A Guide To Stripping

Recently I had a conversation with a young lady who asked me, "John, what's the best song to strip to?" This young lady asked not to be identified here, probably because she is the little sister of one of my friends (queue my office phone ringing in 3..2..1...).

I thought it was an excellent question and it started an unintended thought process. Men spend hours and hours and tons of money on strip clubs when in many cases - many, not most - they have their very own attractive female sitting at home, willing to make love to them AND do it for free.

Why is this? Why is that guys I know who have beautiful girlfriends go to these clubs to have a strange woman rub against him at the cost of $20 (not including tip) or $10 per song (not to mention the $15 cover charge and $12 weak drinks)? It just doesn't seem right, does it?

And I thought, "I can help. I'm pretty much fucking famous and I can help. I'm not sure what one has to do with the other, but I like telling myself that I'm pretty much fucking famous. Because I am. I'm pretty much fucking famous." So in an effort to bring the sexes together and make guys' lives a little better, I'm writing this one for the ladies. Ladies, may I present to you: John's Guide To Stripping.

While I have never personally stripped (thank god - I'm retching just thinking about it), if any man is qualified to write a "How To" of stripping, it's me. I have been going to strip clubs for as long as I've had proper ID and have been to nudie bars all over the world (well, all over the US and parts of Europe). I've been in all types of strip joints, from full nudity brothels to bikini dance places. And most importantly, I have "befriended" in various ways a number of strippers over the years (wink wink).

My intention here is to give some rules about stripping, so that you can feel comfortable doin' a lil' dance for your man. Perhaps it can spice up your sex life. Perhaps it can save him some money and you some aggravation. Perhaps you've already stopped reading. I don't really care.

But first before we delve into the guide to stripping, I need to dispel some of the myths and misconceptions of the strip club and what happens at the strip club. A few weeks ago, I was talking with a female friend of mine about how I am looking forward to organizing my buddy Steve's bachelor party next year. I was going on and on about the all the strip clubs we're going to go to, when we had this exchange:

Her: "I don't like strip clubs; they're just gross. With the towel and all - ugh."
Me: "'Towel?' What do you mean?"Her: "You know, the towel they put on your lap when they dance on you."
Me: "Um, they don't put a towel on your lap. Wait - you think they put a towel on your lap to catch spooge?"Her: "Yeah. That's what they do, right?"

No, no, no. There is no towel involved in a lap dance. There is no spooging either. I have gotten over a million lap dances and have never once been driven to spooge, nor have I heard of anyone doing this. Lap dances basically go like this: a stripper will come over to ask you if you want a dance. This is a whole science in itself - picking the stripper you want the dance from requires analysis based on looks, dancing ability, cleanliness, command of the English language, ability to file police reports, etc - but I won't get into that here.

So you'll agree. She either pull you over to the side or take you someplace away from the rest of the club and grind on you for about five minutes, possibly longer. Most of the time, there is no touching involved; you sit with your hands at your sides like a good little boy. Depending upon a number of factors (how good-looking you are, how shady the club is, how much coke your stripper has just done, how many kids she has by different fathers, etc), there may be some touching involved, even groping by the guy on the stripper, not the other way around. If I had to break it down, I'd say:

• 80% of the time there is no touching at all;
• 15% of the time there is some light PG-13 touching (i.e. slight caresses on non-genital areas; incidental contact);
• 4% of the time there's R-rated touching (i.e. grabbing of boobies, butt);
• less than 1% of the time do you get some real deal XXX shit, and that's usually at really, really sketchy places (i.e. sticking whole wallet into woman's vagina).

After the dance is over, the girl will say "Thank you" and you'll give her the $20 plus a small tip (usually $5, but in my case up to $20). What can be deadly is if the girl says, "Would you like another?", which in most cases she will. This is dangerous. Asking a drunk lonely man who's just had a sexy lady rubbing her butt against his bird for five minutes if he'd like some more is like asking, well, I don't have a joke here, but you get it. My personal record is three consecutive lap dances, but a buddy of mine once had four in a row on two separate occasions (I think at four they stop you, lest you start stalking them).

And that's pretty much it. The striper will walk away and go mingle with other patrons, while the lap dancee will return to his buddies and immediately rate the dance and dancer. Repeat, if desired. Otherwise, it's exactly like a bunch of guys hanging out at bar, except the drinks are twice as expensive and there are naked woman dancing in front you of compelling you to put singles in their underwear.

So that's essentially what happens at a strip club. There is such a thing as "the champagne room", but I don't think this is the time or place to get into it, as this is a guide to stripping, not a guide to strip clubs. I will only say that it's basically like an hour long lap dance with a bottle of champagne involved. It's quite awkward actually - you and a random hot chick drinking champagne while she sits on your lap, pretending not to mind your gigantic erection while you remember to take deep breaths to slow your heart rate. I don't personally recommend this, especially since in NYC this costs something like $350. No thanks.

And now, on with the rules...

I have a small confession. I won't be discussing the most essential rule of stripping. You see, any professional dancer will tell you that the first and most important rule of stripping is learning the art of disassociation.

Remember, strippers are people too. Sure, not very good people, who are pretty much going to hell when they die, but people still. Some of them even have (gasp!) pride. In order to rub themselves against strange lonely men for dollar bills every night, they have to learn how to take themselves out of the moment. In lieu of a physical barrier, they must build a psychological barrier between themselves and their customers. Thus the art of disassociation.

Take a stripper to an IHOP at 4:30 in the morning and she'll tell you that after a while it's like the customer isn't even there - she's able to go through the motions regardless of who she's grinding on. Over some lukewarm flapjacks and cold coffee, your stripper friend will go on and on about how it she doesn’t even have feelings about dancing anymore, that she can’t tell you if the guy she’s dancing for is white or black, fat or thin, that nothing really matters because she’s numb to the whole experience. She’ll tell you this and it’ll make you feel kinda weird and sad, but that won't stop you from offering her $12 for a handjob in the parking lot of the IHOP (“Come on – we can go behind that dumpster. I’m already almost there, so it won’t take a minute.”) Because after all, you gots to get yours and $12 can go pretty far in Arkansas.

But since I'm talking about a woman stripping for her man, there is no need to learn the art of disassociation. Conversely, a woman should remain very much in the moment with her man. After all, this is about love, or at the very least, meaningless sex between two consenting adults. Probably.

Here are my five major rules for stripping for your man:

1) Establish “the look”. By this I mean you have to create the image, pick the song, and generally prepare.

The image: It doesn't matter what look you go for - bikini beach babe, sexually adventurous school girl, lingerie sex-pot, aggressive cop, sexy pirate, naughty invalid - but the key is to feel comfortable both physical and mentally. I haven’t worn lingerie for, like, three months, so I’m afraid I can’t offer much technical advice on this subject. Get something that feels good, makes you think you look like a sex-pot, and can be removed fairly easily in mid-gyration.

The song: This isn’t as important as you think. Again, you need something that makes you comfortable. I’ve seen strippers peel off their clothes to AC/DC, Prince and everything in between. You need something that you like and makes you wanna shake your hips. FYI: I would stay away from songs like “She Drives Me Crazy” by the Fine Young Cannibals and “Brick” by Ben Folds Five. These are not sexy songs. Not at all.

The preparation: Practice. I’m not saying that you should get a mannequin, set him up in a chair, and rub your boobies all over him, but you should do two things: 1) get a feel for the song and its climatic moments and 2) get a feel for your outfit. After all, you wouldn’t take a driver’s test without freebasing and driving around an empty parking lot first or lose your virginity without having sex with a microwaved chicken breast first, would you? Would you? I didn' think so.

2) Get drunk. Not "I can't stand up and I think I just got hit by a car but I’m not sure" drunk, but rather "I am the hottest fucking thing in the world and I could probably run for President and win because I'm so fucking awesome and hot" drunk. For me, this usually comes around drink eight, when I manage to forget that I have larger breasts than most women and thinning hair that comes out in clumps. But please, don’t use me as a barometer for your drinking. On Saturday night my friends and I were at a bar with a roof deck and when I got cut off for being "obnoxious", I ate three plants that were on the deck to keep getting fucked up. So use your own judgment.

3) Get him drunk. This should be easy. Say something like, "Listen honey, I'm going to do some stripping for you. But first, I need you to get drunk. Here's a vodka tonic and there's plenty more in the fridge and a pizza is on the way. So get drinking." I don't know too many men who could resist that line. Hell, in my case, I'm drunk right now. A nice little buzz should counterbalance any awkwardness, so get him liquored up.

4) Relax. For some reason, women are WAY too self-conscious about their bodies. Of all womanly traits, this is the most unnecessary and unfounded. Ladies, your man thinks you're hot. It's really that simple. You shouldn't worry about whether or not your guy will like your lil' strip show, because he will. Trust me. Because he thinks you're hot. Trust me. There are a multitude of other things that a woman should worry about in a relationship - her partner's fidelity, pregnancy, STD's, her man constantly wanting to start fires - but worrying about your self-image is not one of them. So relax...you are a sex-pot.

5) Dance, dance, dance. One rule here: no kissing. The kiss is the corpus delicti of bad stripping. No real stripper would ever kiss her customer (no professional real stripper would at least). Save the kissing for later. Remember, we’re trying to create a mood here, an environment even, to increase a sexual experience. One of my favorite quotes about getting it on goes something like, “The best part of making love is the walk up the stairs.” Anticipation is key, so no smooches until later.

As far as actual dancing is concerned, here’s a general rule: a lot, then a little. Stripping is a type of seduction. Seduction is a manipulation of desire. Desire is an extension of want. Make your man want. Go through periods where you are very close to him, on top of him, rubbing your body against his. Then, alternate these times with times of distance, when you’re off his body and away from him, dancing in front of him. Too much grinding is too easy. Too little physical contact may make your man bored. Find a balance and make him want.

And that's about it. I'm not going to tell you what to do next, because it's been so long that I honestly don't remember. I'm so out of practice that if I were given a strip-tease today, afterward I might get up to poop or go get a bagel. Usually after I leave a strip club, I go home usually for a night cap and if available, some mozzarella sticks. That's just me though.

