I’m taking some Eric Roberts home in a doggie bag

Holy crap, but Heroes was awesome tonight. I hesitate to say exactly why it was so awesome, just in case either of my readers has yet to watch said episode. But—holy shit! How about [blank] being the one to give [blank] to [blank]? And [blank] being there? And the end, with the unfairness of [blank] getting stuck in [blank] with [blank]? And the dramatic sacrifice of [blank], willing to let himself/herself be [blanked] and his/her [blank] [blanked] to [blank] [blank]? Man, even though the whole episode only focused on one storyline, it was still awesome.

And I don't know who their casting director is, but the ludicrous decision to use Eric Roberts, of all fucking people, to play a High Villain, is so bizarre and incomprehensible that I must assume it's a mad genius.

Unfortunately, I couldn't follow the wonderful Heroes brew with a Studio 60 chaser, because the show has been yanked off the air to make room for The Black Donnellys, a new drama that turned me off the moment I heard "from the creator of Million Dollar Baby and Crash!" Paul Haggis is the most overblown Hollywood hack I've ever seen, and the adoration he receives from the business is downright inexplicable. Of course, even without my knowledge of its creator, I still would have been repulsed by the commercials, which managed to cram every single Irish stereotype other than leprechauns into a single minute. Hey, wouldn't it be great to have a show or a movie about Irish people that's not about 1) fighting; 2) brothers; 3) drinking and/or bars; or 4) brothers who get drunk and fight in bars?

But Studio 60 was pretty much just taking up space on the schedule anyway, 'cause that show has started to reek something fierce over the last several months. Sorkin has completely fallen apart as a writer, and his talented cast (and Amanda Peet, too) is left to drown in the mire of inferior material. Bad dialogue, bad stories, bad characters—no matter how much I tried to fight it, the show just sucked.

But Heroes! [blank], man. Fucking [blank]!

If only Marky Mark could have won, too

Well, it's about motherfucking time, isn't it?



Yes, Marty finally wins that which has so long eluded him. I couldn't be happier. Especially because, unlike the win I wanted him to get for The Aviator, this isn't just a pity fuck: The Departed was, hands-down, the best film of 2006, and to see the Academy finally rise up and honor him at exactly the right moment is beyond spectacular.

In other happy news, the Tragically Hip, that Canadian band I won't shut up about, is actually playing a show here in Texas for some reason. The why doesn't bother me, but the where is a little oddball: they're playing at Scout Bar. Yeah, a bar. Well outside of Houston. It's next to Half-Price Books, and within sight of an IHOP and a Long John Silver's. I work a a few miles from there. And one of the biggest bands in Canada is forced to play a show there? The following week, Vanilla Ice (I'm not joking, Vanilla fucking Ice) will perform at the venue. Meanwhile, Nickelback would probably sell out back-to-back concerts at fucking Reliant Stadium. God, this country has bad taste.

But hey: Marty! Yeah!

Not surprising...

Sylar
You scored 33 Idealism, 62 Nonconformity, 58 Nerdiness

How can you stop what's coming... when you don't know anything about power?

Congratulation, you're Sylar, the artist formerly known as Gabriel Gray! You are a seriously nerdy person with an enormous desire to be different, and to be recognized for it. As long as you don't go eating brains, this doesn't have to be a bad thing at all. You're ambitious, intelligent, tenacious, and unique.

Your best quality: Panache
Your worst quality: An obsessive desire for recognition and power



My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:

Link: The Heroes Personality Test written by freedomdegrees on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

	You scored higher than 99% on Idealism
	You scored higher than 99% on Nonconformity
	You scored higher than 99% on Nerdiness

Yay for me

Thanks to an unexpected financial surplus, I finally managed today to pick up the item for which I've been longing for about eight months: a 250GB external hard drive. As it turns out, iTunes was smart enough to handle the mass immigration of all 22.66 GB of my music almost entirely on its own, giving me a wide-open hard drive once again. So now I can reinstall all those computer programs and games I had deleted to make room for more Dave Matthews songs. Ah, The Movies, how I've missed you!

Of course, I don't have time to play any of those games. But who cares? I managed to fill my 30GB hard drive once, I can do it again!

I'm reminded of my first home computer, the one we bought back in 1994. It was brand-spanking new, a shining piece of home machinery that represented the leading edge in home PC technology. It was a 486DX, with Windows for Workgroups 3.11. My mother and I marveled at its enormous hard drive: 512 MB! Who could possibly use that much space in one lifetime?

