If you don't buy this right away, there is really something wrong with you. (Found courtesy of Rip Taylor dot com)

Now the US can finally see Vincent Gallo get his suck off. The Brown Bunny will be showing at the E Street Cinema here in D.C. on September 10th. You know, I think I'll just look for the minute or so worthwhile footage from this film on the internet and save the $10. Still, kudos to Mr. Gallo for being able to pull this off.

I now have a reason to keep blogging! This is an interesting concept, if ultimately nothing more than a creative time killer. I can't believe such a site exists. And hey, I have a shareholder! She bought 4000 shares of The Experience. (Sorry boys, the only one among you who also has a shareholder is SR. Keep blogging!)

And for those who read about my MCCXXIII dilemma: I opted not to go. I did wind up going to Mexicali Blues with Mr. and Mrs O., who were joined by some friends o' the missus. A good time was had, especially as the laughter I induced in Mr. O led to pain in his leg.

Some things I don't get...

Guys who wear buzzcuts/flattops with absolutely no military affiliation.

The popularity of televised poker. I love poker, but to me, it's one of those things that is much more enjoyable to play, but maddeningly dull to watch on TV.

People who think Van Halen was better with Sammy Hagar. I just saw a commercial for Best of Both Worlds, which features the best of Hagar-era and Roth-era VH. In the commercial, they alternate clips of songs from each era, and it's no contest that the Diamond Dave era was far superior.

UPN still exists? C'mon, did they give Fox this long to fail miserably? They should pull the plug on this awful network. Case in point: this abomination. Not to mention they tried to revive Dan Cortese's career. For that act of insanity alone they should have their broadcast license revoked.

***

In other news, I'm going to MCCXXIII tomorrow after work. Well, I'm tentatively going. I've been invited, I've said yes, but I think I'm going to back out. The reasons? One, money. Even though it's just a $15 cover for open bar from 5-9 (plus tips, of course), I'd still rather save the money for something else, clothes in particular. Two, my rule about not mixing work with pleasure. These are my boys, true, but I'm still trying to keep a clear demarcation between the hotel and my home life. I fear the slippery slope this could introduce. Three, it's MCCXXIII. This flies in the face of my "fuck any club with a velvet rope" personality. Four, and this isn't really an issue (I don't think) but I like the possibility, nonetheless, violence. Considering my showing during the bar crawl a couple of weeks back, the fact that I'm going to hate 95% of the people in this joint and it is practically an open bar for five hours, well, the chance of a drunken, violent outburst, no matter how remote, is there. Especially if one of the hated 95% turns out to include some unsavory co-workers who have been known to frequent MCCXXIII on occasion.

Oh, I'm feeling nerdy: I seriously think I might have to make this. I know I'll likely have no takers among the Entourage, but I'm putting it out there anyway, in case anybody needs to know my whereabouts on the weekend of October 2. Though, how dull do you have to be to turn down a chance to meet one of the stars of Tron?

(This was found when I was checking out the minibosses site to see if they might be playing on this coast any time soon. And sure enough, they will be at MagFest. Thanks again to CLJO for clue-ing me in on this band. This almost makes you a credible hipster. Ha!)

Snippet of my current conversation

ML: ...I also saw The Stepford Wives.
Me: Ugh, why would you see that?
ML: Because I didn't know it would suck ass worse than any movie ever!

What kind of fucking morons would claim responsibility for this?

The Return of the Great Assholio (pt. ii)

So, we leave Lulu's and head to Porters. This is another establishment that nobody had been to before. We get in, grab a beer, and kinda hang back by this area at the end of the bar near the door. Then, we decide (and I may be mistaken, but I believe this was prompted by a skirt) to make our way back. I get a slight separation between myself and the boys, which is just enough not to see where they go. I choose wrong, of course, and go downstairs. As it turns out, it was only wrong in the sense that this was not where the boys were. I found out, upon our reunion, that it was definitely more happening than the upstairs route they took. Anyway, we return to the floor on which we entered and found a nice spot near a beam and these benches along the wall. We basically just surveyed the scene, with me taking a break to "sing" along to "Kiss" (by Prince) when it came on. We officially declared it "dead" (ha!) shortly after and left. Our next stop: Sign of the Whale, right around the corner.

