|  I'm deathly tired, and Puff Daddy is sitting next to me, and these things are only tangentially related.
Where to start. I'm in Beverly Hills, at the aptly named Beverly Hills Hotel, where I'm trying desperately to leave a conference my employer put on today called the Hollywood and Games Summit. I've been here oh, about seven hours now, and everyone keeps asking what I think of the show, looking for my approval or something. Nobody is willing to accept my honest answer, which is "I don't know, this conference doesn't apply to me, I'm only here to report." Or, if you prefer the shortened version, I just shrug and say "It's a conference."
I'm mostly tired because I slept about three hours last night. I meant to go to bed early, knowing full well I had to be up at 3am to catch a 4 o'clock shuttle to the airport, but I was distracted by the worst video game ever made. It's called Universal Studios Theme Park Adventure, which I own for the Gamecube (I think there's a PS2 version as well) and paid $5 for. It's so godawful it's beautiful. It inspires a rare and volatile form of hatred that can turn itself into some kind of delusional laughing fit when you least expect it. Also, you get to throw boxes at Jaws.
I have the new Jaws game too. It's a much better game. Instead of throwing crap at Jaws, you get to BE Jaws, and Jaws is badass. I like to jump onto shore, grab someone, and shake them around until they rip in half, while other people run around screaming! And then I go underwater and destroy the dock and they all fall in and I eat them too! And sometimes, if I'm feeling dirty, I like to grab a guy, drag him on the surface of the water, and ram him FULL SPEED into a buoy so he gets crushed and dies. Jaws is awesome.
The morning started off well. I sat at my gate at Oakland Airport, sipping coffee and reading New York Times like the sophisticate I like to pretend I am, trying to ignore the fact that I was flying to Los Angeles. I really hate Los Angeles, especially Beverly Hills. Everyone looks the same. Mind you, they look HOT, but they're the same kind of hot, the kind with the smarmy look in their eyes that either means they have lots of money or know how to play the game and pretend like they do.
I can't tell if Puff Daddy has that look or not, he's wearing sunglasses. Because he's Puff Daddy. Why the hell is Puff Daddy sitting in a hotel lobby looking bored?
I arrived at the summit at about 9:20, which means that if you tally my time from out the front door to the Beverly Hills Hotel, my ride to work today took a little over five hours this morning. I stumbled in just in time to see director Paul W.S. Anderson (Resident Evil, Mortal Kombat, and Some Other Movies I've Never Seen) give a very very short keynote speech on how to successfully adapt a game into a movie. It ended twenty minutes before it was scheduled to because hey, he's PAUL DOUBLE YOU ESS ANDERSON, and he has better things to do.
I hate L.A.
Here's Anderson's wisdom, extracted for your pleasure and educational needs: If you directly adapt a game's story into a film, it's going to be a boring movie, because everyone knows what's going to happen. The best way to make a movie based on a game franchise, he said, is to expand on the universe and story, paying homage to what made the game great in the first place. And the best way to do this is to create an original IP that is meant to cross into all media simultaneously, kind of like 3DO's Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (okay, I added that part). The end. Go make millions.
I attended a couple other panels too, but they're not worth mentioning. I also had lunch in a really expensive diner in the hotel's lobby. I ordered a glass of water, and they gave me some expensive and perfectly chilled bullshit called Dasani. Now I'm waiting for the 4 o'clock shuttle to the airport, because apparently 4 o'clock is always the right time for airport shuttles. Puffy's waiting for something too, but I don't know what.
The shuttle just called my cell phone, with its annoying one-channel sound piercing beeps. I can't afford a modern phone. I can feel Puffy's eyes glaring at me. Fuck off Puffy. Fuck off, L.A. I'm off to Seattle for no reason at all, on the company's dime.
Cheers! | comments: 5 comments or Leave a comment   |
| 
She wore a homemade sweater, purchased secondhand from some sleazy graverobbing retailer, because that's just the kind of girl she was.
...no, no, that picture isn't working for me. Too much color. Kill the color.
She wore a homemade sweater, in a vaguely pinkish, purplish shade probably named in inner circles after some kind of melon or berry. She was alone, save for the...
...no, that's not it either. It's too, I don't know, modern. Give me some film grain, and zoom in a bit if you can.
