Jan. 26, 2006 - Chris Penn

Christopher Penn is dead. He was only 41.

He was a great actor. I'll never forget him in Short Cuts or Reservoir Dogs. His characters were uniquely disturbing. His portrayals had a scary, menacing quality underneath it all. He even scared me in Rumblefish . . . and his role in that film was tiny. A big loss for acting and movies. Rest in peace.

Jan. 26, 2006 - The King Never Dissapoints

This is unbelievable. He's the King. The KING!

A.P. - Pop star Michael Jackson was spotted shopping in a Bahrain mall on Wednesday, hiding his face behind a veil and donning a black robe traditionally worn by women in the Gulf.

He was with three children, apparently his own, who also had their faces covered by dark scarves. An unidentified woman accompanied them . . .

The woman asked photographers to respect their privacy and told them they were scaring the children before they left in a white car with darkened windows.

That's what's scaring the children? Not the fact that their dad's dragged them to Bahrain and is dressed as a conservative Arab woman?

Not the fact that their dad is . . . Michael Jackson???

Hail to THE KING!

Jan. 24, 2006 - It Just Looks Wrong

Am I the only one, or is it taking more time than I thought it would to get used to Pope Ratzinger? I'm not talking policy or doctrine or personal style. Just visually. Every time I see him on TeeVee, my mind won't accept his image. It just looks wrong. The same way my visual mind rejected Dick Sargent when he replaced Dick York on Bewitched.

Now here's the irony, I just realized: The real Pope (John Paul II) looks more like the replacement Darren (Dick Sargent). And the replacement Pope (Ratzinger) looks more like the real Darren (Dick York). Huh? Am I right?

I guess the lesson is: the Lord works in mysterious ways. I'm so confused. Especially since I'm not Catholic or Christian and I really don't give a shit.

So why does it still bug me?

Jan. 13, 2006 - Too Many Colors?

Do you think there are there too many colors on this page? But don't you love sherbet? Why when it's spelled "sherbet" do we pronounce it "sherbert"? I saw Match Point tonight. I enjoyed it -- a very trashy story! Scarlett and Mr. Rhys whatshisname were verry sexy, but I miss the humor in Woody's films. I don't know if I've ever seen anything as funny as Kirstie Alley's Orthodox Jewish shrink character having a meltdown in the midst of her patient's therapy session in Deconstructing Harry. Of course, one can't just produce that stuff on demand, not even Woody Allen, so I'm grateful with what we've been given, I really am, oh, don't think I'm complaining, please don't hit me! Also tonight, I just found out that Vincent Schiavelli died last month. How did I miss that? He had cancer. How sad! Poor Vincent Schiavelli. He died in a village in Italy, where he was living. I hope it was a beautiful place.

Jan. 10, 2006 - H&M for Pigpen

Another thing about H&M. The more you shop there, the more you learn first-hand the profound lessons of impermanence.

Take the clothes: nearly every piece is downright dazzling, lovely, absolutely inspired . . . okay, not nearly every piece, but enough of them. And the prices! So cheap, these clothes couldn't possibly look good when you try 'em on . . . but my God, they do! Holy shit, I'm definitely taking these home. Wear them out on the town. Lookin' great! Pop them in the washer when they get a spot on 'em . . . and they disintegrate.

This is the big drawback of any clothes from H&M. They're not made to last. What'd you expect for 20-euro evening gown made by eight-year olds in Indonesia/Bangladesh/Romania/Mauritius?

For me, the way around this disappointment is not to quit buying clothes from H&M. I am no radical. Rather, the solution is to never wash them. Ever.

I never liked doing laundry anyway. It was always such a hassle. And now H&M has given me the perfect excuse to continue living like the pig I really am. Thanks, H&M!

Jan. 9, 2006 - Another Thing about H&M
Oh, and another thing about H&M. I went there the other day and, as usual, had to wait in line for a dressing room to open up. As I'm standing there loaded down with 25 pounds of clothing that I'm certain to buy and then return, one of the dressing room doors opens up.

