Wednesday, May 31, 2006 Happy birthday D. And just in case I'd been remiss in mentioning it to you lately, I couldn't have asked for a better sibling, or a better best friend. I'm exceedingly proud of the brilliant and responsible man that you've become, despite all of my shining examples on how to accomplish the contrary. I love you little brother. -Jer- |
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Is it Recap time already? Okay... FridayNot a whole lot happened on Friday night. I basically just hung out at Luis's place watching the tele. So we'll skip right over that one and head to... SaturdayWhere I had brunch at Barnaby's with Luis and Danny around noon, then headed home to straighten up the house a bit and have dinner before heading out to [TGFTP]'s b-day. Caught up with them at El Tiempo (y Morris Day), where everyone else had dinner and I had a few Bud Lights instead. From there we created one of the longer caravans I've been privy to since living here, and snaked our way over to Sammy's, with a potential pitstop at Red Door. A pitstop that, alas, remained in potentia...since it was already 10:30 by the time we were getting into downtown. Just as well I suppose. Their Tuaca Lemon Drop Martinis are evil, evil things. So Sammy's... You've all actually been to Sammy's before. You might not have realized it though, because you were too busy checking in at the front desk of the hotel at the time. Seriously. It was as if they took a page from every Holiday Inn bar in North America and created a scrapbook collage in the basement of an overpriced high-rise apartment building, located right next to an 8-lane freeway. The brightly painted walls clashed for World Tacky Dominance with the neon signs, drinks were laughably expensive for the surroundings one had to endure to purchase them, and a spastic sea of honky limbs shook violently on the dancefloor in what looked like a ritual offering to the pagan gods of arhythmic epilepsy. However, none of this mattered...as we were just there to have a good time and celebrate a friend's birthday. Which we did. Took up a post in the corner of the club, attempted to have conversation, (the music was way too loud for such an endeavor), and occasionally wandered over to the dancefloor when the mood struck. Rather mellow, but it was indeed a good time. Folks started to drop out at around 1 or so, but a few of us stuck around until close. The lights come on at 2, signalling that it's time to head outside and fight through the lumbering army of undead panhandlers that were circling the door. (Each wanting to tell us their tale of woe and itinerancy, and explain the valuable service they're currently performing outside the door of the club.) We head home. SundayGot up around 10 and found, to my delight, that I was blissfully hangover-free. (I'd switched to water at around 12:30.) Ran around a bit in the morning, then headed out toward a friend's house in Conroe where we lounged in a baby pool by the lake, dove headlong on a Slip n' Slide without regard for life/limb, threw a softball around the backyard, and sipped Lone Stars and pina coladas all day. Which, in case you were wondering, is an absolutely brilliant way to spend a holiday. We eventually went inside after it got dark, and settled in to watch "The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra" upstairs on the projector. A drinking game is created where each time someone in the film says, "Oh well," "Atmospherium," "skeleton," or "science" (including variations on the word, like "scientific" or "scientist"), a drink must be taken. And just in case you're thinking about playing along at home, there is no way in hell that such a thing is possible. At least not without a subsequent trip to the ER for an good ol' fashioned Memorial Day stomach pumping. Anyway, after the movie we sat out on the patio for a while, then decided to call it a night. Memorial Day MondayAt about 5am I was awoken by the sounds of rain tapping against the bedroom window, along with the occasional rumble of thunder that bounced softly across the treetops outside. A tranquil sigh, and I curl tighter under the warm blanket, until one word jolts my soporific head into acuity. Jeep. I left the top off my Jeep... And it's out in the driveway. So I leapt out of bed, hopped over the bodies that were splayed across the floor, and ran outside in the rain to pull the top up. And, as I was toweling myself off in the bathroom afterward, it occurred to me that I really should consider putting my top up with a bit more regularity. Especially now that the Texas monsoon season is approaching. Back to bed, then got up around 10 and went downstairs for some of the most magnificent coffee and donuts I've ever had. We took them outside and lounged on the patio furniture for a few hours, discussing the impending energy crisis and how such a thing will affect This American Life. Unfortunately I'd promised my editor that I'd send along my ideas for July's columns on Monday, so I had to flip open my laptop and work for a bit...but no one seemed to mind. Took off around 4ish, and got home just in time to find my landlady preparing yet another meal for her husband, so she made extra for me. (Have I mentioned lately how awesome living at my apartment is?) After dinner we sat outside and had a couple glasses of wine, then went inside and watched "Regarding Henry" which, if you haven't seen it, is a lovely heartwarming film about the cleansing and restorative power of handgun violence, and how the subsequent damage they cause inevitably leads to unbridled familial bliss. Went to bed early, and it's been end-of-monthy worktime ever since. Okay, consider yourselves updated now. I've got to get back to work. j.s. |
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Friday, May 26, 2006Hi there. Kitchen Pest Update: Rat cadavers found - 0 Roaches found - 0 Flies found - 1 (deceased) Spiders found - 1 (deceased shortly thereafter) I've actually given up on the morbid search and instead just opened all the windows in my kitchen in a vain attempt to dilute the horrid smell of death with our crisp, pristine and restorative Houston air. This seemed a brilliant strategy at first, but only because I hadn't considered the cool air of my A/C unit combining with the ambient humidity, and thus making the walls of my apartment look like a rejected set from Se7en. Now it's smelly and dewy in there. **shudder** And speaking of unwanted pests, I dropped by a co-worker's house last night for a couple drinks and to say goodbye to my aunt. (Again.) I use their bathroom, and as I'm washing my hands I see a quick movement out of the bottom curve of my field of vision. I glance down, and wiggling around from the "overfill" hole at my end of the sink are two enormous antennae.  I yelp and rocket my hands out of the sink, which in turn causes me to get soap in my eye, which I can't rub out because my hands are still covered in lather. (I've been a walking comedy of errors lately.) So I wipe them, and my eye, off on a nearby towel and leave the bathroom, gingerly closing the door behind me as I do so. I hang out for a bit longer, then thank the people there for a lovely evening, and head for the Jeep, where I have to brush yet another spider from my driver's side door. I'm either becoming paranoid about pests, or they're all actually after me. You decide. Anyway, from there I head over to O.C. to catch up with Danny, Dixie, Luis & Rachel, where we had a few Red Stripes, took a ridiculous amount of pictures on Luis's cell phone, and basically grinned the rest of an idle Thursday away in the company of friends. And now I'm about to bail out of the office and either head home, or to a patio on Richmond that, on Friday afternoons, has a $10 cover and proffers an open bar once inside. Or so I've been told... I might just have to investigate this phenomenon. Tomorrow is [TGFTP]'s birthday event, and I'm going out to Lake Conroe on Sun and Mon, so I wouldn't expect to see/hear from me anytime during the long weekend. In my stead, I'll leave you with this thought... "God's gift to us is Canadian Girls."* j.s. *"Canadian Girls" by Beulah |
