I am sorry for that last post. It was very inappropriate, and I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I was trying to impress my friends... you know, trying to get that popular girl to think I was "cool." But that wasn't "cool" at all. It was immature, and I hope that you forgive me. I used words like "cooch" to express myself, and that is, frankly, degrading to women, not to mention extremely immature.
I'm sorry for what I said. I will try hard in the future to make sure nothing like this happens again. I can only hope you will someday learn to trust me again. I will spend the rest of the day in my hottub full of high-class prostitutes room thinking about how my words can hurt people. One day I will learn to be responsible for the things I say, like an adult, and we can be friends again. Until that day I will work hard to prove I want to behave like a grown-up.
11.30.2006
I AM SORRY FOR THAT LAST POST
I AM AN INNAPROPRIATE NEOLOGICIAN
This pitiful excuse for a blog (though in my weaker moments, I imagine these words bringing my more sensitive readers a moment of pure joy) has spawned some pretty interesting neologisms over the years. Though I would never equate my efforts with those of the wildly successful, "satirical attempt to name the frothy mix of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex after Senator Rick Santorum," I feel like I've had moments of linguistic prescriptiveness worthy of mention.*
My newest BFFF (the extra F is for 'fellatio,' despite the fact we've never met face to face, and she's currently engaged in some long term FFFing with one of my oldest and dearest BFFs. I love you guys), asked me to furnish some of the more specific details of my Men's Room Encounter from two posts previous. I did not, as she would point out, specify how I knew about the stranger's recent viviparity. The resulting conversation, in it's unedited entirety, is reproduced below. If you haven't already noticed, I have given up trying to be polite, and have settled on "borderline disgusting and despicable." Then again a number of my one-time readers stumbled upon this site via searches for "Lindsay AND Lohan AND vagina" or "Dominican AND Mafia AND skanks," words which do, in fact, appear in my text, yet not specifically in that order (thanks SiteMeter.com for this stimulating insight into the anonymous web surfer). "Give them what they ask for," I always say. That's show business, baby. Enjoy:
me: I left some parts out, though
*A quick search in the, of course, definitive and exhaustive resource that is Google will reveal I, indeed, was the first to propose the phrase "hot me-on-me action," at least within the ten most popular Google searches. I prefer to accept this as scientific fact and shall pursue the matter no further. ...More...
11.29.2006
DOPPLEGANGER
I was terribly relieved to find my doppleganger to be a pretty cool guy.
Last week, one of my close friends sent me a number of emails wishing me a happy Thanksgiving and a happy birthday which I did not receive. She also sent out an email inviting me and a number of our close friends to a celebratory birthday dinner, which I also did not receive. An unsuspecting stranger who shares my last name, on the other hand, got what he would later describe as being "a number of odd, yet eerily familiar emails." In addition to our surname, J and I have roughly the same birthday and live exceedingly close to one another.
Needless to say, I was surprised by the coincidence. Coming from the highly-refined pedigree that he does, J decided to be a good sport and join us for dinner last night. He also brought me 6 Bohemian-style beers which, in my opinion, is as close to a coat of arms as you can get for my family.
Then again, as I'm sure you're all aware, if you're in a room with 23 people (or more) there is a >50% chance that two will share the same birthday. Convince yourself of this fact by using the following formula: 365!/(365^n [365-n]!) where 'n' is equal to the number of times in a day you've slammed your face into your desk and begged god to burn your cold-ass office to ashes and finally put an end to the torturous monotony your job.
footnote: The diagram above describes both the probability that any given two people share the same birthday (represented by the function p(n) where n is group size), and the probability that a person in a group of size n will have the same birthday as one chosen in advance (function q(n)). The function p(n) is a close approximation to a Poisson distribution or a Taylor Series expansion of a simple exponential function. In contrast, the function q(n) is much simpler, and can be represented as: 1-([365-1]/365)^n. (Slam, slam, slam!)
