Jason Toney

mr. telephone man

If pounds was a paycheck, you'd be salary. You're not alone in this, I got a tummy too. I'll worry about the weight, don't let it trouble you. - De La Soul

I'm anti-phone. I hate it. I'd much rather write you a letter or send you an email or chat over IM or see you in person. I really do want to converse with you, discuss your life, your politics, your relationships. I just hate the phone. I love when the phone rings, I love getting messages...I just don't want to talk to you through it...most of the time (I do have my happy phone days). The phone is debilitating for me. It requires me to focus on only one thing and my mind just doesn't work that way. I usually need at least 3 things to stimulate me: whatever my primary task is, either music or television (I can't deal with silence) and a distraction that I can return to on a regular basis (like IM, email, or a particularly interesting magazine, book, website, etc.). When I'm talking on the phone, I can't do any of those things and then my mind wanders as I obsess about the hair on bailey's neck or why he's looking at me that way or how would I deal if I was arrested for a crime I didn't commit or who I'm going to vote for for governer in the primary or why am I scared and amazed by the medical community all at the same time and I'm gone for 30 seconds and you've been talking and all of a sudden I'm lost and I'm responding with some lame response because I don't have any idea what you just said but I do know that Bailey looks at me that way because he wants to gnaw my tongue off in my sleep because he hates all the damn noise I make.

And I feel bad about that. I want to pay attention to you. I do really care...but I can't focus when I'm on the phone. Call me during the commercials of a tv show and we can discuss that, we can even sit silently on the phone while the show is going on and discuss things that way...then at least I have 2 things to deal with and I can work to focus on one. I know that we are on the same plane of existence at that moment, staring at the same show, thinking about the same things and my mind can process it all and give coherent responses and listen to you.

So just don't be mad if I don't answer the phone. I'm not avoiding you...i'm just avoiding that form of communication. It fucks my shit up all day. You're not alone. I never call my family, my grandma, my auntie, my best friends, my good friends, my hated enemies. When I was in college, I talked to my family maybe 4 times a school year...fo'rilla.

But please keep calling and leave me interesting messages and tell me your life. I wanna know more. I just probably don't wanna know over the phone.

Asymptotes, pt. II

"Tough Rocks" - Mr. Rollolazo

Calculus.Mrs. Nishimoto turned from the chalk board after drawing the graph of two lines growing closer together and began her lecture. Jon sat in the middle of the class, thankfully behind Claudia Fugazy, the big haired 6 foot volleyball team captain. Mrs. Nishimoto couldn't see him alternating between dozing off and zoning out.

"Asymptotes is limit on graph," Mrs. Nishimoto said and banged her chalk on the Y axis.

He was exhausted but it was that kind of sleep deprivation that left a person in almost a state of shock. He was too tired to even think about sleep. He was extremely light-headed. His eyes would close but his temples ached and if he kept his eyes closed for long, his head would explode with pulsing pain. Besides that, closing his eyes brought him back to the darkness.

"Is 3 type Asymptotes. Is horizontal. That mean on Y axis. Go this way." She put her right hand out in front of her, palm down and moved it back and forth, left to right, right to left."

His mind kept wandering to the events of the morning (but not the night, right Johnny? Never going back there again are we?). The sunlight began cracking through the blinds around 5:30. Jon had not moved an inch from the couch for 3 hours. But as soon as there was light, the shadows dissapeared and he moved quickly to open every curtain, every blind, turn on every light. He made his way up to his room and it was beautifully bright. The bay window without curtains or blinds faced the east and the beautiful orange early morning sun was beaming into every corner of his room. (the corners, Johnny? Why do you care about the corners so much? Chik-chik-chik.) He grabbed jeans out of the hamper and found a clean t-shirt and went to the bathroom to get ready for school trying desperately to have a normal morning…to not think about the night before.

"Is Oblique asymptote." She said, although it sounded like 'Obli-kay,' "it have formula, y equals mx plus b. B constant." She put her left hand out in front of her in the shape of a fist. She slowly moved it up and down in a straight line. "M is slope." She put her right hand out, palm faced down and brought it towards her left hand in a curved motion, getting close to the fist but never touching it.

Justin, up in the front row, eagerly raised his hand. His buddies were already chuckling, "Mrs. Nishimoto, is it true that the Oblique Asymptote is more commonly known today as the Theory of Spanking the Monkey?"

Jon looked at his bare chest in the bathroom mirror and thought that the bruise looked smaller than the day before. It had faded in color considerably as well. At least something good was starting the day. He started the shower and took off his sweatpants. He groaned as he saw the mishapen bruises on the tops of his thighs. He must've hit his legs a lot harder than he thought trying to make the blood flow.

But what was that on the right side of his thigh? A round purprle bruise about the size of a silver dollar. And 2 inches down from there another one. And another. The complete right side of his leg, from his hip to his ankle was lined with them. It looked like some kind of macabre pair of bedazzled pants. Perfectly shaped marks, exactly the same distance apart with a tiny dark dot in the center of each one. Like something had been poking at him, prodding him. (attached to ya? Working on ya? Pokin' atcha, poki'n atcha?) Then he saw the exact same thing on his left leg. It was perfect symmetry.

And then he let out a yelp.

"And finally is Vertical asymptote. It go up and down." Mrs. Nishimoto was careful not to make any hand gestures this time. "Who can tell me why is important to know that asymptote mean it limit?"

His mother knocked on the door. "You alright, dear?" she asked, "I heard a noise."

