Crazy Ass Stuff

I tried this once and could barely stay horizontal.

Dan Savage tells Good Christians to Refocus Their Efforts

I'm sure this won't be the first time I post a Dan Savage link, but it happens to tie into many of my interests.  Basically, he explains that whenever he criticizes fundamentalist Christians, he received hushed assurances from moderate Christians that they are not all anti-gay, anti-abortion, anti-contraception, etc.  And to them Dan says, "Tell that to the fundamentalists!"

His point being that it's the inaction of rational religious people to speak out against the zealots that has allowed those hate-mongerers to become the spokespeople for all religion.  What a stud.

Free Noir Fiction!

As a Raymond Chandler fan, this caught my eye: Rockstar Games is distributing a digital short story collection that ties into L.A. Noire, their stylized uber-violent action adventure video game.  The best part is it's free and I just happen to be going on a little vacation and could use some reading material that won't tax my brain too much.

They nabbed some respectable writers for the task including Andrew Vachss and Joyce Carol Oates.  If it's amazing, I'll report back.

Flying High

David Windestål is a young Swedish engineer whose hobby is remote control flight.   He's part of is a growing Internet subculture that integrates conventional R/C technology and off-the-shelf video technology with the open source movement.  Just do a search for "open source" and helicopter and you'll see what I mean.

Windestål shares all his projects online where he not only posts videos of his endeavors but also all his plans and step-by-step instructions. It's all completely beyond me but the openness of his posts gives me the illusion that I could do it myself.  After all, the arms of his copters are made of wood and he soldered all the circuitry himself.


But if you have a grand or so to spare, a solid concept of electronics and programming, and several hours to spare, you can make your own POV tricopter that will shoot in HD.  Need proof?  

Reboot

So it's been five and a half years since I've posted on this blog.  Originally it was meant to be forum for my brilliant thoughts and analyses but it turns out I don't have much to say.  But it turns out I'm good at discovering amusing things and occasionally I have insights that might not be brilliant but won't fit into a 140 character tweet.

With that in mind, I decided to use this space to rant, pontificate and pass on nuggets of information in dribs and drabs if only as a digital scrapbook for myself.  If anyone else finds it amusing, yippee.  First post of the new Marty Report to follow toot sweet.

January 10, 2006

It’s unbelievable that after 15 years, The Simpsons continues to be hilarious. This past Sunday, while fighting fever delirium, I watched a new episode of The Simpsons and it wasn’t that good. But for whatever reason, watching it made me scour through the 153-odd unwatched episodes on my TiVO. Of course, I’d seen most of the previous episodes but had seen none from this season. Tonight, instead of watching me perform (mediocrely) on an ABC sitcom, I watched a recorded Simpsons episode from November about Homer running for mayor and it had my sides splitting. Splitting like an overripe melon thrown off of a gymnasium roof!

It just amazed me that the show can still surprise. Of course, I can’t remember a single joke – that’s not my thing – but it was high-larious. It ain’t perfect, but the consistency is to be commended. And if you’re wondering how I can have so many episodes on my TiVO (at high quality), it takes about a $100 and an hour to increase your TiVO’s capacity 8-fold.

Anyhow, still mildly sick, but had some wine tonight anyhow. What else was I supposed to drink with my penne with bitter greens? It’s so easy, by the way. Go into my garden and pluck a couple handfuls of bitter greens, chop them up and sauté them with some sliced garlic. Add some cooked penne, salt, pepper and grated romano and you’re done. Unless you want to add some truffle oil, as I did. Couldn’t be simpler.

Sleep now.

January 8?, 2006

The past couple days have been sort of a blur. You know how in movies, when the protagonist gets drugged by a spiked martini and then the camera cuts to his/her perspective and it gets all blurry and streaky and the audio sounds like it's coming through a cardboard tube. Well that's what this weekend's illness was like. I had a little cough but still went for a run Saturday morning. I felt like ass afterwards. Then I went to a tennis class and felt like double-ass afterwards. When I got home, I thought, maybe I'm sick. I'm very in tune with my body like that. My temperature: 99 degrees Farenheit. So I stayed in and watched "One Day in September" to bone up on my terrorist history before seeing "Munich." It's an excellent movie. Gripping, sad, frustrating, very well made (by the guy who did "Into the Void").