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Wednesday, May 24, 2006Hi Bleuxpee. So I'm living in The Apartment of Horrid Smells at present. Allow me to explain. It seems that my upstairs neighbor could hear the scuttling of tiny paws in the dark as she was trying to sleep last week, and informed my landlady of this development. So landlady had her husband place some rat poison up in the attic in order to deal with the little buggers, unbeknownst to me. Now, I know next to nothing about rat poison, outside of what I've seen on Tom & Jerry, and I've only recently been informed that my naive assumption about it instantly killing rodents in a painless, sleep-inducing fashion was quite wrong. It appears instead that the toxic cheese starts to make them very thirsty shortly after they eat it, and they scamper off on a desperate search for water, dying of dehydration somewhere along the trip. The kicker about this is that rats are rather furtive creatures, and don't care much for running around in plain view. (I'm pretty sure this is attributable to their lack of sunscreen options.) And if this clandestine trip happens to lead them into your pantry/cupboard/plants, then that's simply where they keel over and die. Fast-forward to several days later (i.e. Monday night), when there's a strange smell coming from somewhere in my kitchen, yet I'm unable to locate the source. So I take out the trash, pour Palmolive down the disposal, check the fridge for penicillin cultures, demolish the miniature "Pizza Crust Taj Mahal" I've been painstakingly erecting atop the microwave... You know, the usual clean-up activities. And yet when the dust clears, the smell remains. I mention this to my landlady yesterday, which is when she informs me of the nefarious rat plot that happened upstairs and suggests that I go through my cupboards on a hunt for rat cadavers. So there I am last night, yanking open my kitchen cabinets as if there were rabid, spring-loaded wolverines inside each, wielding a rolled up copy of Sailing Magazine in one yellow rubber-gloved hand and Lysol in the other. A Hefty bag with arm-holes poked in it protected my torso, ski goggles on for eye safety, and an aluminum colander perched crookedly on my head. (Which just seemed like a good idea when I saw it hanging on the wall.) Alas, I found no ex-rats. I was, however, dive bombed onto the back of my neck by a rogue member of the 3" Cockroach Luftwaffe Brigade as I came in from the patio. The requisite screaming of obscenities and blind flailing ensued until he landed on the ceiling, directly over my head. At which point I whacked him with the magazine, and quickly cowered into a squatting position as he fell and bounced off my colander helm with a satisfying *plink*. (See, it was a good idea.) So when I get home today (after my landlady's birthday dinner at Collina's), I'll don my protective gear once again and search the pantry and my closet for evidence of The Death of Rats. I assure you, it's perfectly normal for you to be jealous of my glamorous life... j.s. |
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Tuesday, May 23, 2006These Look Around You videos are absolute genius. And according to THIS I'm 11,243 days old, my numerological "life path number" is 5 (which apparently means I'm an adventurous, free-spirit/progressive with a hedonistic streak), my birth tree is the Poplar, and if I were a dog, I would still quite enjoy chasing cats. Exactly why that information was necessary today, I'm not sure. I do somehow feel better for having read it though. j.s. |
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Monday, May 22, 2006It's kinda late, so I'm going to whip a speed recap at ya' and edit in some details tomorrow. ThursdayO.C time, with the usual suspects coming out for remarkably inexpensive Red Stripes. Rez & Kara made it out as well, and it was awesome to catch up with them. Unfortunately it became important for me to get quite drunk for some reason, and at one point I was found wandering around atop the picnic tables, kicking over beer bottles along the way. I also believe Kara has some rather incriminating photos of me peering over a towering pile of Red Stripe buskets...and if she sends them along I'll be sure to post them for your amusement. Ended up staying up with K. until roughly 4:30 in the morning, doing sailing shop talk. Speaking of which, I'd like to apologize about the odd earthy smell of that quilt that I let her borrow to crash on my couch. It seems in my booze-addled state I forgot that we'd used that quilt at the park last weekend when we watched Singin' in the Rain. Sorry. FridayI spent the majority of the day on the couch (under said "Dirt Quilt"), trying to recall exactly what point in the night I was huffing kittens, since the entire inside of my mouth felt like it'd been lined in cat fur. At around 10 or so I finally ventured out of the house and dropped by Catbird's with Danny, Luis and Jav. Stuck with Coke and water (sold separately) during my time there, and headed home a little after midnight. Slow day. SaturdayIn the afternoon I caught up with the same group (with the addition of Kapow! +1 and the subtraction of Jav), and headed toward what was supposed to be the free St. Arnold's brewery tour. You know, the one where they give you wooden sheckels at the door which you later trade for glasses of beer? Yeah, turns out they're actually charging $5 at the door now. Congratulations guys, we won't be back. So instead we went to West Alabama Ice House (and were sure not to drink any St. Arnold's beer), and hung around there until 5ish. Which gave me just enough time to come home, make something to eat, shower, then turn around and head back over to O.C. for my aunt's going away party. Now, it isn't much of a secret that I don't care much for that clique (family notwithstanding of course), but they seemed particularly shallow last night for some reason. Perhaps I'm growing more intolerant in my own age...although I don't quite see how that's possible. Anyway, Dixie arrived around 9:30 got a cursory introduction to the important cast members in attendance. Summer, Rachel, Jav. Luis and Danny