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A Soul-Less Man
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 -- Great trip as expected. Toronto, you is the lovely. Will update with pics and words later, but in the mean time I thought I'd drop in one of my favorite shots. Speaking of shots, it looks like Paul ( ![[info]](http://web.archive.org/web/20040815011157im_/http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} naka_chan) got the worst of Alex(lexxy_pie)'s knee. Maybe that's why I look so outraged, or angrily aroused. Goddamn this scene reeks of male rapeage. | ||||||
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 -- Finally done packing. Will be sharing a suite with hipstomp, lexxy_pie, and naka_chan for four nights. Mother of God, it's going to be a nutty weekend. | ||||||
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| A summer afternoon in Hacienda Heights is ass-drenching hot. I should've remembered this because I grew up there. I was playing fetch with my sister’s dog at my childhood home this past Saturday, chucking a slobber-soaked tennis ball across the backyard. The little bastard never got sick of chasing that ball, even in this heat. He didn’t even get that pissed when I’d pretend to throw the ball but hid it behind my back instead. I guess he figured it was his fault for always falling for it. I wonder if he sensed that it’d be the last time he’d be playing in his beloved yard. Dogs are suckers for sentimentality after all and have been known to cry at weddings ... Not here of course, but in a parallel universe where dogs get married, sell insurance, and frame cats for murder. -- Inside the house, the movers were grunting as they struggled to carry a massive cabinet out of the living room. Just looking at them almost made my lower spine snap. Nice guys. They were brothers, both in their early forties. They were covered with tattoos and spent all their free time on their Harleys – either fixing them or riding them. One was a bachelor living in Pasadena, and the other had his skinny teenage son helping them out. I’d end up tipping them with a bottle of tequila. They acted like I’d paid them in gold bullion. It was really good tequila. -- “Don’t fucking mess with me,” she said in a loud, husky voice. It was Becky, scolding one of her mutts in the next yard. “Don’t fucking mess with me.” Becky’s the daughter of our next-door neighbor, a divorced Japanese-American man named Kevin. She's also the poster child for what can happen to females who don’t wean themselves off bad boys. Back when she was in junior high school, the girl was a Phoebe Cates lookalike. On summer afternoons like this we’d all watch movies on her dad’s big-screen TV or play hide-and-seek. Then she switched from an all-girls Catholic school to a public school. And straight out of an afterschool special, she “fell in with a bad crowd,” hanging with hessians and stoners. After high school, she got knocked up and moved in with one of her mullets. Not surprisingly they broke up, and she and her daughter moved back in with her dad. When I saw her again, I was stunned. She’d instantly turned into one of those large, haggard women you see in the supermarket with frizzy hair, baggy t-shirt and faded jean shorts, throwing a bag of frozen corndogs into her cart as a cigarette dangled from her mouth. Did I tell you she used to look like Phoebe Cates? According to my little sister, she'd continued her high school tradition of dating losers. Pulling up in front of her dad’s house in their bass-blasting '97 Thunderbirds, they’d bellow out her name until she trotted out and hopped in the car. Three years ago the street was flooded with cop cars and helicopter lights, and they hauled Becky out of the house in handcuffs. Glad to be leaving that behind. -- I was looking at the house one more time. I'd spent almost 10 years growing up there, but I was surprised at how little I cared that it was no longer ours. I never really liked this place. “That lady, she had another dream,” my mom said as I was standing by the garage. She was referring to the woman who hung herself, the reason why we sold my childhood home. “I didn’t want to tell you or anyone else this until we moved everything out of here. But the day before she died, she told me she had a dream. She woke up in the middle of night and found someone, a man, standing next to her bed. It was very dark so she couldn’t tell who he was. And he said something to her in Korean.” “Korean?” “Chut-dah,” she replied. “He said, You lost.” As the movers slammed the truck door shut and prepared to leave, I took another look at the spot where the woman had taken her own life. I’d looked at it before in the previous weeks, as hokey as it sounds, to make sure nothing was there – that the visiting ministers and pastors had “cleared” everything. Even though the future owners knew about the suicide and didn't care (They bought the house at its asking price.), I didn't want them moving into something they didn’t bargain for. Back when all this happened, I’d truly begun to wonder if the house had some sort of malicious presence or spirit of some sort. But now I’m certain that whether or not the house was haunted, that poor woman came with her own ghosts. | ||||||
