Yes, we have no bananas...

Lately I have been witnessing more signs of the coming apocalypse. (Well, the coffee apocalypse at least.) No, not first hand. But thanks to my trusty recorder of what's going on in the world of corporate coffee brewers. That's right. I'm talking about your favorite place and mine…Starbucks. I can say it now. But as those who have been with me for a while will know, it is not without the ripeness of bitter sarcasm.

First, I must give praise to one of my favorite new websites and the source for all this wonderful Starbucks news: http://starbucksgossip.typepad.com/ (Somebody has to keep tabs on the world's favorite drug dealer) It is here where I receive all the ammunition and inspiration I need to defend the independent coffee shop and uphold the standards of community. These are just a few brief anecdotes culled from the wealth of information I have retrieved in the past few months. I'll just give you the top five. And I will save the most severe for last, along with a call to action. Please note the sparkle in my eye as I share these kafiend-nated tidbits, that seem so tailor-made for my blog site.

1. Question for baristas (specifically those employed by our favorite chain): What's up with the bananas next to the registers? How are the bananas doing and what was the inspiration behind them? What are the baristas supposed to say, "Would you like a banana with your coffee?" "A banana with your venti mocha soy latte?" "A little potassium in exchange for your soul?"

2. A woman pulls her suv onto the sidewalk after going through a Starbucks drive-thru in Phoenix. She storms in, (the front of her beige pants suit looking like she has wet herself), and yells, at the top of her lungs, "And next time, make sure the fucking lid is on tight!" She walks back out and hurls what's left of her grande frappachino at the front glass. (Cue the Aimee Mann song)

3. A man hauls his computer into a 24 hour Manhattan Starbucks and sets up shop, picking up free wireless internet connections in the air - surfing for days. His computer is a desktop. We're talking 17 inch monitor and tower hard drive. (You've got to see the pictures to believe it.

4. A man walks into a Starbucks in Egypt (yes, the one in Africa - they actually have Starbucks in Africa - I could hardly believe it either) with a lit cigarette. After an associate tells him he has to put it out and takes his drink order, the man cusses and says he wont. His coffee order is filled and brought back to him, along with the manager, who also tells him he must put out the cigarette. He takes his coffee, stabs the manager in the chest. Twice. He then takes a seat and finishes his coffee. And his cigarette. Just in time for the police to come and take him away.

And now my favorite story of all:

5. A new Starbucks under construction in Colorado is vandalized. That's right. Apparently a group of hippies visited the incomplete coffee complex and busted up counters and the primo fireplace. They pulled out all that wonderful track lighting and urinated on the floor. Then, to top it all off, they spray painted a pretty little warning across the front of the building : GO BACK TO SEATTLE YOU CORPORATE SCUM!

Now maybe this is a bit extreme. And I would never advocate vandalism of any kind. But it is nice to know Starbucks is getting the message that all of us independents preach. Finally. And I never had to shake a spray paint can. Thank you hippies. We will buy our produce at the co-op. Thank you very much.

The Supermodel and the Cabdriver

The official opening of The Interpreter was this weekend. Maybe that’s the reason I haven’t been able to get any sleep. It makes me think of that scene in the movie, Fall, where the cab driver says to the super model: “You’re ________, I see you everywhere.” To which the super model replies back to the cab driver: “You’re ________, I see you nowhere.” Assuming the role of the cab driver carries with it the burden of insomnia. Something I am not familiar with. Not until now.

Yes, it’s true. Nicole and I have still had no contact since that day. You know what day I’m talking about. D-Day. The day that ended this entire dream. I’ve tried not to think about it. Tried to concentrate on dismantling my apartment to prepare for my summer in the mountains of Tennessee doing Shakespeare. Tried to concentrate on how I am going to pay my ex-wife the child support I owe her under the threat of impending imprisonment. Tried to concentrate on new living arrangements and new employment prospects upon my return to Chicago in July. But then Friday comes and all the new movies are released and I have to relive the pain all over again.

