Yeah, yeah. Took a break.

When I was growing up, my misdeeds were being audited by the imaginary ghost of my parents, glaring over my shoulders upon every transgression. Son, didn't you say you were going to watch the 'Mighty Ducks' movie? Son, are you doing homework or chatting all night long? Son, where did that wheat thin go and what is this five second rule? Nevermind that the word 'son' isn't really standard fare, let's just all pretend I'm a Brady.

Regardless, the ghost of my parents no longer lurks. Now, it's a 38-year-old man, an older version of me, with a blue sweater vest, little more than an island of hair, and chins to boot. And I'll be having conversations with friends, and out pops Futuredoot. Did you just spend all night psychoanalyzing a loser? Don't you realize that in the real world everyone is boring and there's nothing to analyze? Don't you realize that gossip just ceases to exist when you're 38? Don't you realize that no matter how deep your voice sounds on your answering machine, it doesn't make you any more alpha male? Bottom line: Futuredoot just kinda sucks all around. But in all likelihood, he's going to save me from moral depravity and colorectal polyps.

Right, well I'm reminded of an episode of Star Trek, where Wesley Crusher is told, "You will never come up against a greater adversary than your own potential." Yes, I thought it was profound at the time. But more importantly, this is as good a time as any for me to come out as the guy who adores Star Trek. The guy who TiVos it daily. The guy who compares seminal life experiences to those of Jean-Luc. So while all the other blogs are out there with lame Christmas revelations, I reveal perhaps the most unpalatable element of my life. But, as earlierly declared, 'Next Generation' is the best TV I've ever watched, and it was made 15 years ago.

So, as you may have noticed, I took a little break. You see, this week I have had to make numerous Christmas phonecalls. Christmas cards require addresses. Addresses require inquiries. And inquiries spoil the whole fun of the surprise Christmas card. So, I prefer the awkward spontaneity of just calling those on the A-list. Unfortunately, this means that I have to have 2-3 prepared stories, and so instead of reporting these well-cultivated, carefully worded, well-timed stories on the blog, they have been wasted on telephone conversations.

Well, there are plenty more things to report. But it's been a very long night... a night of "You know it's late when..."
1) You know it's late when you catch the second airing of 'The Tonight Show' and don't even realize it
2) When you catch the second airing of Conan... yeah, then it's just godawful
3) When they actually find some time to play music videos on MTV and VH1
4) When you flip the channels only to realize that you're missing the Fox News Morning Show.

We keep our blinds closed at HQ. None of this morning light business.

OK, going to london and paris for the break. Family vacation internationale. I'm not commenting on this because Big Mother is watching, and we don't want to curse a trip that hasn't happened yet.

More later, because the whole internet-cafe-in-Europe thing is just that hip.

when in rome

Spent the evening studying at Starbucks and learning to live with ugg. And small dogs. And losing faith in catch theory when seeing the ugly with the hot, only to later realize that the ugly spoke with English accent, thus rebalancing the universe. And those choice gentlemen cruising at the Westwood arcade (as in video games, not architecture). And high schoolers at an MUN conference who began practicing their vulgarity to earn the older kids' respect. And random run-ins with high school friends with overdue social issues to resolve. So, I studied as much as I could, all things considered.

Oh, we try to keep it useful up in here. Christmas gift ideas!
For only $10.99, you can pick up the O.C. Chrismukkah Album, and explore the glories of being interfaith just like Seth Cohen! And his lawyer dad! And his trustfund mom! And their adopted son from Chino! Cuz they're funny and shape modern culture.

And if that's not your thing, Amazon recommends the Everwood soundtrack. You mock me now, but just you wait. These unknown WB celebrities -- they're going to be the James Brolins of our time.

Finally, the rants on 'Life Aquatic' are over. The greater powers in the universe (Mel) told me that I should airdrop pamphlets of my riveting opinions into third world countries. Kind of makes me want to become a Voice of America DJ.

easy on the typos, dev

Congratulations are in order. To me. And what the heck, to you too. You're reading the #1 Google Hit to a search for the word "scatalogical." Notable for 2 reasons: 1. It's a typo. The real word is "scatological." 2. It means "interest in or treatment of obscene matters especially in literature." Not so post-ironic. More like... appropriate.

