The Sh*t L*st

Holy fucking shit! And I mean HOLY! I posted a link to this letter earlier, but only just now took the time to read it carefully:

> Jesus and I start the day talking � some in
> tongues � some just about any and everything
> � lot�s of �I love you�s and thank you�s for
> what you�ve done for me.� And sometimes
> He makes me laugh! Ohhhhhh, I wouldn�t
> trade that morning time for anything. He�s
> soooo REAL!

Is this foooor REAL? My god.

Though I admit the "prayer garden" does sound rather pretty. (I wonder if she picked the praying angels up at Home Depot?)

:: Complete Text

What's campier : professional wrestling, evangelical Christianity, or pop rap music?

The latest Arnold news from an article in the Hollywood Reporter:

Just as Schwarzenegger was making the radio talk show rounds Wednesday to further clarify his positions on several issues, the interview in the August 1977 issue of Oui magazine appeared on the Smoking Gun Web site, which was linked to via the political/celebrity gossip Web site the Drudge Report.

In the five-page interview with writer Peter Manso, Schwarzenegger admitted to smoking "grass and hash," hanging out with "entertainers, hookers and bar owners" during his early years in Venice, Calif., and participating in a group-sex encounter with a single female and several fellow bodybuilders from Gold's Gym, Schwarzenegger's early stomping ground.

See The Smoking Gun file here : "Shwarzenegger's Sex Talk"

But it is the end of the Hollywood Reporter article that is most outrageous:

Coincidentally, a new KABC-TV poll shows Schwarzenegger with a wide lead over Lt. Gov. Cruz Bustamante, who is considered the lead Democratic candidate to replace Davis should he be recalled. According to the poll, Schwarzenegger has the support of 45% of registered voters, while Bustamante has just 29%.

I admit that I fail to see the coincidence, but the numbers are puzzling, as the LA Times released a poll this last weekend with Bustamante up 6 points and no one breaking the 30% barrier. I wonder first of all what a local ABC affiliate is doing even running a poll when there are obviously much more reputable organizations out there already doing it and, two, how the hell did they conduct their poll? Phone-in?

I saw a couple sitting on a bench talking today. In the age of email, instant messaging, and now friendster, I thought how quaint and inefficient. In the time they spent chatting, giggling, perhaps brushing up against one another, they could have each exhanged online hundreds -- thousands! -- of messages equally cursory and impermanent. If elected governor of California, I will tear out all the park benches and in their place install computer terminals, information kiosks, and wireless hubs connected to the web.

It is a marvelous convenience to have an aquarium nearby -- especially when it is elegantly designed, newly built, amply funded, rigorously maintained, and open daily (unlike the aquarium in my bathroom.) I recommend the privilege to everyone.

The azalea on my back patio is dying a slow, inexorable death. I have not given up on her yet. But it is painful to watch a loved one suffer. Damn you leaf rust! Damn you to hell!

I came across the following remark in the commentary for a blog entry on outsourcing:

> I'm generally in favor of free trade, but I'm hedging my bets
> by going back into defense work and operating my software
> business on the side.
>
> BTW: The pain felt by the software professionals is acute
> because so many of them were paid well beyond their
> abilities and worth. I have been cleaning up lousy code
> produced by a group of such 'wonder-kids' for the last three
> years.

This guy sounds a little resentful. But it seems like the wonder-kids' lousy code was a windfall for him. For had they taken the time to delouse the code, they would have been taking from him, in advance, the work -- and reward -- that he is now earning. I guess the case could be made that had the lousiness of the wonder-kids' code been unearthed earlier, they might have been canned sooner and mop-up here brought in sooner, or paid a higher wage according to his merits.

But then what are the larger ramifications of lousy code as compared to clean code? By automating processes, or wrapping up projects, that reward workers lower down the socio-economic ladder, clean code acts as a tax against labor on the margin. Lousy code spreads the wealth. Otherwise, the code cleaned, the project completed ahead of schedule, the extra profit accruing from these developments floats right up the hierarchy to executives and shareholders. And a couple cushion-warmers in Sector 7 may now be expendable.

Of course, completely malfunctioning code threatens to disrupt production downstream and occasion greater displacements. For society, the optimal outcome economically may be lousy, minimally functioning code that requires regular maintenance. But then isn't this Microsoft's business model?

Have there been any studies or treatises on the economic benefits of inefficiency?