Oh yeah...

So, we get there, passing the Madhatter (just next door), which has a ridiculously long line coming out of its roughly Fotomat sized interior. People, please. There are so many bars on this crawl, why not go find one where you are not constantly dry-humping strangers just to get close enough to the bar to ask for a shitty Bacardi O? Of course, SotW was not much better. We go in, and something just snapped in me. It may have been the music playing (fuck Bon Jovi, okay?), or (much more likely) my testosterone and alcohol levels were pushed into the red simultaneously. Whatever it was, I went kinda insane. I started screaming "can you believe all the guys in here with vaginas?" and "this place is packed wall to wall with pussy" and so forth. When I would pass some duck, I'd say (loud enough to be heard, mind you) "excuse me, miss" or "pardon me, ma'am." Unbelievably, nobody decided to play the role of tough guy. Not a one. And I found this, in my fabulously inebriated state, disappointing. I think I was really ready to deal on the first jackass who even looked at me cockeyed. At one point, while we're in the back, beers in hand, this clown walks by and I start to mock him with this little jig (if you've seen the movie So I Married An Ax Murderer, you should know the one I'm talking about; yes, I was so drunk I stooped to ripping off Mike Myers). Well, as I'm doing this, this cute girl and her friend ("I specifically requested...") walk by, and the girl starts dancing right at me. Then she comes up to me and tells me I have to flip my collar up...

(RANT: Okay, why in the world is this fucking fashion disaster back? I find it an atrocity and I think the precious men and women who have started flipping their collars up, in some futile effort to look fashion-minded, should be stoned in the street and then sterilized. Fucking wastes of blood and tissue, my lord...)

I tells her, I says "You have to give me one of those beads if you want me to do that." So she obliges. Being a man of my word, I flip it up, and she puts her arms around me so her friend can take a picture of us. Post photo, I immediately return the collar to its natural non-Queer Eye state, and ask her what she's doing the rest of the night. She said something drunkenly about drinking more (*swoon*) and going to another bar (possibly Lulu's) but now she had to go to the bathroom. Somewhere in all of this, she must have asked me for my name (or I offered it, who knows), because as she's coming back from the bathroom, she stops by and says "Damian, you have to keep this collar up" and she clumsily pulls it up, then walks off. After our beers are finished, it's back out into the night. Again, all the way out, whenever I have to press by a guy, it's "excuse me, miss" or "pardon me, ma'am." No takers. Oh well, that's probably for the best. Still, this is turning out to be a terrible "Year of the Bar Fight."

Oh yeah, re: the photo, CO stated "you know that's going to be on somebody's blog tomorrow." Ha! I can only wish for such immortality.

Once outside, we decide to head to The Front Page, up in Dupont Circle. I am definitely more calmed down now, though I'm still taking swipes at ducks here or there, including outside the men's room at FP, while waiting for JG to emerge, when I directed some dudes coming down the steps by saying "bathroom's this way, ladies."

We go upstairs, and we stand by the bar on the side of the establishment near the restrooms. There, we watch this totally trashed (and slightly trashy) girl gyrate sexily for her boyfriend. After a few minutes here, we walk to the other side, near the dancefloor and get some more beer in us. On this side, we watch another drunk girl freak this guy she's with at the bar. The way they were going it would lead one to believe that they were mere seconds away from one of those "beside the dumpster in the alley" fucks. But, when I went up (ha!) and asked the dude if he was going to be hitting that, he actually said he wasn't. Hilarious.

