Monday, December 28, 2009

Things I Like

Smart or ethnic people's babies if they're far enough away that I can just notice they're cute but don't have to in any way deal with them.

Really really hardcore pornography.

Don't like waffles. They look better than they taste. Always disappoint. Always think to myself after eating waffles or any sweet breakfast item, fuck should have gotten something savory. Perhaps a sausagey item. You have never had a sausage-based regret. Oil and meat and salt are what you need, not sugar. What the fuck were you thinking, dude? Too late now. Botched breakfast.

My 2 Most Important Moments of 2009

1. seeing fuckable tweens on beach in cabo and getting a lil hard and getting to joke about it with a bro who is also into the underage scene.

2. not dying of a terrible disease or being gay or mexican.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Dentist's 4 Year Old Daughter > Owner

Dog: I hate you, owner. I'm fat, depressed, and have respiratory issues.

Owner: I'm gay and have shitty taste in everything.

Owner's wife: I'm completely unfulfilled and my dad is a hoarder.

Owner's dentist's 4 year old daughter: I LOVE ICE CREAM AND MY HUGE COLLECTION OF TOY HORSES! YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Words Have No Impact on Relationships

Charles Peterson: Right now I'm imagining I'm fucking your sister instead of you. She's more attractive and charming than you, you know? Oh yeah. Also funnier and more engaged with life. People actually respect her. She and I have many similar interests. Among them golf, Headline News, and hating you. God I wish I was fucking your sister.

Deaf Wife:

The Last Book on Screenwriting That You'll Ever Need

Okay, so you have that next brilliant BIG IDEA. You've pitched it to all your friends and family. They love it! What's next? A little thing called Outline Time. Now if you're trying to be the next indie darling, it was nice meeting you, good luck in all futures, have a safe trip home. But if you want to write a big, fun, satisfying commercial Hollywood movie, sit down and relax, because you've come to the right place. Listen up as I reveal THE three events that must occur in EVERY single great entertaining movie. If you watch closely, you'll see that these three events always occur, and on specific pages, in all of the great, successful films we love -- from The Godfather to Tootsie to Top Gun.

Event 1 (pp. 20-25): Girlfriend leaves.

Event 2 (pp. 50-65): Realize not cut out for writing and start teaching high school English to fuckable yet uninterested girls at Woodward Academy for the Arts and Sciences.

Event 3 (pp. 100-110): Die.

"Bye" Guy

Thursday, December 10, 2009

What do you think of Obama?

Can I?

Can I have juice?

Can I have astronaut ice cream?

Can I have a model rocket?

Can I have a cd boombox?

Can I have a Playstation?

Can I have a pager?

Can I have a cell phone?

Can I have a car?

Can I have a credit card?

Can I have a security deposit?

Can I have a home loan?

Can I have a tax shelter?

Can I have an annuity?

Can I have an experimental surgery?

Can I have a green burial?

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Hi Vanessa

It's Doug Housladen. We went to middle school together. I was really shy and good at Latin and pretended to like rap. Never really interacted with you. You were eminently fuckable and the first person I noticed in my generation to really pull off the tan legs /short tight skirt thing. You're now fat and married to an even fatter guy and based on your Facebook status updates you seem clinically retarded. I'm successful and altogether pretty great. Which is a lot coming from a guy with as much self-hatred as I have. Was just wondering if we could go back to 1996, listen to some Blackstreet on MiniDisk, and sneak into the unisex bathroom across from the computer lab where you'd let me finger you... knowing that in 14 years, I'll have a cool job and money and you'll be rotund and have almost zero cultural capital. I prefer this to just trying to find your 2010 equivalent, because that would take effort and I'm troubled and obsessed with the past.

Yours Truly,


Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Red Whine

A New American Indian Complaint Every Day Of The Week

Complaint #540

I wish I hadn't gotten pregnant at 14 and that the vast majority of my friends and family didn't know the kind of depression and resentment that sometimes feels like someone's trying to rip out your stomach lining with their plaque-encrusted teeth.

- Whine by Wenona

Compatibility Isn't Everything

Guy Larsen and Laura Sarasalo.

Married October 14th, 1984.

Both enjoy deviled eggs.

Guy becomes emotionally detached by 1987. Pushes Laura against a wall in late 88. Impregnates her in 89. Gets fired from his job working for her father in 92. She soon divorces him. She's now with some sweet tubby Peruvian who can't quite support her or challenge her intellectually. He gets loaded by himself at the wet bar in his basement, passes out on his forest green carpet, and has no relationship with his daughter.

Doug Williamson and Sarah Doctor.

Married November 9th, 2009.

Doug enjoys deviled eggs. Sarah doesn't. They're still going strong.

Boring Commitment Phobe with Avoidant Personality Disorder and an Indian Fetish Names Top Five Moments of the Decade

5. Realizing that Sapna stocked Pringles in her cabinet. Foul. I could never date let alone go down on a girl whose skin cells -- and by extension pussy -- were in part made up of whatever matter forms Pringles.

4. Pretending I was sick during Reshmi's 21st birthday party. Didn't have to deal with any of her friends. Just stayed in her bed. Had fake sick sex when all the guests left. Could tell she was pretty hurt / disappointed with me. She broke up with me the next day, which I was secretly gunning for.

3. Reading a dull thirty-seven year old Los Angeles Times article on microfiche at my local library about the Kama Sutra but pretending to be really immersed so as to prevent the microfiche librarian from asking me any questions / engaging me / helping me.

2. Gray Davis getting recalled.

1. Being pretty unsupportive of Lahska during her father's death.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

"Long Lost" Christopher Columbus Email Exposed as Fake

Christopher Columbus to Dave show details 12:26 AM

Saw the FB pic of you and that fucking monster. My replacement? Does the fact that I feel utterly worthless without you make you want to reject me even more? I'd give anything for you to just treat me like shit one last time. It's the no contact that's eating away at me, you manipulative cipher. I know I shouldn't be writing this. Should be at the Jay-Z concert with the girls right now meeting better looking guys than you. But NO! I'm a parody of a jilted idiot ex. Such a cliche. We had nothing unique. Were never even really in love. Blah blah. I am so bored. I miss fucking you. I miss hating you, you fucking boring piece of shit. I would have married your short, sensitive, freckled ass and hated every minute of it but you had to leave me for an old Asian slut with thin nasty hair. Fuck you!!!! I miss you!!!! I'm so lost, Dave. Help. Please.


The Pinta suffered a minor setback today when one of our men was momentarily thrown overboard while attempting to rig hammocks aboard the deck in the fashion of the Indians with whom we've become acquainted. Oh, how I've tired of eating and drinking nothing but hardtack and ale.


Saturday, November 28, 2009

Zany Underemployed Closeted Homosexual With A Chip On His Shoulder Officially Ends His "Taco Litmus Test"

July, 2007. "Dude, honestly, official new rule. I call it the Taco Litmus Test. I'm going to take any girl I kinda like to the La Isla Bonita Taco Truck. It's super good. Real close to my crib. The roomies and I go after the bars close. So if the girl I'm with digs on the truck, Date 2. If not, guess it wasn't meant to be."

May, 2008. While waiting to pick him up a surprise chicken burrito from the truck, the guy's friendly, masculine girlfriend Katy is somehow lured into an alley and subsequently savagely beaten and raped by a sinewy, red-faced wino.

