Gestures . . . aren't they all?

So I have become lazy with my drawing abilities (note the last update to my Flicker page) and after more than half a year, decided to do something about it: I started taking very humbling classes at Fleischer Art Memorial. I had always been intrigued by attending there, what with it's low cost alternative to debt-friendly fare such as enrollment at the Univeristy of the Arts or flying to France to study anatomy under the tutelage of Thomas Wienc from L'École des Beaux Arts.

The first class, or more appropriately, my first legitimate art lesson, was with gesture drawings. We worked from a beautiful model whose hair was something I wanted so desperately to capture but since hair has nothing to do with "finding the center," I had to ignore it all the while noting how great it looked even when it became matted to her forehead thanks to a very well-heated. She had scars on her body and a tattoo, but still I found her to be of great beauty. Sadly, I could not illustrate anything I wanted to. Why not? Well, not understanding how to "gesture draw" would be the most prevalent factor. Next to that, lack of practice with a conté crayon followed by all around artistic rust (once again, see the Flickr page and the last date I posted).

So, I tried to learn gesture drawing on my own, after the fact (posted here). 3 drawing done this morning in roughly 7 minutes. It should have taken me 6 minutes, but I lost track of the time on the thrid drawing. Next week, I get to learn contour drawings. I am humbled once again.

I finally remembered a dream, well, nightmare

I took a brief nap the other day. I despertaly needed some rest and with it came a dream. A nightmare.

A squirrel laid on its back, gasping for air. Its last sounds a cross between crying and screeching; wheezing and screaming; dying and pleading.

Its typical chuckling sound was replaced by something other. Colder. Direr.

Its arms seemed elongated, almost grasping and clawing at its furry chest. The bushy tail obscured its legs. A tangle of fur and imagined bone.

Did I kill it? Was it hurt before I saw that image? Perhaps it fell from the tallest of trees, miscalculating a leap, or it slipped from a wire on a nearby telephone pole.

Blood was caked amid its short hairy belly. A sliver of light reflected as a pinpoint globe of pure white dotted the corners of its black eyes.

Was I supposed to kill it? Relieve it of its misery?

In an ultimate act of ignorance, I simply woke up. It still haunts me.

Ick, unadulterated capitalism and bugs

When it comes to consistency in updating this here blog, I think the adjective "spotty" best describes any sort of new entry I may make to a collection of my intermittent musings. Accept my apology, please. And leave comments (also please).

I'll post a drawing sometime next week, I promise. But let's just start with something that happened to me last night: I took a visit to Longwood Gardens in Kennet Square, Pennsylvania with my girlfriend. Did you know that a plant called dumbcane makes the ideal gift to give disliked and/or over-explanative coworkers? I mean, seriously, it makes a much better Mentha plant to create a high-quality Mojito with than mere mint. The conservatory and the topiaries were definite high points even though the word topiary does not automatically equate to giraffe and chimpanzee shaped shrubbery. That’s in ideal world, I guess.

Since I am reading George Ritzer’s McDonaldization of Society, it became my conversational safety net partly because its so interesting to think about how we, as a society, have become so undeniably “McDonaldized” (which is something that builds upon Weber’s concepts defining bureaucracy) not to mention the many little trivial bits of information such as the Ikea catalog being purported to be the world’s 2nd most published work behind the Bible. Or the story about Colonel Sander’s cussin’ up a storm in reference to what ultimately became of his wife’s once amazing recipe for gravy after he sold his restaurant to the god franchise (we all remember the “special blend of 11 herbs and spices” claim to fame that was a mouth-watering ad pitch of yesteryear. I wonder how amazing it tasted before it was watered down to make its production more efficient). The book has surpassed “Ed McMahon’s Barside Companion” as my most interesting bibliothecal purchase. Ever.

So afterwards, we took a trip to some “McDonaldized” shops to buy her cat a new water fountain. As we walked in the parking lot back to my car (sometime around 8 in the evening), what had to be the world’s largest flying insect I have yet to encounter unexpectedly attacked me. I felt almost like Tippi Hedron in "Birds" since it made a beeline to my chest and stayed there almost as if it were clinging on for dear life. Thank god it wasn’t my hair since it’d be hard to look impressive after screaming like a circa late 80’s teenage girl at a New Kids on the Block concert. Seriously, if it flew in my hair I would have screamed (high pitched and everything). That or cry.

