Jamie Bolton's Minimalistic Movie Posters:

Back again (and trying to sell you stuff)

Ok! So I finally have internet in the house again. And this time I think it's going to stay. Sorry about all of that. I got a couple of very exciting projects that will be on the way. I don't want to say too much about it, but I'll give you a clue: One's a chapbook and the other is a talk show. And that's all that I am going to say about that. For Now. So start getting stoked! Updates to come!

So in the meantime I have three recommendations for you:

The first one is that Brandon Brown will be self releasing 3 chapbooks in early 2010. TOOTH FAIRY, THE ORGY, and YOUR MOM'S A FALCONRESS AND OTHER POEMS. These chapbooks will be available in limited edition for $4.00 apiece of $10.00 for all three. I've already sent Brandon my $10 and I strongly suggest that you do the same. Visit his website and put your money down.

Second, Have you still not bought John Sakkis' book Rude Girl from Blaze Vox? It's fanfuckingtastic. I own a copy and I feel great. Don't you wanna feel great? You finally can. Right now. Right Here.

And third, Chicago's finest unemployed resident, Logan Ryan Smith has a new chapbook, Tracks, out on ypolita press. I haven't read Tracks, but I only assume that it is fucking genius. And crazy as fuck. I'd suggest that you visit Logan's blog to see just how smart, crazy, and also handsome he actually is. But I won't. He put the blog on private. Because Logan is terrified that his would be employer might read his blog, find out how crazy, smart, and handsome Logan actually is and be too intimated to give him a job. What a pity. So buy his chapbook.

Neighbors and Daniel Johnston. I'm neighbors with Daniel Johnston.

So like, I said before, I moved. I'm somewhere around lower Haight and Western Addition. It's sort of incredible to be out of the Tenderloin. I mean, I'll be walking, and I'll almost step into some dogshit. And I'll think, "Fuck, I almost walked into dogshit." In the Tenderloin, I was never quite sure, from where or who the shit came from. It was almost always, I assumed, personshit. Because for every dog that I saw walking around the Tenderloin, I'd see about 2.8 batshit crazy persons pooping on the sidewalk. But I think that the weirdest part is that it never seemed out of the ordinary, I never felt weird about some batshit crazy person doing their business on the sidewalk. "That's just city living."

How did I become so desensitized?


But now, living here in my new neighborhood, I realize that it is not ok for humans to be pooping on the sidewalk. And it's not ok for me to think that it's ok, that it's "just city living". It's really gross and it should be thought of as gross. Or at least off-putting. OK, it was always off-putting. But it was accepted for some strange reason.


I'm sorry if this is gross. I understand if you don't want to read anymore.


But the point that I was trying to get across is this:
I feel very lucky and fortunate to sometimes almost step in dogshit.


Another thing about living around here. I used to work in this neighborhood as a bartender. So I know quite a few people around. And every time I leave the house, I usually run into someone I know. Sometimes I don't like that at all. Sometimes I do, and I feel popular and that people generally like me and are happy to see me.I sometimes wonder if people are trying to get my attention, cause they think that I can hook them up with free beers. I can not. But don't tell anyone.


I'm going to see Daniel Johnston on Thursday. I was trying to think of the first time that I became aware of Daniel Johnston. It wasn't that movie, The Devil and Daniel Johnston, which I haven't seen. And yes, I already know what you're going to say. So feel free to copy & paste this in the comment box:


"Oh you got to see that movie. You would love it. I can't believe that you haven't seen it. It's so good. You're so incredibly good looking, Steve. Rent that movie. I can't believe such a wonderful and beautiful man like yourself hasn't seen that movie. Do yourself a favor and watch it. It'll blow your mind. You're so amazing, Steve. I love you and everything you do is art."


So, I'm trying to do my best to remember Daniel Johnston, and when I first heard him. Granted, it's fairly new to my life. While I was being so cool, I forgot to be so hip. I think it might have been from a mixtape that someone made me. But then I started thinking, "Who would have made me that mixtape?" And I couldn't think of a soul. Or maybe it was cause I saw this Daniel Johnston tribute record that had Tom Waits, Beck, TV On The Radio on it. And though, "Well, there must be something to this guy." Then I just downloaded a few of his records. I don't remember. It doesn't really matter, although a good story to tell about it is what I prefer. But I guess that I don't have one. I'll think about it and leave with a cliffhanger.

