I am easily distracted right now. And in general. The bi-polar weather goes from cloudless to angry thunder in a few hours and the muggy bombs are dropping all around me. I love the heat and can’t take it all at once. When I whip around on my bike I can feel the heat cooking my brain. I can’t seem to get anywhere on time, or function as a normal, do-good, on-the-ball fella. I spent 20 minutes foraging around the farmer’s market this morning when I should’ve been cruising to work. I spent the following 20 minutes walking through the park eating plums I had just bought. And now I’m writing this instead of doing work. Lazy days I tell you. Lazy, good, hot ass days. And this weekend the summer antics continue: island camping son! The island was also home to a children’s hospital for disabled kids… that burnt down. I’m packing a flask and a tent and rumor has it that my pal is bringing a ouija board. No joke. I’ll be reporting back with the findings of our paranormal investigation. Holla!

Tomorrow night I drive down to San Diego, to spend four days attending the San Diego Comic-Con.

For I am a Nerd, and this is my Mecca. It is time to make the pilgrimage.

The last time I went was 10 years ago, because my mother had won me tickets at some movie theatre raffle. The convention was mild, quiet, too large for the exhibitions, and writers & artists were easily accessible.

When I describe my experience the last time, friends who have gone in the past few years laugh. And gasp. Then shake their heads. For, they warn me, things have changed.

The convention center is now filled to capacity every day. Every moment of every day. The energy in the convention center is thick, makes it hard to breathe. The barely-contained sense of madness is just-about held in check for the duration. There are lines, lines for the lines, and lines to get tickets to those lines.

Madness. This is what my friends tell me.

But it is a madness they willingly attend year after year.

And so it is time, again, to drink of the Kool-Aid.

I’ll keep you posted.

And no, I’m not dressing up as one of the six black superheroes.

I’m dressing as Darth Vadar.

I kid.

But he was Black, for the record.

All the way on the west coast in a little town called Seattle, a man is building me a bike. His name is Bob and I like his chill attitude. While I rattle off details and specs all up in his ear New York style, he just pauses and replies in a mellow tone, “Yeah, okay Danny, sounds great.” It does sound great too. Just listen:

Metallic BROWN, CHROME forks and stays, Richard Sachs LUGS, Phil Wood BOTTOM BRACKET, CHRIS KING headset. All of these things sound like little pleasant little wind chimes in my ear. And at times like a ringing cash register. But no matter, it’s going to ride like the Goddamn wind. And like the bikes he built in the 70s that are still on the road, I hope my brown bomber will still be running smooth 30 years down the line, in the year 2040.

Not quite a review of The Dark Knight:

The Dark Knight fucked me up, man.

Not since reading House of Leaves have I been so…put into a funk, yeah, that’s it. Dark Knight put my mind into a serious funk.

Great movie, lots of everything: action, drama, character, twists. The film’s really got it all, it’s Big Man Meal at a steakhouse, the 11-patty burger at your favorite burger stand.

But in addition to all that, it’s got this prevalent sense that no matter how much good you do, and perhaps in fact because of the good you do, there will be (at least) and equal and opposite reaction.

It’s no spoiler to say the Joker shows up in this film as a reaction to Batman’s appearance in Gotham City. Implicit in that, and this is something also covered in the comics, is that the Joker is in some way created by Batman, that Batman’s existence precipitates the Joker’s.

But in this movie that relationship is played to the hilt, and the ramifications are frightening. That as much as Batman acts as an agent of Order, the Joker can appear and go even one better as an agent of Chaos. And the best one can hope for in such a circumstance is getting out alive.

And that put a weapons-grade spook on me.

God bless movies.

This time ’round, a theme!!!!! Listen to them all HERE!!!!

Comfortably Numb - Roger Waters, Van Morrison & The Band
A live recording, from The Departed soundtrack. Scorsese played this song several times in that film, to the point that it’s now inextricably linked to the feeling of foreboding and dread that permeates that film.
Wow, lots of big words there. Go with it!

Kaneda - Geinoh Yamashirogumi
This is the first track off the Akira soundtrack, arguably the best damn anime ever. Rent it. Now. What, you’re not a nerd? Fuck you, don’t you fucking judge me, jingoist!!! It is teh awesome, as the kids say. Amped up taiko drums fuel the entire score, and this track sets the stage.

Feel Flows - The Beach Boys
From the Almost Famous soundtrack. I was never a huge fan of the Beach Boys, but the layers of this song melted my brain. Fresh in a way I never thought surf rockers capable of producing.

Like Nothing Ever Heard - Billy Nayer Show
From The American Astronaut, a weird little film I had to watch twice to really appreciate. The movie & music were all made by this weird band. And this track really stood out, made the movie for me. “Damn, if the score’s this good, I just gotta like the movie.” It’s some straight cowboy-astronaut theme song music.

Roc Boys - Jay-Z
From American Gangster, a movie I have yet to see all the way through. The DVD screener came on two discs, and I broke up with the owner of the screener before I could finish it.

Which has nothing to do with this song, which, and I know I’m in the minority here, is the only good song on the soundtrack. Rest of it just plods along, but this here, like the man himself says in the song, is black superhero music. What more you need to know? (more…)

I’m like a stunned animal when men hit on me. I just kind of stand there, nod, smile and acquiesce to the interaction. What this ultimately means is that I often end up giving out my phone number and/or email address even though I’m completely disinterested.

Retarded, I realize this. I just can’t say no because I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I hate being rejected, and so I have no desire to be the rejector. And what am I supposed to tell them? “Absolutely not. Never. I find you completely unattractive.”

The bullshit logic in this is, of course, the fact that I end up having to blow off their later advances. I guess my hope is that they just won’t ever actually establish contact.

