Mr. Mike Ochs has a new column up. For those of you who enjoyed the last batch, here's another. Warning: May pull heart strings.

I want to know what time it is in Lithuania. There are websites for such things. Ah, convenience.

I had a little weird moment tonight. I was driving home. Stoplight. A rellow cab to my right. I turned to look and there was a woman in the front seat. Pretty. Looking at me. I kinda half smile and turned away and resumed mildly bopping to the motown on the radio. A minute later I look back and she's still looking at me. Not a full on stare or anything, but looking. And so I don't turn away. And she doesn't either. She mouths "hi" through the two panes of glass and does a small wave--not like in an overdone hollywood campy bimbo way, but in an understated, nice, rather sincere seeming way. I do a quick once around to make sure she's looking at me. And I look to make sure that she isn't someone I know, and she isn't. And then check to see the back seat of the taxi to see if her friends are cracking up or anything. But they aren't. The two in the back seat are talking to each other, and seem wholly unaware of anything hapening in the front seat. And the driver, I think, really wanted to be alone. And she's just smiling at me. And so I give her a little sheepish smile. Then said "hi" back (I actually did say it, too. I realize I could have mouthed it with the glass and all, but I didn't). And gave a one motion wave back. Still smiles. Still looking. Still very calm--like this was omehow normal in her world. And then the light changed. Taxi took the left fork. I took the right, cuz, what else could I do? Following her would have been creepy, and would have required a last-minute lane change. Even just heading up to their next light with them didn't seem right to do. But it was such a strange place to leave it. I think it was probably the most significant connection I have ever made at a stoplight with someone outside my vehicle who I don't know. It made me smile all the way home. Such little things are the only things that can really do that. I don't suppose I'd have it any other way.

Screwed up the html on that last post. Now I can't edit it.

Well, at least that's more interesting than my usual bad spelling.

Making mix CDs. Place your order posted by Z. @ 3:49 AM  0 comments

Confidential to Scylla: Bosses suck. They just completely do. Kick 'em in the shins. Should I just not call? Cuz I can do that, if need be. Or should we use a "safe word" of some sort, so I know that your prick of a boss is listening and I should keep it short and not expect anything in the form of an emotional outpouring? My favorite safe word is "Arkansas". We could use that. It isn't the easiest to slip into casual conversation, but you're creative like that. And Arkansas isn't as conspicuous as some words we could use. Like dildo. But then again, if your boss is going to listen in on your calls, let's give him something to listen to. Our safe word should be "lesbian monkey dildos slathered in honey." It isn't the easiest thing to slip into conversation, but you're creative like that. (And no fair making it a band name. That's just too easy.) Tee-hee.

Feel better.

The rain sounds nice to me.

Okay, I've needed and wanted a haircut for at least 6 weeks now. And I still haven't gotten one. It's complicated. I dyed my hair about a year ago. And I'm now down to a few inches of blondishness on the end of some chunks of hair. And I feel that if I get a haircut, and I trim those blondish bits down, or off, that my hair will just be too dark. And so I want a new dye job. But how should I dye it? I know nothing about such things. And whenever I go to the barber shop (Rudy's on Greenwood), they always want me to tell them what to do. And I'm always like, "you're the fucking barber." But they seem to feel that since it's my hair, I should have some knowledge about how to cut and style it. Which is just so wrong. I don't. I never will. But whatever. Over the years I've come up with little terms that I can say to them so that they ask less questions, and just start cutting. My favorite is "If could you just to up a little messy/stylish number on it, that would be great." To the best of my knowledge, that phrase doesn't mean anything. But it seems to get them cutting with the fewest questions.

I hate the questions. The always include words that I don't know. Like "layers" and "texture" and I don't really understand what they mean. I found out that there's a difference between Chunks and Streaks when dying. I still don't know what that difference is, but it's there. So I usually just say, "yeah, that's totally what I was thinking" to whatever I'm asked. Because I've gone down the other road, the one where i say "I'm not really sure what you mean." And then they get all babytalky on me, and I get pissed, and they end up fucking up my hair. And that isn't fun.

