Seventeen Tracks And I'm Tired Of This Game

Being raised in a not particularly religious family, Christmas was never that big of a deal for me. Don't get me wrong--presents are nice and I manage to spend Christmas day with family and/or friends. But if I had to spend Christmas Day alone, no biggie. For some reason though, the day that really freaks me out, the day (or to be more accurate, the night) that I absolutely cannot spend alone is New Years' Eve.

I don't know why this is. Maybe it's the need to divert my attention from the fact that another year has ended and that I still haven't found the one who has made me stop looking (or for this year, that I found the one but she needed to "explore" after I helped her get out a dead-end relationship). Maybe it's all the media images of Times Square that has foisted this image of crowds and merriment that has imprinted on my weak mind. Maybe I'm just a needy bugfuck prick.

In any event, except for the last two years, I've been able to find parties to go to. I manage to pass the New Year without being too maudlin or weepy. However, it seems like my group of friends are beginning to treat New Years' Eve just like any other day. One friend is chillin' by his lonesome at home. Another friend told me that, prior to getting married, he spent a couple of New Years' Eve by himself. Is it that after turning 30, we're just winding down? Is is that a West Coast New Years' Eve is a bit of a let down after seeing the ball drop in Times Square at 9pm local time?

Anyway, I'm not about to bust the balls of my friends who have invited me to hang at their pad this year--especially considering is the alternative is drinking at home with nothing to keep me company other than thoughts of Her in Las Vegas having fun. Those type of thoughts without adult supervision could lead baby getting into the pills, and having my stomach pumped isn't an attractive option.

There's a little annoying spark of something that purports to be the voice of reason in my head. It says, "Well Marty, if you'd rather go out, then why don't you? Go out to a club, open your wounded heart to all the love flowing within, become a he-slut and hit on anything without an adam's apple! Open your inner sexy beast and be a fuck machine for tonight, forever and always!"

Sounds reasonable, donnit'? Argue against this voice, and I sound like some lameass FOB trying to justify being a lameass. But you know what? Fuck it. My heart still feels like a sucking chest wound. You can't run a marathon the day after being shot in the leg the day before. You can't be a sexy beast with rabies. So maybe I need to be a lamess. And maybe that voice of reason is just morphine.

John Of The Dead

95% is in numb shock still. 3% is in absolute shaking anger. The 2% snarkiness clinging on to life wants to bring you this witty observation about one of life's cliches. Here it is:

You know that saying that goes something to the effect of "Well, everyone has been through [insert painful thing that everyone has been through--e.g., a broken heart, getting fired, awaiting for the results of an STD test]." The purpose of that statement is to make you feel better by letting you know that you are not alone. Here by example is the inherent weakness in that statement. If everyone had their left testicle squeezed in a vice at some point of their life, that doesn't make getting your left testicle currently being squeezed by a vice feel any better, does it? No, instead you still are going through excrutiating pain that shoots through your body and is so intense that your left eyeball feels like it is going to pop out. (I understand that this analogy may be lost on any female readers, but fuck it, I'm a heartbroken mess so pardon me if I can't think of any unisex analogies).

What, you'd rather have the 95% back writing this blog? Nuts to you (no pun intended).

Le Juge

"You need to find peace. You need to move on from me."--Snippet of my last conversation with Her.

Times when I had peace in my life:

I was nine. A school day off due to snow. I spent the whole afternoon with the neighborhood kids building snow forts and sledding down the hill. Night came early, so by five, all the kids started to trudge home. My house was at the end of the cul de sac, so there was no hurry to get home before dinner. I could take my time. The sodium street lamps flickered on. There was just me under orange lights and the winter darkness, watching the snow fall. In the quiiet, I swear I could hear each snowflake fall, sounding like tiny little bells as they hit the ground.

Junior year of high school. Listening to "Carolyn's Fingers" by the Cocteau Twins as an afternoon spring breeze blew through my bedroom window.

New Years' Day, 2002. Driving up the 5 from Orange County to Sunnyvale on New Year's Day, traffic suddenly halted four hours in. From my car to the horizon, all I could see was a still line of cars and red brake lights on asphalt dividing bare earth and harvested farm land to the east and jagged brown hills to the west. Fog slowly crept down the hills. Winter sunlight, gold and buttery that cast a fine sheen of nostalgia over the California Central Valley, started giving way to clouds and the beginning of a blue dusk. I had Zero 7's "Destiny" on repeat.

November 2004. I was at Her apartment, watching TV while She slept. As soon as I tunrned off the TV, She said in a sleepy tone, "Come here baby. You have no idea how much I love you." Then we held each other listening to each other's breathing slow until we fell asleep.

"She betrayed you and you never understood why. And you kept on loving her."--Valintine Dussaut to the Judge, Trois Couleurs: Rouge

Under Pressure

More later, I promise! But for now, a list of what has happened to me in the last two weeks.
1) Admitted into hospital for malignant hypertension (fancy schmancy way of saying fucking high blood pressure). The norm is 120/80. Mine was 250/180.
2) Spent a night in ICU, though I got to watch the Duke v. Valparaiso game in the morning with an IV drip in my arm. Surprisingly, no one complained about my yelling (it helps to be the only ambulatory and conscious patient in the ICU).
3) Not just one, but TWO twenty-four hour urine collections. AKA Hey, I'm peeing in a jug!!! AKA My imitation of Howard Hughes. AKA I will never be able to drink Gatorade again.
4) Not showering for 4 days due to the electrodes stuck on me. AKA Look at me, I have the sanitary habits of a Frenchman! AKA Dude, what smells like a cheesesteak hoagie stuck in the sun for four days? What, oh, sorry man.
5) Taking enough pills to lower the blood pressure of a stressed out elephant.
6) Having my blood pressure get lowered too much due to aforementioned pills.
7) Feeling really faint due to lowered blood pressure. AKA My impression of a sensitive lily of a southern debutante hearing something just simply scandalous. AKA My God, it's full of stars!

Don't Say It's A Comeback

No, I'm not dead yet. I have been buried with work, saddled with a loser case (it's like that incompetent mess of an asshole summer associate that your firm is forced to hire because he's the son of a major client--except in case form), and riddled with the afflictions you'd find on a fifty-year-old Jersey mobster sustained by a daily diet of hoagies and garlic knots (peptic ulcer, waking up in the middle of the night hyperventilating, shortness of breath, did I mention the friggin' bleeding peptic ulcer).

Once I deal with this loser case, I think I might take the rest of the year off and just friggin' relax until I can get my blood pressure down and stop having those task dreams (you know the dreams, where your mind decides to focus on one thought or task--if I press the green button I will sleep, if I finish this memo I will sleep--so you press the green button in your dream or you try to type of this memo and your mind goes round and round and round). I'm beginning to feel like the Nameless Narrator of Fight Club with all the sleep trouble I am having. I am Marty Stark's bleeding stomach. I am Marty Stark's migraine headache. I am Marty Stark's diminished lung capacity. Sheesh. At least I've lost some weight.

Blown A Wish

I've Been Through Thirty-Two Years, One Day and Nineteen Minutes of Life and All I Got Was This Stupid Entry.

Sorry for my sorry ass neglect of the blog of late. Been busy with work.

Cliche scenario Marty Stark identifies with: Bitter ex-cop who has seen too much, just wanting to live out the rest of his life in peace out in his desert shack, raising turtles or making wire googly-eyes figures. Former partner now superintendent comes a knockin' on the trailer door. Bitter ex-cop who has seen too much growls [INSERT: "I told you I was out!!!"/"Why can't you leave me alone"/Other bitter ex-cop who has seen too much cliche]. Former partner now superintendent says "We need you back. Mendoza has got [INSERT: "Your son, Jimmy"/"Your ex who you still love but had to leave because you loved her so much that you didn't want her wasting her life with a mook like you, Molly"/"Your best pal who you fell out with because he ended up with Molly, ol' Ralphie"]. Bitter ex-cop downs a shot of JD, yells to his neighbor Crazy One-Eyed Jose to take care of the turtles, and walks stoicly down the highway toward the city.

Guns and Dolls

List of Marty Stark's Excuses for Not Blogging (Now almost 50% True!)
1. Everytime Marty is hit with an urge to write, partners at Gateway Gig utter statements such as "By the way Marty, we're going to trial in November and you're second chair," or "Yes, I know you were in the office until 1:30 a.m. and you're not even a full time lawyer, but I need you to draft a motion in limine that has to be filed tomorrow and that I knew about for two weeks before you leave today--why yes, I know it's 1:00 p.m" and "You are never going to escape . . . ever."
2. Angry Yellow is seriously considering Telemundo's offer of taking the lead role in a new dramatic mini-series entitled LOS NOCHES DEL PADRE CALIENTE--He may be a man of God, but God is he a seh-xy man.
3. Ice weasels! Oh dear lord ICE WEASELS!
4. Marty has been seriously thinking about the directions the blog should take: keep it an eccentric goulash of confessional, prose, musings about the legal profession that put together smells vaguely of burnt wiring and onions, focus on one particular area, or write under yet another assumed name so he can candidly write without getting sharp things nailed into his eyes while he's asleep.
5. Marty has been seriously thinking about the directions his life should take. At least that navel-gazing has some resolution: Marty wants a life that he doesn't want to run away from. That last little ditty was brought to you by the fine folks at "Statements that aren't cliches but sure sound as smug and unoriginal." Those same fine folks are also looking for a new corporate name.
6. DIDN'T YOU HEAR WHAT I SAID!!! ICE WEASELS!!!
7. Holding back the male weepies at the end of every uplifting-yet-not-in-a-preachy-sort-of-way endings on one of Marty's favorite new shows of the TV season, Jack and Bobby (but alas, this must be a false entry for EL PADRE CALIENTEweeps only for the poor underprivileged children of his small village and those who are not as CALIENTE as EL PADRE CALIENTE).
8. Remember when that punk ass wannabe actor who looked like Jan Michael Vincent's younger and more addicted to smack brother who did a really piss poor performance as your waiter at the Westwood Olive Garden a couple of weeks ago? Well, the good news is that you did not increase your inadvertant intake of urine that night. However, brother, that wasn't oregeno on your all you can eat pasta and salad.

