mr. lisa loeb

Lisa Loeb is really hot. It puzzles me why someone so hot is single. When I was a teen, a girl I was dating asked me to go see Sarah McLachlan with her at the UCI campus. Lisa Loeb was opening. (McLachlan, by the way, has a surprisingly foul mouth.) Whilst standing in line before the show, Lisa was chilling with fans/signing autographs in an enclosed area about 50 feet away. She was wearing these sweet tight pants and I was totally dumbfounded by how big and hot her butt was. (Big butts are always a very, very good thing.)

Thus began my intense infatuation with Lisa Loeb.

Oooooh, I have a great idea! I'll be Lisa Loeb's boyfriend. Some stuff we have in common: we play guitar, wear glasses, and as I understand it, Lisa's a half-assed vegetarian. Good enough, I suppose. Also, I am hot and cool and going places. I watched some of her new show on E!, and the guys on it were real douches. It would behoove her to go out with me, as I could give her tons of street cred.

Props to Justin for supplying me with my "medicine" for the day.


cheese sux

Today I went to one of these "white Mexican" places that are in over-abundance here in Orange County and ordered a burrito with beans, rice, and salsa. Usually this place gets my order right, but today I discovered cheese halfway through my burrito. This presented itself as somewhat of a problem because on one hand I'm vegan, but on the other I dislike wasting food. So I just decided to eat thing. God, it was nasty. I seriously fucking hate cheese. It tastes like shit (read: like milk) and makes me all phlegmy. Even when I was vegetarian I could only tolerate cheese in small amounts, and only certain cheeses at that; namely, sharp cheese. Extra-razor-blade sharp cheese is the only cheese I actually enjoyed eating, but even that started to taste too much like milk. Have I mentioned that I fucking despise milk? All my life I've hated it. Even as a meat-eating, cheese-sniffing manly man. Foul beverage. The last time I had milk was back in 2003 when I made the massive mistake of having a few swigs of my ex's egg nog. I spent about two hours on the toilet, shitting out my pancreas. Milk hates my stomach about as much as I hate milk.

Having said all this, though, whenever I make it back east and visit NYC, I plan on suspending my veganism for a few hours (or a day or two) in order to try some famous NY pizza. Hell yeah, Louie.

Oh yeah, if you're vegan and you're ever in Portland, OR. you should try two places: The Pho Jasmine in north Portland, on Killingsworth, just off Albina. It's right across from the PCC-Cascade campus. It's pretty amazing Thai food and I'm pretty fucking snobby about my Thai. There's a vegetarian/vegan menu with dozens of dishes to choose from. I dunno what they do to the tofu, but the shit is like the fluffiest scrambled egg ever, and I don't even like scrambled egg. The other place is La Villa, off Morrison, in SE Portland. I think it's 719 SE Morrison. The best motherfucking falafel you will eat outside the Middle East. Hands down, my favorite dish ever. Ever. There's the regular falafel sandwich and then there's super—go with the super. The regular is fantastic, but the super is the sort of thing you'd sell your mother for. The tahini is out of control. And totally vegan. Everyone I've brought there has been converted. Okay, I've only brought two people there, but they were hard sells. Very picky about their food. And both conceded the awesomeness of the super. And only $5, no sales tax. The regular is $3. And the place has great ambience. Very relaxed, low lighting. Great place. Seriously, the greatest falafel in north America. Fuck, I need to go back to Portland.


more frey stuff

Here's a link to a few clips of the Oprah show wherein she more or less hands Frey his ass. Honestly, I feel kind of bad for the guy. I think what he did was wrong, and I think he knows that he fucked up, but it seems like he just got caught up in something he can't get out of. I mean, I think it was deliberate on his part, but I empathize because we've all been in the situation where we've lied and the lie gets out of hand.

There's also an article and more clips at Salon, if you feel like sitting through the ads. Someone in the letters section to this particular Salon story defended Frey by saying that all memoirs are subject to possible faulty memory and to lay off, blah blah blah. No one is disputing that memory is often faulty; that's not the issue here. In the book, Frey claims to have been in jail for 80 some odd days when in reality he was in for a few hours. That isn't a problem of recall, it's a problem of blatantly pulling shit out of his ass. This further complicates matters because Frey's extended stay in jail was the reason he couldn't save Lily from killing herself. Kind of hard for that to have happened, you know, when you were only in prison for a few hours. This goes beyond someone's memory being fuzzy and straight into someone just plumb bullshitting. This is what I mean about a lie getting out of hand. I think Frey is lying about Lily killing herself and you can see it when Oprah asks him how she actually did it. There is a pause, as if he is trying to think of something really quick to say, but it is also a look of trepidation, and this look, at least to me, says that even he can't believe he's dug a hole this deep.

