somebody is gonna

get a sweet ticket to a killer show.

sara has a funny entry today about how her ex’s get happier and lose weight and live better lives after she lets them go free.

i’d show you before-and-after pictures of Jeanine, but it makes me weep. and chris is looking better than ever, so i know how she feels.

She better not break up with Dan because this is what he’ll look like if her luck continues. no, not the bald guy.

Brian Linse hosted the first LA Blogger party and I had never met him before the bash, but i talked to him for a little bit and he told me that he moved to LA with a car and a month’s rent money and nothing else and now he has made it big. I still dont know what he does, but he has a sweet pad and a killer kitchen and apparently enough clout to “make a movie,” which is what he’s doing right now in one of those nutty eastern european countries that I’ve only seen in porn.

I dont know if he’s the Producer, or Exec. Producer or Best Boy or what, but he has a web site that is fascinating that has tons of pictures that show you the upclose and personal behind the scenes stories that we never really get to see on tv.

I’ve got to find out what sort of camera he’s using because I might just give up on the Snoop DeVille and invest in that instead.

i hate it when the critics are right

remember when all the sports writers said that Michael Jordan shouldn’t come back? well, the regular season’s nearly over and it looks like the same could be said for the greatest basketball player ever. this is the conversation that i would have struck up with Tall Skinny Girl at the Vermont / Sunset station this morning, if i would ever take the time to talk to her, but instead i was reading “Notes of a Dirty Old Man.”

i guess she was running late.

she got on the third car from the front, i took the second car from the front and if you ask me, i won. i got a guy in sandals and dockers and a plaid short sleeve shirt and glasses who liked to talk to himself and chuckle as he read the paper. since most people dont talk to themselves in public, some of the less-aware passengers would answer him.

crazy man: “oh hahhahaa, hey what time is it?”

little old lady boarding the car: “about 8:30, dear”

crazy man: “oh hahahaha, where are we?”

befuddled Philipino man leaving the car, “Santa Monica station.”

crazy man: “hehehehehe what year is it?”

me leaving the car: “1998, buy eToys, quick.”

i like crazy people. i dont believe they’re crazy. betty tells me differently, but shes crazy, she gives any guy at any bar her phone number, which she now denies, but i vividly remember a dude who was singing to her outside a hollywood nite spot after last call who punched in her digits into his cell phone and called her the next day, naturally. am i supposed to believe that he was the one in a million? perhaps. either way i thought it was cool. it doesnt mean she’ll call them back, but at least they’ll float off into the night with pleasant dreams.

all the regulars were on the Wilshire/Western train including my new favorite guy to hate: Trench Coat Yuppie. It hasnt rained in LA since 1998 but this guy insists on wearing a trench coat, and insultingly holds a hankerchief between his pasty white hand and the evil that is the subway pole. we all know it’s dirty, Melvin, thats why we wash our hands when we get to our hi rise offices. people who pretend to be rich but take public transportation in LA arent fooling a damn soul.

it makes us think that you got busted for drinking and driving.

and it makes some of us think that you killed someone while drinking while driving.

and when i pass him while walking up the 58 steps because the UP escalator is broken at Wilshire/Western (and has been since 5pm yesterday) (and nobody since then has reversed the direction of the one good escalator) (and im in way better shape than our preppy pal) i whisper, “out out damn spot.”

Can’t Hardly Wait

Can’t Hardly Wait: Paul Westerberg is going to do a series of instore record store gigs to help promote his first new solo record in years. including a show on 4/25 at Ameoba Records on Sunset here in LA. Somehow Billboard got a sweet exclusive interview with the former Replacements frontman.

I once had an exclusive interview with the former Replacements front man. We were backstage at Rob Gym, The Replacements had just completely dominated all over the place and there were maybe 6-7 of us back there and the band was sitting around looking at each other, it was totally a “so now what” moment, and i wanted to juggle or something to keep them entertained, but fortunately there were a few girls backstage. So I took off my backstage pass and got my pen and handed it to Paul and said, could you sign this for me, and he took the pen and he wrote, “No, Paul.”

I’ve got tons more stories about the Replacements but it’s 2am and I really should get to sleep.

OK, one more, there aren’t that many poems of mine that I have committed to memory, maybe three or four. When I got to college I was happy to see that most poets dont memorize their stuff, they leave that for their fans.

Once my first love came to visit me at my beach side home in Isla Vista and she came with her husband, I think, and I was really looking forward to taking them out for a nice breakfast. But after our night of drinking, they left early in the morning and I felt a little sad, so I wrote this little poem, and it was the first poem that I ever got published and I named it after my favorite rocker at the time. it was during my it-aint-a-poem-unless-it’s-sad phase, so watchit.

“paul westerberg”

and now i feel like everyone has left

and the mess is mine to clean

unseen blood down miles of forearms

slimy goo all red and green.

but im the brown thats in the middle

im the brown that no one owns,

bastard wolf dog alone and freezing

and no one hears his moans.

theres a fastball flung and burning high

a nightmare in my eyes

my guts got stuck in quicksand

and you all think it’s lies.

and the sunset’s grey

and everyday i wake up and walk around

and find im lost

and need a nametag

in my dirty own hometown.