The International Day of Peace

I wanted to take the moral high ground. I wanted to believe I was a more patient, tolerant and forgiving man. I wanted to be more like Jesus. But, I went to the U2 concert last week, and the guy next to me was a FUCKING ASSHOLE!
Plus, now I have a rash fast spreading across my abdomen like a stampede of infection.

From the moment he sat down, Crusher knew he was trouble. (For those of you who don't keep up, Crusher is my new, hot girlfriend - and you will see, is destined to live up to her namesake.)

I was basking in the joy of my free parking spot, right next to the $20 lot, and the very righteous section 204, row 2 seats I had scored at the last minute, thanks to some failing Ticketbastard systems. An absolutely beautiful view of the Vertigo tour stage at the United Center in Chicago, we endured Dashboard Confessional with our $5 pops and waited for Bono and the boys to make an appearance. That's when HE came.

With his friend, who might as well have been a deaf mute. Phillip. With flailing limbs, clutching his $40 tour shirt and yelling into his cell phone with that Eastern European mouth of his. He busted through me and Crusher's legs and plopped down on my left. A flurry of activity from the get-go.

"U-TOOOOOOOO! U-TOOOOOOO! Fdsklafjsjaweo U2 jwaerjfdslkfasflskd djlfla fklasdfkajsjksd U2 kdfksajdfkladf sofas;lkdfj askdfs U-TOOOOOOOO!"
(Obviously I don't speak the language, but that's what it sounded like to me.)
In our ears, and everyone's around us, at levels that would soon rival Dublin's finest. I guess we were all non-confrontational pacifists, because we sat and took the abuse until the lights dimmed and the background sound of the Arcade Fire's "Wake Up" ushered in the opening strains of "City of Blinding Lights"

Actually, there was a small moment of conflict before U2 took the stage. Crusher had reached her - soon to be tested - limit, and tapped Phillip on the leg, admonishing him to "quiet it down please". He did, for about 15 seconds. Then, in an effort to diffuse the situation, turned to me (not Crusher - this guy was pretty smart) and told me how excited he was to be here. Told me his name was Phillip. And shook my hand. I was so shocked that he spoke English, that I completely forgot, for the duration of that 15 seconds, what a pain in the ass he was being before. Even Crusher felt bad. But when those first cords rang out from the Edge's guitar, that's when everything fell apart.

I feel bad. I really do. Like I missed what was a truly great concert. I had seen U2 back in 1997 on the Pop Mart tour, but this was Crusher's first time, and it was essentially ruined by this retarded Phillip guy. Now, I know that is not a very pc thing to say, but looking back on his behavior that evening, it was so preposterous that I thought he really might be retarded. Now I just say it because it's one more mean thing to heap onto the thick skull of this fucking asshole. ( I warned you I was taking the wide road on this one.)

Anyway, less than a minute into this unbelievably spectacular opening of U2's last night, of 6, in Chicago, Phillip grabs me, turns me around, (away from Bono and this blinding eye candy of bliss), and shoves a digital camera in my hand, yelling at me to "TAKE PICTURE, TAKE PICTURE!" I was so taken back, that I took the camera and pointed it toward the stage to do just that. That's when Phillip grabbed me, turned me around and yelled, "NO! OF US! OF US!" He wanted me to stop, focus and take a picture of him and his little Eastern European buddy against the backdrop of pitch black and a sea of faceless people, while only the greatest rock band in the world had just begun there set, which me and Crusher were trying to enjoy at $110 a pop. *Remember I just came off of being unemployed for about a year - this will become very important later in the story.

Okay,stop for a second. Has the severity of what this guy was requiring of me in that moment set in yet? This is that preposterous behavior I was talking about. Anyway, I took the damn picture. I don't know who was more pissed in that moment. Me, or the countless people around us who were thinking we were all idiots. One click and guess what the screen revealed on the back of the digital camera? Pitch black. Go figure. I handed it back to Phillip and said, "It came out black. Later. Just deal with it later."

Surprisingly, this seemed to suffice, until U2 revved into "Vertigo" a few minutes later. That's when everyone in section 204, 205 and 206 heard not, "uno, dos, tres...", but "U-TOOOOOOOOOOOOO! U-TOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Phillip was at it again. Now, for those of you who think I was out to squelch a harmless fan's excitement, did I happen to mention that he was actually louder than U2?