Woh, dude. I saw a Seinfeld episode last night I'd never seen before. Jerry goes to the circus.

They also showed the final Seinfeld episode yesterday earlier in the evening. I know it's a controversial topic, but I have to agree that it's shittier even than the final Cheers. (Except maybe for the final monologue.) Did Larry David really write it?

Curious white foam balls spotted in shrubs along Downwind Way. They look like the cocoons of spiders' egg, have the consistency of shaving cream and appear in shrubs of different varieties. No earthly explanation yet available.

I drove this morning to Home Depot to buy a watering can. Not just any watering can. But one of their cheap green 2 gal plastic ones with the sprinkler head. You wouldn't believe how hard these are to find. Last week they were all sold out. Well, there was one, but it was missing the sprinkler head. I found one like it at Armstrong's the next day, but it was red and I worried it would traumatize the plants or attract the attention of hoodlums and thieves. The woman in Gardening told me they'd probably have some in this week. Keeping in mind that probably, I called first and was told they had sixty in stock. I was very explicit about describing what I wanted. The guy on the phone said they had plenty. So I buggied on over there.

After searching in vain for ten minutes, I approached a couple employees who were talking to a woman about indoor palms. One of the employees turns to me to ask how he can help me. I tell him I'm looking for the green 2 gal plastic watering cans with the sprinkler head. The other guy interrupts his conversation with the woman to tell me that they're all out.

"But, but..." I stammer.

"Sorry. All I got are the metal ones you see there."

"The $16 ones?"

"Yup."

I'm ready to go all Lou Ferregno on his ass, but the woman's there with a stroller and I figure she's probably annoyed enough that I've just interrupted her conversation on geraniums. So I go over to the Customer Service desk. By this time I'm back in David Banner mode. But the young woman I get instantly has the green freak-out hormones coursing through my veins:

"Yeah, you probably talked to our Call Center which is in Mission Valley." She has little American flag pins all over her apron. "You should have talked to someone here."

"They told me you had 60 in stock. Is it possible that you have some in back?"

"There is no back. Everything we got is out there."

"Can you double check? I drove 20 minutes to get here." It's only like 5 miles away, but have you tried to drive in San Diego lately? You probably have, as it seems like everyone and his mother visits here. My mom was just in town on vacation with sister and step-dad last week.

She rolls her eyes and picks up the phone. I'm pretty sure she's talking to the guy I just talked to, as she doesn't seem to have to say much, but regularly nods and grunts with knowing exasperation.

"Was that the guy I just talked to?"

"Yeah. He said he'll check the receiving dock. You can have a seat." She points to a couple sorry chairs in front of the hiring kiosks wedged behind a big flashlight display.

Meanwhile, a little old man with a Spanish accent starts to complain to her that the carpet he was told yesterday would be ready for him today is not ready for him. She gives him the treatment, too. Takes his receipt, looks it up on the computer. He tells her that he picked up some of his order yesterday and was supposed to pick up the rest today. Staring at her computer, she says, "Well, I got your file here and I don't see any order picked up yesterday. Someone shoulda made a note on your file. But I don't see any sign your order is even ready." She then picks up the phone, says a few words to someone, leaves the poor little fellow hanging.

A few minutes later, the first guy I talked to in Gardening, Shawn, returns. He says he checked and there are no watering cans. I go into full tantrum mode. Bang my head against the counter. Start weeping. I blubber, "But my plants -- I need to water my plants!"

He says, "I'll tell you what. I'll give you the metal one at the same price."

I look him in the eye, "You'd do that for me?"

"Sure. Let's go pick one out and I'll write you up a ticket." And he does just that. And I'm touched. Sincerely touched. After doofus in the call center and Babs in customer service, the sweetness of this act stands out like the sprinkler-headed nozzle on a watering can. Like a red-tag sale sticker on a 9-piece screwdriver set. Like the scent of a jasmine plant after a stroll through the fertilizer aisle. Now my tears of inchaote vengeance are tears of lifelong loyal customer appreciation. I shake his hand. And then, as I get in line, some crabby old woman who reminds me of my deceased great-aunt snaps at me for trying to cut in front of her.

Omni-Googlee, Matt Miller, forwards me the following message:

Subject : URGENT ASSISTANCE

Private memo.

Dear Sir,

Compliments of the season. I am Mr. Dick Johnson a Liberian, and personal Assistant to Mr. Charles Taylor, former president of Liberia, now in Exile in Calabar, South-South- Nigeria West- Africa.

