WHAT MAKES A MAN?

I had intended to post the following as a comment on someone else's blog, but I got on one of my big-bright-shooting-star rants and I just couldn't let this one live as a footnote. (Also, I think I further my crusade by boorishly hogging the limelight, no matter how pale or dim).

Context: what is 'feminine' style? Is the term derogatory? If so, how deep the tragedy we've come to believe so! (Also, I was challenged to a Scotch fight. Oh no you di'in't).

Oh but how you misunderstand! You have to contrast my own “masculine” writing style, wherein I write pages and pages on the State of My Penis, with your own red-meaty-yet refined style. “What’s Up With My Penis Today”, by definition, would be considered “masculine” writing. Therefore, also by definition, “feminine” style would be unfettered by such obsessions as “constantly trying to get laid.” Once again I prove my own sad, depressing point with my penis… so difficult to avoid these mishaps.

Feminine is not weak and passive! Feminine is graceful, subtle, clever, and nuanced; masculine tends to be more homo-erotic and socially awkward (Joey, have you ever been to a Turkish prison?). Bill O’Rilley? Rush Limbaugh? Sean Hannity? George W? Masculine. Wanna come play some grab-ass with us?

You know what’s really offensive? Chick-lit.

Furthermore, I brush my teeth with scotch. I put scotch on bagels. I soak my contact lenses in scotch when I go to bed. Know what makes my tears taste less bitter? If you said “scotch” you just won yourself a new penis scotch. I rub it into my feet when I’ve had a hard day. Put a little dab behind the ears before I go to weddings. You will not usurp my love affair with scotch. No ma’am.

Now that’s recognition of emotion.

And if, by some cosmic travesty, I have not proven this point, please oh please click here, but NOT at work.

P.S. not porn.

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MMM, MMMMM MYSTERIOUS TEA

This is truly the strangest life I have ever known. Tonight I bask in the gentle glow of my favorite tea shop (free wireless and drinks if you flirt with the owner... "I'm sweet enough already, thank you" is such a great sleaze-ball line when she asks you if you want sugar in your tea. Swear to God, women are retarded sometimes), but this time, friends, this time I have to wonder. The mousy Tea Girl who makes me my oolong launched into the most elaborate and unsolicited one-sided conversation with me tonight, increasing by great orders of magnitude the number of words she's ever spoken in my presence. Of course, I hadn't expected any of these words to be "I mean it's Tuesday and I have scabies already!"

Beg your pardon?

Oh yes, there were scabies. And she showed them to me. She's right; she has scabies.

So here I sit, motionless, in quiet repose, eye to eye with the mysterious tea she just delivered to me with a wink, saying nothing, thinking only:

"you know... it is only Tuesday..."

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LANGSTAR IS MY BOINGBOING

~Congratulations Drunk Apher~

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I AM A MODERN SAVAGE

I harbor a smoldering volcano of wild, atavistic energy in my guts with no legally available, sterilized, pre-approved, sanctioned outlet for my savage creativity. I am constantly aware and proud of this fact. For example, I just walked past the Apple Store and stifled the urge to scream through the aseptic frosted French doors, "ENOUGH FUCKING iPODS!" and wave my penis around in circles like a flesh helicopter. I'm relatively certain at least someone besides me would appreciate this.

I want to flash my ass (and some balls) at the uber-wealthy as they smile and munch delicious, overpriced food. I want barely-legal college girls to take my picture when I ride commemorative statues like a drunken cowboy. I want to bleed righteous blood from roadrash wounds incurred while doing Burts down 101. I want to freak people out at parties that are boring. ATTACK ATTACK ATTACK. I want to lure women to my bed and fry bacon in the nude when I'm done with them. I want to hurl shit off stuff. I want to lick strangers and tell them they taste like strange meats. I want to start fires, chase cars, steal license plates, build a kick-ass fort, spank someone hard, kill and eat something, pee on stuff I don't like, screw an entire sorority, devour raw things, fight someone, howl, kick, (fuckfuckfuck!), bite, scratch, gnaw, snarl, and burn, baby.

