3.31.2004 1. I've been awake for forty-three hours, and I still don't want to go to sleep. It's our Spring Break right now, and everyone is gone. As a result, I've been largely alone for the past couple of days, and I've been getting somuchdone. I wish everyone I know would leave more often, because I will always choose hanging out with someone else over spending time by myself, and it's terrible. Or, if I do choose to spend time by myself, I spend that time obsessing over the feeling that I'm missing something. With everyone gone, the guilt too is gone. All of my time is entirely my own. This freedom, coupled with the onset of Spring, has given me an incredible amount of creative energy. I don't want to waste time sleeping.
2. With all of my housemates gone, and a big empty house to myself, my first instict is "I should throw a party!" This is illogical because everyone I know is gone, and any party I could throw would be cooler if my housemates were around. The only other supposed attribute of having a house to oneself, and this is according to everyone with which I've discussed this matter--which is maybe three people--is "naked time." Now that I'm alone, I have the liberty of walking around without any clothing. Hooray? Is this behavior really a delicacy? I tried it this morning--just because everybody raves about it all the time--but I can't really say that it did anything for me.
3. There's a wooden board at the base of our driveway, leaning up against mailbox, that reads, in large spray paint letters, "WE LIKE IT RED." The sign, of course, is from our red party, except it reads like the subject line of a porn spam letter, and our party was over a month ago. That's a sign that really needs a context, and it hasn't had one for some time. I really worry about what people driving by make of that sign. I worry especially now, since I'm the only person in the house. I don't want any perverts driving through the backwoods of nowhere New York thinking that I like anything red. At night I lock the door of my room, even though the door is made of plywood and couldn't withstand a volleyball.
I'm going to celebrate my restored ability to post by posting a bunch of images. I have to have contempt for some things, and one of things is always going to be sensability regarding bandwidth. There are now fourteen more header backgrounds. My favorites are "The Young Thousands," "I'll Not Contain You," and "Here I Dreamt I Was An Architect."
3.24.2004 Am I a pessimist for always preparing for the worst possible scenarios, or am I just realistic and good at dealing with being weak?
"The ouroboros has several meanings interwoven into it. Foremost is the symbolism of the serpent biting, devouring, eating its own tail. This symbolises the cyclic Nature of the Universe: creation out of destruction, Life out of Death. The ouroboros eats its own tail to sustain its life, in an eternal cycle of renewal."
I have a lot of work to do right now, so instead I made this desktop background (1024x768) with a razorblade and a December issue of the New Yorker. Now, I know what you're thinking: "Ben, that is by far the most heterosexual graphic I have ever seen. It looks like a friggin' straight-pride flag." But can you hear yourself? A "straight-pride flag"? That's not a thing. Stop being such a god-damn bigot.
3.22.2004 I would like it to be noted that: A. I am posting this during a class--and, more impressively, one that I'm attending. B. This exact situation was the rational explanation for everything bad that happened in the Los Angeles-based blockbuster horror movie Poltergeist, and also in every other creepy situation ever. Who the hell would want to live on an Indian burial ground?
3.19.2004 I've uploaded a first draft of the new Olde English website, which should shut up the hordes of people who bother me about it on a regular basis. However, I still have to:
A. update the bio page B. update the gallery page C. update the propaganda page D. add links to websites that we've decided to endorse. E. fix my horrible mispelling of the word "racquet."
This is less an interesting post, and more a to-do list for myself. I apologize for wasting your time, but I need to leave myself reminders or else I'll never get anything done.
3.17.2004 I had my first sex scene in a movie the other day. "Hey, Ben!" "Yeah?" "Wanna be in a movie!?" "Sure!" I can't believe I forgot to write about that. Sometimes my life is much more exciting and much more awkward than I let on. I had to have my clothes torns off twenty-five times from three different angles at four in the morning by a girl I've never seen before. I had to deliver these intentionally cumbersome, sexual lines while an actress in her underwear clawed and pummeled my naked skin. If the director uses any of the later takes--which I imagine he will, since it took the two of us a while to become comfortable with what we were doing--the audience will have to ignore the multitude of scratches and red marks that adorned my unclothed chest. It was an odd night.
A few days before I was sitting in the cafe, eating a sandwich, when the director of the movie sat down across from me, and asked if I'd finished reading the script yet. I immediately told him that yes, I had--even though I hadn't--because he'd already asked me twice if I'd finished reading it, and I'd grown tired of his obviously disappointing him. Besides, at that point I had finished reading the large majority of the script--a feat which I was quite proud of, considering that it's over a hundred pages long. He asked me what I'd thought of the story, and not being interested in giving an opinion on an ending I hadn't read yet, I quickly interrupted, asking, "So what scenes are we going to shoot first?"