I wish to introduce to you a very important, confidential, urgent, top secret business Assistant. Before our departure for exile in Nigeria, my Boss, President Charles Taylor, has several millions of Dollars, which was acquired, through the sales of "DIAMOND".

Part of this fund was deposited in a security company in our Neighboring country Abdjan COTE D" IVORE precisely the sum of forty five million USD ($45m). Deposited and marked "AS A FAMILY TREASURE".

President Charles Taylor has now mandated me to search for an honest, and trust worthy person who could assist by providing an account where this money can be lodged, and secured. Inview of this, there is need for face to face meeting in any country of your choice preferably COTE "D" IVORE.

If you cannot assist me, please get back to me immediately so that l will contact another person. Your interest will be discussed when we meet. If you are interested, please contact me on our calabar Nigeria telephone no 234-804-213-4803 or fax 234-9-2720578

email dickjohnson101@yahoo.com or you can contact president Charles Taylor on his Direct line no 234-803-727-6486. I therefore Confirm to you that this transaction is 100% risk free.

Sincerely yours

Dick Johnson.

Don't worry, Mr. Johnson. I'm sure US humanitarian aid is on its way.

I had never heard of Friendster before NPR did a story on it a couple weeks ago. Now, it turns out, everyone I meet is a Friendster. Even people in Pittsburgh knew about it before me. What the hell happened? How did I fall so far behind? Borrow some Zeppelin tapes, anyone?

I know you're probably already hip to it, but if for some god-awful reason you're older and more out-of-touch than me, here are some reasons to sign up.

Macked and Anonymous writes:

> Dear Mad-dog T,
>
> I have the unsavory though ineradicable habit of
> googling myself over the course of any given day, and
> consequently stumbled upon my name associated with a
> certain Bob Dylan movie. A thousand thankyous I bestow
> on you for such a reference.

Although World War II heroes will scoff and the Church may condemn it, who among us hasn't googled himself? As for myself, I'm almost a bonafide googlewhack. See for yourself : Tomohiro Idokoro.

Star Wars Kid, you are a worthy foe.

My email program, Outlook Express (ver. 5.5.) started acting up today. When displaying messages in the preview window, bitch-face doesn't show the text of the message. Rather it indicates an attachment. When I double click the message, it shows the messages as a .txt file attachment, which I can then open.

Someone on the OE 5.5 newsgroup pointed me to the solution (newsgroups, along with the open source community, sometimes restore my faith in humanity) :

http://support.microsoft.com/?kbid=312351

Following the instructions, I opened up the Temp folder in the my Windows folder and found over 20,000 objects (almost 400 mb!) I'm some kind of goddamned freak-ass cyber-shut-in! I tried to delete all 20,000+ files at once -- seized up my machine. Just deleted 4,000 files -- between deleting them in the explorer and cleaning them out of my recycle bin, took me almost a half-hour! Hold my calls. This is going to be a major, on-going operation -- I think the troops may get out of Bhagdad before I'm done here. It did, however, solve my OE problem.

9pm naps are never a good idea.

I got home this evening and opened my mailbox to find four -- count 'em, four! -- thick Wednesday grocery-store mailing things inside! What is this shit? Does the postal service not have enough problems that it has to be added to my shit list? Is this the farewell note of the pre-postal postman? Or just a calling card of the burnt out, dopehead civil servant?

I've always been a bit of an apologist for the postal service. A sentimental appreciation, I suppose, for all the lovely letter they've delivered for me. But first they fuck-up my forwarding request. And now this -- this is just a slap in the face. I'm ready to throw in the towel and say, yeah, let the privitization hawks have their way. Let it sink. (Of course, the privitization hawks, depending as they do upon the disproportionate political influence of rural America, will never let the postal service sink, since -- with its 6-day a week delivery to Unpaved Podunk Lane -- it's a classic example of governmental inefficiency that benefits them.)

Quite a news day:

"Study: U. of Colorado No. 1 Party School" [AP]

Yeah, party on you Coors-swilling hillbillies.

