I'm Going To Be Famous Soon

My Melodious Version of the Impending Zombie Apocalypse

2010-02-10T11:51:00.000-08:00

Part I: Kurt

Kurt stands very still as the wind crackles low

With the ash rising high in the city below
His eyes: frozen steel, now devoid of emotion
His shoulders: hunched forward, like waves in the ocean
His arms: long and sinewy, taut and yet slack
As the putrid breeze whistles and beats at his back
His legs remain braced; a slight bend to his knees
Not a trace of defeat, nor a trace of disease
His shirt: it is tattered, exposing one scar
And his teeth: they grind slowly; he knows they’re not far
His boots have been tightened, and thrice reinforced
The hair on his face isn’t long, but it’s coarse
Then it starts: as the cityscape’s dusk turns to dawn
Like a fresh, grisly canvas so recently drawn
This scene springs to life, or quite rather, to death
There’s a chill in the air, but Kurt can’t see his breath
A lone figure appears from the smoke and the pyres
A deformed silhouette from the heat of the fires
Its intentions are clear, they cannot be mistaken
Its purposeful pace, Kurt is sure, won’t be shaken
The figure is opposite Kurt; it advances
Its glaring eyes blind as pure hate or romance is"Guys, I think I smell something delicious..."

But Kurt knows he can’t run, and he knows he won’t yell
Though he sees, here before him, the essence of Hell
Kurt stays on his perch, on the hood of this Ford
With a passive persona that almost looks bored"All right, just blend in, Kurt. Blend in."

His grip slowly tightens on the hilts of his weapons
This street: the arena he’ll soon need to step in
He scratches a K in the roof of that Escort
And prays (to what God?) for some hint of support
It begins with one groan that evolves to six shrieks:
The same screech that has haunted his dreams these past weeks
There’s no longer one figure; there’s twelve, now there’s thirty
Kurt’s hands—hardly clean—are about to get dirty
With a squint and a grunt, Kurt begins his routine
First he pops a few pills that are made of caffeine
Then he takes from his sack (which was off to the side)
The same blouse that his wife wore the night that she died
And he fashions a headband of silk and of lace
To remind him of her (and keep hair off his face)
He then does twenty pushups, and stretches his quads
To a bystander, yes, this would likely look odd
Now he’s limber, he’s willing, he’s able and ready
His swords are both drawn, and his hands are both steady
Kurt turns to the hoard; they are thirty no more
Yes, for every square yard, he can count at least fourHere comes trouble!

He then turns on his iPod, his ‘enD of wrld’ playlist
As corpse after corpse does approach from the day mist
Iron Maiden—their melody rings a song true
It’s of beasts and of numbers; Kurt knows what to do
So with nerve endings twitching, and aching limbs throbbing
Kurt curses the Devil, for souls he is robbing
But takes a step forward, then three, and now five
Still incredulous that the once-dead are alive
But he levels his blades, and he hastens his pace
Quite resigned to survive, or to die in this place
Now he’s inches from battle, his arms are now swinging
And metals of death in his ears are now singing Kind of like this, except Iron Maiden is playing. Also, swords.

Here we go, Kurt reflects, now amidst his first thrust
With a hint of delib’rate and haughty blood lust
I’ll never surrender, I’ll never retreat
And if death is your thing, then you’re in for a treat
‘Cause I’ve prayed for my wife, and the souls that are lost
Are you hungry, my friends? Well, I hope you’ve all flossed
His first swing is a miss, but the second connected
Bite this! bellows Kurt, to the dead resurrected

Never Underestimate. Never.

2010-02-10T10:54:00.000-08:00

This is to the tune of Rufus Wainwright's "Hallelujah". Working title: "I Can't Believe How Many Accommodating Pictures I Found For This Song On The Interweb ".

v. 1

It’s Friday night, the evening’s young

Festivities have just begun

The alcohol is flowing, this is true, yeah

A bottle of wine, a third, a fourth

My eyes look north, then south, then north

My date: she’s very cute, so hallelujah

Hallelujah (4x)

v.2

She heads to the restroom to powder her nose

I wait until the door is closed

I truly, truly doubt she has a clue, yeah

I snag a Valium from my pants

(This is my version of romance)

Kapow! Into her drink now, hallelujah

Hallelujah (4x)

v.3

When she comes back she sees the pill

Inside her drink, but even still

She gulps it with a wink and with a, “Boo, yah!”

The booze and pill, they’re both inside

She burps, “Ain’t my first pony ride”

And I let out just one silent, “Hallelujah”

Hallelujah (4x)

v.4

The minutes pass, and something strange

Begins real deep inside my brain

She says, “You never see this coming, do ya?

You like to roofie? So do I!”

And with a bellow battle cry

She shouts “The joke’s on you, so hallelujah!”

Hallelujah (4x)

v.5

The thing that I remember next

Is vaguely very violent sex

That might involve my butt and yes, a tuba

I barely can describe my shame

I’m beaten at my own damn game

This isn’t a good time for hallelujahs

But hallelujah (4x)

v.6

So judge me not for my excuse

For becoming a deranged recluse

Whose balls are now just always, always blue, yeah

But really, now my lesson’s learned

I played with fire, then got burned

And now my butt--

Actually, no. No more "hallelujahs." At this point there’s absolutely no reason for me to use that word. Like, for the rest of my life. Ever. I’m done. Also, I'm emotionally/physically scarred pretty much forever. This--I'm sorry, this song is over.

Ooh, baby...

2009-06-27T11:42:00.000-07:00

Not that I plan on procreating anytime soon, but s/he better have a good sense of humor. This is to the tune of Carolina Liar's "Tell Me What I'm Looking For."

v.1

Hey, wake up; I’ve been in my crib too long

You can’t shut me up, the smell here is far too strong

God help me ‘cause I’ve pooped my pa-aaa-nnts

c.1

Save me, I smell

This diaper’s filled up with stink

It would be fucking swell

For you to clean me up, I think

Help me ‘cause I pooped my pants

Oh, Lord

v.2

I had a nap, and dreamed about hot dogs and booze

Then my pants were full, as soon as I woke from my snooze

Please help me ‘cause I’ve pooped my pants

c.2

Save me, I smell

Just like the wrong side of a farm

I’m not sure I can tell

But these fumes might be doing me harm

I’m crying ‘cause I pooped my pants

I hate you ‘cause I pooped my pants

Oh, Lord

(bridge)

Fuck you Dad I pooped my pants

This sucks so much I pooped my pants

That’s why I’ve got this furious stance

c.3

Save me, I smell

It’s clear that you suck as a dad

If I could talk I’d tell

You why I’m so goddamned mad

Save me, I smell

Whenever I move there’s a ‘squish’

For you to get off your ass

And clean me is my only wish

Motherfucker poop in my pants

I’ll poop on you when I get the chance

I hate you more than Mommy hates ants

My butt would like a diaper advance

Oh, Lord

The Blacker-Outer's Guide: Part III: "So Things Got a Little Out of Hand Last Night, Huh?"

2009-02-07T11:14:00.001-08:00

Alright. You're back at your apartment, you're showered, and you're semi-reoriented to your surroundings. This is the home stretch, my friend.

For the sake of convenience, we're going to assume that you didn't lose your cell phone last night. Unless no one you were previously drinking with cares about you in the slightest, this means you're going to be getting a call on said phone--maybe even several--at some point in the day. People are going to inquire as to what was going through your head yesterday evening/early morning when you felt the urge to take off your pants and break into a Catholic church at 3:37 a.m. to steal a bishop's hat and some holy water.

But don't worry, I have the solution, and it can save you a small amount of indignation. Here's the key: you don't wait for the people you were with last night to call you. You call them. Think about it. Only guilty people become temporary hermits the night after they black out. You need to be unabashed. You've got nothing to hide. Here, I'll show you an example of how one of these conversations should go.

Ring...ring...ring...X friend picks up.
"Uh...hey, man. What's going on?"
"Yo yo, not too much man. Just chillin' at my place."
"Oh, you made it home...What are you doing up so early, man? You were fucking wasted last night..."
"Yeah, for real. I dunno, I'm not feeling too bad though."
"Did you end up fucking that girl last night?"

OK, that right there is an example of a curve ball. Curve balls can come in many shapes and forms, though in this case the example is sexual in nature. You see, a blackout curve ball is when the next day one of your friends asks you a question that neither of you know the answer to. In this case, you have no idea if you fucked anything last night, let alone a girl. But here's the beauty of it: your friend doesn't know either. Well, he/she might not. That's really a judgment call you need to make based on the tone of their voice, but that's a whole other blog post. Anyway, here's a basic example of how you proceed to play it cool:

"Oh, her? [clearly you don't know the girl your buddy's talking about, so vagueness is key here] No, she ended up weirding out on me. Something about bear season." [remember: menstrual references can be excuses for many, many things.]
"Oh, too bad, man. Shit, you got pretty fucked up last night, huh? Do you remember peeing on the bartender?"
"Ha, oh yeah...things got a little out of hand last night, huh?" [of course you don't remember that, but your friend, unless he/she is all too familiar with your blackout behavior and is also a chronic liar, just filled you in. See what you're doing here? You're gleaning information from them. Glean away, friend, glean away.]