God forbid I even try and look at the television to get my mind off it - there she is in those 30 second spots - “A NEW FILM BY THE DIRECTOR OF ‘THREE DAYS IN THE CONDOR’! STARING A VERY HEALTHY AND EMOTIONALLY SECURE NICOLE KIDMAN, WHO LEARNED A HOT SOUTH AFRICAN ACCENT FOR THE ROLE AND MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE CAUSED A BREAK UP BETWEEN HER CO-STAR SEAN PENN AND HIS LONG TIME LOVE ROBIN WRIGHT! THANK GOD SHE DITCHED THAT HACK WRITER IN CHICAGO! HE MIGHT AS WELL START DRIVING A TAXI OR SOMETHING…”

Painful! And then I find myself going to the damn I-TUNES movie trailer site. My damn finger paused over the enter key. Poised to watch the 2 minute trailer for the damn movie. (Which they are showing on 4 damn screens mere blocks from my apartment.) Dammit!

My dvd copy of Eyes Wide Shut sits on a unhinged shelf -one of the only things not packed yet- taunting me. I am well aware that it hurts to cut your finger. So why do I keep dragging the razor over mine. You want to know why? Because I keep thinking that if I bleed enough now, there will eventually be no feeling left. I can’t say it’s the healthiest theory in the world, but it seems to have worked in the past. This masochistic gluttony of sorrow. It plagues me like memories of junior high.

I had thought it was all over, but I guess I still need time. I don’t know my own weaknesses. I am hoping that this time in the south with old friends will take me away from the problem of pain and bring much needed healing. But who knows. I have a tendency to replace one problem with another. And my roommate -who sadly I am leaving behind- is starting to look really cute. What to do.

For now, I’ll just cope. And deal. And pray. Here in the snow of this blustery afternoon. (Yes, snow. At the end of April. This is Chicago.) I am sure that all of this is for the best. Otherwise, how could it be happening, right? Plus, it’s really easy to close my eyes and shift a little guilt over to the other side. Sort of balance things out.

I can hear Chris Isaak crooning “She did a bad, bad thing…” in the background and I think - yes, she did. I think I will watch Eyes Wide Shut one more time before I pack it away for the summer. I can’t sleep anyway

The Rules of Asian Cinema

Now I don’t want to offend any Asians. Some of my best friends are Asian. Even more specifically, I don’t want to offend any Asian filmmakers. But I think I am beginning to understand the rules, as they pertain to Asian horror movies. Seems to me there are about three things that permeate these films:

1. A young boy who hides a lot and seems to have deep psychological problems.

2. A woman with long stringy black hair that hangs in her face. She doesn’t speak, but is regulated to horrific groaning sounds.

3. A crab-walk. Meaning, someone (usually a freaky looking someone - more than often, the woman with the stringy black hair that hangs in her face) walks like a crab. Arms and legs all akimbo in a fashion not like reality at all. And of course we all go “OOOOHHHHH, that’s freaky!”

Now, if you’ve seen any of these movies at all, you know what I am talking about. The Ring and Ring II and their Asian counterparts Ringu and Ringu II. The Grudge and its Asian counterpart Ju- On. And half a dozen others I know just from reading the back of the dvd. Actually, I got all the information I needed from the front of the dvd, which usually features a disturbing picture of 1, 2 or 3. Sometimes, all of them. But just because I am pointing out these, seemingly, key elements of contemporary Asian horror movies, it doesn’t mean they are any good. I mean, if they stayed in Japan or Korea or China or wherever they originated, at least they would be authentic. Intended language and such. No cultural barriers. Not half bad. But when they try to morph the exact same movie into an American replica, they just fail miserably. (ie. The Ring movies and The Grudge. Plus they substitute people like Buffy the Vampire Slayer…I don’t think so.)

Let’s face it. (And I want to be clear that I am not trying to beat up on Asian filmmakers), but are we really breaking new ground here? I seem to recall a very popular American movie by one, Mr M. Night Shyamalan, and that movie had, at least a 1 and a 2 in it.

