I’ve finally decided on, and registered the domain name for my website.

After months of deliberation, it’s going to be….

POPTARTICUS.

It’s done, don’t try to talk me out of it.

Other than that, not much, just working too much and getting ready for Sicily. Two and a half weeks to go.

In those times in my life when I don’t have to work – like vacation, and when I lived in Italy, I turn into a night creature. Right now it is 11:00 P.M. and I am totally exhausted because I have to work. And on the weekends if I stay up ’till 4:00 A.M. it kind of wrecks me the next day, because I don’t feel like I can sleep until noon and then start it all over again. This really sucks because I totally love being a night creature. And not like a night creature that WORKS at night. Only a night creature that gets to SEE at night.

The best things happen at 3:00 A.M. Things that not too many people see. There is nothing better than drinking wine in Piazza San Marco at 3:00 A.M., at a deserted cafe table at Florian’s, all the waiters and musicians home asleep, you with a Valpolicella in a paper bag. Extra points if it is a full moon, or if it is Acqua Alta, when the water seeps up around you until you are surrounded by a lake. The Basilica glows and eventually, you’ll have to be carried, or jump from chair to chair, to avoid getting wet on the way out.

3:00 A.M. smells like stale cigarettes and cheap Cognac, but sometimes that is the best smell in the world. It sounds like old David Bowie. 3:00 A.M. is best when all responsibility is gone, or even when it seems responsibility will never rear it’s ugly head again. 3:00 A.M. is the murmur of voices across the Campo, policeman voices, but they don’t want to bust you, instead they want to drink with you. The first two seconds of “Kid A,” seeing a tattoo clearly but nothing else, thinking everything is a dream, but maybe it’s not.

Just thinking about it makes me want it again. Just thinking about it gives me energy, because here is is 11:30, and I’m still awake…

I woke up thinking about trains. Well, not really trains but some of the people I have seen, or met, on trains.

I never remember people on airplanes. Some guy posted a comment on the Chow Bella Books website that he met me on a plane on the way to Venice. But I don’t remember meeting a guy on a plane on the way to Venice, at least recently.

So why is it that I have so many memories of train people? Is it because you are facing them for so long? In Austria and Germany it seemed every single person got a sandwich for the ride and ate it in front of me, getting crumbs and pieces of cheese and meat all over themselves. Then they’d get off at the next stop and the next sandwich-eating Austrian would get on.

Then there was the nun who let me sit next to her on a crowded Intercity train from Milan to Venice, in a seat reserved for someone else. I was so exhausted (I had just flown in) that I kept nodding off on her shoulder. Finally I passed out with my head on my suitcase. I bet all the people in that tiny car, remember me.

So I think I started thinking about all the train people because I woke up thinking about packing. I want to pack light, and I started thinking about this wacky couple I met on the Eurostar from Venice to Rome once. They had just got married, and they were on their honeymoon. She was a rich girl from Manhattan and she really stuck herself in my head because she said some really weird things, like how she never made her own coffee, but instead called a coffee shop and had it delivered. I sort of quizzed her down on this one – “you mean you call, and they bring a to-go cup of coffee to your front door EVERY DAY?” To me this just seems totally bizarre. For one thing, it is almost as easy to make a cup of coffee as it is to call someone on the phone and order it.

Another weird thing this girl told me is, she grew up in Manhattan but had never ridden on the subway or even taken a cab. She only went around in “private cars.” Hmmm. Why would you admit that to someone? If the end of the world comes, people like this are gonna be the first ones to go down.

Mostly though I remember this couple for their insane amount of luggage. And their itinerary. They had each chosen three cities they wanted to visit. So they had been to Paris, had just left Venice (the husband complained about the price of the breakfast at the Danieli hotel – I looked at him, looked at her, and thought homie, just get ready for more of the same) and were on the way to Rome. But from Rome, they were going to Athens, then SHANGHAI. I forget the other city – St. Petersburg? Copenhagen? Buenos Aires? Something like that.

They had trunks. They actually had TRUNKS. I thought trunks went out in the 1930’s. They had two or three trunks, and a few suitcases, and who knows what else. The husband had to keep getting up to go and “check on the trunks.”

I can’t even imagine carrying around that much stuff through Termini station, much less from Athens to Shanghai. But I guess if you can call and have your coffee delivered every day, you aren’t going to be the one doing the moving and lifting. That poor guy, he might have married into money but she’s going to make him work for it.

As for me, I’m packing light. Though I think I might bring a boom-box on this trip.

It’s raining again. Here is San Diego, we aren’t really equipped with patience to outlast the rain. I, personally, am SO over it.

Also, I have been a little perturbed the past few days, because one of my favorite bands, Mercury Rev, have released a new record and it is available like everywhere but HERE. Everyone else in the world can get this record but here in the U.S. we have to wait until May!

