Sometimes, I wish I was a real writer — like Updike or Stephen King.

Not that I’m a fan of Updike or King…cause I’m not. Well, I like Updike’s book on Art, and I like King’s book on writing, but that’s about it. I just admire those guys cause they write. And they do it all the time. They live to write.

And I’m still figuring out what to live for, exactly.

It’s OK to be in that sort of quandary when you’re 24; it’s not OK when you’re 44.

I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again: there’s something wrong with me.

This blog has turned into an albatross, cause I wanna add to it on a daily basis, but I just don’t have much to say. And all we’re talking about here is 100 words or so. While Updike and King are jamming on a novel, I’m jamming on thinking about what to jam on.

And the best I can do?

Smut.

Blueberry pancakes.

Artichokes.

And people I admire.

Last week one of my heroes — Michel Gondry — spoke at UCLA. I missed it, which makes me a very bad fan, but I did make it to his book signing the next day.

I never aspired to be a film maker, and really, even though I make movies, they’re certainly not films.

Michel Gondry makes films.

He’s also made commercials and music videos, too. I’ve blogged about this dude before, and I’ll probably blog him in the future, cause I’m convinced he’s a genius and deserves all sorts of attention — whether you like his movies or not.

I’ve seen his movies, and his commercials, and his music videos. I’m reading his comic book now, and the book he was promoting on his tour, and if I was gay, I’d (happily) power bottom for Mr. Gondry.

But No Way Am I Gay — but I’m pretty sure he is.

Or do all Frenchmen just act stereotypically gay?

A few days later Adrianna Nicole coaxed me into a Stan Ridgeway show. But before I talk about Stan, I think I need to talk about my new Sunday obsession, even if you don’t care.

Blueberry pancakes and grilled artichokes.

This place up the road from my crib makes blueberry pancakes with Ricotta cheese in them, and they grill up these artichokes that taste better than pussy.

That’s right — I live in a crib and eat blueberry pancakes and artichokes and the artichokes and blueberry pancakes taste better than a woman’s vagina.

Most vaginas, anyway.

After blueberry pancakes and artichokes and a lazy Sunday afternoon, Adrianna and I skedaddled up to The House of Blues for Mr. Ridgway’s show. The House of Blues is on the fabulous Sunset Strip right in the middle of Hollywood, and it’s a place I avoid at all costs. Not necessarily The House of Blues, but Sunset Blvd, almost anywhere, is a huge pain in the ass.

Stan Ridgway was really good, but I was totally bummed for him cause there were less an 100 of us at the show.

And this is his hometown.

It was billed as a Halloween shin dig, even though Halloween was a week away, and the flyer said he’d be performing Wall of Voodoo songs, too.

Which he did.

He even played Wall of Voodoo’s superb cover of “Ring of Fire”, which far better than Social Distortion’s take on that particular tune.

I’ve been a Wall of Voodoo fan since their EP on IRS came out in — I dunno — 1981? I was still in high school. They played Phoenix then, but I couldn’t go, and I can’t remember why, but I do remember the small venue they played — The Calderon Ballroom — was in a really bad neighborhood, and my friends who went left the show to discover the battery in their car was stolen.

Then “Mexican Radio” came out, and Wall of Voodoo had their 15 minutes, and that was that.

I paid a little attention to Stan Ridgway’s solo career, but not too much. And then I went to see him last weekend.

I do pay attention to the Eels, and E., who leads that band, so when E. signed his new book at Book Soup in Hollywood Tuesday night, I was there. Even though Book Soup is down the street from House of Blues, which meant more pain-in-the-ass parking issues. But I like the Eels. A whole lot. Enough to deal with the Fabulous Sunset Strip and $15 parking.

You should really check them out. I think their best record is the one with “Mr E’s Beautiful Blues” on it, but make sure you buy the uncensored version of the CD. And keep an eye out, cause it’s a hidden track. Or at least it was…cause I don’t think record companies let that sort of thing fly anymore.

I also like “Souljacker”.

Afterward the reading — which wasn’t really a reading at all, cause E. had a cut-out of the lead guitarist from Eels set behind the podium as the audio book played in the background — E. did a quick Q & A and then signed his book.

I asked him to inscribe one to his favorite dead author. I do this all the time. It’s interesting to see how writers react to my request. Michel Gondry was totally cool about it; Richard Ford thought I was making fun of him; James Frey inscribed his to Henry Miller…Michael Chabon to Nabokov.

“I don’t really know who to inscribe this to,” E said.

“How about a favorite dead musician?”

E. thought about it for a second, and then inscribed his book to Beethoven, but he did it in this sort of half-assed, nonchalant way that sort of said Beethoven really isn’t my favorite dead musician but I better write something to make this pain-in-the-ass fan happy.

Oh well.

I didn’t think I was asking too much, especially since I always buy two books from an author on book tour and ask silly favors like I do.

And now I’m off to make more dirty movies, cause one of the hottest porn whores you’ve never heard of — Emy Reyes — is in the house, and, at least at this very moment in time, it seems like cranking out smut is what I’m living for.