"I think we'll do the rape scene first," he said, "because that'll be the loudest." "Yes, I said, pausing, "the rape scene." I thought, "What the hell is he talking about?" "Hey, by the way," he said, "you don't have a problem doing any of the stuff in the script, do you?" "Oh, no," I responded casually, wondering--terrified--if I did in fact have a problem doing any of the stuff in the script. "Good, good." he said, nodding. "Because to tell you the truth, the last guy who had your role quit because his girlfriend had a serious problem with it." A serious problem with what? What did she had a serious problem with? What was he supposed to do? What was I supposed to do? Was I the rapist? Was I a naked rapist? Are there clothed rapists? Just what had I agreed to do? I thought for a moment before commenting. "Yeah, about the rape scene," I asked him, slyly, "just what are you going to want me to do during that sequence?" He smiled. "Just what it says in the script, man."
By this point my friends were laughing. I was laughing too, though for altogether different reasons. I put myself into the awkwardest situations, and sometimes I have only myself with which to appreciate them.
3.15.2004 I'm always afraid that the incorrect selection between seemingly arbitrary choices--a pair of identical salt shakers, a row of empty bathroom stalls, two sweaters with no distinguishable differences--will trigger the absolute ruin of everything good in my life. I imagine this would be a slow, inconspicuous, and cumulative process--much like most things--and that it would be impossible to trace back the causality. Am I superstitious? Is this the same as superstition?
3.14.2004 One chef speaking to another in the kitchen of the fine dining restaurant in which I work: "Do you know what else is great? Cheerios! You put 'em in some whole milk, toss that shit in a blender--you got yourself an energy drink! Cheap, too! That stuff's great!"
For some reason I felt that this picture, taken two years ago in Paris, was the proper graphic for a discussion about an email I just received, titled "Dangerous Skunks," in which the Bard administration commanded the public:
"DO NOT PET THE SKUNKS!"
Apparently Bard is suffering from an onslaught of rabid skunks, which poses a large potential threat to all the people who would normally pet them. The skunks. To the people who would pet the skunks.
"Please," the letter begs, "do not attempt to help skunks or any other animal that looks distressed." How the fuck would I help a skunk? And besides, I have friends in distress I'm not helping, and they're of my own species.
3.9.2004 A few thoughts on living in a hippie household
1. Maybe a month ago, I was brushing my teeth--and for the sake of the story, we'll say I was using my own toothbrush--when I realized that I was out of the toothpaste that I had previously stolen from Bard's bookstore. On a somewhat related note, the deoderant I stole from the same establishment smells strongly like baby powder. It makes my shirts--which, mind you, I wear three-hundred times between washings--smell like a maternity ward. This is not the way to win a masculine contest. Anyway, back to oral hygiene.
So, I was standing there, holding my toothbrush, when I realized that I could simply borrow some of my housemates' toothpaste, just as I had definitely not done with the toothbrush. I opened the medicine cabinet, removed a tube of what I assumed was toothpaste, and spread it across the bristles. As soon as I put the brush in my mouth, I immediately realized my mistake--I was brushing my teeth with foot cream. It was greasy and it tasted horrible and immediately I felt as if I was going to be sick. I spat out everything I could and put my mouth to the faucet to lap up some water so as to continue spitting. It was awful. I opened the medicine cabinet a second time, took out the tube to examine it, and was amazed to find that it was toothpaste after all. Hippie toothpaste. I will go without brushing before I again use hippie toothpaste.
2. The shampoo in our shower was definitely not tested on animals, and I know this because it hurts my eyes so much. If they had exposed rabbits to our shampoo, and the rabbits had responded half as violently as I did to the product, the scientists definitely would have kept on testing. "Hey, that rabbiit seems to be in an obscene amount of pain!" "Golly, you're right! Good thing we tested that shampoo before selling it to a naive hippie public!"
I suppose this post seems to imply that I endorse the testing of cosmetic products on animals--but at that moment in shower, I did. It hurt so much. Though, like the toothpaste debacle, it did inspire me to stop stealing from my housemates and buy my own shampoo.
