Truth is Stranger than Fiction. Paul is Stranger than Truth.

There's no basement in the Alamo.

Sat, 14 Feb 2009 18:58:02 GMT

If you click here, teh internets will take you to a story that my fiance wrote. It's really good--shades of Shirley Jackson, and Stephen King (the Dark Tower stuff, but just the good Dark Tower stuff), and some Phantom Stranger in there as well. I quite liked it.

Oh, also, the book with her short story in it comes out mid-March.

Thu, 22 Jan 2009 17:46:19 GMT

Okay, so as soon as I hear the name Darren Aronofsky, I begin to gush.

If you’re not familiar with him, he wrote and directed Pi and Requiem for a Dream (well, co-wrote, with one of the greatest authors ever), and The Fountain. Oh, also, he turned down the opportunity to direct Batman Begins, and he’s directing the American version of Lone Wolf and Cub. Oh, and also in addition to that, he’s dating Rachel Weisz, HOTTEST JEW EVER. But I digress. He’s an amazing director; Pi was a really good study on the perils of intellectual, financial, and religious greed; The Fountainis about love, death, and Uruguayan mythology, and Requiem for a Dream is 102 minutes of being punched in the stomach. Also, there’s some drug addicts in there.

His movies are dark, and lush, and beautiful.

A couple of days ago, my special lady and I went to see his new movie, The Wrestler. And holy crap, that might just be his best work so far. I don’t want to get too spoilery, but it’s at heart about what happens after you’ve reached your peak; as I told Erin, it’s sort of a wrestling version of Dune Messiah. It’s heartbreaking, and touching, and leaves you walking out of the theatre wanting to go back in and see it again.

Anyway, I’m gushing.

Go see it.

Harumph.

Tue, 20 Jan 2009 18:08:56 GMT

Dear Self-Appointed Internet Pundits:

You can only tell whether a day is a historic day when it has become that--HISTORY. I'm as excited as the rest of you, but the anal retentive freak in me feels like he's being hit with a sock full of oranges.

Other than that, today is awesome.

Yours Truly,

Paul.

Lists lists lists.

Mon, 29 Dec 2008 20:32:13 GMT

Things I got for Channukah:

Flannel Sheets.
Penn and Teller: Bullshit! Season 1.
Left for Dead.

Things I got for Christmas:

Prince of Persia.
Jim Henson's the Storyteller - The Definitive Collection.
John Hodgman's More Information Than You Require.
A Comforter.
Comfy Slippers.
Engaged.

It was the last one I was happiest about.

At this time of year I am overflowing with Christmas Rage.

Sun, 21 Dec 2008 23:06:09 GMT

Okay, so I'm in the Target buying some wrapping paper, which is foolish, because Target's wrapping paper is universally terrible. It's like the CEO of Target started as a stock boy in charge of the wrapping paper, and when he made the big time, he made the pronouncement, "MAKE WRAPPING PAPER SO TERRIBLE THAT NO ONE WILL BUY IT, AND, ACCORDINGLY, NO ONE WILL EVER HAVE TO RESTOCK IT."

Anyhoo, while I was there, I moseyed on over to the music section to see what Target's censoring this week. As I turned the corner, a self-involved woman rammed me with her cart. I should point out, to fully flesh out the level of my annoyance, that she was pushing her cart on the left hand side of the aisle, and was most definitely not British. I was greatly vexed.

I waited momentarily for her to get the HELL out of the way. She continued to stare moronically at the CDs. After 30 seconds or so, it became clear to me that this woman was one of those people whose Christmas was SO GODDAMN IMPORTANT that she no longer had to be concerned about trivialities like basic courtesy or, oh, other people in general.

Unfortunately, exhaustion beat out snark at this point, so I just moved around her and went on my way. I was fully prepared to let the whole episode fade from memory, when I overheard the following exchange from the rude woman and her friend:

Rude woman: "I'm looking for that CD." (Kindly note that this woman was so self-important that she assumed that everyone in the entire universe knew which CD she was looking for.)

Friend: "What CD?"