June, 2009. "Dude, what the hell?! I don't care how many shots you did. How could you even think it was cool to ask if I still do the Taco Litmus Test after what happened to Katy? I don't even know what to say to be honest. If you were in my position, and you first told me about the Taco Litmus Test you had, and then something terrible happened to your ex at the truck, I would never, never ask you if you still had a Taco Litmus Test. Dude, honestly, I'm bouncing. Like, let's talk about this when you've had time to think about just how friggin offensive it is to even mention the Taco Litmus Test."

Thursday, November 26, 2009

The whole hipsters hitting up the local shooting range phenomenon

really bums me out. I don't like guns. I typically don't like people. Especially middle class white men on lunch breaks. I hate loud noises. I am incredibly protective of my ears. I baby them. Vibration irks me. I dislike concrete interiors and anything resembling a warehouse. Communal safety-glasses are creepy and unsanitary. Let's get coffee instead. Talk about whether Wes' redemption is real or media-driven. One of us can briefly mention pussy if we feel like we've veered impossibly far away from any kind of authentic human experience. And then we can talk about Slate's review of The Road and how we didn't actually read the book (though we've of course devoured all the "real" McCarthy).

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Hollywood Horror Story

Girl poses nude.

Guy doesn't follow through on promise to make her a star.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Comedian Encounters Very Conservative Audience Member

"So this unicellular organism dies, right? But first it gets this mutation, you see..."

"Too soon!!!"

Dr. Odelberg

Dr. Odelberg, my dead husband's penis seems completely incapable of maintaining an erection.

For about how long has this problem been surfacing?

Since he lost his bout with the lymphoma in the late 80s.

Is he able to achieve but not maintain?


Is he still dead?

He is.

I'd like to run some tests.

But he's cremated.

Including the penis?

Including the penis.

That makes treatment more difficult, Linda.

I know. I was worried you'd say that, Dr. Odelberg.


Yes, Dr. Odelberg.

Just have him come by the office next week. Same insurance, right?

Yes. Thanks so much, Dr. Odelberg.

You got it, Linda.

Dr. Odelberg.

Yes, Linda.

I like what you've done with the waiting room. Decorations-wise.

Oh, well, Linda, we have Diane to thank for that. Ever since she passed away last summer, she's just been on a real decorating kick, you know. Lots of projects at home too. Her getting hit by that Jeep is the best thing that ever happened to us. In terms of decorating projects. It stinks that she's dead of course, Linda. Stinks real bad.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

My Cousin is Much Nicer Than My Girlfriend

When I was trying to give my cousin directions to my new apartment, I accidentally emailed him the wrong Google Maps link: directions to Petco Park in San Diego. He wasn't mad at all.

When I was trying to show my girlfriend pictures of a beautiful apartment we could move into, I accidentally emailed her the wrong Craigslist link: my own Casual Encounters ad looking for very good looking drug and disease free white or hispanic men interested in double teaming my unsuspecting girlfriend. She was very mad.

My cousin's still just my cousin.
My girlfriend now says she has to be called my "ex-girlfriend."

My cousin still returns my calls within a half hour.
I called my girlfriend nineteen times during my lunch break yesterday, and she still hasn't called me back.

My cousin is much nicer than my girlfriend.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Sorta Brain-Damaged Guy

confuses the notion of death with the phenomenon of having an insecure acquaintance who fabricates stories of sexual encounters with women.

1. All the great religions seek to answer one basic query. What happens after Christian Moira hits psychological rock bottom by pretending he got a bad handjob from some JDate girl (thinking that by fronting like the sexual experience was bad, he'll be much more believable) who clearly doesn't exist?

2. I still haven't gotten over my father's Christian Moira claiming he fucked a 17 year old model while in Brussels (so convenient that most of his intense sexual encounters occur outside of the country in which all of the people who interact with him live).

3. My favorite early 90s Bruce Willis / Goldie Hawn starrer was Christian Moira told a physically impossible story about both being incapable of getting an erection and prematurely ejaculating AT THE SAME TIME Becomes Her.

4. Wait, you know Moira? How weird is that dude?! How transparent is the whole one day all of us are going to be nothing for eternity thing? So creepytimes, right?! Poor dude. He should see a therapist.

Divorced Contractor with a Wispy Mustache Sleeps with a Non-Prostitute for the First Time Since His Wife Left Him

Spends $150 on the date.

Specifically does not joke to his friends that "Jeez, for $150, would have been easier to just get a hooker," because it was ultimately a really sweet, ego-boosting experience for him and he has no desire to tarnish it.

Dopamine rush inspires him to get a new Vizio at Costco. The picture's mediocre at best, but he doesn't notice.

Gets a Polish sausage while there.

Watches a lot of Sunday football over the next few months. Buys some satellite package or another. Doesn't enjoy the game as much as when he was with Laura and used to smoke passable pot out of an old fashioned tobacco pipe and was an alcoholic and could see all the good things in his life falling away from him like errant balls from an unskilled juggler.

Lives for another three decades, buying his final television in 2039. It's a piece of shit by the day's standards. But its resolution would make us weep if we could just see it now.

Very Liberal Jewish Guy who Frequently Says "God I Would Like to Hatefuck Palin"

actually sees her in a bar. Sitting alone.

He walks toward her end of the bar.

Manages to nervously say something really bland and high-pitched to her while ordering a Moscow Mule. She basically ignores him.

He goes back to his apartment alone and watches the second half of the HBO Obama doc with his roommate until they both pass out.

Middle School

I just put the pieces together and realized that this kid from middle school, who confronted me after his girlfriend, Lauren Finkle, caught me writing in English class -- in what I thought was inscrutably miniscule text -- "Lauren Finkle is going to suck my dick..."

...I just realized that was the very same kid who while playing left field in 7th grade overheard me in center repeating the mantra "I want to fuck Melissa Jones in the ass" over and over again in what I thought was an inaudibly quiet voice.

Jesus, that guy must have thought I was a real fucking deviant.

I heard he threatened to knife himself after an ex dumped him a few years ago.

Guess I win.

Not counting black on black crime,

black people have such an affinity for each other. It's like this exclusive club and if you're a member, you're loved. You know, you'll be in Whole Foods. And you'll see the black woman behind the register's face light up. And she'll warmly offer a "Hey baby, how've you been?" and initially you'll think she's talking to you but then your brain determines that A) No human being has ever greeted you so warmly and B ) She's clearly looking toward someone behind you. So you get embarrassed and fidget around with the mint display. But then you turn around and sure enough, it's some black dude. Someone she probably knows less than you. But there's just this genuine celebration of commonality. I find it both reassuring and a little intimidating.

I wish Jews had the same sense of brotherhood. When we see each other at Whole Foods, it's more like oh shit, did that guy notice me? Fuck. He saw me. I'm going to have to talk to him. I hate that asshole. Whatever. I refuse to go over there. Maybe he didn't see me. I think I got away with it. Wait, is he actually leaving? Without coming up to me? That fucking dick. Who does he think he is?!

Two Presidents Have Differing Opinions on Period Sex

Example One:

Abraham Lincoln: Oh, wait, there's some kind of liquid all over me, hand me the candle so I can-- Oh, Jesus, there's blood all over the sheets! Fuck. I'm covered.

Mary Todd Lincoln: Oh, God, I'm so embarrassed. Do you want to stop?

Abraham Lincoln: Uhh, yes! Sorry...not trying to be unsupportive. Just totally not in the mood anymore. Eww, it smells all coppery. I'm really not happy about this. Sorry, I can like see myself from afar and realize I'm being insensitive. Should we wash up now?

Example Two:

Mistress: You're sure you don't mind that I'm...?