Not a big Phish fan. But still shocked and bewildered by this item, also reported by AP:

> Phish Bassist Charged After N.Y. Concert
> Tue Aug 19, 6:13 PM ET
>
> WANTAGH, N.Y. - The bass player for Phish was charged with
> endangering the welfare of a minor and trespassing after he
> was found with a 9-year-old girl following a concert by The
> Dead, authorities said Tuesday.
>
> Mike Gordon, 38, was arrested on Aug. 11, after the moth-
> er of the girl became concerned that she could not find the
> youngster in the backstage area at Jones Beach Theater
> in Long Island, New York State Park Police Maj. Richard
> O'Donnell said in a statement.
>
> Gordon and the girl were subsequently found together
> in an enclosed boathouse that is part of the backstage
> area, police said. Phish was not performing at the
> concert.
>
> Marcia Horowitz, a spokeswoman for the band, issued
> what she described as a joint statement from Gordon
> and the girl's family. The statement called the incident
> "an unfortunate misunderstanding, and we look
> forward to putting this matter behind us."
>
> Gordon, a New York City resident, was issued a desk
> appearance ticket requiring him to report to First District
> Court in Hempstead on Sept. 29. The case was first
> reported by WNBC-TV.
>
> A spokesman for Nassau County District Attorney Denis
> Dillon said he had no further information about the case.
>
> "As we get the information, we will evaluate this case as
> we do every case," spokesman Rick Hinshaw said.
>
> Gordon, a founding member of the jam band, is to release
> his solo debut, "Inside In," on Tuesday. The album is a
> complement to his 2000 movie "Outside Out," which he
> starred in and also directed.

"9-year-old?" "Enclosed boathouse?" "An unfortunate misunderstanding"? What, were they discussing Spongebob Squarepants? Not sure what this is all about, but all sounds pretty Phishy.

Came across this story on the AP wire:

> SOUTH WINDSOR, Conn. - A North Haven bride spent part
> of her wedding night in a jail cell, after police said she hurled
> things at reception hall workers who closed the bar.
>
> Adrienne T. Samen, 18, was arrested on criminal mischief and
> breach of peace charges Saturday after police responded to
> The Mill on the River restaurant.
>
> When workers there closed the bar, Samen allegedly began
> throwing things, including wedding cake and vases. Samen
> left the restaurant, and police found her walking down the
> road in her gown.

Holy shit! This is my kind of rampage. If the "18" and "Mill on the River" details weren't clues enough, check out her photo, which was the most emailed photo on Yahoo! News at last check. This reminds me of what my father said after the Rodney King riots in L.A.: "See, that's the difference between the white man and other people. Black people will riot in the streets. The white man riots at the ballot box." Or at the location where the ballots are to be counted, as with the Florida recount following the 2000 presidential election. Next time, save it for the indignant letter to the restaurant management, honey. Any wagers on whether she'll still be married by the time of her arraignment?

Ok. ATT is off the enemies list. But they're not quite off the shit-list. My credit card statement arrived over the weekend listing the coveted phone number to call regarding matters related to credit card charges on public payphone calls. (1-800-657-2466, if you want to call for the time.) So I got up at 7am this morning and gave them a ring. A recording picks up, advising, "If you are calling for information on your billing, press 1. If you are calling for rate information, press 2." So I press 1 and get a recording telling me how to read my credit card bill. Oh, that clears everything up. Fucking ratfucks.

I press 0 and get an operator. After I explain my greivance, she suggests that I am somehow at fault for giving them my credit card number when they requested it. I admit that I found the request a bit untoward at the time, but I didn't want to sound like a paranoid prick. I thought maybe they needed it to compute the rate. Finally, she says that she is unable to reverse charges. I'm not asking you to reverse the natural order of the universe and go back in time, bitch. Just recredit my account for the fucking $12.85. I don't waste my breath but ask for a supervisor. After a couple minutes of dead air, she returns to say they are all in a class and asks me for my name and phone number so someone can call me back. I ask for the name and phone number of someone I can call. She says they are not supposed to release that information. So I give her my digits and ask for the first name of her supervisor and when I might expect a call. She says her supervisor is Pam and that she's not sure when the class ends, but promises a call by the end of the day (Eastern Daylight Time.) I hope that class is about how to take responsibility for a company fuck-up and solve the god-damned problem.

My phone rings about three hours later as I'm getting out of the shower. It's Pam. I'm in a better mood now, having done my morning Yoga and daily anal constrictions. I genially explain my predicament for the thirdteenth time. About midway through it -- when the gist is clear: their operator fucked up by ignoring my request for the rate on my call and, without my authorization, connecting the call -- she steps up and says she'll be happy to help me. After fiddling around for 5 minutes getting my name, address, credit card number, etc. (yeah, it's liberating to give out your credit card number over a wireless line to three complete strangers in the same morning), she says she's happy to discount the call 50%.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"

"I said I'm happy to refund you 50% of the call."

