Self-Aggrandizement: August 2004 Archives

vigilante justice
Filed August 31, 2004 11:54 AM.

On my way home yesterday afternoon, I passed a hot dog stand that regularly sits on our corner. A crowd of men in khakis and Polo button-downs was gathered around, each ordering up hot dogs - most with extra ketchup.

"How much per dog?" someone asked. The normal price: $1 even. But the guy behind the stand looked down at the Republican National Convention Delegate tags hanging around their necks, looked back up, and with only a slight small replied, "$2.50 a piece."

note to self
Filed August 30, 2004 2:45 PM.

Learn Braille so I can read in the dark.

down under
Filed August 30, 2004 2:28 PM.

As noted in my last post, I'm reasonably good (especially while drunk) at passing myself off as Australian. It's a hard-earned talent, certainly, though one I put to good use for years, while under-age, drinking on an Australian fake ID.

For any underage drinkers reading along, it's an approach I heartily endorse, as it left me with scores of entertaining experiences, from berating liquor store clerks who tried to look up the ID for verification in their US license picture books between Arkansas and California ("You fucking American twat, it's a country, not one of your little 'states'"), to waxing philosophic about the Australian public transportation system (something I'd never actually used) in conversation with a cute grad student in Cincinnati writing her thesis on subway systems of the world.

Women, it seems, love Australians, though explaining the lack of accent the following morning can be a bit tough. And while bartenders are happy to spot such out-of-towners a round of drinks, the round is usually comprised of Fosters. (Bartender: "Here you go man; it's Australian for beer." Me: "More like Australian for watered down piss. Aside from Victoria Bitter, I wouldn't even rinse my arse with the swill Fosters bottles.")

Throughout my years of being part-time Australian, though, there was only one fake ID experience that left me feeling a bit guilty about it all. Right around the corner from Yale's dorms was a small liquor store, Quality Liquor, that was notorious for being brutal on fake ID's - the wall behind the register was lined by at least a hundred confiscated fakes. So, in part because they really did have New Haven's best liquor selection, and in part because I wanted to see how well my accent and ID stood up to the test, I headed in the first week of Freshman year.

Not only did I pass with flying colors, I quickly became a favorite of the owners, who referred to me as "Crocodile Dundee", and gave me free liquor and significant discounts. Over the years, I got quite friendly with them, regaling them with tales from the Outback. But, then, the summer after my Junior year, I turned 21. And I was faced with a dilemma: do I keep pretending to be Australian so as not to offend them after years of friendship under false pretenses? Or do I come clean? (In my native California accent: "Sorry about that Australian thing, dudes, but an alcoholic's got to drink.")

Not really life-and-death, I know, but honestly something I worried about for a considerable amount of time. So, when I returned after the summer to New Haven, my sadness was tinged with considerable relief when I discovered the store had closed. I was spared the chance of revelation altogether, and, at least for two fat middle-aged Italian guys, will forever be as Australian as they get.

funny drunk
Filed August 29, 2004 1:30 PM.

For the most part, I think of myself as a merely moderately funny person. Sure, some of the posts here are (to me, at least) reasonably amusing, I've done my share of improv comedy in the past, and, like most people, I've at least toyed with the idea of leaving it all for a career as a bumper-sticker writer ("Honk if you're Amish" being an easy hit). But, really, I don't see myself headed off on the stand-up circuit any time soon.

Still, in the past few months, I've been told repeatedly that, with a couple of drinks in me (and here, by "a couple", I mean seven or eight), I'm pure comedy gold. While I've long had a vague sense that I'm at my best with all sheets to the wind, I rarely have clear enough memories of the conversations that take place in such a state to suspect any talents beyond drunken self-delusion.

With a slew of recent confirming reports, however, I'm now increasingly sure that I really am in prime form when liquored up. Perhaps that's because alcohol inhibits my (admittedly already meager) desire to be liked, leaving me free to make all the sarcastic, assholish (albeit self-deprecatingly sarcastic, assholish) comments that spring to mind.

At first, I was only vaguely pleased with this inebriated talent, as I suspected it might push me past the level of belligerence that even the bitchiest girls would find charming. But that opinion changed when I awoke this morning with some young lady's phone number scrawled on the back of my hand, though with only a vague recollection of to which young lady in particular that phone number might belong.

With a quick phone call to another party attendee, I was able to attach a name to the number. But I was also advised that actually calling the girl (at least while sober) might not be the best idea, as I'd apparently convinced her that I was a.) an Australian illegal immigrant, and b.) a performance artist who's signature piece is a lengthy strip routine, while in black-face.

When it comes to the pick-up potential of ironic humor, it seems there really is no such thing as too much.

i'm back
Filed August 29, 2004 1:28 PM.

