. . . Just Nod If You Can Hear Me

"High Concept" is one of those terms that actually means the opposite of what it seems to imply. That there word "High" associated with another word seems to make that other word seem loftier, better, a number one super value fun term. Like "High Road" -- it means a moral path taken at greater expense. So when you see "High Concept," you think "Hey, that must mean an intelligent, detailed soopah froody idea." But "High Concept" actually means "Designed to appeal to a mass audience, as by incorporating popular, glamorous features" according to the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language. So High Concept isn't Masterpiece Theater, it's Starsky & Hutch or Three's Company. Anytime you can sum of a movie or book by saying "It's [Insert Drama Here] with [Insert Comedy Here]", or "It's like [Insert TV Show here], but [Insert Adjective Here]", that's High Concept.

Now, many plot-driven writers fall into the trap of focusing on the High Concept (understandably so because the mass market swallows up that crap, you unimaginative little fucks - well, unless you'll buy my novel if it ever gets published, then y'all are alright). I'll admit, I've fallen into it. Just because it's High Concept doesn't necessarily mean it's bad. Shakespeare is almost exclusively High Concept -- but he has the dialogue, themes and characterization to make his stuff more than the Elizabethan version of Sanford & Son. So Angry Yellow is a bit High Concept, which is the first for me since my prior writings have focused on incidents or dialogue first.

Anyway, I'm back on the Dayquil again which really fucks up the old neural pathways, and I was thinking about this High Concept stuff. So you wonder how these network people think up these really crap ideas that show up on Friday nights and the SciFi network. If their coked-up minds work the same as my mind on Dayquil (which is just a baby version of an amphetamine), then here's a little window into the madness. I just heard some bad remix of a Madonna song on the local dance station, which got me thinking about the so-5-minutes ago celebrity Kabalah fad. The Dolphins v. Eagles game is on in the background, and Jay Fiedler is Jewish. Then this commercial comes on for what looks to be an atrocious movie with Many Moore playing the President's daughter in a romantic romp for tweens. Kabalah-Jewish mysticism-crap movie for tweens. I looked at the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly which had a review for a comic book about a Jewish baseball team in the 1920s that used a Golem. Something clicked--wouldn't it be a kick in the pants if the Messiah that the Jews had been waiting for over two millenia turned out to be some tween fluffchick in Orange County? An Asian tween fluffchick?

So here's Marty Stark's Dayquil-induced High Concept pitch to the entertainment bigwigs: It's The Prophecy meets Better Luck Tomorrow as directed by Woody Allen and written by that dude who wrote The Davinci Code. Alice Kwon is a fourteen-year-old spoiled ABC of Cantonese descent living in Newport Beach whose major concerns are the PSATs and which boys have the most souped of Hondas. She loves pork buns and carne asada burritos. Unbeknownst to her, she is the Messiah. However, a quantum physicist / cryptologist / Kabalist (played by a white dude - Hollywood racist mofos) decrypts the Kabalah and Old Testament and discovers the identity of the Messiah. Just in time too, because the Knights Templar and the Merogovingians have discovered her identity as well, which threatens the Christian way of life (she's the Jews Messiah, not the Second Coming of theirs). The current Knights Templar are all underground street racers. It just happens our quantum physicist/cryptologist/Kabalist is into Rice Rockets as well. Much multi-ethnic wackiness and hich octane action ensues as our hero saves the Asian tween fluffchick who happens to be the Messiah.

And by the way, to the asshat who sneezed behind me Friday night at the movie theater without covering his mouth and who is directly at fault for this Dayquil induced state, I hope someone takes a lead pipe to your head and turns it into squishy, pudding-like pink pulp. And after reading this entry, I'm sure the blog readers hope so too.

You are John Constantine.
John has a strong knowledge of the occult and at
times he appears to wield strong magical powers
but he has also become known as something of a
con-man, more likely to talk himself out of
trouble than pull a rabbit out of a hat.


