AM 180

Yet another insightful column from Lisa Oliver over at Stylus Magazine. "[A] good portion of guys who are into music . . . tend to be a lot cooler, much sweeter and just plain funnier than their frat steve mook counterpoints." Ya see, take that Binky!

Just Because You Feel It Doesn't Mean Its There

Yeah, Binky and I have been getting to know each other well, much to my frustration.

I was sorely tempted to erase my last entry--it's maudlin, over the top, and anyone who read it would say get the fuck over it already. But no matter how brief the situation, the feelings were also genuine. So fuggit, this blog is about me (among other things) so you get to see me, warts and all. And anyways, who isn't maudlin and over the top once in a while. As I've quoted before, "I'd rather feel things to the full even if I'm going to be upset the very next minute, because it's either that or living a half-life at half-intensity."

An Ending (Ascent)

. . . and at the party, all your friends tell you that the guy she's with is just a friend. And when she sees you, she smiles, touches your shoulder and tells you she loves your shirt. She tells her friend that you are one of the producers and a writer. And you're polite to her friend, who happens to be the best friend of her boyfriend. You begin to mingle with others at the party, keeping half an eye at her. Her friend and her are almost inseperable. The vibe, at least according to your friends, is that of a guard dog keeping watch. You see her dance to some music a little bit, you catch her eye and she smiles. You sit across from her during all the loud music and pantomime, she looks over at you and raises her glass, and you toast each other silently.

You head downstairs to the dance floor with a couple of female friends. A couple of songs later, she comes down with her friend. Her friend can't dance. She can. Your female friends are surprised at how well she can dance. Your female friends know you can dance. Strangers compliment you on how well you dance. You briefly dance with her before her friend leads her away. So you dance more energetically with your friends, she looks over, and then she heads upstairs.

When you head back upstairs, you see her friend sitting by himself looking miserable. You try to be friendly, say hi, but his reply to you surprises you a lot. "She's over there," he says. She's in the smoking area talking to some people. So you head over to your friends by the bar and drink some more.

You see her, and one of your male friends is being stupid with her. When you walk over, she talks to you for a bit. She leans into you. Maybe she's just leaning into you to speak with you over the music, but she leans with her whole body, and for a second, she's nestled into you. But then your male friend plays with her scarf and the moment is gone. Her friend wants to leave. She says bye to your friends, she hugs the director's girlfriend. Then she turns over to you, hugs you tightly, holds you for all that it's worth. You hold her tightly as well. She whispers "Take care." You whisper, "You too." And with that, she's gone from your life.

You Know I Feels So Dirty When They Start Talking Cute

Last entry about Makeup Chick. No! I promise! Cross my heart and hope to die! May Binky the Crotch Hammer of Frustration (hey, the Crotch Hammer has become such a significant part of my life these days it deserves a name) continue its groinal damage if I break this promise. And there will be a reason that this is the last entry about Makeup Chick.

See, last night I had the strangest dream. I was on a boat to China, what does that . . . whoops, sorry, my mind is all addled by the whole legal career thing, so much so it's on one hit wonder mode.

I dreamt that I was back in San Francisco on New Years' Eve, celebrating with some friends from my first Biglaw gig. For some reason, Makeup Chick was part of that group of friends. She was a friend of GalPal associate (in real life, GalPal associate was the one who informed me that Claire Danes' Clone had been in a long term relationship with the same woman for the last four years, but that's a different story--ahhh yes Binky, we've known each other a long time). You know how when you're with a group of friends at the mall and each of you want to do different things, so you all spread out and agree to meet back at a certain time so you have some quality time with each other? That's the vibe of the dream. So I decided to hit a few clubs by my lonesome, and Makeup Chick was at each club. We'd dance for a bit, and then she'd leave. This happened a couple of times. Midnight was approaching rapidly at one club, and I was searching for Makeup Chick so I would have someone to kiss at the new year. Unfortunately, the ball dropped and Makeup Chick was nowhere to be found. Then I saw her coming out of one of the rooms of the club, and I knew she hadn't kissed anyone at midnight as well. The group o' friends met outside the club. It was already morning. When GalPal saw me looking at Makeup Chich, she said, "You know Makeup Chick has a boyfriend?" I told her I knew that. We were all headed for breakfast. Makeup Chick started walking ahead of all of us.

