Living In A World…

 ~ Welcome To Cory Blamire's Periodically (Daily) Updated Online Journal ~

Hey, what's that below…?

)_) ß It's a butt!

Haha! Buttocks sure are funny.

Back in retail. Back in retail. Back in retail.

I got another job in retail.

Overnight stock-boy in the electronics department at a major retailer. 10pm-6am five nights a week. Yeah, I’m sane…

Sorry…it’s just that I’m free to say on my website what I have to bite my tongue on at work. It’s not like anyone actually reads this thing. (Though with my characteristic impossibly-bad luck, Darby will happen upon it, via some wayward Google search gone awry or something).

Check out the new Blurtz! updates! As a TV and radio personality, the SchizM-er is running strong. He’s even teaching a Character Generator class at the station and picking up paid studio gigs providing titling services for big-wig politicians.

The apartment’s cool. Everyone has settled into a comfortable groove. Now, if only any of us had any money… Maybe "comfortable" isn’t the best word to describe our groove. But we did have a hell of a housewarming party. I think everyone really needed it. We all also really need to get laid. That didn’t exactly happen at the party…which was kind of thrown with that express purpose…but whatever…office romance in the works (pfft, riiight!).

Until next time, Schizo Moth, trying to coax and prod his budding ulcer along with another 2 ½ pots (not cups, pots) of black coffee (and making absolutely no promises to update his journal in less than a month).

Well then. Sure has been awhile. What is topical and interesting in my life?

I may have to significantly cut back on expenditure for my beloved vices in any event. For in less than a week I’ll be moving into a pad in Somerville with Daryl and Toad. Ahh, yes. Independence. Self-reliance. Poverty. Luckily, I have a nice stable environment in which to work, where I’m guaranteed decent full-time hours on a predictable weekly basis.

And now an update on the experimental Take-Out department at LSF. Experimental in that they’re using the Moth and a few of his colleagues as guinea pigs. After a baptism by sulfuric acid in which we were half-trained (and half- is being generous) - we are left to our own devices, without the slightest inkling of cooperation from the kitchen, management, or the "guests" (which is how the restaurant industry refers to the group of people I identify as "bipedal, broom-sized maggots"). It’s really a "character-building" experience. That and I’m surrounded by food all day (some shifts last upwards of 12 hours) but if at any point aside from my 45-minute break I am spotted so much as sniffing a french fry I receive a good dressing-down. So it’s been really good for my figure, too. I was really tipping the scales at 145 - especially for my 6’1/2". So what’s my overall ‘take’ on TO? Why, it’s simply marvelous… (if the sarcasm was any more palpable you’d have goosebumps). I bust ass all day and usually walk away with a cumulative $5 in tips (yes, five whole dollars – on a good day, anyhow). Oh - and the rewarding knowledge that rich fucks who work in the J.A.P.-frequented corporate clothing stores peppering the mall got their lobster bakes and Caesar salads in a timely fashion, with plenty of complementary rolls to stuff in their fat faces (unless they happen to be on that trendy Atkins ‘no-carb’ diet). I’m not bitter, really. It’s just all the lemon garnish.

"There’s only 4 oz. of chowder in this cup…"

"That isn’t a cup, it’s a bowl. Our to-go bowls hold 10 oz. It’s well over half-full. The basic laws of physics prohibit there being only 4 ounces. True, it’s not filled to the brim, because that isn’t how the container is designed. If it was filled to the brim, I would be unable to apply the lid on top, hence preventing your messy ass from getting white creamy broth all over the leather interior of your precious Sedan…<sigh> Tell you what, would you like a free quart on the house?"

"No. I want a gallon,"

"You know what I want? I want your soul. So I can put it in a shoebox. And then shake the shoebox and put it in the microwave for twenty minutes. And then take it out and poke holes in it only to piss in them. Then put the shoebox in my closet. And lock the closet. And sit outside the closet for hours and hours and hours, blasting Gilbert Goddfried soundbytes over and over until your soul shrivels into a little ball. Then I would set the closet on fire…"

The show is going well. We got very drunk on episode 12. This was to commemorate the schoolbound departure of Tom Williams. So inebriated were we, in fact, that we probably evoked sentiment among most of the CCTV staff to prevent there being a thirteenth episode.

All these changes…

And I’m still the same old lovably wry and cynical fuck. Re Fluctus, Miss Durkin always used to say.

Until next time (which, at the going rate of progress on this journal, could be sometime in 2004), the Schizo Moth will be elaborating upon his demented shoebox fantasy and vowing never to become what he truly hates (incidentally, I hate people who make arbitrary vows to themselves…and don’t keep them).

Yeah. Movin’ on up. Got a new hit counter on the mainpage. New Anthrax pic. Pubes finally came in. Seriously, though - asinine little exercise in half-assed (more like half-cheeked) website design aside, progress is indeed in the air. Hours at the restaurant are improving – slightly – got a great show planned for Blurtz! next week; I’m in the final lap on the horror screenplay, there’s even tentative production dates. A new apartment may be on the horizon. A few leads on potential bandmates have turned up. Might even start getting back into the local stand-up scene. Giddyap. Now all I have to do is get a fitful night’s sleep for the first time in…well, months - and I’ll be almost like a real human being (yeah whatever, Pinnochio).

So Maiden/Motorhead is looking like a no-go, unless I find a suitcase full of cash in a public lavatory in the next six days. (Hey, crazier things have happened. Hell, the Bush dynasty is reigning over Pennsylvania Ave. for a second friggin’ time…) But mark my words, I will catch Anthrax’s "Taking The Music Back" tour if it means my life. Actually, I think I’m gonna draw the line at the life of an innocent victim. How is it that I’m working full-time, making more per hour than I ever have to date, yet my unemployed friends are in better financial shape than myself? What’s that Rubics Cube of cosmic justice all about?

I’m eating lots of seafood. It’s research for work – they’ve selected your favorite Moth as one of the overseers of the "Take-Out" department. Grueling work – I have to sample everything on the menu to get a feel for our selection. I tell ya, I shouldn’t have to stand for this. If only my employee discount applied to drinks as well – I’d do some "sampling" all right. Purely for research, natch.