George H.W. Bush: Get that thing in my face.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Famous Moments In People Resisting Twitter History

Homo Erectus: Just don't get it. It's like my least favorite part of Facebook and nothing more.

Thomas Jefferson: Doesn't involve being inside a female slave's vagina without a condom while obsessing over the fact that I'm a fucking two term president.

Homeless Guy: I don't have a computer. Plus, too busy finding a place to sleep and being ravaged by mental illness.

A Thumbtack: I'm an inanimate object. Don't have agency. Can't communicate, etc.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Intellectually-Insecure Chameleon Discusses Fantastic Mr. Fox

After reading positive review in Slate:

Wes is fucking back, people. All of his quirks, which yes, we're beginning to show their age, now just seem rejuvenated and perfectly contextualized.

After seeing a girl who seems kind of smart -- even though she went to a much worse college than he did -- put up a status update about not liking the movie:

I guess my one concern is that the alt. press seems more concerned with pathologically selling the whole "Wes Rebound" trope than actually analyzing the content of the film.

After seeing the movie:

I'm still sort of processing everything. What was your take?

Sort of Sweet Girl Who Was Okay at Sports in High School

does some fruitless self-examination.

1. My ex Cody who was way way older and kind of crass and belittling was all obsessed with completing this jigsaw puzzle of a cat when he came to my parents' house last Christmas.

2. He cheated on me.

3. I will never date a guy who's into cat puzzles again.

Successful Scottsdale-Based Misogynist Expresses His Love For Whole Foods

I love Whole Foods. Hottest bitches in Phoenix. Top. Shelf. Pussy. Get to clown all the ho's that buy organic shit even though that means nothing. Read Omnivore's Dilemma. Organic nonsense is a sham perpetrated against unsuspecting pussy. Girls love to be told they're fucking retarded as they purchase berries. All women are insecure and begging for aggressive clowning.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Increasingly Burnt Out Slut Tries To Come Up With Zeitgeisty Ideas To Run By Her Agent

1. So King Lear but sort of set amongst 1st wave Silver Lake hipsters. Like not the people there now. The people who first moved there in the early 90s. Mostly Old Fags and I don't know, it could be about like the poor people of the barrio first interacting with the queens. Gentrification in America. Even a metaphor for Columbus' "discovery" of the New World. Shoot half in NYC. Like the first truly bicoastal work of art. That sounds lame or too heady, that phrase, but might actually be true / fucking groundbreaking. Could be a coming of age tale or like an exploration of how sex really is today. How ubiquity of porn influences the whole generation that grew up playing NES. Like waxing. Guys cumming on their girlfriend's faces. I can't think of the specifics. But the whole 90s period piece angle could be fresh, right? Nirvana aesthetic? Flannels are back. Or were back. Or like plaid. Similar pattern.

2. The Graduate but Dustin Hoffman is played by Jason Schwartzman. And the irony is that the mom character oh fuck what's her name Anne something mel brooks fucked her god I did so much coke last weekend I can't remember shit. Oh wait, but that could be incorporated. Like me doing coke, being tired. Like my generation's female take on that Nicholas Cage Charlie Kauffman movie blanking on the name but the voice over could be about like this sort of hot writer chick doing blow and navigating today's tragically emasculated hipster male landscape all while writing or failing to write the new Graduate. Or succeeding. Hollywood is a BUSINESS. Happy endings sell. But it could be about like our generation. The creative class doing drugs, and Michael Cera could be Dustin Hoffman's character. Oh, Adaptation.

3. Some webisode idea. Or online novel. Or something internet. Just read a blurb on this guy i know who started some rap lyrics explanation website like treating rap like deep, complicated poetry / lit. My friend Katie blew him a few weeks ago not knowing he'd just eaten a shit-ton of asparagus. Eww. He didn't reciprocate and didn't call her back. She's a fucking mess. Honestly don't blame him. I think he's making money. Internet shit is like kind of passe but that could be the irony. Like getting into the webisode game too late. Citizen Kane all overly ambitious style but webisodes.

4. I went to Wesleyan. Something about college and life. Maybe a TV show. Like Felicity but with a group of girls who are real and have sex and have breakdowns and get internships for Wes Anderson in paris and do coke but still have classes.

5. People love their animals, right? Something with pets.

7. I need to get fucked.

Thursday, November 12, 2009


What your favorite Laker says about you

Kobe Bryant: You're an insecure, pockmarked Mexican-American legal assistant who hates women and loves the Corvette you can't make the payments on.

Ron Artest: You're a charming batshit homeless guy I give money to as I'm about to get on the 10.

Pau Gasol: You're a gay high school English teacher who went to Wesleyan.

Lamar Odom: You're a depressed but working B-List screenwriter who finds crying incredibly cathartic of late.

Luke Walton: You're a semi-smart, entitled, sexy 16 year old JAP who's terrifically intimidated / subconsciously fascinated by black male sexuality.

Derek Fisher: You're an incredibly polite, handsome successful father of four who knows you'd be able to last longer / get harder if you could put an unloaded gun in your Asian wife's mouth during sex but will never, in all your remaining days, enact said fantasy.

sex with a (digital) native


A beautiful, sweet, confident but grounded digital native unclasps her bra. Next to her, a 26 year old television writer strips down to his boxers. She kisses him.

Digital Native: Mmm.

26 Year Old Television Writer: Yeah. You too. So here's a question. When you try to recall your earliest experiences with "the internet," do you think of this basically totally intact entity where you had access to a significant amount of the world's collected information or do you recall logging in and maybe being able to only check stock quotes, the weather, some naked GIFs of Daisy Fuentes and a Prodigy News article about the tragic murder of "Football great O.J. Simpson's ex-wife" who at the time I (err, you) assumed was black?

Digital Native: Umm, what? The first option. It's always been the same. Like we got wireless when I was 9. I guess that was a change.

26 Year Old Television Writer: Oh, God, I'm so hard right now.

Digital Native (smiling): Mmm.. yeah you are.

She kisses him and then starts sliding down lower and lower toward...

26 Year Old Television Writer: Wait. Stop.

Digital Native: Are you kidding?

26 Year Old Television Writer: What was the first cell phone you had?

Digital Native: Umm. A Blackberry.

26 Year Old Television Writer: Game system?

Digital Native: I don't know. My brother had a Dreamcast. Why are you asking me all this stuff?

26 Year Old Television Writer: Favorite childhood bookstore? Was it a tiny B. Dalton in a mall sandwiched between a theater where you saw Ghostbusters II and a toy store where you got sports figurines of guys like Mark Eaton and Henry Ellard?

Digital Native: It was Amazon.

26 Year Old Television Writer: Oh God.

Digital Native: Is that bad? Can we please stop talking and just...? I'm all wet.

26 Year Old Television Writer: I just came.

Digital Native: You what?

26 Year Old Television Writer: Sorry.

Digital Native: It's okay. I don't judge. But can you like, help get me off now?

26 Year Old Television Writer: Funny you should ask...

The writer quickly gets down to some crazy business.

Digital Native: Oooooh. That feels good!

He suddenly stops. The digital native looks at him all perplexed.

26 Year Old Television Writer: You have no idea what VCR Plus+ is, do you?

Digital Native: What the fuck is your problem?!?!

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Uneducated African-American Plagiarizes Late Philip Roth

Niggas, I ardy tolls you my dick own't work no more. Wrinkled flesh and shit. There's this Zuggerman dude, right. Das like me but not quite me. And he's gots a dick, aight? And do it work nowatee's old? Nah, man. It stopped working. Fuckin Prosdate.

