Lazy and beautiful Sunday.

I'm watching Todd Snider videos on the big screen TV, I'm getting
ready to drive out to Pasadena to see "Gonzo", I've got text messages
rolling in from beautiful people across these United States, and for
the first time in months, I'm having a great day.

Now if I can only get Ryan out to see the movie, the education can
begin.

"...Shot from Peña... Oh! It's in the back of the net!"

Sick and tired of utilizing duffel bags as makeshift goals, Ray Peña
decided a proactive stance needed to be taken on solving the dilemma.
With the help of an home depot employee who probably sounded like
Speedy Gonzalez' 2nd cousin, Ray went out and bought PVC piping, nets
and corners pieces. Only after first assembly did he realize the
genius behind his actions.

It should be said that I would never have felt any passion for "the
beautiful game" without Ray acting as a catalyst. Sure, video games
and Fox Soccer Channel, who is not paying for this endorsement, helped
paved the way, but only after someone else blazed the trail. I cannot
say I understood the game until this past year much less appreciated
it. I was always playing baseball or basketball as a kid, good old
"American" past times.

But now, in my 26th year, in hundred degree weather, on a gorgeous
SoCal morning, I find myself with twenty other guys playing a game
that I am not all that good at.

Ray posted an ad on craigslist that said something like:
Average Joes!!
Wanna play soccer without paying league fees, without wasting gas
looking for a pick up game, and without wondering if there will be
enough players?
Come join us saturday mornings at Van Nuys park and don't be
disappointed.

The first week the ad was up, a couple responses were received but no
one showed up. The glory of having goals is only so grand when you've
built as many goals as you have players.
By the next week though, the list had grown to the point of abundance.

I missed the next week due to illness, but heard an earful from the
participants at work. "it was so awesome! I can't wait for next week!"
wrote one of my coworkers.

Amidst all this, everyone at work had been transfixed on the European
Championship. Since there were matches on pratically every day in
June, our cravings to play had been egged on by seeing some of the
best players in the world go head to head. Spain came out in top, but
I was a bit torn. I've got both German and Spanish blood in my veins
so I would have been happy with either outcome.

This past weekend we met at the park and had a great game with about
20 other players from different backgrounds and ethnicities. It's odd
meeting guys with passion for the game that converse amongst
themselves in Swahili or Russian, but one can assume that it is a
testament to the diversity in both LA and in the game itself.

Most people work their 9-5 monotonous rat race jobs looking forward to
Fridays. But this game has become the focal point of my weekend, and
I'm sure this is true for others. Especially Mr. Peña.

Now if only I could get Jay out to one of these games...

[ed. note: Actually Posted by "The Hooded Warrior Can't Write For Shit"]

The Genius That Was Dr. Hunter S. Thompson

I'm very excited about the impending release of the documentary, "Gonzo", because my respect for Thompson, his style, and his theory, borders idolatry.  Why?  Well, because the Bible wasn't written by Jesus.  

Hunter S. Thompson is the father of Gonzo Journalism - the most significant literary movement in the past hundred years. And his message could not be more important than it is today. 

Example (excerpt from Kingdom of Fear): 

September 11, 2001

[Eighteen months before the U.S. invades Iraq]

The towers are gone now, reduced to bloody rubble, along with all hopes for Peace in Our Time, in the United States or any other country. Make no mistake about it: We are At War now -- with somebody -- and we will stay At War with that mysterious Enemy for the rest of our lives.

[...]  

This is going to be a very expensive war, and Victory is not guaranteed -- for anyone, and certainly not for anyone as baffled as George W. Bush. All he knows is that his father started the war a long time ago, and he, the goofy child-president, has been chosen by Fate and the global Oil industry to finish it Now. He will declare a National Security Emergency and clamp down Hard on Everybody, no matter where they live or why. If the guilty won't hold up their hands and confess, he and the Generals will ferret them out by force.  

I recently received an email from a friend:

So, since I saw that [Gonzo] trailer -- and started reading up on Thompson -- I want to read everything he has ever written.  Where should I start?

I responded thusly:  

I would start with strong drink.  

I personally suggest the 2003 Bonny Doon Madiran.  It's called "The Heart of Darkness", and if you can find it, you can often get it for less than twenty bucks.  (As I'm sure you know, "Heart of Darkness" is named after the classic novella by Joseph Conrad -- a great piece of literature that inspired the single greatest film ever made: Apocalypse Now.)  That bottle should really put you in the right mental state -- provided you don't go do something stupid, like share it with anyone.

You could also start with a six pack of anything from Flying Dog Brewery.  I strongly suggest the Gonzo Imperial or Road Dog Porter.  They're both strong enough to give you (as we say in New York, before going out to the bar) a "six-start".

For books?  Start with "Kingdom of Fear".  It's really the only one that deals with recent history.  Needless to say, it's brilliant.

