rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

breaking down tonight’s winners
the Academy Awards are on. I do like watching them, I will say, but I mean, really. it’s a bit of a circle jerk. every year, you’d think these motherfuckers cured cancer. for christ’s sake, enough with the monologues. just tell me who won Best Actress.
my criticism isn’t really fair, though. I’m no longer much of a critic; I’ve seen two movies in the theatre this year: ‘Iron Man’ and ‘The Dark Knight’. but that Dark Knight shit was hot. hot, I tell ya! I saw it twice.
oh. oh, it’s Kate Winslett. she won for her performance in ’The Reader’. I have no idea what that movie’s about. it looks like something about an illiterate woman in Nazi Germany, which sounds like the biggest bunch of contrived bullshit that I’ve ever heard of, though I’m sure her performance was wonderful.
they had the cameras on everybody when they announced it, and Anne Hathaway was entirely too excited for Winslett. no, no, you lost, you dumb broad.
speaking of which: the city editor came out into the newsroom tonight. she’d been watching the red carpet thing before the show started, and she said, “do you think Anne Hathaway’s attractive? they just made a big deal about her on the red carpet, and I don’t see it.”
I just started at her. and then said, “yes.”
and then she said, “what is it about her?”
and I waffled about, said she’s just a prettty woman. and I got the other four guys in the room to back me up.
but the real reason is her Stupendous Rack. capitalized.
yes oh jesus christ is Anne Hathaway smoking. write that down.

okay. now they’re doing the dudes. Best Actor.
annnd, it’s Sean Penn. eh. fuck that guy. I was pulling for Mickey Rourke, because his ass was liable to say something wild on stage. something about cocaine, or a fistfight he once had. instead, Penn, the douchebag’, he’s gonna blather on about politics. please, Sean Penn, enlighten me with something witty about the Nation’s Pulse. I know you have it. 
“you commie, homo-loving sons of guns,” he says, to raucous applause. and now he’s talking about Proposition 8. and …
well, no. Penn’s right, Proposition 8 is an amazing pile of bullshit. god damned Mormons and black people. you win this round, Penn. I swore to always hate your self-righteous ass, but I’ll relent for the evening.

now it’s on to Best Picture. I’m learning more about these pictures through these medleys than I ever knew before. 
I kind of want to see ‘The Wrestler’. is that one of these? no … okay. so what wins? ‘Slumdog Millionaire’. hrmm.
they’re still showing this ‘Slumdog Milionaire’ at Vinegar Hill, the little arthouse dump around the way. I’m gonna have to go and see this before it’s gone.

intermission

I think this is a good place for a picture from Outer Space.

“you’re they gay one. gay-mo.”
I’m eating a bowl of ice cream. when I was a frehsman in college, I could eat a pint of ice cream in about eight minutes. that’s pretty foul, looking back on it. but, you know, if you’re gonna be good at something, why not try to be the best? and I’m really good at eating ice cream. write this down, too.
but I’ll stop dancing. I got off the phone a while ago with Alisha. do you know her? I don’t write about her very often.
I used to date her in college. and then on again, off again for five years. five years! holy shit! because of Alisha, I’ve inadvertently torpedoed other relationships – or chances at relationships — that I’ve had since.
no, that’s not right, that reads wrong. let’s back up: when I say, ‘because of Alisha,’ I mean because of me. there’s no point in dumping all of this, me, on her; for one, it’s too easy, and beyond that, it’s definitely not fair.
see, just now, I spoke to her for the first time in literally months. when I went out to Indiana in January, we were gonna try and reconnoiter in one way or another, and then we had another falling out, and we stopped speaking. and that was that. I didn’t see her when I was in Valparaiso, Indianapolis, Bloomington. didn’t try and contact her, did my best not to let her enter my mind. fuck her, I said. and I hadn’t spoken to her since, and that’s a long goddamn time, as far as she and I are concerned.
and then, this tremor went through work this past week, and I kind of bugged out a little bit, and I sent her an email. to make nice, at least. see what she’d been up to.
the conversation got heavy. I wanted it to get heavy: we needed to talk about why we hadn’t spoken in so long. you know what it is? she and I are, as I like to say, square pegs and round holes. she just don’t got it for me. and I don’t think — really, I do – I don’t got it for her. she’s known this — and I’ve know this — for quite some time, but it was kind of nice to say that out loud. no, again unfair; she said it to me. but it needed to be said. this has been like a bone in my throat for what seems like forever.
I’m not upset about this. no, I’m not. this has been a reality for so long that I don’t think anything happened tonight that was more than formality, but sometimes you got to just say it. why am I recycling it here? well … this situation is my elephant in the room and I figured I should go ahead and acknowledge it, because while it may not be readily apparent to the casual reader, it has weighed heavily on me … wait. do I have casual readers? is this bullshit part of your lunch break?
see, I’ve generally chose to ignore my thing with Alisha on this forum. why? two reasons. first, it makes me feel like a huge pussy, justifiably or not (it’s justifiable); and secondly, my best writing generally comes from somewhere else. and, really, you can only beat the same old drum for so long. I mean, I’m 25 years old, for christ’s sake. and I’ve been writing this thing for going on five years. and if you click on the months over to the right, you’ll find the subject matter hasn’t changed much. just the clarity.
anyway. I don’t feel much different than I did a couple of hours ago, or than I have for the past few months. I got no hard feelings toward Alisha about this. she’s actually pretty cool, you’d probably like her on your own terms. and, let’s be honest, I’m probably gonna still be a sour fuck, bored and lonely in my dumpy apartment in Charlottesville. but hey, you know what’s good about that? that’s on me, and no one else. tomorrow’s gonna be Monday morning in America. and I get another shot at it. America, I mean. I get a shot at America, not the morning … and yes, it takes work to make all of this so verbose.
but what Monday means, in practical terms, is I’m gonna run myself through the ridiculousness that is yoga class again, buy my niece a birthday present (better late than never) and then drive up to DC to kick it with my brother. he’s got tickets to the Georgetown/Louisville tilt tomorrow night. and this game looked a lot more exciting a couple of months ago, but even if Georgetown sucks, it’s still going to be a lot of fucking fun. and you can write that down. again.

now everybody pray to the god of skinny punks that I get this job up in DC. everybody pray. get together, and hug your neighbor, for me.

let’s count
use of the word ‘bullshit’: 3 times.
metaphors about failed relationship: four or five?
size of ego: can’t put a number on it. huge. I have a blog.