FRQNC


Thursday, September 28, 2006 Hi. So after being sick for a week I've hit the ground running to make up for lost time. Caught up with Luis at Rud'z on Tuesday to watch the end of the Astros game over a beer and some chicken strips. He headed home around 10ish and, given that I was nearing zero defects and quite happy to be healthy again, I decided to go over to The Dirt and drink many, many more beers in honor of both my newfound wellness, and Andre's (one of their bartenders), birthday. And seriously? I must've been slingshotting pheromones out of every pore. As you know, I am aware that I'm not exactly a bad looking guy, and I'm used to at least a moderate amount of attention, wherever I might be. But on that night it seemed that if I so much as glanced in the direction of a girl she'd freeze in place, her body would go languid, and I'd hold her glazed gaze like a Jeremiah-powered tractor beam. (Yes, I just used a Star Wars reference to describe my attractiveness...don't attempt to adjust your monitor.) Example: [Jeremiah is sitting at the bar, sipping a Lone Star and smiling ever-so-slightly to himself. A cute girl wanders up over his right shoulder.] "Hi!" she says. "Hello there." "Can I bum a cigarette?" "Certainly." [He fishes a smoke out of the pack and hands it to her.] "Need a light?" "Uh...no." "Okay." [She pauses, staring at the cigarette as if it were going to leap out of her hand, don a top hat/cane, and do a tap dance number while singing "My Ragtime Gal."] "Um...actually I don't know what to do with this." [Jeremiah looks back at her and blinks a couple times confusedly.] "Er, do you need a demonstration?" "Nonono... I mean. It's..." she stammers, "Well I don't smoke." [The confused blinks continue.] "Really I was just looking for an excuse to come talk to you." [Jeremiah laughs.] "You really didn't need to ask for a cigarette to make that happen..." "I didn't?" "Not at all." "Oh! Hi I'm X." "Jeremiah." "Jeremiah? That's a really beautiful name. So Jeremiah, would you like a rimjob?" [blinkblinkblinkblinkblink] And that kind of thing happened on three separate occasions. I've no idea what I was doing right, especially since showing up to a bar alone typically isn't the best of social tells, but all in all it was rather nice. Unfortunately, as my brother so often informs me, I'm a rank novice at "deal closing" and left without a single phone number. shrug I did, however, spent a good deal of the night catching up with one of our photographers. Which ended in an offer to cover the "Yeah Yeah Yeahs" show next weekend. And yes, it appears I have a +1 for the VIP. Mmhmm...who's your best friend? Whoooo? cups hand to ear Last night was the monthly writer's meeting at the magazine office, during which we drink beer, eat pizza, and roundtable brainstorm about what will go into the next month's issue. All fun stuff. I'll be omitting the specifics of this session, suffice to say I was rather disappointed that two of my article ideas were somehow lifted and handed off to different writers...about 30 seconds after they came out of my mouth. You know, if I weren't so ~~arrogant~~ confident in my writing prowess, I'd take that as a rather severe slap in the face. But, for the time being, I'm chalking it up to miscommunication. sniff And finally, I absolutely must have these limited edition Chuck Taylors, designed by John Varvatos. And yes, I realize how strange that might seem to most of you. But they make me happy. Ta. j.s.



Tuesday, September 26, 2006 Find the Movie Titles For wiling away some time while at work... j.s.



Monday, September 25, 2006 [[edit: And here are a lot more...]] Here are a couple pictures I recently found of our Crome night. ["Groupshot."] ["Moneyshot." or "I float like a buttonfly..."] ["You talkin' to me?"] ["This is Luis. But I don't like you, so you may not speak to him." [Vampy.] ["Fine...here's my sleeve."] ["Yes. I have very sharp teeth."] ["You're coming next time...right?"] j.s.