arrived shortly thereafter and, after everyone was suitably glow-necklaced, we took off for M Bar downtown. Danced until 12:30, then headed over to Ruby Room (upstairs from Slainte), and continued dancing non-stop until 2. The highlights of which included: Tangoing into a table and knocking a couple beers over onto the people sitting there. (Who were less than hospitable about this interaction, despite our repeated apologies.) Several runway walk tutorials across the dancefloor and through the streets of downtown Houston. Cartwheels along Texas Ave. to the applause of passer-bys. And at one point I think I bit Dixie on the back, but I can't be sure. Anyway, many phone-cam pictures were taken, the results of which I will also post if I happen to come across any of them. After the club, we drove in circles for a bit in an attempt to find a Jack in the Box, then gave up and went to Luis's place. The Chris Cunningham and Spike Jonze video catalogs were broken out (as per usual), random dancing in the dining room ensued (also a typical occurrence), and for reasons that are lost on me, we all eventually wandered into the spare bedroom to perform a rousing rendition of "Total Eclipse of the Heart," while bouncing around on the bed. "I need you more tonight...I fuckin' need you more than evAH!" I also seem to recall rampant fellati-toe happening, but that's a story for another time and place. SundayStrangely hangover-free after the events of Saturday night. Got dropped off at my Jeep at around 11, and went home to lounge on the couch watching movies until 7. Then caught up with D. at his place to grab something to eat, but decided to walk down to Borders in lieu of making dinner. Picked up another Tom Robbins book, then walked back home and crashed on the couch. And that's about it. Actually I've really got to head to bed now since I've got to get up early to finish working on the VPN tomorrow...the very thing that has kept me away from writing for a while. Hopefully it'll be done soon and I'll be back in full swing here. Talk to you soon. j.s. |
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Once again, the recap is coming...just have a few things to finish up first. j.s. |
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Wednesday, May 17, 2006This was slightly unsettling.  Those are my initials. j.s. |
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Tuesday, May 16, 2006I'd like to talk about the Bendwood School for a moment if I might... A couple times a month, when my brother and I go over to James Coney Island for lunch, we pass by the "Bendwood School for Special Needs and Gifted and Talented Students." Special needs. And... Gifted and Talented. As if smart kids needed another reason to actually feel bad about the fact that they're brighter than their peers, now they're grouped into the same school (and in their mind, the same category), as "special needs" students. I think this is an excellent example of just how threatened and distrustful our country (and definitely this city), feels about intellectuals. As a result, we treat mental acumen as if it were something that's strange, abhorrent and outré. And in doing so we actually make kids feel bad about the fact that they can grasp trigonometry, understand Shakespeare, recall the events leading to the Spanish-American War, write well-crafted tales, or effortlessly play Paganini. Sure, other children are always going to be cruel to "smart kids." That's just the way things go; and it's not necessarily a bad thing for sharp children to suffer those kinds of slings and arrows. It sharpens the wit you see. =] Unfortunately, it rarely stops with just their age group. Adults treat brilliant children differently as well. Either they expect more of them, or they're slightly intimidated by their capacity for understanding. Neither one of these are a desirable condition for most kids, so they begin to associate the teasing they receive from their peers with the strange way grown-ups look at them when they use words like "indefatigable" in conversation. But, being smart cookies (and like most kids, being very attuned to adults' non-verbal communication), it doesn't take much cognitive effort to figure out where the source of this ostracism stems from. Right. Their powerful little noggins. Now typically kids like this withdraw from social settings, completely immerse themselves into their education, and end up being labelled as "nerd," "freak," or worst of all, "shy" for their efforts. However I'd like to tell you about a little boy who did it a different way... When he was young, his school decided to place him in their "Pyramid Program," which was a special classroom where they cloister 5 or 6 kids who are utterly bored with the abecedarian public school curriculum (and who should be advanced a grade or two, but whose parents have refused), and claim to be giving them an "advanced education" within. What actually happens is that these kids are segregated from their "normal" classmates, and end up feeling as if, by simply being themselves, they've somehow deserved punishment. So, rather than immerse himself in schoolwork and intellectual pursuits, this little boy eventually "took a dive" when he reached 7th grade, and purposely failed himself out of the gifted and talented programs. Unfortunately, when thrust back into the rudimentary doldrums of average classroom instruction, the boy went right back to being bored out of his skull. But, rather than go back to being sequestered away in a little room all day, reading Cervantes and measuring the circumference of hoops before he jumped through them, he simply pretended to be your average, unexceptional dolt. This worked. And after a while, the lie became truth (at least in his mind), and he started to actually believe that he wasn't very bright. As did the people responsible for teaching him... Yet, every once in a while, he'd get caught up in a project or reading assignment, and exhibit characteristics indicative of his intelligence. Which elicited either a silent understanding from his teachers, or irate accusations of cheating. Those who had the former reaction became some of his favorite instructors, since they hadn't held his intelligence against him, or somehow treated him differently as a result of witnessing it. The latter, however, became outlets of his vindictive ire, toward which he'd alternately fail and ace their exams, simply to prove a point. Namely, that they were incapable of understanding how he worked, nor could they badger him into a single academic pursuit that he didn't decide to undertake. And actually, it wasn't until the boy's third attempt at college, almost 15 years after he'd begun his little rube ruse, that he decided to brush off the years of dust and cobwebs from his mind, and allow himself to be the person he was before people locked him away in a little room...just for being smart. This was kind of a long story, and I'm sure I've meandered around the point quite a bit, so let my bullseye it here for you. It's my contention that isolating children away from other "normal" kids during their early developmental years is very rarely the best choice, no matter how badly they blow the curve for the other groundlings. In doing so, you're neither serving their intelligence nor encouraging their creativity. It merely reinforces the fact that they're "different," in a time where merely being accepted is at the apogee of importance. So creating a school that houses both "gifted & talented" students, and those with "special needs," even further affirms this "I'm different and weird because I'm smart" self-image, and I find it truly amazing that the folk who make the decisions to create these schools haven't figured this out by now. Although I suppose it shouldn't be. The odds are quite good they were never thrust into a "Pyramid Program" room in their entire lives... j.s. |
