Part of me is terrified that Barack Obama will not win a general election against John McCain. I am neither obsessed with Barack Obama, his policies, nor his general cowardice in ever actually saying anything (that may ignite the antipathy of the bitter vote). But I feel that if he is not elected president, it is because we live in a country of ignorance and racism, a hard fact my generation has not had to reconcile. Unless of course he cannot win because he is elite, which, last time I checked, is a pretty good thing to be.

It is a rainy day in Burbank. I can’t wait to watch Recount on HBO and catch up on the history of the last time we reached deep to the bottom of the barrel and found a man idiotic enough to never be considered elite at anything.  

I recently wrote a song for a Twinpop duo. They’re twins. It was a perfect introduction to the world of writing pop music. I coined the phrase “default to thug.” When in doubt, shout ebonically. The song is about love, at least I think it is. There are only twenty words, repeated for the better part of three and a half minutes.

I don’t know if I like Barack Obama because I’m young, or he’s black. The third option, a pure hatred of Hill, has only come about recently. I can’t remember the last time a family fell from my good graces as fast as the Clinton’s have. Hell, I even listened to Bill read his ridiculous memoir. All 12,000 pages of it. Actually, I do remember the last time I turned on someone so quickly: Mel Gibson.

Unlike Tom Cruise, who I loathe but continue to enjoy his body of work, I cannot bring myself to watch Mel in a movie anymore. Even Braveheart. My new least favorite Times columnist, “Billy” Kristol, mentioned “culturally conservative” voters as having problems voting for Barack Obama. My next post will be as many euphemisms for “racist idiots” I can think of. Ethnically restricting. I am accepting submissions.

Sorry for the extended absence. It shouldn’t happen again. 

I saw a school bus entering the 170 freeway this morning, and it made me wonder. Having grown in quaint Tucson, I often envy, sometimes pity, the youth who were/are fortunate/unfortunate enough to grow up in a ridiculous metropolis. I drive past Hollywood High, on the corner of Highland and Sunset, and save for the transvestite prostitutes wandering about, it seems like a real, cool place to go to school. Granted gang activity is on the rise, but eh, we’re at war. 

I apologize for the extended weekend; I had a special lady friend in town. I think I was a rather good host, even if my only indicator is complete exhaustion after four days of not working. We dined, we danced, and enjoyed a weekend of merriment all around. There was a sunset in Malibu, drinks and basketball in Venice, and even a lunch in Los Feliz (pronounced Las Filas) followed by an hour in Griffith Park (thank you Phoebe, JT, and Barbara). Good times all around.

I mentioned in a previous post that I enjoyed the John Adams HBO series. Unbeknownst to me, however, I had not actually seen the final episode. Really good stuff, especially the 20 minute letter reading montage between Adams and his no-longer-estranged-friend Jefferson. I will mention again, at the risk of completely repeating myself, that I am not a serious enough man to have lived in those times. They didn’t even have TV.

My love for a certain male democratic presidential candidate is dwindling. He can’t even be interesting on the Daily Show. Even Jimmy Carter sounded like a badass on the Daily Show. In today’s NYT, Billy Kristol takes it upon himself, as the giver of credit due, to mention how that female candidate is being mistreated by the news media. I don’t know what exactly, but something about this creeps me out. The democratic party should be able to get a half-blind lemur elected president, if only there was one around.

I’ve been wallowing for a day. Bank of America, apparently unaware I have a special lady friend coming into town this weekend, has decided to put a big-brotherly hold on my money, until well after the aforementioned special lady friend departs. The game this weekend is called: “LA in Under $140.” It should be interesting. And before you suggest the Getty is free, parking is $50.

I’m not sure I even have any recourse. But I’m going to yell at someone at the bank anyway, even if only to make myself feel a bit better. A producer friend just finished mixing a new Class Project song, so I will post it here. It’s called Misery’s Company…

Misery\’s Company

Feel free to right-click the link, and download the mp3, otherwise, it’ll just play out of your browser. 

In lieu of a real blog post today, I am going to use my lunch hour to go to Bank of America and open an account. Apparently, California has not discovered Chase, and that saddens me. I really like the blue atm card that Chase offers. It is a pleasing sight when the wallet is opened (although there is not often much money attached to said blue atm card). Anyway, I’m going to the bank.

