HELLO...
i haven't lost my mind and forgotten my password to my own blog.
It has been a wild year, and it is unfortunately coming to a close. This blog has officially turned into a personal journal...I think. this needs to be noted, as I find myself writing no longer about jibberish revolving around faux movies and a shit factory—no more stock options, or tennis programs (the golden years).
No. I worked pretty hard, believe it or not.

I remember this one day when, when i was a little kid, I was invited to work for a friend of mine's father--laying down a whole mess of sod on a lawn. It was a beautiful day, and I bought a box of pizza and a 2 liter bottle of cola: delicious snacks for the gang. You can't, you cannot, eat pizza and lay down sod at the same time. It was great though, because the person that hired me for the job was a close friend, so I really went into this job as if I couldn’t really fail (aka, i didn't care). When I finally showed up, a solid 45 minutes late, everyone around looked dirt tired. After a slice of pie, or two, I was ready to join the squad and partake in what I initially vowed I would do. Within a few minutes I was sitting on a pile of dirt and was incessantly throwing a large hammer into the ground...I knew I wasn’t cut out for this.
Ironically, I worked much shhhhh-e-er jobs the next couple of years. I learned the value of a real hard days work, believe you me.
I would wake up early, have an ass of a boss tell me to bust my balls for the next 10 hours, and I dealt with it as any person would—it was decent money and I enjoyed the stories that came out of the experiences. If you think im joking i would suggest you call up the Edgartown Waste Department.
After these years, I decided I would take what I knew of hard work to the big city of new york. When I began working for a film production company I figured nothing could be harder than a real days work in a field, moving stuff around, and constructing landscapes, all that, and this, while picking up a good case of lyme, lime, uh, lizime disease—fudge how you spell it, it sucked. But no, nyc was a whole new ballgame. Lyme disease is tasty compared to some of the bullshit you might encounter in the real world. I got bitched out by Foxy Brown in my first month…the rapper, the washed up rapper, still looking good, gave me a pile of shit that I will never forget...later apologized, definitely wanted my number...she lost out.
This company i worked for quickly put me in front of idols of mine within the first few days...cinematic geniuses, and their entire crews, and I was asked to perform every sort of office task known to the office world...shizoot, I never left my dell before these days. I got to work on a few dope music videos, meet extremely talented creatives, talk to numerous ad agencies, and even made a few cameos...thanks m gondry and ace n.
The year is coming to a close, and I must admit that I have learned a lot, and I have given thanks to a lot of people for this. Anyone that still reads this blog, although I probably already have thanked you, thanks for keeping up a bit with my business. I guarantee that my best is only around the corner, so you all should be prepared for some fun stuff. Be good, and work hard, and have fun, and I will be around to sporadically write up a message or two for you last surviving sklogblog peoples.
Peace,
js

AC/DC It's Okay By Me

I expect that no one in their right mind checks my blog anymore, which is a very nice feeling. oh, that feels good. Recently, I have been reading my father’s blog, however, and his stories always make me think of times of old. You know, everyone pretty much does the same in the life—eat some food, enjoy the television, escape from the negative utopia that our conservative government tells us is normal (okay, im kidding, I was just reading a Marxist response to E.T. and Rocky 4)—and going back to Artman’s most recent post, something always happens to us that can be painful, frightening, or even scarring—literally.
Man, the memories, where does one Jeffrey Smadbeck begin. I would first like to take you on a trip, down my fading memory lane. Summer, 199-when-i-was-young. The night was clear, the beach pristine, the music, well, immaculate, as the Vineyard Sound boys tore through yet another unforgettable set. Here we all were again, the Chappaquiddick Beach Club was off the hinges at the annual clambake dinner. The night was coming to an end, the adults were twisting in the wind, the children frolicked amongst the waves, and the seagulls were having a buffet in the trash bins. Nothing could have been sweeter. But, there was something missing. Fireworks? Hmm, no, nope, July 4th had just passed. Strippers? Well, the yachty wives hadn’t quite gotten drunk enough to pass out. Something else, and who else could provide such excitement than myself? But, you see—theo and rudy—I was young then, immature, not quite yet aware of my undeniable knack to amuse. There was only one person who did know at the time, however, and he just so happened to be my brother, Louis. Let me backtrack for just one moment, as this portion of the story plays an important role. You see, while the owner and operator of the CBC was preparing for this large party, he was unaware that there was an electricity malfunction right under his nose. A wire, carrying thousands of volts of electricity had somehow crossed over a garage door railing—the door opened to create an indoor/outdoor effect for the party. As the adults were enjoying themselves and the children were left free to plan and execute mischievous schemes, the children came across this electricity phenomenon. And it was like finding gold at the end of the rainbow, my friends. Nothing seemed cooler, and no one thought this more than Mr. Louis T. Smadbeck. His eyes lit up, his mind turned on, and he wondered to himself, “what would happen if someone were to actually hold on to this dangerous railing?” At this exact moment, I was walking from out of the water and Lou knew I would certainly be the brave one.
“You are the Chosen one, Jeffrey,” Louis screamed down the beach.