 There it is. She wore a homemade sweater, and sat knitting a homemade glove, and though the place she called home was some 300 miles in the opposite direction she traveled, her eyes expressed the quiet contentment of a girl who knew exactly where she was going. It was Tuesday night, squirming toward 10 o'clock in Oakland, of all places. She'd never liked Oakland. She disliked Oakland so much that the mere thought process involved in trying to figure out exactly what it was about the city that got under her skin was more effort than she thought it deserved. She didn't like Oakland, and she was perfectly content in never knowing exactly why, and that's just the kind of girl that she was. Besides, Oakland was just a transitioning point, an in-between, a loading screen at the beginning of her real destination. Most would describe her as The Quiet Type, and that was mostly true. She didn't speak much, unless she was spoken to. And even then, her responses were quick, precise, dodgy. She had to be comfortable around you before she'd really open up. And even then, she didn't have much to contribute, but she spoke in such a passionate and fiery way that it would take the harshest of critics to notice. This talent would get her far in life, and in her subconscious and unwilling knack for breaking hearts. We met earlier that night, at Oakland Airport, with nothing in common other than our mutual desire to grab our bags hop on the first shuttle out to the nearest BART station. Our eyes met, briefly, our smiles reciprocated, and we sat on opposite benches, silently. When the shuttle arrived, she sat in front of me and, not really knowing why, I snapped a stealth photograph. When the shuttle stopped, she held the door open for me, looked me straight in the eye, and smiled again. Then she walked away, forever. We never exchanged a word. I don't know a thing about her, and I never will. It was all in my head. I kind of miss her. Hey, come on, you don't do that too? Where's your romantic side, you boring son of a bitch? If I'm the only one walking through life making stories in my head and secretly wishing for bizarre chance encounters and adventure, well, I'm putting in for a transfer next opportunity I get. | | comments: 5 comments or Leave a comment |
| McCarran Airport is a shithole because Las Vegas is a shithole and, by default, its airport has to be some kind of mega ultra shithole full of body odor. Which is emenating from these fuckers:
You probably can't read the embroidered logo over their sweaty manbreasts, but these smelly fellows are from a company called Dominion Advisory Group. Their web site is really awesome because if you click on "About Us," it gives you a plain white page that says absolutely nothing. Which isn't true, Dominion is really exciting. For instance, Jerry (the glasses guy) habitually holds his cell phone in his hand like Hollywood is going to call at any moment and say "hey Jerry you didn't waste your life after all, you real estate fuck, hurry on down here and be famous. We made pie!" And then the fat fuck on the left just called his wife and asked if the sheets were clean, an important thing to make sure of while waiting for a flight.
Maybe they're not the smelly ones, maybe it's the lady right next to me:
She won't turn the fucking sound off on her little portable poker machine. Every time she wins I get accosted with the most stunning and beautiful rendition of "We're In The Money" ever composed with a single-channel screeching beep coming from some form of horrible hell beast obviously trapped inside the machine. We must help the hell beast.
We must help the hell beast.
Maybe the lady to my left smells bad. I can't tell.
She keeps shifting uncomfortably and staring at nothing inquisitively. She's either schizophrenic, retarded, or on the run from the law. Either way, I hate her. Maybe if she had awesome glasses like the poker lady.
Oh my god her phone is studded in crappy plastic rhinestones. Fuck you shifty airport lady.
I've been drinking. Also, my flight is delayed by 25 minutes. I planned to projectile vomit in the aisles, but I might have to do it on a real estate financial fat fuck instead. Clean sheets? CLEAN SHEETS? BLAAARRGGHHH.
I'm heading home. Well, eventually I'm heading home. First I have to fly to Oakland, then I have to get on Air BART, then I have to take Air BART to Normal BART, then I have to take Normal BART to San Francisco (the 24th Street and Mission exit, for those following along at home), then I have to walk a few blocks, maybe punch a few vagrants, stare at the stars, contemplate life, cry over lost love...you know, that sort of thing, and THEN I get home.
Home is wear young ladies play Animal Crossing.
They sure do love that Animal Crossing.
I've been drinking. But the WiFi is free and I'm feelin' frisky.
Poker Lady's trying to read over my shoulder. Maybe I should bust out my DS and show her a real game. Then I can punch her out and steal her glasses.
This is a fine plan. The perfect crime. brb | | comments: 8 comments or Leave a comment |
| In fact, I'm 24 years old as of today. I was born exactly 24 years, 15 hours and 3 minutes ago, in a Las Vegas hospital that no longer exists. We even had a party last night. Here's a picture of me wearing a bib and towering over my mother:
I don't have any other pictures of the party. Sorry. Well, I do have a picture of my sleeping cat, but you don't want to see that. Do you? Of course not.
Nobody likes sleeping cats. They're not to be trusted.
