Design for Humanity is SOLD OUT!
From the ticket purchasing website:
“THIS EVENT IS NOW SOLD OUT, ONLINE TICKET SALES FOR THIS EVENT ARE NOW CLOSED BUT YOU MAY STILL BE ABLE TO GET TICKETS THE NIGHT OF THE EVENT AT THE AVALON BOX OFFICE AROUND 9:30PM IF CURRENT TICKET HOLDERS DO NOT SHOW UP.“
Sorry if you didn’t get any tickets…get on it next time!
See you there..
In our continuing effort to evolve the Bigger Better Deal from its infancy, we thought a games section might help you find ways to pass your day. When sticking pencils in the ceiling has lost all of its fun, you turn to this internet superhighway for a means of temporary occupation. Well now come here and play any one of the games that we tirelessly researched, reviewed and re-posted here. Do you have a game you love to play and think the world should too? Tell us! Good luck at work today lemmings!
If you have looked around the retail landscape in the last five years, you surely noticed Starbucks’ omnipresence. On every street corner you can enjoy a quality, hot cup of their latest exotic brew or perhaps one of their truly delicious breakfast sandwiches. Starbucks’ impressive domination of the market yields different affects for espresso shops competing for your dollars. For the ‘Mom and Pop’ shops so often the darling of the anti-business hippy media, when a Starbucks up-and-locates next door, it actually serves to benefit the flailing cafe. The overflow traffic from the obscenely long lines filters next door, where a cheaper cup of coffee comes without the wait! For those shops further away, you have to brew your own luck.
That’s exactly what some clever cafe owners did just south of Seattle. (Why always Seattle with these coffee ideas?) Cow Girls Espresso in Bonney Lake, Washington, changed their cafe uniforms to include two pieces with a healthy dose of skin, and “business has never been better.” Wearing nothing but bikinis, young women are serving up the locals’ daily fix at joints as cleverly named as Hot Chick-a-Latte. When some media attention naturally came their way, one articulate barista observed, “You see people-you know-out on the lake in their swimsuits and I don’t see how it’s any different, right? We’re just making coffee!”
Well one mother was not having it after her child noticed a nearly naked espresso dripper (?) wearing nothing but panties and pasties. Mom was outraged (Pop was excited) and organized a community protest and bla bla bla, whatever… Don’t you know sex is bad?
Recently, I was playing Grand Theft Auto IV where the current mission asked my avatar to chase and assassinate some lowly scum who hadn’t kept up his protection payments or something stupid like that. A mother and her 10 year old son came by the house for a visit. She asked if he could play too. I mentioned (selfishly) that the game was practically X-rated, to which she asked, “What does that mean? Sex or Violence?” Both, I thought, would have been accurate, but given his presence I said that the game was mostly violent. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “that’s ok then!”
How can that be? What is it about violence that is “ok?” Why is seeing a remarkably realistic character with his head blown off by a remarkably realistic gun in a remarkably realistic New York City better for the development and edification of our youth than a female body (or any body for that matter)? I have never understood our nation’s love affair with gore, fear, death, and vengeance. Meanwhile so many live in true fear of sexuality, love, nudity as art, nudity as pornography. To many, sexual obscenity is the devil incarnate.
Why is SEX more obscene than VIOLENCE in our communal consciousness? I thought ‘thou shall not kill’ (#6*) comes before ‘thou shall not commit adultery’ (#7) and ‘thou shall not covet they neighbor’s wife’ (#10). There isn’t even a mention of lust in the Ten Commandments. So the assumption that our being a bless-ed “Christian” nation doesn’t sufficiently explain our blood lust.
Dangerous or Divine?
For the last century and beyond, moral crusaders have told us what is acceptable and what is deplorable. The very same people that demanded Tropic of Cancer be banned 1938 for its being “a cesspool, an open sewer, a pit of putrefaction, a slimy gathering of all that is rotten in the debris of human depravity,”[2] successfully demanded assault rifles be legal again in Washington DC. I propose it is time to visit our priorities and ask ourselves: what is so horrible about the naked body? What about sex scares us so deeply? Remember, the flesh that God so painstakingly created is only now covered by clothing because we ate of the tree. It seems odd that the apple didn’t carry with it information on the impact of violence on humanity-something God left for us to learn ourselves. A class we signed up for, slept through, and failed.