Now, in 2007, I have more than 700 MB used up with Peter Gabriel mp3s alone. How the times change.

And, of course, there's a part of me that will someday soon regret not spending the extra cash to buy the 320GB drive. Stupid, stupid!

East of Eden

Today, my bosses at BJ's sent me to the BJ's at Willowbrook Mall to drop off a banner. I've never been to Willowbrook Mall, but I was aware that it was quite a drive. They concurred, and offered to reimburse me for gas and tolls. I happily agreed. Hey, I like my job. And this didn't seem too difficult. Sure, I didn't know where it was, but the general manager scribbled down some directions. And he was pretty confident in those directions. Surely, this can't go wrong.

I looked at my directions. I can quote them to you verbatim, 'cause I still have them:

45 NORTH – THRU DOWNTOWN

45 NORTH – TOWARDS DALLAS

EXIT BELTWAY 8 – EAST

BELTWAY 8 EAST – EXIT 249 – NORTH

…and then I was told to exit at FM 1960, at which point I'd see the mall right next to the freeway.

If you know how to get to Willowbrook Mall, you may have already seen the flaw that ruined my afternoon. But I didn't. So off I went, through the rain and Houston traffic. I took I-45, through downtown, towards Dallas.

I drove for a long time.

Eventually, I came to Beltway 8 East. I exited, as clearly indicated in my directions.

I drove for a while, looking for Highway 249. I didn't see it.

The rain got worse. I almost hydroplaned and spun out a few times. A semi nearly ran me off an overpass. I kept driving.

After about, oh, an hour, maybe an hour and a half, I neared a sign that announced FREEWAY ENDS – ALL VEHICLES MUST EXIT ½ MILES

"Uh…"

After I exited, I kept going – Beltway 8 East became Beltway 8 South.

"…Um…"

Because, yes, as it turns out, my directions were wrong – I called the people to whom I was dropping off said banner, who informed me that I had been going the wrong way for nearly two hours.

I was supposed to go west. Not east.

My eventual total drive time: four hours.

And the totally predictable punch line to this story? The banner they gave me to deliver? The one that ate up a sixth of my day?

It was the wrong banner.

In happier news, the four hours spent in my car gave me plenty of time to listen to that Gnarls Barkley album I was talking about yesterday. It is good.

The Grammys

For the first time ever, thanks to the magic of DVR, I can actually sit and watch the friggin’ Grammy Awards. I was going to write a post-mortem after I finished it, but I figured I might as well just write while I’m watching it. So here’s my live, stream-of-consciousness review of the Grammys.

• Apparently, there’s no opening to this show. And there’s no host, either. Just an Obnoxious Shouting Narrator. And we’re just opening with a musical performance, by…

• Holy shit, it’s the Police! Awesome! They sound great, too, even though Sting has to bring the chorus vocal down an octave. And the backing vocals were clearly a tape, despite the bassist and drummer mouthing along. (Apparently, this is common practice for the Police, though. I read it on Wikipedia.)

• In case you didn’t know, there are roughly seventeen thousand different awards the Grammys give out every year. Since they’ll only hand out about ten on the air, we get an ESPN-like scroll at the bottom on the screen of the winners of all the others.

• And with the very first award, we start our count of Grammys to Old Fogeys Past Their Prime, as Tony Bennett and Stevie Wonder win for Best Pop Collaboration. Tony, gracious gentleman he is, practically sprints up the stairs, almost forgetting that his co-winner is blind and can’t exactly make it by himself. Meanwhile, I discover the best part about watching this on DVR: I can fast-forward through acceptance speeches!

• The Dixie Chicks perform. I thought they were a country band, but they don’t sound very country to me. Maybe they told Nashville to get fucked after that bullshit they went through in 2003. Wouldn’t blame them.

• In a miscarriage of music, they have Prince introduce a performance by Beyonce. They should have reversed that. I fast-forward.

• Booker T. and the MGs get a Lifetime Achievement Award. And then they give an R&B Award to Mary J. Blige for butchering U2’s masterpiece, “One.” Grr. (Of course, Bono was in on that butchering, too, but—still. Ick.)

• It occurs to me, as Queen Latifah hypes the stupid sing-with-Justin-Timberlake contest, that there’s really not that much to write about while watching the Grammys. This may have been a tactical error on my part. Watching the show, I mean.

• Hey, cool: I spot on the Grammy Ticker that OK Go won the award for Best Music Video for “Here It Goes Again.” If you haven’t seen it, look it up on YouTube. It’s fantastic.