You see, it's important that you remember to be smooth here. No matter what hideous or embarrassing or hell-condemning thing you are informed to have done, you need to brush it off as though it's no big deal. You know what a man is who gets so blackout drunk he tries to get oral sex from a local chicken--succeeds--and then eats the chicken for an early breakfast? An alcoholic, animal-abusing asshole, that's what. But a man who does that same thing and then shrugs it off the next day like it's no big deal? I'll tell you what that guy is. Two words: The. Man.

So there you have it. No matter what terrible things you are purported to have done last night, you simply have to act as though it was all part of your master plan. Really, it's all you can do, since you're not capable of time traveling and taking back these things. What's done is done. No matter what you do in your blackout state, you need to own it, and you need to be proud. Granted, I can't promise everything will work out with a fairy tale ending for you when all is said and done, but this is a when-alcoholism-gives-you-lemons-make-lemonade sort of thing. I wish you the best of luck.

[Note: a lot of the tips in this guide don't work very well if you still live with your parents. Just saying.]

A Prelude to Part III of the Blacker Outer's Guide

2009-02-07T10:05:00.001-08:00

OK, I know there' s a disclaimer for this blog that says some of these posted stories are based loosely on my imagination. This post, however, is a rare instance in which I have no need to exaggerate any facts whatsoever. Why? Well, for this story, I'd like to give a little shout-out to my buddy Xanax. Thanks for keeping things real, holmes.

Alright, this incident happened about four years ago, while I was still in college. Summer break. I was out and about on a Saturday night with a couple of my buddies, Jack and Milhouse (names changed, of course, though I don't think there's a need...), and we end up going to some house party for this chick that Milhouse is sort of into at the time. Jack and I are drunk enough, the booze is running low, and the two of us are starting to feel like creepy older college dudes who intrude on high school parties. And such. So we decide to walk back to Jack's, who's just a few blocks away, and crash for the night.

It might be good to mention here that I'd never been to Jack's house before (he was still living with his parents, of course; it's college). We get back to his place, relatively drunk, and chill out in the basement, where there's like a rec room with a TV and stuff. We crack a couple of beers, and Jack turns to me.

"Hey, man."
"Yeah?" I say.
"You want a Xanax?"
Now, I'd never had a Xanax before. All I really knew about the stuff was that it chills you out. And I was already chilled out. Fuck it, let's take the chilling to another level. "Sure."

The next thing I remember is waking up in Jack's basement. 10a.m.-ish. Wow, I think to myself. I somehow got really fucked up last night. A few blank spots in the old memory banks. Jack's nowhere to be found - probably crashed in his room upstairs - so I decide it's time to peace out. I gather my shit (Phone? Check. Wallet? Check. Keys? Check. Dignity? Fuck, I'll figure that out later) and make for the front door. I hear someone rummaging around upstairs, and hope they don't see me; I've never met Jack's parents before, and this doesn't seem like an ideal meet-and-greet.

"Oh, hey there!" Fuck. His dad spots me before I head out the door. I turn as casually as I can.
"Oh, hi. Good...morning?" Smooth.
"Hey, do you need a ride back to your car?" Godammit, Jack's dad is friendly.
"Uh, no, I'm cool. It's just around the corner at Nick's anyway. I can walk, no big deal." I'd walk miles if it meant this awkwardness could end.
"Oh, don't worry about it. Jack's an awful friend. I'll give you a ride to your car." Motherfucker, why is he being so nice?
"Um, OK, thanks.." What choice do I have now?

So Jack's dad gives me a ride to Nick's. Only my car (i.e. my parent's shit-mobile 1986 Ford Ranger) wasn't at Nick's. It was at Milhouse's. Which is on the way to Nick's, but apparently I'd done a little drunk driving last night. Pre-Xanax. So as I'm idly staring out the window on the way to Nick's, I spot my car. "Oh, here's good!" I awkwardly and abruptly say.

So Jack's dad drops me off, and I go back to school a couple weeks later.

This is everything I know until Christmas break, when I'm home again and out at a local bar with Jack, Milhouse, and a few other buddies. I'm not sure why he waited this long, but Jack fills me in on what I did that night. Here's what I did on Xanax.

Jack's dad, as it turns out, woke up in the middle of the night to a bit of a din in the kitchen, and he got up to investigate. To his relative surprise, there was a young man, about 6' 2", whom he'd never met before. Rummaging through his refrigerator. This young man found himself a gallon bottle of water, and proceeded to chug this water directly from the bottle. This same young man then apparently acknowledged that he was being observed, because he then turned to Jack's dad, looked him directly in the eye, and poured the rest of the water from that bottle onto the floor.

Luckily for this young man, Jack's dad was apparently not terribly angry. He was intrigued. So intrigued that he continued to watch as said young man shut the refridgerator door and headed for the bathroom. Leaving the door open, he then began to drink Listerine - straight from the bottle. Again, after doing so, he looked Jack's dad right in the eye, and poured the rest of the Listerine on the floor. He then headed for the basement, and Jack's dad wisely chose not to follow.

Needless to say, Jack's dad inquired about me the next morning after dropping me off, and was convinced that I was not simply drunk that night. A very astute observation. To this day, he still thinks I'm the wildest and craziest of Jack's friends, which I can assure you is not the case.

Thanks, Xanax. Time traveling sure is fun.

Consider Your Down Smacked

2009-01-09T17:07:00.000-08:00

Do you live in NYC? If so, then you're probably acquainted with the dreadfully intrusive ads that are shamelessly and repetitively plastered on the inside of every subway car (unless you're rich, of course, in which case you're no doubt snootily snorting at the very mention of riding the subway, hopping into your overpriced black cab as you tip-tap away on your new iPhone 3G).

Anyway, I'm forced to stare at these things for at least an hour each day on my round trip commute to work, but my favorite (and by favorite, I mean I love hating it) is a now-outdated WWE Smackdown poster, advertising...well, actually I'm not 100% on what WWE or smacking down is all about. From what I've gathered it's a cross between a soap opera, fake violence, and merciless taunting. Oh, and steroids. But from what I can gather from these subway ads, it's also one more thing. It's an opportunity for a semi-imaginative outsider like myself to easily stereotype the main players of this operatic clusterfuck in two words or less:

Bewildering slut. Rapist. Mentally retarded. Pretentious asshole. Violent rapist. In that order.

The Blacker-Outer's Guide: Chapter II: Riddle Me This

2008-12-13T17:36:00.000-08:00

All right, let's assume that, after pleasuring as many grizzly bears as logically necessary, you've safely made it home. Feels good to be back in a familiar environment, no? Well don't get too comfortable yet, sweetheart. This is when your investigation begins in earnest. Now that you're not preoccupied with gathering your nearby belongings and figuring out how to get back to your humble abode without giving up one of your virginities, you've actually got the chance to stop and think.

Yes, it will hurt a little at first.

Use this opportunity to try and figure out specifically the last thing you remember. You're going to want this as a starting point. Odds are your last memories are pleasant ones, such as groping your buddy's girlfriend while you absent-mindedly pick your nose. If your last memories are less pleasant, say, repeatedly telling a lone biker the myriad ways in which you think his boyfriend is ugly, take this as a warning sign, because things were probably already taking a turn for the worse before the blackout [and fists] hit you with full force. Like big, floppy blackouts are prone to do.

If you have your phone, now's the time to check it. Try estimating the time you started blacking out, then take a look at your call log after that period and check your voicemails. If you're lucky, someone you know has left a voicemail (angry or otherwise) that gives a few clues of the mistakes you made last night, but at the very least you can see who you talked to mid-blackout. It's important you pay attention to the details. Did you call people while your brain was MIA, or did they call you? How long did you talk to them for? If your phone only reports 10 to 20 seconds for a given phone call to your parents, they might not have answered anyway, so don't panic just yet if you see a 7-second call in your log. If a call lasts for more than a minute, though, congratulations: you had a mobile conversation with someone at some point in the evening! Make a list of the people you corresponded with but don't remember doing so; you're almost definitely going to be hearing from these people, like it or not. And it's best you don't sound too surprised when they call later this afternoon with a sentence that starts with "Dude, I can't believe you...".