After our beer, we decided to leave again and go back to Lulu's, by which time things should have definitely picked up. And things were definitely livelier, but not in any major way. We grab the same table we were at the last time and got more beers. (Oh, this just came back to me: on one of the visits to Lulu's--I believe it was the first--I squirted a dollop of ketchup on my hand, a la the salt for a shot of tequila, and sucked it right off. What in the world was I thinking?) Unfortunately, I had backslid a bit into my misanthropy for the night, mocking some of the ducks that passed by our table. At this point, I believe the boys just gave up and withdrew a conversation about...something. War, cars, the price of tea in Kenya. Something. All I know is that after the discussion, I turned to CO and says to him, "So, who would win in a fight, Rommel or Francis Marion?" I'm pretty sure he came back with "I will stab you" or something like that. After hitting the head one more time, we decided to call it an evening. We parted ways at the exit of Lulu's, the boys heading to the Metro while I went home, stopping for McDonald's (again...ugh) on the way. I got home, killed the food, talked to EMT on the phone for a bit, and then crashed, waking up seven hours later to begin this day, which was an awesome outing with AK. I shall detail this soon, I suspect. Until then, read and laugh at my public shame. 'Nuff said!

++ DVX: THE DAMIAN VEGA$ EXPERIENCE ++

Sports note: congratulations Maria Sharapova for winning, in a most convincing fashion, your first Wimbledon. Kournikova with skills, indeed. Has anybody thought about what kind of response this final might have received in the 60s? A strong, black American woman taking on a Russkie? America's race issues pitted squarely against its patriotism? Comedy!

Check me out America...

I'm being an asshole!

Ahhhhh...Friday. What have we done to you?

The day was short (burned a bit of my overtime to leave early) but sweet, as we had thai food for lunch. That's solid, no? Anyway, I left work a bit early so I could meet up with JG and CO for a little bar crawl action. Despite my advanced age, this is, in fact, my very first bar crawl. And she was a solid one.

Things kicked off at Mackeys, a bar on L St., where the main registration was held. Registration was $13 on-site, or $10 with a couple of cans of food. Or, if you weren't lazy like I, you could have registered in advance for $7. Met JG at the metro, then we both met with CO, who was already at the bar. Registered, and the drinking was on. Stood outside with the other participants, packed neatly into the little patio area. Things of note from Mackeys:

There was a surprising lack of baseball caps (at least standing outside), save two guys with their Red Sox hats on. Believe me, these ducks embodied everything wearing such a chapeau would indicate.

"Circus ugly." Okay, I'm certainly not a GQ model, and it is mean to just be slamming random women, but there was a girl there who was just hideous, and became sort of the running joke of the night, as she wound up being at many of the bars at the same time as we (since there were a number of bars on the list, and there is no order of attendance, this is actually odd). She had a Mrs. Potato Head-thing going on. Sorry, but just thinking about her again makes me vurp. (See? Asshole!)

The guy at Recessions, next door and also part of the crawl, had a creepy, Everquest playing, van with tinted windows look going on. He was out there announcing "$2 shooters!" but was not getting much of a response. Shocker, no?

So after Mackeys, we bail on to Rumours, which is at the corner of 19th and M. Again, we got on the patio and just took it all in. Not a bad spot, especially when one of the dancers for Camelot walked by in all of her wonderful, beautifully fake (as opposed to "painfully fake"; I think we all know the difference) titted glory. Magnifico! We are eventually joined for a bit by CO's co-worker, T. Good guy, funny guy, nearly made me choke on my beer when he pointed out some old dude coming up the street (in my current, slightly hungover state, I cannot remember what he said about him). He eventually left with some femininas (friends of his) who did not want to pay the cover (all the bars were charging $5 covers if you had no wristband for the crawl). I should state that our selection of this venue was not entirely random, as JG spotted a couple of hot youngbloods on the patio that we had noticed at Mackeys. Sadly, I don't think we saw them the rest of the night. (I know I didn't.)