Morning. I've no idea what happened to my old "meaty.blogspot" address, but it seems to be 404'd currently. Hopefully they'll get that back up soon...because I really don't want someone thieving it if Blogger converted all their urls to FRQNC.com. (Which is "frequency" without all the pesky vowels by the way, just in case there's any confusion out there.) So let's talk about stuff! The Red Sox have been mathematically eliminated, and I really don't see anyone out there capable of beating the Yankee$. This might very well be the year when they prove it possible to purchase a World Series championship, after 6 years of trying to do so. Bah, anything I say about this is going to be laced with sour grapes and bitterness, and it isn't like I haven't mentioned how I feel about it, so let's move on. In other New England-related news, we're now about six months out from the start of the Louis Vuitton Cup, which has me very, very excited. [Attn Texans: the Louis Vuitton Cup is the tournament to see who gets to challenge the Swiss boat "Alinghi" for the America's Cup.] [Attn Texans x 2: The America's Cup is a sailboat race that happens once every four years, and one that the U.S. had won consistently throughout 24 challenges, until Dennis Connor spit lost The Cup to the Aussies in 1983. This is the longest consecutive championship run in the history of any sport*.] [Attn Texans x 3: Yes sailing is a sport. Arguments to the contrary will end in a heightened health insurance premium for those touting their dissenting opinion. Fighting a sailor is a very bad idea.] Our boat, "BMW Oracle," is currently ranked second, ranked just two points behind the goddamn Kiwis. The last match race before the LV Cup is on Apr. 3rd, in which BMW Oracle could take first place and go into the tournament with 4 bonus points. (This new format is kind of irritating...but I'm trying to keep an open mind about it.) For those of you who are interested in seeing what's going on here's the America's Cup site. Trust me, this isn't the last you're going to hear from me on this subject. So what else... Oh, how about that leaked "intelligence" report which states categorically that the war in Iraq has indeed caused more anti-American sentiment throughout the world, swelled the ranks of terrorist cells, and basically made the U.S. less safe* than we were prior to the Bushie's ultra-capitalist (or ecclesiastical, depending on who you ask), agenda. Mmhmm... How much do we pay these people again? Because they basically just pointed at a 4-legged, grass-eating, piebald animal with a milk-producing udder and said, "Ahem. Yes, we've convened on this topic at length, have created several fact-finding committees, and researched prevailing international opinion on the matter, and we believe with some certainty that the object in question is, in fact, a cow. Although we must reserve from absolute certainty since it is possible that it could be a very large dog, a very small steam engine, or possibly a biological weapon of some sort." Does anyone out there actually believe that we've become safer as a result of razing these Middle-East countries? blink blink Because if you do I've some lovely ski resort time-shares in Beaumont you might be interested in... j.s.