"I'm fine, mom." He couldn't show her this. What would he say? How could he explain. He didn't know what the hell it was. What was happening to him. He simply sat on the toilet cover as the shower ran. He put on his jeans so that he wouldn't have to look at his legs and steadied himself. As soon as he wasn't looking at the marks, he could start to pretend things were normal again. He'd go to school, have a good day and everything would be alright. Hell, the other bruise was already gone these wouldn't be around for long either.

And so here he sat in Calculus, having nightmares with his eyes open.

"Limit is important because it mean that there are two lines." She braved hand motions again, this time putting both her right and left hand out in front of her, palms facing. She started moving them closer together. "What asymptote mean is that two things get closer and closer, they get so close look like one thing. They get," and she paused making sure she said the english correctly, "infinitely closer…but never touch. So close look like one thing but no matter how small…still space between them."

Jon snapped back into the real world when he heard that. He started looking at the corners of the room and began to remember (Get in the corner, boy! Just stand there.) and wonder.

To Be Continued…

Asymptotes

My Mind's Playing Tricks on Me - The Gheto Boys

Chickita-chickita-chik-chick-shhhh-chickita.

His eyes opened wide but he could see nothing. His heart beat rapidly as his pupils darted from left to right trying desperately to adjust to the shadows. He looked towards the door, rolling over so that he could see it more clearly. As his knees landed on the couch, a vicious snarl broke the night silence and teeth clamped down on his big toe.

"Jesus!" He got up and shooed his dog off the couch. He rubbed his toe to see if the little bastard had broken the skin. His heart rate slowed. The sound that . After deciding that his big toe didn't need a bandage, he pulled the blanket back up over him and started to turn over and get in his comfortable couch sleep position. And then he saw it. (or almost did.) Right out of the corner of his eye, the hint of something. He turned quickly staring at the far corner of the room. He couldn't make out anything in the black night but he felt like something was there. Something watching him. And there was the faintest sound… chickita-chickita-chik-chick-shhhh-chickita. He stared for a while, straining to see if there was anything in the shadows, his pulse again starting to race…but nothing. He decided he was being stupid and laid down again on the couch. It took him awhile but he did fall back asleep…eventually.

----{<*>}

One Day at G.A.

"This right here is a picture of Jesus and Biggie on a seesaw. Jesus is always in the air." - Chris Rock

He always loved this part of the Gambler's Anonymous meeting. They sat in a big circle on these pastel colored chairs with legs just a little too short for adults. He'd named them "kiddie" chairs and always referred to them just like that. He'd say, "I guess we get the Kiddie Chairs again" to whomever was nearby and mime his fingers in the quote-unquote signs. Alex Arcieri was just witty like that.

He'd been coming to GA--not the state abbreviation but the rehab group, he'd tell his co-workers at lunch--for 8 weeks now. He'd spent an entire paycheck on lottery tickets because God had told him the winning numbers in a dream. But God, or so he thought at the time, had given him 10 numbers and the lottery only allowed you six, so he had to buy every possible combination of numbers in order to guarantee a win. It came out to 188 combinations and wouldn't you know his paycheck was 188 dollars? It had to be fate right? He might have repeated some combinations and forgot a few but he had 188 tickets from his 188 dollars and he thought surely that was a leap of faith that the big guy upstairs was bound to notice.

He didn't win. In fact, none of his numbers were called that week. And that's when he knew that the devil was out to get him. When he told his father the news, he said, "The Devil works in mysterious ways." And you know what? He was right. But the temptation was really strong. He started to think about what would happen if he ever got the chance to visit Las Vegas or Atlantic City one day. They were called the Sin Capitals of the world in every article he had read about them. He wouldn't be able to control himself. That's when Alex Arcieri knew he had a gambling problem. And when Alex Arcieri has a problem, he fixes it.

He sat in his chair still wearing his leather jacket and sunglasses. He never took them off in these meetings. They were Anonymous and he was scared that he might be recognized. He had a sneaking suspicion that a few people already knew who he was. They had started to shy away from him, like they were intimidated by his fame. He had to admit that he always liked that. Fame was tough but it had its perks. He may not be in Hollywood anymore but hosting a public access show in a small town like San Francisco made you pretty famous amongst the locals.

He chuckled to himself letting his pride get the best of him. Someone grunted and he looked up and realized he was disrupting the discussion a bit. Oh well, a star shining as brightly as his sometimes couldn't be contained but he'd try to control himself. "Apologies," he said, "Please continue."

The woman who had been talking continued with her story. "As I was saying, if it hadn't been for blackjack and living so close to Reno, I really think I could have been a successful actress. I mean I had been as a child. But that early success afforded me both luxury and a problem. I was too young with too much money and an addiction to casinos. I mean the sounds, the cards, the--"

"Umm, excuse me," Alex interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Yes, you said you were a child actor? What show were you on?" Alex knew this tramp couldn't possibly be an actress. At least not one of his caliber.

"Well, this is an anonymous group and if I tell you the name of the show, you'll figure it out. I was quite young so I don't think you'd recognize me from it now…but that's not really the point of this is it? Aren't we supposed to be discussing our addiction?" She looked to the others for support and they nodded in agreement.

Alex didn't notice. "Well, I find it hard to believe that a successful, talented actress would be here in little ol' San Francisco. I mean why aren't you in Hollywood?"