Anyway, I got to get back to GTA IV, this guy owes me some money and I’m going to introduce him to my old Russian friend, Mr. Kalishnikov. I guess all I’m saying is, why not put a little T&A in your tea and coffee?
Peace! Please?
Z.
This past weekend heralded the 24th birthday of someone special to me. In her honor we threw a 12-hour pool party in the Palisades. A fine concoction of tequila, whisky, vodka and our dear friend Mary left a slew of 20-somethings draped along the edges of a 90 degree pool. The weather was sunny if chilly, and a long as the beer lasted, so too did the party.
Another dear friend of mine mentioned that he was having a “very L.A.” weekend, in large part due to the lavish poolside extravaganza. This makes me wonder: is being very LA a good thing or bad, something to aspire to or best to avoid?
I am a recent émigré to these parts. I spent my whole life growing up on the East Coast, always reminded by those in the East of LA’s traffic nightmares, rude people, long lines and smog. ’Ugh, I thought. Why would anyone ever live in that hell-hole? I would never…’ Until I did. Despite the muckraking of the eastern press, I looked for change that met all of my critera: 1. big city (if spreadout) 2. warm weather. So here I am, in the City of Angels.
I’m told that the first year living in LA is the hardest, but I have had it easy. Met a lot of people, live in a great place, deal with negligible traffic and found a [good] job almost immediately. Perhaps I’m just lucky to have caught this wave. Given my recent success, how could I not like this place?
What is LA? You would have to define it to saddle it with such a boring adjective as very. Given the city’s diametric size, diverse population, and economic capacity, LA is everything you want it to be. A list of pro’s and con’s may better illustrate what is means to be LA.
PROS: weather, beaches, nightlife (bars, clubs, music), women, Mexican food, proximity to Vegas, avocados, pool parties in May, fashion, cannabis club
CONS: traffic, pollution, long lines at above nightlife, bars closing at 2 AM, cost of living, flour tortillas, rude people, making-up-for-something bouncers, jay walking tickets, bureaucratic governance
There are more pros and cons surely worth discussing. However, on my experience whenever I hear “very LA” I am usually having the time of my life. So keep it coming Los Angeles, I can handle you…
See you by the pool this weekend?
-Z-
Friday night I am hanging with my friend Stephen A. I decided to walk a good 2 1/2 miles to THE BAR located on Sunset and Bronson where we got a drink and then, along with Stephen A’s friend, and the friend’s piece we decided to head to HAPPY ENDINGS on Sunset, a mere two blocks from my dwelling. The friend’s piece used to work there, and I knew before we went that it would be a shiteous evening filled with prurient frat boys. It’s a lot like going to the bar where the guy from MY NEW HAIRCUT – a youtube classic – would hang out. A crappy and huge quasi-sports bar where there is some tail for sure, but the ratio of bros to hos, is not in our favor. In our search for parking, Stephen A ended up parking on my block and we smoked personal joints of the $25 1/8 of Cat Scratch Fever marijuana I purchased from THE FARMACY in Westwood. The weed sucked, and required each of us to smoke as much as possible to feel the effects. And feel them we did.
This is the type of weed that is neither indica or settiva, but it just fucking hits you in the dome a few minutes after you’re done. With most marijuana of a quality caliber, that feeling is immediate. So as we finish our walk we end up at the bar, and Stephen A tells me that bitches are giving me “the eye.” This is especially good news for me, as in the past month I had not been going out much, opting to smoke copious amounts of marijuana or as I like to call it: my anti pussy. My friend with whom I hunt tail has been studying for the law school finals, and I have been hanging out with my practically married buddy Lucky on the west side of LA (Santa Monica, Culver City) where nothing fun ever happens. ***SIDENOTE: this is in part because my friend does not look to go out to bars where there are going to be a lot of single women looking for mr. right/wrong; nor should he be, but for me, this has a deleterious effect, because as much as I love going to his place on Friday nights to watch BSG and smoke, it deavstates the rest of the evening.***
Stephen A and I get to hitting on some girls and I cannot begin to overstate the importance of starting early when it comes to hitting on girls. For me, the longer I wait, the less confidence I have and the more likely I am to turn to the bottle and sulk by my lonesome. BUT NOT TONIGHT, nigh, tonight, we are on a mission and although the talent is lacking in quality, there is no dearth in quantity. The hunt is both good and bad, as the marijuana and booze are starting to take effect. At the end of the night, I call up the girl I was getting cozy with and Stephen A and I drive a great distance to pick them up.