Sunday morning, I woke up with the blurry/cardboard tube sensation accented by pain in head and body. Ride it out, I thought. Temperature: 100. After watching 3 episodes of the Jack Osbourne reality show where he loses 56 pounds and climbs a mountain, I called my sister and she says go to a doctor. I said, pshaw. Temperature: 101. So I took more Motrin and started sweating gallons. Temperature: 102. At that point I thought maybe it wasn't such a good idea to eat that coughing duck that died on my doorstep. I dragged my ass to Woodland Hills, which I discovered is where my hospital is. That's a 25 mile sucky drive.

But they were great there. I didn't have to wait and they doted on me. Doted, I say! They've got this flu test where they stick a Q-tip up your nose and then make a little culture. Ten minute later, they told me I had influenza-A. Yeah, yeah. Whatever. But what a cool test. It even came in its own cardboard box with picture instructions. Then they gave me Tamiflu, which, because of its prevalence in the news, seemed so trendy and sexy. The whole experience seemed so futuristic; the only thing missing was a robot doctor.

Anyhow, the lesson learned: get a goddamned flu shot.

January 5 2006

January 5, 2006

O.K., I haven’t been the best “blogger” in the world – my intention was to write every day.  But believe it or not, I have been on writing jobs the past two days so I’ve been a little swamped.  Nothing very sexy, but lucrative.  I’m a whore.

Anyhow, I still have more work to do, but I just wanted to mention that while I’ve been shuffling through my MP3 collection, I skip ahead when an Elliott Smith comes on.  But I love Elliott Smith.  I finally figured out that I’m a little annoyed that the ass-faced drunk killed his motherfuckin’ self.  It makes me angry to hear his whiny little voice lamenting away.  That’s all…

Oh, one more thing.  The guy I’m working for now loves to use the ellipses, which I find distasteful, but he’s paying the bill, right?  Anyhow, I find myself using it in emails and other writing and I’m driving myself nuts.  Wouldn’t be the first time…

January 2, 2006

1/2/2006

Playing: “Non-Absorbing” – Guided by Voices

So here’s the second installment in the series.  Only 363 more to go.

Yesterday I went to Burbank to see Syriana.  I go there because I have a short stack of AMC movie passes accumulated from repeated platelet donations and that’s the closest theater to me.  It’s not a bad place to watch a movie; stadium seating, free parking, big selection, free popcorn on Wednesdays, etc.  Problem was Syriana was sold out so, like a putz, I just went to the first available movie, The Chronicles of Narnia.  Whatta not very remarkable movie.

I had read the books as a 13-year-old and remembered enjoying them, but little more beyond that.  My memory for literature, stories and movies is pretty limited.  My memory in general is pretty limited, though I can remember things like my credit card number from ten years ago: 5424 1802 2196 9535.  Very useful stuff.  Anyhow, when reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe I didn’t know who C.S. Lewis was and had a purely secular upbringing so I didn’t pick up on all the religious crap at all.  I got off on the fantasy of going to a magical land of Turkish delight and talking lions.  Who knew the lion was Jebus!  Anyhow, the story is pretty flimsy – plots about fulfilling prophecies and faith aren’t interesting to me because they end up being resolved because of destiny.  These kids beat the evil queen not because they worked hard, had any talent or did something clever, but because their success was foretold.  Big deal.

Watching Narnia and then diving into a bottle of Beaujolais was a sad, sad way to start off the new year.  Hopefully this pattern of patheticism will be broken.