I'm in Vegas right now, if you didn't know. Apparently I forgot to tell anyone. Sorry, Catherine. I'm taking my first vacation since starting this new job way back in November. I'm doing all sorts of exciting things, like buying stylus pens and drinking beer and playing New Super Mario Bros. by the pool. Helluva game, that. I'm typing this at the Freakin' Frog, which is also a helluva thing. Except it's a bar and not a videogame. A bar that I apparently update my Livejournal at. They gave me a free beer because they love me and it's my birthday. That beer is gone now. I miss it.
It was hazlenut flavored.
Hazlenut.
Hazlenut beer.
Okay I have to go home now, my mom is cooking dinner. | | comments: 17 comments or Leave a comment |
| I had a dream last night that I was at a Snoop Dogg concert. It was actually a benefit show, to help stop racism. And to stop racism, Snoop Dogg's set for the night consisted entirely of Oasis covers. The man does a pretty good "Wonderwall," to tell you the truth.
I was hanging out with a girl at the show. She was pretty cool, kind of cute even, in a punk rock sort of way. But even in my dreams, all the good ones are taken. She started telling me a story, about how a week ago she was hanging out with her boyfriend at a bar. This creepy guy, she said, wouldn't leave her alone. Apparently, he kept asking her to make out with her boyfriend. Being the creepy sort of dream-fellow he is, he just really, really wanted to watch. So, she told me, wanting to be rid of Creepy Guy, and having had enough drinks to not particularly care in the first place, she grabbed her boyfriend and had at it. When it was over, Creepy Guy stood in awe for a moment, and then finally said, and this is a direct quote, "Whoa. That guy has, like, a conscious tongue," as if his making-out was somehow abnormal, perhaps amazing.
I have no idea why I'm telling that story. Well, I kind of do, but I don't want to say it.
More later. | | comments: 2 comments or Leave a comment |
| I'd just like it known that the series of screenshots seen below is the review, exactly as it appears, in this month's Nintendo Official Magazine UK.
Oh, and Disney is apparently pissed at us. | | comments: 10 comments or Leave a comment |
| You know when you're brushing your teeth, and you decide to be thorough, so you start brushing your tongue? And you're scraping all that coffee and nicotine buildup off, and you get a little too excited, so you jam the toothbrush in a little too far? And it sets off your gag reflex? And you puke in the sink, and your mouth tastes all gross, and you have to start the whole thing all over again?
Yeah, I hate that. | | comments: 26 comments or Leave a comment |
| Gaze, folks, affix your muddied eyes on the wannabe videogame "writer" as he posts innane thoughts about absolutely nothing for bored internet denziens. A rare commodity, indeed. I'd start a website, if I didn't already have three.
So it's a Monday night, quarter to eleven or so, and the open window to my immediate left is turning my hands into immobile blocks of ice. At my disposal are a keyboard, a pack of smokes, and a bottle of scotch. I haven't touched this damned internet journal thing in a while, so we'll see where this goes.
#1: I Had a Dream Last Night That We Sent The Animaniacs to Destroy Metal Gear.
I'd love to lie and give hilarious detail, but my alarm got me up as soon as they set off. I'd like to imagine they succeeded. I also dreamt that I started a microbrewery for extra cash. I have no idea how to make beer, so my associates filled me in on the ingredients. I added too much water to the mashed potatoes, and I didn't have enough spare pocket change to throw into the vat, so the beer didn't come out too good. If two of my partners weren't busy making out on my fucking couch, disaster might have been averted.
The night before last was a bit more abstract. I was playing some bizarre scavenger hunt/videogame combination with some guy I'd just met. It involved accomplishing a task at one kiosk, then physically finding the next one and moving on to the next challenge. After I'd beaten the one at KMart, I had to go back to the unit at my house, which the bastard had sabotaged. This wasn't just any old house, though, it was more like a motel-slash-boarding school with a strict warden. I had to sneak through the back to get in and get to the kiosk from the other side. Thankfully, my lockpicking skill was high enough, so I was able to get through, though I nearly got caught while sneaking around.
I ended up living at the house for another year or so. Eventually I bought a dog, which was a pretty big deal at the house, seeing as the last one escaped and killed our horse. His name was Clyde and, though only a pup, he managed to chew his way through the iron gate and escape. I guess dogs know better than to stay at the house. I was a little sad to see him go, though also relieved. I didn't want to raise no dog, I wasn't ready.
My father came by to console me about my loss. As we stood in the parking lot, under a starry sky, he convinced me to get away from the city for a while. He owned this nice little campsite about an hour's drive away, which he wrote the directions to on the back of an envelope. He left, and I tried to make sense of his directions, but the handwriting was crap and it kept rambling on about some stupid bullshit and the history behind Interstate-15 and I don't know what the fuck else. A phone call from Billy snapped me out of that one. It was about 11 or so, which meant that I was up just in time to head to Wal Mart.