Well I've Got The Time . . .

No shit sherlock observation--Why yes, my blog is going under some renovation. Hopefully I'll be able to add my old links back up soon.

party at the mansion, y'all

why you take from a giver?
why you gotta get high?
why you watch a carwreck,
muthafucker?
-"Fat City (Slight Return)" - Twilight Singers

He's been watching the glow of Marlboro Red tips crawl with each breath, a fast slow fast slow stutter of orange and ash, for the past hour. His fingertips are getting yellow again, but he can't seem to care. Instead, like he has done for the past hour, he watches that orange ring get as close to his fingers before it burns him, flicks the butt out the window and watches it fall four stories past brick and fire escapes. Then he takes the bottle of Jack Daniels, swallows heavily and coughs. He's finished a pack of Marlboros, but he's got five more to last him through the night. His sinuses are finally burnt. He can't smell the mildew, dried piss and disinfectant of the flophouse.

The air at 3 a.m. is cool, but not cool enough the chase the humidity of the day. Still, it's the only time that he doesn't sweat just by breathing. So he has his window open, and he's turned off the light. Just him, his shadow and his cigarettes, black and orange on a deep blue frame.

He could go home. He could walk out of this gutter flophouse, stumble the five blocks to the better side of town where he parked his car and drive to his loft. He could return the calls of his friends and fall into their well-wishing so warm like down blankets. But instead, well, instead . . .

At 3 a.m., the pushers have already left. A couple of skinny ass streetwalkers get returned by their johns and now looked bored, and a little bit pissed the pushers have fucked off. The streetlamps don't work to well here, and flicker erraticly. The hookers look like jones'd up moths.

He focuses on the burning tip of his cigarette, the sour taste of alcohol in his mouth, the coolness of the air. They distract him. Buddha by degradation.

He doesn't want to think about his friends. That's not what he's here for. He wants to know if he can handle this by himself. If he's the type of guy who can come through this on his own, then he knows he can be a tough muthafucker, he's got his shit all tight. But if he goes crawling to his friends, well, he knows he's that type of person. So he has another Marloro, and he downs another shot. He'll see who he is in the morning.

save yourself, you little sinner
path it up right
take the road less traveled
make sure you keep that shit all tight
--"Fat City(Slight Return)" -- Twilight Singers

Somebody Told Me

Hey Sea Monkeys. I'm still alive. I've still got the GatewayGig. I'm still bored. But I have been writing. Unfortunately, it hasn't been on the novel. For the past two weeks, it seems like I've taken up the mantle in my fantasy football league of rebutting GOP talking points (I for one can admit when Democrats have f!d up, c'mon, what the hell was Al Sharpton doing speakin', but at least two of my GOP buddies drank the KoolAid without asking "Hey, you smell bitter almonds?") and verbal diarrhea that could only come from right wing talk radio. But rather than turn this into a purely political blog, I'll just let y'all know entries might be sparse for a while.

Back Where You Started, Here We Go Round Again

"The days go by and you wish you were a different guy
Different friends and a new set of clothes.
You make alterations and affect a new pose,
A new house, a new car, a new job, a new nose.
But it's superficial and it's only skin deep,
Because the voices in your head keep shouting in your sleep.
Get back, get back.
Back where you started, here we go round again,
Back where you started, come on do it again."
                                            --The Kinks, "Do It Again"
 
I'm back at Gateway Contract Gig for now.  Short term projects and such.  Still haven't figured out the meaning of life, and it looks like I never will at this rate.  Wake up, put some BedHead Rubber Rage in my hair, grab an eggwich with sausage, go to the office, work, go home, heat up some Trader Joe's dinner, sleep.  Wash, rinse, repeat.
 
Honestly, how does everyone do this over and over again without starting to go bugfuck?

Walk Idiot Walk

The latest blog hiatus has been brought to you by Contract Gig -- Contract Gig: It Pays The Bills But Deadens The Soul.

One of the perils of being a Contract Lawyer is that you can be too good at what you do. Turn around projects quick enough, and the next thing you know they've all run out of projects for you to do (or are hoarding what projects they have to justify their own permanent status existence). So rather than come into the office each morning, twiddling my thumbs and sending an e-mail requesting for work that goes unanswered, I decided to have them call me if they need work done. In the meantime, I'm catching up on some leisure reading and trying to get some writing done. I'd say I have a better than 50% chance of them giving me a call at some point (payroll said they never checked my invoices, meaning they liked my work; the lawyers praised all my projects; and the last two contract lawyers they had were a pothead and a man who had the research and writing skills of an autistic chimp).

Although there's a part of me that's a little bit pissed I'm not getting some mulah, there's also a part of me that's a lot relieved. A warning--the following is a "D'uh" statement: Every office has its politics and its assholes. Hey, I told you a "D'uh" statement was coming. My office (which was actually a closet, but a windowed closet) faced the cubicles of a group of chatty secretaries that would put the pettiness of high school fluffchick cliques to shame. Every friggin' day I would here two of the secretaries jabbering about one file clerk (who happened to sit in the cubible between them) they hated--usually while the file clerk was there. The real estate attorney (who luckily I didn't have to work with, but who made snide statements about my schedule) was known to throw stuff at underlings he didn't like. The named partner was OK socially, but he was also a procrastinator who got shit done at the last minute. The few times I had to deal with him directly on a project, we'd butt heads. Oh, and you could tell the way he dealt with other partners that almost all the friggin' partners at this firm had issues.

So the few times these last couple of weeks I had sone downtime, rapidly induced by beer, I started to get into this existential funk. Obviously, an existential funk is not the "get down get down" wah wah guitars and sparkly bellbottoms type of funk. It's more of a "wondering what the point" is sorta funk. Beware--if you'd rather not question your existence, you should probably go read something else right now, like something with fluffy bunnies or cute widdle kittens. Awww, see da cute widdle kittens?

OK, for the rest of you, you depressed little stress puppies you. For about a month, I'd come into the office every morning, get my cup of coffee, sit at my desk with my yellow highlighter, laptop, yellow legal pad and blue pen. I'd do my research, some writing. I'd be fixing up the fuckups of other attorneys. I'd hear the gossip, the secretaries answering phones, doing secretarial stuff. Come six or so (and every couple of days, come midnight or so), I'd go home. Fix myself some dinner, have a beer or two. Watch some TV. Go to sleep. Do it all over again.

Bored? Me too. What I wonder is how people do this over and over again until they're 65. Yeah, I know, it pays for food and a roof over your head. Oh, and some porn once in a while. But is that a good enough answer? You may want to go see da cute widdle kittens right now if you don't want to get more angsty.

Yeah, you have full stomach, which is certainly better than an empty one. Yeah, you're sleeping in a bed, which is certainly better than sleeping on the pavement. So what have we established? You're physically comfortable. But if that was enough, why do we need vacations, TV, and other distractions? So what we've established is that you lead this life of tedium to be comfortable but not content. Not much of a life, is it? Hell, all animals work for food and shelter, and we're supposed to be different than animals, right?

OK, I can already tell what you're going to say: One day Marty, you'll meet that special someone, have kids, and everything will change. And I'm sure I'll have a different perspective then. But I see folks I worked with who have a spouse and happy kids, and I gotta tell you, they don't look to content either. Sure, they love their family--when they see them--but for most of the day they look bored at best, miserable at worst. Yeah, they get themselves through the day by thinking of their loved ones, and to quote Dido, "and it's not so bad, it's not so ba-aaaaad." But isn't that adding one distraction on top of another? Instead of "I need to work to get money to get food and shelter," it's "I need to work to get money to get food and shelter for the family"? Again, not much different from animals.

Look, this isn't to say that once I meet that special someone and have kids, suddenly I won't care about any of these existential questions. I'm just saying, these are the types of questions that pop up when I'm in the office.

Now don't you wish you went and read about cute widdle kittens?

When I Was A Child I Had A Fever . . .

The Effects of Making "They're Paying Me $**.00 Per The Hour" Your Mantra:
1. Time goes by. Fast. No. Really fucking fast.
2. You're not as angry that you're in the office on a Sunday, or at 11:30 p.m. Don't get me wrong . . . you're still angry, just not as angry.
3. You begin to view calls from friends and loved ones as annoyances rather than welcome breaks.
4. If you're checking account was a woman, it would have that rosey post-coital glow.
5. You begin to imagine your checking account as a woman because you have no fucking time to actually meet women.
6. You're so bone weary that you dream of taking a nap, and no, I don't mean "dream" as in daydreaming or hoping, but while you're sleeping, you dream of taking a nap.
7. You become really whiney in your blog. OK, more so.
8. You neglect your blog.
9. You're not really thinking about her. No, really. You just don't have the time.
10. You begin to get better at quashing down that existential angst that creeps into your psyche at midnight about what the hell you're doing with your life and aren't you supposed to be writing a novel?

I Want An Easy Life

I Am I Am I Am Steel
Nothing Can Stop Me When I'm On The Wheel--Curve, "On The Wheel"

I'm supposed to be writing a novel, but instead I started a new gig this week (sent resume Monday, hired Tuesday). Of course, I'm supposed to be doing a lot of different things. I'm supposed to be with someone who still wants me. So, you know how it goes. I started a new gig which pays me even more than my prior one, which if you knew how much the other gig paid me, you'd be choking and saying "You lucky shit." Marty always landing on his feet. Marty bending like a reed in the wind. And you all know I'd trade it in to be with someone else.

