The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get

The term "psycho" has become so overused that folks forget how ass-clinchingly scary a real psycho can be. Folks use the word psycho to refer to that jerk of a boss that yells so much you want to do the #1 in his coffee and the #2 in his ferns. Or they use psycho to describe the ex who kept talking about her ex, took three hours to order a meal and cried when she didn't come. OK, the boss, the ex, are these people annoying? Yeah. Does a slight shudder go through you thinking about them? Sure. But your blood pressure drop with fear when you see them coming down the hall?

Obviously, the term psycho is short for psychotic. The definitions of psychotic are all variations of "has a psychosis." So to get across the impact of a real psycho, the clinical definition of "psychotic" is the best way to begin: "Mental disturbance of serious magnitude that may be characterized by loss of contact with reality. Delusions and hallucinations are often present." OK, so the term has been watered down by media portrayal as well. Talking to yourself is played out as a wacky eccentricity in a sitcom. Most dramas present them as so over the top to be unbelievable. It's only when they get the reality dysfunction right that portrayals of psychotic people become uncomfortable (Law & Order nails it on the head once in a while), and not some David E. Kelley sanitized villain crap.

So where am I going with this? Well, Ford Festiva chick is a psycho, and I mean that in the original crap I'm looking over my shoulder I hope she doesn't hunt me down and boil my cat sense.

During my last couple of weeks at ContractGigByTheOcean, a majority of the female staff and attorneys have told me more stories. Several have told me that, when they've been in the restroom, they've heard Ford Festiva chick laughing out loud in the stalls to no one, or seen her talking to herself at the mirror. NMBL (and yes, I feel bad for insuating that she would ever be unfaithful because she is a very nice human being--stupid her having a likable boyfriend) told me that she was working late one night, and caught Ford Festiva chick talking to herself at her computer. At a farewell party about a week and a half ago, Ford Festiva chick was sitting by herself smiling and laughing. And she has the crazy eyes. What do I mean by that? OK, open your eyes. No, I mean really open them, as wide as they can get. Now keep them open. Walk around in public like that. Try to make eye contact and see what kind of reactions you'll get. That's what I mean by crazy eyes.

Earlier this week, Ford Festiva chick walked passed my cubicle and then stopped at the neighboring cubicle. I saw her look down and smile. She was there for a good minute or so. Then she started laughing. I talked to the secretary in the neighboring cubicle the next day. "I thought she was reading something on my ledge, but there was nothing there but a phone book" she told me.

My last day at ContractGigByTheOcean was Friday. Ford Festiva chick asked me if I had any lunch plans and I said I did. Then she said, "Well, I'll talk to you tonight then." A few of the female staffers, knowing the 411, were then cool enough to have lunch with me. That afternoon, Ford Festiva chick kept passing by my cubicle to give me a creepy smile and stare. If she saw me in an attorney's office, she'd try to make eye contact. Then she moved from her cubicle to another cubicle next to mine. One of the secretaries told me that Ford Festiva chick had a lot of scanning to do, and the scanner was in that area. But then I found out that the scanner was not at the cubicle she was using. She was using the cubicle next to mine for no apparent reason at all. OK, there probably was a reason--a scary fucking reason. So I moved offices.

There was a farewell shindig at a local bar for me as well as NMBL and two other attorneys. One of the secretaries told me that she overheard Ford Festiva chick talking to herself, saying "Yeah, I think I'm going to go home after this." I thought I was in the clear. Then she walked in, her neck craning above the crowd in hunter-seeker mode. I ducked, crouched and made my way to another table that was full and away from Ford Festiva chick. I spent the next half-hour in crouch mode, making my farewells. NMBL gave me sympathetic glances. I managed to sneak next to NMBL and her friend from college who was visiting. "Hey, we're leaving in about ten minutes. You can sneak out with us," NMBL said. And sneak out I did. I managed to leave without Ford Festiva chick getting my digits or causing a scene.

