I really highly recommend this movie even if your name is Ben and your bowling league is too goddam important to see it with me the first time I asked.

What I Did on my Summer Vacation

When I got back from tour I was completely broke. I should have maybe come back quite rich. I had done great things like DJ huge clubs in LA and dance in a music video. I thought I would maybe come back and be a pretty big deal. At least I thought I might DJ huge clubs in NY (not so far) and then tour the rest of the world (nope).

So I went out and got a job. My first thought was to work in a book store but then I froze up on the application. I walked out the door and I went to a bar that I heard was hiring. It was on the roof of a building on 27th Street. The manager told me to come back the next day to work. I didn't have to train. I didn't have to work Sundays and happy hours until I moved up the ranks.

It was probably the easiest job I've ever had. Everyday I came into work somewhere between three and seven and left around midnight. The bartenders all pooled their tips so every day when I came in there was a big fat envelope waiting for me.

I was good with the money, for the most part. I set up my bank account online to pay down my gigantic debt ($400/week).

For six months I never set an alarm. I woke up every morning when I was done sleeping. I finished Mercutio and decided to put him aside for a while. Each morning/afternoon when I woke up I took the half-mile walk to Gorilla Coffee and sat there. Most days I read a novel. Sometimes I brought the paper or a magazine. I read Dante and Steinbeck and Joyce. Most days I got distracted by The Onion or read the newspaper on my phone.

This would have been a really good time to get ahead on some other things. I could have taken Italian II or worked on a screenplay. I certainly should have come up with another writing project. But I was usually sleeping.

Since March I haven't grocery shopped for anything but beer. I ate every meal out. I only made coffee in the apartment twice. I paid off my vespa. I paid off my DJ equipment and my synth. I paid off the credit card I used to fly to Minneapolis ($800) when I freaked out last fall.

If I were younger I probably would have a whole bunch of sexy new clothes and a new leather jacket. It would be like that scene in Studio 54 where whatshisface pulls up to work in a new car with a vanity plate. But I had bills to pay.

Some days I would awake to blue jays chirping at my empty feeders, roll over and go back to sleep until 2. I promised to let myself have this time. Like everyone else I've had stressful jobs where every time you wake up--no matter how dark it is outside--you're certain that you've slept in. I've had jobs where I can barely keep my eyes open on the train ride home because I'm so exhausted.

Sometimes I would walk around my neighborhood, hoping that someone was around so I could get a beer with them.

For the past five years I've woken up every morning very early, wrote (written?) for four hours, read for a few more and then worked somewhere until midnight. It was a very fulfilling experience and I can't think of happier days than when I went to my bullshit job with a big smile on my face because of the things I had written that day.

You would think that all of us out of work people with lots of time on our hands would be cranking out screenplays and memoirs now. But momentum is a very powerful force. As my summer went on I found myself reading shorter and shorter novels. I wrote less, I did less.

For the first time in my life I actually gained weight (!). I was so poor all winter that I was at my skinniest. It turns out that sitting around all day isn't good for you. Also my summer job had alot of heavy lifting involved so for now I look like I finally hit puberty. The other DJs keep asking me if I've been working out.

It was fun while it lasted. It was actually alot like working at a summer camp or on a cruise ship. There were 20 bartenders on a night and 40 cocktail waitresses. Everyone was always coming straight from a photoshoot. Like this asshole.

He and I bartended with the girl who played the slut in next month's Ugly Betty (1 episode, no lines). Some of the waitresses had played the children in Lifetime Original Movies. Everyone got drunk every night and tried to get out around 1 so they could all crowd into the local shithole and get drunk together there. By the end of the summer some of the staff became roommates. Others no longer bothered hiding the fact that they had been sleeping together.

We all became work-friends and I know that for years I will walk into bars and recognize faces (I've probably already forgotten their names). It will be really nice to see them and I know that I'll get a big smile on my face when I see them all again.

Punks, hipsters, indie-snobs, popular kids, mavericks:

You are only truly a member of that category if you deny it yourself, despite how frequently people refer to you as this behind your back.

I'm supposedly featured in the NY Times Thursday Styles section today
but a goddamn newspaper strike is keeping me from seeing it.

I don't normally plug something this heavily. But Semiprecious Weapons new video came out today along with their record. I'm so excited for the boys. I'm wicked proud of them. So uhm, buy it even if you don't normally purchase records.

The apparition of a smiling face receiving a text message in a bar:
Petals on a wet, black bough.

New Hampshire: why do you always have to cause a fucking scene? One
day it is 46% McCain 48% Obama the next you're 48% McCain 46% Obama.
You've got 4 electoral votes that are keeping this election from being
269/269. Cut the crap!

Do we really have to pretend to give a shit about New Hampshire again?
What is this--February?

You're not a total pussy just because you agree with Vermont once every
Four years. Howard Dean already makes them look like Queers on Ice.

Ready? Do you know the difference between Howard Dean and the other
Hockey Dads?

Ha! Okay, seriously. Stop embarassing the rest of New England.

