my friends are not only the greatest

but they have the greatest weddings.

two of my favorites, ken and laura got married three years ago on the baja coast on a dramatic mexican cliff surrounded by family friends and a string quartet.

they say if you remember very much about it you werent there.

all i can remember is how pretty it was, how much i drank, a dance competition of some sort, an issue regarding the dj and how loud he could blast his sound system(?), and the irony of feeling safer in mexico a few weeks after sept 11 than in west la.

i took pictures with a bulky sony mavica that recorded its images on a 5 1/4″ floppy, a modern day brownie, but evena camera obscura would have been able to document the beauty and love and good feelings.

i remember ken beaming like crazy and i dont seem to remember laura running for the border before its too late.

i remember the dj playing a beck vs ac/dc mashup of mixed bizness

i remember a late night allstar acoustic guitar pass along with the waves crashing beneath us

and i remember driving down the coast the day after with my truest as i showed her the rosarito motel where jeanine and officially became boyfriend n girlfriend.

i remember hearing a story that ken had been secretly hiding out in baja for six weeks before the nuptuals, holed up as he finished writing his fine fine novel dot.con, my favorite novel of 2001.

not only was the wedding magical, but if they hadnt gotten married when they did, odds are ken wouldnt have turned over the keys to the hollywood bachelor pad which i have occupied ever since.

best wishes laura and ken, maybe one of these years we can all regroup at that colorful cliffside resort now that mexico has finallyreplenished its tequila reserves.

my pics from the wedding + greg’s pics + welch’s pre-wedding post

how to leave a comment

1. kiss my ass.

2. if you cant kiss my ass, ask a question.

3. if you cant do either of those, have the guts courtesy of filling in the email address or home page portion of the comment box. everyone agrees that anonymous negative commentors are pussy ass bitches whose opinons are not even worth the milisecond that it will take to delete them.

if you have the nerve to come into someone elses house and talk shit, have the backbone to identify yourself. i wouldnt accept a check without your signature, so fuck your pissy comment without a real email address.

and that goes for you democrats too.

4. but people say oh but i will get spam oh i will get spam.

a. only fools put their primary email address on the internet.
b. when they ask you your email address type it out like this busblog@g[mail].com
c. create an email account for spam, look i just made one on Yahoo

im runnin with scissors im runnin with scissors

d. notice that the world didnt end.

e. a sincere commentor should want the reader to know that theyre serious about their rebuttal. the simplist way one could discount a negative comment is to say, that person was certainly kidding as they didnt even leave their name.

f. only cowards hide and snipe from the shadows, the only thing more pathetic and hopeless is someone who does it on a fucking blog on the internet.

5. politely alert me of a correction that should be made. if a hyperlink is available, please use it.

6. if you have nothing useful to say, be funny. be the guy who pops in with a little joke and then pops out real quick.

but you better be funny.

7. if youre busy at work, inarticulate, or flying a helicopter above the dreary clouds of hollywoodland, keep it short and/or use these:

a. right on
b. fuck yeah
c. omg for sure!
d. you know, bush does suck!
e. please accept this generous tip
f. bullshit

id much rather accept some ignorant ass with a real email address simply calling out bullshit than boring me with these fat generic lies of “you’ve crossed the line now pierce im never coming back here again! humph!”

just call bullshit and go back to watching your stories grampa. your votes been counted.

8. a polite, lean, direct rebutal resonates much louder than a clumsy wandering stale belch. say exactly what you disagree with, offer an alternative, provide examples.

or, call bullshit while leaving your fucking earthshattering blog’s address.

9. do this everywhere you go

10. realize good or bad i still probably wont give a shit what you say. the good feelings of good comments rarely last and the annoyed feelings of bad comments are even more fleeting. so just kiss my ass and move on.

my ex gf interviews a current inmate + emmanuelle says kerry’s french is tres mal + paige

who needs lameass blog debates

goose bumpswhen we have the ultimate grudge match

Yanks vs Sox, game seven, tonight, 5pm pst

from Bill Simmons today on

Wait a second … I’m supposed to write about this???

I don’t have a central nervous system left. My head weighs more than Verne Troyer. My heart feels like somebody tried to make meatballs out of it. I can’t think straight. I’m a corpse. I’m a walking corpse.

If the Sox take this thing, they’ll rename the state Papichusetts.

For two straight days, I watched my beloved Red Sox stave off elimination against the Yanks, needing 26 innings over 27 hours to stay alive for Game 6 in New York. These weren’t just baseball games. They were life experiences. They broke you down in sections. They made you question God, the meaning of life, whether sports should possibly mean this much. On Sunday night, I stewed in my seat vowing never to raise my kids as Sox fans.

On Monday night, I skipped out of Fenway wondering if any other team could possibly mean this much to a group of people.

The Sox should have lost about 25 different times. The Sox should have won about 25 different times. They rallied to tie consecutive games against the seemingly invincible Yankees bullpen. They kept the games tied in extra innings with a never-ending stream of fringe starters and worn-out relievers. Their closer recorded 12 outs on 70-plus pitches in the span of 24 hours. They stranded the winning run on second or third base nearly 200 times. Including Saturday night’s game, their three starters recorded 40 outs, leaving another 65 for the bullpen guys. Somehow none of this was a problem.


Rarely in life does one get the chance to right a wrong. The Red Sox have improbably put themselves in position to do just that. Namely: avenge last year’s ALCS game 7 loss while advancing to the big show for a chance to win their first title in 86 years.