Until next time, this is the Schizo Moth, contentedly rubbing a tummy full of stuffed oysters and exclaiming "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…"

For those of you who don’t know – Rob "The Metal God" Halford is back in the line-up of Judas f’n Priest! Yes, the original Priest is B.I.A. (back in action, for you acronym-illiterates). And allegedly they are touring, big-time, some time next year. So, who’s gonna be in the front row screaming and convulsing in joy when they grace the northeast with their holy metalness? THIS GUY! Gonna be amazing.

Also, next week Iron Maiden and Motorhead are playing in Worcester. Yes, Britain’s other legendary group of Metal Gods with a musical-chairs-style-line-up, headed by the Air Raid Siren, Bruce Dickinson himself – is teaming up with the Rock & Roll Soldier, the guy who made skin abnormalities irresistible, the guy who could neither beat nor be beaten by God in a fistfight because he, indeed is God, best known for his work in Hawkwind (just kidding) – Lemmy Kilmeister!!!!!!!!! I really can’t afford to go, but then again if I don’t - seppuku will become a moral imperative. Just on principle: you pass up a chance to see Bruce and Lemmy sweat on the same stage; you better be prepared to self-eviscerate.

Did I mention in my last entry that I saw In Flames on June 28^th? No, that’s okay, you don’t have to check. Fact is, I didn’t (for some strange reason, seeing as it’s the most significant event in my life since puberty). T’was BRUTAL! I worked the next morning – that was also BRUTAL (not in a good way, though – I had whiplash and a hangover from excessive banging of the head and oh-so gloriously excessive drinking of the beer). Because of the shitty nature of both the restaurant industry (in which I work) and the commuter rail service (in which I trust – pfft, yeah right) – especially true of both on Saturdays – I missed the opening acts: Soilwork, Chimaira, and Unearth. D’oh. In fact, the moment I entered the Palladium, the previous band’s equipment was being cleared off the stage to make way for In Flames. At least I didn’t miss a moment of their set. And what a set – everything from Behind Space to Watch Them Feed (nyah nyah, I heard the new song – live – before it was released in the states!!). Even in the men’s room the floor was vibrating. I couldn’t really hear Anders too well, since I was singing along so goddamn loud, to every song they played. Looking around, I was both pleasantly surprised at how many people knew all the words to most of the songs, and a trifle disappointed. I realized that In Flames were now "big". I could no longer claim to be cool and exclusive; I miss having my own little obscure Swedish melodic-deathmetal band that only I know and appreciate. Well, there’s still Gardenian. The day I see a Gardenian t-shirt…um, anywhere I guess, but…at work - I will piss myself. And then promptly get fired. (My Boss: Cory, urinating is highly unprofessional. Especially in front of Guests, to say nothing of the hygenic issues. We have restrooms for that kind of thing. Go on home, I’ll decide what disciplinary measures to take – up to and including termination. Or castration…yeah, that’s the ticket. That way we don’t lose an employee, but we’re guaranteed you’ll never again pee on the floor. Or hump the server’s legs.) Did I just go off on a parenthetical rant? (Why yes you did. You do that every entry, but they don’t always get bookended with parentheses. You’re stupid and you suck and you rant too much.) I’ve missed you too, RPT. Mwah!!! Smooches.

Until next time, this is the Schizo Moth, kissing a computer monitor; and wondering how his mind got so warped; and also whether he will ever find acceptance in this or any other world…maybe when the aliens come I can be their leader. And take them to my room. And make them lick whipped cream off my…ahhem, goodbye.

Who’s the man that read his schedule wrong and arrived to work four hours and forty-five minutes late, thinking he was fifteen minutes early? SHAFT! No. Actually, it’s not Shaft, it’s me. Schizo Moth. I am the anti-Shaft. I am the Jenna Jameson of uncool. The Babe Ruth of "nothin’-happenin’!". The Steven Spielberg of dorks. (On second thought, no, Spielberg is the Spielberg of dorks…) But yeah – that’s something I did today. I suck. What, you disagree? Shall I enumerate all the reasons I suck, beginning with the most recent? 1. Made a jackass self-impression in front of boss(es). 2. Screwed self out of a whole shift’s pay. 3. Wasted two hole-punches on my commuter rail twelve-ride pass. 4. Invented a time machine, went back to the swinging sixties, did some bad peyote and somehow ended up helping this far-out cat named Lee Harvey (or was that P.J. Harvey?) shoot some square named John Fitzgerald something... (hehe, John Fitzgerald and Gerald Fitzjohn. Hehe…). Anyhow, I digress. Moral of story = me stupid. But that’s yesterday’s news.

~ July 1, 2003 ~ - CORY IS STUPID! ß See?

Attended a Christian mass funeral today (serious heebie-jeebies from those superstitious rituals – and the uber-creepy music). The last one I attended seems way too recent. Give me at least fifty years before the next one, reaper.

So I ended up needing a deadline extension. Coz I suck and I’m a terrible writer and a shitty person. Alison gave me a weeklong deadline extension coz she rocks and she’s suave and a nice person and a forgiving producer. Except, of course, when she criticizes the functionality of having a gazebo. Gazebos are beyond necessary. Where there’s a way, there’s a gazebo.

Until next time, this is Schizo Moth, not saying anything witty or quaint in parting, because it makes him seem more mysterious.

Oh! Yeah...right…I have a website to maintain. Slipped my mind there…for nine days. Whoopsy-daisy. I assure you, Moth fans, I am alive and well. My neglect of online-journal-upkeep has not been the product of any debilitating injuries or life-threatening diseases. It's actually been a rather good week. Highlights included a very productive Production Staff Meeting for the horror film (now entitled "Step Into My Parlour"); another two, halfway decent episodes of Blurtz! Out Loud & Outspoken in the bag; HMDC finally busting out some G'n'R at karaoke; spending some quality time with a new friend J ; catching up with my dad - finally! - and WORKING!!! Yeah, that's right, ol' Schizzy has officially rejoined the nation's proud workforce. While it's true, Will, that I once swore to never get sucked back into the restaurant industry, I have landed a job as a host at an upscale dining establishment - the premiere purveyor of seafood in the country, no less. Spent several dozen hours in classes and on-the-job training over the last week. So, how does it feel to once again be gainfully employed, you ask? I am frigging exhausted! Also, I feel a slight twinge of guilt at having "sold out" (I now wear conservative, pressed, ironed, creased shirts; dress pants; and a tie on a daily basis) - especially since I now use spray in my fucking hair (what kind of monster have you become?!) - but you know what? - I have a paycheck coming. And that feels damn fine.