"Well, to be honest, I've considered going back. I think that I could get back into it. Maybe do some theatre or film work," As soon as she finished her sentence, she knew that she had said the exact wrong thing. The leather jacket man was sitting up in his chair now, trying desperately to keep his glasses on straight.

"I know a thing or two about Hollywood, as I'm sure a few of you have figured out. And I can tell you that I don't think that you've got what it takes." Alex sat back in his chair, arms crossed. "Gotcha, faker." He thought.

"You're very rude, Mr. Whateveryournameis. But I have to tell you that my old manager thinks that I could definitely get work."

"A manager? What else does he manage? McDonald's?" He took a sitcom pause, waiting for everyone to stop laughing at his great burn. Alex seemed not to notice that no one was laughing to begin with. "Everyone in Hollywood knows that you have to have an agent. When I was in Hollywood, I knew all of the players. I have a great agent for you if you need one. You may have heard of him, his name is William Morris."

The group chuckled at that. Alex knew that they were anxiously anticipating his every word.

The woman was intrigued by this conversation, in spite of its absurdity, "You were in Hollywood? What did you do? What might I have seen you in?"

Alex would not be insulted like this! He took off his sunglasses. "Don't pretend like you don't know who I am. I know you all have seen me on television here. 8000 people see my show PHAME - That's P-H-A-M-E for Pretty Hot and Magically Entertaining every 3 weeks. I know you've all seen my paintings hanging at Crazy Wok Chinese Dine In or Take Out. It’s the one with the Panda bear playing baseball with Ichiro and Chan Ho Park and Godzilla while Jesus looks on from above. Mr. Hun said its beautiful and gives me a free fortune cookie every time I order because he loves it so much."

"Okay, I have no idea what you're talking about. I just want to know what you did in Hollywood."

Alex knew he had her. He was going to enjoy this, "If you want to continue to act like you don't know, I'll tell you. I was "Ninth Grade Boy" in 8 episodes of the third season of Punky Brewster and I was very nearly a breakdancer with Cuba Gooding JR at the 1984 Olympics. I poplocked outside the Olympic Village anyway. Several newscasters came by to cover my story. I was called Jiffy-Pop because when I was doing my electric boogaloo the kids would always say it was quote-on like popcorn-unquote."

There was absolute silence in the room as everyone nervously looked at each other and then an uproar of laughter. Alex didn't understand what was so funny. Did he have something on his face? He rubbed at his nose to see if there was a booger. He took off his glasses and looked at his teeth on the lenses to see if there was something stuck there.

The moderator of the discussion was wiping tears from her eyes and began to speak as the group quieted down, "Well, Mr. Jiffy Pop, I think it would do all of us some good if you popped yourself out of 'group' this week. You're a disruption and quite possibly a fool." They all cracked up again.

Alex stood up and stormed out. His father really was right, the devil was working in some mysterious ways. Well, he'd show them. He knew he was destined to return to Hollywood again and become a national star again. He'd have to go in the closet and find his old headshots and it'd be a couple weeks before he could afford a bus ticket but he was going to do it.

And the first thing he was going to do was walk into the offices of William Morris and get himself an agent. He couldn't remember their address but he knew they were in Santa Monica.

And he knew that they would never pass up the chance to sign a star like Alex Arcieri.

first day of school

"Don't talk about it, be about it." - Busta Rhymes

As the steam dissipated, she pressed the corner of the picture back onto the glass with her thumb. "Dumb stupid," she thought, "Why would I tape it up before I took my shower?" She looked disapprovingly at her reflection slowly appearing in the mirror. All she could see was this brown blur and she reached for where her glasses should be and found…nothing.

"Right," she thought and smiled. She wasn't a four-eyed freak anymore. She opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed her contact lens case turning it over in her hands, marveling at it just a little bit. After a few nervous moments when she thought she wouldn't have the courage to poke her finger in her eye, she finally could see and looked up at herself.

Her smile quickly faded as she recognized herself. The contacts were an improvement but she was still just this 'nothing special' thing. Plain in every way. Practically invisible to everyone at school unless she was dancing or someone caught her under the breath comments and chuckled. But all that was about to change. She was fifteen now and despite her father's objections, old enough for makeup, old enough to buy her own clothes, have her own style. And today was the first day of school and she was going to show it off.

She looked at the magazine clipping taped to the mirror right next to where her face reflected. The beautiful young singer/actress posed in a giddy half laugh-half flirty fashion, glitter shining on her cheeks, blue eye shadow, cloudy blue lipgloss shimmering on her lips, butterfly barrettes all through her hair. And the boys. Almost like an afterthought in the picture, darkened in the shadows of the background but all pointing with facial expressions that say, "Wow, Look at her!" Most people might not notice that just glancing at the picture but she's noticed it. In fact, it was the first thing she saw in the picture.

She has everything necessary to transform herself into this vision of beauty. The lip-gloss, the glitter body rub, the barrettes. She made her mom take her to get her hair straightened. No more braids, no more extensions, no more pigtails. Straight and loose and free. Wispy almost. She had make-up and cute clothes and she was going to get seen today, damnit.

Knock. Knock. Knock. "Baby, you alright in there? Your breakfast is getting cold." Her Dad.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Dang, Dad…can't a girl get some privacy?"

"Oh, excuse me, didn't know I had to ask permission to walk around my house." he said.

"Dumb. Stupid." She began applying blue eye-liner under her eyes trying to remember how her mother did it. She didn't want to look like a tramp.

"Baby, Can we get some black people on your walls, please? How about that boy that sings about the thongs? Or that one mixed girl that sings those pop tunes you love. At least she's half-black. I feel like I walked into American Bandstand in here."