But I hope that my little treatise here will help the sex lives of couples all over the world; that it might bring them the sexual enjoyment that so eludes me, save for whenever I attend the local middle school's talent show or whenever I see Sir Elton John perform. That next time they are together in the throes of love-making, they might stop only for a moment to say, "Thank you John. You are truly a magnificent son of a bitch." before continuing their dance of love.

I'm Not In Love

True love is dead. We all can pretty much agree on that, right? I mean, it just doesn’t happen like it used to. Stories of love told by old folks always go something like:

• “I saw her from across the room and I knew she was the woman I was going to spend the rest of my life with. We were wed two weeks later and have been together sixty-five years.”
• “He was the dreamiest man I had ever seen. When I saw him working at the shipyard, I knew instantly he was the man for me. Ten years later, we had eleven children.”
• “I was wounded in combat in France in 1944 and on my first day out of the hospital I met this beautiful French girl. That night, we walked along the Seine and I proposed on the spot. That was seventy-two years ago.” (Editor’s Note: this quote will be said in the year 2016)
• “I walked out of Fulton Hall and on the bench in the quad I saw a young man reading Tennyson’s ‘Holy Grail’ and I just felt it. We were married ten minutes later and haven’t spent a night apart in fifty-three years.”
  

But for people my age, it just doesn’t work that way. I wonder what stories of love the people of my generation will tell our grandkids. I think it’ll be closer to:

• “I had just done a keg stand when I went to the bathroom. I barged in, not realizing anyone was in there, and caught your grandmother pissing. She called me a dick, but two hours later she was giving me a blowjob in my roommate Todd’s bed. It was fucking awesome.”
• “I was at Sutton Place at 52nd & 2nd. Your grandfather was there, button-down shirt open, hair perfectly gelled. He had just done three SoCo & lime shots in a row and punched the bouncer in the face. I fucked him on the train that night. He didn’t call me for two months, but when he eventually did, we started dating. And you know the rest.”
• “Your grandfather played bass in a pseudo-retro trash band called ‘The Kings of Fuck and Ennui.’ I saw him on stage and loved his $80 vintage t-shirt and his hair, which looked like it had been cut by a monkey that had been badly beaten. I wanted him so much that when he told me I first had to kiss a girl on the mouth, I did it. Four times. It was real love.”
• “I was on Spring Break in Cancun when I did a half dozen ice luges and fell down a flight of stairs. I didn’t remember hooking up with your grandmother until six weeks later when she emailed me and told me she thought she was pregnant. Thank god we escaped that one! High five!”
  

The sad thing is that the people of my generation still hope for this no longer existent true love. My friends and I have cast aside countless relationships for the most trivial reasons because we weren’t convinced the girl was “the one” (this is not limited to men; women do this too - I just don't know any women and thus can't use them as examples). Spoiled as we are, rather than working on the relationship or giving it a real chance because we didn’t immediately feel that “spark”, we ended the whole thing. I am admittedly guilty of this as well. Note to self: just because a girl has an above-average amount of arm hair or abnormally large feet or maybe one time ran over a kid does not mean that she can’t be perfect for you.

Well, I’m writing this to tell you all that I am officially done. I don’t care about finding “true love” or “the one” because that shit is just too hard. As I get older, I’m becoming more efficient and pragmatic. I no longer have time for grandiose fantasies of love and happiness. When someone dreams of their soulmate, they envision a person that is the sum of a number of desirable traits: a short blond chick who loves Indian food, Yo La Tengo, and has tattoos; an athletic redhead who’s into camping and candle-making and can quote “Top Gun” line for line; a curvy brunette who loves dogs, the rain and going to the beach; etc.

But I’m through. Realizing it ain’t happening for me in the soulmate department any time soon, I’m refining my search for “the one” so that it no longer involves a collection of desirable traits wrapped in one person, but rather on one single determining characteristic that I have deemed more important than all the others: profession.

I want to say right away that this is not about money. I have plenty of money (lie) and I plan on having plenty of money in life (another lie). At the very least, I plan on not spending all the money I earn on onion rings, cheap vodka, and those crane machines where the crane dips into the pile of stuffed animals and you have to try to get one of the stuffed animals in the claws of the crane (biggest lie of all). No sir. Not me.

But profession is most important because it is the one trait that can be most useful to me. If I’m going to pick just one characteristic in a soulmate to make such an important decision, why not pick the one that would be most helpful to me? Besides, things like looks and personality really don’t matter to me anymore. I have resigned myself to the fact that I’m going to marry a troll who is a total bitch and throws lit matches at me in my sleep. So if I’m going to marry this pyromaniac troll, she might as well be a doctor and get me drugs easily.

And that brings us to the Top 5 Most Desirable Professions in a Soulmate for yours truly. Remember, all of you have to do is have one of these jobs and all this - [running hands up and down body, stopping at crotch, simulating masturbation, stopping, running hands up and down body again] - can be yours.

1) Doctor
You probably could have guessed this one. In addition to being borderline addicted to prescription drugs (anti-anxiety meds; sleeping pills; painkillers; muscle relaxers; anything oval, round, white, off-white, blue, or multi-colored; etc), I am a tremendous hypochondriac. The double whammy of having someone to prescribe me all the drugs I want for the rest of my life and the luxury of being calmed by a certified professional when I wake in the middle of the night convinced that I have cholera makes doctor an easy choice for most desirable profession for my soulmate.

2) Lawyer
Simply put, I break a lot of laws. I don’t know how it happens, but it does. Some people are good at sports, some can draw beautiful pictures, some have a knack for languages; I have a knack for getting drunk and starting garbage fires or throwing trash cans through windows. It’s just my little cross to bear.

Having a lawyer for a wife would save me a lot of money on legal expenses and make my life better in the big picture. Whereas before if I were on the subway and wanted to punch someone reading the paper, I’d think, “I don’t know – public defenders suck and getting a lawyer’s gonna cost me at least $400, so I’d better not do it”, if I were married to a lawyer I’d think, “Fuck punching this asshole – I’m gonna beat him with my sneaker! That’s assault with a deadly weapon and I don’t give a shit - my wife’s a lawyer!” The result: fun times for everyone. Except the guy I beat with my sneaker, but he was asking for it anyway.

3) Psychiatrist
You know, I originally thought that psychiatrist would be good because I may have some slight mental problems that could use sorting out, but on second thought, I don’t think having a psychiatrist wife is a good idea. I’m pretty impressionable and I don’t want my spouse manipulating me with psychobabble. She can do that with sex, like normal couples.

4) Chef
Not as high on the list as you thought, eh? The reason is simple. I love food as much as the next fat guy, but I can pick up the phone and for $15 get a top of the line chicken parm delivered to my door. You can’t just dial a number and get cheap and effective legal advice or call and have a shady Puerto Rican guy named “Flipper” come to your house with drugs and pills (wait, scratch that second one).

The benefits of having a chef for a wife are pretty obvious. I’m actually getting kinda randy just thinking about all the culinary delights that I would enjoy. I have to say though that I think our relationship would ultimately be strained if my chef/wife ever got lazy (“Frosted Flakes for breakfast? Fucking Frosted Flakes? What happened to crepes filled with poached eggs, sautéed baby spinach and prosciutto or pancakes flambéed with bananas and nutella? You know what, go to your mother’s! I need some alone time!”)

5) Cop
Contrary to what you may have read on the internet or heard on “Extra”, I do have a penis and testicles (barely). However, that is about where my manliness ends. The list of things I'm afraid of includes but is not limited to: bugs, thunder, ceiling fans, ghosts, loud-ringing telephones, darkness, mirrors, vacuum cleaners, needles, dishwashers, red things, flushing toilets, creaking noises, anything elastic, blenders, anything green, and light.

You can't put a price on the piece of mind that would come with being married to a cop. Sure, you'd constantly be worried about her getting harmed while on duty, but let's focus on the positives here, ok? Anytime I saw a waterbug or thought I heard a burglar or there was loud thunder, I could turn to my cop wife and be comforted knowing that she has a gun and knows how to use it. Two other bonuses: the obvious sexual fantasies ("taze me!") and like being married to a lawyer, being married to a cop gives me certain license with my penchant for crime.

HONORABLE MENTIONS:

Cab Driver – I'd like to take more cabs. A discount would be nice.

Librarian – I don’t know...something about the nerdiness and all those sexy books just do it for me. Bonus points if glasses on a chain are involved.

Big Cat Trainer – Not much is sexier than a woman and a big cat. Such beautiful, sexual creatures (the cats, not women).

Teacher – Just so during sex I can say, “Was this in the lesson plan? Huh? Who’s teaching who now? Come on – what’s the state capital of Vermont? Montpelier, bitch! Montpelier!!!”

Lifeguard – I don’t swim, but I imagine if I did this would be very helpful.

[Please be advised that I realize that bartender is not on this list. Any combination of me and someone who can get me free booze is not a good idea and would only result in complete destruction of myself, the woman, and everything in a 300 mile radius. I don't usually do this, but I'm showing some restraint here and I'd like your support. Thank you.]

A Drink With Honesty

I slipped in from the cold, rainy streets that stank of garbarge and entered the warm confines of your local friendly neighborhood bar, the stench shifting right away to stale beer, cigarettes, and sex. This is a womb, and I have begun my daily regression back into its slick amphibian comfort, one pint at a time. Amongst some circles, this was truly heaven. Two in the afternoon, a jukebox on the lowest setting, quietly humming out some 70's power anthem, and the stiffest drinks this side of 3 dollars. There were no Ambercrombie clad elbows to bang up against here. No distracted young bartenders to scream at for your attention or your money. No harsh looks, and no stink eye. Just a lonely dank little dive bar nestled under the train tracks, it's only proof of establishment a flickering neon sign that flashed one magical word: OPEN. It's where I met you, that cold and dismal Tuesday afternoon, and there I left a little piece of myself, lost forever in a dusty old bottle of Tanqueray.