Now check your text messages. Same principle here: we're looking for more clues. You might not have gotten into X-Files much back in the day, but right now you're in the middle of a full-fledged mystery, and it may as well have involved alien abductions and a sex-starved Scully. It's unlikely that you were capable of constructing any coherent text messages yourself; your inbox is of importance here. Let me run some examples by you of the kind of texts you don't want in said inbox [taken from my actual inbox over the last 3 years]:

dude, wht happened to u last nigt??
are u ok????
plse call me AS SOON as you get this! im worried
i wuz inside you last night, dude
I'm formally disowning you, son. And I'm no longer paying your phone bill. Fuck you. -Dad

You get the idea. But don't worry, sometimes this can go in the absolute opposite direction. It's not a huge chance, but there is a possibility nonetheless that last night, after 12,000 of your brain cells collectively packed their bags and headed south of the border without so much as an awkward morning-after kiss, you were awesome! Waking up in a purple vomit puddle might not be a good indicator of this, but maybe, just maybe, you were The Man last night. Your instincts might have taken over so well that no one even knew you were blacked out, save for the Exorcist-esque way in which your eyes were rolled towards the back of your head. Here are some examples of texts that might indicate your night didn't go so horribly wrong after all:

dude, wht happened to u last night??
lol, i can't believe you tried to eat a cat last night, man...classic!
hows your leg?? that was the coolest roundhouse kick ive ever seen
I wuz inside you last night, dude
u r so funny! are we still going on a date tmrw nite?

Now check all your pockets. Receipts are always a good find, because you probably made some dumb purchases at some point. Got a receipt for a pack of cigarettes? Oh yeah, that makes sense, because you're one of those posers who only smokes when he drinks. This means your throat is sore and scratchy right now because you huffed and puffed your way through half a pack of Marb Lights and not because your adam's apple saw the business end of a homeless man's cock at 4:37a.m. (sorry for continuing to come back to the gay rape thing, really I am. But it's a dangerous world filled with unsavory people, friend. It really is). See? You're putting together some of the puzzle pieces already!

When you're done examining your clothes for evidence, take them all off and stand in front of a mirror. If you have any injuries, be they internal or ex, you might not be feeling them just yet. But you will. Alcohol has a penchant for numbing pain and relaxing muscles when consumed in mass quantities. Remember all those stories you hear about drunk drivers who get in accidents and kill people but are fine themselves because their muscles are so relaxed? It might be unfair, but that shit's no joke; science is backing me up here.

Therefore, starting from the bottom up, check yourself for abrasions, cuts, bruises, hand marks, or anything else that's out of place. If you look like a decidedly less badass John McClane after giving Hans a much-needed lesson in badassery that involves renegade helicopters, newsflash: you might have been in a fight. Not good. On the bright side, however, that fight might not have been with a person; when you're blacked out, virtually any inanimate object can become your enemy. In fact, one of my college buddies once bruised a rib or three after picking a fight with a staircase after two or four liquid cocaines and one terrible excuse to take them. Guess who won?

Now that you've gathered every piece of evidence you can from your person, it's time for a shower. You deserve it, and you're going to want to be a little more refreshed when it comes time to confront your friends/associates later in the day. That's right, I'm afraid it's unavoidable. Like it or not, the memories from last night are long gone, and there's no pill you can pop to get them back. Unless by some unholy miracle everyone else you were with last night blacked out on the exact same scale as you, it's now your sad job to gingerly glean information from them without letting on that you're a hopeless, pitiful alcoholic who will never find love, self fulfillment, or the dignity you keep leaving behind in random people's apartments.

Don't miss Part III: "So Things Got a Little Out of Hand Last Night, Huh?"

The Blacker-Outer's Guide to the Morning After

2008-12-11T17:58:00.000-08:00

A good friend of mine recently gave me a call with a very troubling issue. He had gone out with a bunch of coworkers he didn't know very well this past Friday, he told me, and had proceeded to get completely shitcanned with them. Rounds of shots had been bought. Inhibitions had been lowered/removed. And the next thing he knew he was waking up in his bed, shirtless and alone, with about a seven-hour blank spot in his brain from the night before. Also, his neck was sore, as though he had been in a headlock. What sort of inappropriate activities had he participated in the previous evening? the question resounded again and again in his head, much like a resounding noise or question would do. After I had him calmed down with my soothing rendition of Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" and suggested he fix himself a warm cup of Nyquil to calm his nerves, I helped him wade through the maze of doubt and uncertainty until he was ready to confront his coworkers the next week. Until he developed a plan to somehow piece together the events of the previous night, though there was no way he could be sure exactly what he himself had done between the hours of 1a.m. and 9a.m.

Oh yeah, my friend blacks out very easily when he drinks. Maybe I should have mentioned that earlier. Kind of important.

After hanging up the phone, I smiled and sighed, fixing my own cup of warm Nyquil (hey, why not? It's Saturday morning, after all). I had helped this man. Helped him with my wise wisdom. As the mild hallucinations set in, that's when it hit me: I should share this wisdom with the world, with the other mid-20-somethings who black out while drinking on a regular basis.

So you're welcome in advance, fellow alcoholics. I present to you
The Blacker-Outer's Guide to the Morning After:

Preface
First off, let me explain the necessity of this guide in the first place. You're out of college, which sadly is the only time in your life when blacking out while drinking is both funny and socially acceptable. But you're in your mid-20s now. You've got a job. A career, maybe. There's no dining hall for you and your idiot friends to go to for Sunday brunch to reminisce about how you tried to make love to a toaster in a sorority house at 4am, using Jager and your girlfriend's tears as lube. Nor are the bars and parties you go to now always in such close proximity to your living quarters, which previously had made it easier for your friends/drinking associates to drag your blacked-out rear back to your dorm room when things got out of hand.

You're in the real world now, unfortunately. You're an adult. Clearly not a very mature one, but an adult nonetheless. And not that there wasn't before, but now a real danger looms of you making some life-altering mistakes after 5 beers and your 8th shot of liquid cocaine at happy hour. Happy hour! Why do you drink so much so early? But since you insist on living your weekends like the golden years of Twisted Sister after-parties, it's time you learned at least how to deal with the consequences of your actions after waking up on a stranger's living room floor, your last memory the raised eyebrows of a coworker as he begins a sentence with "You better not..."

Now we've established that you like to black out. It's gonna happen. But don't fret; I'm here to help you with the aftermath. Here we go.

See you tomorrow, dude.
Hope you enjoyed your butt
virginity all these years!

Chapter I: First Impressions
OK, so you've just woken up. The last thing you remember is having a great time with the people you were with the night before, and they're loving your company. You're funny, you're witty, you're smooth with the surrounding lady-folk. And then...nothing. Complete blank. What the fuck happened between then and now? Did you continue to be funny and witty and smooth for the entire evening? Unfortunately, that is probably not the case. Sorry.

It's vital at this point that you don't panic. Now that you're sober enough for consciousness, you're going to need your wits about you. First, slowly and carefully take in your surroundings. Are you at home, alone? In your bed? That would be a best case scenario, meaning one of two things. One: for whatever reason you're a functional blackout, and in your drunken state your body was still able to safely navigate back to your living quarters out of pure instinct. Well done. Or two: someone you know (or don't know; anything could have happened) took pity on you and brought your ass home.

Now do a quick assessment. Do you still have your wallet? Your phone? Your keys? Your dignity? Ha, just kidding with the last one. If you have to ask yourself those first three questions your dignity is clearly no longer in the equation. But if you still have all three of those items in your possession, that's a good start. The keys and phone are paramount, since you'll need those to get home if you're not there already. No wallet? Guess you got robbed, mothafucka.

If by some miracle you're home, first things first. Since someone you don't know potentially took you home, check your butt. No, not just the cheeks. Have you been raped? In my experience, the answer to that question should present itself within the first few moments of deliberate movement. No rape? That's a good sign. Let's move on.

Did you wake up in your own dwelling? Then proceed to the next section of this guide. Somewhere else? You could be in some trouble. If it's a public place, say, a park or sidewalk, that's not good. Granted, passersby might have been mistaking you for a homeless person for the last few hours, but do homeless people sleeping on the street wear $150 Kenneth Cole oxfords? Not anymore, because a real homeless person discovered you hours ago and stole yours. And maybe your wallet. Good work. Now figure out where you are and how to get home. If you're sans phone and wallet, remember: temporary prostitution can be an option here (but not if you're alone in a forest, unless you happen upon a very accommodating grizzly bear).

On the other hand, you might have woken up in the residence of someone you know. Or don't know. Either way, my advice is to get the fuck out of Dodge as soon as you gather your shit and your bearings (but again, not the dignity; just let it go, man). We'll get to why later. This shouldn't be a problem, since it's 8:13am and everyone else in the place is asleep. Why are you up so early, you ask? Friend, your brain shut down at least 7 hours ago, so while everyone else kept the party going into the wee hours of the morning, no matter what your body was doing you effectively achieved a full night's sleep. You may not feel refreshed right now, exactly, but the fact that you're body is waking you up this early means it's telling you one thing: "You violated me in ways I choose not to remember. Now take me home, idiot."

