FRQNC


Wednesday, February 28, 2007 Yesterday, as I was leaving work, I pull up to the stoplight outside my office and hear angry shouts coming from beneath the overpass to my left. (Jeep. No top. Remember?) I look over to see two homeless men, one black, one white, screaming at the top of their lungs at one another. (Presumably over whose turf was whose...once a Jet always a Jet.) Things begin to escalate, and Black Homeless Guy shuffles forward in a weak attempt to kick White Homeless Guy. But he either misjudges the distance, or WHG moves back a bit, because BHG ends up doing this sort of hopping/shuffling series of quick half-kicks...not entirely unlike a Derelique Rockette. After BHG fails to sweep the leg, WHG swings back at him with a fist, misses completely, and the two of them fall to the ground, rolling back and forth, still screaming at one another. And I'm completely transfixed by the whole encounter until, in their mutual fury, they roll right into the street and into the path of a Ford F-150 pick-up truck. I can't yell, I can't move, all I can do is hold my breath. The truck swerves quickly, honks at them and continues on. Sensing that neither of them can possibly win a fight against large metal castings on wheels, they roll their way back toward the curb where BHG lands on top of WHG and pins him down. Fight over. They begin to stand up as my light turns green and I take a left into Thunderdome Overpass. But by the time I made my turn and started to pass them? They were shaking hands... And then they hugged one another in a long embrace, and WHG began to cry. (Perhaps BHG did as well, but he was facing away from me.) As if their frustration burst over the Humanity Dam momentarily, washing both in blind violence, and then, as quickly as it overtook them, the anger was gone. And all that was left was two grown men. Winded. Embarrassed. Slightly scraped up. You know, I'd like to think that today, the two of them have become friends. And tomorrow, they'll set about a writing a plan to get off the street on the back of a "Learn English Fast!" sign, and will lean on one another along the way. And by this time next year? Both will be gainfully employed, happy, and will smile quietly to themselves when they reflect on the day they met in a street brawl while both were at the end of their ropes, and were almost killed by a pick-up truck that never even bothered to slow down. Granted that might just be in my own little world... But hey, what've you got? j.s.



Monday, February 26, 2007 First off, I'd like to send a quick b-day shout. Happy Birthday Dad. Secondly, and I'm sure I'm going to disappoint a few of you with this, but I did not watch the Oscars last night...and thus there will be no "Jeremiah's Style Guide to the Oscars" this year. boos and hisses I know. I'm sorry. But if I might be given a moment to explain? Saturday night was the third installment of Suit Night. (Wow, I think I just heard your collective "Ohh..."s from here.) This one began with beer at Danny's place at around 4. Luis came by after a bit and we all headed over to the bowling alley. (No, we weren't suited yet...and yes, I went to a bowling alley.) The rest of the crew arrived after a little while, and we rolled a couple games before heading back to Danny's to make the Suit Magic happen. And the Night itself was as excellent as it always is. Although a recurrent game that evening seemed to be "Let's Try and Steal 'Blue Pimp's' Hat." This normally happens a couple times during the evening, however this time the chapeau bleu thievery seemed overly excessive. I don't mind it when it's friends who do this mind you, because the majority of them are totally allowed to touch me. But when strangers walk up and reach toward my head? I'm afraid my first response is to duck and slap their hands away. And my second response is to stare back at them incredulously, as if to say, "what the fuck are you doing?" Now, after these two kneejerk responses, I apologize for slapping their hands off me, and explain with a smile that I'm just not going to allow them to wear my hat. A response that typically results in everyone smiling and saying "that's cool" several times. But the 4th time that some drunk person lunged for my head, and I performed the above ritual, I had ceased to find it amusing. And was finding it harder and harder to stay in good spirits about it. K, I just had to get that out of me. Moving on. So this time I actually spent a little while hanging out with just one girl in particular...which is a relative rarity on a Suit Night. We'll call her "C." Now while C and I never did quite get on the same groove, she was most certainly fun to dance with. (There was a lot of hair flipping involved which, to be honest, was kinda hot.) She even smiled and backed out of the way when some random girl (with demonic halitosis), walked up and informed her, "Look, I know you like him. But I'm taking him for this song" and proceeded to push me out on the dancefloor. After the song was over, Dragonlady escorted me right back to C, took my cell phone and punched her number into it, then handed it back and said "Whenever you're ready to stop playing with these little girls," she points at C, "and want a real woman, you call me." And all I could do in turn was stand there, gesturing occasionally to both of them and stammering with a confused look on my face. The nerve of people utterly amazes me sometimes... Anyway, we closed Drink Houston down, and headed back to Danny's for a bit. I took off for home at around 5:30. And there endeth yet another Suit Night. The pictures of which are (hopefully) forthcoming soon. Talk to you soon. j.s.