I've never been on TV, and I'm bored! Straight up bored. Bored! And I'm nice to people for a living (fucking hippie!), and I'm good at it. Sooo good! And I like it! But right now, I'm a savage. And I live on your block. And I steal medicine from your bathroom at your parties. Muahahaha!

(The above was written while casually sipping an Oolong Latte at a quiet Japanese tea shop. It was undertaken with the intention of looking busy while surreptitiously staring at breasts. Now I'll continue with real work-work having completed this brief stream of unconsciousness.)

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NUKE THE BELGIANS

Mike Gallagher, the host of the conservative talk radio show that keeps my heart beating in the morning, is out today (most likely patrolling the border in an air-conditioned Hummer, firing his rifle in the air, cursing liberals like me [Mexicans, A-rabs, Barak "HOOO-SANE" Obama, hippies, queers, Jim Webb, hump-backed whales, Barbie, Ben, Jerry, etc.], and homoerotically chest-bumping his Boss Hogg doppleganger chauffeur as their clammy jowls redden and slicken with flop sweat, soaking through matching American Flag cravats). Therefore, I'm graced with his stand-in today, a worthless pile of a man who can't help but prove time and time again that he used to get beat up as a kid for milk money (but no more! No sir!).

This man is not funny. I say this only because it would be easy to think he is, by nature, a facetious person, and his comments are not serious. For clarity, I assure you they are serious. This is what he offered for his hungry listeners this morning:

"Why doesn't the U.S. just send in some tactical nukes to wipe out Tehran?"

I cast my pillow girlfriend, Katya, aside (whom I had been fondling in peace before hearing this horrifying comment), slammed my face into some 14th century swords I keep on the nightstand just to make sure I wasn't dreaming, and pumped up the volume on the radio to see if I had heard correctly. I had.

He had been yelling at Dinesh D'Souza (the author of The Cultural Left and Its Responsibility for 9/11) for being too liberal (!), and offered the "nuke Tehran" strategy as an alternative to diplomacy. My brain, fighting to maintain the logic circuits years upon years of hard-fought education had forged, could not handle the sheer douchebaggery that snapped, popped, fizzled the fine, diaphanous network in my head, and I passed out in a twitching, foaming heap.

Unfortunately my roommate, accustomed to seeing me in such a state on a Friday morning, did not realize what had happened.

In my tormented slumber, I dreamed of a world in which the US actually nuked Tehran and then, of course, had to nuke everyone else because they were so pissed at us. Wild specters of extinguished wonders sailed away into the annals of eternity, never to be seen again, beginning with this sad eponymous blog title:

1. Really good waffles
2. Munich - Three way tie: Beer, Porn, Football
3. Phnom Penh - Angkor Wat, Dead Kennedys
4. Madrid - Tapas, Hemingway memorabilia
5. Ankara - Hagia Sophia, Elaborate bathing, They Might Be Giants songs
6. Moscow - Nesting dolls, Root-based cuisine, Feel-good 80's movies
7. Paris - Easy exchange students, Sass
8. Brasilia - Bossa Nova, The "landing strip"
9. New Delhi - Vast biological and cultural treasures, Tech support, Temple of Doom
10. Stockholm - Bikini team, Ikea
11. Rome - Spiritual guidance for millions of Christians worldwide, Shoes
12. London - (Salt + Vinegar), Newcastle United, Flags, Princes doing bumps of coke in the hills

I awoke to a beautiful planet where all these things, in one form or another, still exist. What a wonderful world to wake up to. Aside from the douchebaggery, of course. Alas, I shall continue to fight the good fight every day to protect the greatest gift of all: my belief in the rationality of our elected leaders collection of Russian nesting dolls.

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I WILL NOT ENJOY PRISON

Oh auburn amazon, you slender chestnut minx, rescue me from your hazel tempests and deliver me to languish beside your lithe silhouette...

I am desperately in love with my intern. She is sweeter than expected, having been shaped by the Unitarianism of small-town-Midwest, and smarter than expected, dosed with healthy west-coast university liberalism and the broad mind of a world traveler. She is also a tall, slender, dancer-vixen.

