Don't Look Him In The Eye...

...or he'll steal your soul:

Arrive Early, And You Will Pay

As I left for my weekend in the city Friday, I listened to Block Party's new album A Weekend In The City, because aside from loving things that connect, I'm capable of astounding acts of unoriginality. Darker in tone(both musically and lyrically), Weekend is the perfect Empire Strikes Back to Silent Alarm's Star Wars. BigYawn covered it in detail already so I won't rehash, but if you enjoyed Alarm you will love the follow up. The first two tracks, "Song For Clay (Disappear Here)" and the post-9/11 society commentary "Hunting For Witches", are ripping tunes.

I also took in Menomena's Friend Or Foe, a stunning piece of indie rock with everything from power chords to saxophones. I loved the opening track "Muscle N Flo", as well as "Air Raid", "Weird?", and "Rotten Hell". Again, over at BigYawn Chris Daly does a better job exhorting the albums merits than I ever could.

I had some interesting times during the long weekend, which I'll get into later. I saw Ghost Rider.

To make up for that, I saw Breach. A gripping yet understated thriller. Chris Cooper was excellent as the walking paradox Robert Hanssen, who appears to be sincere about serving God and Country while betraying both that and his family, friends and colleagues. His final scene in the movie is chilling. Ryan Phillippe was equally excellent as Eric O'Neill, the young agent-in-training the FBI planted as Hanssen's clerk during the last two months of their investigation. Phillippe still suffers barbs from critics who hate the genetically blessed; every review I read took pains to point out his supposed shortcomings that Cooper and the script made up for. Which is a bunch of shit. I'm not saying Phillippe is an excellent actor, but he is certainly -- at the very least -- competent. Phillippe, like Keanu Reeves, could turn in a performance worthy of Peter O'Toole and it would still be shat upon by critics from the east coast to the west. Beautiful actors, when they miss, are ostracized for only having their faces and bodies to offer us. By that reasoning, if Steve Buscemi ever turned in a sub-par performance, he would have to be labeled as one of the worst actors ever.

It was fun to hear New Yorker's gasp in amazement when Laura Linney's character uses her cellphone on the Metro, something you can't do in NYC yet. The movie was almost ruined, however, by the banal commentary of a man who thought of himself as some sort of spy buff. Sitting next to me, this smelly know-it-all laughingly intoned "Welcome to the agency!" after O'Neill's first verbal thrashing from Hanssen. Too bad both Hanssen and O'Neill work for the FBI, which -- unless my grasp of the alphabet has atrophied considerably since Kindergarten -- has no word in it that begins with an "A". It's the BUREAU, jackass.

A common fixture of movie theaters today are the "First Look" shorts that run before the previews. Extended looks(ads) of upcoming movies and television shows, I find them a little more entertaining than the slide-show of ads and repeated trivia that used to play until the lights dimmed. They are at the very least just as easy to ignore...most of the time. One preview, which aired before Ghost Rider and Breach, froze me in my cushioned seat, though not exactly in a positive way.

The preview was for the Discovery Channel's Dirty Jobs. The host runs around with a water snake expert chasing water snakes, which I gather are non-poisonous, since one bites the host in the arm and he doesn't die. As the snake digs in deeper the host growls about how he hates his job, he cries out and the snake lets go and flayed flesh falls from it's fangs. Red strips of skin clearly fall to the ground. The camera then treats us to a close up of the hosts bloodied forearm, the wounds matching the discarded skins scraps like puzzle pieces.

This wasn't the worse part.

After that, in the safety of a lab the host forces a water snake to throw up. And, on a fifty foot screen, I and everyone else who arrived early so we wouldn't miss the previews(one of the best parts of going to the theater) were treated to watching a water snake vomit up a slimy, still recognizable fish.

"...That's just weird," the host says, looking at the glistening, half-digested carcass.

