Ye Gods and Little Devils

AN OVERHANG IS WHAT'S NEEDED

2008-03-27T09:30:00.000-07:00

TODAY IS A GOOD DAY FOR DEMOCRACY

2008-03-26T08:40:00.000-07:00

Sorry to leave you with tacky, uninspiring reposts, but I've been busy wondering why-oh-why I actually came back from vacation instead of selling the rental car, growing my hair out, building a makeshift hut from rainforest leaves and cow dung, foraging for grubs and fruits to survive, swimming in the ocean, eating raw tuna, and basically behaving like a lankier Gauguin with tourists and locals alike. Minus the Syphilis, of course (fingers crossed!).

Bring your umbrella to work today in case it rains McCain. Eeeesh.

ALOHA ER'BODY

2008-03-14T21:15:00.000-07:00

I will be out of the office until Monday, March 24th. If this is an emergency, please take a deep cleansing breath and remember... we're all gonna get leid!

JUST POINT, BLAST, AND COOK!!

2008-03-12T09:30:00.001-07:00

I AM SOOOO NOT FUNNY

2008-03-11T14:10:00.000-07:00

She:
date: Tue, Mar 11, 2008 at 1:38 PM
subject: Things
>>>>>>
"Hey kid,
I was just cleaning out the junk on my work computer and saw that at one point I had bookmarked your blog. I was pleasantly surprised to see that you had started posting again...until I read this: http://youhandsomedevil.blogspot.com/2008/01/i-am-classy-and-almost-100-std-free.html

Um...call me dense but what the hell do you mean by Kitchen Aids? I'm too panicked that you mean AIDS (though my mother would say we just call it HIV now) to really read this over again. I also assume that you are with it enough to actually call if that were the case. So please, please, for the love of god calm my mind ASAP."
>>>>

Me:
date: Tue, Mar 11, 2008 at 1:40 PM
subject: Re: Things
>>>>
"http://www.kitchenaid.com/home.jsp"
>>>>

REPOST (GASP!)

2008-03-11T10:36:00.000-07:00

It's not really my style to do this, but I'm reposting an E-article (pronounced "EEEEEEEEYYYYAARTICLE!!!!") from Treehugger.com because it's near and dear to my heart. Water issues are interesting and "tap" into the deepest realms of irony (e.g. "40% of the bottled water sold in the United States is tap water anyway"). As an added bonus, the article mentions the Westchester Co. watershed from which all delicious, unfiltered water makes its way into New York City's taps. Smart people call that "Ecosystem Services," a concept that radically alters our perception of landscape ecology, economics, and why we should think twice about building over every square inch of nature. Fucknuts, like my friend, Doug, call that "hogwash," but no one will pay attention to him unless he says something crazy. Boo fucking hoo, Doug.

Read to the end where Treehugger asks you about your town's water source. Heads up, San Francisco, they're talking to you. Don't fuck around on this one.

Enough "tap"dancing (like it's raining softballs today). Read on...

IF YOU DARE!!

from Treehugger.com
--------------------------

All teh netz are abuzz about an Associated Press study that found pharmaceuticals in drinking water. Our resident chemist didn't think much of it (it is all old news to TreeHuggers) and concluded: "Thanks a lot AP, for handing a dopey talking point over to the bottled water marketers."

John was right, and it did not take long; No Impact Man Colin Beavan was asked in an interview if bottled water was a solution to the problem. He references Food and Water Watch to remind us why it is not:

Read the full article

Quick word of advice for you. Tap water is good. Bottled water, not so much. Tap water can be hard to find. Plastic is scary. Hydration makes you look younger / more attractive. Consider getting one of these SIGG bottles. Sure, you'll look like one of those freaken' hippies with their free love and their organic beer and their STRING CHEESE, but if you purchase the "Hello Kitty" design, I guarantee you won't get invited to any drum circles any time soon.

I'M THE GUY WHO DOES HIS JOB (FOR MOM)

2008-03-10T11:28:00.000-07:00

Picture me, juvenile, prankster, having dinner conversation with a collection of people who, by all accounts, are much smarter than I (in defense, I'm obviously much bigger; evolution favors me). I love it. For every one word spoken, a thousand pop up in my head; constellations of decision trees and logic webs blossom like fireworks when I listen to these worthy scholars. I learn so much from hearing these people talk!

Of course, I'm the jackass that believes you can't be privy to an intellectual conflagration without setting a few small fires. This attitude, while provocative and infinitely more interesting than agreeing with everyone else (see: banal dinner conversation among freshman IR majors ["you know, I wish society would just see the futility of war as like, an extension of our own, like inner conflict, you know?" zzzzzzzzz....]), can cause a bit of trouble.

Consider this: I, well fed and content with not being an asshole, am thinking about having intercourse in an fMRI machine (like you do), listening to a very poignant and pointed discussion of gender discrimination. I am a white male.

What I should have said was NOTHING. There are two truths in our (thank Christ) rapidly/rabidly evolving culture which pertain to this discussion in which I strongly believe:

1. Gender discrimination, like racism and ageism, does currently exist, and
2. is shitty.

Duh.

For fuck sake, DUH!

What I DID say, using a gross economy of words, was "nuh-uh." Why? Well, maybe I wanted to see what it was like to defend sexism, you know... just to see what that's like. I expected to be booed off the academic stage by a barrage of heated, and un-measured words (for truly you can't understand a person's motivation while they are cool, calm, and collected, now can you?). What I hadn't intended was the request for elaboration on a point that, in all fairness, I had just pulled straight out of my ass.

For yea, verily, my friends if there is anyone on this planet who would volunteer to beat the holy iced tea out of every beneficiary whiteman who thinks "blacks / women / jews/ A-rabs / poor people / gays / mex-ee-cans" have no business in their business with their own flaccid boy's club, it's me. And if you didn't know, ya ain't spent enough time with me alone in a closet with a case of MGD and a BB gun. So how the hell do I defend sexism?

Not very well, I'm afraid, but I can stick to what I know, and that's all I can do. So you've been labeled a bitchy, aggressive, silly, insignificant woman in the workplace, eh? Well I'll bet you've never begged a woman for sex, now have you. Yea. I thought so.

That's a little joke so we don't get to serious.

Treading water, I looked back on the last corporate job I held (122,000 employees worldwide, wheee!). If I remember correctly, it didn't matter if you were a woman, a man, or a goddamned kangaroo just as long as you did your job and you did it well. My life was mercifully devoid of any snarky, backroom gossip because we were all to busy with our stock dropping 18 points in 2 years to give a shit about politics. Mmmmm Ramen....

Did I just become an angry, white, male, capitalist???

No no no no no! I was working in an industry where the only reputation anyone had to defend was a reputation for not fucking up. Ahhh the simplicity of cash business...

"Sorry... I spilled coffee all over myself this morning, so I had to come to work wearing this lacy, camisole that displays my firm, milky, bosoms in all their glorious splendor."
"Yea, fine, great, grand, wonderful, you think we could find a way to shave 750k of next quarter's budget? Maybe we could cut back on materials cost, but we might run into problems meeting EOY goals, and piss off our QC folks, which might mean the end of bonuses this year. What were you saying about coffee? Oh, we should order some Chinese unless our SA brats want pizza."
"You're right, let's take a look at last month's production numbers..."

Bring your own stripper pole to work for all I care just as long as I don't have to work weekends.

Alas, I'm a product of a different generation and a different lifestyle. I wonder if my freshman Psychology textbook says we men downplay women's ambition because our father's ruled the roost, and our mothers kept to their place? Not so, Psychologists! (And I'll thank you not to suggest I want to shack up with mom, you twisted bastards). No, no! Our mothers were the pioneering feminists in what I would call the glorious second dawn of gender equality (voting, while totally awesome, was just not enough I would say). Many of us were lucky enough to be born into a generation of working mothers. Mom had a job! Mom had a graduate degree! Mom read books, and smoked marijuana, and listened to rock and roll music! And mom, when it came down to it, never took any shit from dad. Mom never let anyone put her "in her place."

Good on ya' girl.

So, fuck, where was I, which is to say where are we? Well, I suppose we give the finger to those who don't share my progressive, albeit rough-hewn, viewpoint on gender equality, and wait for them to retire, die, and pass a shit-ton of money and entitlement to their bratty, culturally impotent children who will do us no more harm. Amen.

After all, if you can't look me (me!) straight in the face and tell me (ME!) that you don't give a flying fuck what I or anybody else thinks, then maybe we're in for a long, tragic, drawn-out slog to the finish line. The optimist in me believes the world is ultimately so reductionist that the quality of one's work will RULE ALL in the end. No matter how white you are or how many Y chromosomes you have (oodles and oodles!!), if you can't suck it up and do what you said you would, you won't get the respect you deserve from those who really know and matter. Or... even little, ol' me?

This line of reasoning, sadly, doesn't work very well when you're begging for sex. Trust me.

Trust me.

In then end, I'm quite sure I didn't win any popularity contests among dinner guests, but what I did find was that firm confirmation that, no matter how far I roam, am surrounded buy brilliant, magnificent women who will never define themselves in any other terms than their own. That's what I was looking for all along.

And, having now read this, some of you women will hopefully consider intercourse with me? Pretty please?

I can cook, ladies! I can cook!!

Thanks, mom.

I AM A MARKETING WIZARD

2008-03-03T13:13:00.000-08:00

My popularity is waning, according to the hoards of blog readers who email me constantly begging for new post-y goodness (read: "Mom"). Apparently I've failed to provide you with quality entertainment while you sip your morning coffee or pray to God that our long, national nightmare / your current STI will come to a dramatic end soon. For that I am genuinely sorry, but thanks to an upcoming television appearance, a well-rounded diet of peanut butter + lemonheads + Miller Lite, and my own God-given and goddamned ability to drive the ladies batshit crazy, I've been so self-absorbed and so energy drained that I have been just utterly unable to have a single creative thought emerge in this last week. I believe the kids call it "living la vida loca," which I absolutely do not understand and find truly offensive (we mock what we don't understand, doctor. Doctor? Doctor.). Damn kids with their rock 'n roll and their makeout parties....

Fortunately for you/me the weather has turned a rosy cheek, and it's now gorgeous as all get out. In related news, hordes of college women (let's say "graduate students" to avoid any hints o' Nabokov in my narrative) are getting out as well to sun their firm, youthful shanks while nerdy CS majors rubberneck and crash their Segways into each other. Jesus it's a beautiful season. In short, I, your humble ("crass/perverted/hyperactive") narrator, am beginning to feel the faint tingle of a good mood coming on.

A quick check 'o the medicine cabinet reveals that yes, in fact, my good mood is organic in origin and has absolutely nothing to do with the handfuls of prescription drugs I jack from jock assholes who grope my ladyfriends / have the bad luck to invite me to their crappy parties and grope my ladyfriends. [See, I TOLD you I was in a good mood again! Ho HO!] Nope, my glistening aura comes courtesy of Grandmama Nature, herself. Thanks, Geritol.

Why is my mood important? Well, it's really not, and if you think it is, then please send $5.00 in cash to:

That Assclown, Mike Huckabee
P.O. Box 2008
Little Rock, Arkansas 72203

But you SHOULD be happy to know my brain is cranking in high-gear with greasy-slick serotonin lubricating all my happy, dendritic cogs. I, my friends, I have an idea, and you're privy to it first (they say you gotta git in on the ground floor... that's how you build an investment portfolio). I came up with this idea while trying to think about companies that have been so successful at branding, we refer to all products from multiple manufacturers by one copyrighted title (e.g. Kleenex, Band-Aid, the Baldwins).

Speedo is another company with a monopoly on branding. I say "Speedo," you say "leathery, old Europeans." Or you say "Michael Phelps," in which case I owe you a slice of pizza. In any event, we say "Speedo" when we mean "low-profile, competition quality bathing trunks" or some such old-timey lingo because it's easy to remember, ubiquitous, and conjures up thoughts of swiftness. SPEEEEDO. SPEEEEEEEEDO. Whisper the name and watch your words slip away on the wind. SPEEEEEEEEDOOOOOO.

How does one break through the stiff marketing ceiling Speedo installed to keep the entrepreneurial folks like myself out of the biz? Huddle up, and I'll tell ya. You use their own marketing tactics against them. You take "speed" and make it "speedier." You make it warp speedier.

My friends, welcome to the age where the cruel tyranny of Speedo has been replaced by the glorious springtime sponsored in part by "WARP-SPEEDOS, FOR WHEN 'FAST' JUST ISN'T NEARLY 'FAST ENOUGH.'" Observe:


	Speedos		WARP-SPEEDOS

I think we can all agree we will look back one day and say, "forget the internet, WARP-SPEEDOS truly made the world what it is today." Hell yes, they did. Hell yes.

Note: so much of this post was made up, please don't send me any emails warning me about the dangers of taking prescription drugs. I don't even like using moisturizer, and that's on the outside, people. The outside.

STP, SO TOTALLY NOT COOL

2008-02-27T10:25:00.000-08:00

My roommate and I decided to give each other Christmas gifts this year (despite the fact one of us is decidedly JEWISH, but who's counting?). As it turns out, we both scored major hits with our presents; I got a guitar, and she got shoes. All stereotypes properly satisfied.

Last night a buddy of mine came over to "jam" with me, which is hilarious considering his rock 'n roll career out-spans my own by several orders of magnitude, but we still have plenty of overlapping material on deck to keep things rolling. All of a sudden he tells me to play a particular chord, which I do obligingly, then another. I learn and master a full chord progression before I realize I've been playing a Stone Temple Pilots song without even the softest pangs of suspicion. My apartment (also car, office, personal space, brain) is a Stone-Temple-Pilots-free zone. STP is not allowed in my world. Playing STP songs is so totally not cool. I had to drink 11 beers before the self-loathing subsided (ever seen The Crying Game?).

I woke up early this morning because someone (maximum likelihood = "me," but p>0.05 no doubt) set my alarm for 6:30am. I believe I had a craving for vegetarian sausage patties + eggs, + and cheese on rye toast last night, settled for canned artichokes + chocolate sauce instead, and set my alarm clock early to follow up on my craving when sufficient sobering-up time had passed. Everybody loves a good breakfast in the morning.

Funny enough, when I crawled out of the pillow-and-blanket cave I'd built around me during the night (for maximum monster defense) to silence my alarm, I caught an insipid, droning melody drifting through the air. The radio was playing the same sausage-fingered Stone Temple Pilots song I learned the night before. Scott Weiland was mind-stalking me like he was goddamned Freddy Krueger.

The whole experience cast me down into a very odd place today (in an entirely odd week), which could only be erased by the velvety smoothness that is Kenny Loggins and Michael McDonald.

Fuck yea...

I AM NOT SUPERMANLY

2008-02-26T09:30:00.001-08:00

I just got invited to do this. I am most certainly not doing it.

ANNIE POTTS IS SURPRISINGLY ATTRACTIVE

2008-02-25T12:02:00.000-08:00

I'm having a terrible crisis in my life right now. As much as one can feel as if things are awry, there simply aren't enough road markers that let us know just exactly out of whack we are. Fall asleep at the wheel, end up in Tuscaloosa. Them's the rules.

You see, I'm sitting here eating a tomato while my laundry spins round and round downstairs, and I'm watching Pretty in Pink. Problem: I'm thinking Annie Potts is more attractive to me than Molly Ringwald.

Jesus, is that how you know?

I need to take a break, search for my missing pipe (and a a fine briarwood pipe at that), and search the fridge for nutrition. It's such an awful shame what we savages eat when the womens aren't looking. Oh how good it is to cram the last of the tomatoes in your mouth, the joyous simplicity of shaking the Chipotle seasoning directly into my gaping maw. Did I just dribble a bit? No worries! I'm eating over the sink! Pour down the crumbs from last week's cornbread and wash it all down with 3 cans of Milwaukee's finest. I'm pretty sure, nay, I'm positive that if I eat all the remaining leftovers in the fridge, I'll consume a more rounded diet than any meal prepared by someone else's hands.

OK. Now I'm all better (and Tokyo Drift is on, so I don't have to think about Molly Ringwald anymore). I get cranky when I'm not fed.