I've been trying to be logical about everything. With me, there's chemistry. With him, there's no passion. With me, there's laughter. With him, sadness. But of course, how logical is pining after someone who hurts you.

So here I go with another one of my nine lives. Leave a gig, find a better paying one in less than a week. Count your blessings. Keep on that wheel.

Helpless

Another Time Time After Time
You Make Me Feel So Helpless
-- Sugar, "Helpless"

During the day, I'm beginning not to feel so bad. I have a semblence of life coming back together. And I admit that I still think about her, a little sadness, a little heartache, but I don't shake and I don't sob.

But night is a different story. Last night, I thought I fell asleep. At 2:30 a.m., I realized that something was strange, wrong. Then I realized--I still had my eyes open. I had my eyes open for a while.

When I finally did fall asleep, there was no consolation. There was a voice saying "You can never talk to her again." And then it was late at night in my dream. I got a call from Setup Chick. She was on a train. Her car was at the station in a really bad part of town. If she got off the train by herself, she would be attacked, hurt, killed. So I drove to the station to protect her. She says that she can't see me. And I'm at the station lit by the sickly orange light from an old sodium lamp which barely keeps out the black night. I get sad and scared and angry when she tells me this. "Why did you call me then?" I ask. "What do you want me to do? You call me up, telling me where you're going. You know I love you and you know I can't let you come here alone and be hurt, and you tell me I can't be here. What do you want me to do? You know that you'll be hurt. How can I just sit back knowing that you'll die if you arrive at the station alone?" I can't do a damn thing.

Time After Time What's On Your Mind
You Make Me Feel So Helpless
You Never Tried What's On Your Mind
You Make Me Feel So Helpless

Change or Die

Over four years ago, I was a junior associate in a regional BigLaw up in Silicon Valley. At 8:30 a.m., I'd pull up into the office off Page Mill Road, one of those two-story mirrored-glass and white plastic-looking front constructions that were de riguer in the late nineties. At 9 p.m., I'd pull out, and over half the cars would still be there. In between, I had days full of scheming or screaming partners, dozens of brushfires to put out, and dozens of other long-term projects that would turn into brushfires because I couldn't spend time on them. I don't remember taking lunches, though I'm sure I had them. I do remember ordering dinner, rushing down to the first floor as the order came in and wolfing it down--lukewarm pasta, lukewarm burgers, or soggy tempura--in my office before turning to yet another brief. Near the end, I couldn't stand the light, and only used a weak desklamp to work. I'd go home and drink a six-pack or several screwdrivers to unwind in the quickest way possible. I never had a single day of vacation in the two and a half years I was there. And then the Salary Wars began, with Gunderson (now a mere footnote of legal history) hiking up first year salaries by 50%. That should've been great news for associates, but any forward thinking person could see what was coming. My first BigLaw got on the tech market too late. The head office in San Francisco had trouble keeping their associates busy. Increase salaries with no increase in work, well, something had to give. So, I changed . . .

And I went to an even larger BigLaw, following one of the few incredibly talented lawyers who was also a decent human being. I spent another year without a vacation. The hours were even longer. I considered myself lucky if I got out by 10 p.m. I considered myself lucky if I had a Sunday off. I remember watching the midnight traffic on the 101 from my office. This BigLaw was less psychotic. Any egos were well-deserved and still kept business flowing to the firm. The place felt like a startup. For the first several months there, I was, well, not happy, but not unhappy. Then one bad apple had to ruin everything. I hear from my friends that he's a joke--but he's a partner now because he could bring in business. I do have to thank him, though. Without him, I wouldn't have realized that the acceptance of misery is not a life. With him, I learned that happiness is having the option to leave. So I did . . .

And for a year, I wrote. That is the happiest period of my life. I lost weight. I mellowed out. I was content. But I was lonely--Silicon Valley is still the worst place to live if you're a single, straight male. Plus the money was running out. So, I sold my place up north, gained a hefty nest egg and moved back down to Lalaland . . .

And was welcomed by my friends down here. I met and dated women, which abated my loneliness for a while, which caused more heartache in the short run that eventually healed. But I was going out. I started at SmallFirm, later to be known as Phuqued Firm, to see if it was truly law I hated or just BigFirm lifestyle. For eleven months, I dealt with both psychotic and psychopathic behavior--a screamer and a backstabber. The jury is still out on whether I hate the law (OK, maybe not), but I knew if I stayed there for too much longer, I would have a mental breakdown. So I changed, and I left, or is it the other way around . . .

And then I found a ContractGig at a firm in which the associates and the staff were genuinely happy. To bad the punchline was that it was folding up. So then I went to the last ContractGig. Out of respect for that last gig, I will be discrete as to why I left. The partner will be a success no matter what he does. However, my Spidey-senses were tingling in the last two months. I also found out that yes, there is such a thing as destiny, but that destiny can be derailed. Two paths were presented, and she took the wrong one . . .

But what I have learned in looking back at my life since law school is that I have always changed. There are situations which you cannot change, so you look to what you can change. More often than not, the only thing you can change is you. Staying on that derailing train will only get you hurt or worse. You'd be surprised how many decide to stay. Jumping off into those dark woods is better.

So here I go, launching myself, changing myself yet again.

So I Disconnect

Only time will tell if I'm sucking all the venom out of the wound, or just picking at it. I think it will be a while before my first thoughts of the day aren't of her.

Today, I was at a belated housewarming party / early summer welcome party of my friends up in the Valley. I was having fun in the pool, turning red with the alcohol and sun, bullshitting with my buddies, and playing with my pal's 13 month old kid. Sitting around eating chips and drinking beer, the sun, the water, all of it hit home again the friends that I have who'll pull me out and keep me smiling.

I was dangling my legs in the pool and taking a sip of my lukewarm Heiniken, and I felt a little bit sad all of a sudden. Some other me is sitting with some other her, dangling our legs in the pool. Some other her is bursting with happiness at meeting the good people that are my friends, expanding her world that didn't have that many friends. Some other her is making that small sweet smile while watching me play with the kid. Some other me and her are home now, slightly tired falling asleep in each others arms.

And I felt a little sad. Not just for me, but for her. Because none of this will ever happen for her. She'll go on with her small world that only includes one friend she never talks to and Jon, who doesn't have that many friends either. She'll have missed the opportunity to enter into my world, friends that would open their arms for her because I did.

You might say she made her choice, and she deserves the misery she gets. I know I said that before too. But I just remember the sweet girl I knew (and girl is really what she truly is, a sweet girl who is also a weak girl), who was so excited at the prospect of a new life. And I just get sad for her.

I need you, you want me/ but I don't know how to connect/ so I disconnect.

Long Gone Before Daylight

Maybe it's the fact that I'm beginning to heal, but then the memory of her smile in the morning and her foot stroking my calf trips me up. Or maybe it's the fact that I don't know which is sadder, that I won't see her grinning as we walk down 3rd Street Promenade dragging me from store to store, or that it won't matter to me eventually. But the Cardigans' album "Long Gone Before Daylight" has been on repeat for the last two days and nights.

I bought this album as well as Bob Dylan's "Blood On The Tracks" on the same day. Much has been said about "Blood On The Tracks", Dylan's confessional written after his first divorce, by men far more articulate than I. (Thanks to Dubois for recommending it to me.) It's too close in time for me to hear "If You See Her, Say Hello" and not get quiet and sad. And that's the album I should be listening to over and over again. But then I put in "Long Gone Before Daylight" . . .

Yeah, we all heard "Lovefool" full of pop cheer and Nina Persson's perky voice. Oh look, isn't it cute that slightly twisted lyrics are meshed with bubblegum melodies. So I put in "Long Gone Before Daylight" to distract me. But you don't heal by avoiding the pain, but by dealing with it.

The first track, "Communication," begins with single notes off an acoustic guitar. And then Nina's voice whispers in. She sounds like Shawn Colvin off her first album, "Steady On," with all the vulnerability that got lost after "A Few Small Things."

for 27 years I've been trying
to believe and confide in
different people I found

some of them got closer than others
and some wouldn't even bother
and then you came around

But this isn't a song about finding love. The song is all the heartache, the loneliness and the frustration of two people who want each other but have too much hurt and baggage to even get started. There's a subtle string arrangement as the lyrics and the chorus progresses, but that's as stirring as it gets. There's a little bit of hope as the song leads to its climax, I'll never really learn how to love you / but I know that I love you through the hole in the sky / where I see you, the most confident she sounds in the song. In the end though, it's a sad acceptance that things are not going to work out.

and I hold
a record for being patient
with your kind of hesitation

I need you, you want me
but I don't know
how to connect
so I disconnect
I disconnect

Every song is about love, some of it wrong, some of it failed, some full of hope but needing a lot of faith.

In "And You Kissed Me", Nina sounds like Sheryl Crow before she started shilling for credit cards and dated fashion moguls. It's Sheryl Crow had she stuck with that honesty of the ballads on "Tuesday Night Music Club." The first words are:

man, I've had a few
but they wouldn't quite blow me like you
you gave me your name and signed
with a halo around my eye

This is The Afghan Whig's "Gentlemen" taken from the point of view of the abused.

lord, I've had my deal
but I never quite knew how it feels
when love makes you wake up sore
with fists that are ready for more

"Please Sister" and "Lead Me Into The Night" could've been written by Nick Cave, the first written in his melancholy mood, and latter in his quiet, tender mode of "Into My Arms." In "Please Sister," it's soul gone bad. The realization that she's done wrong, love gone sour. so if it's true that love will never die / then why do the lovers work so hard to stay alive? Meanwhile, "Lead Me Into The Night" is a slow, country ballad about falling for that person everyone says is bad for you, and willingly following that person. to lead me into the night / oh please drive away the light / although my mother will never understand / I walk with him away from the light and into the night

"For What It's Worth" is perhaps the most pop of the songs, with hooks that Carol King could've written. This should've been my theme for the last week. A person who, despite all the shit gone through and done to, still wants to the other person to stay.

hey, please baby come back
there'll be no more lovin' attacks
and I'll be keeping it cool tonight
the 4-letter word is out of my head
come on around, get back in my bed
keep making me feel alright

And still, she realizes all the ambivalence and all the wrongness of the situation. for what it's worth - I love you! / and what is worse - I really do...