If you're more interested in a chronological experience, start with the birth of Gonzo Journalism: The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved.

Then read "Hell's Angels", and "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas".  After that, read "Better Than Sex."  If you watch the news, you'll be familiar with most of the major characters - as it's all about Bill Clinton's campaign - and includes some great letters and faxes from Thompson.

I discovered Thompson in college, studying Political Science, and writing a paper about Richard Nixon.  I went to the library to find some books on Nixon, I wanted to learn the real dirt before I started my paper.  As it turned out however, I wasn't a very good student.  Because it was a project assigned to the whole class, and because it was the night before the project was due, there were no Nixon books left in the whole damn library.  Save for one.

Luckily, I had a friend working in the library.  Not a friend, really.  She was one of those straight-black-hair and tattooed girls who would say hello in the cafeteria once in a while, but would never hold an actual conversation with me.  Without saying a word, she led me down an aisle of largely forgotten, dust-covered tomes, and slid a sweet bit of heaven from the shelf.  

She handed me "Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72".  She said it was "wicked" (that's New York speak for "Hella Cool").  I read that book in a night, wrote an A paper, and his style really put the hooks in me.  Thompson played a major role in the modern American political landscape because Rolling Stone was just becoming a respected magazine -- and the significance of young constituents was largely ignored before the Vietnam War.  So -- politically, anyway -- Thompson was allowed to do whatever the hell he wanted.  And he continued to get a Press Pass for wherever he wanted to be.  Total access.

Don't start with that one, though.  You have to be interested in politics to get through it.  As a younger man, and as a Political Science major, I was interested in politics.  And as Thompson says:

"I brood on these things. It is one of those old habits, like date-rape and cigarettes, which I like too much to quit."

You can skip "The Curse of Lono," "Screwjack," and "The Rum Diary" for now. Save those until you've got the bait lodged firmly in your esophagus.

For now, that's probably enough.

Let me know what you think.

- Homer

So sure, I love Thompson.  Although he was an unrepentant drug addict and second-amendment spouting, bordering neo-conservative moron sometimes, his underlying message was clear.  And that message is this:  There is no such thing as objective journalism.  

The underlying theme of everything Thompson ever wrote is that of Individual Experience.  

Right now, at 2:50 AM, Pacific Standard Time on Tuesday, June 24th, 2008, the top political headlines are as follows:

FOX News:  OBAMA APOLOGY TO MUSLIM WOMEN ORCHESTRATED BY MUSLIM U.S. HOUSE REP.

ABC News :  McCain Adviser Regrets Seeing 'Advantage' in Terror Attack

CNN :  Adviser sorry he said terror attack would help McCain

MSNBC :  Obama to women: I support equal pay

Now, it's pretty easy for most people to see that every outlet comes with its own political bias.  But there are millions of people in fly-over country (I'm looking at you, Nebraska) who watch the news, and take it as pure, unbiased, objective journalism (and let's face it, they're watching FOX).  Because that's what "the news", that's what journalism is supposed to be.  

Thompson refused to buy into this myth -- as do I.  

"Some people will say that words like "scum" and "rotten" are wrong for objective journalism -- which is true -- but they miss the point."  - Hunter S. Thompson

Journalism -- like every other creative art form -- is subjective in nature.  It's art.  And it's impossible to create it without painting it the color of our own personal bias, steeping it in the broth of our opinions, and looking at every situation through the funhouse mirror of our own Individual Experience.  So why try?  

Sure, Thompson took the idea to an extreme by getting completely twisted on drugs, making a scene, and injecting himself into the center of every story he ever wrote, but why not?  Why not make yourself the main character?  The story's going to be filtered through your own individual experience anyway, so why not make the story your own?  

"It was no accident that I got to be the caretaker of Colonel Walter E. Kurtz's memory - any more than being back in Saigon was an accident. There is no way to tell his story without telling my own. And if his story really is a confession, then so is mine."  - Apocalypse Now

The idea, fundamentally, is this.  Your story is yours.  It doesn't matter if you're writing for the Rolling Stone or the New York Times.  You can write like Hunter S. Thompson or Arianna Huffington.  You can be Joseph Campbell or Joseph Conrad.  You can be Mark or Matthew or Luke or John.  No one will tell the same story you will.  

So write accordingly.  

So live accordingly.

Oregon Trail

My friend Jamie asked if I could get her the original "Oregon Trail".
Remember that game? You probably played it elementary school on an
old Apple computer. I work with a lot of nerds, so I said I could ask
around.

Me: Hey Julian, you're a nerd. Do you know where I can find the
original Oregon Trail?
Nerd: Between Independence, Missouri and Willamette Valley, Oregon,
in the Western part of the United States.
Me: Thanks.