Sunday, September 24, 2006 Hi there bleuxpee. I'm slowly recovering from whatever brutal ailment was manifest in my body last week. But man...did that ever suck. Started off as just general head wooziness and an inability to think clearly, which led to fever and muscle fatigue, then it decided to catch up with some of its colloid buddies and take a few days holiday in my throat and sinuses, and recently it's gone back to work on my GI tract. I'm calling it the Gestalt Virus. Eventually I tired of laying around like a 3-toed sloth on Vicodin though, and made a conscious decision to simply ignore how horrid I felt. So, when it came time to go up to Dallas this weekend for our inaugural Issue Relase Party, I put my head down, packed a bag, and headed up after work on Friday as if nothing were wrong. (And left the top off the Jeep hoping that some sunlight and fresh air might be a good thing.) Arrived at H's place around 8, took a quick shower (a side-effect of driving on the freeway for 4 hours without a roof in 95 degree weather), then went out to her wine bar for dinner and a couple drinks, all of which were excellent. Left there and headed over to the "Deep Ellum" neighborhood for the IRP. And I must say that there were an impressive amount of people there, for a magazine that's brand new in the city anyway. The venue, however, was quite strange. It was set up more like a convention hall than a club, with 4 floors, 2 balconies, 3 elevators, more staircases than the average high school, and some kind of bizarre bathroom recursion vortex in the center of the space. (Everytime we turned around there was another bathroom, each with a ridiculous line.) We hung out for about an hour or so, and wandered around with a bemused look on our faces as we searched for people we knew. And after finding everyone that we wanted to say "hi" to, we called it a night and headed back to H's place for Tivo'd Adult Swim episodes. I'm not sure what it says about me that I'm equally happy doing either of those activities, but there you go. Got up on Sunday and read GEB on the couch for a little while, played with the dogs, then went for brunch at the Original Pancake House. H. had to go to work shortly thereafter, so I said goodbye, packed my things, and headed home... However, standing between me and my little house was a massive storm on I-45. (Those of you in Houston on Saturday night know the one I'm talking about.) And while I did have the roof on, I had neglected to bring my windows on the trip. So I drop the Jeep into 4WD, crank up the radio, and grin like a madman at the flashing strands of lightning as I rocket directly into the green-skyed maelstrom. [Looks dark, but this was taken in the middle of the afternoon.] Lightning strobed and thunder boomed loudly overhead every few seconds, a howling wind carried water in from all directions (including upward from my quickly flooding floor), and my view through my windshield looked more like a waterfall screensaver than a vista for traveling at 65mph. In fact, it had to be close to flash flooding as I could see the individual raindrops splashing on the freeway in front of me. Wet, shivering, but still grinning, I "WOOOOOOO!!!" my way through the torrent and ride the crest of the storm all the way back into Houston. Good times. Got home around 8ish, straightened up my house a bit, then settled in to watch the Six Feet Under episode that had arrived from Netflix, thus making it an early night. And today I've done absolutely nothing but lay on my couch and watch football. Speaking of which, who the hell decided that Pink, looking like a Stevie Nicks/Brigitte Nielson frappé, was the right choice to introduce Sunday Night Football? Especially with that bleach blonde, mohawky, mullet thing. Bleh. Okay I'm off. See you Monday. j.s.



Wednesday, September 20, 2006 Okay so I'm still not feeling well, and am probably slightly cranky as a result, but I've something I've got to get off my chest immediately... Someone near my cubicle stinks of *baby*. By this I mean that, whoever they are, they're causing the entire room to reek like an oatmeal & butternut squash purée, with a light dusting of baby powder, served on the half-Pamper. I mean, I'm already sick...but this toddlerstink is causing my gag-reflex to chug like a goddamn train piston. I've even tried dropping my nose and mouth into my t-shirt (the "neckless ninja" maneuver), but it's finally eaten through the fabric. Now I'm afeared it's making it's way through my skin. Alas, it seems there's absolutely nothing I can do about it though...save filling my nostrils with WhiteOut or replanting my olfactory bulb in the carpet. So I put it to you, is this a suitable reason for a "leave early" request? j.s.



Tuesday, September 19, 2006 And now that I'm through discussing the weekend, I can get to today...which has been much less fun. Meaning I've been terribly sick, and have spent the entirety of the day laying on the couch watching movies like "Cocktail," "Armageddon," and "The Rock." (It isn't enough that my body feels shredded, apparently my mind wants to join the fun as well.) I need to heal quickly though, as I've plans to head to Dallas this weekend for the magazine's Issue Release Party, and to hang out with Heather. (Not necessarily in that order of preference.) No time for sick Dr. Jones. j.s.