My girlfriend was about to hit me with the item she had just bought (pure instinct) in an effort to shoo it away but thankfully she did not because it would have surely injured me more than the entire shock of being hit with a bug the size of Volkswagen.

And, no exaggeration, that body-building beetle was a big'un (I have no idea what it actually was, I just liked the alliterative effect just now). All I heard was the sound of a crumpling paper bag (its wings were that solid) right before it landed on me. In fact, my gut response was to say “What the fuck” and spin around to see who threw a discarded paper grocery bag at me. I had only noticed it peripherally before it decided to use my chest as a landing pad. My girlfriend had to use her hands to get it off since my swiping at it was about as ineffectual as George Bush at a MENSA meeting. For dear life it clung on, I tells ya. For dear life.

It took a few frenetic swipes to get rid of it, but once it left, we ran back to the car quickly and in stooped manner (so as not to invite more unforeseen insect attacks). Any lessons? Well, don’t wear shoes that are too tight or make fun of the morbidly obese. These illustrative examples have nothing to do with the aforementioned bug attacks but they are lessons nonetheless.

For computer literacy class . . .

I have to make both a personal letter and a business one in Word to demonstrate I know how to use the program. So, here is my business letter, a cover letter to a résumé. Me thinks its funny. Enjoy:


Hammer and Anvil DVD Rentals
1825 Star Alexander Road
Das Kapital, ME 03092

Dear Human Resources Director:

I just read an article in the International Socialist Review about a DVD rental center for the proletariat. I would like to apply for the position of oppressed clerk trapped in a class struggle to advocate foreign and independent art-house films to the masses. A résumé is enclosed for your consideration.

My versatile background — covering over 10 years at TLA Video as well as recreating Jean-Luc Godard’s “Band of Outsiders,” frame by frame, for a master’s thesis — enables me to successfully recall and/ or recommend cherished original versions to their inferior modern remakes. I am dedicated, hardworking, and committed to enabling the great unwashed to free their cinematic minds within my strict set of guidelines.

I would welcome the opportunity to discuss this with you further. You may contact me at the email address listed above or the address stamped into the ex libris of my book, “Hitchcock: Genius or Capitalist Running Dog?”

YOU called the cops on me . . .

Here's a quick explanation: I went out with this woman sometime in March who, quite frankly, scared me. Since rule number one for meeting someone you've spoken with online is to choose a public place, we had selected a bookstore parking lot. Barnes & Noble, actually, because let's face it, who doesn't feel safe in a parking lot to any one of a gentrified America's cookie cutter commerce shopping plazas ?

We actually met inside the bookstore lest you think I'm cool with actually meeting people in parking lots, like some sort of drug and/ or arms dealer lounging by the trunk of my Honda.

"I gots the stuff right here and it's a beaut, lemme tell ya," right? Although the parking lot was very well lit, I wanted to look for some book by Philip K. Dick so why not kill two birds with one stone? Maybe the avian-killing stone was in the shady car trunk deal, but now I'm just being silly.

Since I had never seen a clear picture of her (thanks Craigslist) we had to do the old-fashioned meet-up that relied heavily on the wearing of a particular colored jacket and/or shirt. She should have worn a red rose in her lapel and stood near an old fashioned phone booth with some secret message we could exchange, to make the dealer/cold war espionage analogy an even stronger one.

"Split pea soup tastes best on a cold morning."

"History demands it."

"Glad to meet you, I'm Constantine."

We decided to go to a nearby bar for a quick beer and that's when things started to get, how can I put this . . . abnormal. Yeah. That's a nice word. Since I was not getting a great vibe, I wanted to follow (easy escape) but it was decided that she'd drive and I'd be the passenger. Dana Gould should have popped out in a top hat and tuxedo singing the phrase "Mistake" at the exact moment I agreed.

The inside of her car smelled like an ashtray and the windows had spider-webbed cracks on them (always a great sign). I started to imagine that "debt-collectors" took aluminum baseball bats to it maybe as they were carrying gasoline containers and lighters. Were the cracks from bullets? I didn't want to even entertain that line of thinking.

Then she told me, as we were driving to the bar, that she wanted to avoid driving to and from a bar as much as possible thanks to a D.U.I.