I'm also planning a sweet vacation for March where I will rent a truck and spear all my meals on the end of a giant steel pike and hope the sharks don't get me first (I will also have beer). My soul needs a recharge. Any ideas on how to stretch my $47 dollars all the way to the Aloha State, you let me know, aiiight.

CAREER OPPORTUNITIES

2008-02-20T10:35:00.000-08:00

There are jobs in this world that a human being, a real person with real feelings, was never meant to perform. These jobs are degrading. They are sadistic. They push a person to his absolute limits, and return little or nothing as compensation. Professional diaper washer, bull masturbator, meter maid, prison rape researcher (an actual career), these are truly deplorable ways in which we could be spending our time, but without which we could not function as we do.

I submit to you, however, that nothing, nothing in this wide world, can come even remotely close to the abject horror, the unspeakable torture that is being The Designated Driver.

First off, I'll be the first to claim a DD is absolutely necessary in all cases, which is one of the main reasons why the job is so awful. If you are DD, you have entered into a sacred contract that stipulates 1) you will protect the lives of every soul in your care, and 2) you will make sure no one gets date-raped. We, as a society, will likely agree both tasks are of paramount importance. We, as a society, might also agree the DD is likely to just get crapped on the whole time s/he is performing these tasks.

But you cannot complain, you ungrateful bastard! Soon enough your coin will flip, and all debts will be repaid in full! You brought this on yourself!

So you smile, you con drunk people into letting go of each other's genitals at the end of the night, you talk with strangers who spit unconsciously while they slur in your face, you stop at Taco Bell, at White Castle, at IHOP, you drive safely through the wee hours of the morning while Nelly Furtado blasts on the radio, you sweet-talk frat boys into taking their hands out of your friends' shirts / not beating the shit out of you.

All the while saying to yourself, "sweet mother of christ jesus tapdancing christ in a chickenbasket I could really use a double bourbon right now."

Tempting, isn't it? Surrounded by all that sweet, intoxicating medicine, the revelers with inhibitions lowered, the girl (if you were 6-beers-and-shots into the night and she were just a little less passed out on the couch at 9:30pm) who would make a fine conquest, your mind wanders...

Alas, you stave off, you saint. You martyr. You persevere.

"He has Elton John on his iPod? Oh how funny! Look, everybody, how lame that is!" [not so lame when I'm holding your hair while you vomit on a Volkswagen, eh?] "Oh you look so cute holding that purse! It matches your dress! Awwww, doesn't he look so cute with that purse?!" [yea and that homeless guy would have looked cute holding it, too, if I hadn't snatched it up off the sidewalk.]

But you knew exactly what was going to happen, didn't you. You volunteered for the job. And why? Well, that's obvious. You're going to go home, swear on everything holy in this infinite universe that you will never, ever, in your life get drunk like that for as long as you shall live, while simultaneously making the same solemn commitment to get as brain-bustingly shit-faced as soon as physically possible. You're going to break the goddamn land speed record in Vodka. You're going to Minor in Whiskey at the Sorbonne. You're going to teach the fucking standing-room only, Nobel Prize winning class in Crap-In-Your-Pants-Drunk off Sambuca because of the things you've seen tonight. Now that's what I call "job satisfaction."

And you love every minute of it don't you, you sick son of a bitch, because someday you won't qualify for immunity, you'll qualify for the Senior Discount, won't you. You'll be "That Guy" at the party instead of that guy at the party one day.

And the weekend's right around the corner, and some other poor bastard will be DD, and you're gonna get you some payback, aren't ya. Hellz yea, you are.

Just do me a favor and stay the hell away from my Volkswagen.

TEXAS FINALLY CATCHES UP.... TO?

2008-02-19T10:14:00.000-08:00

I didn't want to start the week with a political discussion, but I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to share with everyone (the 1.5 intentional readers per day plus the sorely disappointed redirects from Google:search="Lindsay +Lohan +Brooke +Hogan +thong") this Valentine's Day miracle from Texas:

"The 5th Circuit, siding 2-1, said it is unconstitutional to punish individuals selling sexual devices, since those devices are typically used in the privacy of people's homes."

Just in time for America's most romantic holiday, it is now as easy to buy a dildo in Texas as it is to procure an assault riffle (whew!). Opponents of the decision cite "sexual addiction" as a major cause of concern, and that making sex toys more available will only feed this "recognized mental disorder." Supporters of the decision (e.g. me) are quick to point out that tobacco and liquor are both widely available in Texas and are responsible for the deaths of thousands every year. Sex toys, in contrast, kill very few (I don't have the statistics in front of me, but I'll go out on a limb and claim dildo-related deaths can't really compare with... oh, say gun violence... just a thought). Personally, I'd rather confront a sex-addict than an "I'm currently shooting you in the chest"-addict, but it's all a matter of perception, I guess.

The story, which I found through WashingtonPost.com, links to this truly chilling website ("Nominated for Best Conservative Blog"), which you should visit, especially if you are one of the girls from Carrie or an "I'm currently shooting you in the chest"-addict.

VD 2008

2008-02-14T10:33:00.000-08:00

Ok, like, that's waaay too much of a softball. Calling it "VD" is like making your girlfriend cinnamon rolls for breakfast on Valentine's Day and telling her you hope she likes her "buns" sticky, because you're gonna make them "extra sticky" today...

Jesus, that's not the same at all. What the fuck? Why do I have to spoil a perfectly good holiday like that?

Lemme jus' focus on th' positive fo' ah secuuund. Today, many of you will get laid, or at least be romantic with someone. For me, well... I've got my fingers crossed because I rully rully rully hope it's not bar skanks again this year! For others out there, you'll be doing it to honor the lord. Excuse me, The Lord. Yup. JC gets his "props," from the happy couple at Book22.com this Valentine's Day [P.S. in retrospect that is simultaneously the best and worst pun I have ever made in the course of my long, sad, sarcastic life].

I would be well within my rights to rant on about the apparent hypocricy of a religiously-guided, ahem, "intimacy product" vendor, but I'll be nice today and say, hoooray for y'all at Book22.com. Sure, I'm 100% creeped out by your website, and frankly the thought of wholesome, bedimpled Christians slathering on some "Like a Virgin" personal lubricant ($12.00 for the lube, the irony comes free of charge), and putting their "hmmmm-hmmmms" in each other's "hmmm-hmmms" makes me a little uneasy, but I'm going to applaud your efforts to bring some common sense (and a little G-D-given fun) to your "anointed" brethren.

Exhibit A: Book22.com sells condoms.

Wha? Christians + condoms = crazy! But I... I thought... huh. What am I to make of this? I say good for you. "After all, nothing says 'I love you' like population control!" sayeth Treehugger. While abstinence-only sex education has done little or nothing to lower teen pregnancy and STI's* it has had significant negative impacts on a person's self-image and social status in his/her peer group.** Yet our friends in conservative Christian circles continue to cry out against birth control. Sigh... Or new friends at Book22.com, however, believe that honoring your church-sanctioned, life-committed, monogamous partner with terse, lights-off-pajamas-on, vanilla sex can be fun AND safe (abomination to the Lord optional depending on whether or not you live south of the Mason-Dixon)! Baby steps, but in the right direction.

Exhibit B: Women can enjoy sex again (whew).

While this was total news to me, apparently women can enjoy sex as much, if not more so, than men. This fact has not been lost on the Spiritpreneurs at Book22.com who have based nearly their entire collection of intimacy products on enhancement for women during sex. Heck, I think that's just peachy!

Of course, let's be honest with ourselves for a moment, shall we? By far the most effective way to enhance sexual enjoyment for men is to simply increase its frequency or ease of acquisition. Failing that, you have the overwhelming prevalence of pornography that targets heterosexual men (see: "internet") used as general proxy, but you're unlikely to find that manner of content on a website "offering quality products to enhance the intimate life of God's children." But why be cynical? It's a LOVE holiday, baby!

So I hope, nay pray, that you all have a wonderful Valentine's Day filled with all the super kinky or whitebread or whatever kind of intimacy you're looking for. Good luck and God bless.

*actual science.
**stuff I just totally made up.

MEXICANS ARE THE NEW BLACK (PART III)

2008-02-13T08:30:00.000-08:00

PART III
I had the intention of telling a story about waking up sleep deprived with a headache thiiiiis big, but I woke up sleep deprived this morning with a headache thiiiiis big. I can't figure out if my current state will make this post better or worse...

I did, however, have a good thought this morning while talking to my coworker about "blow busses," school busses in the parking lot of snowboard and car conventions on which, for the right price, men can climb aboard and receive blowjobs from car bimbos and snow bunnies. Until I was told otherwise, I had assumed "blow busses" were busses that served cocaine. That got me thinking about American Psycho, a movie I had seen last week, specifically a scene where Christian Bale and Justin Theroux do shitty blow in a club bathroom. Then I started thinking if I ever owned a swanky club, I'd have three bathrooms: "Men," "Women," and "Blow." I think I'd get extra points for service, and every one would think I was cool.

Anyway, I woke up Sunday morning in a hotel room sleep deprived with a pounding headache. To me, the most logical solution to those two problems was to eat the remaining rind of cheese and re-watch The Replacements on HBO. Good call. Feeling my sould revived by the dairy and Keanu Reeves's vacant doe eyes, I checked out of the hotel and headed west.

Like so many trips like these, I had no plan, no map, no thoughts in mind but one.
Obtain these:
and eat them here:
Well fed, and losing steam, I finished the drive back south, and ended my weekend with a warm snifter of Remy Martin, seaside, watching the sunset over the Pacific, which is just about as far a man can go before baptizing himself in that gorgeous saline sapphire.

If anybody's keeping score, we're putting this trip down in the "win" column.

MEXICANS ARE THE NEW BLACK (PART II)

2008-02-12T13:37:00.001-08:00

You ever have one of those days where you almost get taised by a drunken, +50 hotel prostitute? I do, and that day was Saturday.

I don't need to recap, but you can easily infer the state of my body that morning, but I was pleased to be checking items off my list of things to do that day. My plan was to drive 2 hours north, drink constantly from 11:30am to 4:30pm, possibly have intercourse (with a WOMAN this time) in a winery bathroom, forget to eat anything all day except for an entire block of cheese, meet some colorful people at a hotel bar, and pass out with my church clothes still clinging to my sweat-and-Manhattan-soaked body, and I love it when a plan comes together (we call that "foreshadowing" in the literary business.... gosh, I'm so bloody smart!).

For some reason, all my bloody mary fixin's were laid out neatly in the kitchen when I awoke, and I revel in my ability to sling a monster bloody when put to the test. Five minutes later and biggity-shazam, I've got a nalgene full of juju for the road; not that I advocate for drinking and driving, you understand. That would just be irresponsible. Riding in a car while tipsy, shrieking at cows and shoving fistfuls of Kettle Chips in my craw, is perfectly acceptable.

God, I haven't even arrived at breakfast yet! What fun!

Praise ye who stocked my fridge chock-o-block with groceries that superb Saturday. Know what has two thumbs and loves to cook himself some dee-lish breakfast? This guy [indicates self].

You know, I think we're going to speed things along and fast-forward a bit. Stick with me now.

...Sunny... meet some good 'ol friends up at the vineyards... drinking drinking... spending way too much cash for bottles... checking into a hotel... drinking bottles... eating an entire brick of cheese... hottub... drinking bottles... watching The Replacements... dressing up in my church clothes...

A-ha. Here we go. Got to skip all that juvenile and boring "wine tasting" chatter, thank God. Anyway, I arrive at the hotel bar dressed somewhere between Dylan McDermott and a circa 1963 Dick Clark. Jesus, I'm sexy. The clientele at the bar is split evenly between some young, well-dressed, sophisticated-but-certainly-approachable, patrons and three kinda cracked-out older people. Immediately I make the decision to engage the older folks, since I can only imagine how much potential lies in their company. I order a Manhattan from the bartender (who looks as if he mixed his first drink sometime during the Taft administration--one look at his withered arms and I decide against the tippy-top shelf liquor), and belly up to the rail.

The middle-aged man to my right is drinking the same drink as I am, and he looks the least like a serial killer. I introduce myself to him first. After a brief exchange of names and occupations (I tell the truth for once, BOR-ING), we get to the "what are you doing here" questions. I reveal that I am trying to clear my brain; that I am trying to discard the shackles of my job and monotone existence. I talk of my desire to chase what little is left of the American West and to see the great Pacific Ocean laid before me inturrupted by great Pleistocene fingers of stone. I am here to feel the nature of "human."

He is there for a cat show.

I didn't know they even had cat shows.

He continues. Cat shows are apparently better than dog shows, since dog shows involve a "pyramid" of judging whereby contestants filter through an ever-dwindling pool of competition until only a single champion remains ("Best in Show"). The judging at cat shows, in contrast, involves all cats simultaneously competing for various accolades which are then weighted to the size of the overall attendance (e.g. 4th place at a 1,000 cat show is better than 2nd place at a 200 cat show). These earned points ("rings") are tallied at the end of each competition year, at which time the CFA crowns the Top Cat in the Nation.

I can only interject with the occasional Christopher Guest joke, which gets exactly zero positive response from my new friend. After some prodding I get him to reveal how well his cat is doing. He leans in as if to keep our conversation private from sinister ears:
"Right now," he whispers, looking to see just who is watching, "right now, WE'VE got the top cat in the Nation."

I confirm this when I get back home. To my delight, he is not bullshitting.

Not a bad start, I decide. Meanwhile, the woman to my left has become steadily drunker. This has an obvious effect on the man to her left, which will matter later. But first, the woman. Picture one of the actresses from Golden Girls, now reverse time so that she is in her late 40's or early 50's. She's just like that, only... you know... a hotel prostitute. I'm not judgemental, but from the look of things, the change-wad of 1's in my pocket might buy me a full night with this woman with the possibility of a pancake breakfast. Not one to discriminate, however, I engage her in conversation as well. She is borderline insane and tells really un-funny jokes about how women are different than men. Observe:

To my companion: "Do you know why it takes a million sperm to fertilize one egg?" she asks.

We say nothing, only cling to each other like castaways and shuffle awkwardly in our seats.

"Do you know why it takes a million sperm to fertilize one egg?" she repeats, totally oblivious to our discomfort. A pregnant silence ensues.

Under my breath, I mutter, "beause they don't stop for directions... jesus fuck how old is that fucking joke?"

She hears me. She wonders how I could have known that. She insists I have heard this joke before. She becomes indignant; I have stolen her moment.

She also owns a taiser, which she proceeds to show me.

The man to her left, who has been solving the economic riddle of how much money he would have to spend on drinks so that he would be willing to spend money on the woman, quickly walks away. He has government experience. He has no tolerance for the intoxicated / armed.

He is, however, a pretty groovy guy, and is heavily involved with government-sponsored emergency management. We talk for a spell about climate change, and how it's much smarter for the US government to (at least in secret) believe in, and respond to climate change, since an ounce of prevention will go a hell of a long way to saving money/our asses in the future. All in all a reasonable fellow. I enjoyed meeting him, and as I shake his hand on the way out I get the feeling he enjoyed meeting me. I believe this because he is comfortable enough to admit that he is there to finish writing a collection of erotic stories.

I ask him what kind of erotica he writes. I learn it is mostly mystery, historical, and "noir" erotica. I do not know what any of that really means, but I do not admit this, nor do I press the subject any further. Some things are better left un-explored.

Throughout all of this insanity, I have been chugging Manhattans as if they were snakebite antidote. I am not intoxicated; I am what the Irish call "drunk."

PART III
(to be continued...)

MEXICANS ARE THE NEW BLACK (PART I)

2008-02-12T10:49:00.000-08:00

You ever have one of those days where you almost get taised by a drunken, +50 hotel prostitute? I do, and it happens a lot.

