Jeff's Spleen

Wha' Happened?

A Mighty Wind, the new film from Christopher Guest and gang is the funniest movie I have seen in forever, and I think the best movie of this type since Spinal Tap. It helps to have Guest, McKean, and Shearer back playing music. These guys are so talented it is just depressing. And Fred Willard, as always, practically steals the show. It's amazing how a guy with basically one shtick can be so consistently hilarious with that shtick every single time. And Eugene Levy deserves an Oscar nomination. Seriously.

And through Netflix, I just saw 24 Hour Party People, a pretty remarkable re-creation of the Manchester music scene, 1976-1992. Ingeniously constructed, and tons of great music. I never did really appreciate New Order before, but this movie made me go out and buy "Substance," which I'm thoroughly enjoying. And the guy who plays Joy Division's Ian Curtis is downright creepy.

Yeah, that's right! I'm, like, a music hipster!

I wet my pants.

Does anyone in downtown San Francisco either have a pair of pants I can borrow or a hair dryer? My legs are soaked and frozen.

I've been playing "chicken" with the weather for the last week or so on the motorcycle, and this a.m. I lost. I actually have a decent set of waterproof motorcycle clothes, but stupidly, I decided not to put them on and just carry 'em in my backpack. Which did me no good whatsoever when it began to POUR LIKE A MOTHERF***** as soon as I got on Interstate 80 this a.m. DOH. I endured it for about 1/2 mile, after which my brain kicked in and I took the next exit, sought shelter, and put on the damn clothes.

Once back on the highway, it had already stopped raining--of course. Just one of those freak 2-minute downpours. The rest of the ride across the Bay Bridge was sunny and cool and refreshing.

But the damage is done. I am freezing. My legs are soaked. I'm afraid to leave my office for fear of being laughed at.

Query for HR managers: If I close and lock my door, could I take off my pants at the office? Does that make for a hostile work environment?

I'm 41

The header above is a direct answer to a thread on the message board of the magazine I work at. It's also a statement of fact that I'm still having trouble getting used to.

Maybe it's because I work in the gaming biz, which is so youth oriented. Or maybe I just never learned how to grow up. But how does one ever get used to the fact that at some point, you start to actually be a lot older than you feel inside?

For instance, when, exactly, did I start become "sir?" I still don't feel like a "sir." No, I don't feel like a "ma'am" either, so shuddup. But now everywhere I go, I suddenly feel like what I guess I am: an over-40 white man. A few months back, I went with some work friends to see DJ Shadow at the Fillmore in San Francisco. I'm not telling you this to prove that I'm down with the kids, so, again, shuddup. Stop interrupting. What stood out about that show for me was not the music, which was great, but the fact that upon entering the club, every single person ahead of me got carded by the security folks. When it was my turn, not only did I not get carded, but the guy actually said to me, "Enjoy the show, sir."

One sure sign that you're old: getting treated with respect by rock club security goons.

People, when you see me on the street, do me a favor: Don't call me sir. Call me whatever the hell else you want. "Dumbass" is good. "Nancy boy": not a problem.

But all this "sir" talk is really making me feel old.

I blame my cat.

Why is it that an animal that spends roughly 20 hours a day asleep on the couch decides that one of the hours he needs to be awake is 3:00 am? Is it just to make me miserable?

In any event, the early morning meowing and scratching from that beast has led to a phenomenally unproductive day here at my office, even by my rather sad standards. Mostly I have sat semi-comotose at this monitor, waiting, I don't know what for. Let's just say that a time-lapse video of me at this desk today would not be pretty. Eight hours of alternating between web surfing, email, and CD listening, punctuated only by the occasional open-mouthed gaze off into space. And the thoughts that accompanied those gazes? None that will lead to a Nobel Prize victory:

"Should I get the Cheez-Its from the machine? Or the Pop Tarts?"
"Boy am I behind in my comic book reading!"
"How come my foot keeps itching?"

Humanity was not enriched by my presence on this planet today.