This went on. I couldn't enjoy the experience. None of us could. He was obliterating everything holy about this evening with his insolence. It was during "Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own" that I decided I couldn't take it anymore. Usually, I let a whole lot slide before I make a fuss. But Crusher had broken the ice early on and I felt I had the courage to take certain liberties with my traditional pacifist stance. Phillip was yelling into his cell-phone to someone in Poland. I put my arm around him as Bono sang about his father's death.

"Look Phillip. You are going to have to be good and quiet down. You are getting a lot of people here very angry, and if you don't cool it, one of them is going to go get security, and they are going to come and take you out of this arena. Okay?"

He said it was okay, but before the song was ended, he was back on with Krakow, and I was on my way to find the security guards, which ended up being one guy with a walkie-talkie. My quest for Mr. Walkie-Talkie caused me to miss "Yahweh". Thanks. Although, I guess Phillip truly deserves the credit. I pointed him out to the 'security' guard - who said he dealt with these people all the time - and sat back down. Mr. Walkie-Talkie loomed in the background, watching for any behavior not kosher to a rock show. Meanwhile, I leaned into Phillip and explained, "You're gonna have to be good now. You're being monitored."
(I learned later that as soon as I had left to find Mr. Walkie-Talkie, Crusher had also issued an idle threat - "You're in trouble now. He's going to get security."

Needless to say, these warnings, (reinforced by mr. walkie-talkie), worked for a little while - (maybe a song and �) - as they should. Then, I guess, there was another more important call, and 'security' was pulled away. Bigger threats than our reckless little European. U2 launched into "Sunday Bloody Sunday" and Phillip exploded.
I mean, so did I. I have never had the privilege of hearing them perform this anthem live. I still haven't. I saw Bono and he looked pretty serious with his Coexist headband, challenging us to tolerance. But all I heard was Phillip, in my left ear, screaming "SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAAAAAAAAYYYYYY! OOOOOOOOHHHH-TWOOOOOOO!"

Believe it or not, I made it through the intensity of "Bullet the Blue Sky" and "Miss Sarajevo" without incident - unless you count the hole I chewed through the inside of my mouth. Then, right before "Pride (In the Name of Love)", things got really quiet. Soft words were spoken. Challenges were made. And peace was observed. From the stage, emitting out to thousands of U2 fans, as Bono talked about the violation of human rights. Little did he know, it was going on right next to me. Phillip was on his phone again. One of the girls behind us - who he had tried to dance with earlier - got in on the action and tried to pull the cell out of his hand. Crusher said "If you don't get off your phone right now, I'm going to throw the fucking thing across the arena." And I asked if he would, "please show some respect." He didn't.

Crusher went for help. As a 'shot rang out in the Memphis sky', on the International Day of Peace, as Phillip babbled on, I lost it. If my friends could see me now.
I grabbed Phillip in mid-sentence and turned him towards me. All the eyes of section 204 were on us now, as I hollered over the sound of the band.
"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! WHY DON'T YOU JUST SHUT UP?! YOU ARE RUINING THIS EXPERIENCE FOR EVERYONE! PLEASE! PLEASE! I'VE ASKED YOU NICELY! PLEASE JUST SHUT UP!"

"You don't understand." He spoke in broken English. "I save all year for this concert. I wait. This for you - week's pay."

You have no idea Phillip. No fucking idea.
He turned straight ahead and stuck out his lip like a scorned little boy. Only then did I recognize the familiar strains of the soundtrack that played over our little tirade. The Edge's trademark sounds of paradise - "Where the Streets Have No Name". I wish I could have gone right then and there. To make matters worse, Crusher was missing it all.

We were working on heaven when she finally arrived to end our hell. A bevy of buff bouncers in tow. One of the tough guys, crammed into a yellow t-shirt and sans walkie-talkie, tapped Phillip on the shoulder. "You - come with me!" How could he resist.

For the next 15 minutes, despite the nagging pain in my abdomen, there was peace on earth. With trepidation, I tried to enjoy Bono's impromptu, acapella, request version of "In A Little While", and the deeply meaningful finale of "One" - currently even more potent due to the poverty relief effort of the same name. Then it all came to a screeching halt.