COMIN' RIGHT BACK (like a heart attack)

Hey y'all. It's been a while since there's been anything up on this blog. Shit got weird. Or actually shit stopped being weird. I dunno. Something happened. But I think that I just wasn't feeling like blogging for a bit and now I do. 

Let's get started. I stopped blogging in June. I was in the process of moving and I no longer had any connection to the internet. I was also in a bad mood about 90% of the time and didn't want to blog about how I hated everything. And also I didn't see the point of telling my friends a bunch of bullshit. Like:

I got married. 

I am addicted to crystal meth.

I stopped wearing deodorant. 

I have fleas.

Lies. All lies. Sorry.

Ok, so at one point in my life I had fleas. Brandon Brown and I had an apartment at Clayton and Hayes. And if you've ever spent extended amounts of time with Brandon and/or I around 2001-2003, then you probably lived there. At some point in life, somehow, it was just Brandon and I living there. So Brandon immediately bailed to spend the summer in Chicago. He set me up with a subletting hippie from Santa Cruz, Amanda. Amanda immediately had her cokehead friend move in as well. I had recently bought a mattress off of craigslist and was no longer sleeping in a cot. Yes, I slept in a cot for about 6 months. I told people that I had tuberculous. One night, I, somehow, convinced a girl to sleep with me. And in the five minutes of passionate love making, we broke the cot. So then I slept on the floor. Then I got the bed. Then Brandon left. Then Amanda and her cokeheaded home girl moved in. Then we got fleas. I assumed, probably because of a guilt complex that I have, it was because of the matress. So I put it out on the street, with a note: 

"Probably flea infested"

It was gone within half an hour. What's up San Francisco?

Then I told the girls to leave town for the weekend. They did. They probably went to some breathing exercise clinic up around Sasha Mountain or met some sailors and got coked up on some elderly man's house boat. I dunno. So I bombed the house and stayed at my then girlfriend's house. 

I still remember not being able to sleep that night. Totally anxious that I either:

A.) poisoned all of my neighbors to death, 

or 

B.) burned down the apartment building. 

I didn't do either. And the bomb worked. And we no longer had fleas.

Then Amanda and her coke head homie left. Brandon came back and we had the place to ourselves. Brandon started taking inventory of his room, that Amanda and her coke head homie had been in, and Brandon found millions upon millions of dead fleas upon his bookshelf. The same place where Amanda and her coke head homie had all their plants. So I figure that it was from there plants that the fleas came from. So it maybe wasn't my shady mattress after all. 

So then Brandon and I then bought a French press and had the best cup of coffee of our lives. Then we bought a bar. A personal bar for our living room. Then Matthew Arnone moved in, then John Griener moved in. And then Logan Ryan Smith was there. Then John Sakkis was there. It was good times. There was hecka pizza and Miller High Life. 

I don't know why I told that story. Hope you liked it.

So what's up with me now.

I am now the proud roommate of John Sakkis. We live in the lower Haight. We drink hecka Miller High Life. We eat hecka tuna salad. We listen to Boz Scaggs and just cool out.

I have a special lady friend. She's an absolute gem. A sensation. She's like the north star. She makes me all giggly.

Yeah, I said giggly. But fuck you. I ain't soft. I'll still cut you. I'm like DMX: I'm not a nice person.

I'm still rocking that art house movie bullshit. Just watched Woman In The Dunes. Fuck Yeah, y'all. I wanna write a review of that soon. In fact, I have plans to start up a website film journal sort of thing. I hope to do it before 2010. If any of you wanna write movie reviews, send'em my way and let's rock that shit. 