So once we're done with Mackey's, it's on to Lulu's, which is 23rd and M (I believe). On the way, we stop at McDonald's, so I can get a little bit of food into me (just a burger) and I called my mom, in a semi-inebriated state, to check on my sister, who is having some medical issues that are pretty common in my family. I should know by next Thursday (approx) what exactly is happening on that front. I have a feeling everything will be okay, but that doesn't dampen my concern any.

And now Lulu's. First, this was the first Lulu's experience for all of us, which is surprising considering we've all been in this area for the last 10-odd years. We probably would have gone on President's Day '03, as Girls Gone Wild was there, but that was also the weekend we got a couple of feet of snow dumped on us. I was stuck in Silver Spring for 4 days. Good times.

Second, it was really dead at that point. Lulu's was definitely going to be the finishing spot for the night. So after a beer, we beat it out of there. Nothing much to report from this establishment. Up next, Porters.

(I'm running out of time, as I'm about to meet with AK for a glorious day of fun, so I'll post this now and finish it later. Believe me, you do not want to miss that. Stay tuned, bitches!)

Jesus...I started this two weeks ago and I'm now just finishing it. Not that I have been working on it the whole time (obviously...could I have cut more corners), but that's still a long time to take on one goddamn post/recounting. Anywhere, here's some old shit:

(FYI: this narrative was started on 6/16/04)

Well, it was bound to happen. I got on the elevator, expecting it to go down instead of up. I then, without looking up, went to the apartment that I thought was mine and tried to fit the key into the lock...

Wait...when did 3s start looking like 5s? (Only when I'm in a bar wearing beer goggles. *rimshot*)

Thankfully, I didn't make a big fuss, jiggling the knob or what not. That could have been ugly. Or, a potential Penthouse Forum moment. Guess I'll never know.

Speaking of apartments in my building, I met the occupant of one a few doors down from me. Nice guy freshly moved in from Brazil, though, as I found out, he used to live in Rogers Park. I was just there visiting my goil EMT.

Hey! Transition! Huzzah!

(Totally unplanned, ladies and gentlemen. I'm just THAT good.)

And now, the trip.

Thursday (6/10): wake up after the second consecutive night of 5 hours of sleep, shower, throw the last things necessary for my trip into my bag, and I'm out the door. At the sound of the tone, the time will be: 8:15 am.

I get my Metro on and before I know it, I'm in glorious Ronald Reagan National Airport. I do the e-ticket check-in and am greeted with the message: "Your flight from Atlanta to Chicago is experience mechanical problems. Your new arrival time is now 3:16pm." So, I finish the check-in, give EMT (who will eventually meet me at the airport) a ring-a-ding and let her know what's what. Get to my gate, grab some breffuts (chocolate croissant and a bottle of water, bitch), and wait.

Fly to: Atlanta.

Atlanta's airport ain't bad. Easy to navigate, and I find my gate with no problem. Now I have some time to kill. About 2.5 hours, to be precise. So apres lunch (BK my way, fool!), I sit down in a primo spot for people watching, slip my headphones on, and kill time.

Ze women...they are, how you say, fizzine? That's right, French Snoop coming at ya.

Of course, just as my zone is about to board, the display now reads 3:40pm for arrival. Le sigh.

So after yet another call (voicemail), I'm back in the air, landing in Chicago sometime 'round...hey! 3:40! Good call.

(Already I've lost control of this narrative. And I'm starting to lose interest in typing it. But I shall press on...)

EMT and our cabbie Muhammad (not a joke; his actual name) pick me up just outside of where I claimed my bag. I load in and we're on the road. It's kinda rainy, but this does not deter Muhammad from playing slalom on the highway. Not in any overly dangerous way, but it was aggressive in an "out of my way, jerkass!" sort of deal. We make a stop at Superdawg for some most excellent vittles, then we're back off to EMT's where we finish our food, watch some Simpsons, then...nap. Between food and rain and travel and lack of sleep in general, sleep was inevitable. After a quick nap, more tv was watched (Game 3 of the NBA Finals), and dessert was craved. The solution: EMT bakes! Mmmmmm....pudding cake. And just as the cake finished baking, a couple of EMT's friends show up, with ice cream and cookies! Score!