Gulp.

Have you ever met someone over a beer that does the majority of the talking and you have nothing to say to them? Well . . . let me fast forward to the present.

She said something that hurt my feelings in an instant message. I felt down, she felt up.

I told her she hurt my feelings in another instant message, days later. She felt down, I felt up. Well, bummed but better.

After that, I ignored her but she persisted instant messaging me. My solution was to simply delete her from my "buddy list" rather than block her. That was my mistake. Cue Dana Gould.

So last night she asked me to hang out with her which is something she has done many times before. And it met with the same answer or passive aggressive non-answer, like usual. It's something I have always refused or gotten around, in some way/shape/form. She also mentioned an ex-boyfriend she had been trying to contact and actually called last night. He had said some really uncaring things that depressed her such as "I told you I already have plans [and] when I feel like being around you I'll call." Here's were it gets scary, folks.

She started to talk about suicide. It wasn't the cry-for-help "just mention it" sort. During some of the previously mentioned instant messaging she'd say things like "no one likes me" and "I'm tired of it." But this time it came with a very persistent and detailed plan so I became frightened that she'd actually go through with it. It involved slicing her wrists as she videotaped it so her ex would watch it over-and-over again in his head. I kept talking with her in an effort to try and calm her down.

"I would cut myslef [sic] and bleed to death and film it all. thats what I am doing unless you come over."

Was it just a cry for help? A plea for company?

Since she wasn't expressing anything rational for a very long while, I was forced to call a suicide prevention hotline and lie to get her number to give to police (even though she had begged me not to call 9-1-1). I felt bad about asking for her number under false pretenses but, ultimately felt good about preventing her from killing herself.

This morning, she emailed me with a very angry message about how she got charged with possession of controlled substances and paraphernalia and now has a criminal record. Her mother, she said is sick from embarrassment although I'm sure if she had actually gone-through with it and killed herself, her mother would not be able to handle it at all. I saw a coworker die young (I think he was 35 and had only been married for a year). Althought it was unexpected, it was a health-related natural-causes death and I saw, firsthand, how much grief his father, who I also worked with, carried with him. Once again, and I stress this, that was unexpected but natural. Last night was not only preventable but prevented.

If I did something good, why don't I feel good about myself?

Happy birthday to me . . .

It started with a Swedish Fish.

A Darlin Marlin actually.

She held out the crinkly half-sized bag to me with a flick of her wrist. It was already ripped open, its red folded and stapled piece of cardboard used as packaging long since gone. There were books resting on every corner of the coffee table in front of us and a smattering of other bagged candies piled the middle like a bibliosacrifice of the sugarcoated.

Her first words to me were, "Darlin Marlin?" Since I was late to the book club meeting, I was trying much to hard to concentrate on the group discussion, already in progress. I kept my gaze on the group. She held the bag up for me by her side. I looked down to the bag she held on my left and saw Swedish Fish. I took one.

"Thank you."

During the meeting she playfully mocked my faint and nearly inaudible speaking voice. When she did so, it was always with a smile. Always with a glance. Green eyes overflowing with excitement. Coy and inviting.

When the meeting finished she, her friend, and I stayed together for beer and cross-questioning. The following Sunday my mistress of the Darlin Marlin and I had a laughter-filled lunch with greater conversation, expanded to the type of talk that two obviously interested people tend to have. To crave. She was even more radiant than I had first remembered.

"I don't have to worry," I thought as I found myself drowning in the beau ideal of her presence. "Everything feels right. Exciting."

The chemistry sparked in the air was undeniable. From the initial explosion of elation to the more subdued golden sparkles gently showered upon us with each glimpse of one another, like an undercurrent of attraction, chemistry was the ignition.

The next week brought with it dinner and drinks. Smiles and friends. Kisses while ignoring the glow of nearby televisions. Touching skin and embracing bodies. Tracing birthmarks with fingertips.

Felicity.

Wonder.

She sent me two emails on my birthday a week later. One wished me a happy birthday in the morning. It was a different story in the afternoon.

"While I think you're totally awewome and I'm really glad that I met you, I think we're better suited as friends...we're just too different, I think, to date."

The feelings of overwhelming joy had evaporated but the wonder did not.

Here are some things I have worn at work . . .