Thursday, February 22, 2007 postscript: I finally fell asleep at around 7...and the hammering on the upstairs wall began at 8. For an hour-and-a-half. Straight. And as I lay there, trying ineffectually to muffle the noise by wrapping my pillows, comforter and sheets around my head in a massive ball (envision a Bed, Bath & Beyond version of Carmen Miranda), I couldn't help but come to a single pragmatic conclusion about carpentry. If whatever you're trying to hammer into place hasn't gotten there after a few minutes of bashing it with a blunt instrument? It isn't going. j.s.



Please forgive me if this post comes out a bit strangely... It's very early in the morning and I can't sleep, so I figured I might as well make some use of the insomnia. So, it's official. This will be Year II that I rock the SXSW. My Music pass cleared this morning, and I've just sent off the email that will (in theory anyway), upgrade me to Platinum. fanfare Although strangely (or perhaps not so), I'm not quite as excited, nor as jittery, as I was last year at this time. Don't get me wrong. There are very few places on Earth I'd rather be than in Austin during SXSW. In fact, just thinking of going once more into that liminal maelstrom of media makes me smile like the Cheshire Cat on nitrous oxide. Brilliant people, new technologies, unreleased films, indie bands, parties, BBQ, gallons upon gallons of Lone Star... I truly can't wait. But I think it was the Virgin Mary who said "you can never go back and 'first time' it again." I mean, last year I had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into, and to be honest I really didn't care. I just knew that I'd been given an opportunity to go do something awesome, so I packed up the Jeep (fully expecting to have to sleep in it for 10 days) and pointed it toward Austin. And once again, I'd like to thank Bryan for not only the use of his spare bedroom throughout that week last year, but also for informing me that I have a standing reservation there this year as well. Gentleman and a scholar that one. Another difference that might be slightly muffling things is that last time around I was still new to the whole "magazine thing," having only been a published writer for 3 months. So everything was new and exciting, and I split the majority of the time there between "I can NOT believe my fucking luck" and "HelloI'mJeremiahmayIpleaseshowyoumyPressCredentialsplease!?'" modes. And though I wouldn't exactly classify myself as "jaded", I would say that I'm definitely a little more seasoned now. I'm malachited. But I am really looking forward to going. There's absolutely nothing like SXSW, and I'm very, very, VERY thankful to the people who have offered me the opportunity to be there again. (Read as: my editors & my employer.) And I've no doubt that, given the experience afforded me from last year, this time it will be even better. j.s.



Wednesday, February 14, 2007 Happy fucking V.D. Bah. And, from the always brilliant XKCD... j.s.



Monday, February 12, 2007 So, let's discuss this weekend a bit. For those that didn't know, I was on a team vying for a spot in the VH1 World Series of Pop Culture, and we were called in for our final round of testing/interviewing this weekend in Austin. Unfortunately, I signed away all ability to discuss said testing on a Non-Disclosure Agreement. One that clearly states they'll arrive at my door armed with tasers, small headsets, and sensible black outfits if I say too much about the show. So I can't tell you what the questions on the test were, or which team won, or really much of anything I'm afraid. Suffice to say, it was not us who advanced. Afterward we all went out to an awesome dinner at Cru (one that H. managed to comp nearly the entirety of), and then Dixie, M. and a few more of us went to something called the "Sin Party" at Sky Bar. Which was quite fun; as anything called "Sin Party" is likely to be. More importantly, I hadn't danced in quite a while so it felt good to brush the cobwebs off and cut a rug or two. We took off from there around 1 and went to 219 West, where more Tanqueray was imbibed and things became a little blurry. I do recall dancing to a New Order song with a couple of girls on the stage in the middle of the bar...although I'm not entirely sure how that came about. Anyway, came back to H's hotel room at about 3ish, and crashed on the pull-out. As you might imagine, Sunday was quite painful and sickly. But I managed to catch up with Dixie and M at their hotel and we scooted off to Enchiladas y Mas (migas and breakfast tacos!) and to meet Dixie's brother, who was every bit as interesting as I expected him to be...given that he shares so many of Dixie's A,C,G and T nucleotide patterns. After breakfast we went back to her brother's place and watched the Dr. Tran DVD. Which is funny and brilliant and strange and sometimes quite difficult to watch...all at once. We eventually left around 4 and made our individual ways back to Houston, and I was so exhausted by the time I got home that I collapsed on the couch and watched about 10 minutes of "Say Anything" before falling asleep. And this week, I am officially OFF THE SAUCE. Do you hear that people? No boozin! At least until the weekend anyway... My liver is in need of a Mormon Holiday. (Starring Audrey Hepburn and Gordon B. Hinkley.) Talk to you all later. j.s.