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 -- At about 4 pm today Alex passed on peacefully with us holding her hands. We thank you for your support. - Liz and Jay and family | ||||||
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 -- Hard to believe that a week from now I'll be in Toronto, the birthplace of Eskimo civilization. Seems like it was only a month ago that we were planning this trip ... oh right, it was a month ago. Anyway it's even harder to believe that this will be my first time in the great land of Canada. And I've got to admit I'm a bit nervous, knowing that Canadians are a savage, warmongering people with a tendency to devour their young. Anyway, for you Torontonians: How humid is it there right now? | ||||||
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 -- Have you checked out the trailer for "The Grudge?" Don't know if it's going to be any good - the title makes it sound like a Hilary Duff movie. But man, some of the images freaked the crap out of me. It's from the same guy who made "Ringu," Takashi Shimizu. Although he never directed its American version, he did so for "The Grudge," which is the American version of "Ju-On." And while it stars Sarah Michelle Gellar and other white people, it takes place in Tokyo, which means she spends most of the movie in this native Japanese outfit:  -- After watching the trailer, I realized that apparently nothing scares the shit out of Shimizu more than really pale chicks with long, wet hair. The dude must've had a horrifying childhood incident involving a girl who didn't blow dry. Sarah Michelle Gellar: Ohmygod, like, please don't kill me! Wet Hair Girl: Bitch, you keep stealing my conditioner, and now my hair is limp and lacks that healthy glow. Plus it's barely manageable and keeps falling over my face - seems to disturb a lot of people. Sarah Michelle Gellar: Do you mind repeating that? This white body suit covers my ears. Wet Hair Girl: DIE! Sarah Michelle Gellar: Shaggy! Scooby! Save me! Wet Hair Girl: What the ... Hello? Wrong movie, Daphne. Sarah Michelle Gellar: Whatever, like, you aren't doing the same thing. I saw your stringy-haired ass in "The Ring." You can also watch the trailer for "Ju-On", which is playing in a few theaters right now. | ||||||
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 Stanford Quad a couple of weeks ago. -- Always good to be back at the Farm, although I noticed that The Thinker's fricking gone. I guess when you're thinking without pants while your bare ass chafes against that rock for all those years, it finally dawns on you how pointless it all is. And then you get up and go get a burrito Just can't do normal wedding photos anymore. I found this position improved the airflow to my moist armpits, a usual byproduct of summer weddings when the dumbest thing you can do on a hot, sweltering day is wear a long-sleeved shirt, necktie and a wool jacket. People, if you're going to get married in June, July or brain-melting August, at least have the courtesy to make it a clothing-optional ceremony. -- The significance of this wedding was that the bride was the first member of the Wedding Bet group to even get married. Ironically, the guy almost everybody picked to get married first is now our points leader with one correct guess. He and I were the only ones from the Wedding Bet group who were able to make it to the wedding. Funny, considering how tight we were back then. But that's time and space for you. | ||||||
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| A post-dinner conversation at Literati Café … DOC: Have you ever videotaped yourself having sex with your girlfriend? GENEY BOY: No way, dude! There’s no way I’d ever film myself having sex with another woman. ME: Me neither. That’s the kind of thing that will always come back to haunt you, especially with the Internet. DOC: You wouldn’t videotape yourself for even a $1 million? GENEY BOY: Not even for $10,000,000. I don’t want to risk having my kids watch it. DOC: How ‘bout if, say, Brooke Burke told you she’d only make love to you if it was videotaped? GENEY BOY: Answer’s still no. ME (raising hand): I’d do it. GENEY BOY: What? No you wouldn’t… ME: I would. In fact, after we were done, the first thing I’d do is make copies of the tape and send it to everybody. Hell, I’d download that masterpiece as an MPEG and mass-email it to all