Well, I think I've lost the touch. AO looooooved it. Pathos, melancholy... blah blah blah. Same reason I hated 'About Schmidt.' I'm just not in touch with the wrinkly, sad, egoprickly white man that seems to be holding the rest of America captive.

Oh, and voyla -- it was a joke, not a typo. Just like the day I was depressed and the day I praised Bush. Alright so that's 0 for 3 -- being out of character just isn't going to work in this blog. But who knows, someday I might make it to the top of the 1,400 website-long list of pages with the word 'voyla.'

Def more later. Took a day off to catch up on some much needed abandonement.

tuesday mish mash

Well, life has gotten a tad busier for me than I’d care to think about. This chokes that part of me that would otherwise sprinkle the world with glamtastic helpings of joy and happiness.

Got some clothing recently, and Mother didn’t like them. So voyla, I decided to bring you all a glimpse into the world of Dev’s Mom’s Fashion Tips:

1. Bought a jacket. Suede-ish. Mom likes it – looks good, son. And then upon closer inspection, calls it commonplace after realizing it’s not real suede. I think that’s her way whittling away at my profound happiness at being financially independent.
2. Got some Gucci glasses – a capricious little expenditure, and heck, even though they don’t really make me look better, they add character, no? Mom takes a look at them, searches for the right phrase, and calls me Drew Carey at a family event.
3. My flirtation with product has always inspired Mom’s ire. What makeup represents for teenage girls and their mothers, hair product is for me and mine. It’s a sign of increasing depravity. To mom, hair was meant to be parted down the left with a little spritzing (of water, mind you) here and there if necessary – that’s just the way God made us.
4. Plain and simple, used clothing is a ticket to aidsville. That goes for used books too.
5. This is for the women, but my Mother has finally softened to the notion of the midriff. We were driving one day, and she noticed a runner with the belly button peeking out, and as the ferris wheel of her thought carnival turned, she came to the conclusion that the midriff is more a symptom of modern femininity than a statement of bold promiscuity. Yay for women everwhere!

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And because I haven’t the time to think of anything daringly original, I bring you a fun ode to my glory from my high school yearbook:

“I guess I was angry before since the time you called me a dilettante about my music. Seeing as how it is important to me, I was hurt. So I got angry. So there you go, that’s why I was mean… But it wasn’t intentional, never in my head did I consciously say, “Damn him, I’ll blow him off one of these days!” … Will we meet again? Will we care? How strange. But I won’t think on’t. Because it’s been like a dream. While it lasts, it’s so real and I have no sense of time. And then I wake up, realizing it’s over. I can’t even remember all of it… Only memories, Dev. Take care of yourself. Good luck. Till we meet again. If not in person, than in our dreams.”

He eventually found Jesus, I’m told. Scary, scary stuff. The entire yearbook is really crazy – people weren’t so fond of me…

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Oooh, go Eliot Spitzer. The closest thing to populism that America has.

Also, you know how Ryan Adams' cover of "Wonderwall" or Johnny Cash's cover of "Closer" brought some much needed dignity to these songs? A sort of validation to a guilty pleasure. Well, to the music industry execs who read this, I need some dignity brought to the following guilty pleasures: "Mama" (Spice Girls), "MmmBop" (no comment), "Part of Your World" (definitely no comment).

off peak hours

From some book by Paul Auster (a la Anne, who reads apparently):
"As for the postmodern question, it's a term that doesn't mean anything to me. People keep using it, but I truly don't understand what it means. And I don't put label on what I do. If other people want to do that, that's their privilege, but I'm not interested in looking at myself from the outside."

Paul Auster, you're so cliche. That's not even good enough to go in my profile.

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Best damn online survey ever. I'm 67, and felt great taking it.