11.27.2006
THANKSGIVING CLIFF'S NOTES
I couldn't help but be disappointed no C-list rock stars appeared on any of my many flights yesterday. Along with Smashmouth and The Blowfish (-Hootie), I've had my share of run-ins with the once semi-famous. I had hoped to share a row with the members of Quiet Riot, or that dude from Counting Crows.
One interesting highlight I'd like to describe occurred at a charming little place we in the Ray like to call "The 'Hoe," a quaint and appropriately descriptive abbreviation for "Ivanhoe." I have a dear friend who's heart is always in the right place but doesn't necessarily put the same careful thought into the execution of his ideas. (In his defence, the world is devoid of true dreamers. I'd be remiss if this fact were passed over.) On this night, he thought I'd enjoy being locked in the Men's bathroom with a strange young woman who had long since passed the "poor judgement" milestone. Kind of an early birthday present, perhaps.
Though she was a sweet girl and seemed to be very interested in me, I didn't find it terribly attractive of her to drop her pants and urinate in/on/near the convenience next to my urinal. Nor did I particularly appreciate the few errant drops that found the soft leather of my left shoe. Still, I was impressed at her willingness to reveal otherwise-concealed skin, though it was obvious she had carried at least one child in the recent past.
Keep reaching for that rainbow, darlin'.
11.25.2006
11.23.2006
11.20.2006
LIFE IMITATES SLATE.COM
Today NewYorkTimes.com published a story regarding the death of two high school students in Alabama. Normally such an event would warrant some customary amount of media coverage, national mourning, and reconciliation (in the form of improved road safety measures, bus driver screenings, etc.). Unfortunately, owing to our predilection for shiny objects and flashing lights (and yes, in this analogy our society is a young raccoon), our dreadfully short national attention span--mine included--would linger on this topic for an appropriate amount of time as deemed by the tempo of national tragedies.
However, on this occasion there may be a few of us, with furrowed brow, narrowed eyes, and chins pensively stroked in contemplation, who may pause for a moment at the strange tickling at the backs of our necks. Somewhere in our brains, two moles of thought burrow towards one another, not quite meeting in the middle, but one quite aware of the other. We wonder why the NYTimes headline, "School Bus Plunges off Alabama Highway" strikes such an unusually familiar yet oddly uncomfortable chord. Yet we can't seem to make the connection.
Then in a sickening instant of realization, all has become clear. For we read SLATE.com, and remember this story published just one week ago.
I leave it to you to decide how creeped out you are by the coincidence.
11.17.2006
MY ROOMMATE LOVES ME
It was nearly 10pm, and I was putting on my shoes to go find a cup of coffee downtown and enjoy a quiet read when I heard my roommate ask the question I'd been waiting for months to hear: "Which do you think would win, a grizzly bear or an alligator with a chainsaw strapped to its tail?"
"Is the chainsaw running?" I enquire.
"Yes, it's locked on. Oh, and they're in a 'Thunderdome' situation."
"Interesting," I muse, contemplating the strengths and weaknesses of each combatant.
I hearkened back to a night I spent with a beautiful young woman long enough, but not so long ago. In the gentle glow of the naked moonlight I whispered to the graceful shape nestled beside me, "Darling?"
"Yes, dear?"
"Do you think a shark could beat a dolphin if the dolphin had nunchucks strapped to it's tail?" I ask.
"R, that is by far the dumbest and most asinine thing you've ever asked me," her silken voice assuming a disappointed tone.
"Oh," I whisper.
She paused to take a breath and sweep an errant lock of hair behind my ear with delicate fingers.
"Nunchucks wouldn't work underwater, and the shark would have the advantage. Shark every time. Duh."
I've never fully understood our obsession with such things. Hero worship (for surely the Japanese have a different view of heroes. Mothra?)? A need to satisfy our competitive tendencies? Perhaps it is simply a matter of intellectual exercise; a means to assuage the feuding halves of our restless brains.