There is one thing I have to say about this: FUCK THAT. I love this band and there is no reason why I should have to wait. But…

I learned a new trick today. Did you know you can buy stuff on amazon.com.uk and have it shipped here? I had no idea, until a couple of hours ago. It’s pretty damn cool, let me tell you.

I am pretty fucking clueless sometimes. Who knows the stress I might have saved myself just knowing amazon.com.uk ships to the States. Golly knows with all the time I spend on the internet, I should already be in tune with this simple little fact.

But still, why is Mercury Rev holding out on me like that? What is Up with THAT? I can’t be mad at them – surely it is some bonehead record deal thing that is stalling the release here in the States.

Mercury Rev is touring Europe when I will be over there. So this is a special message for Grasshopper – Dude, PLEASE PLAY IN ITALY AFTER YOU ARE DONE IN GERMANY. Also, if you should find yourself in Venice while I am there, I will show you around. I know you like Venice because I have seen that picture where you are drinking Heineken in a gondola.

My brother called me today, to tell me he wanted to take me to B.B. King for my upcoming birthday, but I have to work that night. So he said, well, you have a date for Mercury Rev, whenever they come back. My brother, who doesn’t get the music I listen to, understands that Mercury Rev are something special.

And Hopper, when you get back to San Diego, I will make you guys a kick ass veggie meal, way better than those burritos we got on the street. All you have to do is ask.

I am feeling awfully distracted these days. Life seems to be throwing some curveballs, only I have a feeling the catcher is whispering premonitions in my ear.

Went out and spent some money on CDs though, which always makes me feel better. Also, had a feeling my brother was at Tony’s bar, and went there, and there he was. Even hanging with my brother, I felt I was hanging on the edge.

Maybe it is just that I am leaving soon. That pre-boarding jitter thing; the feeling that something is left undone. If so, a valium on the plane (or before) will take care of that. Or maybe there is some weird static in the air here. Things not yet done, not yet said; things that would be better off not done or said.

I dreamed about Jeff Tweedy this morning. He slept with some chick and I was pissed off. Then I found myself living in a motel on a busy street in San Francisco, sort of like Masonic and Geary-ish. I was fretting all night, in my dreams.

Today I was in Staples buying some shipping supplies and the checker-outer was not too with it, or tired or something, and he kept ringing up the same thing over and over, then voiding it. It took forever and finally, he finished but the item he kept ringing and voiding totally voided off my bill. I struggled within myself – should I tell this guy he didn’t charge me for this roll of bubble-wrap? Or will it take another half hour to fix it? Should I feel guilty for screwing Staples?

I got my change and receipt but then looked it over and told the guy he hadn’t charged me for the thing he’d charged and voided eight times. And gave him the money. That’s pretty silly, isn’t it?

I wish I could make sense out of all of this.

Here it is, my home in Rome. I am totally stoked. This place is a stellar deal compared to renting a hotel room in Rome. And there is a STEREO.

I love waking up whenever I want to in Italy and making my own coffee. That alone is reason enough to rent an apartment instead of a hotel.

During my first trip to Italy, I went to a restaurant in Trastevere where you you walked up this long staircase lit by candles to the dining room, and there it was that I had my very first Italian pizza. It was like eating in a castle and it was like eating a revelation. Then I ate some profiteroles (another revelation.) I will never, ever forget that meal and I want to go back and find that restaurant. In fact, I think I might not even leave Trastevere on this trip, since I have never really explored it.

On a domestic note, today I saw a woman in the supermarket with huge fake tits and a tight black T-Shirt that said, in rhinestones, BOTOX. I kid you not.

I’ve been spending a lot of time at The Vine. If one more person says “it’s like Your ‘Cheers’ ” I am gonna smack ’em. (Kidding.) Last night I was in there way too long and it was a fun, also interesting, evening. One of the other uber-regulars is the guy who owns the hair salon next door, and for some reason we had never spoken, even though I know he’s been wanting to talk hair in the past, as I had seen him looking at mine on several occasions.

Last night we hooked it up. He doesn’t like my hair, doesn’t work with my skin tone, I was all ready to hate him but I couldn’t, because he was pretty funny. Here’s a little example – he said to Sky, the bartender, “if you were snorting cocaine, wouldn’t you like to do it off her breasts?” I guess some women might get offended, but I thought it was pretty effing funny. Poor Sky, he really gets to witness some pretty bizarre behavior (some of it mine, I think.)

So anyway this salon guy (who may or may not be gay) has a new plan for my hair. All night he kept repeating the following mantra:

Dark Blue. Green. VIOLET VIOLET VIOLET!

Some of the Violets were accentuated by fist-on-the-bar-poundage.