Perhaps Fate brought us together that day, or perhaps some crueler bitch like Eris decided to pull the strings and snip and tear and tie them back together in a slipknot, just waiting for one of us to stick our necks in and jump off the chair. I sauntered in there, not quite really wanting a drink but just really to BE THERE - sometimes the cool enclosure of a shitty bar is the greatest therapy for a man like me - Boozer. Sinner. Saint. The bartender was a great big burly bastard of a son of a bitch. Six foot tall and just as wide, his head and face shaven bald, eyebrows as well, making him look very much like some gigantic mutant baby born and bred to crack skulls and sling well drinks. Random characters straight out of a Dickens novel squatted and hunkered down in the darker corners of the bar, whispering secrets to themselves and paranoid warnings whenever they eyed me as I sat down on a tattered leather stool. The titanic infant / beast slid a dirty highball glass filled with liquid fire at me, and went about his business of wiping down the bar intersperced with periods of staring blankly at the news on the black and white television hanging in the corner, or coughing up bloody chunks of cancer cells into an ancient hankerchief. To hesitate is to slowly die a coward's death, so of course you chuckled to yourself as I toasted to nothing in particular and slammed it down my gullet, dry heaving and pounding the bar immediately afterwards.

What the fuck is so funny?, I laughed towards your general direction. "You. This bar. The motherfucker who stole my car keys. Iraq. Crack. And all that. THAT'S what's so funny, little man."

Oooooooh, you filthy little bird you. You had a voice like the sound of a dead cat smashing into a pane of stained glass, and a laugh like Death itself. How could I have missed you, sitting there at the other end of the bar, cloaked in the shadows behind a wall of cigarette smoke? Of course, my own indifference or lack of perception didn't stop you from walking on over and sitting down next me, not afraid to reveal yourself in the light. 40 odd years took a rough toll on you, that's for sure, but there still exists that beautiful 16 year old girl, clad in pink chiffon and dancing awkwardly on your first date...but now she hides behind a roadmap of laugh lines, crow's feet, and scars. But who am I to judge? You never once asked me for a drink, and that, I told myself the day after, is the only reason I kept talking to you. But we both knew better, now didn't we? I'm fascinated by human tragedy and misfortune, and you my dear, were the train wreck to brighten my day. Behind those bloodshot eyes, the color of azure flashed brilliantly when we spoke and laughed at my jokes, never once leaving my own, even to the point of uncomfortability. And nothing was sacred, nothing offlimits by the time my fifth gin and tonic hit my stomach. So when I asked you where the hell you got that ugly-as-sin scar that ran jagged across your cheek like a lightning bolt, you laughed it off like a woman possessed and told me it was an old trophy from carolling with Hells Angels in Pasadena one Christmas Eve.

You told me the tales of how you were used to be the highest paid prostitute in all of Reno back in the 70's, a high-speed drag race of a lifetime spent snorting crystal meth, shooting cocaine into the spaces between your toes, and dying alone underneath an overpass on the New Jersey Turnpike one winter night in the late 80's, only to be saved by a passing group of Jehovah's Witnesses looking to hand out clothes and food to the homeless. I loved you even more so when you told me you played along with their foolish self-righteous ways and stole each and every one of their wallets in the middle of the night before hitchhiking up to New York City to escape it all, finally settling into a telemarketing job in Jersey and living the rest of your miserable existance here in this squallid nameless bar. Hell, even when you dropped the bomb into my lap and told me your were dying of liver disease, and laughed it off by buying us both Lemon Drops, I knew at that very moment you weren't lying. You weren't trying to sucker me into giving you the contents of my wallet. You weren't looking for a shoulder to cry on and a warm bed to piss in. No. Nothing of the sort, my lovely.

You simply wanted to drink with someone. You didn't want to drink alone.

Dusk settled in quickly, as did the booze inside our heads, and I asked you if you wanted a ride home. Not out of wanting meaningless sex, no, neither of us had any desire, that much was clear. I just didn't want to leave you alone in the bar like that, and you the same. You declined, not wanting to taint me with your poison; not wanting to bring me into your misery any more than you already had.

Here's to Juniper Lee, may she forever find solace in death where life left her alone

Tom Sizemore Is King

Tom Sizemore just keeps getting better. Just when you think he can’t top himself after releasing his own homemade porn, he goes and claims that he banged Paris Hilton.

The thing is, I would believe him if his story wasn’t so far-fetched. Sizemore “heard the repeated clicks of a cigarette lighter and followed the sound to his gym, where he saw Hilton, and suggested rather explicitly that the two should have sex.”

Survey says? No way. That’s too, too…porno-like. That doesn’t happen in the real world, even in the world of celebrities. I’ve seen every Paris Hilton sex tape and I know that she’s not coy enough for something like that. If Sizemore had said,

“I had a party at my house and went to take a shit and found Paris passed out in my bathroom with a bottle of champagne. She attacked my penis like a piece of kielbasa, passed out, and I made her sleep in my pool house. It was pretty uneventful.”

I would have believed him. But the clicking lighter and sex on the gym equipment? No way. Hell, I think I’ve seen that actual scene in “Masseuse 3”, starring Stacey Valentine, Jill Kelly, Raylene, and Dale Debone. So don’t try to tell me that actually happened, Sizemore.

But I wait with bated breath for his next misadventure. If I had to guess, I’m thinking it’s got to involve either a) a church or other house of worship or b) something racist. At least I hope it involves one of those two. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.

Karaoke

On Tuesday night I went to a birthday party for a female friend (actually, two female friends) at a karaoke bar. That means tons of drunk girls with full access to a very loud microphone. Yikes.

Now I’m not one to throw stones and come down on karaoke. Last August, I gave arguably the greatest karaoke performance in the history of man, in Florida, actually threatening the structure of the hotel because I received such thunderous applause. It was, and always will be, the greatest moment of my life. So before we continue, know that I like karaoke.

However, on this particular night, I wasn’t “feeling it.” I was suffering some gastrointestinal distress (thank you Pomodoro’s Vodka) so I couldn’t get drunk enough to let my inhibitions fly and sing my enlarged heart out.

But the good news is that I was able to sit on the sidelines and ponder. When I wasn’t thinking about the gargantuan breasts of the bartender and waitress (seriously, they were SPECTACULAR – and you know I’m not fucking around when I use capital letters like that), I took notice of all the people singing karaoke, dividing them into the eleven main types of karaoke-ers below.

The group of screaming girls
By far, the most abundant source of noise, I mean, singing, at the karaoke bar. The group can consist of anywhere from two to ten girls standing on stage, screaming like a gang of deaf mutes to a girl power song (number one example: “I Will Survive”). Those girls that didn’t have the cajones to get one stage to sing will stand in front of the stage and root on their friends wailing their hearts out. Just a messy, messy scene. If I weren’t so lonely, I’d say that I couldn’t date a girl who partakes in this, but times are tough.

The black guy who can really sing
Every karaoke bar has one. He’ll get on stage and do a random D’Angelo, R. Kelly or Gerald Levert song just go OFF, singing every note perfectly, getting way too into him, and doing every noise, squeal, and extended “Oh yeah” and “Yeah baby” that his hero sings.

But however good his singing voice, he is looked down upon by the audience. His intense effort, seriousness, and high pitched “Oh yeaahh, yeah-yeah-yeah, you know I’m gon’ love you right, girl” turns the audience off. Instead of getting compliments like, “Man, you sound exactly like R. Kelly!” he hears, “Man, you need a hobby or some shit” and countless American Idol jokes. Poor guy.

The fat chick who can really sing
The fat chick who can really sing is closely related to the black guy who can really sing, with one main difference: he’s black and she’s fat. But another example of someone getting on stage and going for at all, leaving the audience feeling more saddened than awed.

The unattractive girl who after she sings is much hotter
One time, many years ago, I was at a karaoke bar in Boston and this chick got up on stage. She was somewhere between not good looking to average, but didn’t have any major physical deformities (giant head, one arm, moustache, tail, etc).

Anyway, she got up there and did a near-perfect Janis Joplin impression to “Piece Of My Heart” and every single guy in the bar was in love with her from the first note. It was an incredible transformation from meek average girl to sexual angel of sin and lust (or something). She didn’t have the scratchy voice like Joplin, but she nailed it. I remember my friends and I got quiet when she started singing and when she was finished, my buddy Tom broke the silence saying, “Well, that was just about the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

I didn’t see her on this particular Tuesday night, but I know she exists. Keep an eye out for her. In fact, you might want to hit on OK-looking girls at the karaoke bar hoping that they get on stage and do something hot. That’s called buying low and selling high.

The Kirk Gibson or "Gibby"
For whatever reason, he doesn't sing at karaoke bars...ever. Perhaps you've had one or two or ten drinks in yer belly and you try to cajole, harang, or intimidate him into singing. For whatever reason, he refuses to get on stage. Maybe he "isn't drunk enough". Maybe "all the songs the karaoke dude has sucks." Maybe he just doesn't "want to make an ass out" of himself. Maybe he's "got really intense diarrhea and cannot be away from the toilet for more than two minutes". Whatever. Over the years you have never seen him do anything at a karaoke bar but drink and make snarky remarks about everyone who gets on stage except for that drunk-ass Pancho who sings "Strokin'" before he passes out on the bar because that guy fucking rocks. Anyways, one night you are at a karaoke bar, and you don't expect "Gibby" to sing, because it's just not in the cards.

Until one night, you notice that he has hobbled his way onto the stage. He looks in rough shape. You almost sense how much pain he is in being up there. You hope for the best, a miracle, but you feel that the deck is stacked against him. But somehow it all comes together, and he knocks it out of the park. Whether it is his version of David Lee Roth's "Just A Gigolo" or Guns-n-Roses "Paradise City" (all eighty minutes of it), the song and performance just bring the house down...and then he never sings again. All of this is like Kirk Gibson in the 1988 World Series: wasn't supposed to play, suddenly appears in the dugout, hobbles out to the plate, belts out a memorable, emotional game-winning home run, and never appears in the World Series again. Hence, the Karaoke Gibby.

The random Asian/Southeast Asian guy who lives for the stage
A karaoke bar staple. This is arguably my favorite character at the karaoke bar and this guy was in full effect on Tuesday night. Up to the stage went a conservative looking bespectacled Asian guy in a red North Face jacket with the sleeves rolled up, and he proceeded to bring the house down with an impassioned performance of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing”. When it was over, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Just tremendous in every way.

The clown
This would be the category that I fit into, I think. The guy who gets up there to do something funny, like dedicate a song to a girl or sing something retarded (i.e. Tina Turner’s “Private Dancer” or The Scorpion’s “Winds of Change”). Of course, this has varying degrees of success and can either be an enjoyable experience or leave the singer and audience feeling awkward and ashamed. With me, it’s mostly the latter. Damn.

