The second Biaxin 800MG pill is dissolving into my already loaded bloodstream conjuring imagery of my veins resembling the various alley ways of South DC, where colorful members of the Virus Gang hide out and either stab you or offer you crack. My hope is that the Anti Biotic Squad, backed up by the boys from vC will shoot first and ask questions later as they work their way through to Tounsils(R), a no-good hang out for scum and villiany the likes of which the galaxy has never seen.

As with the soldiers, I decided I should make out my demands in case the Virus should figure out where the g-men are entering and try to cause an avalanche, as the bad guys do in so many heroic battles for survival - and this is one of them. As I type this, I sit here with my least favorite tie, looped ninja-style around my sleep deprived head. So I'll just begin:

To Kevin, my brother, I leave my surfboard (about time) and my clothes. You're a Hollister model, so you can make nice pillows out of them to lay on and look off into the distance - they might even have "factories" in South America that could do it for you at an employee discount.

To Corrin, my sister, I leave my books and my computer stuff because you have to compose something that brings that b**** Lindsey Lohan down a few pegs.

To Rob, I leave the mess in the kitchen that was there when you walked in and declared, "It smells like ____ in here." Also, you get my rolodex - incidently, I had a great time with that blind date, Typhoid Mary, last weekend - weird name, did she say she was interested in seeing me again?

To Quest Labs, I leave you my left ass cheek, and here's hoping it falls off, because you can't tell your hand from a fork lift.

To my Fraternity, I can't leave anything. The system, it appears, has failed. Wait, you can have the footon chair back, I guess.

My right ass cheek goes to the University of Florida where it will be researched by recent grad and former roommate, Steve Kurian, who will prove once and for all whether or it was Cheap or just Not Living Off its Parents.

To Buster, I leave my Mojo and all layered Photoshop and AE files. He'll understand.

To my parent's I leave all my current bank accounts (all $900 and change) and the metro tickets in my couch cushions somewhere. My baseball cards and stamp collections are to be sold and used for my burial. I have no property, only this web site which holds the better of my talents, my love of writing, which you gave me and inspired me to develop.

Let's see, TJ gets to hold the torch above my body which is to be prepared Viking style, on a vodka-soaked bier. I say "hold" because I know that Ty's incessant and innapropriate monkey-shines at the fire fire will result in it being dropped anyways, but its totally cool, accidents make the best stories. Ashlie, my scullery wench, is to be burned shortly thereafter, to follow me into the next life. She'll probably be a little peeved at me for that, but we'll work things out - I promise. Kisses!

My ashes are to be secretly mixed into the lunch milk of America's Public Schools, to be drunk greedily for generations of unsuspecting kids to come, or for as long as my ashes can be thinned using whatever they put in the milk now. Whenever some smartass says nonchalantly, "I think we all have a little bit of Brandon in us, somewhere" in the made-for-tv movie on UPN, I want it to be true.

These are the wishes of a dying man. I hold no real accomplishments except that I've fought hard and covered ground, loved and lost, known good times and bad, and can probably get your sister's number when you're not looking. Good Night.

I noticed it when the channel stopped changing. I looked down at the remote to make sure I had the right one of a thousand buttons that I'll never use. Between the "Return" and "My DVR" buttons, I saw a button simply labeled "Live".

I pushed it and the cable box shut off. I pushed it again, but the set remained off - obviously not a toggle button. It was mildly irritating, because I hadn't planned on the action the button described being so literal. But with the TV off, I considered the humoristic qualities of this discovery: it's very possible that this cable box, the third one I've had replaced for malfunction, was just messed up. Maybe some circuitry was crossed and my button was sending on the same frequency as the power signal. Perhaps "Live" was supposed to take me to a channel no one would pay for - a camera pointed at me in the living room, watching myself on TV, watching myself on TV, watching myself on TV. Apparently my show show was having some problems, or my ratings had dipped, or I had lost my edge after 23 seasons, because it appeared that I couldn't afford decent guests or set furniture.