Job opening clarification

A couple quick things on the employment opportunity front.

First: Sparkles the chimp is back on the job. There have been no more throwing-of-waste-matter incidents since the one previously reported, and Sparkles has, in fact, been remarkably sweet ever since. It might help that I am now sharing my pot with him.

Second: I am still seeking a full-time masseuse. While I know I said "female preferred" in the previous post, the honest truth is that that's all I want. Guys--take a hike. And while I am in fact a rather enlightened Bay Area kind of guy, I'm afraid I must also say that "almost a woman" does not count either. So, please, unless the operation is complete, or, well, all right, you can do a very good "tuck job", then I am afraid you don't qualify. Thanks, and good luck to all the applicants.

Go A's, I guess

Unlike many red-blooded American males, I did not grow up with a great love of, or much participation in, team sports. I don't know if I was genetically encoded that way, or if years of being picked last--and sucking--at every sport I tried just embittered me to the whole process. But whatever the cause, I ultimately just opted out of the whole dang thing, not only not following any sport at all, but also having no idea what anyone was ever talking about when the inevitable "Did you see the game?" talk would come up. Not only did I not, in fact, see the game, but I had no clue which game or which sport they were even talking about. Nor did I care. I had my Lord of the Rings books and my Mad magazines and my Elvis Costello records, so you could take your damn sports and kiss my pale, bony behind.

With age, however, I have learned to appreciate sports for what it is: a brilliantly frivolous, publically-sanctioned waste of time, in which one can lose oneself and totally avoid all reality and responsibility and life priorities. This is something I can get behind.

Looking back on life post-college, I can recognize an interesting pattern: the more I hated my job and/or my life, the more I began to follow a basketball or baseball or football team. At the nadir of my professional career, for example, when I was a computer book editor with a sad, vicious Boss From Hell (who eventually fired me, and yeah, I'm still bitter), I became an avid Warriors fan.

All of which is to say, I still go in and out of caring about sports. Right now, with the big E3 convention coming up and stressing me out, I have suddenly noticed that it's baseball season again.

So yesterday I took my 9-year-old daughter to the A's-Indians game at the Oakland Coliseum, and it was a blast. I forgot how much fun going to a ballpark during the day can be. Especially with the whole beer/peanuts/hot dog/cotton candy thing going on. Now they even sell Krispy Kremes, which makes me wonder if I should just go ahead and invest in season tickets.

It was fun sitting there with a kid, explaining the rules, watching her get into it. I'm glad, I have to admit (and I apologize in advance if this sounds sexist but if it is then you may bite me) that I have a daughter, because the pressure has really been off me, either to indoctrinate her into the sporting life or have to pretend like I know diddly squat or even know how to throw a football.

But the game, which we won 6-3, was lots of fun, and made me think I need to do this more with her. The sun felt good. The beer felt better. I hate people as a general rule, but it was fun, at least yesterday, to be part of the screaming rabble, to cheer the dot racers on and eat my junk food and get out of my stupid head for a change.

We're 14-10 now. One game behind Seattle. Maybe I won't give a darn a week from now again, but for now, I say: go A's!

Possible job opening

This is a general announcement alerting all you unemployed dotcommers that a job opening may soon be available here at this blog. Sparkles the Chimp is now hanging from my ceiling here, flinging feces at me, which I'm pretty sure constitutes some kind of grounds for firing. I'm checking with Human Resources on that.

Should this in fact be the case, I will immediately be looking for a new assistant. Worthy applicants will be well-versed in Movable Type or other web publishing software, as well as in full-body massage techniques. Female preferred.

Important hiring announcement.

Due to the overwhelming response to this blog-in-progress, I am pleased to announce the hiring of a full-time assistant, Sparkles the chimp, who will assume the duties of uploading images, answering your emails, and, eventually, I hope making the occasional post. I also plan on training him for my upcoming rodeo and wild west show, as you can see here. Please join me in welcoming Sparkles to this blog.