And in international news, go figure.

take control of your fragility

I caught a sneak preview of Life Aquatic last night. Presumably, they showed it on campus to create buzz, so this is me creating buzz. It was the Tenenbaum cast on a symbolism blitzkrieg. Not plain old godawful. More like “deep” awful, auteur awful – there was a message, there were metaphors, there were lots of contrived emotions meant to stir sorrow in my heart – but all I could feel was burdened by a movie that was trying to live up to the reputation of a clever director (Wes Anderson). In an attempt to make a movie that was pregnant with meaning, Mr. Anderson may have just shot a blank this time around.

So yes, this is not a movie review blog. Or a “that concert I went to was soooo awesome” blog. So you’ll excuse the occasional paragraph indulgence. The problem is that I can’t really enjoy movies in and of themselves anymore – I spend the duration of any movie I see searching for the right encapsulating, witty phrase even though it’s been years since my last film review. But when I do disparage Hollywood’s finest, I often get asked if I do indeed enjoy any films. Well, I liked Almost Famous, and apparently, I liked 102 Dalmations as well. Probably one of those jollier times in my life.

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Time for a little solemnity now. With the spontaneous combustion of yet another bridge in my social life here at UCLA, I now have the opportunity to reflect. The criticism had been leveled that folks in LA are fake. I won’t argue with that, but the problem is not that we lie to ourselves to sedate our insecurities. No, no, it’s not us, it’s you. There are simply too many fragile and emotionally underabused people from other states inhabiting this city, and to deal with them, the rest of us are forced to be fake. So, bottom lining it for you, we’re not that fake, you’re just that fragile.

God, I’m just hating on people left and right. Apparently ambush dissage is now my thing. Got some DMX-esque anger in my system, evidently.

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As half of my life will be spent sizing up people, I am definitely one of those people who strives to glimpse the spine of the books my public transportation neighbors are reading. Crichtons & Grisham readers – well hey, it’s better than being illiterate, right? Pallanhuik, Kundera, and the academic-press-type readers – well they’ve got character, I admire that. Anyhow, I’m not sure what to make of this one. I was at the gym this morning, and this girl had this thick book with a title that I thought read, “How to Take Control of Your Faith.” Ok, that made sense, she was working on finding God at 25, that’s cute. But then I read the spine more carefully. It didn’t say “faith,” but rather “fertility.” Who reads that? At a gym? Is it so serious a matter that it needs to be “taken control of”? What does that say about her? So many unanswered questions, and I’m now in the dark cave with the guy who thinks ob/gyn’s practice love.

I’d say ‘more later’ but I lied yesterday. Mother says I need to work harder instead of blogging. And we're still feeding the delusion that she knows best.

smells like balding

I don't think there is much to say about this one. If smelling like Donald Trump floats your boat, by all means. What delights me, however, is that he went on all of the talk shows talking about how his show took more time than he thought it would but it was getting top-10 ratings last season. And now, Donald Trump is but a (costly) hallmark of the led zeppelin that is NBC.

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In the world of Low-End Journalism (college newspapers and suburban Times, Tribunes, Gazettes, Chronicles and Registers), it just takes too long to dig up scandals about sodomizing schoolteachers or unintentional ratpoison-in-hamburgers. So, there's only one thing left to do when there's no nail-biting school board race to focus on: look at what you published last year on the same day, and draw some not-subtle-parallels.

Not to sound uninformed, but that is esstentially what the sports page is to me -- the same story, over and over and over again with new boldface names. Regardless, in the world of "news," these are the groundhog day stories -- news for news' sake (Christmas sales are high/low, Interviews with last minute christmas shoppers, Christmas in Iraq) -- all more of the same. Just got to wonder -- don't journalists suffer cliche paralysis like the rest of us... like me, at least? My little contribution to local, suburban journalists and teleprompter readers everywhere: stay away from the birdwatching of trends. You predicted that "Polar Express" would do well, and it lost at least $100 million. You turned those damned scooters into a trend, as well as those tennis shoes with the wheels on them, and now you worry parents about such the rise of Leisure Suit Larry.

What ever happened to the good old days where John Stossel would go around to hotels with a blacklight, looking for evidence of fluids? What ever happened to scandals about genetically modified foods and bad smogchecks? I want the pandering back.