"AAAAAAHHHHHHHH! AAAAAAHHHHHH! U-TOOOOOOOO! U-TOOOOOO!"

What was this? I had mistakenly believed the madness was over. I had stupidly believed I would be able to relax and fully enjoy the remainder of the concert. There must be some mistake. How could security just let this guy go? This...Phillip? This fucking asshole?

He pointed at Crusher's leg, which was currently blocking his entrance into the row. She didn't even look up at him. Like a troll atop a bridge, she remained. Protecting us all. Section 204. Our little rock and roll sentinel. Of course, I was the one who ended up giving in. I was the one who broke. I employed Crusher to move her leg so Phillip could enter. What was I thinking? Did I really believe that things would be different? I mean, Crusher was ready to...well, crush the guy. Do some serious damage.

Meanwhile, back on stage, Bono and the Edge closed out their primary set with a touching acoustic rendition of "Ol' Man River", and exited to thunderous applause. I didn't clap during this time, but used the sacred moment for prayer. A prayer that God would close the mouth of the beast on my left. A prayer that God would stop any and all movement in the chair next to me. But, as most of you know, he moves in 'mysterious ways' and doesn't always answer prayers the way you want Him to.

U2's five song encore was amazing. But seeing how the entire concert - up to this point - was lost on me, it only made sense that the icing on the shitty cake be sour too. Phillip seemed to be the only person in section 204 that was enjoying himself. Imagine that. Some foreign antibody took me over. I grabbed him by his crackling shoulders and turned him once more, screaming "SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT THE HELL UP!", resisting the never present, yet oddly familiar, urge to drag him out of the arena by his ears. (For what purpose, I don't know. This was all so new to me.) My fists were clenched. My teeth were grinding. A fresh layer of sweat burst through my pores like a flash flood. I had to do something this time. I just had to.

I ran. So exasperated. So angry. Security was nowhere to be found this time. I yelled at a bartender to call a herd of those big men in tight t-shirts to section 204. "There's a commotion! Help!" I think I actually barked at her just so she'd realize the sense of urgency. Honestly, what could I say? "There's a boy being very boisterous next to me at the rock concert"? I almost felt a little foolish by this point. Who could possibly understand the threat of Phillip but the patrons of section 204? I didn't wait around to deal with the fallout or answer any of the bartender's questions. I was missing the encore.

I rejoined the concert and stood in the back to wait for security the third, and last, time. They never came. Crusher joined me in the wings and I tried to enjoy "With Or Without You" - one of my favorite songs of all time. I must say, it was difficult. Though he was out of my presence, I just couldn't get him out of my system. You know how you get when someone cuts you off on the highway? When 'road rage' takes over? Honking and hand gestures don't suffice. You feel a strong compulsion to get that person out of their car, just so you can explain to them why they were so wrong and you were so right. Just to be vindicated. Just to get that much needed sense of justice. Because when you just let people behave that way. When people just 'get away with it'. That poison just lies in your stomach and gestates, rendering you incapable of any peaceful and enjoyable experience. This is what Phillip had done to me and Crusher, and, though I didn't take a poll, I'm sure he had done the same to the occupants of section 204.

As they have done a lot this tour, U2 ended their second encore with "40", leaving the entire arena swaying to the prayerful mantra of 'how long...to sing this song?' I wish I could say I was able to indulge in this spiritual experience. However, huddled at the back, Crusher and I were subjected to spilt beer, clumsy, meat-headed drunks stepping on our toes, and selfish assholes that stopped in mid aisle, blocking site lines, to watch the remainder of the show, in the wings with their girlfriends. Granted, that is exactly what Crusher and I were doing, but these people hadn't been sitting next to Phillip like we had. Crusher yelled at one of the clumsy, meat-headed, feet-crushing drunks as he passed by us, but not our feet. "Hey! Tell your friend he's an asshole!" And that's pretty much how I summed up our evening.

I could have waited and confronted Phillip. Had a little heart to heart without the intrusion of U2 to distract us. But I figured I should just cut my losses. (Including the $220 in concert tickets.) I noticed the rash on my chest the next morning. Somehow, I figure Phillip has got to be at the bottom of that too. Somehow. Someway.
After all this, I was ready to do a PSA touting the evils of rock and roll shows, but last night, I saw the Arcade Fire at the Riviera. That's another blog.