The show went well today. I guess. There was a weird vibe at the studio. Maybe it was just a hallucinatory effect of my fatigue, who knows. It definitely felt like there was some antagonization beneath the surface. Maybe I was just being a huge dick today. Who knows? Ask Mr. Owl. We had a decent script worked out (as opposed to last week, where we just kind of ran with the 'random crazy improv/purple chihuahua dijirido abacus' theme). Of course, in true Blurtz! form, it was decided at the last minute to throw out a good sizable chunk (about half) of what we had scripted and 'wing it' so we could have some 'breathing room' to 'stretch things out'. I'm using 'quotation marks' to denote 'technical terms' that you pedestrian, civilian plebes could never understand. Don't even bother to try - it's a 'television industry thing'. Show highlights included the Janos brothers - two Jewish 'burb kids - assaulting us on the set (live) while acting like monkeys, peppering our faces with permanent marker. This was the segment of the show where Will and I 'got monkeypox'. Of course, I forgot I had marker all over my face until several hours later - when a concerned friend asked what had happened. Nonchalantly I replied "Oh, I got monkeypox,". The initial concern on my friend's face ceded to a more dubious expression - "Really?". "Yeah. From giant Jew-monkeys. No it's just marker, dude. From my t.v. show," "Ahh. You're insane…" Finally, some recognition! Credit where it's due…about time. The show actually opened with Tommy subbing as host for Will and I - had this whole bit worked out which he wrote himself. I have to say I was very impressed. I'm really glad to have Tommy working with us, he's proving a more valuable member of our team every week. Will and I both expressed doubts to Tommy, the Janoses, and our friend Erin (who refused to be seen on camera except during the slow-dancing segment towards the end) - as to the quality of this week's show. In the ensuing moment after we went off air, we both felt pretty uncomfortable with the way it turned out. But everyone else liked it, and they say that every good artist is his/her own harshest critic, so what the hell. I reviewed the tape, and I must say, despite my incipient insecurities it's a very funny show. I'd forgotten just exactly how much of a genius Will can truly be, until seeing his short film Citizen Cobain rolled during the show. Got to get that boy behind the lens more often. But how to lure him behind a camera? Maybe if I put some cheese wedges back there…

Until next time, this is a tired and cranky Schizo Moth, wondering who in the fuck books David Letterman's guests? Why in the name of Zsa Zsa Gabor - the original pointless and arbitrary female celebrity (rivalled only by Charo) - is Hilary-fucking-"visual-medium-poison"-Clinton still allowed on fucking television? I am hereby boycotting…um…the whole fucking world, until amends are made for this severe injustice! Fuck…

3:00 AM Saturday Night/Sunday Morning

Oh yeah - and I have a job interview tomorrow. Wish me luck. Wait, on second thought - don't. I only ever get the shitty kind.

Until next time, this is the Schizo Moth, laundering a nice pair of pants… (woah! must be Armageddon!)

2:30 AM Friday Night/Saturday Morning

My sincerest apologies to my dear, loyal readers (how many of you are there, now? Three, four?) - for the absenteeism this past week. Twas a good week. Premiere episode of Blurtz! OutLoud & Outspoken went smoothly on Monday afternoon. With little more than forty-eight hours of preparation, Will and I kicked off our eccentric little talk-show with a smashing debut (despite numerous technical difficulties). Our on-screen charisma was tops; there was nary a dull moment; and our first guest - our pal Tommy Williams - provided just as entertaining a television personality as even the mighty Blurtz duo. So pleased were we, in fact, that we "hired" Tom as our head writer. Well, as a permanent member of our creative team anyway. Will and I are both far too narcissistic to allow anyone else to be credited as 'head writer' in lieu of ourselves.

We played a roll-in video of "At Home With The Shit-Eaters", a faux public service announcement we shot over a year ago. Very demented - I'd forgotten just how wrong it was until we had it cued up on air. It actually got us a phone-call. Phone-calls, according to Eli (CCTV's scheduling patriarch) - are public access tv's version of Nielsen ratings. Our first fan! We showed a Brian Frisk cartoon. We bitched about the River Rave. We goofed off quite a bit. All this - and more - packed into a nice 22-minute package. Let alone that BeLive shows are supposed to be 27 minutes!!! Our cablecasters gipped us an entire five minutes - what an outrage! Not to mention that when I reviewed the tape I noticed the first ten seconds or so are MOS. For those of you who lack my remarkable wealth of insight into the film industry - MOS is a German acronym that means essentially "with out sound" (mit out sound…or something along those lines). Needless to say, there should have been audio! But no, what do we get dubbed over the first few moments of the show? International-freakin'-radio! Some of the technical screw-ups were our own, however. For instance: the thirty seconds before we play the Frisk cartoon, where we can't figure out how to get the internet to pop up on screen; finally entreating a little assistance from Artman (F.Y.I. - it's the button marked "Internet" that's hotwired from the computer to the switcher board…which we should both know, coz we're both friggin interns!!).

Attended an HMV staff meeting tonight - at an "emporium". Good to see everyone - in a place that isn't one of the places we've been going for a year. Wore my old staff shirt out - to be ironic. Only about half of my friends got the joke - the rest just thought it was a really dweeby that it's still part of my wardrobe. I had pool, laser-tag, and video games at my disposal. What did I opt to do with my time there? Drink 'n' piss. Will was absent from the proceedings, effectively blowing me and the rest of the crew off. He was busy drinking with Tommy and the Belmont crew - ironically enough, the very crew that I blew off earlier in the day. But I had a little brother to watch. The only obligations Will had preventing him from coming out with the HMV folk were those he had to his open 40-ounce.

Oh yeah - Alison (fellow intern/producing that horror film I'm writing) came back from Ireland today. Apparently she digs both of the scripts I'm working on. So I may very well have two more writing credits on my resume than I did a month ago. A midnite-movie double-feature. Well, that's the positive, 'plus-sign' end of the battery. The negative - is that I have to complete twice as many scripts - and very soon. I need to stop being such a lousy drunk (as I have been pretty much all week since 6 on Monday, when Blurtz! went off the air) and get writing. Deadlines, deadlines! (Actually, I'm not exactly sure when my deadline is…but if I act all freaked out and repeatedly yell the word "deadlines", maybe I'll write faster and with more fruition)

Until next time, the Schizo Moth, working on a pipe-bomb destined for Mitt Romney's office. Bring it on, SS…invade my privacy! Read this post on my website and come tear my room apart! You pencil-necked practitioners of pseudo-patriotism, you. Hey, I just realized something. Another group of fascists - they were called the nazis - also had something called the SS…

2:00 AM Saturday Night/Sunday Morning

Wow. You know how sometimes life just works in impossibly convoluted and kickass ways? Yeah…

What the hell can I say? What should I say?