Out walk two towering, skeletal chicks. You know, model types. Glassy-eyed, red-nosed, and sniffling. I swear to shit, one of them even ran a finger along her gums!

Once I calmed down from the indignation that H&M fired poor little Kate Moss for using coke while H&M's own customers use it right under their noses (so to speak), I realized that I'd learned an important truth about H&M that day.

H&M's customers don't come to there for the clothing.

They come for the party!

Jan. 8, 2006   Free Wardrobe Rentals
So I have this habit of passing time in the H&M store. They don't have it in the U.S. but it's a huge clothing chain with really fun, trendy clothes . . . and they're cheap, which is why I'm in there all the time.

But since I'm not making any money, they're not cheap enough. So what I do is I purchase absolutely every piece of clothing that interests me. But I keep the tags on. I wear 'em around the house for a few weeks. Then I return most of 'em within the 30-day grace period. It's almost like really owning them. 30 days is the perfect span of time, 'cause by then, the thrill has worn off and I'm ready to return them.

The funny thing is that people here seem to think that's some sort of crime. "What if they catch you?"

Catch me doing what? Returning the clothes clean, undamaged, and with tags intact . . . as is my H&M-given right to do? In fact, people here seem unaware of the entire 30-day return policy in general. When I brief them on it, they're always so shocked. Where have these people been for the last ten years? They all shop at these ever-encroaching multinational chains. Yet they haven't thought of how to work the system to their advantage.

The Spanish are way too naive and virtuous. They make me feel like a real pig sometimes.

Dec. 24, 2005 - Culture, Pt. 2
So last summer I was on the subway in the middle of a hellishly hot & humid August. This huuuuge older lady gets on. She's got grey hair and two buck teeth with a gap between them and, besides what I've just described, there's something else verrry wrong-looking about her. Nothing tangible. But pretty soon she'll make it all quite clear.

The lady sits quietly for a while, bothering no one.

Then she pulls out of her beat-up purse a package of paté, which is just as cheap and common in the supermarkets here as Oscar Meyer bologna is in the States, and 100 times more revolting.

She peels back the plastic cover . . . then ducks down her head and shoves her face in it. Like an animal. No spoon, no fork, no crackers. Nope, she's chowing down that paté exactly how a doggy or kitty scarfs down that perfect cylinder of gelatinous, canned dog/cat food from its bowl. She comes up for air, and the paté has left imprints all over her face. Her nose is covered in grey-brown chunks. Her lips and chin too. It's getting in her hair. It stinks. Everyone is trying not to look, because they don't want to believe it. That on a hot, stuffy, crowded train in August, someone can commit such heinous social warfare on innocent bystanders.

This goes on for a few minutes. I'm trying not to laugh (I can laugh 'cause she's far enough away from me where I don't feel afraid). Then, she gets up to wait for her approaching subway stop. Paté hanging off her cheeks, she brushes past several people who are unfortunate enough to have no escape route. She gets to the door, leans against the railing, and resumes her task, jaws working steadily.

The silence on the train is deafening. We're all trying not to stare at her, so we stare at each other like we're all witnessing a heinous crime, one that none of us are willing to put a stop to, a crime that makes us all feel equally guilty, equally dirty, like the failed, pathetic beings we all know we are at our core, and we know that everyone else knows it too. Then the lady sneezes.

Glistening, grey-brown chunks spew in all directions. Someone screams. Now even I am afraid. I feel my lunch start to creep up my gullet. There's another scream, but it's the sound of the train brakes. The doors open. The lady shuffles off as nonchalantly as she got on, pulling back her lips and raking those two huge teeth along the sides of the nearly empty container. She leaves a wave of garlicky, fecal stench that tends to go with potted meat food products.

For those eternal five minutes that she was on the train, none of us were too happy. But boy, she sure was.