So essentially, streaks of these colors with some reds thrown in. I must admit, I am tempted. For one thing, I have always wanted to do the streaks of green thing, but I’ve never had the cajones to do it. We shall see.

It was a rough morning, and I got nothing done. Oh well, there is always tomorrow. Until then:

Dark Blue. Green. VIOLET VIOLET VIOLET!

Last night, I was sitting in The Vine with a couple of the guys who work there, and the sun went down and it was beautiful. For a second I was sort of bummed there will probably be no more rain, because I remember lots of happy afternoons sitting in The Vine watching the rain fall. But then I remembered how sick of the rain I was getting.

Now it is beautiful here. The skies are deep blue, the Santa Ana winds are blowing all the palm trees around. At night I can still hear the waves crashing. It is the time in-between Winter and Spring.

In one month from Sunday I leave for Italy. My Rome crash-pad has dissolved, so now I am obsessed with finding a cool spot to stay for my three or four days there. My problem is, I keep thinking of those heady days when it was 2200 Lire to the dollar. 50 Euro was $40. Or something like that. And it seems to be high season already. So of course, me being me, I am like “why pay that much for a hotel when I can have a whole apartment?”

Right now I have got it down to a place in Testaccio right on the river and two places in Trastevere. I am waiting to hear back – I hope the place in Testaccio is available because it looks hella cool. When I make that final plan, I will report back.

Nothing going on here this weekend except housecleaning, garage sale-ing, cliff sitting, and wine bar hanging. Oh, and some preliminary packing. I can’t wait for four o’clock.

I have disabled the function that makes it so you have to register to comment here. No one could figure out the registering part. Except for one person, Southern France livin’, Scotch swillin’ Gulley Jimson. Or maybe no one like, uh, wanted to comment. Whatever. The only thing is I have to approve all comments now before they are posted so if you DO comment, give me some time (days, weeks) before you try to post the same comment again. In other words it is not instantaneous.

On the fuckU2 front, their fans are Really Pissed Off. I guess U2 management had some thingy where people paid $40 to join a fan club that would guarantee good tickets to their shows. So those poor fools were out $40 ON TOP OF the battering they took with the high ticket prices! Greed! It makes me want to like, totally vomit.

I watched “The Last Days of Pompeii” on the Discovery Channel tonight. Gotta love those Shakespearean accents of the Pompeiians. There was one dude, a slimy, moneygrubbing, slave-screwing guy who ran into his house yelling for his wife/slaves “FORTUNATA… RESTITUTIOUS…” were those really Roman names? Totally cracked me up. I did learn a little though, like how all those floating rocks came out of the sky. I didn’t know about the floating rocks before. But to be honest, there isn’t a whole lot I know about. Maybe I should watch the Discovery Channel more, then I can learn to imitate a Shakespearean-type British person. I am going to start practicing that one, right now.