Stay tuned for Chapter II: Riddle Me This

An Open Letter To My Grandmother

2008-12-03T20:20:00.001-08:00

Dear Grandma,

I feel like I should start this letter by saying how much I love you, and how very proud I am of you. Even now I can't help but think of how lucky I am to have such a terrific octogenarian blood relative who still has most of her hair (Mom told me a while back that you dye it, but who doesn't at your age, right? You're so old!). You've made it through the Great Depression (our economy's really bringing back some sweet memories now, huh?), a couple of wars (whoops, add another one to the list. Heyo!), and whatever else has happened between 1943 and today. You're collecting your Social Security checks, drinking Ensure, and living the dream. I wish I could describe to you my sincere delight when I reflect on how progressive you are as a dreadfully, dreadfully old human being. You have a cell phone. Your four-door sedan has a built-in CD player. And you've even learned how to use the internet!

Which brings me, I suppose, to the point of this letter. You know that I love you, Grandma. I know you do. You know that I'd never intentionally do anything to offend or hurt you (at least not physically; we're related, after all). Who can know how much time we have left on this earth (and by 'we,' I'm mostly meaning 'you' here), but it is my firm belief that we should all spend it wisely and fruitfully.

Which is why, Grandma, you've got to stop fucking spamming me.

I know, I know, you hate it when I curse. I promise to do a couple hail Marys tonight before bed, with the holy water and everything. But ever since you got a computer and the internet last June, you've been clogging my inbox with forwarded e-mails. I'm not even really sure where you got my e-mail address from to begin with. Probably Mom. I need to get her off Facebook. Anyway, let's observe a few of the things you've sent my way, hmm?Firstly, I know the words in this picture might be a little hard for you to read. Don't worry, this poor picture quality is not a product of my subpar Photoshopping skills (I'll explain to you someday what a Photoshop is, rest assured). You're just old. Go get your reading glasses. Or just click on the picture. With your mouse. Just one click, Grams.

Now here comes the tough love, Grandma. Allow me to explain the various levels in which I feel your gram-spam is disturbing. Here we go:

1) Volume
To date, since June, I have recieved 92 e-mails from you. 92. Now, I'd be willing to bet you use the interweb to exchange meatloaf stroganoff recipes with your [ancient] girlfriends every now and again, but I have a funny feeling you spend most of your time forwarding e-mails to people like me. I have absolutely no idea where you're getting them to begin with. Judging by the content, probably some kind of [right wing] church group. And it's not just one here and there. If you take a look at the screenshot of my inbox above (again, I'll explain what a screenshot and inbox is to you another time), you'll see that on average, you send me at least two or three gram-spams in a sitting. In fact, you e-mail me more than any of my ex-girlfriends ever did, which I find mildly unsettling.

2) Subject Lines
I have little doubt that you feel the contents of these forwarded e-mails have some importance, Grandma. But here's something you've got to understand: I'm 24 goddamned years old. Again, my bad with the cursing. That's like a fifth of your age. When I see subject lines like "Fwd: Church bulletins: great collection," "Fwd: fw: Matthew 18:12," "Fwd: Obama Refuses to Answer Birth Certificate Lawsuit," and "Fwd: fwd: fw: Catching Wild Pigs history lesson," I'm less than intrigued. OK, the wild pigs one piqued my curiosity a little. But the point is, every single gram-spam you've double-clicked my way has one of three themes: something an old person would find cute, something a hyper-religious old person would find important, and something a racist, hyper-religious old person who still votes would find important. I'm not religious, racist, or old, Grandma! You've got the internet now; Google the sort of things my age bracket is interested in, for goodness sakes.

And you know those subject lines? Fun fact: you can change them if you want! So if you really think you have something important for me to read, use your balding noggin and trick me into opening them. Change the subject line to something like "Hey sexy, I'm an adorable brunette with questionable sexual morals and I found your photo on Facebook - you look hot and we should meet up". Or something like that. You know, use your imagination. And then I'd open it and see that it was more gram-spam, and I probably still wouldn't read it, but I'd shake my head and allow a wry little smile and say to myself, "Oh Grandma, you primeval rascal!" And we'd all have a good laugh at Christmas.

3) Contradictions
I'm aware that you're a conservative Christian lady, Grandma. I know this because you generally inquire about the state of my eternal soul whenever we talk on the phone. And you've told me Obama and his liberal ilk terrifies you.

Does religion and superstition ever go hand in hand, Grandma? I would be hard pressed to find a historical example that hints at a connection. But you, Grams, still insist on forwarding me religious chain mail that itself insists it be passed on to keep bad things from happening. Case in point: You once sent me an e-mail that cited several dire examples of foolish individuals who chose not to pass it on. One man didn't pass it on, the e-mail said, and he died. Another woman didn't pass it on, and her family died. Her entire family. And some other chick passed it on to like 300 people and won the lottery the next day.

I know the Lord works in mysterious ways, Grandma. I know this. I'm sure I didn't lose my virginity on my 22nd birthday at a county fair on accident. But is He really, truly monitoring our e-mailing practices that closely? Is passing along a picture of a golden retriever that looks like he's praying to everyone you know really the path to salvation? Has it been that easy all this time? The very notion invites my brain to host an aneurystic fiesta, Grams. The pinata? My frontal lobe. That's the most important lobe!

Yes, we can all agree it's cute, but still...

And furthermore, don't you find it just a little suspicious that you've survived this long, and the Lord hath not wrathfully smote you down thus far, even though you've only had the ability to send e-mail for less than a year? Your logic is full of holes, Grandma!

But anyway, I've said my piece. I know this probably isn't the sort of letter you were expecting from me, since I haven't actually written you in five or ten years, but I gots to keep things real, Grams. You know I've always rolled like that. And again, I've got nothing but love for you, but I've set my Netflix preferences to send me e-mail notifications whenever a new DVD is headed my way. And when I have to wade through all your spam to figure out whether Zombie Strippers II is coming on Wednesday or Thursday, I simply have to put my foot down.

Say 'hi' to your husband for me, please.

Best,
Your favorite grandson

Would You Rather?

2008-11-13T16:18:00.000-08:00

Overheard on a bus ride home:

GUY #1
Alright. How would you rather die: a slow-motion shark attack or being suffocated between Rosie O' Donnell's ass cheeks?

GUY #2
Hmm. Define slow motion.

GUY #1
Like, you experience the attack in slow motion. What else could I mean by that? The pain's drawn out longer and stuff.

GUY #2
But Rosie's cheeks, that's in real time?

GUY #1
Yeah, just regular suffocation with the ass cheeks.

GUY #2
Well, I'm going to have to go with the slow-mo shark scene.

GUY #1
Really? It's more painful.

GUY #2
Yeah.

GUY #1
Gorier, too. Blood. Spurting in different places. Near and around you.

GUY #2
I'm aware.

GUY #1
Explain.

GUY#2
Well, I'm dying either way, right?

GUY #1
Yeah, I thought I was pretty clear on that...

GUY #2
Well if I'm dying regardless, what legacy do I want to leave behind? That I fell victim to a very sluggish but also very bloodthirsty shark? Or that I fell victim to Rosie O' Donnell's ass?

GUY #1
Not an awful point. I was...kinda leaning towards Rosie before, but now...

GUY #2: Legacy, man.

GUY #1
...I guess I'd pick the shark now too...

GUY #2
I'm not even sure what situation would have to arise for someone to fall victim to that awful woman's ass, dude. How does that happen?

GUY #1
This game isn't really hinged on reality, man. You'r--

GUY #2
Did you know she has a blog?

GUY #1
Rosie blogs?

GUY #2
Apparently so. She hates the Donald. And her grammar sucks.

GUY #1
Right, I heard something about that...

GUY #2
Well it's just awful grammar.

GUY #1
No, I meant about the Don--OK, right. Your turn.

GUY #2
OK...would you rather spend the rest of your life with no eyebrows or no pinkie fingers?

GUY #1
Pinkie fingers, definitely.

GUY #2
Seriously?

GUY #1
Hell yeah, man. Have you seen this face?

GUY #2
Right. What about when someone goes to shake your hand and it's all Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtley?

GUY #1
They might not want to shake my hand at all if I have a face with no fucking eyebrows on it. Like that Powder guy. And I think Ninja Turtles only have three fingers.

GUY #2
Hmm, you might be right on that one...How many fingers did Splinter have, though?

GUY#1
I think he had all five.

GUY #2
Rats have five?

GUY #1
Think so. If not I guess he could have grown more when he mutated, maybe.

GUY #2
No, that doesn't make any sense. None of the turtles got more fingers.

GUY #1
Well I'm sure different animals mutate differently, dude.

GUY #2
This is retarded.

GUY #1
Mmm.

GUY #2
...alright, you're up.

GUY #1
OK, you've got a tattoo that covers your whole back. Would you rather it be a true-to-life tat of your naked Aunt Martha, or--

GUY #2
I'm gonna go ahead and stop you right there, man. Shit's going to get very real around here if you finish that sentence.