3.7.2004 Oh, Sundays at the restaurant. Did you know that Sunday is a very popular day for dining in Rhinebeck, New York? It's true. Yes, after a long day of waiting on women who demand that their water have only one cube of ice, nothing sounds more refreshing than a tall glass of suicide. Wait, what's that? You'd like to put 18% of the bill on one credit card, and the other 82% on a second card?
"Are you kidding?" I asked her, not kidding. "Oh no," she said, "It is possible to put just 18% on one card, right? That shouldn't present a problem." "Oh, no, it's certainly possible," I replied. "I just can't understand why anyone would want to do such a thing." She laughed at my response in her old lady way. I wanted to tell her that later I'd be making fun of her on the internet.
Check out this Matador ad I saw on Pitchfork. The image itself is strangely homoerotic, but the campaign deserves a moment of attention, if only to appreciate the company's grasp of its market.
Hey Matador, hire me to make these ads for you: 1. "You shouldn't steal these CD's, because they're cheap." 2. "Remember when CD's were only $10? Back in 1988? At Matador, it's 1988...all the time." 3. "Hey, look over here! HA! Made you look! Now buy a cheap CD before the recording industry sues your sorry ass."
I'm guessing I'm about nine in this picture. And look at my shoes! They're fucking huge! I look like an astronaut! I feel like this is something that someone should have told me so that I might've chosen more fashionable shoes. Of course, fashion is probably not the first concern of a child wearing what appears to be a Gecko Hawaii jumpsuit.
3.3.2004 Ooh! Here's a fun game. Think about something you really want, and then consider what horrible, unrelated act you would be willing to commit in order to attain that thing. For instance, I would be willing to set fire to my housemate's pillows in exchange for a cable connection--or even for DSL. Mediocre example, fun game. And it's obviously the sort of thinking that spawned the Puppy video.
A post from yesterday that I couldn't upload because someone was using the phone:
I woke up early this morning, showered, sculpted my hair with my knuckles. I had to go back to work today, which meant that I had to dress in all black and practice not swearing casually. I got to work early, before the manager, even, and polished all the glasses and silverware. When the manager arrived, some time later, she acted really surprised to see me. I imagined this was because I haven't been to work in almost two months, though in actuality it was because I was over five hours early for work.
Disappointed both in my memory and in the fact that I would be dressed entirely in black for the remainder of my day, I went shopping for shoes. This sounds like a girlish activity, but it seems less girlish when I point out that I need new shoes because the ones I wear every day smell so bad that I can smell them all the time, even when I'm standing up. I can smell them right now. The reason that my shoes smell so horribly--and this is another problem I tended to this afternoon--is that I don't own any socks. Or, rather, I believe I own socks, but I haven't seen them since June, nor have I acquired new socks during that period. Isn't that impressive? I think so. But god, the smell.
After 65 years, economic struggles have taken a toll
The Oakland Tribune By Tim Simmers, BUSINESS WRITER Saturday, February 21, 2004 - REDWOOD CITY, CA -- The end of an era is coming to the downtown here soon, as Popik Furniture plans to close its doors next month after 65 years in business.
"This is all I've ever known," said David Smilovitz, owner of the store who was always fascinated with old furniture and loved repairing and refinishing it and putting a personal touch on it. "My family has always been in business downtown."
But business has dwindled for the soulful furniture store. The economic downturn of the past few years has taken its toll, and the coming of IKEA on the Peninsula last year didn't help, either.
Smilovitz's grandfather Uke Popik and uncle Jack Popik opened the store in 1939 in Redwood City, initially selling used furniture and scrap metal.
Uke was a Russian immigrant, and eventually the business converted to a furniture store, more recently specializing in used furniture.
Jack, 82, was Uke's son, and still helped at the store on Tuesdays and Saturdays. He feels like he's losing part of the family with the closing, because lots of customers became friends with the gregarious and funny man.
"We were getting the grandchildren of people we started with," said Popik. "It's a nice feeling that people trusted us and came back. But nothing lasts forever."
Jack and Uke's son-in-law Carl Smilovitz bought the business in 1946. They moved to the current 935 Main St. location in 1958. A year later, Uke Popik died.
Jack and David Smilovitz, who followed in his father's footsteps, have kept the family tradition alive for many years.
But times have changed, and its tougher for family businesses to survive these days.
Business was already off when IKEA opened in East Palo Alto last year to thousands of youthful customers who lined up to buy in the huge, new store.
David Smilovitz, 54, insists there's more to the decline than IKEA. The younger people who have moved to Redwood City don't shop much at the old independent like the oldtimers did, Smilovitz said.