No. No, it's not just weird...it's fucking disgusting. I was trying to eat nachos, now I can barely sip my coke without my gut reeling. If I wanted to see that, I would be at home watching the goddamned Discovery Channel. Who thought this was a good idea to show a few dozen potential concession stand patrons? I haven't seen a more disturbing display of puking at a movie theater since The Exorcist was re-released, but at least that was in the movie. Shit.

I'll still arrive early, but damn, I may take an early trip to the bathroom.

Kodak Moments

So far, I'm one for two on New Year's Resolutions: I bought a digital camera. This camera, which I bought so I could finally join the 21st century(even my mother has a digital camera; she prints out her own photos now), has already proven one thing: I'm the reason they have very explicit directions that insult most (other) people's intelligence.

You see, I couldn't open the battery latch to my new camera. The directions said to slide the battery lock to "open" and then to open the latch. Which I did. The latch wouldn't open.

Holding the lock in the open position with one finger while prying at the latch with two others, I let out grunts of frustration while crouched cross-legged on the sofa. I tried all kinds of hand positions, desperately trying to get the damn latch to open. Getting a fingernail in between two plastic panels, I tried again, pushing the camera away from my body with outstretched, straining arms, afraid I would break my new toy. Nothing was working. I wanted to use this thing so badly, why would they make this first step so impossible? Did I get the one defective battery latch in a thousand? Fuck this! I thought, Open...Open...ohhhh-penn....OPEN! OPEN!! OPEN!!! I gave up, covered in the slight cold sweat you get from frustration and embarrassment.

Peering down at my new camera - that I couldn't even put batteries in - I scratched the top of my head, palmed the camera and dragged my knuckles across the arm rest, lurching over to my room to look up the tech support number. Assuming I could still operate my MacBook correctly. I briefly pictured myself as the last man on an apocalyptic Earth, with a can of creamed corn in one hand and a can opener in the other. Looking back and forth at each one, considering each carefully, before muttering "er..derr..derf?", and starving to death. Thus ending humanity, and paving the way for a more worthy species, one whose members won't struggle with their digital devices. Maybe mice, or those really smart dolphins who rescue people. Sorry everyone.

ANYWAY, the guy I talked to at Cannon did his best not to laugh at me. Apparently, you push the lock to "open" then you slide the latch, and open it. The second he said "slide" - and then put me on hold, so he could get the camera-specific procedure for my dumb ass - I understood what I was doing wrong, and I felt really, really, reallllly stupid. I stayed on hold, just so I could tell the guy when he got back that I had figured it out and I wanted my gold star.

So, now I have a camera. And I'm in New York this weekend, so there should be plenty of photo opportunities.

Something else bizarre happened to me with this camera, now that I think about it. It arrived from UPS at my office, and still in the box, I put it in my bag(my man bag, my messenger bag, my card-carrying metro-sexual bag) and started home.

Waiting for the Greenline at L'Enfant plaza, a group of extremely pretty girls got out of a Yellow line train. The leader was a very Nordic looking, tall blonde. I assume she was the leader because she walked right up to me and made the universal camera gesture: the raised hand snapping off a photo. Maybe I was stunned because she seemed to be walking in-step with the music(although I can't remember what was playing on my iPod) but, for some insane reason, when she made the universal camera gesture for a split second I thought How the hell does she know I'm carrying a camera - still in it's box - inside my bag? Is she reading my mind?

No, she wasn't a mind reader after all. All she was doing was asking me to take a picture of her and her friends, with her camera. Something any idiot could have deduced. Any idiot who could later go home and put batteries in his new digital camera without the assistance of an 800 number.

Anyway, she says "Could you take a picture of all of us, and get the Metro sign in it? It's for our job."

I said yes, thinking Sure, I'll take your picture and get the L'Enfant plaza sign in...wait, it's for your job? Then, as I get ready to take the picture, this group of about eight pretty girls all take out Groucho Marx glasses and put them on.

What the hell kind of job involves getting your picture taken at Metro stops wearing a god-damned pair of Groucho fucking Marx glasses? This is still blowing my mind two days later. Someone, someone out there must know what job these girls had. Please tell me.