The original version of the album ended with "03.45: No Sleep," a bittersweet lullabye. She's gone through all the giddiness and the disappointments, the love and the emptiness. The arrangement is sparse, just Nina, an acoustic guitar and a soft drum. She's alone, she's tired, and yet something in her voice still has hope.

it's way too late to think of
someone I would call now
the neon signs got tired
red eye flights help the stars out
I'm safe in a corner
just hours before me


I'm waking with the roaches
the world has surrendered
I'm dating ancient ghosts
[the ones I made friends with]
the comfort of fireflies
long gone before daylight


and if I had one wish fulfilled tonight
I'd ask for the sun to never rise
if God lent his voice to me to speak
I'd say: "go to bed, world!"

So I should go to bed soon. And I'd be willing to go through this over and over. There'll be regret. There'll be pain. But I'll be waking up again.

You've Just Been Hanging Out In The Men's Room

OK, so people say Aaron Sorkin is too talky, too pendantic. And yet you can't deny that the man knew how to write dialogue. Look at West Wing right now--it sucks ass through a straw.

One of my favorite shows (which is general a kiss of death for network televigion) is Sports Night, Aaron Sorkin's short-lived dramedy on ABC prior to West Wing. Like the best song lyrics, there's dialogue which hits the nail on the head for almost every life situation. Even more impressive, the show only lasted 2 seasons. Yeah, so after this whole sitch went down, I went through my Sports Night DVD compilation to find a snippet of dialogue that, in addition to Dido, The Afghan Whigs and Bob Dylan, kept going through my head. Let's hope the reason why is that there's a small portion of me that knows a version of this dialogue is going to be happening in the long run.

To setup, the two main sportscasters are Dan Rydell and Casey McCall. Casey, recently divorced, was in love with Dana, but Dana had this stupid plan to have Casey date other women for six months. Now Casey has moved on:

Dan: (putting the darts down) It was an idiotic dating plan, Dana. What did you think was going to happen?

Dana: Hey, Dan--

Dan: Forget that he's meeting all kinds of women, that was gonna happen. But the one that he wanted was you, anyway.

Dana: Wanted?

Dan: (sighs) All this is doing is making him feel a lot less like the man he is, which is why he left Lisa in the first place. (sits down across from her) I know what he wants, and I gotta say, he's done a pretty good job of going after it, which isn't, like, the most natural thing in the world for Casey to do. And I know what you want. And all I've seen you do is hide behind this psychotic behavior all dressed up as cute. He wanted you, and he told you every possible way he could. You've just been hanging out in the men's room. (gets up and leaves her looking miserable)


(Dana enters the bar hesitantly, looking around, then going up to the bartender)

Dana: Jack.

Jack: Hey, Dana.

Dana: Was Casey in here tonight?

Jack: You just missed him.

Dana: He left?

Jack: Yeah. You need anything?

Dana: Was he in here alone?

Jack: (a bit awkwardly) He met someone.

Dana: A girl?

Jack: Yeah, with a strange name.

Dana: Pixley.

Jack: Yeah.

Dana: They leave together?

Jack: Yeah.

Dana: (nodding painfully) Okay.

Jack: You need anything?

Dana: Uh... no. (gives a false smile that quickly fades into pain again)

(Fade out)

Everything Is Wrong

You know how sometimes, when you buy a CD, after you fumble your way tearing off the plastic wrapping with that crinkly sound really annoying you, you rip off that sticky adhesive off the top, and you plop that CD in the player? And the LCD tells you that the CD is over 50 minutes long, and you're glad that you didn't get gipped of your fifteen dollars and some change? So you listen through the album and suddenly the last track comes up faster than expected? Or you're half paying attention while doing your work, and you're not paying attention to the time and you think the CD is over? Then after seven minutes of silence, you hear another track? And you realize that the album has a hidden track, and it's complete and utter crap. Think the hidden track on Nirvana's "Nevermind" and not the hidden track on "Lost in Translation." That album you thought was over 50 minutes is actually under 40.

Take what you will from that lengthy rhetorical question.

I had trouble sleeping last night. I had an overwhelming sensation that everything was wrong. I knew it in my heart and I knew it in my head. Somehow, life had derailed off the tracks, and I'm still in shock.

As I said before, I left the Contract Gig for reasons that had nothing to do with Setup Chick. I had been waking up with the Dread for the last few months. I'd been dreaming of travel with nowhere to go, or being back in school. Once you start feeling the Dread, you have to leave if you have the option. It's just unfortunate that me leaving also coincided with Setup Chick going back.

I know writing is a solitary profession, and I know I'm good at it (well, at both--writing and being solitary). For the first time today, the anxiety I'd been feeling is slowly starting to disappear just by writing.

In the long run, I need to write. In the long run, I know that staying any longer at the Contract Gig would've been bad for my health. But right now, it's all bittersweet. I was supposed to be decompressing this week, and instead I'm thinking about her. I was supposed to be writing this novel during the day and have her come home to me each night, but instead I'm back by my lonesome. I was supposed to say my final goodbye on Tuesday, but the office still calls and she tells me how hard it is not to see me, that she knows if she sees me again what will happen.

Yeah, I know the train has derailed. I know eventually, either I have to get it back on the tracks or find a new train. Sitting dazed isn't going to help me at all. But right now, everything is wrong.

I'm Comin' 'Round To Open Up The Blinds

So I guess this is part two of the thanks. And yeah, I'm quoting Dido. Very mainstream of me. But other than being cute and an Arsenal fan, she tends to write lyrics that are direct and very appropriate. So once again, thanks to everyone.

I'm comin' 'round to open the blinds
You can't hide here any longer
My God you need to rinse those puffy eyes
You can't last here any longer

And yes they'll ask you where you've been
And you'll have to tell them again and again

And you probably don't want to hear tomorrow's another day
Well I promise you you'll see the sun again
And you're asking me why pain's the only way to happiness
And I promise you you'll see the sun again

Come on take my hand
We're going for a walk, I know you can
You can wear anything as long as it's not black
Please don't mourn forever
She's not coming back

And yes they'll ask you where you've been
And you'll have to tell them again and again

And you probably don't want to hear tomorrow's another day
Well I promise you you'll see the sun again
And you're asking me why pain's the only way to happiness
And I promise you you'll see the sun again
And I promise you you'll see the sun again

Do you remember telling me you found the sweetest thing of all
You said one day of this was worth dying for
So be thankful you knew her at all
But it's no more

And you probably don't want to hear tomorrow's another day
Well I promise you you'll see the sun again
And you're asking me why pain's the only way to happiness
And I promise you you'll see the sun again
And you probably don't want to hear tomorrow's another day
Well I promise you you'll see the sun again
And you're asking me why pain's the only way to happiness
And I promise you you'll see the sun again
See the sun again
---"See The Sun," Dido

Simple Things

In all this grief and anger of this past week, I'm grateful that I have a network of friends who kept me from drowning. I know that I'm extremely lucky to have you all as friends. I hope there is such a thing as karma, because if it exists, then each and every one of you will find happiness that will doggedly follow you no matter what you do. So a shout out goes, in no particular order because every one of you kept me from drowning, to Rach, Dubois, the Big Jew, Dong and Bergerbuns, Fleo and Rhokel, Dirty, Katherine, Special Princess, Pat, Greg and Moxie. And to all that have been giving me good vibes from afar, the whole karma thing goes for you too.

And Now It's Gone . . .

You call her in a moment of weakness, just to tell her that you're sad that the friendship is gone. You call her because that little spark of hope is still there. And she returns your call because she's also sad that the frienship is gone. She returns your call because she still has that little spark of hope still there too.

You try to salvage your friendship. You tell her what the worst thing about this is the loss of someone who knew you better than you knew yourself. You tell her the worst thing about this is that there are no birthdays together, no talking because you love each other's company. You tell her that this is like a friend dying. She asks you what if's in hopes of keeping the friendship alive. What if she came back to you in four months? What if she was married to him in four months? And you answer honestly. And you ask your what ifs. What if he doesn't change? What if she's at the altar and all she can think about is you? You ask her if she felt anything when he slept with her now, and she can't answer. And she cries and says she can't handle this right now. She cries saying she's supposed to be thinking about the wedding. She says this isn't the last goodbye.

And because you're weak, because you still love her and you can't believe that the friendship is over, because as much as she treated you like shit it hurts you more to hear her cry, you call her and say you don't want to leave it this way.

She calls you back, saying she can't do this anymore. She says her boyfriend changed his mind, that he can't have her talking to you. She says her boyfriend says it's over if she talks to you. She can't be friends with you.

And so you say your last goodbye. You don't want to get off the phone, but you have to. So your last words are how you feel. Your last words to her are "My best friend died today. My best friend died." You hear her sobbing. You say "Goodbye."

You know that, in the long run, cutting all contact is really the best for both of you. You know that you were weak, and that self-disgust comes cascading through your body. You know all this, but all you can think of is her sobbing, and your words, "My best friend died today."

