ones and zeroes

Better living through modern chemistry.

11.21.2004

tell me lies; later, come and see me

The other day I was all stoned and rushing to class, astounded at the world as usual, when I ran into Charlie Schulman, my old screenwriting teacher from about a year ago. We were grinning to see each other, as we'd had a certain kind of rapport between us, and stopped to shoot the shit on the sidewalk. I babbled, told him something about scripts and meaning to e-mail him, and then we went on our separate ways as I went to class.

That got me thinking. And then I got a package in my mailbox, a fluffy envelope with a flyer and a slim DVD case inside, the complete When Tyrants Kiss experience delivered right to my doorstep. Needless to say I was excited as fuck to finally get a chance to see the movie that Larry had labored so hard on. I'd seen a couple of clips and was quite ready to get on with the whole thing. On the back of the flyer accompanying the DVD were kind words that made me rue how little I actually make these days, and made me think of random words Lucy had scribbled on her dry-erase board the other day: sometimes he ached with the music he failed to make.

Well, Friday's trip to Red Lobster was far too ghastly to allow for any movie-watching afterwords; only passing out. Saturday was a FULL DAY! Breakfast, walking, buying Thanksgiving dinner clothes, walking for 4-5 hours, visiting Ei at warm-and-cozy Dylan Prime, then Lucy whipped up delicious dinner (couscous with corn, garlic and snowpeas; salad with peppers, tomatoes, greens) and we waited for Eileen to get back so we could watch When Tyrants Kiss. Time passed, clocks ticked, and finally we cracked and decided it was time to get down and boogie to this shit.

An odd experience watching a movie that someone who you're extremely close with has had a hand in making. Especially when their hand in the movie is the hand that moves the camera...being someone that wants to make films I already feel extra-aware of the godlike power of the camera to choose what is and isn't seen, and how those things are/aren't shown, it was doubly disorienting knowing that Laurence was behind a great deal of the skullduggery at work. You know, I'm not gonna put my review of WTK up here yet for two reasons: 1) I definitely need to see it again within the next 3 or 4 days, and 2) why would I tell you before I told Larry one-on-one? You punks!

So when I slipped into bed last night I had a hard time sleeping for a while, though the marijuana Pabst Blue Ribbon haze was thick around my eyes. I couldn't help but be so down on myself, for being such a goddamned lazy fucking sonofabitch. For being someone who's afraid of putting the effort in. It's hard to think of opportunities that may have been wasted. I should e-mail Charlie.

11.19.2004

well, shit on me.

The kinds of things that happen simultaneously in this world are ridiculous. Bombs are dropping, Eileen might be shopping, and a Dolphin is swimming with a prosthetic fin?!

buy me a puppy.

A while ago, Oveis linked to a New York Times article about a couple of political bloggers who set aside the world of politics every Friday to blog pictures of their cats. Well, this ain't no political blog, and I ain't got no cat, but goddamn it it's Friday, and you people deserve a Dachshund.




Her name is Lucy! Seriously!

Anyway, here follow some interesting reads you might want to peruse:

-You could be addicted to porn.

-Sometimes there are these little news stories that will fade away into the nothingness of history but are so creepy and poignant.

-The official NYU newspaper may suck, but The Zutons kick ass.

Thought: If my father was a character from Lord of the Rings, he would be Gollum; having stumbled upon a fortune, he hoards it in his cave and eats fish all day.

playhouse (AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!)

Last night, I saw Kasabian in concert. I knew very little of the band other than their name before last night. Lucy and I rolled in to a ridiculously packed and heated Bowery Ballroom, ran into Johnny and Daylen, and made our way to our proper place beside the bar, and I got excited by a very cool looking backdrop that was up on the stage. It looked something halfway between a terrorist, a flag, and a just plain angry man. This just might be cool, I thought!

I was pretty disappointed, but I spent most of the time wondering if I was really disappointed or if I was just being a musical snob. I was really torn. These guys came up with some good tunes and you got the impression that they'd get really high in the studio and jam and come up with some awesome combinations of sound but somehow it all just couldn't pull together. Apparently big fans of psychedelic mushrooms, the band had this combination british-rock (ahem, oasis) meets Pink Floyd sound, and all produced completely ready for the radio. And that's where the snobbery comes in because is it so bad that they're so commercial-sounding? (When did commercial become a sound?!) Isn't Franz Ferdinand succeeding in the mass commercial market? Then why do I looooove them ever so much? Well, cause they're fucking awesome. Oh well. I tell you what, Kasabian, I'll check you out again on CD sometime.

Following the show we caught Conan O'Brien for the first time in for fucking ever. Something about Conan is absolute magic. You sit there and this weird, hilarious red-headed freak of a guy is staring at the camera talking right to you, and all of a sudden, you realize this is what TV was made for...so you could sit in a room and not feel alone because this person is so entertaining it's like they're right in your living room. Woody Harrelson was a freak, a 30-second clip of Pee-Wee's Playhouse made me nostalgic as all hell, and the Flaming Lips made me wonder if I'll ever see them play a real show. I'm crossing my fingers that I get to see more than four songs on New Year's Eve.

Is the food at Red Lobster any good? Please, somebody comment on this before I go eat a lot of shrimp tonight.

11.17.2004





Hungry?