#2: I Bought a Nintendo DS at Wal Mart
It was quite an adventure, but I snagged one right at midnight. Wal Mart is pretty awesome, as evidenced by my phone calls. Observe.
Wal Mart #1: We don't sell the Nintendo DS until Friday, just like the ad says.
Wal Mart #2: We sell the Nintendo DS tomorrow, but Wal Mart policy strictly forbids us from putting these out at midnight. I'm a stupid cunt oh jesus fuck I think I'm having another baby I have to go take care of this sir.
Wal Mart #3: Sure thing buddy, come on in at midnight!
Wal Mart #4 (which is a much shorter drive than #3): We've never heard of the "Nintendo EF." No, we don't have that.
After the purchase, and being that we live in Vegas and know how to work this damn town like only locals can, we went and had ourselves a $0.99 graveyard special burger and fries at The Tuscany, a casino whose theme seems to be white walls with no decorations. Actually, the meals are $1.99, but I had a two for one coupon, and I'll be damned if I'm spending that extra dollar. Everything at that cafe tastes like butter, I really have to stop going there.
#3: God Damn This Curry
Shit's stuck in my throat, all hot and scratchy. It was a chicken curry I got at a tiny little Thai place near my house. It tasted like chili powder and coconut milk which...it is, technically, but you've got to hide that shit. I sat by myself, playing Mario 64 while I waited for my food.
"Why you eat alone?" asked the cute l'il waitress.
"Because I'm hungry!"
"No, LOL, why you not with girl?"
"Because I'm hungry!"
I don't think she got it. Hell, I'm not sure I get it. Oh, for god's sake, these emails are getting stupid now.
#4: I Get Retarded Press Releases
Koei sent me a very important announcement today.
KESSEN III LOGO UNVEILED
HOLY MOTHER OF FUCK LOOK AT THAT FUCKING LOGO OH JESUS MY EYES WERE NOT PREPARED FOR SUCH HOLY RADIANCE WHY DID YOU NOT WARN ME OF ITS BEAUTY JARIK?
Maybe I'm just bitter. This press release comes from Jarik Sikat, a man I hunted for a very long time to get some information for a Lost Levels piece that never happened. When I finally tracked him down, he put on his tinfoil hat, held his knees, rocked back and forth, and demanded to know who I was with and how I found him. After calming him down, he said that he'd help, but I had to email him, none of this live conversation nonsense. Except...he refused to give me his email address.
Now he's sending me press releases, via email, for bullshit like this.
It's okay, I stole one of Jarik's muffins, once. It was banana-flavored and delicious, much better than the styrofoam bread Infinium Labs had. Speaking of,
#5: Where Is That Phantom Thing Anyway?
Almost exactly one year ago I was told by a sweaty Infinium guy that the Phantom Home Gaming Service would be available March, 2004. Obviously, that didn't happen. In May I was told by a much less sweaty man that it would be available November 18. When I told him I'd been lied to before, he swore on his reputation and employment that it was true.
I've got that shit on tape, I should find it.
I managed, long ago, to purchase two of the very few products that Infinium Labs has actually sold: a baby bib and a pair of thong panties, both sporting the Phantom logo, both courtesy of their very professional CafePress webstore. I convinced Brandon Sheffield to wear the bib around at their E3 booth, while I put the panties over my hat. The looks we got were priceless, but nowhere near as hilarious as when I pulled them out in the middle of my very professional interview with one of the lead marketing guys. I've got that on tape, too. Hell.
My cat uses the bib as a superhero cape now.
I get the feeling that my two purchases will be the only products Infinium Labs ever sells.
#6: I've Been Listening to That New Nirvana Stuff
And asking if I like it is almost irrelevant. I don't think I've listened to Nirvana for musical pleasure in about five years, tracking down all this weird bootleg shit is more of a curious necessity than an act of passion. They were my high school band, and much like my high school girlfriend, I can never feel true closure from the relationship we once had. Hearing songs for the first time that I'd read about ten years ago in some band biography is a pretty cool experience, but after I've played them once, they get kind of boring. Kind of like having sex with a famous person.
Okay, so I've never fucked a celebrity, but I bet that's what it's like.
Maybe. | | comments: 22 comments or Leave a comment |
| 
- Judy was an unremarkable girl with a fetish for fresh strawberries and rotten men.
- In his twenty-seventh year, Tom reached the top rung of the corporate ladder, and found a big orange slide.
- Tiff died alone in her modest cabin, leaving nothing behind but several unmarked boxes containing roadmaps, financial plans, and property deeds for a city that never existed.
- In all of his eighty years on Earth, no one ever bothered asking Gary why he carried a rose with him everywhere he went.
