SARS blows.

Katie and i met for dinner at Kaya tonight after i managed to escape the evil clutches of work. we were eating, talking, minding our own merry business when we began to notice that every once in a while some one from across the restaurant (presumably a man who likely idolized Aresnio Hall circa 1996) would release a large, SARS infested cough. how do i know he had SARS? probably because Katie and i now have it. how do i know we contracted SARS? probably because i did the research.

according to Wikipedia, the world's greatest fountain of here say knowledge, symptoms for the disease include fever, myalgia, lethargy, gastrointestinal symptoms, cough, sore throat and other non-specific symptoms. i definitely have been coughing, and those non-specific symptoms are a bitch to endure. i can only imagine what Katie is feeling now, as it seemed to affect her more initially than it affected me.

why can't people carry their own disposable surgical masks like Jennie Cathcart used to back in the FS days? at least we're not in South Africa where one whole person has previously contracted the disease and that one whole person has since left this precious world. that's a death rate of 100% in South Africa... scary.

if you don't see me or hear from me in a couple of days, please send a search party to my house to recover my deceased corpse. and tell my family i loved them.

Saturdays are for lovers

due to my insatiable desire to never be bored or left out of any situation involving my wonderful friends, i haven't had a Saturday all to myself in a while. until today, that is. my love affair with lazy Saturdays has been reignited. lying in bed all morning has helped me realize that i've only been lying to myself for the past few months - i love doing nothing.

though i technically woke up around 9:00am, i have yet to actually get up other than to get a glass of water from the kitchen, and then again to brush my teeth and wash my face. poor Lindsay left for work about an hour ago, but i guess i had to work all week so i don't feel that guilty that i'm contemplating ordering a pizza or perhaps even El Tarasco to prolong my time spent in my bed. i love my bed.

maybe i'll get up at some point and head to the beach, but then again, maybe i won't... for now i'll continue to listen to Coltrane Motion and pretend that i didn't just watch the Enganged and Underaged episode that featured the union of two 19 year old lesbians. happy Saturday.

talk about your highs and lows...

picture this if you will:

yesterday morning, about 8:15am i pull into the Noah's Bagels parking lot on Washington. i've just gone to CVS to get sunscreen for Nikki's b-day spa excursion. i find decent parking, get out of the car and start walking toward the entrance when i feel something stuck to the bottom of my left flip flop. assuming i've stepped in gum, i begrudgingly look down only to find one of the most disgusting sights i have ever seen. so disgusting, in fact, that i instantly threw up. no joke, i puked in the middle of the parking lot in front of i don't know how many people, for there stuck to the bottom of my flop was a used tampon. what? you didn't catch that the first time. oh, let me repeat it for you, then. some nasty ass bitch felt that she no longer needed the tampon she had previously inserted so she chucked it in the middle of a fucking parking lot and then it was stuck to my damn shoe. thank God i wasn't hungover or i would have spewed Exorcist style...

Harry Potter and the YOU CAN GO FUCK YOURSELF

* DISCLAIMER *
please do not continue any further if you have not yet but fully intend to finish Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows.


with a nice big fat check safely deposited in her bank account, J.K. Rowling should have titled the 7th and final edition of the most successful children's book series of all time Harry Potter and the You Can Go Fuck Yourself; because that is basically what she told us, the reader, to do. "go fuck yourself," she said in her merry, British accent. sweet.

as a long time Potter fan, i naturally pre-ordered a copy months in advance and anxiously awaited the book's release. i was more than disappointed when my eyes couldn't stop scanning back and forth over the poorly written prose that haunts seven hundred and some odd pages of recyclable paper. the plot was slightly predictable in places (Harry ultimately ending up with Ginny, and Ron with Hermoine, Harry kills Voldemort, blah, blah, blah), yet completely preposterous in others (belittling Dumbledore's integrity, confirming that James Potter was not a respectable man, making Snape out to be the hero, and so on)