We take the girls home, and long story short, have a good time with them. What’s interesting is not what happened, rather THAT WE MADE IT HAPPEN. This is the type of thing that Stephen A is good at, and no matter how “in the zone” I am feeling, sealing the deal at all – and especially on the same night – is not where my talents lie.
I wouldn’t have dared call them up that night and try to take them home without Stephen A’s prompting. I was nervous about the possibility of the encounter and Stephen A, served as a true guardian angel on that night and all metaphors aside: made it happen. “But aren’t you nervous about this, do you ever get nervous about this type of thing?” [I am referring to the possibility of picking up women in general is a rather nerve-racking proposition] Stephen A just tells me that he doesn’t get nervous, and that we’ll have fun, either we’ll get some, or we might not, but who knows, and why is this a bad thing? I am paraphrasing here, but the message resonated, and for this evening alone, I will always be in Stephen A’s debt.
The evening’s festivities and message of relaxation and “fuck it, who cares what happens,” also helped me to get over my recent flaccidity problems. A while ago, I was seeing a girl I did not particularly like, and she was also terrible in bed. Her technique with my schwanz was so amateur, that it felt like I was being blown by a frightened 12 year-old (again). When it came time to fuck her, part of it was nerves, part of it was hatred, part of it was a lack of arousal: I could just not get my junk tumescent. Although I would eventually get over this problem (barely) it haunted me up until Friday. My mind was awash with thoughts of worst-case scenarios: what if this happens to me when I am with a girl I like? What if this problem turns into a fear that will not wane, but increase and my guilt, angst, and self-loathing will combust and turn into one giant clusterfuck of an issue with the only remedy being suicide (a bit dramatic, but still).
Friday night also seems to have galvanized me to desire more and better. While most of the time I want women, now I crave them, and feel as if I can possibly have whichever ones I want. Because we can’t all be 6′6″ (in cowboy boots), play the guitar (albeit poorly), speak Italian (again poorly), or have a general understanding of current events and global cultures (mediocre at best), but for those of who can measure up to these lofty, and yes, self-appointed and self-anointed heights than shouldn’t those of us who can, use these talents as best we can? Of course you can insert your own special qualifications here, but the best analogy is with food: seeing starving people all over the planet does not make me want to eat less, it makes me want to eat more, to cherish every bite, so that my fellow humans know that I am not taking their struggle for granted. I should savor every morsel and every girl I am lucky (and talented) enough to have…besides, who else would you want to live vicariously through?
Sorry for the delay. I have pieced together a bunch of random thoughts from other drafts that should at least keep you occupied (if it fails to entertain) for the next 30 minutes. It’s just free-form, so deal with it pissants; time is money and I don’t have a lot of either.
THINGS I AM RANTING ABOUT THIS WEEK:
1) I know the sayings about dipping pens in company ink, I avoid the COUGAR lady in my building, and I am generally a smart guy. I have gotten to a point where when I go to a bar I can just be comfortable and happy with life, liberty, and the pursuit of tail. But this one girl I work with makes me nervous. It’s not that I even want to get to know her in a biblical sense, which I do (generally if there’s a pulse that’s good enough for me) it’s that I know I couldn’t.
The girl is my kryptonite and she knows that I am powerless against her. That I don’t think she likes me that much to begin with has nothing to do with the fact that in our social dynamic, this uber-blonde vixen has all the power. It emanates from that electric mane of hers, but it’s not the length or quality, it’s the shocking almost white color of it, and she knows that if she were a brunette, she wouldn’t have the same effect on FOOLS LIKE ME. It’s psychotic to know that something is amiss and go along with it anyway. I also think that part of my attraction to her is born out of a desire to do to the Nazis what they did to my people for a long period: fuck em bad.