And lastly, I've been writing a book about time travel. I have had a few missteps, but it seems to have finally taken it's shape. It's also about stand up comedy, impoverished slave children of Haiti, larceny, kidnapping, cock fighting, Germans fleeing to South America, and easy ways to land a job in housekeeping. It'll be ready in couple of years.

compromise

The honeymoon is over. Linda and I have been fighting like cats and dogs. What have we been fighting about? Her cat and my dog. It turns out that Linda is "deathly allergic" to my dog, Lord Chesterfield. It turns out that I am "deathly irritated" by her cat, Garfield. So we had to make a compromise. And it turns out that compromising your integrity is very important to a healthy marriage.

Here's what we decided: Garfield would be allowed to run around our house, claw the sofa to all fucking hell, and shit on my Persian rug as much as it wants to. While Lord Chesterfield will now become an "outside dog" and will no long be allowed to step foot inside our home.

I though that Linda and I handled our first marital problem like two level headed adults.

By then I realized a problem. That problem is that we don't have any sort of backyard whatsoever. And we couldn't let Lord Chesterfield run around in the city. We live in a crackhead infested neighborhood. And let's be honest, Lord Chesterfield just doesn't have the street-smarts that one would need to prevent themselves from being stabbed to death by a drifter. Don't get me wrong, I love my dog, but he's kinda "light in the loafers", which is usually a euphemism for being kinda gay. But in this situation, I would prefer it to be a euphemism for being kinda dumb. I would also like to point out that I have long suspected, for various reasons, that Lord Chesterfield is kinda homosexual. But that's another blog post and I don't have time to go into the details of why I have suspected that my dog is kinda gay.

Ok, I'll just give you one reason:

I kinda saw him fucking another male dog.

Anyway, where was I.....

So "we" decided that it would be best if Lord Chesterfield just made his permanent home on the fire escape. This didn't work so well. He was just constantly howling and scratching at the window. It broke my heart to see him like this. So I bought some really nice drapes at Mervin's to cover up the window. This helped a little. But then the neighbors started complaining. "We" needed to come up with a Plan B. Here's what "we" thought would be best. Lord Chesterfield could finally have his own space, living in my car.

Lord Chesterfield living it up!

So far so good. I think he really likes it. In fact every time I leave the house, go to the car and tap on the window, he goes absolutely beserk. He is so thrilled. He's so happy. Which makes me happy. Which makes Linda not as annoyed. Which makes Garfield indifferent. Should be a great summer!

Kansas City Royals

My favorite baseball team, The Royals, have been shutout two days in a row. Where do I throw the blame?

The recently disabled Mike Aviles, who's only been hitting .183 this season?

or

Luke Hochevar's ERA with runners in scoring position, which happens to be a mesmerizing, 43.88?

or

Joakim Soria's bum shoulder or Alex Gordan's fucked up hip?

or

Kyle Farnsworth not bodyslaming, but "pitching?"

or

Mike Jacob's goatee?

No, friends, I blame Royals General Manager Dayton Moore's pants. What the fuck is up with his pants? Big and baggy, pleats, left side has wrinkles, right side does not. How the fuck are you supposed to general manage a baseball team while wearing such fucked pants. So Dayton if you're pants don't figure themselves out in the next couple of weeks they'll be held responsible for our team missing the playoffs for the 24th year in a row.

You, DM's pants, are now officially on the hot seat.

Random things said to me between Thursday & Sunday

In all seriousness:

"Hello"
"Do you ride a fixed gear bike?"
"That coat does not fit you"
"Which coworkers have you slept with?"
"Are you cock blocking me?"
"Are you into The Dream?"
"You wanna see The Dream in San Jose?"
"Get your turd out of my taco" (seriously)
"You're always so nice"
"Do you have any diseases?"
"We're just coloring"
"I like it when you call me T-Pain"
"It's good, but it stinks up the whole house"
"Do you have any cigarettes?"
"I really like Billy Joel"
"He showed this (a middle finger) to me"
"Do you ride a fixed gear bike?" (again)
"I'm an EMT"
"I'm really into Star Trek" (about a hundred times)
"I'm unemployed"
"I just really hate everything"
"I don't really drink shots"
"You have nice hands"
"Check out the sluts"
"I can't stand Billy Joel"
"Cats is my favorite musical of all time"
"I'm Michael Jackson"
"Port-a-Potties smell better than this"
"I'm trying to look like Coolio"
"Those people are real assholes"
"She fucking sucks"
"You should call her"
"I paid my money for my songs"
"You almost made me cry"
"You want some cheese cake?"