PART I
I took the weekend off so that I didn't end up on a kill-crazy rampage. On the way out of the office, one of my least favorite co-workers cashed in on a promise I made, oh... let's say on Angela Lansbury's 8th birthday. I promised her, waywayway back when, that I'd use my Godly writing skills ("skillz") to co-author an environmentally-themed article for a hippie-themed magazine. Basically our conversation went thusly:

she: "Hey, I was thinking we could write an article together about blah blah blah boys blah blah the mall blah blah blah chewing gum blah blah stickers."
me: "Uh-huh, sure, sounds good, let me know what you were thinking, uh-huh, yea, cool!" TRANSLATION: "I am not listening to you. I am thinking about soup. Please get the fuck out of my office."
she: "Awesome! I'll write my half and then send it to you, and you can write your half!"
me: "Yup. I'll do that. Just send me what you've got and let me know when my half is due!"
TRANSLATION: "I am still not listening. I am using words that you used so you think I am listening. I will say whatever I have to say so that you will leave and I can go home, do the dishes, look at internet pornography, and drink a beer in the shower."

Then I forgot all about making this promise until Friday.

At 6:00pm Friday, February 9th, 14 hours before I left town, at my favorite coffee-and-gelato shop, I opened up my email to find one half of an article due a mere six hours in the future. I attempted to open the file. The file would not open. I used my skillz to MAKE the file open. The document was full of gibberish (non-representational symbols). I used my skillz to convert the symbols to readable text. The readable text was full of gibberish (incoherent ramblings of a semi-intoxicated 4 year-old).

I understood the majority of the individual words on the page, but I could not understand how they fit together to form even a whimper of a coherent thought. No matter how long I stared at the words or how many times I slammed my cranium against a marble statue of Tony Henry in the corner, I could not figure out how, oh merciful God, how a literate person could have produced such insanity. I quickly realized 1) I was going to have to work a hell of a lot harder than I had originally intended, and 2) I would rather shit in a pillowcase and mail that to the magazine instead of this current abortion of a literary piece. People might think, "yes, he put his name on a pillow case, defecated into that pillowcase, and then submitted the pillowcase for publication," but they would also think, "at least he didn't spell his name with a Hello Kitty sticker."

Stormclouds formed behind my brow. Lightning struck my brain. Faint whiffs of steam began to rise from my ear sockets. I picked up the phone and dialed the coworker's number.

"Hello?" said a man's voice on the other end of the line.
"Hi, is RuPaul* there?" I inquire, smoothing out the tremmor in my voice [*RuPaul is a made-up name. Her name is not really RuPaul]
"Who??"
"RuPaul? Could I speak to RuPaul, please?" I ask politely.
"um...."
"I'm sorry, but I think I may have the wrong number," I offer. I'm a Midwesterner. I have an extremely polite phone voice. The situation did not warrant such a courteous offering from me, but there's no sense in being curt with a stranger.
The voice answered back with, "Uh, yea, I think you DO..."

To which he added, "...QUEER!!"

Many patrons of the coffee-and-gelato shop would later remember hearing a sharp sound from somewhere close by, somewhat akin to the noise large bubblewrap blisters make when ruptured or a dry stick splintered over a knee. The sound came from deep inside my lizard brain where the decision to transform from "I am mildly annoyed" to "some motherfucker's gonna die, kill, kill, kill" gets made. If you'd have stuck a thermometer in my mouth at that moment it would not have read a balmy-yet-homeostatic 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. The thermometer would have read, "hot lava; his blood is hot lava right now."

Then I blacked out. When I awoke, I performed such feats of literary alchemy I would have made both Marcel Proust and David Copperfield proud of me (for "magic" reasons, not "rape" reasons... apparently he's an alleged rapist. Too bad he couldn't make those rape charges disappear, huh!? Am I right, folks?! High five!!). Anyway, I win. Score one for the Gipper.

I went home, 1) made myself a bloody mary, 2) drank a bloody mary, and 3) repeated steps 1 and 2 until step 1 became too hard. I awoke the next morning in deference to (or maybe in an artful dodge of) renal failure to a kick-ass vacation weekend.

Score.

PART II
(to be continued... I will answer the "WHAT drunken, +50 hotel prostitute?" question)

THE INTERNET IS, LIKE, TOTALLY FREAKING ME OUT, MAN

2008-02-07T11:30:00.000-08:00

Owing to my aforementioned spinal injury and the ensuing liver-busting cocktails of spasmolytics + opiates that allow me to be oh-so-productive at work, I haven't gotten out of the office/house much. Sure there's TV, but I've long since exhausted all acceptable possibilities there. And, yea, maybe I learned a song or two on the new guitar, but a pilled-up white man hacking through Cat Stevens's catalog is just way too trite at this point (hey Mom and Dad, I work with your kids! hooray!). Super Tuesday was exciting, yet Tuesday, and today's Thursday, not Tuesday anymore, so that just leaves me with the internet.

And the internet is kewl.

I've never said this before, but I think YouTube was worth the squillion dollars Google paid for it. Prove this to yourself by taking two meaty fistfulls of Tylenol PM, wait 30 minutes, and watch this video:

Stare at it. After awhile that little blue dude starts really speaking to your soul, hombre. Hokay, now that you've got Matthew Wilder's sweet sweet one hit wonder in your dome, go ahead and take a gander at his live performance:

Do you hear that? It's the sound of your mind being blown wide friggen' open. Giggle like a tickled baby for me.

So I'm easily tricked by things that bounce around joyfully and without purpose. That's why I liked this year's Superbowl commercials so much. Most were totally random, involved some form of senseless gimmick (like a guy getting wailed on by man in a mouse costume), and left me completely unable to recall what, if anything, I was supposed to then go out and purchase. Until this morning I would have said "bravo to you, sirs" but I no longer have any faith in our country's octo-mega-pus advertising regime. Why, you ask (as if you were actually curious)?

Because the French sell fruit better than anyone in the fucking universe. Don't believe me? Do yourself the biggest favor by shutting the door, making sure no one is looking, and watching this television advertisement that is certainly unsafe for any workplace environment in our ridiculously misguided, puritanical, and vitamin-deficient country.

P.S. If you don't appreciate breasts, don't click on the link. Then never, ever speak to me again. Get out of my site. (I just blew your mind again, didn't I.)

HUMBLED...

2008-02-05T09:44:00.000-08:00

Sooner or later you realize there's someone out there doing it better than you are. They are more deplorable, willing to reveal greater embarassments; they have filled your niche better and more successfully than you have. In my case, that person is Tucker Max.

Wow.

Well done sir, well done.

TOM BRADY AND MARK MORFORD ARE SEXY (BUT NOT AS SEXY AS I AM!)

2008-02-04T11:32:00.000-08:00

Forgive my cantanker today, I'm recovering from a fresh back injury procured from a bloody-mary-and-B-List-swimwear-model / hottub-and-stripper-pole-dinner-party, which isn't actually a joke or nearly as awesome as it sounds, but nevertheless describes, in the appropriate amount of detail, how my life goes sometimes. It doesn't help much that my Wii bowling soreness outshines my actual bowling soreness (115 left handed, too!!). Yo soy CRABBY today.

I can drink as much as I used to, just as all of you can, but now that many moons have passed since our Greek days, I can no longer wake up and function in polite society as well as I used to.

Which is why I propose a national post-superbowl day off, and now I'm at home doing my part to advocate for this cause. It's not that I got really crazy yesterday, you understand. I couldn't really tell you how little I care about the New England Patriots or the New York Giants, which is weird considering my borderline-obsessive interest in another New England sports team [crosses self reverently]. I can't help but hate a little on Tom Brady, though. Sorry about that, Tom, but you already banked 3 superbowls, and the only 18-0 record in NFL history. Oh, oh... and you're banging quite possibly the hottest woman in the fucking universe at the moment... talk about your consolation prize.

If you're keeping score, it's a + in the "schadenfreude" category and a - in the "no stabbing pain in my spine" category. To be fair, I did come home in the middle of the day, make myself a healthy meal of broccoli and peanut sauce, catch Return of the Jedi on HBO, and mix up a soothing cocktail I like to call "The Sublimator:"

- 1200mg Ibuprofen
- 20mg Cylobenzaprene
- 40mg Hydrocodone
- 175mg Milk Thistle so that my liver might actually have a fighting chance of lasting through middle age
- 1 banana for potassium (and delicious flavor!)
- Mix with 2 cups of mango juice and serve over ice

I assure you, $250k in higher education spent with Andover/Choate/St. Paul/Exeter/Lawrenceville boys & girls coupled with Dan Sullivan's delightful "American Pharmaceutical Association's Guide to Prescription Drugs" gives me supreme confidence in my ability to mange pharmaceuticals today. (I also have industry, training, bitches!)

(...try and chug it down riiiiight when Carrie Fisher starts kicking ass on Jabba's sail barge in that smokin' hot space bikini... Now that's good medicine!)

Don't be too harsh on me, my drug alchemy emerged in the fall of 2004 when I got hurt so badly I couldn't walk for a month. One tends to remember, in vivid detail, pain signals interrupting nerve impulses to and from the legs AND REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS. Forgive my sensitivity to pain.

Which brings me to the real target of this rant: Mark Morford. I've been torturing this regular SF Gate columnist for ages now, but he offers up such a perfect target. His "Zen and the Art of Being a Liberal in San Francisco" column gets on my nerves from time to time, but he, like Jasper Johns or any true nemesis, brings out the best (beast?) in me. Let's ignore for a second how much he steals my shit, he wastes a lot of time on the "we are all one, so lead with your heart" arguments. I get frustrated when Morford's column tells me to drink more fine California Pinots, or practice this-or-that new school of yoga, or make love to a woman deeply like sipping scotch or driving "small European cars." It's all so liberal-chic it makes me uncomfortable. I'd prefer to argue, and I'm channeling Kurt Vonnegut now, that one should lead with his cock and not his heart.

Mark will "never wear sneakers." I will, because they are comfortable and support my skeleton when I run. Mark "sleeps naked," presumably because it's how nature intended. I sleep naked because I'm prone to passing out after sex. He writes about "a wry and punch-drunk universe;" I'm wiry and punchy when drunk. See what I'm doing there? Oooo, I'm so clever!

I don't like it when people tell me how to live virtuously, liberal or conservative; I prefer to listen to my human instincts and try not to dress them up in haute couture. For example, Mark's latest column on the frivolity of scientific studies derides the silliness with which we place our faith in "how to live" science. His advice would be for us to listen to the vibrations of the universe and not to spoil their whispers with our "facts" and "studies." But are all those facts and studies so bothersome to you, Mark? Do they offend your Zen? Would you rather take a deep, cleansing breath and imagine them all away? Show some fucking balls, for chrissake. If yer gonna shoot, shoot tuh KYLL!

Yes, Mark women who drink 2 glasses of wine each day live longer, but you forget to mention women who drink 2 glasses of wine each day probably fuck-and-like-it more than average! I'm sure we'd all agree that's pretty neat. Is it a one-to-one correlation? Probably not in most cases, but hey, I'm no scientist. IF SCIENCE ENCOURAGES WOMEN TO DRINK AND FORNICATE, THEN SIGN MY NEXT PAYCHECK OVER TO THE GODDAMN NSF.

Ok, I'm not being 100% fair. I've had my own winks in the public eyeball lately, appearing on television and print, and I'll tell you it's no picnic. I haven't yet mastered the art of weaving one's own safety net while saying the provocative. It's the difference between Conan O'Brien (funny) and Jay Leno (your parents think it's funny), so maybe I should cut Mark Morford some slack. You wanna get paid, you better be nice sometimes.

Or maybe I should just kick him in the nads. Who knows what I'll do now that The Sublimator is kicking in. (We in the literary sphere would call that remark "heavy-handed," but screw off! I'm no SF Gate columnist.) I'll probably just do some yogic stretching and pour myself a glass of fine California Pinot.

[Special twinkle from a brilliant star in our galaxy today. Were you watching?]

PHENOMENOLOGY

2008-02-02T07:38:00.000-08:00

It's mad early. I woke up before sunrise. I am on my way to work. Still, wiping the cocaine-plus-chopped-up-Thin-Mints I've been snorting to DESPERATELY WAKE UP MY BRAIN, I have time to read a little Slate.com. They've been nice enough to write me an article about 2 Girls 1 Cup, so I don't have to stoop to that level.

And thank God, too, because I'm so friggen' classy.

More to come; scratch your neck, tug both ears, crack your knuckles, and kick back for a few hours. Daddy's goin' out to do some good fo' tha' community.

YOU ARE SURROUNDED (SPECIAL STATE OF THE UNION EDITION)

2008-01-28T21:43:00.000-08:00

"I didn't really like the look of penises right away," she said.

"Yes, I'll bet they are a little distasteful at first, but I'm sure you like them for what they can do to you," I offered, hinting at how we grow old and forget all things capricious and young.

There was a pensive silence when we both took stock of our lives, our desperate youth, failures and triumphs. We each spent a heartbeat in ourselves, reliving moments of wistful childhood, looking backwards in time down the path that had led us to now. Here, with our history and identity at hand we sat and wondered at their meaning.

"Kind of like my first beer," I suggest. An elegant sip of wine; the cobweb billowing of pipe smoke.

"Yes. Pretty much exactly like that. It's all cocks and beer, all the way back to the beginning of time."

So, then, is my evening of phalli and symmetry.

There are, quite literally, dicks everywhere today. I won't dwell on it, but I'm searching for a name for the emotion I'm feeling. Is it relief that this was the 8th and final State of the Union address from a man who, without question, is poorly qualified to deliver such a lecture? Sigh... I have nothing else to say besides such things are inevitable in this most disappointing of ages, when we shake our heads at the State of things, when history will judge us, mercifully, as unsuspecting victims of our own excitement rather than the able actors we are. We have created this world. There's no sense in denying that.

With luck, our children will view us as one would view a stranger with a Midwestern accent or a Southern drawl, well meaning but maybe just a bit lacking up there [discreetly indicates brain].

Alas, it would be unfair to say that my beloved president is the only dick in the dildo closet. Borders bookstore makes the list as well. Sadly, the ginormous "book" seller (which, incidentally, has equal numbers of DVDs as literary volumes, of which Legally Blonde rounds out the why-oh-why-must-we-have-a-embarrassing-taste experience) nudged my favorite used bookstore out of business (earthy smells, obscure thesis chapters). Those rat bastards at Borders stay open until 11pm, though, so, yes, that's where I was today.

Surrounded by hot, hot cocks.

It's not hard to notice what books will be jumping off the shelves this season. For instance, the "Sexuality" section at Borders (147 versions of the Kama Sutra, ancient and modern), which could also be called "You Might As Well Just Masturbate to 90% of This, Because The Rest Will Be Excruciatingly Painful for Your Pale, Flabby, Couch-Seasoned Body" with no less accuracy, occupies as much shelf space as "Fiction/Literature" A-K. Lump in the "Erotica," "Romance," and "Graphic Novels" sections, and you've just out-played every author of "Literature A-Z" in Borders's universe (with flesh).

To ram my point home, I'll tell you this: there were 1/4 as many books by Roald Dahl in total as the seminal, "Speeding: The Old Reliable Photos of David Hurles," which anyone a) with an MFA or b) who has been mistakenly invited to an "industry party" in San Francisco (never again, damnit!) will tell you, is full off hot, hot cocks. [What bibliologists often refer to as "folio-cock."]

I'm not a writer. I'll never write a bestselling novel. I will, however, tell you that if I ever do attempt to sell my work to the public, the only way that bitch is ever going to make me famous is if I call it, "Fuck Like a Champ: My Life as President by J. Sizzle."

I AM NOT MENTALLY CHALLENGED

2008-01-24T10:42:00.000-08:00

We have most certainly become a nation of voyeurs. We watch reality TV. We visit celebrity gossip sites. We have "Lindsay Lohan nipple slips" in our search history. [We read self-indulgent, nonsensical blogs!] I am guilty, guilty, guilty in my own right. Sometimes I'll search for random phrases out there in the Interweb just to see what the universe throws back my way. Often it leads to someone's slice-o-life blog, which of course I'll read to see how other folks do it. I'm an internet voyeur (and not necessarily the porn kind).

My spine was fucking killing me this morning, so I searched for my+spine+is+fucking+killing+me just to, you know, see what the universe had to say about that. The universe said, "Chibbers down my spine bone." Google said, "...A FUCKING RAT. it was at least 5 inches long not including its mangy tail. it looked confused," which I thought was pretty interesting, since I had my own little rat rescue operation just 4 days ago.