Unfortunately, she is also an undergraduate.

I see this not as a legal issue, but more of a 'that-guy' issue. Thanks to the miracles of modern study-abroad-and-'find'-yourself-for-a-year higher education, my intern is a year older than the average for her station in life. We are a mere 3.17 tantalizing years apart in age, yet I do not feel comfortable with the prospect of touching her inappropriately at the appropriate time (quite literally. I'm currently feeling a specific physical discomfort while conjuring this image).

Dare I follow in the footsteps of greater men than I (though my intern is decidedly not sitting at home polishing her V-Pin), those brave pioneers treading upon unspoiled ground? You know who you are, you lucky bastards, you. My God, the thrill of it. The smell of blood in my wolfish nose. The flash of soft flesh beneath generous garment. The blood boils, superheated by the hyperactive, hypermasculine sexual imagination. Dare I?

I dunno. I suspect flirting with one's intern constitutes a breach of several ethical and moral standards, compounded by the fact she has yet to graduate from college.

"Trust thyself," says uncle Emerson, though he and I may fundamentally disagree over the exact intentions of "every heart vibrates to that iron string." I agree wholeheartedly, iron indeed, though "string" is a bit unflattering as a metaphor. Ironic self-effacement is the avatar of a healthy self-image, Ralphy. Preach on you stallion, you.

I wonder if my future cellmate will enjoy Transcendentalist discourse?

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CONSERVATIVE WHITE PEOPLE ARE UNATTRACTIVE

Why are conservative white people so godawful?

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I AM MATTHEW MODINE'S HERO

Not exactly, but "MATTHEW MODINE WAS ACCIDENTALLY KIND OF A DICK TO US, BUT HE STILL SEEMS LIKE A PRETTY NICE GUY" doesn't work well as a blog title.

And you know how high my literary standards can be. Yea, verily they soar like great eagles above the clouds.

But more importantly, my dear dear auntie got married this weekend in LA, hence my absence from public life, and I could not have had a better time. I would be remiss if I did not list the lessons learned in earnest from the wedding experience, so:

1. "Open Martini Bar" is a phrase I will heed as a warning from this moment forward.
2. HBO has perfected the art of softcore pornography well beyond any artistic achievement in the history of mankind.*
3. My skills as a salsa dancer exceed the average for my ethnic group (based on outside accounts and not my own "shaken-not-stirred" perceptions. For this, I thank my lucky stars).
4. "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" is at least as inappropriate in Italian as it is in English for serious social events at which I am not supposed to laugh.
5. My family is so awesome it is a wonder my parents didn't expose me to the elements at birth to appease Roman gods. My survival into adulthood mocks their awesome-itutde. Seriously, they rule.

Which brings us to My Quiche with Matthew Modine. Two of my dear friends, who I'm confident will point out any and all inconsistencies in my story, played tourguides for me in the big city. They rock. The Dr. even sacrificed her unusually dainty feet for me. Awwww...

The story begins thusly: we were having Quiche with Matthew Modine at The Figaro Cafe (actually it's more of a boulangerie), a charming sidewalk bodega in north Hollywood. More or less. History will be my judge. I have tremendous respect for Matthew Modine as an actor, so I was pleased to have the opportunity to speak with him. Interestingly, the first thing I noticed was that he was wearing really cool pants (he's tall, I'm tall, and I have trouble finding cool pants). I nearly admitted as much to him, but I felt this would not promote healthy dialogue between us.

But I digress.

Matthew Modine started asking us what we each do for a living and we, in turn, listed our socially commendable, yet fiscally unimpressive jobs. He asked me specifically if my job paid well; we all had a good chuckle at my response. I'm poor, ha ha. But the word 'Hero' was used, most likely to make me feel better about my poverty, and it did! Little victories make for charming conversations and warm relationships.

The big question of the morning became, "But how can you three even afford to live here?" which, at the time seemed innocuous enough.