My Trip To Cabo

HEEEEY! Sorry for the lack of updates. I've been in Cabo. I took the $500 non refundable deposit that I got from Linda to move in and I went to Cabo. And it was fucking crazy. I got wasted every single night. Seriously every night! And I also met this senorita, Melissa, at the swim up bar and we were totally getting it on for like the whole time I was there. And when I say we were totally getting it on, I mean just that, my friends. If you know what I mean, which I assume you do.

I mean fucking.

It did end badly when Melissa stole my credit card and booked a flight to Rio De Jeniro. What a bitch! I, at least, wish I would've been invited along. And I could have used that money to help Linda with her legal defense. She's currently being investigated for insurance fraud.

But, whateves!

And you know what though, even though my little senorita might have stolen my credit card, and possibly might have stolen my identity, I have to say that she fucked my brains out. And I'll treasure that memory forever. Godspeed, my tequila soaked princess. Muy es loco, indeed!

P.S. - I also saw some of the most remarkable cock fights that I have ever seen. Mesmerizing

Whaz UP! Just got done bombing my place for fleas. It went really well, except I puked a lot. It was probably from all that shrimp I ate a couple of days ago. I love shrimp, but sometimes I do have a problem with knowing when to stop. I also have this problem with P.C.P., sit ups, and watching reruns of Frasier. My new wife Linda's going to finally finish moving in today. Then when she's done moving out of her flop house she's gonna be reporting "a break-in" so that she can collect the renter's insurance*. This is one of those high risk/high reward scenarios. But she seems excited to do it. I've also decided to charge her a $500 non returnable deposit fee to move in. Then I'm going to host one of my infamous "who-can-eat-the-most-tacos party" parties.** Details soon!


Linda and I are doing great. Thanks to everyone for your support and kind words.

Got tickets to see my favorite sports team, the Harlem Globetrotters. Go Trotters! 2009 is our year!

Getting ready to do a shitload of sit ups. Then a three mile run. Then more sit ups.

*Linda is responsible. She's the only person I know that lives in a flop house and has renter's insurance. I love that ho.

**BYOT (which means you have to bring your own tacos)

:::UPDATE!:::

Just found out that today is Earth Day. I guess that I'll have to do all that littering tomorrow. :(

What a crazy fucking weekend

BIG FUCKING NEWS! I got married. OMG! Her name is Linda. We met Friday through our mutual drug dealer, J.J. I was buying crystal meth and she was getting Oxycontin. The thing that really caught my eye about her was her big titties. They looked so awesome. I swear that I could not stop staring at them, it was almost embarrassing. So I walked over to her as she leaving and I was like "you wanna do this meth with me?" She was like "fuck yes!" We went over to her flop house and did so much meth that we both felt crazy and a little suicidal. We decided to calm down with the Oxycotin. That helped a lot. Then I had this realization that I was really lucky to have someone like Linda, with her Oxycotin and big titties. I was head over heels. Literally! I proposed while receiving not the worst handjob I've ever had. She accepted!

She's real awesome. And we have a lot in common, like we both have uncontrollable drug problems. We both like some rock music, to an extent. And we both are absolutely terrified at the idea of being alone for the rest of our lives. So we Greyhounded to RENO and got hitched. It was very romantic and the motel we stayed in had the most wonderful breakfast buffet. And we then checked out one of those Kama Sutra websites and tried some new and exciting sexual positions, which was going really well until Linda strained her hamstring. We also did some heavy gambling (lost it), light drinking, then decided to go back to San Francisco. We're pretty inseparable, except for right now, cause she's visiting her parole officer who coincidentally is also named J.J.

We'll be registering at Tarket. I'll twitter.

What else happened?

I got fleas! Bummer.