5 paragraphs to a short story . . .

The print shop is not there anymore. It was a small building.

"Hey," Mike obliviously snapped his gum as he tried to get my attention. "Can I, uh talk to you when you get back?"

He continued to chew, his gaze boring into my skull as he did so, like being in a staring contest with Burt Reynolds. At any minute I expected him to cackle.

"S-sure thing." He caught me off guard with the gum snap.

I could barely sleep on the plane trip from Philadelphia to London so what made me think I would fare any better on the two-and-a-half hour train into Paris? Yet in a single half-awake dream state moment I remembered back to that afternoon years ago.

*
*
*

So, how is it? Feedback? I think I need to write an outline, but if I put it out there, it lives and breathes. That should force me to write it to completetion if there's interest.

An open letter to the lady that threw up on my jacket at the Jake Johannsen show last night at Helium . . .

"Well, why did you do it? Are you some kind of jerk or something?"

It was my favorite jacket. And why did you leave? Did you think I would have put my jacket on and maybe, MAYBE, put my arm down on the table and suddenly think to myself, "Well, I just put my forearm down on some puddle of vomit that was apparently on my table the whole night which I didn't even notice. Shame on me for my obliviousness." Or maybe you were hoping I'd simply go to some other bar and think, "Gee. Someone else threw up on my arm. It couldn't have been the comedy club"

But you also got it on my friend's jacket. Much more of it, too. What's worse is, you just left. And neither you nor anyone else who sat at your table of ill-manners apologized for such a disgusting action. And you used the good natured sounds of a room full of riotous laughter to disguise your quiet call of the walrus. Deception, in its foulest of forms.

We heard you laughing kinda funny all night. Something was amiss. A little screwey. Strange even. But who are we, as other people, to judge another person's laugh? Some people guffaw. Some chortle. Yours was a wheezing hysterical laugh. Some people wheeze and some people are hysterical. Had we known it was the international warning sound for an oncoming projectile of sick, guess who would have moved their seats?

But why didn't you acknowledge it? You remind me of the man I once saw at a Border's who calmly bent over and threw up by the magazine section as he held his cup of coffee, stood up, and slowly walked over to the Dvd section where he did the same thing, just as calmly. And then he did it again. And again. Do you two belong to some sort of secret shameless spewers club? Was George H.W. Bush it's founder? Did it all start one January back in '92 at a formal dinner in Japan. "What a rush! I have to find some more people who know the joys of a good barf and bolt. If only I could have cloaked the evacuation of all I ate in secrecy. That's where I went wrong. Skull & Bones be damned! These are my people and this, THIS, is my society."

Next time review your menu in the bathroom. They have them in the club, I know. Two, even. One for men, one for women. Maybe you could have asked for sawdust from a utility closet or even, I don't know, made your way out onto the street. Walking in someone's unswallow is a lot less gross than wearing it.

"Well, well, what were you thinking? JERK!"

"Do the trees bend down, fold their limbs around you"

The still wet asphalt, daubed black in spots from the rain, still shimmered in the late afternoon sun. Her long auburn hair still fluttering in the wind reached the door before she did. She grabbed tight her application, now a wrinkled and dog eared curriculum vitae of fast food restaurants and video stores.
"This job is so mine," she thought as she entered the side entrance of the red brick building.

Yeah . . . I wrote another little snapshot of something I saw (then elaborated on). I promise I'll throw a picture up in a few days. One of these days, I'll throw it together for a story. Perhaps a novella (I really adore that word and would really like to tell people that I am working on my "novella").

Last night I had dinner at Jones, a trendy restaurant in Philly on Chestnut Street. It always makes me happy to eat there but our table was pretty drafty. Seems to be an analogy for life anymore. The good moments consitently tempered with the not-so-good. Ying-yang for the hopeless.

"Some kind of cupcake expert . . . "

Hey, check me out, all using de-intensified urban hues for my cartoon of Dana Gould and stuff. I thought he'd be easier to draw so cut me some slack, a'ight?

When I was a kid of 19 or so and the local cable company finally got the Comedy Channel or Ha! before they merged into Comedy Central, I was really into comedians and comedy in general. I remember watching "Evening at the Improv" late on Sunday nights when it used to be an A&E staple. Well, maybe not staple. More of a fastener with one busted prong.