Did I mention that I had a delicious pasta dish with my wine last night?  I mean, pretty standard stuff with bits that were getting old in the fridge.  Nothing to challenge Mario Batali or anything:

Fusilli with Peas, Ham & Mushrooms

8 oz     dried fusilli
1/2 cup     frozen peas
2 oz     ham, cut into small cubes
4 oz     mushrooms, sliced
1/2     onion, minced
1/2 tsp     thyme
1/3 cup     heavy cream
1/4 cup     dry white wine
2 oz     grated parmesan cheese
1 tbsp     olive oil
1 tbsp     butter

In a large sauté pan, sauté the onions in butter, olive oil and thyme until clear.  Boil the pasta in heavily salted water.  While the pasta cooks, add mushrooms to the onions and cook until…cooked (over a medium heat).  Add white wine and cook until liquid boils off.  Add cream and heat until boiling.  Two minutes before the pasta is ready, add the peas and ham to the sauté pan and heat through.  Drain the pasta well and add it to the pan.  Toss with grated cheese.  If you haven’t salted and peppered the sucker yet, you should until it tastes good.

So 2006 has arrived and as much as I hate New Year's Eve and the whole resolutions thing, I have decided to make a commitment to write in every day of this fine year. So let me start by talking about the previous year: 2005 sucked.

Now, perhaps from an external point of view I'm an asshole as in 2005 I was able to make an O.K. living without working full time and I was able to pursue creative endeavors, but I think the problem was that I was living in a dark, deep depression where I was marginally functional. I slept in more than I ever have. I drank more than any other year of my life. I exercised less than any year in the past seven years. I was injured. I was undateable (apparently). I didn't take a vacation. I didn't finish a fucking thing - my house is still unpainted, I have three short films I shot that are incomplete, I have tens of MS Word files on my computer named "Script Idea_2005.02.03" or "Funny Sketch #2" or any combination therein that were forgotten as soon as I pressed ctrl+s.

Anyhow, this isn't to whine or complain. It's just the state of things. So this year I hope to change things.

So far, the future looks pretty bleak; within 20 hours of the new year where I insisted to myself that it was worthless to drink alone, I have polished off a bottle of a crisp, dry and pretty delicious Cote de Brouilly Beaujolais. As all Beaujolais, it's made from the gamay grape. After tasting how the 2003's (the year where all the old ladies died from heat stroke, but the grapes became superripe), I hoarded every Beaujolais I could get my hands on. And now one of those exclusive purchases is being turned urine as I type. What a waste. A sad, delicious waste.

I could have cause as the New Year's party I went to last night was attended by my ex-girlfriend, for whom I still carry a torch (a torch that varies in intensity from bonfire to slightly glowing ember). Anyhow, Tall and Blonde was looking particularly tall and blonde and I was smitten all over again. And of course, my married "Wingman" said afterwards, "Tall and Blonde was looking hot tonight. My bad for telling you to break up with her." Whatta dick. And when I was running this morning (another soon to fail resolution), I thought, why did she ever go out with me in the first place? She's so stylish and beautiful and I'm so Target-ish. And the flame of the torch flared all over again.

So after new year's brunch this afternoon, I went to see "Syriana" not appreciating that this wet weekend is probably the busiest movie night of the year. It was sold out and so I went to see "The Lion the Witch & the Wardrobe" - a movie I forgot as soon as the end credits rolled. It sucked. More later.

Marty

This probably goes without saying, but avoid the Budget Salisbury steak dinner. It contains ingredients that make you feel bad about yourself. God damn ConAgra.

A New Low?

Last night, I cleaned the kitchen as part of my post-pre-midlife crisis reconstruction. Never mind that the rest of the house is in shambles - baby steps, baby steps. So rather than maintain a tidy kitchen, the new rule is that cooking is verboten, at least until I have friends over just so that I can prove to them that I can clean a kitchen. They don't need to know that I can't maintain a clean kitchen.

So for dinner last night, I stopped by the grocery store and saw that there was a big sale on frozen dinners. Ever since I was a kid, I was enamored by T.V. dinners and all they promised: a complete, multi-course meal in one tidy, compartmentalized package. And here they were, five for five dollars! I could get salisbury steak, which was indistinguishable from the beef loaf, or I could get the barbecue pork ribs (processed pork pressed into shapes with smoke flavoring) all for a dollar a pop! As I am recently unemployed, I thought that I should examine this food avenue closely. I decided to do a comparison between the Budget Gourmet meals, a standard among post-collegians and a feisty up-and-comer, and Banquet, the number one selling brand which has been around for half a century and is owned by food monolith, ConAgra.