Then there is The Exorcist, from the 70’s. I know that Friedkin cut it out of the original, and it took the release of the director’s cut for us to get a glimpse of his original vision, but Linda Blair clearly does a crab walk. Down the stairs. At her mother’s party. And it’s freaky. Do we really need to see that again and again? We get the picture. When girls walk like crabs, it’s disturbing.

Maybe this trend is just in “popular” (commercial) Asian movies. Maybe it’s the new Hollywood. (aka there is nothing new under the sun - let’s just take this thing that has been successful and run it into the ground) People in Japan like Takashi Miike and Chanwook Park are, at least, original. The makers of Extreme Asian Film. Watch Audition if you dare. The first hour will dull your expectations like cinematic Novocain, but after the last ½ hour, you wont be able to sleep for days. “Dedededededededed….” (Watch it and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Actually, I would encourage you not to, unless you have a strong stomach.)

I have been trying to decide for days whether to go see Park’s Old Boy, but I am kind of scared. I’ve heard about the mouth meets the claw hammer scene. Okay, maybe I won’t go, but I feel better knowing it’s out there. At least it gives the standard Asian horror, with it’s three rules of fright, a run for it’s money. And we wont be seeing any crabwalks. That makes me feel good.

Broken Music

Sting may be able to “go all night” with Trudy, thanks to the “The Force” (or as us laypeople call it, tantric sex), but last night at the UIC Pavilion in Chicago, he had what was tantamount to “stage fright”. (Is that enough quote use for you?)

I want to like Sting, I really do. He seemed like such a nice guy last night. Even said God bless you at the end of the show. A quaint Englishman. Took a collective bow with his mates (the sparse band). But there was just something missing. Like he phoned in the concert or something. Like the vocals were done by Sting’s stunt man while Sting reclined in an easy chair in the wings.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the Police. Love them! And Sting’s stuff from the 90’s is great as well. (Some of it) But maybe that was his peak. In the 21st century, does anybody really care? I mean, he didn’t sell enough tickets to pack an arena that only holds 7,500. There must not be that much of a demand. All I saw, besides my old hippie roommate that invited me to partake of the free ticket, was middle aged suburbanites and large groups of single women from the office pool. Where was the punk rock white reggae from 1979?

In an effort to “get back to his roots”, (there I go again), Sting started the Broken Music tour on April 1st. Stripped down. Eliminating the soulful background singers. And playing music he hasn’t played in 20 some years. Namely songs from his years with the Police. Yeah! I have never seen Sting live before. What an opportune time to check him off my list. Yeah, well…

After Phantom Planet, the opening act, said they were going to play one more song before they left to make way for Sting, the crowd cheered. Not because they looked forward to the final song, but because they wanted PP off the stage to make way for their hero. (Personally, I thought that was kind of rude. In my opinion, PP worked a lot harder than Sting’s band) Then PP played that last song - “California”, which everyone immediately recognized as the ring tone on their cell-phone and the theme from the OC on the WB.
“Oh, we know this song. This song is cool. It’s from that show and…I kind of like this band. Ohhhhhh California here we come….right back where we started from. Let’s sing along. La la la la la. La la la la la.” - What idiots!

So Sting finally arrived and opened with “Message in a Bottle”, followed by “Spirits in a Material World” (Which he said was stolen by Madonna- I guess he means “Material Girl”) and then “Demolition Man”. Three really excellent Police songs. If he had put a little backbone into them, they would have really rocked. But, as it stands, he didn’t. And therefore, the songs didn’t. “Roxanne” was great for the first verse, and then, disappointingly, fell apart when he tried to get us to sing along with some inane added part while he scated through the rest. I guess the highlights, if I have to choose them, were probably his cover of the Beatle’s “Day in the Life” and “Synchronicity II”. Those were pretty good. And “Next to You”, which he did as one of the four encores. Did I say that “Every Breath You Take” sucked? Well, I meant to.