All right chums, let's do this... Friday Left work around 8 and caught up with J.T. at my place for a couple beers on the back patio. And after lengthy discussions of Kundalini, Pranayama and Qigong, we decided the best way to top off the evening would be to catch the midnight showing of "Full Metal Jacket" at the River Oaks theater. Which, as you know, is a wonderful movie for the first hour but an utter bore for the last 45 minutes. And I would advise all of you to refrain from ever watching that film with a Marine present, as they seem to take great glee in singing along with the marching cadences, giving occasional "hoo-RAH"s at the screen, and "pshhhh"ing inappropriately when they feel that something isn't being recreated or represented appropriately. Apparently social grace isn't a part of the training at Parris Island. Anyway, about 20 minutes into the film, a rotund man in his 40's sat down to my right, with a "spacer" seat between us. First he leaned over in my direction a bit. Then his arm falls to the seat between us, resting on the cushion. And before I know it, the guy has completely stretched his arm across the seat, and extended his ruddy, swollen fingers toward my leg. I shoot him an incredulous look, but he keeps staring at the movie screen, as if he weren't desperately trying to reach across an empty movie seat and grope my upper thigh. I slide farther over to the left in my chair, and lean toward J.T. His arm jerks occasionally, like some kind of bizarre tentacle proboscis... Then after 15 minutes or so, he slithers it back to his own personal space, gets up, and leaves the theater. Presumably to find another movie showing sweaty boys in basic training, one where he might find more receptive audience members. Said goodbye to J.T. after the movie, then drove home and crashed. Saturday Drove out to Katy to catch up with Dad for a while, and met him and Cary at the local Mega-Cine-Ultra-Giga-Plex to see "The Illusionist." The mise-en-scene was interesting enough, but the plot was seriously prosaic and the "twist ending" was visible from the goddamn lighthouse. I don't recommend it. I will say this though, Edward Norton would make one helluva Dr. Strange. After hanging out for a bit I bailed out and picked Luis up for the Ted Leo & the Pharmacists show @ Walter's on Washington. We get there during the Spain Colored Orange set, which was quite good. And I suppose it should be since they won the Houston Press awards for "Local Musicians of the Year," "Best Indie Rock," "Album of the Year" and "Best Keyboardist." They're a pretty funky sounding group, with a waft of patchouli running through the groove. Then Ted Leo came on, and while he was rather obsessive about his sound the show was good. And I'll tell you this, their drummer (Chris Wilson), is the happiest man on Earth. He smiled through his enormous beard through most of the show and made me grin back just by looking at him. Seems like a really nice guy. The only drawback to the show was that they played about 7 or 8 songs off their new album, which isn't out yet. That's one of my little pet peeves about seeing live shows. I'm all about hearing some of your new music, but that means about 3 songs...tops, since I came to listen to the stuff you've already released. Anyway, finished up the show and went back to Luis's place. Watched some tele, then went home and to bed. Sunday Did breakfast at Berryhill w/ Danny then spent the entire day watching football on the Sunday Ticket at my place. With a break for a burger at Beer Island at dinner. Pretty chill day all things considered. Oh, and the Chinstrapped Yard Gnomes got their first win of the season Sunday. Unfortunately it was against D's team. And just between us? I absolutely hate playing against my little brother. Because I'm competitive enough to want to win, but I don't want to beat him. Makes for a Sunday of cognitive dissonance. Okay, I'm off. Take care. j.s.



Friday, September 15, 2006 Okay, who turned the heat back on? It was absolutely beautiful a couple days ago, and suddenly we're climbing back up into the 90's? Don't make me put the top back on the Jeep. Seriously. I'll do it. And then you'll be sorry... Okay, last night saw us having a couple beers at Onion Creek as per usual, then Danny headed home and Luis and I split to The Mink. Which was...unimpressive. It's uncomfortably narrow, has too few tables along its bright red walls, the clientele rated about a 6 1/2 on the Beauty-Meter, and drinks were moderately priced. (Beware though, the bartender quoted us a $13 total for a Red Bull/Vodka and Gin & Tonic, then dropped it to $8 for no discernable reason when we closed out...so it's possible that weekends there could get expensive.) Oh, and the painting that hung above the couch by the door was absolutely abysmal, and irritated the hell out of me every time I looked up. Actually the only cool things about the place were the rose wallpaper on an accent wall above the bar, and the chandelier over the entrance. Thus, I think you can all safely skip The Mink. If you're looking for that kind of ambiance La Carafe does it much better. As does Absinthe. j.s.