NYU Comp Lit T.A. not on a path toward professorship whose passive Croatian boyfriend just left her

reviews Momofuku Ssäm on Yelp:

HATE HATE HATE. The energy in here is terrible! I honestly felt like I was underwater and completely disconnected from humanity and any chance at authentic love the second I stepped in. That's how bad the ambience was. I had a very long conversation with one of the busboys about the nature of upward mobility in the American workplace. When it turned to Momofuku specifically, he said it's IMPOSSIBLE to get promoted there. There are NO GOOD MENTORS at Momofuku Ssäm. I literally had no appetite at this point. Felt mad, jilted, confused. That's how bad this restaurant is. In fact, the vibe was so depressive and closed-off that I started thinking about Andrej incessantly. A restaurant that's so shitty you literally cannot stop thinking about your asshole ex? I mean, COME ON. Never again. 1 star.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Water Parks in the Early 90s

I was convinced, every time I walked through the gates of a water park in the early 90s, that I was destined to have an intense, wet, peak sexual experience with a well-developed for her age half-black beauty.

Instead, I would get horribly sunburned and feel alienated from the 3 Ninjas loving, Lunchables eating generation to which I belonged.

Guy Whose Relationship With Reality Has Been Compromised By His Gonzo Porn Addiction

can't figure out why he's been blacklisted by his extremely talented, popular, Vegas-obsessed, golf-loving Japanese-American dentist.

Day 1.

Guy: Hey mom, I feel like I keep on getting the brush-off from Dr. Shibuya. Every time I call the office, they say they'll put me on the waiting list and call me back when they have a spot. And they never call me back. Since when is there a fucking waiting list!? I've been seeing this guy since I was 12!

Mom: Would you like me to call and try to make you an appointment? Are you sure you didn't upset him somehow?

Guy: Upset him? All I do when I'm in that chair is lie and pretend I like golf and lie and pretend I like Vegas and lie and pretend my brain operates in an efficient, reasonable, forty-seven year old successful Asian dentist kind of way. I kiss the man's ass the entire time! Upset him?! Ha. Oh and yes, that would be great if you'd call for me.

Day 2.

Mom: Honey, this is extremely difficult for me to say...

Guy: Let me guess, the non-existent waiting list?!

Mom: Honey, I tried to get you an appointment. They demurred. I pressed. Dr. Shibuya himself got on the line. He claimed, and this is so hard to repeat, he claimed that the last time you had an appointment, Anne The Hygienist left the room for a couple minutes to retrieve a lead apron and that when she returned... umm, sorry, this is just so... okay, I can do this, she claims she returned to you flinging a cup of warm semen in her face, pulling out your penis, and vigorously thumping it on her forehead several times.

Guy: Yeah, she's always kind of thrown me these dirty fuck-me looks. I sensed an opening. Trust me, I'm well aware of my weird power issues with women. And people in general. Anyway, did Dr. Shibuya explain why he won't give me an appointment?

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Guy who's stuck in the past has one good encounter

Guy Who's Stuck In The Past: Oh hey, sexy expensive personal trainer I used to use when my rich parents paid for shit before they cut me off at 28 in the name of "tough love," can you make my body look exactly like it did ten years ago when my cells were young and buoyant and I was incalculably more motivated and hungry than I am now? No? Fuck you!

GWSITP: What's good, grandma who died during the Nagano Olympics. You can come back and be alive again now. Staying dead? Fuck you too, grandma!

GWSITP: Hey ex girlfriend from back home. Haven't talked to you in a while. Let's see, I hated NYU. Just bombed the LSAT for the third time. I resent my friends with money while I simultaneously angle to ride their coattails. Wanna give me head in your car and stare all in-love-like into my sad eyes til I bust all over your leatherette upholstery and we giggle? You feel sorry for me and hope I get the help I need? Fuck you, Heather! I never loved you!

GWSITP: Hey, grotesquely deformed Mexican guy who used to sling peanuts at Dodger Stadium and whom I used to feel guilty about abhorring while I ate Carnation ice cream with a cheap wooden spoon and watched a group of professionally-fulfilled men who were the same age I am now compete in a sport that never really moved me, will you throw a bag of peanuts at me with precision while I feel guilty and bored? Wait, what? Yes?! You will?! Fuck yeah! Thank you!!!

Friday, November 6, 2009

Verizon Friends and Family Top Five

1.  310-362-9109 (Mom - Home)
2.  310-454-0211 (Mom - Cell)
3.  310-621-3310 (Mom - Fax)
4.  911
5. TBD

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Female Friends

Ideal Female Friend: Let's go through my Facebook friends tonight. Pick out all the girls you find attractive. We'll eliminate the ones who don't have occasional nymphomaniacal streaks. With the remainder, I'm going to educate you on all of their idiosyncrasies and insecurities. Then we'll brainstorm the best ways for you to exploit them. I'm passing Whole Foods right now. Want me to grab you some sushi on the way over? Oh and I can give you a handjob while we're Facebooking. Or not. Totally up to you.

Actual Female Friend (to another female friend behind your back): That girl he's with over at the bar is a fucking cunt. Ughhh. He always sends me such mixed signals.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

I enjoy calling 911

Back when I lived in Venice, I once dialed 911 on a couple thugs roughing up a streetwalker. I also threatened to physically detain a young teenager who was viciously taunting another kid.

When I visited New York last month, I called the NYPD four and a half seconds after I witnessed an erratically behaving hipsterbitch accost a cyclist.

But the demographics of West Hollywood, where I live now, present a number of challenges for people like me who are into the 911 calling / citizens arrest scene. First, the street I live on is full of old, jaded, miserable Russian immigrants. If I were to explain to the dumb fuck riding his bicycle on the sidewalk that he was putting the community in danger and disobeying city law, he might shiv me. Or tell his mobbed up nephew who's never read Proust or played sudoku on his BlackBerry to shiv me. Then there's the huge gay contingent in Weho. And I'm sure you're thinking, isn't a gay man the IDEAL person to call 911 on or to detain until an officer can come to the scene. Gay people are sane. Rational. They have cool jobs. They're not going to jeopardize their life or yours by pulling a knife on you. This is true. But then gays never do anything arrest worthy in the first place. They're like outgoing Asians. Courteous, precise, law-abiding, clean. Fucking anathema to the 911 caller's soul.

And so I realize I must move. To an area of town where my skill-set can be utilized, where my passion can be nourished. A place without Russians. A place with no gays. A place where I can find that random woman in the crosswalk getting verbally trashed by some douchebag or another. And I can assure you that when I do find her -- and I will -- that I won't wait to see if the situation escalates. I will not waste precious ticks trying to ascertain if this is merely an innocuous domestic squabble or indeed something truly dangerous. I will not think. I will not muse. I will act. I will dial. Nine. One. One. And I will do so immediately. And I will report the incident with precision, clarity, speed and -- this is the best part, the part I savor like the first sip of a barrel-aged Belgian -- total fucking equanimity.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

A poor guy who's preoccupied with some really bad news he just got from the vet about his dog

tries to come up with titles for his two screenplay ideas.

Dog With Prostate Cancer
A tight-knit family sleeps the night at a campground that happens to be right next to a nuclear plant. They wake up the next morning with crazy super powers!

Dog With Prostate Cancer
Based on the famous board game of the same name, a group of kids are transported to a magical world made up of candy and must find their way home before nightfall.

Proof that Garden State isn't nearly as insufferable as people contend

Guy with good taste who hated Garden State meets extremely attractive girl -- who's kind of slutty and funny and also refreshingly sane compared to many women -- who liked Garden State. Guy's pretty into girl. The sex is unreal. Girl's really fucking giving. Particularly orally. Guy doesn't find the Garden State thing to be a deal breaker.

