Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Chaaaaanges!

Essentially, this is my new backyard. I am quite pleased about this, to say the least. Keeping my bank account in check while living in a place that offers a wide variety of ways to get yourself in finanical trouble... will be another story.

At any rate, this new development is great. However, I still kind of feel like I'm in a funk lately. What's new, right? I think it's partially just because it's a big transitional phase for me, but then again, isn't it always? I'm always going from one project to the next, one "big idea" to the next, and well... one guy to the next. Let's be honest. But the one thing I usually have to fall back on - my longtime dream of becomming a real live producer - seems to have kind of fallen by the wayside lately too. Maybe that's why I'm feeling lost these days. I really want to throw myself back into the project I was working on before things got crazy with work, the move, life - but it's proving to be harder than it looks.

I guess what matters is that I care enough to at least question it. Why is it happening? Or, rather, NOT happening? I think as soon as I'm settled into my cozy place at the beach I'll be able to ponder these things more fully and freely. If not I can always just lay in the sand and stare at the sky. If nothing else, maybe an asteroid will hit me in the head and knock some sense into me. Or Seagull poop. But as much as it would hurt, I'd hope for the former.

Until then, I'll just shut up and get back to packing. :)

RED HAIR!!!!!

Yay for Redheads. Blondes may have more fun, but Redheads are WILD AND CRAZY! Haha. Just wanted to post a pic of my new do. Have a great weekend!!!

Dear Upstairs Neighbors,

I'm sorry that your loser of a father cannot afford to buy - or even rent, for that matter - a house for you all to run around like crazed monkeys at all hours of the day and night. However, that is not my problem. My problem is that you are apparently unaware that you LIVE ABOVE SOMEONE and every single elephant-sized step you take, awful song you blast, or explosion-filled video game you play (at excessive volumes that are damaging to the ears of small children and animals) can be heard throughout my apartment as well as several others I am sure. And the fact that one of you is an amateur drummer (a horrible one at that) does not make matters better.

I have no quams with the fact that the patriarch of your family is obsessive compulsive and has to do a 360 degree spin before he stalks up the steps to your animal house. I don't even mind that you all dress like goth fucktards and skateboard around the courtyard smoking cigarettes and yelling profanities. I also don't give a rat's ass that you people are up 24 hours a day and take 15 showers in a bathroom with the loudest fan on earth at 2 hour increments. I'm actually a pretty easy-going gal. But I DO NOT condone the constant bass tones that flood my apartment while I try to eat, watch my television (at a reasonable volume) and sleep in PEACE. It's constant. And no amount of ceiling banging, loud shouting of "TURN IT DOWN FOR THE LOVE OF GOD," or evil looks in passing in the courtyard and garage seems to get my point across.

So here is what I propose: Either learn to co-exist peacefully and QUIETLY with your more than patient and understanding neighbors, or I will go American Psycho on your ass and butcher you all in your sleep while blaring tunes from the 1980s including Phil Collins and Whitney Houston.

Seems reasonable enough to me. And with that gesture, I bid you adieu.


*** And yes, I really did write this one. And you can actually find it under the "rant" section of Craigslist. I'm hoping someone will nominate it to go under the "best-of" section. Time will tell, my friends. Time will tell... ***

On Saturday Afternoons in 1963

So I've had this song on repeat for the past twenty minutes. Something about it just stops me dead in my tracks. Takes the wind right out of my lungs. Sometimes I wish more things in life had that effect on me. Music always has. Since day one. But not much else. A really amazing film or a brilliant novel can send me into a temporary trance-like state. But music can alter my entire mindset. It's strange and mystical and, moreover, real.

Anyone who knows me knows that I have one of the more ecclectic music collections around. A good number of the artists I hold nearest and dearest most people have never even heard of. Yet it still surprises me when I'm at a bar and a song comes on and my friends look at me instantly asking, "Who is this?" and I rapid-fire spit out the artist, song title, and usually the album it comes from without even really thinking about it. And my friends either nod and say, "Thanks" or they stare at me blankly and say, "How the hell did you know that?" I'm weird, guys. I know music pretty well. Which leads me to a new thought....

Am I in the wrong industry?

That being said I set off on another adventure in the world of production tomorrow. So far all I know about the job is that it will go for two weeks and it's "kinda craziness" whatever that means. I would have liked a little more time off, but unfortunately sitting on my ass at home doesn't pay the bills. If only...