Touche, universe. You have my full attention.

Then I started exploring Mazyface's livejournal trying to piece her together from the trail of crumbs she had left for others to find. What could I learn from peeking into this stranger's window? I learned that Ms. Mazyface had nice hardwood floors (under that rug). I learned she could probably do a little better for boyfriends, though the frequency of their sexual encounters seems pretty good, and I sense a great deal of warmth between them. I learned also that we share a penchant for watching people smoke bongs on YouTube and scrutinizing their home decor.

Alas, I do not know, and will likely never meet this person. Why then should I get to know her (or the online avatar that represents what I know of her)?

I realize, now, that my brain isn't as challenged as I had once thought. It's no fun to live a vicarious life. Are you emotionally challenged? Are you mentally challenged? I'll bet not. Hence, all, I request that you get up (yes, right now) find a stranger, and attempt to talk him / her into making out with you. [Note: if you are currently in a loving, committed relationship, have your partner pretend to be a stranger. A foreigner would also suffice. Swedish exchange students anyone?]

Think of the challenge, the feeling of satisfaction! The joy you will experience after communicating with a real live person and connecting, how marvelous it will be! Breathe sacred air and drink deeply from our community cup. Run your fingers through the thick, velvety curls of your very own personal interaction...

Plus, I mean... making out is pretty sweet on it's own, really. Kind of a win-win there. And I'll wrap this up by asking everyone to please stop fucking reading US Weekly. I... I think that was my point. One can really never tell.

PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE

2008-01-23T09:41:00.000-08:00

Just like you, I wake up, nuzzle my pillow girlfriend, Katya, shower, dress, leave for work, arrive, rail 3 lines of Adderall and crushed up Altoids of a mirror in my top left drawer, take one deep yogic breath, curse Mark Moreford/Jasper Johns, kiss my photo of fat-Elvis, and open my email. Such elaborate ritualism braces my sleep-addled mind for the impending bitter splash of spam emails (and the occasional subpoena). Everything about this exercise is designed to block out all the negative subliminal indications of my (real or imagined) physical inadequacy.

disprovingg580@effectsoft.com not only knows the size of my penis, but s/he truly believes I need to "improve" its size, girth, and related woman-satisfying qualities.

Why so harsh, disprovingg580@effectsoft.com? What do you know that I do not?

And what of colonistsvx46@fraser-group.com and his/her insistence that I require a "PhallusKing-sizedTerrell?" The idea is intriguing in its mystery, and as I struggle to decode this secret message (intended only for me and my... PhallusQueen-sized Terrell?), I wonder if that's really the key to happiness. Doesn't every man covet that ExtensivePenisEmelia? That EdgardoSizeableCock? The elusive SchlongGreatestGary? Surely those grinning billionaires fondling AnorexicPerfect-bosomJane on their yachts have what I should have "down there:"

a DomingScholngMan-size.

You know what, wz-1@ouinet.com? I'm not going to fall for your ploy (and you can keep your millions, Mr. Nigerian royalty). Your Jedi mind tricks will not work on me. I realized this morning, while jacking the beanstalk desperately searching for the courage to face the world sans black-tar heroin, that, quite frankly, I'm pleased with my junk the way it is, thank you very much.

My stuff has an inquisitive nature; he smiles in the same graceful way a swan looks upward to the sunrise, thankful for the hope of new dawn. He is playfully cheeky in the nearly imperceptible way that he curves left, like one lightly-cocked eyebrow above a wry grin. What a trickster! Strong as oak, tender as a kitten, my junk is perfect as it is. So I say to you, inhabits8@vonfraud.com, you can keep your promises of a CockDinosaurRaul. I'm not buyin' it. Nor do I care to "Teach [my] Woman Obediencey!" as unblockede0@cyclepup.com would have me do.

No, I will not believe the hype. The Dance Dance Revolution will not be televised. I will not bend to your spammy will! I say to you, PenisHappyMen of Earth, do not submit! Rise up and stab at them with Sporks of Justice! Hurl great clods of melted jellybeans at their advancing hordes! Pillage their cybervillage, and hold their e-wenches prisoner with your perfectly acceptable, partner-satisfying, "nice-surprise, but not I'm-in-over-my-head-big" flesh sabers!

Let this be a warning to you, kingshipnry@greatcirclecapital.com, and all your scheming brethren, we and our "it's perfect, my last boyfriend was WAY too big, and I didn't want to have sex with him" penes are gunning for you!

AND A HAPPY OHMYGOD YOU'RE A F'ING MORON TUESDAY TO YOU!

2008-01-22T12:24:00.000-08:00

I'm not a big fan of racism.

There I said it. It feels good to get it out. I am, however, an enormous fan of irony. I cite, for your benefit of example, the following excerpt ripped from the very headlines of our beloved and always-accurate-and-never-biased newspapers:

"About 25 white supremacists marched through a Louisiana town on Monday in a white power rally on the United States national holiday honoring slain civil rights leader Martin Luther King."

(They kinda do this every year).

Fine. Exercise your first amendment right to be a giant ass clown, I'm fine with that (and I'm required, by law, to suffer fools such as yourselves). I'm a firm believer in the right to speak your opinion.

I'm also a firm believer in paid fucking paid federal fucking holidays! Assuming for one moment that many of these lively ladies and gentlemen are, in fact, employed (employable?), doesn't that mean they're getting paid to take Martin Luther King Jr. Day off fo' pro'testin'?

I don't know about you, but my financial situation isn't such that I can just burn through vacation time or take an unpaid day or two off to pursue, say, any number of virtuous intellectual pursuits (e.g. coke and/or whores, etc.). Talk about moonlighting! I do believe that yes, I'd have to wait until a paid holiday (federal law 5 U.S.C. 6103) to do all my last-minute hate mongering.

Fortunately, January 21, 2008 was such a day! How convenient! Oh look, honey, little JR's softball and lynching practice are canceled as well! Looks like we can make that drive out to Louisiana... I'll start making a pie for your sister-in-law while you go tattoo the kids!

Wheeee!

Before anyone tracks me down and beats the life out of me in my own back yard, remember that my taxes pay for federal and municipal workers. I gave you some of my hard earned bucks to take a day off for racism. [pats self slowly on back with look of absolute and horrifying confusion on his face... the "2girls1cup" face.] Sigh...

There's room for irony, today, but there's no room for... "un"-irony, I guess, which I why I'm not even touching on Mike Huckabee's no-body's-gonna-tell-ARKANSAS-we-cyan't-fly-our-confederate-flag attitude, despite the fact I praised his tax plan in an earlier post. AND, I haven't even begun to torture his ass on this, the 25th anniversary of Roe vs. Wade. Says Mike,

"Sometimes we talk about why we're importing so many people in our workforce. It might be for the last 35 years, we have aborted more than a million people who would have been in our workforce had we not had the holocaust of liberalized abortion under a flawed Supreme Court ruling in 1973."

Pretty ironic, huh Mike?! Right?? Like, whoops, man I hate Mexicans so much, I wish I hadn't aborted so many feti, right?!? AHAHAHAHAHAHAAA! Holocaust, indeed!! HI FIVE!

Oh my fucking god, you're all f'ing morons (Tuesday)!

Oh.... I see, now. There's a hidden camera over there in the corner! And that's not a potted plant at all! It's Ashton Kutcher! (I should have guessed).

I beg you all, in light of the two anniversaries I mentioned in this post, please celebrate your special days ironically. Been happily married for 27 years? Celebrate by sleeping with an underage Thai hooker in your Escalade! Didn't see that one coming, did you, dear?! (P.S. I think you just got your next marketing campaign, DeBeers. You're welcome.)

Do it for me, and do it for Johnny. Happy anniversary!

AND SPEAKING OF...

2008-01-18T11:48:00.000-08:00

Continuing on on today's (this weeks?) old-man-themed posts, I'd like to take this opportunity to say how pleased I am to be taking the night off playing me some motherfckng cribbage. It's a thing done by sagacious Midwesterners in warmly-lit cabins away from the frivolity of city life, a game that, like Paul Harvey and pancakes, is unlikely to change anytime between now and the apocalypse. Observe: "...If the card is a Jack, the dealer scores two points for "his heels", also known as "his nibs". This latter term is occasionally confused with "his nobs", which is more correctly used for a Jack of the same suit as the starter, scored during the show part of the game." How adorable is that, those aren't even jokes.

I've been mildly hungover for about 17 days now, 4% from drinking, 29% from going meat-free, 47% from consuming old milk, and 20% staying up to the wee hours of the morning cultivating a man-crush for Mandy Potemkin. I wouldn't ask me too many questions about that one if you know what's best for yourself.

This guy, I, [indicates self] needs old man therapy tonight:

1) Leg blanket for legs
2) Woolen cap
3) Esoteric card play (see above)
4) Gin gimlets
5) Company of those hard of hearing
6) Soup and/or easily-digested foodstuffs
7) Pipe
8) Slippers
9) Earthy aromas
10) Mandy Potemkin (??)

Comfort breeds contentment, and who would refuse such a regimen of quiet self-indulgence? Ho ho! Not I! Let's be old together, you and I, and let's indulge ourselves with a little wholesomeness, a little soul-restoring bowl of praline-pecan ice cream, a little old-fashioned Americana. Join me and fritter away our dinners in front of the fire, repeating every sentence twice, or even three times. Let's nod our heads in the amber glow of the evening, making oh-so-sure we don't confuse our nobs with our nibs.

ANOTHER TOTALLY F'D UP FRIDAY

2008-01-18T09:58:00.000-08:00

Somewhere deep inside my brain, normally restrained by his whip-cracking, taskmaster superego zookeeper (think Colonel Klink), lurks a savage cavebeast, drooling, slobbering, and making horribly tasteless jokes. Poor, poor superego... battered by the deluge of vodka and greasy olive brine, wearied by the restlessness of fitful sleep, maddened by the unending adrenal tides of rising and receding testosterone... he's off today. The beast prowls...

It's another totally fucked up Friday in the great circus up there [indicates cranium].

1) On the way to work, I suddenly realized I get to guzzle oysters at my favorite bar this weekend. I love oysters. I love them. I love them so much, in fact, that I whisper, "I want you inside me" into their tiny, molluscan ears each time I eat one. You are the only person I've told.

2) I find the term, "The Wet Spot" offensive. I prefer "Sex Puddles" ("Love Puddles?").

3) A mini-coworker reminded me today that, yes, when I get old, I will also get "old-man-balls." Awesome. "Ever wonder why your grandfather shifts every time he sits down?" she inquires.
Without waiting for my response, she clarifies, "it's old-man-balls... swingin' down."
"Of course," I retort, "I call that 'The Grandfather Clock. Everybody knows that."

You wonder what a quarter of a million dollars in secondary education buys you? "The Grandfather Clock." Fucking priceless.

I ALSO APPRECIATE ISABELLE HUPPERT, LIKE, AT FIRT, AND THEN IT GOT KIND OF WEIRD

2008-01-17T10:02:00.000-08:00

Shamefully, I infused my last blog title ("I something something Huckabee") with the lampooning media spirits that will probably lead to an incompetent man running for president of the United States on name recognition alone (dead thuds of my head on the desk, thud thud thud). In my heart I know I could have done better. In my defense, I do write these things as quickly as possible, alternating sly sips of Wild Turkey with paranoid glances over my shoulder and tweaky mouseclicks when co-workers walk by the office. (I don't think they'd ever look at me the same if they knew I was about to say, in the eternal and indelible ink of internet blogging, that Vanessa Redgrave is a smokin' hottie. But more on that in a moment).

First off, Isabelle Huppert is a smokin' hottie. Convince yourself of this by 1) turning whatever sinister parental controls to "none, you fucking fascists" on your favorite search engine and 2) searching for images of Isabelle Huppert. Quick note, though, roll the dice and take your chances if someone's lookin' over your shoulder. Let me just say that this little exercise aroused my interest in the matter. I was inspired. (In the pants... see what I did there? You would rather destroy a stained glass window than an artist such as myself. Oscar Wilde is high-five-ing me from beyond the grave, cheeky bastard. But since I can't have you following me...).

Or how 'bout this. Go and find yourself a copy of Storia di Piera (aka Die Geschichte der Piera, wheeee!). Lather, rinse, repeat. The young Ms. Huppert has the same art house appeal as a young Vanessa Redgrave (c. The Sea Gull). I tol' yoo I was gonna say it! Buster Poindexter said it best I think; "Hot, Hot, Hot!" He should know because he was David fucking Johansen!

Jesus, I'm ADD today. Ooo, clever segue! Ahem...

Just as time has stolen the glamor and glory from David Johansen (see, I tol' you!), it has been unkind to Vanessa Redgrave. Isabelle Huppert has faired better in my estimation, but those are the breaks. You either turn out a Kathleen Turner or a Judy Dench... sexy Brit-beast that she is. So, please judge fairly.

I'm a fan of Isabelle Huppert. Or at least for awhile, I suppose. During my research, I discovered she named her oldest daughter Lolita. Hmmmm... How can a parent, in all good conscience, name her daughter Lolita?! I can't understand it. It should have been off the market since 1955. You had me, and then you lost me, Isabelle. I can forgive a lot of things (some kid gave me lice in kindergarten), but I can't forgive that.

And so, like a sheaf of wheat, so is this post about hot older chicks sacrificed to make ready the fields of my future explorations. I give you a list of names that should never, under any circumstances, appear on a birth certificate after, say... 1995 to be fair:

Lolita, Wren, Elvis, Prince, Holden, Diesel, Sigmund, Carson / Cody / Hunter. They're all either way to obvious or just... for chrissake, you know? I mean, come on. Just name your goddamned kid "Batman" and be done with it.

Hell, it worked just fine for Nicholas Cage, right?

Ass.

I (GNARLY BLEEDING HEART) HUCKABEE?

2008-01-14T10:18:00.000-08:00

WHAT?! What did I just say? I said what? Aside from his homophobic hate speak, his evangelical Dems-killed-Jesus attitude, wildly anti-evolution crotch groping, and general all-around-douchebaggery, I'm struck dumbfounded by the quality (yea, verily liberal-y-ness!) of Mike Huckabee's tax plan [which he, of course, will never, ever get the opportunity to explore... poor, sad, bastard that he is].

Who wants to talk politics on a Monday? Well not even me. However, I would like to give credit where Steven E. Landsberg told me to. "Abolish all ye, the Income Tax!," proclaimeth Mike, "And thou shalt collect only sales tax!" OK? OK, I say. Why not? You want to piss your hard-earned cash away on Jewel albums? Go right ahead! We'll use your tax bucks to build libraries (where you can listen to Jewel albums for free, you dipshit!)!

Sounds a bit like a flat tax, though doesn't it (also not at all my original thought. I steal from smart people)? Now hear this.

Fuck. That. Shit.

You need milk, cereal, bread, PB&J? Cool. 4 bucks. You want Lifelike Imported Italian Silk/Silicone Fellatio Attachments for your new Mercedes? Right on, brotha! Help yourself (and cough up the 25% sales tax on luxury goods I'm goan' levy on yo' ass, you sick son of a bitch!). Why? Well, might as well charge a little extra for all that groovy consumption that leads to ALL of us getting generally shit on by the vengeful climate gods, not to mention the pissed-off masses of motherfuckers sick of building useless USB gadgets for our dumb asses at a whopping 8 cents a pop. "Party hard, pay the piper," so my grandmother used to say.

Shit, the city knows exactly how much my house is worth. Why don't they grade... oh I dunno... the taxes on my energy bill based on my home's value (or square footage, or how many dirty hippies we have crammed in everywhere, etc., etc.). Neat-o! Or better yet, cut me a .5% sales tax break on domestic goods vs. imported, blow past all those silly tariff laws (and 100 or so years of economic theory), and put the decision in the hands of the consumer! 1% sales tax break on green products? WHAAA?? OMG, OMFG, Mom!