"Dumb Stupid. American Bandstand? What's that like TRL for old people? Did they do, whatchamacalit, the jitterbug on it?" She giggled to herself softly, careful not to mess her makeup.

"Leave the girl alone, Russell, she can have these white boys on her wall if she wants. Do you need help with your makeup, Winnie?" Thank God for her mom even though she had called her Winnie. She hated that name just as much as her full name. Who's named Winifred anyway? She was going to tell people to start calling her by her middle name, Tiffany. How cute was that? Before 'Tiffany' could reply to her mother, however, her father was at it again.

"I'm just saying baby, how can we be raising a strong black woman when the lone rapper she has on her walls is some white boy? She's confused damnit. And I'm still not happy about the makeup thing. Next she'll be wanting to drive."

"One more year, dad." She smirked as she applied the glitter to her cheeks rubbing in circular motions just like the magazine said…for even glow and sparkle.

"You shut up Russell and you, Miss Smart Mouth, quit teasing him. You know how sensitive boys are. Get a move on though, please, we need to be leaving sooner rather than later." She listened as her mother pushed her father out of her room and thought, "No, I don't know how boys are. But that's about to change."

She puckered up and rolled the lip-gloss onto her lips. She was so excited she was humming to herself, practically dancing in her bathroom. She started adding the barrettes to her hair thinking really hard about not thinking about where she was placing them. Just like the article said.

Be free with the barrettes. Have Fun! Your hair will fall into a cute arrangement and then you can just brush it back with your fingers.

And finally she was done. She stood back from the mirror and looked at herself…and almost started to cry. The cloudy blue lip-gloss on her dark lips was making her look ghostly rather than pretty. The glittery bath gel was drying a wonderfully flaky white on her caramel skin. The blue eye shadow under her eyes made her look like she had two black eyes. And her hair? It wasn't falling at all. Instead it hung every which way. Wispy? Maybe. Uncontrollable? Definitely.

She pushed her hands into her head and tried to pull the birds nest back, just like the magazine told her. Her fingers caught in her hair. Apparently straight didn't mean the end to nappy. She grabbed a brush and tried that which worked, after a few tugs, but the butterfly barrettes didn't appreciate the action against them and began popping off her head and flying into different corners of the bathroom.

Knock. Knock. " 5 minutes, Winnie. I mean it." God, she hated her mother. Why'd she always have to be so bossy?

She thought maybe she just had too much eye-liner on and began trying to rub off the edges until it was less creature feature and more Saturday Matinee. As she did so, she began focusing on her lips and how horrible they looked. The lady at the counter said that the color looked good on everybody, guess everybody didn't include black girls. Why didn't any of it work for and why didn't anybody know it wouldn-

"OW!" While she was obsessing about her lips, she poked herself in the eye. It was stinging to holy hell. She smashed the palms of her hands into her eyeball trying to get it out. She felt something slide out. "Oh No." she thought and pulled her hand away to find that half her vision was blurry. The contact had fallen out.

Knock. Knock. "2 Minutes, Miss America. I ate your bacon." Stupid Fathers. She was to tears and near a nervous breakdown.

She stopped and took a breath. Staring at her image in the mirror, collecting herself. She removed the other contact and put it in her lens case. She wiped all the crap from off her face including her salty tears. She grabbed two rubberbands and made two ponytails. She put her glasses on. She looked at herself one last time.

"Still invisible."

She ripped the picture off the glass and tossed it in the trash.

She opened the bathroom door and found her father sitting on her bed.

"My Baby Girl. More beautiful every day. Did you change your hair? I think you have too much make up on." He scrunched up his nose, surveying her.

"Dumb Stupid. Can we go now?"

welcome to loserville

When I'm weak, I draw strength from you. When you're lost, I know how to change your view. and when I'm down you breathe life over me." - Zero 7, Destiny

Weekend Musings: I really dislike being home on Friday Nights. I just feel all loserville. Granted, I was exhausted on Friday and mostly just slept...but I should have been out with somebody doing something. Damn. Saturday was odd. Mostly because I have 2 newfound obsessions - webcams and the game starcraft (yeah, loserville...I hear I'm a leading candidate in the gubernatorial race). Let's deal with webcams first. Here's how I got hooked - I started reading this girl Cookie's blog about a month ago (college age chick full of depression and acerbic wit, killer smile, disturbing eyes and creative as hell without even trying...totally the kind of person to pique my interest - except the whole college age thing, I mean I know I have an unhealthy love of Natalie Portman but I do like women to be, ya know, without homework...but we've ventured too far off topic). Anyway, so Saturday Morning as I debated whether or not I was going to go play ball or if it was too cold or if Bailey and I would just walk for a while, I ventured onto her site unlovely.net (its gone now with a cryptic message and whatever, otherwise I would suggest everyone visit) to read her daily minutiae. She happened to be webcamming at the time and I ended up watching this person sit at her computer typing for like 20 minutes. Apparently I'm a peeping tom. So, Bailey and I went for a walk down to the park and past all the people in the lotto line at 7-11 and then came back about 40 minutes later and I got online and started searching for more webcams. Its such an odd thing to me that I have to watch...I can't look away. Go to camrecord.com and see what I mean. Maybe I'm just a freak but its this weird trainwreck of mostly young adults who so desperately want to be seen and its insanely boring but highly engrossing. I keep thinking that Its stupid that I'm watching nothingness happen but all of a sudden its 90 minutes later and where'd the time go? damn.