With an extended stretch of actually staying in the same place ahead of me, blogging should be back to some vaguely regular schedule. Try to contain your excitement.

god bless the internet
Filed August 21, 2004 9:30 AM.

Without it, my life would be far less interesting.

turnabout is fair play
Filed August 20, 2004 12:42 PM.

Last night, while drunk, I convinced my brother to let me sharpie a bannered "MOM" heart tattoo on his right arm. At which point, he did the same to me.

It wasn't until this morning, getting into the shower, that I noticed he had actually replaced the contents of the banner with "MEN"; apparently, the kid has a sense of humor.

sure sign
Filed August 19, 2004 10:24 PM.

By now, I feel like I've gone through law school second-hand, having spent countless hours and dollars collaborating with pricey lawyers on tech and film contracts.

Even after returning, fairly sloshed, from a party on the roof of exceedingly attractive friend-of-a-fried Lexa, as my brother and I catch the middle of the Yankee's game in my living room, betting the over/under on pitching speed, I can still churn out emailed phrases like "it will be our position that, due to prior agreement, such clauses related to rights of distribution approval are wholly invalid or unenforceable."

Nothing left but to sit back and wait for my Supreme Court appointment.

quote of the day
Filed August 18, 2004 11:42 PM.

"The only thing more unpalatable than a logophile is perhaps one who types."
- The inimitable Vic Sarjoo, in response to my earlier repartee.

marching along
Filed August 18, 2004 7:42 PM.

These days, with nearly 40 gigs of music spinning inside my iPod, I listen most any time I hit the subways or streets. And, by and large, it's great. With sound-isolating high-fidelity buds in my ears, I barely hear the city grinding noisily away around me. With a click of 'shuffle songs', my entire CD collection pours seamlessly into my brain - from Aaron Copland to Zoot Sims, reminding me constantly of songs and bands I'd forgotten how much I love.

The problem is, from years of playing music, I can't help but move in time to the beat. A year back, enrolled with a friend in a ballroom dance class, I was constantly amazed by the number of people with no sense of time - couldn't they hear the music pulsing away? But, as iPodding goes, an overdeveloped feel for the rhythm is a bit of a disability - I can't not move in time to the song. So, as my listening shuffles from slow ballad to up-tempo rocker, my walking speed shifts way up and down - a problem today when, already running late for a morning production meeting, I hit a stretch of laid back Clem Snide, Nico, Iron & Wine and Love is Hell Ryan Adams.

Despite broadening my (in-time) stride, I still arrived late. But it won't happen again - just downloaded to the iPod is a 'running behind' playlist with enough Pixies, Donnas and Yeah Yeah Yeahs to have me fairly sprinting towards wherever I'm bound.

simple pleasures
Filed August 17, 2004 2:22 PM.

Getting change that includes one of the newer, multicolored $20 bills (rather than an older greenback) always makes me irrationally happy.

instant expert
Filed August 17, 2004 7:14 AM.

As with most web users, when I set out to research something, Google is my inevitable first stop. As a result, that site holds great power in designating expertise. Show up as a top result for a search string, and it's assumed that you know something about the topic that led the searcher to your site.

As I've previously written, that's not always the best assumption. While I continue to pick up a dozen hits a day on 'urinal etiquette', a topic I have written about in depth, I also draw equal numbers from searches like 'fat naked guys' and 'lesbian self-photography', topics that, while obviously enthralling, fall a bit further outside my area of expertise.

Apparently, even people who should know much better are using Google in this way. A Newsweek editor, for example, emailed a couple of months back while researching an article on specialty teas. And while the extent of my contribution to that area of knowledge is essentially limited to occasionally talking shit about Starbucks' decision to sell sub-par Tazo, I still managed to get my father quoted in her article as a result.

I've been particularly amused, however, by the recent spate of visitors arriving at this site by searching for the string 'asdjf'. I mean, that's not even a word - it's what you get when you smash your hand down nonsensically on the center row of a keyboard. Still, each day I get thoughtful, dorky questions like:

"I would like to know what words that appear to be just a random sequence of letters, usually containing elements of the set {a, s, d, f, h, j, i} mean. Sometimes the "words" are separated by semi-colons. Examples are "asdjf," "asf," "asdfkl" and "sldfjasjkdf." Teenagers and young adults use them on the internet and chat rooms, many times in conjunction with "grrrr" (which I presume to be an expression of anger.)"

To which I can only say: aas;lkdfj alj;fsdk kljalfsd a;sldkfjads;fkl.

effigy
Filed August 16, 2004 10:11 PM.