Washed Away

Katrina has absolutely ruined my life. She came in like a jealous lover - envious waves, violent seas - and washed away the Laundromatt. Now who will take me in?

It was a place of rest. Spinning resilient peace. Chatting through a million spin cycles with Automatic. Cigarettes and beignettes and black coffee and sweet, loud music and progress. None could make my colors brighter. None could change the direction of a cold day. None could widen the door of possibilities. And now it's gone. And Automatic swept as well.

Some say it was God who spurned her on. His own reasons for broken allegiance. One jealous lover to another. Far from our comprehension. Left stupid and dumfounded. Heartbroken. Staring at the trail of her dark black nylons with nothing left to do but cry.

Some say it was man who left her vengeful. Cheated her and slapped her around. Took another mistress and spun her like a top. Out of control. Wrecking his world as fast as he tried to make it feel like home again.

Some say shit just happens. Without excuse. We're just collateral damage in the wake of her blindness. Acrobats without a net who have no business asking questions of her. And if we stoop as far, we shouldn't expect answers. At least not any logical ones.

All I know is things can never be the same. And as much as I'd sometimes wish to live in memories, I'm forced to evolve. In the meantime, I just stare at the guts of it all. Me with my big pile of dirty underwear. I miss my friends like mad so I wait by the phone. And pray that her fury will recede.

WWJK

Okay, before I even get to Katrina, you're probably wondering why I have intentionally avoided talking about one of the most inflammatory media quotes of recent days. It's not because I've been reeling in disbelief. Trust me. When Christian leaders make stupid statements in public, it just doesn't faze me anymore. I consider the source, which -just so there is no confusion- is not God.

Consider the Reverend Fred Phelps, out of Topeka, Kansas, who pickets the funerals of dead homosexuals, and whose website is godhatesfags.com. Or the Reverend Jerry Falwell, from Lynchburg, Virginia, who claimed that 9-11 was God's punishment for the evils of homosexuality and abortion. Then, a man close to my heart, the Reverend Pat Robertson, also from Virginia, who made some pretty dumb-ass statements just a week ago.

For the record, I may be a Christian, but THESE GUYS DON'T SPEAK FOR ME!! I know I may say a lot of stupid stuff myself, but thank God nobody is listening. This is not the case with Robertson and his 700 Club.

On Thursday, August 23rd, Robertson called for the death of Venezuelan president, Hugo Chavez. Begging for U.S. special operatives to "take him out", rather than face another billion dollar war. Later, of course, he suggested that "take him out" could have meant mere kidnapping. Even later, he issued a half-ass apology, on his website, that basically defended his assassination plea.

The media has already had a field day with this faux pas, as they should. So, I wont beat a dead horse. But I do have one question for Pat:
Had you been truly blessed with the gift of prophesy, how would you feel about Hugo Chavez's mother opting for an abortion?

Now, the cat that lives with me, Jason Hill, actually saw the inciting broadcast, and he begged me to post his open letter to Pat. Far be it from me to censor a cat.

Dear Pat,
You don't know me, but I was taking a trip to the litter box last Tuesday and I caught your show, the $700 Question. Let me tell you - the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up, and I stopped dead in my tracks. Peaking my curiosity enough to keep me from the box is really saying something, 'cause I've got a bitch of a bladder infection. In fact, if you think about it, you might want to send up a little prayer on my behalf. I would do it myself, but I don't have a soul.

Frankly, I don't normally watch your 700,000 show. I prefer Regis and Kelly, or, at least, Leno. It's always good to work some animals into your format. Might want to think about that one. Have you seen your ratings?
Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh! Yaaaaaahhhhhhh! KAAAACHHAAAAAA! GOTCHA! Ya hairy little bitch!!

Sorry Pat. That was not directed at you. It's just that I can't let that little bastard go by without pouncing his sorry ass. Ah, there's the rub.

You see, besides the three humans that live here, there is another entity. They call him Harrison, and he is a pain in my ass. Honestly, and if you met him you would probably concur, I think he's possessed. The sounds that come out of that cat are pure evil. Like a tiny, obnoxious demon. But don't get any ideas about having the first ever cat on your 70 Center Club, just so you can perform some sort of kitty exorcism. Trust me, that's not any kind of publicity you want after those comments the other day. Besides, I have no proof, but I think he's gay on top of everything else. I see the way he looks at me sometimes. You probably don't want that on your conscience. And neither do your constituents.