But all I know is that I'll never forget the time my roommate looked me square in the eyes and said, "Ohhhhh, now I see, I thought you meant 'like how the Irish used their skills with farm tools during the great Leprechaun Holocaust'. Now I get what you're saying."
11.16.2006
OH THE DAY I'VE HAD
Business card distribution, as a rule, should be limited to exchanges only; thou shalt not give out personal information without a in-kind token of trust from others.
I remarked as much to myself at 11:30 last night in the home of a complete stranger (in the very same neighborhood where I, if so desired, would purchase Meth) who showed me all the "strange and bizarre plants" in his garden, introduced me to his 3 cats/daughter, and gave me a squash. I'll exercise a little leniency with this guy, though, since he's a botany freak like me (PS. 12 days and counting since a girl touched any part of my body, excluding handcuffs and a MeterMaid taser).
Still, as a personal philosophy, I've decided to become less accessible to the public. Spend a moment in my size 12s, and see what I mean:
(phone rings)
you: Good morning, you've reached [your company name]
deep, menacing voice: Who is this?
you: This is [your name] with [your company name], how can I help you?
deeper, more menacing voice: What do you do?
you: We provide technical consulting, volunteer organization, etc. etc. ... How can I help you?
deepest, most menacing voice: What do you look like?
(considerable pause)
you: Sir, can I help you with something?
saddened, dejected voice: My wife has just left me, and I found your business card in her dresser.
11.13.2006
I AM IRRESISTIBLE TO WOMEN
I feel very much like Saturday began on a moral high note, though I can't pinpoint the exact moment at which all good deeds were erased.
Maybe it was the moment I sat down next to the mechanical bull with whiskey in both fists. But who knows, really?
One of my old chums flew out to visit me (and those Westward Ho's) for the weekend. He'd never seen the Left Coast up close, so I took us the long way back from the airport, stopping for the Divine deepfried halibut and beerbeerbeerbeerbeer at the Halfmoon Bay Brewing Co. (go there before you die, pilgrim). After lunch I felt the need to let my liver work it's magic alchemy with my blood before jumping back behind the wheel (referred to as "sightseeing" from now on), so we climbed down one of the steeper cliffs to the ocean just north of the restaurant.
As I was about to take my last and gigantic step into the sand, my companion pointed out the harbor seal staring at me from below. She had been tossed into a nasty garden of sharp rocks by the gusting winds and abnormally rough sea that day. One side of her head showed signs of blunt trauma, and her right eye had hemorrhaged badly. While I'm not a seal expert, the good people at the Marine Mammal Rescue and Rehabilitation Center are. Luckily, I keep their Hotline in my phone for just such an emergency.
I'd like to think I saved that seal from a slow, painful death on the beach that day. As she looked up into my eyes between labored breaths, she seemed to say, "Thank you friend, I will always remember your kindness."
I walked away from that beach feeling as if I had gained just the tiniest insight into God's spiritual opus; that maybe we were all born without sin and malace in our hearts. The purity of our exchange, the unsolicited kindess... I can't help but feel as if this is how we were meant to live in this universe.
Of course, later that day there was the whiskey and the hot (eerily flexible) phillipino girls and the mechanical bull and the raging erection. Maybe God and I should just shake hands and call it a draw.
11.09.2006
"SEND LAWYERS, GUNS, AND MONEY"
For my ensuing comments, no doubt, will require the use of all three.
I like reading Dan Savage's column in "Seattle's Only Newspaper," The Stranger, not only because I find him fiercely entertaining, but because he was responsible for the campaign to put "The frothy mix of lube and, etc. etc." in the #1 spot in a google search for "Santorum." Thanks little buddy. This week's Savage Love column deals with the psychological impact of small penises--or at least the perception of having a small penis--on the poor, poor dear men who sport these microphalli. They have trouble with self esteem, they sometimes exhibit self-aggrandizing behavior, they often have trouble maintaining healthy relationships, and so on. It's a tragic but classic psychological syndrome.