The group of douchebags/guidos/meatheads who sing a popular song
These guys will get on stage to show off their new striped shirts (which of course are opened to reveal their pumped pecs and wife beaters), their awesomely gelled hair, and their muscles and sing something dumb like “Hit Me One More Time” or another corny pop song.

Of course, the performance stinks and anyone with an IQ over 90 and a moderate amount of self-esteem either shakes their head in disgusts or laughs at these guys, but what amazes/saddens me is how many dumb (yet super hot) girls go nuts for this stuff. I mean, it is a rule that really hot girls have to be dumb and go for dumb guys? Did I miss this somewhere along the line? If I were a dumb hot chick, I’d think that maybe I’d think to myself, “I’m hot, but very dumb. And being dumb sucks. So since I can have any guy I want, I’m going to go with a smart guy, a guy who knows that ‘longitude’ is not a way to brag about the length of one’s penis. This way, maybe my kids will be smart and won’t have all the problems I faced in my dumb life.” But I guess that never happens and if I ever want to fulfill my dream of making it with a hoop-earring wearing, busty and tan hot mama, I’m gonna have to hit the gym, salon, and Banana Republic. Crap.

The drunk guy who has potential but then it gets sad
This is my other favorite character. This is the blitzed guy who gets up on stage to the cheers of his friends, who are expecting a stellar, alcohol-fueled performance. The drunk guy who has potential but then it gets sad will soak in the cheers, waving to his buddies as he slowly rocks back and forth on stage, drunk off his ass. Now is his time.

Then the song will start, and it’s all downhill from there. He’ll mumble through the most of the song and forget the rest, not realizing that the words appear right on the screen in front of him. His friends, who had been cheering, will look at him in disgust and start heckling him as he struggles through “Billy Jean” in a monotone voice. Most of the time, disappointed with his performance, he’ll simply walk off the stage mid-song. And everyone is sad. Except me of course, who is standing by the bar laughing and looking at the bartender’s cleavage, wondering why I woke up in an abandoned car that morning. But that’s just me.

The guy/girl who gets way too into it
This guy (or girl) can take my different forms. Perhaps, like two examples above, he can really sing and gets very emotional and into the song. Or perhaps, this guy can’t sing but still gets into the song anyway, because he thinks he sounds exactly like Robert Plant. Or perhaps even this guy is so wrapped up in the majesty that is “Closer to the Heart”, he starts dancing around and doing the air guitar.

Any way you cut it, he needs to relax, come down of the stage, and sit the next few plays out. There’s a little bit of this in every karaoke performer and that’s ok, but when you rejoin your friends at the table and they say, “Dude, what the fuck was that?”, you’re doing something wrong.

The professional
This guy is the perfect combination. He knows his voice and range, has good stage presence, has his timing down, and delivers a smooth performance. Rare is the person who can make everyone at the karaoke place happy, but this guy can do it. “Magic” is the only word that comes to mind.

[I read the above a paragraph over and debated changing “guy” to “guy/girl” and “his” to “his/her” to lessen the homoerotic overtones, but fuck it. I stand by everything I write. Mostly.]

*********************************************************************************

So there are the ten types of karaoke-er. The question is: which one are you? I would say you’re probably The random Asian/Southeast Asian guy who lives for the stage, only because over 87% of my readers live in Asia, Southeast Asia, and Eurasia. Christ, I’m like a god in Hindustan. Or maybe it's one of the other “-stan” countries. Whatever.

A Life's Lesson

If I’m not careful, this post will degenerate into a word orgy about men and how they are dumb and women and how they suck, so I’m going to try to limit myself here. Not because I have anything better to do, and not because I’m lazy (though I certainly am lazy), but I’m trying to get the posts away from “hateful tirade” and most toward “reasonably coherent complaining”. Wish me luck.

One important thing I learned this weekend:

Never underestimate how long a group of guys will watch a decent looking girl play pool poorly in the hopes of getting in her pants.

On Monday night, I went out with about ten guys...and one girl. Rest assured, the girl was not my friend. All my female friends moved out of my area a year or so ago, and since then I haven’t been able to find replacements. I assume this is because every time I get close to a woman (emotionally) I rub myself against her (physically) and usually any friendship that was building between us gets washed away (or rather, wiped away). But such is life.

This girl was a friend of one of the guys we went out with. It was a larger than normal crew; both my friend Brian and I had friends in town, and we met up with more friends, so we were rolling thick.

And we were having a good time. Beers and shots were flowing freely, as it was nice to have so many friends gathered in one place.

I couldn’t really determine the connection between the girl, whose name I don’t remember but who I’ll christen Jessica, and our mutual friend, my buddy Mike. She was just sort of there, no questions asked. And she was a nice enough girl and pretty good-looking. I harbor no ill will toward her, nor do I blame her for how my friends behaved through the course of the night.

At the beginning, things were fine and normal. Everyone stood around drinking, talking to each other. There were comments made on the side between the guys (“She’s a PYT, eh?” and “She’s got a slammin’ lil’ body” and “Is that John over there praying with the guy in the wheelchair?”), but for the most part, everyone was civil and well-behaved.

But as the night progressed and more booze was consumed, I noticed changes in the way my friends acted around her. Chests were stuck out and puffed up. Body language changed, was more confident, louder. The guys started standing around Jessica, hoping to be closest to her. Each man subtly jockeyed for positioning in the race for her affections.

It was more and more apparent that this was becoming a competition for her. This was never admitted between my friends, but it was true nonetheless. It was as though after enough booze, each man had made a decision: “I’m going to get on this girl. But first I’m going to get another beer. But I am totally going to get on her. Oh yes, she will be mine.”

And so we left the first bar and went to the second, an awesome place that has 32oz beers for $7 (trust me, in most bars in Jersey, this is a steal). At this bar was a pool table, which was the chance for my friends to show off their pool playing to Jessica, akin to when we were in 7th grade and the star basketball player got all the girls while I talked to them (the girls) on the phone about how the star b-ball player was really a dick and they deserved better, perhaps someone who could read above a 4th grade level and knew that the US had a president, not a king.

Once the pool playing began, what followed was a scene that appeared to be adapted from the African plains. My friends (male lions) lorded over their domain (the pool table) while Jessica (the lioness) lolled about. Guys got territorial, each tried to teach her to play pool, and there were some rivalries going on. Each guy did his best pool shark imitation, leaning over her, teaching her to shoot. Then she'd play against guys and with other guys, all the while they'd be refuting each other's pool knowledge, putting each other down to look better in her eyes. It was like the way lions strut around and fight to show how tough they are to the female lion. It was not only primitive, it was primal.

Where was I in this whole process, you ask? I was playing the role of the "slow" lion. You know, the one that sits in the shade, laying around in his own feces, waiting for others to kill something so he can eat it, and occasionally roaring (not to intimidate, but to complain). I've never done well when there's a competition for a girl among a group of guys. I think this is because of my delicate mixture of low self-esteem, apathy, and pride (and yes, I know low self-esteem and pride are opposites, but bear with me).

For one, I don't know if I've mentioned this, but I'm not exactly "all that". I am chubby (on a good day), have bad hair, have a weird speaking voice, and when I talk to women at bars I spit all over them. Not to mention my baby penis and pea-testicles. So when I'm in a bar in a competitive environment for a woman, I will defer to the other, fitter males present. Hell, I could be in a homeless shelter and still have to defer to the the other, fitter males, but I digress.

Secondly, I really don't care that much about chasing tail. If going after a girl means that I'm going to have to forsake having a good time and subtly compete with my friends, fuck that. I know that most times when I go after a girl I usually go home with a slice of pizza and a chicken roll, so I'm better off saving my energy and effort and having a good time with my friends.

Thirdly, and probably most importantly, I don't want said girl to think that I'm just another asshole vying for her attention. I'd rather go with the attitude of, "Well, you ain't that special to begin with, so I'm not gonna go out of my way to impress you because I've had a few beers. Go with one of the other geeks." I know this makes me sound like an egomaniac and very bitter, but, well, I am a bitter egomaniac. You suck too.

I wish there was a happier ending to this story, but there ain't. After watching the guys watch this girl play the worst pool that humankind was ever seen for a solid two hours, she got a phone call, stormed out of the bar, and was gone. Poof. No one knew why, no one knew what happened, and no one said anything about the little competition. When it was all said and done, all that effort, wasted, for nothing. Sheesh.

I'm done. I can't wait to get my eHarmony profile going. Or perhaps I'll just put an add on craigslist like:

Look, I'm tired. About me:

Pros:
1) I have some money
2) My friends mostly like me
3) I like to think I'm a little bit famous, or at least known
4) I have very well-trimmed pubic hair

Cons:
1) I am not good-looking and in terrible shape
2) I drink perhaps a little too much
3) I pretty much just want someone to have sex with
4) I am vengeful

If you are between 21 and 30, live in New Jersey, and most of your friends would describe you as "doable", please send a picture. Please, no fatties. No small boobied-women either. Thank you for your time.

Keep your fingers crossed.

The Great American Diet

I have a confession: I am on a diet.

Yes, I know, I know. It's very out of character. I've never before limited what I eat, except to say occasionally, "You know what? I don't want extra cheese on the pizza - it's just too much. I just had a milkshake and a grilled cheese, so if I have extra cheese on the pie I might go into a dairy seizure or coma or some shit. I saw it happen to some dude once on the Learning Channel and it was fucked up." And I know that after years of being fat and drawing strength and power from my girth, if I were somehow to lose weight, like some 21st century obese cokehead Sampson who likes to shoot cars with a bb gun when he's high, I might lose the source of my power and my entire identity.

The good news is that there's absolutely no way this diet is going to succeed. I have a better chance of going to heaven than I do of slimming down. It just ain't gonna happen.

That will not stop me from talking about it though, because hey - it's something to write about. And though I know as much about dieting as I do about pleasing a woman or not masturbating in the corner of my apartment building's laundry room late at night, I am pleased to announce John's Guide to Dieting.

