When you stay out until 2:30 AM on Wednesday, you can stay home on Friday.

I should have known. Why do I torture myself. I haven't sat down and watched a movie since I don't know when. So tonight, after ten days of Coldplay, Cinco de Mayo at El Rio, Umphrey's McGee, the Comas, and STS9, I decided to diminish my Friday down to gym + DVD. Not all major label bands suck. But I swear to this. Every single major studio movie that comes out fucking sucks. Every single one. And I blame Natalie Portman. You can't do Garden State, then come back with a 105 minutes of boring, cliched dialogue between characters you don't give a fuck about, going by the name Closer. Natalie was hands down the best part of that movie. She could wear broken concrete slabs like diamonds, that one. The scene in the paradise room between Clive Owen and her was riveting. The rest was a yawn. Should have known. Go rent Your Friends and Neighbors if you want to know about infidelity and true evil.

I finally got that spark on the way home. But I'm not sure if I should chase this one down. I started writing the story I've been working on using my old chums Lane and Gray. Felt like three-day old boxers. comfy. dirty. Like I'm cheating by going back to them. But it the words were just bleeding out, just like they were when I was writing Swimming in Circles. It kind of scares me, though. Are soliloquies about the the morning after and perennial female idolization my curse? Are cutesy quips between two characters that can't seem to grow up going to be my lone contribution to the literary world? (...maybe...) Atleast Brock will like it. It does feel weird to write another one about my alter, but hell, Michelle Tea wrote three books about herself, and didn't even change her damn name!

Speaking of Michelle Tea, I finally met her. I won a charity auction on eBay to have her give me a tarot reading. Once again, the rock star syndrome stuck a quarter in, vibrating my arms and lips so I couldn't talk. Drinking coffee at Muddy Water on Church Street didn't help. Shoulda been drinking vodka. You always want to impress. You always want them to regard you with some kind of interest, like you do matter. Strippers, good ones atleast, are terrific at recognizing this insatiable hunger inside the insecure. They can use it to empty out a man's wallet like bedpan in the nursing home. And I don't blame them. Nor can I escape the fact that I really did want to impress Michelle. Six months ago, I'd never even heard of the gal. Three months ago, she blew me away at City Lights. I love how some people are so assured of themselves that they can actually shine. You have to love being around people like that. So, the tarot reading was fine. It was more interesting just watching her do it all and telling me what all the cards meant. When I told her I was a Leo, she just looked at me and said, "None of this is going to matter cuz you're going to be fine. You guys always are." It was more fun once we got through it and we just started talking to talk. I basically asked her all about the publishing world here in SF. She told me about the Olivia Cruise, which she's going to be appearing on soon. She said she'd spoken at the Skylight Exchange a year or so ago (hate that I missed that!) She told me that her next book was coming out on McAdam / Cage, and we talked about indies v. major presses. She signed my copy of Valencia by crossing out her name, x'ing her i's, and writing: "Enjoyed divining your future with you!" Me too.