Pros and Cons

His poems are bad. No, I mean real bad.

But he has the most gorgeous blue eyes.

His poems are riddled with incorrect spelling. "Dispair", indeed.

But when he smiles he reveals the cutest dimples.

The title of one of his poems is "The essence of death. Your last experience."

But he has a cute ass.

The fireworks came early this year.

Holy freaking shit. There are lightning flashes going off like crazy, followed by these big booming monstrosities of thunder. There's no rain, though, and I'm not prepared to have the lightning and thunder without the rain. It seems almost wrong for them not to accompany each other.

It was in the mid-80's today. Not humid, just a typical summer day in Los Angeles.

I'm completely weirded out.

Look For Me (I'll Be Around)

Things have been a bit tense and confusing as of late -- not knowing if I'll have a roof over my head being the source of all my problems. So I dropped my yoga class, something I'd been completely looking forward to since I enrolled and, which by the way, started this morning. But when you hear of behind-the-scenes talk of being kicked out, taking a yoga class seems frivilous, especially if I need to figure out my financial status in case the axe drops on me, Marie Antoinette style.

Anyway, I'm just taking things are they come, remembering to breathe, waiting by the phone to see if I get a callback from the place I applied at, a place I've always considered a backup plan. It's always good to have a backup plan, I say.

I think I'll be going to the beach tomorrow, work on my suntan (or sunburn, it's all the same), because if I stay home waiting for the phone call any longer, I'll give myself an ulcer.

Wouldn't it be great for me to come home, golden and "sunkissed", and have a message from my potential employers?

Yes, it would. Cross your fingers, please.

Heaven's just a thin blue line

(Photo Credit: Stadtwald)

"If God’s up there he’s in a cold dark room
The heavenly host are just the cold dark moons
He bent down and made the world in seven days
And ever since he’s been a’walking away"

"Thin Blue Flame" - Josh Ritter

There are no words

As soon as Cat Power appeared on the television screen, you could tell something was up. There she was, barefoot and dancing like a hippy at Woodstock. And this was before she started singing.

It was AWESOME. In the span of Cat Power's three minute performance, she managed to do the Chicken Dance, a Moonwalk, a couple moves that looked vaguely like something straight out of Lord of the Dance, and still sound amazing.

Rock on, my dear. Rock. The. Fuck. On.

The Greatest

Oh, Cat Power: a mystery wrapped in an enigma, or however that saying goes.

Fragile. Moody. A musician that walks the line between vulnerable little girl and crazy woman with a gun. She's infamous for her tendency to perform either the best or worst concert of your life, but never one to leave people feeling iffy about her and the music; you love her or you hate it. That's the way it is. I'm sure she prefers it that way, too.

If you haven't guessed already, I'm one of those people that worship at her feet. But it's a shame just how much her stage name throws people off when you try to introduce them to her music, especially if your friends already think you ride the short bus to school. A typical conversation with one of my friends:

"So, John, what ya' listening to?"

"Um, Cat Power."

"...What?"

"It's her stage name."

"Forget I asked."


Anyway, the whole point of this post is to tell you Cat Power (real name Chan Marshall) is appearing on Letterman tonight and I hope to God she keeps her cool and manages to pull out one of her great performances. I just know she has it in her.

You can sample many of her tracks by using this mp3 aggregator to point to you the vast array of blogs offering her songs. But let's pretend you found it on your own, ok?

Song Recommendations: "Say", "Still in Love", "Colors and the Kids", "The Greatest", and "Evolution, and "Fool."

One-Way Ticket to

(Photo Credit: Tjerk Bartlema)

Alaska. Iceland. Anywhere that doesn't require me to use a Scan Tron and a #2 pencil.

That sinking feeling...

So I spent a combined total of 18 hours tediously painting and I'm finally sitting in my room, staring at my three separate art pieces and figuring out how to combine them in a collage, when it dawns on me: they look like pure and utter shit. And, wouldn't you know, this entire assignment is my Art Final.

I'm on the verge of a panic attack. I don't know what to do. It's too late to start new pieces, but I can't possibly turn in what I have finished. Do I just bail on the entire thing and hope my previous assignment grades are high enough to pass me? Do I pretend like I never had the revelation that my art project looks horrible and keep on working?

I've never known what it's like to cry and puke at the same time, or if it's even possible, but I have a feeling I'll be finding out before the night is over.

Must. Meet. Monday. Deadline!

I kid you not, I just spent the last 12 hours painting. 12 HOURS. 2:30 p.m. - 2:30 a.m.

It's just...it's not fair. The sad part is I'm only about halfway through at this point.

Somebody shoot me now.

This is why I prefer being lazy.

After such a long time without exercising and with my yoga class coming up this month, I wanted to get myself used to the repeated use of my probably-atrophied-by-now muscles.

Like a good boy, I did my hour of cardio, and can I just say, WOW, I forgot how much I sweated because, JESUS. Each time I wiped my face with a sleeve, it was like I painting in sweat. My poor shirt.

ANYWAY, I was feeling pretty good about myself and feeling like I could do anything (stupid endorphins!), and felt confident enough to take on my weight bench. Now here's the thing: I hate lifting weights, I hate bench-pressing, I just hate any exercise routine that requires me to push or lift anything.

Now, it'd been a while since I last used the weight bench and because I wasn't sure what I could do in my current state of non-musculature, I decided I'd start off pretty low in terms of total weight. And I did my routine and everything seemed fine, enough to make me rethink my hatred of weight training.

Holy crap, was I wrong. This morning, in one of those groggy states of semi-consciousness where you move around to change positions, my poor left arm was in so much pain. Like, any bending of my arm sent shooting pains to the, what's that muscle called right above the elbow? The delts? No, that's somewhere in the leg, I think. Tricep? I think that's located a bit higher, but anyway, whatever muscle thing that's right above the elbow was throbbing.

It's been that way ever since and only now, after hours of applying my generic Ben-Gay (Cold Burning, or Icy Hot, or some other insipid title. No wait, it's called Cool Heat. Heh.), I can now manuever my poor left arm to a 45 degree angle, even though it hurts like a bitch when I do it.

There's no bruising or popped bones or anything of the sort, so no need for a hospital visit, but still: stupid exercising!