C'mon C'mon

Now We Grieve 'Cuz Now It's Gone
All The Things Were Good When We Were Young
-- C'mon C'mon, The Von Blondies

So you wonder why all the gnashing of the teeth over Setup Chick. Why all the heartache, the grief over this woman who treated me like shit, who got what she wanted all along--for her boyfriend to propose to her--at the cost of our friendship.

And that's precisely the reason why I grieve--our friendship. We had been really close friends since November. We saw each other almost every day at our job, and we talked almost every night. Whenever she saw me sad, she'd figure out a way to cheer me up. She said the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me, the "Marty, you're going to end up marrying a drop dead gorgeous blonde" statement. I made her laugh constantly, cheered her up when her boyfriend was watching hockey even though she needed help. Even my friends who never met her said, back before the hookup, how happy we seemed together, how they thought Setup Chick was a wonderful person. Now they all hate her, and are shocked at how this played out.

Now, all the good things are gone. I won't be there when she turns 25 in August, laughing when I have to make good with the stupid bet that I would be sitting across someone I absolutely adored and who absolutely adored me before her birthday. She won't be there when I turn 32 in October. There will be no more nightly phone calls where we just talk about work or life or our pets. Even if I see her in the future, that friendship is gone.

It might sound rather obvious, but the reason why breakups are so hard is not the loss of sex (though that sucks ass too). Instead, it's really the death of a friendship, knowing that someone who knew you better than yourself is no longer part of your life. In a way, and not to demean real death or say that real death isn't horrible, but the death of a friendship is in some ways worse than the friend passing away--because the friendship is gone but the friend still is there just a phone call away. And in your weak moments, you want to call, but you know if you do, you'll be talking to a different person inhabiting the same body. Your caught between trying to recapture all those great memories, and demeaning those same memories by trying to bring them back.

And so today, the anger is gone, but the grief is there.

I try to take solace in the fact that I'm not the one who is making the wrong choice. I try to take solace in the fact that if Setup Chick wants to stay with Jon, then they deserve each other. I hold on to the following:

Jon is 43 and started dated Setup Chick, who was his personal assistant at the time, when she was 19. Before Setup Chick, he dated another one of his employees and who was ten years younger than him (see a pattern here?), who he never asked to marry despite the fact they dated for ten years, and who cheated on him (yeah, I wonder if the ten years they dated with no commitment had anything to do with that). And Setup Chick ended up with Jon because she was consoling him. And two weeks ago, knowing that Setup Chick slept with me, he lied to her about ordering her a ring and proposed to her. And knowing that Setup Chick slept with me again a little over a week ago and she hadn't slept with him, Jon went to her parents' home to "say goodbye" (but we all know the he went there to get their intervention). And knowing that Setup Chick slept with me yet again this weekend and didn't feel a thing when she slept with him, Jon called her and begged her to come back, with a not so concealed threat to commit suicide--"I have no purpose if you leave." Do any of you really think that Setup Chick is going to be happy with this guy?

I know I was weak as well for sleeping with her. I know love makes you do stupid things. But I never begged her to come back to me, and I never threatened to do kill myself. I always told her, until her final betrayal Sunday, that I wanted her to be happy--to get away from Jon and me and get some clarity. And for her to choose Jon, a man who has no self-respect, who admitted to her that he had taken her for granted, who only tried to change after telling him she found someone else, who had treated her at best like a pet who did his books and had sex with him, who still begged and threatened her even after she still kept sleeping with someone else--it makes Setup Chick's decision to kill our friendship even more painful.

So I'll grieve for our friendship, and I'll move on eventually. I know I'll have my weak moments, and I might try to hold on to that little spark of hope that we can rekindle our friendship. But I hope that I learn from this, an extra layer of armor in the future. It's really all I can do at this point.

If I Have To Lie About It . . .

This blog is a reflection of me, both good and bad. And sometimes in life, bad things happen. Life should be as simple as "she hurt you, stop thinking about her." But those bad things screw you up--hopefully only for a short time, but they still screw you up.

I think the reasons we listen to certain songs and watch certain movies is because they too are a reflection. And right now, I've been listening to The Afghan Whigs' song "My Curse" over and over again. Yeah, you can make a judgment on how my heart feels about this woman right now (don't worry, my mind is angry, very very angry). This is how I felt when she told me how she knows she lost me forever, crying into the phone this morning. This is how I'll feel when she calls me from work this week when she realizes I'm never coming back. Don't worry, I'll be listening to this song only for a short time.

"My Curse"

Hurt me baby
I flinch so when you do
Your kisses scourge me
Hyssop in your perfume
Oh, I do not fear you
And slave I only use
As a word to describe the special way I feel for you
You look like me
And I look like no one else
We need no other
As long as we have ourselves
But I won't cry about it
Every time you get obsessed
Every time I came undressed
All ugly thoughts are gone
I'm sure we'll all be friends
I'll try to break your back
You'll try to make amends
Curse softly to me baby
And smother me in your love
Temptation comes not from hell but from above
And there's blood on my teeth
When I bite my tongue to speak
Zip me down, kiss me there
I can smile now
You won't find out ever
Hurt me baby
I flinch so when you do
Your kisses scourge me
Hyssop in your perfume
Oh I do not fear you
And slave I only use as a word to describe
The way I feel when I'm with you
If I have to lie about it everytime I came undressed

This Time The Anger's Better Than The Kiss . . .

Bang your knee hard up against the table, and you know you're going to get a nasty deep bruising. You know that eventually it'll clear up. The days will go by, and the bruise will turn from that deep purple to a slight yellowish tinge. And then you'll wake up and your skin will be the same pristine tone you had before. But today, that bruise is an ugly purple welt, the merest touch makes you wince in pain.

All my friends, including greg, were right. I should've just run from Setup Chick and never looked back. For the last two weeks, Setup Chick has been reckless with me. She tells me she always thinks of me, that she wants to be with me. And yet her pathetic boyfriend calls her, says he wants to marry her, and back in his arms she goes. This has been going on and on. And because we were friends before all this happened, I played the good guy.

At 2 a.m. in this morning, she called me sobbing, saying how she wasn't at her parents like she told me but that she was with him. How this last week, she didn't feel anything for him, could she come over. And I said yes. I said yes because I love her. We had dinner Wednesday night prior, and I knew she wanted to be with me--the gestures, the handholding, the looks. This morning after she called, she came by, and were ended up in my bed. Then her boyfriend called her, saying how he had no purpose in life if she left him, how he wanted to marry her. This same scene happened two Fridays ago already, so I knew the score. I told her to do what she had to do.

And so again she left. And again the call happens, the "I'm staying with him" call. I've prepared myself for this conversation. I'm glad that her boyfriend called while we were in bed, because it showed me what a pathetic being he is. He's a man who can only define himself by someone else, while at the same time treating that someone else like shit. He's a desperate man who went to Setup Chick's home, begging her parents forintervention. And if Setup Chick stayed with him, then why would I want a woman with such poor judgment?

And so in this call, I asked her what changed. She says that she realized she hadn't been putting any effort into the relationship. She says I have to believe her when she says she really cares about me. She says that she wants to be friends still, that her boyfriend will allow that.

Me, I was the good guy for the past two weeks, and I'm tired of it. I tell her that I can't be happy for her because what she did to me was evil. I tell her that for what she did to me, she doesn't deserve any happiness. I ask her how we can be friends, her knowing how I feel about her, how I would have to be next to her wearing that ring if we were "friends." I tell her that her actions speak louder than her words, so I don't believe her when she says she cares about me. I told her she just threw away a good friend and the only person who has treated her right. But I guess there's a reason why some women stay with their abusers.

We talk in circles. She says she has to go. I tell her this is the last goodbye, that I wish that I could wish her happiness, but I can't. I hang up the phone.

I left the gig on Thursday (not for this reason, but because I'd been feeling the dread waking up for the past two months). On Tuesday, she'll walk into the office, and after six months of being there, of seeing me everyday, I won't be there. And that's her tough luck.

I know I'll get over this. Anyone who treats me like that isn't a good person, much less a good friend. Anyone who stays with a person who doesn't make her happy, who only makes an effort to change after she finds someone else, who begs and pleads and threatens--anyone who stays with a person like that doesn't deserve me.

But right now, I feel sad. I already miss her. And right now, I feel angry, angry at the way my heart was just tossed around. And right now, I feel heartsick. Everyone tells me that I'll meet the one eventually, but I see people all the time who haven't--barely hiding their misery, overcompensating by being extra nice, knowing though that they don't fit in.

Eventually the bruising goes away. It always does.

Low and Behold

So once more, you're driven out into the rain. You're prowling the streets, cruising on black roads lit by orange sodium lights, watching the sweep of the wipers on a windshield that runs like wax.

It's the uncertainty that drives you out. Better to feel the rain pounding your face through the open car window, soaking through your clothes, as you speed your way through the night. Better that than staying in place in that old flat with the hiss of the radiator and the peeling wallpaper. Better than watching the digital slowly change numbers while waiting for her to make a decision.

You want her to make the right decision, but she's been weak before. You want to leave her and cut your losses, but you start shaking at the thought of her gone. And so you drive, the indecision fueling your rage.

You tell yourself that she may choose you--you hear the frustration in her voice when she talks about him, the longing in her voice when she talks to you. But you remind yourself that nothing has ever worked out for you--you hear the wavering in her voice when she talks about him too. She looks at you with desire, and it frustrates her that she has to choose. She starts to cry at the thought of you angry with her.

So of course, it's better to drive. It's better to stop the car eventually, get out, let the sheets of rain pour down upon you. It's better to imagine it cleansing you, washing the impurities out, flowing into the gutter. It's better not the think of the future, soaked skin near the hiss of a radiator, sitting, waiting.