Sting, here is my advice to you. Get the band back together. Work through your differences with Andy and Stewart and go out on tour. Be the Police again. That’s really getting back to your roots. That’s rock and roll. What you did last night was take the bite of songs like “King of Pain” and filter them through your “Fields of Gold”. That’s like having Debby Boone sing the Sex Pistol’s “Anarchy in the UK”. You dig? How about taking back the rock. Then I’ll go see you again. When 1 is 3. The holy trinity of reggae punk. And I’ll pay for my ticket this time

Unto Us A Child Is Born

I am more convinced of the coming Apocalypse everyday. What with fingers being found in Wendy’s chili and sixteen year old grave robbers in New England. But no amount of sensationalism on NBC with the new hit Revelations or rhetoric in any of the 1000 books put out by Jerry Jenkins and Tim LaHaye could prepare me for the evidence that this week has brought to light. Britney Spears is pregnant. Just when you thought things were settling down to just under normal - this happens. At the risk of divulging what ever teen lust issues I still might have with the, (in my opinion), much maligned pop princess, I thought it wise to hide a bit. That’s what us writers do, after all.

Thanks to Mr. Dave Eggers again, I have a place I can run to when I fear the consequences of truly expressing myself: Jason Hill. (Not a new series on the WB, but a black cat with no fear.)

*The opinions and views expressed in the following letter do not reflect the opinions and views of this writer. Although, I do support Jason’s honesty and his unique individuality. I will also continue to encourage him in his glorious revolution of misspent youth. He is a bad and nasty little feline, but he doesn’t give a shit. I can only pray for a portion of his boldness. Anyway…

Dear Mrs. Spears,
Guess you didn’t get my first letter. Or maybe you’re busy or something. Anyway, I didn’t get any response, whatever the reason. So, in case you’re wondering, it still sucks here. My urinary tract infection still hurts like a sonofabitch and nobody seems to care. They are giving me this new food that, frankly, tastes like dog shit. And I would know. I’d rather eat Harrison’s vomit. (In case you forgot, Harrison is the other dumb ass cat I live with.) But seriously, I go in there to try and scope out some of his food when they’re filling his bowl and I get shut out. They wont let me get any breaks and I am practically starving to death. That’s why the whole vomit thing is like a culinary treat at this point. But speaking of vomit, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. How’s it going with that whole pregnancy thing? I heard the first trimester can be a real bitch. Yeah, I heard about it this week. I guess we all did. Let me be the first cat to congratulate you…

WOOOOOOOOO! WOOOOOOOO! WAY TO GO BRITNEY! YOU’RE ONE HOT BABY MAKER! LOVE YA!

How’s Kevin handling the news? Will the child take his name or yours? Can I just say that I think this will only bring you closer together and further assure the confidence that I have, personally, in your relationship. These media people don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground. I don’t know what this shit they’re saying is all about…unfit, self-absorbed, idiot, pop-star mom? Come on. They obviously don’t know you Britney. Don’t you let it get to you girl, okay?

Anyway, since I’m writing to express my best wishes over Britney (Or Kevin) Jr., I thought I’d take the time to offer my hospitality once again. I think, despite my confidence I have in you as a mother, that things will get harder once you have the little tot. What I would like you to consider will be beneficial to both of us.

Obviously, you are faithful to Bit Bit, and I am sure that you would like that level of devotion to continue in the future. If you would just invite me to stay with you and Kevin and Bit Bit, I am sure that I could fill the void that will be left once the baby sees the light of day. What with nursing and all, Bit Bit is sure to suffer in the area of attention. But with a friend around, that would not be a issue. You see, not only would I be a wonderfully capable pet for you and Kevin and the future of the Spears dynasty, but I could make Bit Bit’s life complete as well. In a time where she will probably feel like her life is falling apart. I could be there for her. (I know that I often come off as sort of a bad ass, but I can also be very loving.)