you bitches. And the title of the movie would be, "Look at Me, Bitches! I’m Fucking Brooke Burke." DOC: I’d play it at my wedding. GENEY BOY: But what about your future kids accidentally coming across it? ME: Accidentally? I’d show it to them too. I’d tell them, "Guess what? Daddy nailed Brooke Burke, son. Ice cream for everybody!" And they’d cheer, "Our dad rules!" -- All kidding aside, I’m pretty damn certain I’d never videotape myself having sex with my girlfriend. Not just because of the fear of a Paris Hilton incident, but because I have absolutely no desire to see myself naked and engaged in intercourse. I’ve seen myself on film fully clothed and cringed. So imagine the horror of seeing my bare ass and other body parts flipping and flopping and flying around like a sweaty flesh catastrophe. Do I really want to see what my scrotum looks like from a three-quarter angle? Can I stomach discovering just how many hairs I have around my butthole? Did God truly intend for mankind to witness our own orgasm faces? As for the girl, I already know what she looks like during sex. Would I appreciate it even more watching it on a home theater system with surround sound? Maybe, but that would be far outweighed by the spiritual damage caused by minutes of staring at my own gooch. And you know what? I’d probably get bored anyway. Based on the celebrity home sex movies I’ve seen, the action gets old very quick (Except for this vintage one my old boss showed us involving a famous black actress from the Seventies. That was my first fisting scene.) Unlike porn, you don’t get the benefit of professional editing, first-rate camerawork or – most important of all – poignant dialogue. And porn has the added advantage of no stray butt hairs. If you can convince me otherwise, I’d like to hear it. Especially if you happen to be Brooke Burke. | ||||||
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 US President George W. Bush walks away from a briefing with the media, refusing to answer questions after he was asked about Enron and the reported indictment of former CEO Kenneth Lay, who was a close adviser and fund-raiser for Bush and his father, earning him the nickname 'Kenny Boy.' -- There are several reasons why I don’t write about Bush in my site. 1. Social etiquette generally discourages discussing politics. And as you all know, I’m all about being courteous, polite and gushing with good manners. 2. Though I read a lot on the topic, I’m no expert on politics. There are some excellent political sites and blogs out there if you want to read up on that sort of stuff. On Livejournal there’s throwingstardna. For a more informative perspective, there’s Joshua Marshall. A lot of people also visit The Agonist for the article links. Now if you want to read about vodka, genitalia, lower primates, and all matters of the anus, then you’ve come to the right place.3. Arguing about politics in an attempt to convince someone think he or she is wrong, is pointless – unless the point is you want to entertain yourself by seeing whether or not you can make the neocon’s forehead vein pop like a zit. There’s a famous psychology study of doomsday cults where the researchers checked to see what happened when the cults’ predicted dates of the Apocalypse came and went without anything happening. Rather than becoming disillusioned or admitting to themselves that they fucked up, the cult members actually became even more fervent and passionate in their beliefs. But even they didn’t go so far as to name a fucking condiment after their dear leader. Now that I got all that crap out of the way, here’s my week-late take on “Fahrenheit 9/11.” For my right wing readers who don’t want to hate me, I strongly suggest you don’t click this. I found out my little cousin is being shipped off to Iraq in less than a month. And being a Marine, whenever there’s a shitstorm, they tend to get sent directly to the asshole. For this reason he hasn’t even told his mom yet. And, for this reason, I’m quite a bit more pissed at the fascist wannabes who call themselves the Bush administration. ( Click here to read the unneccessarily lengthy 'Fahrenheit 9/11' review. ) | ||||||
