Look Out Behind You

Undoubtedly the most valid reason I have heard against voting for Barack Obama came from a Southwest Detroit couple. The young wife told E and I that she had seen pictures, awful, terrible, bad, sick, totally grossed-out pictures of the things that American soldiers have been doing to Iraqi prisoners and the things Iraqi insurgents have been doing to American soldiers. She was extremely disgusted and adamant and detailed about describing the horrors of what she had seen online. In fact, it took giving her E's email address to get her to wrap up her point. (E should be expecting some good email forwards any moment now.)

Obvious conclusion:

If Barack gets into office he will pull American troops out of Iraq. What do you think will happen then? Logically, the Iraqis, free from their perverted rapist captors, will head straight for American soil. Yep, to do guess what? Force American women (and men) to give them all blow jobs and perform various reenactments from the same Internet photos seen by our friend the unregistered voter. If Obama gets into office you could possibly wake up with an Iraqi you-know-what in your mouth.

So we need to stay there and keep the rape cycle where it belongs.

You can't argue with an air tight argument.


Alt Life

Do you know what I need? A hundred dollar haircut. Hard to find in this state and when I say state I mean the state of the economy. Kidding of course. This kind of wall street stuff doesn't affect me at all. As long as the Donut Villa sells nickle nuts and scratch-off tickets, my economy is strong.

It's been the kind of past couple days that just seem to escape documentation. Anytime I have a bunch of stuff going on I neglect to write down the fascinating details - even though I have kept a diary since I was seven years old. When I die (an event I have to mention every six days) and my vaults are uncovered you will find that these diaries are not full of publishable anecdotes or deep dirty secrets (I've never even written a good sex scene in a screenplay  - I'm no Judy Blume ya know), but I want it to be known that between entries regarding my roommate and quotidian confusion, some really radical and racy stuff was going on.  I think that is called subtext. Look for it. It is happening right now.

Tonight however, I am converting IFO to AVI and maybe I will send a MPEG your way or on the way by way of the internet.

Stand by for stories about the political philosophies of uninformed, unregistered, and insane voters on the streets of Detroit.


A Mental Milkshake

It is hard work saving the world. E and I were out canvassing SWD until it got dark and someone told us a story about someone's cousin getting shot in the butt.  I personally would give a buttcheek for a good PR op for national healthcare,  but me offering up body parts for attention is nothing new.

I wish Doris Kearns Goodwin was my grandmother.

Jamie cracks me up.

I can't even stand the Dodger excitement.


I think of Don Draper when he told his estranged brother "My life moves in one direction: forward."

Don't trust people that fear nostalgia or that don't have a list of regrets.

It is scientifically proven (in some kind of science) that people that lie to themselves are usually more successful in life and athletics.

I rather enjoy being miserable. I don't like being cranky or frustrated or interrupted when I am trying to concentrate. That makes me angry. I'm talking about heartache and longing and obsessing about the perfect romance of the past. The state of mind that is best supplemented by early sixties soul and alcohol or opium derivatives. I'm pretty sure I am doing something useful because I feel so sad and wistful that I should be gettting paid for it. B just sent me a picture from Dodger stadium and it is driving me to drink. There's only cans of La Croix bubbly water here but things could still get dangerous. She's at the game, helping the team go to the world series, eating soft pretzels, and drinking twelve dollar beers. I have to look back and long for the old days because right now, in the present day, there is only real-life responsibility, a losing local team, and what-the-fuck thoughts. Who wants that?


What Else Can I Exfoliate?

So so many people showed up tonight. The Obama meeting was kicked off by a twenty year old kid wearing flip-flops and a Big Lebowski T-shirt (FYI: The Big Lebowski and J Mascis are two dudecentric entities that I have never, ever understood). He told us an inspirational story about the life events that led him to take a semester off from Emory to help out. It worked. I’d like to know how a privileged kid from west mass can get up in front of a room of Detroiters and tell them what to do. That is the power of the campaign of change.

Let me tell you a few things I would like to change: The size of my computer screen, the look on people’s faces when I sing or demonstrate “AirRobiX”, the cost of socks and other foundation garments, and the year 1997. 