Gorecki

An open letter:

All I want you to be is happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. Ever since the first time I saw you, I knew you were special, and all I ever wanted to do was make you happy. Why do you think I was goofy all the time around you? Why do you think I spent those long hours talking to you?

All I’ve ever knew you to be is unhappy. You would call me constantly to ask me my advice, or just to talk. And I would sit and listen, feeling sad that you were sad. Feeling sad that Jon was in the other room watching hockey, putting you off because he took you for granted, thinking that you would be with him. I never put any conditions on our friendship.

In the last two weeks, all I ever knew you to be is happy. I knew I found the one I waited for. I knew you found the one you waited for too.

Today, you told me that in your heart that you just know you have a future with him. And I’m telling you today, in my heart, that you don’t, at least not a happy future. That if you stay with your decision, you’ll be so unhappy and you’ll be thinking of me. That you’ll just be sad. I know this in my heart.

All I’m asking you at this point is to think, just to think about this:

I trusted you this morning, knowing that this might happen, and I never said that I would stop caring about you. And meanwhile, Jon threatened you, said this would be the end if you came back to pick up your stuff.

Your friends say that you were unhappy with him. I said that you should be single for a month, that I would wait. And meanwhile, Jon threatened you, saying I manipulated you into feeling this.

I’ve told you, I respected your decision, no matter what. I’ve told you, I agree with your friend, that you should think about what you want, that I want what’s best for you. And meanwhile, Jon threatened you, saying it’s me or him.

Do you want to throw away everything between us for a man who doesn’t realize what he’s missing until he realizes it’s gone? Do you want to throw away everything between us for a man who only says he’s going to change because he’s threatened? Do you want to throw away everything to a man who’s the true manipulator?

You asked me, “What should I do? He said it’s over if I go over to you.” I should’ve said, “It’s supposed to be over. You were supposed to let him know it was over.” I should’ve insisted that one of your friends or cousins go with you. I should’ve insisted that you stay home with your parents to figure things out.

All I have left is this letter. All I have left to convince you is this. When you were over at my place, the only song in my mind was this song. I still feel this way. All I can do is let you know, that I still feel the lyrics. All I can say is I know you feel the same way. All I can say is that Jon will never, ever, say these words to you:

If I should die this very moment
I wouldn't fear
For I've never known completeness
Like being here
Wrapped in the warmth of you
Loving every breath of you
Still in my heart this moment
Or it might burst
Could we stay right here
Until the end of time until the earth stops turning
Wanna love you until the seas run dry
I've found the one I've waited for

All this time I've loved you
And never known your face
All this time I've missed you
And searched this human race
Here is true peace
Here my heart knows calm
Safe in your soul
Bathed in your sighs
Wanna stay right here
Until the end of time
'Til the earth stops turning
Gonna love you until the seas run dry
I've found the one I've waited for

The one I've waited for

All I've known
All I've done
All I've felt was leading to this
All I've known
All I've done
All I've felt was leading to this
Wanna stay right here
'Til the end of time 'till the earth stops turning
I'm gonna love you till the seas run dry
I've found the one I've waited for
The one I've waited for
The one I've waited for

Wanna stay right here
'Til the end of time 'till the earth stops turning
I'm gonna love you till the seas run dry
I've found the one I've waited for
The one I've waited for
The one I've waited for

I know in my heart that Jon will never say this to you. I know in my heart that you will be so sad, a month, two months, a year from know. I know in my heart that he will not change. That he hasn’t been willing to change before. I know in my heart that anyone not willing to let you go like I will isn’t the right person for you. I know in my heart that you’ll regret it if you stay with this decision.

I will never stop caring for you. I will never stop loving you. But you have to know that everything feels wrong. You have to know that if you stay with this decision, I will never stop caring for you, but that I can no longer be there for you.

All I’m asking is that you spend time away from the both of us. All I’m asking is that you talk to your friends and see what they have to say. All I’m asking is that you stop thinking about how scared you are and figure out that you truly want. You know that you’re happy with me. You know that you haven’t been happy with Jon in a long long time. You know all I want is for you to be happy regardless of your decision. Please just make the decision wisely, away from Jon and me. And whatever your decision is if you do take time away from both of us to think, if you do ask your friends and relatives, the same friends and relatives who’ve told you that you haven’t been happy with Jon, and you decide to stay with Jon, I can respect that. But to make a decision right now is just too hurtful.

Please don’t doubt that I care about you, but if you make this decision without taking some time off, then you have no right to care about me. You have no right to worry about me. This is not an ultimatum. This is me telling you how I feel.

I don’t know what else to say now except that all I want for you is happiness. I want you to know that I will love you always, and that I hope you make a decision out of love and not fear. All I can do is hope that you make the right decision. I love you enough to give you up. I know Jon doesn’t love you enough to do this. And that’s all I have to say.

In the morning, she tells you that she wants to be with you. She tells you not to worry, she's made her choice and her choice is you. So she goes home to pick up her stuff and resolve things with her boyfriend. At night, she calls you, saying how difficult it is. She tells you she's staying with her boyfriend, the one who's been taking her for granted for the last five years, the one all her friends say makes her unhappy. She tells you that she can't even pick up the clothes she left at your home because her boyfriend gave her an ultimatum--if she ever comes over to your place, it's over.

And so you pack up her stuff and put it somewhere you can't see. And you pack up the shirt that she bought you yesterday to show you how much you made her happy. And you know, eventually, this too will pass. Much like everything else in your life.

Angry Yellow shall be observing radio silence for a while. Angry Yellow shall be back, eventually.

Red

What a difference a week can make. Two weeks ago, I was stressed out about my gig, coming home to an empty apartment save for some Polish vodka in the freezer, crap TV, and porn. Lots and lots of porn.

This week, I've woken up every morning to the smiling face of a woman who absolutely adores me, who grins every time she looks at me. And she doesn't mind that I have porn. Heh heh. Plus, she's already told two others that she's leaving El Putzo.

Does this mean that I'm going to change the blog name to something like, I dunno, Mellow Yellow? Hell no! I'm still going to be my snarky old self. No worries about me talking about maaaagic unicorns and gumdrop rainbows where fuzzy wuzzy teddy bears frolic.

P.S.--See, this does not count as an entry about Setup Chick, this counts as an entry about Setup Chick and me. It's not about her, it's about us. Howz that for some fancy schmancy lawyer logic.

Call Me A Colour That Only Appeals To You

So, I won't be telling you about certain things that did or did not happen today. Um, I promised someone who may or may not be Setup Chick that I wouldn't tell anyone. Really. Go away. So this is what it feels like to be euphoric, confused, and scared shitless all at the same time. At the very least, I have a new lucky shirt. OK, since I did make a promise--no more entries about Setup Chick.

Come on Little Rabbit

Yeah, I know, I met the five-entries requirements in form but not in substance, but phhhhhht to you too. So things have gotten, well, more interesting with Setup Chick. And since I want to write a treatise about as as much as you want to read it, I'll just provide snapshots.

1) Setup Chick and I have a pact--if she finds a job in Hawaii, I'll move with her. I asked what about her boyfriend, trying to feel the current 411 on the whole sitch, and she said, "Well, that's too bad for him." I also mentioned that I was kinda tipsy when I made the pact, and she kept repeating that she was sober.

2) Setup Chick and I hung out on Friday at 3rd Street Promenade. By the time we got tired of the Promenade, traffic on the 405 was really bad. I offered to hang out with her, maybe get some drinks. She said she wanted to see my cat. So we hung out at Casa de Stark for a while. The cat actually liked her (my cat's reaction to Bee's Knees was hisses). Anyway, time passed. Setup Chick was curled up on a fetal position facing me on my couch, feeling comfortable. She asked about Bee's Knees and my other past relationships. We watched TV for a bit. At 7:30pm, she looks over to me and says in a petulant voice "Take me home." (She drove up from Long Beach to Casa de Stark, and she wanted me to drive her back in her car back home and for me to take a taxi back to my home). I told her that her ass wasn't drunk, she could take herself home. She kept bugging me to take her home in a child-like voice, very reminiscent of Bee's Knees. I started calling her, half-jokingly half-sarcastic, "Bee's Knees." She said "Fuck Bee's Knees!" and then covered her mouth in surprise at her own reaction. Then she said, "Well, if I'm acting like Bee's Knees, you must like the way I'm acting. C'mon, take me home." Then we just stared at each other in silence, both of us on the couch, comfortable with each other's company. Luckily, Rational Marty was still in control, and when the silence got too heavy, I went back to trying to get her up. Setup Chick went back to acting like a bratty kid. She eventually left thirty minutes later. She called me on the road, explaining the whole thing as "just joking around."

Yeah, I don't know what the fuck all that was about either.

3) Random comment from a friend about the Setup Chick situation: "I don't care if she has a boyfriend. I call what you two have been doing for the last month 'dating.'"

Teenage Wristband

OK, ummmm, five entries. 1) I really miss ramen noodles. Especially the sesame chicken flavored ones, with the separate sesame oil packet. Mmmmmmm. 2) Take deep breaths, hold your nose, and go under the water--it's yet another beginning to a craptastic work week. Wash, rinse, repeat. 3) If there's a voice that guys should aspire to be (not to have, but to be, to become all that voice encapsulates), it's Greg Dulli's voice--savior of misbehavior indeed. 4) I feel dizzy my head is spinning. 5) You walked in, just like smoke, with a little c'mon, c'mon, c'mon.

Shiver

Yeah, it's a Saturday night and I'm blogging. But I went out Monday night (Passover dinner--that's right, I'm an Asian Jew--OK, not really, and I have a whole 'nuther story that's not interesting about how Marty is my honorary Jewish name from a certain chick named Debbie but we won't go into that here), Tuesday (got my business cards finally), Wednesday night (owed a dinner by a secretary) and Thursday night (drinking with law school folks who might be buying a dive bar), so excuse me if I want to drink scotch and read the latest novel from my favorite writer tonight.