I'd hate to be such a chickenshit, but I have dealt with borderline psychos before. Yeah, even before Bee's Knees. And one thing I've learned, the direct "fuck off" route is dangerous with psychos.

I've had certain guys tell me that I should've just banged her and be done with it. Psychos are great in bed. But one of those guys backed off wid a mad quickness on that advice seeing Ford Festiva chick's behavior first hand. And I doubt those guys have actually bedded someone who was clinically psychotic. And if you haven't reached the "hey, that horse is dead, stop kicking" point yet, or haven't gotten that fact that this girl was bigf~ck, let's put it this way. You've all encountered that bag lady, muttering to herself on the street, menacing people for change. What if she followed you to work? What if she passed by your office on an hourly basis? What if it was clear she got wet everytime she saw you? How's your libido doing now?

Shock The Monkey

Yeah, I know, buying something from a shop that suddenly appeared in a back alley on Melrose and Fairfax at midnight under a full moon was probably not the best of ideas. Especially when the name of the shop was "Dread Goods--Like Pottery Barn But Evil." Especially when it literally appeared out of nowhere, twisting reality with the shrieks of the damned (I think it was the cast of the American version of Coupling) as it came into this world between Golden Apple Comics and the vintage t-shirt store. Especially when it befouled the air with a stench like rotten eggs and the dorm bathroom after Burritos Burritos & Beans night. But feh, I was bored so I went in.

The store was very Pier One Imports, so it least it had truth in advertising going for it. Furniture made out of wicker, but eeeeeevil wicker, was strewn tastefully throughout the floor room. Dark wooden masks and jars filled with organs and animal fetuses lined the walls along with glazed faux-hand crafted pottery. And, shudder, there was track lighting along the ceiling--very 80s.

At the counter was a bored hippy surfer.

"Hey, I thought you were supposed to be a mad Arab," I said.

"Dude, you mean Ali? Fucker retired from the Evil gig back in '65. He runs a Ford dealership in Dearborne, Michigan now. I knew I shouldn't have walked into this place after that commune in Goa closed down. Shit, never believe a mad Arab when he says, 'Oh hey, this magic lamp isn't evil. Go ahead, wish for a roof over your head for the rest of eternity. C'mon.' By the way, wanna rub this magic lamp?"

"Uh, no."

"Man, I suck at this gig. Hey, have they made it legal yet?"

"Nope."

"This just isn't my day. Well, can I help you with anything?"

"Nah, just looking around."

"OK dude. Wavy gravy. By the way, you might wanna check out the bargain bin. Headquarters is trying to make some room for new stuff, you know, cursed plasma-screen TVs that play only Golder Girls, the next Microsoft Windows."

The bin was nothing special. Bluebeard's socks, a vial of the blood of the cousin to the hairdresser of the beast, a kids book by the author of the Anti-Bible entitled "Baby's First Book of Evil." I was about to head out when I saw the Monkey's Paw. On the price tag, the word "Soul" was crossed out. Beneath that, "Very Disturbing Ending" was crossed out as well. Beneath that was "Sorta Karmic Ending--Kinda Creepy but Really Annoying" written in red pen.

"Whoa dude, good choice. Last dude who had it wished for his dead son back, but like, forgot to mention the words 'just as he was while he was alive and not like a rotting corpse,' and, ummmmm, hey, never mind dude. Crap I suck at this."

"No worries man, I'll take it," I said.

"Aw cool, hey, sure you don't wanna rub this lamp and wish for eternal shelter?"

"Don't push your luck, hippie."

"No need to harsh my mellow man. Go ahead and take the monkey's paw. Have a toke for me when you get out, and, ummmmm, have a really evil night."

The shop disappeared as soon as I left it, exiting this reality with the cackle of the damned and the rumbling of a stomach with munchies.