Rowling killed off lovable characters such as Fred (or was it George...), Lupin and Tonks without batting an eyelash. now i'm not saying that they should or shouldn't have been died - it was simply the lack of description and detail regarding their deaths that left me little time to actually understand what happened let alone mourn the loss. she might as well have written, "and then they were dead."

lack of imagination, loss of steam - i don't know what the real root problem was. and maybe i'm being harsh and didn't really have time to let things sink in due to the quick pace in which i finished the book, but for fuck's sake.

or maybe i just hate it when things come to an end. i wasn't a huge fan of how the Sopranos ended either, but i'll take a Journey tune and a fade to black any day over this waste of space on my bookshelf.

remember me?

holy shit, it's been a while, eh kids? i guess the past few months have been busy, to say the least, but that doesn't mean wacky things haven't been processing through my head for your enjoyment. a recap of recent events:

i moved. yes, it's true - i'm once again a resident of The Deuce. it's actually not that bad. i love my little house, and Lu is a great roommate. we have a red light in the bathroom. i painted my room a toxic shade of yellow so every morning when i wake up i feel all happy and sunshiney inside. well, either happy or sunshiney or i'm pissed that i live in a neon cube. i've yet to wake up hungover in said room, but i'll be sure to let you know how that goes.

and i work too much. there, that's the last six weeks in a nutshell... i moved, and i work too much. what an exciting life i lead.

on a completely different note, do you know any 30 year old virgins? i'm thinking about making a documentary about the life of 30 year old virgins. if you do know one, please pass along my contact info. what? he/she's a Mormon? even better...

the Ducks are dicks

we all knew that the former "Mighty", now just Ducks of Anaheim were assholes. talented? unquestionably. no one is denying that they have immense talent on the blue line and a deep bench, but bottom line is they are assholes. this was further proved when Detroit's Tomas Holmstrom required 13 stitches on his forehead after his face was lovingly smashed into the glass by both Rob Niedermayer and prodigal son Chris Pronger, who wasn't even penalized. bullshit. this is taking a lot out of me, because those of you who know me well enough know that i in fact am not so fond of the Red Wings, either, but enough is enough.

the only thing missing (which could have potentially caused me actually vomit on the spot) was Bryan Hayward's nagging voice explaining how it was Holmstrom's fault that he was lying flat on his back bleeding...

I Contracted the Syndrome

The Deadly Syndrome, that is.

When I told my friends I would be trekking out to Anaheim’s own Chain Reaction last Tuesday night, most assumed I was excited to catch Silverlake darlings Monsters Are Waiting. They were partially correct (though no partial credit was given), as I wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to see the headlining act for a mere ten bucks. But really, I was giddy to see my latest obsession: The Deadly Syndrome.

This quartet of lads may appear your typical skinny-jean fad-loving pack of Indie Rock boys, but thirty seconds into their set it is apparent that their sound is anything but. What some may call pop-ish, others might classify as folky. Whatever you want to call it, The Deadly Syndrome’s catchy guitar hooks mixed with decisive beats and nimble piano lines leave you little chance of standing still when they are on stage. If lovers wear their hearts on their sleeves, singer/bassist Chris Richard bottles the essence of his soul and sells it by the glass when he performs. His haunting falsetto and utter sincerity throughout "I Hope I Become a Ghost" reminded me why I fell in love with music at the tender age of nine.

The venue's staff was clearly incapable of keeping track of time, as the show was already running late when The Deadly Syndrome took the stage. They were forced to cut their set short before having a chance to play crowd favorite "Eucalyptus," which often warrants all four members gathered around the drum kit in an all out free-for-all. Still, broken drumsticks or not, once again these boys proved why they were picked up by L.A.'s Dim Mak Records.

Word on the street is their debut album will be released in the fall, likely followed by a tour which will only help spread the Syndrome. In fact, get ready for an epidemic.