"John's Guide to Dieting"
by John
illustrations by John
edited by John, with the help of SpellCheck
thought of while pooping by John

I figure that after years of get rich quick schemes, I should try creating a diet. People will do and pay just about anything to look and feel good, and I am the right mix of schemer, deviant, and charismatic leader to manipulate a large amount of people with low self-esteem into giving me money. And look at me - I'm fat as shit! All I have to do is take a couple "before" pictures, go on this diet and lose 100 pounds, take a couple of "after" pictures, and then sit back and watch the checks come in. It's really very simple, you see. Now on with the diet...

You see, dieting is fundamentally simple. Like Communism, witch hunts, and Jim Crow laws, it makes perfect sense on paper and seems easy enough: all one needs to do is make moderate changes in lifestyle to reap countless rewards, like being able to walk up a flight of stairs without collapsing or rising from your chair at your desk without your knees buckling under you so that you fall and hit your fat head on your keyboard. However, it's the application of dieting that's difficult. And here's where I come in to help.

There are three things you need to think about when you diet:

1) Why you want to stop being a fat fuck

2) Why you are currently a fat fuck

3) Stop being a fat fuck already

If you follow these three steps (and eat a lot less and exercise at least one hour a day), you are guaranteed to lose weight. Now in the words of Jesus Christ Himself, "Let's briga-briga-break it down!" (Editor's Note: we were not able to confirm if Jesus actually said "Let's briga-briga-break it down!" by press time, but from what we know of Him personally and from our Bible study groups, we assume that He did in fact say it)

1) Why you want to stop being a fat fuck

There are all sorts of reasons for dieting. Some, like me, want to diet because they fear that they may drop dead at any time, as since they graduated from college they have exclusively eaten from the following food groups: booze (beer, wine, hard alcohol, homemade wine that was actually just vodka mixed with apple juice); the fried family (chicken fingers, french fries, onion rings, nachos dipped in a fryer, sticks of butter dipped in a fryer, your finger dipped in a fryer); the cream family (ice cream, whipped cream, sour cream, cream cheese, hand cream); cheap booze (any liter of alcohol that can be purchased for under $6, very old Pepsi, homemade "sangria" made from $4 tequila, homemade wine [see above], and rubbing alcohol); miscellaneous (a tire, two folding chairs, a couple of pens, and a dog); and of course, methamphetamines.

Others, also like me, want to diet because they are not getting the attention of the opposite sex. They're tired of going out with their friends and being ignored by the attractive people they lust after, something that bothers them so much that they go home and light their arm on fire or immediately buy a gun. Therefore, they want to make a change so that they too can be viewed with the same lust they view others. Also (from what I can remember), having sex feels pretty good, so they'd like a piece of that action if possible.

I personally have another reason for dieting, a combination of the two above: I firmly believe that if given the proper tests, my doctor would declare that I am not healthy enough for sexual activity. There is no doubt in my mind about this. My heart races when I stand up quickly or pee, and how I can't even look at a flight of stairs without needing to take a nap. I can't imagine what a round or two of passionate, consensual love-making would do to me, since after masturbating I need at least a week to recuperate, having to stay in bed twenty-two hours a day and stay away from operating any and all heavy machinery.

So the first step is knowing why you want to diet. Not only that, you must focus on these reasons, never allowing yourself to forget the ultimate goal: "One day, when the opportunity presents itself, I would like to have an orgasm without worry whether or not my heart will explode."

2) Why you currently are a fat fuck

The second step, in case you didn't notice from the "2)" and the bold text above, is figuring out why you currently are a fat fuck. Is it because you eat unhealthy foods? Is it because you eat a lot? Is it because your whole family is fat? Is it because you don't move unless you absolutely have to? Is it for all these reasons, in addition to believing that deep down fat really is sexy?

All these reasons apply to me (well, except the whole fat being sexy thing - believe me, that's the last thing I'm thinking when I'm in the shower whipping the wash cloth onto the vast expanse that is my back, trying to clean areas that I have not been able to touch nor have been exposed to direct sunlight since pre-school).

I think my biggest problem is portions. My doctor and I spoke out this the last time I visited him and tried to score some painkillers, sleeping pills, anti-anxiety meds, laxatives, whatever. He made a great point when he said, "John, I don't believe in the whole 'low carb' thing. Think about it - look at all the Orientals. The main staple of their diet is rice, and they're very skinny - and, might I add, great at math. The problem is portions. How many times have you split a box of spaghetti with a roommate? Do you know that there are eight servings of pasta in a box? It's portions, not the carbs. And please, put your penis back in your pants. There's nothing wrong with it, and I know you're just saying something's wrong with it so that I'll touch it. You are a sick man. A sick man with a baby's penis."

I just like to eat a lot. For example, a lot of times I'll order a large pizza with the justification that I can eat some now, and still have enough left over for another meal or two. Sadly, twenty minutes after the pizza arrives, after a lot of screaming and tears, all that's left is an empty box and half of that little white plastic table they put in the middle of the pizza so the box top doesn't get crushed onto the cheese (I keep forgetting that this is NOT candy, something I don't realize until I'm choking on the fucking thing).

Another problem: beer. For all it's wondrous qualities (giver of strength, wisdom, sexual prowess, an excuse to do/say whatever you want, object of blame when you "accidentally" download three gay porn clips), beer isn't the best thing for you and your belly. It's basically a lot of calories and carbs mixed with just the right amount of poison so that when the proper amount is ingested you think, "You know what? It can't be too hard to fly. I think those who tried to do it before and failed were just pussies. I'm gonna go to the top floor of the parking lot to test this out."

So if you are seriously trying to lose weight, you're going to have to cut down on the beer. Fortunately, that doesn't mean you have to stop getting messed up. Straight alcohol is very low in calories, and will get you much drunker much more quickly. Also, to my knowledge, pills are very low in calories as well (thought I only went to med school for one year - long story).

3) Stop being a fat fuck already.

You have decided why you need to stop being so fat. You have figured out precisely why you are fat. And now the hard part: stop being a fat fuck already.

First, you have to change your eating habits. Cut down on the bad stuff, eat more of the good stuff. Different people have different approaches to this. I'm trying one of those diets in which you eat six small meals a day instead of three giant meals. My daily diet is supposed to consist of:

- Morning: two eggs, oatmeal
- Mid-morning: protein bar
- Lunch: salad with tuna or chicken
- Mid-afternoon: protein bar
- Dinner: piece of chicken, fish, or beef with vegetables
- After dinner (if necessary): protein shake

I thought this would work, first and foremost because the protein bars are delicious and quite filling. There's one flavor called "double fudge brownie", and believe it or not, it tastes kinda like a brownie, albeit a stale brownie that looks like a turd. Also, the protein shakes, though I won't be confusing them with milkshakes anytime soon, aren't too bad either. And I like eggs, oatmeal, chicken, tuna, and beef! Doesn't this look so good on paper???

!!!

Sadly, I have not been able to follow this verbatim. I use yesterday's record of consumption as an example, with the diet prescribed as above and the actual food I ate in parentheses:

- Morning: two eggs (with three types of cheese - monterey jack, american, mozzarella - in a tortilla), oatmeal (two sausage patties)
- Mid-morning: protein bar (protein bar)
- Lunch: salad with tuna or chicken (chicken caesar salad with approximately one cup of caesar dressing and two- to three-hundred croutons, rice pudding)
- Mid-afternoon: protein bar (protein bar)
- Dinner: piece of chicken, fish, or beef with vegetables (cheeseburger (with lettuce), fries, large Nestea, half pint of ice cream)
- After dinner (if necessary): protein shake (Nesquik chocolate milk)

So this really is the hard part. However, I will remain "committed", especially since I just spent $120 on protein shakes and protein bars, because it's not like I have a credit card bill that's so high I'm embarrassed to write the amount. So spending over $100 on protein shit is completely acceptable and fiscally responsible.

But in the battle of losing weight, dieting is only the one half of the equation. The other half is exercising. I can not speak to this at this juncture, as I have been advised by my doctor not to exercise for at least four weeks. This is not because I sustained some glorious injury in a game of sport, but because I might get athlete's foot. Admittedly, the last time I had it was in high school, but it was terrible, terrible athlete's foot. I mean, it was GROSS. My feet were literally rotting, and going from pink to red to purple to blue throughout the day, and smelled like a homeless guy's balls. Not that I've ever smelled a homeless guy's balls (sober). But it was bad. Really, really bad. And that was over 10 years ago. The scars have yet to heal.


So there you have it: my guide to dieting. I know, I know - it's pretty fucking awesome, and you're welcome. All I ask for is that when you follow it, for everyone pound you lose you send me $10. I don't think that's asking too much. They say you can't put a price on neither health nor beauty, but I disagree - it's $10 per pound.

[If you are too poor to send me $10 per pound lost, please contact me and we can agree on something mutually beneficial (and by "mutually beneficial" I mean "you give me a handjob and I don't spooge all over the back seat of your Chevy Lumina but rather into a perfectly positioned soiled pair of boxers")]

Good luck. With the right combination of thinking positively, eating right, and exercising, you can work your way to a new a better you!

(Or just throw up after you eat - you know, whatever really. Who gives a shit.)

Who Invited Carrie?

Have you had your high school reunion yet? Did you go? I didn't, and I remember the day I got the letter in the mail, a few years ago...

I thought I could just easily erase it from my memory and let it go like a greased up kidney stone, but alas, this would not pass as effortlessly as I hoped. Had it really been almost 10 years? Even worse, what the fuck had I been doing for the past 10 years anyway? I'm pretty sure my guidence counselor hadn't fit "Drunken Degenerate Hack Writer" into the equation when we sat down and discussed my future plans some 10 long years ago. Hell, I wanted to be an astronaut. Now I'm just an ass, with my head in the clouds and one foot in an earthly grave. Why the sudden pang of angst? What foul and unwanted beast doth sank it's evil claws into my brain? A simple 8x10 letter that arrived in the mail.

I checked the mail like any other day, stumbling outside and cursing the dreaded day star for being so bold and brilliant to reveal my pasty visage to the neighborhood. I clicked open my mailbox, expecting the usual daily deluge of bills, paternity suits, eviction notices, my monthly issues of Modern Drunkard, Swank, and Highlights For Children, along with a possible check for that one porno flick I made, only to discover that motherfucker staring me in the face. I gasped and ripped it open, fingers trembling not from drunken tremors but from terror, and threw it to the ground cursing the heavens after I had read it.

