Watched (and taped) Les Diaboliques last night and it was good and even had me a little frightened. Many good qualities about this movie including a glimpse of the starlet's nipples at the end. It's just more exciting to see in a movie made in 1955, for some reason.

Just watched the very short first chapter of Star Wars: Clone Wars. It seemed good but damn was it fucking short. Anakin Skywalker hasn't spoken yet, but already he's a strangely more believable character than he was in the movie.

It's too bad Palpatine isn't played by Ian McDiarmid. I can't tell if Obi-Wan is Ewan MacGreagor.

My cousin's a model and she once told me about a job of hers where pictures of her were taken for a dating service's advertisements. I asked her if she herself actually used this service and she told me that of course she did not.

Common sense had told me this already--I doubt there's anyone who truly thinks the made-up creatures grinning from the meticulous advertisements are actual examples of people using the service. But having this cynical fact definitely proven gave me some kind of cruel glee.

There lies the gaudy, accessorised marketing machine naked and blushing before me. Ha!

So to-day, when I was looking over my hotmail e-mails, I found myself idly gazing at a row of three photographs of different women's faces--a dating service advertisement. I got to thinking about how each face is supposed to look different, implying that there's "a match for simply everyone!" out there. I'm not sure why the photos caused such a meloncholy to fall over me. Something about the way I could sense the photographer saying, "Oh, you've got a snazzy look to ya. Give me a bit if fun . . . Yeah, let's see mischief, like you're up for fun and what not," and to another, "Aw, you're a sweetie aren't you? Let's see a little coy, but let's make sure you still look like you give great blow jobs. Perfect!" and, "Hey, yeah, just give me a reasonable smile . . . yeah . . . your life's together but you're not judgemental and all that . . . Yeah . . . brainy but docile . . . yeah . . ."

And then I imagine the guys being pulled in by these ads, whether they know it or not, into using the dating service. These poor lonely bastards with their simple, little mental crayon drawings of woman "types". I've known plenty of guys like that, some of them even smart guys. It's amazing how dumb a smart person can be when they've all but given up hope.

Another example of real life being too complex for itself.

...

Gods, I have a lot to do to-day . . . And I'm having big trouble concentrating. Things just flit helplessly in and out of my brain. I'm forgetting important things way too easily lately.

I think I'll begin by typing things up. Sounds simple enough, yes?

It's Garfield, the movie.

I would prefer that Lorenzo Music, who was Garfield's voice for the old cartoon series, be the voice for the movie, but it seems he died in 1999. Still, the fact that Bill Murray's onboard for Garfield's voice makes me hopeful. The fact that Jennifer Love Hewitt is also onboard is something I'm trying not to think about.

I got me copies of Citizen Kane, The Adventures of Robin Hood (with Errol Flynn), and Holiday (with Kathryn Hepburn and Cary Grant). Oh yeah.

I also took a test yesterday. The school kind. And yet, also, at the same time, it was the moral and spiritual kind. That sort of crossroads where you ask yourself, "Oh, what is the fucking point, anyway?!"

I'd skipped this class on Monday in order to hang out with Trisa (which I do not regret as hanging out with Trisa is more important than school), so I didn't actually know about to-day's test until Mr. Ding (that's his name!) started writing questions on the board.

They were all about Twelfth Night which we would have studied last week if there hadn't been fire all over the place. Instead, I guess he expected us all to have independently done our work, merely because he'd had it all written down in the syllabus . . . Okay, not an unreasonable thing to expect of students. But I was busy smouldering under my own cloud of inner drama so I could hardly concentrate (wish I could say that inner drama was worry for our firefighters but it wasn't. It was Shirley McClaine saying, "Why do people fall in love with people?"). This was pretty much the reason I'd dropped the class the first time and I'd re-taken it now. When I signed up for classes, I didn't think I was gonna have much else to think about (ya'll get what I'm saying, right?).

So, yes, I'd read Twelfth Night once, a very long time ago, which was a fact I wasn't even aware of until I started frantically (while trying to look casual) skimming over the text (thankfully, this test was open book).

In the middle of all this hoopla, though, I couldn't help thinking, "Is this how I wanna read Twelfth Night? 'cause this kinna sucks." But no, it must be this way to placate the gods of acedemia. That glorious realm of their's where one should not learn unless it does not get in the way of memorising. Unfortunately, it often does.

I finally caved in and wrote one of my patently bullshitted essays. Like Trisa says, being things for all people . . .

"We had such wishful beginnings . . ." -David Bowie

Hello, friend. How does this sacred evening find you? You look good. If you come over here, if you sit on my lap, I'll tell you a little secret. If you put your breath on my ear, I'll make known to you things that are hidden beneath the shifting, black silks of the mind and eternity. Draw close to me and I will tell you . . .

It's a mad, mad, mad, mad, madmadmadmad, mad world.

