Food: there is just so much to talk about

When you are deciding on a name for your sushi restaurant, make sure you consider the fact that if you call your restaurant Touch of Sushi, I will associate your restaurant with someone poking me in the face with a piece of room-temperature shrimp, and that will keep me from ever eating there ever.
Food-related note: I am currently hungry. The second-closest place to buy food from my office is the place that deep-fries cheese. Not exactly a good situation.

Close to Chuck

I just snagged a book about Chuck Close from our review pile. I can still remember the first time I saw one of his paintings in real life. I can actually remember the exact words that went through my head at the time: "No fucking way. Oh my god." Not quite the stuff that gets one into Bartlett's, but if you've ever seen his works in the really real I'm sure you know the feeling.
I plan on totally jacking Close's whole late-60's look, as exemplified in 1968's Big Self-Portrait

if I should ever find myself physically capable of growing a decent mustache. Yes, the style-jacking plan involves never wearing a shirt, and yes I know it's sort a molestorfied look, but if Chuck's not sweating it I'm not gonna either.
I'm not so amped on the books title, Close Reading, but I can't really hate. You know there's not an editor on earth who'd let you write a book about Chuck Close and not use some shitty pun as its title.

Money is Still a Major Issue: the Internet's Premiere Financial Advice Blog

I'm putting some thought into putting together a serious, mature drug addiction. I'm across the board less interested in drugs than in previous years (despite Chris Hansen's friends who have been fucking with compounds that can apparently effect visits from Jehovah himself [psychedelics that inspire visitations from J-Hova are apparently not yet available] and Joe Rogan's ringing endorsement of DMT). I'm mostly just interested in knowing exactly where all of my money goes. If I had a drug habit I could definitively say, "I spent all of my money on drugs," an economic strategy whereby my drug dealer would become something like a bank account although one that doesn't allow me to access the money I deposit and also that has an interest in me being addicted to drugs. I'm okay with that, though. Strictly from a financial perspective it could be a good move, adding an element of certainty that my current spending habits lack. As it stands, I finish up every pay period with nothing in my bank, scrambling to figure out where all my money went and coming up with nothing solid to show but magazines, more jeans than I should own, and piles of bright, shiny things.

Super-producer and power seducer.

JR and I are both giving mad props to Lola Ogunnaike for giving us not only a dece, skeptical-ish profile on Scott Storch, but also for one of the Times' all-time most double-entrendrefied headlines.

Celebrate

For the past couple of days my main source of worry is my recent weight loss, which has resulted in some loss of definition in my pecs, but then I got a press release for a Martin Luther King Day foam party out in the suburbs and now I'm just worried that I'm going to go to hell for hanging out with white people.

I'm just gonna write about TV because I'm lazy and I love my TV.

I finally finished out the Lost DVDs, busting through the last two discs Sunday afternoon in marathon fashion in the company of serious homegirl Lara. We blankied up on our respective couches, ordered Pizza Hut, and said "Fuck you," to 2006. 2006 is a dirty bitch, and we will continue treating it as such until it delivers fame and riches unto us. Recognize, 2006. Recognize.
Finishing Season 1 was kind of a bum-out, though. We don't have broadcast TV or cable up in our place (we say "fuck you" to cable around here, as well as to 2006 and a number of other things/concepts), and our current level of in-house computing power precludes me from being able to (legally or not) download Season 2. Either Apple's gotta drop those Intel laptop jams now, or I'm gonna have to wait until next month's Portland birthday excursion and jam on some new episodes at Krystal's. Fucksville.