So, anyway, I want to get some dye stuff done to my hair, and I have no idea what I want. And if I did know, I wouldn't have the vocabulary to tell the barber. And so, for the last 6 weeks I've been at an impasse. Cuz I can't get my hair cut till I get it dyed, cuz it'll fry up my hair, and then I'll have to get it cut again. And that'll up all my confusion to another level.

Now I know some of you are out there saying, "you know, if you had gotten your hair cut six weeks ago, and then dyed it now, it would have grown at least that much in the interval." Yeah, well, hindsight is 20/20, isn't it. Don't burden me with your logic. They're my nueroses. i'll do with them what I wish.

So, I'm accepting suggestions on my hair. Email me. Please write up your suggestion in a monologue form so that I can read it right off the page to the barber, and them explain to me underneath in small words what it should look like if I read the top part correctly.

Sick. Not sick. Sick. Not sick. Sick again.

So tired of it.

Blech.

Some people just make you calmer when you are around them. I got to have breakfast with one of them.

We then trekked around the REI store. I always like doing that. It always makes me feel like I do cool Northwesty stuff that I really don't. And going around the store, I was surprised to find that they had a rather vast selection of hawaiian shirts, and that the measurements for a rain poncho were 54" X 96." Let me say that again. 54" by 96" That's almost 5.5 feet by 8. Now I don't know what these are measuring, but it sure sounds adequate for most NBA stars.

While in REI, or rather hanging out on the porch of REI, a pack of wild Montanna girls wanted to have their picture taken with us--the two seattle boys with their americanos. I've never felt like much of a tourist attraction, but maybe I've underestimated my potential draw. Perhaps I should begin putting together vacation packages for people to come visit me. Swim with the Dolphins/Come have coffee with the Zach. It's really a toss up when you think about it.

I must do some more faxing for the play Verbatim. It's good. Butts in seats--you know how it is. So if you are reading this, go to verbatimproject.com and buy some tickets. You dig?

When I came around that turn and saw those breaklights go fire-engire red. I just knew I was in trouble. We were all going about 75. Their breaks were just better than mine. I had three thoughts:

1. I don't feel like getting into an accident today.
2. I have room to my right.
3. I have my seatbelt on.

And that was all it took. Next thing I know I feel like I'm driving on a slip and slide, and counter-stearing like a mofo. I heard the car in front of me hit the car in front of him. I was fish tailing wide right, and I was about a foot away from broadsiding a little toyoto pick up, so I dropped the clutch, which was enough to miss the pickup by an inch or so. But then I was really out of control, and was heading right for the tail of a station wagon. So I breaked and cranked it left. And then after few smaller squeeks and skids, the ride came too a full and complete stop. And the little fender bender was straight back 100 feet or so, And I was staring into the eyes of a driver of a Ford Explorer, and 3 full lanes of traffic had stopped.

You haven't lived till you are in your car facing south on the northbound lanes of I-5 staring into three lanes full of wide-eyed oncomming drivers. It's a good day. A couple 180s on a major interstate is just...so action movie.

No contact, no foul.

It was glorious. Truly glorious. I pulled a U-ey, and went on like nothing had happened. The smell of burnt rubber high in the air.

I have a headache at the moment. That has got to be one of my least favorite sensations. And it isn't even a bad one. It's just a little annoying one. I like the bad ones better, I think. At least you feel justified at being pissed off at it. These, though, just aren't worth your attention, but you can't stop focusing on them. Aggrivation in it's purest form.

I went bowling yesterday. I like bowling. I don't go often enough. I forget that it's cheap. For some reason I always worry it'll be really expensive. I think it's cuz they charge by how long you bowl. And anything that charges by the hour usually ends up being expensive--plummers, lawyers, electricians, mechanics. So it worries me. If they just named their price up front I'd feel better. But you never really know how much it'll be till you turn your shoes back in and try to leave. I always immagine thatone of these days I'll be caught short on cash and end up doing the bowling alley equivalent of washing dishes--which probably has to do with lysol and foot fungus.