While we are on the subject of simians, I have something to get off my chest. Tim Burton's Planet of the Apes remake--which I finally forced myself to watch on HBO recently-- might be the worst movie I have ever seen. Well, okay, not as bad as Nurse Sluts XII, but still. (And all I have to say about that is, if you're not going to follow the formula that made the first 11 so successful, please, don't waste my time.)

I grew up with The Planet of the Apes. I saw all the movies, repeatedly. I had the bubblegum cards. I even watched the TV show. In addition, I used to love Tim Burton. Edward Scissorhands? Rawk. Ed Wood? Brilliant. I even liked the first Batman. I liked it so much, in fact, that for two weeks straight I walked around Berkeley like this:

But clearly, Burton has lost it now. Planet of the Apes, the remake, is a mess. It's not funny. It's not scary. It's neither faithful to the spirit of the original, nor is it successful as a "parody." Obviously, he didn't even know what tone to take, which is kind of a problem if you're the one making the movie. I wish he had actually played it straight, personally. He should have just made a super-scary horror film. Do we really need ironic wink-wink movies based on other movies? Enough. Scare the sh*t out of us. That's what we really need.

Up Your Nose w/a Rubber Hose

One of the great things about having cable TV--other than the fun fact that you're paying people for the privilege of being slowly lobotomized---is that at any given moment, on any given day, you can be instantaneously transported to any moment in TV history, given the proper amount of channels. The Wife and I subscribe to the DISH satellite thingy, and even on the lowest level of subscription we still get 50 channels, which is about 48 more than are really necessary. (I'd keep Cartoon Network and Comedy Central. Oh, and also Nickelodeon, if only for Spongebob Squarepants, possibly the Greatest Show of All Time.) That provides ample opportunity for random channel surfing, and stumbling across every sad, dumbass show that's ever been on.

For example, just last night, while waiting for The Wife to appear so we could finish watching Amores Perros on DVD, I inadvertently flipped by an ancient episode of "Welcome Back, Kotter."

Now, I know I watched this as a boy in the 70s, and I know I laughed, and I know that at that point in my development I had not yet had the excuse of being high on marijuana, so all I can do now is ask: Was this ever funny? What were we laughing at? Post-modern shows like "The Simpsons" now routinely make fun of the unselfconscious idiocy of these old shows--but how did they ever fool us in the first place?

I didn't stay with the episode long enough to ponder this important philosophical question, but I did manage to watch until one of the show's dumb "catch-phrases" was recited: Young John Travolta, as Vinnie Barbarino, delivering the withering put down "up your nose with a rubber hose" to one of his comrades. Wooooooo!! The audience (or laugh track) not only laughs uproariously at this, but actually claps, out of recognition or acknowledgment of the line.

It was at that moment that The Wife entered the living room and sat down. She's French, and did not grow up with this s%%t. She looked at the TV, looked at me, and said, "what are they clapping at?"

I did not know.

The holiday with the eggs

If ever I found a good motivating force to blog more, it is that picture of Scott Baio in the previous post: I must keep writing to get that thing to scroll off my monitor. Do you think the now-middle-aged Scott Baio looks back on that photo and wants to kill himself? I know I do.

Speaking of killing, I guess this is the holiday that has something to do with Jesus being dead. No offense to anyone, really. I just don't know much about the whole religion thing, having grown up in a religious-free environment. Religion to me meant getting a bunch of Hanukkah presents once a year, feeling guilty for eating bacon, and, from ages 10-12, being forced to go to Hebrew school against my will, where I paid attention just enough to get Bar Mitzvahed and then forget the whole thing forever.

Now, however, I'm married to a French (or should I say "Freedom") Protestant person, and have a 9-year old daughter. The Wife is not religious either but she likes the holidays and traditions, unlike me. For example, just this minute, she came in and said, "could you stop doing that soon and help hide the eggs?" Buh. Hide the eggs. Now, with all due respect, I have to ask, "what the f*$k?"

