Los Angeles BBQs


Los Angeles BBQs are a lot like BBQs all over these United States, only way, way, way, way sexier (and considerably more patriotic).

(Did everyone begin photoshopping invitations since I've been out west, or is this just pure southern California sexiness?)

See also:

Sexy Beverly Hills Library
Sexy Los Angeles Primary Health Provider
Sexy Hollywood Party

The Lizards

5 states, 13 days, and nearly 2,000 miles later, I have finally returned from the first expansive road trip that I have taken since the Abu Ghraib photos first began to leak out to the press in 2004. 2004…it seems like such a long time ago now. Thoughts of this year are stuck in my mind, resting in the back of my subconscious, waiting for their chance to burst into the forefront of my concerns like the distant, stormy haze of the horizon that loomed over us as we barreled down I-65 toward Noblesville, IN.















My driving companions seemed unconcerned. Sure, they suspiciously eyed the cars around them as they snacked on some hippie trail mix, but their concerns were not with the foreboding skies or a distant year, long forgotten. Their concerns were based on the more immediate fear of getting caught smoking premium marijuana, which they did with alarming frequency and a brazen carelessness for the "Stonededness" of the driver, me.

Hell, for all I know, "Mike" may be a serial kidnapper and rapist…he could be a schizoid with a reckless lack of concern for human life. I only knew a little bit about him, but what I knew, I admired. He was 34 years old, he had seen over 100 Phish shows, he had really great marijuana which he was willing to trade for a ride, and his girlfriend was 22. I put her at 21 and a half…maybe.

Was she even old enough to vote 5 years ago? Would she have known to vote for the Lizard People?

2004 was a tough time for our nation and the world. Despite the capture of Saddam Hussein, the CIA had admitted that Iraq's WMD program posed no immediate threat to any nation. The Iraq insurgency escalated at alarming speed. The United States decided that we wanted to watch George W Bush meddle with things like an irate infant for another four years. Housing prices soared. Bankers wallowed shamelessly in their own crapulence. Whales were spontaneously exploding, the Patriots won the Superbowl, Ireland banned smoking, the UN officially blamed Sudan for atrocities occurring in Darfur, a Tsunami killed over 200,000 people...and Phish played what were to be their last six sets EVER at a career-ending festival ominously titled Coventry.











Coventry…in a year of sick and dismal shit, Coventry was the diarrhea. Torrential rain and mud kept thousands of fans stranded without any way to gain entrance into the festival. It may have been just as well, though, due to rampant crack smoking, bunk acid, wook flu (A4N20), and the greatest band of my generation playing at their absolute worst. Trey, the lead guitar player and bandleader, was regularly slamming smack into his veins at the time and he almost nodded off several times throughout the weekend. Page, the keyboard player, wept openly during Velvet Sea, effectively ruining any enjoyment that I would get out of the song ever again. Frequently, the entire band sounded like they were playing in the wrong key. It was such a rainy, dreary shitshow that none of the "Phans" were really put off by the breakup. "Fuck," the overriding sentiment seemed to be, "There aren't enough drugs in the world to make this shit listenable."

To this day, many people who attended the festival refuse to listen to the recordings from those concerts. Many more deny even being in attendance, hoping that by refusing to remember it, they will somehow be able to erase it from their memory forever. But now, thankfully, the last chapter of Phish has been reopened with Phish 3.0.












I celebrated Phish's triumphant 2009 return by hitting up four shows in St Louis, Indiana, and Wisconsin. St. Louis was a fun show, played in front of a 4,200 person venue built in the 20's and stuffed with various artifacts collected from throughout the world and jammed together throughout the various tunnels and crevices in the theater. It was opulent and over the top. The stage itself was surrounded by golden Buddha's and Indian gods, arranged in a manner reminiscent of a giant, golden, Catholic cathedral. During set break I suggested the church-like appearance to the elderly usher working in my section. He seemed uncomfortable with my sacrilegious suggestion and took a few steps back away from me. I stared up at the ceiling for several minutes as I was hypnotized by the massive, guarded, heaving orifice which seemed to be descending closer and closer to the balcony as I stared at it. It looked like a reversal of that sand thing in Return of the Jedi. A girl came by and decided that I looked like a reasonable person to talk to while she was whacked out on ecstasy. After I struggled to form sentences for a while I watched half of her head and face ooze down on to her shoulder. I realized that the four grams of mushrooms floating around in my stomach were starting to mess with me. "I should mention," I said carefully, "That I'm surprised that you can make any sense out of the words I'm using." She left a little while later after having what appeared to be the most meaningful conversation of her life. I seem to remember her mentioning something about elves, but I can't be sure…nothing was making much sense at that time.