Guy Sets Out to Write World's Least Latino-Friendly Play

Act One: Twenty-something JAP stays at her dad's condo in Aspen.

Act Two: Guy in Business on plane back from China won't shut up about how fascinating he finds the Chinese approach to foreign investment to be.

Act Three: A mother dies. She was a cold cunt. One of her estranged kids doesn't even show up to the funeral.

What Really Goes On With Penguins

Two penguins appear to be playing around near an ice cave and just being cute and shit.

Adorable Girl Penguin: I guess on some level every relationship I've had has been an attempt to replace my father. Like that sounds cliche. But it's extreme with me. Most of the penguins I've dated or even just hooked up with have looked slash been so much like him it's scary.

Creepy Penguin Therapist: Ahh. You know you're adorable. What's it like knowing everyone who sees you instantly finds you so attractive? How does it make you feel being so desired?

Adorable Girl Penguin: I don't know. That's not really one of my issues.

Creepy Penguin Therapist: I have tickets to the watch a bunch of flightless birds fight over fish match at the freezing cold pond tonight. If you want to come. I find that I can understand my patients' issues best when observing them in real social settings.

Adorable Girl Penguin: What? That's so unprofessional. Oh my God. Are you that retarded? I'm a smart fucking girl. I went to the penguin equivalent of Vassar. Oh and FYI, you're not nearly good looking enough to make the whole transference thing work.

Creepy Penguin Therapist: I want to screw you so bad, you slut.

Adorable Girl Penguin: Eww!!

Adorable Girl Penguin runs out of the cave and slams the ice sheet behind her.

A smart, unoriginal, painfully insecure, sweet, technically obese but not disgusting 45 year old Yale lecturer with recurring back problems

brainstorms ways he could have sex for free with a woman more attractive than his domineering acne-scarred wife of 18 years. This is what he came up with...

1. Flesh out that dissertation I wrote on anti-metafiction tendencies in Stendhal that Ph.D. advisor at Cornell so dug in 1997. Turn into larger criticism of Stendhal's work in general. Publish. Receive bad blowjob that doesn't lead to orgasm from troubled, lonely, status-conscious T.A. who's attracted to both beefy men and mildly successful authority figures.

2. Contact Facebook friend Lauren Miller, a girl from my Chaucer section a few years back when I was forced to lead a section for Professor Williamson's popular class even though I was already a lecturer and all the other section leaders were T.A.'s. Live in a universe where Lauren does not work with her boyfriend at a hip if insolvent karaoke club in Portland but resides in New Haven and has an obsession with letting men who made pithy observations about the Pardoner's Tale in 2005 put their penises inside her.

I was a degenerate toy junkie as a kid

Kay-Bee was where I got my fix.

All I'd have to do was accompany my mom to the mall, act sort of nice, and I'd get an action figure or if I was lucky, a video game.

I lived for that dopamine rush.

I wish it was that easy today.

That my mom could take me to the mall and there'd be a store that sold cocaine that wasn't bad for you and prostitutes that were witty and clean.

Depressed, Somewhat Lost Hipster Buys Retro NES

Places it prominently in Echo Park apartment.

Wonders if this could get him laid with an upbeat albeit slightly damaged nostalgia junkie.

It doesn't.

Meantime, he plays old games he liked as a kid. Is surprised he once found these graphics impressive.

Has to blow into a few of the cartridges to get them to work. "Kind of a Proustian moment" he tells a female friend who for some reason doesn't seem open to fucking him.

Gets bored. Puts Nintendo in storage.

Takes it out again in two years.

Thinks about going to law school. Doesn't.

Thinks about going to law school. Does.

Marries nice enough girl. Can tell based on her body shape and her mother's that she will not age particularly well. Decides he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

Has a kid.

Shows kid NES one day. Kid finds it kind of boring but pretends to like it because he loves his dad.

Realizes he's no longer physically attracted to pear-shaped wife.

Has two meaningless one night stands over the next 40 years.


Kid inherits NES.

It still works.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Ideal Day in the Life of a Dehydrated Writer

Network Exec: We're primarily interested in developing with really dehydrated artists right now. You know, the kind of guy who has such serious issues with maintaining the minimum amount of fluid his body needs to operate that his main reason for wanting to have a girlfriend after so many years is to just be able to sleep in the vicinity of a responsible animal who unlike him actually has the self-respect to always keep water near the bed.

Landlord: I want to propose shifting our agreement from month-to-month to you pay only during those times when your thirst is completely quenched. Also, I'm gay. Starting to come out to selected peeps.

Dad's Cancer Doctor: Turns out there's this new experimental procedure by which we essentially extract the mitochondria from the really dry skin cells of a writer and then implant them in the cancer cells themselves. Elizabeth Edwards might not be alive today if it weren't for this really shitty poet in Boston who somehow doesn't realize iced tea is a diuretic.

Asian Handjob Masseuse: Ohhhhhh, you so big! Thas the biggerst lack of watah in one's system I evah see.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Untrue Story

Lauren -- a fat, kind of sweet but really fucking dumb and getting older by the minute girl with very little cultural capital and shitty skin she cakes in makeup and a dead-end job and a suffocating sense that she will always be alone and miserable and bored until she perishes forever -- decides to get a puppy.

The dog makes her happy. She's no longer lonely now that she has her animal companion. Her newfound confidence lands her a promotion and an awesome, really tall guy. Her life turns out great.

Mt. Koya

So right now I'm staying as a guest at an ancient mountaintop temple set above a bamboo forest in Koyasan. It's all very Christian Bale cutting his teeth in the first act of Batman Begins.

I'm currently sitting across from an elderly Buddhist monk. He's telling me about the ancient traditions that go into preparing the five course vegetarian meal he's offering me.

I say: What a rich story. Domo arigato. I am so grateful for this meal and for my stay at this beautiful temple. There's such peace here. Arigato. I'm honored.

I think: I want to fuck someone wearing a Japanese school girl uniform. I really want to fuck a Japanese school girl. A giggling group of them. But no... The thought of spending time in a Japanese jail is way too horrifying. The people here are so polite and seeing -- in the faces of my jailers -- that cloying facade disappear into something truly menacing would scare the shit out of me, tap into some fucked up shit from childhood. And regardless, making a white girl wear the uniform and pretend to be a Japanese school girl would be so much more interesting. A black girl would overdo it. She'd do something grotesque like stretch out her eyes using her index fingers and talk in some horribly offensive accent while making painfully obvious references to Japanese food items. No, what I need to pull this off is a tasteful, highly acute white girl. A Jew likely. A Jew to speak pretty solid English but with a few glaring quirks and then when I compliment her she can say that yeah, she's been studying English since elementary school, most people in her generation do and I can smile and say that's true good point. And if she really did her homework she'd have checked the showtimes in Osaka online and then name some random popular Japanese movie playing now and say she's seeing it in an hour with some friends so we better make this quick plus she has a biology quiz tomorrow morning.

At which point the elderly, orange-robed monk clasps my hands, grins, and tells me that no, the honor is all his.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

I'm in Tokyo

There are some things I really enjoy. Like the subway system. A real fucking cynosure for the world. And I'm happy I get to indulge my sushi for breakfast habit without feeling guilty about being so extravagant when I should be eating yogurt or toast like normal people.