• For some reason, Justin Timberlake needs, like, eighty musicians on stage to perform one song. (I noticed this during the Dixie Chicks’ performance, too.) What is up with that? Awards shows like this always pile as many people onto the stage at one time as they can. Never understood that.

• Grammy Ticker update: Slayer (!) wins an award, as does Tool for Best Recording Package. As they definitely deserved. Unfortunately, I also see that Weird Al didn’t win Best Surround Sound Album. *shrug* He’s still got Comedy Album—oh, nope, Lewis Black won that. Hey, that’s cool.

• And they blow their Song of the Year Award already? It goes to that pretty cool song the Dixie Chicks played earlier. Yeah, that’s not at all a political statement by the Grammy voters.

• And here we go, with another Lifetime Achievement Award. Literally, that’s the fourth: Booker T. and the MGs, the Doors, some music execs, and now the Grateful Dead.

• Okay, is Gnarls Barkley a group, or just the chubby singer guy? ‘Cause his/their performance starts with just him and a piano player, but then adds in the full forty-person backing section that everyone is required to use at the Grammys. And for some reason, they’re all dressed up as airline pilots. Anyone who’d like to explain that can go right ahead.

• Actually, this performance is great. I should listen to more of his stuff. Or their stuff. Or whatever.

• Am I the only one who detests that Windows Vista commercial that compares the release of Vista with the fall of the Berlin Wall? No?

• And, sweet Jesus, another Lifetime Achievement Award, to an opera singer who’s been dead for thirty years. The hell? They’re practically on a one-to-one ratio with awards and Lifetime Awards.

• The Dixie Chicks win another award. I’m beginning to suspect a sweep. And they haven’t yet presented on stage an award I care about, save for Song of the Year.

• Another fucking Lifetime Achievement Award! Gaah!

• Some shitty country band with a singer that looks suspiciously like the Smash Mouth guy performs a verse and a chorus of “Hotel California” to honor Don Henley. Um, why don’t they just have Don Henley perform? And then that annoying Carrie Underwood performs part of “Desperado,” ostensibly for the same reason. Did Don Henley die and someone forgot to tell me?

• Oh, god, we’re back to that shitty country band to fuck up “Life in the Fast Lane.” What the fuck is going on? I desperately fast-forward once Carrie Underwood stomps over to make it even worse.

• Are the Grammys always this boring?

• Ah: the Best New Artist Grammy goes to fucking Carrie Underwood. That Award once went to Milli Vanilli. Hmm. Who’s worse?

• A bunch of stuff happens. Nothing interesting enough to write about. Man, this show sucks.

• James Blunt performs. He has, perhaps, the strangest voice in pop music today. It’s like listening to a tape at high speed. It also sounds extremely fragile, as if it might break if pushed too hard. And the PA tries its hardest to do so, with ugly popping noises and static. Boo!

• Someone with a decent but unremarkable voice sings with Timberlake. I fast-forward some more. God, I’m bored.

• Quentin Tarantino—who is completely and totally hammered—shows up to present Record of the Year with Tony Bennett while the Grammy Ticker tells me that Wolfmother’s “Woman” won Hard Rock Performance, beating Tool. Boo!

• And, of course, the Dixie Chicks win Record of the Year. Told ya so.

Well, I guess, as far as awards shows go, that wasn’t so—

Oh, wait. We’re not done? Really? Really? Oh, Christ…

• The Red Hot Chili Peppers perform, and…suck. They sound dull, and lifeless, and bored. Kinda like I am right now.

• Queen Latifah’s back, with—holy fuck, Al Gore! Yeah!

• Wow, how fucking sedated am I to get this excited about Al Gore? But he’s here to present Best Rock Album, which means we’re finally at an award I care about. And, in the most shocking moment of the show, the award doesn’t go to either of the Old Fogeys nominated—Tom Petty and Neil Young—but the Red Hot Chili Peppers, who aren’t quite old enough to qualify for Old Fogey status. Of course, the award probably should have gone to the Raconteurs, but it’s a step in the right direction.

• Don Henley—hey, he is there! Why didn’t he perform his own songs and save us from Carrie Fucking Underwood? Anyway, Don Henley strolls out with Scarlett Johansson, who is, according to the voice-over guy, “recording her first album.” M’kay.