Thursday, September 14, 2006 Hi there. I see you've found your way over here. Well done. So last night was a rock gym night with Luis and Dixie, and while my arms aren't too sore today it's most certainly in the mail. I also seemed to be hell bent on self destruction while climbing as I awoke bruised, scraped and otherwise roughed up all over this morning. Totally worth it though. Let's see, what's going on... ~~Tonight is Calexico at Fitzgerald's with Luis~~ [ed: Show was cancelled. They're doing some kind of lame "Jackass 2" promotion instead.], and I really want to go check out The Mink afterward if there's time. Tomorrow I've some hot sauce labels to design for the day job, and a couple articles to finish up for the magazine. Otherwise it's my assumption that it'll be a blissfully slow Friday, much as the last few have been. Saturday is Ted Leo & the Pharmacists at Walter's on Washington, and I'm convinced that there's something else I'm supposed to be doing afterward...but have no idea what it is. And if you know what it is, please drop me a reminder. Thanks, j.s.



Okay folks, this will be my final post here at the Meaty Efreeti. Please direct your browsers to www.frqnc.com for any and all future postings from yours truly. Oh, and those with blogs and websites who'd like to keep their links current should do a bit of editing and point at the above URL. Thanks for all the fish. j.s.



Wednesday, September 13, 2006 My grandmother has recently returned from back home, bearing the necessary New England provisions: Proper hot dog buns coffee syrup (for making coffee milk) Del's powder, Jonnycake mix, And these... You southern folk are now permitted to shake your fist in jealousy at my Fluffstack. j.s.



Hi, So kids, the day had to come eventually...and it's with a heavy heart that I pass along this news. I've just gotten an email from the folks at Blogger in which they informed me that they will no longer be supporting the super-special "**BlogSpot Plus**" hosting plan that I bought from them when I started this thing back in 2002. (They haven't charged me a dime for it since...so I can't really complain about their decision to do so.) Specifically, this translates into an inability for me to upload new files to my ftp folder, which in turn becomes a serious problem since I designed the overall look of the M.E. and it requires a small amount of monthly tweaking on my part to keep it current. If I can't get to the folder, I can't tweak. So, unless I'm willing to revert back to one of their pre-made templates (I'm not), it looks like Moving Day has officially loomed on the horizon. ("To the lee...of the stone.") However, in what I can only assume to be precognitive anticipation of just such an event, it so happens that I've recently purchased a different* hosted domain account, FRQNC.com. I'm not yet sure whether that will become my new bloggy home or not. The coming weeks will tell. (I own a few other domain names, but none of them are hosted accounts...yet.) Regardless, it's been a long, strange, and fun ride with Blogger, and I'm very thankful for the tiny nook o' the 'net that they empowered me to claim as my own almost 4 years ago. I'm certainly going to miss it here. =[ j.s.