Why do I bring this up? Well, the thrilling events of the past 36 hours (up to and including the umpteenth time in my short life I've had to jump up on the kitchen table stark naked shouting, "SUCK IT, VIRGINIA!!" Way to go, Jimmy Webb!), have left me in a strange haze of uncertainty. What will happen to my great nation now? How did we ever get into this jam in the first place? How, indeed.
When Rumsfeld got his ass booted from the Pentagon (finally, sweet Jesus), my roommate joked, "I wonder how satisfied W is with his performance now?" Boingoingoing!
Unsatisfied? Self-aggrandizing behavior? Trouble maintaining healthy relationships?
Sure he's a mass-murdering fuckhead, but when I look at that sad, sad old man, I don't see the worst Secretary of Defense since the Ford administration (he hee!). All I see is the shadow of a poor, poor, microphallicitous Bob Dole shilling for Viagra. The shame of old age, the 'infirmity' of seniority; it drove Hunter Thompson to shoot himself in the head rather than suffer the indignity of primogeniture (his ashes, shortly after, were fired from a giant cannon, sort of securing his place as one of the baddest motherfuckers in town. These are the lengths you must go...).
So let's not gloat over the recent victories in tha' House and Senate, because at the end of the day, it's all about who in the Executive has the oldest, wrinkliest, most shriveled-ist whithered cock and balls among the rest.
And yea, that scares me just as much as it scares you. Clinton '08!
P.S. Rummie's from EVANSTON!
11.07.2006
MYERS - BRIGGS PERSONALITY TEST
(Think what the words mean, not how they look or how they sound)
Ignoring for a second the annoying trick question on this page ("Think what the words mean, not how they look or how they sound." If you just nodded your head and proclaimed, "Ooooohhhh! now I get it!", you are (A) A Complete AssClown...), let's think about Question 48.
I'm invited to think deeply about which word ("Soft" vs. "Hard") appeals to me more. Am I (A) thinking about supple, underfed undergrads while taking this test at work, and therefore should be ashamed of my naughty, naughty sexmagination? Or am I (B) totally gay? hmmmm.
I put (B) by the way... wouldn't want them to know I was thinking about ivory-soft bosoms at $8.50 an hour. Dodged a bullet on that one.
11.05.2006
GUEST POST FOR MEL-I-OH YEA.
Do you ever wonder who takes the time to read this self-indulgent bitchfest fine literary journal?
Apparently Mel doesn't like raisins on her fruit salad. And I don't mean Mel doesn't like (quote) rasins on her fruit salad (endquote) if you know what I mean heh heh heh. I mean my girl hates those sinister little yoda-grapes on her fruit salad.
After reading this, I'm feeling all funky and whatnot, so I will make Melle Mel (It's like a jungle some times, it makes me wonder...) a Funkee Fruit Salad:
Mel's Funkee Fruit Salad will have:
Starfruit: SuperFly Kung-Fu ninjas break through your kitchen windows and, like, totally lose it on some starfruit with their Kinky Katana Blades of Justice. Then they take the starfruit slices and chuck them like Neon Ninja Stars of Truth at yo' fruit salad, ending the age-old fued between the Cosmic Cobra dojo and the Sonic Cheetah dojo. Rock solid.
Grapefruit: because the french word for grapefruit is so awesome it hurts. I'd slice up pieces of grapefruit and slam them into the bowl with a wicked 360 Airwalk dunk and just hang there on the rim, all, like, taunting everyone and yelling, "pamplemousse, bitches!!"
Ribs: Because nothin' says Bitch I love yo' sweet ass like a big pile of barbecue ribs. Yea, it's a fruit salad, but ol' Dr. von Huge-n'-stein wants to wrap his BigDaddyKane gums around some hambone Memphis bar-be-cue. Dig? Make way for the von HUGE n' stein.