So anyway, this whole thing with Setup Chick is going to be drawing to a close soon. (I know, if this were a sitcom, dramedy, or whatever media metaphor you want to use, I'd be having notes from the networks execs bitching about wrapping the storyline up already who the hell do I think I am certainly not Joss Whedon and crap has he been on a losing streak recently too). She's having a talk with her boyfriend this weekend about their future. How I do I know this? We had a friggin' two hour talk Friday night about this. There's a defensiveness in her voice when she talks to me about him. She opens up with a "I don't care what anyone else thinks" attitude, but she's always defending her boyfriend and asking my opinion. During lunch, she tries to prove me wrong about her boyfriend, mentioning my friends who went out for seven years before they got married (though they weren't 43 and 24 respectively at the time). A lot of effort for someone who doesn't care what other people think. At this point, I'm going to pull one of those too clever by half non-linear plot devices out--we'll go back to when I first met Setup Chick. She laughed at everything I said (and she still does). Everytime her boyfriend was out of town, she'd give me a call to say she was bored and we'd end up talking for hours. (And given Friday night, that still happens). Everytime she needed advice, she called me because her boyfriend's attitude was "do whatever you want." We've had dinner with each other several times now.

Back to the present. Or more precisely, this week. On Monday night, she asks me for my brutal and honest opinion about her future with her boyfriend. And I give it to her. This man is nineteen years older than she is. His previous relationship was with a woman twelve years his junior and it lasted for ten years. And she was also his employee. Supposedly he wanted to marry her, but she cheated on him. Hmmmm. OK, that's all fine and dandy, but at the end of the day, he went out with this younger woman for ten years and never asked her to get married. Now he has a sweet young thang who's already told him, "I'll leave you if I don't think there's a future," which translates into the male mind, "fuck, this chick won't ever leave me so long as I string her along," she hasn't left him for five years, she does his taxes and bills for him, did I mentions she still hasn't left him yet despite bringing up the marriage subject several times, all this means one of two things: 1) he won't ask her to marry him or 2) he will but it will be for all the wrong reasons. And I tell Setup Chick this, and she says that these thoughts have crossed her mind at well. But, she says, she knows in her heart that she has a future with him. And, I don't say, I know in my heart that I'm much better for you, so that shows you what the heart knows, which is complete fuck all. Friday night's conversation is a repeat of all this except for the fact that she is supposed to have this talk with her boyfriend.

And then she says, "Marty, I'm sure that you'll meet someone who adores you and who you'll adore right back. I'm so sure that I'll bet dinner on it." So by Setup Chick's birthday (which is in August), I owe her dinner if I find someone who adores me and who I adore right back, and she owes me dinner if I don't.

If life was like a sitcom or a dramedy, in August, I'll be sitting with her at her birthday, buying her dinner because I am with someone who adores me and who I adore right back--I'm with her. A very Ross and Jennifer moment, and you could almost hear that treacly music in the background and the canned "awwwwwws" off the laugh track. But we all know that life isn't a sitcom. The persistence of that funny odd guy which endears you to him translates into stalker behavior in real life. The nice guy doesn't get the hot chick, but instead gets a boot to the head from the bully boyfriend while the hot chick laughs at him.

So this brings up why I find myself in these situations. Does the writer in me drift into these situations because of the story possibilities? Or do these story possibilities arise because I drift into these situations?

Anyway, I just got a call from Setup Chick. That conversation isn't happening because she's pissed off at her boyfriend (not because the conversation isn't happening, but because of other things). She's meeting a friend in Hollywood, but her friend doesn't get off for another 2 hours, so she wants to have dessert with me. Sigh. I was going to write more about this whole writer/story/life thing, but I gotta be going out again.

I guess this is a long way of saying I'm kind of tired about this as well. So, I promise, the next, hmmm, let's say five entries will have nothing to do with Setup Chick. Instead, I might bone up on my prose.

Where's The Love Song To Set Us Free . . .

You guessed it, another dinner just between Setup Chick and me. Setup Chick's boyfriend had to work late. And so she's telling me how things are now better with her and her beau. But she keeps on saying things in the line of "Hey, you like x? So does my boyfriend," and "Yeah, my boyfriend is like that too." And she keeps on mentioning I'm the only other person she knows other than herself who watched a certain show. She tells me how she and her boyfriend hooked up five years ago, a tale of two folks with issues who ended up living together out of convenience and now five years have gone by but no they do love each other.

And two thoughts keep rushing through my mind:

1. Radiohead's lyric "Just because you feel it doesn't mean it's there," and
2. RUN AWAY!

. . . Watch The World Spinning Gently Out Of Time

Back as a psych student at Duke, one of the theories I learned dealt with pupilary dilation. Back in the 60s and early 70s, several studies were done on whether the pupil constricts when negative images were shown. The studies were inconclusive on that issue, but what researches did find was that pupils consistently dialated when subjects were shown attractive images. To put it another way, if someone finds you attractive, you'll know because her/his pupils will dilate. This has been the basis for numerous articles in men's magazines. I haven't seen any recent studies on this issue, so who knows if it's bunk.

Yeah, and there are yet undiscovered tribes in the Amazon who can see where this is going.

I was supposed to have dinner with Setup Chick and Young Co-Worker chick tomorrow night. Then Setup Chick asks if we could have dinner just between us tonight because her boyfriend is supposed to take her out tomorrow night. Of course I say yes. So we have a heart to heart talk during dinner about her relationship with her boyfriend and my general issues. At one point, she looks like she's about to cry, but she doesn't. I think back to my psych class, and I notice that her pupils did dilate when she looked at me. I noticed this earlier in the office, and I noticed this again when we were in the parking lot. While driving home, she gives me a call to tell me that William Hung is on the radio (damn his FOB soul). When I get home, I give her a call. We end up talking for another hour. We watch the same obscure shows and talk about our pets.

Don't worry, my rational mind knows that, at this point, I don't just need to walk away from this situation--I need to run, run into the ocean, learn to swim and fucking grow gills.

Fight for the White and Blue!

OK, yet another half-assed random list entry because damnit it's friggin' hot, my allergies are acting up, and I'm still as giddy, yes, that's right, giddy, after Duke made it into the Final Four after two straight years of chumpin' it at the Sweet Sixteen.

1. Business Card Chick might be the most passive-aggressive person I've ever met. I suggested that she could mail me the business cards when they get in if she felt more comfortable doing that. She writes back she totally understands if I don't want to meet her anymore. Hating the whole "Hey, I don't want to take responsibility so I'll make you feel bad", I reply (in a very humorous oh you just had to be there way) that of course I want to meet her, but that I suggested mailing the cards only because I thought she felt uncomfortable. So we're now back onto meeting, she invited me to her gig that night (which I didn't go to--friggin' tired plus I needed to watch Duke beat Illinois), and now she also thinks I'm "stinkin funny". Sigh. Aren't there any stable arty chicks out there?

2. Wasn't there some light wuss-rock ballad from the eighties or seventies that described the situation in Point 2 in my last entry? Probably something by Journey or Foreigner. Bonus karma points to those who can tell me which song it was. At least I have an idea to incorporate into the novel.

3. OK. So while this whole Set-Up Chick non-situation was evolving, I had a dream involving the infamous Makeup Chick. I was in London on an illicit vacation. I was supposed to be at work, but I was fed up. I decided to travel to London by myself, which is unusual because I hate going on vacation alone. Anyway, I'm at this open drinking fair--like Octoberfest, but, ummmm, British. So I go to the urinals and there's this other American there. He's all "Dude, cool, another American. Let's grab a brewskie." It's nice to be hanging out with another Yank, but then he starts making a fool of himself by trying to speak in a British accent. Kinda Madonna bad British accent. He meanders off back to the urinals. The locals start looking at me in a hostile manner. I say, "That's a Yank in a bad need of an ass-kicking." Then everyone starts laughing. And I start making fun of bad British accents, and the audience is like putty in my hands. I see Makeup Chick. I'm about to say, "Hi, it's really cool seeing you here," but she says before I can open up my mouth, "Hi, my name is Calleigh."

Red Suitcase Full Of Clothes

Because work has been insane lately (like I just wanted to rest my eyes for five minutes and when I opened them back again it was an hour later insane), I'm gonna be an ol' wuss and do one of those random list of things on my mind in the past week.

1. Best cynical yet pleading lyric about love made even more poignant by the context of the song I've heard in a long long time: "True love ain't that hard to find / Not that either one of us will ever know." Ryan Adams, Please Do Not Let Me Go.

2. Random snippet between High School GalPal and Marty Stark last week:

Marty: Yeah, I know that I shouldn't be pissed off about Biz Card Chick, but that whole 'Hey, you're not my type but please still validate my ego and tell me I'm good' response is just way lame.

HSGP: I know. She sounded like a seventeen year old. But how about the chick you tried to set her up with you? What's her story?

Marty: What do you mean what's Set-up Chick's story? She has a live-in boyfriend she's been going out with for 5 years, she's the boss' sister, and I work with her. That's the story.

HSGP: Uh huh, and she randomly gives you calls at home to talk, and everytime you talk with her, you speak for hours. She's told you several times about how she's had her talk with the live-in boyfriend about marriage and he just keeps lamely pushing it off. When you mentioned Makeup Chick and how she had a boyfriend, Set-Up Chick said that didn't matter and that women live with their boyfriends for the wrong reason. And you two have had dinner with each other several nights now.

Marty: OK, where is this conversation going?

