I just wanted to pop on here and say something that's been eating at me since I watched this movie last night:

The Machinist is the kind of movie that David Lynch would make if David Lynch actually knew how to write a movie instead of a string of unrelated creepy encounters. I actually got really pissed off about halfway through the movie because I could taste the Lynch in the air. Too much crap happening with no explanation. To many odd coincidences that didn't really actually coincide with anything once you thought about them for long enough. To much self-referential crap that didn't reference anything except a reference you noticed earlier.

Then, BAM! The writer actually wrote an ending! That's right, when it was all said and done, it all made sense. You hear that David Lynch, you fucking hack? I could have a monkey write a 200 page script that is nothing but weird shit happening over and over if it never had to be tied together.

Now, this isn't to rag on people who like David Lynch. That would be like blaming the victim in a rape. Over a lifetime of conditioning by authors the likes of Kafka and Dahl, we have somehow been led to believe that if there are enough creepy non-sequiturs in a story then it's automatically good. No. It's not. It's a bunch of bullshit.

In conclusion, The Machinist is a pretty damn good movie and David Lynch is pretty good at pissing me off by making me wait for a resolution that I know will never come. But the lesbian action in Mulholland Drive was pretty awesome.

I'd like to tell you all about my dream last night. Usually I don't relay dreams to people because I know when people start recounting their "crazy dreams" to me I begin to zone out around the 4 second mark. The difference here is that I told it to Scott, Brenda, and Kim, and all involved were laughing quite heartily, so I figured it was a keeper.

I'm sitting down having a drink in a trendy bar surrounded by the young and beautiful. I slowly realize that everyone is drinking "P. Pueblo" brand tequila and having a blast. In walks a gentleman of the Latino persuasion, quite debonair in the vein of Marc Anthony, wearing a white suit with a white fedora. For some reason that only exists in dream logic, I know his name is also P. Pueblo.

All of a sudden I am sitting in a commercial for P. Pueblo brand tequila being pushed by the company's stylish spokesman, P. Pueblo himself. Everyone's having a great time and greeting him, and every time someone acknowledges him by saying something like, "Hey, P!", he strikes a pose involving a very excited finger point to the person and yells in his exaggerated Mexican accent, "a P. Pueblo for you!!!"

He jaunts through the bar throwing out this catch phrase multiple times before he gets to my general vicinity and flops down on the bar stool next to me. At this point I notice an adolescent girl standing outside the door, and she yells, "Can I come in?" P. Pueblo lifts a hand in the air and says "a P. Pueblo for the teenager!" The music stops and everyone in the bar gasps in disgust. He pauses and says, "Just kidding!" The music kicks backs in and everyone continues partying.

I've gotten quite a few phone calls from friends wondering what the word around the watercooler is about what Hurricane Dennis is going to do. I suppose because of the nature of the company I work for, people assume we have some sort of "Spidey Sense" about what's going to happen. It's not entirely true, but people here are more firm with their gut feelings about these things than other people I've talked to.

Anyway, I'll keep it all here so that I don't have to make a thousand phone calls. As of right now, no one here expects this to turn head for New Orleans. If things change for the worse, I'll be contacted Saturday around noon with evacuation instructions and I'll be sure to update everyone here.

I repeat, there are no plans to leave at this moment and everyone involved here at work is pretty sure it's headed for the Pensicola area. Over and out.

Last night, Miss Loopie's fellow employees decided that there needed to be a work excursion type thing, so I got to go to the Hookah Cafe.

It's a pretty cool place. Nice "garden of a thousand delights" type decor. Pillows and low tables and vaguely middle-eastern flavored ambient stuff playing, kind of Indian fusion cuisine, la-di-da.

Anyway, we were the first people in the party to get there, so we're kind of looking around, taking the place in when the hostess comes up to us and gives us menus and then floors me.

She takes great pains to explain that they only have import beers at the bar. That means no domestics. Then she starts murmuring while looking at the menu and then explains to us which beer is going to be closest to a Budweiser.

HOLY SHIT. I mean, by no means do I consider myself the embodiment of hipness and glamour and all that, but damn. It's not like I had on khaki shorts and a polo shirt and fucking beads around my neck. I guess I'm starting to look my age or something. No. I've got it. It was that sign on my back that said: Kick me- I live in the suburbs.

Besides that unsettling instance, I had a good time and certainly wouldn't stay away from the place. It's a little pricey for just a night of drinking, but for an occasion, I'd say it's worth it.