Last night's showdown was macaroni and cheese, an all-time favorite of mine. At 7:30, I popped in the two trays in the oven and set the timer. The Banquet mac and cheese showed promise as its ingredients were pretty much just pasta, cheese, milk products and flour, which are the basic components of any restaurant mac and cheese. It also weighed in at twelve ounces, 50% larger than the Budget Gourmet version. Lastly, it contained nearly three times the amount of sodium, so I thought that at the very least, it would be tasty in a really gross way. The Budget Gourmet recipe contained margarine (versus Banquet's butter), xanthan gum (a thickener made from fermented corn) and something called "flavoring." Also, all the sauce was piled up and frozen at one end of the tray while the bare pasta was on the other end. It looked like what a one dollar frozen meal should look like.

I started with the Banquet mac and cheese, which was done first. It had the creamy texture of box macaroni and cheese, but none of the flavor. In fact, it didn't even taste salty, just sort of generically saucy. There was no cheddar notes or any cheese notes for that matter. The Budget Gourmet fared much better, more closely resembling the Kraft version with more zest and a sharper cheddar flavor (thank you, flavoring!). Still, both pastas were overcooked and neither was very satisfying. I could palate them only when washed down with a couple glasses of Columbia Crest Grand Estates Cabernet Sauvignon from Washington, which flushed out the coating of xanthan gum from my palate.

I wish that I had just cooked. It would have taken the same amount of time and would have cost the same, probably. Basically, you make a cup of bechemel (a cup of milk, a tablespoon of flour and a pat of butter, whisked and heated until thickened) and then you start adding grated cheese until it's done, probably eight to twelve ounces. If you put a blend of sharp cheddar with mild, that'll probably be best because if you use just sharp cheddar, the sauce is a little grainy. I also add a few dashes of tabasco sauce and a teaspoon of dried mustard to add some zip. Add the sauce to a pound of boiled macaroni and then either eat it or bake it and then eat it.

But I suppose that it was just as well that I ate my crappy T.V. dinners as I was watching the finale of Temptation Island 3, the visual equivalent to a Budget Gourmet dinner. It was tasty-ish, but not really and then I just felt guilty and bad about myself afterwards.

Cash Remembered

On Friday morning, I was shocked to hear that John Ritter had passed away. But I was truly saddened when I heard that Johnny Cash had also died. It was not a surprise as he had been plagued by complications from diabetes for years. But it was a true loss nonetheless. Though he called himself, “the biggest sinner of them all,” and had spent years carousing and drinking, addicted to amphetamines, you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone say anything disparaging about him or the amazing body of work he left behind.

So that night, I went out with some friends for an outdoor concert, which was pleasant but left me restless. Driving home alone, feeling a compulsion driven by reverence, or, more likely, the near-bottle of wine drunk at the concert, I stopped by the local bowling alley, which also houses a bar that features karaoke. Jason, the karaoke D.J. greeted me as I filled out a song request slip. I am a semi-regular here who normally sings ironic 70s ballads, but tonight I was paying tribute to a legend.

At first, I was wondering if this would be the right crowd. Most of the time, the bar is filled with a mix of blue-collar regulars and the growing neighborhood hipster crowd, both of whom would appreciate a song for Johnny. But that night, it was filled with young co-eds from the local college who were singing Brittney Spears-like songs, none of which I recognized, all of which sounded the same. Still, I thumbed through the song catalog and considered the meager four Johnny Cash songs they had. “A Boy Named Sue” was right out as it was a novelty song Johnny was never that fond of. The fact that I didn’t know it at all also was a factor. “Ring of Fire” is good but it never really moved me like “I Walk the Line,” an all-time favorite. But with that one, it’s very hard to sing the last verse, which dips so deep in tone it abuts the lower range of human hearing. That left “Folsom Prison Blues.” It’s singable, it’s one of his signature songs – how could I go wrong?