When I got home, I put in the DVD for the original BBC version of Coupling. I find that British humor tends to sharpen my mind. I wasn't going to make the same mistake as the other dude and his dead son. Unfortunately, I also had a couple of Guinnesses. By a couple, I mean eight pints. In one hour. Yeah, the law is stressful. Practicing the law while being single and pining after a blonde in the office with an opera singer boyfriend is really really stressful. It was time to move on and the monkey's paw was going to help me with that. Well, it would've had I been sober.

I held the monkey's paw in front of me and said, "I wish an artsy single slender intelligent blonde blue-eyed woman into music was into me." Then I promptly passed out.

When I woke up, the monkey's paw was gone. Now I realize I should've clarified my wish even further. I realize I should've added "and who doesn't talk to herself, giggle maniacally for no reason whatsoever, and doesn't so much look at you as look through you in an attempt to communicate with Planet Freakah."

So now you know how Ford Festiva chick came into my life.

Old Moon Fades Into The New

Nope, I'm not turning 31 tomorrow. Nope, you can't make me. NANANANANA--see, I'm putting my fingers in my ears so I can't hear you say "Face it, Marty, you are turning 31 tomorrow." NANANANANANA--Hey, whudya have in your hand, Father Time? Is that, is that a cattle prod? Well, I don't care. I'm still not turning 31. Gonna be like Peter Pan, my man. No, not "light of foot" smartass, though I do have rhythm for a yellow brutha. I mean I'm gonna be a forever young sociopath with poor impulse control--hmmmm, OK, not the sociopath part. But you know what I mean. Hey, back off with the cattle prod! Really! I know, like, secret martial arts and stuff! Hmmmm? Why that's nice of you, Father Time, offering me a nice Guinness. Gosh that's good. You know, there was this chick I saw in Orange County drinking a Guinness once, and she . . . whoa, I feel kinda funky. What did you put in this? OOOoooOOoooohhh, hey dude, I can smell the colors man. And AAAAAAAGGHH, dude, what's up with the cattle prod? You friggin drugged me already. What's the AAAAAAAAAAAGH! Hmmmmm, what's that smell. Ooooooooogh . . . .

My Left Brain Knows That Love Is Fleeting

An Open Letter from Marty's Left Brain to Marty:

Hey there Hipster,

Yeah, I know you're bummed that NMBL uttered the b-word today and that, right now, all you want to do is take your $50 bottle of scotch, hide yourself in the closet and weep softly. No, don't deny it. I know you Marty. After all, I am your left brain (look, that stuff you do with your right hand? Wasn't me--go blame your amygdala for that, that dude is a big perv). But you know it's for the best, yo. I mean, take a look at her office--the woman is into sailing, wine etiquette and fine art, oh, and she's a Republican. You, Mr. Vote No On The Recall, are into the latest import CD's, Guinness and fine art (OK, so you share one thing in common, but whereas you'd prefer buying one of those Taschen coffee table books, she'd want to buy the actual print). She's Spiegel catalogue, you're Ben Sherman. She's In Style, you're Rez.

Let's say you two did hook up. Dude, she'd be the Christie Lee Brinkley to your Billy Joel, and we know how that worked out for Billy Joel. C'mon, what the fuck was up with "Uptown Girl"? Saccharine pop crap even crap for 80s standards. OK, Billy Joel wasn't all that good before hand, but the album Piano Man is still ten times better than Innocent Man and he wrote that when he was broke, playing bar gigs and not pulling leggy supermodels. And then there's the travesty that is The Bridge, a middling lukewarm attempt at blues-infused rock--remember the big hit from that album, "Matter of Trust"? Well neither do I. And how about his next two albums, Storm Front and River of Dreams? Geez, like you're really going to have a pop hit singing about the plight of fishermen who are overfishing their stock and have been doing so for the last two generations so why the fuck should be bail out their fucking "tradition" and "lifestyle"? Then Christie did the horizontal mambo with some uber-rich jet set dude and everyone said with much sarcasm "Ooooh, that's a surprise." Now look at Billy, divorced, a supposedly recovering alkie (the "supposedly" modifying "recovering" because even undiscovered tribes in Papua New Guinea know he's an alkie), and fucking up his wrists on supposed non-alcohol related mishaps. Right, Christie was a great influence on Billy.