Somewhere, an incredibly cynical assembly line worker or cable installer who saw the opportunity to illustrate social commentary through me is busy hatching their next scheme. This time it was enough to make me put down the remote and go work out, which I guess is as good a response to a semi-poignant existential experience as they're going to get. My remote also has a "Play" and "Rewind" button, both excellent ideas but I guess not yet possible with our current reliance on the Asian electronics market.

A short play in two acts

Act One
Scene 1 - Rob settles in DC, finds a job at BSA and gets sick a lot
Rob: I feel like crap...that's why I am home early...I'll have to see about the party. I'm having some of that soup...it's awesome...gonna sleep a bit to see if i feel better though
Brandon: Yeah, you'll adjust - there's the travel, the stimulation, the terror of not having a job - you'll be okay. I've got your back. Oh, your shirt, that one with the colored stripes? It needs to be field tested.

Scene 2 - Rob Chills Out
Rob: Hey...wanna pay $50 to go drink rum punch in Alexandria this Friday?
Brandon: Why would I pay money for that?
Rob: I just saw it in the Express, it's a charity thing to benefit the Gatsby Museum
Brandon: Do we get to drive around in our Stutz Bearcat, picking up flappers? I feel like old money.

Scene 3 - Rob Learns about Home Invasion
Brandon: So, the door was unlocked and partially open when I got in last night...
Rob: ARE YOU SERIOUS???
Brandon: It's no big deal, I just would rather not invite trouble.
Rob: Well, I'll have to pay closer attention to that then...
Brandon: Actually, what we should get is a Gattling Gun, for security, "It appears to be overheating from all the Hippies and Montgomery County Residents (sic)!"


Act Two
Scene 1 - Brandon helps Rob with the March of Dimes
Brandon: I thought of our costumes for the conference dance. I'll go as the drug induced rocker, Tommy Lee, and you can go as Pamela Anderson. We can video tape it.
Rob: Good Lord

Scene 2 - Rob puts up with Me because if he doesn't, I'll lie to his parents about something he did
Brandon: "Ahhhhhh, now, drop it like it has more potential energy than at room temperature"
Rob: Yes, you are bored...I can see that...
Brandon: "Drop it like its electrons are escaping to the next orbit"
Brandon: "Drop, drop it like it's changing state"
Rob: I really don't think you're going to get a recording career...sorry to burst your bubble
Brandon: Sounds like you have an attitude...I may have to "Pop it like its hot"

Scene 3 - Rob starts looking for another roommate
Brandon: I watched dirty dancing last night. Remember when you were 16? Not quite a girl, not yet a woman?
Rob: I'm still there. Did you forget to take your meds this morning?
Brandon: I took some of yours - I go through your things every morning, to see what's changed from the night before. Then I drank the rest of my Trader Joes Pomegranate juice mixed with the vodka in the freezer and came to work wearing scuba flippers and looking for a fight. Along the way, I punched a neighbor's dog, flashed some old ladies from the home owners association and egged a school bus.
Rob: Only one school bus?
Brandon: I'm not an animal, Rob.

How can I assist you?

Me: Anna, I have to talk to you about something...it's not easy for me to say this, but I just don't think it's going to work out...
Anna: I won't quit. I'll work here to help IKEA's customers and users browsing this website.

Me: Listen, I don't want an argument here, but you've said that before and now, there's no trust.
Anna: I'm very sorry, but I can't really talk about things like that at this time

Me: See? that's what I'm talking about, you're too emotionally unavailable...
Anna: I don't know the answer to that question yet, I am sorry. Please contact your local store for help on the issue.

...and I'm looking for someone a little more multi-dimensional...
Anna: Contact the Customer Service department at your local store. Use our Store Locator - which is opening now - to find the local store you want to contact.

...someone who cares about me...about my life.
Anna: A good point I suppose. If you don't want to continue the conversation now, I'll be here whenever you feel like coming back.