- There was a time in Sarah's life when she honestly believed herself to be a cat.
- It wasn't until he purchased his fifth house that Michael realized he had no idea where his money was coming from.
- Mary always took her coffee black, her cars white, and her beliefs somewhere in-between.
- Mark tried for years to contract a fatal disease before losing his life to a tragic car accident.
- Joanne could never figure out why hearing the word "sandal" always made her stomach hurt.
- Jim's reoccurring dream of being forced to eat concrete wasn't a dream after all.
- Ginger made her fortune by concocting a creative use of gelatin, butane, and discarded cigarette butts.
- Colton knew his frequent blackouts were a problem when he woke up in a tree somewhere in what he figured was South Africa.
- Lucy's dream of being on a reality TV show was fulfilled in a way she never anticipated or desired.
- Rob's insistence on wearing the same T-shirt every day for seven years was a political statement that he never bothered explaining.
- Try as she might, Tara never could figure out why she woke up one day with a fluent understanding of French.
- Despite his total apathy toward the show, Harry made a name for himself by being the world's foremost expert on "I Love Lucy" memorabilia.
- Sadie lived an entire life without realizing that she perceived the world in negative colors.
- Bill's campaign to rid the world of shadows was tragically successful.
 | | comments: 6 comments or Leave a comment |
| The following is an attempt at a bar review my way, which is to say, only really halfway about a bar. This is an experiment, and is to be read as such. I'd like to know if it's boring, sucky, interesting, unnecessary, or whatever you want to describe it as. Be honest. I can take it.
There Will Never Be Another You
Or: Friday Night at the Freakin' Frog
Freakin' Frog Beer & Wine Cafe
4700 S. Maryland Pkwy #8
Las Vegas, NV 89119
(702) 597-9702
-By Frank Cifaldi
Milwaukee’s ahead of Cleveland, 100 to 85, with 5:45 left in the fourth quarter. As Tony Battie pulls in a crucial rebound, Harry Warren’s “There Will Never Be Another You” hits its bittersweet emotional climax, just to my left.
That’s Seth “Fingers” Flynn Barkan belting away at the piano. He’s a regular here, sharing a hundred years worth of joy, sorrow, and human triumph every Friday night to a marginally receptive audience, using nothing but his fingers.
Like clockwork, this man. Every week, for an hour, with nothing but a few free beers in payment.
Seth’s got a few things on his mind. His book, the world’s first and thus far only poetry collection about videogames, is selling like nobody’s business, thanks in part to publicity in places like Entertainment Weekly and Stuff Magazine and some other impulse items you might have seen at your supermarket’s checkout.
Just two weeks ago, Seth had a poetry reading here, providing a bleak future for Super Mario and an endless tormenting maze for Kid Icarus’ Pit on the staircase just to the right of my field of vision. Just behind me was an elaborate film crew from the G4 network. Perhaps you’ve heard of them too.
They’ll be airing his segment next week, twice daily. A lowball estimate places his potential viewership somewhere in the six-digit range. His thunderous rambling and self-professed insanity will, inevitably, sell some books.
There’s only one problem. There aren’t any books. His distributor, despite outlets like Amazon.com literally selling out overnight, does not seem to comprehend the book’s success. He’s been arguing this point all day over the phone, and his stress is relevant in his choice of songs.
“Hey Frank,” he says, turning towards me, “You like Tom Waits?”
“Sure.”
“Pick a song. I’ll see if I have it.”
I pretend to contemplate this, momentarily.
“How about ‘Invitation to the Blues?’”
“Ooh.” He looks genuinely surprised. “That’s an odd choice.”
“No it’s not. It’s a great song.”
“Yeah, it is, but I don’t have it. Gimme another.”
If this continues much longer, I might be forced to admit that I’ve never actually owned a Tom Waits album.
“’Step Right Up.’ With lyrics.”
He laughs, before telling me he doesn’t have that one either. A chirpish voice comes out of nowhere and requests something Seth actually has with him.
That’s Danny. Danny's is an interestingly bitter old cat. Today is his birthday. Later tonight we’ll be at some nameless casino bar, baptizing women painted exactly like whores by sprinkling whiskey on their foreheads. For now, Danny is content in nursing his own pitcher of beer and losing himself in some paperback he picked up in a discount bin.
Tall Guy’s strangly ass walks in to a round of warm greetings and handshakes, and has a Stone IPA in his gorilla mitts before he’s able to order it. Tall Guy once told me his real name, but I’ve intentionally forgotten it.