GUY #1
What?

GUY #2
You know what.

GUY #1
What? The other choice is just your dad's di--

GUY #2
I'm done with this game.

GUY #1
And I'm done with bus rides with you. Debbie Downer. Give me another beer.

Politically Correct I Am Not

2008-11-04T16:57:00.000-08:00

So my buddy Jason made the mistake of making me the best man for his wedding. Now by 'mistake,' I'm not saying I'm not a good friend, or the appropriate man for the job. Actually, having known Jason for well over two years, I can think of no person more qualified. But the fact of the matter is that the best man is generally expected to put together some sort of toast for the reception. The undivided attention of every attendee at this holy event would be focused entirely on me. Me, a man who approaches every situation in life as a potentially awesome story to tell later. Me, a man who exists almost exclusively to amuse himself at the expense of those around me.

He just should have known better.

As the wedding approaches, Jason gives me a call to shoot the shit, see what I'm up to. Have I put much thought into the toast I was going to give? He wants to know. Well, I reply, a little. I mean, I've spent dozens of hours lying in my bed, I say, staring at the ceiling. Just reflecting on all the memories he and I have shared. Even crying softly to myself, sometimes, in emotional reflection.

"You haven't put any thought into the toast at all, have you?" Jason dryly asks.

"Uh, no, not actually...really...at all," I confidently affirm.

"Well, you should start thinking about it man. This really means a lot to me, you know. And the wedding's tomorrow."

"Done and done, man. You know I have a way with words."

"Yeah," Jason agrees. "That's kind of what I'm worried about. My whole family's going to be there. And Melissa's. Remember the butt plug incident at my sister's Bat Mitzvah?"

Butt Mitzvah 2002? How could I forget? "Yeah, but to be fair," I mildly defend myself. "I didn't really know what a butt plug was at the time, and I apologized to your grandma after. Profusely."

"Nevertheless, she still doesn't like you." Jason doesn't sound too amused. "You're my best friend, OK? Just do me a solid and don't fuck this up."

"Not a problem, my man," I cheerily retort. "In fact, I think the focus of my toast is going to be about family."

"Really?" Jason doesn't sound quite like he believes me. "That sounds pretty fail-safe..."

"Oh, it is," I reply. "Got any requests before I start it?"

"Hmm, well you're pretty good at writing poetry, man. Maybe you could put the toast in poem form or something."

"Whoa, you're right!" I pretend to sound surprised. "That could be cool."

"Yeah. Well hey, I gotta run. Melissa's making me laser my pubes in a little bit. I never should have let her watch American Pie 3 the other day."

"Ooof," I sigh. "you're pretty whipped, man."

"I know. Peace."

"Peace."

What Jason doesn't know is that I wasn't joking about making the toast about family. After all, family's a good topic for weddings. So during the reception, when I finish my sixth Sex on the Beach with dinner and start clinking and clanking my glass wildly, I can tell by the wide diameter of Jason's eyeballs that he trusts me completely. He knows the words about to melodiously burst forth from my lips will be the ideal night cap to an already pristine event.

Jason reaches out to steady me when I shakily rise from my seat next to him. But I wave his hand away. As I dig into my suit pocket to retrieve the crinkled (and slightly ripped, after my fling in the outdoor porta potty with one of the wait staff chicks, heyo!) piece of paper that contains my toast, I can tell by his erratic blinks that he expects me to make this a night to remember. It is my duty not to disappoint.

Straightening myself, I clutch the microphone and stare out into the silent, seemingly balking crowd, shooting a sly wink at Jason's grandmother. I inform the crowd that this man next to me, this guy, I love him. I'm in love with him, some would say. But not in a gay way, I assure them. In life, I continue with a slight slur, there is simply nothing more important than family. Blood is thicker than water, I gurgle. Because it's just like that old adage: keep your enemies close, but you're family somewhere else.

Without further ado, I trumpet, I humbly present my toast for the man I love, and the woman who lasered his ball hair. One last thing, I say: this song-toast is written from Jason's point of view, because if there's anyone who's into his family, it's this guy. Then I delve right in. A capella.

v.1
I'm at a family reunion, and I'm bored and drinking beer
The fam is still arriving, yeah not everyone is here
Suddenly my cousin Pam, whose age is seventeen
Arrives and this is when things really start to get interesting

(chorus 1)
Because believe it or not, my fucking cousin is hot
And even worse she fucking knows it so she shakes what she's got
My jaw just drops to the ground, and I cannot make a sound
I start to wonder how'd it feel to have her lips wrapped around
(Well, you get the idea...)Hellooo-ooooo, Pam!

v.2
Thoughts go through my head of things my Grams would say is wrong
But I'm willing to bet that Pam is sporting a leopard printed thong
My cousin Ted says I'm not redneck enough to make a move
But with every Bud Light I tip back, I think I got somethin' to prove

(chorus 2)
So with these thoughts that I'm thinkin', I just keep right on drinkin'
And I'm sweating to the point that I am probably stinkin'
'Cause that ass is so tight, and in this mid-morning light
She kind of looks like Keira Knightly so that makes it all right
(Or that could be flawed logic, actually...)

(bridge)
Finally I get the nerve
To stumble over and talk to her
Then cousin Ted comes up to me
And asks if it still burns whenever I pee

(outro)
My whole damn world has been rocked, I've just been cousin cock blocked
So I yell "Ted, go soak your head and then go suck on a cock!"
Pam looks at me with disgust (oh wait, it might have been lust)
Then drives away and leaves my drunken, horny ass in the dust

Unfortunately for you, my dear readers, I have very little memory of what happened after my toast. Sorry.

Pinkberry Station (Part II)

2008-10-31T14:36:00.000-07:00

Quick recap from Part I: Went to a Metro Station show with my friend Allessandra. Called a PR chick a swamp donkey. Took some X with a high school chick. Saw Allessandra's boy toy unexpectedly appear on stage. Let's move on.

Suddenly Metro Station seems a lot cooler than they did 20 minutes ago. In fact, I think the music is actually making my ears move; I can literally feel my ears dancing to the beat. The song "I Wish You Were Older" comes on, and I blissfully contemplate how this is the most appropriate ballad of the entire evening. I don't even need to tell you any of the lyrics; the song has exactly to do with what the title implies. And a bunch of skinny 20-somethings are passionately singing it to a multitude of underage girls. And gay dudes. And me. Awesome.

I'm swaying back and forth, examining the texture of Allessandra's pocketbook when she's not looking, when I realize Holly's disappeared. Just vanished. Oh well, I think to myself. I'm still having a pretty sweet time. Then, out of nowhere about 4 minutes later, Holly's back. She runs up to me and grabs my hand. Which feels awesome and a little tingly.

"Come on!" Holly exclaims to me, pulling on my arm. Which also feels kind of awesome. (I'm going to go ahead and point out right here that yes, I'm aware that I'm using the word "awesome" a lot to describe all these things. But drop some X and find me a better word to describe the events that happen next. Seriously.)
"Where are we going?" I hazily wonder aloud, squinting at all the pretty lights.
"Just come!" Holly insists.
"That's what she said." I can't resist saying this. Holly rolls her eyes, licks my cheek, and pulls me in the direction of wherever we're going.

I let Holly lead me to wherever we're going. We head over to one side of the stage, to an area that's roped off. Holly gestures to the 300-pound security guy vehemently guarding the rope, and he nods at her, letting us right on through. I'm incredulous.

"How...did you do that?" I inquisitively demand after we're out of the security dude's earshot.
"Do what?" Holly innocently replies.
"That, do that. How did we just get in here?"
"Oh, I blew the security guy a few minutes ago."
"You blew th--what?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Let me get this straight," I say, desperately wanting to get everything straight. "So you blew that dude...so you could get us backstage...at a Metro Station show."
"Yeah." Holly shrugs.
"OK."

Before I know it, we're backstage, hanging out with the stage crew and drinking scotch (why do boy bands and their crew drink scotch??). I wonder momentarily whether Allessandra knows I'm gone. Being as just the two of us came together, I suspect she does. Oh well. I look around for Marty, but luckily for Allessandra, I don't see him. We'd probably become instant best friends.

I spend the next twenty minutes or so feeling the walls, biting my fingernails, and sipping on scotch while Holly slips her hand into my back pocket and follows me around. Suddenly I hear the crowd cheer/scream wildly at the end of a song, and I assume the show is coming to an end. Sure enough, the band comes skipping offstage and joins us in the back. I resist the urge to reach out and touch their hair. Their long, flowing, really gay-looking hair. Instead, I go up and shake the hand of the bassist.

