I wanted to see Tremors 2: Aftershocks, so bad when it was first coming out that I ended up watching it on some tiny TV in some tiny room in some stranger's trailer. The kid who lived there overheard me all giddy about it at the bus stop a week earlier and piped in that his mother had already put it on hold at the video store. So I made nice with him until the following Tuesday, when I sat in his room in a single-wide aluminum shack and watched a straight-to-video sequel to a movie about giant underground worms. I think we ate spaghetti, or maybe hot dogs. Truth be told I can't remember the kid's name. His face. I can't even squint my eyes real tight and get a fuzzy image, of anything. Nothing but the Graboids.

So Christian and his family were on the front page of the local paper today. You probably know that. But you probably don't know this...

After work I was real fucking beat, just taxed. All I wanted was a bag of Russell Stover's sugar-free peppermint patties. What I got, was two bags, and a little adventure.

I've become convinced that the twisted, gnarled fist of roads that Norwalk, Connecticut, is, hides shortcuts that can only be known, by guessing. And I've been guessing, that Silvermine Rd., will get us over near Borders. A distant corner of the town that takes a lot of turns and traffic lights to get to. So, when I could crave Russell Stover's sugar-free peppermint patties no more, I turned us down Silvermine...

one thousand miles down on the right is The Silvermine Tavern, where vampires chill and listen to jazz and maybe eat cornbread. Do not stop here if you're not a vampire. Just keep on cruising down Silvermine, where the twists and turns reveal more twists and turns, where all the vampires must live. In big beautiful country houses, with huge yards. Where the trees creep in around us and the fog rises and the roads never end. Where we go under countless bridges and mistake countless porch lights for the dim glow of civilization. And where finally, Silvermine ends. And shit, it's not even Silvermine anymore, it's some other road we've turned down some time long ago, but that don't matter. We only did it because as males, we can sense our way around the world. We can navigate, with our nuts. And after hours of instinctual navigation, along thousands of miles of swurvy-durvy devil country roadway, we made it to CVS. And I got my Russell Stover's sugar-free peppermint patties. Two bags of em.

And Christian, decided to buy another copy of the paper that he was on the front page of.

And the old man at the counter thought he would be nice and take an exacto knife -a razor blade- and slice the title of the newspaper right off the top. He just casually drew his blade... and sheared the top of the newspaper off. Set it aside neatly.

Said, "It's on the house." with a smile, and charged him for his gum.

Natalie called me tonight from some restaurant with apple martinis or margaritas or something. Called to tell me she's just not so sure about the whole acting thing anymore. She feels like off the bike she's forgotten how to ride. Feels too far removed, questions her own passion for it now.

She just wanted to tell me she loves me and that growing up sucks.


I saw a trailer for Stephen Spielberg's new movie today. The Terminal, with Tom Hanks and Catherine Zeta-Jones. It was gorgeous.

I want to do that.

Hey Anthony, watch The 25th Hour. You know, that Spike Lee Joint with Edward Norton? Watch it. I think you'll like it.

Hey everybody, don't watch The United States of Leland. Don't drive twenty miles to some rusty stupid town to see it especially; which is what Christian and I did. Jumped on I-95 to Fairfield to see a movie about a pretty regular kid who stabs a retarded boy to death.

My motivation was Ryan Gosling, he played the regualr kid. Leland. He's a fantastic little actor who keeps shying away from the roles that would make him Orlando Bloom. Keeps doing gutsy shit like the neo-nazi he played in The Believer. Which is why I'll reward that career choice, and drive twenty miles to see his films.

This one though, was fucked from the start. My main problem with the film is that it is set up as thought provoking. Its appeal is that it teases to become something that will make you think. And in the end all I could think was how Michelle Williams is just a more homely Elisha Cuthbert. I thought how the film would have boiled with talent if the director would have ever turned the fucking stove on. I'm not sure how a script like this lands in the hands of Kevin Spacey, or Don Cheadle. How a no-name writer/director gets this kind of dreck through the death-trap gauntlet that is getting a movie made. But he did. And for that alone I commend him. For the talent he somehow assembled I commend him.

For the wasted characters, wasted actors, for the bullshit ending, and the Chris Klein cop-out, I ask only for a couple bucks for gas.

I just watched Timeline. Wish I'd read it instead. But, it had castles in it, so I enjoyed it.

Then I stood in the freezing rain out back and took a piss, because Christian jumped in the shower without warning.

I got some mega arc too.


ATL 6 -- NYM 10 (4/11)

The harm in a Buddy List full of fat was never so obvious as it is now that everyone and their fucking dentist have personal sounds that indicate when they are signing on or off.

The latest, and by far scariest, is the sound of GODess76, who I cannot for the life of me, remember. She is no one I know in the physical world, just someone from the chatroom heyday of my youth. And so now all she is, is the sound of a corpse suddenly taking a breath.

She is the sound of air whipping through a decayed esophagus to fill rotted lungs. Some dead thing awoken.

GODess76, toss her in your buddy list. If you don't fear the sound of death come to life.

How do you like the new skin?

It's been foggy and dull as of late, but Snake Boy has finally shed his unemploymadermis. I peeled it off on thorny underbrush and jagged rocks. Left it for some hiker to find.

And here I am after Transition 1. New Blog. New Job.

Now I could saturate this thing with work-related anecdotes, I could block-text this motherfucker with all my Brewhouse observations; the people I've met, the things I've done and had to do in just the last two days. But you'll forgive me if I refrain.

Maybe I haven't always been, but I am now, the kind of person who will work because he has to. I have obligations, ones that involve currency. So I'll bust my ass and not complain. But when the topic of conversation outside of work becomes work, I become agitated. I feel that a 9to5 is something that HAS to be done. If it didn't, I wouldn't do it. Therefore the time I have away from said JOB should be spent talking about the place I want to be, the things I want to do, rather than my slave-like responsibilities.

That said, The Brewhouse will obviously find its way into these thoughts in the coming days. The social implications alone -to me- are staggering. After just one night I ended up in another town with a couple strange girls.

A couple bars. Some middle school soccer field bleachers, middle of the night.

More than made up for the old mashed potatoes on my fingers. The ketchup on my shirt.

my night tonight, was the antithesis of every other night up here. Not that every other night is bad, just that tonight was starkly different.


ATL 5 -- CHC 2