Tuesday, September 12, 2006 So let's talk for a moment about the Tool show last night shall we? First, I absolutely hate the Cynthia Mitchell Woods Pavillion. That isn't hyperbole, I'm fucking HATING here people. Hate as in I will NEVER, ever pay to see a concert there again, barring some ridiculous show that they can't ruin with their sterile, corporate sheen. I'll paint you a picture here... As we walk up, their Nuremburg loudspeakers declare: "zere vill be nein blanketen, kameras, bags, purses, tarps, wasser, etc! Übertreters vill be shot and zhe remainz UPS'd to ze families you claim to lieben." D. and I get to the front of the line and everything in our pockets must be produced for Colonel Clink to sift through. Shirts are lifted, pant legs pulled up to expose socks, hats removed, and we have to turn in a circle as they wave a metal detector over every inch of our bodies. And the most amazing bit was when Col. Clink finished his strip search of my person, then pointed his metal interrogation wand at my notebook and asked, "Und vhat ees zis?" "Uh, it's a book." "No. No books allowed." "WHAT??" "You can't bring that in." "Why?" "No books." "What am I going to do with it, take really fast sketches of the band and sell them?" "Anything that comes in here has to be able to fit into your pocket." I start to get agitated. "But you've already made me take everything out of my pockets." "No books." he declares with a hint of nervousness leaking through his otherwise authoritarian tone. "Okay mate," I sigh, disappointed in the card I'm about to have to play, "I write for ENVY Magazine, and I use this," I brandish the notebook at him, "to take notes during the show. Would you rather the entire article be about how you wouldn't allow the press in with a fucking notebook?" He blinks a few times, and looks longingly around at the rest of the well-behaved cogs clicking placidly through their turnstiles. "No books?" He pleads. I tap the shoulder of the heavily armed police officer nearby. "Hey, can I get in with this?" "I don't see why not. They didn't say anything about books." "Great. Thanks." At which point I push the idiot at the front door out of my way with a dismissive wave, and hand my ticket to the next stop in their "assembly" line. It's summarily torn, scanned and handed back, and we're free of Checkpoint Charlie. Next stop: the t-shirt kiosk. Now perhaps I'm showing my age here, but the first Tool t-shirt I bought (excluding the one from Lollapalooza '93 with their name listed), set me back $15. We've come a long, long way since then, and somewhere during that trek the music apparel industry lost all concept of reality... A simple black t-shirt with the band logo on it cost $43 dollars. And a "special edition" l/s tee with "TOOL" spelled out in paper clips on the front? Yeah, that'll be $60. Yet people were forking out the money out hand over fist for 'em. shakes head sadly So we eventually back slowly away from the t-shirt emporium, and wander up the hill to the bar at the back of the lawn. And you'll never guess what I'm about to bitch about now. In fact, you know what I'm about to say, so I think I can safely skip right over it. With just a slight mention that a single margarita cost $10.50, roughly the same cost as an entire bottle of cheap Mexican sauce. And that I don't know how the guy who decided, "yeah, it's an outdoor venue in Houston, but we're still going to charge people a dollar for a cup of ice" sleeps at night. That's it. Moving on. So we stand around and await the show, noticing that the stage appears rather sparse for the average Tool concert. (Just a drum set and a white floor/background with a black drape as a proscenium.) And as we're discussing that perhaps they just haven't come out to tune the instruments yet, the lights dim, Maynard says "Okay," and the crowd goes batshit. They launch into 46 + 2, and suddenly D. and I forget completely about the myriad personal intrusions and corporate milk-hoggery. Until Maynard is supposed to hit the strong note on the chorus ("My shadow! My shadow!" for those playing along at home) and he instead sings....nothing. The band hits the crescendo perfectly, but he's not singing. We look at one another, shrug, and keep nodding our heads to the music. Then he does it again. And again. And again. Skipping over every part of the song that involved him straining his voice at all. (Which, as you probably know, is quite a bit of Tool's music.) After a while, the crowd begins to get restless and irritated. And once the third song finishes, Maynard quips "I'm sorry for being sick." God. Dammit. So he goes through the entire show skipping over the choruses of each song, and the audience fills in for him like some kind of mass Tool-aoke performance. And while I can certainly understand that band members are human, and as such can and do occasionally become sick, I was just very, very disappointed in the show, and felt bad since it was D's first time to see Tool live. sigh Not that the show was a complete loss. Danny Carey is still the most amazing drummer I've ever heard, and I'd be very interested in debating him as "best drummer of all time" with someone. The visuals turned out to be quite good as well, the white stage becoming a screen for some truly amazing lighting. And the video. Brilliant. I presume Adam Jones did them since they bore remarkable resemblance to the rest of the videos he's done, but I'm not positive about that. The parts where Maynard could sing softly through the lyrics they sounded just like they were supposed to...which is to say awesome. (This made it all the more painful when he'd skip the screaming though.) Overall, it was a let down though. And I have to concur with a friend that I was discussing the show with this morning who said she almost wished she hadn't gone, and had just kept the memory of their past shows instead. It's sad, but I have to agree. j.s. [Oh, and one last thing, when someone says they'd like to have a moment of silence for the lives lost 5 years ago on that very day, this does not mean that you should scream at the band as loud as you can simply because the rest of the crowd has become relatively quiet and they might hear you. Smackerheads.]