“I have the wet feet Louis, I know.” I yelled back
I quickly ran up to the crowd of children curiously throwing things at the electric rail. Louis, knowing I would do it, “Jeffrey, do it. Do it.” As I slowly moved my hand to the glowing rail I felt a push, and there I went, hand first, right into a railing that was carrying more volts than the twins electric bong.
Zap…I could not pull my hand from off the bar…Zap…I could barely see…Zap…I felt an arm grab me and slowly, straight out of a scene from Nick of Time, my hand released from the rail and I fell back to the ground. My hero, you may be wondering? Louis. And myself? Perfectly fine, only a little crispy, but feeling amazing. The party? Stopped, dead in it’s tracks—even the Vineyard Sound.

Well, that brings me to the end of chapter one of getting back on the horse, because I again was able to touch the railing of a garage door. It took some time, but I was fine. And more importantly I was able to forgive Louis—actually it probably brought us together that night more than anything else in our lives. Something’s so horrific can also be soo cool.

Note: Mark, you are next, and to any curious reader, i love louis and he saved my life, word is born.

Father Sklog Blog

All right Artman, I know that I have lacked the inspiration to post anything for over a month. I realize that I can be lazy at times, my priorities are skewed (though partying in many cultures is deemed #1), and that I have let you (and dean golder) down each and every time you tune into the SklogBlog. It can be tough, as you might have found out by now. Now, I altered it a bit to help me whenever I attempted to post by using a method I referred to as Sklog Blogging, which you know you can borrow anytime you like--the method that is. It is simple. Instead of writing in some conditioned prose, out to illustrate an anecdote to the common peoples of this fair land, you just write as if you mistakenly drank a cup of grandpas cough medicine.
Delicious, by the way.
Where I am going with this, Art, is that you should never envy my blog. I have been amazed by the consistency of yours, and let me tell you, it only gets better and better.
Not to mention the laughing out loud that occurred here at Partizan while your voice boomed out of the computer speakers, thinking out loud and all--"I am still thinking out loud"--, you naw what I is sayin. Hilarious, and don’t worry, no one happened to be around at the time, so Gondry and Company didn’t hear it—though if they had you might have been flown in to do some voice work for his upcoming film.
Errways Arthur, you must realize one thing, if anything else, your blog has brought me back to my old friend here. And I thank you for that, though I am pretty sure my boss is noticing that I’m doing something other than bending over for the “man,” so I should run.
Peace
BTW, You The man Art

Shlong on Button 303

Post another long hiatus from blogging, between the many drinks and poor game kicked to beer-goggled filtered women, the books, movies, and embarrassing Celtics message boards, I now find myself at a place I always promised I would never end up at—a desk job.
After my brief and relaxed interview nearly two months ago I felt proud and appreciative to have been offered a self-entitled “lax” position, here at NYU’s economics department. While my friend’s scoured craiglist for anything that pays—where is the nearest sperm bank? —I fell into an 11 dollar an hour position where I was told the hardest task during the day was keeping myself alert between the minute assignments.
With the decent pay, the ability to now officially be a leach off of the school that nearly ruined the Smadbeck clan financially, and the most flexible schedule any 22 year old could possibly dream of, I could now work my two days at Partizan Entertainment. There I planned on learning the ropes of the industry I only knew through Kubrick/Hitchcock/Herzog—while still being able to buy chicken to throw on the grill, beer, and the most important cable bill.
At NYU, it seemed at first that nothing could bring my position down—I sit here at my own desk, in my own cubicle, with my own computer (equipped with Harman/Kardon speakers, no less), with virtually zero actual work to do. NYU is the prototypical red-tape institution where it takes about 300, wait, 300 some, let me check, 303 employees to run an economics department in which you ironically employ professors whom teach efficient capitalistic working models. Well, anyway, these employees all have their respected buttons to push. Being that I am a junior button-pusher I only have 1 button to push a day. At around 3 o'clock in the afternoon my button lights up and I must press it. I told them, "I can press lots of buttons if you need me to, I'm just sitting over there at my desk scratching my balls, and I can press the orange ones even." But, they hired me for this one button. So, I press it.
It wasn’t until the 2nd week when I began to realize, or more accurately, notice, a few painful facts. Sitting at a desk with nothing to do for seven straight hours really isn’t much fun. You would think with the millions of things one has to ponder, the internet chock-a-block full of materials to read, listen to, and watch, and the 303 people wandering around one another a regular person could keep busy for countless hours. This simply is not the case. My experience in an office, such as this, not much different than the cliché’s depicted on television and through movies featuring sad individual's desperate attempts to get through the "office life,” is something I can only hope will be more temperate than eternal.
But, this has been the most valuable learning experience.