And in the party atmosphere of the karaoke bar, I didn’t go wrong. I did my best to replicate Johnny’s throaty timbre, and people danced and applauded in remembrance. As I stepped off the stage, a square-shouldered Latino man with a thick gold choker around his thick neck stopped me and said, “That was fantastic, man. It was like Johnny was up there. You were channeling him.” I said my thanks, but the man continued gushing – obviously he was a little drunk to compare me, a lumpy Chinese guy in an orange plaid button-down from Target with the Man in Black. Still, who was I to stop him? This was Ralph. His shorter, quieter friend, Robert, was also appreciative, insisting that I shake his hand. Ralph spoke to me more saying, “Man, you should have sung ‘I Walk the Line’ or ‘Ring of Fire.’ Those are my favorite.” I explained that I had added ‘Ring of Fire’ in the cue and would be singing it later. But he added, “I mean, your song was great. You know me and Robert were in Folsom Prison. Johnny is like my idol!” I was both slightly alarmed and flattered at the same time. For me to impress Johnny Cash’s core audience was a feat. Yet, I couldn’t help imagining what crimes these two might have committed to get them into Folsom State Prison and how long they had been out and what they were capable of doing to me. Robert asserted repeatedly that I had to sing “Ring of Fire.” With his muscled arm around my shoulder, I suddenly felt performance anxiety. What if I sang it badly? What if I messed up the words? I mean, I can just read them off the screen, but maybe there’s a key change I don’t know about.

At this time, Robert leaned back into our conversation saying to Ralph, “You tell him we were in Folsom?” Robert nodded and told him I was going to sing again. They both insisted that they buy me a beer. I politely declined, but they were adamant. They shoved money in my hand. So, I compromised. I bought a Budweiser and gave it to Jason, the D.J. I explained to him that it was courtesy of the two Johnny Cash fans who had been in Folsom Prison. Jason’s eyes widened and he tried to turn it down, but I just left it at his console.

At this point, I would have loved to leave, but I had to sing “Ring of Fire.” There was no getting around it; my audience demanded it. As I waited, sitting in between Ralph and Robert, they told me how this was there first time there and was it always this jumping and which nights did I go there. At long last, I was the last song of the night, before Jason sang his closing song. I stepped gingerly towards the stage and took the warm microphone, squinting at the lyrics as they lit up on the T.V. screen. But when the opening trumpets of “Ring of Fire” played, I shed all worries and sang for Johnny. I sang as low as my vocal cords could take me and got lost in the song. “It burns, burns, burns. That ring of fire. Ring of fire.” There might have been a couple slip-ups in tempo and I may have been a little off key, but it didn’t matter. Ralph and Robert congratulated me as I left the stage. They looked as if I had just given a heart wrenching eulogy for their mother; I was their new best friend. Still, I wanted to make a quick exit. I shook both their hands again and said my good nights.

I felt that in my own semi-drunk, extremely hokey karaoke way, I had done something honorable. I was happy that I could pay tribute to a musical hero and that there were others who were as appreciative as I was of his music. As I walked out the door feeling sad for Johnny’s passing, yet glad for his legacy, Jason paid tribute to another lost legend in the final song of the night. He sang a headbanging version of the “Three’s Company” theme song.

Senor Fish

Tonight, my friend, Andrew, came by to look at my new house. He liked it. As a reward for his driving way the hell out here, I took him to Senor Fish (though he paid). Senor Fish is a family owned taco joint with locations in South Pasadena, Downtown and Eagle Rock and it does have the best fish tacos in town. They have a fish taco sampler that includes a salmon, swordfish and tuna taco, all grilled, with slices of avocado on top. The plate also includes a piquant side of ceviche. It's a sublime feast that is unparalleled. And they also have deep-fried Baja-style fish tacos, which are also fantastic served with a mayonnaise sauce and cabbage. I have yet to have better fish tacos. Next time I'm going to try the famed scallop tacos.