My biggest disappointment is the women. I had this ridiculous fantasy that I'd be getting eye-fucked by every other girl I ran into outside on the street in the middle of the day. Like that there'd honestly be a sea of eager white cock obsessed nympho temptresses just barreling toward me on every major thoroughfare. Not the case. Also, this whole experience has kind of gotten me over the Asian wing of my ethnic fetish. I'm realizing the predilection has always been a supply and demand thing.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Mama's Boy

Me: Did you like the whole rape fantasy thing? I helped inspire that.
Mom: Loved it. So proud of you. Folded your shirts. They're on top of the dryer.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Famous Moments in Therapy History

Erik: "So...let's see... Sort of went on a weird date with that Linda girl I told you about last week. Went to the Cheesecake Factory. Her choice. Just got this claustrophobic sense that she has the potential to be incredibly high-maintenance. Which I know I'm sort of attracted to and yet is ultimately so completely self-sabotaging. I haven't called her since. Which I think is actually a sign of some kind of progress. So yeah. What else. Umm, well Lyle and I killed our parents on Friday... I think it was Friday... Yeah, Falcon Crest was on. So yeah, Friday. Anyway, I've been feeling really just like off and sort of dulled and almost emotionally wounded ever since. On the one hand, it was a rewarding experience. Sort of cathartic. We talk about my issues with my parents so much. Yet a part of me realizes it was totally dysfunctional. And irrational. Which is frustrating. Knowing you're behaving illogically and yet being totally unable to keep your own true self-interest in mind. I don't know how I feel ultimately, which is sort of the scariest part. The not knowing. It makes me feel so clouded and vulnerable. And it plays into that whole thing we were talking about last week... those themes of indecision and ambivalence that keep reappearing in my life."

Therapist: "Back to Linda for just one moment. Did you start feeling the sensation of emotional entrapment after the date or while at the Cheesecake Factory itself?

Thursday, October 1, 2009


I have a few grey hairs.

I have developed a little bit of a hiatus paunch thanks to my diet consisting almost solely of Belgian ale, baby back ribs, coconut water, salmon sashimi, and fries.

And I like wearing crocs because they're really comfortable.

I'm completely aware of these facts, and yet, I'm as content with my life as I've ever been. In fact, it's my very contentment in the face of these facts that's a main cause of my contentment overall.

Here I am staring headlong into the business end of eventual middle age, and I don't give a fuck. And why should I? Subtle male deterioration is not only societally accepted but valued.

It makes me realize death isn't going to be nearly as bad as I sometimes fear. I can picture myself in my late seventies. Approaching my last few days. I'll be comforted by the fact that even though I'm about to face that eternal abyss, I don't really care, because fuck, our brains are wired to not really care lest we all go completely apeshit, and that casual not-caring might just attract the twentysomething Latina nurse taking care of my broke-down ass. Plus, I'll be too preoccupied worrying about how I told my son that I "shopped around for the most economical, but at the same time comfortable" hospice care available, when in reality I chose the most convenient, luxurious, exorbitant, fucking delightful practically spa-like end-of-life care I could find.

Saturday, September 26, 2009


is such a promising activity in theory.

Anger is such a primal emotion. So many bitches are so hate-able. I typically like charged, weird sexual situations. Seems like my wheelhouse, right?

And yet whenever I'm on a date with a girl I realize I actively hate -- instead of channeling that animosity into lust -- I just sort of want to go home, brew some tea, and catch up on Mad Men.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Portrait of a Failed Artist as a Young Man

1983: Born in Beverly Hills, CA.

1992: Classmate gets a Super Soaker 200.

1996: Popular kid and former carpool acquaintance fingers girl in middle school unisex bathroom. Is surprised and comforted by the exceptional warmth of the human vagina.

1999: Directs but never screens "Mr. Zombiegson," a six minute horror/comedy short starring Mark Quiegson -- a well-meaning but catastrophically rigid forty-three year old trigonometry teacher.

2000: Receives new, fully loaded Arctic Silver Volkswagen Passat from charming, vigorous Jewish father who wonders if somewhere in his own heart lies the dormant seed of the grotesque weakness that flourishes without end in his bespectacled, milquetoast, unhygienic, Dreamcast-addicted, likely homosexual son.

2005: Ireland completes metrication.

2009: Cuddles for three hours with bland, pear shaped University of Wisconsin law student after losing his virginity.

2010: Attends first day of work as a corporate tax attorney in Century City, CA.

Monday, September 21, 2009


My roommate and I both have Blackberry Tours.

I just grabbed his thinking it was mine.

His latest text is from a girl saying "I just did a line of coke and am fingering myself."

Mine is from a rotund ginger-haired male acquaintance of a male friend saying "U wanna hit up Never Ending Pasta Bowl this week?"

At least I make more money than my roommate.

So much more that I lied and pretended he could actually afford a Tour and the accompanying monthly data plan just to give this little anecdote some kind of structuring device.

He has some shitty flip phone which I check whenever I'm bored.

My Entree into the Disabled Community

On the surface, I like to think of myself as a friend to the disabled.

There's this dude in a wheelchair in the apartment complex next to mine whom I always greet with an elaborate bro-shake actually bordering on the masculine I ain't a fag but I like strong warm male contact clasp/hug hybrid greetings that were first popularized by the black sports and rap heroes of my youth in the early 1990s.

But then I realize there are two things that make me less than a good friend to this guy.

First, I would never hang out with him outside of our normal neighborly context since he's well, disabled, and that would be all awkward and embarrassing.

And second, I sort of deeply resent the fact that even though he has this massive fucking social and physical albatross he has to contend with, he somehow manages to seem cheerier and more content than I. 

For very similar reasons, I realize that my relationship with my longtime family maid is perhaps a little more dysfunctional than I like to think.

Is it not a sick joke

that the leading side effect of both finasteride and SSRIs is sexual dysfunction?

I mean aren't the bald and the depressed the two groups who can least afford taking a pill that causes you to get less pussy?

Isn't getting to fuck more bitches ultimately the main reason men try to get less bald and less depressed?

It's great my maturing hair line is sexy and becoming and that I found a profession where I get paid for my repurposed pain.  Otherwise I'd have some shit to deal with.

But instead I'm actually grateful.  And not even on Adderall.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Future Me

Every six months, I weed out my rather paltry wardrobe. Shed a pair of boxers I procured from Structure in 1996, discard that cream-colored men's extra small USA Atlanta windbreaker I bought from the Eastbay catalogue back when my aol screenname was "gtothe3" and my favorite website was "" (which proved particularly noteworthy when I once borrowed by dad's loner laptop, unaware that the defense contractor he worked for tracked employee internet usage).

Whenever I begin this semiannual sartorial tradition, I find that there is one item I'm incapable of jettisoning...

These threadbare charcoal grey jeans that I used to wear all the time.

The reason why is is that I always think to myself that if my girlfriend needed me to paint a room in her new apartment, these would be ideal painter's pants. Casual, fuck-upable, but not without a debauched air of former greatness.

The thing is I don't have a girlfriend. And I've never painted anything in my life. If a room actually needed painting, I'd hire someone. Whenever a friend asks me to help them paint, I rebuff their obnoxious imposition, because I'm both paranoid about inhaling chemicals and I know I'd do a shitty job. If my dad, who has a Protestant work ethic and is skilled at this kind of shit, found out that I was even tangentially connected to the painting of a new room, I would still hire someone to do it, and then either lie to him and pretend I did it myself or say that I got a "great deal" when I actually picked the most expensive, most convenient and least Mexican option I could find.