"Hey man, cool show," I say.
"Uh, thanks," replies said bassist. "It's not quite over yet. Encore and stuff. But, um....hmm, this is a little awkward...what are you doing here?"
"You mean how did I get backstage?" I inquire.
"Well, yeah, but I me--"
"She blew one of your bouncers." I point over to Holly, who's hopping up and down next to the drummer. He looks increasingly disgruntled.
"Oh. Well that's not quite what I meant, man. I mean, what are you doing here specifically? Like, our sound usually caters to tweens and gay dudes. It's kind of our thing."
"Yeah, I figured," I casually agree. "Don't worry, coming here wasn't really my idea to begin with." I take a good look around me again. "Or here."

"Yo, yo, dog!" The lead singer sees me talking to the bassist and struts over. He puts an arm around his boy and pats him on the chest, kind of giving his man-breasts a little squeeze. "You ready for the encore? 'Shake, Shake,' bitch!"
The bassist lets out a long sigh. "Yeah, man, I'm ready."
"Good," the lead singer gives the bassist one more breast squeeze and steps back a little. "'Cause I think I'm gonna pop this shirt off."
"Dude," the bassist rolls his eyes. "I'd rather you didn't. You do this every time."
"The girls love it, man! You know they do."
"Actually, dude," I kindly interject. "I think I've heard them screaming at you before when you've taken your shirt off. It might be in horror, though..."
The lead singer looks at me for the first time and throws a mild grimace my way. "Who's this guy?"
"Oh," the bassist shrugs and points over at Holly, who's now stroking the back of the drummer's head while he tries to inch away from her. "That chick over there blew Ronald, I think. He let 'em back here."
"Nice." The lead singer squints at my face. "He looks straight, though. And older than a high schooler."
I shrug.
"Yeah," the bassist agrees. "I know."
"Whatever, man," the lead singer starts ripping at his t-shirt like he's being attacked by bees. "I'm poppin' this shirt off."

And just like that, I'm graced with the presence of a topless Metro Station musician. A real dream come true.

"Watch them go ape shit when I pop this shirt off, man."
"I dunno, dude, that's a little gay. And you clearly haven't eaten anything in like two weeks."
"Fuck you, man. Bitches need to know there's an eagle on my chest."

The bassist woefully shakes his head again, and I make some quick eye contact with him. The look he gives is what I interpret as a cry for help. Help to make this terribly skinny prima donna know his role, and put that shirt back on over his disgustingly frail body. T. James (or 'Justin,' as far as Holly's concerned) to the rescue.

"Dude," I put my arm around the lead singer's naked, skeletonesqe shoulders. They're a little sweaty. Gross. "Can I be real with you for a second?"
"Yeah, dog," the lead singer replies. "Real is how I live my life."
I half-roll my eyes and click my tongue a little. "Yeah, well, then this shouldn't be too hard for you. Here's the thing, man. Getting topless is great, don't get me wrong. I'm a huge fan. And being as I'm over fourteen years old and not gay, I know this is kind of a different perspective than you're used to. But your face and haircut decisions make you look decidedly feminine, dude. And if that's what you're going for, cool. But when you pop that shirt off, you kind of look like a girl version of Marilyn Manson. It's just awful."

The lead singer doesn't look too impressed by my advice. After giving me a good, hard, 20-second-long stare, he looks at something behind me and snaps his fingers. Then he and the rest of his crew go skipping back onstage and start singing "Shake, Shake," which for some reason is their most popular song. I'm confused a little by the finger snapping, but then I turn around. Shit, here comes Ronald.

Allow me to describe how it feels to be punched in the face on X. First off, everything slows down. I actually counted all of the hairs on Ronald's knuckles as they were coming at me. 76 total. Second, you know that Red Hot Chili Peppers song with the line "I like pleasure spiked with pain/Music is my aeroplane"? Nothing describes a punch in the face while on X better than "pleasure spiked with pain." Nothing. I can actually feel my incisors loosen a little after the original punch. Several more punches rain down upon me, of course, each one more awesome then the next.

When Ronald is done "teaching me a lesson," as he repeats over and over, he is kind enough to help me to my feet. I then give him a pretty sweet high five, and he shows me out. Onto the street. A little violently.

A few seconds later I get a phone call. It's Holly. I don't even remember giving her my number.

"Hey, what happened to you?" She squeals. "I saw Ronald toss you out."
"Yeah, well, some rock stars just can't handle being real," I reply. "Ugh, I never should have dropped that X with you..."
"Oh, that wasn't X," Holly flippantly retorts.
"W-w-what??" I stammer.
"Justin, I'm in high school. Where am I going to get X?"
"Then what did you give me?" I calmly demand.
"Ha, I gave you an Advil."
"An Advil??"
"Yeah. I thought you knew and were just playing along. I mean, it said 'Advil' right on it."
I pause for a long moment, allowing everything to sink in. "So did you even blow that bouncer then to get us in? Or was that a fairy tale too?"
"Hell, yah I did! He came all over m--"
"Goodbye, Holly." Click.

I find a few people on the street who I overhear making plans to catch a cab back to Astoria, which is where I live. Can I join them? I ask as I jump into the front seat of the cab they catch. Their confused shrugs are the only confirmation I need.

As my new friends and I head back to Astoria, I idly ask them what they're doing in Manhattan tonight to begin with. They're shooting a pilot for HBO called Making It In America, they say. Cool, I exclaim. That's exactly what I'm trying to do. Just want to make it. It doesn't look like I'm doing that great a job, one of them observes, since I'm bleeding from both of my eyes and one of my ears. I heartily agree, offering a couple nuggets of advice before I leave the cab in regard to "making it": Don't accept drugs from high schoolers who casually offer oral sex to overweight bouncers, or give blunt fashion tips to semi-popular rock stars. Not very conducive to making famous friends.

Will my sage wisdom make it into this HBO special? Time will tell.

Pinkberry Station (Part I)

2008-10-30T16:22:00.000-07:00

Let's start at the beginning.

About a year ago, one of my close friends introduced me to a band called Metro Station. Now, by "introduce," I don't mean I actually met them. I mean he let me copy their album off his computer. A little punky, touch of techno, touch of pop, kind of catchy, OK. I listened to their songs every now and again.

Fast forward to the present, when I'm living in NYC and Metro Station has apparently gotten popular enough to do their first headlining tour. One of my good friends (we were actually each other's junior prom dates, if you want to know), who works for a fashion magazine and is well aware of my mission for everlasting fame, calls me up. Allessandra, we'll call her. She's cool and she's hot. Crazy, crazy super hot. Like, if Pam Anderson and Tanya Harding and Denise Richards made a baby together somehow. And 87% of the time, she's relatively sane. Which is saying something. Anyway, she's got two tickets for Metro Station tomorrow night, she says, and she has to go to the show for work purposes. "Work purposes." What a great fucking country. Do I want to come? She asks me. Let's see, free concert, possible VIP lounge, possible open bar. I'm in.

Now for some backstory. So I head over to Allessandra's apartment after work the next day to meet before the show. As she's finishing getting ready and I'm resisting the urge to peer into her open bedroom door while she's changing (what? I'm a man, after all), she begins to tell me about a guy situation she's found herself in. Allessandra, several months ago, hooked up with the lead singer (Marty something) of another punky cookie-cutter band called Boys Who Really Like Girls. Clearly when naming their band this group felt the need to make it clear they weren't homosexuals. Well done. If you know both of these bands then you probably know there's not many differences between them. At least not that I can tell. Also, Marty is good friends with the dudes from Metro Station. Remember this.

The conundrum Allessandra finds herself in is this: Through an exchange of text messages, she and Marty made plans to hang out the night of the Metro Station show, then Marty started sending vague and mysterious texts that Allessandra couldn't really decipher. She shows me one.

heeey, thres some craaaaaaazy moves goin on around here. i love this city... we should have a pinkberry date on my roof next week...

She shows me another one from him earlier that day that says he's "heading to Buffalo soon" for a show. Which is weird since she thought they were hanging out that night. From a guy's perspective, what does this even mean? Allessandra wants to know. Well, off the top of my head, I don't really know what "craaaaaaazy moves" are. Neither do I know why you'd seriously suggest eating Pinkberry on a roof in Brooklyn in November. Sounds like tomfoolery to me, so I'm inclined to think he might just be fucking with her, which I myself am prone to do with girls in my spare time. It's a fulfilling hobby. However, Allessandra had previously informed me that boy-toy Marty never finished high school; he dropped out to do the rock star thing. Which must be working out well since he's now got a studio apartment in Brooklyn. So I conclude that he might just be retarded. Allessandra's not thrilled with my opinion, for some reason.

Allessandra and I head out for a few drinks, then go to the show in Times Square. Much to our dismay, the PR girl who has our tickets informs us upon our arrival that there is no VIP situation waiting for us. Just general admission. Fuck. Despite Allessandra's attempts to quiet me, I politely inform the PR chick that I came here to be treated like a very important person, goddammit, and this "general admission" horse shit was simply unacceptable. I also might have called her a swamp donkey.

We take our tickets from the now-scowling PR chick and enter the show, stopping in the middle of the general admissions area. I take in my surroundings.

Jesus Christ.