I tried to get my head together and found myself staring at the ceiling again as it bulged closer and closer to me. "Is that thing, uh, ceiling, made out of….like...plaster???" I asked the old usher. He looked up, looked at me, and shrugged his shoulders , "Yeah, probably." I was suddenly a little worried that he knew. I left immediately and wandered around the theater getting lost in weird patterns and staring at columns until I realized that the band was playing again. I ended up in a new location on the balcony for the second set. Nobody seemed to notice that I had stolen a first row seat that I had mistaken as my own. I encountered some difficulties when the balcony began shaking due to the throngs of people dancing in unison. I saw three people fall down as they walked back to their seats due to the unique tremors we were experiencing. The only way to maintain balance was to dance...but that only helped if you let the floor lead.

After the show I ended up at the swanky Hyatt hotel bar talking to a fan from Pennsylvania. He has just passed his last drug test after 5 years of probation and celebrated by catching a few Phish shows, buying me beer, and rolling joints for us to smoke out on the streets of downtown St Louis. He was a decent person -- despite being from out east. Then again, he was a Flyers fan, so he may have just been happy to hear somebody use explicit detail as they described murdering the Penguins' Sydney Crosby with their bare hands.
















After St Louis, I drove home the next day and went to work on Thursday as I prepared for Indiana and Wisconsin. Phish had released a "greening manual" explaining how to minimize the environmental impact of fans going on tour. Among the suggestions was carpooling via a ride share program. I registered in the hopes that I might be ale to find someone to keep me stoned for one of the drives and to blame if I was pulled over and my own stash was discovered.

I was happy to see an email waiting for me from Mike L when I got into work, "Hi, I need a ride for 2, me and my fiance. I can give cash or kind trade. I'm on the Northside, trying to get to Deer Creek and back to Chicago. Thanks, Grande"

This might just sound like some sort of innocuous hippie bartering lingo, but this can be directly translated into, "Hey, me and my freaky mama want to you to drive us around for 9 hours while we get baked out of our minds. We're engaged so don't even think about it. We can't afford a car, but we'll give you a bunch of weed or some gas money if you would prefer. Also, I'm a bit fat so you will need a little extra room for both of us."

So there we were, heading down I-65 in Indiana with an angry storm casually advertising itself in the distant summer haze. We arrived at the show 15 minutes after the advertised start time. I grabbed a nug and some rolling papers and slipped them into a sock, deposited the sock into my boxers, and wrapped the upper part of the sock around my wasteband. I looked up at the sky, took a swill of warm beer, and decided against bringing my rain poncho as I headed towards the security gate. Once inside, I grabbed a $12 double Gin & Tonic and took my seat just as the show started.

The first set was great but towards the end of it, dark clouds began encompassing the venue and lighting started striking in every visible direction. After the set had ended, the storm seemed to fade and I decided to look for my second trade of the evening. I had won two Phish tickets for an upcoming show in Wisconsin and some kid at this show was willing to trade me some "bomb dank" for them. After several failed attempts at reaching him, I finally got through on my cell. He was clearly under the influence of hallucinogenics…but mindful enough that he could follow simple instruction. He performed the "stay" command with relative ease. He could also hug…a skill which he performed with blissful repetition after I handed him the tickets.
(actual picture from Deer Creek)








I returned to my seat to roll some of my newly acquired smoke. A little while later, Page came out during the intermission and told the kids to, "Get off my lawn," since another line of storms was on a path to hit the venue. The show would start again in about an hour. Everyone in the pavilion could stay, everyone in the lawn was supposed to deal with the storm out in the parking lot. The rain came in and pummeled us, even soaking those of us near the edge of the pavilion, but the Phish came back and fucking raged the second set. A set which was the best that I had heard them play in almost ten years.