So this girl is a tormentor, and she also works for a seriously attractive but very cold and distant woman of about 30. They both have piercing blue eyes and think they are both hotter than is actually the case, but they are both very attractive. If I had to pick a sandwich to be in with two girls from Antarctica, it would be these two ice princesses, for the simple fact that they have their noses in the air (much like the French) and are extremely cold (like the Germans). In many senses, I am Woodrow Wilson at Versailles and they are George Clemenseau, Vittorio Orlando, Neville Chaimberlain, and the chancellor of the Weimar Republic all wrapped into two uber-bitches, who don’t like me cuz I am not good-looking, kinda schlubby, not wealthy, and oh yeah, not a complete asshole.
2) So the guy who wrote the blog ‘things white people like’ got a book deal. I have my dick in-hand and a case of bedhead. That’s fantastic. The point is, I am not reaching you people, and you, my precious few readers are not doing a good enough job promoting my diatribes of truthiness (now an actual word so you can go fuck yourself spell-checker). It’s my fault really, as selling-out means one has something to sell. I am totally envious of that blog guy; he was smart enough to make a list, and apparently, that’s all we have time for in the modern era, where attention spans last 90 seconds and then…what was I talking about? Oh yeah, your shitty attention spans. Look, I am not going to beg, because that is a shameful thing to do, but the more I think about it, yes, okay, I will beg, I have no shame.
3) In the past 7 + years, Americans have made the argument for George Bush because they would rather have a beer with him because he seemed like a man of the people and all of these other things which he is most certainly NOT. These are the same types who argue for limited government and attend the NFL draft and chant USA USA USA from time to time. These people are the reason why we can’t have a small government, because the stupid people can’t think for themselves and short of having them all killed (my desire) we must tolerate them by putting the umbrella of big brother over their heads. These people serve their purpose (as we still need coal and I am too smart to go into the depths to retrieve it) and I think it would cost too much to kill them. But their poverty and necessity to this society also provide us with a problem: we don’t understand that, in many cases, what allows these people to do the menial tasks and live their uninformed, shitty existences, is the belief that they are America; that they have the power to influence government; that THEY MATTER. They’re wrong and in case you hadn’t noticed, there is a new form of racism in this country that is not about white or black, it’s about GREEN. Who has it and who doesn’t. It just so happens that many of the marginalized are still suffering the repercussions of the old-guard racism (white vs. black).
4) One of my great problems with this country is how we tend to undermine and slander then apotheosize people, places, and things after they have left us. Britney Spears is a good example of how we try and bring out the worst in people and then, after things go wrong and she eventually kills herself, we will cry our crocodile tears and say how tragic it was, so to pacify our collective cultural guilt at leading to her death, erecting a children’s hospital in her name and naming a memorial American Music Award (who gives a shit about them anyway) in her honor. Patrick Swayze is going on with a “brave battle against cancer” by continuing to smoke 3 packs a day, Anna Nicole Smith was a tortured soul who was ‘really bright and lucid’ according to some. It’s not that these people are wrong in printing these claims, but they are so after the fact that the public has no choice but to agree, even if it ain’t true.
Heath Ledger died a couple months ago. At the time, everyone was quick to praise him as a great actor who had so much more to offer us and his death was labeled “unfortunate and accidental” by mass media. BULLSHIT. Heath Ledger’s death was inevitable as he was taking copious amounts of drugs and booze and not taking care of himself in other aspects of his life. He had a two year-old daughter whom he left behind, and she will never have a father because daddy was a moron. I don’t care to get into the WHY of his situation, as it matters not, I care to talk about how Heath Ledger’s death hurts me…
I am a 23 year-old young urban professional. I work in Hollyweird and although my schedule is lax for being in “the industry,” there are a few nights when I am up till the wee hours of the morning working. Rare though they may be, it is more common for me to have to be at work at 8:30 in the morning and when one factors in my 40+ minute commute, that means that I have to get up at 7:15 in the morning if I want to shower and have a healthy breakfast. There are people who will read this and scoff, as I know they work much harder and god bless em, but they just enhance my point.
I don’t sleep that well. This is a problem that has been getting worse since college. My life isn’t all that stressful, nor would I consider myself depressed – at least now right now – and I don’t have a drug problem — unless you consider food a drug. I went to my doctor the other day and relayed all of my information to him, underscoring my point by informing him of the subsequent problems I have had because of sleep-related fatigue. “My mind is always on, I can’t turn it off, I am never at peace, I can’t sleep, help me doctor.” What I really wanted was an Ambien prescription (generic brand, I am not made of money) and he knew it too. He even gave me a look which said it all: ‘Zach, I believe you, and I know you want Ambien, and it could probably do wonders for you, but who knows, you’re a young single guy, living in a big city, I am sure you go out and drink on occasion, I just can’t take the chance of getting SUED.’ One look communicated all that.