I’ve seen a lot here at the Freakin’ Frog. I once saw an editor for UNLV’s paper, just across the street, chug an entire Sam Adams Triple Bock without puking, and chase it with a Bigfoot barley wine. The beers have a seventeen and ten percent alcohol content, respectively. The Triple Bock has a consistency not unlike chocolate syrup.
Just a week ago, I saw one of the bartenders break his ankle after hopping and reaching for an empty pitcher on top of the fridge. A sight to see, for sure, considering that they’re about the same height.
Chad, you clumsy bastard.
I’ve seen my old philosophy professor trying to woo some dame with his intelligence. He didn’t remember me. I don’t blame him.
I’ve run into an old buddy, who ended up taking me home and singing a song of his own creation about visiting a friend in a Jetsonian future and having his mind infiltrated by lethal space creatures. I have it on CD, somewhere.
I’ve seen movies here. Many movies. If there isn’t a ballgame playing, they’re projected on a blank spot of the wall nonstop. I’ve seen Equilibrium here five times, Airplane four, and Fast Times at Ridgemont High three. I keep count.
A stubby man with Droopy Dog cheeks walks up to me.
“Yo, Frankie, ready for the next?”
“Lay it on me.”
“Comin’ right up!”
That’s Adam. He owns the joint, and he knows exactly what I want at all times.
It’s not too hard, really. I’m competing in his “Around the World” challenge. Once I’ve had one hundred different beers off of the checklist, I get my name on the wall, a free T-shirt, and some other crazy crap.
I’ll do most anything for a free T-shirt.
One hundred beers seems like a lot, until you take into consideration that Adam proudly stocks over two hundred and fifty at all times. It’s the largest selection in the state of Nevada, as he’ll proudly boast at any given opportunity.
There’s some great food here, too. The fried, cheese-stuffed olives, at fifty cents a pop, are the perfect compliment to, say, the imported Flying Dog on tap.
Great beer, that. It’s amber in color, with a crisp, earthy bite. At only eight bucks a pitcher, it’s probably the only reason I’ve yet to complete the aforementioned checklist.
If you’re feeling spendy, I highly recommend the steak. It’s eighteen dollars, but I’ll be a Freemont Street whore if it isn’t worth every penny. The meat’s so fresh that Adam will often make you smell it before it’s grilled with his secret blend of spices and deglazed with a fine red wine.
He’ll recommend you compliment the steak with a Korean beer called O.B., and you damn well better listen to him.
This is a regulars kind of place, a final destination for the bright and often charming beer enthusiasts of Las Vegas. It’s cramped, sparsely decorated, and has the unfortunately rare quality of not having a single means to gamble your money away.
Occasionally you’ll see a few frat boys wander in. After all, the bar is right across the street from our university. Once they realize that this is a friendly beer and wine café, and not a place to get trashed and laid, they’ll typically wander off to whatever stinkhole it is that caters to their kind. And if they come back, then hey. They’re one of us. We’re not choosy.
There’s a family atmosphere to the Freakin’ Frog. Stop by and chat with the regulars a couple times, and you’ll be on a first-name basis with the entire place. Come in with a vague taste for beer, and it’s pretty much unavoidable that you’ll soon become a quasi-expert on regional styles and proper presentation.
It’s a young bar, mere months old, but it’s enjoyed absolutely stunning success. As I sit here, nursing my Rogue Imperial Stout and soaking in the cheerful, laughing, familiar faces all around me, I can’t help but come to the realization that time’s icy grip will inevitably seize these moments from me. Adam’s already got plans for a massive expansion. The friends I’ve made here will slowly dissipate. I’ll probably join them, eventually.
I can’t help the cynicism. It’s in my blood.
For now, and for the foreseeable future, this is my Spot. Our Spot. And we welcome you and your friends and the entire goddam world to experience this safe haven, this rare commodity, this home away from home. I may even buy you a beer.
If you’re lucky.
-In addition to being a stupid bastard, Frank Cifaldi is also a cheap bastard. | | comments: 25 comments or Leave a comment |
| On 3:48 p.m., of what may or may not be a lovely Sunday afternoon, I find myself staring at a box of rubber gloves, while toying with the jagged, shiny piece of cracked metal and plastic I've been keeping in my breast pocket.
-----
-----
As soon as he's done with Eric, the not-quite-short-but-somehow-miniature x-ray technician will call me in. He'll take a few shots of my neck and my right ankle, both of which are rather sore as a result of a sudden trauma late Friday night. For the time being, I'm stuck in a sterile, bright hallway, next to a rather remorseful looking couple communicating at levels nearly inaudible to the human ear. The gloves, sitting on the counter in the room directly in front of me, serve as a sterile, flimsy reminder of just how these things begin.