You don’t even have to trust me on this Brit. Look at all those Disney movies. Or even Dreamworks. If a dragon and a jack ass with Eddie Murphy’s voice can wind up together, can anything really get in the way of a superstar dog and a lovable cat with a minor urinary tract infection?
I promise you this. If you do take me in, I wont complain anymore. I’ll eat that food that taste like dog shit. And I’ll love it. I have confidence that the joy of my new environment can transform even the bleakest meals into cheesecake. Plus I’ll be away from that bitch Harrison.

Think about it and give me a call. I’ll check back with you soon if I don’t hear from you. Again, congratulations. Even though we only really needed one virgin birth, we’ll take yours with pleasure. I just -
DAMMIT! Stupid cat is trying to eat all my shit food. What a waste of space. I gotta go pounce his ass Brit - later.

WOOOOOOOO! I’M COMING AT YA YOU STUPID! AAAAAAHHHHHH! WOOOOOOOO! HI-YA! (I’ve been watching some old Bruce Lee movies. He’s in for a world of pain) YAAAAAAA! HIIIIIIII-YAAAAAA!

Oh yeah, sorry Brit.

Sincerely,
Jason Hill

Beautiful Day

Evidently, I am not a friend of the outdoors. I’d like to think that I have that bone in my body. I mean, I went camping and all. Several times. Even went cross country. Of course there was that small incident when I couldn’t find the bear lockers in Yosemite last October. It was getting dark and I was having a fit. But that’s not really an indication of anything. Is it? I mean, I am a writer and like to think of myself as a Renaissance man. Capable and educated in all areas. Well rounded, if you will. But, as I am willing to freely admit that I can be a bit of a control freak, I am also willing to freely admit that outside the comfort of my apartment and warm laptop, I can get a little incapable. Case in point…

Sunday. It was the first really gorgeous day here in Chicago. I can enjoy a good walk, I thought. And that’s what I did. For the rest of the day, I was content to sit in my apartment with the windows thrown open, have a little brunch, some coffee and write. That is my idea of a perfect day. Well, my roommate is quite a different animal. Having recovered fully from the menstrual explosion from the other day, she did the walk with me. Then the brunch and the coffee, but the contentment didn’t stop there. Unlike me, whose day called out for words, she wanted to plant things. She’s like, “Oh, it’s such a perfect day. I just want to get a bunch of flowers and plants and such and dig in the front yard and the back yard. I want to go through all that dirt and put some life in there. And oh, it will be so much fun. Let’s go to the Home Depot’s garden department and get all these living things and make stuff pretty.”

Well, I’m all for pretty. But that was not how I wanted to spend the rest of my Sunday. However, it was a small sacrifice, I thought, to go with her to the Home Depot. Just to get the flowers and plants. That’s it. Once we came back to the apartment, she was on her own. Maybe I could sit outside and read a bit while she planted, but I was definitely going to do some writing and no outdoor activity was going to get in my way. Gardening is not my scene. She accepted that and I didn’t have to feel guilty about completely ignoring her on this beautiful day. So, we headed to the Home Depot garden department.

It was busy. And I tried to hide out by going to get a cart while she perused the flowers and tried to make up her mind. (Which I knew would not be an easy task - the cart part too - what are all these people doing out on such a beautiful damn day?) I came back with the cart, painfully pushing myself through the horde of obnoxious people with their carts. She was admiring a large display of daffodils. But questioning the $34.99 price tag on the bottom of the display. Seemed steep for a six-pack of daffodils. That’s because the true price was $2.99, which was clearly evident across the TOP of the display. I told her that price on the bottom was referring to the metal pieces of the display itself, and I emphasized this by poking at it with my toe. Well, I thought I was poking at it. Unfortunately, I don’t know my own strength. I was actually hammering it with much force. When my big toe (think of a Hobbit toe) hit that metal under-girding, (I remind you of the brilliant weather again - hence the vulnerability of my toes in their thin sandal couture), it split wide open. Of course, I didn’t know this immediately. At first, I was only aware of the great pain and hadn’t seen the giant gash that was pulsing. And, of course, I caused a minor and discreet scene. I always do. My roommate missed the whole thing and walked off to check out some pansies.