You know that agent007 thread I linked to in my previous post on Frey? Well, it seems some people are unclear about the post I wrote there. I parodied postmodernism and wrote a ridiculous bullshit post calling truth into question and mocking some of the more retarded defenses of Frey (e.g., that someone who publishes a memoir and appears on Oprah has the right to privacy about information he's volunteered; HUH?). Someone said they checked out my blog and couldn't reconcile my two positions. I only have one position: I think the Frey memoir is bullshit. I'm not going to write another post there and clear this up, though. The post is my whole point: when people promote postmodernism, can you trust that they are genuine in their position?


My favorite song is Kaki King's "Nails." It is a hidden track on her second album. I mean, this is my absolute favorite song. Ever. It is the most intense piece of music I have ever heard. It is not intense in the way, say, gospel music is, but in the way where I feel like I'm just going to die when I listen to it. It is the most beautiful song, really. It is just painful and sad and beautiful. It is dark and ugly and soothing. It is just amazing. The most amazing thing I have ever heard. I've been obsessed with music my entire life and I've never had a favorite song until now. I listen to it every night. I will literally just sit and listen to it over and over again for hours. I have done this ever since first hearing it and I will probably do it until the moment I die. And when I am not listening to it in stereo, it is reverberating through my body. Always.

I first heard it over the summer. I had had the CD for a while, but never knew of this hidden track. One night in Portland, a few nights before I moved to the east coast, I was listening to the CD in my discman and noticed the CD didn't stop after the last listed track, "My Insect Life," had finished. So I waited a few minutes to hear what the hidden track was going to be like, but didn't get my hopes up; hidden tracks are usually hidden for a reason. But the song began to fade in and I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It was so beautiful and painful. It was like those first few moments after you've realized you've fallen in love with someone. Where you feel like the your life will never be the same again.

It was a stressful time. I had quit my job, shipped most of my belongings to my parents in California, and was going to move across the country to be with a girl I had only met once before. It was the craziest thing I had ever done, and I've done a lot of really insane shit. I only had the clothes I was wearing, what clothes I could fit in my suitcase, my discman, and a book full of CDs. More important, I was in love with a beautiful girl and she was in love with me.

My last day in Portland was exciting and sad and tense. My roommates had been out of town for a while, so I had been taking care of the cat and the pet rat and taking care of the house on top of making sure I wasn't forgetting anything for the move. My flight was to leave Portland for SLC at 6:30 pm and I needed to take the bus to the bus station and then board the train to the airport. All of which would take at least an hour-and-a-half. Not to mention schlepping my suitcase to the bus stop, onto the bus, off the bus, onto the train, off the train, etc. So I cleaned my room, cleaned the house, left my roommates a note telling them it was great living with them, let the cat out, made sure the rat had some food in her bowl, obsessively checked drawers and underneath the bed to make sure I wasn't forgetting something, etc. and got myself ready to leave at 3:30. 3:20 rolls around and I'm about to go but before I do I unzip my suitcase, take out my discman, plug it in (rechargeable batteries are worthless) and listen to "Nails" just one more time. I think about what I'm doing. I realize it's crazy. I'm scared. I feel irresponsible. She e-mailed me that morning expressing doubt. She's never lived with anyone before. She says she is sorry for asking me to give up everything for her. She is afraid it won't work out. She is afraid she is fucking my life up. She is sorry for freaking out now, on the day I am flying out. A little while later she sends another e-mail and says she is a horrible person and please just disregard everything she said previously and that she is just afraid because she has never lived with anyone before. She says she is really happy I'm coming and that she can't wait to see me again. These e-mails make me think that everything is over, but what can I do about it now? My roommates are expecting an empty house when they return. I quit my job. I bought a plane ticket weeks ago. It's too late.

The CD stops spinning and I take my headphones off. I unplug my discman and pack it again. I schlep my suitcase through the house and out the front door. I lock the door and put the key in the mailbox. I light a cigarette and drag my suitcase to the bus stop. "Nails" is on repeat in my head. I drown out all ambient noise; I just want this beautiful music.

I leave Portland. I fly to Salt Lake. I fly through the night to Newark, NJ. That morning I fly from Newark to Hartford, CT, where she is waiting for me.


but what about the chunky black girl?

Here's an article on sixty-one-year-old Abercrombie + Fitch CEO Mike Jeffries. First, a quote:

. . . we hire good-looking people in our stores. Because good-looking people attract other good-looking people, and we want to market to cool, good-looking people. We don't market to anyone other than that."

Now, a picture:

As I stated in the letter I wrote in response to this article, Jeffries is one jacked motherfucker. He looks like a cross between Rocky Dennis and Sloth Fratelli. He reminds me of that fat girl in high school who is obsessed with pointing out other fat people and how revolting they are. That kind of contempt is compensating for the tragically obvious reality that Jeffries himself is a sweaty monstrosity. Also, he reminds me of Steve Rubell, that little balding ratfink cunt who ran Studio 54 and actually had the gall to discriminate on looks. But Rubell and Jeffries have something better than looks: money.