My computer is in the shop so we are all going to have to spend this
week without my condescending comments about working full-time for
Obama. Rest assured, undecided voters: you will not sleep before nine
PM if you have a land line.

I'm proud of myself/you're ashamed of me.

Volume 1:

I'm offered a free shot but I have to drive home and so I secretly
pour it out/on your shoes.

My stories have begun to wear on me, It is sad, but central to my fiction is a belief in the main character, which often stars me.

I do alot of jobs. Sometims they're fun and I'm on TV or in a Video or Commercial. Most often they demean everyone around me--most of all the people I work for. I am not a pawn. I do not matter at all. If I did not show up for work no one single person would be upset.

Tonight I bartended at a place where I work when I can. A big place. A big place for rich people to sit and look at the Empire State Building. Today, we all know, is the four year anniversary of no one giving a shit about 9/11.

I asked all the waitresses if they had registered to vote. The majority of them do not care, have not changed their registration from Omaha, or are visiting from an Eastern European nation where counted votes are scarcer then American dollars.

One of the few waitresses that I care about is actually saving money to go to school to get her Master's in Social Work in the fall. She wants to work with troubled young children in Brooklyn and the Bronx.

I had one waitress tell me she hated the government and didn't vote because it only encourages them. I had another tell me that she was fucked either way and didn't care. I had another tell me that she only knew how to vote the way her father did and he hadn't made up his mind.

The social worker said, verbatim, "I'm an independent but I just love John McCain. He's so cute! And Sarah Palin is awesome!"

There was only one thing to do.

In a Coyote-Ugly maneuver I grabbed the soda/cranberry/sprite gun, squeezed it off like a garden hose and sprayed that woman down. I sprayed her down for all the waitresses who didn't live in New York City--who didn't make $600/night flirting with millionaires. I sprayed her down for the legions of people in this country who don't have rich boyfriend to fall back on.

I sprayed her down not knowing that she had an exit strategy. The girl ducked. My self-righteous indignation sprayed down a European couple behind her, soaking them.

"I'm sorry," I pretended to have a malfunction. "Sorry about that. You need a towel? Can I buy you a drink?"

Maybe I'm an alcoholic (maybe?) but if I got squirted as collateral damage in one of the most expensive bars in the world I would soak the bartender for a bottle of Irish whiskey. Instead the dipshit cried (in a thick accent) "A nap-keen? I no want a napkin! I want a new shirt!"

I immediately realized that I should and would get fired from this innocuous job over the matter. There will never be a meeting where we all sit down and I say, "I'm sorry that I sprayed you with cold water on an early fall day. But the thing is--this other person that I work with is ideologically opposed to the things that I believe in."

I realized that the people did not want to hear from me or even see me again that night. I asked the waitresses to go over to the table with towels and cover for me. For some reason they sent the only black waitress on duty.

She said to the Polish table, "I'm sorry. The bartender found out that the other waitress wasn't voting for Obama and had to spray her with water. Anyone want a refill?"

I can only add this to my list of reasons why I still don't have a career.

For reasons I have yet to understand MTV contacted us about filming an episode of the new season of The Real World at our party last night. My DJ set was only for about 45 minutes so I had plenty of time in the party to gawk at the cast.

A few things we noticed about them:

1) They're alot younger than we are. It is very possible that the reason they decided to come to the party is because we made it 18+

2) There's clearly some kind of subplot about a wholesome midwestern/mormon guy who has trouble fitting in. The camera crew followed this one guy around with a giant light and watched him as he stood still, alone in the club.

3) The specter of cameras heightened everything. I had girls coming up to be like never before, simply because I was playing records under studio lights. It was weird.

4) The club hooked them up with a bottle and a private area to sit in. To these people NYC is an all-inclusive vacation.

I'm really amazed that this is the first comic to be even better as a cartoon.

Se'en- [sen] n.
1) The new one-syllable number between 6 and 8 that you have to learn in order not to count the 7th and 8th beat at the same time after years of teaching yourself how to count syllables in poetry. "...three, four, five, six, se'en, eight."

In 1996 my Irish grandmother forwarded my father and I tickets to see Bob Dole after his debates in Hartford. The rally was at the only meeting ground Hartford had to offfer at the time--the Connecticut State Armory--the place where 4 years later my father would wait out the long, tedious, anticlimactic night of Y2k.

I was young, impressionable and sure of voting for Bill Clinton. Gramma only got the tickets because her husband made sure they donated to the republicans even after he died before Jimmy Carter left office.

Many years before that I stood at the kitchen table eating Spaghetti-Os on a rubber placemat that depicted the 40 presidents of the United States of America. At that time the lineage ended with Ronald Reagan.

It was a brilliant map at the time. Nothing could upstage it. Not the 50 United States and their Capitals. Not the basic Greek Gods and Goddesses. Not the times tables.

"Mommy, isn't it funny that all forty presidents have been white and men?"

"Yes, honey. That's how it has been."