Rude woman: "You know, the Christmas one. With the kids."

Friend: "What?"

Rude woman, "You know, it's Christmas music, but it's got kids signing on it."

I had just enough time to think to myself, OH MY DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN SHE'S LOOKING FOR SOME SORT OF KIDZ BOP: XMAS EDITION ALBUM when I felt something in my right temple burst. Everything went black.

I wish I could end this story with something like, "when I came to, I was pulling into the garage. There was blood on my hands and shirt. I'm afraid to look in my car's trunk." Instead, I have to end it like this:

Fuck you, rude lady.

Fuck you in your stupid ear.

Thu, 20 Nov 2008 17:50:46 GMT

So as of yesterday, I suffered from major depression.

Then I went to the doctor to get some new crazy pills. I switched health care providers from Kaiser (definitely poor quality) to Blue Shield (variable unknown quality), so I also switched my crazy doctor. She ran a bunch of tests.

As of today, I suffer from major depression, but that's probably part of my new and exciting ADHD.

Oh, and it's likely that between yesterday and today, I became bipolar.

Apparently, when I go crazy, I don't mess around.

In good news, I got a bread machine.

Thu, 30 Oct 2008 07:20:45 GMT

Okay so you know how you're walking out the front door to get the dry cleaning out of the car, and you fall down the steps, and skin your knee, and a loved one, like my fabulous girlfriend, comes out to see if you're okay and you yell out, "THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT?"

My last post was kind of like that.

Waiting for the other shoe to fall.

Thu, 30 Oct 2008 00:42:56 GMT

So, say you can’t win.

Say, for example, you’re growing up. And your dad says, “Paul, it’s time you had some more responsibility. From now on, you’re doing the dishes.” And you say to yourself, “self, you know how to do dishes, this should be a cakewalk.” And you do the dishes. And your dad says, “Paul, you’re doing the dishes wrong.” So you do the dishes another way. And your dad says, “Paul, you’re doing the dishes wrong.” And so you do the dishes another way. And your dad says, “Paul, you’re doing the dishes wrong.” And so you say, “dammit, Dad, how the hell am I supposed to do the dishes?” And your dad says, “Christ, son, I don’t need to hold your hand. You’re a smart kid. You can figure it out.” And so you do the dishes again. And your dad says, “Paul, you’re doing the dishes wrong.”

Or say you have a job, which you like, with a boss, who is borderline retarded. And he puts you in charge of filing. So you file things, in alphabetical order. And your boss comes in, and says, “why are you filing things like that,” and you say, “well, that’s how everyone else in the world alphabetizes things.” And your boss says, “well, yeah, but we should translate everything into Sanskrit, and then alphabetize them, backwards.” And you say, “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” and he says, “I’m the boss, I say you do it in Sanskrit, backwards.” So you do. Three weeks later, you’re at a staff meeting, and everyone is saying, “we can’t find anything in the file cabinet,” and your boss is all, “well, Paul, why can’t anyone find anything,” and you say, “well, hell, it’s because everything is alphabetized backwards, and in Sanskrit,” and your boss says, “why the hell did you do that?”

Or say you go on a date, with a girl who likes comedies, and sushi, and ice cream. And for dinner you take her to a sushi restaurant, and she says, “oh, I don’t like this sushi restaurant, I like that one over there.” So you take her to that sushi restaurant over there. And then you take her to a comedy, at a nice movie theatre, and she says, “oh, I don’t like this comedy, I like that comedy, and I don’t like this movie theatre, I like that theatre over there.” So you take her to that comedy, at that theatre over there. And then you take her for ice cream, and she says, “oh, I don’t like this ice cream, I’d rather have soft serve,” so you buy her some soft serve. And when you’re done, you ask her if she had a nice time, and she says, “It was okay—but I prefer dramas, and steak, and cheesecake, AND YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THAT.”

Also, imagine that you live in a jurisdiction where it’s illegal to choke the life out of someone.

What do you do?

Mon, 23 Jun 2008 21:24:11 GMT

Dear Readers:

Thanks to my insanely brilliant girlfriend Erin, there is a new category of bad human.