HSGP: Let's put it this way. When you talked about Biz Card chick, I didn't hear a smile in your voice. The only time I hear a smile in your voice is when you talk about Set-up Chick.

(Lengthy pause)

Marty: Oh fuck.

3. Images Marty Stark Had After Conversation Identified in Point 2: Slow motion black and white footage of buffalos going over a cliff, Binky the Crotch-Hammer of Frustration laughing maniacally, a man hit in crotch with football.

4. DUKE MADE THE SWEET SIXTEEN!

5. GODDAMN YOU BINKY!!!

6. I know it's a song that the WB will be playing over and over again on its teen angst One Tree Gilmore Hill In Everwood shows, but Ryan Adams' cover of "Wonderwall" has been on repeat today. The original Oasis version worked fine on its own--a power pop Beatle-esque song of the classic slightly drunken boy telling girl how much he loves her sung with a confident swagger full of guitar flourishes. Ryan Adams' cover is stripped down, almost acoustic. Instead of a swagger, he sings the verse "I said maybe you're gonna be the one that saves me" in an almost questioning way, like he's nervously bearing his soul, knowing that in all likelihood the girl is going to reject him. And the song is made better for it.

7. Point 6 has nothing to do with either Points 2 or 3. No. Really.

You are Schroeder!


Which Peanuts Character are You?
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I woulda thunk I was more Charlie Brown than Schroeder, what with the huge head and girl problems. At least it got the neuroses thing right.

I Maintain In The Slow Lane

Ummmm, just so y'all know, that last entry was not a cry for help. I mean, c'mon, there's three weeks of March Madness to look forward to! (Though if the Blue Devils bow out before the Sweet Sixteen) . . .

So I Turn Up The Sound And You Are Nowhere . . .

"Friends is no use to me, Jack. I've got friends. I don't need anymore. What I need is someone who'll light up the woods so I can find a place to stay." Nearly, Spares by Michael Marshall Smith

"In a very real physiological sense, what we've incorporated in memory from the past also significantly affects how we experience the present and form new memories. 'Experiences are encoded by brain networks whose connections have already been shaped by previous encounters with the world,' says Daniel Schacter. 'This preexisting knowledge powerfully influences how we encode and store new memories, thus contributing to the nature, texture, and quality of what we will recall of the moment.' We remember only what we have encoded and what the brain decides to encode depends on our past experiences, knowledge, and needs." The Mind at Night: The New Science of How and Why We Dream by Andrea Rock

I've been driving on this forest road for as long as I can remember. Maybe there once was a time in which I saw sunlight filtering through the branches. I remember once seeing the moon casting its light, throwing the trees into sharp whites, blues and blacks. But now, the only things that aren't the blurred black shadows of trees rushing by are the sickly yellow beams that flicker orange from the car headlights, the mottled brown road in front of me and the green coming off the digital dashboard clock that's been reading 3:00 a.m. every time I've glanced at it. I think the battery is dying.

This isn't to say it's always been a lonely journey. There were rest stops and coffee shops along the way. I had some pie with friends. The coffee was always hot, the pie sweet, the company warm and understanding. But my friends had places to stay, people to be with. And anyways, a booth at diner is no substitute for a warm bed and someone at your side. So as always, I get back in the car and drive back onto the forest road.

I've had to open up the windows in the last hour despite the fact that there's frost on the windshield. I'm at the point where the coffee my friends packed for me doesn't keep me awake--it just makes me jittery and nervous. My eyes are beginning to feel like they're sinking into their sockets, and almost every other breath I take is a yawn. I try not to count the steady whirring sound of trees that I drive pass. The clock still reads 3:00 a.m. I know that I should stop the car, rest at the edge of the road, and perhaps when I wake up, I'll see the sun and hear the ocean. But you see, the rest stops, the coffee shops, I get this yearning, a yearning for a place to stay. Just as my body is boneweary, my mind is tired of knowing that every rest is temporary and once more it will go on its own into the forest.

I've passed several places before, but, well, the beds weren't for me, or another person had just claimed the space, or they looked fine on the outside but had too many shadows once you walked in. The places where the beds weren't for me made me the saddest. So I just kept driving.

And I've been driving for so long that my heart begins to feel sick, and my mind begins to falter. I nearly crashed, mistaking a gathering of fireflies for a home.

The clock still reads 3:00 a.m.

I know I should pull over. But my heart is racing now and my mind is fatigued, sick with trip, sick with beds that weren't for me, sick with the beds that had been claimed by somone else. I know I should pull over, but my foot becomes heavy on the accelerator. I no longer care if there's a hairpin turn in the road.

Move On, Move On, There's No Point In Waiting

OK, so that keeping mum instead of blathering about the situation like usual in hopes that things turn out differently? Didn't work. Didn't work at all. Sigh, at least I get cool business cards out the whole thing. Maybe it's karma for my last post.

He'd Rather Be Alone Than Pretend . . .

Yes, I know I should be happy that there are Asian women on match.com out there who wuuuuuuuuv me, who are jonesin' for the Starkster. Ohhhh, that coy little wink, that soft lens graduation photo and that broken English that sounds like disposable chopstick instructions. I guess I would find that sexy . . . if I was some creepy mid-fifties accountant wearing tan suits off the discount rack from the Piscataway K-Mart who surreptitiously surfs for websites that have the term "Asian" within three words of "Slut" or "Fetish" at work.

I know some of you are saying, "Whoa Marty, why you bein' such a hatah? Them phillies just be needin' some of your luvin'." And I admit, everytime I get these thoughts when I open up an e-mail from some chick from the Fujian Province, I feel a little bit guilty. But since I'm such a self-aware guy, I've been thinking about why I get this reaction. And it goes deeper than just hating FOBs.

What it comes down to is they don't friggin' read my profile. And I don't feel guilty anymore.

So in this last week, I've received a spate of match.com "winks" and e-mails from women living in China. Now, before you start thinking that I look like Long Duck Dong (may you rot in hell John Hughes), I actually look like Elvis Costello, but, ummmm, Asian. I don't have a bowl cut nor am I wearing badly pressed dress shirts with pen protectors in my match.com photo. And if you've been reading this blog for a while, you know I can write, so no, my profile does not read like a Japanese advert for scotch.

Anyway, back to this whole Nancy from Nanjing crapola that's been flooding my e-mail. See, the reason why I'm annoyed is that my profile specifically says I'm looking for women within 50 miles of Los Angeles. If you don't take the time to read my profile, then why should I take the time to get to know you?

Hmmmm, still think I'm going a bit overboard? OK, so let's say you meet someone. You tell them your name, a little bit about yourself, a little window into you. And during this conversation, that someone starts calling you the wrong name, gets your profession confused, keeps stepping on your toe. Yeah, don't tell me you wouldn't get peeved. Now imagine that this happens to you all friggin' night. The reason why you get peeved is because that someone has shown an utter lack of consideration toward you.

Now reading a profile is a helluva lot easier than listening to a conversation.

Thrown into this whole lack of consideration is the vibe I get from some of these e-mails. And that vibe is "Oooooh, lawyah, american, he rich! Maybe he invite me to america too! I get rich! Live in big house! Buy big car!" And before you accuse me of stereotyping, just take a look at a random sampling of match.com profiles from anywhere, and you will see "lookin' for sugar daddy" profiles. The women from China seem to be more pushy about it.

Now I appreciate why some profiles that I read the women explicitly state "DON'T REPLY IF YOU DON'T READ THE PROFILE" and are all bitter. They get mooks all the time who don't read the profile hopin' on the off chance that they're the frog that gets the princess. Instead, they're just the frog that doesn't friggin' read the profile and show an utter disregard from the woman whose profile they're reading.

I'm tempted to write "NO FOBS--IF YOU LIVE MORE THAN 50 MILES OUTSIDE OF LA, DON'T WRITE BECAUSE I WON'T WRITE BACK TO YOU," but hey, that comes off very very badly. That won't stop me from kvetching about it here though.

Marty Stark, providing you yet another window into the Asian American male mind.

Look Up

Eventually, I'll put up an articulate, driven post about why it is the responsibility of every Asian American male to hate William "She Bang" Hung and those that would make him famous (short answer--William "She Bang" Hung and the producers of American Idol have set back non-FOB prortrayals of Asians in American Pop Culture by two decades, it's as if Jet Li, Chow Yun Fat and Yao Ming didn't exist), but it's 86 degrees here in the City of Angels and I have another project going on. So, I'll leave you with some random thoughts I've had in the last couple of days, sorta' like Larry King without the insanity.

1. Yeah, I'm glad that Duke won last night against UNC. I'm also very glad that UNC is looking much improved under Roy Williams--a rivalry ain't much if the other team sucks ass. Anyway, during the half-time show, the commentators were mentioning what a strange year it was when UCLA may not even make it to the Pac-10 Tourney. So here's a question for you: UNC and UCLA--both teams are going through a restructuring year under a new coach after several mediocre seasons. Both teams have the talent--during their lost years, they showed signs of brilliance admist the dross. The new coaches of both teams come from Top 10 programs--Howland from Pitt, Williams from Kansas. And to be silly, both teams have powder blue in their uniforms. So why is it that UNC is doing well in a rather bloody conference while UCLA seems to have given up the season in a craptastic conference?

2. So I might be a bit premature about that whole being written off for my religious beliefs (or lack thereof) by a certain woman in a band who happens to be designing my business card thing. OK, that's all you get. I'm taking the cautiously optimistic path for now, and trying not to jinx anything by blathering about it like my usual modis operandi.

3. Random Santa Monica scene: Near empty British pub three blocks away from the ocean, eating a fish and chips lunch with Guinness. At the bar, an old man with a heavy Mancunian accept blathers away with the all American bartender. Yet another reason to love living in L.A. area.