Starcraft? We won't get into. Some of my private nerd moments should really be kept to myself.

As we drive out of loserville into some semblance of my real world, Saturday Night I realized that I'm not really hollywood nor do I want to be. I'm some fringe anti-hollywood hollywood guy. Hell, I live in the valley and like it...that's already 2 and 1/2 strikes against me but...Barfly, Saturday, 02.16.02...black people's party. I was invited. I brought Jenny because what's a brotha without a white woman on his arm? Or in his vicinity? Or something? I was underdressed though because most of the brotha's there had at least 4 white girls in their area at any given moment. And they weren't even good white girls. They were the vapid, blow-up, tae-bo, tight t-shirt, same hairdo, too much lipgloss kind that make my head explode with the pain of 400 years of slavery. I don't think MLK's dream was for successful black men to collect white women like trading cards but I digress. I'm not sure I have a leg to stand on seeing as how I'm a fucking hypocrite but...anyway back to the black people's party...too many old dudes with a caravan of hanger-on chicks. Too much black clothing. Too much flossing. I like John Salley but if he's in the spot, I pretty much know I'm in the wrong place. And then...why is the lone Mexican guy in the place rocking a polyester suit, butterfly collared shirt (3 buttons unbuttoned for the chest hair to flow) and a gold chain? Did I just walk into a Chico and the Man costume party? Starsky? Where's Hutch? If I had known I would've gone in my wayback machine and got a purple velour patchwork jumpsuit and platform boots with goldfish in the heels so I could be your Huggy Bear. Let's do the hustle motherfucker. Or at least hustle your ass back to 1976 when you still were flossing the club looking for a date but at least you'd sorta be in style. damn. Yeah. It was too Hollywood and I could care less. Too many people looking around to see who was there better than them. I caught myself doing the same thing and then realized I didn't care. I think I will just be glad I get invited to such nonsense and stop going. Leave me a lounge or the temple bar or somewhere with real music and less pretentiousness. Thankyouverymuch.

This Just In: I didn't win the Lottery.

More Breaking News: I forgot to buy tickets.

Sunday! This was the most productive Sunday since the horseshoe coffee shop closed. Bailey and I did Runyon Canyon for the first time in about 6 months. Damn, we are out of shape. I used to be able to do that walk in about 35 minutes. Hour and 15 today and I was sucking wind at the top. But its a wonderful walk and a beautiful view of LA at the top and I think we will be making it a regular Sunday Morning thing. Our own little pilgrimage. And Bailey's chilled out in his old age of 5 or 6. No more snarling at the butt sniffers. He lets them catch a whiff and then moves on...and he listens to me. Yay. We're finally friends or equals or something. I'm celebrating my kinship with my pet...yeah, we may have made that right turn back into loserville. Anyway, I did chores and some writing and some grocery shopping and some cooking and some HBO watching. I've watched very little tv this weekend and I'm amazed with myself. Could it be that I have grown tired of the talk box? I mean, I may have seen every Investigative Report and City Confidential ever produced by A&E, I've tried but I can't get into Trading Spaces....I just want to see the last 5 minutes, I could care about the rest of the hour. I actually sat in my living room this weekend with the TV off! That never happens. HBO kinda sucked this month too...although Janet Jackson ruled my planet tonight. She is hot to death. And Britney, that's the way to sing with an enhancement track. Learn it. Oz has been Que Horrible! Sex and the City was kind of a lame season finale and everything seems too short. Thank the stars and the moon for Six Feet Under and America Undercover in just a few short weeks.

This Just In: Worst Hour to try to listen to the radio? 5-6pm Sundays.

More Breaking News: The Radio sucks in general. I don't listen anymore. KCRW and talk Radio is it for me. I hate the DJ's, I hate the songs out right now, I even tried to listen to Old School on Hot 92.3 and I hated that. I thought maybe I was just getting old and I didn't know what was good anymore. These kids today and all. But, I'm not even about old music right now. I'm about different music with different subjects. I'm clinging to artists that sing about more than "please baby baby please" and "thug all day every day" and Creed and whatever else is out there. Something new...something fresh. Suggestions? And if you say J to the L-O, I will kick you back to from whence you came.

Damn, I've been babbling. The real reason? I'm scared of fiction week. This is easy. I just talk until I'm done. Fiction week starts tomorrow and I have to be all creative. So...with that said, don't expect new posts until late in the evening...like around this time, midnight. I don't know what's going to be coming...I don't even have the inklings of ideas yet but I'll have something tomorrow night...I hope. Deadlines do tend to bring out the best in me. At least that's what I'll tell myself.

Its been 48 hours Mr. Horoscope...where's my master plan?

hapy fucking valentine's day

S W O O N S C O P E S

You guessed it, Jason -- it's your daily horoscope!

PISCES:
>>Friday, February 15

You are about to be on the receiving end of an offer to advance the master plan. For the next 48 hours, focus less on the nuts and bolts of your operation and more on such intangibles as whether you are pursuing your dreams and living in accordance with your philosophical and ethical principles.