Sigh.

You know Binky, no offense, but I really can't stand you.

Falling Free Falling Free Falling

Snippet of Random IM Session--

Frustrated Person: Another Valentine's Day rolling around and here I am with no one.

Marty Stark: Well, I'm taking the whole zen approach to relationships this year.

Frustrated Person: Yeah? Well monks never get laid.

Marty Stark: Yeah? Well monks don't spend the two weeks before Valentine's Day spazzing out over whether or not they'll get laid.

Frustrated Person: Ouch. Touche.

All Around The World Statues Crumble For Me

create your own visited states map
or write about it on the open travel guide

IAMCOOLASBRUCELEEIAMCOOLASBRUCELEE

Hey, I got begged to add another day to my current contract attorney gig. Partner's Sister (she has a boyfriend, so calm down y'all) hinted that I'll be offered a permanent position in the next three months. My superego is trying to pull the legal version of "There's kids in Africa starving so eat your cremed eels" to make me all giddy about this (which happens to be "There's unemployed lawyers in Silicon Valley working in the Sunnyvale Kinkos so quit yer complainin'"), but in the end, cremed eels is cremed eels.

And yesterday, I held a small Superbowl shindig at Casa de Stark. No complaints whatsoever there. I was good to hang wid da homies in the Westwood yo. Though despite the fact that I had forgotten Makeup Chick (fine, I didn't, but I was trying to, why can't you just leave me alone, damn you! Damn you all to hell!!!), Makeup Chick became a topic of discussion. I would like to say I didn't bring her up, but I was all loopy on beer and onion dip so I can't say for sure I didn't bring her up. Anyway, the discussion became very 90210 after that. Dubois' girlfriend told me that Makeup Chick's boyfriend of two years was ugly, and kept pointing out Makeup Chick was into obscure movies and anime just like me. And the Big Jew said I was very pessimistic. Happy Pragmatic Couple said I wasn't being pessimistic if Makeup Chick had a boyfriend. My contribution to the discussion was alternating between "No, bad idea about me and Makeup Chick--every time I've had a chemical reaction to a chick, it ended in tears" to "Yeah, I have a lot in common with her." Fine, the discussion was very 90210 if 90210 had a very special episode about manic-depressive chorks. (And if Dubois' girlfriend ever reads this, that last tarot card, the 3 of Pentacles not only means pride and completion in work, but also a completion of a goal with the help of one's friends. Hear that--completion of a goal with the help of one's friends. Soooo, if you hang out with . . . fuggit, that's enough of Marty Stark in 12 year old schoolgirl with Hello Kitty stickers on her notebook and a not so secret E addiction mode).

So kids, the lesson is, ummm, the legal profession drives you crazy. Either that or I should've asked New Neighbor Way Down The Hall Chick if she had any more boxes she needed help moving. Yup, time to bring out the ol' Crotch Hammer of Frustration once again.

I Met A Christian In Christian Sands, A Devil In Helsinki

Yo Poppin' Fresh. Just to let you know there is some objectivity left in me, Makeup Chick has a massive red flag there waving above the Relationship Badlands. See, she's 31 years old (no, that's not the red flag, sheesh, wait for it, wait for it), and she's moved 32 times in her life. She was a bit cagey when I asked her why she moved so much. Yup, big ol' red flag.

I Wanna Getcha High, I Wanna Get Next To You

Caution-extended bad metaphor alert!