I moved off to the side with the cart, already full of plants, and out of the way of all those obnoxious customers. That’s when I saw it. The blood. All over my foot. All over my sandal. Soaking into the sole and running onto the cinder block floor in the Home Depot garden department. I just put my head down on the cart and wondered what I was going to do as I bled to death.

When my roommate finally noticed me, it was when she needed to pack the cart some more. She just thought I was just being difficult since I never really wanted to go to the Home Depot garden department in the first place. Since I really only wanted to be home. Inside. With the windows open, of course, on account of it being such a beautiful day. About the time she said, “Come on, let’s just go” in mock frustration, she saw it. The blood. I thought she would care. I thought she would try to help. At least baby me or something. I at least deserved a little pity. I had earned it. She just sent me to the Home Depot restroom with the promise that she wouldn’t leave before I got back. That’s nice.

The restroom was on the other side of the store. About a half a mile. And I was bleeding like a stuck pig. As I dragged my lame leg across the floor, I left a trail of blood. Nobody stopped and helped me. Nobody asked me if I was okay. It was like I was just one of them. One of them with all this blood running out of my big toe. What were they, blind? Some old guy even tried to hit me with his cart. Twice. I couldn’t help but think that none of this would have happened if everyone had just stayed in their house on this beautiful day.

Anyway, I made it to the restroom. Washed up. Stopped the bleeding. It was such a mess. Then I limped back to find my roommate in line, completing the sale of her perennials. Again - no sympathy. I was so glad to get back to the house. I can’t even tell you. And the rest of my day was spent reading and writing in peace. Such a beautiful day. But you see, that’s what’s so sad about this whole thing. While I want to be a bigger man and indulge in the creative arts of the outdoors, I have to admit my weaknesses as I see them. Forget mountain climbing or kayaking or extreme biking - if I can’t make it through a visit to the Home Depot garden department without incident, it would stand to reason that I don’t belong anywhere but indoors.

a muse

Just an update. Since no particular one issue has me splayed out in anger right now. And since the other two blogs that Automatic and I write for take up my need to indulge more abstract conceits. Let’s see what happens.

Well, it’s been about a week since Nicole ditched me. (You see, the good natured response and ‘wish you well’ semantics that initially defined our end has waned. At least on my side of the tracks.) The important thing right now is that I am strong.

Also, the government has decided, just this week, that it is time for my unemployment checks to stop coming to my apartment. This poses a slight problem for someone like me, who currently has no other source of income. I don’t understand why my books aren’t just blowing off the shelf. Or why The Believer doesn’t want to publish my rants. Or why there are problems with putting up my new play in Chicago right now. Things will even out. I am sure of it. This is just a dry spell. Besides, at the beginning of May, I will be leaving for a while anyway. Traveling to see my daughter. Then on to Tennessee, in order to help some friends get their theatre started. Maybe even do some acting. And get paid in the process. That’s not a bad prospect for the summer. Is it? (By the way, Red Clay Theatre - Cleveland, TN - It’s going to be the next big thing - way to go Stacey and Lisa.) In the meantime, I am holding on. And it looks like I’ll be running on the fumes of God this month. The important thing right now is that I am strong.