"Mommy, if there was a woman candidate for President," my young self said, completely ignorant of the subjunctive mood, "Would you vote for her just to get a woman in office?"

"It would depend on what she stood for and what the other candidate said too," Mommy told me.

"But wouldn't you want a woman president?" I said. "Who is going to speak for everyone's Mommy?"

Back at the Republican Party event in 1996 I said to my Dad, "Who is paying for all of this? The hot dogs? The TVs? The Armory rental?"

"The donors," Dad said.

"I thought the Republicans were supposed to end the era of big spending?"

Politics have never made any sense to me. Not in 1992 when they elected Chelsea's dad. Not in 1996 when they elected not-Bob Dole. Not in 2000 when I voted for Nader because I was sure that Gore couldn't fuck it up.

On election day 2004 I bought 5 newspapers and sat on the floor of Superhero Supply in Brooklyn because I was so sure we would know the wonderful truth by break-time.

Now I'm terrified that I'm going to spend the next four years DJ'ing bullshit parties because this country is still not going anywhere.

In my brief life I have learned much more from demo tapes, B-sides and rough drafts than I ever learned from Moby Dick. It is with that spirit that I post this obscenely unedited remix. I actually think I spelled "unedited" wrong in the title.

"It's Not My Fault (Remix of Semiprecious Weapons Magnetic Baby)"

It's really weird handing a remix to a band. It's like, "Here, I fucked up that song I love of yours."

1) Out of no where on Thursday I got a text from a number I didn't recognize.

"Uh, hi. I have to let everyone I've slept with know that I have AIDS."

I immediately became terrified. Who the hell was this, first of all? Why were they doing it so anonymously? I texted back immediately, "I'm sorry to hear that. Who is this!" (In my haste I mispunctuated. Then I took a second and realized that the messages were coming from someone who was texting via AOL IM.

Then I really started to freak out. Maybe she hired one of those anonymous services to tell everyone she'd slept with.

It was a long five minutes of me staring at my phone and trying not to flip out.

And then she writes back, "Fuckin Bitch ASS FAGOT."

And I say, "Pardon?"

"hahahahaha"

"What?"

"o you cant read I forgot."

"Sorry, who are you trying to contact?"

"you stupid idot."

I calmed down when I realized that the screen name was" yiffy4obama."

"hahaha your a homo motherfucker. fagot ass bitch hahahahaha." It's just some kid screwing around on the computer at his parents house.

"Whatever. Enjoy your youth. Register to vote before it's too late."

"hahahaha yea I will don't worry and I won't be voteing for that aryan cracker ass fagot mangina," then he adds. "you been sending me rascist messages to my vagina hahahaha think its a game now."

I showed it to a friend at work and he grabbed my phone and wrote, "What's wrong with you? Get some friends."

"Yeah ahahaha." "I did hahahaha." "rascist comments to my vagina that a hate crime did you know that hahahaha." "Did you know I saved them all too ahahahah." "anal slut am on the vagina with aol right now thats funny now hahahaha anal slut gonna find out who you are right now." "hahahahaha" "1-800-827-3338" "you thought it was funny last night but not today hahahah" "dobernala."

Then after ignoring him for the night I hear back from him later. "whats wrong?"

So that was Thursday. The day I apparently got AIDS--not HIV, but full blown AIDS--in my fagot mangina.

2) As part of my insanity last year I decided that Mercutio would come out perfectly if only my desk were in an ideal location. I chose my closet. I also keep my synth in there so when I'm writing or making music I can do it in a nice little hole where my hanging clothes provide soft acoustics.

And then on wednesday I went to move something and rammed all my dress shirts into the beer I had on the desk and it flowed directly into my keyboard. The backlight blew out. The volume button somehow turned into the expose button.

Not good. Especially since I promised myself I would get back to Mercutio on September 1st.

Yesterday I figured out that I could turn off the control button and everything would work perfectly, so long as I never needed to right-click. Then for no reason last night while DJ'ing it went out again. So until I can get it fixed I have to lug around a bluetooth keyboard.


3) I'm DJ'ing a wicked fun fashion week party on monday. You should totally come. There's going to be an actual red carpet.

It is with great pleasure that I offer this New Kids song.

When I was a kid I sought too much refugebin music. If I were sad I
would find a sad song to feel better about it to. Somehow I thought
that befriending and dating musicians would change that.

I have three friends with records coming out now. Hidden in the songs
are memories of what we were up to last year together when the songs
were written. It just makes me sad to think about that golden age we
had. I'm older now. They're not around much. And I have songs to fill
in the memories I've lost to alcohol.

In a way it's as if we broke up. If I ran into them now it would be
exciting and awkward. But I would probably walk away feeling like I
had completely lost them.

Somewhere in Manhattan Tina Fey is rocking her child to sleep knowing that she may spend the next four to twelve years impersonating Sarah Palin.

The reason I can tell that I am at the worst party ever right now is
because all these assholes work together and they insists that there's
nothing more interesting in the world than the customers they deal with.