I'd been unwittingly listening to this band on and off for a whole year, but I was completely unaware that the fan base for Metro Station is comprised almost exclusively of 13-year-old girls and 32-year-old gay dudes. I've never seen so many of them mingling in one place together. It was like a Neverland Ranch oasis in all the weirdest ways. Suddenly I'm feeling a little awkward. I mean, I want the fame, but with my track record involving uncomfortable situations and alcohol, I don't see how this situation is going to get me anything but arrested at some point.

Then I meet Holly.

From what I can tell, Holly is one of the older high school chicks. Maybe even a freshman in college. She sidles right up to me, bebopping her head to "Kelsey" or "California" or whatever the band is playing at the moment (I know some of the song names, yes. It's awful).

Holly (enthusiastically): Hey there.
Me (skeptically): Uh, hi.
Holly (perkily): I'm 18.
Me (perking up slightly): Really?
Holly (shrugs): Sure. My name's Holly.
Me (cautiously): Cool. My name's...Justin.
Holly (sneakily): Cool. Want some X?
Me (quietly flabbergasted): Do I want som--what??
Holly (fun lovingly): It's fun. You're cute. Come on.
Me (convinced): OK.

So Holly and I duck out of the show for a minute and take some X together on the sly. This night just got more interesting, I think to myself, since dropping hard drugs with high-schoolers is rarely part of my weekday agenda.

When we get back, Allessandra is half-watching the show, half-chatting with the PR chick who got us in. The PR chick looks pissed, so they might be talking about me. Nevertheless, I'm starting to feel very good about where my night is heading, and I turn my attention back to the band. Instead of four unhealthily-skinny punks on the stage as when I left, however, there are now five. And the fifth one is singing lead. I ask Allessandra what the deal is, and direct her attention to the stage. Who's that dude? I wonder aloud. Allessandra's jaw drops, and already I'm starting to guess who the new singer (who kind of looks like Gumby with hair, tattoos, and a microphone...and not green) is.

That's right. It's Marty. From Boys [Purported To] Really Like Girls.

Apparently "headed to Buffalo soon" is French for "guest singing in my friends' band." I almost lose it, because this is the goddamn funniest thing I can imagine happening for the evening. I couldn't have made this up myself. How many times do you spend an evening with a girl who expresses her concern all night about how a dude is blowing her off, only to have said dude show up on stage right in front of you later in the evening? Marty, if you ever read my blog, know this: you are awesome.

And then the X starts to kick in...

Romance Isn't Dead, But Some Things Are

2008-10-27T18:46:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to broaden my social horizons, I've been making a conscious effort to be seen at trendy bars in NYC that feature up-and-coming bands. Some are indie rock, some are hippie-esque, some are...well, just a little gay. What's important, however, is that they're onstage, and I'm not.

My theory is this: if I continue to keep attending these shows, eventually the stage presence of these artists will carry over to me by pure osmosis, if nothing else.

So I'm attending the premier show of this group I've never seen before. They call themselves Care Bear Guillotine. I think we can all agree this is one of the most awesome band names in existence.

It's near the end of the show, and the lead singer sets down his guitar for a moment. His name is Watkins Kris. Kind of like Christopher Watkins, except with the last name first. His parents must be retarded.

This next song, Watkins quietly and unassumingly informs the crowd, is very personal to him. It speaks, he says, of his difficulties with the fairer sex, and the myriad things he's found he must do to woo them. He goes on to say that he drew part of his inspiration from "Hey There Delilah," which, for the uninitiated, is an awful cookie-cutter song by a band called Plain White T's. So much was he inspired, Watkins continues, that he wrote this song to that very tune. In homage.

At the sound of words like "fairer sex" and "myriad" and "woo" and "Hey There Delilah," I will admit, I almost lose it. I'm pretty close to the stage, and poise myself to throw the empty glass from my ninth Jack and Ginger at this poorly-named indie rocker. But something makes me stop short and listen. Something besides the bouncer's sudden grip on my frail wrists.

"This one's for the dudes," Watkins says. "Ah, fuck it. Chicks too. It's called 'Romance Isn't Dead, But Some Things Are.' One, two, three, four..."

v.1
It's Friday night, I'm out to dinner on a date
And as I slowly gulp my wine, I cannot help but think how I would like to mate
With this girl here who is my date
It would be great

This is the fourth time that I've taken said girl out
And just in case she gets cold feet when later we are making out I've got a plan
That I learned from my buddy Stan
That plan is lamb

(chorus 1)
Lambskin condoms help me please
Lambskin C's I'm on my knees
Lambskin condoms fit with ease
Lambskin condoms help me please
Please be the bees knees

v.2
You might be wondering why I think lambskin's the ticket
Does it really matter what is on your penis just before you stick it in?
The answer's yes, but only when
It is lambskin

Now I know just what you're thinking, that I'm trying to be funny
But girls love it when on little things you spend a lot of money
Condoms too; you know that what I say is true
So hear me through

(chorus 2)
Lambskin condoms hear my cry
Lambskin in between her thighs
Lambskin's what you gotta try
Lambskin condoms hear my cry
Please let me inside

(bridge)
I know it costs a lot of coin
But really, you should gird your loins
With something that you know was once alive
And she may as well just be a whore
Because for one small pack of four
It cost me $27.95
Kind of like Jesus, this lamb died
For what? So I could be inside
A girl, just like the honey in bee hives
Romance survives

Your death was not in vain!

v.3
So take to heart the words that you're about to hear
When there's a deal you want to seal you're gonna need the proper gear
Forget latex, it doesn't have the proper flex
Plus it is just what she expects
So if you want to hit the decks
And have some sex

(chorus 3)
Lambskin condoms, price so steep
Lambskin condoms, made from sheep
Lambskin condoms in my Jeep
Lambskin condoms in my sleep

Swish This Around In Your Mouth For A While...

2008-10-23T18:21:00.000-07:00

It's a fairly common fact that, during the long and tedious act of actually becoming successful in life, there will be encounters with unsavory characters along the way. Characters who make you thoroughly examine yourself as a human being, who challenge you to be a bigger and better person, no matter how many obstacles you face as you trip and claw and lick and grope and grimace and climb and swagger and guzzle and nuzzle and grunt and shimmy and shake and suck your way to the top.

That's right, I'm afraid I'm talking about homeless people.

They're everywhere in NYC. Unavoidable. And most of the time, friend, my heart goes out to them. It does. But I'm afraid there are some who need to learn to be better stewards with their homelessness.

I mean, I believe him, but...

For example, every Friday I leave work. Drunk. Not super drunk, but I made a pact with myself long ago never to work sober on a Friday, and I keep a fresh bottle of peppermint schnapps in my desk to help me keep this solemn oath as my weeks come to a blurring halt. How do I get away with this in an office environment, you ask? Well, I made it pretty clear to everyone early on in this job that I Listerine roughly 17 times a day. Obsessive, my coworkers might think, but what this means is that there's a twinge of minty alcohol on my [impeccable] breath at all times. Come Friday, no one's the wiser. Brilliant, I know.

But back to the story. So every Friday I stumble out of work, and halfway down the subway stairs at my stop is what I can only assume is a homeless dude. I mean, he's there every week. He doesn't shave. His clothes are always the same. He smells a little. And he's always sitting there on the stairs with his hand out to passersby. Telltale signs of homelessness. But what does he have in his other hand, friend?

A cell phone.

That's right, he's got one hand outstretched for your hard-earned cash, and he's texting away with the other. God knows who he's texting. I often wonder who's in his Fave Five. The point of the story is this: if you want people to give you their money, maybe stop checking up on how many anytime minutes you have left every once in a while and look a little more destitute. It's just poor marketing.

So these are the thoughts hurtling through my head this past Wednesday while I'm attending my church's choir practice (surprised? Don't be). We're really in a groove this week, you know? Just fucking nailing every song. Plus I'm a soprano, and I was totally sticking it to the tenors all night.

Practice is winding down, and near the end our choir director always asks if anyone has a new song they'd like to share with the group. A Capella. Geoff, our youth group leader, steps forward. He's got a song, he says. A song that, when he read it, when he heard it on the radio, when he sang it softly to himself in his room after nightly devotions, simply touched him to the core. A song that spoke to him of some of the things that are wrong with our great city.

Well Geoff sang that song. He sang it long and good. And I rarely get sentimental, but it touched me too. It touched me in ways I'd never known I could be touched, and at this point in my life I thought I'd touched myself damn near everywhere.

This is what he sang:

v.1
I walk down the street with my hot dog in hand
This day in the city is so sunny and grand
As I turn the corner I hear a small shout
“Hey buddy, could you help a guy out?”