Disgusting.
$130 for a ticket!
(On phone.) Tom. I got there right at 10:00 and all they had was seats in the back. And they were ONE HUNDRED THIRTY DOLLARS EACH. So I said fuck it.
(Hanging up.) If I was a U2 fan, like Tom, I would be on the ground crying because my band is not only putting out crappy records, but they are also screwing their fans.
Yep, no more ‘band of the people” I guess.
Poo-2. FuckYou2.
I remember when U2 used to play for FREE.
Those days are clearly gone.
I bet the Pope doesn’t even charge that much.
The Pope charges?
OK, well, not the Pope.
Celine Dion charges that much. Also Madonna.
Celine Dion doesn?t count. I wouldn’t pay $10 to see her, even if she had a real fire-breathing dragon on stage.
I’d probably pay $130 to see Frank Sinatra.
Frank Sinatra is dead.
EXACTLY.
Elvis! I’d pay that much to see Elvis.
Or the Beatles!
I’d pay that much to see Macca at the Red Square but only if they threw a plane ticket to Moscow in.
You are not British. Please stop talking like a British person.
I reckon it’s OK to talk like a British person, if you aren’t trying to fake an accent, like Madonna.
I wonder if when Madonna gets hammered, she lapses into a Cockney accent?
Blimey. What a thought.
STOP TALKING LIKE A BRITISH PERSON.
Let’s not forget you paid $500 to see Radiohead once.
Yeah, but that included gas and a hotel room in L.A.
Those were the early days of ebay, I don’t think they had the “Buy it Now” feature at that point.
Let’s not forget that it was that ticket that eventually lead to me living in Venice. I wouldn’t be the renowned authority on Venice bars if I hadn’t bought that ticket.
That $285 dollar ticket.
Radiohead didn’t charge that much, the holder of the ticket did.
Radiohead wouldn’t screw their fans like that.
We are treading in potentially boring material here.
Speaking of British people, I wonder if you can be Prime Minister if you are Irish?
Bono as Prime Minister. Maybe that’s why he shook George Bush’s hand!
He wants to be more than a pop star, that’s pretty clear.
In the words of Jeff Tweedy: “What you once were, isn?t what you want to be, anymore.”
Now he is just a world figure raping his fans with high ticket prices.
Yes. Let’s not get into “How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb.”
Complete and utter crap.
That has got to be the boringest record ever. Who are they trying to kid?
Don’t forget, most people are sheep.
You’d have to be a sheep to buy that piece of crap.
I think you are running the risk of pissing off a lot of sheep right now.
Good, they should take the piss if they bought that stupid, boring record.
Take the piss? You can’t stop talking like a British person, can you?
So I wonder how many piss-taking sheep are going to spend $500 on ebay to get one of those tickets?
Lots of forty-something clueless fucks will, you can be sure.
I think you are running the risk of pissing off a lot of forty-somethings right now.
Remember that Prince concert where all the people starting cheering because they thought the opening act was Prince?
Yes, I’d imagine the same crowd will be at the U2 concert.
Hey, I bet a lot of them will get laid for the first time in a long time, that night.
Hey, now that I think about it, I’d pay $130 if I could get a seat close enough to see Adam Clayton’s package.
Row 8?
That would probably do it.
You’d have to be like, in the pit to see Bono’s package!
I think you are running the risk of really pissing off Bono here.
Yeah, but not Adam Clayton, and he is the only U2 who matters.
Just because of his package?
Pretty much. A better meaning for “what a fucking dick.”
I use to really love “The Unforgettable Fire.”
Pretty much everything since has been Pretty Forgettable.
Na ah. What about that other record? The huge one? I used to listen to it all the time.
Joshua Tree.
Oh yeah. I think I traded that one in for a Pearl Jam record.
What about Zooropa?
Zooropa? Snoozeropa is more like it.
In the words of Johnny Rotten, “fucking boring, Sidney! Exterminate! Exterminate!”
That wasn’t Johnny Rotten, that was a movie about Sid Vicious.
Yeah, but it is fun to say that. If you are totally into talking like a British person, that is.
In the words of the Super Furry Animals: “move you, buy and sell you, terrorize you, mass destruct you.”
U2 ought to listen to “Phantom Power” so they can hear what a good pop record is suppose to be like.
“Flaunt you, disconnect you, cluster-fuck you, we will crush you.”
Well, I am not sure what it all means, but it sure sounds good.
All the sheep heard that tiny bit of the U2 record on that Ipod commercial and thought their record was good all the way through.
And only that tiny bit was OK. Even the rest of the song sucked!
Sellouts.
Yep, they can’t go around saying they aren’t sellouts anymore.
Um, anyone who shakes George Bush?s hand?
You’d shake it.
No I wouldn’t.
Yes you would.
No.
Yes.
Don’t you know it is impossible to win an argument with yourself?
Whatever.

Argh. I just wrote a Really Long Entry and it is all gone. Somehow, some way, some Hamptons Inn Business Center Void. All gone. FUCK.

Anyway I am halfway into my trip and I won’t go all lyrical this time except to say I have been listing to OK Computer over and over, and a little Sonic Youth and plenty of Wilco, also the Arcade Fire. I have to on these long trips and I think of CDs I might make for a current crush, while vineyards and the ocean pass by in a blur.

I am tired and refreshed at the same time. Can’t really figure that one out.

Yesterday I was in my hometown and went to the bar in the harbor where I once spent some time as a Harbor Rat. This is what you call kids who live on boats. I lived on a three masted schooner and I hated it, though I do have lots of interesting, also beautiful, memories of that time. Behind the bar was a guy I played with as a young Harbor Rat. Odd, to see him hassling his employees for being late at the age of 39, thirty-odd years later. He was like, don’t you remember how great it was growing up in the harbor? I was like, fuck no. I was at the age where I needed my own room, also a shower. Also, I remember totally torturing that guy. There are these giant hooks on the pier, that swing over the water to pull the crates of fish off the fishing boats. We (me, my brothers, and the other Evil Harbor Rats) would be like, hey, grab onto this hook! And that guy would always do it. We would then swing him over the water and let him dangle there for awhile. I can’t really understand why my old harbor friend, now tending bar at his family place, doesn’t remember all those times hanging on a hook. Instead he remembers the good times, like trying to hook seagulls with your fishing pole. A different kind of torture.

I sometimes think about moving back to my hometown. The streets and smells and people are all ingrained in me. And my current home is sort of like my childhood home, without the fog, with added palm trees. It’s kind of cool to go to a bar where the bartender is someone you tortured as a child and the waitress is your best friend from the fourth grade. And that when you talk to them you remember things that happened a long time ago, when you don’t normally remember what happened yesterday.

And now I am going to save this, in case it slips away.