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Monday, May 15, 2006Of all the Recaps in all the world... FridaySo I get to work, like any other Friday, and find an email from my editor waiting for me that says they need someone to go down to Minute Maid Park and interview the Astros during batting practice today, and would I mind being that someone? I visibly vibrate for a moment, then quickly respond, "Oh hell YES!" So I bail out of work early, and head down to Gate 28 at the park to pick up my media credentials. Armed with this +3 Badge of Awesomeness, I head past the line of envious eyes outside, in through the doors, and down to the front row of seats. It's here that I pause for a moment, unsure if I'm allowed down onto the actual field or just into the stadium early. So I glance around at the people who look "press-ish" on the field (read as: carrying pens/notebooks/microphones/tape recorders/very large cameras), and every one of them has a professional-looking laminated badge clipped to a professional-looking black lanyard. These are a far cry from the small, unassuming slip of orange paper on a rubber band that I have wrapped around my belt loop. "Fuck it," I mutter to myself, "Fortune favors the bold. Besides, it's better to ask for forgiveness than permission..." So I surreptitiously follow a few Univision cameramen onto the field, shuffle my way over to the dugout rail, and do my damndest to look like I belong there.    These pictures cannot possibly convey how unbelievably beautiful it was. The flat manicured grass lay in silky pinstripes, starting within the basepaths and stretching off across the expanse of the outfield. The quarter-inch depth of clay absorbed most of the ambient Houston humidity, giving off that "dry dirt" smell and providing a cooler breeze than we'd normally enjoy here in May. Each crack of the bat sent a perfectly round shadow arcing across a cloudless blue sky toward the outfield. (Which is very unlike a softball, which quivers and wiggles around in a hideous fashion as it travels through the air.) As I stood there, it occurred to me that I'd be happy to lean against the green pad of that dugout forever. The thought that it had to eventually end was almost unbearable. Enraptured, I forgot for almost 15 minutes that I actually had a job to do. But once I remembered I set about talking to the players and asking them the necessary questions. The answers to which you can read about next month. (I'm shameless, I know.) I can, however, tell you that I was brushed off not once but twice by Craig Biggio. And that Andy Pettitte is a bit of a prick. When I asked if he had a second to answer a question he glared over his shoulder at me and muttered "I'm takin' batting practice brother" while walking away. Yeah, BP is an imperative for a fucking pitcher...especially one who isn't throwing that day... (Although if my lifetime average was a petite .106, I'd take every chance I could get in the cage too Beak-Boy.) Conversely, I can tell you that Lance Berkman is every bit as cool as I never imagined he'd be. See, I always thought he'd be kind of a bastard, and I can now, quite happily, report to you that I was wrong. Ensberg was nice enough too, but only after I assured him that "No, this isn't an interview. I just have one question..." Roy Oswalt was okay, though he operates on a frequency that I simply cannot grasp. I watched him stand next to Brad Lidge (he's our normally dominant but recently struggling closer for all you non-Houstonians) during an interview, and show the media that the team is, both metaphorically and literally, "standing by" Lidge during his trials on the mound. Oswalt's is also Lidge's "bodyguard and bard" apparently. (Ask me that story sometime if you really want to know. It perfectly illustrates why so many of the players narrow their eyes toward anyone with a pen and with an avenue to make their scribblings heard.) All the other Astros I spoke with seemed to be genuinely good guys. Especially Mike Lamb, who cracked me up with his "WOOOOO!!!"s when he'd hit a ball back at the netting in front of the pitcher, and his high-pitched "GO BALL GO!!!"s when he'd take one deep. So, when they finally called BP over and the team went into the dugout, I climbed off the field, dazed and grinning like an idiot, and pushed through the gate. No sooner had I reached the other side, when I was accosted by a few rabid fans who saw me sitting in on the Lidge interview, and who wanted to know "what's up with Lidge man?" and "what's Brad going to do about his pitching?" and "are they going to bench him for a while?" I shrugged, told them they ought to watch the news later, and walked by them to get a water. Which I did, then wandered out to the patio to sit and absorb what had just happened. A girl wanders up to me after a few minutes and stares intently at my namebadge. "Hi Jeremiah" "Hello." "You a big fan?" "Uh...of the Astros? Sure. I'm a fan I guess." "You want my hat?" **she points to her 'Stros cap** "No. No thank you. I'm happy with mine." "Oh. You want my shirt?" I smile and say, "Sure. I'll take your jersey." "No, no, no...you don't want this old thing." I nod. "Okay." "You want my pants though?" She winks. I laugh and her friend bustles up to pull her away, asking her what the hell she's doing. To which she replies, as she's being pulled away, "What am I doing? Look at that man standing there...he could stand there all day. He is fine!!!" So thank you for the ego boost my dear, whoever you are. Shortly after this exchange it occurs to me at this point to actually read my "media credentials" and I see that not only does it allow me field access (I was sneaking around for nothing), it also provides entry to the "press box." Oh. Hell. Yes. So I find the press box, and it is from this vantage point that I watch a baseball game on a flawless spring evening.   All the while sipping free coffee and bottled water, and listening to the announced stat lines on the game. "First pitch at 7:06, 81 degrees and 30% humidity, south winds at 10mph." "Wild Pitch on Nieve." "Double play, 5-4-3." Just awesome. After the game (oh, which we won 12-3), I wandered outside to the sound of exploding fireworks overhead.  