I remember trying to make a homemade version of SCTV with some friends back in high school (freshman year). Ah, to be young and not understand that such things as life experience and learned knowledge can only help comedy as opposed to hurt it. While I was busy doing silly impressions or phony commercials for John Liebrand's video-camera or over-dubbing episodes of Mr. Rogers (complete with many an off-color joke about my German teacher Mr. Wagner), most kids were outside playing basketball and football or . . . um . . . playing football and basketball. Maybe some of those same kids tried to incorporate their love of the two by creating new games combining both. I wonder if they would have called it "basket-foot." Then again that was the nickname for this nearly blind girl that had the biggest mane of curly hair and a gimpy leg.

One of the funnier commercial parodies we did was a spoof of Oreo cookies called "Oleo cookies." Yup . . . it was exactly what you'd think it was: a cookie stuffed with margarine. My buddy Phil had the honors of eating it on camera while the remaining group of freaks and geeks watched on in giggling horror (more Uncle Floyd than SCTV, come to think about it). Another staple of our brand of young comedy (aside from grossing out friends) was appropriating, borrowing, or stealing jokes from comedians. The more obscure the comedian, the more likely you got away with it.

My favorite comedians were (and still are) Dana Gould and Jake Johannsen. I didn't dare take their jokes and/or observations partly out of respect and partly because I'd be found out quite easily. Not because the majority of my friends would know their bits and routines, but their material was so advanced it'd have been quite obvious the jokes were not mine. As I got older, I stopped stealing jokes and tried to think of my own for homemade comic books and comedy magazines (shout out to Urban Lunchmeat, the finest National Lampoon wannabe that never really came to be). My favorite article would have been "Death of Henry" asking the question that was on everyone's mind: whatever happened to the silent comic-strip star Henry. He just disappeared and my friends and I speculated with glee. The other was a satire of diet books which never saw print.

Okay . . . enough reminiscing. I finally got to see Dana Gould last week. Saw him at Helium, a comedy club, in Philly. He was just as sharp and hysterical as I remembered. He even spoke to me from on stage during his set since I had a seat at the very front and was just sitting down as he started. It was one of my greatest nights ever. Going with someone I think is the cat's pajamas didn't hurt either. That was one helluva red scarf, by the way. Do cats wear pajamas? I know monkeys do especially when their owners wear banana hued fedoras.

"Does it have to be a life full of dread"

New PJ Harvey on the horizon. Woot!

So last night on Family Guy, Peter went after his childhood bully who was now on crutches and attempted to beat him up. Chris tried to stop him.

Chris: "Dad, don't. He has M.S."
Peter: "What? Monkey scrotum?"

That made me laugh pretty hard. I used to have a friend who'd say, purely by accident, that I had muscular dystrophy. Pre-Richard Pryor, I guess people didn't know or care to know much about it. As with any disease, unless we have personal interaction with somebody that it afflicts it tends to be a case of "out of sight, out of mind." Kinda sad how celebrity replaces that, but I'd rather more people know about M.S. than not. How many people know about Morgellons disease? I really didn't know of its existence until someone brought it up in conversation. It's terrible yet very few people have even heard of it (unless it pops up on a report for 20/20 or 60 Minutes). I wish this line of thinking would change.

In the next few weeks I have to do the big fat scanning stuff (no exploding heads, sorry. That kind of scanning is infinitely more interesting) then another pop-by to Jefferson to be told the same thing I'm always told. In terms of having the M.S. I'm okay and, well, somewhat lucky. True, I'm not in a wheel chair or anything like that so I'll agree. No crutches or any similar crip-gear. Not even an iron lung decorated with various stickers friends might slap on. Just a damned needle I have to take every single day. A daily reminder that the phrase "at least you have your health" doesn't apply to me. Never will.

I celebrated my friend's 35th birthday by playing some good ol' Dungeons and Dragons. Well, it's not so "ol'" to me having only played it once or twice between the ages of 18 through 30. Since then, I have been trying to work on a script for a comic I'd like to draw. I need to find that something that has more meaning for me other than simple enjoyment. And I'm not going to let monkey scrotum stop me.

There is a spectre haunting the suburbs- the spectre of dating.

Last time I went out with someone, was with this incredible teacher. That was last Monday, I think.