Which is why I can never get rid of these jeans. These mere pants that somehow, by dint of their existence in my closet and not in some trash-heap, offer the promise of a fresh future in which I'm handy, magnanimous, and honest.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Why I Dislike Plays, Concerts, and Sex

I saw God of Carnage last week. It was cool to see Jeff Daniels act in real time from only thirty feet away. What wasn't cool was sitting in a crowd of 1,078 white people who woke up that morning and decided they were going to adore the play before it even began. There's something sickening about the kind of communal sycophancy that takes place at a well reviewed play. Everyone upright and engaged, eager to guffaw at every erudite cultural reference spewed their way. Their maniacal appreciation as cheap and prefabricated as that of their middle class counterparts who attend Friday night tapings of shows like Two and a Half Men in Burbank.

The other night I took a date to the Phoenix show at the Greek and realized that the only thing worse than plays are concerts. Here, the audience members not only decide that they're going to admire the performance before it happens, but they decide they're going to have a profound emotional experience too. They're going to stand, they're going to clap (but what if I can't hear the lyrics over the clapping?!) and they're going to -- good God -- dance. How can you coldly assess the quality of a work of art while sweating and dancing and holding onto the dark-eyed biped next to you and telling her you love her and this band's so great live and does she want another beer and you're so fucking happy right now and ... as you see, concert going is an artistic endeavor fraught with absolute fucking peril. And the worst part is the band actually encourages this grotesque interactive defacing of their work. At a sporting event, where "crowd energy" is equally vital, at least there's always some sort of vocal minority which opposes the cherished home team and thus provides some semblance of criticism.

After the concert, I took the date back to my place and realized that the one thing even more objectionable than concert going is fucking. Here's an activity that everyone loves! It's impossible not to. I'm a guy who doesn't even like some of the more mainstream shows on HBO. Some of my favorite programs are on premium channels in fucking Canada. And yet here with sex, I'm forced to take part in the celebration of an endeavor that every single demographic -- Persian, middlebrow, retarded, Jewish, geriatric, gay, hipster -- universally adores! It's healthy! It's primal! It gets a 100% on metacritic. Because it objectively feels great. And how could it not? It's genetically impossible not to look forward to sex. Is that not terrifying? Participating in something that is inarguably awesome? Something that three billion years of evolution have conspired to ensure is enjoyable. That night, as I regarded that girl beneath me, deep in the throes of some kind of ecstasy or another, I couldn't help but see hidden behind her face the mean smirk of a happy fat black lady in a movie theater screaming at a film she decided she'd enjoy before she bought the ticket, artificial popcorn butter dribbling down her too recessed chin, clogging pores that will never again in all of history be quite as elastic as they are right now.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Threadbare Meme of the Day

Guys who feel they need to qualify their newfound interest in yoga by pointing out how "hot the girls are. Like the spandex. And some of those positions. It's just... you know."

Monday, September 14, 2009

Actual Blago Quote to a Friend of a Friend of Mine He Met on the Street

"You are a beautiful girl with a great rack, and I just want you to know i did nothing wrong."

Which "The Wire" Character Are You?

Matt Patterson ?? Fuck you, Facebook.

Matt completed the quiz "Which 'The Wire' Character are you?" with the result Walon.
You are an inordinately dysfunctional though gentle sad sack drifter often incapable of dealing with the most basic life issues. You have substantial weight, alcohol and hygiene problems, though as troubled and down as you often are, you haven't completely given up on life. Yet.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Adderall Followup

Positive Results: 1. Quicker at simple mental arithmetic. 2. Able to send lighter, more playful IMs.

Side Effects: 1. Crippling Ricky Williams style social anxiety culminating in a sweaty quasi-panic attack at a house party.

Dan, can you send me a few more pills?

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Is Adderall Extended Release Good For My Personality and Blog?

Dan gave me a few to take back to L.A.

Just took one...

Here's where I'm at...

-- Really looking forward to cleaning my room. It'll be satisfying and so easy. My apartment rocks! I can listen to my new iTunes purchases while cleaning! Like Jay-Z's Empire State of Mind. Very inspiring lyrics. Makes me feel good inside. Like all tingly and powerful and blissed out. Such a thug track!

-- Wanted to see Big Fan a few days ago, but seems like a waste of time now. A weird, dysfunctional, delusional main character who lives with his mom? Boring, right? Just sad and small and depressing, no? I think I have a hankering for something big and fun but not too silly with maybe Clooney or some REALLY beautiful woman. Aren't women beautiful? Anyway, Up in the Air looks so solid. Masculine, serious, deep, but not too deep where it's like weird. Just simple and stylish and strong. Like a more purposeful Jerry Maguire. Loved Jay Mohr in that. And Kelly Preston. Remember the side-boob scene? She's so bitchy/sexy in that, right?! Hope that isn't bad that often I'm attracted to bitchy girls. What does that say about me? Oh well, the human psyche's complicated, right?! What can I do but try to be my best and improve those things I can?

-- I really hope this health care thing works out. My whole attitude about this "pathetic charade of a 'debate' being the low point of American politics in my lifetime" has been so jaded and small and weak. Obama can do this! Any progress is at least progress! Sure, single payer's where it's at, but think about how many lives could be saved even with a compromise bill where it's ILLEGAL to deny insurance to people with preexisting conditions. So important! God, this is a great country ultimately. Flawed, but great.

-- Can't wait to go to a couple parties tonight. Looking forward to just connecting with people and being social. Craving some witty interactions with smartish, relatively attractive people who tell me how cool my job is. Fun!

-- Why have I bookmarked Ghetto Gaggers on Safari? So extreme and unsavory and aesthetically unpleasant and technically rudimentary. I think some light girl-on-girl action seems like a great idea though. But shit, jerking off would be a waste of time right now. I have a screenplay idea I should be researching. Or I could work out again. Or call someone special I care about and tell them just that.

-- Hope everyone's having a good day. Connecting with people. Listening to great music. Eating delicious food. Having personal breakthroughs.

-- So Adderall XR is like super low-intensity coke that doesn't make me want to fuck everything I encounter. But it definitely beats SSRI's -- I mean, shit, I don't feel dulled. I have nice, clean, smooth energy. Oh, and coke's a serious drug. And I'm not in any way suggesting I've ever tried it. Don't do it. Coke. I haven't. But don't be freaked out by it. Don't let fear rule your life. Balance and moderation is everything in life.

Love you all,


Friday, September 11, 2009

Texts From Last Night

Me: "Food?"
Male friend: "Still in San Diego."

Two Young Gay Coconut Waters Discuss Life in a Whole Foods Fridge

Eric: Have you met the new Goji Synergy Kombucha that moved into the fridge? Craig I think. Lives down-shelf next to that super chill gaysian organic root beer who has THE best taste in music. Apparently he's totally single. Is some like super talented mixed media artist guy. OMG, I'm totally picturing me and Craig getting bought by that silver fucking fox over there by the sushi bar. We head back to his place in the Hills. Craig and I fuck all night in a glass doored Sub-Zero Pro. Umm, I think my attached straw is about to telescope.

Tyler: Will you do me a favor, Eric?

Eric: What do you need, baby?

Tyler: For you to shut the fuck up!

Eric: Jesus! Someone hasn't gotten dick in a while.

Tyler: You see that patchy-bearded, trustfund-living unemployed wannabe novelist hipster approaching me?

Eric: Yeah. Sort of cute. Ish.