Wednesday, February 07, 2007 And, in an almost entirely unrelated development, did you know that the METRO Blogger here in Houston makes almost 80k-a-year? Behold... Boggles the mind doesn't it? Now perhaps I don't have a fancy pants, screw-the-foot-I'll-just-blow-the-door-off-its-hinges journalism degree like some people I could name (yes, that's sarcasm), but in return for stooping so low as to hire a paltry fashion major I would've been happy to shave 30k off that asking price (and thereby off of the taxpaying Houston populace), to do exactly the same thing. My God... If I spent my days riding around on this city's public transportation I'd never have a shortage of things to talk about. j.s.



Hey, it's you! How's it goin? Good, good... So, I'd like to pause and talk about you for a moment if I might. And while it's quite possible that this could get overly sappy and dramatic (as I am more often than I'd like to admit), there seems to be a grand disparity in my life that has bothered me for a while now, and I must restore balance to the Force. It's no secret (or maybe it is and I'm better at hiding it than I thought), that I very rarely enjoy the things that I write. It's true. Your not-so-humble narrator is all but convinced of his own hackery. Er, his hackness? Hackisity? Bah, not important. Basically what I'm saying is that I don't like reading my own writing. In fact, most of the time I find it to hover around the "Go Dog Go" quality of authorship. I'm not sure exactly how or why this came about. But what's more distressing is that, despite my dislike of most the things that come out of this keyboard, I continue to do it. The reasons for this are several. First, I'm an incredibly ~~stubborn~~ patient person, and despite having done nothing but document the drunken delusions of an arrogant prick for the past 4 years, I feel that perhaps someday, someday, I might accidentally write something that will transcend the bonds of the banal, and wing its way majestically into the stratus of mediocrity. Secondly, I have to do this. I can't stop. Believe me, I've tried. Come to think of it: I often write when I'm alone in the house. If I'm away from a notebook/computer for a few days, I get edgy and irritable. I have been known to steal wi-fi connections just to publish my blog. I'm frequently up in the middle of the night, and can't sleep until I've scribbled some random thought onto a journal page/notepad program/junk mail envelope...something that has affected my work more than once. My God, I'm just one or two warning signs away from needing to post more than once a day to achieve the same effect, stashing Moleskines in my couch cushions, and losing all interest in personal hygiene. Okay, maybe not that last bit. The newest reason that I keep doing this is that I seem to be getting more and more random compliments from strangers on my magazine columns. While I find this development incredibly strange, I'm also very grateful for it. And though they'll probably never read this, I wanted to at least tip my hat to those who have excitedly proclaimed some variant of "YOU write the [tech or gaming] articles? Those are really funny! Seriously, I read them every month!" when they meet me. Hearing that makes me feel like I'm actually okay at my job. But most importantly, and the reason that I started this post in the first place, is that I do this because of you. Because despite what I might think about my writing, there always seems to be kind people out there who take time out of their days to tell me how funny/smart/interesting they find it. Nearly every one of you, at some point, has had something nice to say about what I've written or the way I've worded it. And it's those unsolicited kudos that keep me tapping away at the keyboard when I'm convinced everything I'm writing is pointless and an waste of valuable bandwidth. And despite my typical downward cast smile and muttered "yeah, thanks..." I want you to know that such things really do mean a lot to me. It occured to me that you might not have known that you're the tip of the sword at my back...the one that forces me to be here in front of the monitor, smiling as I do what I do. But you are. And thank you very, very much for that. mwah j.s.



Tuesday, February 06, 2007 Booyah. j.s.