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A few days ago, I said the following: "If we lost the battle of lepanto, Utah would be the most normal of states..." Well, here's the problem: the "we" refers to... well the soldiers in the Crusades. Doesn't really match my lineage well. So, in repentence, my weekend was spent inquiring on Indian history. You've got to figure that there are more important things to know about than the Irish Potato famine, though of course, that was unrefutably the most important event of the 19th century. Dumb historians. Sorry Brian -- this shouldn't be in the blog, but it was a better thought than this, I promise -- just kind of devolved. Get it? DEVolved. Like my name?

more later.

Are we loving the line-dividers or what?

A note on diction. A few days back, Wonkette used the phrase “circle jerk,” and though it eventually registered, I was stunned that such a colorful phrase had gone from crass to clever. So, like so many other masked vulgarities (‘suck it,’ ‘anally retentive,’ ‘knock on wood’), this one might just be the next big thing until losers start using it and I feel trite again. And secondly, the word “bleak” is making a resurgence – Times Arts section brags three occurrences today. Because what is emerging is the nouveau-bleak culture. And if I was powerful and audienced, that would be phrase coinage right there. Instead, I guess it (and this entire blog) leaves you wondering: if you shout loud enough into an empty forest, is it any different from remaining silent?

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Oh, false alarm with the Ken Jennings. That was the day before, and I was simply mistaken. I apologize for all social encounters that arose as a result of “OMG, let’s go watch Ken Jennings lose.” Because it didn’t happen. And instead, you had to talk to other people. Oh the horror, Rosebud.

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So, a few days back I went to go see a new Kevin Spacey (writing/ directing/ producing/ publicizing/… and we mustn’t forget, taking credit for a total and utter flop) film about the life of Bobby Darin (as in 'Mack the Knife'). There are plenty of godawful blogs out there where people review films, so I’ll leave the reviewing to the experts. But I have to say, the film was poorly written, gratuitously self-referential, and gimmicky (though not derivative!).

The reason I bring this up is because I have a lot of faith in Mr. Spacey. He’s a classy guy. He can play a retardo (Usual Suspects) about as well as he can play Mr. American Dysfunction. So, after American Beauty, I tried – I really tried to keep being a Spacey fan, but his bar just kept going lower and lower. From Pay it Forward to K-PAX to David Gale. No good, no good at all. I pulled out on Alanis too… kept hoping she’d come back with another ‘Head over Feet’ and instead she discovered India. So, Mr. Spacey, we are officially done.

death of concussion boy

For those of you on the gauche coast, the big Ken Jennings episode is on replay tonight. For those of you on the other coast, it’s past your bedtime. For the rest of you, find a coast so I can be proud to be your friend, dammit.

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It’s difficult for someone like me to face value enjoy the company of others, no surprise there. So, in the process of sampling other people, I’ve begun to try my hand at finding the good in people. So even though she can’t seem to stop discussing how her ex is now dating an 18-year-old, at least she has good teeth. Or, even though he can’t seem to stop talking about himself, at least he’s got enough confidence to think others care. And so on…

But every now and then, you meet someone that is just fundamentally unredeemable. And in my classes, I had found an example of just such a character. Every mention of DNA sends this guy onto a Rosalind Franklin pity party. His questions are uninformed and copious, and despite my efforts to send a diplomatic email to quell the outbursts of his scientific ego, he refuses to be Dev roadkill. Kind of like a soap opera villain that returns time and again as an evil twin or a ghost or what have you.

So yesterday, at a seminar, it just all made sense. We were listening to a talk from a professor, at the conclusion of which, the professor asks if anyone had been through any serious head trauma. And the guy was hit by a car and suffered a childhood concussion, and finally the universe rebalanced and it all became clear. And though I now have one less target in the world (because you just can’t make fun of disabled people), it also means that I also have a vacancy in that department. Any takers?

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I promised I wouldn't mention her name, but a certain mother of mine called me up last night all pensive and anxious, knowing full well that blog-conversation was off limits. So, I eventually coaxed out of her the nature of her difficulties: she felt that these profanities I use so liberally are borderline middle-lower class, and that's just not okay. So, I spent the greater part of an hour debating the merits of the f-bomb. It's a fun little debate I haven't had with myself in years, you should try it sometime. Anyhow, the cursing is out, because mother wants me to be a politician, and the Internet is forever.