However, during later discussion we would all agree that it sounded a bit like, "What are you poor people doing in my neighborhood?" But none of us felt he or she had been patronized to any great extent, rather Modine et al had merely wondered how a young person in this day and age (who is not famous) could live in the city. It was decided that Matthew Modine was, in fact, a pretty cool guy if only a little "Hollywood." I hope we meet again, Matt, even if only to talk about pants.

Thanks so much to... hell, everybody who made this such a kick-ass weekend.

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*Plotline: "A dead stripper turns up in a man's bed on the day of his wedding, prompting a murder investigation that uncovers lies, treachery and steamy bedroom activities."

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I NEED A NEW GIRLFRIEND

"Awwwww!" I said, beaming at a borderline-inappropriate text message sent to me in the wee hours of the morning.

"Who is it?"

"It's so-and-so, she's such a sweetie. I've known her since I was 16, but I didn't sleep with her until I was 23. Now that's love."

Not only is that a stupid thing to admit out loud, but it's just a little on the fringe of oddity. Should I be concerned? Or shall I begin the Great Wife Hunt of '07? It's time, homey.

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BECKS

There has been a decent amount of flurry concerning the recent and extravagant trade of 250 million American dollars for David Beckham (distributed in various ways), the world's most recognizably androgynous soccer star (in deference to our own terminology, I'll use the globally-popular term 'football' in place of 'soccer' to appear more worldly and such. To avoid confusion, I'll refer to American football as 'gay rugby' for clarity). The last person to hold the title "Most Ridiculously Paid Athlete in America," A-Rod, gets an extra hug from his (gold-plated) therapist tonight, since it'll take him just under 10 years total to collect his .25 billion dollars, while Becks'll cash all of his cheques in 5. Poor, poor A-Rod.

You have to ask yourself if it's worth it. I'm inclined to say yes, given the plight of the American footballer and the rotten in-house farm teams that support our surprisingly decent national team.

Some make the argument the US cannot support a decent football program without a stellar World Cup performance. Many critics, myself included, cite the wildly unexpected victory over Mexico in '02 as a crowning moment for our nation's potential as an eventual contender. Of course, and equal number of people are quick to discount the USA's performance in '06 as business as usual, forgetting the ludicrous and downright criminal use of penalties (a disgusting 28 red cards and and mind-boggling 345 yellow cards) in that travesty of a tournament. Lest we forget, a record number of matches in the '06 World Cup were decided by shoot-outs (4) as well, making '06 the most confusing tourney in years. In a word, the US team just got themselves a little screwed this time. So, OK, maybe World Cup performance shouldn't dictate MLS success.

Angeleans aren't shy about their football, though. Last year the Galaxy drew 92,000 spectators for one regular season game, attendance that would make even the SEC drool. Obviously the time is right to bring in superstar European players (or overdue, depending on your opinion of intra-league American competition shaping international players). Superstar players mean bigger ticket receipts, regardless of how they perform. If you don't believe me, just ask any SF Giants fan.

Also, unlike Franz Beckenbauer and Pele who came to the US to die instead of play football, Beckham has some good years left in him (presumably). He's popular, and he can still ball (by US standards), so I applaud the Galaxy's choice in spending the green to bring him to LA.

Still, I've heard nothing besides "oh, do you hear Posh and Becks are moving to LA??" "Really?! OHMYGOD he's SOOO hot!" for the last two days. Clearly my friends a) don't know shit about soccer (FEUT-bol) and b) are retarded. OK, I don't know shit about the football either, but I know I shouldn't pay $250 million for someone just because they remind me of Orlando Bloom (skills notwithstanding, of course). I'd respond with: "do you guys even know what sport he plays?" But I'd be met with, "He plays for the British Soccer team*, DUH! (OHMYGOD he's SOOOOOOO hot!)." And then I'd say, "(thud thud thud)" because I'd be banging my head against the table.

I once posed the question, "Why Beckham? Aren't there better players out there?" just to hear a contrary opinion, but I was voted off the island.

One of my braver comrades replied with, "David Beckham is the greatest soccer player of this generation, hands down."

To which I countered, "OK, but what about, say the Brazilians? Like, don't they have some good players, too? And, you know, Michael Owen would be a good choice as well (and, hell, Shearer had some good days) if you want to stick to the Brits. What about those guys? And Zidane? Anybody remember that guy? He's pretty good, too, right?"

