I was getting my hair cut tonight and picked up a copy of Vice magazine (I didn't feel like chatting with the lady cutting my hair; I always feel pressure to be social with the person cutting my hair, I don't know why). Funny stuff, this Vice magazine. First encountered it in NYC at an urban clothing store. It was free and lying in a stack by the front door.
There's an article in this month's issue evaluating 13 methods of "finding yourself." They're ranked on a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being most effective.
Backpacking in Europe? Rates merely a 4.
Getting slutty with it? Rates the top score of 10. This one applies only to girls. It means sleeping around with men for the hell of it, and bossing them around. Hmm.
Then there's "the magic four." This is a method for guys only to find themselves and become a man. The magic four are: "1) break someone's heart; 2) have your heart broken; 3) get the shit beaten out of you; and 4) beat the shit out of someone. That means: 1) she has to be so f###ed up she almost kills herself. Like, doesn't eat for three days and falls down the stairs drunk; 2) you are so f***ed up you have to punch yourself in the head to stop thinking about her; 3) you end up in the hospital with a severaly broken nose and some sort of permanent facial scar; and 4) he's not really moving at the end. You're kind of kicking a blob." This rates a 9 on the finding yourself scale.
This one in particular caused my ears to perk up (well, not really, since my ears can't perk) because one of them is on my 30 before 30 list and I've accomplished 3 of the 4 already. I'm not telling you which is on my 30 before 30 list, or whether I accomplished it yet, or which 3 of the 4 I've checked off yet. If all of you got together, maybe you could piece it together. Wouldn't that be fun.
Cocaine rated a 3.5. Acid and mushrooms rated a 3. Ecstasy rated a 7.5. Maybe I should take some tonight before the Sigur Ros concert. They sing in a language they invented. It's called Hopelandic. I guess it's some derivative of Icelandic, though really I have no idea, like whether or not Julia Stiles is attractive.
Speaking of Vice, Grand Theft Auto III, the prequel to Grand Theft Auto: Vice City, grossed $350 million. That's more than movies like The Matrix and Gladiator, and if it were a movie it would rank 7th all time domestically, behind Jurassic Park and ahead of Forrest Gump. Amazing. Geeks may not be filthy rich as in the late 90's, but the ones at Rockstar are still lording it over Hollywood. The interactivity of video games make them superior diversionary entertainment to all but the most engrossing of movies. Watching a bad movie is like being strapped to a dolly and wheeled around like Hannibal Lecter. Just got Splinter Cell tonight. Can't wait to try it out.
Speaking of being trapped, I was walking up to the front door of the gym tonight, and passing by the window I couldn't but think, as I stared at row after row of people dripping with sweat, working their arms and legs around spastically on elliptical cycles, stairmasters, and treadmills, all under the artificial blue glow of fluorescent lamps, that if you brought someone from 100 years ago here into the present and allowed them to look into this health club facility and observe the people in there, they'd think it was some form of slavery or imprisonment. If I were to make a movie like Baraka, I'd juxtapose this shot of people working out at the gym with a shot of Charlton Heston and his slave buddies rowing in the stomach of a Roman galley in Ben Hur. Seriously, going to the gym is torture, the supreme manifestation of our society's vanity. If I didn't have to rehab my shoulder after my bike accident I'd cancel my membership.
While watching Die Another Day this weekend, I saw the trailer for the new J. Lo movie Maid in Manhattan. Yep, J. Lo plays a hotel maid who gets discovered by some rich dude played by Ralph Fiennes. It's a variant of the Pretty Woman hooker with a heart of gold story, only with a maid instead of a hooker because J. Lo ain't no trashy ho, despite being ready to move onto husband number 82, the bland Ben Affleck. I could barely contain an evil cackle as I saw faces of boyfriends and husbands throughout the theater blanche at the thought of having to attend this movie with their girlfriends or spouses. Has a British accent done more for anyone than it has for Ralph Fiennes? On that alone, some people consider him some gifted thespian. Give me a break. He's not that much better than that guy who plays Furio on The Sopranos this season (that guy, whoever he is, is one reason the show is a bit flat this season).
On the way back from a play at the Seattle Rep this weekend, I looked down at my radio and instead of a station number the display flashed a series of words. It was an ad for an upcoming concert, listing some of the artists and a phone number to call for tickets. Strange. Then, when a song came on, the radio displayed the title and artist. I didn't realize radio stations could broadcast that info now. Of course, sometime soon I'll probably be looking down for the title of some catchy tune and drive into the trunk of the guy in front of me.
I didn't join Rachael in an effort to scalp tickets to "Legends of Hip Hop" last night. My mistake. Turns out she got a seat from someone whose friend failed to show. Damn.
I really hate it when other people have power over me. My mood. My state of mind.
What am I ranting about?