Drug abuse has been epidemic in our society and any argument saying otherwise is pure sophistry. Unfortunately, it’s not feasible to write Bristol Meyers-Squibb on a marijuana plant and so the only organic medicine which, when abused, leads to eating massive amounts of cookie dough, and not taking one’s own life, is considered illegal. Our rules are stupid and hypocritical, but the pharmaceutical industry is the second largest in the world. One cannot argue with business. Nor can one argue that doctors live in states of constant fear at the possibility of being sued. As soon as Heath Ledger was dead, there was an inquest into whether his doctors were responsible for his death, which is again, innately American: let’s blame the people who gave him the drugs (legally) and not the 28 year-old ACTOR who could have used his cunning to get about anything he wanted. If you’re having trouble sleeping, take an Ambien every now and then, don’t mix the pills with all sorts of other powerful drugs and booze. The things are clearly labeled “do not take with alcohol,” and Heath knew better. While I can’t wait to see him as THE JOKER, and after seeing the DARK KNIGHT trailer even cynical I am convinced that his performance might be oscar-worthy (Peter Travers of Rolling Stone is already convinced), I must say a big FUCK YOU HEATH LEDGER, YOU’VE RUINED MY DAY.
“Stephen A? Is it really you?” I say this somewhat shocked, because Stephen A has been out of contact for a while.
“Greetings, I am in East Hollywood [meaning East LA].” Steve is not screaming with joy as he says this.
“Wha-what are you doing here?” I am screaming with joy and confusion as a Stephen A sighting always means booze and women
“I am here to get a phD in film.”
“What?” He makes no sense to me or our mutual friend Lucky who is equally excited to hear that Stephen A is in town.
“I am here to get a DVD.” Stephen A’s attempts at humor are not that funny, for the simple reason that it is possible that Steve came all the way across the country just for the purpose of getting a DVD, I wouldn’t put it past him. I decide to not press the issue further and get back into pleasantries.
“Steve, how did you get here, how long are you staying, what’s your schedule like?”
“Don’t know, bought a one-way ticket, I am staying with my friend in Korea-town.”
“Great, what are you up to tonight?” As the prospect of a random night with Stephen A is almost too great an opportunity for either Lucky or myself to pass-up.
“Don’t know, the energy levels are low right now,” says Steve in typical Steve fashion.
And with that we pretty much said goodbye and that we would see each other later on in the weekend. I was already feeling rather hung-the-fuck-over from Thursday night’s excursion to Bar Lubitsch where I pounded negronis (equal parts Campari, gin, and sweet vermouth) with my coworkers and then decided to run home in a drunken stupor. Friday I was lucky enough to smoke some weed and watch the new episode of Battlestar Galactica…then I got a bit drunk with my friend Lucky and his girlfriend Chadha and got a bit drunk and had some Korean bbq for the first time. It may have been dog meat, but that shit is delicious, some of my favorite stuff on the planet.
So Saturday comes around and guess what? It’s 92 degrees, and also, my friend and coworker Sir Paul informed me that the weekend would be festive as his girlfriend’s friends would be in town and looking to get friendly. So I go on a long hike to the top of Runyon Canyon and almost died while up there. And here’s another thing: clean up after your dogs people. I have noticed an abundance of dog shit in town and if you are too much of an asshole to clean up after your dog…then get a cat as they bury their own feces.
So Saturday night I go to El Compadre with Sir Paul, Sir Alex, and Paul’s girlfriend & her friends. The girl in question does not look that good in good light and she has mentioned that she has Red Sox tattooed near her lady parts…classy. So the disastrous dinner winds down and my friend the General arrives for no other reason than to tell me he is going to pick up Stephen A and that we should go to the woods. Sir Paul and his clan are heading off to a club and I tell them we will meet up at which point Sir Paul’s lady grabs me by the arm and tells me that I better show up because the girl in question has a crush on me. I oblige her and intend to keep my word, as the thought of receiving oral copulation in a bathroom of a trendy place sounds really awesome.