And then headed off to Agora to catch up with Danny and Luis and a few more folk, where I raved about the experience at the game at great length. And I'm sure they're as tired of hearing about it as you are...so let's move on. After an hour at Agora Luis and I drove over to Baker St. to catch up with T. and Am and their very strange friend, whom we'll call Alfonso. Alfonso was VERY into the fact that he was a Secret Service agent, and often was called on to protect George Bush Sr. at sporting events. Mmhmm. We eventually close down Baker St, declare "no joy" to Alfonso, who goes home alone and then head out to the car. But not before Luis becomes belligerent with some guy that's asking him if he wants to play pool. (Which, while it might've been a bit uncouth, was also quite funny.) I drop Luis off at home, and then head toward my place. And I get just about as far as Studemont and W. Gray, when I get the feeling someone is watching... So I glance over at the SUV stopped next to me at the light, and see two girls staring into the Jeep. I smile. They wave. The light turns green. I take off. They catch up at the next light. The window comes down. "Hiii" "Hello there." "I like your music!" I nod and smile. "Wow! You have a beautiful smile!" "Thanks." "You're very pretty..." "Thanks again." "Why are all the pretty boys gay?" "Uh...what?" "Why are all the pretty boys gay? It's not fair!" **heavy sigh** "I'm not gay." "Yes you are." "Um, no. Really. Not gay." "REALLY???" "Really." The light turns green. I take off again. They catch up, and the passenger is waving her cell phone frantically at me out the window. "Give me your number!" "Are you serious?" "YES, I'm serious! Give me your number, I'm going to call you right now." I briefly consider this, shrug, and give the girl my phone number. She calls immediately and they apologize for assuming I was gay and hope they haven't offended. To which I assure them that if such things bothered me I'd spend the majority of my days pissed off. Brief small talk ensues. I become bored with this after a few minutes, tell them that I've arrived at my place, and bid them a safe drive home. I hang up as they're arguing over which one is going to call me the following day. Sleep. SaturdayI get up to do breakfast with Mom at around 11, bounce around town running errands with her, then take off downtown to catch "Singin' in the Rain" in Sesquicentennial Park with Luis, Danny and Kapow! (The same venue that we watched "Casablanca" a couple weekends ago.) After the movie was over I head home and set about a serious bout of apartment cleaning until almost 2am. SundayDid the Mother's Day thing over at my Mom's place with the fam. Good to see everyone. Relatively (zang!) uneventful. Went home at 10 and read for a bit before going to bed. And I apologize for the quick review of Saturday and Sunday, but I have to finish editing the Astros write-ups before midnight tonight, and my fingers are already tired after detailing the events of Friday here... So I'm off. G'night kids. j.s. |
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I'm very busy at the moment, but the weekend recap is coming...I promise. j.s. |
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Thursday, May 11, 2006May '06 MeatPodSo there you go. A MeatPod. 8 songs that seem to be in my rotation more often than any of the others right now. And so you don't have to bother with it if you already own these songs, here's a track list of sorts. (There are no "tracks" really; it's just one long mp3 file.) - May 2006 - Mushaboom (Postal Service Remix) - Feist Glitter & Twang - Tullycraft Heartbeats - Jose Gonzalez Proposition 61 - The Most Serene Republic Portions for Foxes - Rilo Kiley Paint the Silence - South I'll Believe in Anything - Wolf Parade The World Spins Madly On - The Weepies And remember, if you dig any of these please support the artists who make them. (Either on iTunes or at your local independent record store.) Thanks. j.s. |
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Wednesday, May 10, 2006Hi. It's time for another installment of... "HOW THE HELL DID THEY FIND ME?" This is where I list some of the random searches that people are doing on the net, and who crash landed here. Camera channels on IRC Michael Hayden Freemason Klingon Fairytale Maynardisms DWANGO Resume Tammy Sadowski Snackwells Suck - (aweschome.) Bolivar Peninsula Rednecks Feist The Henry Rollins Show Sharky's Bar Schlitterbahn Webcam Actually it was kind of a prosaic list this time around. But at least there haven't been any "meaty [insert body part here]" searches in quite a while. **shudder** And, in the vein of other amusing things on the internets, according to the Readability Test* at Juicy Studios, it only requires an 6th grade education in order to read and understand my writing on this site. That seems a tad high to me. Okay, the Red Sox/Yankees game is on in 30 min, so I'm going to bounce my 6th-grade-reading-level ass out of here. <3<3 BFF!!! <3<3 j.s. *via Lifehacker |
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Tuesday, May 09, 2006Ugh. I am completely drained. I've spent the day reviewing the client login access to our original website, trying to create SSL-enabled folders on a different, externally hosted website (which involved switching that host server from Windows to Unix), diagnosing and fixing a computer that refused to start-up because of an error with somethng called the "PCI express NIC bridge," and I've just now had to remove the hard drive from the PBX that handles our office voicemail. And before you tech gurus scoff and roll your eyes at my n00bness, you would do well to remember this: I have a degree in fashion. As such, I was teleologically designed to be vapid, dim, and on occasion, kinda pretty. That's it. Thus I have to learn these sorts of things quickly, and under tectonic amounts of pressure, all so our company doesn't appear utterly inept to new clients. (On a typical day I aim for only marginally inept.) Besides, I don't make fun of you for not knowing the difference between a brocade and a brocatelle, or being unaware of the benefits of sea island cotton vs. pima do I? And, making my disposition even more cloudy today, I awoke this morning to the dulcet sounds of 2 guys installing Hardiplank directly onto the sides of my house. Now if you've somehow avoided such an event in your life to date, and have no idea what Hardiplankin' entails, simply imagine that a tin cookie sheet has been taped to the top of your head while you slept. Got it? Okay. Now picture someone (beginning at 7am and continuing at random intervals afterward), poking this cookie sheet with a diesel-powered, "Mandingo Warrior" brand pleasure device...for 2-3 seconds at a time. That's what the drill sounds like as it reverberates off the poor boards that make up my house. (And are trying desperately to continue to do so.) And if you really want to play along at home, you'll need to throw in a Hispanic guy singing along with Tejano music on the radio... Then place him 2 feet from where you sleep, with only a 1/4" pane of glass between your bed and his unabashed ululating of things like "LOS BOOOOLSIIIIIILLOS DEL AMOOOR....NOO ESTAN PARAAA LOS CANGUUUUUROS TIMIIIIIIIIDOS!!" Lastly, envision this pleasant scene happening every single morning, for the next 3 weeks. Welcome to the tympanic serenity of Chateau Jeremiah. Join me, won't you? j.s. |