Tyler: He's going to kidnap me, put me in the trunk of his Highlander Hybrid, drive me to a walkup in Echo Park, offer me to some ersatz Zooey Deschanel-lookalike cunt he's fucking, who will then swallow me, piss me out, and send me into the lonelyblack L.A. sewers where I shall unify with rivers upon rivers of diarrhea, before I, now some sad, forsaken little shit-pee tributary, get shipped to a treatment plant in El Segundo and then off into that great Sea herself where I'll one day, if I'm lucky, grow into a dull gray cloud that becomes acid rain that cleaves into a quivering droplet rolling down the window of a Whole Foods in New York or some shit where I'll then see once more my lost brothers and sisters in their fridge all happy-like and serene for a few timeless seconds before falling to the ground and getting stepped on over and over again and again seemingly without end until finally, at last, I evaporate into nothing.

Eric: Sorry, what was that? Couldn't hear you. That creepy dented disabled Smart Water like fell over and couldn't get up. I wanted to laugh at him, but it was like too pathetic. So weird, right?

Monday, August 24, 2009

New Season

Am I a Creep or Have the Times Just Changed?

Here's the kind of anecdote my dad tells me about his childhood:

"When I was 11, I stole my dad's chewing tobacco and took it to the county fair. I didn't know what I doing, so I put the whole package in my mouth. And then rode the tilt-a-whirl. You can imagine what happened next."

Here's the kind of anecdote I can imagine telling my kid:

"When I was 11, I assumed the identity of a then obscure UCLA running back in AOL chatrooms. I convinced a lonely, obese black high school student from Florida that I was, in fact, DeShaun Foster. She became obsessed with "me" and often mused about flying out for a visit. When Foster become a breakout star -- 200 yards in a nationally televised game and shit -- the jig was kind of up. She was completely devastated."

Am I a creep or have the times just changed?

Sunday, August 9, 2009

What's with mid/late-twenty something self-improvement?

Like bitches knowing how to cook really complicated shit their moms' taught them.

Or dudes knowing how to use a stud finder.

Sure, I make a lot more money than I did when I was 13, and I have a much better understanding of the fragility of human experience...

But I still get about the same amount of pussy and still lack the know-how to elegantly hide speaker wire.

Friday, August 7, 2009

Act Two: The Confusion

Personality Types

There are three types of people in this world.

You can tell who's who by the words they spew.

Racist Guy: "So I was at the gym today. God, how much does it suck how easy it is for black dudes to get ripped? At least it isn't easy for them to graduate high school. Did Obama ever get his GED?"

Non-Racist Guy: "Oh my God, Lucy. This kale salad is friggin' out of of hand. And the peanut sauce it's in?! I don't think I've been so cloud nined-out since Obama's Iowa Caucus speech."

Potentially Racist Guy: "Yeah, I voted for Obama because I'm fucking sick of voting against my self-interests. That's how how out to the pasture the Republican Party is right now. I actually voted for Obama despite the fact that he's, you know... Oh, pardon me, Excuse me while I throw a molotov cocktail into a Magic Johnson's TGI Friday's. What? Yeah, I'm aware of how fucking maniacal and dumb this is. But I'm incredibly angry and sad. Sorry."

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Act One: The Courtship

So hiatus has officially begun.

I spent Day 1 with Berger on Zuma re-meeting Mahbod and Katie. Smart, delightful, attractive people. Katie mentioned she was about to study literature or some shit at Berkeley. A few days later, Dan and I were road tripping through San Francisco. As we passed Berkeley, we thought of Katie, and I sort of had this vision of what her time in the Bay might be like. Here's Act One: The Courtship...

Imagine how much pussy I'd get...

if every single other man in the world was a downtrodden Mexican day laborer.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

is one of the more intriguing blogs I've recently come across.

The conceit is simple.  The site presents pictures of "real" amateur women in banal everyday situations. Click on a "reveal" button, and a naked, highly explicit picture of that same woman suddenly pops up.

The central gag is that it's almost impossible to guess her muff. Take that reserved, chubby accountant you pass on your way to the shitter every morning... yeah, turns out she's shaved, pierced, and has a distinct penchant for dongs.

It's heady, primal stuff...the disparate and manifold ways we decide to present ourselves to the world. The characters we choose to inhabit. The archetypes we strictly adhere to.

Here's a sample...

See the answer [here]

See the answer [here]

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Pillow Talk with a Prostitute

Me:  ...that's interesting, because you know the saddest moment of my childhood was the night Tyson went down to Buster Douglas. It was then that the twin notions of failure and loss first entered my five year old consciousness.  It was then I understood, if only in the most cursory manner, the slapdash fragility of our existence in the world.  

Prostitute:  Can I wash the cum off my face now?

Me: Not yet.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

A Couple Hawks Take A Morning Fly Above Griffith Park

Guy Hawk:  Oh, wow, check out that human.

Bitch Hawk:  Where?

Guy Hawk:  Down there.  That White Silverlake Hipsterdouche.  Note the robust ginger-hued mustache.  He looks so fucking free.  Not confined to the air.  He can just...walk.  Jesus, nature makes me want to nut.  I feel so refreshed out here.

Bitch Hawk:  Yeah, I'm getting sorta beat actually.  You wanna brunch at Alcove when we're done?

Guy Hawk: Umm.........Oh Shit!  Look at that formation of Chubby Working Class Mexicans!  A family I think!  See the little one!

Bitch Hawk:  Uhh, yeah.  Cool.

Guy Hawk:  The female just screamed and hit the little one!  Hard!  Wow!  The natural order is so beautifully fucking cutthroat.  Dude, this is getting me really warmed up for Joshua Tree with Gabe and Liz!  

Bitch Hawk:  Babe.

Guy Hawk:  Yeah.

Bitch Hawk: I'm really hungry.

Guy Hawk:  Yeah.  Hungry cock.  Am I right? Ehh?

Bitch Hawk:  You have a cloaca, Josh.  Not a cock.

Guy Hawk:  Yeah.  I'm aware.  Trust me.  Cock sounds funnier.  All about rhythm, girl.  

Bitch Hawk: Just saying...

Guy Hawk:  Babe.

Bitch Hawk:  Yeah?

Guy Hawk:  You ever find it weird that we both have these like identical holes we pee and poo out of...that we then rub together to get each other off and that's like all we can do...sexually? Like am I on some weird trip or is this not some irrevocably fucked up shit?  Are we not the punchline of some horrific evolutionary joke?  I mean identical shitpeefuck holes?!  Really?!!

Bitch Hawk:  I don't know.  Seems pretty normal to me.

Guy Hawk:  Yeah.  I guess you're right.

Bitch Hawk:  Hey, did you remember to lock the Prius?

Guy Hawk:  Yep.

Therapy Euphemisms

I had therapy today.

I talked about what happened last night.

Here's what actually happened last night:

1.  Hacked into my ex's gmail.  Found a 2006 email she sent to a friend after a hot night of getting fantasy raped by her childhood orthodontist.  Read and reread.  While furiously masturbating into a discarded Starbucks cup. 

2.  Sent a txt to my maid's hot 16 y.o. socially climby daughter claiming I bought her an iPod.  This is not true.  Read her flirty, thrilled replies.  Vigorously beat off.

3.  Heard roommate fucking his girlfriend.  Snuck into bathroom so I could hear them better.  Busted my load into some grainy Whole Foods toilet paper.  

Here's what I said happened last night:

"You know, last night, I spent a little too much time on, you stuff."

"How much time," asked Therapist.

"Oh, maybe 10 minutes."

"That's a totally healthy, normal habit.  Studies show that men who watch a few minutes of porn every night display increased arousal during actual intercourse.  I'm not concerned about you at all.  Your sex life is probably a lot more functional than you think."

"That's really good to hear."