Suffice to say, whoever says that it's possible for one kiss to redeem ten years of pain and misdirection - that person knows exactly what the hell they're talking about!

Alright. Looks like I'm headed off to the "Rooster Club" for the first time. Some kind of modern-day speakeasy/gentleman's club where all the malcontents of my generation and geographical proximity act out their every malcontent whim. Sounds very much like my old apartment. Which is exactly why I'm so reluctant about it. I've managed to avoid going for a few months now, but Will happened to catch me on a night where I have nothing to do. Actually, the truth of the matter is I called him to see what he was up to, and was convinced to go in a matter of seconds. But that's only because I don't feel like wasting another night (would be the fifth or sixth consecutive…*cough*loser*cough*) sitting around the house pretending I don't have writer's block.

So yeah, I think I may need to quit smoking. The fact that when I wake up I spend a good hour and a half clutching my diaphragm in a death-grip and trying to remember how to breathe, doesn't bode well for my health. Not that I'm all that health-conscious (*reference pretty much any line I've ever written, i.e. "Incensed by the seduction of oblivion", "This world has outlived me," "A pox upon my progenitor, the Earth"…and you sit there and call me negative, Uncle D! Ha!), but while I'm here on this realm of existence I'd rather breathe than not. Just one of those small comforts that helps the days go by. Like lasagna. Or mid-riff shirts in warm weather (excluding those worn by hairy men on ten-speed bicycles in the Back Bay/South End area). I really like smoking. A lot. Quitting is such sweet sorrow. This is akin to realizing that you have to slit the throat of a dear friend. Last time I had to do that, God…ok, I've already said too much.

Also, the more I smoke, the more sizable a dent in my already-paltry coffers. Getting a paycheck is all well and fine, but unless you can somehow manage to not spend any of it, wealth is a very short-lived entity. Let alone not having another one on the way. I really need a job. Maybe I could look into a street performer's license. I've always liked puppets, and I'm very dextrous. Yeah, that's it - I'll be a puppeteer! A hand-job would suit me just fine. (Okay, I'm not touching that one…<or if I do, I better get tested afterwards>) And on that note, I'm off to very probably smoke lots of cigarettes and waste what little money I have on booze at a place with a name as ridiculous as the current state of my life.

Until next time, this is the Schizo Moth - making the world a better place by hyperventilating and sharing lots of carbon dioxide with Gaea's lush flora.

So…being that I got way too caught up in revising my (horrible) horror scripts until barely over an hour ago, I ended up not going to the Rooster Club. I did, however, walk around an empty train station chain smoking. Oh yeah - and leaving stupid messages. Answering machines suck. Or rather, I suck at grasping the concept of answering machine etiquette. There's really only one primary rule: don't be a huge fucking dweeb. And that's the rule I manage to break time and again. They say you learn from your mistakes - well call me a slow learner. I'm a "special needs" student when it comes to Messages 101. (there's really not too much to embellish on here - Cory has hit the nail on the head. he sucks at leaving messages) Thanks, Red Parenthetical Text, for the extremely helpful and supportive two cents (make that two red cents!). Okay, RPT, now that was just stupid. And dumb. Time for you to shut up and go away, back to whatever stupid and dumb corner of my mind you inhabit.

I am a very good cook. Good, and resourceful. Give me a lb. of beef, a lb. of enriched semolina product, and a cupboard of full of spices - and I will deliver a culinary orgy nonpareil. Not that this is pertinent information at all, but it makes me feel slightly better about myself. Bad Dakota, this is my spaghetti!! ß said in my best 'Cartman' voice.

Oh yeah! Three reasons this upcoming week kicks ass:

"Blurtz!…Out Loud And Outspoken" - the weekly, half-hour, live late night talk show (that's actually on at 5:30 PM) starring me and Will - premieres Monday afternoon! Gonna be sweet. (Unless, of course, it sucks…) Hey! Aren’t you supposed to be fucking off? (Ah, yes. Quite right. Zeig heil, your majesty. Gotta find myself a new head to inhabit – this guy’s a real prick…)

Hott-Male Dot Com will be returning to karaoke action on Tuesday night. Or at least I will. Depending on how drunk I can afford to get…

Until next time, this is the Schizo Moth, eternally boycotting answering machines. I believe David Cross said it best: Answer ya telephone!!!

Wow. Two whole days and no entry. Perhaps the Schizo Moth has acquired himself a social life? (Ha!) No, I've been busy embracing my lackadaisical status quo and suckling at its teat with all the suckle I can muster. Been slaving away on horror scripts - I'm juggling three of them now, actually. The road to writer-producer concord is paved with the tattered shards of a writer's sanity.

Did end up making it to that karaoke party on Tuesday - the correct day. "Hott-Male Dot Com" made an impressive debut with the song 500 Miles. Whole bar sang along, that is, when they weren't laughing at our antics (me trying to smoke in the middle of the chorus and dropping the cigarette on the cuff of my pants, me groping Will's bosom while he was trying to belt out a high note, the two of us marching in time to the song like buffoons and completely forgetting an entire verse cause we weren't paying attention). Then Will decided (wisely) to quit while he was ahead and sit the rest of the evening out. As for the other half of HMDC - well, I got up there again, alright. Good 'n' shitfaced after five PBR's, a tall neat shot of Maker's Mark, and operating on no victuals all day except for a Jr. bacon cheeseburger at some point in the afternoon - I got up there and gave Cambridge, Massachussetts the most rollicking version of House Of The Rising Sun they'd ever heard. By the time I took my seat, half the bar (and being that it was Charlie's on karaoke night this meant roughly forty people) were chanting "Hott-Male Dot Com, Hott-Male Dot Com!!". Some bemulleted gent walked up to me and shared, "Man, I liked what I saw up there. I saw a little Axl Rose, saw a little Eminem…good stuff," I smiled, "Hey, that's great…who the hell are you again?" "Oh I'm some guy you don't know named John," "Ahh - right on, John. By the way, Eminem wasn't quite what I was going for. But the Axl thing is reassuring…". (Especially considering it's supposed to be a soulful blues song…)

Oh - apparently the film "It's A Wonderful Life" is about nazi concentration camps. Just ask my mother. Alright, I suppose I'll explain… My brother was asking what the film was about, being that we had just seen "Bruce Almighty" (good flick!), wherein they play a clip of "…Wonderful Life". My mom apparently got the title mixed up in her head with "Life Is Beautiful". So the whole time, my brother's sitting there listening to this nazi-laden, incorrect synopsis of the James Stewart classic, and I'm standing there, not realizing that my mom had gotten the title confused, thinking she was just totally insane. It's definitely much funnier without the explanation. Just 'my mom thinks It's A Wonderful Life is about concentration camps. What a loony tune,' Hey, this is the same lady who seems to think that shrimp are somehow phallic.