What Gritty No Nonsense Comic Book Character are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Moon Beat

Perhaps one of the nicest things said to me, ever ever ever -- "Marty, you're going to end up marrying a drop dead gorgeous blonde." - Younger sister of PartTimeGig lawyer and half-a-week office manager. (And no, there was no sarcasm or "be careful what you wish for" tone you wisenheimers and negative nabobs out there).

Starry Eyed Surprise

Last night, my buddy Dubois invites me to go see this DJ that he's been talking to about being the music supervisor on the short he'll be filming. She has a Thurday residency at The Hollywood Standard Hotel. For those not in the know, The Standard is definitely a very urban hipster place--retro-mod '60s look, $10 jack & cokes and a scantily clad sleeping woman in glass behind the reception area.

So anyway, Dubois and I walk in and I clock the song the DJ is playing within two beats--a remix of "Words" off The Doves' import only B-Side compilation. She pulls an "Oh my God!" intake after I ask if she was playing The Doves, touches my arm and tells me that she's impressed. In between talking to Dubois about his short, what type of services he's thinking about, what she's done and other show biz stuff while cueing up tracks for her playlist, the DJ and I talk about music. I clock almost every song she plays in that first hour, Portishead, old school Primal Scream, old school William Orbit and she keeps being really impressed. When she puts on "Everything's Not Lost", the last track off Coldplay's Parachutes album, we start talking about how neither of us listened to Coldplay at first. Then I tell her that what changed my mind was "Shiver" because Chris Martin sounded remarkably like Jeff Buckley. Turns out that was the song that got her listening to Coldplay as well. Some of her pals show up so Dubois and I talk amongst ourselves. This is when Dubois says this "Well no fucking d'uh that's been what I've been telling you every since I've known you" statement that I've ever known since associated with the Mira Hershey Hall Crew.

The statement is this: "See Marty, this is the type of chick you need to be going out with." My reply? "Well no fucking d'uh, that's been what I've been telling you since ever since I've known you." I mean, aside from the physical qualities (blonde, slender) that make me weak at the knees, which I'm sure Dubois wasn't referring to with his statement, she's artistic and she shares the same love of music. We could've talked for hours about music.

OK, one fact I withheld in this entry up to know is that, after she told me she was impressed with me knowing the Doves, the DJ shows me the album and says "Yeah, my boyfriend just got me this album today." See, I didn't want this to be a friggin' "Oh poor me my life is like an Alanis Morrisette song don't I sound like a fourteen year old girl" entry, which it would've sounded like had I mentioned this up front. See, I wanted this to be like one of those anecdotes about you mentioning something to your friends over and over again, but they just don't listen until sometime years down the line and they say, "Hey you, you should be doing that thing you've mentioned over and over again but we didn't realize until now isn't that funny" type of entry.

Anyway, mad props to Dubois for inviting me. Before we headed out, he told the DJ, "Hey, if you know anyone into the music scene, let me know. My buddy Marty likes talking about music." This is definitely a flight of steps plus take the elevator on the right up from the typical male buddy trying to help you out tact of "Yo, my pal is so hard up. You got any honies you can set him up with?" The DJ said she'd make Dubois and I mix CDs and that we should all hang out again. 'Course, this is L.A., so that may be her way of saying, "Yeah, let's do lunch sometime" while doing the cheek air kiss thing. At least I know that there are chicas out there who share the same music tastes I do.

Soy Un Perdedor

Hey Ladies! Here's a public service announcement for all you fine chicas out on match.com. You should never, ever, ever utter the line "I don't go out much" in your profile. That goes triple for all you wannabe pimp daddies out there.

I'm A Rebel And My .44 Pops Far

Hey there Filthy Monkeys. I wish I could say I was spending my last two weeks in some funky ballet of blood and bullets adventure while driving around in a mid-seventies American muscle car with a sexy but sassy love interest/adversary in a tight latex catsuit, all to a wah-wah guitar soundtrack. Unfortunately, the name on my business card (well, if I had a business card) reads "Marty Stark, Esq. - Contract Attorney," not "Marty Phunkalicious Stark - Pimp Daddy Extraordinaire Yo!" That means I've spent my days researching and writing.

