questions, half-truths, outright lies - you be the judge...

Wheel of Fortune is the key to attaining great wealth.

Do you mind if I suck your blood?

Abortion is a nefarious infiltration perpetrated by Fidel Castro.

You know a banana is like a car, if i can explain, in the way that a small baby cries for its mother.

Some people are monarchists even when there's no monarchy.

My aunt's name is Baby.

Cindy may or may not be a member of the Nazi party.

My procrastination skills stretch well beyond the realm of normal human capacity.

My mom disapproves of double negatives.

Why did the rebpulican congress and white house cut Pell Grants in order to add a paltry $300 million to their "economic stimulus package"?

Tools actually come in multiple brands of vintage t's, long sleeved shirts, and ass-crack revealing jeans.

Sarah Lee headbutted my dad.

Those of you who have betrayed me this night will know a great suffering as soon as I find out who you are.

I recommend staying downstairs, spreading out some blankets, and building a fire in the fireplace.

Why does cheescake hurt so good?

I'd like to publicly thank the operators of Amtrak for allowing me to sit behind a small child with a melodious voice and strong rhythmic sense, and then delaying the train by one hour.

Good luck beating the pedophilia rap, Robert.


Cutting through the haze or why I'm still not ready to live in Chicago

I stop between the 18th and 19th pushup. I look down at the rug that used to be in the entrance hall and now is in the family room. I remember going to buy it with my parents, and that it was expensive and made of silk. It looks exactly the same, and for a moment, time coverges and I have to drop to the ground, panting. I can't hold a pushup for that long.

I feel so far away from film school. It's almost like all my life away from here is preparation or rehearsal to present to friends and family that I'm "doing something." And then there's the instinct to always call this place "home". I don't live here. But it's so easy to slip back into a routine, or an attitude, or a sort of malaise that makes me forget what I'm doing with my life.
I talk about what I do, because that's what they want to know, but I almost don't remember how or why I do it. I give them the party line. I smile at the right spots in the conversation, I make the appropriate gesture to show that I'm confident yet contemplative about my future. Even when I sit down to do work, the decisions I make are alien, and I'm sure I'll have to revise all of them as soon as I leave this place.

I'm giving off the wrong impression. I'm not sitting here in an anesthetized stupor. I'm not depressed. It's just a strange phenomenon that I've felt at other times. I guess it primariliy has to do with expectations (I've had this conversation before), and the disconnect between those and what really happens. They can never gel, and particularly when it comes to something like "home", which carries so much historical weight, the effect is melacholic. I never thought I'd say that I can't wait to get back to LA...


Greg suggested that this blog is fruity

Very Well.

Recently on NPR, there was a discussion about the controversy over gay marriage. Specifically, the alienation of the republican party by the gay community in general. A conservative gay activist was interviewed, and he complained about the almost "childlike" pouting attitude of the gay community towards conservatives: they righteously collect their toys and stomp home at the mere mention of compromise or discussion. The conservative activist called upon the gay community to reach out to the republicans; to reach out to proponents of anti-gay legislation; to show them that gays are just people like everyone else. This, he said, would serve much better to further the progress of gay rights than the indignant crossing of arms and refusal to interact on any plane at all.

What this man was saying seemed reasonable to me. Compromise is clearly an important part of political progress. However, something made me a bit uneasy. Later, in discussing the issue with my father, I hit on the source of my discomfort. I remembered reading during my sophomore year in college a letter Martin Luther King wrote from Birmingham jail to a group of white ministers. The religious white men wrote to King as brethren, as servants of the same Lord, as fellow ministers. Why don't you wait? they asked. Your nonviolent protests are "unwise and untimely". Why not take the reasonable road and try to reach civil equality for blacks through discussion and compromise? They supported the idea of black civil rights, just as the conservative gay activist supports gay rights. But let's have a discussion, they both said, let's be reasonable and rational about this. There's no need to go overboard...

Of course, I can't draw *direct* comparisons between the civil rights movement and the gay rights movement. And specifically here we are talking about the sanctity of marriage ammendment, a far cry from Jim Crow laws. However, the spirits behind both the racist laws and the sanctity of marriage ammendment are the same. Both constitute laws meant to specifically deny rights to a certain group of people.