No, I've never seen It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, but it's gonna be on TCM on Friday and, as seems to be the wonderful norm on TCM, it'll be without commercials and it'll be completely unedited.

I'm not so sure it interests me enough to watch it. I only mention it because it's title speaks the truth. It is a mad, mad, mad, mad world.

I'm troubled. I'm dreading a couple of things right now. I guess top of the list is the fact that I still need to get car insurance. And that just sucks. I never really wanted a car to begin with. All I ever use it for is goofing off. I could do with a lot less of that. Aw, but what am I saying. That's mad talking . . .

What do I want most right now?

As Agent Cooper once said, I wish I was making love to a beautiful woman for whom I had genuine affection.

I'm currently recording a movie starring Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Shirley McLaine that I've never seen before. I think I'm just recording it because I've suddenly become wildly excited about TCM's generosity with their movies.

Wednesday looks like it'll bring in quite a haul; Citizen Kane, Mark of Zorro, Stagecoach, and The Adventures of Robin Hood. I think I'll probably try to get all of them on tape. And I probably won't have time to watch any of them.

I am becoming an impulsive collector of movies, huh . . .

Hmm. Wait a minute . . . what happened to my apple juice . . . ?

Trisa and I partook of the unknown yesterday in a forray into Mitsuwa. From this place we took popsicles that were green tea ice cream on the outside and some kind of tangy fruit paste on the inside. They were also very good.

Apparently, Trisa and I both really liked Kill Bill. Has does everybody. This is a loved movie.

I will have money soon. I'll probably buy Low Red Moon. But I also want Elvis Costello's new album, and I'm even thinking about the Indiana Jones box set, which I really shouldn't be doing. I'm also thinking about breakfast . . .

...

Oh, and Happy Birthday Trisa!

The mail yesterday was not so bad as I thought, at least it does not seem so thus far. I received a notice from West Hollywood, as I had expected--well, not so much expected--I mean feared. I had feared that there would be some additional charge to what was paid on the night that Trisa and I took back my car from the clutches of Hollywood authorites, even though the receipt seemed to include all conceivably relevant fees. I was nevertheless worried that I'd forgotten about something.

What I received yesterday, I could not exactly make heads or tails of. I'm not certain if it's simply a notice that my vehicle had been stored by them at one point, which is the nearest thing to making sense of it. What it seems to be is a notice that they are still storing my vehicle and why haven't I picked it up? Which would be awfully extraordinary as I seem to recall parking my car and driving it about scores of times since the incident.

I suppose I ought to eat breakfast . . . Gods, I want a latte.

Not sure what I want to do with this day.

Some people are too uptight.

Okay, Existence. Now what?

Oh . . . you don't know? Well, don't expect me to give you a clue because I haven't got one.

No, I ain't mad at ya. Things would be so much easier if I was, huh, because then at least we'd have something to chew on. But for the moment, we're doomed to freedom and the cognisance of the insignifigance of pleasure.

Blasphemy, I know . . .

I mean to say, I have no money. Well, I've got some. But I'm saving it to pay Trisa back for the fiasco in L.A.

It's getting cold around here. Maybe that'll be good for the fire. Maybe Mother Nature shall stop bingeing and sink into a cold, numb aftertaste.

. . . I have places to go to-day. I'm told I have mail at one of my other addresses. And I have a bad feeling about this. I have a bad feeling about a lot of things to-day.

No time, no time. Just a few quick words of warning:

Stay away from apple juice, ants, old makeup, confusing hats, other people's maple syrup, and rulers.

Happy Halloween.

sigh.

The sky is cloudy with clouds to-day. Old fashioned, water oriented clouds. Which generally seems to be regarded as being a good sign.

Yesterday I watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas with my sister. It's heartening when she enjoys watching a good movie enough to watch it all the way through. I still resent the the experience of having her stop halfway through Bram Stoker's Dracula because the movie was too scary.

To-day, I wrote a few pages of novel in my notebook with a blue pen. This is my first time experimenting with blue ink for my prose and hopefully something horrible won't come of it. Things seem okay so far, but you never know.

Before, I was alternating between red and black ink (this idea of alternating ink colours was one I got from Neil Gaiman's blog--the idea is to keep track of how much one has written in a day). But now that I've run out of red pens, I've decided to try blue out, as blue should be more easily legible, in any light. I'm mainly thinking of a time a very long time ago when Trisa and I were at The Living Room under a red light that suddenly turned mine into invisible ink. But aside from that extreme example, the red is still pretty weak, especially on the thin lines of my current notebook.

I guess I was vaguely attracted to the idea of writing in red more than blue for purely aesthetic reasons--like maybe I wanted to tell people I was writing in blood half the time. Trouble is, it really didn't look like blood. What I'm getting at here is that it was fucking weak.

I also picked up Trisa's birthday present yesterday, but who the hell knows when I'll see her.

