Month: August 2010

drunk musings

They say it’s the fuck, the act, that makes life worthwhile, but no, friend, no. I do not mean to be contrarian but your thoughts on the matter are twisted and limited in scope. You are missing the story, the principal reason for living, which is detailed in acts 1 and 3: the before and after. The before is the flirtation, the anticipation, the pure need that both can feel and transmit to the other via pheromones. That’s the science, baby. We thrive on smells and touch in the right places. Have you felt the skin on the inside of woman’s elbow after kissing her neck and lipping her ear lobes? Then there’s breath, warm, and perhaps tinged with wine and weed.

The act itself, it is bestial, it is raw. It is skin, flesh I prefer to call it, on skin, moisture, the dew that drives the dearest purring and groans faintly resembling that coveted set: “I love you.” It may also come in the form of “I fucking love you so much.” It is oh and uhh and Oh My God. It is the fuck.

The after, now that’s the one. The after is the resolution, the culmination of both expectation and doing. It is the moments of reflection and intertwined limbs, no longer eager to act but ready to lie prone and vulnerable. It is true that if you want to see a man at his most emotional then you catch him after the act (but quickly, make haste!). It is also true that if a man wants to see a woman at her most beautiful and loving he should catch her in the after, when she smiles weakly, not much of a smile but better than any other smile he’ll see her with. It is what women, all women, of all types, give to men as a gift. It is sometimes a gift ignored, after skipping the opportunity to lie with woman, in the after, when all life is full of hope and the future is glistening.

drunk musings

They say it’s the fuck, the act, that makes life worthwhile, but no, friend, no. I do not mean to be contrarian but your thoughts on the matter are twisted and limited in scope. You are missing the story, the principal reason for living, which is detailed in acts 1 and 3: the before and after. The before is the flirtation, the anticipation, the pure need that both can feel and transmit to the other via pheromones. That’s the science, baby. We thrive on smells and touch in the right places. Have you felt the skin on the inside of woman’s elbow after kissing her neck and lipping her ear lobes? Then there’s breath, warm, and perhaps tinged with wine and weed.

The act itself, it is bestial, it is raw. It is skin, flesh I prefer to call it, on skin, moisture, the dew that drives the dearest purring and groans faintly resembling that coveted set: “I love you.” It may also come in the form of “I fucking love you so much.” It is oh and uhh and Oh My God. It is the fuck.

The after, now that’s the one. The after is the resolution, the culmination of both expectation and doing. It is the moments of reflection and intertwined limbs, no longer eager to act but ready to lie prone and vulnerable. It is true that if you want to see a man at his most emotional then you catch him after the act (but quickly, make haste!). It is also true that if a man wants to see a woman at her most beautiful and loving he should catch her in the after, when she smiles weakly, not much of a smile but better than any other smile he’ll see her with. It is what women, all women, of all types, give to men as a gift. It is sometimes a gift ignored, after skipping the opportunity to lie with woman, in the after, when all life is full of hope and the future is glistening.

a bright wall in a dark room.: The Prestige (2006)

By all accounts, these two gentleman should be world class magicians because they are world class charlatans; charismatic charmers that can fool any audience into believing what they see, but in the face of the machine, they are the fools.  The quest for dominance is so all consuming that each man begins to believe his own lies, and the lies of the other until there is nothing left but delusions of grandeur and the shattered bits of the lives they sacrificed for those delusions.

In case you’re not aware, A Bright Wall in a Dark Room covers excellent films. They provide an answer when the question on everyone’s lips is, “What should we watch tonight?” Recently I found myself skimming their archives to see if they’d covered some of my favorite films and was muchly troubled by the absence of what I believe is Christopher Nolan’s best film to date: The Prestige. I was so troubled by it, in fact, that as I watched the film again just yesterday I thought to myself, “I’m going to request this. I need to request this.” And so it became today and as I mentally prepared my arguments I was surprised to see that my request had come to pass. Was it coincidence? Had I willed it so? Was it meant to be? Questions, pondering… It was all difficult to comprehend.

I’m afraid you must pardon me. It is just very rare to see… real magic.

a bright wall in a dark room.: The Prestige (2006)

By all accounts, these two gentleman should be world class magicians because they are world class charlatans; charismatic charmers that can fool any audience into believing what they see, but in the face of the machine, they are the fools.  The quest for dominance is so all consuming that each man begins to believe his own lies, and the lies of the other until there is nothing left but delusions of grandeur and the shattered bits of the lives they sacrificed for those delusions.

In case you’re not aware, A Bright Wall in a Dark Room covers excellent films. They provide an answer when the question on everyone’s lips is, “What should we watch tonight?” Recently I found myself skimming their archives to see if they’d covered some of my favorite films and was muchly troubled by the absence of what I believe is Christopher Nolan’s best film to date: The Prestige. I was so troubled by it, in fact, that as I watched the film again just yesterday I thought to myself, “I’m going to request this. I need to request this.” And so it became today and as I mentally prepared my arguments I was surprised to see that my request had come to pass. Was it coincidence? Had I willed it so? Was it meant to be? Questions, pondering… It was all difficult to comprehend.