I got to sit in with the cast of Verbatim this week, cuz Patrick had to be outa town. They're such a great group. I really like them. It reminded me how much I like being in shows. I like acting, but even without the acting. I just like hanging out with cool people. And backstage is just spectacular. Cuz nobody has to be doing anything, and you can't leave, so the conversations just end up being really good. Hanging out. Shooting the shit. Smoking out the backstage window. It's just so great. I miss it. Doing this little 2-day stint this week, was really a tease. I'm just going to start showing up, in full costume and make-up, with my own lines and blocking done up, and make them kick me out. Okay, I'm not really. But it would be pretty funny.

Speaking of Verbatim. The Verbatim website has launched. Check it out at verbatimproject.com. I think it's pretty cool. But I'm totally biased.

Crap.

Okay, right after that last post, I remembered that we had an old broken microwave in the garage. So, yeah, I got it out and went to work on it with an aluminum lacrosse shaft. But I didn't think they actually used glass in those things. Nobody actually uses glass anymore. Pastic. Plexiglass. Celophane, for God's sake. But glass? It didn't really cross my mind till the thing exploded out. Shattered. Everywhere. Which, was...great...except I would have moved this particular project to an out of the way, noncarpeted portion of the house if I had known.

Oh well. The clean up sucked, and I really hope i don't have to explain why I beat the crap out of a microwave to anyone. But it was so totally worth it.

Okay, today? Today I'm just pissed off. For no good reason. I wanna break things. But I can't find anything good to break. The closest I got was taking a bb gun, and holding an orange jelly bean up to the barrell opening and firing, and orange jelly bean shrapnel went all over the place. That was cool.

I really want a baseball bat and a few plate glass windows, and paramedics standing by, and someone to clean it all up. And some fire. Fire would be good. Ceramic dolls would be good to break. And some plastic people that would melt all cool when a blow torch gets put to them. And a microwave. I want to kill a microwave.

Ohhh. Car crash. I wanna take cars, like real ones, and play with 'em like hotwheels. Smash them together. Drop them from great hights. Blow em up. That would be great. Then I could shoot at the blown up cars with shot guns. OOHhhhh, ooohhhh, like artillery. Cannons. And missiles. And bazookas. My god that would be fun. Building demolition. And axes. And sledge hammers.

And...wow. I feel much better now.

We have the official list here people. Are you ready for this? The three official things that you can cry because of and nobody will give you shit for it according to my prestigious friend Jeff Allen (Supreme Visual FX Diety for The Matrix movies). Here they are:

1. Death of an immediate family member.
2. Losing a championship. (But for the love of God, don't do it on National TV)
3. Old Yeller.

And that's it. Anything else, take your chances.

My friend Pimp "Mike Ochs" DeMarco, is a funny guy. Go read some of his stuff. It's in the writer's section of art-barn.com, which is a site that's worth checking out, but if you don't feel like navigating through all the cutesy flash stuff they've got going on over there, then you can click on the following links:

A Chance Encounter - about LA's equivalent of the "I Saw U" section.
No Better Than the Terrorists - about the growing trend of comparing people you don't like tou terrorists.
Fun With Facial Hair - My personal favorite. About fun with facial hair, shockingly enough.

He's got another story up on the site too, but I didn't like that one.

I swear I just saw a Barbasol Shaving Cream commercial that touted that it came in "seven great flavors." I'm not making this up. I really hope that this is some sort of joke, although it sure didn't seem like it. I really don't want to believe that this tv ad made it past all the people that a tv ad has to get past without at least one person smart enough to say "wait, maybe flavor isn't really what we're pushing here." Or possibly even more disturbing, maybe they're going after the niche market of people who shave their tongue. If the next ad touts it as a desert topping, I'm going to organize a rally.

So, on the way to verbatim rehearsal, I was driving behind this really dirty, boxy, delivery-style truck. And in the dirt, on the back of the truck, in that traditional "wash me" way, and with all caps in a rather eratic handwriting, somebody had freshly written the following:

IT'S ALL MOST HERE
26 DAYS TO GO - 4/17/02
SO WHAT YOU'LL ASK
SO WHAT
SO WHAT

As best I can tell, that's Mother's Day--May 12th. Which could be construed as sweet, if the mesage didn't have that whole erratic, creepy tone thing goin on. Somehow as I read this, it suggests more of a demeanor that will be hiding his mother's body than sending flowers. But maybe it's just me.

