November 2002 Archives

Michael Malice is a friend, he's the smartest person I know, and I enjoy following the thrilling escapades of his aquatic creatures and their ever-varied attempts to escape his evil clutches via suicide, be it by forcibly ejecting their own colons or by physically throwing themselves out of the fish tank while he sleeps.

JC Steinbrunner is another friend, a talented artist currently beautifying the mean, artless streets of Chicago, and a fine fellow who does nice things like delivering educational aid to Chilean children when he's not drunkenly exposing himself in public.

My big brother Bill is currently rocking Columbus, Ohio. If you're in the area, check him out, and if you're not, go ahead and download some of his music. Unlike the major record labels, he won't take you to the Supreme Court.

I recently got turned on to Edward Tufte, and the inner geek in me finds his work on information design fascinating. Check out his poster of Charles Joseph Minard's Napoleon map, and see if you get what I'm talking about. I asked for it for Christmas. My inner geek is rapidly becoming an outer geek.

NYC Bloggers recently put me on the map (take the F-train to the Carroll Street stop), and I find the geographical positioning of inherently positionless weblogs kind of nifty. Inner geek, outer geek, etc.

Speaking of NYC Bloggers, I found Girls Are Pretty through their site, and I laughed, and I put it here, so you can laugh, too, and then we can all laugh together, and all will be right with the world.

I KNOW they're just overhyped, overbudgeted commercials. I KNOW their sole aim is to get bloated corporates in the throes of mid-life crisises and yuppies with way too much income for their own good to buy nifty convertibles. I KNOW that.

But, God help me, I love the new BMW shorts.

HOSTAGE was excellent, as expected. Directed by John Woo. A fine performance by the ever dependable, criminally underrated Maury Chaykin. Good stuff. TICKER was a bit more disappointing: I've heard great things about director Joe Carnahan's NARC, and with Don Cheadle riding shotgun, I expected brilliance. A fine film, nevertheless. But BEAT THE DEVIL...now there, THERE was brilliance. Directed by schlock-master Tony Scott, starring Gary Oldman at his scenery-chewing finest as the titular Devil who resembles a combination of a glam-homo Marilyn Manson and Nosferatu, and none other than the Godfather of Soul himself, James "Sex Machine" Brown, so incoherent that he needs subtitles but somehow still managing to convey his dignity. Fan favorite Danny Trejo pops up as the Devil's sidekick, and the too-cool-for-school Clive Owen finally gets to have some fun.

Go. Watch. And just TRY not to enjoy it. I dare you.

Yes, I am a corporate whore.

I drank too much Guinness last night at the West Side Tavern and ended up pontificating at length about the merits of fine whisky. After that, I headed down to Dylan Prime to meet up with a friend I hadn't seen in a while, and pontificated some more, this time about the miseries of being an unsuccessful screenwriter. My friend, thankfully, was kind enough to point out that I was being fucking ridiculous and that I should stop feeling so sorry for myself, because, honestly, I've got a pretty good thing going in this here life. Friends are helpful that way.

Dylan Prime, incidentally, is an excellent place. Be sure to tip the bartender.

Now I've successfully fought off most of my hangover, and I'm enjoying the warmth and light of my apartment. It's cold outside, but not too cold. Good scarf weather. Fall's on its way out, winter's on its way in, the leaves are piled on the sidewalk, and the kids playing roller hockey in the park down the block are wearing winter hats and gloves.

Tomorrow, I'm on my way to Florida, where I plan to swim in the ocean and walk on the beach with my girlfriend and enjoy the eighty-degree weather and watch the sun set over the Gulf of Mexico.

You're damn right I've got a good thing going.

Who are you?

Eric Kurzenberger. Sometimes. Sometimes I'm the Blue Beetle.

Where do you live?

In Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, with my lovely lady.

And you do what, exactly?

I write screenplays. For a living, I work at Tekserve, That Old Reliable Mac Shop. But mainly, I write.

Been listening to the new one by Tom Petty and the HeartBreakers, "The Last DJ," on which Tom rails against, among other things, evil money-hungry record execs and high concert ticket prices. Now, I love Tom Petty, but when you've signed for $20 million with Warner and Ticketmaster is selling your floor seats for seventy bucks plus surcharge, you've got to take these things with a grain of salt. Tom's like that hippie uncle you've got who wears tie-dyed ties and his hair in a ponytail as he goes off to work at his software company. Sure, he's got two kids and a Range Rover, but give him a few too many and he'll still talk about throwing The Man up against the wall when the revolution comes.

And yet, the man still writes a damn catchy tune...

so I've spent the whole day screwing around with movable type in an effort to come up with something different. I was bored with the look of the old site, so, hey, why not try something new?

now my eyeballs are ready to fall out of my skull. so I'm gonna leave things here for now, at this empty shell of a site, and go watch "the simpsons."

have a good week.