Nov. 18, 2005 - Culture
I'm back!

Well, tonight I was finally gonna write about my October trip to Paris and the wonderful Culture. I went and came back right before they starting setting everything on fire. Specifically, I was all set to expound on the Louvre and the Mona Lisa.

But then I discovered a website called The Poop Report. I am never one to register at websites, create accounts, any of that crap. So why did I do so for The Poop Report? I'll tell you why. Because, with features such as Poop at the Office, Poop for Peace, a Poop advice column, and a section for "Pooetry," it's downright delightful. Educational, too!

It's even temporarily helped me out of a writer's slump. I chose the user name "expooptriate" and boy am I ever so pleased with myself. I'm gonna milk this newfound creative momentum for all I can!

Anyone can post poop stories on The Poop Report, and you know what? It's got some great writing on it. . . especially for a shit-based site. Not that I know much about shit-based sites, except for my own. And actually, who's to say that shit-based expression is any lesser than the rest? After all, isn't it the most simple, universal themes that lend themselves to great expression? And what's more basic and universal than poop? Poop will bring us together!

I'm really glad I registered. I really feel like I'm part of a . . . community. Dare I say "family"? I also enjoy the user names. I think my favorite is C. Everett Poop. He's a Navy guy and he writes great stories! Here's one.

Not surprisingly, looking through the profiles, I haven't found one person who has agreed to receive personal emails from other members of The Poop Report. Not The Shit Volcano, nor Doo Doo Brown, nor Ass Phlegm.

It's kind of a shame. Think of all the missed dating opportunities. Then again, that's another thing I admire about the site: they keep it clean.

Nov. 5, 2005 - Nightmares
I'm jealous of people with real blogs. But I'm too much of a control freak to get my own blog. I don't know which sentence is more pathetic.

---

I'm so sick of computers, keyboards, and especially monitors. I think I'm half blind now, I can't see well outta my left eye. You ever get stuck in front of a computer so long that you feel ill?

I'm so techno-burned, in the Sunday paper they had a job listing for sheep herder (I believe that's called a "shepherd"), and I almost went for it. It described the setting as "rustic" and stood out from the majority of Help Wanted ads in that it didn't specify an age or gender. In Spain it's totally legal to do that shit when posting job ads, isn't that fucked up? Here's a typical one: "Young, inexperienced girls between the ages of 18 and 28 needed to work in a café in busy area of Barcelona." Yeah, right. Café, my ass. They forgot to tack this onto the end: "Don't bring anyone with you, we know where you and your family live. Just keep your piehole shut and nobody'll get hurt. Don't you like to earn money by just being pretty? Than keep your piehole shut." One sad thing about Spanish is that there's no translation for "piehole", and it's such a fabulous word.

---

What does it mean when your dreams get depressingly mundane? Does it mean that you can no longer imagine great things happening in your life?

The other night I dreamed that I made a sandwich. And it was a perfectly normal sandwich, no diamonds or babies or musical instruments trapped between the bread. Just an ordinary sandwich with butter. And I ate it and it was fine. Whoopie.

Then the next night I dreamt that my kitchen was clean and spotless. And I was pleased. And that was it. What the fuck??!

I remember when I was little, I used to dream -- many, many times -- that I could fly. I dreamed that I rode a horse to school and everyone was impressed. I dreamed of showing up for class totally naked, I dreamed of being invisible, I dreamed of peeing (and wet the bed), I dreamed of having telekinetic powers, I dreamed of strangling my loved ones to death. And every one of these dreams was so real and thrilling and terrifying.

Now I dream of sparkling countertops, and liking it. Is this what it comes to?

Oct. 11, 2005 - ¡The George Bush Cocaine Tape
Remember only a month ago, when Kate Moss had her career briefly ruined (until she gets her own reality show a few months from now, running rehab contests) 'cause of the notorious Cocaine Tape? As a result of this tape, skeevy sweat-shop retailers like H&M found her to me "morally unfit" and "unwholesome" to represent them. Hahahahahahaha oh, that last sentence just makes me piss myself!