It was Friday afternoon, no later than a quarter past one. I had just flung the remainder of a picked-clean turkey carcass across the back parking lot of the R-Bar, up on Charleston and Jones, with what I felt was a pitcher's grace. Despite the applause of the forty or so in attendance, I knew I'd missed my mark.
“Good throw, Frank!” yelled Teri, in feigned appreciation. I smiled and nodded while picking the carcass off of the pavement. The rubber gloves protected me from its filth.
The Mojave Turkey Carcass Hurl is an annual event staged by one Michael Howie, head director at my place of employment. Each year, a small but feisty crowd attends, with the remainder of their Thanksgiving turkeys in tow. For the fifteen-dollar entry fee, contestants receive a commemorative T-shirt, temporary access to Michael's open bar tab, a seemingly unlimited feast of chicken wings, and a chance to win a plaque or trophy awarding the farthest-thrown and most creative carcasses, respectively.
I was a judge this year for the coveted “most creative” trophy, featuring a highly-detailed turkey made of solid brass. There were only two contestants. Jackie's turkey carcass came wrapped in a thick layer of tinfoil, molded, shaped, and tinkered with to resemble the Tinman from The Wizard of Oz. Eddie's came covered in Lemonheads candies, held on by what must have been Super Glue. The legs were reattached to the carcass using an elaborate system of drilled holes and wiring. There were leftover fourth of July sparklers serving their function while jabbed into random, makeshift orifices. And on the neck, greeting me with a smile, was a portrait of Rush Limbaugh.
"Wow," I said, as I'm sure a great majority of you would.
"Wait, hang on, one more detail." He brought the lighter to Rush's face. I watched his forehead blacken and collapse, his cheeks swell then recede. I watched the flame die, leaving everything charred. Except for his mouth, which apparently even fire can't destroy.
I immediately declared Eddie the winner.
Afterward, we all shared a few drinks inside the bar. They were free, after all, and I had reason to celebrate, after all. Not because I'd won a prize. Heavens no. I was celebrating the purchase of my new PC, which took place immediately before the contest.
-----
-----
2.8 gigahertz of processing awesomeness, with a DVD burner to boot. Perfectly suitable for a software pirate of my stature. All I had to do was drain my bank account and borrow about four hundred bucks from my credit card to get it, but I felt my purchase was justified. I've starved for far stupider things.
I fed myself well, knowing that on my budget, the wings would have to suit me for the rest of the day. For good measure, I had four Newcastles too. Why the hell not?
-----
Note to self: Buy a Baby Mammoth album. The song playing on Beat Blender right now is amazing.
Note to readers: This is what my desk looks like when I'm writing.
All of these were full of coffee at one point. Simultaneously. Someone wanna buy me a big thermos?
-----
Rather enjoying the free beer and the Creature from the Black Lagoon machine, I stuck around and slowly watched everybody leave. After maybe an hour or two, only Michael and I remained.
Michael's an interesting guy. Imagine a fat, gray man from Canada who has bloody marys for breakfast and constantly quotes Hunter S. Thompson. Now put him in charge of a mental health agency in Las Vegas. This is my boss. I love the fucking bastard. I sat with him at the bar, discussing absolutely nothing, a subject I feel is my birthright to discuss, until he beligerently began telling the waitress sitting next to me to "shut [her] fucking mouth and do [her] fucking job."
I'll see you Monday, Michael.
-----
That night, through circumstances involving confusion, misfired ambition, and maybe a little bit of curiosity, I somehow agreed to accompany a co-worker to go see Love Actually, a Hugh Grant romantic comedy.
Sure, she's a fun and lovely gal whose company I enjoy, but let me repeat this; in all caps, for effect.
A HUGH GRANT ROMANTIC COMEDY.
I thought it was something else entirely. I learned my error perhaps an hour before we were to meet. Even if I wanted to, it was far too late to back out by then.
I went in expecting very little, and came out satisfied and impressed. Say what you will, give me your worst, but I enjoyed the movie. It had drama, sure, but not chick-flick drama. More like Woody Allen drama. And beyond that, I actually liked Hugh Grant in this movie. He seems to have molded himself quite naturally into the typecast role he's apparently doomed to play. I like him better as he gets older.
If I'm not mistaken, this is Richard Curtis' first directorial work. Watch out for him.
My drive home led me northbound on I-15, exiting East Tropicana into the heart of the Las Vegas Strip, an area I'm more than acquainted with.
Travelling eastbound on Tropicana takes you through the strip, to a long stretch of road that borders McCarran International Airport, and then to Maryland Parkway, where both the University of Nevada, Las Vegas and my apartment reside. It's a long, lonely road, and without a car stereo, as I was and suppose still am, it forces a kind of melancholy reminiscing.