I guess I asked for that.

Me: Hey Anthony. I'm looking for the original "Oregon Trail"
computer game for a friend of mine.
Nerd #2: Does your friend like hideous, boring, and frustrating
things from the 70s?
Me: That's why she and I get along so well. Maybe she's feeling a
little nostalgic.
Nerd #2: Was she voted "Most Likely to Die of Dysentery" in high
school or something?

Frankly, these guy's aren't helping at all.

If you know where I can find it, leave a comment. Jamie thanks you.

Customers.

"This job would be great if it weren't for all the [...] customers."

I can't deal with people screaming at me. Seriously, it's not my
thing. I've got an aversion to emotional confrontation. Physical
confrontation, I love. But when people get all red in the face, I
just start shaking, trying so hard to resist that urge to throw a left
jab, followed by my overhand right. When I plant my left foot like
I'm supposed to, twist my hips and put my shoulder into it, that guy
standing in front of me buckles and falls like a house of cards. It's
a beautiful thing to see.

But according to company guidelines, I'm not allowed to deal with
customers in this manner. My job is to make them happy, not to see
how fast they buckle behind a right hook to the midsection.

And when they're standing in front of me on the sales floor,
SCREAMING, my job is to give them whatever they want.

Honestly though, I have to start using this train of thought in my
daily life. When that gallon of gas costs more than I'd like, I'm
just going to walk into the gas station, ask for the manager, and
start screaming like a special-needs man-child.

If he's been trained like I have, I'll be tooling around town on
Texaco's dime in no time.

Really? The sun? At this hour?

You know what sucks?

Good girlfriends and gay guys, sure.

But what really sucks is being awake long enough to watch the sun come
up when you're in dire straits with a draconian attendance policy. And
having to work at eleven AM on a Sunday. That, my friend, is not the
recipe for a good day waiting to to hurl itself upon you.

Anyhow, I've invited some other writers to this ramshackle abode I
call a blog, and I hope they agree. Because they're gifted and
creative people, to be sure, but also because I'm lazy. And I don't
post to this blog nearly as often as I should.

I should also take a moment to encourage you to check out RudeBoy's
pictures in the sidebar. That's some good shit. I was thinking about
getting myself a Flickr account until I saw his, and decided I'm not
what you'd call "A Photographer".

And if I'm not convinced I can do it better than anyone I know, I
won't do it anymore. That's why I stopped playing guitar when I met
Ryan.

It's a ridiculous neurosis, to be sure, but it exists, nonetheless.
If I wasn't afflicted, I'd have kids by now. I know some great
parents. I could never live up to my sisters, my brother,  or my cousins 
as a parent, so I stopped trying.

Anyway, I hope to have some new writers on board soon enough. I just
pray they don't write better than I do.

Stay tuned.

More lunch thoughts.

I'm having a light lunch today. I haven't eaten since yesterday, and
I'm not really that hungry, I think. It may just be psychological,
though. I may subconsciously want to eat as little as possible so I
can drink myself into a coma tonight.

I did eat a lot last night, though. Ryan made some fantastic steak
concoction. I ate a ton of that, and promptly fell asleep for the next
fourteen hours.

In other (and possibly related) news, it's Eti's birthday right now. I
was going to send her something, but I don't really know how to send
things to the Middle East. And sending her something would surely make
her feel like she should call me, and as much as I want to hear her
voice, I don't feel like I'm in the right place (mentally) to take
that phone call right now.

I was talking to a coworker today, and she said, "You should do
something fun on your day off. What do you like to do that cheers you
up?"

I had no answer to that.

So I'll be up all night drinking red wine, wake up sometime tomorrow
evening, spend what's left of the day at my computer writing something
for my (as yet unpublished) website.

Plus, it's going to be a hundred and twelve degrees again tomorrow.
Who wants to go out and do anything in that kind of heat?

I hope the weather's a little more forgiving in Israel.

In fact, I hope a lot of things are.

Actual work being done? Ridiculous!

I'm well armed, now. I haven't written anything of substance for
quite some time.

I'll tell you a little secret, I've been using this time to put
together a pretty kick-ass website. I'll let y'all know when it goes
live, and much of the stuff you'll have already read right here, but
there will certainly be a lot more. I'm slowly coming out of my
little funk, and I plan to come out of my corner swinging.

I've got a Mac and a brain, and I'm not afraid to use them. Not
anymore, anyway.

Stay tuned.

Haircuts make me happy.

[sing in terrible, non-melodic, falsetto] "I'm going to get my hair
cut, woo-hoo!"

I always feel so much better after a haircut. For me, it's a lot like
a lumbar adjustment, or an hour of intense therapy. It's a rebirth, of
sorts. It makes me feel like a new man. And afterward, I always need a
shower.

Gray.

An odd, dreary day in Southern California.