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| As mentioned in an earlier entry, I’ve been one boring ass lately. Not a single amusing thought in my head. And it couldn’t have come at a worse time either. Friends and acquaintances have been asking me for ideas and written brilliance for side projects, and I’ve been about as useful as tits on a bull. God I hope this is temporary boring-ness. If it turns out to be permanent, I’m going to do the responsible thing and protect society from my dull self by fleeing to the reclusive kingdom of Bhutan, where boring people are revered as sacred animals. -- So I was lying on my couch, watching “Shall We Dance?” on cable as a cold can of Sapporo rested happily on my belly. As I took a sip, it dawned on me that I used to hate beer. I remember taking my first chug of beer, a Budweiser, when I was eight. It was at a barbeque and my dad briefly left it on a table, so I seized the opportunity. And then I was seized with the urge to vomit all over my Toughskin jeans. Beer, I thought, was refrigerated cow urine. That memory even affected me over a decade later, when I started drinking alkeehole as a young lad. I steered clear of beer, sticking to more palatable beverages like Jaegermeister and cheap wino whiskey. I never thought I’d ever see the day where I’d willingly drink something that tasted as foul as beer. And now here I am, drinking beer and actually enjoying the taste, who’da thunkit? How the hell did I come to like beer? Can’t figure out if it’s because I just reached a point in my life where I finally learned to truly appreciate beer – like I did with women - or if it’s because I just got used to it after numerous repeated attempts – like I did with women. BTW, this had nothing to with the first paragraph of this entry, and neither does the following … -- Most vile movie promo ever:  To promote the upcoming comedy "Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle," White Castle will take up temporary residence on the Sunset Strip to serve up its famous slyders. The full-scale replica of the restaurant will squat at 8301 W. Sunset Blvd. across from The Standard Hotel for 11 days in order to give away 50,000 free White Castle hamburgers. The feeding frenzy will begin after the 8:00 p.m. ribbon-cutting ceremony on Thursday, July 22 and will run through Wednesday, Aug. 11. | ||||||
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| The hardest thing to do when writing/making a movie is giving it an awesome, memorable ending. Here's a list of some of my favorites, broken down into typical cinematic categories: Best Ending Where You Exclaim, "No Fucking Way!": 1. The Sixth Sense (Shyamalan hasn't been able to duplicate it since, and smart money says "The Village" won't break that streak.) 2. The Sting 3. The Usual Suspects Best Ending Where Your Eyes Sprout Man Tears O' Joy: 1. E.T. 2. Cinema Paradiso 3. Star Wars Best Ending Where Everybody Fucking Dies: 1. Scarface 2. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid 3. Resevoir Dogs Best Ending Where Everybody Fucking Dies Except The White Guy: 1. The Last Samurai Best Ending Where Shit Blows Up: 1. Dr. Strangelove 2. Fight Club 3. Star Wars Best Ending To A Comedy Where Unattractive Man Attains Unattainable Hot Chick: 1. There's Something About Mary 2. Kingpin 3. Groundhog Day Best Ending To A Comedy Where Ugly Woman Reveals She's Actually A Man: 1. Tootsie 2. Mrs. Doubtfire 3. Juwanna Man - just kidding. I meant to put Some Like It Hot. Best Ending To A Comedy Where Golf Course Blows Up And Rodent Puppet Dances To Kenny Loggins Tune: 1. Caddyshack If you've got a favorite ending not mentioned here, especially for a comedy, could you do me a huge favor and let me know? I'll send you a bottle of W ketchup (Kidding once again.) | ||||||
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 -- The Republicans have out-gayed themselves again. And that's about as political as this journal will get, til my upcoming review of "Fahrenheit 9/11" which I just saw last night. -- Now onto my other 'favorite' topic, women's fashion - or lack thereof. With Liz Hurley, J.Lo and other female celebrities getting mondo publicity for wearing very revealing dresses to red carpet events, I guess it was just a matter of time before this happened. | ||||||
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| Last week was fairly decent: Our agency won the Ritz-Carlton account; a Mallard duck that landed in our office pond a few weeks ago hatched five ducklings; and my girlfriend got Tuesday night off. The one shitty thing was that June ended. That officially meant that this year was halfway over - and I hadn't done squat. As I drove home from work, I wondered if that might explain the gnawing sensation I've been feeling lately, like my chest cavity’s filled with small beavers. After all, Beaver Chest is a common symptom with human beings who feel incomplete, unfulfilled or sober. Then they go and join a cult, a white supremicist group or the Peace Corps. They apply to film school. They start a kayaking business in Belize. They get a heroin addiction, a boob job, an MBA, or a spouse. They quit their jobs so they can travel the world, teach high school English, or write an epic novel about the cashew industry. But for many of them, the gnawing sensation still comes back, and once again they try to figure out how to make that feeling go away. The thing is, I'm not sure Beaver Chest is ever meant to go away. It's not in our DNA to be perfectly content. Because until we invented things like agriculture, medicine and crossbows, evolution killed and ate all of our content ancestors. It's the constantly hungry and uncertain ones who kept running, killing and eating just long enough to impregnate each other. And so they passed their hungry and uncertain genes onto their angst-ridden, self-absorbed descendents. I'm looking forward to getting rid of my Beaver Chest in the second half of 2004, I really do. First on my To Do list is a reunion tour with that other 70's Swedish super band, Cool Candys.  Good Lord. As my dad would say, "You look like Korean Neil Diamond." | ||||||