Also, my ex wife has been bearing down on me. Yes, I have one of those. Seems I was married for 5 years before. Way before. And it has haunted me ever since. Except for my wonderful daughter - she is the only bright spot. ( I worry now that you know way more than you should about me.) Anyway, my ex has been scolding me about the tardiness of my child support. This kind of ties into the whole unemployment thing. Seems I am behind. One month. Come on! I’m not some kind of dead-beat dad here. I am a respectable, out of work writer. John Walsh is not after me for anything. I’m not gonna show up on Cops. It’s one month! And there is all this, “Well Buzzard (her new man) and I want to know if this is going to be a consistent thing or if we can expect you to make it a priority or are you just goofing off or…”
What the hell? I told her my daughter IS a priority. When I get the money, she’ll be the first to get it. But you can’t get blood from a turnip. What am I to do? Then she threatens me with prison. Well, come and lock me up then. I have an active part in my daughter’s life - that would be great if I was in jail. Our relationship would be so much better then. I told her this. Then she backed off. But until when? Until I am a month behind again? She even had the gall to suggest I get the money from Nicole. Can you believe it? Guess she doesn’t read my blog. (Now that I think of it, for having dated a superstar, I got no monetary compensation for the entire escapade. I should have taking more advantage of that.) Oh well. The important thing right now is that I am strong.

This is totally off the subject, yet totally appropriate for the nature of this blog. My friend yesterday, (well my roommate, actually), was in pain for a large portion of the day and all I could do is watch. You see, she has a cyst on her ovaries, so every month, the arrival of her menstruation is completely like playing Russian Roulette. A cycle could come and go with the pain of a simple bee sting and disappear into the night, leaving nothing but a 28 day wait. That’s what we pray for. Then there are some cycles, like the one yesterday, that arrive with the power of a bear in heat. In these times, it is easy to believe that she is giving birth to a child twice the size of her own body. My job, because I was around, and because I care, was to heat wet towels in the microwave and bring them to her to place on her lower…area. Other than that one duty, I was not permitted into the bedroom. But I can tell you this. The noises that were coming out of that room were not human. I know that a human was making them, but they were so guttural and pagan, I felt more compelled to call a priest than a doctor. But I just let her be. At her request. And she didn’t die. Though it sounded like she did. At the end of it all, when I thought it safe to sneak back into the room, she lie in a pool of her own sweat in the center of her big purple bed. Asleep like a baby. How does she do it? I have no idea. I have a hard time dealing with a cut finger, while dicing up peppers for a quiche. I either need to get a stronger resolve or change my sex. But, God really needs to fix her…situation. I don’t know if I can handle it? The important thing right now is that I am strong.

Well, I’m going to go. Watch some movies or do some reading or something. Maybe I will have a breakthrough today and someone will actually pay me what I’m worth. Come to think of it, that might get me nowhere. Guess I can always contemplate the status quo for a little bit longer.

Krooks

Automatic is playing with those crooks again. You know, the ones who promise that just a few of your hard earned dollars could be taken and multiplied exponentially. Miraculously. Like Jesus feeding the 5,000 or something. Or the ones who want “investment” partners for giraffe farms and hair transplant centers and cloning devices. Or the ones who want to simply give you a whole lot of their money. For no reason other than they have become “unable to care for it”. No strings attached. Really. Just give them your bank account information, and they will be sure to make a deposit as soon as they get in touch with their attorney. And oh, yeah, could you also leave your social security number. Just for assurance. They promise there wont be a clone with your identification show up in Berlin and kill several members of the police while robbing a bank. They promise that a group of uneducated nihilists with a rabid marmot wont show up at your house and pee on your carpet. You know, the one that ties the room together. (Thank you Cohen brothers) Please. They just want to help. They have lots of love to give. Have you received one of these emails? Have you? Are we really supposed to believe investment bankers with what seems like a 6th grade education? Or medical doctors that are prone to leaving all the articles and pronouns out of their sentences?
(ie. am writing to with hope of help children dying aids in state of Africa) - It’s helpful knowing Africa is a state, buddy.