Me: Well, I appreciate that. I had hoped you would make this easy.
Anna: All of IKEA's products are made to the highest standards.

Me: I'll keep that in mind. So, what happens now?
Anna: As long as you keep asking questions, I'll keep answering them.

Me: Should we...should we consumate our breakup?
Anna: It's not easy for me to understand what you mean (when you use ellipses)

Me: Sounds kinky, but marital aids aside, I don't think I'm attracted to you anymore anyways.
Anna: I'm no expert, but I suggest going to see a doctor.

Me: Hey, that was an isolated incident and we had just watched the "Bridges of Madison County" - what did you expect was going to happen?
Pause - vacant smile, blink, nose flinches

Well, I guess this is goodbye
Anna: Bye, then! It was very nice talking to you

We'll always have the barca lounger, right?
Anna: Here you will find the Other Armchairs Subcategory.

I had what can only be described as a drama-filled, slow-motion car crash of a night, starting with a party I shouldn't have been invited too. That idea that you'll never see someone again? Out the window. There isn't even a window to go out of, although that's what I wanted to do, as in throw myself out of one. There are just as many overlaps here as there are in high school. Perhaps the worst part was the fact that I am not unobservent of activity - oh, sure, I'll carry on conversation, but at the same time listen peripherally to snide comments. I use this skill to manipulate conversation (as a social exercise) and also figure out the general ambience of a group - two things that I find necessary to stay calm and collected when group dynamics come into play. It's one thing to be talked about behind your back - it's another thing to know that it's happening and look the same people in the eye moments after it happens. It all comes down to this - I made a mistake and trusted someone with something that didn't need to be entrusted. I feel bad for that on top of what happened tonight, which is a double-whammy.

What I'm about to tell you comes as quite a shock. It seems that cameras do this thing whereby they record what people say and do via electrical pulses stored on media such as magnetic tape or "hard drives". Then, wonder of wonders, sound and pictures can be sent everywhere over the air waves, internet connections and other wires, hidden from my sight no less. What is this, the future already?

So, as you might expect, it's getting really hard to fool you anymore, so I'm going to have to resort to telling you what I actually said a second and third time, then repeating the version that makes me look good over and over again until you forget the first thing. In some cases I might also append my previous comments, or adjust the "context", bewildering you into thinking you may not actually understand the English language. I can do this a lot since you really don't care and secretly suspect you are an idiot anyways, but don't want to call attention to yourself.

I think this will work. If you have any suggestions on how to beat this irritating "communications technology" thing, let me know. Ultimately, I don't think it will catch on, I mean really, who wants to know a bunch of stuff anyways - it just seems like too much work.

Thank you, Josh Hartnett, for portraying a web designer and bringing legitimacy to my chosen profession - I'm guessing there's more than a few pixel-pushing 20-something's who also wish to thank you but maybe don't think enough of your work (really I don't either, and I'm not a fan persay). But I personally wonder just how long you will make it at "Window.com" when the only time I got to see some of your "work" it resembled print-layouts rather than actual screen comps. Ever spent more than 20 minutes between lattes actually designing something? What was that on your desk at home - a VRML book? What would you be doing with a VRML book unless it were stragetically placed there to make people THINK you knew what you were doing (or you were creating a virtual walk through of the Hall of Hotties that evidently throw themselves at you). By the way, what time do you actually go into work, Josh?

Hell, move me to San Francisco and I'll abuse my Effects Pallete for 60 grand and a bagel every Wednesday. Also, the company I'd work for would not only have a mini-bar and Victoria Secret models working in marketing, it would have COMPUTERS so we could do actual work. Whatever. Word of advice to all aspiring designers: There's more to creating good design than doing hot chicks and adding a bunch of layer-transfers to stock photography. No one has made a movie out of Rem Koolhas' life, and I suspect that the Emigre documentary is a long way out.

Would life be great if it imiated movies? Maybe. But I think sometimes movies could use some help getting semi-important details correct.