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 I'm extremely impressed with my ability to take self-group pictures. --  Experimenting with the vato look, Rog viciously yanks his tiny moustache hairs to demonstrate that he is truly loco. --  Obviously I have intimacy issues ... --  ... but not with Jaegermeister. | ||||||
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| From all the rave reviews I've heard, I guess Spider-Man's following the example of the X-Men and Superman movies where the sequel's better than the original. Actually some aspects of the plot seem similar to "Superman 2": Superhero quits his time-consuming job so that he can get the girl, only to be forced to come out of retirement when the bad guy kidnaps her. Superhero then freezes to death in icy ocean water while dumbass girlfriend watches from floating chunk of wood. In honor of Spidey, I'm posting some of the funnier strips I've found here. The guy basically grabbed some random frames from the Spider-Man comic strips and "revised" the dialogue.      | ||||||
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| I think it was Rain who once asked me if Livejournal was an exercise or a distraction. I guess the answer depends on whether or not I've got good shit to write in this thing. As of late my mind's been either too full or too empty - can't figure out which. But the end result is I've been feeling uninspired as fuck. Nothing to be concerned about, it happens to everybody for a short period of time. In the mean time, I guess I can post photos. Here's a few from a friend's birthday this past weekend:  If you crop a photo just so, you can make it look as if you were born with an extra hand behind your left ear. Someday in the post-apocolyptic future, this could be the next mullet. It'd freak the shit out of the parrot sitting on your shoulder if you were a pirate, however. --  After enough vodkas I enjoy walking up to random couples and giving them really awful relationship advice. Here I'm telling them the one magic solution to every couples' problems: Threesomes. --  For you enzyme-deprived folk who don't already know, the single best way to avoid looking red in drunk pics is to pop a Pepcid or Zantac tablet about a half-hour before you begin your liquoring. Another way is to desaturate yourself in Photoshop. And yet another way is to not drink and not end up groping that extremely large woman with the sideburns. --  If you want to win major points with the girlfriend, contact all of her friends and family, and ask them to send you pictures of her and them. Then ask them to write something witty and memorable about her in their own handwriting, and send that to you too. For the grand finale, put it all together in a 250-page leather-bound book with gold-embossed lettering. Now every time she gets mad at you for staggering home at 6 AM stinking of beer and hookers, you can pull out the book and say, "This took me three months to make!" Seriously though, this was one hell of a birthday gift. | ||||||
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| Months before she hung herself, the poor woman had a dream, which she described to my mother. -- At the time, my mother was renting the place out, and this woman was a prospective tenant. She was a petite lady in her late forties, and she was very quiet as my mom led her from room to room. Finally, as they ended the tour, she spoke up. "I had a dream about this house two nights ago," she said. "Really?" My mom asked. "This exact house?" "This exact house," the woman continued. "In the dream I was trying to get inside, but I couldn't because the stairs were damaged. But eventually I found a door in the back." "Why were you trying to get in?" "I'm not sure," she said. "I saw an old coffin inside and I wanted to see who was in there. But the body was so badly decomposed I couldn't recognize it." -- Needless to say, this freaked the shit out of my mom; because she knew the history of that thirty-year-old house. That the very first owners had a son. And that one night he went into the garage and hung himself. My mom's a very religious and superstitious person. She'd