I guess what I'm saying Marty is that if you hooked up with NMBL, you'd begin to write happy middling crap all for the sake of having NMBL fuck around with some investment banker or real estate mogul which will cause you to go into a spiral of alcohol and depression and broken wrists. Fuck that noise! You know you'd rather be Elvis Costello than Billy Joel anyway. At least Diane Krall has a voice.

Best,

Your Left Brain

P.S. -- Although NMBL might be out of reach, don't give into Ford Festiva chick. I mean, you wouldn't be doing Courtney Love if she was pawing all over you, whudya?

Battle Without Honor Or Humanity

Back when I was in high school, I had this nasty summer gig at this microfiche business. It had about six women who, for eight hours a day, fed documents into a high speed cameras, sheet by sheet, over and over and over again. My job? I had to take the staples out of the documents before they were fed into the cameras. Boy was that mind-numbingly dull. So mind-numbingly dull it made people insane! Well, maybe not. But one of the women who worked there, a buck-toothed bee-hive hairdo weirdo, was friggin' insane. She would talk to herself while working, and once in a while, laugh in a horse-like bray at what she said. We called her Mad Mary.

OK, that rather non-cryptic entry a couple of days ago using the metaphor about the chick in the Mercedes and chick in the Ford? Ummmm, someone told me that the chick in the Ford was smiling and laughing to herself for no apparent reason today. Memories of Mad Mary came flooding through my head. Great, why can't a nice stable chick dig my scene? And what complicates things--she sits in the cubicle across from Non-Married Blonde Lawyer's office.

Everytime You Produce An American Version Of A British Sitcom, You Make God Cry

I love the original BBC version of Coupling. It's funny, sexy, and clever. Sure, once in a while, the dialogue tries too hard. Once in a while, the setup is too cute by half. But most of the time it's hilarious.

I finally saw the American version last night on Bravo. About half the script is word for word from the British version. So why does most of the American version suck ass? Hmmmm. A couple of notes to the executives: 1. Get rid of that obnoxious laugh track. Look, a large part of the humor and what makes the British version work is that the dialogue is clever and casual--it's the dialogue you have with your buddies or girlfriends when everything just clicks. When you put the laugh track at 10, it's like that dim-witted friend of a friend that keeps poking you during the conversation asking "Hey, did ya get it? Did ya get it? Unflushable!!!! Bwahahahahaha" and then keeps laughing for another five minutes. 2. The operative word is CASUAL. The characters in the British version do seem like folks you would meet on the street. The characters in the NBC version seem like folks you would see in a sitcom. The lines come out over-enunciated and brash. We're supposed to see friends talking, and instead we see people who are engaging in an acting exercise of friends talking. 3. OK, I know you need to cut out at least 10 minutes from the original BBC scripts to fit American television, but for Christsakes--remember pacing! Geez, most the show was a rat-a-tat-tat of dialogue trying to fit in as much as the BBC version as possible.

P.S.--If you want to know what Bee's Knees looks like (and acts like when she wasn't on low self-esteem mode), check out Jane in the NBC version of Coupling. Man was I freaking.

Everyday I Write The Book

OK, so if you decide to bide your time, save your money at your law gig before your jump off to better things, you might as well do a good job while you're there. I mean, yeah, you could probably care less for the partners you work with if you're at a typical BigLaw, but karma is a bitch. You don't want one of the associates helping you out by doing an utterly crap job for ya.