"Dear Johnny,

You are cordially invited to attend "Douchebag Cokehead Preppy Fuckstick" High's class of '94 HIGH SCHOOL REUNION! See your old friends! Enjoy a wonderful dinner and open bar! Catch up on old times and discuss future plans! RSVP ASAP STFU!"

Damn them, those bastards. They found me. All these years, after switching up my address a total of 247 times and managing to successfully avoid a total of 37 collection agencies, somehow my shitty high school where I spent 2 years (I dropped out, fuck off) plotting the demise of each and every shithead that ever pissed me off long before the Columbine kids made it seem "trendy", those sons of bitches found me and wanted to drag me back. Not this time. Fuck that, and fuck them. I humilate myself enough everyday just walking to the corner store for cigarettes, let alone have to subject myself to mingling with the cocksuckers who didn't want anything to do with me or my friends so long ago. Besides, now that I'm back living close to where I grew up, I see those motherfuckers everyday at the other end of the bar I frequent...and I STILL manage to avoid having to talk to them. Now you want to trap me in a sweaty VFW hall with EVERYONE I went to school with? Awwwwwww, hell no.

Why, you may ask, is my school called Douchebag Cokehead Preppy Fuckstick High? Because that's what it was filled with, plain and simple. Nothing good could ever come from me going back and visiting the rest of those lousy fuckers.

Nothing.

Case in point, not too long ago a friend of mine, not a complete Douchebag Cokehead Preppy Fuckstick but still coming damn close, invited me to attend a ol' fashioned backyard keg party. "Everyone will be there, Johnny...EVERYONE. You have to go.", he said. Foolishly and already half drunk, I said sure. Now, I avoided such gatherings like a rampant case of the Tijuana Trots back in the day, because they always amounted to two things by the end of the night. One, a fight is going to break out, and two, the keg is going to be filled with some shitty watered down beer. Plus, I was never invited to these kinds of functions directly, on account that I just wasn't cool enough. I'm still not, but this time I accepted my fate and went to the house party. And when I got there, to no surprise at all, the party was all stink-eye and hard looks towards my direction. All I heard was "Who the hell's the dude with the nosering?" and "What the fuck? Is that motherfucker hitting on my chick? WHAT THE FUCK! He's drinking my beer too!". After three hours, I had managed to avoid 6 fights and drink 14 beers. A good night by count. After all the small talk, and sly jokes on their behalf without them realizing I was actually making fun of them, I settled into a comfortable mode of chain smoking and stealing shots when the hostess came up to me.

Oh Jessica, you scurvy Jew broad, you. I remembered a time back in high school when you were top shit, queen of all you oversaw, and a tyrant towards all the "lesser" people. Sure, you were hot, and you're still kinda hot now too, but I've fucked hotter chicks than you at a much cheaper cost. Now look at you. Stuck with two bastard kids, still living at home, working at the local post office and wasting your liver away at the sports bar. Finally, now you're on MY level, bitch. And there she was, standing in front of me, stinking like Camel Lights and Busch beer, yapping away at me about god knows whatever broads like her yap about when they're drunk, and for a split second I even thought I might be able to take this once unattainable trim and bang her hard and fast and proper in her bathroom. But then she said,

"Well fuck, it's been TOO long man, I haven't seen you in ages. I gotta go make the rounds again, but I'll see you around...

...Fred.

Oh hey, got any coke?"

Um, no, but I've been saving something for you for a looooong time. Bitch. Screw reunions and screw my high school. I'm going in there now like Carrie and burning that bitch down with my latent psychokinesis powers, motherfucker!

Still a goddamned social pariah and known in some circles as "Fred",
Johnny

The Kid Ain't His?

From country star Chris Cagle's website:

To All My Loyal Music Fans:"As many of you are aware, I had been anxiously awaiting the addition of a new baby to my life. The baby has been born and both mother and child are in good health. Since the birth, however, we have discovered that biologically, the child is not mine.

As excited as I was about becoming a new father, my disappointment is equally as strong. So out of respect for all that are involved, please allow this situation to remain private and know that I will not be commenting further on this very personal matter. I'm thanking you in advance for your kind cooperation and understanding."Chris Cagle

Um, ouch. I'm not sure which is worse: finding out that the baby you thought was yours is not actually yours OR finding out that the baby you thought was yours is not actually yours and posting it on your website.

I think I'd have taken a different tone if I were Chris Cagle. Something like:

To All My Loyal Music Fans:"As many of you are aware, I had been anxiously awaiting the addition of a new baby to my life. The baby has been born and both mother and child are in good health. Since the birth, however, we have discovered that biologically, the child is not mine. Yes, you read that correctly.

As excited as I was about becoming a new father, my disappointment is equally as strong. And by that I mean I threw my 'wife' down a flight of stairs and set her car and most of her clothes on fire after learning of this development. Please do not misunderstand me; I do not, in any way, condone spousal abuse. Never in my life had I laid hands on a woman. But you'd be surprised what you can do when you learn that your baby isn't yours because your 'wife' can't stop fucking everything in her line of vision.

[I use quotations around the word 'wife' because I though this child was 'mine', and am not sure what to believe anymore. The only things I know now for sure is that whiskey soothes and pain is real.]

So out of respect for all that are involved, please allow this situation to remain private and know that I will not be commenting further on this very personal matter. In the meantime, I will be going to Mexico for the extended future, bringing only two handguns and $14,526 in cash. By next Friday, I hope to be known to the locals as 'El Gringo de la Muerte'. I also hope to have collected the pieces of my shattered psyche by noon PST on Wednesday, October 26, 2005. If not, please turn on CNN or your local news station at that time. And may God help the citizens of Cuernavaca, the Mexican State Police, and Steve Winwood and the other members of Traffic.

I'm thanking you in advance for your kind cooperation and understanding."Chris Cagle

Yeah, that's more like it.

Roman Showers, Mexican Flowers

The other day, while I trapped at home without a warm wet hole to plunge my throbbing purple headed warrior into and the fridge devoid of any form of fermented hops and barley, the specter of a horrible memory came crashing down my mind's heavily barricaded door. The Ghost from Johnny Past threw me down onto the cigarette stained carpet floor and screeched into my ears the tale of a memory so horrible and ghastly I had only hoped it was forever erased from my mind through years of alcohol abuse and heavy concussions. Sadly, this was not the case, and now as my duty to the faithful readers of this high brow blog, I must prostrate myself upon the alter of embarrassment to tell you all this sordid tale.

I'll take you all back to a number of years ago. The place: Sunny Tijuana, Baja California. The mission: To bang some dirty beaner hookers on the cheap and make it out of Mexico back to the sunny shores of San Diego before the sun rose. I had taken that very same mission quite a number of times in the past few months while I lived under the Socialist thumb of the State of California, so what would make this time any different? On this occasion, my cousin had come to visit on vacation from New York, away from the iron clad rule of his wife and screeching kids, and wanted so desperately to experience Tijuana much in the way I, his little cousin, had been doing for the past year and half. Fine, I said. Be forewarned though, I pleaded, we of the twisted state of mind no longer dwell where normal people wouldn't even dare to dwell. We thrive on filth and depravity, cheap booze and even cheaper women. Your cousin Johnny is no longer the innocent, fresh faced little boy you once knew. Take my hand, and come with us now to the Zona Roja, a twisted and warped adult Disneyland where all your dreams and nightmares come true in one single night.

As many of you may know, Tijuana holds a special place in this cavernous black pit I call a heart. It's like my second home, because no matter where I live, Tijuana still calls to me in the middle of the night. I will most probably be buried in TJ, no doubt found in some piss puddle in a grimy alleyway, stabbed to death and vital organs removed for the black market, both balls and wallet emptied of their contents. Such is my fate, and I have chosen to accept it whole-heartedly. So on the night in question, a group of us all drove down past the border and proceeded to spend the next 6 hours consuming cheap Tecate and watered down Tequila, the bosoms of greasy wetback strippers bouncing merrily in our faces and hands in our laps. Hazy eyed, stinking like all of Mexico's collective waste, and with the Devil on my shoulder leading the way, I took my cousin and my small loyal group of twisted minds through a maze of back alleys toward the vilest, worst little whorehouse in all of Baja California...

...the Hotel Paris.

Oh, don't let the fancy name fool you. The Hotel Paris is a sewer built on the pimpled backs of a thousand venereal disease-ridden beaners, with a penchant for kidnappings and heroin overdoses. My kind of place. When one finally finds the bravery to search out such a place, be prepared to witness all kinds of human atrocity. The street it is located on is a haven for crippled and dying homeless, starving rabid dogs, human waste, and broken streetlights that flicker randomly like something out of Nightmare On Elm Street. We had barely avoided the advances of a footless and scarred up degenerate looking to prey on our innocent American souls, when there at the end of the block, was Satan's Playground. There the women of the night stood, shrouded in inky blackness and cat calling us over to their shadowy, pimply, hunchbacked advances. Even in the dim light, when up close, they were truly a horror to behold. Toothless maws cackled in broken English, faces caked in pancake batter makeup, their dress stained with grime and sweat. My cousin, a much wiser man than all of us, bravely decided against actually going inside the hotel and waited outside, while the rest of us stumbled into the front corridor like lambs to the slaughter.

The doorman, a one eyed granite slab of a Mexican, demanded 20 dollars from each of us, as a short doughy bat faced girl grabbed my arm and dragged me up the stairs, rambling on in Spanglish and stinking like 5 day old dogshit. Before I knew what was happening, she shoved me into a room and locked the door, cackling like a witch woman who had just kidnapped a young virgin from the woods and was preparing to drink her life's blood. Her face was pockmarked with acne scars, her mouth capped with three gold teeth, the rest rotted and worn to the nubbin. Sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do, people, so I took off my pants and hoped for the worst. What I got was just that, and so much more.