Until next time, this is the Schizo Moth (also known as the "manically hyper one" in Hott-Male Dot Com) - thinking happy thoughts to keep the brain-devouring gremlins at bay.

So - no entry yesterday (gasp!). I was busy attending the WBCN River Rave with Will and a few other friends. Ten hours at the Tweeter Center - where they don't sell cigs (and there's no re-admission so you can't buy some and come back), the seating leaves enough room between two people to swipe a credit card - possibly, and a single plastic cup filled to maybe 70% of capacity with shitty, mass-produced beer costs more than a steak dinner at a five-star restaurant. Not to mention that the beloved lawn in the back of the arena had been clipped to expand seating (so the rich assholes could get "priority seating" below). The twenty-foot remainder of the lawn was closed off until about seven o'clock. And worst of all - the fries at the concession stands were seriously skimpy - a six dollar order was like a half a potato diced up with some grease in a dixie cup. But at least there was the music…

Saw some very cool acts. Beck, The Used ("What are you so angry about, Boston? You assholes broke my pants!"), Evanescence and the Dropkick Murphys were all in top form. Also sat through some incredibly shitty bands. No, I take that back - sat through a lot of incredibly shitty bands. Had to watch several hundred stupid adolescent girls jump up and down like autistic spider-monkeys to the incessant musical butchery of Good Charlotte.

You know a festival's not very good when the main highlights include a horde of drunkards swarming the lawn and forcing the "Event Staff"* (*Event Staff - see "neutered Gestapo"; "Rent-A-Cop Lite") to open it up for the evening; a couple of drunkards getting into a brawl and wrestling each other over the railing, and another couple of drunkards almost getting into a brawl, one of them slipping and falling in the muddy grass in mid-"Fuckya!" and conking himself on the noggin.

But whatever, when it's all said and done, I saw Beck. Played everything from Loser to Side By Side. Rock on, Mr. Hanson - rock on.

Oh right. In other news from This Awesome Life - I have to rework the entire concept of the script. Apparently it has no "backbone". And doesn't sound scary - which some might consider a key element in a horror film. Giddyap! I've got some writing to do.

Until next time - this is a Borderline-Postal Moth, signing off with the immortal words: I'm a loser baby - so why don't you kill me?