I was flipping channels and saw Sheryl Crow. Did she get a face lift? She's looking all Greta Van Sustren-y. It's really wrong. Not cool Sheryl. At least she still has the lips still working.

So, a week ago I posted my picture on hotornot.com. If you are not familiar with this gem of the online world, you realy should be. The gist of the site is this: people, for whatever reason, opt to post pictures of themselves to the site and then people from all over the globe look at it, and anonymously rate it on a scale of 1-10. You can log on and begin rating right now if you like. Generally, unless you show boobs, you get rated pretty low.

So, why, zach? Why would you ever post yourself on this ego-killer of a site? Well, let me preface this by saying, I was drunk. I was drunk, and hopped up on caffeine, and couldn't sleep. It was about 4am, and I had just completed the post on lastinline with the dialogue between me and my blog--so that should give you an idea of my headspace. And earlier in the day I had photoshopped up a pic of myself (just to give it that oversaturated, contrasty look, and gausian blur out the background--not to give myself purple hair or giant genitalia or anything) to email to an old friend. So there ya go, all the elements are there. And I went on the sight to kill some insomnia time, and I must have hit the wrong button or something, cuz the next morning I found an email from hotornot inviting me to check the progress of my rating.

So, once this whole deal had been started, I figured there wasn't any going back. And at that point I opted to keep my mouth shut, and preserve the scientific validity of the ranking. (plus that way, I could brush the whole experience under the rug if I ended up getting a 2. So, rated entirely by strangers, I was hoping for a 5. I figured that wasn't too much to ask--average. I figured to get over that I needed some serious ab-work in photoshop.

So, what'd ya get Zach? Me? Little old me? Well, I got a 7. That's right, somebody's hot! (smug look). I'm gonna go out and get a "now serving number" system installed on my bed. After 100 votes, It was up at 7.4, but I guess the last 35 people weren't feeling the love. (135 is the maximum number of people allowed to vote on each picture).

Now that I've got an official rating, you all can go and inflate or deflate it as you please. Here's the link: click here . Enjoy.

I got my taxes done last night with about a whole hour left to spare. So what does that mean? That's right. I could have started my taxes a whole hour later. Oh well, there's always next year.

God, I love Top ramen.

Hmmm, April 15th.
2:15 pm.
Time to drive around the city hunting down W-2s.
So I can start my taxes sometime this evening.

I think I may have forgotten how to meditate. I keep trying, and I just can't relax. I had someone rub my shoulders on Friday, and I couldn't believe how tense I was. I've become high strung. It isn't a good thing. I swear I used to be mellow. I miss it. I wonder if I can find my way back there.

If I wasn't sick, I'd blame my strange sleep hours on daylight savings. I can't stand daylight savings. I think we should all be more like arizona and not buy into the whole messing with time thing. It just doesn't seem natural. Not that I don't love daylight at 11 at night, cuz I do. But still. Just leave time alone. I'm against time zones too. They just fuck with me. Some people are against cloning. So I don't think this is all that weird, really. I took a road trip where we pretty much crossed a time zone each day accross the country, hung out on the east coast for a month and crossed all the zones back again. Then we flew to spain. Then back to seattle. Then to Boston. I didn't sleep right for at least four months. There may be other reasons for that, but I'm going to pretend there aren't.

Fever posting. I'm sicky. And can't sleep. Or rather did sleep. And now I can't. I done overspent my sleep. Didn't get to go to Jorgensen Bash this evening. Wanted to. But opted not to. So I could sleep. Which I'm not. So lesson is I shoulda gone. Narf. Gonna try the bed again. Wish me luck.

Okay, so Sonya totally ripped me a new one tonight for my neglect of my blog. Which, admittedly, I deserved. But, I dunno, most of the time I feel like I have...what?...a good, blogworthy, idea once a month or so? And so my greatest fear, (as it pertains to my blog), isn't neglecting it, but rather posting laundry lists and general unentertaining bullshit. You all know what I'm talking about. If your blog has lines like, "and then fluffy meowed twice and rolled onto her belly," or "...oh, wait, it was after I made the copies, but before I went to the bathroom..." I'm talking to you. I don't want a written surveylance of your day. I just don't. If I cared that much, I'd just follow you around.