I labored a bit in deciding whether or not to write about weed. Something about my general censor (about the only self-censoring I do) not allowing me to talk about marijuana in public/on the Internet. I decided I could write whatever I want, as long as I make no direct reference to actually being a pot-smoker myself.

4/20, the day some celebrate as the international celebration of the counter-culture, which has become synonymous with pot, was a fine day of BBQ and celebration. I write this not to irk my mother, but rather to call attention to the global celebration of a day historic for Columbine and Hitler.

I attended three BBQs, a Passover family dinner, and another party, all because it was 4/20. Now I’m not supporting any illegal drug habits, but anything that gets my apathetic generation together on a Sunday afternoon cannot be a bad thing. Sure, some may have chosen to imbibe in the cannabis, but really it was just a great day to chill. I want more fake holidays celebrating dubious things. 

…is that both side are equally dissatisfied. 

There has long been a joke about Martin Luther King’s eponymous avenues/streets/boulevards, across this great land, often being epicenters of gang violence and other negative social activity. Having driven about the megalopolis that is Los Angeles, I can safely apply this rule to any street named after a famous person. Even Buddy Holly has some nasty swath of asphalt running underneath the 101 at Cohuanga.

Last minute deliveries set us in the van at 7 PM last night, just in time to listen to the 21st/22nd/40th Democratic debate on NPR. I appreciate having listened to it on the radio if only because sight may have multiplied the revulsion I feel for both candidates at this point. I am so bored of watching Barack Obama, elite in every sense of the word, try to pretend he is some normal dude. Didn’t we elect a normal dude/idiot? He messed up real good.

I don’t see what is so wrong about electing someone who doesn’t bowl, but rather goes to law school. I like Hill drinking whisky, but Crown Royal? What ever happened to Jameson’s? I think Obama should give up on the racist, stupid white folk, move to California, get his Marijuana grower’s license, and win the popular vote on the back of stoner, non-voters. There are more than a few holes in this plan, but in this election, every plan looks like swiss cheese.

Thanks to some generous benefactors, I was able to put gas in Scott’s car this morning. It was $3.94/gal. Ouch. 

Although I do owe each a phone call, I’d like to thank my mother and grandmother for approving MY economic stimulus plan. In the current political climate, I don’t think anyone can blame a young brother for thinking he deserves a solid handout, paid for by nothing but what said brother perceives to be inherent charm and good will. I also look forward to the $600 from Uncle Sammy for which I have not even been required to be charming (I’m not pleased with the ultimate sentence of this paragraph).

And why are we in need of economic stimulus, you may be asking? Well, the downturn in the economy has really messed with my real estate investments. And I’ve been eating a lot. And I haven’t received what might be called a legitimate paycheck since before I graduated from college (June 07).

In four profound days, I have become an expert at eating while driving. Pizza, hamburgers, chicken, you name it, I can eat it while piloting the sketchy white van. In case anyone is keeping score, pizza is by far the favorite choice.

Sorry for the late post. Judging by the emails I received, at least two people were upset. Again, sorry.

I came to work this morning and found the IKEA project from hell waiting for me. There were hex wrenches, washers, and screws of various lengths, just waiting to connect A to B through C and on top of D/E/F. After three hours of hex wrenching and cursing, I discovered the set to be short exactly one washer. I pretended not to notice, as my hand was bleeding from the crushing in the needle nose pliers. It is never a good sign when you need outside tools to complete a project supposedly contained entirely in-box.

Before I bash work on the Interweb, I should remind myself of the Delta flight attendant who lost her job for blogging about Delta, and including some (no-so-racy) photos of her on planes, in uniform. Oh we, the poor oppressed bloggers.

I’m starting to realize I don’t have much to say in this space. I suppose if I had a job that offered anything close to inspiration, things may be different, but alas, a reader will have to settle for musings such as this one:

People in LA are really attractive. This is obvious, but it really adds to the character of a place when uncomfortably attractive people are in front of every building smoking cigarettes. Your average cigarette smoker in Tucson is simply not that attractive, and usually hanging out at bus stops.

Speaking of social anthropology, is cigarette smoking directly linked to bus riding? Look closely at people waiting for the bus; an abnormally high percentage smoke cigarettes.