So my question is, are the standards of the American people for their President anything similar? 'Cause he seems to be getting caught in some very disturbing cocain-ey behavior on tapes of his own. Whaddaya think? Can we get rid of him now? Huh? I mean, if ignoring global warming, needlessly causing another Vietnam by lying about the weapons of may-ass deshtruggshun, and causing thousands more deaths by appointing incompetent cronies to disaster relief ain't enough, well, then maybe drugs will do it. You know how pissed off the Amurikan public gets when it finds out that other people are getting high and not them.

What's really scary is that Kate Moss is more presidential while doing 20 lines than George Bush could ever dream of being. Kate Moss has what you'd call elegance. Bush is a grinning, shit-eating chimpanzee who wouldn't know elegance if it came up to him and smelled his butt.

So can we get rid of this idiot now? Really, he's totally suited for the crappy reality show host gig anyway. He's made for it! He'll enjoy it a lot more, too, 'cause he'll, like, totally get his way on everything.

Oct. 10, 2005 - ¡Ánimo, ánimo!
It was my birthday on Sept. 29th, had a fun party with friends, I really don't like having birthdays anymore, they depress me, but the parties always do make up for it. People who throw birthday parties for their friends are wonderful people indeed. Here's a picture of my awesome friend Tillin with a head massage thingie on her face.

One thing I admire about Spanish people is their innate ability to look like Christ. Man, are they good at it!

My friend Gerardo gave me some pajamas for my birthday. He was embarrassed 'cause he's poor and couldn't afford anything else, but I loved 'em -- in fact, I wore 'em for the rest of the night.

---

The lottery is super-big here in Barcelona. In my neighborhood, there are lottery stores every few blocks, lottery booths outside the supermarket . . . plus independent lottery ticket vendors prowling the streets, who are a real pain in the ass 'cause they're always getting in your face trying to sell those tickets. It doesn't matter that you live on the block and never in the past 672 days have you not said "No" to their pitch. They'll ask you anyway, both on the way to the store and on the way home.

This tenacity/lack of short term memory leads directly to the second obvious truth about these ticket vendors: that every single one of them has some kind of mental disability. Yesterday I saw a new guy who may have been a possible exception: he was paralyzed on the entire left side of his body, which he had to drag down the street while yelling, "¡Ánimo, ánimo, es el último, el último!" (Rough translation: "How exciting; I've got the last ticket!")

This guy was the last straw. It was just too much. I mean, isn't the lottery supposed to be based on wonderful good fortune and luck? So what kind of message does it send when the people selling the tickets appear to be the most unlucky souls in the province?

I'm steering clear of those damn tickets. It's bad enough turning 36 26. I don't need any real troubles.

Sept. 28, 2005 - I am a littel drunk
and watking Sex & The City on Spanish TeeVee. It's dubbed, of course, and after nearly 3 yaars years watching Spanish TeeVwee, I'm soncinved convincd that they hire the same 3 women to do the voiceovers for every movie here. It's the ^ same 3 voices, every time! For a series with 4 main characters, it's suuper irritatting. Why do Charlotte AND Samantha hve the same voice? Do you realize how fucked up that is, especially when they're sipposed to be opposites. it-s not right.

Sept. 27, 2005 - All Work & No Play......................
Sorry, I've been so horned out over Jack Cafferty I haven't been able to concentrate like I should and write any new damned stuff. I'm back now, after undergoing Jack Cafferty Aversion Therapy in which sexy, white-coated nurses tie me to a dentist's chair in front of the Tee Vee, turn on The Situation Room, force my eyeballs open with metal prongs, and continually squirt Visine into my eyes while I listen to an endless loop of George W. Bush 2004 campaign speeches. Feeling more focused, but I get the dry heaves whenever I look at the last entry.