• They announce the Producer of the Year: the Godfather of Modern Music, Rick Rubin, who is seriously one of the two or three coolest people on the planet. He’s produced Run-DMC, LL Cool J, the Beastie Boys, System of a Down, the Mars Volta, Weezer, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Johnny Cash (all those rock covers he did, like “Hurt,” were done by Rubin), Jay-Z, and Linkin Park. And he’s producing Metallica’s next album. Aw yeah!

• And then they give Album of the Year to the Dixie Chicks. As I predicted about nine hours ago.

• And then it’s over. Mercifully.

Yikes. You think it was boring reading about it, I hope you didn’t watch it. Ick, ick, ick.

By the way, the real album of the year was the Tragically Hip’s World Container. And the real Record of the Year was Evanescence’s “Call Me When You’re Sober.” Though I need to hear that Gnarls Barkley record.

Well, that was a really stupid idea. Several hours of my mortality I will never back: gone. Poof.

Note to self: never, ever watch the Grammys again.

That was fast

Madame Rowling announced just days ago the title and publication date of the seventh and supposedly final Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. And yet, already, look at this Wikipedia page! I especially dig the endless list of completely speculative "Known plot details." Nice work, guys.

Yes, I'm excited, too. Yes, it's this generation's Return of the Jedi. But come on. At least wait until there's a little more hardcore knowledge before we start wildly speculating. Okay?

Oh, and there's no way she's going to kill off Harry. Snape is going to eat it. So is Ron. Ginny Weasley will turn heel and kill him. And she'll try to kill Hermione and Harry, too, but Harry will be forced to kill her. And he'll cry, 'cause he's a wuss. And an idiot. Oh, and it'll all end when Harry and Hermione lead the charge on Lord Voldemort at a massive battle at Pelennor Fields. With Ewoks!

Here's one perfectly serious prediction: the diehard Potter fans will loathe the book. It won't end the way they want, the characters they want to die will live, the characters they want to live will die, the right couples won't end up together, and they'll hate it and bitch about it for years. There is no way the book can live up to expectation. None.

But then…Stephen King did end the Dark Tower series perfectly. Hmm. She's got an outside shot.

Oops

So, I've completely forgotten to write recaps of the last, oh, eight Hunter episodes. My bad. I plan to remedy this tonight when I get home -- one great big jumbo recap that will probably leave out a bunch of stuff and get the rest of it wrong.

I've also forgotten to cash one of the paychecks I received last week. Truly, this is a sign that my financial situation has improved -- I'm used to getting the check, cashing it, and losing it within two hours. Financial breathing room is fun.

Not fun: Bob Seger charging $65 a piece for cheap seats to his concert next month. Stupid old man. What are you, the Rolling Stones?

Um...yeah, that's obviously what I intended all along. Sure.

Your cool link for today: somebody way, way, way too into Star Wars fills in the gaps between Episodes III and IV. I'm sure Lucas planned it just like that.

Every now and then I get a little bit angry and I know I've got to get out and cry

"Wait a minute -- you guys aren't protesters, are you?"
"What, you mean those dickheads with the signs and the pictures of dead babies and shit? Fuck no! Me and Silent Bob are pro-choice. A woman's body's her own fuckin' business."

So, yesterday, while I was delivering pizza, I had to drive past the big Catholic church/school/playground/indoctrination center/thing that's half a block from Pizza Inn about three dozen times. And it's January, which means they've erected their own personal Master of Puppets cover in their front yard: long, long rows of white crosses, grave markers, each representing a million abortions. You can always count on the Catholics to cheer you up during these depressing winter months.

But there's all these crosses, right, and I suppose I can deal with it. I mean, it is a striking visual, no doubt about that. Of course, the implication is that our country would somehow be better off if we were burdened with an extra 45 million people who weren't even wanted in the first place, and I can't agree with that. But they have their beliefs, and they have their demonstration, and that's fine. I don't get why they only put it out there for a few months at the beginning of each year -- abortions are less a deal in June, I guess. But whatever.

(EDITED TO NOTE: Of course, not thirty seconds after posting this, I realized why: today is the anniversary of Roe v. Wade. Fuckin' duh. And I knew that already, too, because I had already told several people weeks ago. I'm an idiot.)

I started to get a little weirded out, though, when I spotted some of the churchgoers leaving the building to take snapshots of the display. Not just one or two, but several pictures, like they were arranging a panoramic collage. Why? So you can remember not to have a abortion? To thrust in the face of your teenage daughter during one of your hellfire-and-brimstone lectures? To show off to all of your friends and ensure you never, ever get invited to the really good parties? I don't know.