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Monday, May 08, 2006Uh, hey. I'm here to get a Weekend Recap? I think I'm on the list... FridayLeft work almost immediately after finishing up that last post, and then headed home to straighten up the house with the intention of quite a bit of company coming by. (Cinco de Mayo party, remember?) Wasn't quite the turnout I was envisioning, (since most of the usual suspects were camping in Austin for the weekend), but was still a good time. Countless margarita glasses and Dos Equis bottles were drained in the name of the Battle of Puebla, taquitos and jicama were in bold on the Jeremiah menu for the evening, and most folk began to wander home at around 11ish. Which is when we somehow came to the conclusion that Sam's Boat was not only a good idea, but one that needed to happen immediately. So T. drove us all over to The Boat...about which I remember very little. I seem to recall having to shoo a couple leering jackals away from my upstairs neighbor...we'll call her "LA" for now...and being surrounded by well-monied ecdysiasts who'd obviously taken the night off. And that's about it. I'd had quite a bit to drink you see. Fortunately I hadn't had much in the way of tequila (aka: liquid violence), so at least I wasn't feeling 8' tall, bulletproof and surly. As such, I made it home at around 2:30, sans fisticuff incident. SaturdayFeeling sufficiently roughed up, (by alcohol, not fisticuffs), I spent nearly the entirety of Saturday on the couch, surfing DailyKOS and trying to work myself into a sense of outrage. (Outrage dulls a hangover better than Advil ever could.) My landlady invited me over for dinner at her place, to which I enthusiastically agreed, having only eaten some Fritos and a can of pink lemonade all day. After dinner our neighbor to the left came by and asked if I'd mind accompanying her to see "Klockwork Band" play at the Shiloh Club. (All her friends had backed out, with the exception of one guy, and she didn't want it to look like a date.) I, of course, agree...and we head over there at around 9ish. Now, for the uninitiated, Shiloh Club is a dive bar at the end of my street that I've only ever used as a landmark for people coming to my house, or made the focus of jokes involving toothless bumpkins shuddering spastically to The Oakridge Boys. Never had I imagined that I might actually have to set foot within its rat-hollowed halls. And, after spending all of Saturday evening there, I have to admit... It was exactly what I'd imagined. Faux wooden paneling that looked like it'd been salvaged from repossessed trailer homes lined the walls, a fluorescent Dale Earnhardt car hung crookedly from ceiling chains, partially burnt out neon signs and promo beer posters littered the wallspace, and it was all situated above a black & white checked linoleum floor that, given how badly it was puckered and warped, I presumed was the only thing holding back either a subterranean geyser of Krakatoan proportions, or the gateway to Hell. Naturally, I felt the overwhelming urge to return home for a radiation suit, so as to resist coming into physical contact with anything while inside. Unfortunately this was an impossible feat (suit's at the dry cleaners), so I resigned myself to my sticky fate and sat down at a table next to one of those touchscreen video game things with a monitor that was covered in some kind of unidentifiable finger-muck. (My guess would be equal parts human sweat, crawfish fluids, hairspray, and Milwaukee's Best.) So we sit for a while, sipping beers and chatting. By the third margarita, my neighbor starts to get a bit sauced, and begins begging the non-date guy and me to go dance with her. I politely refused for the time being, but promised that I would indeed get up and dance with her in the very near future. This was actually intended as a lie, because there was no way in hell I was going to get out on that small, lumpy dancefloor and get my bizness on in front of the glaring eyes that were already focused on me (from beneath lowered cowboy hats), in a "somethin's wrong with that boy" fashion. She relented after a few requests, and went back to just bobbing in her chair. LA showed up after a little while, at which point the beers truly began to flow. And, after the first few notes of Chaka Khan's "Sweet Thing" came on, the lead singer of the band left the stage with her tambourine, walked over to where I was sitting, pulled me up out of my seat and dragged me out on the dancefloor with her. I was followed shortly by neighbor, the non-date, LA, and several other people, and we spent the remainder of the evening out there doin' our collective groove thing. Oh, and The Klockwork Band? They were actually quite good. Excellent covers of Marvin Gaye, Earth, Wind & Fire, Barry White, Etta James, Gloria Gaynor and the like... It seems they play at The Gallant Knight (Holcombe and Morningside, Rice Village) every Friday night. And I can easily recommend checking them out if that kind of music is your thing. So we shut down Shiloh, and walk over to Andy's on 11th afterward for refueling via chips & salsa. Along the way, I smile quietly at (and being a true Leo, utterly bask in) the astonished exultations of "Jeremiah's got tha moves!" and "Daaamn, you can dance boy!" and "We are so going dancing together again..." along the way. And at this point I'd like to send a long overdue shout to my old friend and neighbor, Bo, for illustrating to me at a very young age how important it is to be able to dance competently. That very small piece of advice has served me quite well along my life, so I'm passing it on to any other impressionable 12-year-olds that might stumble across these words someday. And I now consider my karmic dues fulfilled on the matter. Hari Hari. Anyway, finished up at Andy's and walked back home, and I crawled directly into bed and fell asleep. SundayGot up around noon, and took off for Katy to catch up with my Dad for a bit. Watched some baseball on the couch, played with the dog for a bit, alternated between praising and condemning individual members of the Red Sox, and had some hot dogs. A good all-American day. Took off from there at about 9, came home and digitally backhanded the kid who left a comment on the post before this one, then went to bed. And today has been work-time, with the exception of a slightly longer-than-usual lunch during which D. and I were sucked in by the last 30 minutes of Time Bandits. There is no escaping Gilliam, no matter what time he's on. And now, I'm getting out of here and heading home to have dinner with my landlady, and do my write-ups for June's magazine.* Take care, and remember not to touch it. It's pure evil. j.s. (*Not necessarily in that order, since the articles are due by midnight tonight.) |