"We've had a lot of loyal customers," said Smilovitz. "But the new folks in the area didn't come down here too much."
Smilovitz has been running the store for the past 18 years. He started in 1975 working for his uncle, Jack, for 10 years.
"It's so sad," said Joan Larson of Redwood City, a family service specialist for the Red Cross and long-time customer. "I guess the little family businesses can't make it anymore."
She said Smilovitz "went the extra mile" for his customers. Larson often helped local victims of floods and fires for the Red Cross, and would bring them to Popik Furniture to get replacement furniture and beds.
"Whatever we could spend is what he would take," said Larson. "Other stores would tell us we didn't have enough money." Larson added that Smilovitz often would do a little carpentry to help the victims and even bring them groceries to help out.
Beverly Webber, former owner and second-generation merchant of the old Redwood Townshop dress shop in Redwood City, also called the closing sad. Her parents started the Redwood Townshop in 1940, back when the Popiks were getting started.
"The Popik family cared for people, and we're losing that," said Webber. "It's sad because the mom and pops are the backbone of the country."
3.1.2004 Oh dear. Maybe you should stop refreshing your browsers.
Well, there's no way we're making it through the month now. There's just no way. My sincerest apologies to all the people that I'm hosting, whose websites disappear when mine exceeds bandwidth.
Posting while I have the chance, and continuing my recent trend of updating every two seconds, here's an entry from Joel and my Roadtrip that I never posted. I wrote this post on the way down to Los Angeles from San Luis Obispo.
1.17.2004 (I believe)
1. Last night we stayed at the house of my friend Adam, my best friend from middle school who I believed I had not seen in ten years--though apparently I've seen him four times since then, on what he describes as a fairly consistent basis. Sometimes my memory worries me.
2. Adam's housemates are drunks. They seem wholly concerned with the activity of pouring alcohol from a glass container into a second container which is them. The guys all wear baseball caps and the girls all wear thongs. I imagine all people at large schools to be this way, because I have never experienced otherwise.
There were four empty keg shells in the garage which we brought back to the store, then using the reimbursed deposit to buy more liquor. I always enjoy parties of this nature--not because I enjoy drinking, because I don't particularly enjoy drinking, but because I enjoy pretending to be an EMT. I'm always waiting for someone to pass out or break their femur so I can spring into action. I stand in the corner with beer on my breath, secretly begging for disaster.
3. Adam and his housemates live in a real house. Many college students live in houses, but this is a house house. It's easy to imagine the space inhabited by a family of five with a dog and furniture and pictures on the walls, but instead there are tattered copies of Hustler everywhere and half-empty beer cans in the bathroom. Looking around, it became obvious how much stuff it takes to fill an ordinary house. These people don't own anything, they don't belong in that house. Being there, I could never get past the idea that somewhere, in some dark corner of the basement, or in the back of the garage behind the empty kegs, were the bound and gagged bodies of the family whose house these college students had usurped.
4. One of Adam's friends approached me, drunk, sometime around three in the morning. "What's your name again?" he asked me, "Is it Ben or Dan?" "It's Ben," I replied. "I'm sorry, man" he said, "I can't keep you and your friend straight because your names are so damn similar!" By my friend 'Dan,' I can only assume he meant my friend 'Joel,' who is a foot taller than me, looks nothing like me, and whose name could never be confused for my own.
I'm sorry Des! I added you again, for what that's worth. And now I'm never taking another name off, ever. (Just so you know, I'm posting this shameful apology from the library.)
Today has been gorgeous. Music has such power over me today that the few times I've had to take off my headphones have been devastating. I had to hum to myself for the full length of my Narrative Strategies class so as not to lose the feeling. I drove with the windows down and a plastic bag danced around my car in big, elaborate elipses, flying out the front window and returning again through the back. It was cliche in such a way that I felt guilty for smiling. I feel like this might be another glorious spring, like the one two years ago.
1. This design took five hours from start to finish--though really I'm not finished, I just want to go to bed. 2. Of all the song titles I didn't use, the best was "A Man Who Never Sees A Pretty Girl That He Doesn't Love A Little." 3. Tonight, sitting here, I listened to the Sufjan Stevens song "Romulus" thirty-four times. I am now sick of it.
"The ouroboros has several meanings interwoven into it. Foremost is the symbolism of the serpent biting, devouring, eating its own tail. This symbolises the cyclic Nature of the Universe: creation out of destruction, Life out of Death. The ouroboros eats its own tail to sustain its life, in an eternal cycle of renewal."
Check out this 