Anyway, in the hi-jinx that are sure to follow with said crooks, at the hand of Automatic’s bitter pen, (along with his trusty sidekick, Spud), it’s hard for anyone not to be amused. I have created a few poses myself. If you ever find yourself at the receiving end of an earnest, yet idiotic, request, you might have fun striking one of the following. Consider it one small step for the better man. For the honest man. For the more educated man. I mean, of course you’re being fraudulent, but so are these guys. At least your reasons are sincere. For that matter, aren’t you equally exasperated that everybody and his brother wants you to know how you can make your penis bigger? Do you keep trying to shoot that damn turkey so you can win a $20 gift certificate to Applebees? Do they really think you’ll have trouble telling the difference between Paris Hilton, Micheal Jackson and Fred Durst? Hey, anytime you have an opportunity to respond to this nonsense, feel free to use one of the following:

TOP FIVE IDIOTIC CHARACTERS THAT THE CROOKS HAVE TO BELIVE IN (because they want to so badly)

1. Brandon Bentitoff - a contortionist who has injured himself and is no longer able to work. Seems his insurance has limited coverage.
2. Dr. Simon Saysagan - a licensed psychiatrist who stands to lose his license pending lawsuits filed by several patients.
3. Ramon - did you see the movie Zoolander?
4. Cowboy McGee - poor guy, he needs help ridding his land of all those pesky Indians.
5. Laser Vex - seems nobody will pay for an operation that this young lady desperately needs. Well…one she desperately wants, anyway.

Not that I’ve tried any of these out or anything, but I’m pretty sure they’re full-proof. At least for a little while. Especially when people want so desperately to believe you. Hey, if the Yes Men can fool the World Trade Organization, anything is possible. If you have no idea what I am talking about, or you want a little inspiration, try this: http://theyesmen.org/

EYES WIDE OPEN

As many of you know, Nicole and I have been an “item” for some time now, and while the press hasn’t been especially kind - I remember one article referred to me as the ‘out of work, slack-assed writer’ - we have enjoyed an especially fulfilling relationship. Me with my hang-ups and her with hers. She came to me in a dream one day and she never left. Until now.

Part of me always realized that this kind of thing doesn’t happen to just anyone. That this visitation, while often feeling angelic, was probably just dumb luck. Superstars do not date non-superstars. But these last few months, I have tried not to think about those things and just let myself be happy. For once in my life. Maybe this whole time I was never really content, but at least I was happy. There is a difference. And contentment is way overrated.

For a while now, I have had a taste of the rich and famous lifestyle. Sort of. But now it is all ending. Seems the rabbit has died. For all of you unfamiliar with that expression, or if you are just reading my blog for the first time and have no idea what I am talking about…Nicole is not pregnant as we thought she might be. That is the good news. I guess the bad news is that we will no longer be an ‘item’. I really should have seen this for what it was - a seasonal romance. But I am okay. Or, at least, I will be okay. Besides, this will only make my writing better, right? Who can write anything decent when they’re happy? Next time out, I’m looking for contentment. So…Sophia Coppola, if you are reading this…

In the meantime, let me just say this. Nicole is in L.A. this weekend for the premiere of The Interpreter tonight. I wish her well in all her future endeavors. Hell…indulge me for a second here - these next words are for her alone.

Dearest Nicole,

I never thought we’d last forever. I’m not that delusional. When you came over last night and shared your thoughts. Your heart. It was like a self-fulfilling prophesy. One I had set into motion even before I saw that first twinkle in your beautiful blue eyes. I don’t know if I honestly expected you to bridge the impossible gap between our two worlds or not. Maybe I thought I might like it where you are. Now I realize that can never happen. Some things are just never meant to be. You know that before they begin, but you just can’t help trying to get close. At least for a little while. I guess that’s what I did. Thanks for being honest with me. And thanks for the time you did give me. I really didn’t deserve you. I hope you find happiness AND contentment in your future. You are a real lady and incredibly beautiful. Can I just tell you - and it’s amazing I have the strength to - that I think you and Tom should give it another go. I would support that. Plus it would be good for the kids. And you don’t have to like L. Ron Hubbard. That’s okay.
Say ‘hi’ to Sean Penn for me. And don’t think you can’t ever call. Some part of me feels like I will always be here for you. You have an eternal friend. And please know that all your secrets are safe with me. At least outside of this blog. And I will always enter into things with my eyes wide shut. Thanks to you.

J.F.