Sometimes, you know it's your day. There's no logic to it. You wake up and you just know in your bones that this is your friggin' day. This the type of day you want to be in Vegas with lots of dough to blow, and hey, because it's your day, there you are. So you get up, turn on the radio and your favorite song is playing. You turn on the shower and the water is just right, warm enough to make you go "ahhhhh" but not hot enough to make you go "AAAAAHHHH". After you shower, you put on your favorite vintage black bowler's shirt, snazzy khakis and your black Ecco shoes. There's no need to wait for the hotel elevator because the elevator doors open up right as you walk into the halls. There's no line to the breakfast buffet. A fresh pot of coffee just got placed as you reach the beverage station. As I said, you know it's your day. All the food is being replaced as you hit the food and the omelet bar just got free. So you have this great breakfast, and figure you should go to the floor. You don't even think about going to the ATM because, as you're leaving the buffet, you step on a chip, a $1000 chip to be exact. See, this is your fuckin' day. And there's this brunette honey with legs that go all the way down to the ground who's lookin' over at you. So you go over and introduce yourself to this pretty Betty and ask her to go for a walk with ya. And she says sure. Usually, you parce out your bets slowly so you have some play money left over at the end of the day. But hey, you have this blue-eyed Betty next to ya, you found that $1000 chip, you didn't have to wait for an elevator or breakfast, and your morning started out with your favorite song on the radio. So what the fuck, you go over and place the $1000 chip at the roulette table on Black 13. Hell, you know it's your day, so you place that $3000 pay check that's been burning a hole in your wallet as well. And Blue-Eyed Betty is impressed. Everyone else at the table is looking at you like you're some stupid mook from Dogshit, Alabama but you know better. As that roulette wheel starts spinning and that ball starts rolling, you know where it's going to land. Red-black-red-black-red-green, the wheel goes round and round. And the ball starts hopping in and out of the holes, and as the wheel slows down, the ball pops into Black 13 like you knew it would. And as the wheel slows to a stop, some big fuckin' drunk asshole who smells like cigars and cheesesteak hoagies bumps into the table and that ball pops out. Not only does it pop out, it pops out into the throat of some chunky ol New Jersey hausfrau in purple sweatpants and "Secausus Is For Lovers" t-shirt. And in all the commotion, as the Emergency Response Crew rushes toward Phyllis Schmuchler from Jersey City looking like some purple beached whale thrashing on the floor, one of the crew bumps into that frat boy at the table next to ya, the one with the Abercrombie whitebread looks that ends up with the hottest freshman on the first keg of the school year, and that seven he threw turns into a six. He's the one who gets all the money. And that Blue-Eyed Betty loses interest in you with a mad quickness. So much for this being your day.

OK, so Makeup Chick of course has a boyfriend and was madly flirting with the lead (son of a famous actor, won't tell you which one). Though I did figure out why the hell I had such a chemical reaction for her. See, I did manage to talk to her today at the shoot. Other than having incredible eyes (and a rather nice ass), she's a liberal, a science fiction fan and a big music fan. She has Radiohead stickers on her makeup kits. Something in me must've recognized this. Perhaps these type of chicks give off the same kind of vibe. And not helping at all today, she kept touching my knee as we talked about politics. Oh well, here's me looking like a jackass once again in blogger. Yeah, time to take the hammer to my crotch once more.

Golden Lights Displaying Your Name / Don't Mug Yourself

So Tuesday, I made my acting debut--I was an extra in my pal Dubois' short film. This consisted of standing in line and talking on my cell, though not at the same time. Unfortunately, not many extras showed, so I guess Dubois will have to digitalize a bunch of us to make the club scene look happenin'. I can see it now, folks screening the short saying, "Dude, why is that club full of chorks who look like Chinese Elvis Costellos? At least they're fashionably dressed."