The sky was a fine sheet of grey rice paper as lit from behind by the whitest of light. Branches filled the horizon like black tombstones cracking the edges of the cold dead air as I drove to meet her at the bar.

The bar was much too large and empty to even bother decorating its walls with demographic wall hangings from the knicknack collection. Page 17 instructions: nail retro-junk item to wall, wait for bored conversation to ensue. Music played louder and louder as the night progressed in direct contradiction to the amount of patrons. Would it have been set to a more chill lounge type volume better suited for a studio apartment get-together over some Cabernet if the straight-from-work types were pressed tight against one another, elbow-to-elbow, wall-to-bare wall?

I sat by the edge of the bar closest to the front door, making it easier for her to spot me. When she sat down next to me, all was right.

Hers was a cascade of dark hair which flowed down to that area just inches above the small of her back. She had eyes the shape of almonds, the color of espresso. They brimmed with life when she spoke of everything from her job to recent obscurities discovered over a morning cup of tea, googling whatever curiosity struck her fancy.

She kept her arms folded throughout the evening. When she spoke, it was with a candy-coated voice that overflowed with thoughtfulness. With passion. She was oddly pretty with long hair and striking features, but her beauty laid in her complex ambitions.

Sadly, she is dating someone and we are to be just friends. Yes, relationship drama takes up a lot of time (whether in or longing for one) as my friend Teresa said in a recent email. But hey, I'm Greek so I know all about drama & tragedy don't I?

"Go on, go on scream and cry"

The living room was a coffin-in-waiting with full digital cable and a cordless phone that rang a deafening ring that no one seemed to want to learn how to answer in haste. Political pundits, ripped from headline police dramas, and home shopping networks ran round the clock on the nearly exhausted 32 inch television, volume turned high enough to drown out the telephone ring. People no longer asked. No longer spoke. It was a long and agonizing death of thought. Of soul.

Recently discovered . . .

A recently discovered preface to the Communist Manifesto (as there are currently five) helped shed some light on the relationship between Karl Marx and Frederich Engels. I found it interesting and decided to post it here. Check it out:

PREFACE TO THE LONDON EDITION OF 1896

Remembering back to the preface that I, alone, scribed for the German Edition of 1883 sans Marx makes the preface to this edition's introduction all the more ironic considering that my death, as of this writing, happened one year and five months ago. It is testament to the power of the Manifesto. On the other hand it has effectively stopped me from all lifely functions such as breathing, eating, and outrageous facial hair growth. Oh, how Karl and I used to enjoy comparing our somewhat facetious proliferation of whiskers. But I'm dead now, so what's the point? His magnificent just-out of-bed bushel and my fastidiously down-groomed full beard. Sometimes, he'd use his Garibaldi styled bristles to hold the pencils he'd passionately scribbled down to their nibs rather than place them in a tin cup I had designated as the pen/pencil/change cup. He wrote notes upon notes outlining this very platform for the working man and during rare moments of repose, he would chew on his stale bread and cheese sandwiches- the motion of which caused the pencil stubs to rain down from his face like large chunks of darkened dandruff. Come to think of it, cleanliness was on the bottom of his list of things-to-do. Do you know how often I'd ask him to open a window in that small Brussels flat we shared. And he'd splash water on his face and neck to try and trick me into thinking he'd washed properly. A man should not reek of hoagies and sweated backsides, yet it did not bother Marx one bit. 1848 was very difficult year indeed.

When the European working class was struggling to achieve strength in numbers for the revolutions we were promoting, Marx was busy . . . oh, y'know. I just remembered this one time he had scarfed down the leftover meal I had made the night previous (a simple Raclette I had adorned with slices of various meats). As he sat in the dark in nothing more than his trousers and undershirt, he took pause of his Manifesto notes to tell me, in all seriousness, of an affliction he had which drove him to become an equalizing force between the classes. He told me he had been borne with a third nipple and then proceeded to show me. At first, I was in shock then immediately afterwards felt a great pity on his poor soul. Perhaps this deformity had, indeed, shaped his strong feelings against the bourgeoisie. I put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him, and his breathing had quickened. A touching moment. He seemed to be holding back his tears as he sniffled in silence with his head down.