So for those wannabe legal eagles (geared toward litigation) out there, it's time for a couple of helpful hints from Marty Stark:

1. Think about your audience--the rules flow from this. Your audience is the partner who has maybe fifteen minutes in his day to digest your research. Your audience is the judge's law clerk who has to wade through twenty to fifty legal briefs a day, summarize those briefs for the judge, and make a recommendation. Your audience may actually be the judge (there are a few who do take the time to read briefs), who also has trials to manage and cases to push forward. Your audience has very limited time to read what you write. So what you write must be clear and concise.

2. Simple sentences are the best sentences. Subject-verb-object. Subject-verb-object. Wash, rinse, repeat. Maybe throw in one dependent clause in a paragraph for variety. Legal writing has two purposes: 1) education and 2) persuasion. You accomplish neither if the judge cannot understand you. I've seen plenty of lawyers fall into the trap of trying to sound legal by being long-winded and obtuse, but they lose the plot. Compare: 1) "Defendant's motion to dismiss Plaintiff's complaint, which contains a myriad of outrageous and confusing allegations that even, if true, would not constitute a basis for any cause of action, must be granted under the federal rules." 2) "Plaintiff fails to allege a single fact that would support a cause of action. Thus, the court should grant Defendant's Motion to Dismiss."

3. See an adverb? Cut it out. See an adjective? Cut that out too. Purple prose? Excise that fucker like a tumor from a testicle (see, by using extreme purple prose there, I'm showing you how purple prose can, feh, you get it). A lot of folk confuse the flash and bang of word modifiers with being "persuasive." Thus, they sprinkle their writing with phrases like, "The defendant egregiously blah blah blah," or "Plaintiff's argument is clearly blah blah blah." But, see, here's the rub. At the end of the day, a case is based upon the facts. And after reading the facts, if the judge thinks that the defendant accidently said the wrong thing (as opposed to "egregiously misrepresented" himself), or does not think that plaintiff's argument is clear because it gets from point A to point B via a path as convaluted as a Southwest Airlines flight from SFO to Newark with 4 layovers, well, you've just lost credibility with the judge. The most persuasive argument is one based on the facts. Thus, you must let the facts speak for themselves. If, after you've set out the facts and the arguments in simple sentences and you're not convinced of your position, either you need more facts, you need to rethink the logic of your arguments, or you need to settle the case.

4. When doing research, remember, secondary sources are just that--secondary. Go to the primary sources (case law and statutes) to be sure the secondary sources are accurate. Why? Because secondary sources can be wrong. I've had an associate hand me research for the proposition that "The law is X." All he/she looked at was the treatise. One of the cases that the treatise cited stated that "The law is not X." Cases trump treatise. Needless to say, it would have been bad had I cited that treatise in the motion I was drafting.

There's probably more, but I'm sleepy so pppphhhht.

Sixty Years and I'm Running . . .

I'm sure all the associates who read this article said, "Well d'uh. Now pass me the fucking Jack Daniels so I can wash down this speed. I need to crank on this 25 page motion for summary judgment that was dropped on my lap, oh, a couple of days ago after the partner turned flaky and is needs to be filed at the motion cutoff date, which is like, tomorrow."

For those of you who haven't decided to click on the link, the title of the article is "Associates Giving Up On Partnership." I've heard that quote comparing becoming a partner to winning " pie-eating contest where the prize is more pie" from at least 5 partners. Hmmm, you know there's a reason for that, doncha?

There was this young BigLaw equity partner that I enjoyed working with up in Silicon Valley. He had very young son and a beautiful wife but barely saw them. He always worked Sundays so that he could have Saturday free, but he was often at work Saturday as well. He came in regularly at 7am and didn't leave until 7pm each day, and I know he was working when he got home as well. He also had to attend after hours administrative meetings and shindigs for various bar associations. In one month, on top of the 200 hours billed, he had an additional 100 hours dealing with administrative crap and rainmaking. To put things in perspective, billing 200 hours is working an average of 10 hours each weekday. Now put in the 100 hours, and that's 15 hours each weekday you're devoting to the firm (and away from your family/friends/porn . . . uh, I mean, significant other). Fun, no?