So, since I'm still trying to get back my writing chops, here's the worst transition ever!!! At the filming, I happened to fall absolutely head over heels in schoolboy crush over the Makeup Chick. I mean, I gots it bad. I know, how is this different from NMBL or any of the match.com chicks. Well, I've been tossing and turning the last two nights thinking about her. Usually, I see a cute chick but I forget her face when I get home--all I know is that they were cute. Yet I can remember Makeup Chick's face with perfect clarity. I may be a little wired after meeting a pretty chica, but I manage to sleep well afterwards. And, to be a bit redundant, after meeting Makeup Chick, two nights awake going on third. She has incredible blue eyes, and not round anime eyes, but piercing blue eyes that make your heart go aflutter like the beats of a techno song (but she's a brunette, so take that "Oh-I-bet-he's-going-to-say-she's-blonde-because-blondes-make-him-weak-at-the-knees-ain't-Marty-predictable-geez-I'm-getting-winded-after-saying-all-that"). And, a first in the Marty's history of chick's he's been attracted to, she has tattoos (though not in a biker chick / fetish chick type way, though not in a sorority oh aren't I bad for having a teddy bear tattoo's on my ankle type way either). Basically, I was Michael Corleone when he first sees Appolonia, thunder struck me (which I guess means I should never let her drive my car lest she gets all blowned up by a lackey from a rival gang).

The problem / risk inherent in blogging on stuff like this is that if things go south or nuthin' happens is that the writer looks like a complete jackass. You go from reading, "La la la, I'm in happy head over heels land! Life is a nice sunshiney place with unicorns and teddy bears and kissy-poos! La la la!" to "(Quiet sobbing and sniffling)Well, it turns out she has a boyfriend / girlfriend / consumption. That's OK (sniff sniff), just wasn't meant to be. I'm just gonna, um, keep my chin up and (sniff sniff) aw who am I trying to kid? I'm worthless! Just a big ol' ugmo! Stop looking at me! I SAID STOP LOOKING AT ME!!!! WAAAAAAAAAAH" And who says blogging is just a harmless exercise. I'm Marty Stark--taking the risks that you my dear readers (well, most of my dear readers) aren't. Just all for the sake of art and entertainment. Man I need to get some sleep.

Monkey, MON-KAY-EEEEEEEEE

Happy Belated Lunar New Year, Ya Dirty Monkeys! For us Rats, this year is supposed to be better than the friggin' craptastic Degrassi High meets Fatal Attraction as directed by David Lynch starring Screech from Saved by the Bell sitch that was the Year of the Buggered Goat.

Well D'uh . . .

You are Beast!

You are brilliant and extremely clever. You can
handle almost any problem swiftly and
efficiently. You are devoted to philosophy and
are always up for a good discussion.
Sometimes, though, your anger gets the best of
you and you upset those whom you care about.


Which X-Men character are you most like?
brought to you by Quizilla

Via Mr.Z

All Day and All of the Night

. . . which is how long it's taking to download Adobe on this computer. I know, I'm a friggin' Luddite. But I figure the $50 or so I save a month sticking with dial-up is better spent on CDs, 'specially those ones I can't find at the Santa Monica Tower now that they moved every-fucking-thing around and Hear Music is still remodeling so I have to order them from amazon.co.uk. Yup, my thinking is still as non-linear as it ever was.

By the by, yes Virginia, chicks who do respect a guy's little foibles do exist . So for those of you guys with more albums than your ex has therapy appointments, whose finest moment was finding that mint condition Sandman no. 1, or who've kicked a hole in the wall after Duke lost to UNC back in 1995 during their worst season ever, rest easy tonight knowing that there are women who, while perhaps not totally understanding why you start getting giddy when you find that import only Massive Attack remix of Primal Scream's Exterminator, will accept you for who you are. (For those slower ones out there, I'm referring to Lisa Oliver's response to the third reader question.) My fave part is when she addresses the women reading her column, stating "The truth is if you get with a guy that is really into records / comics / books / video games / dvds / sports memorabilia and you push him on spending less or, even worse, point out how juvenile it is, he is going to point you straight to the door since that area is a big part of not only what makes him tick, but what defines him as a person. The phrase 'Thank you SO much for pointing out how much money I have chucked down the toilet on complete crap' will never come out of his mouth. But 'Screw you for making me get rid of shit I love' might."