"There there, Brother Marx. Cry all you need in here," I said pointing to our narrow room, "because no one can mock you in here." I said this as I placed my hand on his chest in the darkness of our quarters. What I had mistaken for a man holding back a deluge of tears was that of a one actually chortling.

"Just fuckin' with ya, Freddie!" At that he pulled the piece of pepperoni off his chest and ate it. Such slobbery! It was as if I were forced to live in a house of animals. Karl "Blutarsky" Marx, good riddance. And don't even get me started on his penmanship.

Oh yeah, working men of the world, blah blah blah, unite!

FREDERICH ENGELS
London, 3 March, 1896.

Works in theory . . .

Let me start by saying I saw the two most amazing movies this weekend. One was "Pan's Labyrinth." I don't think I've ever had such an overwhelming reaction to a movie before. Maybe I came away from some films thinking, "Damn that was enjoyable," or "I really identified with that," or even "That was the most beautiful film I've ever seen." The long and the short of it is, "Pan's Labyrinth" was all these things and more. Go out and see it as soon as you can.

The other film is a Dvd I've been trying to watch since a wee-bit before Christmas and only last night (after having an ill-timed late night coffee) was I finally able to watch it from A to Zed. "The Double Life of Veronique." Pure beauty. Although the story didn't make a load of sense, I don't think that was the point. It's a film that works best on a reactionary level. One feels "Double Life" as opposed to watching it. The dual/parallel lives of Weronika in Poland and Veronica in Paris really grabbed me. It has since mesmerized and haunted me.

Anyway, the good doctor (Mummer's parade fun day doctor) let me know that I am stuck in the "friend zone" yet again. I don't mind that because she's una mujer buena but getting stuck in that dreaded zone, let alone getting stuck in anything, is pretty frustrating. Why is it that the women I've met say they are looking for relationships, dates, and/or dating rather than simply state that they're looking for friends from the onset (and if it leads to something more, great). A friedn just said it's becasue these women are liars.

I've only dealt with about two or three people who were pretty honest with me from the get go, not several dates into it. Doesn't make one feel all that great when two or three dates later you get informed that the previous "dates" weren't really dates to begin with. I wish I had some insightful yet funny comment to close with, but I don't. So here's a joke:

I shoulda known she was trouble from the start. As I paid the check for dinner, I asked her what types of books she was into. She said "checkbooks."

waa-waa-waa-waaaaaaaaaa

Olga Volga doesn't dig the sweet potatoes . . .

Sunday morning consisted of waking up too late to go to the museum; dropping my bag of groceries, thus causing a 2lb container of vanilla yogurt to break open on the bottom (I heard the plastic crack but plead to the gods dairy that everything was fine. Oh dairy-gods, why do you taunt me so); and when I got home, after a more-than-hour wait to check out, I overcooked the chicken I made for lunch. But, on a much more positive note, the sweet potato I made was just the low-fat, high-fiber, stress-reducing side dish the doctor ordered. My doctor of preference ignored me (for the most part) at the surprisingly warm-weathered Mummers parade on Saturday. But how does one go about having good ol' fashioned one-on-one conversations amid a blaring string-band soundtrack mixed with consistent chanting of the Eagles Fight Song (as rendered by Drunky McDrunky and his Lush Chorus of Roaring Rabble-rousers)? Please tell me then give me the keys to your DeLorean and I thank you ever-so-greatly.

When I got home from the parade, I finished reading "Perfume: The Story of a Murderer" then saw the film a mere three hours later. Is nice. The following night I saw "Children of Men." Great dystopian fun for the whole family. By " fun" I mean "harrowing fear." After all that, I started reading (or picking up where I left off) Salman Rushdies's "Shalimar the Clown," even though I know how it ends.

I meant to post all of this this past weekend but didn't since I got caught up in reading (been doing a lot of that lately), filmgoing, and whatnot. Catching up on all things cultured, I guess. And although I've known about the "whatnot," or "Art After 5" for those of us in the know, for a while I decided that the idea of seeing the Slavic Soul Party perform their blend of the East European and Mexican musics while partaking in cocktails seemed too hard to resist. And for all my cultured being, and hip know-how, why is it I can never travel from point A to point B without spilling a little of my dirty martini (served up)? Please answer me this or are the dairy gods branching out into the wonderous world of spirits?