I go to my old haunt THE WOODS where there is a line to get in. I am perplexed, as TW is a dive about as grimy as could be. It could be the strip mall its in, it could be the liquor store with the homeless man with AIDS right next door: sidenote, here’s a joke from him. “I’m all about religion, did y’all know that I am a Mormon? As In I have done more men than women.” So I meet up with Stephen A and the General, and the General’s not-so-hot new piece shows up and drives us to the place. ***In retrospect, it probably would have been cheaper to take a cab there and back as the valet cost $15…and didn’t include a magazine subscription.***
So we make it to S Bar and Sir Paul pulls some strings to get us in – much obliged – and we get to hanging. Now, Stephen A is a good looking dude and when he started talking to the slutty girl who was supposed to be all up in mah shit nigga. Shyeeet. Anyway, I am happy to report that the girl was not phased by Stephen A’s…A’ness (hehehe). She liked me despite the threat of Stephen A’s looks and if nothing else, I am happy that this event took place because it signals to me that I am at least doing a bit better with the ladies. The night goes on and the girl and I are getting cozy on the couch. In dark light, she’s fine,
***SIDENOTE: the amount of respect I have for most of my coworkers and superiors is non-existent. It’s not that these people are evil, it’s that they’re retarded and evil. I hate the majority of people who work here. What a terrible incompetent group of dumbasses. Fuck these white people.***
So we’re winding down and I am making out with this girl at the bar. It’s something I try to curtail because I am not a big fan of PDA and can recount at least 6 instances in the past year where I have gotten sucked into this vortex. The more PDA one does with a female stranger, the less likely he is to get into her pants. FACT.
We’re leaving, she wants me to come back to Sir Paul’s girlfriend’s place where she and her two friends will be staying and words cannot express my lack of desire to spend the night on someone’s couch in Silverlake with a bunch of spectators when I have perfectly nice accomodations waiting for me at home. I told the girl that I would be happy for her to come home with me, and I would get her to wherever she needed to go tomorrow. Her friends came up to me and you could here it in their voices, they did not want her to go with me…nor should they have. I have been known to shoot myself in the proverbial foot every now and then, but for some girl I didn’t really care about, I thought the least I could do was be honest. The girls, both of whom I found to be quite attractive – although the really hot one was about as interesting as a 2 x 4 – asked me the question “if you were in our shoes what do you think we should say?” ‘Go sleep with a stranger who has a knife collection,’ ‘Go home with this strange man who might be secretly filming your encounter,’ yeah, sure, that’ll happen. These girls were just looking for verification that I am an asshole. I am an asshole, but I am an honest asshole, honest to a fault. And I wasn’t nearly drunk enough to notice that this girl was rather, well, the Red Sox tat near her box in indicative enough. So I look these girls in the eye and say “I would gladly take her home, but honestly, if I were you guys, I would probably tell her to go home with you.”
The time comes for us to part ways and the girl is now adamant about coming with me. I am flattered, but there will be others, and there will be better. I am standing with the three girls while the General and his piece – who looks remarkably like an older relative of mine – are standing on the sidelines, pretty much laughing at me. I in no way mean to offend the General, but I feel like he gets very sanctimonious when it comes to this area of my life. I will certainly tell you that he is more adept at picking up women than am I, but neither of us are that good, and while he gets a lot more ass than do I, we both have issues with finding quality ass. So the General is standing there as I tell this girl that all she would be to me is another one night stand. The General and Sir Paul are standing on the sidelines at which point the General leans over and says “I have more respect for him for doing this….but i also have less respect for him for the same reason.”
He seems disappointed that I would be turning down this opportunity, but it isn’t a real opportunity: I certainly shouldn’t go to her friend’s apartment, and the reality is, her friends really don’t want her going with me and I cannot fault them for feeling as such. That is a quandary if I have ever seen one. If I failed in any way it is that I didn’t truly underscore my desire to get a hummer in the club. There were certainly bathrooms available, and although the clock was running low (as we entered the venue at around 1) there was still plenty of time…not to mention that I heard that this was the type of thing that was possible with this girl.