This Saturday, following a fair bit of drinking at Bar Nine for Yoav's twenty-sixth birthday, we all headed back to his apartment to brave the rain and burn a teddy-bear.

Sadly, neither Yoav nor I can lay claim to the idea of stuffed animal torching - the credit instead belongs to attendeed Mike Schupbach, three-time Emmy winner (seriously) and head Muppet Wrangler for Sesame Street, who suggested that Yoav write everything negative that had happened to him over the last year on a piece of paper, stick it up the bear's hoo-haa, and then light the whole thing on fire in a Santeria-esque ritual that would doubtless permanently traumatize any six year-olds who happened to catch a glimpse of the action.

By the time of the burning, everyone wanted in on the act, and so the poor little bear was loaded up with an array of scribbled-on paper scraps, doused with enough lighter fluid to match Hades, and set ablaze.

The flames leapt a good five feet in the air, and when the rain finally cooled the embers, there was less left of Teddy than a well grilled hamburger leaves behind. And while we all likely took years off our lives inhaling the chemical fumes flame-retardant stuffing apparently puts out when push beyond the limits of its retardation, it was clearly worth it.

We left feeling cleansed, ready to face the world, knowing that whatever problems, trials and tribulations we'd previously faced had all gone up in smoke, stuffed up a teddy-bear's ass.

sending
Filed August 14, 2004 9:16 AM.

Psychic rays to:

Ariel & Andreas, in congratulations of their wedding last weekend.

Yoav, as he turns 26 and drinks the night away.

Helen Jane & James, in support of James' father duking it out with cancer.

Hilary, as she paints her way through Florence.

The recently engaged Caitlin, as she thinks about beating me up if I don't finally give her a shout-out on this site.

throwing in the towel
Filed August 9, 2004 1:28 AM.

My best intentions to the contrary, it appears there's no way in hell I'll be able to run this shoot, blog about it on Cyan's site, and blog about it here.

So, to minimize the insanity of this week's endeavor, I won't be posting here until I return from Israel next weekend, focusing instead on hitting the daily post mark at www.cyanpictures.com.

Head on over and take a look; I'll do my best to make it worth your click.

the world on my shoulders
Filed August 6, 2004 1:24 PM.

When I was in middle school and high school, I hated, hated, being assigned group projects. Inevitably, someone (or multiple someones) would drop the ball, and I'd be left frantically trying to cover for them.

I'm having that same feeling this week, as, despite there being ostensibly two other producers on this Israel documentary, all of their work seems to be eventually ending up in my lap. And though that's somewhat detrimental to me sleep schedule, sanity, and week-focused-on-jazz ambitions, it's probably for the best. In the same way that I've always preferred individual sports to team ones, there's something oddly comforting about knowing that if it all goes to shit once we head out to shoot, there will be nobody to blame but myself.

Related addendum:

"There is no monument dedicated to the memory of a committee."
- Lester J. Pourciau

the algebra of disaster
Filed August 3, 2004 11:23 PM.

(late night jam sessions + early morning conference call) * day after day = trouble

where in the world
Filed August 1, 2004 9:47 PM.

Escaping the thunderstorms and humidity, I'm off to California for a week of tech-dork consulting, meeting with animation firms for a possible upcoming Cyan film, and (most importantly) honing my trumpet skills at the Stanford Jazz Workshop.

Posts, I realize, have been a bit sparse of late, but I'm trying to get back to a daily schedule. Also, as things are gearing up for a Cyan documentary that starts shooting next week in Israel (yes, kids, I'm racking up the frequent-flyer miles like a pro), I should also be writing regularly in my movie mogul alter-ego at www.cyanpictures.com.

vigilante justice Filed August 31, 2004 11:54 AM.

note to self Filed August 30, 2004 2:45 PM.

down under Filed August 30, 2004 2:28 PM.

funny drunk Filed August 29, 2004 1:30 PM.

i'm back Filed August 29, 2004 1:28 PM.

god bless the internet Filed August 21, 2004 9:30 AM.

turnabout is fair play Filed August 20, 2004 12:42 PM.

sure sign Filed August 19, 2004 10:24 PM.

quote of the day Filed August 18, 2004 11:42 PM.

marching along Filed August 18, 2004 7:42 PM.

simple pleasures Filed August 17, 2004 2:22 PM.

instant expert Filed August 17, 2004 7:14 AM.

effigy Filed August 16, 2004 10:11 PM.

sending Filed August 14, 2004 9:16 AM.

throwing in the towel Filed August 9, 2004 1:28 AM.

the world on my shoulders Filed August 6, 2004 1:24 PM.

the algebra of disaster Filed August 3, 2004 11:23 PM.

where in the world Filed August 1, 2004 9:47 PM.