I’m afraid you must pardon me. It is just very rare to see… real magic.

to the clueless boy who is taking advantage of a wonderful girl

She’s obviously in love with you.

Everyone can tell. She lived two dorms down from mine last summer and though I’d never met you, I knew every detail of your face, of your personality. She spoke of you so often that I could recite the exact way you mispronounced ‘literally’, I could list off…

This is how we remember that girl who was sweet on us in seventh grade. She had the cutest dimple, the nicest little ass. Then that lanky quiet girl, toward the end of high school. She was real nice, helped with homework, said “Hi!” so excitedly. In college, oh brother. You know? That one girl over in Los Cerritos. What was her name? Kind of dark skin, frizzly hair? She had some nice lips on her, man. She found us at that party one time, she hung on like an ornament. She laughed at everything, smiled wide. She wanted us, but she wasn’t that redhead. The one in the shorts. She wasn’t her. That one girl, Mark’s assistant. The temp in the skirts, batty eyes? Yea, that wasn’t her. The thrift store girl, long dresses, lots of bracelets. Freckles? That wasn’t her. All of them, those girls, what was their name? They weren’t Her.

This is how we gather memories to discuss in old age.

This is how we fight the weight of regret.

to the clueless boy who is taking advantage of a wonderful girl

She’s obviously in love with you.

Everyone can tell. She lived two dorms down from mine last summer and though I’d never met you, I knew every detail of your face, of your personality. She spoke of you so often that I could recite the exact way you mispronounced ‘literally’, I could list off…

This is how we remember that girl who was sweet on us in seventh grade. She had the cutest dimple, the nicest little ass. Then that lanky quiet girl, toward the end of high school. She was real nice, helped with homework, said “Hi!” so excitedly. In college, oh brother. You know? That one girl over in Los Cerritos. What was her name? Kind of dark skin, frizzly hair? She had some nice lips on her, man. She found us at that party one time, she hung on like an ornament. She laughed at everything, smiled wide. She wanted us, but she wasn’t that redhead. The one in the shorts. She wasn’t her. That one girl, Mark’s assistant. The temp in the skirts, batty eyes? Yea, that wasn’t her. The thrift store girl, long dresses, lots of bracelets. Freckles? That wasn’t her. All of them, those girls, what was their name? They weren’t Her.

This is how we gather memories to discuss in old age.

This is how we fight the weight of regret.

Mojito & Bourbon

Saturdays alight and we, me especially, lit to the ceiling. There are strategically placed lamps, the angles of the light so sexy that it all becomes a magazine shoot.


Mysterious shadows, people in the mirror across from the circle of small chairs and table. It’s us, laughing raucously at things that are sometimes funny, sometimes sad. Drinking highballs, downing shots, smoking a primo in between. We used to try not to waste it, but waste is relative. No one should be serious on a Saturday.


Pose, sip, pose, laugh, pose.


“Be somebody, baby.” She likes to say that but won’t tell me where she got it. Grin so wide she’ll stretch her face wide open, show the fleshy insides. She’s good at lies and better at truth. She lays it all on her line spun from classy silk and homegrown cotton. Her eyes speak volumes but not nearly as much as her rhetoric.


“I’m glad Europe is feeling the pressure. I feel bad for the Germans.” Glossy red lips, polka dot dress, patent leather shoes, all guiding her eyes where she wants them. It’s magic.


Into the night until someone decides they’re high enough to leave, and the slow trickle begins. First Charlotte, all alone (we think she’s gay), then Sven and his Thai girlfriend, Megan. My baby and I slide into the corner, flanked by Mort (that’s his name!) and Samantha, the very tan English friends of the parents, on our right, Julie and Chi. They convinced her sister to stay in and watch him. He’s three now, and very independent, very alert.  “He’s probably the one watching over her!” they say. How sad, their whole thing. They leave next.


The English stay and we get along, well into three but maybe not until four in the morning. They’re staying across town, we insist. They come back with us because of the beauty of a condo in the city, right there.


Strolling through nearly empty streets, smiling, holding each other. My baby shivers but I have no coat, so an arm does what it can. The English walk close, too, and maybe it was me but the girl looked cute. She looked at me. She’s blonde, perhaps a real one. Before my baby and her short, boyish hair, I liked blondes.


Sundays never begin, not really. First it’s Saturday, then it’s go, go, go, then it’s Sunday all of a sudden, and sun’s out again. Sometimes I see it and half remember it, sometimes it’s there when I wake up in the middle of Sunday and slump into the shower.  Water into burning eyes, washing over alcohol and lipstick stained lips. Swiping a hand down across my face to make sure this is real.


I finish and walk into the kitchen. Silence is golden, not a peep. I look out through the kitchen window and my baby’s on the balcony, in the wicker lawn chair, on the little lawn island that we pay a short, sun burnt man to maintain.


She sees me and calls out. “Hey, baby.  Can you mix me up a mojito?”


I nod and get to work on the lime, sugar, and leaves. Gently pressing down into the glass, a little in, and little out, and I watch her read. I remember this, from a long time ago. Fascination with watching women read was new. It made me want her to see read all the time. My baby, she reads like a pornstar. I pull out the bourbon and treat myself for a job well done.