I know I should be doing some novel writing in there, but frankly, pppphhhhht. I outlined my first novel before I wrote it, and the writing went quite smoothly. With the second novel, I decided not to outline it. I wanted it to be more organic. Since it's about a punk band, I figured a structure would be the antithesis of the thrash and energy of punk. Unfortunately, without structure, I've hit themes that don't go anywhere and a lot of navel gazing. So I'm letting the idea percolate more, figure out the intro, the verse and the chorus and the outro. Hopefully, by the end of the week, it will have percolated enough to let me start writing again.

Since I've been neglecting the blog a bit, I might as well make up for it by making this entry a bit longer than usual and get something off my chest that's been stuck in my craw for a while (how's that for mixed metaphors?) While I was an attorney in BigLaw, attorneys were very divided by my legal writing. Some thought I wrote extremely well, others thought I wrote the type of stuff that would come out of a monkey's ass that would be thrown against the wall. I heard praise once in a while, but the one's who hated my writing were obviously more vocal about it. Yeah, so in addition to the long hours I had that negative vibe going at me. You can see why I hated the fucking law.

Anyway, there was one lawyer I worked with who was actually a really good guy. He genuinely cared about how associates were doing, and if he thought they were faltering, he took time out to try to help them with whatever he thought was holding them back. So this lawyer was in the monkey's ass camp, and he tried to help me out. There were these series of motions to dismiss a complaint (we would prevail on parts of the motion, which would force the opposing side to amend their complaint, but not prevail on others so the complaint survived in one form or another) that he and I worked on. I would write the first draft, then he would revise or cut out huge swaths of texts so that the final draft would look almost nothing like mine. Maybe about 20% of my original work would be left. He would get frustated at my work, and I would get frustrated at myself because, unlike the other attorneys who crapped over my work, this guy wasn't a complete asshat.

What I didn't realize until after I left BigLaw to pursue writing was this: on those series of motions, the parts that the court granted were the parts, the 20%, I wrote and that the other lawyer didn't revise. In fact, in the last two court orders, the court copied verbatim in affirming the sections that I wrote and that the other lawyer didn't touch. The court denied everything else, or in other words everything that the other lawyer changed. Yeah, the ABC Aftershool / Hallmark Card moral of this little ditty is that I spent too much time caring about what others thought and not enough taking a look at what's true, boo. I'm glad I left BigLaw on my own terms, but I would've certainly left with less baggage.

Wait, there's more! So people pick up on themes in their life when they start noticing a pattern (I would say repeating pattern, but that's a bit redundant, ennit?) Now, that motion thing has been stuck in my craw for the last couple of weeks and I couldn't figure out why. I mean, yeah, I know my legal writing is the shiznit now. Hell, you don't get two attorneys fighting over your services if your legal writing was something that came out of a monkey's ass. I should just move on. And yet that l'il anecdote stuck with me. I think I figured out why.

Throughout most of my life, there have been (and still are) people who thought the best I could ever achieve in a girlfriend was/is some chunky ass plain Jane in orthopedic shoes. Now, before we get into "Hey you're a lookist bastard", let me say maybe I will meet someone who is a chunky ass plain Jane in orthopedic shoes and fall for her because she has a wonderful personality and sparkling wit. But, well, let's put it this way, if someone you didn't know came up to you and said, "Hey, you'd look good with a fat person/skinny geek/plain Jane/average Joe", you can't tell me you wouldn't be thinkin' of puttin' a cap in his ass. It's not so much the physical qualities as the negative characteristics everyone associates with those physical qualities, the negative characteristics which are then associated with me when someone says, "Marty, you're too picky, you need to settle for chunky ass plain Jane in orthopedic shoes. Someone like this." What they're implying is I'll never pull the even average woman because that is so far out of my league. And why is that so far out of my league? Because I'm obviously lacking in the looks and social qualities that the rest of civilized society has.