I hate to sound like George Costanza and break the feel-good spirit then presiding over our phone conversation, but I have to ask: "Is that all?"

"Well, you did complete the call. Did you have something else in mind?"

Yeah, the whole fucking thing, and send me a $25 ATT phone card for the bloody inconvenience. But I say, "Well, I would never have made the call if I had known it was going to be more than $3. I would have just walked to the lobby and bought a $5 phone card."

She agrees to reduce the charge to $3 (plus service charges and taxes). I take the high ground and refuse to quibble. It's been our pleasure to serve you, have a great day, click.

I did request the generous supervisor's name as I plan to write a letter thanking ATT for her professional and courteous, if somewhat short-sighted, assistance. Nevertheless, I think it would have been worth ATT's $3 (plus service charges and taxes) to have just refunded me for the whole damned call. For I still demand $3 worth of vengeance!

Itinerant aesthete, Big Mack, emails me this weekend:

> Many colorful things happened today (for starters, I
> smoked pot through an uncooked potato in a trailer in
> Topanga-- but that's much too difficult to explain);
> but the highlight was driving from L.A. to Santa
> Barbara with my younger brother. Because on that ride
> I explained to my brother, in extravagant detail, the
> impossible beauty of Cat Power's pussy.

Beaver Power is more like it. Is Ms. Power the spark of a revolutionary new trend? If so, I predict ambiguous results. (As a matter of fact, didn't some online journal like Salon note this porn-edged trend in fashion-forward glossies and advertising a few months back?)

Yeah, this cat knows what I'm talking about.

Jesus Fucking Christ. Who is Cat Power and did you see her photo in the new New Yorker? Beaver Power is more like it. If you did see the photo and don't remember it, look again. You may have missed something.

Hey, I just realized that this was Propellerhead's big chance to really take California. I hope they didn't blow it.

San Diego Lifeguards go on the shit-list until someone apologizes to me for the wave one of their rank-and-file took from me this afternoon at Blacks. I hope that asshole was off-duty, or at least on his lunch break. In any event, he was wearing the red trunks and riding the SUV-sized paddleboard -- the one with the handles and marked in bold black letters LIFEGUARD -- of the San Diego Lifeguard. As if the surf lineup wasn't crowded and violent enough already, we got these beachball cowboys -- who are paid to preserve public safety -- contributing to the already dangerous shortage of good waves in Southern California. Asshole paddles right outside of me where I'd been patiently waiting for 20 minutes for a final wave in. A sweet chest high peak finally pops up and redneck doesn't even split it, but calls me off the left. If elected governor of the state of California, I promise to bring the full powers of the state to bear in hunting down this freckler and punishing him and his corrupt cronies to the full extent of the special law I will impose in the wake of this horrible tragedy. I ended up waiting another 20 minutes for a desperation closeout. Kiss a fucking jellyfish, Hasselhoff.

Motherfucker! Those wankers at AT&T finally billed me for the public payphone call I put on my credit card in Las Vegas last month. $12.85! Didn't see a customer service phone number listed on my online statement like that scungili I talked to right after I made the call said there would be. Better be one on my mailed statement.

Blacks is on the shit-list today. Yellow scum all over the surface. Thick enough in spots to make scum angels by waving your arms back and forth. Heard some punk skinback ask his friend whether the shit was toxic pollution. His friend said that it was probably just algae -- though, I was tempted to add, that doesn't necessarily make it any less toxic. Didn't notice any funny smell, but I was a bit dizzy this morning when I woke up -- a neurological reaction to being in the water yesterday? -- and the water seemed a lot warmer where it was blooming.