Monday, February 05, 2007 Hello. So there was definitely a weekend that just went by. Yep. A weekend. One of about 52 or so this year. On this one, I was found hanging out at Cecil's with RACHEL (who can now stop haranguing me about not appearing in my blog), having a few beers and chatting until 1. Pretty low-key evening actually. Saturday I had a funeral for a friend's father to attend. Which, given that it was a Catholic funeral, was particularly long and repetitive. I apologize to any easily offended Catholic readers, but I fail to find anything divine about droning "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death." fifty times, with a few "Our Father"s thrown in here and there. Actually, the whole experience seemed more like an exercise in how not to have a funeral, as most people left saying "I really don't want a service like that when I die..." Which got me thinking what kind of funeral I would like to have. Now certain rules have always been in place, and quite a few of you already know those rules. But I thought I'd share them here so everyone can be sure to play along, should I be caught in a tragic dirigible/earthquake/locust plague accident tonight. --Jeremiah's Funeral Decorum-- Gentlemen, you should be smartly clad in dark suits, black being my preference. And if you don't own a black suit, well we probably weren't that close anyway and you're excused from attending. Know this though, if there is a single instance of black shoes with white socks, I will take to haunting your sock drawer for months. I also hereby deem you the Keepers of the Flasks, of which you are to partake liberally before, during and after the service. Please be mindful of the sobriety of your neighbor, and aid them in misplacing it whenever possible. Ladies are to be attired in red. Partly because I find women mourning in black to be a bit hackneyed, and partly because I'm a fan of women wearing red in general. Don't worry about how other people in my family might take it; they already know and will most likely be wearing red as well. And any of you who might like to throw yourselves upon my casket, wailing and clawing at it like an Italian professional mourner, that'd be quite nice too. The service: I'm cool with it being in an Episcopalian church (there does need to be some semblance of convention I suppose), but the entire service is to be kept to less than an hour in length. Any longer than that and you'll start to bore me, and I'll take to knocking vases and flower arrangements over to assuage such boredom. Those who'd like to tell stories of my exploits and/or ridiculousness are more than welcome to do so, and that would be the only reason for the procession to run long. Just be sure to make me sound awesome. I don't really want to go into the soundtrack too much, please just consult my iTunes for helpful ideas. That's it really. Moving on... After the funeral I caught up with Dixie and her friends at Kennealy's Pub for a few delicious Bass and some random conversation about horror films, hamster seat belts, and my current homosexual status. (Note to my parents: Kidding. I'm hopelessly straight.) Went back to Dixie's place afterward and watched The Family Stone which, to my surprise, I thought was pretty good. (With the exception of the Hollywood-ized ending.) Sunday was the "Sabbath Day of the Big Game"[tm], and when I finally felt able to peel myself off the couch I went over to a neighbor's house for our local "Sabbath Day of the Big Game"[tm] party. Good times. I actually ended up fielding a lot of questions about my Naomi Campbell interview, which was infinitely preferable to watching that terrible excuse for a football game. (Although I can't imagine the outcome being much of a surprise to Chicago fans...Grossman has been terrible all year. Why should the "...Big Game" be any different?) Wrapped up the party at about 9:30, and headed home and directly to bed, where the combination of queso dip, chicken nuggets and Heineken caused me to have horrid nightmares about my skin turning chitinous, with creepy red patterns on my chest, and suddenly being able to walk unfettered (as well as upside down on the ceiling), through the webbing that had, for inexplicable reasons, been draped all over the inside of my apartment. I jolted awake breathing like Horatio Sanz after finishing the Boston Marathon, and couldn't go back to sleep for a good 45 minutes, the arachniphobic bits of my head clutching to reality with a vise grip and muttering "nopenopenopenopenopenope." And now, it's back to the enormous stack of work that I've had to ignore during end-of-monthiness last week. sigh It never ends... j.s.



Friday, February 02, 2007 comes up for air Man, end-of-monthiness sucks with rocks in. Every month, when people start leaving 40-50 page printouts of accounts for me to check on my desk, I quietly attempt to disbelieve the existence of the ever-growing stack of awfulness. And every month I roll a natural one, and end up banging on numpad buttons like a Starbucks chimp for days. I need some better WIS gear. And while we're on the topic of geekiness, XKCD was brilliant today... But the geekin' don't stop there! No! I've been following the Boston Moonicre the past couple of days, and all I can do is give a mouth-agape stare at these people, the same question refraining in my head... "Not a single cop or media personality in Boston has seen ATHF?" Because that's all it would've taken. Just one pop-culture savvy person to look at the thing and say, "Hey, I've seen that before...I think my kids watch that show." Crisis averted. The city of Boston must have absolutely nothing better to do. (Pats are out of the playoffs and we're a month from Sox season, so that makes sense.) Don't get me wrong, I wish I'd been there when they detonated Ignignot. (Why oh why wasn't that videotaped and YouTubed by now?) And I really wish I'd been there when Officer Poirot deduced it was essentially just a battery powered Lite-Brite. And finally, my knee is sore...which typically means a change in barometric pressure is on the way. So the omnipresent grey skies that have hung over Houston for the past month must be about to make a less than graceful exit. The knee knows! j.s.



Thursday, February 01, 2007 End-of-monthiness and magazine deadlines... Be back soon. j.s.