I'm using the intraweb to help me Make a Complete Map of Every Thought I Think.

So far, I've only mapped two:

1) My leg hurts.
2) I'm dizzy.


I'm working on it.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 12:39 PM ] |

If you want to have fun, try going to The Whiskey Bend in Burbank when Beatles tribute band Hard Day's Night is playing. They bash through all your favorite Beatles classics, and even have a go at some of the more complicated, later Beatles material.

Last year, Robyn was in a film that parodied Hard Days Night, and she thought Hard Day's Night (the band) was the band in her film. So between sets, she asked them about it. Turns out it was another L.A. based Beatles tribute group. I think the two faux-fours should fight for ultimate supremacy.

After the show, fake Paul invited me to see Hard Days Night open for Candy O, a Cars tribute combo, at BB King's. I think I'll do it, even though BB King's is at Universal City Walk, and going to City Walk is like a living nightmare. Still, the fake Beatles opening for the fake Cars at a fake blues club in the middle of a re-creation of the fake-est city on earth? Yeah. That appeals to my sensibilities.

And-- Katie and Dave, our good pals, are moving to Minneapolis. We will miss them, but we are glad they are making a little home for themselves somewhere where it is possible to live a happy life, far away from Los Angeles.

(i am no diane arbus)

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 11:06 PM ] |

Robyn and I went to the impressively comprehensive Diane Arbus exhibit at LACMA today. Overheard this in the room devoted to Arbus's photos of mental patients and retarded people:

Skinny Woman: I don't know, I mean the subjects are grotesque, but...

Bearded Man (angrily): But what's the point? There's no point.

It's nice that those photos can still make people uncomfortable enough to be that defensive.

Also, Robyn took this funny picture on the drive home:



Looks like the new Hollywood Highland mall was having a few problems with their big expensive sign. Maybe they should have used a Mac.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 6:32 PM ] |

This is Andrew. He is soon to turn 16. He was born in 1988. I graduated High School that year.

We went to Garden of Taxco together. The guitarist played "One Ton Tomato," my favorite Cuban folk song.



"Not hot. Spp-ii-iii-cy"

Also: I've grown a full, bushy, fisherman's beard because I'm legit.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 11:52 PM ] |

I bought the suspensionofdisbelief.net domain name because I was inspired by craigslist. I thought it would be funny to answer the most ridiculous internet classified ads I could find, and pretend to be amazingly qualified and interested in whatever dumbass "opportunity" was being offered. Hence the suspension of disbelief needed to accept that, say, James Cameron was interested in directing a student film some idiot wrote. Of course, I was planning to post the results of the emails for others to enjoy.

I found out quickly that I don't have the stomach for mocking people on the Internet, even if they are assholes. Answering a few ads revealed posters who were just trying to get by in the world like everyone else. Even if their attempts to navigate Capitalism involved exploiting the gullible and desperate of Los Angeles, they were, like me, just some animal clinging to this planet trying to come up with a steady source of food. So I decided to leave mocking strangers to those better at it than I.

Still, If you ever want to wallow in the true despair of Los Angeles, check out craigslist's help wanted section for writers and editors. I write for a living--even if I'm paid by an infamous industry--so in a sense, I'm better off than the thousands of people who answer these ads. I read them everyday anyway, like every underemployed/hopeful writer in Hollywood (er...North Hollywood). The desperation is everywhere in this town, impossible to avoid, like traffic and smog, but it's right there in black and white on Craigslist.

From today's listings:

A "freelance writer for the teen market" wanted. 50 an hour salary. How many stunted 45 year old L.A. cab drivers, dreaming of half a hundred an hour, have replied explaining desperately that their background fits perfectly with a teen demographic? A million? A trillion?

How about an ad for a Script Reader/Analyst. Sounds like an okay gig, but here's the catch: You do coverage on 20 scripts for free, then Jeff Norman "screenwriting columnist for 'Drama-Logue' and 'Creative Screenwriting' magazines will perform an extensive evaluation of one of your screenplays." Wow, thanks, Greg Norman! What a fucking humanitarian you are! You're a columnist for two crappy "writing magazines," and you'll agree to read my script and tell me if you like it, and all I need to do is your job for you? Sounds like an offer I can't possibly refuse.

Or, on the other side of the coin, how about these people:

Writing duo in search of representation for selling of literary works. . Finished screenplays include zombie movie, an action/adventure, and an action/comedy. Works in progress include historical action (think The Patriot) and a sci-fi trilogy, as well as a satirical cookbook.