Apologies: To Erica for not receiving a hug from me, your valentine gram brought me one of the few smiles of the day and it probably deserved some physical affection; To anybody who came in contact with me yesterday and found me a little bit bitter, a little bit quiet, a little bit in my own world...so not you, so about me; To P'lette (I like the apostrophe!), Brandon and Jen, my double non-daters for the evening, for having to wait an extra hour for me and then have me space out during dinner; Extra special apologies to Jen for not remarking that I liked the gap ad she was adorned in, especially after we had talked about that being a cute outfit at last week's dinner. I'm a cad, totally cute, yo! To the guy in the big white van that drove 7 miles an hour for 2 miles trying to find his turn lane that I screamed motherfucker at a good 452 times and shot with my imaginary AK-47 at least 12 times; To the car I nearly sideswiped because I was all about not focusing on the road and focusing on my inner turmoil; To cleanliness because my house is a fucking sty and I. Don't. Care. To my heart because I thought I was over this shit and then...damn.

I wanted to blame it on lack of sleep or that maybe it was my one cranky day of the winter (I generally have about two cranky days a year. Once in the winter when the blahs just get to me and once in June because everything goes wrong in June every year...always) or that I was just in a Valentine's Day humbug but that's not it. I wanted to blame it on being on my semicolon (Cuz since guys can't have periods, I figured we should get our own punctuation and hey...I've got a colon!) and just being all low self-esteem boy for the week but that's not it either. I thought I was done with this shit, with these feelings. I had the eulogy, cremated most of the goods, said good-bye to Love's Labor Lost but I guess shit isn't that simple. Its been 2 and a 1/2 years almost since the break up, 2 years since she moved to Chicago, 18 months since I told her to kiss my ass and about a year since I've had any real interaction with her. I don't even think about her much. I check up on her every once in a while with Doni but I tell myself I don't really care, I'm just curious.

Its all bullshit.

Really I'm angry. I'm angry that its 2 and 1/2 years later and she's living with him in Alaska in a house with my dog and being all in love and shit. I'm angry that I feel like I wasted 6 years of my life with someone I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with to end up with a 1 bedroom apartment, a dog I neglect and a fucked up broken heart. I'm angry that its 2 and 1/2 years later and nobody has made me feel the way I felt about her, that I haven't been attracted to the same people that have been attracted to me and that we haven't had a relationship. I'm angry that after giving of myself completely for 6 years and then some, I don't get shit in return except an empty house, an empty bed, an empty heart.

Where's the fairness? the justice? She cheated on me with another guy, she took advantage of my kindness (Ok...she's seeing another guy and I let her live in my place for another 6 months, rent fucking free...yeah, I know I'm an asshole), she fucked me over...and she gets the house on a hill in the place she wants to be with my dog (can you tell the dog thing really pisses me off?). Karma? Did you skip a house? Where's my perfect girl, my summer love, my winter romance? Where's my fairy tale ending? Its been 30 fucking months. All I want is somebody to love, somebody to love me, somebody to take care of, somebody to cherish.

You know what started this whole thing yesterday? A general feeling of lack of motivation in life followed by picking up my mail and having it all be for her. Fuck You. I'm sitting here stagnant and then I have to look at your mail. Kiss my Ass. I know I've grown up since then, that I have wonderful friends and a nice little career and blah blah blah lifeisgoodcakes. But, I'll be 27 in a month and honestly, I expected to be married by then. I expected to be married to her right now. I expected to, I don't know, be doing bigger things by now. But I'm still in the 1 bedroom apartment with the 4 legged roommate and lots of friends and no lovers doing the same shit I was doing last year and the same shit I was doing the year before that and she's in Alaska working on Domestic Violence doing exactly what she wanted to do and being exactly where she wants to be with her man and motherfucker I would kick his ass in a minute, punch a hole in his fucking chest, sic my dog on his testicles and laugh as he screamed. I would remind her why she was still sleeping with me while she was dating him (rock the boat, work the middle, change position) and then walk away...you don't get to have any of this shit again.

Just because that's what needs to be done.

And I even like the guy. Sort of.

And I don't even want the girl back.

I just want what's coming to me. I think I deserve it.

And yeah, thought I was over this shit.

Happy Fucking Valentine's Day.

A Hollywood Day

People that we love, yeah, we love with a passion. If you want to know if I love you, you probably shouldn't be askin...yeah, the answer probably won't be very relaxin'. - A Tribe Called Quest

I lost myself for a moment tonight at dinner. The unique reality of my life set in for a moment and I had to stifle myself from laughing because it was so ridiculous and wonderful. As I sat with some friends, all of whom work in television, as do I, discussing the short film I'm scripting and serious about producing as a satire for my favorite show of the past 6 weeks, Project Greenlight, one of the major people on the show entered the restaurant, Pat Peach and my first reaction...shut up about your spoof, damnit, or he'll steal it for himself. Soon after, the aspiring actor arrived. He used to work in tv too but now he's unemployed, meeting with Agents and firing Managers, trying to get that big break and cracking my shit up every time he is in proximity. I love the pleasantly obnoxious guy...just because he's so unaware of how obnoxious he really is and how fun and endearing it makes him. After discussing the perils and pratfalls of his life, I look up to find Jessica Simpson, Drew Lachey and Nick Lachey entering the restaurant followed soon after by one of the Porn Star actresses of the 'pseudo reality" Playboy TV Series, 7 Lives Exposed. I chuckle a little because I know someone who helped produce the series and his wife works with me, she used to be an art teacher and she looks like an art teacher...but she has pierced nipples and makes Playboy bunny shaped cakes. Ok. Wow.