It poured for the rest of the show and people exiting the venue were knocking on strangers cars to bum rides and to protect themselves from the rain. On the way out, we gave a ride to a couple of campers and I was paid a surprising $20. When 2:00 am hit, I told Passenger Grande that I was feeling a bit drowsy and asked him to drive. I passed out and woke up 3 hours later in Chicago, well-rested with a car full of weed and without a storm cloud in site. I thanked Grande and his young fiancee for their services and I pointed the Honda north toward Wisconsin for the last two shows of the first leg of the tour. 2004 be damned! We have a new year on our hands, and I, for one, welcome our Lizard Overlords.

Yeeehaw!

Sleeping Lessons

The Bossman’s English skills are pretty good, with some peculiarities sprinkled in. He is taking adult swimming lessons. I asked him how they were going.

“I can put my face in the water, but I’m having trouble sleeping.”

“You’re having trouble what?”

“I can stand and put my face in the water, but I can’t sleep well.”

“Sleep?”

He makes a motion with his hand to indicate his body parallel with the bottom of the pool.

“Oh right…Yeah, once you relax a bit you’ll be able to sleep just fine.”

My Marriage in Post It Notes #5: Catching Up



See My Marriage in Post It Notes #1

See My Marriage in Post It Notes #4

Project Management Angst

From: Dr. James Katz
Sent: Thursday, June 18, 2009 11:06 AM
To: Mezz0
Subject: FW: Group review of Exception Scenarios

Here’s the nifty title I came up w/ “Group review of CC Exception Scenarios”. I know, you’re thrilled, too.

------------
From: Mezz0
Sent: Thursday, June 18, 2009 11:11 AM
Subject: FW: Group review of Exception Scenarios

That could be the best title for a task I have ever heard in my entire life, ever ever. It will stand as a beacon in the project plan of the artistry we can all aspire to when documenting our project-related activities. Thank you for this, Dr. Katz, you have made my day, and will be sure to inspire countless others as they review the minutia of our lives of meeting with people, creating documents, writing emails, talking on the telephone, and ultimately creating a product that will steer helpless addicts from the vice grip of addiction.

-Mezz0

We, as a race, are massive failures

5 hours at work + 3 hours at home = 8 / 16 (waking hours) = 50% of my time staring at glowing rectangles*. Fuck you, Onion, I'm only spending half my life staring at screens. And there's nothing pathetic about that!

*Obviously, this estimate is probably minus a standard deviation in screen staring as nobody wants to admit how much time they piss away watching TV/on the computer/lusting after Jenna Bush, particularly those assholes who say they never watch TV, which really is to say "I watch less TV than you, and therefore I am a better person than you," and really this also goes for people who say "I only watch Shark Week on the Discovery channel once a year, and old episodes of Grace Under Fire [therefore I am a better person than you]" and people (like me) who proudly shove it into other's people's faces that we don't have cable, which I don't, but that doesn't give me (us? losing control of grammar, here) the right to use it as ammunition in the game of "who's better at life," and you have to admit, the quality of television has vastly improved over the past 10-15 years, I mean, have you seen Deadwood? Every line is fucking poetry!

Borne Back Ceaselessly Into the Past

A friend of mine and I share a hatred for New Trier high school. Today, he sent me an email:

This is great - I refined the results for IL and those dicks at New Trier didn't even crack the top 750 Nationally or the top 15 schools in IL. Enjoy:

http://www.newsweek.com/id/201160/?s=il&q=2009/rank/1

I responded with:

As much as I didn't like my high school, or rather, didn't like the attitude of the high schoolers and parents who struck me as people self-conscious about not being a part of the East coast old money aristocracy. (Brief aside here - even if one could afford to be part of the East coast old money aristocracy, wouldn't one prefer to be more down to earth if the trade off was lack of faux Continental culture? Or to put it a differently - if the only way to distinguish yourself from others is to be an asshole, do you really want to distinguish yourself from others?) That being said, my heart bursted with non-hatred for my old High School which beat out those fucking assholes at New Trier, may they all die in a fire - current students, alums, family, and friends.