However, guys, that does not give you license to sound like a complete know-it-all asshat.

I Buick Fondued

Ugh. At home sick. Yesterday was a barrel of fun, what with whatever going in me leaving faster than my body can absorb it. Took Immodium AD not so much for wanting to eat solid foods again, but so that I can drink Gatorade and vitaminwater and have my body actually retain potassium. Ugh.

In Dreams I'm A Viking

Hey there, Ice Weasels. Sorry I've been away so long. Yeah, see, I've spent the last two weeks at this beach in Brazil with sugar white sands and water the color of Naomi Watt's eyes. You can only get there by humvee since there aren't any roads that lead there. There are no hotels, so you sleep at a friendly local's. There are no televisions, so all you do all day is drift along the beach and once in a while have meals of fried fish, bananas and sugar cane alcohol. I've been trying to get my head together, pull the beach hermit thing, so I can figure out where I'm going with my life. Yeah, see, all that I just said? It'd be true if my first novel Slow Road To Suckage got published, sold 600,000 copies, got me listed as EW's Breakout Author for 2002, got me a 6 figure advance for the next novel Angry Yellow: The Unauthorized Story of The Chinkies, and started suffering a massive attack of writer's block and sit-on-my-assism. Unfortunately, only the 1/3 of the last sentence came true. Plus, I have / am currently suffering from a series of annoying ailments. I'm over whatever bug Mr. Asshat who sneezed on my head gave me, but, well, let's just say whatever I've been eating in the last two days ain't coming out solid. At least with this type of start to the year, as good ol' vegan crap synth pop guy Howard Jones would say, things can only get better. (Oh, and before I start to sound too curmudgeonly, I did have a very nice and chill Christmas and New Years' Eves with friends.)

Anyway, for the past three nights I've had the type of suffocating go nowhere dreams that would make the characters of Jean Paul Sartre's play, "No Exit" say, "Ahhh, maybe spending the rest of eternity with you nitwits isn't so bad." (I know, Dennis Miller factor really high on that statement chewchie, and if you don't know who Jean Paul Sartre is, well go read a fuckin' book sometime ya mook.) Sigh, looks like I'll have to stick to television for my escapism.

So, the first dream of the new year started auspiciously--I was on vacation in some random city and I met this petite blonde with green eyes and a cherubic face. I knew right then and there she was the one for me, and she knew I was the one for her. Unfortunately, I had to run some errands for my dad (I know I'm supposed to be on vacation, but it's also a friggin' dream). I have to meet up with my dad in Chinatown, but I make plans to meet with The One again. Anyway, I arrive at this restaurant in Chinatown which is on an island. The sky is cloudy. It reminds me of a winter's day in Pittsburgh. I tell my dad that I have to leave soon and why, and he really doesn't give a crap. He gives me this "The errand will be done when the errand is done" attitude. It's almost as if he slows down this errand just to piss me off. I look at my watch, and I know it's too late. The One has been waiting for me for over an hour, I just know she's left, went home crying thinking this was all a cruel joke on my part. I wake up really pissed.

In the second dream, I'm back in my house in Pittsburgh. It's pitch black outside. I've been back in high school for a semester and I'm freaking out because I've skipped almost all my classes. I try to calm myself down, remembering that I've been to law school so that high school should be no problem. But I can't find my syllabus. Hell, I can't even find my course list, and for the life of me, I can't remember my courses. Finals are tomorrow. I wake up damn relieved though tired as hell.

In the last dream, my family has moved so we're staying over at my cousins. I have to wake up early to get to school, to get the new home ready, and to get to a new job. I figure that I can handle all three. But the alarm rings and I can't get out of bed. I just sleep in (yes, I sleep while I'm asleep). Then I awake in the dream, try to find my clothes and get showered. I'm late for class. Yet again I wake of damn rekeved though tired as hell.

Man, I really need to lighten up.