And before I go any further, I do have to say that I am not speaking specifically about anyone reading this. I know these people personally, but they are in different social circles, and do not have knowledge of my blog--which is how it will stay. So, you know, I can talk trash about them. Bad Zach. Bad.

So anyway, yeah. I won't post everyday. I just won't. Somedays I'm paint-drying boring--A good thing to recognize. Especially prior to subjecting others to too much of it. Somedays I have stuff to say, but it's kinda private stuff. And I know I really shouldn't care about that, but I do. So deal. I'll work on it. Some days I don't come home. Some days I don't go online. Some days, I swear, I can't speak english.

Hey, Zach, aren't these all pretty lame excuses?

Yes. But they are MY lame excuses. Phhhht.

Okay, I'll try to be better. I'm going to put a goal in writing. You ready for this? Okay, here goes: I will try not to miss more that two consecutive days. I think that is reasonable and whithin reach. It's in writing so now people will give me such shit if I break that. Fuck.

So if I start doing boring-ass shit, yell at Sonya.

Technology is amazing. They stuck my Mom in a microwave for a while today and then declared her cured of cancer. So that's cool. Technology just gets better and faster and more complicated all the time. It solves lots of stuff.

And it makes lots of problems. For example, if one hypothetically got an email from a girl who was interested in going out sometime, and this girl is known to be a computer geek of sorts, how long is an appropriate time to wait? Is it the same as the phone waiting period, or is it sped up because it's email? What exactly does 'not desperate' translate to in internet time? If you wait to long you look techno-shy, or just flaky, and that's a loss of points. If your too quick, her loser alarm goes off. What's a boy to do? I probably shouldn't worry about such things. I mean it isn't like I personally give a damn about dating protocol. But it seems that other people do. And it's real hard for me to care about stuff that I just naturally don't. But I'm trying to work on it. Honestly, it really is probably better for me to just be an idiot from the get-go and weed out the weak that way. Maybe there's my hypothetical answer.

Another thing with technology, they keep making things really small and unattached to things. It's real easy to lose remote controls and cordless/cellular phones. And that isn't good. I can immagine a day where you lift of the couch cushions and brush out popcorn kernels, nickels, and dozens of cellular phones. It's only a matter of time. It will happen. I can only pray that by that point the phones are smart enough to call us at home and tell us where they are, and chastise us for leaving them in the peanutbutter jar or wherever. If they can't do at least that much, then screw em, they deserve to be slathered with jelly and eaten. Peanutbutter, jelly and cellphone sandwiches--mmm, mmm, mmm.

Blog: Well, La-tee-da...Mr. Stranger man decides he's gonna just waltz his ass in here and start typing like he hasn't been neglecting the site for ever and ever.

Zach: Hey, c'mon, lighten up. I been busy.

Blog: Oh yeah?

Zach: Yeah.

Blog: Doing?...

Zach: Doing?...

Blog: Yes, doing. When somebody says they've been too busy to come and spend the most nominal ammount of creative time with me, I can only assume that this amazing level of time drain is caused by some astonishing undertaking. Erradicating chlamydia? Supplanting Caulder as the world's greatest mobile artist? Translating Harry Potter into Esperanto, perhaps?

Zach: No.

Blog: No. So what is it? Do you just not like me anymore? Is that it, cause if that's it then well...

Zach: That's not it. That really isn't it. I've been, well, I've been working on the Marketing for this play, and I've been doing this short movie that kinda blew up, and I've been working on this case about a korean meth ring, and between it all, I don't know, I guess I just haven't felt very creative. Or very outgoing. Or, well, interesting, I guess.

Blog: Uh-huh. The old it's not you it's me speech. Touching. Big points on the originality there.

Zach: But it's true.

Blog: Sure.

Zach: It is.
[pause]
Do you really think that I don't think about you?
[pause]
Is that what you think?
[pause]
Cause if that's what you really think of me then maybe this really can't go anywhere. And maybe that's fine. Fuck if I know. It's not like I know what I want or anything. But if that's the way it goes down here, then so be it, but let it be because this just doesn't work. Let this be because you don't like me. Let this be pretty much any reason, but don't think that this is because I don't care. Cause I do....you stupid fucking scripted up the ying-yang website.

