who dat? contest.
(yo stee. i know
first correct answer:
it was a hard one
What a lovely long weekend that was.
What a gay word, "lovely." Scary how much I use it.
I actually did a whole fuckload of nothing this weekend. I didn't touch the computer until last night's Road Rules came on and I had to start my recap. I took naps and saw movies and drank. I really didn't even do a lick of work, except to rewrite "American Girl" by Tom Petty as "A Very Fat Girl" for my comedy group. And despite being vaguely uneasy when I'm not working, I very much enjoyed not having something I had to do. (There was a lot I could do and will soon have to do, but if I don't have an desperately impending deadline, it's just not my style to get it out of the way.)
On Thursday night I went for a late walk through the hills and I came across a sign on a house I've always liked: "For Rent. One-Bedroom Artist Studio, for Single Male." This place is four blocks up in the hills from me and I started having fantasies about how easy the move would be. Yes, I don't really need to move or anything, but it seemed like synchronicity - and there are many things I can't do in my current apartment, like have a darkroom, a piano, and a dog, that I could perhaps somewhere else. Anyway, after I called and heard the guy's voice, I had fantasies that the old man/owner wouldn't know what accurate rent rates should be in the area in this century. Well, that turned out to be the case, but in the other direction. I walked up on Friday after work and the Very Old Guy showed me the guest house. It's way back in his backyard and very secluded and quiet - not right on top of the fucking street like my place right now. It's basically a big old cabin-looking thing, with 20 foot high ceilings and a lofted bedroom and a working fireplace. I actually really like the place a lot. It's a loft space that I could do a lot with. I could easily bang away on a piano and have animals running around. I'd also have use of his yard, plus my own little separate yardy area. He's a very nice guy and has lived in the house for fifty fucking years. Problem: the rent is more than double what I pay now. He seemed disappointed that I couldn't afford it (having had the same person living there for the past 20 years) and offered to work something out - but I basically told him that our prices were so far off that there's no way. I thanked him and walked home feeling very sad. Naturally, (since I love to live in the past and torture myself), I spent most weekend decorating the place in my head and imagining myself living there. Given the location, I was pretty sure there'd be no way anyway, but I didn't think it would be so impossible. I guess it's better than if the rent was just out of what I could reasonably afford. Makes the decision easier.
On Friday night I ended up just sitting on my (soon to be replaced! the new one should arrive soon) couch and talking on the phone. At around midnight a friend dragged my lazy ass out for a few drinks. There's a little area near the Scientology Celebrity Centre with a few restaurants and bars that I can easily walk to, so I did. That night I failed to watch the first of two failed-to-watch movies, All About My Mother and Guinevere. It's not that I didn't have time, I just chose to instead watch Cousins again (I own it, and fucking love that movie, despite it being a Joel Schumaker/Ted Danson film) and rent Sex In The City episodes. I also rented Magnolia. I liked it in the theatre, but really loved it this second time. It's audacious and experimental and not afraid to take risks. One of the more risky, and criticized, moves is the song montage in which many characters begin singing the Aimee Mann song playing in the background. And especially this second time, it fucking worked so well. That film is just three hours of tension, and that moment is sort of a release, and it's heartbreaking and wonderful. I can't wait for PTA's next film (unless it's his reported Adam Sandler project.)
Rehearsal Saturday was followed by a whole lot of nothing. I didn't go out at all. I forewent a party in order to sit around. Oh, I know what I did a lot of this weekend. I bought a new book of Baroque piano music and learned the first two pieces. I used to be pretty decent at the piano, and have grown lazy and awful. So I busted out my metronome and started learning these relatively hard pieces. I'm the WORST music study, and have always been very very lazy. But this time I forced myself to work on perfecting difficult runs and figure out correct fingering instead of just stumbling through a few times and moving on. (Heh, he said "fingering.") It's very torturous, but ultmately quite ultimately. So I did a lot of that Saturday night. Oh, Saturday night I went and saw Margaret Cho's stand-up film, I'm The One That I Want. It was playing right near my house so I just snuck in a beer and sat in back and laughed. It's pretty good.
Sunday was more rehearsal for the show we have opening this coming up Saturday night. Five days. Gulp. No, we're incredibly ready. We've prepared more for this show than any other in my comedy group's three-year history. We just need to put the fucker in front of an audience finally. Sunday night I went out with some friends to a gay bar that had karoke. I made the mistake of drinking way too much and getting up and singing a foo fighter's song with my friend. I've never done karoke and I was pretty blitzed - thus, I have no idea how it was. I wasn't aware of being booed, which they will do there, so maybe we were OK... or just so drunk they felt bad for us. So Monday I woke up feeling like doo doo. At around 4pm I finally left the house and drove out to the beach and read. I also bought a Jamba Juice for the first time ever (not bad) and that plus the quiet and the sun helped get rid of the monster headache. That night I actually made dinner and watched Road Rules.
I know. A boring weekend. Outside of rehearsal, I didn't really see much of my friends, or even talk to them. I laid pretty low, which I've been doing a lot lately. I suppose I should snap out of this post-break-up loner phase soon. And get back on that whatever horse. I will. Soon. I promise. But in the meantime I got dream apartments to torture myself with, foreign movies to rent and never watch, and weezer albums to blast as I read bad novels in the bathtub and work through a case of Bud.
...After making people listen to "Every Girl's My Girlfriend," I've been accused of being evil and cruel. OK, you think I'm going to hell. I'm not alone, pal.
My friend's got a bruise on his leg, a bruise on his leg, everytime you speak. My friend's got a bruise on his leg, where I press my knee, everytime you speak. Actually, bottom line, you tell the truth sometimes. Sometimes you tell the truth like you're pulling taffy. My friend's got a bruise on his arm, a bruise on his arm, everytime you speak. My friend's got a bruise on his arm, where I shove my elbow, everytime you speak. Actually, bottom line, you tell the truth sometimes, and sometimes you tell the truth like you're pulling taffy. My friend's got a bruise on his ribs where I poke my finger, everytime you speak. My friend's got a bruise on his ribs, his rib cage is now numb, everytime you speak. Actually, bottom line, you tell the truth sometimes, and sometimes you tell the truth like you're pulling taffy... speaking of which. Hey, y'all. Did y'all have a good vacation? What was it, Memory Day or Easter or some shit? Look y'all, I got a bruise on my jaw. I don't know how I got it either. I don't. I don't. I was out drinkin' with some people the other night at that big black guy's house - that directory-actory guy with the cross-eyes. You know. That guy. Anyway, last thing I remember I was up on this balcony with John Cusack and I was asking him for... well, narcotics of the white powder sort... OK, cocaine. There, I said it. Don't you judge me. Anyway, he kept saying he was out and I think he tried to kiss me or I tried to kiss him or somethin', and then I was at home asleep in the lobby of my building. So I don't really know what happened, all I know is... Oh, wait a minute, y'all. I do know what happened! Minnie Driver head-butted me. That big Spanish bitch. I don't think it was on purpose because we're really close. But who knows. People always take what I say the wrong way. I reckon that's just the curse of being "complex". It is. It is. Jan Michael Vincent called me that one day. And he should know. You know what I mean. You do. You do. Serious, y'all.
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