Holy crap…I just sang a duet with a dog! I'm not even kidding. It was the most surreal thing I've ever experienced. I was playing Timo Tolkki's most excellent solo cd "Hymn To Life" at full blast in the kitchen while working on my zombie script in the next room. An instrumental song (ahem, kickass instrumental song) came on, so I decided to start yelling some new lyrics I've been bouncing around in my head recently; which I thought kind of fit the tune. Goes a little like this:

~~~> See, this would be kind of like my band's anthem; I was thinking of entitling it "Mission Statement". 'Cause my band (which doesn't exist yet and might never actually be anything but a wistful figment of my imagination) is gonna be called The Heavies. Which has a cool triple meaning. 1. Heavies is an old-timing word for "badguys" or "villains". 2. It would be categorized as "heavy rock music" by stupid old people who don't know shit about music (I myself would call it progressive melodic thrash-death metal peppered with grunge, folk, blues, British second wave, and classic rock influences). 3. I weight 145 pounds - so for me to front a band called the Heavies would be ironic (in a slight, maybe-not-so-ironic-or-funny-to-anyone-but-me kind of way). And there you have it. Um…you know how ideas are much cooler when they only exist inside your head? Then once you speak them out loud or write them down, it kind of cheapens them…to the point where you punch yourself in the face repeatedly, screaming "DORK!!"? No? Alright, well you're all insane. You'd understand better if…… <~~~

So anyways, I start belting out that chorus, and since that's all I have written so far, I start filling the in-between areas (coz you can't just yell a chorus over and over for three minutes, unless you're Joey Ramone <which nobody is anymore - gabba gabba Rest In Peace, brother!>) with "oooh"s and "ahhh"s and "woah"s and "hey"s and "yeah"s. All of a sudden, there is a warbling, (almost inhuman) falsetto voice from across the hallway. I glance over, and my uncle's dog is sprawled on the floor, shaking its head around to the groove and jamming out with me! I stopped in mid "ye-hey-hey-yeah!!" and stared at her. Dakota just kind of stared back, wondering what was causing the interruption. Curious, I opened my mouth and let out a "wo-ho-ho-ooah!" "Orooohorooo!" came Dakota's soulful response. This is the greatest thing ever, I thought.

We sang along to half the rest of the album - not actual words, mind you. I decided to embrace my friend's approach to "Dog-singing" - just open your mouth and let pure emotions guide the sounds. Some people would call what happened today primally beautiful, others might see it as an abomination of nature. Whatever, I thought it was awesome and that's all that matters. When finally I tired of singing, poor Dakota got extremely confused and started running around in circles, yelping belligerently at windows, and wiping her ass on the carpet. Musicians. Go figure.

Until next time - Schizo Moth, barking at the moon…

Far be it from me to agree with that pompous jackass on anything, but James Hetfield is quoted as once having called "Only" by Anthrax the 'closest thing to a perfect song I've ever heard'. For a the longest time I did agree with him. But I've recently amended my way of thinking - it seems there's competition in the form of "Fixation On The Darkness" by Killswitch Engage. Could actually be a three-way tie if you take "Dark Signs" by In Flames into account. It's gladdening to know there are songs that can both intensify my craving for oblivion and reaffirm my passionate love of life itself, all in a nice little three-to-five minute package, wrapped up with ribbony solos, fills, and breakdowns aplenty.

So what of my contribution to that list, you ask? Well, one of my prospective guitarists recently moved out of the area. Another…well I haven't talked to the guy in several months, and his number was lost in the phonebook-switch back when I got my new cell. I've placed various ads here and there, but apparently inexperienced vocalists for melodic thrash and/or progressive-death-metal bands are not in terribly high demand around here. Pity.

Also, I don't want to force it. I think I'm waiting for it to just "happen" - you know? For instance, say I'm at a party, I hear some guys talking hypothetically about musical direction this and major influences that - if only they could get a band together. And the only thing stopping them was the lack of a motivated lyricist/vocalist who shared their musical vision. Then we jam, and it's absolutely friggin divine. Love at first chord.

It would definitely be fitting to call me one of those people who likes to wait for things I perveive as being 'fated' to happen to me. I'd rather not place or respond to an ad and go through the motions of meeting all these different people, most of whom I have nothing in common with as per desired musical direction (or anything else for that matter). I'm not big on schmoozing. Which is odd, because I have an innate, god-given talent for it. One of those character traits that makes me truly sicken and apall myself. As my friend Larissa put it, "You are one charming motherfucker". I hate people who are charming! I suppose it's not all that egregious a crime, granted that the affability presented is genuine - which in my case, it is (About ninety percent of the time, anyway…).

On the other hand, I certainly have other passions and unfulfilled wishes in life. Maybe it's best to leave the metal up to those whose calling it truly is. And what the hell do I need Hetfield's seal of approval for, anyway?

Until next time, Schizo Moth yellin'…

If only…you hadn't taken things out of my hands…

You'd understand better if you were (ok, this is already getting old!) me.

Script is coming along nicely. My brother found the document window open while I was outside smoking a butt. When I came back, he had read the whole treatment, and insisted that I give him a role in the film. Isn't that cute? I told him I'd let zombies tear his limbs off if he asked our mother for permission first. Alas, apparently eleven years old is too young to tag along to Pennsylvania for a four-day shoot.

Weird headaches the past few days. Pervasive, severe headaches. I'm not sure, but I think it might have something to do with my sleep schedule (which as of late has been 6am to noon). A physician I am not, but it seems to me that actual dark whilst one slumbers may have healthy applications. The pain of the headaches is primarily behind the eyes; that feeling you get when you stare too long at fluorescent light (or, if you're a huge idiot - or that Max dude from Pi - directly into the sun). Not to mention that my window blinds don't work properly - they're positioned perfectly to focus the maximum possible amount of UV hell straight towards my pillow (which is generally where I rest my noggin) - and they don’t turn all the way up or down, so there's always some light filtering through. So - another mystery solved. Am I, however, going to do anything about it? Probably not, because I suck. Now, the "sane" person might suggest going to sleep at a reasonable hour, or going out and buying new blinds, or even just draping a dark piece of cloth over my eyes at night ("night" being relative) - but each of those requires a Herculean amount of effort on my part. You'd understand better if you were me. (ß that is officially my new catch-phrase!)

So the headaches aside, why is every muscle in my torso, shoulders, and lower back screaming in agony my every waking moment? Could be a lumpy bed. Could be that it's been way too long since my last deep-tissue massage (nineteen months, to be exact). Or maybe my habit of slouching is the culprit? Again, my love of trial-and-error style problem solving is marginal at best, so rather than waste time amending my grievances, I choose to bear them with pride. It is our small sufferings in life that build character - especially if said character's profile is that of a bitter, dour man.

Until next time, Schizo Moth saying "Ow!" You'd understand better if you were me.