So I stopped for a second and looked around. Behind us is a band I can't remember but I know I've seen their video on MTV2 or Muchmusic. The singer, the porn star, the boy band, the line producer, the young tv hopefuls, and a slew of other people that I would know their names from credits on something or probably should know if I'm going to get ahead in this business are all sitting down eating mexican food and laughing and living and I'm stunned by the beauty of it all. A restaurant in Studio City filled to the brim with people who essentially get paid to be creative all day. A bunch of people whose express vocations are to work on things that entertain others. This is why I love LA.

I watched Pat Peach the last 6 Sundays help make a movie that will be in theaters in March and on a Tuesday Night I had dinner not 10 feet from him. I'm not starstruck, I'm just stuck at this instant considering this. I don't know what about this makes itspecial but it is. I'm in this room with all of these talented people and we're all eating together and all working towards that same goal to make people laugh or cry or think or something. I don't know if that's noble but its definitely unique. And I'm enamored with it all. I love that my day today read like this:

Woke up at 7 and scrambled to find out what was nominated for what for the Oscars, I don't even work on movies, yet somehow this is important to me. Got dressed and went to work early so that I could get a head start on casting for my dotcom game. I've been casting for all of 2 days and already I'm cruel and vicious, dispatching of candidates for what shirt they choose to wear, whether or not they can spell accept and except correctly and use them in the right context, if they are cute or not (I might have to stop bullshitting the people that email me about RW and RR and tell them that looks really are damn important. I don't even read your app if you don't jump off the page with cuteness or hotness or spunk or something. I want pretty people damnit), if a guy is wearing pink and not gay...gone, if a girl is in the picture with her mother...gone. Damn. I go online to troll the web to find out how people are reacting to last night's show and the results of the online game. I talk to the Actress over IM, I take a call from a music coordinator asking if a certain hip hop act will be paid to perform on a certain show. I call a few people and tell them they are semi-finalists in my casting game and get a huge thrill over how excited they get...then get a little frightened, how am I supposed to know what a good cast is? Why should these people care what I think of them? But they do and the girls flirt and the guys try to buddy buddy me and its thrilling. Power Corrupts like a motherfucker...and quick. fo'rilla. I take a break to work on some freelance projects and maybe write a little on my screenplay. I am so into with everything that I forget lunch. Its 2pm and somehow my desk has beem overwhelmed by 20 different tapes of different things that I'm supposed to review for some odd reason and do shit with. It must be the first week of production because I have strange people calling me asking for shit that don't know me but act like they do. I'm dropped off a playboy magazine and am informed that I might be doing some work for playboy.com in conjunction with our little special coming up. Okay, i am getting adult magazines as work assignments. And all through this, the music guy, the aspiring author, the old ass computer guy that's really a musician, the rapper/editor, the intern/model, and manny, moe and jack have come through my office and I've talked and laughed with all of them cracking jokes because at the end of the day our most stressful situation has been trying to figure out new ways to entertain people on a deadline.

There are people out there who have to save lives, work in factories, work on farms, beg for money, inspect underwear, watch people die, etc. etc. and I discuss scripts and playboy and how I got drunk this past weekend and how we're all going to be rich and famous and everyone else I come in contact with on a daily basis is doing the exact same thing.

And Pat Peach is right there.

And we're all trying to live our dream.

And yeah...I lost myself for a moment. Lost in a Hollywood fairy tale that really isn't bad at all.

No Drinking Games for Jason

What if things were different? - Jaguar Wright

I woke up at 8:04 this morning on the floor. It was dark, my shoes were off, there was drool on my chin, I couldn't find my glasses and...hey, this isn't my apartment?! The last thing I remembered was pulling a 7 of hearts in some kind of fucked up game (I hate you Erica!) where you pull cards and follow a rule that ended up with me drinking large amounts of Ketel One and Rose's lime. God Damn Motherfucker. Here's reason #1 why it should be illegal for any of my friends to involve me with drinking games: I only drink hard liqueur. These fools have spent all night playing drinking games with wine coolers, sangria and corona and I start the game with vodka gimlets straight up, no rocks. In fact, by the time we started playing, half of the drinkers are drinking water and diet coke. Somehow I don't think this is fair. And here I had been sitting on the couch with Moraya almost the entire night discussing our similar suites at the Heartbreak Hotel thinking I was such a grown up for having no desire to participate in such Tomfoolery. But the night had gotten long and it seemed like such a simple game with comic possibilities but here's reason #2 why I'm not supposed to play: I follow the rules. If the rule says you drink, I take a swig...this ain't no sippin' tea. If the rule says you finish your drink, I take it like a shot...I'm a new drinker, I don't know any better. I will drink anything you put in front of me exactly the way you tell me how to drink it. I've done Irish carbombs goddamnit. Nobody will accuse me of being a lightweight. So...with the big ass gimlets I'd been drinking as my drink of choice in this game, I got real drunk, real fast, especially because one of the rules was that you had to take a drink every time you used a word that featured an "s." Which leads me to reason #3 - Three Words - God Damn Motherfucker. For anyone who doesn't already know by reading this site regularly, I have an obsession with the word 'fuck.' I love the word, I love its many uses, the way an inflection an adjective, a look, an intent can change the meaning of the word. It can convey love, hate, happiness, hilarity. Its a beautiful word. And when I'm drunk, I like it...I like it a lot. According to estimates, the phrase God Damn Motherfucker crossed my lips no less than 50 times in the span of about an hour. Hey, there aren't any 'esses' in that. Mother Fucker.