I'm sure dozens of literary agents are scouring craigslist, looking for the perfect sci-fi trilogy, zombie movie or "satirical cookbook" to rep. It's a sure-hit, right? When people want to cook clams casino, they need some satire with the ingredients list, right? huh? huh?

Anyway, it's a little too depressing to think about right now. And my friend Marty already writes better dissections of craigslist ads than I do. So I won't bother any more.

Speaking of Marty, he and I went to have a drink and see Spotless Mind of the Upset Stomach or whatever last night. I overheard this at Los Feliz's Good Luck Bar while waiting for Marty to show: A young lady had left her credit card at the bar the week before, and, upon returning to retrieve it, was presented with her 7 day old bar tab. She said, "Shit, I can't believe we spent 340 bucks...and I didn't even get laid."

funny?

Also, I hate to admit this at my advanced age, but I have a crush on Kirsten Dunst.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 7:37 PM ] |

In the event that my opinion of current horror movies is of interest to you, may I suggest you read my witty, brilliant ruminations on Dawn of the Dead?

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 9:38 AM ] |

My weekend was a perfect mix of 3-year olds, drinks and the walking dead.

If you need reassurance that you should continue living in spite of the misery of your existence, I suggest going to a 3-year-old's pirate themed birthday party and leading a gaggle of toddlers on a treasure hunt through the backyard. It's life-affirming and totally Chicken-Soup-for-the-Soul and shit. Plus, children are very, very stupid, and you can have great effects on their internal lives without even trying. All I did was put on a hat and eyepatch and speak with an exaggerated pirate voice, and it was like a Paris Hilton walked into a grown-ups party—everyone was shocked into silence and craning their neck to get a glimpse of Cap't Blood McBlood. Some of the kids giggled, and some hid behind adults, but everyone under five was mesmerized by a pirate whose whole scthick consisted of a store-bought eyepatch, a hat and saying "aaarrrgh!" a lot. It was that easy. If I could do that to adults, I'd con you out of your life savings by showing you a puppy.

Later, the Johnson and the Gamble families packed up the babies and grandmas and the grandpas and uncles and aunts and got some steak at Harry's, a venerable, red Naugahyde, old-man style bar and restaurant in Santa Barbara. I have it on very shaky authority that vodka contains no carbs, so it's a delicious and dietetic intoxicant for me to enjoy. I boozed it up, but who among you would blame me?

Also: Sunday was all about zombies! We saw the new Dawn of the Dead,, which is such a total zombie blowout that I nearly wept. Seriously, I had a lump in my throat. You can read my full review on Darkworlds.com. It'll be up soon.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 6:00 AM ] |

A brightly colored box labeled "The Motivational Box" appeared in my company's break room yesterday. The card on it read:

"Introducing the Motivational Box: Created to bring the employees of our company closer together through activities suggested by each and everyone of us as a reward for our teamwork and individual efforts in maintaining a positive and productive company. Please share some of your thoughts and ideas. On a piece of paper write an activities that you would like to experience with the company and drop it in."

Fantastic! On a piece of paper I will write an activity and drop it in. Maybe I will write several. My thoughts and input are valued at the company I work for. Other companies should take note of these motivational techniques to energize their employees and create a more positive, pleasant working environment.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 8:04 PM ] |

I went hiking yesterday on the Rocky Peak trail to check out the damage from the apocalyptic fire that most of LA seemed to have ignored a few months back.

The rocky landscape was scattered with gnarled, blackened bushes and trees. The hillside had been on fire only six months ago, but along the ground were patches of bright green, brand new grass--a result of LA’s latest rainy season. Eerie and beautiful. Otherworldly, even.

Once out of earshot of the 118 Freeway, I caught sight of a couple of vultures high up on some rocks making guttural vulture-noises. I had my digital camera with me and thought I'd make a little movie of the carrion-eating birds. No go. Wind screwed up the sound, backlit grainy picture destroyed the vultures. Nothing but some rocklike shapes and some black blobs moving high in the sky.

When I was 17 and was just starting to smoke pot, a couple of friends and I were hanging out in someone's backyard, toking up on a summer evening. We got very, very high, and were enthralled with the full moon in the way that only teenagers smoking weed can be enthralled with something. My friend Paul thought he'd take a picture of the moon, because it was, "the coolest thing ever." And ended up shooting a whole roll of film.