I have this funny part-time kind-of job where I write copy on any topic and send it over "The Internets" for some kind of pay. Yesterday I had a long assignment, and among the many disparate topics I had to write about, one included several pages on the topic of "Horses" and "Horse Supplies". I was so bored with writing this stuff, I'd already been working on it for hours, and when I searched for information on horse supplies, it got even more boring.

So instead, I typed "horse fucking video" into the Google toolbar. Everyone's been talking about it for months. That poor perv in Washington who kept sneaking to the same riding stables at night to get it on with this innocent, unsuspecting old couple's slutty stallion... who was captured doing it on the surveillance cameras ... and died later of peritonitis 'cause the horse ripped his keister open! Eeeww! I'm not gonna give you the link, although I pretty much just did. Find it your own damn self. That's your nightmare if you go looking. Afterwards, make a donation to the equine sexual abuse foundation of your choice. Or your friendly neighborhood equine sex club or bath house. Again, your call.

Anyway, this video seemed a lot more important than what I was writing about, so I did look for it, and I did find it. (Apparently it's a replica of the surveillance video, 'cause this one was in color and had an actual camera man doing close-ups and all -- double eeew! -- but nevertheless, there's no mistaking it, it was real.)

It was gross. I will never look at horses who have sex with men the same way again. I guess the lesson is that boring jobs lead to the consumption of twisted pornography. Twisted pornography is bad. Therefore, for the moral health of our Christian nation... we must abolish all boring jobs.

---

That's just unbelievable that Bush's private Iraq War fundraising effort has only made a grand total of $600. Couldn't he have at least asked some of those filthy-rich friends of his to donate a couple mil each -- mere peanuts to them -- to move the decimal point over a few notches so as not to embarrass the crap out of his administration?

Christ, I remember when I was 11, I was in a community theater production of The Bad Seed, playing the preteen sociopathic murderess Rhoda Penmark. My dad bought up half the tickets and gave 'em away to everyone he met to ensure there'd be asses in the seats on opening night. Why? Because my dad gave a shit. You mean to tell me that Bush & Co. care so little about their own war that they didn't even think to do what my dad did? From the way they've always talked about it, they really seemed to love their little war. Now the truth comes out: they're deadbeat death mongers.

Sept. 23, 2005 - He Gets My Freak On
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm Yyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees.

Crooks & Liars is my erotic playland.

Sept. 22, 2005 - I Wanna Fuck Jack Cafferty
So President Bush gets to pick his own investigator to find out exactly how the government fucked up during Hurricane Katrina. Thank God someone's finally gotten on the case! Now that the President is in charge, I'm sure they'll get to the bottom of it. President Bush is a good, honest man who really cares about Amurikuns, though not Black people. He really does. As long as he's in charge, I'm sure we'll find out the truth, and also maybe even find those pesky weapons of may-ass deshtrugg-shun.

And oh my God, speaking of diasters, you must've heard about H&M dropping Kate Moss from their fall campaign 'cause she used coke! Can you believe it? A supermodel using cocaine? That's, like, unreal! I'm glad that Europe's largest fashion retailer has come forward and exposed the shocking, sordid truth of this single, solitary woman before her vile habits infect the entire modeling industry.

Hey, have you read about how England sent hundreds of tons of food for the Hurricane Katrina survivors and now it's gonna be burned 'cause of U.S. govt. restrictions? The British call it "red tape", the U.S. calls it "mad cow." Look, I know no one likes British food, but that's just fucking rude. Couldn't we have just accepted it graciously and then sneakily slipped it under the table to all the Hurricane Katrina pets? Did we have to come right out and practically shout in their ruddy faces, "Uh, THANKS FOR ALL THE PIG LIVERS AND COW BRAINS, BUT NO THANKS." Gosh, no wonder Europeans think we're so rude. On the other hand, maybe the US didn't actually say we were gonna burn it. Maybe the information got twisted along the way. I know -- just like Kate Moss using coke, it's hard to believe that that kind of thing can actually happen in the news media. But it does! And did you know that doing yoga deep breathing exercises in a closed garage with the Chevy running is bad for you?