But apparently, they need all the help they can. Because several rows of white crosses and three different signs just aren't enough to get their anti-abortion message across, around two o'clock I spotted some jagoff walking up and down the sidewalk in front of the crosses wearing a sandwich board. On one side, the word ABORTION and a smiling baby. On the other? A dead fetus.

Only a few times in my life have I as badly wanted to beat the living shit out of someone.

I couldn't believe this guy. And it is always a guy, isn't it? It's always some fucking man out there with the dead baby pictures. It's always men who kill the doctors and blow up the clinics. We men, who will never have to make the decision, are the ones who want to make sure women can't make the decision, either.

This used to drive my mother ballistic. Everytime some Republican gasbag would get up on TV and rant about abortion, she'd start yelling back. (Everyone who's seen me yell back at Fox News, you now know where I learned it.) She'd scream about men treating women like incubators, sperm receptacles, carriers for their glorious offspring.

So the guy is already pissing me off, just for being a guy in the first place. But a fucking dead fetus? Come on. What the fuck is wrong with you?

Actually, let me adjust the emphasis on that sentence: What the fuck is wrong with you?

He walked back and forth for a good while, dead fetus proudly displayed on his back. Not only is this revolting, and unbelievably obnoxious (that sounds like too minor a word to use, but I can't think of a stronger one), but it's just flat-out stupid: You're standing in front of an anti-abortion demonstation, you fuck! How much more good is your disgusting photograph going to do?

This leaving out my biggest problem, which is the Catholic -- no, just go ahead and make that the religious desire, the religious need to shove their beliefs in everyone's face. If you think abortions are wicked, don't have an abortion. If you think having sex with another man will get you sent to hell, don't have sex with another man. If you think Marilyn Manson records are tools of the devil, don't listen to them. Jesus!

What kills me is that I know with almost complete certainty that this dick has never known someone in that situation. He's never known a woman who's had to make that choice.

I have. So I don't take kindly to assholes like Sign Guy, who carelessly and thoughtlessly shove photos in your face to make you feel like a monster.

He was out there for about an hour, I'd say. I didn't seem him leave. I hope it was in an ambulance. Fucker.

*deep, cleansing breath*

And now, to leave you in a better mood than I started in, I give you the most ridiculous music video ever made: Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Oddly enough, the song was written by Jim Steinman, who wrote all three of Meat Loaf's Bat out of Hell albums. You can tell.

Be strong and laugh and shout, shout, shout, shout at the devil

So I’ve spent much of the last month playing video games in the time when I should have been sleeping, or writing Revolver, or writing Hunter recaps. It’s like I’m in third grade all over again.

It’s been two games, mostly. First it was The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time, which FRINAN was kind enough to lend me. (That and its sequel, Majora’s Mask, along with his Nintendo 64, which is a fickle piece of machinery. You can’t play unless it wants to, by gawd.) The game is truly incredible, which makes me feel like an ass. See, I’ve spent a great deal of time over the last few years saying less-than-hospitable things about it. This is because when I originally played it upon its release several years ago, I never really got into it, and ended up selling it. (Along with Majora’s Mask, which I played for maybe thirty minutes.)

The problem, I realize now, wasn’t the game—it was my sister. Since I was working and going to school at the time, I couldn’t play the game that much. But she was home all the time, which meant she got to play whenever she wanted. And play she did, only with the Strategy Guide open beside her. This type of gameplay baffles me—if you’re just going to follow everything the Strategy Guide says step-by-step, what’s the point of playing the damn game at all? I ended up watching her do most of the game, and when it became my turn, I didn’t really feel like sitting it through all the cut scenes all over again. Thus, I never got into it.

Big mistake. While I still prefer the original for nostalgic reasons, and I think Link to the Past has the edge in fun gameplay, Ocarina of Time is a true masterpiece. And I wish I knew a song I could play that would change night into day.

The other game I bought shortly after Christmas: Guitar Hero II for the PS2. Oh yeah.

This is the most addictive game I’ve played in years. I usually don’t care for rhythm games (like Dance Dance Revolution—fucking blech), but I just can’t stop playing this. Is it the better music? The too-cool-for-school guitar controller? Yes. And yes. You can play the game with the standard controller, but why?