The night is almost over and Stephen A from planet Steve is gone. He left with two random skanks he invited back to our place. It didn’t matter that they were old and gross, he still managed to just look at them and tell them give him a ride to our place and hang out. Of course, Stephen A with his low energy levels was not able to make the magic happen with the Mexican chick. I don’t remember what went on, but that was mostly because the girl who wanted to come over called me at 3 AM and chewed my ear off for an hour, talking about how she really liked me and how I was different than any guys she had ever met and how she wanted to come over. More phone calls throughout the night became increasingly toxic to my psychological state as the target kept calling to tell me that she and her roommate were on the verge of being kicked out of their accommodations and wondering if they could stay with me. There was yelling in the background and I really didn’t want to hear any more of it, so I just eventually said goodnight and passed out.
What’s the moral of this story? Well, there are opportunities in life which are meretricious to the hardcore and if you can suss these out, it doesn’t matter what other people think. Sure, I could have spent the night in Silverlake, but on a couch with three other people present, that doesn’t sound like fun. Sure, I could have cajoled this slutty lush back to my spot to do bad things to her, but I was being honest when I told her, that it would just be a one-night thing. Did I have to do and say those things? Not necessarily, but as someone who puts all of his embarrassing life moments out there for the public to read, well, let’s just say that I am comfortable with telling the whole truth…even when that truth can have negative effects on me.
Til next time…GOOD HUNTING.
NEWS OF THE WEAK: “Responding to allegations that manager Ozzie Guillen is a racist because he tends to favor latin players of some of his white players, Guillen responds by saying ‘I don’t pick my lineup based on who’s Latino.’”
Really Ozzie? Because I certainly would. If you make your lineup based on anything other than who is Latino, you’re talking about two guys…and one of them is the bat boy.
SUBJECT: TOO MANY EMAILS
I got 51 emails in the course of a few hours today. Most of them were to tell me nothing in particular and most of htem were work related. Mostly, I received a lot of general “feelers” for information. Didn’t make me feel good about myself. Now, I know I have gone a little blog crazy in this past…hour, but this is a valid post. In the course of a day, I get about 70, 80, 90, sometimes even 100 emails. I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all. If I have more than 10 to deal with, I am pissed off. Because most of them are general and not personalized to me, I can delete before I really look at them, but I don’t always get that chance. They sit in my inbox, taking up space, and causing agita. This is nothing that I need to concern myself with, so why is it causing me so much strife? Because it’s something else to manage. Even the mail you don’t give a shit about, you still have to take the time and effort to delete, but wait, you can’t get it out of the deleted folder because of the .0001 percent chance that you will need to recall some of this information later. So now you are at a point where you need to organize your deleted items. That is some bullshit right there. That is un-American as far as I am concerned. That is the height of bureaucracy at it’s most personal and lamest. When you have to organize time in your day to process your own deleted crap.
Emails should be a more personal thing: if you wouldn’t make a phone call to the person you are emailing, you shouldn’t email them. It’s just another chance to start a stupid chain, a thread even, a dialogue, a discourse, on the subject which you are currently discussing. There is always so much work to be done in the course of a day and if you really take the time to think about it, if you wouldn’t conference call 28 people for the sake of finding someone’s number or address…then DON’T EMAIL THEM. Why not simply CHAT a select group of people you are tight with to find out the information? I don’t care about your problems and I don’t need you to email me to tell me that you need to talk with me. Email is a big responsibility, and giving out your email address is a dangerous proposition. You think it is the type of thing that is harmless, but that is how the feds track a person, that is how someone feels it is okay to communicate with you UNDER THE SAME ASSUMPTION THAT YOU SHOULD RETURN THEIR INQUIRY. If you give me an email, it should mean that I am as responsible for it as I would be a telephone with a voicemail system. If it has the same power, then why are we just as beholden to it as we are the telephone if we are receiving 20X the amount of information. Fuck that shit. It’s just more responsibility that you have to take in your life; much of this is the same type of responsibility that members of the federal government find to be too trying.