Now if that fruit salad doesn't scream, baby let's superfreak eachother all night long, I guess I just don't know romance.
Somebody please sleep with me!
11.02.2006
GODS LOVE ME
During my somewhat-Christian upbringing, we never spoke much about Karma, but over the years I've come to believe in the subtle balance the Hindu divine provide in everyday life. Karmic harmony, as it seems, is not without a sense of humor. I have begged and pleaded for some sort of redemption amidst the boorish skullduggery of this moronic species of ours, but to no avail. Politics have utterly failed to impress me (e.g. John Kerry, who, de
spite the use of both hands and a device designed for the express purpose of finding one, could not locate a sense of humor), and the continuing phalanx of devoted Lost/Survivor/Grey's Anatomy/etc. followers makes me go, hmmmmmm. However, seek the divine and you shall find the divine. Karmic balance in this version of the universe, in my eyes, does indeed exist. Take for instance the following:
1. Ann Coulter may rack up some jail time for fraud (P.S. I'll arm wrestle you for the rights to the Ann Coulter-Martha Stewart women's prison B-movie).
2. Evil Dead: The Musical is making it's NY debut at New World Stages on 50th.
If you can't see all my hopes and dreams fulfilled in the brightest binary-star the gods have bestowed upon me, well, good luck in the next life, buddy. I'll send you a postcard from Nirvana (where Evil Dead: The Musical will be playing every night at 8:30).
HOW TO:
Pete, my hetero-life-partner, who sadly isn't blogging anymore, sent me this to cheer me up.
What a pro.
I was running one hell of a fever yesterday (not the good, 104-and-hallucinating kind, though, unfortunately), so I finally watched the third Matrix movie while coccooned in my cozy bed--with my pillow-girlfriend, Katya. I have one question, though, is this movie any good if you're not high? Because I just thought it sucked.
11.01.2006
NORCAL HALLOWEEN
Halloween in Northern California is a strange time. Sometimes the oddity is a little subtle, and it takes eagle eyes, like mine, to spot the nuance.
I'm still feeling a little sick from the weekend, so I wisely chose not to head into the Castro last night. Only, like, 8 people got shot, so I guess I missed a good time. I also traded in my tickets to the Exotic Erotic Ball (wait until no one's looking to follow that breadcrumb), which I am now regretting. I'm a little vanilla for that scene, but I sure am a man who knows what he wants.
(hint: it's breasts.)
Instead I went to a winery for a Halloween party this weekend. I have no class. When it's free, I drink too much. I lust for genital-to-genital unclothed heavy petting (the one and only phrase I have yet to purge from my 7th grade SexEd lexicon). Why I was invited to an upscale shindig like this one, I couldn't say. Perhaps it's because I tend to smooch up on the older ladies? (Thanks for the slowdance, Donna, you stone cold fox, you).
Maybe it's because I dream that strange dream in which I charm a disgustingly wealthy older couple into letting me marry their daughter and live out the rest of my days as a trophy husband. (P.S. nowhere in the thick of my "scruples" dictionary is this practice prohibited. In fact, it's on my lifetime "To Do" list between "Start a Beautiful and Healthy Family" and "Play Air Hockey with David Bowie").
Then again, I provide an invaluable public service at my job for which I get paid 10% of the average income for this area (remember when "VC" didn't mean "venture capital," Donnie? Interesting...). But, I won't pretend I don't enjoy the irony of seeing those loser, D&D, renaissance fair, computer geeks drive around in Ferraris with way, way too hot women, soaking up all the envy they never found in gym class. They look at me as if to say:
who's the (nasal spray left, sniff) loser, now (nasal spray right, sniff)?
Fair play, gentlemen, live the dream. I'm gunning for your daughters, so please sit up and pay attention.
Too soon for Viet Cong jokes?