Then, as if sensing my head-pain fading away, someone says, "Owen and Beckham? That's like comparing Babe Ruth to Mark McGwire!" (It was a girl).

To which I could only counter with a good old fashioned, "Do I... like... um... hit you now?" look of complete and utter puzzlement. US football fans, like the MLS itself, are also in their infancy it would seem.

Anyway, if there's one good thing Brand Becks brings to the US it's drawing attention to MLS. It needs it, and he can give it (heyooo!), so I'm all for it. Especially since it ain't my $250 million. But if you think I'm treating David Beckham unfairly, go ahead and read this for yourself and tell me how harsh I am.

*yup, you guessed it. There is no "British Soccer team." Good for you!

Special thanks to PIA and Zapo for their wise wise wisdom.

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PRIDE IN A JOB WELL DONE

If you Google the phrase: Brooke Hogan black thong, this fine piece of literary juvenile-delinquency will appear at the top of the list. Owing to the divine justice inherent in this universe, clicking on this link will not only disappoint those looking for some jail bait eye-candy, but horrify anyone with even an inkling of aesthetic taste (but it's safe for work, slackers).

I'm so proud I could just pee my pants. Special thanks to some nut in Clearwater for the tip.

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FROM THE ARCHIVES

Before they were Paranoid Social Club, they were Rustic Overtones, and before that they were from Portland Maine, the hardcore capital of the Greater Portland Maine area. You wonder sometimes how nice boys from Maine get to be so angry, but then you realize it's Maine and, Jesus, you can only hang out at the L.L.Bean Outlet for so long before you're forced to tear the sleeves off your Men's Rockland Polo shirt, flip the collar to "up," and rock. Bear with me here.

I hearken back to when 311's Grassroots came out in '94, and I was like, "wicked, homie" (because it was '94, and I was doing that black 3-hole Vans, jeans, Soundgarden T-shirt, skater haircut, flanel-shirt-'roud-the-waist thing, and In Living Color was still big), "is this what's coming out of Seattle now?" The truth, as I was embarrassed to learn, was that 311 had, like so many other famous... corn, grown straight out of Omaha, Nebraska.

Puzzling.

The awkwardness of that moment caused me to judge a band's origins less harshly from then on, so when my Man-Bear-Kitten of a roommate suckered me into a Paranoid Social Club (est. Portland, Maine) show, I gave it my due regard. I was pleasantly surprised at how much I actually enjoyed the show (aside from a little ditty called "Last Cigarette," for which I tortured my super-sensitive-but-bottle-it-all-up-inside roomate mercilessly for years. "Dude, It's not really about cigarettes, at all, you just aren't getting it).

If you liked 311 (because you still have "311" underneath your driver's seat somewhere, though you haven't thought about it since '96), but really didn't care for Nick Lofton Hexum's Schoolhouse Rock voice, you might find some kitschy, kick back with an Allagash, swat the mosquitoes, maple-syrupy entertainment from Paranoid Social club.

If you're feeling saucy, spend some of your iTunes gift certificate ($5.00, Chaunkah day 4) on "Ricochet," from the album Axis II. Then go eat some of yo' mamma's waffles.

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PELO-SIKE!

I'll admit I'm no political pundit. However, I do listen to conservative talk radio every day to stay "frosty," and I have a gay friend, so I'd consider myself pretty savvy when it comes to the body politic. I would never presume to tell Nancy Pelosi how to run her emergent majority (step 1, cut a hole in a box), though, owing to my bad luck of arriving on this planet behind my elder siblings, I do possess a certain expertise in sore-winnership (the "nah-nah-nah-nah-NAAAH-naah syndrome). So, Nancy, on behalf of all democrats youngest children in the country, allow me to give you one piece of advice:

PULL THE TRIGGER

You don't get many chances in this life to grab the limelight. Your older brother got arrested for underage drinking? You're the golden boy (or girl) now! Take advantage of your newly-earned status by rubbing it everyone's face. Revenge is a drink best served hot (in yo' face, with Splenda, beotch!), so take all that bipartisan crap and ram it right down Denny Hastert's gaping maw. Wearing your pink, "I did Justin twice" t-shirt. High.