Insane & legendary music genius Phil Spector was finally found guilty today of killing actress Lana Clarkson at his home in 2003. Spector has also been apparently dead since 2006. Good god! This is terrifying. The Barack Obama Rocks pin is a nice touch to make Spector seem vibrant and informative of current events. Even though he is not cause he's obviously been dead for years.

Ouch! I done fucked up. I screwed the pooch. Springsteen is playing in San Jose tonight and I totally forgot. I blame the fact that it's now April. I never thought that March would end. It just kept dragging on. Nothing bad happened, but I wasn't feeling it. Maybe I'm depressed. Or was? I feel pretty good right now. Maybe it's the new brown pants that I bought. And in case that you are wondering, I did buy the skinny ones, but I didn't buy super skinny ones. I bought size 34 waist, which is strange cause I'm a 30 waist. Pants are weird. Pant sizes are weird. Y'all feelin' me? I also got some white chucks. Chucks are never weird.

But yeah, March ended and now Springsteen's playing in San Jose tonight. I gotta work and I ain't got enough dough for the show. So I'm missing it. I'm not terribly bummed. I saw him 3 times on the Magic Tour. And hopefully/probably there will be a second leg of the tour that'll come back around here. I do feel bad for Logan and Brandon. We had sorta plans to go and we were going to haggle for tickets. And neither of them have seen Springsteen. Sorry dudes! Next time.

I also would to apologize to Bruce personally. I just got off the phone with him and he seemed really hurt that I forgot he was going to be in town. I mean he tried to pretend like it was all good, bu I could hear the sadness in the voice. I guess that he had also made dinner reservations at some fancy place. Bruce was like, "I guess I could see if Patti would want to come instead." God, I feel like a real asshole right now. Might be a somber set tonight. Sorry Boss. Sorry San Jose.

Marlowe stuff. Watched "The Falcon Takes Over" Verdict: Disqualified. It is the "Farewell, My Lovely" story. But it's some suave British dude named The Falcon in the lead. The Falcon is not Phillip Marlowe. Anyway the movie sucked. Skip it. Watch Murder, My Sweet instead. Or reruns of Family Matters. Whateves you want.

Rewatched Reservoir Dogs last night. So good.

So, I'm working on my 2009 baseball predictions and it'll be posting it by opening day. Opening Day is Monday! Wait, this is why I feel pretty good right now. I think I'm going to persuade my bar boss to let me open one of the bars on Monday at 10:00 in the morning so I can watch all the baseball that I want, instead of having to go to another bar and pay to watch Opening Day. The fact that Opening Day is not a national holiday is so fucking stupid. When I eventually have the 12 children that I am planning on having, there is no way that they're going to school on Opening Day. They're going with me to the ballpark. And they're going to watch baseball. And they're going to watch me drink too much and started screaming profanities at the other team, and at other fans, and to nobody at all in general. And they're going to have fun and love it. Election day should also be a national holiday, but that's another post.

Week 2 playlist

more Marlowe time

I know that I said "Falcon Takes Over" would be next. But I have had a little problem tracking it down. So, for now let's take a look at another one:













The Long Goodbye (1973. directed by Robert Altman)


Ah the age of neo-noir. Now here's the thing about the Marlowe screen character. He's tough, he's wise-cracking, he's cold, the chicks dig him, and he never ever really knows what in the hell is going on. He asks a lot of questions and makes a lot of assumptions and figures out from there who's defensive, who's got something to hide. But he really doesn't have any idea of what the hell is going on. Elliot Gould as Phillip Marlowe knows less than any other Marlowe. He plays the role very boyish and confused. Now he's good on his feet, but he has no clue about anything. His voice over narration (a typical film noir/Marlowe trait) is Gould just simply mumbling to himself. He's running on foot and chasing down cars, he never plays it cool like the usual earlier Marlowes. The film itself is rather cool, cause it's the same Marlowe of yesteryear's, but stuck in 1970's Los Angeles. Everyone wears beach clothes and is into yoga. Marlowe chain smokes (he in fact is the only smoker in the film, and he lights a cigarette in every scene) And Marlowe still wears a suit and is practically handcuffed to his necktie. Elliot Gould plays Marlowe great as Elliot Gould, which is the best way to play this role. We want to see "The Big Sleep" not for Bogart as Phillip Marlowe, but to see Phillip Marlowe as Humphrey Bogart. That's fucking star power, baby. And that's what we get with The Long Goodbye. And that's what makes it work. Because the plot is full of holes and confusing as fuck. Like pretty much every Marlowe film. But watching Gould doing his version, stumbling around, confused as hell is what makes this so enjoyable to watch. As for the end of the film, What Gould and Altman do is really the most uncharacteristic action that Marlowe would ever do. But it's such a good ending, that I think it's great cause this is the most uncharacteristic of all the previous Phillip Marlowes. He even owns a cat in this film, but the cat is kind of crucial to the story, to let us know how loyal this Marlowe is. So great job, Elliot Gould. You are so far in first place as Philip Marlowe.