(chorus 1)
Oh homeless man yes, I smell your vicious plight
I can only guess where you will poop tonight
I’ll give you a buck, wish I could offer more
But homeless man, gee whiz, that’s what employment’s for

v.2
You scoff at the money that I place in your hat
You wince and say “Sonny, you can give more than that”
You think that I’m rich because my tags say J.Crew
But I got this on sale so screw you

(chorus 2)
Oh homeless man why do you have so much greed?
I’d give you more cash, but homeless man I need
The rest of my dough for later on tonight
When I’ll put ten down on several homeless fights

(bridge)
You stare and you glare as you sit on your rump
With judging eyes squinting like you’re Donald Trump
You’ve been unemployed since before the Cold War
You’re getting gangrene underneath your cold sores
You can’t count to twelve and your teeth total six
You smell like a diaper and alcohol mix
Oh why homeless man, are you riddled with greed?
If you just let go of my leg and stop biting my shoe then I’ll teach you to read

(outro)
As I walk away, I turn and I glance
Feeling bad for the fire that I lit on his pants
As his screaming fades I turn on my iPod
The smell of burning homeless is odd
I wonder if they matter to God

Greatness: Thou Hast Brushed Me

2008-10-21T12:29:00.000-07:00

As part (well, most) of the web address for this blog intimates, I fully intend on being famous someday. I don't need tons of fame, though. I don't.

Just a taste.

That said, I work for a magazine. I'm not telling you what kind, or the name, or anything like that. Names and reputations are at stake here, and I simply can't disclose too many specifics. But it's a totally hip magazine, and let's just say that my job affords me the opportunity to tag along to the occasional high-profile NYC event. Comic-Con: I'm there. Pepcom: I got invited. Craft Beer Festival: I sneaked in. If you don't know what these events are, Google them and you might get an idea of the kind of employer I have. You'll never guess who it is.

So the other night I was invited with some of the staff writers for my magazine to attend the launch party of T-Mobile's new phone, the G1. Sounds nerdy, yes, but guess what? The Raconteurs were playing, and someone told me Lindsay Lohan might be there. I'm down. Even though she [allegedly] switched teams.

So we get into the event, and already the warehouse-turned-party-spot reeks of swank. I can tell this right away because I see what I am later told is a "bag-slash-coat check." I begin to regret drinking all that NyQuil on the cab ride here.

Upon entering the actual party, I notice a few things. First and foremost, there's an open bar. Top shelf. No Mohawk vodka here. We get some drinks, and the bartenders are heavy-handed. I begin to carefully observe my surroundings.

There are beautiful people all over the place. Everywhere I look, there's one. And another. Dressed to the nines (not that I really know what that means). I discreetly yell an inquiry to my coworker Josh (named changed) as to what my chances are of getting with one of the gorgeous girls that seem to be flocking around every other good-looking guy here but me. I silently curse my judgment in wearing jean shorts that evening.

"Probably not that good, dude," Josh snorts. "A lot of these girls are hired models."
"Wait a second," I smoothly stutter. "So you're telling me that the primary responsibility of that chick...and that one...and th--ooh, not that one...and that one there is just to walk around and be hot?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"That's it?"
"Yeah."

I finish my fourth Car Bomb. I need to get in on this. That's the world I want to live in, where I am hired expressly to walk around parties and just look sexy. Which I'm good at. I'll bet they have scouts here looking for new talent. Again I curse my jean shorts decision.

Then I see something I just can't wrap my head around. A short, skinny black man in a tweed suit is walking around, looking rather pompous (if you ask me) for being so short and wearing tweed. But that wasn't the incredible thing. Here is a grown man strutting around wearing glasses with black, jewel-studded frames that are roughly the size of bread and butter plates. This looks ridiculous enough, but upon closer inspection I find that said glasses have no lenses. None. He couldn't possibly think that these glasses are aiding his vision. No, as I cautiously guzzle my sixth Tanguray and tonic, it suddenly dawns on me that this man is wearing these hollowed-out dinner plates probably for the same reason he's wearing all that tweed. I need to know this reason. I'm intrigued. And his disgruntled-looking face tells me that he definitely thinks he's better than me.

Well, I'll be goddamned if that's true, sir.

"Whoa, whoa, where are you going?" Josh grabs my arm as I start to move in the direction of Sir Pompous the Third.
"What? Nothing, man. I'm just going to tell that dude how ridiculous he looks, that's all. With the glasses. Maybe challenge him to arm wrestling. Nothing big." I shrug.
"Arm wrest--you can't just do that, man!" Josh looks incredulous, for some reason.
"Why not?" I look incredulous right back. Only more so.
"That guy works for the New York Times, man!" Josh exclaims. "You can't just go and insult people you don't know at these things." I give Josh a wry smile that lets him know I am totally picking up what he's putting down, gingerly sipping my ninth Jack and Ginger and edging toward the small black man all the while.
"Dude, you need to chill out," he continues. "Now. I thought you came here with me to network. That's what these things are for, you know."
"Of course I came to network, Scarlet Josh-Hansen." I counter. "I'm networking right now."
"Well it looks like you're just drinking. Pretty heavily."
"I'm multitasking. You said he works for the Times, right? I've seen the Times. I'll go network with him. I have a great rapport with the bla--"
"I'm not letting you go over there, man," Josh shakes his head. "Let's just watch the band."

So we watch the band. My attention span wanders as I pick the orange slice out of my fourth Sex on the Beach and ogle all the supposedly-hired models meandering by.

Then it happens.

I'm enjoying my drink, watching the band, when I turn to Josh at the bar to say something decidedly misogynistic about the model behind the salmon and cream cheese appetizers. But as I turn my head, that's not Josh standing next to me. Not Josh at all.

It's Jason Biggs. Yes, American Pie Jason Biggs. Saving Silverman Jason Biggs. I don't know anything else he's been in. Maybe a Gap commercial here or there. He looks like he needs a haircut, I observe. And his pupils seem severely dilated.

This is my chance. My big, fat, networking chance! Who better to network with than a big famous actor at a trendy party while trendy music trendily plays in the background? Here we go, T. James, make some magic.

Me: "Hey, Jason Biggs!"
JB: "Uh, hey."
Me: "Hey, you know what would be cool, Jason Biggs?"
JB: "What's that?"
Me: "If we could totally clink glasses, Jason Biggs, that would be awesome."
JB: "OK."

We clink glasses. He turns back to someone he's with and disappears into the crowd. He briefly looks back at me with what I can only imagine to be admirable jealousy; he knows I'll be bigger than him someday. I quietly sigh and smile to myself. I did it. I networked with a famous dude.

I wake up the next morning naked and alone underneath my bed. But I smile to myself.

I'm on my way.

I Got A Threshold, Jules

2008-10-13T10:13:00.000-07:00

Let me paint a picture for you. I'm sitting in my bed, sans shirt. Also, I'm wearing sweatpants. And no underwear. Already I'm imagining the enormous success of my new blog, and if you could see how hard my bare nipples are right now you'd probably understand why.

When one starts a blog, I imagine that the first post needs to be captivating. Compelling. Crafty. Probably other things that begin with the letter "c". This is why I've spent well over 4 minutes thinking about how my new blogging career should take off. That's right, already making some big career plans. Should the first post be insightful? Emotional? Historically relevant? All valid questions I've chosen to ignore.

After careful and calculated consideration, I have chosen the topic for my first post. And it is this: sexual pseudo-advice.

Now, for those of you who I've been inside, you might be asking what sort of knowledge I could possibly impart upon the budding crowd of sexually active individuals. But don't worry, my advice goes far beyond the simple suggestion of "just hold still."

My advice, ladies and gentlemen, is slightly more profound, and it pertains to this particular act:

Oh Christina Aguilera, look how happy you are to get carried over some sort of threshold. It's something girls generally begin dreaming about around the tender and succulent and oddly captivating age of 7. (And just for the record, I have no idea what a threshold is. When I hear that word I think of a fireplace, and carrying someone over a fireplace just seems dumb. That's just me.)

Dream as they might, what these girls won't ever tell you is that it's unbelievably easy to fuck this whole threshold carrying thing up. All it takes is a slight falter: Game. Over.

What does any of this have to do with sex, you ask? Allow me to explain.

If you pick your lady up and try to carry her around, you better have the proper muscular equipment, and here's why: your girl might be as petite as Kelly Ripa after a watermelon and tofu diet followed by a hasty abortion, but if you try picking her up and walking around and you trip (or grunt in exertion)--just slightly, mind you--you, sir, are not getting laid that evening. Unless, that is, your girl is remarkably secure.

But seriously, all girls secretly think they're fat, at least the ones in America. It's just a fact of life.

Also, it's worth noting that some people shouldn't even attempt this act in the first place. In my experience, it's not terribly difficult to single out such people.

So now it's time to get to the heart of the matter. Ready? Here it comes:

Don't ever try lifting your girl off the ground. Just don't ever do it. Not unless you're going for a standing 69, which is awesome. Unless she's fat, in which case that's not awesome. At all. Do I sound harsh? Probably, but it's a harsh world, friends. A harsh, moist world.