Now you're probably wondering, hey, did the dude have to do that? Well, using that good ol' pie imagery, think about a pie. You're sharing that good ol' blueberry pie with, let's say eight of your buddies. Another buddy shows up. If that pie doesn't get bigger, that means you have less. You're gonna be pissed unless that buddy either has good reason for decreasing your share, or can make the pie bigger. So that 300 hours that partner is kicking in? It's his effort to 1) justify his share of the pie and 2) make the pie bigger. And there are plenty who would like his piece just waiting outside, pressing their face against the window, drooling while he eats his pie. Nah, dude didn't have to do that, and the firm didn't have to give him equity either.

Me, you can probably tell, I don't like pie that fucking much.

Seize the time cause it's now or never baby . . .

Hey Kids! You know what time it is! It's time for yet another of Marty Stark's tortured metaphors! Yay!

So this week was like trying to catch the eye of that pretty and posh blonde thang in the Mercedes CLK next to you on Melrose and Fairfax, the one who was giving you the eye back on Robertson but was now on her cel phone. So the light turns green and you move forward and she moves forward and THWACK, you get hit by some Ford Festiva who ran the red. So after you clear your head, you stagger out, and the driver from the Ford is out already. And she's a fit blonde thang, and she's smiling, and she says, "Hey, party person, what's your number?"

Everything to Everyone

Work today was weird with a capital creepy. The office was rather empty, and those attorneys that were present were focusing on getting outta the office. I'm sure there was work to be done, but given the choice between planning for your future security and dealing with matters that won't be yours in two months, which would you choose? Dealing with a contract attorney looking for some extra shoo monay was not high on their list. Plus, on a personal note (yeah, what in this blog isn't), I've come to the stark realization (no pun intended) that I've gotten myself into another Degrassi High like sitch. I mean, conceptually I knew I was getting into this sitch as soon as I asked about Non-Married Blonde Lawyer's 411. But the stupidity didn't really hit me until today. I think the weirdness brought it closer to home. It's like when you're a little kid and you stub your toe. Sure, it hurts but you don't feel it. Nope, you don't really feel it until your mom comes by, and when she asks, "Aw, has l'il Marty got a boo-boo?" Then you realize, "Why yes, I have a boo-boo." And then you fucking wail like a banshee. OK, maybe the imagery isn't appropos, but work with me here people!

Lately, I've begun imagining my stupid compulsive behavior as a spinning, wobbling rubber band. There it goes, round and round. Now, I can try stretching it to break it, but it just snaps back into shape. And I keep looking for some scissors so I can break that rubber band, watch it go flinging into space. Yes, I need the scissors of determination and focus to cut the vicious rubbery cycle of compulsive behavior. Oh god that's really bad imagery.

I guess my muse is still pissed at me.

Come from way above . . .

I had a freaky dream this morning. One of those dreams where you drift in and out of consciousness, where you sometimes see yourself in third person and there's this voice that tells you what's happening. Man, gotta stop eating those chili cheese burritos from Jose Bernstein's.

Anyway, I'm in Munich having a pretty crap time at Octoberfest. It's my last night there. I'm in the hotel suite, and one of my acquiantences starts having sex with this chick I used to have a crush on in law school. Sucks to be me in the hotel suite, so I grab some clothes and head out into the city. I'm trying to find my other two buddies, Dubois and Big Jew, but they're nowhere to be found. In my head, I hear this deep voice saying, "Pay attention, the lesson is about to begin."

So I wander for a bit and see this group of Italian women sitting at this long, wooden table. I hadn't had any beer all day despite it being Octoberfest, so I decide to sit down with them. This pretty, slender brunnette starts talking to me but I don't speak Italian. She doesn't speak English. So I start speaking in Spanish (which is weird, because I don't know Spanish), and she understands. We start laughing as we try to speak Spanish to each other as both of us speak Spanish horrendously. The voice in my head says, "See, this is where your friends got it wrong. They missed the second option."