So we all adjourned to the living room, the television was turned off (novel concept, that), and conversation was made. Well, the women made conversation. I kinda stared into space. But at least I wasn't the over-the-top chowderhead that I usually am. So I think, impression-wise, I broke even. After they left, EMT and I relived old times, then it was back to sleep.

That was Thursday.

Friday, I was roused from sleep by Hermione (who, with Ursula, comprise EMT's fabulous feline duo), who was nuzzling and licking the top of my head. Much to my surprise, the close proximity of said kitty did not send me into an allergic fit, which was my state for 95% of Thursday. So apres shower, we cab downtown (EMT is lugging a computer in to have cleaned by geek co-worker), drop my bags off in her office, and it's out into the city to explore.

What happened next? Lunch, walking, more walking, even more walking (all this walking, by the way, was mostly done on Michigan, Wabash, and State), and finally, some lost time in the Jazz Record Mart. Considering the amount of time spent inside this monument to all things good about music, that I walked away with only one CD seems a bit of a shame. (The CD, for those keeping score, was the Joe Morris/Mat Maneri album, Soul Search.)

By the time I finished in there, it was time to pick up my bags from Liz and get on the train to Midway, where I was meeting up with CLJO and JG, who were flying in. Said a quick goodbye to EMT (felt a bit too rushed, actually; wish I could have had more time with her) and dashed off. Well, I wasn't quite dashing, as my bags were pretty heavy. So it was really more like an amble than a dash. Anyway...

Got to the train station, made a couple of calls (returned calls to AK and CLJO), then boarded an orange line out to Midway. No wacky passengers to report, though, there was one ghetto lookin' white girl who was either wearing a thong or panties with the waistband frayed apart. (It was honestly hard to tell.) God bless her.

Arrived at Midway and was greeted by Mr. O. We exchanged pleasantries while awaiting the arrival of JG, who arrived perhaps 15 minutes after I. Soon after, our host for the weekend, GC, pulled into the parking lot. I turned to JG and said, GC "just pulling into a parking spot is hilarious." And so it we piled into the vehicle, noting that Mr. C was covered in grease, much to his dismay/chagrin/surprise. Well, not covered. But had a nice dollop of it on his shoulder, and a bit on his short pants. Totally inexplicable. (The shoulder blotch, anyway.)

And now, some fast-forward recounting of the drive:

"I'll kick you in the face!"

Fallen H on the Oaklawn Hilton.

(Formerly) one of the worst intersections ever.

Take the Reed Richards ass-cannon to that White Castle.

So this is where the Bill Swerski and the Superfans would be.

And so much more. See, this is one of the drawbacks of waiting nearly 2 weeks to recount this trip. So many fun details are lost. Next time, I'm bringing Edie McClurg to take notes. (Yes, that's a Back to School reference.)

Get back to GC's spot and just kinda crash. No, not nap time or anything. We just get ourselves situated and chill for a bit. But not long, as we're soon out the door to fill our bellies with delicious pizza, courtesy of...wait, let me think. Nino's, yes? (Correct me if I'm wrong, fellas. Damn my memory.) Wherever, it was mighty tasty. Much beer was consumed, I ogled me a nice young employee of this fine eating establishment, we spoke ill of the dead (the Reagan funeral was in full effect), and overall had ourselves a helluva good time. And if you eat there, I recommend the garlic bread. Now that's buttery!

After this, it was time for dessert. The answer? Why, a combo Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins, of course! Ice cream and donuts? You betcha! And all served to us Ganesh twins. Delicious. But the best part happened in the parking lot, where a line floored me (and would continue to crack me up) for the duration of my stay:

"Check out Johnny Southside."