I'm not sure what I was thinking about at the time. I'd like to think the movie was powerful enough to make me reflect on all the love in my life, but I doubt it. Regardless, I was in a good mood. I'd seen a delightful movie with a delightful girl. I was going home to play with my new computer. I threw a turkey carcass in a parking lot and drank free beer. It was a good day.
I was driving in the far left lane, at a steady thirty-five miles per hour. McCarran was to my right. Just up ahead, a red 1998 Chevrolet Cavalier going the opposite direction prepared to make a u-turn, a perfectly normal and legal thing to do in Las Vegas on a Friday night.
Except for the fact that the u-turn happened about ten feet in front of me, with no warning.
-----
-----
Thump.
My immediate reaction was to pull my car into a parking lot, park it, and turn it off. I then, rather calmly, walked over to the other car. Inside, the two passengers - a male and female who seemed for all the world to be enjoying their four-day weekend away from high school - met my eyes. I looked at them, clenched my fists, contorted my face, opened my mouth, and said something to the effect of "AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Then I calmly asked if they were okay. They could only nod, wide-eyed.
Two hours later, both of our cars were towed away, I had a police report to take home and read to my insurance company, the girl was arrested on a DUI, and I was abandoned in the middle of nowhere.
It took me another hour in the bitter, 3:30 a.m. cold, with a rather sore ankle, to walk home. I managed to grab a souvenier, though, for posterity.
-----
The x-rays showed no bone damage, but I am most definitely hurt. I have no car, no money, and no bright demeanor remaining. I do, however, have a case. And a lawyer. I doubt I'm going to be justly compensated for all of the bullshit I've had to go through, but it's worth a shot.
On the bright side, however, I've always wanted to know what my airbag looked like. Now I know.
-Frank | | comments: 18 comments or Leave a comment |
| On January 26, 2002, I dug into myself to find a story. I had to. Two weeks from then, my "Writing Fiction" grade depended on one being written. I transcribed my thoughts and ideas that night into a composition book, as I so often did in those days.
"In conversation with Sarah about abandoned tales and forgotten dreams," I wrote, "I've come up with the following delectable menu."
Before moving on, with little to no hesitation, I flipped back to the book's cover. I christened it, with a title that did nothing more for me than sound cool.
"Abandoned Tales and Forgotten Dreams." It was a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Exactly one week and three pages later, I began writing the first short story I'd ever show anyone. "Table Sixteen" was an odd, disfigured baby of a tale, with a poetic overbite and a missing appendage or two. Despite its premature birth, a lot of people put a lot of enthusiasm into sharing a lot of praise for it.
Hell, I'll admit. I was a proud daddy. I fancied myself a Writer, with the capital W and all. My literary uterus, I felt, could spit out an entire goddam army of little storybastards, with no end in sight. I started a new one immediately.
Forty-eight pages of notes, graphs, timelines, and no less than four rewrites later, I had a jumbled mess that resembled anything but a story. My ultimate failure was my inability to think with an imaginary vagina.
I could not write a thirty-year-old, single woman. Her voice evaded me.
This is the first time I've looked at my failure of a story, or this book, since I put it down eight months ago.
"Do people seriously believe," wrote one incarnation of my beautifully cynical 18-year-old character, Jennifer, "that they're interesting enough to validate sharing their lives with the rest of the world? Does anyone out there really give a shit about how much some sixteen-year-old hates his parents, or where some boring housewife is taking her family on vacation? Why are these things so popular?"
She was discussing, of course, weblogs. In her weblog.
Eight months later, on the page following my last futile attempt at keeping this flatlining story alive ("you rat bastard, do you know what you're putting me through?" was the last line I wrote), I'm writing what will be my final contribution to Abandoned Tales and Forgotten Dreams. I'm writing, for the pure, unbridled, disgustingly pretentious sake of writing, for what feels like the first time since then.
"I once swore I'd never do this," Jennifer went on to say. Though she couldn't be bothered to say it, she honestly believed weblogs were nothing more than a forum for self-loving attention whores to receive undeserving praise and appreciation. She couldn't explain why, exactly, she felt compelled to join their ranks.
And as I write on what may or may not coincidentally be the last page of this book, knowing full well that I'm about to go home and transcribe this into my first weblog post, I remember why Jennifer was such a fun character for me to spend time with.
We have a lot in common.
God damn her, god damn you, and god damn it, I've broken down and started a blog. And I have no reservations against admitting my status as an attention whore.
Love my babies. And feed me words, you voyeuristic bastards. We have much to discuss. | | comments: 27 comments or Leave a comment |
| |
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
theredeye's journal