And I’m also surprised at how much better I’ve become. When I first played it, anything outside of Easy difficulty was incomprehensible. Since then, I’ve mastered that, and pulled five-star performances on every song on the Medium difficulty. Well, okay two songs I can only do four stars on: “Institutionalized,” because of all the frantic double-strumming I can’t quite do, and “Free Bird.” Because it’s “Free Bird.” Meanwhile, I’m making very slight headway into the Hard difficulty, which is almost unfair in how sharply it ramps up on you. (Except for “Strutter,” the Kiss song, which is by far the easiest track in the game.) Expert difficulty remains a blank, Here-There-Be-Dragons on my map. If you’d watched me stumble through “Carry On Wayward Son,” you’d understand why.

And because I’m not entirely throwing my life away playing video games, I started a game of Vampire: Bloodlines on Steve’s computer. Yep: just like third grade. Only with better graphics.

Should auld aquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?

Goodbye, 2006.

New Year's Eve always, always reminds me of a Counting Crows song, "A Long December." This is probably due to it being about New Year's Eve.

Drove up to Hillside Manor some time after two a.m.
And talked a little while about the year
I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower
Makes you talk a little lower
About the things you could not show her

And it's been a long December, and there's reason to believe
That maybe this year will be better than the last
I can't remember all the times I tried to tell myself to hold on
To these moments as they pass

Follow the train of thought with me, friends: New Year's Eve reminds me of the song. The song reminds me of my mom telling me what the song always reminded her of, which was depressing as shit. Ergo, vis-a-vis, concordantly: I am depressed as shit.

But not this time. I'm tired, 'cause it's sometime after two a.m.; I feel shitty, because I'm dealing with the second cold I've had in two months (thank you for sharing your germs, Stephen, oh friend of mine); and I'm bored, waiting for a download to finish so I can move my computer out of our neighbor's wireless internet zone and go to bed. But I'm not sad. Or even depressed.

Wherefore? 'Cause I don't think I really have anything to be sad about. I think I might be remotely happy with life.

A few weeks ago, I finished paying off my computer. On Thursday, I repaid all the back rent I owed. I am about...hmm, three months away from paying off everyone and everything to whom I owe money. (And that includes you, FRINAN. And you, too, Steve, for that matter.) And when that happens, when I'm no longer chained to the anchor of debt, I can quit working at fucking Pizza Inn. That "temporary" job has sucked almost five years of my life away, and while I like the people I work for, I absolutely loathe that place and every second I spend there.

And the events of 2006 have aligned to lead me to a place where I might achieve that freedom. Even those that seems disastrous at the time -- like, say, my car getting repo'd -- have turned to be somewhat fortuitous. (Without my car, I was forced to get another one, which is partially responsible for the financial hole into which I've fallen; but the car I had was literally falling apart, and I assure you would not still be running today. Having a functioning automobile allowed to not only keep my first job but acquire a second, which is what will allow to quit Pizza Inn and be free again. So, yes, in the long run, it was good.)

When I look back on the year, I'm confronted with lots of conflicting memories. It started in Hell, Mark II, the den of shit where I lived with Tommy. I was miserable then. I mused that if we didn't end up paying the Pine Forest Rent Nazis what we (read: Tommy) owed them, we'd end up living in a dumpster. Then I looked around the apartment and realized that we already did.

And then Tommy got engaged, and Tommy moved out, and I struck out to the eastern side of town with FRINAN. He was living away from home for the first time, and I was getting really tired of moving. Luckily, I love this place -- we're downstairs, it's a good size, I like the landlord, and the number of drunken idiots is far lower than at Chez Chernobyl. (Though it's still not zero, as FRINAN can attest.) It's one of the few places I've lived in my life that I haven't completely disdained.

And living with FRINAN for six months was great. Of course, we ended up grating on each other's nerves pretty severly at times -- not only were we living together, we were working more or less the same hours at the same place, meaning we were in each other's presence practically every waking moment. Multiply that constant proximity by how much we get on each other's nerves already, and you have a strong Insanity Cocktail. But I remember those six months rather fondly: our long-running, never-ending Vampire game could be played whenever we wanted with the both of us under one roof, and we were very quickly playing every day. And then it sort of became a constant game, one that ebbed and flowed in and out of conversations wherever we happened to be. We saved the majority of it for the regular gaming sessions, but little scenes and downtime stuff would pop up everywhere. When I think of those six months, that's what I think of: a wall-to-wall Vampire game, broken up only occasionally to watch Oz or Carnivale, or to yell at each other about what big douchebags we are. (I think the final tally of the votes will show that it was I, in fact, who is the bigger douchebag. I'm sure he agrees.)