A shameful moment in the life of Tomohiro Idokoro:

I had a power bar and a couple cups of soy milk before surfing yesterday. I think I must have had too much protein. After about an hour out in the water, my digestive system decided to run an evacuation drill. Resisted as long as I could, but there was no way I was going to make it in in time to get to the restroom. (No outhouses down at Blacks anyway.) So I paddled as far outside and away from any other surfers as possible, dropped trow, and as discreetly as possible, did my environmental damage. Soon enveloped in a rank orange bloom of my own feces. Smelled something awful. I can imagine those munches at Quick & Reilly saying, "Who's been shit-listed now?" Felt naked and ashamed before the world, and yet greatly relieved and even at peace, not unlike Pip in that scene in Moby Dick when he is lost out in open ocean during one of the whale hunts. The crap broke up fairly quickly and no one seemed to notice my odd behavior. At least, they did not comment (or hoot and holler) about it. Fortunately, this was early afternoon and about as uncrowded as it would be all day. Surfed another 45 minutes and was not arrested when I returned to the beach.

No reason to believe that this event was connected with the big blackout back east yesterday despite their close proximity in time.

KCRW is on the shit list for the next week or so while finish their fucking summer subscription drive. The worst part is that they do one of these during the winter, too. It's kinda disheartening to think that hip, edgy, college-educated urbanites have to be hard-sold like this. Perhaps it's all just a pretext for putting Ruth Seymour on the air. I'm a subscriber. But I always subscribe outside the pledge drives. You should, too.

Meanwhile, turn off the radio and listen to tapes of Le Show online.

I saw "Masked and Anonymous," the new Bob Dylan movie, Friday night. (With John Goodman as Uncle Sweetheart and Luke Wilson as Teddy Macker.) This might have been a great movie in the hands, say, of the Cohen brothers. It has that same sort of high-minded irony and phony colloquial style of their films. It has none of the crispness, however, and as it was, I haven't cringed this much watching a film since "Fast Food Fast Women," another unwatchable film with what I can only imagine were the best of intentions. I suspect the stars in the cast must have thought they were coming to the Sony backlot for a private Dylan concert. Little did they know, cinema was being made. Dylan's entertainment of the crew between scenes is far-and-away the best part. The New Yorker review is generous to the point of simpering:

Bob Dylan�s first foray into film in fifteen years should be considered his first film in almost thirty: the mid-eighties abomination �Hearts of Fire� isn�t good for much more than a punch line. �Masked and Anonymous,� directed by the �Seinfeld� vet Larry Charles and probably written largely by Dylan himself (the credited scriptwriters seem to be pseudonyms) takes place in a near-future America torn apart by revolution; Jack Fate (Dylan) is a washed-up rock star who gets roped into a benefit concert by the unscrupulous promoter Uncle Sweetheart (John Goodman). Dylan�s most ambitious songs have always been alarmingly overpopulated�think �Desolation Row��and that spirit suffuses the film, which doesn�t skimp on the supporting cast: there�s a harried television producer (Jessica Lange), a cynical journalist (Jeff Bridges), a shifty roadie (Luke Wilson), a disreputable politician (Mickey Rourke), an unhinged animal lover (Val Kilmer), and even a mysterious Lady in Red (Angela Bassett). Dylan, with a huge cowboy hat atop his stringbean body, moves through the film stolidly, though he is required to cry at one point. Whenever there�s a slack moment in the political allegory, which is a kind of crazy quilt of Shakespeare, Gabriel Garc�a M�rquez, and �Putney Swope,� the soundtrack�split between fierce performances by Dylan�s crack touring band and world-music covers of Dylan standards�redeems it. And though the plot, such as it is, unravels toward the end, the movie holds its own as part of the Dylan canon: it�s knowing without always being knowledgeable, darkly humorous, full of wisdom both faux and real, and genuinely mysterious.�Ben Greenman (Angelika Film Center and Empire 25.)

The San Diego Reader review sounds more like the movie I saw:

Star-studded cast in a dim, disjointed, desultory satire about an over-the-hill folkie named Jack Fate, tabbed to headline a benefit concert in an ill-defined police state. Bob Dylan, besides playing the lead, co-wrote (with director Larry Charles) the self-referential script, but his assorted cryptic and gnomic comments provide little illumination. The highlight, if not the only light, is his toe-tapping rendition of "Dixie." John Goodman, Jeff Bridges, Jessica Lange, Pen�lope Cruz, Luke Wilson, Val Kilmer, Giovanni Ribisi, Angela Bassett, Ed Harris, Bruce Dern, Mickey Rourke, Fred Ward, Chris Penn, Christian Slater -- the list goes on. 2003.