I'll agree that, yes, the only way to achieve good government reform is forgiveness. So fine, I forgive the Republican congress for being such assholes for so long, but the bible tells us "eye for an eye," right? So go on, Nancy Pelosi, play your wicked games and revel in your hedonistic orgies of liberalization while you're still that Golden Girl (oh no she di'int). I know a certain fellah who used to hit the pipe and roll out with his hoes all the time, and he made for one hell of an American.

And that man's name was Thomas Jefferson. Think about it! Oooooooo!

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SPIDERS ARE AWESOME

click!

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I AM BORED

Judging by my own recent lackluster posts, and the absence of any rip-roarin' hum from anyone else, I conclude that nothing is officially happening in the world. We're all slugging through the post-coital food coma of our orgiastic holiday trifecta (Christmas, New Year's eve, and Nancy Pelosi.... Zing!), so I forgive us for our winter slumber. We'll do better as February approaches and we, once again, focus 75 - 110% of our energy to getting laid Valentine's Day.

I have debated (re)posting this video because, like the last two seasons of M*A*S*H, U2 has become entirely too preachy and self-righteous for my taste these days. But, I like rock 'n roll. I think it's kewl. Therefore I shrug my shoulders, wade into the shallow water, and give you someone else's art.

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I AM A GRAMMAR WHORE

Below is a list of things that are plural that people either screw up constantly, or don't realize are pluralized:

1. Data (really bothers me)
2. Media
3. Vaginae
4. Dominatricies
5. Criteria (stop fucking this one up)
6. Formulae
7. Graffiti (via "Graffito")
8. Premises (via "Premise"... odd one, ain't it?)

9. Culs de sac
10. Mans 'o war (disputable)
11. Whinnies the Pooh (disputable)

It is impossible to make an anagram from "anagram" according to Webster.

Oh, and I will never, ever have sex with a woman. Thanks liberal arts education!

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HAPPY NEW YEAR!

As you ponder your ability to control your own destiny, I invite you to reexamine any New Year's resolutions you may have scribbled on the back of a cocktail napkin besmirched with bloody mary and the eeensy weeensy little bit of baby throw-up you wiped from the corner of your lips (1. don't get pregnant, 2. make sure little Timmy makes parole, 3. stop being such a whore all the time).

In the fog of your hangover, ask yourself if every New Year's resolution you've ever made has ever materialized. Is this just the logical extension of your college mantra, I'll never drink again, I'll never drink again, I'll never drink again? Click your heels together three times and maybe that girl next to your with the slight moustache and cankles will be swept away in a gentle whirlwind before she can wake up, want to cuddle, and then ask you for your telephone number. And no, she won't settle for your email address.

Ladies and gentlemen, 2007 will be just as wondrous and spectacular as 2006. Chances are you won't, but you could still be hit by a bus and killed at any second. Why restrict the already narrow scope of your brief existence? Stop making resolutions that you will not keep (e.g. no weed and porn on schoolnights)!

"I put it to you, Camp Firewood, as we spend the last dinner together, be proud of who you are! Look at me, Ma, I made it! I'm okay!"

To hammer this point home, I'll pass on the following story relayed to me just yesterday:

So I'm having sex with this bartender who was working at the place I went to for New Year's Eve, right, and she's got these two cats, and I'm wicked allergic to cats. Right in the middle of it I start sneezing, like serial sneezing, right, and I'm, like, convulsing right there on the bed. She's kind of groovin on it, so I keep on, and it's like, "AAAACHOOOOO!" and she's all "UNNNNNNHHH!"... "ACHOOOO!" "UNNNNNHHH!", and these cats are just sitting there looking at me the whole time while I sneeze and flop around with this girl on me going "UNNNNNHH!" "YYYEEEEAAA!" and they're just looking at me.

I guess it's not as weird as that bartender from Ivanhoe and her pet chicken.

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