i'm a havard graduate, and

I didn't know he changed his name again. "This show is about people following a dream," the artist formerly known as Puffy proclaims, and I guess he's right. I've the sneaking suspicion that this show's main focus will be a bunch of poor saps whose collective dream is to take ass-kissing to the next level and actually slurp Diddy's butt on camera.

Predictions? Plenty of hissing/screaming and scandals, quotables deeper and more meaningful than Jack Handey's (guilty pleasure, I still want a "No Bitch Ass-Ness" shirt), hopefully a trek through Queens to find the finest of llama breast milks and probably a sex tape or two to round out the season.

I'll pass.

kse/a7x logotype

          
          
     
Kid sister, you have any idea who M. Bison (or Vega, for the overseas kids) is? Along with Magic: the Gathering, much of my time in the 90's was spent trying to thwart the Shadaloo Crime Syndicate's efforts (and trying to bust up an old car for extra points using someone other than Chun-Li or E. Honda); I'm guessing it was the same with the O.C.'s own Triumvir. I'd grab the black one if I was going to Comic-Con this year.

You can already see the screenprinters going wild with this; I'm sure there's a VF Wolf-themed set of spandex-wrestling jeans for the tight saggers and a limited edition pair of Toejam and Earl booger-colored shutter shades in the works.

destination: debauchery (via the 15)

              

Friday. Picked up a bottle of Hen for Pookie's bday (who knew X.O. really stood for extra old? Goodness, I guess Tokko was right). For sure, next time we'll have to sip it on the rocks rather than just taking the cork out and turning the bottle upside down.

Saturday-Sunday. I'll drive on the strip if I ever want to relive driving on Colima by Hong Kong Market back home. The renovated Flamingo rooms were top notch for me, and the pink themed restroom (by my extended calculations, probably based on the hotel's namesake) was a nice added touch. Michael and I hit the Forum Shops at Caesar's for a couple of Fat Tuesdays, and by the time we made it back to the hotel (and my 3ft. cup of Hurricane with its extra Everclear vial was empty) I had been transformed into a bumbling idiot - just in time for an upscale dinner at Mirage's Stack steakhouse (think Hooters with prettier waitresses wearing skimpier outfits and EXORBITANT prices). We caught the Cirque du Soleil "Love" show down the hall a little bit afterwards, and it was good. Mr. Leitner (gods bless him, I feel I don't deserve to call him by his first name) walked us past the line and into club Jet in the same building, and I came within two feet of brushing Iron Mike Tyson's massive shoulder. Back at the hotel, I felt the white way more than the red (though I'm sure it was both that kept me up), and lay awake through the night, every now and then rising from the fold-up bed to crack the drapes and smoke a couple cigarettes overlooking the strip. Come a little after sunrise, I found myself sitting at the counter for a breakfast for one at the Flamingo Cafe downstairs.

I'd never felt more like an adult, eating my chicken fried steak and eggs (that I'm sure they pulled out of the deep freeze tossed into the microwave minutes after I placed my order) and drinking all the coffee my stomach would take.  The day's clouded memories coupled with a chemically induced and mostly involuntary introspection; our parents, they were looking for themselves, but us, we're looking for each other. These days, what with mass communication and all, it's getting easier and easier to share information with people - but that much harder to make a genuine connection. I'm not 100% sure, but we may not be the jackals and hyenas that we're made out to be, and with that in my head I was finally able to catch a few z's.

Sunday-Monday. Michael and I walked the strip and brought our drunken sleeping beauty something to munch on before hitting the casino downstairs; I fed my gambling allowance into several slot machines and figured, hey, I might not be cut out to do this sort of thing. That evening, Allen and I made sure to get our money's worth at dinner (this time at the Palms' 9 steakhouse) and then it was up to the Playboy club on the top floor. The table and beverage services were great, but the bunny-tails and cuff links were better. Later, I hit the deck during the ride back up to our room, but just for the duration of the trip (Vegas elevators are blazing fast, and I was back on my feet in a minute). We grabbed some Long Islands and talked, and that was dope - good company is hard enough to find, but good conversation is even scarcer. Come sunrise again, Allen and I hit the cafe downstairs and we had some $13 burgers that looked and tasted like Denny's rejects. For future reference, forcing a food coma works wonders. 

Monday. We emptied the change in our pockets into a cup for the cleaning lady and drove, drove, drove.

hater's ball

AT 15, this girl has more money, right this second, than you and I will ever see in our lifetimes. I see her father, Billy Ray, as the Nashville horeseman herald of the idiocracy apocalypse, and hold firmly to the position that he never should have been allowed to procreate after the musical travesty that was "Achy Breaky Heart." We'd counted the man and his mullet out, but it seems that his loins have had a bigger impact on the music world than any country artist ever has. 

Born "Destiny Hope" (a further tribute to her parents' retardation), you can find a myriad of products bearing her likeness, including (but not limited to) DVDs, singing pens, cookie CDs, hair extensions, framed posters, and underwear.

According to this article, Miley Cyrus is slated to be worth a cool $1 BILLION by the time she turns 20 in 2012. For shame.

redapple/bluebuddha impressions

I haven't slept all night and so far, dawn's only brought the Mexicans and their weedwhackers and ruckus from the birds in the trees out back. Probably shouldn't have had all those Dr. Peppers, but I was parched. Note to self, your thriving caffeine intolerance means that 1) if you have a pop past 4pm you're gonna be up all night, and 2) soda will always outweigh the booze. Last night was a blur, but I remember LA laid out before us and united in illegal firework activity. I remember sitting in the dark and seeing organic facsimilies of writhing and undulation for a single, drawn out and pulsating moment that could have spanned years. I remember thinking that I'd found a sense of purpose in music (some of it, at least), and for the record: I still can't stand trance.

Daft Punk's "Something About Us" never sounded/felt so good, but that cheesy remake of "Heaven" with the chick singing was just as annoying as the fiftieth time you heard the Macarena. Old DMB (like "Spoon") can take you on a trek if you let it, and "Ebolarama" by ETID reminded me of Lovecraft (esp. the vaguely Cyclopean architecture and non-Euclidian angles).

My teeth hurt.