Mr. O, you have bested me yet again.

And it was true. Total Johnny Southside. The mustache, the open shirt, the shameless swagger, all there in spades.

We put away our desserts and roll back to the spot for some rest. I don't remember if we napped briefly, but I do remember going through Mr. C's music, as well as some solid Shotgun Charlie. (I'd explain, but I don't even know the genesis of this particular character. Let me just say it's fuh-diddly-uckin' hilarious.) Finally, it was back out into the night for some drunken fun at Bourbon Street. Met up with MD and his girl (okay, boys, do it with me: flip through the rolodex!) and started the drinking. That place is sweet, and I wish DC had something similar. Unfortunately, DC crowds don't know really know how to have fun and such an establishment would be lost on them. Anyway, we started at a table outside, but then the rain clouds came a-rollin' in, so we moved the fun into the enclosed portion of ze beer garden. We spent some time trying to free Mr. C when he indicated that he may have some sort of history (I forget the story) with one of the women in attendance. Alas, he did not fly in and find out. A shame, that. Her ass, if memory serves, was vurr' nice.

Eventually, we were done drinking, and so we hopped into the ride and proceed (through some heavy rain) to get some terrific Mexican grub at...some place whose name escapes me. (C'mon...it's been three sleep-deprived weeks.) And while all of the food was good, the best part in my somewhat inebriated state were the fries. Oh lordy, those fries. We took the food home and housed them in the dark, as the place had lost power. Then, we slept.

And now, Saturday:

Woke up, sat and scratched our asses. Actually, Mr. O made a food dash, which Mr. C turned into a delicious, delicious breffuts. Eggs, bacon, donuts, hash browns, biscuits...you know, if I take anything else away from this weekend (other than the naked bodies, which of course are first and foremost), it will be the food. We sat around and watched some quality television (well, with the aid of the DVD player): The Best of Chris Farley, Old School, and Arsenic and Old Lace. Chris Farley, Will Ferrell and...Cary Grant? You bet your ass. Oh, and in between the movies, we got out and played some mini golf (I fell apart on the back nine in a most magnificent fashion) as well as made a stop at Juniors (that's the name, right?) where I had my first Jr-ito, sans tomato. Eventually, it was that time. We made our way to the groom-to-be's place, toasted his fleeting bachelorhood, watched a little baseball, then finally descened upon the fine establishment that would play host to The Bachelor Party.

I don't even know where to begin here. It was open bar from 8pm to 1am, and boy did we make it count. The pizza ordered for the party was supoib. The first stripper was late (and, as it turned out, never showed), but the second stripper made up for it. She came to play and I thought she did her job well. After taking good care of the groom (and the father of the groom, and the best man), she opened up shop to the rest of the boys. This was all legal, so don't let your imagination go too far. My boys paid for a little "feed the kitty/pie in the sky" action for yours truly (which involved a dollar bill and whipped cream being cleaned off of me with the stripper's naught parts) and I treated myself to an "around the world," where I did the whipped cream cleaning. Word is that I made the stripper blush, but you know, that could have been crazy drunk talk.

After the entertainment left, we (and I don't know how this started...I believe one of the groom's uncles was responsible) roped in this hot (and when I say hot, I mean hot in that totally trashy, fake-tits kinda way), could-have-easily-been-a-stripper-at-a-hotel-strip-club, twenty-two year old blonde to join the party. In my very hammered state, I totally tried to break her off, but it didn't happen. Digits and some kisses is the extent of my action that night. We also tried to get her to bring more girls upstairs from the bar downstairs, with mixed results. After the open bar closed, it was time for the strip club. Sadly, the story does not pick up here. Needless to say, a last minute change in destination proved to be a big mistake. I did see some quality titties, but after some shoddy treatment and likely being labeled as "the cheap guys," I got no lap dance. I believe this is the first time I've been in a strip club that offered private dances without actually receiving one. Oh well...there will be more. After last dance was announced, we ended the night. Got back to Mr. C's spot after 3, slept for about three hours, and then it was time to get up and get my ass to the airport. Yes, my flight was insanely early, but at least I made it back on Sunday. CO and JG could not make the same claim.