He Must Be Anorexic

Before I write this, I want to say to people who know me: you are going to roll your eyes. Yes, I know I've never been fat. Yes, I know a lot of you will find it very hypocritical for me to complain about a skinny person(even though I am not that skinny anymore, I've done some damage in my late twenties). Your objections are noted. That said...

I've been trying to eat better. Usually this entails bringing my own, packed lunch to work. Today, however, I forgot to pack a lunch and I ended up at a nearby Subway restaurant(I say restaurant because they always add that in the commercials for fast food places, "participating McDonald's restaurants, your local Subway restaurant", etc. It's one of the industry's insecurities I guess, not being considered a real restaurant, so they constantly remind you that they are, technically, a restaurant. Maybe that's why fine restaurants have taken to referring to themselves as "fine dining establishments").

Um, anyway, usually I would buy a six-inch meatball sub when I forgot my packed lunch. A treat for being absent minded, which is kind of like rewarding an AA member who misses a meeting with a shot of Jack. Today I switched it to a Subway Club, also six inches, a much more sensible choice for someone watching what they eat.

Ahead of me in line was a tall, rail-thin gentleman. He orders a meatball sub. Not just a meatball sub, but a foot-long meatball sub. Which he then has drowned in extra Parmesan cheese by the friendly people behind the counter. It's a gloriously delicious, cheesy, marinara dripping, meat-filled, fat and calorie loaded bomb. It's a man's sandwich. This sub dunks my sub's head in the toilet after stealing it's lunch money. This sub goes home and fucks the prom queen.

Fine, no problem. When I was younger, I ate like that(worse, actually) and never gained a pound. Sure, this guy is actually older than I am, but who is to say whose metabolism stays super-revved at shrew-like levels for their entire lives? Maybe he has to eat his body weight in fatty, delicious foods just to keep from wasting away. Plus, he could be running marathons and power-lifting(probably not that, since his thin limbs would probably snap) and doing other strenuous exercise that burns off these calories. Or he's a chain-smoking heroin addict. Either way, who am I to judge?

What made me smirk and cough under my breath was when, after taking a minute to get exact change to pay for his lunch, he stopped in front of the chips and actually took time to decide between the "light" Doritos and the "baked" lays. What kind of person, after choosing to eat a foot-long meatball sub, actually struggles with what low-fat chips he should be eating?

An obvious needle-sharing heroin addict, that's who.

It's Cold

The heat stopped working again this week. Guy is coming this weekend(!) to work on it. I'm huddled in a blanket, wearing my jacket, using my MacBook in my lap for warmth. My girlfriend just told me I could be sick forever...I'm pretty sure she was kidding.

The space heater a co-worker(thanks Brian!) gave me works though; I just have to plug it in through the bathroom so it doesn't short out the bedroom's power.

My landlord is playing techno-infused rave music upstairs now.

Welcome. Welcome, to my cold dark hell.

Horror Of Horrors

I walk ten minutes in the cold to see this:



I just want some hot chocolate! Get some hamsters in a wheel or something! Pedal a bicycle! I'll do it; I didn't walk here for nothing!

Oh well. There's always tomorrow for Starbucks.

There better be.

Next Time I'll Use Amazon Like A Civilized Person

Where did all those fucking kids come from?

I went to Pentagon City during my lunch break, and teens and tweens or whateverthefuck were all over the place. Do schools let out for a two hour lunch break now? There was no escaping them. I just wanted to quickly buy my girlfriend's birthday present and get out. I didn't count on the pushing and nudging through a wall of minors who stand around slack-jawed, not realizing they are idling in front of the god damned cash register and every one above the age of twenty assumes they must be in line.

"Oh, I'm not in line...sorry!" she says, taking a sip of her McDonald's coke. In the fucking store.

This wasn't just ignorance or rudeness, this must have been some kind of cruel performance art. This was some bohemians' senior thesis entitled "Oblivious Teens In Store Drive People Batshit Crazy, Number Seven".

This means I'm getting old, doesn't it? Shit.