Of course, when the film was developed, little of the coolness of the moon transferred to the snapshots, and he ended up with 24 badly framed photos of the same old moon in the same old suburban backyard we had always known.
It was like that with the movie of the vultures. And a lot of what I do.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 7:08 AM ] |

According to my HMO, I'm only allowed to see doctors who don't speak English and who work in filthy slums, so I don't get many checkups these days. The last time I saw my "Primary Care Physician" was around 8 months ago. Dr. Charchian works in a clinic full of Armenians in Glendale. He doesn’t harangue me about Never Forgetting the Armenian Holocaust of 1915!, which is good, and his thick Eastern European/Yiddish accent is nice to listen to. Here's a web bio on Dr. Charchian: "Dr. Charchian, at an impressionable young age, saw many family members die of smallpox. This, and a need to help, steered him toward the medical profession. Seeing smiles on his well patients’ faces makes him happy."

I like making people happy, and I'm not one of those white people who imagines that "foreign" people are unfit to administer medical care, so I think Dr. Charchian is a great doctor, in spite of his squalid office. (Seriously, there were live chickens in a coop in the waiting room).

One of the first things he said to me in his little medical cubicle/exam-room thing was, "When you vere tah child, you had tah Hepatitis, yes?"

I'm all, "No…."

He says, "I can see by tah yellow in your eyes this is so. Maybe you don't know when you vere a child you had this Hepatitis?" Hepatitis is a disease that rockstars and Pam Anderson get, and I had it when I was a child…before it was cool. That's another plus for Doctor Charchian. Anyway, when he'd finished scaring me about liver swelling, Dr. Charchian stopped and poked my stomach and remarked, "You have too much fat on you."

What do you say to that? He's blunt, but honest. Just like you would expect from a doctor, he's all, "eat less food. Except vegetables. Eat more of those…then you not so fat, yes?" He also said people in America make too big a deal about exercise and not to worry about it too much. Cool! I can follow that advice easily.

So I mulled over his wisdom for a few months and decided to go on that Atkins diet where you eat steaks and olive oil all day but have to avoid carrots and grain and watch your lettuce intake very carefully. So far, so good. I've lost more than five pounds in four days, and have an entire fridge full of porkchops and exotic cheese. I eat thick steaks slathered in sautéed mushrooms and wash it down with buttermilk and deviled eggs and I'm still dropping pounds. It's very carnivorous and exciting, I have to tell you.

Speaking of fat people: I stumbled across this site that I really dig: www.biggirlbigstuff.com. It's a tour diary of some fat ladies who travel around the largely useless middle states of the U.S. and take pictures of themselves next to huge, roadside pop-art statues— I dig the fat ladies and the big fiberglass Paul Bunyans. It's wacky, poignant and sort of subversive, especially in thin-obsessed L.A., to see some people of size making themselves public on the Web. "Even the biggest girl on a tour is small compared to the BIG stuff," states their website. "Personal size becomes irrelevant in this roadside realm. Maybe this can transcend to the rest of our world?" Right on. If I turn fat-positive enough myself, I'll go nuts and eat a slice of bread.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 9:06 AM ] |

The fun day at work.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 4:54 PM ] |

I went to see Robyn's newest comedy venture last night, Tiny Bandeleros, an eight-member improv trizzoupe who perform every Wednesday night at 8 at a divey theater-space above the Lava Lounge in Hollywood.

I liked this chick called Jenny Purple because she was wearing purple, glittery clothing and purple fishnet stockings over purple tights. You don't even have to talk to Jenny Purple to know that she wears purple clothes every single day of her life. I salute Jenny Purple's full-scale committment to quirkiness and monochromatics.

Although the Tiny Bandeleros were a very talented group of young people who made me laugh very hard, the best line of the evening belonged to the semi-homeless-semi-rock-and-roll Hollywood lout hanging around outside the venue annoying strangers with his hardcore-ness. "I'm torn between sobriety and sleeping with drunk girls I meet in bars," he said to the disinterested middle-aged man standing in front of the liquor store.

Hollywood is fun.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 11:04 AM ] |

Look! It's me and Norwood Fisher of Fishbone acting stupid.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 5:06 PM ] |

Look! I'm Wasting My Life Playing Video Games! (Part one of 1,334)



After a trying day with my family, nostaligia inspired me to buy a collection of 1980s Intellivision games for my PS2.

I didn't realize it back in the day, but Intellivision is the fussiest game system ever invented. From the delicate, 9-button, silver-disc controller to the passel of games with high-end graphics and no playability, to the use of George Plimpton(!) as a pitchman, Intellivision was all bitch. Even the carts scream "rarified tastes." Along with arcade rip-offs--Atari owned the rights to all the quarter-eating favorites, so Intellivions offered AstroSmash instead of Asteroids--Intellivison featured a full selection of card games and impossible to understand simulations, as if kids wanted videogame systems so they could pretend to design a perfect society or play bridge.