She waddled around the room like a penguin on methadone, rummaging through a dresser before pulling out a bottle of what she called Mescal, but from my eyes it look far more insidious. The liquid was a greasy shit brown, with bits of effluvium floating and dancing under the 20 watt bulb like Sea Monkeys, and lying at the bottom of the bottle is what appeared to be one of two things: a greyish green turd or a worm. Either way, I was in for a taste of something horrible. She uncorked the bottle with her one good tooth and cackled again, before taking a Herculean swig and then demanding I imbibe with her. She shoved the bottle into my trembling hands, already stinking like tequila and burnt cocaine, and watched me take a swig. It slid down my throat like liquid Sterno, and tasted even worse, my gag reflex immediately taking over and making me choke on it. My stomach started to churn around the contents of my previous meal, 5 street tacos filled to the brim spicy random meat no doubt freshly killed in the gutter that very week, and the threat of cold sweat started to rise upon my brow. Before I could change my mind, she threw herself onto me like 50 pounds of soggy shit in a 40 pound bag and proceeded to give me a ghastly blowjob reminiscent of a girl with Downs Syndrome going down on another retard. It was all spit and teeth, I tell you, and my stomach was at Defcon 4, vomit very imminent. I desperately tried to distract myself from her ghastly visage, but that proved to be even worse as I looked about the room. The trashcan next to the bed was filled with used condoms and toilet paper, the latter stained with blood and what appeared to be chunks of shit. Horrified, I turned my head towards the pillow, only to discover it was stained yellow and yes indeed, the back of my head was laying in it. Now panicked, I looked over at her again, only to discover a roach crawling across her shoulder and into her hair. But before I could throw her off of me and make a break for it, she did something probably not either of us had expected.
She raised her head suddenly and violently upward, like a breaching whale in the surf, cried out a prayer to the Virgin Mary, and then forcefully threw up all over my chest and cock. Then I threw up. I cried out, "MY FUCKING CHRIST!", and unleashed a torrent of my stomach's contents right back onto her and all over myself as well. The stench was unbearable. She flew off of the bed, covered in my vomit, hers covering me. She screamed out loud bloody murder and then came at me, all claws and teeth, but slipped on a puddle of vomit and crashed into the dresser. Vomit still spilling from my mouth, my head exploded with pain and all I could see was the flashing brilliance of starlight, before realizing she was actually punching me in the head and cursing my family's name. I grabbed her by her pudgy little bat face, shoved her across the vomit covered bed, grabbed my pants and ran out the door, barely avoiding the trash can she threw at my head like a waste covered missile. I was in a daze, my body a machine now, as the stench and horror of being covered in someone's and my own vomit started to take over my mind. I ran down the stairs and leaped over the head of the approaching doorman, now looking at me with a look of murderous Mexican rage, but my leap was spectacular and I cleared the stairs, and bolted out the door, into the night to grab my brother by the shirt and make our escape.

My cousin is no fool, and asked no questions during our mad frantic escape through the maze of alleyways back towards his rented car. Because he knows this lesson well, folks. To paraphrase comedian Dave Attel, when you see a man covered in vomit, running towards you, cock flapping about in the wind, you run WITH that man, because something far worse is just around the corner. Pantless and covered in a Mexican whore's vomit, I swore never again to tell this tale I have just told.

But hey, much like swearing off fast women and cheap booze, some oaths were meant to be broken.

Fuck Tijuana, and fuck the Hotel Paris.

Reconciliation - A Short Story

"I can't do this anymore."

I wasn't sure who spoke first. Opening my eyes, I looked down at my stomach, past my pants to the floor. The empty glass on the table pawned the blame. The ashtray sat there with her mouth full.

"I understand."

Jezebel didn't look at my words, instead choosing the remains of what lie between them. Broken glass. Torn paper. Somehow the woman was still beautiful, perched there on the couch opposite. Red hair. Red eyes. The sad, even line of a forgotten smile. All the hard words already had been said. Without those, neither of us knew what to say. There didn't seem to be much left.

"I'm sorry," I offered, frantically grasping at the ice pick. The glacier between us had been moving for months, widening the distance. I reminded myself there was no need to yell. The children were sleeping, after all. They had heard enough.

"I know." Her murmur was soft, as it had always been. Recalling our introduction, I thought of the bar and the music that stifled our conversation, her velvet skirt, the smells of nicotine and vinyl. The script had somehow crept out the door with her that night, stretching out far further than it should have. Sex. Love. The phone call in June. Beside her, the infant emitted a soft squawk and turned her head. Together, we watched for her eyes to open. The disappointment was tacit.

"I can't afford to leave." The words seemed to convey everything I wanted to tell her, fear and regret encapsulated with a slur and ribbon. Somewhere outside, a conversation escalated. The girls upstairs were coming home. I instinctively glanced at the clock across the room. Jezebel waited until the knock of their footsteps receded.

"We can't go on like this," she decided. "The boys are hurting." Jezebel scratched at her cigarettes, pulling her next smoke from plastic.

"I'm hurting."

"I know". Since the baby, Jezebel had started smoking outside. The air was bad enough as it was. Sitting up was an arduous task. "No one needs to suffer anymore," I stated as I reached for the glass. "They don't deserve this." I started for the kitchen. "Nobody deserves this." The bottle in the freezer wasn't quite finished, enough left behind for both of us. "Do you want a drink?" Jezebel didn't respond, instead resting her elbows on her knees, staring through the wall.

I asked again, louder. "Do you want a drink?"

"Yes."

In the cupboard was a collage of glasses, plastic cups and coffee mugs, mine and hers sharing the space allotted. I chose one of hers."Sabastian wouldn't go to sleep," she told him from a place far away. "He kept asking where you were. I didn't know what to tell him."

"Tell him the truth," I answered as I squatted before the refrigerator. Milk. Apple juice. The options were limited. I grabbed two foil packs of Capri-Sun and fumbled for the sharp straws. "He deserves that."

"Yes, I suppose so," she agreed. "They both do." The only sound in the apartment was the clink of ice, the dry rasp of cold metal on cold glass. I stretched the vodka into both receptacles and squeezed the juice onto what was left. "Will you come outside with me?" Standing in the kitchen doorway, I looked at the woman he had won and lost.

"Of course."Taking care to pull the blanket over the baby, I followed her to the balcony. The wind was a welcome change from the harsh air conditioning. Spring came early to New Orleans, bringing the sun while snow fell in the places we were from. Our lives had been exchanged for this one, a thousand miles from what we knew. Familiar buildings. Friends. Dead lovers. The door was left open to listen for her cry."You shouldn't have said that. Not in front of the boys," Jezebel said as she sat on the concrete. I took a couple steps away and turned, pulling fire through my cigarette.

"I know," I conceded. Beyond the brick, I heard the churning of the pool cycling water, the rumble of a washing machine. "That has to stop, too."

"It all has to stop," she said with a mouthful of smoke. "All of it. Your anger. Your fits. You can't do this to us anymore."

"We can't do this anymore," I amended. She already speaks of us and myself, separate entities, forces opposed. "We have suffered long enough. The time has come to end the game.""This was never a game." Jezebel smiled the sardonic smirk, the way she tended to when she saw irony and pain. I wondered how many years it had taken to perfect that grimace, that suppressed frown in the face of the crowd. "This is our lives."

"Indeed it is," I nodded as I looked out across the courtyard. A handful of lit windows set the tenants from the condos. Television glimmer. The closing of the gate. The Hindi couple started up the stairs. "This wasn't what I wanted when I moved here, you know."

"I know."

The two of us had often spoke of what we wanted. A family composed of abandoned children and disillusioned parents, people clinging together for blood and romance in a world where neither meant anything. "This wasn't what I wanted either."The afternoon seemed like a car accident.

Between the tedium of the job and the cellular conversation, the fuse had started to burn. The wrath which ensued was without warrant. Crying children. Confused looks."So what do you want to do?" The attempt to absolve myself of responsibility was futile, pushing the decision into the hands of an innocent woman. And she would have no part of it."What I want is not important," she whispered in another cloud of smoke. "It never was."

"That isn't true," I countered.
"It's just different. What you want isn't what I want. That's all."

"No, I suppose not." The whimper inside distracted me, moving me to look through the door to the precious parcel sleeping. Jezebel didn't even turn. "She's fine." Two spent cigarettes raced to the ground below.Watching Jezebel walk to the baby was the same as it had always been. Shoulder blades and ribs protruding from an ill-fed torso. Tattoos undulating. The legs and buttocks which had taken me captive. For a long second, I considered the usual solution, moving behind her and taking her wrists, biting her neck, pushing her down. But this sickness was different than the ones before. This was our sickness. Every effort made to fuck it out of her would leave as much inside, developing and festering into beauty and confinement such as that which slept before me, as the boys down the hall.

To walk away from a woman was simple, a task as mundane as finding the door and the car. To walk away from children was an involved matter. Their eyes saw through all the wrong and the venom, pulling upon whatever good resided in the soul and dragging it to the surface.

I remembered the drinks on the kitchen counter. Some things never changed."Do you want me to sleep out here?" I asked. The question was honest as any I had asked, granting her permission to deny me the bed and the body upon which I feasted."No," Jezebel decided as she reached for the baby. A soft grunt came from the infant as she doubled up in her mother's hands, tiny bottom lip pushing out in discontent. "I don't like to sleep alone."

"You're not sleeping alone," I countered before I took a drink. "The baby is with you." The woman held the little one to her chest and turned to face me, her eyes dark with resentment.

"That's not what I meant."

I lingered long enough to turn down the lamps, wandering across the carpet, placing my hand on the cat which slept on the dining table. I poured my drink down the sink, then hers. The deadbolt clicked home. The hallway stretched all the way to the end.The play is ending soon, I thought as I reached for the doorknob.

But it is not over yet.

A Great Adventure

I woke up with a terrific hangover this morning, the sort of headache and nausea that could easily move a lesser man to swear off alcohol and cancel all future "business trips". In self-defense, however, I soon found myself perched at the bar, where I discovered mere Bloody Mary's weren't going to solve this problem. No, I had gone way too far on Friday night, mixing red wine and Grand Marnier and that one-eyed drive home. I needed my excesses beaten out of me the way they used to punish sinners. And what better person to enlist for such punishment, than the man responsible for the majority of these mornings?

Enter Vaughn, my bartender. Didn't take long at all for make the necessary arrangements, and in short time we were in the car headed north to the closest roller coaster park.