As of July 1, those individuals who combine the worst characteristics of both Jackasses and Douchebags will henceforth be known as "Jackbags."

Thank you for your attention.

Three signs of the Apoclapse. (sic.)

Fri, 20 Jun 2008 21:19:01 GMT

1. In my grandmother's local paper concert listing:

not sold out: Stevie Wonder.
sold out: fucking DAVE MATTHEWS BAND.

2. Dear Massage Therapists of the world:

I greatly appreciate your services, and I understand the need to drink some water after a massage, because it's warm and I have a lot of exposed skin and the sweating drains all the water out of my body. But the next one of you that tells me to drink a lot of water to "flush out the toxins released from my muscles during the massage" will get a PUNCH IN THE FUCKING NECK. What are you, massaging my liver and kidneys? I think not, hippie.

3. Look, Hollywood.

The Hulk became the Hulk because he was saving the youth of America from the dangers of the Atomic Bomb. He is an ALLEGORY. Every time you change up his origin, it makes it WORSE, not BETTER. Also, what the hell is up with the Abomination? Where are his damn ears?

In your defense, nice Doc Samson and Leader shoutouts.

Mon, 12 May 2008 02:11:18 GMT

So, on Friday, I rolled my girlfriend's car.

Normally, I'd be all wiseacrey and "haha I rolled a car" about it, but my girlfriend was also in the car, and I spent a good two seconds that felt like a thousand million years worrying that she was injured and/or killed. I am still very shook up, and oh, the guilt.

This too shall pass, I hope.

Sun, 06 Apr 2008 05:42:22 GMT

LOS ANGELES--Charlton Heston, who won the 1959 best actor Oscar as the chariot-racing "Ben-Hur" and portrayed Moses, Michelangelo, El Cid and other heroic figures in movie epics of the '50s and '60s, has died. He was 84.
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The actor died Saturday night at his home in Beverly Hills with his wife Lydia at his side, family spokesman Bill Powers said.

Powers declined to comment on the cause of death or provide further details.

I'm pulling for "accidental discharge of firearm," myself.

Goodbye, Moses. We hardly knew ye.

for Pep.

Thu, 13 Mar 2008 03:28:57 GMT

Okay, I swore that I'd never embed a video in my journal.

That was until this:

And they say that people don't enjoy classical music anymore.

ah, the inscrutable post.

Wed, 20 Feb 2008 16:33:19 GMT

So I recently bought a DVD that contains all the issues of The Incredible Hulk comic from its inception to about 2006. I'm up to about 1968, and I'm faced with an question of great import.

Did anyone ever actually sell Grit?

p.s. Actual posty-type post later.

Happy Hannukah.

Sat, 08 Dec 2007 07:53:16 GMT

Damn, my hot girlfriend bought me a Wii.

Mon, 29 Oct 2007 18:25:56 GMT

So this weekend was, to say the least, interesting.

I learned two things this weekend:

1. I'm madly in love with my girlfriend. I love her all the time, but when I need to take care of her, or swab her forehead with a damp washcloth, or otherwise take on her pain, I love her the most. Oddly, she seems madly in love with me too. I think she might have a brain injury.

2. People want to have threesomes with my girlfriend, but without me. WTF? I mean, if someone said, "hey, we want to have a threesome with your girlfriend, but then you can have a threesome with Erin and one of us of your choosing," that'd be fine. I wouldn't take them up on it, but still. But no...it's all, "my husband and I want to bang Erin and you can't take part but you could watch." RUDE.

That's all, really.

Thu, 25 Oct 2007 21:09:36 GMT

I am at work.

There is a meeting going on behind me with about 7 people in it.

In the past hour and ten minutes, the following topics have been discussed:

1. Whether adults should be permitted to engage in youth activities at our next open house.

This conversation is still ongoing.

I am about to lose my shit.

Love means never having to change your own oil.