Blog: Touching. [with tears] You don't care. You really don't. You can say you do but if you did you'd come, you'd write.

Zach: Do you know how many times I've come and stared at the blank window and typed and erased and typed and erased? Do you know?
[pause]
You really don't get it do you?

Blog: You did that?

Zach: Yeah I did that.

Blog: Really?

Zach: Yeah. I think of you. Often. All the time. Daily, even.

Blog: [sniff] So why don't you write. It can be short or whatever...

Zach: No it can't. You really don't get it do you? It can't be short, or whatever. It has to be...well, it has to be good enough for you and... And that's where the problem lies.

Blog: I just want a little attention is all. I'm not looking for shakespeare, or war and peace or anything.

Zach: Yeah, I know. I know. But, god, while I know that in my head and stuff it just doesn't really make it any easier for me. Story of my life, really. I just, I don't know, push. I have these expectations--for myself, for the world--and while I know they're impossible, that doesn't really help any. They are still there. And they're loud. And I just--they trip me up. I can't do what I set out to, because it just won't be good enough. And...fuck...it just...

Blog: It's okay.

Zach: No. No it's not. It's many things, but okay is just about the only thing it isn't.

Blog: It's okay. Really.

Zach: When does it end? When do I look at something I've done and really say, "That's a really good job, I'm proud of myself, and even if it isn't perfect, or the best in the world, it's mine, and it's good enough." When does that happen?

Blog: I don't know. But it should. And I hope it does.

Zach: Yeah. Thanks. Bach should have been able to write techno, doesn't mean he actually could.

Blog: Are you really that hard on yourself?

Zach: Yep. Sure am. Got some mean-ass rat-bastard voices in my head.

Blog: You really shouldn't be, I mean, I hate those 'should' words, they just... I just meant that of all the people out there that are living lives where kicking their own ass seems an appropriate thing to do, you aren't one of them.

Zach: Thanks.

Blog: Really.

Zach: Well, I'll do what I can to really try to believe it this time and we'll see how it goes.

Blog: It is good enough.

Zach: What is?

Blog: Everything.

Zach: Well, now that's just a lie.

Blog: Well...

Zach: No, really. That's a lie. A big one. Everything is certainly not good enough. But that's the real problem. Because we do need to push. To be furiously unsatisfied with so many things. To fight to make things better. Cuz without that, then the status quo wins.

Blog: But if you apply that to everything...

Zach: ...then there's no room for satisfaction.

Blog: ...or happiness.

Zach: Or happiness.

Blog: Right.

Zach: Mm-hmm.

Blog: So where's that middle ground?

Zach: Fuck if I know.

Blog: Will you find it?

Zach: Probably not.

Blog: Does that mean that there will be long periods of time where you don't write to me?

Zach: Probably. But don't worry, it's not you. It's me.

Blog: Cute.

Zach: I thought it was funny.

Blog: It wasn't.

Zach: You know, making me want to come back might help your chances.

Blog: Are you having fun?

Zach: Right now?

Blog: Yeah.

Zach: Yeah.

Blog: Remember that.

Zach: That isn't always going to be good enough for me.

Blog: And why not?

Zach: Cuz, well, it just won't. I know me. And plus there are people that read this.

Blog: So.

Zach: So?

Blog: Fuck 'em.

Zach: Fuck 'em?

Blog: Fuck 'em.

Zach: Okay, fuck 'em.

Blog: Does that feel a little better.

Zach: A little. For at least the moment. Will you be able to put up with me and this whole little schizo thing I got goin on here?

Blog: Well, I'll give ya another shot. But don't push your luck. You pull another little vacation like this and I will kick your ass.

Zach: You will? Good. I need a good ass kicking now and then.

Blog: Careful what you wish for. Go ask hotornot.com who you don't want to meet in a back alley.

Zach: I'll take your word for it, tough guy. When good html goes bad, I'll tell ya...

Blog: So I'll see you tomorrow.

Zach: Chances are.

Blog: Is that the best I'm gonna get?

Zach: Yep.

Blog: Well, okay then. I'll take it.