Myself, I've never lived next door to a girl like Elisha Cuthbert.

If I did, I'd sweep her off her feet by settling my gilded hot-air balloon onto her roof and having acrobats in gypsy costumes spider down on ropes to hoist her back up to me.

That ought to do it. A magical spectacle like that. Then she'd be mine.

The Girl Next Door was a sweet, surreal, porn-filled coming of age fable that I'm getting too old to relate to, but am just ripe enough to enjoy.

Emil Hirsch is a charming little bastard. Timothy Olyphant is a gas.

Elisha Cuthbert had this look on her face the whole time like she wished someone would part the clouds in a gilded chariot balloon and bounce her across the sky to some hut in remote Sumatra, make love to her while rain dripped through the shotty palm-frond roof to puddle on us, cooling our searing skin.

My intentions are to do no less.


ATL 1 - CHC 2

So I know it's technically the 9th now, and in fact that date is probably bold above this post. But since I haven't slept my sleep for the 8th, I still have time to mention Kurt Cobain on the tenth anniversary of his body being found. Head all ruined.

Why mention him you ask? Two reasons.

Well, to make Christian's eyes roll for one.

And also because I really do love Nirvana. And since people weep and wax poetic on the anniversary of Elvis' death --which, fat and on the toilet is no more glamorous than a shotgun blast through the mouth-- I do the same here.

I got high and watched the legendary MTV Unplugged performance all the way through. It was electric.

no pun intended.

I can't get the last song, "Where Did You Sleep Last Night?" out of my head. Can't shake this weird gasp he takes right before the last line. His huge blue eyes suddenly get huge, they go wide and it is startling. It's beautiful.

It's a fucking tragedy.

"That's what I think is funny about him, is that he's Asian, and he's retarded."

I agree with Christian.

I feel fairly certain that in more than one place in this great Nation, at this great moment, other great people are typing something about William Hung.

And I feel that that fact alone is worth noting. Worth writing down. That way when I look back on this, years from now, and I flicker past William Hung in the text; I'm gonna remember...

Oh yeah, that was the retarded Asian guy who sang Ricky Martin songs.

And in case you've forgotten, Ricky Martin was the retarded Puerto Rican guy who sang latin pop songs.

The lengths we go to in this country to humiliate people is amazing.

ATL 10 - NYM 8

Today I sat in a leather armchair next to some shelf in Borders and read the last forty pages in Chuck Palahniuk's Diary.

Just for the record, the weather today is all built up. 260 pages of build-up with a good chuckle at the end.

The book was a reserved fable. A vague fantasy. Well worth reading.

I'm just excited to crack the seal on The Codex.

Sunday is Rabbits & Eggs Day. I'll be thinking about Christ rising from the dead with my hands all up in spent food; bussing tables at the Brewhouse in downtown SoNo.

A busboy once again.

You've got to crawl before you can act.

. . .

It was 6-0 Mets, when I turned the game on tonight. Adam LaRoche got his first and second major league hits in an eleven run Brave fourth.

Final Score. ATL 18 - NYM 10

The Shape of Things drops a huge bomb on the audience in the last ten minutes. A humongous bomb, the story is built upon this bomb. I just watched it for the first time.

Natalie told me the ending a year ago.

So it was like watching the movie for the second time. Like watching The Sixth Sense again and catching all the clues you missed. I knew what was coming, so foreshadow and subtle hints were sore thumbs.

But it also worked, on a Hitchcockian level. His theory that you tell the audience there is a bomb under the table and then talk about baseball. The knowing made my guts roil. The slow boil. The agonizing reveal.

On a more modest level I can really relate to Paul Rudd's character.

It's adapted by Neil LaBute from his own damn play. I recommend you watch it and ache because you cannot have Rachel Weisz.

I've been watching this proclaimed Herpetologist/Photographer/Adventurer chap, Austin Stevens. He looks about as Crocodile Dundee as he sounds. He's got long golden hair, and sun-cooked skin. A brittish accent. And he's got to be 49. His shirt is always open. He grabs cobras by the head. The kind of guy who makes middle-aged housewives all drippy. His specialty, is getting his camera lens right up into the fangs of the deadliest snakes in the world, and snapping their picture.

In his special The Seven Deadly Strikes, in which he tracks down and photographs the seven most dangerous snakes in Africa; he gets bit by two. Two of seven.

So, the dude's half whack.

I found out today though, that for the world record, he sat in a glass room with three-dozen Egyptian cobras, vipers, green and black mambas,

for One Hundred and Seven Days.

sleeping with them in his pant legs. eating cereal with them slithering around his ankles and across the tabletop.

At one point he was bitten by a cobra and recieved treatment in the glass room so he wouldn't fuck up the record.

You guys should watch him he's a hoot.

If you're not going to shake my hand, firm, LtoL, when I extend it; then just give me a cute little wave and I'll know to retract. Don't drop a limp dick in my palm and expect me to jerk it.

Also don't tell me to come back at 5 and talk to Susan if you only hire slimy wops.

My job hunt has made me vicious.

So the Braves lose the opener. But, my nephew is healthy and I talked to my dad for a good while. What is it about baseball and fathers and sons?


ATL 2 - NYM 7

Today I am an uncle x3. Three nephews.

Welcome to this crazy world Darrien Malique Louis. I'll be your distant, mysterious, famous uncle. Who loves you very much. Try not to worry about the terror threat level, it usually hovers around the "yellow/elevated" mark.

You squeezed out into life on a very important day in America, the first day of Atlanta Braves baseball in 2004. So, unless they come back from this five run defecit, you shall remain the watercooler topic of the day.

Happy birthday young sire.

And congrats on three healthy boys Jessica. Your pain threshhold boggles me.

What's this new familiar throb in the base of my skull? Oh it's just the welcome stress of another baseball season.

The Braves are expected to finish third in their division this year behind the Marlins and the Phillies.

I say fooey. I think all this young blood is really going to spark the team to life. DeRosa is starting third now. The much hyped Johnny Estrada, squatting behind the plate. Giles, Furcal. All heart, no jade. Lot of quick bats. And then there is you, dear reader, who could give a baseballplayin scadoobie fuck.


They're working on 13 consecutive divisional titles.
That's a lot of consecutive divisional titles ya'll.

I find myself not only watching Wildboyz, but being jealous of the stupid assholes because of how much fun they're having.

The shit they're getting to do...

I just watched Pontius grab a cookie off a rattlesnake's head.

Watched them all provoke a spitting cobra to spray them with venom.

I don't agree with all the provocation on Wildboyz, but goddam it looks fun. Fuck jumping out of a plane, just get me close to an animal like that. I want to hear a King Cobra huff, it's supposed to make the hair on your neck stand up. Fuck climbing Everest. Put me in a shark cage with a Great White in the water. I just want to see this shit.

Fuck Steve-O. Fuck Chris Pontius. Fuck Johnny Knoxville.

Fuckers.

I just watched the Florida episode, naturally it was crawling with snakes and alligators, and turtles.

Yesterday I went into a hole-in-the-wall pet store. They had two snakes. A ball python and a milk snake. They had some lizards.

the sad lack of reptiles.

It really bites to lose an hour and not care. To have no need to get up in the morning. Ahh shit, now I'm gonna wake up at two in the afternoon instead of one.