11.16.2004

i see that you've come to resist me.

Porter Goss, the new intelligence chief, has told Central Intelligence Agency employees that their job is to "support the administration and its policies in our work," a copy of the internal memorandum shows.

"As agency employees we do not identify with, support or champion opposition to the administration or its policies," Goss said in the memorandum, which was circulated late on Monday. He said in the document that he was seeking "to clarify beyond doubt the rules of the road."



Welcome to the country that was built on dissent. OBEY!

11.15.2004

it's only castles burning.

The more I read about this war the more I hurt. It's that awful pain that reaches levels of intangibility that personal pain can't even touch. It's a pain you almost wish you could feel more, but there's a terrible distance between yourself and all of it. The US government is claiming there have been no civilian deaths in the assault on Fallujah. You know why? Because civilians who want you out of their city because you're destroying it without allowing them access to food and medecine are going to end up hating you too, and when you kill them as they try to flee you can say "oh, well..they're...insurgents, yeah that's it."

Read this if you don't believe that: Photographer Flees

Try and put yourselves in the shoes of innocent Iraqis as they panic, a normal human reaction to bombs dropping around you. And they run for the river, and they hear helicopters above them, which only increases the fervor of that panic, and so they decided to swim across the river away from this living hell on earth.....only to get rifled from above. Just shoot anything that moves.

FUCK!

there are many here among us who feel that life is just a joke.

What a great few days. Let's put on the time travel goggles and look backwards. Thursday saw Dirty on Purpose and the Arcade Fire share the stage at the Bowery Ballroom with nothing but a troupe of gay Canadians between them - sounds something like the bulk of my wet dreams. While the volume for Arcade Fire was somewhat lacking, their energy didn't fail to find its way into my mind, my heart, and then down into my tippy toes while they shouted "Dance, varmint!" Track 7 (Wake Up) proved to be the absolute highlight of the night with Lucy, DJ Del and I being the most obnoxious drunk people in the whole of the Bowery as we hooted hollered and stomped along with their joyful chorus of childhood OHHHH!

Friday saw a return to the Hammerstein Ballroom to see Interpol about a year and a month after seeing them in that very same spot, and jeez. I love New York. So I love Interpol. They're...inseparable. They manage to encompass the very isness of New York in a way - their performance almost comes off as melodrama, with Carlos' jumpy bass lines grounding the absolute epic nature of the vocals and guitar, and it would be so easy to say, well this is an act. But those of us who know New York know that while everyone walks around wrapped up in the surface, there's the grit that binds it all together and lets masks communicate sincerity. I almost managed to succinctly say what I really mean. Damn! Maybe next time.

I barely remember Saturday, which saw Lucy and I checking out the Mercury Lounge for a full night of music, beginning to end, something I've never done before. We only intended to catch Midnight Movies, who definitely rocked - I remember Noah once saying there was no excuse for a band to not have a bassist (except the beloved White Stripes) but Midnight Movies didn't have a bass for 85 percent of their performance, letting synth lines take their place instead, and that was just fine with me. I have quite a penchant for any sound that reminds me of the inside of a computer. I want to play video games. The rest of the music that night was all right, and got way better once we got to Company where Del was playing DJ and granted multiple requests such as: Pour Some Sugar On Me, Gigantic by the Pixies, Spacehog's In The Meantime and Bowie's Jean Genie. One vaporizer hit later and it was time to pass out.

Sunday was lush day. Did nothing all day. Then, with not much money to spare in this world, Eileen and I split an eighth which was delved into hungrily as the three of us prepared for the ultimate end-of-the-weekend dinner - all you can eat at VATAN with a couple bottles of wine. We left the place clutching our stomachs - mine still hurt this morning from being TOO FULL!

11.12.2004

speaking of splits.

So I was relieving myself in the corporate bathroom this morning and had something on my brain, not quite sure what, and as I stood there I had one of those moments where you realize that you're always talking to yourself inside your head. This was spurred on by the fact that I had just uttered the words "Dude, can you believe that?" to myself in the course of my inner monologue.

Now, that got me thinking, is that two sides to me having a discussion? Or just one of me talking with myself? Is there even a difference? And does everybody do this? Why do I? Well, I got to thinking about my good old imaginary friend. He didn't have an exotic name like Duncan or a cool name like...Whiplash...but he was there all right, and I called him: Chris. Chris was an asshole. First of all, he was dumber than me. Second of all, he was really mean to me. All the time. Sometimes he would even try to beat me up and I would have these huge fights with him that would exist nowhere outside my mind. This was back in the grip of childhood when time and space weren't things you thought about, and an entire story could unfold over a matter of minutes from beginning to end. (Kinda like acid....eh?!) In the years that followed Chris would always be around, slowly dwindling away as I got real friends, and I wonder now if that's why I talk to myself. Am I still talking to my idiotic jerk of a best friend? And isn't that fucking crazy if I am?

welcome to the blogchine.

Ah, blog, at last we meet.

Of course it should happen the day after I spend an evening at the Bowery Ballroom, sharing the same breathing space with David Bowie, David Byrne and the Arcade Fire all at once. Now I'm overflowing with . . . something. Anyway, welcome to ones and zeroes, where I'm always trying to put two things into one and unsplit myself.