Many of the smaller cable channels have been asking me to comment on the Kobe Bryant case. My statement from 9 July (before Kobe went public):

He met some hot little number next to the pool at this resort where he's convalescing. They have a couple Red Bulls, do a little dance, she ends up in his hotel room. They have sex. Then, being 19 years-old and probably a Christian of some ilk, she freaks out. (Racist parents, post-coital moral relapse, super low threshold for abandonment/exploitation, psycho Sacramento Kings fan, what you will.) She talks to a friend or co-worker -- the Linda Tripp figure. The latter feeds the former's hysteria, the former the latter's bitterness. Next thing you know, Sheriff Lobo's involved.

(The other hypothesis: she tells him she's a virgin and saving it for marriage. So they have anal sex [as is a practice in cultures that place a high value on technical virginity], but, well, he's a superstar in that way to and injures her, requiring her to be taken to the hospital where, procedurally, the nurses are obligated to notify the authorities and he is charged under some old law from mining days criminalizing the sodomization of an innkeeper's daughter or tavern wench. This scenario better accords with some odd details involving a cab ride from the hospital that surfaced in a Register article today.)

In any event, I can't imagine he coerced her -- he's Kobe Bryant. Shit, I'd have sex with him, just to say I'd had sex with Kobe Bryant. (It would have been a much better story if it came out that he was gay -- perfectly timed, too, what with the recent legalization of marriage in Canada and the Supreme Court decision.) The legend is he doesn't even drink. I read that after games on the road, he goes back to his hotel room and writes poetry!

A month later, I stand by it in the main points.

Saw "Swimming Pool" (starring Charlotte Rampling) last night. A mostly interesting sequence of marginally related events. Surprised Anthony Lane did not write The New Yorker review -- seemed like his kind of movie.

Charlotte Rampling gives another outstanding performance, this time as an uptight mystery writer who accepts an offer from her publisher to use his house in the South of France for some inspiration. When his sexy daughter (the luscious Ludivine Sagnier) shows up uninvited, a slow-burning and deliberately abstract mystery is set in motion. The director Fran�ois Ozon (who�s worked with Rampling before, in the very similar �Under the Sand�) crafts a seductive puzzle that may have audiences wondering, in a pleasant way, what it was that they have just seen. In French and English.�B.D. (East 86th Street Cinemas, First & 62nd Cinemas, Lincoln Plaza Cinemas, 19th Street East 6, and Sunshine Cinema.)

As for the much bruited ending, as far as I could tell : camera tricks.

A friendly elderly man in a blue blazer identifying himself with the Defense Department came to my door just now. He said that he was doing a background check on someone who had lived in my apartment back in 2000, wanted to know if I or anyone else around here might know him. I told him everyone I knew here had just moved in within the last month. He asked to take down my name and thanked me. Is Rumsfeld on to me?

Still no charge posted for nefarious AT&T payphone call.

I was listening to the radio in my car today and I heard the new Mervyn's commercial -- with Smashmouth covering School House Rock. Then I saw the commercial during the Simpsons this evening. Now I got that fucking version of Conjunction Junction stuck in my head. Just that small fucking part of the song they play in the commercial. On perpetual loop. I tried listening to some Exile on Main Street, Chocolate City, whale songs. Powerless. I'm fucked. That song's wedged in good. I used to do all my slacks-shopping at Mervyn's. No longer. Mervyn's, you're out. Gap, you're back in.

Actor Arnold Schwarzenegger made it official : the Republicans have turned California into a fucking Saturday Night Live sketch -- one of those skits that comes in the last half-hour. I think I'll vote for her.

Oh yeah, Internet Explorer is on the shit list. I'd throw Microsoft's whole fat ass on there, but Bill Gates has a lot of money. And Word has always been there for me, even in the darkest of times.

I hope you're not looking at this on Internet Explorer. If so, why the hell aren't you using Mozilla? (Unless perhaps you're on a Mac, in which case you're probably thinking on a whole nother level.)

Around 4am this last Saturday morning, I was abruptly awakened by a phone ringing. At first I didn't recognize it as my phone, as it so seldom rings at 4am. My neighbors upstairs had been tramping around all night, banging on walls and vacuuming floors, so I thought maybe it was theirs. (It turns out that they were moving out.) By the time I staggered out into the living room and realized it was my phone, the answering machine had picked up. There was a message: beep, beep, beep, beep, BEEEEEEEP! Some whack-ass tele-marketing computer had tracked down my new number -- like those robo-spiders in that crappy new Matrix movie. Sure enough, yesterday afternoon, I find another message on my machine: a pre-recorded, Mary Kay-voiced, fuck-you-in-the-ear sales pitch. Capitalist pigs -- they could at least hire some smarmy creep with a high school education to make their fucking calls. Reflexively, I deleted it, instead of figuring out who it was and adding their ass to my shit list. This is no way to wreck vengeance against your faceless enemies. Now I gotta sign up for that pain-in-the-ass, three hoops-and-a-note-from-your-doctor national do-not-call-list. God it would feel good to trip Brit Hume right now.