A sanctity of marriage ammendment would entail the institutionalization of outlandish injustice fueled by fear and hatred, both religious and social. The conservative activist can urge the gay community to be reasonable; he can urge them to wait. But how can they? How could one suggest that to them? The unequal treatment of gays in the country is just as institutionalized as the unequal treatment of blacks. Both must have psychological effeccts that are otuside the realm of understanding to those of us who aren't members of those groups. It seems clear, therefore, that there can be no compromising over the issue of the sanctity of marriage ammendment. It's wrong. Everyone should know it. There should be no tradeoffs, no bargaining, no truce until such a barbaric and fear-driven piece of law is completely removed from the table. After that, there is room for conversation...

I agree with G. that marriage should be reserved for religious organizations, and that the state should only sanction civil unions for all citizens. The sanctity of marriage ammendment, in addition to being a symbol of hatred and ignorance, is an attempt to write religion into the constitution, a political situation that the originators of this country came here to escape. Everyone could benefit from more exposure to people who are different, in order to disabuse them of false stereotypes. This is an ongoing mission. It is unacceptable, however, to confuse this mission with the equally vital mandate to fight tooth and nail against any attempts to legislate hatred and ignorance. There can be no compromise on this count.


Dr. Freud?

in my dream last night i found myself in a brothel.
in the room, there were two doughy looking women and a muscular man.
the women fell asleep on the floor.
the man pointed his chiselled chin at me and challenged me to a game of pool.
i backed into the corner and began to cry.
i woke up to the strains of The Little Drummer Boy.

thoughts at the shredder

when i was in middle school they gave us a test to determine what we were going to be when we grew up. i went through the questions and in the end found that i was most appropriate to clerical work. as i was shredding page after page today at work, i couldn't help but think about that test, and how staisfying it was to "organize" my desk. i remember answering the question "do you like to be organized?" affirmatively, and subsequently being given other similar questions. i'm sure that's why i was picked to be a secretary for life. i have to admit that "organizing" really means shredding, and that my clerical instincts don't go much beyond that. mostly because i didn't have the patience to try and file papers anywhere. better to just destroy any evidence of their existence than to overpopulate my shelves with binders with nice little tabs and soothing plastic sleeves. what the middle school career test neglected to ask in addition to "do you like to be organized?" was the more pertinent "are you actually organized?" i'd love to be organized. but i never am. i have the best of intentions with regard to that pile of papers on my "inbox" at home, but the most care they end up receiving is being lovingly hand-shredded and taken out with the pizza box. the lesson from all this? refuse to be labeled, youth of america! also, remember that you can shred papers like bills and tuition statements in order to avoid them.

Practice Safe Sight

i was sitting peacefully at my desk. the smell of pizza wafting up from the piece of pizza i was eating. the world was at peace. looking forward in somewhat lazy fashion to my next bite, i was rudely interrupted by some cackling coming from the area of the secretary's desk. a mere cubicle wall divides my desk from hers, but the arrangement of the office makes me feel isolated. i normally snake my way through a series of walls to get to my desk, and snuggle up next to my computer, assured of being left alone in my private world of IM and coffee. wait. two people were cackling! there was some reference the goodness of the Lord, stretch marks, and the realtive hairiness of the two student workers; but what truly yanked me from my pizza infatuation was the commentary about the new biopic, Ray, starring the plasticine Jamie Foxx. Oscar material! they declared. Mr. Foxx was brilliant! unshakeable in his firmness, unbeatable in his victory, unconscious in his awareness of the role! he looked so much like Ray Charles! and you know what? he was actually blind on set ***a moment of what could only be the quiet realization of a new gospel truth*** the tittering went on: his eyes were glued shut, they were glued shut and he was still able to act wonderfully! one of them leaned conspiratorially towards the other and waved a bejeweled finger: he had prophylactic eyes. *****the silence following was respectful and beatific**** but i broke it. yes. my ire broke it. prophylactic eyes? i asked, rhetorically. why, Mr. Foxx, why? why, Universal Studios, why? what is so terrible about the world around you? huh? why are you such a pessimist, Mr. Foxx, that you must shield yourself from babies smiling, pornography and conceptual art? why must you view the myriad images of the world as deadly viruses and baby-hungry sperm? is that all we are to you? is it? **baby hungry sperm?!!** by now, the tittering and cackling had died away, smothered under the blanket of my prophetic voice, raised like my hands against the naysayers of Hollywood. my feet pounded across my desk. my eyes darkened. i felt my calling. the secretary and her friend rightly cowered towards the break room as my wrath descended upon them.