Graduated from Adobe Premiere v6.5 editing class. Got my paycheck - nice, sizable (at least more than I was expecting) paycheck. Drank a gallon of coffee. No, seriously - a gallon. Found a 7-11 that sells Marlboro Blend No. 27's for $5 (tax included). A hot girl on the train was wearing very tight low-cut jeans. Kickass day. Today I don't want to die.

Hmm…I'm boring when I'm not really depressed, or infuriated, or "put-upon", or what have you. I guess negativity does have some positive merit in the world - it keeps us interesting. Keeps us human. Time for me to cease my amateur philosophizing and instead think about flesh-eating zombies. (Note to self: stop thinking about flesh-eating zombies when pants suddenly tent for no good reason - otherwise, weirdness will ensue).

Until next time, Schizo Moth lightin' up a molotov cocktail and saying Mazeltov!

Tonight I arrived at a friend's karaoke birthday party exactly one week early. Only I would do such a thing, as anyone who knows me will concur. Tuesday the 20^th, Tuesday the 27^th; po-tay-to, po-tah-to… Will and I were entreated to do our fabulous duet rendition of the Proclaimer's classic "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" - we were supposed to have been billed as "The Sex Dudes" - but Will had a bus to catch, and there was a forty-minute wait. Forty minutes of highly inebriated "Wind Beneath My Wings" etc. My policy: never argue with the guy buying you two rounds of Pabst. If you need to have Pabst bought for you, you're probably in no position to argue about anything at all. So, the Sex Dudes' appearance has been postponed til next week (the actual karaoke party). Unconfirmed sidenote: I believe karaoke loosely translates from Japanese as "loud-mouthed idiot". I am not 100% certain on this. I am, however, quite certain as to what my Japanese nickname would be, were I allowed to actually have one: OZIKI POMBIKI. "Uncle Pimp". Yeah…yeah I like that.

Also, today I was conscripted by a fellow CCTV intern to write her horror film that she's going to shoot this summer.

J J J J J J J J

Yeah, so…a horror film. I'm gonna start writing that now. (well - you could just write a story about someone having to go out on a date with you! Now there's horror!) Shut the fuck up, red parenthetical text. You know, it seems you're not even trying anymore. I tell you, if you don't kick it up a notch, I'm gonna have to find myself another imaginary archrival. (Well, boy-howdy! It's so preciously funny you should mention that, 'cause my schedule is free & clear!) (Hey, go back to your Hello Kitty backpack, queer. Cory, come on, we can work this out. I'll try harder, I swear! Give me another chance…you…you…you BOORISH, PECTORAL-MUSCLE-LACKING, MORE EFFEMINATE AND LESS GOOD-NATURED REMAKE OF HITLER, you SELF-IMPORTANT, ALL-I-REALLY-HAVE-TO-LOOK-FORWARD-TO-IN-LIFE-IS-THE-ULTIMATE-RELEASE-BROUGHT-BY-DEATH-AND-THAT-GIVES-ME-A-FREEDOM-THAT-I-SEEM-TO-THINK-MAKES-ME-CHARMING-AND-A-GOOD-LEADER-BUT-REALLY-JUST-MAKES-PEOPLE-TALK-SHIT-ABOUT-ME-BEHIND-MY-BACK-LIKE "Wow, what a fucking asshole, what does he think he can get away with being all crazy and not have to deal with the same shit as normal human beings just because he's in love with the concept of his own eventual oblivion??!" -YEAH-JUST-LIKE-THAT, stupid, ugly, & sexually frustrated, SPIRITUALLY HOLLOW, SHORT, HAIRY, PERMANENT-FAILURE-AT-ABSOLUTELY-EVERYTHING-AND-A-CONSTANT-DISSAPPOINTMENT-TO-ALL-WHOM-YOU-CARE-ABOUT, LONG-NOSEHAIRED, MEGALOMANIAC!!!)

Wow…well…that wasn't bad, I guess. Did you really have to cut quite so deep though? The nose-hair thing is kind of personal. Oh well. Until next time, folks, this is OZIKI POMBIKI - off to start my script, and cry in the fetal position for several hours, wondering whether I should burst a vein because of what the red parenthetical text said. Toodles!

I've started trying to teach myself to play the axe on my mom's acoustic guitar. The neighbors sure are getting a good chuckle out of it. I've always been completely melodically illiterate. I used to drum; I understand rhythm, it comes naturally. Once upon a time I could pound out any Marky Ramone part as fast as ya like. But I'm years out of practice. When singing - I just feel like I'm in my element, it's purely intuitive. I don't sing thinking in terms of notes or melody, I just close my eyes and open my mouth. (that sounds dirty) Guitars, however…it's like trying to teach Darwinism to a monkey. Completely hopeless. Let alone that I can't read musical notation - it's all Greek to me. Actually, no - more like Sanskrit. (See, I actually know Ancient Greek…always knew that high-school education would come in handy!) I accidentally stumbled across a really cool-sounding riff (or maybe not a riff, maybe it was a chord - like I said I know nothing about guitars…let's just call it a cool-sounding thing) but since I have no idea what I'm doing it's not going to be replicated. This is frustrating to no end. And my index finger is all calloused - stings like a beeyatch! Anyways, I'm gonna put the guitar down, upload this addition to my journal, and go off somewhere and pretend I care about being alive.

~ SchizM outtie (actually, mine's an innie.)

I drank beer last night! Thanks Daryl! Today I am going to attend a family dinner at Fire & Ice, to celebrate my mother's birthday (which was actually last week). I'm supposed to be filling in at CCTV for the Sunday night cablecasters, who recently quit. An unfortunate string of events - primarily a miscommunication in which I thought tonight's family dinner was actually a family brunch - have led to me not doing so. So it seems Will is going to cablecast by himself. On a Sunday. Which sucks. To make it up to him, I shall buy him a beer. Oh wait, no - that's right…that whole monetary issue I was talking about last night. Well, crap-happy loopy-noodles. A handjob it is, then.

Let's see, what else is new…I've been reading The Elements of Style (William Strunk, Jr. & E.B. White) - voraciously. I received my slim paperback edition in English class of tenth grade - and my teacher had the sheer chutzpa to reference it as required reading! This…this asinine, far-fetched drivel - a legitimate textbook! Pah! I have this morbid fascination with it - it's odd. I disagree with about 85% of what is said in the book, yet I find it compelling and admire its authors for their audacity and the lucid, warped brilliance in the presentation of their laws of rhetoric. I explained some of it to Will over the phone, prattling off incendiary passages and interpolating my own little outraged commentary. He politely feigned interest for about five minutes. That was nice of him - a lesson could be learned from the model he sets. It's good to humor the crazy people. That way they don't plant explosives in City Hall. Naked. Hmm… And for the sake of the uninformed - I am certifiably crazy. Don't hesititate for a moment to believe me when I say - I'm loopy-friggin-noodles! I'm going to write a composition with the specific purpose of violating at least half of the "rules of style". Out of pure unadulterated spite - my all-time favorite motivator. I'm very excited about this endeavor. (I'm like a horse with a broken leg. Look at me twitching feebly. Someone just shoot me, please…)

Oh my friggin gawd - I went to resume my ongoing war against my digital nemesis in Video Blackjack - and ERASED the memory banks of the entire game! I was up NINE GRAND! You see, dialing the "4" button resumes the game in progress. Pressing "1" starts a whole new game - and utterly snuffs the old one. And I have nobody to blame but myself - the "1" and "4" buttons aren't remotely near eachother! I am crying on the inside. That's where big boys cry. Ahh, well. I believe Aaliyah said it best "Turbulence! Sheeeeyit, we're all gonna die!!!!!". Ahhem. That is, she said, "Dust yourself off and try again,". That is precisely what I will do. Not only will I re-attain $9000, I will break the quintuple-digit mark. I do so hereby swear, on the grave of Abe Vigoda (or is he still kicking?).