Bring on the black market I say. Sure, no one likes an anarchist, but if you're clever/desperate/bored enough to start trading on the black market, chances are you're not in the best financial position anyway. Good for you, you clever, little entrepreneurs, you. If you can afford the Auto-fellatio device described above, chances are you can afford the sales tax (and let's be perfectly frank with each other, if you find yourself with the afore-mentioned Auto-fellatio products, I'll bet dollars to donuts you're getting all the tax-free black market coke and whores you can get your hands on! Unless you're claiming all that as a business expense, then die, die, die you slimy fuck! GAWD, it feels good to be an American!). If you can afford expensive shit, you ain't gonna drive into the city to score your Christian Louboutins from a Puerto Rican guy with a van in an alleyway. (1. that's a slight against anyone who gets her look from "The Hills," not Puerto Ricans, and 2. don't ask me how I, of all people, know fuck all about Christian Louboutin or The Hills).

I'm sure this exactly how Mike Huckabee would have explained it, given the chance. Still, as I watch the agonizingly slow ticks of the clock, I feel I should spend the time to give some examples of my (stolen, unoriginal) stance on this form of taxation.

-Generic food products (i.e. substitute goods): 1%
-Bottled water: 10%
-Whiskey: 0.5%
-All Apple products: 25%
-Tasteful, high-class pornography: 1%
-Books: 0%
-Jewel CDs: 40%
-Anything from L.L. Bean: 45%
-Coke: 1%
-Whores: 1%
-Ugg boots: 80% - 90%
-"Product": 45%
-"Us Weekly," "Teen People," or any such publication: 90%

Thorsten Veblen, eat your fucking heart out. Happy Monday, Bitches! Oh yea, and screw Mike Huckabee.

(special neck rub for D today.)

HOO-RAY FOR SURFING!

2008-01-11T17:01:00.000-08:00

It's been two years, give or take, since the Mavericks Invitational crowned a champion out in the HMB. Climate change (my cruel bitch mistress) is f'ing up the rotation! Still, I'm thinking monster waves this year, replete with all the carnage and brain-scrambling nastiness of 2006. Apparently, MySpace is rebroadcasting the whole shi-bing with all kinds of groovy camera angels and interviews and bikini surf groopies and awwwwwwwwww yea. I only wish I'd be out there, myself, with a big bowl of brazil nuts, a hot glass of Jameson, and a nice warm leg blanket for my legs, pops. If only I could find myself a bendy mermaid to teach me how to surf...

If you haven't ever heard of it, find yourself the time to witness the fitness.

I AM CLASSY (AND ALMOST 100% STD FREE, LADIES!)

2008-01-11T09:52:00.000-08:00

My first reaction to the idea for this post was to start going to church again. Sadly, 4 Tylenol PM and a half-carafe of cough medicine couldn't exercise these demons from my head. I was conflicted. "Listen to your heartsong" I would say to the mirror in the morning, "it will never betray you." I listened. My heart told me I had shit for brains.

Then I met my coworker for 9:30 coffee, and I knew that this time was the right time to let this idea out into the world. K-rod, I hope this tale makes you feel better. After all, as my good neighbor so recently reminded me, I can't be afraid to reach for that rainbow. Ahem:

---------

I have been known position myself awkwardly among women (unintentionally brilliant double ententdre!). Don't believe me? See, if you will, oh I dunno... here here here here (2007 only!) and, not to put too fine a point on it, here. Yup. I roll big time. As luck would have it, a judge finally ordered me to get "Tested" last week (I know, I know... fascist), and I felt it necessary to spread the almost good news to almost all my partners. Those in the womens' prison will have to wait 'till the 1st of the month for their phone calls like always.

me: Hi, is this [Staci/Brandi/Chastiti/Cinnamon]?

(pause, muffled noises from the receiver)

me: It's 7:30.... I suppose that makes it... gosh, about 4:30 in the morning in Amsterdam. I guess I woke you up, but... (pause) we need to talk.

me: I got tested the other day, and I need to tell you that I'm almost 100% in the clear. But... there is this one thing...

(muffled, but decidedly angrier noises from the receiver)

me: I... think I got it from all the eating out I've been doing lately.

(icy silence from the receiver)

me: Honey, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but...

me: It's... it's KitchenAids. I think you should get tested right away.

------
Happy Friday, everyone. Keep reaching for that rainbow.

MY, WHAT BIG TEETH YOU HAVE!

2008-01-10T00:22:00.000-08:00

And speaking of breach of etiquette...

Welcome to the new year, ladies and gentlemen. The smells of new spring mingle with the avuncular aromas of this silly pipe tobacco I've so recently taken to smoking. It's a disgusting habit, but I enjoy watching smoky ghosts bloom and arabesque into the whisper of drizzle outside my balcony. My mind wanders. I conjure images of intellectual pioneers; of bearded poetry dragons. Ginsbergs. The brain binds in Kerouacky tar. It's here I meet the close boundaries of my imagination. Shame on me for being so clumsy with my inherited erudition. But honesty is the proxy of talent, so they say, so share I will.

Tonight I'm the insomniac. Bless the little children wrapped tightly in blankets. Daisies in a moonlight meadow with only the specter of dreams to tease their imaginations. Pure white petals in pale starlight. I, on the other hand, I have the hands of the devil this evening. What of purpose these nights if only to stalk an invisible prey? Nothing to do! Nothing to say! Boredom in my backyard! Perfidy in my palace, for new readers dine with us tonight!

I had forgotten the sting of performance that travels with these posts. Let pilgrims in the door and more follow. Open your chest and your guts pour out. My point? Ha! Embrace the meta-irony! Charge into the dark, and grin with wolfish teeth. What better message than no message? (You're just showing off now!)

This is MY space! Freedom of ownership! You are welcome guests here, though. Chuckle and grin at the farce. But what fun, this con! Read on and find tiny gems amongst the sand. Relish the discovery, and try not to judge too harshly. It's just a proxy for talent, of course, but that's entertainment I say, I say, I say. C'mon in, all. There's room for plenty.

Just don't say I didn't warn you...

REBORN AGAIN

2008-01-09T10:41:00.000-08:00

And so, once again, a cosmic do-si-so back into the arena. One dark night, whiskey, a warm girl, a stiff elbow to the ribs, a wisp of perfumed smoke, and the overwhelming desire to run my goddamn mouth off (due in no small part to my deep admiration for this rambling motherfuck) take me back here to the land of tasteless profanity, sentence fragments, absurd misuse of The Semicolon, and the orgasmic nirvana of seeing the contents of my brain shot across the expanse of cyberspace in rich, milky comets of literary subgenius. Oh yea, I do it for you (no greater than 2 readers per day, no doubt, but one does not blog for glory, only money, and this ride's free, blogger.com! [6 commas!]).

The general etiquette for an event such as this is a recap of recent developments to which your audience has not been privy:

Q: What have you been up to since our last chat?
A: Fuck you, that's what.
(cough. awkward silence.)
Q: Any major achievements since your last visit?
A: Fuck me. No. Not in the least.

Just like you, I've opted to arrange my life in such a way so as to be allowed as much fuckaround time as possible (equal emphasis on getting laid and/or/because of/in spite of alcoholism in the American standard but not the French [i.e. I am not currently intoxicated]). Hence the fresh-as-a-daisy attitude towards this so-called forum. Also, I miss laughing at my own jokes, swimming in the deep ocean of my sadness, and savoring the spats-and-top hat sophistication with which I so neatly turn a phrase. Gary Cooper is now sucking it in his grave. That's right. Suck it, Gary Cooper.

Plus I've accumulated a cadre of new villains to persecute: 1) Jasper Johns, 2) Mark Moreford, 3) Anderson Cooper, and 4) me (read the disgusting, self-indulgent archives of this blog. Alternate Sambuca and insulin shots. Shower. Repeat). Their/our offenses will be duly noted and exercised (but not excised; I flatly refuse to self-censor).

Please stay tuned for future (useless and confusing) instructions...

THE TOUCHY-FEELY POST

2007-04-03T11:42:00.000-07:00

Some women accuse me of never talking about myself or my personal life. I find this to be quite puzzling considering every single thing ever written in the history of the human race ever has gone something a little like this (I did some research):

Messopotamia c. 200o BCE:
"Lulbula sat idle in the mountains; in the faraway places. He is wise and achieves many exploites. Lulbula went to the carnelian mountains of seven mouths. Lulbula fed sheeps fat to the Anzud chick and smeared fat on its beak. Enlil joined Lulbula on the mountain with sparkling eyes. Enlil had cedar affixed to her head. Lulbula and Enlil talked where no cypris grow. Enlil spoke of Dumuzi's holy butter churn and reed-arrows like moonlight. Lulbula spoke no words. Enlil was pleased and placed her Lion Helmet on the head of Lulbula."

Greece c. 5th Century BCE:
A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in. A man who does not speak but asks many questions shall father many children.

Rome - Ovid - 43 BCE:
Jupiter from on high laughs at lovers' perjuries. Hold your tongue so that she may speak of herself, for at night there is no such thing as an ugly woman.

China 140 CE:
Wise is the man who lets his wife speak. With time and patience, the mulberry leaf becomes satin. With time and patience the mulberry leaf becomes a silk gown.

Scene II in the Capulet's Orchard carries twice as many lines for Juliet as it does for Romeo. Does Romeo get laid (in the Shakespearean sense, of course)? Yes he does. Coincidence? Perhaps not.

And then there's my personal favorite:
"The problem most men have is... they just plain straight up have no clue how to talk to women. Just ask a question, okay? That's it. Because women do not care about what you have to say... at all, anyway, you know. And all they want to do is talk about themselves. So you're just gonna let them do that, okay? So remember, ask questions, be cool, and be kind of a dick. Here... be David Caruso in Jade."

So, there's where it is. I got lazy in the middle there, but we ended on a high note. And if you're still wondering if I'm one of those Bastard-covered Bastards with Bastard filling, and I have an icy-dead tree stump where my heart should be, I'll tell you this: today I found a dead dog by the side of the creek. It looked like he had just up and decided it was his time, and you know what? He laid himself down, chased one last car in his doggie-imagination, and went to sleep forever. That shit made me pretty sad, you know? But he looked like a good 'ol dog to me. So I figure he's chasing cars in doggie heaven, and that's a pretty good thought on a Tuesday.

GHOST OF ROOMDRAW

2007-03-30T09:19:00.000-07:00

The last couple of ~~days~~ ~~weeks~~ months have gone by in a bit of a whirlwind, with the majority of my sleep coming in short bursts while I chew, bathe, or try to slow things down in bed. Powernaps, while somewhat refreshing, still require time in which I am not talking to someone important or driving. I submit to you that the following story could very well be a figment of my fallow imagination, though I prefer to enjoy it on a "reality based" level.

The story begins thusly:

Picture me as a freshman in college, cocksure, charming, Billy Idol haircut. I have a bottle of Pick 'N Save vodka on my desk, a lemon, and a stack of sugar packets I stole from food service the day before. There is also a svelte, redheaded ultimate frisbee player in my room. I became aware of her thong at shot #7 (did not see, but became aware of). Sometime between shots #12 and #14 I remember thinking to myself, am I almost too drunk to perform? wow! College is kewl! Then there was a temporary loss of traction near or around key elements of my anatomy, I think, and some sweating, a little cursing, possibly some giggling (or name-calling), then kind of a grey + red blur for 20 - 90 minutes or so, and perhaps I may have done a couple lines of Sweet 'N Low. I think.

Anyway, turns out she had a boyfirend. It made the next three years kinda awkward.

Fast forward a little to the end of Junior year during the sinister horrorshow bloodbath that is the housing draw, where lifelong friendships are torn to pieces, bribery and threats of violence mingle with the desperate pleading of underclassmen, and the trading of human capital hearkens back to a sadder American age (if we can get the quint, I'll take the two Sophomores, but if we don't, I'm ditching one so we can get the quad by the gym).

As you may have already guessed, these two events are somewhat connected. For you see, the jilted boyfriend from freshman year sent spies into our super-secret housing draw caucus (midnight on the 4th full moon after the Equinox) to steal our strategy. At the last minute he scraped together 5(!) random people to steal our sextet right out from under our noses, forcing us to reshuffle and improvise a sub-par plan B.

Now I know, and when I see him again? Some motherfucker's going down. Housing Draw is forever, bitches.

2007-03-27T08:10:00.000-07:00

REPOST

2007-03-27T07:33:00.000-07:00

That rabbit is just way badass.

MY LIFE IN FOUR CAMERAS

2007-03-26T23:14:00.000-07:00

PART I

Molly is an old Latina grandmother that owns and operates the only respectable hamburger and shit joint out in the middle of the woods near my place. It is an oasis in the valley that attracts even numbers of fiercely libertarian truckers/ranchers/bikers and extremely wealthy/annoying trust fund babies from the hills. This amuses me to no end. Also, I can buy beer there for cheap.

While I was writing this tome, Molly was cooking up one hamburger and one cheeseburger for me, despite the fact I had only ordered a cheeseburger and fries, and no one would ever order one cheeseburger and one hamburger for himself. I chose not to argue with her, because she reminds me of my own grandmother, and that reminds me of getting my ass kicked by an 80 year old woman with a wooden spoon. I decided instead to take my cheeseburger, my hamburger, and my pitcher of Devil's Canyon out to the garden and keep my wise-ass mouth shut. Never antagonize those who handle your food, I always say.

I spent some time looking straight at the two sandwiches before me, cooling in the gentle afternoon breeze. Which would I eat first? Which would be lunch, which would be dinner? I had paid for both, and I was damn sure going to eat both, but not both at once. It was a tougher decision than I would have imagined.

PART II

Depression cracks me up. I laugh at depression; I laugh at the depressed. They don't know how good they have it. I don't mind being depressed, it's a healthy contrast that amplifies whatever good elements persist in your life.

About three weeks ago, I found myself in what has become an eerily familiar situation; naked and face to face with a woman who is also naked. I wonder how things like this happen. I wonder what I have done to find myself in this situation, for it has by no means been intentional. Nevertheless, there I am, and there she is, and things are to be done, and they get done, but they are executed with a practiced and exacting precision that requires very little emotion. The feelings are there, and they are the appropriate ones, but our needs are physical and not so much else. I am both pleased and saddened by this prospect.

Little by little, my subconscious is trying to sabotage my life.

I also blame nature. She shoulders a modicum of guilt as well. It's springtime, and the aromas that drift through nighttime-open windows are flavored with the tender perfume of Magnolia and Hyacinth. The scent of these flowers conjures vibrant memories that twirl and mix and pulse with sensuous images that drift through my everyday life. One deep breath to drink them in; the air is wine, and all emotion returns. They are the sense memories of the last woman that really meant something unique and original to me. Her scent mingled with nature's simple perfumes is what I can't help but remember.

I resent this. I find nostalgia, that which is slathered in unnecessary sentiment, worthless and detrimental to those in the present. Memory is borderline narcotic if you allow it to be so. Don't want what you can't have, or you will never be satisfied.

So things need doing, and they get done, but my mind is someplace else. Depression gives way to emptiness, to intimacy without purpose. It is an ironically sterile place.

PART III

I have shouldered a surprising emotional burden these past three weeks. Despite what you may have already read, it is not my own. This is the crux of my life.

For reasons I cannot understand, those relationships I witness every day have been silently eroding away. I know this because many (enough to qualify as "many" I should stress) have ended abruptly during this month. Despite the fact I have systematically built very strong walls around me over the course of the last year, I am the one everyone has turned to for comfort and support. This is beyond my comprehension.

(I will reveal a deep, hidden secret about myself right now. I am fiercely empathic. I often wish I did not feel this way. I can't stand to see people in pain, and I act out the tragedy with them. It is not an ugly quality, just extremely inconvenient.)

One could imagine I have trouble with these two instincts, as they are at odds with each other. Quite frankly, I am exhausted by the tragedy in other people's lives because I cannot do enough to put a stop to it.

Then again, it's possible I'm envious of their pain because it speaks to an intensity of feeling that I myself have been missing.

PART IV

Contrary to what I have just written, there have been a myriad of moments in recent memory that have filled me with a deep and rich sense of peace. I find joy in the earthy smell of fresh rain vapor rising of hot asphalt. I have had occasion to breath the rich dust of great, loamy clods of earth in my callused hands. I have saved spring rabbits from hawk's talons (though the hawks will keenly find other meals).

