wheee!

Dear NBC - I KNOW you didn't just pre-empt Conan O'Brien for the fucking OLYMPICS!!! You bastards. Love, me.

In a heartbreaking yet predictable gesture, the three shows I would gouge one of my eyes out to see are all happening shortly after I depart Seattle, all within a week of one another:

IQU CD release / Helio Sequence - September 3, Chop Suey (goddamnit).
Unicorns CD Release - September 4, Neumo's (MOTHERFUCK!).
The Decemberists with Deerhoof and a handful of other musically glorious groups, September 9, and I don't even care where because I'm weeping too hard to even look at the flier.

Wah!!!

I saw Garden State on Wednesday. It makes me sad that a movie with such an incredible middle could have such a weak beginning and such a clunky, schmaltzy end. I tried to let the goodness of it conquer the weaknesses, and succeeded in loving it for a while. Some of this movie is hilarious, but it defeats itself. Plus, like this review says (http://www.thestranger.com/2004-08-12/film.html), Zach Braff does appear to be the worst kisser in America. Maybe he was just nervous about locking lips with Natalie Portman. But somehow, I doubt it.

Went to dinner with the benefactress and my friend interning with the legitimate media, which was fun. Speaking of the legitimate media, however...I finally got a clip with The Stranger. Nothing thrilling, but it is one step towards me not having my fucking journalism degree withheld - available here: http://www.thestranger.com/current/other_news.html

It's on top, right where it belongs. Yay!

I'm nearly at the end of my rope, with the end of A Storm of Swords close in sight. I may need literary methadone even more desperately than when I finished One Hundred Years of Solitude. Such a staple has Mr. Martin been in my wildly depressed little life.

Today, I'm going to see Before Sunset (again) after work. I fucking love that movie, and wish I had DVD player suburb-side so I could have watched its gorgeous precursor again. But since I have seen Before Sunrise at least seven million times, I might actually be able to stay up to speed. Perhaps.

Last night, I had a really fucked up La Femme Nikita tinged dream. And I'm not talking about the film. I refer, of course, to the USA Network cult smash starring sexpot Peta Wilson. Rrrowr. And the hot, short, be-mulletted French-Canadian guy. God, he looked so good with short hair. WHY COULDN'T HE HAVE JUST KEPT HIS BLOODY SHORT HAIR?!?! I am referring to this dream only to unveil my secret love for this show and not to bore you with the details of my subconscious. Not that I even remember the dream enough to do so.

Okay, I should probably be actively searching for things to work on. And cease my blogging. But if in five minutes, you are greeted by a vision of me hunched over my computer, desperately reading one of the two million blogs I read, then you are probably psychic. Which, as my visit to Seattle's Museum of Mysteries revealed, I am not. At all. If possible, sub-psychic. But I totally wasn't trying during that bloody test anyway. And yes, it was just like that one part in Ghostbusters. Without the electroshocks.