And that's it. That was Chicago. Food, titties and beer. Top notch. Worth taking all this time...well, no. But it had to be told, if only so I wouldn't feel like a colossal blogging failure. Now I can start blogging about more recent events, like the Barbecue Battle ("ve are barbecuing aren't ve not?"), my job search (maybe), new music (well, if not here, then on the other blog), and other random silliness.

(Weblogs and) The Mass Amateurisation of (Nearly) Everything...

and

Weblogs and the Mass Amateurization of Publishing"

Late, I know. Stumbled upon these articles randomly, actually, but I thought they were worth the read. I have some thoughts about this, coming out on the con side more than you/I might think, but I'm not done formulating.

Lazy. Sooooo lazy.

And you know, Homer was right. That Andy Capp really is onto something.

Chi-town recap almost done. Seriously.

Sooooo lazy.

Zzzzzzz...: this is the conclusion reached by the NY Times. To quote the article: "The book, which weighs in at more than 950 pages, is sloppy, self-indulgent, and often eye-crossingly dull..." Ouch. Though, I like the image of "Uptown Clint" (thank you, Aaron McGruder) reading this and ranting, McGuirk style:

New York Times
New York Times!
You think you're better than us?
Us?
U-S?
U-S-A?
No way.

The end.

Sofia Mini: "Because getting drunk on canned booze is easier than picking up a camera to document your ennui." (Quote and link provided by Defamer.)

Still no Chicago update. Soon, I promise. Soon.

Sontag vs. Kael: The Brawl to End It All. Possibly another fascinating read about two people I only know by name. (Link found via Rock Critics Daily)

Also: Chicago was a blast, but I won't blog about it just yet. Lotsa fun. Monkey fun. But I'm not gonna write it out yet because I'm very (pronounced Dirty South style as "vurrry") tired. Hopefully I'll belt it out tomorrow.

But, I'm back. Let the tea parties and slapfights game!

Some bric-a-brac:

I'm all packed. I'm nearly Chicago-bound. Just have a few things left to take care off (a bill to mail, getting itinerary to people en caso de emergencia), but other than that, I'm good to go.

I totally forgot to mention this in the weekend recap, but I ran into Blelvis again. Nice guy, really nice. That's only the second time I've run into him, which is odd, since I'm always on the streets late at night on weekends. He must get around. It was funny, I told him I saw him in a movie, and he rattled off three other movie titles (the only one I remember is Heavy Metal Parking Lot, a film I've only heard of, but would like to see one day) that he knew he was in, but none of them were the one I saw. (FYI, he's in the beginning of an otherwise crappy movie called One Big Trip. Great soundtrack, though. In this movie, he's right outside of the Common Share in Adams Morgan, if I remember correctly.) He seemed genuinely surprised to find out he was in another one.

Watching the first Matrix movie as I type this. Man, did that series become a turd. The second movie was passable, and well, I didn't even bother with the third movie, based on reviews (both professional and amateur). Honestly, how many people can be that wrong? Maybe the Star Wars trilogy will work like the Matrix in reverse: crap (fuck you, Jar-Jar), serviceable crap (saved by the Yoda/Dooku fight), and awesome. Dare to dream, eh?

That's it. I'll be off the blog until Sunday night at the earliest. You all take care of yourselves.

Feel free to provide your own caption to this. (Thanks to ML for sending this to me.)

This weekend has been great: friends, drinking, and a movie. Plus, I'm getting my ghetto Chinese on as I type this. And above all, I turn my TV on and Purple Rain is on. Was there trim involved? Well, no. But you can't get everything you want, and I'm grateful for this.

Goodnight, bitches.

sincerely,
Dr. Funk