To contact the property management company as a "Friend of the Garden":

The Prescott Companies
1655 E. 6th St. Suite A1-B
Corona, CA 92879-1719
714-634-3444

Last Saturday, my dad received a letter from his homeowners' association containing an "architectural application" for the garden project my brother and I are working on. The project consists of a series of small brick walls replacing the wooden borders which had rotted out since I had installed them 5 or 6 years ago. (See pictures here.) The application is 5 pages long and asks that three copies of property improvements be attached. Coinicidentally, this story appeared in the New York Times the next day:

Homeowner Boards Blur Line of Who Rules Roost

Of course, nobody with the property management company is listed on the form to contact regarding this. There isn't even a return addressed envelope. Just the form.

A copy of the letter I've drafted in response to this communication:

To Whom It Concerns:

Thank you for taking notice of our property and the landscaping on the west side of the driveway. All the work on this project has been completed by myself, my brother, and my father (the property owner). It is an accomplishment in which we take great pride. This project was originally approved by the homeowners' association board in 1997 and completed that same year. Since then the wood used in the retaining borders had deteriorated. Currently, we are replacing the wood borders with brick and mortar. No alterations in the design of the original project are being made and all the borders remain well below the 4' height for which a professional contractor or architect is recommended.

The borders will be completed by the first part of September. We will install plants and ground cover in the fall, when the weather is milder. In the meantime, we will continue to keep the area well maintained and aesthetically pleasing. I've included below two photos of the project. The first shows the project originally approved by the homeowners' association board at its completion in 1997. The second shows the project on July 27th, as replacement of the original borders nears completion:






More photos are available online at http://www.ags.ucla.edu/~tidokoro/archive/terraces.htm

Our neighbors are familiar with the project and very complimentary. If you or any member of the homeowners' association board have any questions, please feel free to contact me at xxx-xxx-xxxx, or by email at tidokoro[at]hotmail.com.

Thank you again for your inquiry and your continuing work on behalf of our community.

And welcome back to my shit list.

I just checked my credit card account online -- still no posting from AT&T. Suspicious.

In Las Vegas last week. First time. Had to use payphone to call mechanic back in Santa Ana to check on car, authorize repairs if necessary. Kelly's cell phone was dead. I didn't have any change. But I had a credit card. And the payphones in the third floor hallway in the Flamingo where I found myself accepted credit cards. They even had a slot where you could insert them. The rates weren't listed -- as I suppose they couldn't be since they must vary. Rather, there were instruction to check rates with the operator. So I followed the instructions and dialed 0 + the number. I got a recorded AT&T message prompting me for my inquiry. I said I wanted to know the rates on this call. A live operator came on and asked me for my credit card number. I hesitated for a moment then, not wanting to disrupt the normal procedure, provided it. Ring. Ring. "Car Aid, this is Lou." My call had been put through! I spent a few minutes on the phone with my mechanic, found out that I have a leak in the manifold gasket and that my brake rotors need to be resurfaced and was told to call back tomorrow. Hung up, called AT&T customer service and asked what the rate on my call had been. $6.80 for the first minute, $0.89 for each additional minute.

"Six dollars!?"

"Yes, sir, $6.80."

Six-fucking-eighty for a one minute phone call! Their WorldNet service is only $16.95 a month. I just spent that much on a ten minute phone call. Obviously I would have never made the call had I known the rates. I explained the situation and requested a refund. The operator passed me along to her supervisor who said that she couldn't reverse the charge. I would have to call the number that appeared with the charge on my credit card bill. Pissed off but outmaneuvered by the genius of the system, I thanked the manager, made a note in my pocket PC, and hung up. Shortly thereafter came up with the idea of this site -- with acknowledgements to Richard Nixon. AT&T -- you're on the shit list. At least until I'm refunded for that call.

Quick & Reilly is also on the shit list. That story next time.