I also wish that “The First 48” would air at a reasonable and constant hour for just once in my life but I’m trying not to make everything about television.


The Sound of a Loud Voice Next to an Aching Head.

I'm fascinated by my own crankiness. I feel like I can hear the people in the brick house across the street chewing their food. Like a draft is following me around. Like I am in my recurring dream about not being able to type in my name to check in for my flight. I keep typing and the letters keep coming up ahskjadsakj argh. I feel like I put a twenty in a dollar bill pop machine slot. Like someone just told me something I already know and then drank my last beer. Like I have to clean a bathroom, get an oil change, or wait for a senior citizen to write a check. Like I'm at a movie and the people in front of me are texting and the people behind me are talking, talking, talking. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up so I can just just concentrate, type in my name, get on my plane, and fall asleep. 

Life Before Death Lessons from DFW

Someone posted this on one of my email groups.


Don't go poking around places you don't want to be poked.

We took the 'back roads' to the mall this evening. The country looks like bowl of superman ice cream thanks to all that rain. Seems people don't much like when you stop and take pictures of their farm equipment and stacks of steaming manure sod rolls because some meathead in a big truck chased us down a dirt road for a while.


I wasn't driving so I thought if I hung out of the car and made it obvious that I was taking more pictures he would just think we were tourists or people that were doing something important or people that were so set on taking pictures that they had no regard for their own safety and the he would leave us alone. I was right.



All I wanted was some pictures for SFTM. Poor dude probably thought I was some insurance agent coming out to check on their flood claim or something.

Nothing like a nice high speed drive on dirt roads. Reminds me of so many good times, so many hot cars, and so many near death experiences. (Cari, testify)


I didn't just minor in film... I majored

I saw the Cohen Brothers film and I will say that it really is time for John Malkovich to start doing commercials and for Brad Pitt to become the architect that he has always wanted to be - seeing these actors in yet another film makes me realize that while there may be a giant pool of money, there is not nearly a giant enough pool of actors. I've got an idea, lets put Malkovich in a bathrobe and make him scream and give Brad Pitt highlights - it will be ironic because he usually wears Armani - his character will just develop from there. Or not. Or here's another idea let's bring back DeNiro and Pacino and 90210 and Knight Rider. Or how about this idea: iced coffee at McDonalds, or organic fruit at Meijers, tight-rolling jeans, rain-X on windshield wipers, roll-on perfume, costumes for cats, self-adjusting shampoo, 9/11 Truth Seekers, coasters on coffee tables, downloading music, manual transmissions, and fashion magazines.


New Name, New Game

From now on, when referring to our job or another person's job we will pronounce job just like the book of Job (johb) from the bible. It makes a statement. Kind of like calling your mother by her first name.

Also, I bought a lipgloss today that has a new, innovative spatula applicator.  Lookout.


Obituaries for People I Like

It's fall now. New leaves and caterpillars and cocoons and such. A few of the people on the blog roll/link list to the right have to get moved into mini storage -  meaning this blog post. The link list cannot be cluttered with inactive blogs and websites.

First I am removing my "netflix friend" link because no one else besides the people I watch with movies with seem to be interested in sharing their queue with me. It's a personal thing. I get it. You don't want people to know that you have had "Georgia Rules" at home for four weeks. No biggie. That link is gonzo!

I Love Super Beautiful

What happens when blog precedes content? Even from a group of heartfelt masterminds (the immensely no, immeasurably, talented writing group La Croix) it produces an empty corral. A place where Clydesdales and fantasy beasts of dreams fear to tread. They cannot be caged. Or updated.

Bosom Bloggies

Oh Skeet and JG. If you didn't get enough momentum off the Barry Bond's Ball diagram, nothing was going to do it. I had such high hopes - I don't see why you guys can't continue the project as a NoCalSoCal collaboration.

Julie Likes

J is quite possibly the worlds greatest homemaker. I never did get to see her Martha Stewart Apprentice audition tape but maybe that is something she could put up on the site. I have a feeling that she is just too busy growing, sewing, and showing stuff to write about it. I could offer to post her extremely long emails and scan her handwritten postcards - she is quite the corresponder.