Until next time, this is the Schizo Moth…off to eat FOOD (the poor man's version of "free sex with a model").

 3:06 AM (yeah, yeah technically it's Monday the 19^th…shaddup)

Website's coming along great. I'm really happy with it. Just too bad nobody's gonna see it. Lol…(that means Laughing out loud for you non-geeks)

I'm getting my check mailed to me, so I don't have to deal with those bastards face to face J . Also, I might have a job interview sometime this week, if all goes my way. Which of course it never does, but I'm hoping my black cloud that generally looms over my head is on vacation this week. God knows it's earned one. Why can't I just fire it, like HMV fired me?? (easy Cory, the red vein in your forehead is showing. Bitterness is quite unbecoming - and not very ladylike.) Fuck you, red parenthetical text, I hate you.

That's all for now. Ta.

So yeah…sleep rules. That's why I did it til 2:30 in the afternoon. I think I'm getting addicted though. I'd rob an old lady to support my sleep habit. Phew - thank God sleep is free! For now…until the government illegalizes it and we have to get poorly-manufactured "nappies" from Columbia - probably laced with nightmares if you don't know your dealer……what in the FUCK am I talking about? I must need sleep…

Today I've been invited to go out drinking with some old work buddies. God, I want beer… Unfortunately, we live in a capitalist society so goods and services can only be acquired with surrender of "notes of legal tender" whose worth is arbitrarily decided, justified by some vague, dubious fabrication regarding the standards of precious metals, as they relate to foreign currencies… Stupid fucking John Locke. What a shithead.

John Locke: Now then, young chap - don't go blaming capitalism for your woes. If you would like to savor a fine American brew, take proactive steps towards your goal. What tastes better than the fruitious rewards of hard work? - especially when such a taste is marked by fine hops and barley!

Oh yeah. Maybe I should get a job. But, um, it's 6:41 on a Saturday evening. I don't think I'm gonna have too much luck landing a job right now, Dead Father Of Capitalism Dude.

John Locke: Consult your local smithy for an apprenticeship. Or the cobbler. Or you could enlist in the militia and fight savages.

Um - none of that stuff exists anymore.

John Locke: Hmm…pity. Well - keep your goal at the fore of your mind. My American dream never fails! (nevermind that I'm British…) Soon, young Master Blamire, soon you shall have beer. Might I recommend the fine provisions of my contemporary, Samuel Adams?

Samuel Adams: Thanks for the plug, John! But we're not really contemporaries; you were dead long before I was born. No matter…drink me, Cory - I believe in you! Remember - If you tap it…the keg will pour. If you tap it…the keg will pour…

Wow…that was friggin' weird!! Anyway, it's now seven o clock. An appropriate time to shower, dress, and begin my day, right?

Okay, something needs to change here. And by something I mean everything. And by 'here' I mean 'in my life'. And by calling on the power of Shazam, I mean taking a pee. Ooh…that sounds good!

Until next time, SchizoMoth saying….SHAZAM!!!!!!!!

7:30 PM

Ok…question for y'all. In the game of Blackjack, it is common knowledge that the Ace can serve as either a "1" or an "11". Alright, fine. So far so good. However, let's say you have TWO Aces - must one of them automatically quantify as an eleven? I was under the impression that one could choose the value of each individual Ace.

While playing Video Blackjack on my cellphone, the damnable device made the decision for me. I had an 8 and a 5, hit for an Ace (bringing me to a score of 14). I then hit for another Ace - which, by all reasonable logic, should have put me at 15 - but no, the godforsaken phone decided that it was a bust at 25! After I had upped my ante by a cool $100! WHY, GOD?!?!?!? What a stupid, unfair world.

If you have any input as per this dilemma, email me at the address below. I crave peace of mind…like a junkie for vein-candy.

I have officially finished my website. For now. Huzzah!

I'd like to thank the Academy. Also my wonderful agent, Skip Uppance Broomzenheimer….

No, seriously…I'd like to thank Microsoft Word 8-point-0. Also Comcast and its wonderfully slow, limited, and crash-prone FTP server…

But for serious now, I'd like to thank the band Death for providing great tunes to listen to as I deprive myself of preciously needed sleep until ungodly hours, steadfastly laboring away on my insignificant blip of a website that probably won't get more than three hits (And yes, that includes my parents).

On a serious note - okay, I can't take this website seriously, it's just too ridiculous. Yeah, so I have my own URL now…of sorts. At least it's somewhat visually presentable. In the beginning stages it was a bunch of jumbled black text and HTML coding plopped against a white background. I've come a long way. Like an aphid scaling a twig. (ß What the hell?)

Today was a shitty day. Nobody loves me. The whole world (as I know it, anyhow) decided to conspire for a game of "Let's Not Answer The Telephone When Cory Calls - It'll Fuck With His Head, Tee Hee!". This even included my best friend Will (ahem, that is, former best friend). That dookiehead was supposed to join me on a matinee trip to the cinema, but as of right now - 10:30 in the pm - I still haven't touched base with him. What a loopy-noodled affenkopf. (German for 'monkeyhead', I believe…)

Anyway, I also tried getting my last paycheck from HMV today. That is, HMV Records in Harvard Square - the one that was recently closed down because upper management was doing a shitty job and because it's stupid to shop at HMV when there's a Newbury Comics around the corner. Apparently the managers of my beloved erstwhile grind are working 9:30-6 shifts to clear the inventory out of the store. But upon my arrival at 4:30 - an hour and a friggin half, mind you, before they're supposedly leaving - the place is EMPTY. Nevermind that I literally have $0 left to my name. Nevermind that it's Friday, so I have to wait til next week to get my check. Nevermind that even when I do cash it, it still takes 2-3 business days to clear, so really I won't have money til next Wednesday or even Thursday!!! MRRRRRR!!!!!!!! Okay time to stop whining - I sound like Barbara Streisand. (You should see the vein that pops out of my forehead when I get agitated, it's really quite something to behold…)

I got an unexpected phone call from someone today… That's about all I'm going to say about it, really. Other than I'm glad this person called, because I've been wanting to talk to them.

(Yes, I have a masterful flair for the cryptic, it's true. almost rivals your penchant for melodrama… - HEY WHO SAID THAT??!)

I got a brand new phone yesterday. It's pretty. Pretty goddamn pretty. Furthermore, the LCD screen wasn't manufactured by autistic Malaysian child-whores like my last phone, so it should last longer than a couple of months this time. The built-in games are completely different, but I hardly miss the old ones. I have discovered my life's truest passion - video Blackjack!! You have no idea how frustrating it is to get your ass kicked in a simple card game -- by a telephone. But as of the last hand, I was up by over $2000 and flying high on three consecutive double-down wins. Yeah, I know - I am the undisputed LORD OF GEEKDOM!

Well, here's a gaze into the crystal ball…what doth the future portent?

CRYSTAL BALL says…

"Your weekend at a glance - let's see here, you have no money, no friends, and…really, nothing to do…except double down, and STAY with Aces and highs! ALWAYS STAY WITH ACES AND HIGHS YOU FOOLHARDY, ARROGANT BUFFOON!!!"

Yeah… Until next time. This is the Schizo Moth, signing off.

4:04 AM (technically now May 17)

Just talked to Will. He had a solid alibi - apparently he was in New York all day to see a stage production. Hmm…yes…well then. I suppose I'll call off the contract I took out on his life.

A Classic Will-ism (this is verbatim): "What - you mean masturbation? I can go at least six hours without masturbating,"

Last Revised: July 14, 2003