More video genius by Dave Grohl. (The man looks cooler in a mustache than Sam Elliot.) Banned from MTV Foo Fighters' vid

I'll quit bitching now.

The Farm gets serious for a moment.

I’m Scared, Tired, and Want to Go Home

When I lived in Seattle in 1999 I worked a shit temp job as a copy editor in a large white-shoe downtown law firm. It was a second-shift job, from 2 p.m. to 9 p.m., taking care of late-night documents that came through from midnight-oil burning young bucks, or ensuring that the lawyers had whatever they needed for meetings first thing in the morning. The work was tedious, difficult, and gawd-awful lonely. Parsing their jumbled legalese and ascertaining what their liberal rules toward grammar meant, was taxing, and the dim fluorescent-lit room they hid me in strained my eyes and sanity, and left me at the end of each shift with a headache so fierce I would have sworn I had just been beaten with a Louisville Slugger.

The 30-minute bus ride to and from the firm was an appreciated time for unwinding, and I would just read used books that I had bought from a small bookstore store close to my apartment on Capital Hill. Yes, the store had a mangy cat that would sidle between my legs and fire off my allergies.

Downtown Seattle is jarringly quiet at 8 p.m. Like many downtown areas, there is a clear demarcation between where people work and where they get drunk and try and pick each other up at hip bars and celebrity-owned pool halls. As the monolithic office buildings and the surrounding coffee shops and stores closed up, the downtown area shut down and assumed a horror movie’s eeriness. Taking quick and plentiful smoke breaks outside between inserting commas and semicolons, I’d stand on the sidewalk for a couple of minutes and sometimes not see a single freaking car and nary a flannel-clad longhair. Back inside, I worked toward quitting time like an automaton and looked forward to sinking into something more substantial and engaging than Mrs. Davis’ last will and testament.

The articulated bus home would show up around 9:20, but by 9:00 I couldn’t stand to stay in the firm’s office any longer and I had already eaten all the leftover M&Ms in the conference room the cleaning staff hadn't gotten to yet. I would go down to street level and sit on the bench at the bus stop with a dog-eared book of short stories or a reviewer’s copy of some shite bestseller from two years ago.

The streets would be dark. Too dark. In the distance I could hear the dull pulse of the congested highway. To my left, pools of color from the traffic lights would wash over the asphalt and scare the shit out of me because I watched too many B movies in my formative years. The buildings were looming giants waiting to lean over and smack me with their cellphone antennas. At times it would be downright ghostly, and any approaching footsteps would make me look up warily. I would hope that their owner would go passed the bus stop, but if they didn’t, I prayed these crazy fuckers could read.

There is something comforting to me about someone with a book. When a huge, scary dood in the shadows, just beyond my blurry peripheral vision, can be heard turning the thin pages of a dime-store detective novel, my heartbeat slows down enough to keep the looming heart attack at bay. When the hulking and pierced man wearing sunglasses at 9 p.m. with his Walkman blaring its cacophony of rap-metal sits next to me and pulls a tattered copy of Tom Wolfe’s “The Bonfire of the Vanities” from his coat, my eyes return to my own book’s pages.

I remember one man in particular. He was stooped and his Timberland boots were unlaced. He wore a T-shirt that advertised a gun store with pictures of assorted handguns and semi-automatics. There was a bull's eye on the back, for fuck's sake. He carried with him a large bag with a pair of camouflage pants poking out from it. I thought about moving down some on the bench but didn’t want to give him any reason for provocation. Reaching into the bag, beyond the fatigues, he removed an attractively ornate “graphic novel” with a series of line drawings on the cover (thinking back now, I wonder if it was a Chris Ware book; he woulda been on the cutting-fucking-edge!), slouched back, and began reading. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, I thought. A wolf won’t eat a wolf.

It didn’t matter what they were reading: pulp, literature, comic books, magazines, romances, sports biographies. As long as they were reading, they would be no harm to me. Perhaps I too looked as menacing and threatening to them (though seeing my fragile figure, you would strongly doubt it). But they felt like comrades. We let down our guard in front of each other, even on a darkened and empty urban street, when it arguably should have been at its highest state. With our attention thusly diverted, and our consciousness preoccupied, the act of reading was a trust bond. So long as it wasn't porn.

HAIKUS OF CELEBRITIES WE KNOW, HAVE MET, OR EVEN JUST SEEN ONCE, MAYBE ON THE STREET OR IN THE ELEVATOR

Drove Vonnegut to
the airport. Smoked like a fiend.
Filterless. So tough.

Tony Randall, who
Barbara says eyed me up, and
I: Odd couple, no?

Vonnegut, at my
sister's wedding. Good lord, that
guy can knock 'em back.

Walken, stopping to
hunt for change, but pocket bare.
Homeless guy sans fare.

High-schooled with IT girl
Chloe Sevigny. Tag! Not
IT any more now.