In all fairness, I believe what probably happened is that the US said, "We will cremate the British food donations to a crisp, and then they'll be fit for human consumption. Or at least consumption by poor people living in the Houston Astrodome, for whom all of this is working out very well, by the way."

Also, let me get this straight: if you're FEMA and you allow volunteer doctors to save the lives of the dying people in the New Orleans airport, that's incompetence, 'cause you can get your ass sued. However, if you don't let the doctors anywhere near those people, then your ass is in the clear. 'Cause dead people are less likely to sue? I guess I get it. Have you ever been around crowds of people in the airport? Pain in the ass, right? Well, imagine crowds of sick people in the airport. Very high-maintenance. Who needs it? Hey, did you know that supermodel Kate Moss did drugs? I wonder if she ever "took pot" too.

Hey, I wanna fuck Jack Cafferty. And when I say that, what I really mean is I wanna iron his rumpled shirts and starch his collars. Or rumple up his starched shirts. Either way, I love those rumpled shirts. So, so ... Network. That and the attitude - he always looks like he's just downed a fifth of Jameson's before going on the air and he just ... can't ... goddamn TAKE it anymore!

Here, watch this and tell me you don't wanna bonk Jack Cafferty too. Or this.

Tell me you don't want it. Come on. I dare you.

Sept. 20, 2005 - More Uplifting Thoughts
It is sooo late. It's five A.M. My eyes feel like a grizzly bear pissed in 'em. What have I been doing with my time, you wanna know?

Well, last night I laid awake thinking about bon-voyage parties for terminally ill people. It's a lovely idea, gathering all your loved ones together for a final party and goodbye. It's still pretty new, but in, say, 5 years, will there be terminally ill-bon voyage-party planners? Probably in New York or L.A. for sure.

Then I wondered about people who aren't terminally ill but want to say goodbye to it all anyway. If they held a bon voyage party, would their loved ones come? Or would they send for a team of orderlies and a straitjacket? Would the non-terminally ill person think, "Well, at least I know who my real friends are ... and who the party-poopers are."

And today I spent the majority of the daylight hours reconstructing my cat vomit gallery. Hey, why not take a break from your party planning activities and check it out?

Sept. 17, 2005 - My Gaudí Moment (nearly)
Some of the streets in Barcelona have absolutely no shoulder space to them, not even an inch. And the car lanes are significantly narrower than in the States. It freaks me out how close the cars get to each other, practically bumping side mirrors. Therefore, if you're standing in the street at a crosswalk waiting for the light to change, and it's one of those streets, you will get hit.

Yesterday I was walking along a busy street, the Via Laietana, with 5 friends. Another group approached from the other direction. The sidewalk was too narrow for all of us, so I momentarily stepped off the sidewalk and into the street--

WHOOSH! roared a city bus centimeters from me, blasting hot air in my face and blowing my hair straight into the air. The hair stayed standing for a second longer and I had chills all over. I felt the force of the bus pass centimters from me, and I knew that my soul could've been upchucked out of me just as easily as my body almost tossed through the air. This is how the great Catalan artist Antoni Gaudi died. He didn't see the moving streetcar as he crossed the boulevard and it plastered him. But at least when Gaudi died, he'd realized a ton of outstanding creative accomplishments.

What the hell have I been doing lately? Oh yeah, this ain't bad. I have to admit that I have a little bit of envy. Not that I want to die, but what a merciful way to go: instantly! You'd never even know it happened. I hope my actual death is as much of a cakewalk as Gaudi's. In his case, he truly deserved it, 'cause oh, how he suffered in life. Me, I'm just lazy I guess.