His exclusionary demographic-speak doesn't really bother me. It's just good ol' fashioned capitalism. What really gets me about this, is the fact that anyone would consider A+F cool. It's probably the most retarded brand I can think of. No one cool wears that bullshit; are you fucking kidding me? The only people I've seen wear it are thirtysomethings who are trying really, really hard (and failing). A+F is the journalist's idea of what's cool, i.e., someone who thinks they know what's going on, but really doesn't. Privileged white boys are not cool—they're douchebags who think getting drunk as soon as they're twenty-one (how edgy) makes them "really crazy." Then, in their late twenties, that college education daddy bought them starts to sink in and they begin subscribing to podcasts and Wired. This is cool? Jeffries is trying to market to cool people and he's failing miserably. A+F clothes are horrid. They're as bland as the demographic. Cool people have style and taste, which is why no one cool wears A+F.



Michiko Kakutani on James Frey:

By focusing on the "indeterminacy" of texts and the crucial role of the critic in imputing meaning, deconstructionists were purveying a fashionably nihilistic view of the world, suggesting that all meaning is relative, all truth elusive. And by focusing on the point of view of the historian (gender, class, race, ideology, etc.), radical feminists and multiculturalists were arguing that history is an adjunct of identity politics, that all statements about the past are expressions of power and that all truths are therefore political and contingent.

This is precisely my problem with postmodernism, and why I want to slam my fist through Frey's face and all of the writers whose basic response to his forgery is: "ho hum, what is 'truth' anyway?" Postmodernism buries itself. Kakutani's assessment of postmodernism, that "all meaning is relative, all truth elusive," is the noose with which it hangs itself. If truth is elusive, then that statement itself, those words, must be true and truth isn't elusive, for how elusive can it be if we can identify it as being anything? Going a step further, postmodernism claims that there is no such thing as truth. If this is to be believed, then that statement itself must be true, and so the truth does exist: it being that there is no such thing as "the truth." The statements refute themselves. Yet so many people buy into this bullshit. It is why we have "reality TV," contemporary politics, and why people like James Frey and "JT LeRoy" can get away with being frauds. It is why "JT LeRoy" can protest that s/he has the "right" to be whoever s/he wants. Uh, no. You have no right to claim that you were an abused child, you have no right to delude people who actually were abused as children into thinking that you understand, that you were there, that, like you, they could maybe transcend their upbringing and become a success.

Here's a thread about the debacle. Most people are rightfully annoyed about Frey, but there are a few who see "gray" areas. What is this obsession with seeing gray areas everywhere? How about I take a "gray area" approach to gray areas themselves and decide I'm not really sure you can find gray areas in every situation? Maybe you can, maybe you can't—golly, who knows!? I used to buy into that, too. I used to say, "Everything isn't black and white," but that statement itself is pretty black and white, isn't it? It's like when someone says that there are no absolutes. I guess not, save for that very statement. I think you should apply the bullshit detector to the more postmodern posters. Actually, I think you should just assume that their posts are total bullshit. I'm not a cynical person, but I am skeptical. There's a considerable difference. I question things, I don't assume either way. To me, cynicism is no different from naivete: when you're naive you accept things without thinking and when you're cynical you dismiss things without thinking. Of course, there are many things you can dismiss immediately, including, but not limited to: intelligent design, politicians, "reality TV," talk radio, commercials, "infomercials," etc. But why be cynical about someone who claims to have written a memoir? Why read the first page and decide the entire book is bullshit? Maybe it isn't cynicism, but envy and a chip on the shoulder that someone's book has sold more than yours that brings you to the conclusion, after reading the first paragraph, that said book is bullshit.

I was a druggie once (still am?) but I had no desire to read Frey's book when it first came out. Obviously it wasn't anything he had written that turned me off—how would I know?—but his tough guy persona. He just seemed like he was trying way too hard. (Like King Wenclas and Neal Pollack, for example.) I had my suspicions. However, that doesn't mean I thought he was completely pulling shit out of his ass. Nor does that make that he actually did pull shit out his ass okay. I'm the first person to admit that we all lie, but that doesn't mean we should just accept it. I lie, you lie, so we should just be cool with it, then? I think a lot of people harbor latent racist impulses as well, does that make it all right? What I find so funny about postmodernists is that the "truth" is relative or doesn't exist or blah blah blah until someone lies to them, then it's an outrage.

Anyway, The Smoking Gun had their suspicions about Frey as well and they had the means to investigate his story and found that their suspicions were on to something. Good on them. And good on the journalists who are exposing "JT LeRoy" for the fraud that it is.

I do think people should be responsible for what they spend their money on. But if I sell a box and swear up and down an orange is in it and you buy it because you love oranges, take it home and find out it's actually an apple, whose responsible? I mean, cut the fucking bullshit: this was a writer claiming he had written a memoir. It was published by a major publisher. This wasn't some sketchy infomercial nonsense—if it was, then I would concede that the buyers should take responsibility for their actions. Frey and his book came in a credible package and that package was given that much more legitmacy with the Oprah plug. Frey, like "JT LeRoy" preyed upon people's empathy. They're like the "victim" who lies about being abused in order to garner sympathy and friendship from people. To excuse that kind of behavior is not merely cynical and opportunistic, it's malicious.