Here are some quick lyrics to the song the title of this blog is named after:

"On Saturday Afternoons in 1963" by Rickie Lee Jones

The most as you'll ever go
Is back where you used to know
If grown-ups could laugh this slow
Where as you watch the hour snow
Years may go by

So hold on to your special friend
Here, you'll need something to keep her in
Now you stay inside this foolish grin
Though any day your secrets end
Then again
Years may go by

You saved your own special friend
'Cause here you need something to hide her in
And you stay inside that foolish grin
When everyday now secrets end
Oh and then again
Years may go by

Dear Alcohol,

First & foremost, let me tell you that I'm a huge fan of yours. My friend, you always seem to be there when needed. The perfect post-work cocktail, a beer at the game, and you're even around in the holidays hidden inside chocolates as you warm us when we're stuck in the midst of endless family gatherings.

However, lately I've been wondering about your intentions. While I want to believe that you have my best interests at heart, I feel that your influence has led to some unwise consequences:

1. Phone calls: While I agree with you that communication is important, I question the suggestion that any conversation of substance or necessity takes place after 2 a.m. Why would you make me call those ex-boyfriends/girlfriends when I know for a fact they do not want to hear from me during the day, let alone all hours of the night?

2. Eating: Now, you know I love a good meal, but why do you suggest that I eat a taco with chili sauce, along with a big Italian meatball and some stale chips (washed down with WINE & topped off with a Kit Kat after a few cheese curls & chili cheese fries)? I'm an eclectic eater, but I think you went too far this time.

3. Clumsiness: Unless you're subtly trying to tell me that I need to do more yoga to improve my balance, I see NO need to hammer the issue home by causing me to fall down. It's completely unnecessary, and the black & blue marks that appear on my body mysteriously the next day are beyond me. Similarly, it should never take me more than 45 seconds to get the front
door key into the lock.

4. Furthermore: The hangovers have GOT to stop. This is getting ridiculous. I know a little penance for our previous evening's debauchery may be in order, but the 3pm hangover immobility is completely unacceptable. My entire day is shot. I ask that, if the proper precautions are taken (water, vitamin B, bread products, aspirin), prior to going to sleep/passing out face down on the kitchen floor with a bag of popcorn, the hangover should be minimal & in no way interfere with my daily activities.

Alcohol, I have enjoyed our friendship for some years now & would like to ensure that we remain on good terms. You've been the invoker of great stories, the provocation for much laughter, and the needed companion when I just don't know what to do with the extra money in my pockets.

In order to continue this friendship, I ask that you carefully review my grievances above & address them immediately. I will look for an answer no later than Thursday 3pm (pre-happy hour) on your possible solutions & hopefully we can continue this fruitful partnership.

Thank you,

Your biggest fan

P.S....

THINGS THAT ARE DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN DRUNK: 1. Innovative, 2. Preliminary, 3. Proliferation, 4. Cinnamon

THINGS THAT ARE VERY DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN DRUNK: 1. Specificity, 2. British Constitution, 3. Passive-aggressive disorder

THINGS THAT ARE DOWNRIGHT IMPOSSIBLE TO SAY WHEN DRUNK:

1. Thanks, but I don't want to have sex.

2. Nope, no more beer for me.

3. Sorry, but you're not really my type.

4. Good evening, officer. Isn't it lovely out tonight?

5. Oh, I couldn't. No one wants to hear me sing...


*** Disclaimer: I did not write this. I found it on Le Internet. But I thought it quite humorous and wanted to share it with the world. Thank you, world, for stopping by. More fun stolen anecdotes to come... ***

Blogalicious

HELLO! Many moons have passed since I have posted on this site and after much consideration I decided to botch the old crap and bring in some new. Guess that's kind of how my life's been going as of lately so I figured I'd stay on-target.

For my first entry, I'd like to reveal to any of you that don't already know this: I am a thief. But at least I'm honest about it and cite my stolen property's true author.

In today's episode, I've tactfully "lifted" (if you will) a posting from "The Best-of Craigslist" - a section of Craigslist that I have recently found quite intriguing and hilarious while I sit at my computer at work and pretend to actually be doing something productive when really I'm just slipping slowly into an open-eyed coma. This is something that only my father and I have seemed to master. We were the teachers' pets in high school, as you can imagine.

So here it is - my favorite Craigslist posting I've ever read. Enjoy.

"Hey Crackhead!"

Yes, you. You sick fucker. On Wednesday morning I emerged from my girlfriend's building by U.N. Plaza to find that you had sawed the tops off both the sparkplugs on my motorcycle. At the time, I had no idea why anyone would do that. Other than the sparkplugs, the bike was untouched. Some kind of bizarre vandalism? A fraternity prank gone awry? I had no idea. All I knew is that I looked like a huge douchebag riding the Muni to work in a padded motorcycle jacket and helmet.