Most of the time, I am a 24-hour erection. Recently I have been seeing a woman whom I am not that attracted to and guess what? I have been having trouble getting it up. It’s unfortunate, but I ain’t embarrassed: this girl has the worst technique of any woman I have ever been with (not that many) and I think much of the problem is due to sheer nerves. But wait, I have been drinking. Yes, but I haven’t been drinking enough, because when I do, I will nail any fat chick from here to Manitoba. It’s not that she is unattractive, but the things she says, the awful perfume she wears, and her ridiculous ambitions; more than anything, it was a synergy of all three; a symbiosis of crap. A perfect storm of unwanted vitriol built up inside of me.
The first night she came over, things worked out, but I was still able to stand at attention when it mattered. The second time, you can add your own euphemism to describe it. I was agog thinking to myself: oh god, why hast thou forsaken thee by causing this to happen. It happened to me when I was 17, but I had already gotten past that. I could have thrown in the towel and reduced myself to more years of self-scrutiny and general mental instability. BUT, I didn’t, I called her up – even though I didn’t want to see her for reasons other than my performance – we made plans to hang out, and wouldn’t you know it, more of the same problems.
I guess I should have mentioned this earlier, as it should be known that I have a voice inside my head in the guise of Peter Dragon (Jay Mohr’s character from the show ACTION) who is really a precursor to ENTOURAGE’S Ari gold (and a much finer character to boot). Fictitious deviant Peter Dragon is yelling at me, calling me a pussy when I am failing with this girl. He also accompanies me when I am running, propelling me to gallop more than jog, but that is another story. Peter also has moments where he shows semi-genuine pathos and you…should just watch the fucking show cause it’s awesome to truly understand what I mean.
With Dragon in my head calling me a pussy the next time she came over, I realized that he wasn’t right. In addition to being to my general disliking, I also found her to be quite untalented…sexually. First and foremost, she would do this thing where her face would engulf mine when she would kiss me. I went along with it, but I wasn’t happy about it. A truer harbinger of the apocalypse nary have I seen. I will spare you the details, suffice it to say that if you are not happy when a woman is on her knees for you and Peter Dragon is just watching from above and sympathizing with you, it’s time for a change. It’s a strange paradox: in order to keep HER happy I couldn’t tell her to stop doing what she was doing. So me and the dragon are just standing there, arms folded, shooting the shit, while she continues. Eventually, Things get better and most importantly I am somewhat satisfied.
By now, i am just so happy it’s over that I decide to go outside and smoke a cigarette. At this point, she had no idea that I was a smoker, but I am thinking, MUST REPULSE, MUST REPULSE, MUST REPULSE. She wants to stay over, and I can’t tell her that I would rather sleep alone. So I smoke my cigarette and Peter Dragon and I get a game plan together. I walk back in there, and start talking about my annoying “negro neighbors.” She’s shocked by my callous words as she is all about racial harmony and blah blah blah blah blah blah ,’ and then go on to debate who I think is worse, them…or the MEXICANS? [They're everywhere] And by the time I am finished with my rant, she is completely convinced that I am a racist.
BUT SHE DOESNT LEAVE. Her indifference is complicity. She’s a horrible racist for not leaving. So this nazi bitch is staying over and she’s hogging the blanket. I GOTTA HAVE MY BLANKET! Eventually, we fooled around some more and I ended up waking us both up at 7:30 AM. As we were preparing to leave, she asked me if I was going to shower, and I responded by telling her that I didn’t give a fuck what my coworkers thought I smelled like and bolted out the door at 7:45. Here’s the kicker, I didn’t have to go to work that day, I just wanted her gone.
In the end, I went to the doctor and got the results of my cholesterol test (my LDLs are better than yours, dingleberry) and I went to Santa Monica and had a bad day drinking.
So what do we take from all this? I am a bad person, yes, established, go tell it on the mountain. But more importantly, is that you don’t have to love the person you’re trying to be with, you just can’t dislike them. There are those types of girls we all know who are really hot and really bitchy, and you just want to wipe that evil-bitch look off their faces by giving them a good rogering, but that doesn’t always equal genuine dislike; sometimes those girls are awesome. So don’t love the one you’re with, just make sure you don’t hate her, cause then you’ll be working on two hours of sleep and acting like a total dingleberry all day. More importantly, face your problems head-on, or else they will fester, and you will get cancer, and you’ll fucking deserve it, because you’re weak, and pathetic, and you let your sexual anxiety get the better of you. So for imaginary Peter Dragon, this is your pal, signing off, going back into the trenches. GOOD HUNTING!