Thank you for that link. We drink their milkshake.

-Mezzo

I've Been Living a Lie


It has recently come to my attention that my Christian name, the name on my birth certificate, the name of my father and grandfather, is for chicks. I learned this on typing my name into Facebook, and seeing a bunch of old broads staring back at me. I’ve always been able to relate to that old Shel Silverstein poem, “a Boy Named Sue,” for the sheer oddity of my name, but now I can relate to the gender confusion as well. However, my name isn’t just a chick’s name like Sue, but an old chick’s name, like Dorothy or Mable or Ruth. What the hell were my great grandparents thinking?

I’m not one to blow things out of proportion, but this has completely changed my identity. I’ve always suspected, deep inside, that I was robbed of being a little girl, and now I know why. If only the doctor had slipped a little when giving me my circumcision!

I did a little research on cross-gender names to gauge just how insurmountable my newly discovered handicap has been so as to emotionally blackmail my parents. Unfortunately, my girlie name has been a blessing:

“Researchers have studied men with cross-gender names like Leslie,” Dr. Evans explained. “They haven’t found anything negative — no psychological or social problems — or any correlations with either masculinity or effeminacy. But they have found one major positive factor: a better sense of self-control. It’s not that you fight more, but that you learn how to let stuff roll off your back.”

I tend to agree except of the effeminacy part - the Old Man has an undeniable love of show tunes, and I don't have much of a sense of direction. On reflecting back through my childhood, an unusual name is like walking around with a "Pwned" sign on your back. Someone says your name and instant pwnage. There's no come back except to cultivate a Buddhaesque sense that all life is suffering. To this day, I can't think of something someone could say to me that would offend me.

Speaking of offensive, Shel Silverstein is one fucked up individual:

THE FATHER OF A BOY NAMED SUE
(Written by Shel Silverstein)

Intro by Shel Silverstein
OK, now, years ago, I wrote a song called "A Boy Named Sue", And,
that was OK and everything except, then I started to think about it,
and I thought, It is unfair. I am, I am looking at the whole thing
from the poor kid's point of view. And as I get more older and more
fatherly, I begin to look at things from old men's point of view.
So, I decided to give the old man equal time. OK, here we go...

Yeah, I left home when the kid was three
And it sure felt good to be fancy free
Though I knew it wasn't quite the the fatherly thing to do
But that kid kept screaming and throwing up
And pissing in his pants till I had enough
So just for revenge I went and named him Sue
Yeah!

It was Gatlinburg in mid July
I was gettin drunk but gettin by
Gettin old and going from bad to worse

When through the door with an awful scream
Comes the ugliest queen I've ever seen
He says, "My name is Sue, how do you do?"
Then he hits me with his purse

Now this ain't the way he tells the tell
But he scratched my face with his fingernails
And Then he bit my thumb
And kicked me with his high heel shoe

So I hit him in the nose and he started to cry
And he threw some perfume in my eye
And it sure ain't easy fightin an old boy named Sue

So I hit him in the head with a cane back chair
And he screamed, "Hey dad, you mussed my hair!"
And he hit me in the navel and knocked out a piece of my lint

He was spittin blood, I was spittin teeth
And we crashed through the wall and out into the street
Kickin and gouging in the mud and the blood and the creme de menthe

Then out of his garter he pulls a gun
I'm about to get shot by my very own son
He's screaming about Sigmund Freud and looking grim - woo
So I though fast and I told him some stuff
How I named him Sue just to make him tough
And I guess he bought it cause now I'm living with him

Yea he cooks and sews and cleans up the place
He cuts my hair and shaves my face
And irons my shirts better than a daughter could do
And on the nights that I can't score
Well, I can't tell you any more
But it sure is a joy to have a boy named Sue
Yeah a son is fun but it's a joy to have a boy named Sue