Because the bike was immobilized I got a $35 street sweeping ticket that night. Thursday I had it towed to the shop ($45) where they replaced the sparkplugs and the boots ($50 including labor). They explained to me that "people" - I use the term loosely here - like you break off the tops of spark plugs and use the porcelain tubes to smoke crack. As an engineer and former MacGyver fan, in a way I think this is kind of cool. But then I remember that I just paid $100 for YOUR crackpipes, and I get angry again.

Crackhead, it was really good to have my bike back though. I rode home from the shop with a couple of spare sparkplugs and a smile on my face. I figured the next time I parked at my girlfriend's place overnight I would have to buy some crackpipes and tape them to my bike as a peace offering. Overall, I wasn't that upset. Despite having to ride the bus for three days and dropping a hundred bones at the shop, I had gained some fascinating knowledge, a new set of sparkplugs, and a pretty funny anecdote about how fucked up you are, and how our paths once crossed briefly in the night.

But you couldn't just let sleeping dogs lie, could you Crackhead. You couldn't just stay in on Friday, watch Letterman through the window of a home electronics store and then call it a night. You couldn't rest on your laurels. Two porcelain sparkplug crackpipes just wasn't enough for you, was it Crackhead? You just had to come back for more.

This morning, a scant fifteen hours after I rode it out of the shop, I found my motorcycle violated once again. This time you only took the right one - maybe you were having an off night. At least this time I had a spare sparkplug and the tools to fix it - or so I thought - having ordered a 73-piece toolset from SEARS.com last week. But no, the sparkplug socket in my new toolset was for American sparkplugs. So I had to go down to the neighborhood Ace hardware. They had an 18mm socket that would fit over my sparkplug, but it was for a 1/2" drive ratchet. My toolkit only has 1/4" and 3/8" ratchets. So I had to buy a 1/2" ratchet along with the socket. Even though the clerk took pity on me and gave me the senior citizen discount (I'm 25) it still cost me $22 all told. Now, you might say that I should have just gotten a 3/8"-to-1/2" drive adaptor instead of springing for the whole ratchet. And to that I say, "Shut the hell up, Crackhead, I'm not finished! And besides, I was eventually going to buy a 1/2" ratchet anyway so it's probably not worth it to take it back now."

OK, now I'm rambling. But the point is, Crackhead, that you have done me wrong. Now, I get that you love crack. That is totally understandable. I've heard it is really fun, at first, and quite addictive. What I don't understand is,

YOU ARE A CRACKHEAD! WHY DON'T YOU OWN A CRACKPIPE?

I am an engineer. Do you ever see me shaking down bums in the Loin for a calculator and sliderule? No, you don't. Because engineering is the main thing I do, I went and bought myself a calculator. The main thing you do is crack. How do you get by without a crackpipe? The other crackheads must clown on you non-stop. I mean, the fucking saw you used to saw off my sparkplugs is probably worth five or ten bucks. Why not sell or trade it for a crackpipe? You really haven't put much thought into this, have you?

Please, Crackhead, please don't tell me you sold your crackpipe to buy crack. Even a stupid crackhead such as yourself couldn't possibly be that stupid.

I've decided that taping crackpipes to my motorcycle would be tantamount to appeasement. You have crossed a line, Crackhead - specifically California Street. You have come onto my own street and you have desecrated that which I hold dear. You have stolen from me, and you have caused me to spend the last half hour writing this post instead of engineering shit, and it is concievable, if not likely, that my boss could find out about this and fire me. I am hella pissed at you dude.

Here are my options as I see them:

1. Write a note saying that I have coated both of my sparkplugs in rat poison and tape it to my bike at night. You can thank Tim for that one, it was his idea.

2. Don't write a note, but just coat both sparkplugs in rat poison. This is probably closer to a punishment that would fit your despicable crime. I'm sure this is super illegal and shit, but it's not like anyone is going to miss you, Crackhead. Don't fool yourself.

3. Wait in an alley near my bike armed with my new stainless steel mirror-finish Ace Professional brand 1/2" drive socket wrench, my 18mm sparkplug socket, and my searing rage. It's pretty heavy and well balanced. I am not a large man, but I am angry.

In conclusion, Crackhead, why don't you just do both of us a favor and buy yourself a crackpipe? It will both enhance your crack smoking experience and save me a lot of time and felony assault charges. Think about it.

Sincerely,
Matt

*** If you are not the Crackhead that took my sparkplugs, please disregard this posting ***



Now you can all see how beautiful Craigslist can be. And someone should get this guy a job at The Onion. STAT.