But I guess something about George Plimpton's mad advertisng skillz got to me at the time, because I wanted an Intellivision. Bad. Too bad the thing cost 300 bucks in 1979 money and I already had a TRS-80. I didn't even bother asking for one of my own, but I played it at some rich kid's house, and I was predictably jealous at the over-amped graphics and the complicated controller. I didn't spend enough time on the thing to realize what a fraud it was--all mustard and no hot dog. Every interface is too complicated, the controls don't respond half the time and, worst of all, of the 60 titles on the Intellivision Lives! PS2 disc, I'd say about 80% are irredeemably bad. The cluttered visuals and sluggish controls of almost ever title speak of designers overreaching their technology. Like the bloatware of today.

Anyway, now I'm old, and who cares what I think about videogames? Who cares about anything?

Intellivisionlives.com described George Plimptom as "Mr. Intellivision" when reporting his death. I'm sure he's proud.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 9:01 PM ] |

Do you have the kind of question that only Chris De Burgh can answer?

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 8:06 PM ] |

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 11:06 PM ] |

The new phone books are here! The new phone books are here!

According to my lab, Google-robot visited my site yesterday. It's just this kind of exposure that will launch me into the stratosphere of the Intracyberweb community.

Also: here is part one of my 24,900 part cycle: "Other Stephen Johnsons listed on Google." in which I will be comparing myself to every other Stephen Johnson on the internet.


This Stephen Johnson is a Beverly Hills clinical psychologist. Dr. Johnson is the founder and director of the Men’s Center of Los Angeles. According to his website, he "has conducted workshops and retreats for men and women for over twenty-five years. While his semi-annual Sacred Path Retreat for men has just completed 15 years of service to the men’s community."

"My wife of 25 years and I have co-parented three children ages 18-23," Dr. Johnson writes. "And I am a strong advocate for family values and harmonious relationships."

Hey! I'm a strong advocate for harmonious relationships too!

BOTTOM LINE: This Stephen Johnson is better-adjusted and has a more money than I will ever have.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 6:49 AM ] |

I stole this photo from the joinedlight forum. It was taken by the Mars Probe, and clearly shows a number 19 on Mars. Also, the number 19 is masturbating.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 11:27 AM ] |

It's the early to mid 30s for everyone I hang around with, and we're moving outwards from Los Angeles proper to parts of town that once seemed unthinkably banal. To paraphrase Marichelle Daywalt, when you're 24 you don't want to live somewhere boring, but when you're 34, boring becomes "stressless" and the idea of being able to park your car in an actual parking lot and not hear gunshots in the middle of the night trumps the convenience of readily available art movie houses and hipster restaurants.

Plus the babies. Suddenly there are babies in various stages of pre and post-production all around me: from The Untitled Thran-Horowitz Project to Viv and John Crye's Maddox!, who's 27 years old. When you have babies, you sort of have to live somewhere stable and safe. A few years ago, I lived in squalid flophouse in a bad part of Hollywood. It was fine for an unemployed bachelor --inexpensive and always exciting, with people being chased down the alleyway nightly, raucous 3AM arguments and LAPD helicopter fly-bys making our community feel oh-so-safe--but the people who were raising small-children in that place's roach-infested one room "efficiency" apartments had it pretty rough, even if there were several indie-coffee shops within easy walking distance.

Obviously you try not to curse around the youngsters, or talk about sex or how many people you've murdered. You have to act like The Dad and The Mom, authoritative and knowledgeable, confident and wise. Lucky for us, kids are stupid. They'll buy anything you're selling, so the idea of Dad as Nietzschean Ubermensch, righteous-and-pure-of-heart-and-mind seems reasonable. The fake-Aunts and Fake-Uncles that make up the Urban Village know better, though. Sure, now you're patiently explaining, "Dear, you mustn't smear the mustard in your hair," but we remember seeing Dad hugging a toilet bowl in a college dormitory restroom after ill-advised experiments with Goldschlager, Everclear and that weird girl who wore all black and never talked to anyone--that guy would have been down with the mustard hair. Keeping that kind of thing quiet is in everyone's best interest, though, I guess. Without benevolent lying, who would we look up to?

In the odd chance that anyone cares, my weekend was the perfect mixture of playing Vice City and shooting up, and at no point did I imagine myself with a little house and a little family out in the suburbs driving a Volvo station wagon and working on my lawn. I'm living on the Cutting. Edge. Or something.

   [ POSTED BY Steve Johnson @ 6:59 PM ] |