Just a Bit Outside.

Wow, has it been since October? I wonder mostly what the hell people think of this nonsensical blog when they click the link on my facebook profile. I'm going to get rid of that link, and get back to my roots, because it has been far too long since engaging in B.L.O.G. business.

I would like to focus first on a few important going-onz in the world, for a brief moment. First: The script I am currently writing. It is called The Constant Vacationer. I might call it Hackers though. Second: The Morality of NYC. I would like to think of myself as a pretty good person in general, well relatively speaking, under the conditions, regulations, and standards that this immoral society has put in place for us all. But, I would like to forgive myself for one thing: peeing on the streets when I am wasted. At the time, it’s always an incredible rush. For the people lucky enough to be with you, as you slide up against the nearest phone booth, or watch yourself on the security monitor outside your favorite bank, giggling at the site of you so openly breaking the peeing on the streets laws. It can truly be a hilarious adventure. But, you know what, I am done with it. I refuse to pee on the street. I know I'm going to screw myself one day, when I’m peeing all over Burger King, and the fuzz roll deep, not noticing that the King is asleep, and instead jump my drunk ass writing my name in piss on the wall. And Finally: The Vineyard. Maybe it is the peace and quiet, I’m not sure, but this place does have a few redeeming factors in the refreshing department. My parents are so nice to me too, now that they are full-blown empty nesters. The place smells so nice; everything is nicely painted, covering up the holes and greece stains of years gone by, the fridge is empty save condiments and wine, and I get to drive. It might also have something to do with the trees and beaches. It’s a fantastic.

I said I would start with that, but I’m going to end on it, with only the promise that whomever still reads this will get something new in the coming days/weeks. It is late.

-sudoku

BACK

It has been a while, and I apologize to those who have been desperately waiting for a new post (dean, I am sorry). But, school begins, drinking commences, "puke-walking" follows, even cracking the books gets done, but no more excuses. There is something important that needs to be discussed, a forum for all of us to par take in. I am talking about the Boston Red Sox and their stumble into the post-season.

This season, for all of us, has been dramatically different from last season, and for very good reason. After Aaron Boone crushed our hopes and dreams two years ago, last year we figured nothing could really get worse. Maybe you were even happy to see the Yankees take that 3 game lead in the ALCS (at least we wouldn't have to blow it in game 7, some thought). Things worked out though, and since Boston's attitude towards this team has been different, no question. Now we know it can be done. Now we expect nothing less than a championship, and yet, we all find ourselves in the same Boston Red Sox grip, and dropping game 1. An hour ago I found myself aimlessly walking the streets of Hunters Point in the Bronx, and after two collisions into crack-heads, offered coke, weed, H, and liquid crack-cocaine, girls, and girls, I realized something: how we feel about the Sox will never change.

Which brings me back to my terminal, punching in the clock, and reviving this blog. My only regret is I wish I was happier to drop some comical intrigue.
Regardless, and since the point has been brought up about our attitudes not actually changing, I would like to be the first to put in print: we will win the World Series this year. Isn't that how we would have thought about it any other year? For 86 years it was "next year," and last year it was "next year," and now it is "next year." We have to keep faith in this squad, it is the only hope we have. Fudge it, if it doesn't work out, we always have next year.

The Red Sox, fortunately, aren’t the only thing going on in my life. I am taking a fulllll load with the class work, talking big load. Currently turning my political stance back to “radical” and taking a socialist theory class. I would call myself a Christian Socialist, but then I would be going to hell. I would call Bush a Christian Conservative, but he is already going to hell. There isn’t much else to say, but I am weighing my options at the moment. I am also in a French literature class. This class focuses on the Belle Epoch (Beautiful Era) in Paris, roughly 1870-1914. The biggest upside is that the university actually found someone who lived during this time to bestow his experiences onto us. That sounds like a cheap joke, but it’s quite possible. My other class is a real tough one: The History of World War 2. Not tough as in lots of work, just tough. I’m Feeling strong after this class, walk out of there muttering to myself. I was one class short, went to my advisor, and now I am also in a cinema studies Grad course. Here is where I would experience what life after undergrad-cinema-studies would be like. Well, the kids, um, are, they like movies. They generally smell. Make weird noises during lecture. Some of them twitch, and almost all of them sing during rare Classic Hollywood Musicals. So, as you could guess, I feel right at home there.