Fri, 19 Oct 2007 20:25:06 GMT

For those of you who don’t remember what little tolerance I have for rudeness, I shall relay the following story:

Last night, I was at the Target. I collected what items I needed, and wandered on back to the checkstand. I got in what I thought was the shortest line, only to discover that some asshat had loaded their purchases onto the conveyor and then WANDERED OFF TO GO DO SOME MORE SHOPPING. This drives me batshit, in no small part because my dad used to do it when I went shopping with him, making me watch the groceries and eventually be embarrassed when the checker rang everything up and my dad wasn’t back yet. But I digress.

The clerk scanned the asshat’s purchases, and then we all got to stand around until she came moseying back with whatever items she’d forgotten the first go-round. She threw me an “excuse me,” as she went by, but nothing in her attitude expressed any remorse for making me and my fellow customers wait around for her. Then she tried to use a coupon for a product she wasn’t purchasing. Needless to say, I punched her in the stomach.

Okay, okay, I didn’t punch her in the stomach. I did bring her close to tears by pointing out the profound rudeness of her actions, if by “pointing out” you mean saying, “look lady, clearly your time is more important than mine, because you have no problem making me wait while you dick around looking for that fruit juice. Additionally, you’re clearly a vastly superior person, because you don’t feel the need to apologize for making me wait while you dick around looking for that fruit juice. However, I do feel obliged to point out that some of the folks in line behind me, like the woman with the three children, might find waiting for you to finish your shopping a bit, I don’t know, FUCKING INCONSIDERATE”

I thought I’d done my good deed for the day, but at the Taco Bell I was forced to point out that the guy ordering while he talked on the cell phone to his daughter, WHO KEPT CHANGING HER ORDER, was a douchenozzle, and that by doing so, he was teaching his son, who was there with him, to be a douchenozzle by example. Then again, I did teach his son the word “douchenozzle,” so maybe I’m the bad guy.

Divine Justice, thy name is Paul.

Okay, now that everyone remembers what a good little sunbeam for Jesus I am, I’ll go on with my story.

Last weekend, I went to a party with my girlfriend. (Yes, I have a girlfriend. Yes, I’m mad about her. She claims to be mad about me, God knows why. Those of you that are clever will be able to figure out who she is.) Anyhoo, she was co-host of a birthday party for her friend, and I went merrily along.

Well, not merrily. Because if you know me, I’m not a fan of going to parties with 30 or so people where I know one of them. In fact, not only is it not my favorite activity, it’s actually some sort of UNHOLY NIGHTMARE. Fortunately, God has provided a tonic for these sorts of socially anxious situations; namely, Demon Rum. I’ve had a dozen or so drinks in the past year; all but two of them, I had Saturday night.

Apparently, I was witty and charming and hysterical (and a bit mushy at the end) that evening. However, the next morning I was only one thing, and that was hungover. Not wickedly so, but a mite nauseous and a lot headachey. I gamely got up and, according to the previous night’s agreement, went with Erin and her friends to get pancakes. ‘Cause as everyone knows, pancakes fix everything. And they would have been good, too, had I not been so hung over. That’s when I met Phoenix.

A list of things about Phoenix that I did not like:

1. He’s named “Phoenix.”

2. The first thing I heard Phoenix say was in response to my comment about a sushi restaurant called “Watsonville Sushi House.” My comment was that if you’re going to call yourself “Watsonville Sushi House,” rather than “Ichiban,” or “Wacky Nigiri,” you’d better have some damn fine sushi. His response? “Yeah, tuna with a side of rice and beans.” Racism. Charming.

3. Phoenix only dates Asian girls. He really only wants to date Japanese girls though. And he really only wants to date Americanized Japanese girls. (Oddly, Phoenix is single.)

4. Phoenix tells the girls he’s dating that aren’t Japanese that he’d rather be dating a Japanese girl. (His words, “what, I’m supposed to lie to them?” My thought: YES.)

Okay so clearly this guy deserves the kind of treatment the Target lady and Taco Bell man got, only moreso. Plus I’m hungover and grumpy. But here’s the thing—he’s the friend of the friends of my new gal, so I can’t go all “With Great Justice!” on him, or it could derail the relationship. (Turns out it wouldn’t have, but that’s another story.)