We brought in a six-pack of Orchard Street Brewery Pale Ale, which was surprisingly good. It's at Trader Joe's for $4.99 and it's crisp and hoppy. The hops have a nice floralness to them, which I love. Fresh-tasting, bitter and refreshing, it was the perfect companion for the fish.

Tonight's was a far cry from last night's desperate seafood meal. It was after the Superbowl, which I watched while I painted the dining room. I was starving but I had no food in the house except for a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese and some frozen scallops from Trader Joe's. So I did what any normal person would do. I added the scallops to the mac & cheese. I'll just say this: adding the scallops did not elevate the Kraft dish to any sort of gustatory heights. I'll also add that I'll never buy Kraft mac & cheese again. I used to eat it as a youngun, and after seeing The Pianist I bought a few boxes for comfort food (when you see The Pianist, you become preoccupied with food). But it brought little comfort. Salty, gooey, bland and not at all satisfying - scallops or no scallops. I could argue that I was trying to add class to a meal that comes out of a cardboard box, but in reality, I was just desperate to get calories in my body. It was a new culinary low for me. Please don't tell anyone.

Movie Nuggets

The other night, I saw The Pianist. It's a fantastic movie. From the moment it begins it sucks you into the ghettos of Warsaw and makes you feel pangs of hunger, even though your guiltily chewing on popcorn. It makes you feel cold and helpless, even though you're sitting on plush seats in a climate-controlled multiplex. It's such an honest and real movie, it makes Schindler's List - which is a good movie in its own right - look like a theme park. The difference is, the Spielberg movie is about heroes and hope. The Polanski movie is about surviving and pain. Both are valuable, but for me, The Pianist is so much more resonant. It's interesting that the California dude who becomes a directing wunderkind and ends up making hit after hit makes a movie about heroes and the dude whose mother died in a concentration camp and whose wife was killed with their unborn child makes a movie about pain. True, he is an admitted child rapist, but his movies are still great.

Last night, I saw Far From Heaven, which is equally impressive in its artistic vision. Every aspect of it from the color scheme, to the dialogue, to the acting style, to the titles is so deliberate and evocative that it must be exerienced to be appreciated. Filmmakers like Todd Haynes and Roman Polanski help reinstill the beauty and value of the film medium.

An Epiphany

Today, I had an epiphany. The day started out depressing me, and got worse when a friend started telling me about my ex-girlfriend's new boyfriend. And then I had lunch with a friend who just sold a script for a zillion dollars (we split the check). Then, while I was driving home, ruminating about both, it hit me. I need a car stereo. A while back, mine was stolen (or at least, the all important faceplate was, leaving the CD mechanism behind). Since then, as I drive, I tend to ruminate. And hum. And sing the same verse from George Jones' "She Thinks I Still Care" and the same two lines from "Baby Got Back." Specifically, "Big sisters I can't resist 'em, Red beans and rice didn't miss 'em."

I mean, come on. I live in Los Angeles. I spend 10.5 hours a day in car. When the stereo was stolen, I made the foolhardy assumption that a car stereo was a luxury. Like cable T.V. Or wine with a cork. In fact, a car stereo is a necessity; it's like air or DSL or (for 80% of America) cable T.V. It keeps you company. It's an instant friend. It distracts you from whatever's weighing on your mind. And if you turn to AM or NPR, it informs you.

I need a car stereo. I need morning radio with its sirens and horns to keep my spirits up and my mind on the sunny side of the street. I need an afternoon dose of Tom Leykis to get me back on track on how I should feel about women. I need to hear top 40 to anesthetize my frontal lobe to external stimuli.

So tomorrow, I'm going to Fry's and I'm going to get a car stereo, damn it. You just watch me and soon I'll be cruising down the 101 while listening to the classic rock station singing "Ventura Highway" by America at the top of my lungs. See how you like it XXXXXX, who doesn't have the balls to tell me that she's dating someone new. See how you like it, XXXXX, who leaves me paying the tip while he drives off in his Range Rover.