So, I put on my sweatshirt, snuck out of Addie's apartment and got home round 8:30 this morning, got on the Internet and waited online for someone to explain the results of the evening to me. All I remembered was that lucky 7 of hearts. I don't even know what that rule was. Okay, let's break this down for a moment. I'm not a heavy drinker. If I go out to a bar to chill with folks, I'm usually cool with nursing 2 drinks over the night, 3 if we started early. Plus, I can hold my liqueur. The last time I was in a bad way was about a year ago. Red Bull & Vodka, Irish Carbombs, I slept on a sleeper couch and refused to let anyone remove the plastic off the mattress, I had bouts of blindness and numbness from all the red bull, I woke up thinking I was having a heart attack. It was a bad scene. But there was gloating involved and I had to drink to drown it out. Don't be a gloater, you'll lead me to alcoholism. Basically, I'm saying don't try to have a Sandra Bullock-28 Days movie with me or give me a Bailey style Party of Five intervention (although if you want me to come to your party dressed as a clown and be an asshole, I'd do it), I'm not sitting at home drinking vodka, licking the glue off the back of stamps trying to recover my high. The point I'm really trying to get to is that last night was the first time in my life that I have blacked out. There's some time I don't remember and that has me freaked out. Seriously. I like to be in control of myself far too much to ever enjoy the feeling of being out of sorts. That's why I've never gotten high, never done a lot of things...I need to feel in control.

Side Note: Buy the Zero 7 CD, this track Destiny is killing me as I type this.

So, Addie gets online and informs me that I was heckuv funny last night but that I vomited. Wow. I can't remember getting up, I can't remember going to the bathroom, the bucket, the trash, the birdcage. I'm picturing in my head that I just turned to the left and went all Upchuck Summer on one of my friends and then passed out. Damn. But Addie says that I did make it to the bathroom and aimed for the toilet (I'm presuming that I didn't really aim that well though and someone had to clean up my mess...soooo many apologies.) That's so not cool and not the guy I wanna be. I don't want to be projectile vomit guy...fun at parties but watch out! So, don't even ask me to join your drinking game, let me nurse my gimlet with fine, high priced liqueur. and talk about love and life and ticks and time and music and manna from heaven. Because if I'm in the game, we all lose...i pass out and you have to clean and really, not fun for all, right? Right.

Oh, and Friday Night, after a lovely dinner with the Firehouse Vixen, I went to Daddy's (my favorite lounge although The Well is moving on up there) to meet up with Tracy and others. I got there first and was Alone Guy for about 45 minutes. There's a real problem with being Alone Guy and not having a seat. I walked back and forth through the lounge pretending like I was looking for someone. I felt like I should tell people as they passed by me that I wasn't really alone, people were coming to see me, I do have friends, I'm not a loser, really I'm not, I work for MTV and I have funny stories and look, I smile cute and please love me be my friend oh I hate myself. Sigh. I wanted to take out my phone and pretend to call someone. I had to remind myself not to laugh at the conversations I was eavesdropping on, I tried to stand at the edge of other groups so that I would look like I was with them. Yeah, that don't work. I know because I saw another Alone Guy try to do the same thing and I laughed at his loser ass. Mother Fucker.

Get some friends.

Stir Crazy

I don't want to go to work today, I want to stay home and play video games. But I gotta get up.. - Jill Scott

I'm starting to get that stir crazy feeling I usually get come March and April. I don't want to be at work, I'd rather be driving up the coast or going to Vegas or just not being here. There's a lot of nervous energy going on. And a lot of the blah's. This whole thing was supposed to, in part, be about my experiences in hollywood...and wouldn't you know it, I've spent the last two weeks doing nothing but chilling at home. I need to get out more so we can laugh here about the people I meet. Like the ex-dotcom guy and his drunk first date Julie who runs psychicgirl.com (which I would link to but apparently in the past two weeks she's decided to sell it) and was trying to get all up on me at The Well (which was fine, she was all dark haired vixeny with a cute fuzzy jacket and haircut but she was a tad toasted, doing patron shots like crazy, and you know what Chris Rock says, if a girl tells you she's 26 and looks 26, she's damn near 40...if you could have been in elementary school at the same time as my mother, we can't date). Poor guy, he kept leaving to go get better electronic toys from his car trying to impress her while she just wanted to keep feeling the fuzzy afro on my sweatshirt. But I digress.

No rant today. I have to write my Chris Moore Impersonation Contest Script tonight or else Pen will yell at me so I'm storing up for that. I did want to give you guys updates on the site and some other ventures. The week of February 18th will be an all fiction week here at the site. A little test to see if I can write good fiction that I'm happy with and do it on a regular basis. If it works, I'll be launching a second site (tentatively titled negroplease.com) that will just be for my fictional works while I rant on life right here at the MMN.

For the Week of 02.04.02:

So Rad, So Dope, So Fresh, So Clean:

• Enterprise (i'm not ashamed!)
• Fred-Gunn Jungle Love on Angel
• the UK Magazine Muzik
• Naked Music Recordings
• Girls that smell like Vanilla or Hazelnut
• Girls that offer Jelly Belly Jelly Beans when they first meet ya.
• Bitches rule, Yo.
• Ratings jumping almost a full point on the challenge...significant factor - My Online Game (I still rule the internet)
• Flautas at Chevy's

So Fired:

• The persistent annoyance of a minor headache.
• The South
• Iced Out Children (the rant is coming...i'm just not mad enough yet)
• Black Children angry that they aren't discussing the deaths of Aaliyah, Tupac and Biggie in class this month
• White Folks that only want to hear about Black folks this month