The fact of the matter is, I have been trying to get out of here for a long time. Things didn't work out with Kevin and Britney and BitBit. The conditions around here aren't all that bad. It's just really, really hard living with such a whiny bitch. You probably know what I mean? And then I heard what you said on the tv. And I thought, maybe you could call for the special ops to "take out" Harrison. It would be so much easier than some Venezuelan president. I could even give you his hours. 24/7 he's here. Laying around on his lazy ass. Easy prey for the sharpshooters. I am, frankly, tired of swallowing his potent white fur.

So, thank you. Thank you Mr Robertson, for speaking your mind. Now could you do me a favor and "take him out"? Oh, here he comes again. Gotta go. I'm gonna WHOOP THAT TRICK!!! AAAAAAHHHHHHH! YAAAAAAAHHHHH!

Oh yeah.
Sincerely,
Jason Hill

Loving Love

Maybe I'm a bit touched having enjoyed the supreme experience of dating a superstar such as Nicole Kidman. But I have always had a soft spot in my heart for troubled celebrities. Especially musicians.

(Now I know that Nic is not a musician. And I am, in no way, implying that she is troubled. On the contrary, she's probably the most healthy relationship I've ever had. Apart from my new, hot girlfriend. I just meant that maybe having that kind of exposure to fame has loosened me up and allow me to understand better the possible strains of mass worship and recognition.)

All of this to say...poor Courtney Love.

Now, I know some of you might strongly disagree. You're like, "what the crap"? Courtney Love? I've had conversations with some of you, (you know who you are - crazy Julie!), who think Courtney is nothing more than an irresponsible, coked-up whore with no dignity or talent. Some of you even think she might have had something to do with Kurt's death. You are all entitled to your opinions. But I happen to love Ms. Love. Personally, I think she is one of the most misunderstood icons of the past decade and my heart goes out to her.

This past week, the courts decided that she must enter rehab - again - for a mandatory 28 days. Even though the judge was poised to deliver jail time or demand long term drug treatment - stating that she probably needed to reach 'rock bottom' before a lifestyle change would ever stick.

I'd be the first one to stand up and say Ms Love needs a little Jesus in her life. Isn't it obvious? But I am not going to condemn her. Or call her trash. Or say that she is spoiled and selfish and irresponsible and evil. The woman not only has a soul, but she has a heart as well. And it's breaking right now. Seriously.

(Those of you who are regular readers to this blog probably feel like I am feeding you a load of shit right now, but I am not.)

How would you feel if you had a child that you might lose custody of? I would feel devastated. To those of you who say, "well the little crack head shouldn't have screwed up so many times - she had her chance". I say, "shut up!" Courtney Love is lost and lonely and she has a disease. Drug addiction is a serious illness.

A lapse in judgment or weakness in character doesn't make me love her any less. Wouldn't you want another chance if you kept screwing up? Be honest. If God gives her chance after chance, shouldn't I as well? If God gives YOU chance after chance, doesn't she deserve the same? All of this may make no sense at all in the realm of logic, but sometimes I defy that. That's why they call it logic!

These are the facts:

1. Frances Bean needs her mother - as screwed up as she is.
2. Courtney needs to be protected from jail. It will only makes things worse.
3. My messiah complex makes me very attracted to Ms. Love. So much so that I would consider another high-profile "Love affair". (Sorry - bad pun)
4. I know I couldn't save her, but at least I could help her.
5. I know that Nirvana will never have any new music, but maybe Hole could get back together.
6. Sadly, Kurt was responsible for his own death. God rest his soul. I don't want Courtney to feel like she has to resort to the same tragic end.

And most importantly:

7. If we just write her off as a self-absorbed and self-destructive bloated rock star hanger-on, and fail to care enough for intervention, Francis will suffer the long term consequences. Not just Courtney. Then the world would be robbed of all the musical excellence that the love child of Kurt and Courtney might produce in the future. Do you want that on your conscience?

Courtney, if you are reading this...come home. We love you. Well, I do.

