Click here to view the embedded video.

Ghost.

Amazing. Thank you, Contrarian.

But about documentaries…they seem to be getting more and more popular.  Obviously 9/11 is a biggie, but I can’t help but wonder if the whole Reality-TV craze has helped ease the general public into actually finding these films interesting.  Because last I knew, the word documentary had a big boring PBS cardigan-wearing stigma around it.  ”It’s a documentary.”  ”Ewwwwwwwwwww.”  Now I’m imaging (with the help of the advent of the digital video camera age) a whole slew of documentaries coming soon, about everything you can imagine.  It’ll probably get pretty shitty…there’ll be movies about smelly socks and working in record stores…but I’ll bet there’ll be some good ones, too.  Just about anything is interesting if presented realistically (now the word real has a stigma to it…of gaudy fakeness).  Um…what the fuck am I talking about?  I don’t know.

Bought some records a few days ago.  Felt good.  Saw !!! last friday with Olsen and Gustav.  Also felt good (thanks Mia!).  Good good good.  (Trying to motivate myself into some postive thinking.  Is it working?  Nope.)

The first police car I was ever in … my mother took me to see Moonraker somewhere in downtown Brooklyn … I remember the shuttle motif, and Jaws’ nasty silver grin … and afterwards, I wandered behind as my mother strutted down the sidewalk … I think I got distracted by a TV in a window, really … honestly … and before you knew it — nothing but legs pacing by, cold and impersonal, and I was lost … started crying before you know it (hey, I was 7), looking to the left and right, searching for my mom’s slacks … people stooping to console and inquire ”You lost, little boy?” … cops show up soon enough, questions and tissues, then in the back of the car for the short ride back to Bay Ridge, 59th St (between 8th and 9th) … the worst part was my friends on the block scoping me out as we cruised up the street, checking me out with wary, suspicious eyes … I was guilty before I even hit the sidewalk.

The next day, in the car lot a few buildings down, John Fox and Anthony DeStefano beat me down behind a rotting brown Charger. I remember the car because it looked just like my father’s, and even at the time, the whole thing seemed significant … it was like being in a Raymond Carver or Richard Ford story, saying to myself, over and over, You will never forget this moment.…

(next day) I wish I could remember writing this.  God bless tequila.

The whole thing, though, just made me think about these two friends of mine from high school, Gene and Kelly. Inseparable. Gene wore dirty raincoats, cut-off clamdiggers and Dr. Martens, had a Fishbone emblem tattooed on the fatty webbing between the index and thumb of his right hand, worked at the local bevy. Kelly looked like Michael Anythony Hall with stringy Kate Hudson hair, always had pints of Wild Turkey in the thigh pocket of his fatigues, worked at the same bevy. They didn’t go to my school. Actually, they dropped out of Massapequa High School and were living with my friend Corrina and her mother, who was a biker chick. The five of us used to sit around on the plush velour couch and loveseat in their dark living room (vertical blinds mostly drawn) and smoke Kents and drink the cases of beer that Gene and Kelly used to steal from the bevy … they’d put a few cases on the slats that were going out for recycling, then throw them (or place them, probably, because we drank a lot of Moosehead and it was always in bottles) in this enormous dumpster behind a chain-link fence that sometime after midnight we’d pull up beside in Corrina’s Dodge Dart, lights off, and climb over … we’d have to climb into the dumpster, too (except for Gene, who was too short and couldn’t get out of it, which he learned the hard way) and pass the cases up to whomever was leaning over the edge above you. One time we went to Sunken Meadow State Park and smoked joints while sitting on the edge of the big pond in there … I made out with Corrina while her mother and Gene kept yelling curses like ”Fuckhead” and ”Douchebag” to see how they echoed off the water. We closed up shop and left after Kelly actually caught a duck and wound up snapping its neck … I remember the way he turned around and looked at us, not necessarily blankly but not quite shocked, the duck in his hands, its head hanging limply over his fingers like a soft hose.

Click here to view the embedded video.

But that doesn’t make any sense either, because you’re reading this in the first place.…

Watched both versions of “The Ring” this past weekend.  They both sucked.  It’s funny watching two versions of the same shitty movie.

That’s about it.  See you tomorrow.

Speaking of which, contemplating whether to drop the $39 ($41 after fees, I imagine) to see Lou on Wednesday. Don’t want to be the sucker to shell out the ducets to watch him wax poetic for 45 minutes (it’s an intimate evening of song & poetry, supposedly). Then again, don’t want to be the sucker who missed out on THE FUCKING SHOW because I was being such a damned miserly Shylock. Anyone have any ideas or experience with this particular show? Please email me before Wednesday and let me know.

Whatever. I think me and Jason are going to go watch “Ringu” soon. Caused a bit of ruckus over in Japan when it was released. Seizures and the whole bit. Don’t worry, I think we’re out of the clear with our beloved Jason, though he’s getting cold feet on going through the fullday EEG. Do me a favor: if you see him or talk to him, try to sway him against backing out, alright? Great. You’re a true friend.