Now let's get the Jerry Springer-type crap out of the way. I had a shitty childhood. My dad's, and his dad's, and probably his dad's before him version of childrearing was that you learn not by praise but by shame, shame and a wooden two-by-four if you got too uppity (and by uppity I mean even attempting to question authority). Thank you very much Confucious, I hope there is a hell just so some demon can be using you as a suppository you filial piety little fuck. Earning As got nothing but get a B, out comes the belt. Now, my pop is very Ward Cleaver and has learned the error of his ways, but back then, I'll say I hated him and won't apologize for it. From as soon as I could speak until I was sixteen, I thought I was a twisted little fuck because my dad kept telling me I was a twisted little fuck (well, he didn't say those words exactly, he would constantly say "You have no friends, what wrong with you"). It wasn't until my sophomore year of high school when my family moved to Pittsburgh that I was able to live a semblance of a normal life, start over with people who didn't know me as a weird chunky kid who couldn't make eye contact and couldn't talk to a fellow human being to save his life. From then on, I managed to live a relatively normal life--college, law school, law gig and now contract gig/writer. I have a great group of friends who, for the most part, think I'm a little quirky but for the most part normal.

OK, have people lived worse childhood's than mine? Undoubtedly. I had 3 meals a day plus snacks (hence the chunkified state of childhood Marty), a house with indoor plumbing and electricity and a good education. However, I didn't bring up my childhood for any sympathy yo, just to show you where this yellow brutha is coming from. And where this yellow brutha is coming from is a big hatred for those who would put me down. When I hear that I'm too picky or that I need to settle for what they think is a version of less, I'm a chunky ten-year-old twisted little fuck that my dad tells me I am who thinks the world hates me and I hate the world back.

Lately, I've heard from people who know people who know people that certain people think I will never find a significant other because I won't settle for the chunky plain Jane with comfortable shoes. And, if you can't tell by now, that's bugged the shit out of me for the last couple of weeks. I just envision myself at a bar, talking to a nice lookin' chica and hearing in the back of my head certain people's voices "Hey, this chick is way out of your league. Let's see how long it takes Marty to drop the ball." Fucked up, no?

Now how is this like that overly long story about the lawyer and the motion? Same moral. Who cares what people think. Look at the fucking results. Lawyer hated your work, so what? The court upheld your portions of the motion. Yeah, certain people who know your past can't separate that from who you are now, so they think you're hopeless. So what? The hot number at work (but way too young and in the same office so don't even think about it buster) thinks you're hilarious. NMBL invited you to her Holiday Party (yes, she still has a boyfriend, but if she though you were a freak you wouldn't be invited, would ya). Dubois' Contract Crew, especially the chicas of the group, think you're the man. And there are folks who put you still being single as a mystery up there with Loch Ness Monster and the disappearance of Amelia Earheart.

At the end of the day, so what if there are playah haters out there. They're gonna be like that even if you happen to hook up with Hot Neighbor Chick (oh please oh please oh please). In the meantime, enjoy hanging out with the people who think you're the cat's meow and fuck all to the rest.

I'm Chasing You

OK, I thought it was all over. I managed to leave ContractGigByTheOcean a couple of weeks ago without Ford Festiva Chick finding out my contact info. No more peaking over the corner to see if Ford Festiva Chick was coming down the hall. I was all clear and free.

Yesterday was the final bash of ContractGigByTheOcean. Folks assured me that Ford Festiva Chick was not coming--she moved on to a different gig and no one told her about the party. And thank whatever cosmic organizing force is out there, she didn't come.

I did find out however she called ContractGigByTheOcean yesterday and asked for my contact info. Aaaaaaaaaaagh!