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Friday, May 05, 2006Hi there. I have arisen from beneath the mountain of end-of-monthy papers like a bespectacled, slightly-caffeinated phoenix, and am ready to throw down tonight, as if it were the 5th of Mayo in Texas. But first, I'd like to talk about enormous stickers on automobiles for a moment if I might. You all know the kind. The giant letters, typically in white, that say things like "FlowCzar Imports," "Playa Paradise," or "Sanchez." I simply don't understand what is that would cause someone to broadcast their membership in a car club to the general populace. It's a fucking car club. "I like fast cars and fast women...that's why the buddies in mah car club call me 'cruizer.'" You are actually advertising the fact that you have a proclivity toward spending weekends in a dingy garage on the north side, greasing up "sticks," "shafts," and "columns" with other like-minded men. Or worse, you're out of the garage and playing SUV Pole Position on Westheimer with the other drunk and witless cro-magnons. Please tell me that you're not so socially bromidic as to be incapable of coming up with something better to do with your time. "Ah jus' got a carbon fahber spoiler fer tha back-a-mah Corolla, 'long with a big ol' graphic fer tha window...le's go sit at a sheetload o' red lights tonight to celebrate." Now you SUV people (yes you, the ones with the "Smooth Operator" or "713 Dopenutz" adhesives on the back of your dropped, gold-trimmed and Spinnered Lincoln Navigator), allow me to explain what's wrong with you. Yeah, that behemoth you're driving? The one that doesn't fit within a single parking space inside the loop? The primary intent of that automobile was to tote Hunter, Amy Lynn and all their little suburban friends to their respective football/cheerleading practices. The secondary use is as another yardstick for guys to measure their neighbors cocks. AKA: "mini-vanity." (See also: lawnmowers; tool collections and barbecue grills.) Yes, it's true. Trick it out any way you like G... Still a minivan. You've just been duped by flashy commercials and rap stars with contracts to pimp a certain brand of ride in their videos. And somehow, I doubt this is going to be the last time that such a thing happens in your life. Good luck finding your way Consumer. Finally, we have the people who put their last name on their trucks. Who obviously lack the ability to remem- Do you also put your name on your- Is it that you have problems with colors, and need- ... Nope. Tengo nada. You smackerheads are on your own. A closing thought for all of you mucilaginous motorists, that window in your rearview? It's purely functional. And before you start smearing things on it, you might want to ask yourself just how important is it to have the words "Sanchez's Ratchet Pimpz" between you and the rest of the cars on the road. Obstructed vision at 70mph. Good plan? And hey, while I'm in a ranting mood, I watched "The Henry Rollins Show" last night and was sorely, sorely disappointed. Topics swung around like a samurai on a triple shot peyote espresso, and the set looked like a bunch of septuagenarian suits designed it to be "edgy." (i.e. Lots of exposed brick, an elevator with torn posters, and of course, a really nice Sony CD player in the background between Hank and his guest.) It ended up looking like a hookah lounge on Wall Street. And before I get into this next bit, I'd like to preface it by saying that I'm a fan of Rollins. However I think something is lost in the translation to television. He seems a caricature of himself, rather than one of the stronger voices of independent American idealism. I'm not sure if that's Hank's fault, or if it lands on the shoulders of the director/producer...but it needs to be either fixed or stopped. Because when he utters things like "that stunt on the aircraft carrier three years ago couldn't make the truth of your wrongness disappear..." I just cringe. "The truth of your wrongness?" **shudder** How about just the word "lies?" Much less circumlocution there Hank. And ironically, after he and Bill Maher finished complaining about beautiful newscasters who're incapable of doing much aside from looking good while reading a teleprompter, he cut to a stammering blonde bombshell, who woodenly introduced Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. If it was a joke, then you're scripting the entirety of your interviews...and that sucks. And If she's always on your show (and you weren't making fun of her), it's a bit hypocritical, dontchathink? Anyway, that's just my take on it. It could've just been a rough episode though, so feel free to check it out this Saturday at 9 CST on IFC and decide for yourself. I think he has Jeff Bridges and Ben Harper this time. **sigh** I'm really doing everything I can for ya here Hank... Okay, I'm heading home for the "Cinco de Mayo Bloc Party" thing my landlady has planned. Which promises to be a good time, but you should see my backyard...it looks like "La Raza Eye for the Gringo Guy" back there. j.s. |
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Wednesday, May 03, 2006Hi. I'm swamped under a pile of end-of-monthy accounts that need checking, and I've a meeting with my editor this evening about next month's issue, so I can't linger. I just dropped in because I needed a break...and I missed you. Terribly. I also wanted to gloat a bit about watching the Sox throttle the yankees 7-3 on Monday over a couple pints at Flying Saucer. Such simple things make me bounce with happiness. And speaking of bouncing, I was randomly checking Mr. Warren Ellis's page today (as I do every day), and an audible yelp escaped me when I found none other than my own lil' link in the right corner of the Technorati bit of his page. This was enough to send me into a whir of nervous revisions of the drivel I've been writing for the past few days, along with a tiny "w00t!" of linguistic bravado. **beams** Sorry, I'm rather easily starstruck. And I really dig Warren's stuff and never expected my words to reside on the same digital space as his...Technorati program or not. Okay, I'm going to go back to the glamorous existence of jabbing this endless list of numbers into the top of my keyboard, with occasional stolen glances up at "Joe vs. the Volcano" on HBO. I'll see you once I've climbed out from under all this. j.s. |
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Tuesday, May 02, 2006So let it be written...(are you writing this?) that a very old friend called today to inform me that he and his girlfriend are having a baby, will be travelling through Houston soon on their way to California, and would I mind being their child's Godfather? To which my first reply was, "I hope your first child, is a masculine child," and the second was "Of course I will mate. And thank you." ... I'm not sure what to think here, as he and I were partners in drug-addled debauchery for nearly 4 years, and the prospect of him procreating just seems so very unlikely. Not that he won't make an excellent father mind you, because beneath his sometimes flighty and dramatic exterior always lay a genuinely good guy. ... Hmm. I guess I need to ponder this a bit longer ("the results are in amigo!"), but not today. Today I'm publishing the very first "MeatyCast" here, which I'm hoping to make a monthly habit. It's basically an hour-or-so long Podcast of songs that I happen to be into at the moment, uploaded for your enjoyment...or your hipster scoffing. (Not that I'd recommend scoffing at my music taste mind you, for I will make it my personal vendetta to find your iPod and tear into all of your downloaded guilty pleasures publicly.) j.s. [[edit: Okay, so it isn't going to be today, end of monthiness just began again. See you soon.]] |