would you please smell me?

WARNING! Some might find this blog to absolutely disgusting.

So sometime last week, I started to run out of deodorant. And being a very thrifty man, I try to get all out of my hygiene products that I possibly can. With deodorant, I use it until I make the realization that I am no longer applying deodorant to my skin, but merely just rubbing an empty plastic container under my armpit. I do this again the next morning and then buy some more. But this time, I forgot to buy more. So I wake up late one day and have to rush and shower quick to not be late for work, which I was. And I go to work. About a couple of hours into it, I make a realization! I do not smell good. I smell really gross. I ask my co-workers about how bad I smell. They reply that I don't smell. Which is total bullshit, cause I can smell it and I have the worse sense of smell in the world. And it's also bullshit, cause I don't really trust my co-workers, cause I'm just you know, kind of that way. Non-trusting way.

I finish up work and try to remember to go to the store to buy some deodorant. And now, you may think to yourself: "Steve, you work at a grocery store, why don't you just buy it there?" I'll tell you why. I work a healthy grocery store. We sell hippie deodorant that does not fucking work. It's natural deodorant. There's none of those toxic chemicals that make you smell good. Someone even told me we sell this crystal object that you rub on yourself that works like deodorant. What the fuck? I need my deodorant to work. I need whatever toxic chemicals that are in deodorant to make me not smell disgusting. Cause, healthy stuff like that, I just couldn't care less. I am always smoking like 6 packs of cigarettes a day. I am always either drinking black coffee or Miller High Life throughout an entire day. I've have not had a glass of water in two years. I. am. not. healthy. I don't care. But I do like to smell good.

So I don't go buy deodorant. I leave work and someone probably called me and is like, 'Hey I'm at this bar, come meet me!" and I'm like: "that's the greatest idea in the history of the world, I'm on my way." Then we met at the bar and got really drunk. And talked about stupid shit. And we're really wasted. Then the bartender gave us Jameson shots. And now we're even more wasted. And then we try to talk about even more stupid shit. But now we're slurring our speech. I piss myself. My friend pukes all over himself. The bartender asks us to leave. I try to punch the bartender in the face. I fall down instead. My friend helps me up. We leave. I go home. I order a pizza. I pass out asleep before it shows up. Stinking of BO. Still wearing my piss covered pants.

Or it was something of that nature. But you get the general idea: I forgot to buy deodorant.

And somehow I forgot the next day too and I just kept forgetting. Maybe it's that I'm getting older and more forgetful? Maybe I'm going through a phase of indifference? Maybe deep down, I am a filthy hippie? I haven't figured any of that out yet. But here's the thing, it seems that the stinky BO no longer stinks. Is that possible? It sounds crazy, I know. But is it? Could the body adapt, could it be like "If this asshole isn't going to make us smell us good without those toxic chemicals, we have to do something about this." Or is that I still stink, but I'm just used to it? I don't know. So I need someone, one of you that I can trust, that will tell me the truth, that won't pussyfoot around the situation, that can be honest to come over to my house or a neutral turf and smell me.

blues from a gun

On my break from lunch yesterday, I had two missions. The first one was to go to Walgreen's and pick up the new GQ magazine. The second was to get some breakfast at Bob's Diner.