In a life that, lately, I would consider essentially empty, I find these simple pleasures to be more than enough. They are only confounded by the complex responsibilities of modern existence.

Frankly I don't know if I should be pleased or bored to death. For once, very little is happening to me, and I can't decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

----------------

For a few of you, this is the explanation you may have been looking for. Then again, this is just a blog. It serves no purpose beyond entertainment (at best). I'm disappointed with my inability to communicate beyond what I would consider a fourth-grade level tonight, but writers' block must be conquered in baby steps.

Two things for you to consider. 1) a picture of the bunny:
and 2) the CD that's been getting a lot of miles in the rotation:

MY STUFF HURTS

2007-03-05T09:25:00.000-08:00

Once in awhile I'll look out across the sea of faces and wonder if our collective karma is just winding its way down to zero. There are those among us who fight this rising tide, those who see the deepening spiritual bankruptcy and push back. Sometimes you get called to stand against the crashing waves and fight the modern crusade for Good. Sometimes you have to be the person responsible for getting the divorced lady drunk, and making sure she gets her turn on the mechanical bull.

It's not like I was driving or anything.

And so ends 8 straight days of drinking; me slurring, "c'mon, let's do one that's on fire this time!," the oh-so-recently divorced thinking, "maybe I shouldn't, you know I don't usually.... oh hell yes it's on fire!," and her best friend standing behind her mouthing the words "KEEP HER DRINKING" and sliding 20s to the bartender. There was a point in the night where I just had to ask myself, is this all there is?

Most likely it was the point at which I untangled myself from the tangled nest of bodies, and took inventory of the empty wrappers, the motion-activated owl, and the half-eaten boxes of GirlScout cookies alight in the glow of false-dawn.

I celebrated the end of this bender with a promise to do good deeds from now on. I cooked my roommie and his girlfriend a delicious breakfast of California omelets, bagels, and coffee, then phoned my tennis buddy to drag his ass out of bed and get me some exercise (quick note to the marketing execs for Michelob Ultra, your new ad campaign should be, "Because drinking a lot of beer will turn you into a big fattie, fattie." It's amazing how chubby I've gotten. Hell, I wouldn't even have sex with me.) After almost thee hours of tennis on cold, flabby muscles I had to call it quits, and let me tell you something, friends, my stuff HURTS today. But my God, does it feel good too feel good in the morning. Great even.

And so, to continue in the theme of all things great and wonderful about this planet, I give you the following video (and, boy oh boy, does it feel good to be a big, geeky science nerd, too):

YOU CAN'T FUCK AN iPHONE*

2007-03-02T09:43:00.000-08:00

I started reading Mark Morford's column in SF Gate because it reminded me of my own witty-at-times self-aggrandizing writing style, but lately he's started to kind of piss me off. Not only is he stealing my ideas (Morford: 2/14/07: How to Shave the Modern Male vs. YouHandsomeDevil: 1/20/06: The Essentials of Modern Gardening), but he's starting to pussy-foot around some key life issues.

For example, if it pleases you to do so, read this article concerning the rampant and runaway consumerism plaguing our already-degenerate society. Not a bad article at all, Mark. Well said.

But what you should have written was:

Dear Everyone,

Please stop buying so much shit. You don't need it. Go outside, drink a beer, and try to get laid. It's way better.

Love,

Mark

Seriously, I'm not kidding, either. Quit buying so much shit. Take your Blackberry, your iPhone, your skin-searing TV, your XBox, your Bluetooth headset, your TiVo, your DVR, your PSP, put them all in one big pillow case and smash the shit out of them with a 2x4. Giggle and smile as you liberate yourself from all the crap you weren't meant to have in the first place. Terminate with extreme prejudice. KILL KILL KILL. Better yet, microwave those fuckers in a sparky explosion of irony.

Weep tears of joy when the swarming clouds of electrons dissipate, and you can finally see the sun again (the actual sun!). Feel warm blood fill your limbs again and... what's that? Is that the sound of an un-digitized human voice?! (Sounds like angels making love...). My God, the sheer ecstasy of it all.

Think about that next time you feel like you have to buy some crap that you absolutely do not need. Do it for me. Go find some warm ocean waves to toss you into the sky in glorious exaltation of the world unfiltered by these demonic, technological prophylactics.

See Mark? I didn't even have to talk about my favorite Pinot or used books or my Prius or Democrats or softsupple women I've boned or French cuisine or 'Product' or any of the remaining myriad of hippie-liberal-hipster bullcrap (that I/we normally talk about), though I doubt this message will appear in any respectable publication. Sigh.

*Please don't send me links to iBrators or any other clever crap like that. Tie those ideas in knots with the real message: tech-stimulation is still exactly as is sounds. Much like this rant, it's still just jerking off.

SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE

2007-02-28T14:12:00.000-08:00

Alan D. Eames, who cultivated his reputation as “the Indiana Jones of beer” by crawling into Egyptian tombs to read hieroglyphics about beer and voyaging along the Amazon in search of a mysterious lost black brew, died on Feb. 10 at his home in Dummerston, Vt. He was 59.

Mr. Eames called himself a beer anthropologist, a role that allowed him to expound on subjects like what he put forward as the world’s oldest beer advertisement, dating to roughly 4000 B.C.

In it a Mesopotamian stone tablet depicted a headless woman with enormous breasts holding goblets of beer in each hand. The tagline, at least in his interpretation, was: “Drink Elba, the beer with the heart of a lion.”

Read the rest here

It just goes to show that for the past 6000 years or so there has been absolutely nothing in the whole history of the human race that could have ever possibly improved on the magical formula of attractive women holding beer. Here's to you Mr. Alan D. Eames, you lived the dream. Prost.

RECAP:

2007-02-27T09:42:00.000-08:00

This is probably the only photo I can legally (and ethically) post, but I think it's pretty kewl. That's me in the background slingin' hooch with my wicked awesome glow-bracelets.

THE BRITISH FASCINATE ME

2007-02-22T13:29:00.000-08:00

Teabirds
(somewhat potentially not safe for work, but it's a stretch at best)

I AM BEING WATCHED

2007-02-22T09:30:00.000-08:00

Did you ever get the feeling you are either 1) being watched intently by some greater intelligence, 2) dreaming your own reality into existence, 3) drunk and hallucinating, or 4) perhaps some combination of the three?

This occurred to me yesterday while trying to come up with a Judaica-themed wedding gift for my Judaica-themed newlyweds. Where does one find a nice Kiddush cup? A Hoshen Tallit bag? An Aishes Chayil Tzedakah Box? Clearly these are items one does not find at your local Crate and Barrel.

As I was hoisting my 4th Yuengling to my parched lips, I felt a strange tapping on the left hemisphere of my brain. I looked behind me, but found no inquisitor. Tap, tap, tap went the invisible fingers, but this time while I stood to confront my tormentor, my gaze snagged on an eerie sight.

There, hanging from the overpass next to the bar, fluttered a stunning banner that read:

JEWISH WEDDING GIFT FAIR

Now, I've seen a lot of crazy things in my life, but I've never even heard of a Jewish wedding gift fair before. Did I just do that with my mind? Should someone with my police record be granted such divine powers? Maybe it's time I had a nervous breakdown, shaved my head, and spend 6 extra special hours in rehab.

It is Thursday after all.

2 KINDS OF FLAYVA

2007-02-21T09:25:00.000-08:00

There's been a lot of hard talk about British food (though without the divine combination of salt + vinegar on the list, I continue to remain confused as to the logic behind your cuisine. I am open to explanations). However, in British foods' defense, I have discovered one recipe that would tempt the pickiest of the picky. Bon appetite.

I AM BANGED UP PRETTY BAD

2007-02-20T15:21:00.000-08:00

And yet I suffer through a full day's work. I'm such a trooper!

I just flew in from Florida, and boy are my Hora muscles tired (zing!). It could have been the Hora, or it could have been The Chicken Dance, or it could have been sleeping on the floor of a hotel room roughly the size of a package of Canadian cigarettes with 4 (or was it 5?) other people, but I am pretty banged up today. Boy howdy do I love Jewish weddings, though.

Truly it hurts to have your first coffee break at work a paltry 4.5 hours after your red-eye landed. But aside from the odd hallucination here and there I've got a big fat sack o' good memories from the weekend. Most notably, of course, the errant groping from 3 different grandmothers. Wow.

I'd also like to mention the breakdancing contest I had with the bride's 83 year-old grandfather, the (afore-mentioned) Alumni-only Chicken Dancing, the bride's-maid-themed debauchery in a hotel room roughly the size of a package of Canadian cigarettes with 4 (or was it 5?) other people in the room, swimming in the Gulf during a small craft advisory (painful nipple erections), the manatees, and the yarmulke that absolutely will not come off until all wedding activities have been completed (up to, and including said bride's-maid-themed debauchery).

L'chaim!

HEAD TO HEAD: CAPTAIN LOU ALBANO vs. AMY WINEHOUSE

2007-02-16T10:21:00.000-08:00

We of the human race are not fit to stand in judgement over ourselves. But what does it mean to judge the measure of a person? How can we condescend to evaluate the quality of a living, breathing individual? The once-great dreamers conjured up nature's version of justice. Oh yes. They whispered, "save us from our ourselves!" and lo, up from the sands and dust of the desert, in a great whilwhind of lightning and fire, there appeared Thunderdome. By skill, cunning, or even the blood-stained claws of luck, comes the judgement of time. Two men enter. One man leaves. Thus, like the infinite wheel of birth and death, so doth the gears of humanity spin, forever climbing forward on the splintered bones of those left behind. Nature, red in tooth and claw, shall dictate who is called and who is saved. Therefore I pit thee, worthy adversaries, against eachother. Tell your version of the story as old as Cain and Abel, and speak thee now, oh words, so that your voice shall cause even blind Justice to see the light of your worth.

I give you, pilgrims, Captain Lou Albano vs. Amy Winehouse head to head for all the marbles:

vs.

	"Captain" Lou Albano	Amy Winehouse	Edge
Country of Origin:	America: The Greatest Country in the World	Great Britain	The Captain
Known Affiliations:	Cyndi Lauper	Ghostface Killah	Draw
Distinguishing Characteristics:	Rubberband Facial Piercings	Pin-up Art Tattoos	Winehouse
Notable Television Appearances:	"Miami Vice"	"Jools Holland's Annual Hootenanny"	The Captain
Harbors Distaste For:	Hulk Hogan	Bono	Winehouse
Awards and Honors:	WWF Hall of Fame	#50 - NME Magazine's 'Cool List'	The Captain
Lauded By:	Pro Wrestling Fans	The British	Draw
Personal Struggles With:	Food	Alcoholism	Winehouse
Education:	University of Tennessee	The BRIT school, Surrey	The Captain

And, yea, while we all truly walk beneath future echoes in this life, Captain Lou Albano soldiers on, leaving the worthy but bested Amy Winehouse behind. Shed a tear for your lost comrades, and remember their achievements well.

Captain Lou just came right out of left fuckin' field. I did not see that coming.

PS. That was way more fun than I thought it was going to be.

I (HEART) SF

2007-02-15T09:30:00.000-08:00

My town does Valentine's Day better than your town. Yea, verily, 'tis better than thine.

Knowwhati'msayin?

PS. I'm not 100% sure why my blog has become a clearinghouse for random other-people's-crap lately, but I'm working on it. So help me God, I'm working on it. And now that Mark Morford is stealing all my ideas (manscaping etiquette, etc.), I have extra special motivation. He's a wolf like me.

I LOVE YOU.

2007-02-14T10:29:00.000-08:00

LIVING THE DREAM

2007-02-13T14:26:00.000-08:00

I finally, finally got someone to lick my eyeball last night. And you know what? It was worth it.

Then she let me lick her eyeball.

Life just doesn't get any better than that, my friends. Sure as Schnitzel.

2007-02-12T11:40:00.000-08:00

DECONSTRUCTING THE BRITISH SEX ICON

2007-02-12T09:16:00.001-08:00

The "Bextor" phenomenon deserves a smidgen of clarification, or so it would seem. Though I welcome contradictory opinions, I feel it's important to give the matter its due regard and therefore its proper explanation. While it is true Lily Allen is neither talented nor exceedingly attractive by American standards, there are a choice few of us who prefer a more shall we say "Victorian" idea of the female creature and its aesthetics. Hence our love of Sophie Ellis Bextor and Lily Allen. Maybe it's worth a deeper gaze into their mischievous-but-sparkly eyes.

1. Sophie and Lily are "talented" in that we find their art charming and quaint. Good enough to hold in high regard, but nestled somewhere between "Mmm Bop" and "Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls." George Harrison would not have written "If you think you'll get away / I will prove you wrong / I'll take you all away / Boy, just come along / Hear me when I say / Hey!" Nor would Leonard Cohen have written "I was so lost back then / But with a little help from my friends / I found the light in the tunnel at the end." However, after giving the matter significant thought, I would not eat vanilla ice cream off Leonard and George's cleavage. There are exceedingly few places on Sophie and Lily from which I would not eat vanilla ice cream. Quod erat demonstrandum.

2. The Chub. Forgive me Sophie, but I must temper the word "hot" with "adorably" when describing you. I can't in all honesty say I know why the British aesthetic is softer than the American, but I do know the extra curve here and there just drives me wild. Perhaps it's the thought of soft flesh restrained that flips the switch to on, but I prefer not to over-analyze such things and let nature speak for itself. Clearly the power to articulate this preference is beyond me, but I will say this: I do fancy a woman made hotter by the grace of erotically-themed boots. They also have accents.

3. Both Sophie and Lily are charmingly evil; they are bad girls in good girls bodies. For example, "Smile" a seemingly cheerful fun-in-the-sun-Smashmouth-esqe song, is just a big fuck-you to some loser ex-boyfriend (When I see you cry / It makes me smile / Yea it makes me smile). And the video for "Murder on the Dance Floor" shows us how our willing protagonist poisons her competition and chloroforms an unsympathetic judge to win the price of cash and sparkly shoes. My parents would surely not approve. I should point out that, despite my placing them side by side in this exercise, I would consider Lily a mere demigoddess in the shadow of Sophie's greater power. There is, however, still time for improvement.

I hope that this simple deconstruction helps springboard similarly-boned British girls to the highest eschelons of fame so that we can dance awkwardly to and poorly cover their anthems to the very ends of time.

SHE'S NO SOPHIE, BUT SHE'LL DO

2007-02-09T13:50:00.001-08:00

NERD TRIVIA

2007-02-09T10:05:00.000-08:00

NASA PAL

2007-02-06T14:04:00.000-08:00

By now many of you have heard about the attempted kidnapping by a bediapered, lovesick ex-astronaut, Lisa Marie Nowak (as if I really needed to be specific). The New York Times article about this twisted event spends what I would consider to be a little too much time on the fact that Nowak, to avoid losing time with those pesky bathroom breaks between, wore adult diapers on her kidnapping trip from Huston and Orlando.

The diapers are mentioned twice in the article before we actually get the details of the attempted kidnapping. It's as if we were willing to downplay Nowak's behavior as that of a jilted lover, "but she wore adult diapers so she wouldn't have to stop to use the bathroom? Why she must be completely insane!" Diapers on a grown woman (gasp!)!

I'm not exactly a "scientist" or "spaceman" or "can read at or above a 4th grade level," but I find it strange the New York Times spent exactly zero time on how Nowak drove 960 miles without stopping for gas! Surely you must wonder why she wore diapers knowing full well gas stations are the pee-break oases of the Western world. Interesting!

Maybe Nowak was testing out some super-secret NASA technology that allows a person to travel extreme distances without stopping to refuel!

1) "Astronauts wear diapers during launch and re-entry." According to MSN.
2) Nowak, living in Texas, doesn't know about the Stadium Gal?! Ho ho! I don't think so!

Conspiracy theorists start your nerdy engines! My guess? A Mysterious space virus implanted while on a super-secret mission to consort with other intergalactic space travelers drove her mad when exposed to Earth's mild gravitational field and yellow sun! That's my guess, but I'm too lazy to read past "diapers."