But you know as well as I do, when you put a drunk and his drunk bartender together for an hour or so in a closed space like a moving car, something wayward is bound to happen. In this case, wayward moved us across to a 12-pack of Natural Light, because that son-of-a-bitch didn't think to grab a bottle of Korski and juice to make our trip easier. By the time we saw the Great Adventure sign, I was throwing up in my mouth after every cold sip. Needless to say, Vaughn appeared to be holding up better than me.

And we just continued down into the maelstrom after that, during which time we waited in hellishly long lines to get on mindbending rides. At least the ones that were open, because two of their major attractions were fucking shut down. Bastards.

Thinking was far from me on this fine fall day, because my bright idea to play some boardwalk game quickly resulting in getting my ass kicked by Vaughn who chose a purple dolphin as his prize, and me somehow carrying that fucking thing all over the park all day. So there I am, wandering around somewhere between drunk and sick, in a "Jesus Hates Me" shirt, staring at teenaged tits from behind the sanctuary of my sunglasses, and carrying a purple stuffed dolphin. Oh, wait, I almost forgot about the monsters.

Yes, Great Adventure is a festive place, so when you go spend a weekend there in the autumn season, you get assaulted by staff in costumes. Now I've heard what some of those twisted fuckers have gotten away with at Disneyworld in these outfits, but no matter how many I hugged, not a one grabbed me "the wrong way". Prudes.

The hangover made it home with me, after all that, and at least on some subconscious level, I acquired a new fetish for Furries. Until next time, keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times.

Gone Fishin'

It started out like any other night, really. The two of us, good friends since the wee days of High School, sitting around his house, contemplating a slow death in lieu of an even slower life, three beers deep into what would become a strange and drunken night of "fishing". Simply put, I hadn't gotten laid since before my girlfriend and I broke up...and I desperately needed some female attention. So had he, quite frankly, for his girlfriend was away with the family on some sort of vacation in Cabo, a junket no doubt involving her, copious amounts amount of tequila, and hammerhead college frat boys looking to date rape her hot little Jewish asshole. As they say, if your girl is in a different area code, it isn't cheating. My father taught me that, and his father's father before him. So finally, we set out to the bar to snag us some snapper.

"Onward, ho's!" we cheered as we pulled up into what could be quite possibly the greatest bar in all of Long Island, and which will remain nameless due to the fact that I am now a frequent patron of the place, and don't want it to become tainted with my readers' filthy heathen blood. It's never too packed, hot chicks serve stiff drinks, good bands play there almost nightly, it's FREE (for me at least), and the deciding factor of it all?

You can smoke, 'til your lungs explode in a maelstrom of tar and blood.

Wanna smoke some weed? Go right ahead. The owner doesn't give a shit. Just don't do it out front. Sure, you come home stinking like the ass end of Tijuana ashtray, but nothing beats being able to hunker down on a barstool, order a shot and a beer, and chainsmoke (remember kiddies, smoking is now illegal in NY bars) the night away. NOTHING. So we burst through the doors like kings, shoving aside the chick blocking the entrance demanding a cover charge for the shitty pop punk band now on onstage screeching Blink 182 lyrics like some encephalitic homunculus man-child screaming for his mommy, and starting consuming drinks with all the gusto of a Bukowski poem. "To all my FRIIIIEEEEEEENNNNNDDDDSSSSS!"

But alas, no one got the reference. Uneducated savages, the lot of them. The night was still young, as was the crowd, so our plan for attack became a waiting game. Wait out the younger, less disciplined drinkers and by the end of the night, all that would be left is the true drunkards and those beautiful salty whore-women looking to get their boxes filled with ample amounts of whiskey dick. We chose this mission, and I would be goddamned if we weren't going to carry out those orders.

Sure enough, after we threw some shot glasses at the shitty little band and booed them offstage, their little groupie girlfriends left with their fake ID carrying boyfriends, and left us to scout out the scene and snipe away at the stragglers. Mind you, my friend is quite the 1 percenter. Simply put, ask 100 chicks to fuck in one night, at least ONE of them will say yes. He has lived by this credo for years, and takes rejection like a warm breeze on a cool day. I can respect that attitude, but it isn't mine. No, I sit back, drink in hand, and play the swarthy lothario of the group.

Smile in front of the ladies, tell a quick witty anecdote, and then wait to catch their attention. Give a nod and a wink, then turn your attention elsewhere. Above all else, never come across like you "care" or you're "interested in their problems" or act like you want to be "their friend". Some guys try too hard to make it seem like they care about what the opposite sex is talking about. I, on the other hand, don't care at all. So I sat back, and watched my friend go to work, angling this one and that one over to where we were sitting. "Christ", I thought to myself, "look at him work." The kid was a master at what he does, aggressive and always talking, never shutting up even in the face of rejection or awkwardness. I'd watch his body language, his hands rubbing their arms at the right movement, the sly little looks, the sidling up next to them. Me? I just sat back and laughed to myself, throwing in a quick witty remark. I know my game. I have nothing to prove.

By the end of the night, and one drunken shouting match later with another fisherman encroaching on our territorial waters, my friend was plastered and slurring his words. Lightweight. I was already 8 shots of Beam deep and a number of gin & tonics consumed, but I'm at my best when completely sauced. And then something took a nibble on my bait and I decided to feel it out. She walked past us, blond and bloodshot eyes, all squeezed into a paint-stained pair of overalls and looked directly at me. I raised my glass and nodded, she smiled...then my friend gaffed her and reeled her in for himself. He immediately went to work, talking loudly and grabbing aggressively, all the while her eyes kept darting over to me looking for some sort of safe passage through these troubled waters my foolish friend had stirred up. So I did the only thing I could do.

I cockblocked.

"Dude, you want another drink? I mean, seriously, just finding out you have AIDS is a hell of a thing. Don't worry, guy, I'm buying this round. Just don't drink out of my glass." BINGO. He walked away, pissed and shooting daggers out of his eyes towards my throat, leaving me with little miss hippy-chick. We talked, laughed, and consumed a bunch more shots, and then I heard those fateful words.

"I'm married, with children."

Fuck. Children are my kryptonite, how could she have known?

"But it's not going to last. He's such an asshole."

And there it was, ladies and gentlemen. My cue to start reeling this floozy into my boat. I mumbled something like, "Yeahthat'stoobad...wannanother drink?", and she saddled up a little closer, hand on my thigh, talking close into my ear. Maybe it was the fact that she was 10 years older than me but could pass for 24, maybe it was the desperation in her voice, but by god, something stirred in my shorts. Then again, all I wanted was attention.

Pretty soon it's time to go, and for me to decide on her fate. Is she a keeper, to be mounted on my living room wall? Before I could think about it, her eyes were on the verge of welling up with tears, guilt ridden and about to unleash 36 years of pent up womanly rage. What to do?

Throw her back, and move on to the next fishing hole.

I fish for sport, not food.

An Open Letter To Lindsay Lohan

Lindsay,

It's getting bad. Nay, it's getting ridiculous. Another paparazzi-caused car accident? Really? This is absurd. When will they leave you alone, Lindsay? When will they realize that you just want to be left alone? When will they understand that underneath all the hot and the crazy, you’re just like any normal girl?

Well, they won’t. They are the paparazzi and it is their job to be scum. And I know this from personal experience. While not quite as famous as you, I have had some run-ins in the past with the paparazzi, two of which ended in manslaughter and one of which ended in awkward, mostly clothed sex in a hotel room in Valencia. Not my finest moment. But at least he properly taught me how to throw a football, which was good.

The point is that since the paparazzi will never back off you, you need to take drastic measures if you want to get your life back to normal. And that is where I come in.

Since there's no real way to tip-toe around this, I’m just gonna come out and say it: Lindsay, I think you and I should start dating.

I know, I know – you’re thinking, “But you’re not attractive at all, nor are you rich, famous, or even on speaking terms with your family”. And I admit that this is all true (though in my defense, my cousins are the ones not speaking to me – I tried to frame you for insurance fraud like six months ago guys, get over it).

But this is precisely why we should start dating. If you and I start going out, it’s a win-win situation for everyone involved. First and foremost, I make out great. The press from dating Lindsay Lohan will drive traffic to my blog, which is always good, since like most bloggers my self-esteem is directly linked to how many people read the site. Also, my parents would be happy, because if I were dating you, it’d be plain to see that I am, in fact, not gay, refuting something that my mom’s coworkers and my dad’s dad have thought for years. And of course, there’s the whole benefit of me being able to touch you in all your secret places. Which would be nice, I guess.

For you, the benefits would be even better. If the press and paparazzi got wind that you were dating someone like me – some boring dickhead with a blog who spends most of his time on the couch complaining about how hungover he is and how much his heart hurts – the paparazzi would drop you like a bag of herpes. Of course, there’d be some hubbub when we started dating (i.e. “Lindsay Goes Fat”, “What is She Doing With HIM???”, “Lohan Hits All Time Low”, etc), but once that died down, you’d be left alone. Why would the paparazzi be interested in our relationship, when I so clearly suck?

And then, when we are dating, all will be perfect. Although I am rather self-deprecating on this here blog, I assure you that in real life I am a very good boyfriend. You and I can go into seclusion together, where we will eat very much, so that we can fatten you up a bit and re-grow those glorious breasts you once sported. To this end, I will take care of you in our little secluded cabin, where we will only have the following items:

· Potato chips
· Bacon
· Cheez Whiz
· Budweiser
· Vodka
· Black-on-black pornography
· Lots of guns

We will spend a year in this cabin, talking to no one, getting to know everything about each other, being in love, making love (and pancakes). After a year, we will emerge and will embark on our respective careers: you, acting, and me, street fighting. By then, the paparazzi will have found its new “it” girl and will permanently leave you alone. All because we started dating.

So please, Lindsay, reply at your earliest convenience. Not because I have other stuff going on, but because I’m very lonely and am afraid of what I might do to myself and my neighbor Brian if I don’t touch a woman soon.

I look forward to hearing from you. Soon we will be cruising along the Pacific Coast Highway in your BMW convertible, listening to something fun and harmony-ish, laughing with each other. Of course, you will be driving, so that I can kneel in the passenger seat to shoot at any paparazzi chasing us, but the good news is that I have terrific aim (my daddy taught me only a few things, but one of them was how to shoot from a moving car - lucky for us).

Until then,
I am,
Eternally yours,
Standing at the bus stop,
Sucking on a lollipop,
John