Mission #1. Ok, I go on break. Smoke a cigarette and walk to Walgreen's. I pick up the issue. The cover is Justin Timberlake and it reads: "The 10 Most Stylish Men in America." I go over to the counter to pay for it and I hand it over to the lady. This lady is probably in her mid-50's, Asian and wearing a Walgreen's vest. She looks at the magazine and mumbles the cover story's title. And then she looks at me and says: "I hope it helps." I shit you not. And I'm thinking to myself, in Robert De Niro's voice, "Excuse me? What the fuck did you just say? Say it again. Fuck you, If you weren't a woman I'd punch you right in the mouth." This is why I should always leave my newly bought (and super awesome) switchblade at home. But since I am a polite man I say nothing in response and just do my best Butser Keaton stone-face. I pay and walk out.

Mission #2. Let's give some background about my relationship to Bob's Diner. The only reason that I go there is because The Polk Street Station closed. It was the best. Bangin' biscuits and gravy. Non rubbery scrambled eggs. Good portions. Good prices. Not only was it my favorite diner but it was actually my favorite thing in the entire world. But it's closed. The signs still up but the windows are boarded up. I try not to look at the sign. I try to just walk past it and not remember all the great times. I am Bob's man now. For better or for worse.

So, I go to Bob's. I order the #1 Special, 2 pancakes, 2 eggs, 2 sausages, 2 bacon. And coffee. I order my eggs poached. I get my coffee and thumb through GQ. My food comes and I start to eat. And it's just so not at all...good. Every thing about it kind of sucks. Especially the eggs, which were so runny that I almost asked for a spoon. The bacon was probably cooked yesterday. The pancakes were actual pieces of cardboard that just had butter on them. The sausage was ok, but probably sucked, but because everything sucked a lot more I was under the impression, that these little sausages weren't so bad. And I just really just miss The Polk Street Station. I miss that waiter with the white hair. I miss the hash browns. I miss going there by myself and reading the sports page. I miss going there with Matthew and Katie, while they would have a very intelligent conversation about something like the rhetorical influence on modern art, I would stupidly just stare at the big and awful "People On The Train" mural. I miss my diner. I miss it a lot. Bob's sucks. I don't know what to do anymore. How am I supposed to get over awesome Polk Street Station when I have to have my rebound with shitty Bob's Diner. What in god's name am I supposed to do? I pay and walk out.

I go back to work and finish my shift. My boss Erin counts the money in my register to see how much I fucked up, I fucked up very little. I tell Erin my story about the lady at Walgreen's and her little comment. Erin laughed at me and asked me if I really read GQ. When people ask me this question, I always reply the same: "Hell yeah, I read GQ! I've been reading GQ since I was 8." Which is a false statement, I've been reading it since I was 27. I wish that I had been reading since I was 8. But then me and Erin start talking about fashion. And it goes to the point of the skinny pants on guys. I'm not into it, personally. I think that the skinny pants of today are far too skinny and are going to look really stupid in about a year. Erin agrees slightly, but replies that skinny jeans on dudes is pretty smokin' hot. And it's kind of weird. I very rarely think about the way I dress if it's actually attractive to the female eye. I mean here's the thing: yes, of course I want the ladies to think I'm a hottie. But what I go for when clothing shopping is "how does this work for me. Does it fit right? Are the colors good? Are the patterns good? Am I going to feel comfortable and confident wearing this?" Cause when you dress good, god dammit, you feel good. It's a proven fact. And cause confidence is sexy. But then I start to think if I got some of those skinny pants, could I wear them confidently? Would I be comfortable? And could it help me get laid? Cause really, it's kind of been a while.

Clothes are on my mind as I leave work and walk to this used clothing store, that I 'm not going to name, because it's my secret spot. I totally fucking score 2 Brooks Brothers sweaters that are insanely awesome. One baby blue, one navy blue. And this black Armani oxford shirt. And it was like a total of like $25. Fuckin' A, dude! But I now realize that I have to stop buying things that are the color blue. I got too much. Way too much. And that I need to buy some brown pants to go with all this blue, cause I really only own blue jeans. Which are also blue. And now that I think about it, even my sneakers are blue. Fuck, that's a lot of blue. No wonder everyone is always so bummed out to see me. So brown pants are my next fashion mission. Will I buy the skinny ones? You'll have to wait and see.