It was nice to sleep on a bed again.

I think I'll finally watch Scanners to-day. It's more than a week overdue.

I started reading Caitlin R. Kiernan's Threshold and so far it's pretty good. The Palahniuk book I read a couple of days ago is mostly written in present tense and so's the Kiernan book. It's surprising how something so simple as having the events happen now rather than earlier can sort of charge a work of prose with an intimate electricity.

To-day, I think I'll drop by Grossmont College and see if I'm supposed to go to class. Then my sister and I are probably going to watch a movie . . .

Ugh. I'm just saying, and not for any particular reason.

I finished writing a grusome short story a few days ago . . . It was about spaghetti.

Get your own nudist t-shirt!

Driving on Fletcher Parkway, into the cancer yellow haze, I looked up and saw, in a half constructed tower on the corner, the dark shape of a rotted corpse, silhouetted against the diluted sunlight, hanging from a noose.

Wouldn't it be funny if Armeggeddon happened on Halloween? The thought's crossed my mind more than once over the past couple days.

I've been spending most of my time at my aunt and uncle's house in La Mesa, with my back against a piano, in the corner, reading. I read the enirety of Chuck Palaniuk's Choke on Sunday and Monday morning. It was really very good.

There was a scanner being left off the hook that beeped once every ten minutes. My cousin spent all day walking quickly from one end of the house to the other, answering phones, spreading and infecting her own special brand of disinformation. One of the my many aunts who was staying there was dressed and wearing her hair exactly like my mother. She and my mother haven't been on good terms for about a year.

I still haven't heard from my parents. I knew they'd be gone for the weekend, but it wasn't until after the fire had begun that my cousin had informed me that my parents and sister were at Disneyland. More disinformation? Maybe. They were in Anaheim, anyway. They didn't ask to speak to me. Why should I care?

I was concerned about Trisa all day yesterday, as her house was one that was mandatorily evacuated. When I finally reached her, she was going out to dinner with a guy who made her feel safe and good.

I just took a shower for the first time in several days, and I still smell ash. Doesn't really bother me though.

My dad, who's a fireman, wasn't able to join the fray, being caught in Anaheim. But from what I hear, my parents are back, so I suppose he's going at it with more than a thousand other good men and women.

There's been eleven deaths and more than five hundred destroyed homes. And I feel a little sick.

There's a fire around here and people're being asked to evacuate. This house hasn't been asked to evacuate, but I guess they'll probably ask soon. I just wanna go back to bed. But I guess I'd better start loading things into the car . . .

Life's been too interesting lately.

So far to-day, I've done this.

Yeah, go ahead and make fun of me.

Last night TCM had a number of good movies on and I watched three of them. Portrait of Jennie, The Haunting(1963), and Vampyr.

Portrait of Jennie was very sweet and had great dream-logic for it's supernatural stuff--the kind of logic that feels like it makes the right sense, even if it doesn't technically add up. The most tantilising kind of logic, really. And perfect for a romance movie.

The Haunting was damned good. I haven't read the Shirley Jackson book it's based on, but the movie's tight point of view from the character of Eleanor put me in the mind of We Have Always Lived in the Castle--a Shirley Jackson book I have read. The strength of both pieces is the narrative of a character who we know is going a sort of crazy and yet it's somehow the sort of crazy that pulls us right along. When Eleanor says fearfully of the noises outside the door, "It knows my name!" we know precisely what she means, and how she's afraid of it, even as we detect the madness in her voice. We recognise that madness in the same way we'd recognise madness in ourselves. It's that kind of intimacy.

Vampyr was very good, and obviously influencial. I see now where Francis Ford Coppella got the idea for the independant shadow he gave to Dracula in his film. My only complaint about Vampyr is that I found the music a little distracting for some reason. Otherwise, the movie has a great mood, and I actually aplaud the directors preference for not using professional actors.

I did end up staying in all day yesterday, and I suspect I shall do the same to-day . . .

. . . water . . . water . . . water . . .

. . . want . . . water . . . there's just . . . no . . . water . . . need . . . water . . . oh . . . oh, gods . . . Sets, no . . . gods, don't . . . don't . . . mustn't . . . drink the . . . tap . . . water . . . not the . . . tap water . . . mucus-like . . . tap water . . . no, Sets . . . stop . . . !

I'm listening to "Stairway to Heaven" and, blog, I don't know if I mentioned this before, but I'm reminded of the time I saw a troupe of three musicians dressed as Pirates wandering through Parkway Plaza performing various songs, usually having to do with pirates. But they also played, upon request from a guy at a cell phone kiosk, a surprisingly very good rendition of "Stairway to Heaven."

Well, unless Trisa's up for watching Scanners or something to-night, I'm probably going to spend all day in this house. I suppose I'll get quite a lot done . . .

You know what? I wanna draw something to-day. So I think I shall . . .