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Monday, May 01, 2006You want Recaps? You can't handle the Recaps! Hi. So on Thursday evening I did, in fact, go to Onion Creek...and my resolve to remove my proclivity for mid-week saucing was tested. However I still held true to my word, and only had 2 Miller Lites in the 4 hours that we were there. *flexes* I am an oak. Now on to the weekend... FridaySo I get up Friday morning, take a shower and head into my room to pull on a pair of jeans. I get them just about to my hips when a crackle of lightning tears across the muscles in my back, just beneath my shoulder blade. I freeze, and fall over onto the bed, gripping my comforter in agonizing pain. It eventually eases a bit and I slowly stand again and realize what has just happened. I threw out my goddamn back pulling on a pair of jeans. How ridiculous is that? And with an incredbly packed weekend looming ahead, I simply didn't have time to deal with such things like back pain. So I made a panicked call to J.T, asking if he could work on me for a bit that day so I'd be able to make my date that night at 8. He of course agreed, so I dropped by work for about an hour or so, then ran over to J.T's kiosk at Whole Foods to get a massage. Apparently the entire right side of my back was an FSM-esque tangle of muscles and sinew, and it took almost an hour of excruciating work to put me back together again. (I suppose technically he did all the "work," and I merely handled the "excruciating" part.) It worked though, and I took off from there at around 4:30 to head home and read for awhile before my date. Yes, I had a date. Back off! I'm getting to that part... So, the date. We actually hadn't ever met, but we'd seen pics of one another online, and we have a mutual friend that tends bar at O.C. So we meet inside, talk for a while before heading out to the patio, continue the conversation for a bit until our mutual friend "randomly" arrives. (Obviously a prior collusion in case I turned out to be a slavering Joseph Merrick of some sort.) So after a while I ring Danny, and ask, rather forcefully, if he'd mind coming out to O.C. to bring a sense of parity back to the table. He does, and Dixie comes along with him. As does Luis about an hour or so later. Wait...I'm digressing from the actual "date" bits aren't I? Sorry. Yeah, it was okay. Anyway, very sweet girl. Very cute. And I'm sure we both had a good time...and got along well enough. However, on my admittedly shallow end, there were certain aesthetics about her that I'd find a challenge to overcome in a romantic vein. (The tattoo she had of her spine, along the length of her actual spine, springs to mind.) Anyway, gave her a hug after we closed down O.C, and I went home. SaturdayJesus, Saturday was spent at a dead run from start to finish. Did breakfast with Mom at Ft. View early, then picked up my suit from the dry cleaners, and ran over to Jay & Gwen's wedding at St. Thomas Cathedral. Very short, and very pretty ceremony. Stuck around the reception at Aquarium until 5, which was equally nice, although I had horrid Fandango-flashbacks when looking at the centerpieces. I've come to hate centerpieces you see. Long story. Ask me sometime when you see me. Anyway, the wedding was beautiful. Both Jay and Gwen beamed throughout the reception, which is more than I can say for the couples in some weddings I've attended. (I'm not speaking of the weddings I've performed of course. God knows my ecclesiastical maneuverings are enough to inspire just about anyone to fits of laughter.) But between you and I? It was really nice to see a bride so gushingly happy on her wedding day. I'm really thrilled everything worked out well for them. After the reception, I went home to get the wine, cheese and fruit I'd picked up during my Whole Foods massage trip the day before (multitask, thy name is Jeremiah), dropped off my jacket, then headed back downtown to catch the jazz/Casablanca showing in Sesquicentennial Park. Which was unbelievably awesome, and should have been attended by the entirety of Houston. Well, the jazz bit prior to the film was really more adorable than "awesome." It was just a couple of 12-year-olds with a Casio and a drum set playing Alicia Keys, and a couple blues song they'd written.  That's them in the lower left corner, next to the huge inflatable screen. After they'd finally finished thanking people for the opportunity to play, we simply waited until the sun went down...  And then the movie started....  And I'll tell you this: I'd be very hard pressed to come up with a better way to spend any evening than by watching Casablanca on a blanket in the park, drinking Chianti, and lazily nibbling on Brie, Gruyere and strawberries among the company of friends. Clubs, lounges, pubs and bars all pale translucent in comparison. But, once the film was over and they made us leave (we were the last cookies in the jar), we headed over to Dean's for a few drinks and some decent music. [TGFTP] eventually joined us there, and after she and I had polished off yet another bottle of Pinot Noir, we decide that dancing is an imperative. So we wander over to Clark's (next door), which was...okay. We all dance for a little while (like we're wont to do), and decide to call it a night at around 1:30. In retrospect, I can't imagine how I could've possibly improved on Saturday, even if I'd tried. The only thing that springs to mind was that I'd completely forgotten the monthly "RENT" event was going on at the Meridian that night. We most definitely would've gone over there, rather than Clark's, had I just remembered it. All in all though, it was a really, really good day...and even the drunk and fuzzy bits there at the end of the evening were quite fun. =] SundayGot up around 9:30ish, which was way too early after the night before. Cleaned myself up and drove over to Dixie's so we could walk to Agora and get some coffee. And while we weren't surrounded by butterflies, squirrels, blue jays and gay men in Corollas this time, it was a pleasant walk nonetheless. Luis came by after a bit, and I think we ended up staying there for something like 3 hours, all told...though it didn't seem like that long. Dinnerish thing at Barnaby's, and then to Luis's place for some Guitar Hero, during which I was about to fall asleep on his loveseat. Went home at 9:30 and read for a bit before crashing, and slept for almost 11 hours. And today... Lordy... Today is the first meeting of the season for the Sox and the Yankee$... I'm headed to The Maple Leaf Pub in about 5 minutes to yell, growl, spit, curse and otherwise defame Johnny Damon and the rest of the evil empire. Wakefield is pitching though...which makes me nervous. (Although Mirabelli is back at catcher as of today, so he might be better. We'll see.) K, gotta run. j.s. |
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