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And finally, "overheard in LA," the first in a series:
"He called me 'sunshine' instead of 'honey' today -- what do you think that means?"
"I think sucking your gut all day is probably a good ab workout"

the conversational climax

Daily, let’s say I’ll come into contact with roughly 100 people, 50 of whom I will exchange words with. 35-40 of these people are maintenance – conversations of life maintenance (“is the washing machine working?”), academic maintenance (“did the experiment work?”), or social maintenance (aka pity, “why so sad?”). The remaining 10-15 are exploratory conversations or social experiments. I’d say about half of those are worth remembering for a week, and about 1% of those are memorable for a year. To be pleasant, I’d say maybe 30% of conversations somehow convert to blog fodder or otherwise contribute to my subconscious.

I imagine this breakdown isn’t particularly intriguing or unique to me – people are boring, and we compensate by forgetting these people and their conversations with us.

But how can you really be interesting if you can only have a few solid conversations a day? Think of it this way – if I were to write a sitcom and base it on my sparse vicarious life, it’d be UPN caliber at best. In order to truly sample life, you have to know profoundly dumb and misguided people. You need a Joey for every Chandler. I have no Joey’s, Phoebe’s, or Rachel’s. And instead, I have fucking millions of Ross.

Life is only going to get worse in this regard, unfortunately. Someday, I’m going to be old and have only one other person to speak to regularly: a wife that no doubt will be equally disappointed with the human condition. That’s not an audience! There is no room for schpeels on Jude Law with that! Until now, my standards for conversation have only gone up. But by my mid-30’s, the process of settling for godawful conversation will begin. I’ll be happy with the ‘small things’ like raising children, and will discuss the great school system in the suburb, and the “kids these days,” and the merits of expensive automobiles. Like it or not, in a few years you’ll not only be past your physical prime, you’ll be past your conversational climax.

So, two things to learn:

1. Choose wisely with the spouses you choose, because old age is boring enough without having to have to be spending it with someone that enjoys vacuuming.
2. Somehow this attrition of daily input needs to be slowed. Right now, there are only a few MIT friends remaining (most would say that’s my fault) and fewer high school friends. There is a heaping teaspoon of UCLA friends. And that’s about it. I need to start checking people's AIM profiles and remembering birthdays, so I actually get those wedding invitations in a few years.

Then, there’s always finding God. But then I’d be a crazy, a happy crazy no less.

See, when I say "more later," I mean it dammit.

Not a Hint of Irony, I suppose...

Last night, I was at a screening of a new Kevin Spacey movie. The point is not that the movie sucked, the point is that I got a call in the middle of the film from an old friend who has always insisted that he doesn't do phone calls (he prefers AIM). The guy was hesitant to let me call him on my own goddamn birthday. So, the fact that he called me on a random Tuesday night was notable.

So, for the second half of the movie, I'm thinking to myself, "Why did he call?" Initially, I think, the mundane: trouble with school, women, family... and then it hits me: somebody died. So for the second half of the movie, I devote my energies to figuring out who it is that must have died. Maybe it was someone on that photoarray of people I hate? That would be ironic, yes?

Long story short, he was calling me because he was worried about me because of my last blog entry. Like many others, he detected not a single hint of irony. Indeed, I think it was a dud all around. Rachana writes, "what the fuck kind of joke is that? when did you become SOOOO unfunny? jesus"

Which leads me to bigger things -- um, I would never misspell words like relationship or precocious. I would never buy a U2 ipod. I would never say "I love my friends." I would never discuss Death Cab. I would never ask people to comment. I would never comment on office interpersonal issues. And on and on... but I guess, that hasn't been made clear, as two of my closest friends thought otherwise. Hot damn. I spent all of last night trying to figure out how people could think I could be such a mushy emofreak, and how to resolve said problems. Maybe I should just be a little meaner on the blog to compensate?

More later. I just needed to get this out.