But then the lease ran out, and FRINAN went back home, and now Steve's here. More or less the same, only with less Vampire, more guitar-playing, and lots more nerdy discussions about Star Trek. So, completely different.

That was 2006 -- a messy, stop-and-start car crash of events that have somehow left me in a far better position. Looking back, it feels an awful lot like the conversations I still sometimes have with FRINAN regarding a game I'm running. He'll say it was good, but then complain that "nothing really happened." I'll fire back that things did happen, thank you, and might even name a few. And he'll consider it, and then say, "Yeah...but nothing really happened."

2006: Nothing happened. Everything happened.

One thing that didn't happen? Me learning the benefits of brevity, huh?

I leave you with the traditional New Year's Resolutions. Interestingly enough, I've never made New Year's Resolutions before. They are infamous for not being kept, though, so I'll be satisifed if I keep a third of them.

1. Pay off all my debts.
2. Save some money.
3. Quit Pizza Inn.
4. Write at least six episodes of Revolver.
5. Make headway toward that novel I've had kicking around my head for, oh, ten years now.
6. Same as 5, except subsitute the word "screenplay" for "novel."
7. Write at least three songs, lyrics and music, and add them to our standard musical repetoire (I've already got the music for one).
8. Play Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas, which I purchased, played for fifteen minutes, then put back in the case and forgot about.
9. Stop being such a douchebag. (Hey. I can't throw in the token "Quit smoking" resolution, because I don't smoke. Consider this in its place.)
10. Make another short film. It's been more than three years since "Burned." Too long.
11. Keep our Vampire game running until 2008.
12. Keep our Hunter game running until it reaches the end. (And recaps are coming guys, I promise.)
13. See the Dave Matthews Band in concert again.
14. Try harder to find the positives in every negative situation. (This is closely related to number 9, actually.)

And finally:

15. Figure out why I can't write a word of Revolver, or a short story, or a novel, or a screenplay, or a fucking Christmas card, but I sit here for an hour and blab non-stop into my blog.

Happy New Year. May the current year bring you much joy and happiness.

Who are you, and what have you done with the real Astros front office?

It was brought to my attention that I didn't mention something when I was excoriating Andy Pettitte, because I didn't realize it at the time: that option Beakman wanted for 2008, the one he got from the Yankees, was a player option, not a team option. In other words, Andy gets to decide whether or not he'll get paid $16 million. The Astros' response to this was, obviously, "Um, no." So he's back in pinstripes. Oh, of course, Andy swears that he would never take the option if he were injured and unable to play. Sure. "No, thanks, you can keep that $16 mil, my arm hurts." Riiight.

So: Andy Pettitte is an ever bigger asshole that previously discussed. Hoo-rah.

But the Astros are not to be deterred. Andy's seat on the bench hasn't even grown cold yet, and they've already replaced him with Jason Jennings, a righthander from Colorado. And he's good, too: nevermind his win-loss record, which suffered because he played for a last-place team; his 3.78 ERA last year was 12th in the league. And yes, I can already hear the comments from the usual source about what a terrible ERA that is, but a) it's really not bad; and b) he pulled that off at Coors Field, which is a truly awe-inspiring feat. Forget how awful it must be to pitch for the Colorado Rockies in the first place -- the things the thin air in Denver does to a pitcher's stats are ugly, ugly, ugly. (I have a book somewhere that devotes an entire chapter to explaining how Coors Field destroys any chance a pitcher might have of being successful. And yet this guy did it.)

Now, they didn't get him cheap. They gave up a top pitching prospect, Jason Hirsh. They gave up Taylor Buchholz, who was our Jekyl-and-Hyde starter last year: he'd throw a shutout, then give up nine runs, then give up seven runs, then throw another shutout, then give up eight runs. Good luck in Colorado, sport.

But here's the one that hurts: they traded one of my favorite Astros, centerfielder Willy Taveras. He was runner-up in the Rookie of the Year voting in 2005, and he has the makings of being a star leadoff hitter in the mold of Kenny Lofton.

This trade felt really, really dumb to me when I first heard it this afternoon. Stephen and I were talking about who would fill the hole in center. And the obvious name leapt to mind, Chris Burke. Who is a far better hitter than Taveras. But then who hits in the leadoff spot? Oh, well, Biggio, obviously, who now won't have to platoon with Burke, 'cause he'll be starting in center.

Huh.

So...they made a sacrifice...and boosted both their offense and their starting rotation at the same time?

