"When it comes my time, I'll leave this old world with a satisfied mind."

It always feels like we're being punished when it rains in Los Angeles, as if our city's held on to the sunshine for far too long and now this is what we get for being sun hogs.

Tonight I went out with a small group of friends to a little Mexican restaurant. We all showed up in some form of summery clothing: flip-flips, shorts, skirts. And we all knew that it was going to rain tonight, but we acted as though by ignoring it, the rain would realize we were giving it the silent treatment and would go away. Alas, the rain did not care for our stupidity.

The evening was pleasant and loud, everyone just laughing it up and talking at the same time and still managing to remain coherent. We're amazingly functional alcoholics.

A fun time was had by all, even though some of us won't remember that when we're kissing the toilet bowel tomorrow morning.

I'm going to go to sleep now, but I thought I'd post this YouTube video of Jeff Buckley singing my favorite of his songs, "Satisfied Mind."



Listening to the song always reminds me -- whether I'm sad, happy, or lost -- of the preciousness of life. We don't know how long we'll get to play this game, but while we have the chance, we should squeeze it for all it's worth; to make as many memories as you possibly can, especially with the people that make it worthwhile.

Man, I've managed to pontificate while having beer breath.

I need to go to bed, pronto.

America: Safe at last.

I'd just finished reading one of the YAHOO! News articles about the Army banning it's soldiers from using privately bought body armor when I came across a heading that caught my eye:

I always knew there was a darker side to the man. I mean, he hates flip-flops, for god's sake!

Although I do hope they go easy on him. It's not like he's a puppy-killer or anything...

Sister John

Every once in a while I like to try to grow out my hair. I say try because each time I do it, I realize how ridiculous it looks. And then I promptly regain my sanity and get a proper hair cut.

Today was the breaking point for me in my months long hair experiment. The locks of hair residing above my ears have begun to stick out at a 90 degree angle and I realize that technically, I now have hair wings.

Worse than my non-flyable hair wings is how much the entire thing looks as if I'm auditioning for a role in The Flying Nun.

Even dearest Sally is all, "Dang, you look fucked up."

I know, Sally. I know.

Dude...

It's raining -- Hello, rain! -- and I'm sitting here with glue stick paste on my fingers, wondering how the hell I managed to get myself the one college art teacher still giving out collages as projects, when it suddenly dawns on me: I'm totally high.

First things first: It's not my fault. I didn't smoke anything, I didn't buy anything, and no, I don't sniff glue sticks. Besides, they're non-toxic.

Rather, I'm the victim of the awesome and cheapest way to get stoned, ever: the contact high.

The pot dealers below me started smoking scary Cheech and Chong amounts this morning and haven't stopped, like, at ALL, even as we go into the afternoon.

Having them live downstairs for almost a year and half now, I've adapted to their ways. Calling the cops doesn't solve the problem and the owner of the building turns a blind eye, so it's up to me to deal with it. If it gets too bad, I light tens of really poofy smelling candles. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

I could tell today was going to be one of the bad days by how ineffectual my really, really gay candles were. The rain had transformed the pot smell into something freakishly potent and it was overpowering my poor, really gay candles.

But now I have a headache and it's all their fault because they couldn't even do me the decency of smoking the good stuff, and in my book, if you're going to get someone high, you use the good stuff. It's like, the rules, or something.

God, I hate my neighbors.

Making a bigger deal out of things since 1985!

I really miss taking photographs. Standing in front of a particular scene, whether it's the lighting or the colors that catch my eye, I wish I could capture it in the moment. My growing obsession with Flickr isn't helping matters.

Seeing as how my birthday is one month away, I've decided to request a digital camera. I've been doing some research for a while now, comparing the many models, and I'm nearly 100% sure I'm going to go with the Canon A520. It's price and abilities seems to fit in perfectly with what I want.

The only problem I'm having is being unable to locate it in any local stores. It's either not in stock or just not being sold, and I've checked them all. The big retailers, like Best Buy and Circuit City, and the smaller ones, like Samy's Cameras, none of them have it.

I know, I know: "What about Amazon.com?" They have it, and seem to be the only people with it, but I want to see it in person, I want to get a feel for it before the purchase. It's the crazy rationalization going on in my head.

"Well, just get it from Amazon."
I want to see it in person.

"Dude, just get it fro--"
I WANT TO SEE IT IN PERSON.

I think I like making my life more difficult than it needs to be.

Who says Christians can't be gay?

I'm not sure why it keeps happening, but I find myself continuing to frequent the Trinity Broadcasting Network.

Ok, I just lied. I know why I keep watching.

It's not because Gary Busey, Dyan Cannon, and Dog the Bounty Hunter all seem to be on 24/7 giving their testimonials. True, each of them brings their own individual qualities to the "celebrity" show and tell segments: The Regis Philbin levels of overly bleached teeth, the incessent ramblings of crazy washed up actors and their reality "star" counterparts who have no idea how to string together words into sentences, and above all else, the awesomest mullet in the history of the world.

(Photographic evidence of the world's awesomest mullet)

Yes, those are all fantastic -- especially the mullet! -- , but you could find equivalent values of entertainment on any given season of the Surreal Life. (Somewhere Corey Feldman's ears are burning.) Where's the It factor, the something extra that catapults this network and it's gaudily decorated sets into the stratosphere of cheesy delights?

Please meet my reasons for watching: Paul and Jan Crouch, the married founders of TBN, and apparently, the gayest couple ever to be unaware of their blindingly obvious homosexuality.


His likes: male coworkers (allegedly!); pornstaches; phallic imagery.



Her likes: putting the best of Chelsea's and West Hollywood's drag community to shame; one-upping Tammy Faye; the color pink.

Seeing them together makes me believe there are such things as soulmates.

The present is so much better than the past.

After nearly 8 years, I've been allowed the opportunity to move on.

I have a tendency to obsess over the past. And when I say "past", I specifically mean the time I spent at the private Christian school which I attended from 5th to 7th grade. The reason for this is how much those three years defined me as a person, for better or worse, and how vivid the memories of my time there still remain. It's hard to put into words how much the school left an impression on me, in both wonderful memories and emotional scars. But that's how life is, a clusterfuck of good and bad.

On any account, I've always wondered what happened to the kids I went to school with, even the ones I didn't like. I want to know how they've changed if at all, what they've become (crossing my fingers for a stripper or at the very least, a high class hooker), and most importantly, if Eddie C. is still smokin' hot. Closure, morbid curiosity, or the chance for schadenfreude? Take your pick.

Monday afternoon, I was given that chance and I must say, it felt great. I found out many interesting things, but the most titilating tidbit I learned was how the church that ran the school became scarily cultish as the years progressed, causing nearly half the congregation to eventually leave, including much of the students.

And thanks to photograhic evidence -- do I post it or not? -- Eddie C. still remains hot, although surprisingly heftier than I imagined he'd be. That's ok, though, I like my men how I like my peanut butter: chunky! (You have no idea how long I've been waiting to use that.)

Almost that time.

I think I've gotten almost everything situated -- wait, why does "situated" look misspelled? Holy hell, I'm having one of those moments where if you stare at a word for too long it begins to look foreign.

And no, I was never dropped on my head as a child. That I know of...