporting, "Listen baby, we're having a party!" I missed seeing Mike Brooks in his muscle-bound Superman outfit and another guy in a completely hand-made Boba Fett costume. I can merely describe who else joined us that night: Rob's friend Nichole came as Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, who was so hot I wanted to stick a syringe in her heart. There was a variety of goth kiddies, who donned their undoubtedly year-round wardrobe of cloaks, corsets, and (yipe!) Crow makeup, an unexpected flock of sheep and a family of bunnies who waltzed into the patio (my first reaction was "Hey, Hank the Angry Drunken Dwarf!"). I did Mike's make up for his last minute costume, which was a combination of a Club-Hopping Rob Zombie and Howard Stern, and forgot to wash the blood off my hands. I'll have more pictures to put up later, after I recall more details.
| October 28, 2003 Rob and I bought ourselves a family today. He was all hot in a biscuit to get some sushi since we talked this morning.. he took another day off from work, and my classes are canceled this week because of *reverb* Firestorm 2003!!! We wanted to eat at Onami but found that lunch was closed just as we got there. So we went into Spencers and found all these lovely devilish things to take home. Rob wanted this demon torso more than anything.. when we saw that it was $80 we were almost going to settle on a realistic bat creature. |  |
 | There was also this black cat that I really wanted. And after realizing that there were signs all over the store saying Halloween decorations were half off, we went outside for a cigarette, overwhelmed with the possibilities of our humble household (Rob's Halloween party is Friday), and went back in to make our purchases. I bought my kitty (his name is now Maximillian) and Rob and I adopted the demon dude, whom we've named Belial. Yes, this is our new family. Inanimate objects that can't talk back or kick our ass. Rob took these pictures with his cell phone. |
| After we left that horrible mall, I wanted to visit Josh and play some music, but he forgot to call me as he said he would, so we stopped by his house anyway. What's funny though is that I haven't spoken to Josh in a month or so, and didn't know he moved! Jesus. I was having an incredibly hard time being certain that we were at the right house.. I didn't think he would move and not tell me. Heh. I just figured he decided to make other plans. Back at Rob's house, we watched about three episodes off of the new Insomniac DVD that Rob bought for me. He and I have been waiting for the second season to come out and it finally did a few days ago. We were also waiting for 9:00 to roll around because Rob's co-workers were meeting at The Filling Station. All that crap in the air from the fires made the sky dark at 2:30 in the afternoon and eventually made Rob feel like crap himself. I was zoning out from watching an hour and a half of Dave Attel, but we went to meet everyone at the bar anyway. I might just have a problem. |  |
October 23, 2003 Wigs Gone Wild
I came to school wearing a wig today, which is somewhat of a momentous occasion, personally. This is only because I feel like I’ve suddenly joined an obscure demographic of “broads that wear wigs”—a league of uninhibited females with a closeted, silly disposition and penchant for playing dress-up.
Mine is no radically artificial wig, albeit synthetic hair; just black and shoulder length with thick bangs that reach my eyebrows (depending on how low I wear it on my head—it has minimal Bettie Page potential). Nevertheless, there was no apology for the way it shined in all of its nylon glory, which made it kind of slutty, if you can imagine Julia Robert’s cute little hooker head in Pretty Woman.
So I found it a tickling notion (seeing as how hair-dying negligence has now rendered my blue hair a purplish-gray), if I wore a wig to school, could it be a little secret that only I could entertain myself with the knowledge of? Like wearing a skirt over crotchless panties? Will anyone know it’s a joke, or will they imagine the vinyl French maid outfit and fishnets that I must have in my closet to accompany such a kitsch head accessory?
Because that’s what I think when I see a broad in a wig. The girls I know that wear wigs (“Wiggers”?Öha), who wear them on a solely non-Satan’s-holiday basis, have ranged from strippers to ravers to online-exhibitionist types, fashion models and self-professed Lolitas alike. Girls who are just plain “party.”
Just like the girls you see who not so much have in their possession a furry zebra-striped cowboy hat, but those who have the balls to wear them in publicÖ they seem to fit into a nameless category. There’s no real word for that type of girl that doesn’t start with a “C” or an “S” or anything else that doesn’t demean just a little bit.
Which is unfortunate, because I imagine girls who wear wigs to be the type that would have a collection of costumes, too, or some kind of outfits they put on to perpetuate their childhood fascination with make-believe. Pretending to be someone completely different. I think that’s kind of hot.
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