Those are the classes, and the Yankees game is going the Yankees way. It has only been a month, but it has been a fun one, and full of explosive stories. Yes, explosive stories. I hope to put more down in the coming weeks, just need to finish this book about an old man and his turtle, living in Paris, sipping liquor from his mouth organ.

I am signing off, but before, I would like to mention that there is another project in the works, and hoping to get lift-off in the coming weeks. It is about an alien and his friend. Peace.

NHL Preview

“Oh, sweet Mary Malloy. Can you spare me some cuttah, me brutha?”

You know the scene in A Clockwork Orange, with the old drunk man singing away in the gutter? Then Alex and his droogs come waltzing down the alley, and beat the crap out of him? There is a reason that movie is set in the future, for if it was today, that old man would have put a hurting on those kids. Or maybe the NHL just sees it that way.

Oh, yes, indeed, the National Hockey League is back, again. The owners and GM’s plaster the television screens, commercial are sprouting up during re-runs of Sienfeld, and apparently Comcast will be showing a game or two this winter on OLN, Outdoor Life Network (I hope they know this isn't pond hockey). Hell, even the cheap Bruins claim they are out to “win the cup” this year. My friends, I am truly excited.

I am, unlike the pros, 3 years removed from hockey. My winters growing up were spent on the ice, as the starting goaltender for my high school team. My class was big into hockey, and most of my best friends played on the team with me. Within our 4 years together, we played at the FleetCenter twice, winning two State Championships. I carry those memories with me today, and they are some of my fondest and greatest moments. I would feel like an old man getting back on the ice today, “Oh, back in the saddle, again.” As a goalie, I would fear each slap-shot, every breakaway, basically anytime I had to deal with the puck (this is before I pull my 21 yr-old groin). The NHL doesn't seem to worry about such things, as they appear set on marketing the past rather than the future.

The “top free agent signings” this off-season is evident of that. I should start with the Penguins since they have been the most talked about team in hockey, of late. So, they chose Sidney Crosby as their number 1 pick. This kid is going to save hockey, but…probably not for a few years. He is 17 years-old, and the moment he is put through the glass courtesy of some over-sized defensemen, everyone will see that this kid has lots of growing up to do. That said, who do the Pengiuns, or the league for that matter, promote? It is obvious that the league can’t hand over a 17 year-old, un-proven, kid as their main reason for fans to tune in. So, the league goes the route of the old-school. This sounds great, and looks even better on paper, but how funny will it be when the public watches their favorite stars go down with “old-man” back? The Pens signed Mark Recchi, John Leclair, and Gonchar this summer. These old-timers lined up with, of course, Super Mario, and a 17 yr old is the savoir of the franchise. At first, this all looked good to me; that was until I looked up how old these players got since the days I watched them as a kid. Recchi is now 37, Leclair 36, Gonchar 31, and Mario might as well be 60 with his history of injuries. These are the players the Pens are promoting; their youth movement consists of exactly one player, Crosby. I am not saying they don’t have players with ceiling-high potential, all teams do, it’s just that no one is talking about them.

Brodeur, Mogilny, Stevens? These players represent the NJ Devils. Their ages a respected: 33, 36, and 41. All I have to say to that is, “holy-grandpa.” Again, these teams have younger players, but I beg the average fan to name one of them. If you go to the Devils home web site there is a big banner lining the top of the screen, “The Devils Sign Alexander Mogilny.” This should read, “We got an old man that was drafted in 1988.” Yet, fans will drop the coin to see there favorite old Devil.

The bruins are the home town squad. They are also very lucky to have some young super-talented leaders representing them: Thornton, Raycroft, and Samsonov. Their big signing this summer was, however, Brian Leetch. The Bruins are just as guilty for promoting players of the past. On New England Sports Plus this past Thursday, one reporter for the Boston Herald got so excited discussing the Leetch acquisition he blurted out, “We are talking about the Rangers Stanley Cup MVP.” Someone had to remind him that Leetch was then in his prime, about 10 years ago.

I could go on all day with this matter; Forsberg, 32, Modano, 35, Foote, 34, Zubov, 35, LINDROS, 32. We have been seeing the names, tracking the players, essentially ignoring the youth. I just wanted to throw the facts out; while I do understand that these teams have the players, and farm systems, yet chooose not to talk about them. I am only hoping that after a few years, and maybe a couple notes taken out of the NBA money-making book, the NHL can get their stuff together so the fans have fun, exciting, young hockey back. Until then, I hope the Bruins see the window of opportunity and take it.