I Pledge Allegiance

I don't know if I'm American anymore and I have a black eye to prove it.

This all started when I saw an Asian man pushing a cart in the grocery store parking lot. You see, me and my new, hot girlfriend had gone grocery shopping together at the hippie gourmet marketplace - one of my favorite things in the world to do - and while putting away our treasures in the station wagon, I saw him.
Clearly an ASIAN man who had decided to make an entire lap around the lot, in order to secure his empty cart in the corral corner, since the corral corner closest to his car was completely filled.

Now...if it were me in that situation. Or my new, hot girlfriend (though she claims differently), we probably wouldn't have gone that extra mile in grocery cart etiquette. Probably, we would have left the cart beside our vacated spot - free to pinball around the parking lot for the next hour, denting unsuspecting cars, until it found a home. Or we would have pile-driven it onto the grassy median strip like most other people. Let's be completely honest. Most people would not normally take the time out of their busy day, especially after grocery shopping, to be as generous as this particular Asian man was being.

And then...I opened my big mouth.

"If that man were American, he wouldn't be doing that."

Then I added a few other choice statements like:

"Americans are fat and lazy."
"Asians have a better work ethic than Americans."

AND

"Damn, I need a nap after all that shopping."

My new, hot girlfriend, (from this point on to be called Crusher), was cramming down some chocolate mousse tart at the time, but that didn't stop her from bringing things to a screeching halt.
"That is a racist remark," she screamed. "An unfounded and ignorant, racist remark. How do you even know that guy's not American?"

"Look at him. He's Asian." I challenged her.
"He may look Asian, but-"
"He's clearly Asian."
"But he might have lived here all his life. You don't know."
"Doesn't make him any less Asian."

I wont bore you with the tirade that followed. Suffice it to say there was enough good material to last the entire trip home, leaving Crusher so exasperated that she resorted to physical violence against me.
Me...I can separate the opinion or statement from the person making the delivery. Guess she has difficulty doing that. (And this is not a sexist comment, but the PMS doesn't help either.) She got so angry at me that when I tried to console her, she was inconsolable. When I tried to reason with her, she was not reasonable. When I tried to touch her, well...she punched me in the face. My eye is now black. Guess I am a martyr for my beliefs. Finally, some recognition.

Anyway, the whole dispute brought up a good question: What exactly is an American?
I mean, I live in the United States of America and I guess I assumed, for a long time, that that made me an American. And, I guess, I also assumed that anyone living here with a large percentage of white Anglo/Saxon heritage in their genetic makeup was, in fact, also an American. But even that's limiting. Shouldn't anyone living in North or South America be deemed an American? Despite their true race? Despite the color of their skin? Crusher seems to think so.

In the middle of this whole debate, however, a light bulb went off in my head. And now, nursing my wound, I've also had time to contemplate just what it does mean to be an American, and I've come up with this:
There are no true Americans. (Except, maybe, Native Americans.)

We (us here in the states) live in a land, (geographically speaking), that was initially populated by other cultures, creeds, races and relocates. (Now 'foreigners' to us). If you strip everybody to the core, it doesn't matter whether you grew up in a Kansas suburb, middle-class, shopping at giganta-malls in your mini-vans and slurping up Starbucks. (Which is the bulk of what we call American today - by the way - consumerism being the cancer it is) AMERICANS JUST DON'T EXIST. Racially speaking.

We are bits and pieces of everywhere and everybody. Even here in the United States of America. That's why we've had to come up with terms like African American and Asian American. (Which is probably what our cart pusher was)

From now on, I think I'll refer to myself not as an American - because that would be inaccurate.
And not as a French Italian Anglo/Saxon - because that would be too difficult and weird.
From now on, I'll merely hold to the only thing I can definitely put my finger on. Geography.

Just call me a Chicagoian.

11 MONTHS

I used to count the time between the calls. Now I count the time until they're done. My so called life as a communications analyst.
I know it sounds important and difficult, but trust me - this is regression.
It's devolution.
It's counter productive to my psyche.

I am a writer. A DAMN FINE ONE!
I am an actor. A DAMN FINE ONE!
I am a creative soul. God bless me.
And I am the former soul mate of Nicole Kidman.