Seriously. Even with my limited understanding/interest in all things religious, I still know that Easter has something to do with Da Jesus and his whole magic resurrection thing. So where do the eggs and the bunny come in? And why, 2000 years later, when I'm trying to drink my coffee on a Sunday morning, do I have to spread them out on my goddamn front lawn?

Christ.

"This blog is teh gay"

That's the latest heckle to my blog, in the comments section of my last post. And I suppose it is. I mean, not "gay" as in "homosexual," which I am not (except for a slightly uncomfortable attraction to the young Scott Baio), but "gay" as in "lame"--meaning I'm not posting enough.

That, of course, was the problem that I knew I might have going into this, knowing that I am, in fact, a horrible procrastinator and all around Lazy Person. But I must be brave. I must go on. I must put away the GameCube controller, put down the beer, turn off the TV, whatever it takes to eek these words out, as a sort of public exercise in masturbation, for my reading public--all three of you.

RAWK!

Wife, or motorcyle?

Man. This just blows.
My motorcycle has been in the shop for over 1 month now. I miss it horribly. Future blog entries will expound upon my midlife crisis-inspired motorcycle love, but for now, let me just say that it has been a long month without it. I have tried not to be an annoying pain-in-the-ass with the shop about calling to ask if it was fixed yet, always waiting maybe 2 or 3 days beyond the point at which I figured it HAD to be ready, only to have them say, "Yeah, we're getting to it soon."

Now, today, of all days, they finally called me to tell me it's ready. Great. Super. Couldn't be happier. EXCEPT that today happens to be my and my wife's 10th wedding anniversary, and she's picking me up any minute so we can go check into a spa/resort for a coupla days.

Why must you torment me so, Satan?

Surely I cannot suggest to my wife that we postpone the check-in to the spa for a couple hours while I go get the bike. Nor can I suggest we cut it short early tomorrow to get it before they close. So....after waiting what feels like FOREVER, now I have to wait three more days. ALL BECAUSE OF MY ANNIVERSARY.

I love my wife (happy anniverary, dear), but boy do I miss that bike. I'll come get you soon, baby.

Werk in progress

Oy vey. Someone get me an interior decorator. My web mentor Christian Crumlish has graciously devoted precious time out of his day that I think he usually spends downloading porn in order to teach me the ins and outs of blog page design.

So what you see here is the result of a few emails of explanation on Christian's part. Picture me on the other end of those emails, brow furrowed like Ron Perlman in Quest For Fire, reading words like "hexadecimal" slowly out loud to myself, and wishing I could just go watch Cartoon Network instead. Or maybe just gnaw on a bone.

(Note to self: hire assistant to do blog for me. Go back to piddling away time remaining until death.)

Artists Only

Though I make my living as a writer and editor, the super secret fact about me (other than my large collection of Barbies that I play with every night when my wife is asleep) is that I also dabble in the visual arts. No, I may not approach the level of, say, Kandinksy or Pollock, but I think it's safe to say that over the years I've honed a style quite my own.

Here's just a small sample of the unique artwork I will be displaying on this blog, free of charge, for all those lucky and smart enough to stop by:

Show, Don't Tell

One blog entry under my belt, and already I have someone complaining. It appears that one "Guy Incognito," in his comment to my very first post, "Blog-Tastic," has taken it upon himself to razz me with the phrase beloved by every middle-school creative writing teacher: "Show, Don't Tell. "

Great. What would you like me to show, Guy? My entry made reference to a-holes and snowflakes. Which are you more interested in?

In any case, I'm still trying to figure out this software and am not sure I can show you anything at all. But maybe I can.

Let's give this a shot.

Okay. It works.

Blog-tastic!

Okay, so this is the first entry. It does not count. I'll delete it probably almost immediately. I suppose I could write about what I ate for lunch. That'd be typical of these. What might be less typical is if I said that this lunch, which was a working lunch, included a rather lengthy discussion of an*l s*x, along with one person's comment (not mine), that "all a-holes are different, like snowflakes." This is what it's like to work in the gaming industry.