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?