Plugged in and ready to fall

Most of Wednesday was spent reading Dave Navarro’s Don’t Try This At Home. So far it confirms just about everything I’ve always suspected Navarro of being. He’s narcissistic, weird as fuck, and gets more action than a porn star. Naturally you’d think this would make for a great read (don’t get me wrong, there are times when the book is pretty fascinating- like the chapter where Navarro lists all the household items he’s used to "tie off"), but all the dopey, self-indulgent stuff throughout the book about death, the meaning of life, and astral projection are a real chore to plow through.

I met up with Joslin at the Earl around 10pm for Todd Barry’s show. She arrived looking quite the indie-rock scenester, with her black framed glasses and bright, rainbow colored leg warmers. We sat on a sofa in a dark corner of the club while the opening band played, and talked about everything from Charles Bukowski and garage rock, to the universal appeal of Lindsey Lohan’s genre-bending, pop/rock debut. (Lindsey Lohan’s new CD, "Speak" is now available at a Wal-Mart near you!) After playing for what felt like an eternity, the opening band finally ended their set and Todd Barry came on stage. Maybe I’m a bit biased because I’m a huge fan of the guy’s comedy, but Barry’s set that night was amazing. He had some killer material about Fugazi, the Clermont Lounge and Sugar Ray that had me laughing so hard I thought I was going to black out (Though I’m sure the fact that I’d been guzzling PBR’s like there was no tomorrow might have had something to do with that).

Tomorrow I’m headed to Athens to hang out with Anne and see the Drive By Truckers. Let the binge drinking begin.

The girl at Oxford Comics really knows her Asian cinema. When I rented Old Boy (An incredible revenge film by a director best described as the Korean, establishment version of Quentin Tarentino), she struck up a conversation about the House of Flying Daggers, and Hero. I’d rented the House of Flying Daggers one week earlier, and enjoyed it so much I nearly soiled my pants. The fight scenes were beyond beautiful. Zhang Ziyi has this great way of dispatching an entire roomful of bad guys while looking like she couldn’t be more bored. The balletic, intricately choreographed kung fu of HOD was in stark contrast to the more brutal, realistic throw downs in Old Boy. Jesus, what a brilliant, hard-hitting movie. The scene that cemented my love for Chan Wok Park (the director) was the one where Oh Desu makes his way through a hallway filled with scary, knife-wielding thugs. The thing that makes it so remarkable is the fact that it was all done in one take. No cutaways at all- just one long tracking shot of Oh Desu moving down this narrow hallway, handing out beatings like they were going out of style.

The past few days have been packed full of more television, reading, and irradiated zombies than you could shake a mint condition copy of Detective Comics #27 at. Tables were turned, lessons were learned- last night I talked to a girl named Rebecca and fell asleep to the sound of David Cross’ voice. At Wal-Mart I saw an Asian guy with carefully tousled hair and form-fitting girl jeans. He looked like a Cantonese pop star, slumming in the states while working on material for his next album. He had this distracted, far away look in his eyes. I wonder what he was thinking about. Clothes? Lunch? Hair products? The girl he met at the club last night who was all over him on the dance floor, but responded with cool indifference when he later tried to get her phone number?

Recklessly piloted my cluttered, battle-damaged Nissan through the streets of Atlanta while a terrified Michelle/Elle/Ella berated my Mad Max approach to driving. The radio was tuned to 96.7, and they were playing the song from Handsome Boy Modeling School with Pharrell and Julee Cruise. When we arrived at the Vortex, we grabbed a seat in a corner that was darker than Nicole Ritchie’s cold, black soul. While chewing on a rubbery piece of chicken, I closed my eyes and realized “This is not my house. This is not my beautiful wife. How did I get here?” That was right before the cyber ninjas fell from the sky.


My thoughts keep going back to the Sin City trailer. Robert Rodriguez, will you marry me? Mickey Rourke’s in full blown badass mode, and Bruce Willis is finally in a movie that doesn’t suck (I hope). I’m still “cautiously optimistic” about Constantine. I wish they’d kept the British accent, but the trailers are so promising, I’m almost willing to overlook it. Should I see Elektra this weekend? The tea leaves are telling me to stay away, yet I feel strangely compelled to part with my hard earned cash for the opportunity to see Jenny Garner on the silver screen.
I’m hanging out with Joslin tomorrow. Gentlemen, start your self-loathing.