“Hey. You coming out, baby?”


I knock on the kitchen window and she looks over and smiles, waves her fingers. I pour myself another and stare out, smile until she returns to her book. My baby is frosted hills beneath canary fabric, she’s burning red and, like a strawberry, ripe for the plucking.


Her mojito is ready.


A condo in the city, the place to be on a Sunday. Our friends of our friends crash in the spare room and we lounge, grass so blue it can’t be real. Wind howling through the city canyons on its way to the ocean. Echoes in our heads.

Mojito & Bourbon

Saturdays alight and we, me especially, lit to the ceiling. There are strategically placed lamps, the angles of the light so sexy that it all becomes a magazine shoot.


Mysterious shadows, people in the mirror across from the circle of small chairs and table. It’s us, laughing raucously at things that are sometimes funny, sometimes sad. Drinking highballs, downing shots, smoking a primo in between. We used to try not to waste it, but waste is relative. No one should be serious on a Saturday.


Pose, sip, pose, laugh, pose.


“Be somebody, baby.” She likes to say that but won’t tell me where she got it. Grin so wide she’ll stretch her face wide open, show the fleshy insides. She’s good at lies and better at truth. She lays it all on her line spun from classy silk and homegrown cotton. Her eyes speak volumes but not nearly as much as her rhetoric.


“I’m glad Europe is feeling the pressure. I feel bad for the Germans.” Glossy red lips, polka dot dress, patent leather shoes, all guiding her eyes where she wants them. It’s magic.


Into the night until someone decides they’re high enough to leave, and the slow trickle begins. First Charlotte, all alone (we think she’s gay), then Sven and his Thai girlfriend, Megan. My baby and I slide into the corner, flanked by Mort (that’s his name!) and Samantha, the very tan English friends of the parents, on our right, Julie and Chi. They convinced her sister to stay in and watch him. He’s three now, and very independent, very alert.  “He’s probably the one watching over her!” they say. How sad, their whole thing. They leave next.


The English stay and we get along, well into three but maybe not until four in the morning. They’re staying across town, we insist. They come back with us because of the beauty of a condo in the city, right there.


Strolling through nearly empty streets, smiling, holding each other. My baby shivers but I have no coat, so an arm does what it can. The English walk close, too, and maybe it was me but the girl looked cute. She looked at me. She’s blonde, perhaps a real one. Before my baby and her short, boyish hair, I liked blondes.


Sundays never begin, not really. First it’s Saturday, then it’s go, go, go, then it’s Sunday all of a sudden, and sun’s out again. Sometimes I see it and half remember it, sometimes it’s there when I wake up in the middle of Sunday and slump into the shower.  Water into burning eyes, washing over alcohol and lipstick stained lips. Swiping a hand down across my face to make sure this is real.


I finish and walk into the kitchen. Silence is golden, not a peep. I look out through the kitchen window and my baby’s on the balcony, in the wicker lawn chair, on the little lawn island that we pay a short, sun burnt man to maintain.


She sees me and calls out. “Hey, baby.  Can you mix me up a mojito?”


I nod and get to work on the lime, sugar, and leaves. Gently pressing down into the glass, a little in, and little out, and I watch her read. I remember this, from a long time ago. Fascination with watching women read was new. It made me want her to see read all the time. My baby, she reads like a pornstar. I pull out the bourbon and treat myself for a job well done.


“Hey. You coming out, baby?”


I knock on the kitchen window and she looks over and smiles, waves her fingers. I pour myself another and stare out, smile until she returns to her book. My baby is frosted hills beneath canary fabric, she’s burning red and, like a strawberry, ripe for the plucking.


Her mojito is ready.


A condo in the city, the place to be on a Sunday. Our friends of our friends crash in the spare room and we lounge, grass so blue it can’t be real. Wind howling through the city canyons on its way to the ocean. Echoes in our heads.

vidjya games?

beverly-heels asked: you work in vidjya games? what ones? i dabble in the C++ erry once in awhile. never finished anything substantial, other than a cute replica of bubble bobble.

Yup. I can’t tell you what I’m working on now (there may be a line in my contract about bottomless pits, I dunno, I just signed), but I’ve worked on some interesting stuff. The Fight Club game… Scarface… ooh, and Littlest Pet Shop! These are career highlights here.

Bubble Bobble replica is something. More than anything I’ve done independently. Turns out I’m meant to only write in English on compooters. Which is fine. I just wanna tell some stories, yo.

vidjya games?

beverly-heels asked: you work in vidjya games? what ones? i dabble in the C++ erry once in awhile. never finished anything substantial, other than a cute replica of bubble bobble.

Yup. I can’t tell you what I’m working on now (there may be a line in my contract about bottomless pits, I dunno, I just signed), but I’ve worked on some interesting stuff. The Fight Club game… Scarface… ooh, and Littlest Pet Shop! These are career highlights here.

Bubble Bobble replica is something. More than anything I’ve done independently. Turns out I’m meant to only write in English on compooters. Which is fine. I just wanna tell some stories, yo.