Boy. I really need that car stereo.

What the...

There is method to this madness. I will write more as time permits.

I will say this about myself: I am a struggling artist. I make money doing deadline-oriented work and right now I'm on a deadline. Must work. Harder.

Marty

A Limerick

Marty sure thought he was clever
He didn't think he'd be single forever
But women, they elude him,
They must think him too dim
They say, "Date Marty? Oh yeah, I think never."

Who the Hell Is This Guy?

I'll eventually tell. I've been working nonstop for 14 hours and I'm a little beat. Plus, there's a rager of a windstorm out right now that cause a short brown out that shut down my computer. Now something in my house is making a burning smell, but I can't figure out what it is. Oh well. What, me worry?

My friend, Brad, is a D.J. in San Francisco at a college radio station. I hadn't heard from him in awhile, and I heard something had happened to him, so I called him. He was smoking in bed and fell asleep. His lit cigarette started a fire that burned down his apartment. He escaped with third degree burns on his back and arms, but poisoned his lungs. He was on a respirator for four weeks, unconscious. Then, two more weeks in the hospital. When he woke up, he tried to get up and fell down, splitting his head open.

The one good thing about the ordeal is that he quit smoking. Four weeks unconscious helps one get over the nicotine cravings. We decided that he should write a thick self help/quit smoking book that only has writing on the first page, "Close this book, place a lit cigarette on top of it and fall asleep."

But he's back home recouperating and there's some talk of a benefit concert, for which he feels rather sheepish, A) because he has trouble accepting help; and, B) he started the damned fire. But I told him that he needs all the help he can get. Plus, if the Radar Brothers, Richard Buckner and Grandaddy play - as promised - then I'm there.

All right. Now I'm a little freaked out because I swear the smoke smell is stronger. Must go hunting with a fire extinguisher. Fire engines throughout the neighborhood. I just moved in here. Give me a break. Maybe it's some other poor soul whose house is on fire. Is it wrong of me to hope that's so? I'll help put out...

Marty

P.S. I'm drinking a non-vintage wine from Gundlach-Bunschu or however it's spelled. It's their "Bearitage", which just means a blend of leftover grapes. Still, quite tasty. Crap. Fire. Forgot. Bye.

Saturday Night's All Right for [insert self-deprecating witticism]

Working on a deadline tonight. I don't know why I have work due on a Sunday, but I do, so this will be brief.

This afternoon I went for dim sum in Monterey Park, where all the Chinese people in Los Angeles live. My first visit was such an eye opener because I had never seen so many businesses with just Chinese writing and I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area. We went to NBC Seafood, which is big and loud and has a television network sounding name. Here's a little tip: go to dim sum at a place that either has "Ocean" or "Harbor" or other sea-related terms in the name or go to one that shares the name of a big television network. For instance, in Chinatown, you've got ABC and Ocean Seafood, which are the best ones there. VBC (what the hell does that stand for?) went out of business a few years back and Empress Pavillion is just O.K. Then, in Monterey Park, there's Harbor Village, Ocean Star and NBC - all top notch. I should sell this info, it's so damned useful.

Anyhow, if I had to choose between the network-named dim sum and the maritime-named dim sum, I'd go with the maritime. Ocean Seafood and Ocean Star are my two faves. NBC was good for the most part, but there were a few bland dishes - some sort of bun thing and a couple dumpling things. But they've got chicken feet galore, if that's your poison; two different kinds, even. Having raised chickens as a child, I've seen what they step in and I don't necessarily want that near my mouth.

Then I went to see my cousin play in a basketball game. He goes to a Division III NCAA school, which I guess means they don't get sexy, nubile cheerleaders to spur on the crowd. So I had to watch the game. They won.

On a personal/personals note, I went back onto the online dating website and saw my ex-girlfriend's ad with a photo. She looked incredibly beautiful on it and it ruined my day. I was supposed to have lunch with her tomorrow but I cancelled. And of course, the woman I saw on the site to whom I sent that irresistably charming note didn't answer me.

Sigh. Back to work.