I don't remember the beer coming, but I knew I had to leave. I was suddenly in a foul mood. I was thinking, "So what, she's being friendly to you. Big fucking deal. Doesn't mean she's interested. What are you, some pathetic fucking puppy that thinks anytime a pretty little thing is nice to you, she's interested. Get real."

I stood up, and the Italian girl stood up with me, grabbed my hand and smiled. OK, so she was interested. We walked around Munich for a while hand and hand and feeling giddy. I saw Dubois and the Big Jew. They looked pissed and miserable. I tried introducing Italian girl to them, but they ignored her which pissed me off. So me and Italian girl left them there to wander the city before I had to leave. The voice in my head said, "Italian girl shot them down before." After some wandering, I woke up. But despite being fully awake (or so I thought), I heard the voice one more time.

The voice said, "The lesson is timing is everything."

Whatever Happened To My Rock N' Roll?

Um, so I shouldn't mention my 500+ cd collection on the first date?

Heart + Soul

Yo Spuds. OK, I know I've been rather short on the whole writing thing, and though I have no excuse, I'll point my boney finger of responsibility denial at work. ContractGigByTheOcean isn't the dysfunctional pit of crapola that was Phuqued Firm, but legal research is dull dull dull no matter how much frosty topping you put on it.

Anyway, last night, I was taking a look through my bookshelf in my addled "Had two beers finally winding down but crap I have to sleep but I don't wanna 'cuz I've just now chilled" stage, and rediscovered one of my fave cool cat obscure writers, Jeff Noon. OK, he's obscure in the states but well known in the UK.

To geek out for a bit, his first novel Vurt came out in 1994 when cyberpunk was still dominant. A lot of reviewers compared him to William Gibson, but those reviewers are fucking lazy. See, despite all the ooh let's try to be cool vibe cyberpunk tried to put out, at the end of the day, the stories were about a bunch of skinny, geeky drongos who spent most of their hours on/in computers cuz they didn't have real lives so they plugged themselves away. Put all the neon/urban decay description you want, the main character in Neuromancer doesn't do a whole helluva lot except lie on a couch with electrodes. If Neuromancer was the tubby guy who thought he was cool because he knew every B-Side The Pixies ever released and didn't understand why the Chick at the Record Store wouldn't give him the time of day, Vurt was the punkish guy in a local band who didn't give a shit who the hell the Pixies were but could play a mean fucking axe. And, oh yeah, he was going out with the Chick at the Record Store.

Anyway, I had so much fun with Marty Stark as Dave Eggers a while back, I decided to do a Marty Stark as Jeff Noon (yeah, it's short, really short, but hey, I haven't written in a while so suck on it). So, here we go my kitlings:

'Sometimes Sunny Days Don't Chase the Clouds Away'

Fog clung to the Santa Monica beach like bad memories. These past few days hadn't been West Coast power pop, sun on your face, wind in your hair. No, these were jungle dub days full of low bass lines and no escape.

I crashed out onto Wilshire all tweeked from hours of shovelling cups of java and Diet Coke. I wanted out of the office with a mad quickness. I wanted a warm body and a cold drink. I knew I wouldn't get any the first but plenty of the second.

Can't Even Focus on a Coffee Cup . . .

Too fatigued to write full thoughts. Fragments of last couple of days.

1. Going to go on match.com sabbatical till birthday. No. Really.

2. Coffee coffee coffee coke coke coke wired crash tired nap awake late sleep coffee not good pattern.

3. Karma says Italian engagement. Just know it in my bones.

4. Blogging while tired stoopid. All can really say is meh, pphhhhhtt, mrrrrrrrr, gug.

Keeeeeeeeeeeping Me Down . . .

Sheesh, what is it about the third e-mails on match.com? I guess I should stop mentioning those steamer trunks buried in Jersey. Kidding! They're buried in the Sierras.