I was curious to see what I wrote before the 2003 Game 7 and here’s a snippet from the post:

So now the Red Sox face the improbable task of beating their most storied rival, the team with the highest payroll in the history of MLB, the New York Yankees, on their home field for the opportunity to play in their first World Series since 1986.

86 years — 1986. Coincidence? Of course.

Before the Angels series I felt strangely serene. After the Sox had finished them off in 3-games, I attributed my calmness to “knowing deep down all along” that they were going to win. I felt the same way before the Yanks series began but after NY took a 3-0 lead, I just figured that deep down I knew all along they were going to lose. But now I believe it was a positive vibe afterall.


from Edw Cossette from Fox Sports New England:

Talk about Red Sox!

When I saw Schilling take the mound without the high top cleat but instead the low cleat and that blood soaked sock I teared up. I’m tearing up now again as I write about it.

Schilling’s performance last night was the greatest sports event I’ve witnessed. So we are told “it’s just a game.” Yeah, it is.

But in the same way that Beowulf is just a short story and Beethoven’s Ode to Joy chorale is just people singing.

all i know is karisa refuses to talk to me about it because we when we were on the phone last night the yankees scored a run, so apparently im bad luck for her team.

and you know what, i totally understand her paranoia.

go sox.

boston dirt dogs

as many of you know, ive been blogging for a little over three years now

and im addicted. i have an admitted problem.

one of the signs of that problem is the last thing that i check before i go to sleep and the first thing that i check in the morn is my Site Meter stats. its not the number that im most interested in, it’s where the numbers are coming from.

the first wish is that some super hot chick is writing about me.

oh tony pierce, hes so clever. god i want him. i read his entire archives over the last few days and all his photo essays… and i saw pictures of him with his afro and now that he has a shaved head i think hes even cuter. i heart him. i not only have a blog crush, but a real crush. oh if only i lived in hollywood i would only want that he would be mine.

thats pretty much what im looking for when i go into my referral logs.

this morning was no different. with the rain plinking my french windows and the instant oatmeal bowl spinning in the microwave i clicked over to the site meter and i waded through all the hits from the washington post and saw no hits from and let out a gentle sigh of disappointment and walked to the fridge in the dark

defeated and ignored once again

just like every morning.

the blog trap had gone another night without snaring the babe.

and because im ill i brought my bowl of oats and my apple juice back to the computer and i went to my comments to see if anyone called me a genius in the comments

and then it dawned on me


wtf are there all those hits from the washingtonpost doing in site meter?

and lo, the second best thing apparently happened, howard kurtz today wrote about the little instadebate thingie. (which upon reading, glenn isnt at all amused, and is now trying to pretend that this is a debate about objectivity when it has only been about transparancy: be upfront with your readers about your biases, admit that you wont link to stories that are in conflict with your agenda, be not ashamed that youre a partisan republican… come out come out!)

anyway, hi washington post.

ive been linked by the la times and the ny times and i guess this completes the triple crown and still i dont know what to do when met with unexpected traffic from a completely unexpected source.

hi mom?

hi wonkette?

free martha?

one thing that people usually write when they get hits from me is “i wish i had cleaned up the place before you got here.” meaning they wished that they had written something super awesome the night before.

since i havent written anything super awesome in a while, i guess the only thing i can say this morning his


thanks for coming.

look around a little, theres lots to see, and i hope that you all come back

but right now i gotta catch a bus and go to work.

oh wait i know what to say to the washington post readers:

three things im pretty stoked about regarding our nations capital, the place i was born 10/22/blahblahblah

1. im glad youre getting your favorite mayor back

2. im glad youre getting a baseball team back

3. im glad you’ll probably have a new resident in the white house.

your pal,


past faves from this blog: how to blog + how to vote, the film + tons of photo essays

two nice girls invited john woo and i

over to their house after work to watch

this fucking redsox yankee series

simply the greatest rivalry in all of sport.

so i accepted on his behalf and we met them there

and it was raining so they left the bathroom window open

so we could hear the rain

and one of the girls had put a candle in the bathroom

and lit it

and in the dark there with the rain

it was nice

and something youd never see

at mans house

so even nicer.

94. spot 79

thier plush carpet was clean

and i wondered how i could roll on it later

but never did because that game was so good

best rivalry ever

and the yankees are just too deep.

the other day fuckin jeter hit a bases clearing triple,

(double, advancing to third on the throw home)

and pedro was all fuckit and hit a-rod in the elbow

only place you can really hurt a-rod

and most guys will squint and jog over to first like all whatever

but a-rod barely made it put his hands on his knees and then straightened up,

arched his back, and grimaced like he could feel the bone splintering

with each little movement.

the trainer came over and sprayed on that cold topical cocaine deal

and the first base coach said youre in fenway park

and not only did you get hit but you got hit by pedro

but now pedro had to face sheffield and matsui,

wasnt jeter and a-rod enough?

but he did, and tonights game was spectacular

even with a-rod trying to cheat.

pretty boys played maybe two thousand games in his life.

has he ever known it not to be cheating

to slap a ball out of a glove.

this is a civilized sport.

you can bowl over the catcher, but certainly no slapping!

and my only fear for karisa, one of my best friends of all time,

is the red sox dont fare well in seventh games,

sadly, horrificly


but the yankees must be defeated,

and the red sox must be the ones who do it.

and no matter what happens next week or the week after,

tonight will be the most important game of the season

i hope you get to share it with nice girls

like me and john woo got to do tonight.

danielle + annika + the fat guy