Thursday, September 07, 2006 [[Excerpt from a letter I wrote to my landlady last night.]] I left the company of friends at 10pm, and since I hadn't had a spare moment to clean my apartment in weeks (and it looked more like a demilitarized zone than a place in which I might actually live), I headed home with the express intention of doing a Bizarro spring cleaning. I pull into the driveway, walk through the gate, and freeze in place when I see stacks of books along the railing on the porch. Two words begin to echo over and over in my mind. "Oh no..." My gaze falls and, dejectedly, I walk toward the door, mortified that I'll walk in to find my apartment had been completely cleaned in my absence. "How am I going to explain that I'd forgotten all about that macaroni dish in the sink from the Friday before I left for Austin?" I wondered. "Or the reproduction of the Trash Heap from Fraggle Rock that seemed to be constructing itself under the microwave hutch?" And what other unimaginable atrocities must lay in the unwashed recesses of my poor, neglected apartment? Why, there had to be a cornicopia of detritus just waiting around every nook. I enter the front door and, thankfully, the first thing I see are the labyrinthine piles of dry cleaning and laundry still in their usual spots. "Oh thank God..." I check the closet where the evicted books once laid, and find a fine white powder sprinkled along the carpet in their stead. This furrows my brow for a moment, then I recall the discussion about combating the musty remnants of The Great Hot Water Heater Incident of 2006. Baking soda. Right. At which point, I begin the slow march toward the kitchen sink, noting the absence of old macaroni smell as I got closer. And there they were. Cleaned. Dried. Stacked on a dishtowel. Awaiting the return commute to their respective homes in the cabinetry. And if I thought it were actually possible for dishes to glare at someone, I can say with certianty that these were trying to bore holes in me with angry houseware stares. Plates ready to whirl themselves off the counter at my head. Angry colanders puffing up like agitated blowfish. Pots turning their handles around backward in preparation of a brawl. And a chorus of faint, tinny voices crying that such mistreatment of flatware would not go unpunished by the Pantry Pantheon. So, not wishing to cause a coup d'plats, I do as the maligned dishes ask and place them (gently), back in the cabinets, then set about the task at hand. Namely, the whirlwind absterging of my entire home. Laundry is gathered and tucked away for washing during daylight hours, the stove is wiped down, the shower scrubbed with a sponge and Comet, sinks are rinsed, trash thrown away, books shelved, mirrors polished, floors swept. And I must say that it looks better in there than it has in months. (Moreso once I'm able to push the bookshelf back against the wall.) However I didn't want another minute to go by without thanking you for braving what I'm sure was a terrifying conglomeration of substances, all in the name of taking care of a very strange young man whom you simply rent an apartment to. Thanks... -Jeremiah-



Wednesday, September 06, 2006 Perhaps it's just very early... (It is for me...shut up.) Or perhaps I'm still a little blurry after being clubbed over the head, tied up, and forced to drink copious amounts of alcohol last night at Pub Fiction and The Roof. (Approximately 3 hours after steadfastly declaring that I was NOT going to drink for the rest of the week.) Or it could be that the cognitive and interpretive bits of my noggin have finally given up on trying to assimilate reality into "Jeremiah Land" and decided to pass the reins over into the white-gloved hands of "The Fanciful Mr. Whimsy." Still, I'm pretty sure I just read that Death Cab, Ted Leo & the Pharmacists, Jenny Lewis and OK Go are touring together this winter...and will be playing the Hobby Center. And I (along with Mr. Whimsy), will be right here reading it over and over in excited shock until someone assures me that I'm not hallucinating. j.s.