Anyhoo, that’s where I am now, thinking about myself as an asshole in a couple rather than a footloose and fancy free asshole. It’s not so bad, really. In fact, I am enjoying it.

Plus, I can always wait until she’s not around, and then I can take a trip to Target.

Fri, 05 Oct 2007 20:15:40 GMT

I cannot decide whether last night's episode of My Name is Earl was a stunning step forward in the portrayal of homosexuality on television, or the same old same old.

I guess the very fact that I'm of two minds about it is a sign of progress.

Me Famouz on Internetz.

Sat, 29 Sep 2007 06:22:26 GMT

http://www.coolhunting.com/archives/2007/09/the_crucible.php

I'm about a minute and 17 seconds in.

"And there's a French guy beating off on a ghost"--Patton Oswalt

Fri, 21 Sep 2007 18:28:59 GMT

So, one of the worst things you can do in your blog is talk about dreams. There are a few reasons for this, the first and foremost of which is that dreams are individually tailored for the user. So while you can describe being fondled by a cartoon octopus, you’ll never be able to do it to the extent that someone else will understand how you felt during that dream. Essentially, no one else has the subconscious nuttery necessary to put your dream in context.

That having been said, I’m going to talk about dreams.

Two nights ago, I was plagued by nightmares. Now, one of the good things about being older is that I don’t have nearly as many hormones coursing through my system, so my nightmares are not nearly as intense…you know, waking up in the middle of the night out of breath and sweating. Rather, my nightmares have taken on a far bleaker quality…instead of being full of abject terror and sudden threats and high drama, they’re slower paced and more desperate and covered in a dusty brown patina much like the wall treatments in purgatory. So if, metaphorically, my teenage nightmares the fellas in a Mamet play when they were fighting and yelling and shouting, my adult nightmares are the fellas in a Mamet play when they’ve gone home and taken off their shoes and are staring into the middle distance. Bleak. So very, very bleak.

My recent nightmare was pretty typical. I was in my folks’ house, trying to get some privacy. I just wanted to be left alone. I’d travel from room to room, trying to find some solitude, and I’d get settled in, and someone would burst in. Eventually I flipped out, and yelled some, and got left alone. Except…I could hear everyone in the other room, and they kept talking about why I was so mad, and they never once figured it out. Ah, the quiet desperation. Subjectively, this dream went on for about 45 minutes.

My teenage/youth nightmares were more archetypal. I had the old standards (waking up late for an exam, losing teeth, having Debbie Gibson chase me around the house with a guitar because she thought I was her boyfriend and she’s written a song for me), but there were three that always came back. I cannot begin to describe the horror and terror and craziness these dreams instilled in me. They were as follows:

1. Elevators. (I wrote about these in an earlier post. Look it up, lazyhead.)

2. The lights in my room not working. Now look, I’m not particularly afraid of the dark. But in these dreams, I was. And in my dreams I’d go into my room, flip the switch, and the light wouldn’t come on. I’d get scared. Really scared. And the worst part? In every single one of these dreams, I’d think to myself, “well, I know I’m not dreaming.” Thank you, subconscious mindfuck.

3. Through my indirect actions, my brother becomes injured and ends up retarded. It happened all sorts of ways…clowns and tree limbs are just two examples. My injuring of him would always be completely unintentional, but I’d end up completely guilt-ridden.

As you can see, most of my nightmares involve scenarios where I have little or no control over the external forces of the world. In my younger days, my nightmares involved having no control over inanimate objects…lights, elevators, clowns, tree limbs. (Trust me, in that particular dream, the clown was, for all intents and purposes, an inanimate object.) These days, my nightmares involve having no control over other people…family, employers, folks on the street. They’re a lot more realistic, and ultimately a lot more upsetting. Frankly, I’d rather have the instant, sharp terror of turning a corner in my neighborhood and not recognizing where I was than the quiet desperation of trying to explain to a cop that yes, I have my license and registration and insurance right here, and I don’t care what his computer says, he can’t tow my car.