No one gave her my info. Whew. But then I found out that two of the headhunters I used jumped ship to the recruiting company that Ford Festiva Chick uses. I definitely have to give those guys a call and tell them under no circumstances to give out my contact info. OK, hopefully, this will be the last entry about Ford Festiva Chick.

You are DNA. You're a smart person, and you appear
incredibly complex to people who don't know
you. You're incomparably full of information,
and most of it is useless.


Which Biological Molecule Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Black Out The Windows, It's Party Time

OK, so the new gig should be perfect for me--working Mondays through Wednesdays on at triple the hourly rate of Phuqued Firm, which leaves me the rest of the week to write. Hopefully it'll turn out that way. Now "What's the hubbub, bub?" you might be asking? I'll refer you to the "My love life of late has been like stapling my thumb--rather useless and quite painful" theme that's been running through this blog unfortunately. Marty meets chick he thinks is peachy keen. Marty and the chick actually talk for a long while. Mutual friend of Marty and the chick gives Marty the chick's e-mail. Marty e-mails the chick. Apparently, the e-mail has been as productive as Marty Stark's fantasy football running backs. Yeah, I know, I should've asked for the chick's contact info myself which was the plan but Marty's friend intervened (not in a bad way tho', and mad props to him for introducing me to the chick in the first place). Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Oh Don't Leave Home

Hey Urban Hipsters. Just a note to let you know that, no, Ford Festiva Chick didn't abduct me and that I wasn't festering in some well trying to keep together the last tatters of my sanity as Ford Festiva Chick used me for nefarious purposes ("It will put the Zirh moisturizer on it's face, it will wash it's hair with seperate shampoo and conditioner"). I spent the last week or so just catching up on sleep and generally putzing around. Then I went up to visit my pals in Silicon Valley for the weekend. My mind isn't in write a coherent blog entry mode, so I'll just do one of those random list things.

1. I met one of my new neighbors today. She (yes, she and do I mean she, va va va voom) was in a panic, trying to find her cel phone. Neighbor Chick apparently heard my TV, introduced herself as one of my neighbors and asked if I could call her cel. Given that Neighbor Chick is blonde, blue-eyed, with a slender waist, curvey hips and legs that go all the way down to the ground and spoke with a hint of a southern accent, all the blood rushed from my brain down to my, well, you know. I don't know how, but I managed to say, "Sure, what's your number?" without adding "Hey bay-beh, wan't some hot Asian action? Got your numbah one lunch special right here." That took great effort let me tell you. Then she invited me to her place to help her find her cel. Her pad was just as messy and dark as mine, plus she has a cat. Neighbor Chick's cel was apparently wedged in between her matresses. She thanked me, then asked for my name. I gave it to her and asked hers. Her name makes me 90% sure she's originally from the south. Then she walked me out her pad, shut the door and began making her calls. Knowing my karma, that is the last I'll see of Neighbor Chick. Plus, I think she's the one I've been hearing (as well as everyone else in the complex) having sex at one a.m. in the morning. Yeah, that metal hitting something hard sound you hear? That's me taking a hammer repeatedly to my crotch now.

2. I love my friends up in Silicon Valley dearly, but the trip just reconfirmed that my decision to move back down to Lalaland was the correct one. The ratio of men to women still sucks ass through a straw up there. A single straight guy has more of a chance finding a girlfriend in Anchorage, Alaska's World's Most Manly Man competition than he does in Silicon Valley. The single straight women up there (all four of them) have bad attitudes as well. I wanted to say to one of them, "Look, you ain't all that. There are Taco Bell cashiers hotter than you in L.A." I did manage to hone my wingman skills. For the night, I was Marty Stark, CIA Agent. (Yeah, and not a big surprise, Marty Stark, CIA Agent went home without a number, but the CIA cover story wasn't my idea). As for attitudes of chicks in Lalaland, see point 1.

3. OK, there is no third point, but hey, 2 points isn't a list. I don't know what it is, but it isn't a list.

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.