Yesterdays News

It's a shame to hog such a good blog name. The beauty of it is that even if you don't update it people can't get mad at you - read the title again, ya know? I'm just going to assume that Cory has switched to microblogging on Twitter.

That is it for now. Gone but never forgotten. Who knows, maybe there will be a resurrection. Be sure to keep updating or you too will be put in a post graveyard. If you have any new projects or blogs that I must know about, holler!


Am I just real tired or does Gossip Girl not have the staying power I thought it did? Yawn. I can barely resist writing about how much I am suffering because I have to give up caffeine to stop the deadly ministrokes in my brain from ruining my days and impairing my driving. But I won’t say a word about it. I won't! Rapping about health stuff is in the same manners-category as talking about dreams or describing in beat-by-beat detail what happened on The Sheild or in March of the Peguins (that has actually happened to me sosyaknow). But just for the record: It’s not my fault that I got a jump-start on health problems early in my life. Most people wait until they are sixty-plus to start talking about gluten-allergies and intestinal sensitivities. Oh wait, nope – I got that wrong - that describes nearly everyone my age. Looks like Gen-X is a couple decades ahead of our grandparents.

I just recently confirmed this at Borders when browsing through Things White People Like. I didn’t mean to read so much of it (white people don’t like to admit spending money or being ironic or saying hipster or watching tv or getting silly books like that) but I did. White people like natural medicine and tea. True and true. Although my brother likes both Tylenol and TV and he doesn’t give a f%k who knows it. But we aren’t really one hundred percent white. I became convinced of that after watching The Gangs of New York.

So I read nearly the whole thing and put it back on the shelf. I had to make room in my hands to buy one of those notebooks that Picasso and Hemingway used. Talk about road tested!

Without coffee I have to find something else to love. Oh and I already thought of that, but no, I can’t replace my coffee habit with whiskey or wine or Andy’s Hot Fries.


Three Stacks of High Society

Tonight I went to St. Agnes as my mom’s training partner. She is learning how to deal Texas Hold ‘Em for the Fall Fun Festival. So it was her and about fifteen other sweet moms in sweaters squinting over reading glasses at rule sheets and cards.  Mini pretzels, pop, and wine were served.

“So we burn a card, when?”

“What’s the big blind?”

“What if people are blind and can’t see the cards?”

I could tell the local poker expert was getting frustrated. He drank like seven glasses of Coke Classic and kept rubbing his forehead trying to understand how such innocent women could stump him with card questions he'd never been asked. So I decided to throw in a few more questions like, “What happens if there is a hostile bidder? Who is going to protect my mom? What is your take-down plan?”

I leaned over to my mom and told her, “All of this could all be clarified if we just went home and watched Rounders


W. Grand Blvd.


We parked in the only organized looking parking lot we could see and the little uniformed guy chilled on a nearby porch and watched us pack our valuables in the trunk and lock the doors and walk halfway across the dirt patch before saying, "you ladies planning a funeral?"

"Aren't we all ?"

You can't park there.



My friend K** swears that watches don't work on her. It runs in her family - they didn't work on her grandmother either. Magnetic anti-time bones or something. The battery on my cell phone has stopped holding a charge. This was a huge problem when I was lost in the formidable Auburn Hills area the other night. I had to stop at a 7-11 to plug in my phone in the outlet next to the ATM so I could text B for directions. The teen boy working the counter was totally maddoggin me and I was like "dude don't act like I'm the only one affected by the energy crisis" and I bought a Vernors to appease him and his dumb 7-11 laws. I couldn't finish it all because it's a sneezy drink that should be sipped slowly and my nerves were shot. I had heard stories about being north of 8 mile for too long. You could wind up in a condo or the Detroit Zoo. And go figure, my phone ran out of juice ten minutes after I got on the road and I was forced to stop at a Target to plug the phone back in kattycorner from customer service. Lesson learned: The busier a place the more people mind their own business. I could have been firing off remote detonated department store explosives for all they cared. Later that night B told me that I should get a charger that works in my car. Yeah right. That is how they get you. You can't just keep throwing money at all the problems of life. When would it end? The Dodge Nitro has a plug, like a regular AC/DC outlet, in the back near a net that holds your sports balls and fishing poles. Maybe I should just buy a new car then?