So why must I stoop to catching other people's mistakes when I should be making my own? In God's defense (as if He needs it) - He has provided well for me. And I am grateful. I just have 3 small questions for Him:

1. Why can't I write for my breakfast?
2. Why can't I act for my lunch?
3. Why can't I create a masterpiece for my dinner?

BOTTOM LINE: Why must there be separation of work and art? My work and my art?

Meanwhile, my new, hot girlfriend cavorts on private yachts during private parties with the not so private Jennifer Anniston and Vince Vaughn. Dancing the night away with a mouth full of barbeque shrimp and gratuitous cocktails. Not a care in the world. Well, maybe a few cares.

Evidently Ms. Anniston is very trim. (Okay, insanely skinny) But very nice. And very focused. (My new, hot girlfriend says she treats you like you are the only person in the world.) Definitely not anything like 'Rachel'. She retains a lot of sadness though. Since Tyler Durdin flew the coup with 'fat lipped Cambodian hoochie momma' Angelina Jolie. (Just as a side note - I personally have nothing against Ms. Jolie. I actually prefer the full figured bad girl to the anorexic nice girl most of the time. That's me.) But that didn't stop her from whopping it up dance floor all night long.

Vince, on the other hand, well...�you've all seen Swingers. Not much has changed since then. He is so fucking money.

Hollywood keeps spinning and I keep counting the minutes until the next call ends and the dreariness of my new occupation with it. I am praying for Friday once more. For the first time in a long time. And waiting for God to make me the discovery of the year.

Check the new Vanity Fair if you really want the scoop on Jennifer. I don't know. Maybe you'll feel sorry for her. But if you have an ounce of dignity in your body, you'll redirect some of that energy in my direction - and feel sorry for me.

A Sudden Chaos

Well, I finally started a new job today. But that's not really what you really want to hear about, is it?
Regular readers to my blog have anxiously awaited new information about the cult of Bud, across the street from my house. (If you have no idea what I am talking about, you will have to go back a few posts to get caught up)
Anyway, last time I left you, I believe there was a shit storm that had been stirred up by my new, hot girlfriend. Here's the breakdown. Check it!

1. Last Sunday, all five members of the cult of Bud had a two hour verbal brawl with several neighbors and their landlord. Bud is on the lawn this entire time and doesn't seem to care for all the ruckus. He expresses his concern.

2. We believe that their landlord has thrown them out of their building, or at least attempted to throw them out, because of some unresolved conflicts. Probably involving the neighbors. And probably involving Bud's ties to the occult. But primarily because the five are just plain freaky.

3. We pray for the landlord to reconsider his threats against the freaky five and Bud. Honestly, because it could get pretty boring around here.

4. Two nights later, me and my new, hot girlfriend are woken up to the sound of sirens. On the street in front of the cult of Bud house are 2 fire trucks, 3 police cars and an ambulance. One of the watchers is sitting on their front porch in a daze. There are 2 EMTs shining a pen light in her face. The rest of the cult are all about. It's madness. But no Bud. Cops are combing the neighborhood. Looking in everyone's backyard with flashlights. General chaos. Backed-up traffic. Spectators. They take the pen lighted watcher away in a stretcher and a neck brace. The other watcher flanks her and the emt as they head to the ambulance. She yells in Korean (It might be Korean or it might be some strange mojo cult language) at some neighbors that have gathered to watch the spectacle. Me and my new, hot girlfriend are just watching this for hours. Safely from the window. Fully woken and wondering what the hell is going on. We are mesmerized.

5. Two more days later, we talk to our landlord - a detective on the Chicago police force. He gives us the scoop. Seems the watcher was shot with a bb gun in the back of the neck. They seem to think that the shots came from a near by window. Maybe the grassy knoll. A lone gunman. Pretty freaky. Evidently the freaky five pissed off the wrong person. Now one of the watchers is in intensive care. More to come.

So that's the update for now. I know that I have a lot more to talk about (pop culture wise), and that will come in future days. I have just been overwhelmed returning to work again for the first time in almost a year. I will be back. I promise. In the meantime, thanks to my new, hot girlfriend and Automatic, I have new Bud footage. You know that big brawl I told you about. Well it's now online. Check it!

http://homepage.mac.com/themidgettes/Cultivated/iMovieTheater43.html