Saw "Cool World," a film.
Moby had a song in it.
Did not make film cool.

Butter and nutmeg in a ragu sauce!!? Only if you're a cretin.

Kids, Put Down Your Markers, Child Welfare's Here
It's different for kids these days. In my day, five-year-olds were expected to pitch in on the farm by digging post holes, posing for musket practice, and eating wild mushrooms to see which were poisonous. For Timmy and Jenny, life in the modern age is filled with fun and laughter. So what if dad's on the lam (or on fire) or if they run into bad trouble at special camp, these adorable scamps just get out a clean pad and some markers and tell their tales like a couple of pint-sized McCourts. The two individuals responsible for this are either twisted to the max or wicked smart. I'm betting on one of each.

Who the Hell is wasting money on this research. Some dudes in England figured out that two hot people make a better couple than one hot person and one dog. Don't they remember Julie Roberts and Lyle Lovett's brief charade? Clearly Lovett could do better. It's a no-brainer, doc.

Dammit. DJ Jammie is sold out.

My Guy of 34th Street
Over the course of our lives in the city, New Yorkers can expect, at some point, a sanitation strike, a neighbor who drives us to outrage, and a mentally unstable street guy who yells strange crap at us as we pass by. In most cases, not much good can come from the first two. But the third can be a valuable conduit to hidden truths. While not an obvious source of information, being called an “arrghen fuckweed” every day by Kris Kristofferson’s doppelganger, a guy who wouldn’t be dirtier if he slept naked in a coalmine, can be a window into others’ opinion of us. And who among us really doesn’t care what others think? Be honest.

My guy is a craggy gent, sporting an almost sea-worthy crustiness, who hangs out around E. 34th Street, about two blocks from my office. He’s an outspoken sort, a hybrid of Phil Donahue and Sonny Barger of the Hells Angels, with an angry, machine-gun ineloquence that cuts to the heart of things. No bullshit from this guy, especially when it comes to fellow pedestrians’ fashion choices and attitude. Walk by in a sharp business suit with your head held too high and your manicured paw around a leather attaché case and he’ll tag you a “scumbagyuppieshitfuck.” Sad-sack your way past with a hang-dog expression and a woe-is-me shuffle, and, bam: “jerkity-ragdollfuckloser.” I’d been, variously, “assholefaggotpissheadbitch,” “stupidfuckyuppie,” and “fuckingbitchassmotherfuck,” which, I presume, must have spoken to my wardrobe of casuals from J.Crew and longish hair, or – and I hope this isn’t the case – my halting gait.

In the year or two since I’ve been passing this guy, I noticed there are some outfits he approves of more than others. He seems to like, or at least suffer, polo shirts, especially worn untucked over boot-cut jeans. In business shirts, he only tolerates light blue – dark colored button-downs draw his ire like fireballs from a Roman candle. While jeans seem to be his first choice for pants, he will also allow those in dark dress slacks to pass without regard. He’s got a keen eye for self-loathing, and hates it as much as he hates arrogance. He is a man of balance and economy. He sees through our efforts to impress and occasional indifference to our own dignity and addresses those issues on the spot. Don’t expect polite charity from my guy – he cannot and will not lie to protect feelings.

The real question, then, is Have his comments helped me? In a way they have. As I became been more receptive to my guy’s tacit advice, I began falling further and further under his radar. Now, months later, he barely razzes me at all. Still, while reducing the street-level contact of a volatile misanthrope has been a positive outcome, I’m finding I miss his bile. While others get the best of his verbal blasts, like “dickheadfuckshitbastard,” I barely rate a mild “erumph.” I’ve found myself standing near his corner just to watch him work, noting the people who set him off and comparing his judgment to my own. As it turns out, we’re not so far off. Try to get that kind of insight after a couple of weeks without trash service.

S.E. Hinton sounds more like an insane bag lady than a writer. Rod McKuen, by buying back all the rights to his books and taking them out of print did us all a favor without us even knowing it. And Harper Lee is Boo Radley, or maybe she’s just a normal person – so hard to tell in this go-for-the-hyperbole age.

Where are they now?

An Irony Primer
LF.com often trades in irony. To help our readers understand us better (and thus the times we live in, for LF.com is nothing but a reflection of these days), we direct your attention to this wonderful (not meant ironically) piece by Zoe Wiliams in the Guardian. (You may have to sign in or register or something. Do it.)

Other things to note, however, about this article:
1. Brits have a funny way of saying things: (a) "set the video"; (b) Really Couldn't Be More Pleased That You've Lost a Stone"
2. Williams has a good take on rags like FHM: ". . . it's effectively saying "women are neither objects, nor non-objects – and here are some tits!"
3. Brits think Alanis Morissette (you knew she'd be in there somewhere) is American.

Unpatriotic
Why do we make fun of French hygiene when they have the bidet and we don't?