The former’s clearly fantasy.

The latter, borderline reality.

I much prefer my nightmares to be clearly identifiable as such.

I'm cruel, but usually not this cruel.

Mon, 17 Sep 2007 18:28:37 GMT

Dear Robert Jordan fans:

Please read ANY THIRD NOVEL IN ANY FANTASY SERIES WRITTEN IN THE LAST 200 YEARS to see how the Wheel of Time series ends.

Yours Very Truly,

Paul S. Goodman

Happy Otter.

Thu, 30 Aug 2007 18:09:28 GMT

Last night, as I arrived home, I found myself in a spectacularly bad mood.

I'm not sure what the motivation behind this mood was. I mean, I'd had some usual minor conflicts at work, and my neck is bothering me (again), but really the petty annoyances of the day didn't really add up to create the sort of grumptastic misanthropy I was experiencing.

I worked on this kinetic piece that I'm trying to get ready for The Crucible's Fall Open House. Specifically, I've spent two months designing, laying out, and soldering together the electronics, and last night, I programmed and installed the PIC Chip. (That's a microcontroller. Black Sand. Silicon Valley Tea. Okay, okay, it's the little electronic brain that runs the whole piece.) I took a deep breath and pushed the button.

Something happened, but it was not the something I designed.

So, I tried again.

Nothing.

And again.

Still Nothing.

And so on so on so forth. Needless to say, this served only to fuel my bottomless rage, and by 11 p.m., I could feel myself at the precipice of a massive depressive episode. So I took a deep breath, and did what my family does in these situations: I got something to eat.

As part of my "something to eat," I got a glass of water. I say "glass," but I mean, "one of those 168 ounce cups you get with your meal at Taco Bell," because that's my container of choice when I have a glass of water. I like my water super chilly (especially on a day like yesterday, which was much hotter than I care for), so I went to get myself some ice.

Now, in my house, grandma takes the ice out of the ice trays and puts them in the ice...Bin? Container? Whatzit? Whatever that thing is the ice goes in after you take it out of the ice tray. And she's 87, and not as strong as she used to be, so she lets the ice melt a little bit before she dumps it out. Then the melted ice freezes together, and you have to smack the ice around to get it to come apart.

So there I was, in my black black mood, trying to turn one giant chunk of ice into smaller, more manageable chunks of ice, and I thought to myself, "dammit, granny really needs to come up with a better way to decant the ice."

Let me repeat that.

I was pissed because my 87 YEAR OLD GRANDMOTHER, who CHANGED MY DIRTY DIAPERS WHEN I WAS A BABY, wasn't DECANTING THE ICE PROPERLY.

I am so going to hell.

The Famous Japanese Mountain, Mount Fuji.

Sun, 29 Jul 2007 01:32:22 GMT

Okay folks:

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY stop using the term "assless chaps."

All chaps are, by definition, assless. I know adding the term "assless" makes the phrase funnier, but it only makes it funnier to dumb people who don't want to take the time to figure out the image on their own. Really, all it does is make you remind me of some morbidly obese woman who works in the accounting department of a big office and collects trolls and posters of kittens hanging off of branches and wears sweatshirts with sayings like "Department of Redundancy Department" on them.

I would hate to have to escalate my behavior from scolding to tit-punching.

Thank you in advance for your cooperation.

You have now entered the Prednizone. (sic.)

Thu, 26 Jul 2007 22:07:51 GMT

During my Convalescence, (doesn't that just bring up visions of me in a wicker wheelchair with a blanket over my lap?) I've been reading, watching movies, and playing video games. Lots and lots of video games.

In one particular game, my character just got a new helmet. It has all sorts of magical powers. However, it also looks ridiculous. I'm wondering if I should forgo the magical benefits for a more aesthetically appealing hat.

Let me reiterate that.

I'm wondering whether I should give up IMAGINARY powers in an IMAGINARY game, because I'm worried that IMAGINARY, COMPUTER CONTROLLED characters in the game will judge my IMAGINARY character.

I'm profoundly disturbed that I worry about things like that.