TWISTED, SISTER

2007-02-06T09:26:00.000-08:00

Dear mob psychologists-

I have just set a friendly dinner date with my ex's sister. I'll have to check the manual, but I do believe this crosses into "sort of uncool" territory, if only because I'm 1% doing it to bother my ex-girlfriend (who doesn't pay attention to me, and I hate it when I don't get enough attention. Wah. Wah.). I can tell from your gasps, your forehead-slapping, your clawing-at-your-chest in anguish, that you would never, ever believe I would behave in such a childish, petty way. Keep in mind, dearest readers, I just now recovered from my gasping, teary-eyed laugh attack upon seeing "Utility Rack" printed in my US Forestry Supplies Catalog ($16.75 in Metric or English units). Hee hee.... "Rack." Such things are not beneath me.

Despite the fact that I genuinely do enjoy the company of Sister #2, I can't help but feel the slightest pangs of guilt tickle my spine when I think that perhaps Sister #1 will be irked by my platonic tête-à-tête with her kin. I am so ashamed, though I have nothing to worry about. Even the most oblivious, AU Sorority Whore, Freshman Communications-cum-Psych major would tell me to quit having such a high opinion of myself. She'd tell me how arrogant I am for thinking my behavior could have even the slightest effect on my ex-girlfriend, and that I should grow up and quit playing childish games. She would shake her head and cluck her tongue thinking how pathetic the creature cowering before her. "Get over it, you sad little Magina, you," she would say, and rightfully so.

I would, however, be quite justified in countering her comments with the, "C'mon, it's me" defense. I mean, I did hit on the Scabies-Tea Girl.

Now that I've gotten that off my chest I can get back to my regularly scheduled man-whoring. It's good to be the King.

WTF BOSTON. WTF.

2007-02-02T14:19:00.000-08:00

I finally caught the full "statement" from Peter Berdovsky and Sean Stevens, the two jokers who planted Lite-Brites all over Boston, my former Fair City by the Bay. Aside from the Trustafarian look, which I absolutely despise, I couldn't love these two jackasses any more. How do you piss off the mainstream media (an even bigger bunch of jackasses)? You deny them their soundbites, you swindle them out of their scapegoats, you talk only about 1970s hairdos in your press interviews.

How moronic, how absolutely devoid of insight, how ridiculously obtuse do you have to be to tell Berdovsky and Stevens, "I don't think you're taking this very seriously," as if you'd just uncovered the greatest graft of the millennium. Oh you think? These are two men talking about the origins of the "greaser" haircut (was it a 50's thing, or does it go all the way back to the 20's when people actually used grease in their hair?), when asked why they installed Lite-Brite ("Lites-Brite"?) in the city.

Perhaps it's not outside the realm of possibility to think, no, they're not really taking this as seriously as you are, dildo.

Oh, and maybe the media corps should, you know, think about lightening up a little.

Boston, WTF? Fucking New York is mocking you, and that's just not right. (Of course, no one who actually lives in Boston is really all that worked up over the stunt except those who have to feign outrage because of their utterly humorless overreaction, but that's a different story). It's okay to be sensitive about bombs in the post 9/11 world, but it's also okay to tell the media to suck it. Suck it good.

I can't wait to see what all you deviant pranksters come up with for backlash. I'll die a happy man if I wake up tomorrow and find this headline in the Globe:

Copycat Terrorists Bedazzle Back Bay

February 3, 2007 - Mayor Menino received the terrorists' demands today along with a jean jacket emblazoned with what he would later describe as "a great bird of rhinestones soaring in flight superimposed over what kind of looks like an American-flag thing-y."

WHAT MAKES A MAN?

2007-01-31T10:25:00.000-08:00

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.

MMM, MMMMM MYSTERIOUS TEA

2007-01-30T19:34:00.000-08:00

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..."

LANGSTAR IS MY BOINGBOING

2007-01-30T17:58:00.000-08:00

~Congratulations Drunk Apher~

I AM A MODERN SAVAGE

2007-01-29T19:27:00.000-08:00

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.)

NUKE THE BELGIANS

2007-01-26T11:01:00.000-08:00

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.

I WILL NOT ENJOY PRISON

2007-01-25T09:56:00.000-08:00

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?

CONSERVATIVE WHITE PEOPLE ARE UNATTRACTIVE

2007-01-23T17:23:00.000-08:00

Why are conservative white people so godawful?

I AM MATTHEW MODINE'S HERO

2007-01-22T09:48:00.000-08:00

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.

---------------
*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."

I NEED A NEW GIRLFRIEND

2007-01-17T10:29:00.000-08:00

"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.

BECKS

2007-01-16T09:40:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-01-13T20:08:00.001-08:00

PRIDE IN A JOB WELL DONE

2007-01-11T12:22:00.000-08:00

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.

FROM THE ARCHIVES

2007-01-10T11:34:00.000-08:00

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.

PELO-SIKE!

2007-01-09T09:17:00.000-08:00

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!

SPIDERS ARE AWESOME

2007-01-06T19:06:00.001-08:00

click!

I AM BORED

2007-01-05T09:14:00.000-08:00

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.

I AM A GRAMMAR WHORE

2007-01-04T21:46:00.000-08:00

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!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

2007-01-02T08:11:00.000-08:00

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.

I AM SURROUNDED BY PIRATES

2006-12-26T14:19:00.000-08:00

Ok, so no shit, I'm standing by my pickup outside some cheap-ass liquor store waiting for my pappy to emerge with two handles of local rum in tow. I cast my gaze upon some rusted-out, POS, Russian-issue military jeep with the saltiest old man I have ever seen behind the wheel. He wears a sweat-stained captain's cap and a dingy linen shirt missing the top 5 or 6 buttons. He is actually smoking a corncob pipe and actually wearing an eye patch. He grumbles something (through jowls so blackened and bewhiskered I couldn't possibly understand a word) to an invisible passenger in the seat to his Right, then emphasizes his words with an sharp "No!" and repeats this three times. He raises his hand and swats (with authority, the bastard) whatever animal lurks below my view.

Thinking it was actually a dog or cat or something normal, I was surprised to hear a wholly unnatural screech come out of whatever felt the unjust hand of Mr. Pirate.

Then a monkey jumped out of the car.

This is what happened to me on Christmas Day, 2006. A fucking monkey.

I AM IN PARADISE

2006-12-23T17:11:00.000-08:00

And you are not. That may or may not suck for you.

Unfortunately, I have found myself missing someone more than I care to. She bothers me in anoying and unflattering ways. Yet, fortunately, I am surrounded by hot Dutch college students on their spring break. This I have found to be excellent and successful therapy.

RECAP (response to an email sent to me just this morning):
not bad not bad.

I'm surrounded by Dutch college students on their christmas break.

I am drunk.

I am happy.

I miss Pete (and Mel to a much lesser, but nonetheless significant extent).

You two are my sunshine and, with one exception, you are my only sunshine. There is a giant burning ball of hydrogen in the sky that will be difficult to usurp. work on it.

xoxoxo

COME ON, BLEED

2006-12-20T13:21:00.000-08:00

Oh, it's so nice when they tell you they're dating again. It's even better when they tell you how many dates they've had, and with whom. I did, however, think it was perhaps unnecessary to drop that knowledge and expect me to pick up the check. Not cool. But hey, that's how it goes. C'mon bleed for me, baby.

Not that I, myself, have been a perfect angel. I can't help it if I'm a cuddle whore.

Thanks to the hot hot heat we've been pumping into the atmosphere, California has become ironically cold this winter. I am a skinny skinny man so, in lieu of gaining several pounds, it would seem the only logical countermeasure would be to find a warm heterosexual with which to adjoin myself. Perhaps this is why on several occasions I've been labeled "Cuddle Whore."

The roots of this terrible affliction spring up from my years in the Midwest, when the only acceptable form of "coeducation" was watching a movie in your parents' basement under a blanket. Keeping warm during the dark days of winter is more about self-preservation than anything else, so it would seem perfectly natural for a 9th grader to share air with another warm body--which, of course, would ultimately lead to hand-holding and making out (in later years, getting "felt up," dry humping, and in the end, genital-to-genital unclothed heavy petting. Cheeky me, I went to private school).

It would seem only natural, therefore, that I would associate cuddling (or "snuggling," alternatively) with pleasant childhood memories. And, yes, in case you had any doubt, I consider genital-to-genital unclothed heavy petting a fond childhood memory. Me and Mark Foley. ZING!

I also suspect there are many of you out there who also enjoy cuddling, sex or no sex. Why not, then, launch a network of "Cuddlers in Your Area," where local cuddle whores can meet local cuddle... "Johns?" Am I working this metaphor properly? Surely there must be just as many people out there wanting to be cuddled as there are those needing to cuddle.

I imagine some sort of form one would fill out to make the process easier:

Check all that apply:
1a) Cuddle Whore
1b) Cuddle John

2a) Big Spoon
2b) Little Spoon

3a) Shoulder Circles
3b) No Shoulder Circles

And so on. I believe this world would be so much better if, on those rare occasions you just want to "chill out and watch a movie tonight," you could summon up your cuddling partner for some heat exchange. It would be a free service, but paying members could get their own big, snuggly, fleecy blanket for the low price of $24.99.

P.S. Not prostitution!

Update: I, apparently, am not nearly as ~~creepy~~ creative as I thought. Thanks Reid Mihalko and Marcia Baczynski for your boundary-appropriate workshops. Keep reaching for that rainbow!

I AM TIME MAGAZINE'S PERSON OF THE YEAR

2006-12-19T16:30:00.000-08:00

Now that those lazy bastards at Time magazine have named me (and you) person(s) of the year, I (and we) have joined ranks with such American heroes as two time winner George W. Bush.* As if all former Persons of the year weren't already pissed enough.

Sure, Time Magazine, I belong on the same list as FDR, Pope John Paul II, Martin Luther King Jr., and Charles de Gaulle. Yup. Lot's in common, me and one of the greatest civil rights activists in the history of the human race. Right. I'll bet John Paul II had www.indienudes.com in his web shortcuts, too.

Maybe I'm missing the point, but it still seems a little strange to call the people who constantly smoke pot, eat Ben & Jerry's by the gallon, and post videos of themselves getting hit in the privates on YouTube "Person of the Year."

Yes we live in the information age, and yes the average person has the potential to affect social change more than ever, but we have about as much moxy as that fat guy from Jurassic Park. Yea, he had a computer, too, but look how he ended up.

That's right, blinded and killed by a venom-spitting Dilophosaurus.

Think about that, Time Magazine's Person of the Year.

*1990's "The two George Bushes" referred only to George HW Bush and his multiple personalities, not the George Bush father and son duo. Wow, how interesting!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

2006-12-18T10:01:00.000-08:00

Hooray for Christmas (and a myriad of other end-of-the-year holidays that I can neither pronounce nor spell correctly)! Conservative talk radio blesses me with a daily reminder that, owing to my God-hatin,' latte drinkin,' Subaru drivin,' baby killin,' tree huggin,' hippie, liberal tendencies, I am waging a silent War Against Christmas. Or "WAC" for brevity's sake. Yes, America, I hate Christmas because I don't have a plastic, light-up Jesus on my front lawn. Ironically, I did once have a plastic, light-up He-Man sword, which did an equally good job of reminding me about the Christ child, but I really don't think that qualifies me as an anti-Christ-child warrior.

See, I dig Jesus's style. JC was the original hippie love muffin, dig? Peace? Love? Bearded? He was a cool dude, that Jesus. So what the holy fuck would he think about our WAC? Would he be pissed to see a giant Santa statue replaced by a gargantuan menorah at the mall? I doubt it. In fact the idea of Jesus at the mall in the first place, or even cast in pressure-molded translucent plastic, is borderline offensive, even to a non-Christian Jesus fan like myself.

So, what to do, what to do...

In a rich tradition dating all the way back to Jonathan Smith, I propose we meet stupidity with absurdity. I say we join the pro-Christian ranks in their war to "preserve and promote the true meaning of Christmas," which as far as I can tell means spending eleven hundred dollars at Brookstone. I say we march right down to the mall and meet these anti-Christmas warriors head-on with big signs that read:

SANTA IS A BIG FAT WHORE

Now that's preserving the true meaning of Christmas. Happy Hanukkah day 4! Read what smarter people have to say.

SIGH...

2006-12-15T12:33:00.000-08:00

Just because I know that last post bored you a little, I'll pass on this information from my friend ~~Celine Dion~~ Badass McAwesome. She's real. Seriously.

I, of course, already knew this, but it may interest the rest of you to know that tofu makes you gay.

DEATH KNELL FOR THE REPUBLICAN MIDDLE CLASS

2006-12-15T09:41:00.000-08:00

2004 was the year of same-sex marriage in my mind. The majority of exit polls following the '04 presidential election cited gay marriage as the top-dollar issue, despite the myriad of other, let's say "reality based," campaign issues. Needless to say, I was not thrilled (Re: "you have no health care because gays make you feel icky. dumbass.").

I was, however, impressed by the conservatives' leverage of a socially hot topic to win a slim majority of votes in an extremely tight election. Those sneaky bastards really know their shit.

These days, it's much less common to hear stories about gay marriage thanks to the unending stream of bad news erupting from the middle east (though, horrifyingly, the Iraq 'diversion' has allowed a sinister seeping-in of 'conservative' social reform while our backs have been turned. Sometimes I feel like us righteous don't have enough fingers for all the dikes in this country. Awful, awful pun not intended). These days illegal immigration seems to be the rallying cry for the conservative middle class, which I, for reasons outlined below, believe should cause the final and spectacular self-destruction of the conservative middle class as it exists now. God knows what evil glue will hold it together in the future (I don't suspect "principled integrity," but "down with Canada!" may be rising over the dim horizon). I can't even begin to predict what dumb shit will fall from the sky next week.

Illegal immigration (specifically un-documented labor), for better or worse, is the foundation of our economy. Businesses throughout the country, from the very small to the very large, depend on un-documented laborers to reduce insurance costs, heath and benefits payouts, social security, payroll, safety provisions, and a continuing list of items the AFL-CIO, etc. were nice enough to provide for documented workers. This is, of course, the reason why pears don't cost you 12 dollars apiece. Big business needs this contingency built into our labor system; a company that refuses to hire illegal immigrants will quickly fall to one that does. Capitalism is a bitch like that.

But let's not pretend, even for that one sweet second, Republican policy makers aren't ruled by business interests. Their success is inexorably tied to a system heavily subsidized--on the scale of billions of dollars--by illegal immigrants. Surely the Republican upper crust is pro-illegal immigration; if they weren't they'd be insanely stupid. So what of the middle and lower class conservatives' new and fierce hatred for the illegal immigrant?

The harder these nouveaux nationalistes cry for stronger borders, the more eroded their relationship with the conservative elite. Yet the strength of the Republican party is fed by the so-called patriotism of it's middle class soldiers; just ask yourself why 'liberals hate America' works so well as a slogan.

Let's just say, for conversation's sake, that immigration reformists get their way and all of a sudden we wake up and all un-documented workers have disappeared from the picture a la Back to the Future. Hey, so many more jobs for Americans, right? Oh Jesus, how naive! Ignoring the undesirability of many of these jobs for a moment, why don't we think about some simple economic principles first, shall we?

Unemployment in the US is (at least superficially) low. When workers are scarce, wages rise. (duh) Add to that the increased cost of benefits, etc. for the new workforce, and you get a sharp rise in market prices (duh), until job outsourcing to other countries stabilizes the job surplus (duh). Moving low- or entry-level jobs to foreign markets moves mid-level jobs as well. Sooner or later the Republican mainstream will eat itself unless it gives up its 1) delusion of upward mobility into the super-rich echelon, or its 2) delusion of isolationism. Cough, *NAFTA* cough.

Duh.

I have a great deal of sympathy for illegal immigrants. They make shit, and they get treated like shit, and they don't get to complain to anyone about it. Still, I think kicking them out of the country might be a little counterproductive, don't you?

God bless you if you actually read this entire post. And God Bless America!

ON LOCATION

2006-12-13T14:18:00.000-08:00

I wrote the following while imprisoned in meetings all day:

Below are the top ten places I'd rather be than right here, right now:

10) Bosnia
9) Mary Cheney's uterus
8) The Gap
7) Turkish prison
6) Daler Mehndi video
5) International 'Bring Your Penis to Work Day'
4) Dennis Kucinich's uterus
3) Thunderdome
2) Coke + Whores + Rush Limbaugh
1) In the shit.

