Today is George's birthday. Tomorrow, my baby sister turns eighteen. Sunday is Father's Day.

George, Amy, Dad. If all you get from me is an acknowledgment, or a phone call, just know I'm feeling shitty for not doing more. If you don't even get that, know that I'm sitting around thinking how shitty it is that I didn't call. And not that it matters, but know how shitty I feel having no good excuse for it.

Before I could even write about how strangely sad I was feeling about the season finale of Wildboyz, before I could explain that I felt I was being asked to grow up too quickly -eight fucking shows? That's not a season!- Before I could muse that if the coconut crab having to be pried off of Steve-O's ass with pliers, by three Indonesian guys, was the end of this bizarre amusement microphase of my life, that it was a good way to go...

they showed clips from Wildboyz: Season 3

EIGHT MORE, FUCKERS! Eight more episodes of dudes in Euro-holsters getting kicked, clawed, scratched, stung, and bitten, by animals all over the world.

I'll grow up in the Fall.




today was an eventful day. so I wrote about Wildboyz.

House of Sand and Fog literally goops talent. Like some marvelous gooping magma vent or something, it just bubbles and is fucking hot. Jennifer Connelly has about as much talent and beauty as can be crammed into human skin. I think I might change my name to Jeremy Connelly and just walk around pretending I'm married to her, that I insisted on taking her last name so that when people introduced themselves I could say, "Hi, I'm Jeremy Connelly. Spelled like Jennifer Connelly, because that is who my wife is."



Then I would just clean the house all day, take intermittent showers and wait for her to just come home. Home to dinner and then a foot massage as she sips wine from deep in one of those humongous bean-bag chairs. The ones that look mutated, 5x their size. The ones that spread out in a room like a big tumor. We'll keep Jerry Maguire on soft in the background, stopping kissing only occasionally, to make fun of Rene Zelwegger and laugh, and then kiss more and more. I'll tell her how much better she is than Rene Zelwegger, and Laura Linney. Tell her not to worry about that hussy Naomi Watts. And then she'll get serious, and tell me I should really pursue acting, that it was my dream before I met her and I shouldn't be put off or intimidated by her career. I'll tell her don't be silly, that movies -House of Sand and Fog in particular- had made me realize my new true calling. To be Jennifer Connelly's loving housewife. She'll smile and let it go for now, (though it'll hardly be for good) and then she'll ask me what's for breakfast. I'll roll her panties down to her ankles and tell her fritters, "I'm making you fritters in the morning, Mrs. Connelly."

We sleep like layers of lasagna, Amy, then myself, Allison, and Christian; like spoons in a drawer in Amy's bed; only plus arms and legs that don't fit so glovelike as simple spoons. We didn't even get here until eight in the a.m., with Jimmy passed out in a chair in the living room, arms crossed over his eyes. I remember beer, lots and lots of beer. I remember a beach. I remember people and a party, and then sometime later, quietude and the rising sun. How many more metaphors for 'squeezed'? Sardines, that's what we are; the girls, trying to catch two hours tops to be in to work at 10:30. Christian and I are both douchebags, sleeping in our fucking jackets. Mine is a windbreaker, so I wake up in a plastic bag full of sweat. My twisted limbs get better sleep than me, dreaming of pins and needles under my own weight. I'm breathing in Amy's exhales. Wild hairs on her head stick in the sweat of my forehead. It's hot.

And still it's surreal, this coziness.

This has been my week. Drink, drank, drunk. Boston is a muddled dream that I woke up from and drowned away in beer and wine and smoke and company and so very little sleep. Sometime in there I worked, and now I feel an official slave to the restaurant. Like so many other Brewhouse zombies I'm prepping food and running around on only imagined energy, promising my body sleep and instead giving it more things to process and process out.

Wonder what's next.