Tuesday, September 05, 2006 Hi. Let's do the ~~Time Warp~~ recap again! I wiled away the remains of Friday at the office, then went home to completely destroy my apartment by redistributing the dirty laundry in my closet into little color-coordinated garment lumps all over the floor. Unfortunately I grew tired of the laundry game after this, so none of them were actually cleaned. Saturday Dixie picked me up at around 11 and, after a quick stop at Dry Creek for brunch, we pointed the grill of her Hyundai roughly northwest and headed to Austin. After floundering a bit with some ill-conceived directions, we evetnually arrive at the country club for the wedding rehersal. There's a rather strange and stressful vibe hanging over the group (as there always is at a rehearsal), so I leave to walk around the golf course a bit and avoid the bad juju. I'm quickly stopped by a member of the country club golfstapo, who wants to know what I'm doing out there sans clubs, spikes and plaid knickers. I explain I'm with the wedding party, and no I don't know their names since I'm just a friend of a bridesmaid. He seems content with this explanation, and changes the subject to whether or not I'd like to check out the rest of their course? "Not particularly, no." "You don't golf?" "Good God no." "Oh. Well...this is one of the most difficult par 3's in golf today...blahblahblah." I nod through all the right pauses and expectant stares, smile when it seems appropriate, and he eventually "zzeeeEEEEE's" off in his little electric go-kart. The rehearsal ends, and we run to a liquor store to pick up supplies for a BYOB dinner at Salt Lick BBQ, which was very, very Texas. Cowboy hatted, Wrangler jeans wearing police waved traffic through the dusty gravel parking lot. A guitarist twanged Stevie Ray Vaughn songs on the patio as an ocean of burnt orange t-shirts nodded along and sipped Bud Light from longnecks. And once we sat down they began bringing us plate after plate of "meat piles" which after consumption resulted in a state of "meatphoria." (Apparently this is when the majority of one's body processes are focused solely on the digestion of seared animal bits, so much so that light-headedness occurs.) Anyway, good times. And the BBQ really was quite good. We head back to the house that we're staying the weekend in (residence of the same kind folk who coined the "meatphoria" reference), played a little Super Mario 2 on their Nintendo, then called it a night. Sunday Dixie had to return to the country club by 11 for hair and make-up, so I walked over to Quack's Bakery and spent the better part of the morning drinking coffee over breakfast tacos, and working on an article. Went back to the house afterward where I read for a while, and played Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas, a game which I am incredibly bad at. (I don't think I'm of the right personality-type to grasp it. It never occurred to me to steal cars, for example, since I could just as easily run wherever I needed to go. shrug) At around 4:30 we take off and head to the wedding which was quite nice. Although since I know neither the bride, nor the groom very well, I'll refrain from discussing their day here. It's enough for you to know that we had way too much to drink, danced to "Thriller," mistook a moth for a nocturnal hummingbird, boggled at why people would smash Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies all over the newlywed's car, and was flashed repeatedly by the girl that we were giving a ride home, which was fun the first couple times but became rather uncomfortable when the boob exposure became incessant. We decide to hit 6th street afterward, and drop in on Lovejoy's for a mighty Tanq n' Tonic, served in a pint glass. Things got kind of fuzzy after I drank this, but I do remember catching up with some other people from the wedding at Logan's Bar, being nearly forcefully ejected from the bar at 2:15, knocking Dixie's pizza onto the floor on the way to the car, peeing on someone, and generally grinning and laughing for the majority of the night. Good times. And I paid for it in spades the following day. Hungover doesn't even begin to describe what I was suffering on Monday, but if I told you that my stomach had drawn itself into a tight knot and that my skull felt like it was about to hatch, that's pretty close to what I was dealing with. Just awful. We did lunch at Freebird's, and then Dixie drove us back toward Houston while I floated in and out of consciousness in her passenger seat. Got home around 6ish I think, and I spent the rest of Labor Day on the couch, watching Six Feet Under and groaning occasionally. And today it's worktime, so I really should get back to it. Talk to you soon. j.s.