Apparently today was a bit rough on the nerves. I do righteous work, and I do it well, but my God the constant hugs are killing me.

HUMBUG!

2006-12-12T09:33:00.000-08:00

I can't figure what to ask for Christmas. I know I want stuff, I just don't know what stuff. What are you asking Santa for this year?

7 FAT YEARS, 7 LEAN YEARS

2006-12-11T08:59:00.000-08:00

Good God, I resent being awake this morning, despite the fact that once again I am the first person to arrive at work. However, I now have carte blanche to finish the following thoughts I had while weighing the evils of a) remaining in my remarkably comfortable bed while conservative talk radio (Con-Tak-Ra in MOTU speak) splits the fragile seams knitting my skull plates together and b) getting up and leaving the house:

1) If I remember correctly, high-school theater is the the greatest pussy scam in the history of mankind, which makes the 30th anniversary Broadway production of Annie next spring all that much more terrifying. (Former Annie performers Catherine Zeta-Jones and Molly Ringwald make the situation all the more confusing).

2) Jim Buckmaster is my hero. "Dear venture capitalists, how would you like to just kiss my ass? Please quit trying to leach off my success. Go ahead and try to have a creative thought on your own." I/we need more individuals like Jim Buckmaster. Take 10 minutes out of your day and write a letter to your local/national bank executive manager. Place it on his desk and kick him swiftly between the genitals.

And to top off my morning, I was appalled to read in the New York Times Reader's Opinion the general feeling is that, no, the United States generally unprepared for a Woman or an African-American in the executive office. I say this, not because the comments were overly negative, but because the question itself is particularly appalling. At this point in our nation's history, I think it would be much more important to ask the question, "Are we ready for a president who isn't out of his/her fucking mind?"

...Oh yes, I disagree with 'ol Whitey's "baby-slaughtering" and "old-man-pimp-slapping" policies, but he's so much better than that colored fellah, with his crazy "let gay people get married" ideas...

Like sands through the hourglass, so doth the head-groove in the wall next to my desk blossom and grow. Thud. Thud. Thud.

POSTCARDS FROM THE BROKEN SPINE OF THE BEAR

2006-12-09T21:43:00.000-08:00

A little too abstract, a little too wise,
It is time for us to kiss the earth again,
It is time to let the leaves rain from the skies,
Let the rich life run to the roots again.
I will go to the lovely Sur Rivers
And dip my arms in them up to the shoulders.
I will find my accounting where the alder leaf quivers
In the ocean wind over the river boulders.
I will touch things and things and no more thoughts,
That breed like mouthless May-flies darkening the sky,
The insect clouds that blind our passionate hawks
So that they cannot strike, hardly can fly.
Things are the hawk's food and noble is the mountain,
Oh noble Pico Blanco, steep sea-wave of marble.

I AM A PSYCHO GENIUS

2006-12-08T17:46:00.000-08:00

There are two types of people in this world, those who prefer to have things laid out in front of them, and those that prefer to have things laid down behind them. I am, without a doubt, of the latter.

This became clear to me while trying to explain the governing principles behind the BAM philosophy:

1) A plan is the antithesis of adventure. A plan presupposes you know what to expect, and should be avoided. The best experiences in one's life are often built upon the ashes of well-laid plans.

2) A map is a crutch. Unless you are late for something important, keep those demons under control. The most boring distance between two points is a line drawn by someone else.

In both cases, the introduction of a secret map (e.g. treasure map) trumps all rules. But beware, not everyone can stomach the thought of operating without a net. This is a perfectly acceptable and commendable position, and you should take steps to avoid scaring these people. They will not, however, be receiving a super-secret nom de guerre. What say you, Skip? Have I done right by these principles?

EVIL PLAY-DOH

2006-12-08T10:57:00.000-08:00

http://www.ckastelicfilms.com/

BAM 12.06

2006-12-07T21:27:00.000-08:00

There are no words to describe my loathing for Grey's Anatomy. I thought that perhaps I could curl up on the couch, pour a tall glass of red wine for myself, fire up a Glade Scented Oil candle, dim the lights and just lose myself in Patrick Dempsey's beautiful doe eyes. I tried. I made the effort to watch 2 seconds at a time through fingers criss-crossed over my eyes... then 3 seconds... then 4.

When I could no longer resist the urge to peel back the fragile skin at the top of my scalp and massage the gruesome head wound with fine Afghani heroin until the horror finally came to an end, I decided to give up on Grey's Anatomy (more like Grey's Lobotomy, huh? Heyyyoooo! Up high!). Jesus, what an awful show. It's like Nip/Tuck without the luscious, milky bosoms.

But moving on, and at the risk of jinxing the whole waterworks, I'm working out my p-p-plan to get the hell out of town for a weekend with guns a-blazin'. Yes, it's true, a plan is just a list of things that never happen (and wicked-bad juju in my estimation), but I have to get my coordinates locked in before I depart.

I'm on a quest for Bolinas, a place where the locals defend their territory so fiercely, Caltrans has long since given up posting signs for the quiet coastal town because the damn things just keep getting torn down. I dig your style, Bolinas. To uphold my end of the bargain, I've decided to follow in the footsteps of the original explorers in finding my way to this paradise oasis, I'm going to use the sophisticated surveyor's GPS I jacked from the GIS department at work.

What. Lewis and Clark were pussies, what do you want me to say?

I have dreams about this place where naked sirens dance in the frantic sparks from beachwood bonfires. I see emerald lagoons filled with bronzed flesh, and great glistening waterfalls casting iridescent spectra from silvery fingertips. I can hear the hypnotic heartbeat of the meandering waves folding black sands rich as coffee in the fading daylight. Oh great rivulets of K-Bear saliva, no karmic shield so powerful will shroud me as you! The gentle lover's caress, the sensuous embrace of my "Property of Bolinas High Athletic Department" T-shirt. What ecstasy, what purple passion so deep waits for me there? I can't hold back my tears of... holy fuck, is that grain alcohol coming out of me?

Wow, man. Wow.

Well, most of that story is, in fact true, or was at some point in history. There was a time when Bolinas existed as only a rumor in a dark hallway. Now? Now it's probably one giant tourist attraction.

Fuck it. There's always free cheese in a mousetrap. BAM, sucka.

NEW DEVILS

2006-12-07T21:16:00.000-08:00

Big it up to Mr. Tasmania Incognito. Good to have you on the team, amigo.

2nd ALBUM OF THE WEEK

2006-12-06T08:57:00.000-08:00

I understand that the idea of an "Album of the Week" may have been confusing enough to spin some of my readers into a psychotic episode (*cough* Reckless *cough*), and I should have probably been a little clearer in my description. The title, "Album of the Week" refers not to the freshness of the music, rather the weekly nature of the blog post. I apologize for an confusion/minor nerve damage/atherosclerosis/rabies this may have caused.

yikes.

Anyway, moving on, today's guest post comes from a dear friend of mine who, if she had been born 30 years earlier, would have slept with Mick Jagger, Robert Plant, David Bowie, Jim Morrison and Hall (but not Oates). Of course, I would have totally done John Oates with that thick-ass moustache of his.

What was I talking about? Right, wise words from the District:

The Practical Application of Gestalt Principles in Album Construction

I bought an album a few days ago. I mean, I bought a real, physical album. I even ordered it through the mail, so I had excitement in anticipating its arrival. It has been a few years since I ordered music - mostly I buy albums at shows and swap discs with my local coffeeshop employees. But, I had heard this band on Myspace and was tired of listening to the few tracks available on their music page. So, when I finally got the CD in my hot, little hands, I unwrapped it immediately and stuck in my CD player, and prepared to groove.

Pffflew. Deflation. So, the album that I ordered and had waited to receive, Band of Horses' "Everything All the Time" is quite enjoyable at times; however, the album itself has no continuity, no theme, no story to tell. There are two standout tracks on the album, but the surrounding songs do nothing to support the singles. Both "Funeral" and "The Great Salt Lake" are strong songs with delightful melodies and catchy lyrics. Tempo changes and instrumental breakdowns drive the tunes, while Ben Bridwell's vocals compliment the tone and temper of the individual songs. Although Band of Horses lacks the orchestral depth and magnitude of Bridwell's previous band, Carissa's Wierd, the songs are solid rock pieces and induce toe-tapping. Hell, I like the band so much I bought the album. Individually, there are nice songs, but the path of the album is jarring with odd tempo and key changes between the tracks. At this point, I am not sure if it is better on random shuffle or listened through from start to finish.

I guess this is what happens in our new age of iPods, mp3s, and shuffle. You can pick and choose the tracks, and so how they work together just does not matter any more. I bought the Band of Horses disc off their songs on Myspace, so I am guilty of this myself. However, I remember the time when the traditional album was put together with love and care - the transitions between songs were just as important as tempo changes within the songs. Hell, Death Cab for Cutie's "Photo Album" has one of my favorite musical moments in between the tracks "Steadier Footing" and "A Movie-Script Ending." And Built to Spill's masterpiece "Perfect From Now On" escalates from song to song and culminates with the raucous pieces "Kicked in the Sun" and "Untrustable/Part 2." These albums (quite recent as 2001 and 1997 releases) are thoughtful works as a whole in addition to the individual song, and the development throughout the album only makes them better pieces.

Perhaps I am advocating for concept albums. The Decembrists certainly have figured out how to tell a story through an entire album; Ben Folds Five did a lovely job with "The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner." But, really want I am suggesting is that the format of the album needs to be considered when creating a marketable product. The sum of songs can either help or hinder the success of the album, and in the case of Band of Horses' "Everything All the Time," it certainly hurts. Or, maybe I should just use shuffle.

OH GOD, SWEET MYSTERIES OF THE DIVINE

2006-12-05T13:02:00.000-08:00

If you haven't noticed, and no one's told you, tonight is such a special night for me. CBS, a station known for its integrity of journalism, will broadcast the sexually deviant version of Christmas, Passover, Chinese New Year, The Moon Landing, Second Coming of Christ, Wham! Reunion Tour, and The Day I Awkwardly Became a Man (in no particular order). At 10pm ET, you'll be able to catch the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show, with musical guest Justin something-or-other (don't think I've heard of this guy. Also, I'm having trouble understanding why a lingerie fashion show would need a musical guest. Refractory period?).

Since I'm a tan, svelte, real-or-fake West Coast Boy now, I'm trying to figure out how to watch both the initial broadcast on the East Coast, then get back home to catch the rebroadcast on Pacific time. See, people, this is why we need supersonic jetpacks. (Yes, I could TiVo the broadcast and watch it over and over and over, but I prefer the old-fashioned jetpack strategy. Good enough for Connery, good enough for me).

Put the kids to bed, open a bottle of wine, and enjoy the fruits of The Digital Age. Wives, girlfriends, dominatrices beware.

P.S. Jesus, I almost forgot to mention it's been exactly 79 years since the last state ratified the 21st amendment to our constitution (Utah, not surprisingly, was the holdout. Way to go, Utah). Remember this tonight while you're watching semi-nude women prance up and down a trippy little stage. Ahhh we're just like the Romans. Many of you, no doubt, will be dressed in Togas. I know I will. Ego diligo pectus quod imbibo!!

I AM A DIRTY, DIRTY SINNER

2006-12-05T08:37:00.000-08:00

It's a terrible, terrible sin, but I think both of the Bush daughters are hot. I have unhealthy fantasies about Jenna and Barbara where they are engaged in various inapropriate acts with each other and me simultaneously. I wish I could end this terrible affliction, so I ask you, Oh Wise Readers, how to resolve these feelings of self loathing? Also, which is hotter, Jenna or Barbara?

P.S. The tall one kind of looks like Alanis Morissette. Crazy sexy Canadians.

AHHHHH...

2006-12-05T07:59:00.000-08:00

There, now don't we all feel better? I know I do. Thus ends my social experiment (Thank. God.). Now we can get back to business as usual.

I AM PLEASED WITH THE RESULTS

2006-12-04T22:07:00.001-08:00

P.S. Somewhere in that last little shake-up, my 6,000th visitor popped his or her or its head into the room. That's 6,000 since February, though if you remove that 4 month vacation I took (thanks to all of your ~~death threats~~ words of encouragement that brought me back), it looks a lot like more like 1,000 per month on average. Since I view readership as a validation of my otherwise pointless existence upon this easy-on-the-eyes planet of ours, I feel quite good about myself! Yay, self esteem! Now send me panties. Goddamnit, you send me bushel upon bushel of exotic panties so that I might make countless panty-angels!

I love you!

WEEKLY HIPSTER MUSIC REVIEW (I AM A SHILL FOR THE MUSIC BUSINESS)

2006-12-04T09:08:00.000-08:00

The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side.

It's about time I started paying attention to my indie rock vocabulary since I couldn't possibly entertain the idea of walking through the Mission District without my messenger bag, one in my extensive collection of post-modern (PoMo) T-shirts, and my hair quaffed exactly as I found it when I woke up: unwashed and un-styled for maximum cowlick exposure. Plus I need to Coke my way out of about 15 pounds; my ribs lack full definition.

I've noticed my mean machine C-money reading my blog from B.C. (henceforth referred to as "Bitchin' Canada!"), and she's always been my lifeline to new and exciting music. I figured all the BC rippers / weed dealers / tattoo + piercing outdoorsmen have got to be on the music up-and-up, so I'd better start pulling my A-game together, eh?

Plus (man, the hits just keep on rollin'), I've had a song tickling the back of my brain for a few days, and every time I hear it I think of an old friend of mine from the beating heart of Les Vert Mont. She's got such a dirty mind, and it never ever stops...

Ergo, I return these boys their hard-earned props. Hard-earned in respect to the Strokes diaspora in which all "indie rockers" now reside, poor skinny bastards.

ALBUM OF THE WEEK: Silent Alarm by Bloc Party
CHARTED SINGLES: "So Here We Are," "Banquet"
Their failure to find mainstream success in the US somehow makes this band just a little better in my esteem (think David Hasselhoff in Germany. Does any American own a DH CD? Or do we just enjoy mocking his hypnotically gyrating hips through the cultural crystal ball that is YouTube... Yea, I didn't think so.). Having been a fan of Franz Ferdinand's first album, then refusing to listen to even one track from the second, preferring instead to reflect on the heady days when "Alternative Music" meant "I don't hear that one track on every goddamn radio station 24 hours a day," I enjoy Bloc Party's homage to their closest relative on the indie family tree. The band, having met their defining moment at a Franz Ferdinand concert, pulls the IndieDiscoPop card from pretty much the middle of the deck, but some of the tracks are catchy enough to stick. I also failed to find even one of Bloc Party's tracks on all Bay Area radio stations through two straight days of dedicated searching, a critical moment in the audition process.

Give the album a gander, and then you can impress your friends with "That Bloc Party show at The Fillmore was so deck last night. Did you see all those tassles bustin' mad moby's in the VIP box?"

PS. I haven't the slightest idea what I just said. Comments will be met with appropriate consideration / mocking.

WE DON'T NEED ANOTHER HERO

2006-12-02T08:02:00.000-08:00

I'm up early for work today, but that's not even the beginning of my woes. I have Tina Turner's "We Don't Need Another Hero" from Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome stuck in my head. Go on ahead an' marinate on how I got that in there.

I AM SORRY FOR THAT LAST POST

2006-11-30T11:19:00.000-08:00

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.

I AM AN INNAPROPRIATE NEOLOGICIAN

2006-11-30T10:29:00.000-08:00

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

m: but the revelation of childbearing?

me: right.

m: um, cuza the tumtum, or the cooch?

me: tumtum

m: oh,

i thought maybe she was all flappy n shit

(gag puke)

me: like those big brush curtains at the car wash....

m: oh god

oh god

me: swayin' back and forth

baaaaaach and forth

m: oh GOD

me: whappitawhappitawhappita

m: dude

we totally just coined a HELLA tight term

me: woot!

"check out that girl's CARWASH!"

m: "dude, see that girl? she's GOTTA be sportin some brush curtains!"

HA!

*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.