been flirting with the idea of selling the house anyway; but after hearing this woman's dream, she decided to sell it for sure. But when she told her friends why she was thinking of selling the place, they thought it was plain ridiculous. And the woman - even after having this dream - she moved in anyway. Several months later my mom found her lifeless body. She'd also hung herself in the garage. So now we're selling the place. -- I knew about the history of that house, because I'd grown up in there from age ten. And, not to get into any minor ghost stories now, I'd always wondered if that house was haunted. I even boasted about it to my friends. My sisters and I would always dread doing our laundry at night, because it meant having to walk past the garage. Our eyes always avoided looking directly into the darkness, lest we risk seeing something we didn't want to see. I didn't know about the woman's dream until after she'd passed away. And then even I started wonder if that house was cursed. Legally we're required to inform prospective buyers about a death in the house, but a lot of people don't seem to give a shit - especially in the brutal housing market that is Southern California. "People suicide all the time, all over the place," my dad explained. Unlike my mom, he's not remotely superstitious. Even if he saw a ghost, he'd probabaly shrug and keep reading his newspaper. "Lots of empty houses if people too scared to move in, right?" For instance, I'd suggested to my mom that she 'cleanse' the place for the sake of future residents. So she went and contacted several pastors to come and bless the house. After finishing praying for the souls of the people who died there, one of the pastors looked around and asked my mom if he and his family could move in. After briefly thinking it might be a good thing for the house if a pastor's family was living in it, she declined. Another family offered to rent the place last week. But my mom's intent on selling the house. In the mean time, she's still had pastors come repeatedly to bless and cleanse the place of any remaining shred of evil. On a whim, my crazy ass even contacted a world-renowned paranormal expert in Britain. One of his theories was that it's possible that there was a spirit in the house, and he was lonely. The disturbing dream the woman had about the house was him drawing her to come and live there, so that he would have a companion. That stuff makes for a good ghost story, but I've never been able to make up my mind about the existence of an afterlife. What I do know for certain is that two very sad souls lived in that house, 30 years from each other. And both of them found life so unbearable that they had to end it with a rope. | ||||||
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| A few months ago I'd heard about a blog that's supposed to belong to an anonymous celebrity who calls himself "Rance." Granted, celebrity blogs aren't a big deal as many of them have one, including Margaret Cho, Fred Durst and Moby. But what made this blog stand out was that the mystery celeb's supposed to be an A-List film actor, or as he puts it: "I can tell you what it's like to see your picture on the magazine rack every now and again when you pay for groceries." Plus he's dished out some interesting shit, including one where he hooks up with a famous actress in Cuba. And then there's the one where he visits a New York brothel and gets a massage from an aspiring actress who eventually ends up in "The Passion." He's actually a pretty good writer and provides some interesting stories and insights about the yacht-infested, paparazzi-ditching, Penthouse-models-skinny-dipping life of a movie star. But the blog's rapidly gained a major following, many of whom are entertainment industry people trying to figure out the true identity of "Rance." Consequently I've noticed his entries have been getting more and more vague about details. Soon he'll probably stop writing altogether (He's already resorted to guest bloggers). Especially since Entertainment Weekly just had an article about the blog, listing the possible authors of this now-famous online journal: George Clooney, Jim Carrey, Ben Affleck and Owen Wilson. And of course this still could very well be a fake. But an entertaining fake nonetheless. | ||||||
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Before -- After  -- Trimspa or crack? | ||||||
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| Found this facial recognition technology company via margimello. According to their Web site, these are the celebrities whom I most closely resemble: Without glasses Cuba Gooding Jr With glasses Samuel L. Jackson As a woman Cher | ||||||
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A Soul-Less Man
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