:::UPDATE:::

blue, motherfucking blue.

This is something that I'm really going to make a weekly segment of this blog: a weekly mixtape. Let's begin:

The Limits Of Control

Just thought that some would be interested in the new Jim Jarmusch movie coming out. Here's a picture of the very delighting movie poster:

And here is the trailer, So far both the poster and trailer are very good and have peaked my interest in the movie. Judge for yourself:

James Garner and my weekend

Let's continue our tour through all things Philip Marlowe. Our next stop is James Garner in the film aptly titled, "Marlowe" which came out in 1969 and was directed by Paul Bogart. Bogart was a television director and Garner was Maverick. Bruce Lee has a bit role in this as Winslow Wong. "Marlowe" is based on Chandler's "The Little Sister" The beginning of the film has Marlowe taking pictures of a couple at the pool with really great hippie psychedelic music blasting. Then Marlowe walks to a hippies house with a bunch of deadbeats sleeping on the front lawn. At this point, I'm really excited at the thought of Marlowe versus the Hippies! Perfect! Then Marlowe starts talking to one of them and that is when I realized that the movie that I am watching is dubbed in Spanish. I don't know if you know this about me, but I don't in any way speak or understand Spanish. So, for the film I think that I missed a lot of what was going on, but it did seem that James Garner was doing an adequate job with the role. I'm going to look for a copy of this in English and hopefully we can return to it later. But so far I will say that Garner is already above Mitchum and definitely above Robert Montgomery, who if you recall from the last post, I believe is an idiot-fuck. So hopefully we can come back to this one, but if not we'll just have to rank it the way it is. Up next "The Falcon Takes Over".

How was your weekend? Mine was pretty good. I worked throughout. Did some homework. Went to Brandon's house, drank beers with B. and John and Matthew and J.P. Listened to The Vivian Girls on the wrong speed. Ate gross pizza. Sent out text messages. Immediately full of regret and anxiety. Then I calmed the fuck down. Watched a little bit of The World Baseball Classic. Wasn't sure who to root for. John said U.S.A. Made a silent decision to not root for anyone. Watched Rope. Rooted for Jimmy Stewart. Rode in a car, twice. Found myself in Chinatown. Was constantly concerned about the complete absence of any structure in my life. Thought about moving to Los Angeles to go to school. Thought about talking to this one girl. Never got around to it. Felt indifferent. Ate lots of cookies. Thought about doing laundry. Read some from "This Ain't The Summer of Love" which is a scholarly report on punk and metal, which was a Christmas present from Logan. Called Logan. Logan was busy. J.P. brought me a plate of BBQ. I tried to share with Cat. She was grossed out. She told me about fetuses in eggs. I was grossed out. Neisean fell asleep on at a couch at bar in Chinatown. People now use the term boogie, in a good way. Didn't feel good about that in any way. Especially lumped together with the word "sweater" then it's especially dumb. Bought a switchblade over the internet. Began doing a storyboard for a little movie. Did research on dice games. Drank a bunch of coffee.

Lady In The Lake (1947, directed by Robert Montgomery)

So the continuation of my rankings of the greatest Philip Marlowe screen performance, led me to Lady In The Lake. And oh snap! Talk about screwing the pooch. Robert Montgomery, you are just absolutely fucking terrible. As a director and as an actor. And especially as Philip Marlowe. Really, what Montgomery's or studio head asshole's brain-child was to have you the viewer play Philip Marlowe, so the whole piece of shit was filmed in third person with an occasional mirror shot to remind us that we are Robert Montgomery as Philip Marlowe. So we get to reach for every door knob and smoke cigarettes and speak in annoying ass Robert Montgomery voice. And we are super annoying as Philip Marlowe through this idiot-fuck. I'd much rather be Swayze going through Whoopie. I didn't even make it through half an hour of watching this. But I have to say hat's off to you, Mr. Montgomery, you are by far and away the very worst Philip Marlowe of all time. You even beat out Robert Mitchum, which is an insane feat!