Are these the same Astros I'm used to? The same guys who thought Preston Wilson was going to hit like Barry Bonds? Did they actually do something...intelligent?

They told Pettitte to go screw, made a savvy (if disappointing) trade, and improved upon their biggest weakness, offense.

Now, if only they can straighten out the mess at third base and figure out how to repair Jason Lane, they'll be all set.

Where's the NEED SMARTER DRIVER light?

I have spent an inordinate amount of time in my life being sneered at by auto mechanics.

'Cause as I've mentioned before, I know absolutely nothing about cars. And I'm also somewhat lax about getting problems checked when they arise -- not to due to laziness (not completely), but because usually I'm broke and can't afford to fix it, no matter what it is. So I ignore it and hope it goes away on its own. Of course, it doesn't, and eventually the car breaks down and I have to pull off some miracle (read: borrow money from friends) to repair it. And so it goes. And so it goes.

Today, I got my oil changed. I was a little overdue, according to the little sticker in the corner of my windshield. Not by much -- just three months. Or nine thousand miles. Depending on which benchmark you're looking at. But I had some free time and money this afternoon, so I got it done. Because the oil light had started to flash sporadically over the weekend. Time to get it fixed!

Now, here's my biggest problem with cars: that fucking CHECK ENGINE SOON light. I don't know what this light means. A lot of the time, those warning lights on the dashboard are self-explanatory. When the FUEL light comes on, put in fuel. When the BRAKE light comes on, put in brake fluid. When the OIL light comes on, put in oil. This is pretty simple, even for me.

But CHECK ENGINE SOON? How soon? Check it for what? That it's still there? Yeah, it's there, it's running, it's running fine, what could be wrong with it? The car certainly knows, that's why the light came on. But it's not telling me. Fucking arrogant car. "Oh, you mean I have to tell you everything? You can't figure it out yourself? How typical. And I thought you understood me!"

Perhaps I should see a mental health professional about my tendency to anthropomorphize inanimate objects.

But anyway. When the guy changed the oil today, he gave me that Auto Mechanic look, the one I've been getting all my life. The one that says, "My god, you know nothing about cars, do you?"

I was somewhat low on oil. Actually, I was really low. So I got a sneer. As always.

At least it wasn't as bad as the time I rode my brakes with no brake fluid for so long the brake pads dissolved and the metal parts of the brakes crumbled to dust. That was embarrassing.

Can we invent transporters already?

Ask not for whom the bell tolls -- it tolls for thee

I have 19066 days left on this earth before I am mercifully swallowed by death, according to a reputable source. The method? FRINAN kills me for correcting his grammar one too many times? Rocking out a little too hard to "Welcome to the Jungle" and driving my car into a tree? No: cancer. How lame is that? And how predictable!

If you're still around in February 2059, when I die, I want you to remember this for my funeral: do whatever you want. I'll be dead. Why would I give a damn?

The hell?

I certainly seem to be posting quite a bit, don't I? Here comes my fourth in the last two and a half hours. Last one tonight, I swear.

But I just couldn't keep quiet on this. Using the Blogger bar at the top of the page (actually, the one atop Revolver's page), I clicked the Next Blog button a few times and stumbled across this atrocity.

Yikes. That is one scary page design. I'd comment on the actual content of the blog, but I can't read any of it.

'Cause I do it all for you, ya know

So, I was finally able to switch over to the beta of the new Blogger. I gotta say, so far, it's pretty spiffy. Cool labeling feature, better-looking Dashboard, and the Template editing is a breeze. I wish it had been there a year and a half ago, when I put this blog's template together with duct tape and prayer.

I haven't finished (or even come close to finishing) the new Revolver episode -- which, for the moment, is titled after Fiona Apple's "Shadowboxer," which may give you some clues as to its content -- but in a matter of minutes I managed to overthrow the butt-ugly self-designed template I was using in favor of a fresh, shiny new one. I'd really, really like to know what you think of it -- if it's easier to read, if it's simpler, whatever. If you'd like to comment -- and I really need you to, don't know if I made that clear -- you'll have to do it here until I can figure out a way to make Haloscan work over there with the new template. EDIT: Who needs Haloscan? Blogger's built-in comment system works fine. I had tried it before on this site and it sucked; they seem to have improved it a great deal. Unfortunately, this has the side effect of obliterating all the old comments. I'm sorry.

Thank you in advance. And hopefully I can finish the damn thing soon.