My latest suitor hit me up at an especially weak moment, when I was caffeine deprived and attempting to order a tea from Starbucks, only to be told they were out of my desired flavor. In my flustered state, Starbucks Dude went in for the kill.

“Nice canvas,” he said.

“Huh? What?” I replied, confused, turning my head from side to side. I wasn’t carrying a painting. Then it dawned on me, ahhhh, the typical one-liner men use to break the ice with me””my tattoos.

“Oh, yeah, thanks,” I continued, before turning back to the barista to place my order.

While waiting for my drink, Starbucks Dude sidled up next to me. “Are you in the arts?”

“Um, no. Well,sort of, I’m a writer.”

“Ohhhh, I don’t ever see tattooed girls who aren’t graphic designers,” he continued.

“Really? Well, I’m not from here, I’m originally from LA,” I said, wondering what planet he was from. (more…)

For those of you who didn’t notice, I thought I’d make it official and point out that What Would Tuffie Do? will, in fact, no longer be known as WWTD? I’d been hearing it on my end, so when someone I didn’t even know felt compelled to bitch about the name, I decided that after more than a year, it was time to say sayonara.

But not without a proper farewell. I realized that I have never actually shared the birthing story of WWTD? with you fine readers. It begins with a good friend of mine named Jubba, in a far far away land known as Tallil, Iraq.

Feeling lost in life, unsure of what path to follow and deep in school-loan debt, Jubba decided it was a bright idea to become a contracted worker for a division of Halliburton in Iraq. The pay was amazing, and if he stayed his full fourteen months he’d get a bonus and wouldn’t have to pay taxes on any of it. But like everything in life, easier said than done.

Upon arriving in Tallil, Jubba was put in charge of a group of Indian workers who didn’t always appreciate being told what to do by a young white dude. After a week of insubordination, frustrated, Jubba sat down and wondered what his former roommate, Tuffie, would do, if she were in his shoes.

And right then, he knew what needed to happen. He had to lay down the fucking law, so help him god, but do it with a cheerful smile. Make it seem like he was doing the men a favor by telling them what to do. Needless to say, because Tuffie logic is always supreme, it worked, and they fell into line.

Unfortunately for Jubba, however, work as a contracted carpenter did not end up panning out. Jubba didn’t like bossing people around, but even more so, he didn’t like experiencing true missile and fire drills at least two to three times a week. He came home after just a few months out.

Regardless, I prided myself on having been there for him, in spirit, in his time of need. And hence sprung WWTD? with the idea that I’d share my stories with the world and hopefully they’d come in handy for someone else in dire circumstances.

Alas, the name has outlived its utility, and so it is with heavy heart that I say adieu. Tuffie posts will now each feature their own unique and individual title.

WWTD?, it’s been fun, and most importantly, it’s been misanthropic. I’ll miss you.

Spent the weekend down in Temecula, which is about 90 minutes south east from L.A. Wine country, out here. Houses tend to be quite a ways from each other, and if you’re in just the right place, at just the right time, your surroundings are damn near indistinguishable from a John Ford movie.

I was being paid a lot of money to stand there and look at the sunset, basically. And it was mighty fine.

Behind me were a bunch of freestyle motocross riders, whose lives basically consisted of being paid outrageous amounts of money to do what they’d be doing if they were being paid absolutely nothing.

Getting wasted, doing backflips on motorbikes, hanging out with girls, covering their bodies with tattoos.

At this particular moment, when this particular photo was taking, it was me holding my phone, being perfectly content with my life, hanging out with guys who were perfectly contented with their lives.

I felt a kinship with these young men. We all loved where we were at that particular moment. We all were doing what we enjoyed, and being paid for it.

Of course, they were covered in tattoos, had vocabularies maxing out at 43 words and listened solely to rap music.

But other than that, we were brethren in satisfaction.

Well…they tended to not wear shirts, drove unreasonably lifted trucks, dated women with expensive breasts and cheap educations and their parties were, in the words of one of the folks attending, suspiciously like a gay porn film.

But other than all that, brethren in satisfaction.

I’m sitting in a hotel room, 90 minutes from home, off to make a bit of scratch for the rest of the month’s adventures. From the speakers, Beck. Outside, explosions.

As this is a holiday, there’s supposed to be reflection. This day is supposed to mean something to each and every one of us.

Maybe something about freedom. Or independence. Or how great the U.S. is. Or how, when I heard the president say that “this is the best country on the planet,” I actually thought about it. And figured maybe top five. Maybe. But number one? Canada, right there, that place has just got to be better.

My strongest memory of the fourth of July is the time we went to my great aunt’s house to shoot off some fireworks. I couldn’t have been older than seven as I set alight a weird blue spinning firework, that instead of staying in one place, spun its way under my great aunt’s car. We all braced ourselves for trouble, but it just spun under and out.

Such a thrill.

I hope you all saw something explode today. If not, there’s still the rest of your life. Go make it happen.

I am ready to bounce from the city and see some damn fireworks. I want hot dogs, piled onto hamburgers, piled onto red, white and blue BUNT CAKE. I will garnish heavily with Black Cats and M-80s. I will sleep in a cot made from farm fresh corn under a starry AMERICAN sky. I will dream of punching Osama’s lights out and of building Disneyland-Baghdad, effectively ending Middle East aggression with the introduction of Space Mountain. I will wake up and fill my dune buggy with PREMIUM twenty-dollar a gallon gas and drive it to the dairy hut with my babe. Hell, I’ll drive it THROUGH the dairy hut, right through the middle of it! I will make myself sick with America this coming weekend, and if for some reason I don’t make it back, know that I died in a country I love, stuffed with the very fruit of our land (and some fruits from China). God Bless America!