Lines

Sunday is the worst day of the week. It's not even close. Well, actually, Monday is a pretty bad day. Yeah, come to think of it, Monday is probably worse than Sunday.

Ok, let's start over.

Sunday is a very bad day. I usually spend my Sundays in various stages of nudity and disrepair, as I move from bed to shower to toilet to couch throughout the day, my body trying to figure out what to do with the several liters of booze slogging through my bloodstream. My head and body aches, so there's only one thing I can do: eat lots of greasy food.

What's worse than the physical repercussions of the hangover are the psychological ones. Sundays are the reason I stopped doing (most hard) drugs - I couldn't deal with the comedown. While flushing out all the alcohol, your body is going through all sort of chemical changes and reactions, and when this is happening my mood swings wildly between crying at a car commercial to chasing the little brown delivery guy down the street and stabbing him in the leg because they only included ONE packet of soy sauce with my chinese food. Fucking assholes.

Usually, the deleterious effects of Sunday are mitigated by hours upon hours on TV, but this was not the case this past Sunday, the first since early September without meaningful TV. And boy did I suffer. Left alone without such a wonderful distraction, my troubled-but-not-troubled-in-a-cool-way mind turned to several harmful thoughts, including but not limited to:

- "I'm dying"
- "I can't keep drinking like this - look what it does to me"
- "What kind of man am I? I'm just about 30 and look at what I'm doing to myself"
- "Seriously, I'm fucking dying"
- "I am fraud and a failure. I'm not sure how, but I know it's true and it sounds cool to say."
- "Why do I always smell like semen?"
- "Ok, that's it - I'm dying. Ready, 1-2-3. I'm dead. That's it. Over. Fuck."

It was a rough weekend. "Rough", however, means "fun because I got pretty damn fucked up". Friday night I went out locally with some buddies, and Saturday night I ventured back to my old 'hood for a birthday party. I didn't drink especially hard either night: there was nothing like gratuitous "5 shots of Jaeger in an hour"-type drinking, but there was some long drinking. Do I have a problem if after drinking from 7pm on on Saturday night I got home at around 4am and decided to have some wine to help me sleep? Is this bad? Is something wrong with me?

What's terrifying to me is that this is a sign of things to come. What with shitty shows on TV on Sunday, I'm looking at a long string of hungover Sundays trapped in my condo (too fucking cold to go outside) without meaningful TV. These are going to be some dark, dark days.

[Sigh]

Anyway, the party on Saturday night was a good time. It was nice to be back in the old neighborhood, and more specifically, near my favorite pizza place EVER - Pizza Boy II on the corner of 74th and 31st Ave. Holy shit it's fucking good. After leaving the party, my friend Matt and I quickly hit up a few bars we used to frequent and then ended the night at Pizza Boy, with a $16 order. Fucking A, man.

But let me back-track: I was at said party on Saturday night, a birthday party for my friend Maggie, standing in line for the bathroom, when some guy who was about 40 or so who was also in line said to me out of the blue, "It's a shame that kids nowadays are no longer main-lining heroin."

I looked at him and thought, "Dude, who are you - me?" I thought it was a pretty funny line, and said something like, "Yeah, they're too concerned with their looks that they don't want track marks. When I was young, track marks on your arms from heroin use were a sign that you were not only becoming a man, but also that you were the man."

So props to that guy, and it got me thinking about some other good/shocking lines. My friends and I would do this thing in when we were in the military where we'd try to be as obnoxious as possible within earshot of others, usually really hot girls. For example, we'd be getting cash out of an ATM before entering a bar, and at the ATM machine next to us there'd be two gorgeous, way out of our league girls, and we'd play out a scene where we were in mid conversation, talking about something horrible and offensive:

Me: [getting cash, being very animated] "So I said to her, I said, 'You better shut the fuck up right now before I fucking slap the shit out of you' and you know what she said to me? Do you know what the bitch said to me?"
My buddy Bill: [enthralled] "What did she say?"
Me: "She said, 'Fuck you fat ass.' Can you believe that? Can you believe the balls on her?"
Bill: "What a bitch. What did you do?"
Me: "What do you think I did - I fucking punched her right the fucking nose. Hard too. And I said, 'Mouth off again at me, and I'll swear I'll fucking give you brain damage. I will punch, kick, bite and claw you until your brain is permanently damaged.'"
Bill: "Serves her right."
Me: "God damn right it does. Now let's go get fucked up." [me and Bill high five, walk out of ATM to horrified stares of hot girls]

I know what you're thinking, "Maybe this is why you don't get laid, asshole". But there are many other reasons besides being obnoxious that I don't get laid. Besides, it's not like these two girls were gonna fuck us in the ATM vestibule anyway, nor would they even have looked at us in the bar, so we might as well have had some fun with them.

Some advice - next time you're at a bar, standing next to a cute girl, and you want to start up a conversation but don't know what to say, use one of these numbers. You have my personal guarantee (which means absolutely nothing) that any on of these will get you laid (whether it's consensual or not is for the courts to decide):

- "So, are you a religious person?"
- "You know, they should really put a magazine rack here or something. By the way, one of my balls is MUCH bigger than the other."
- "If we had kids, I promise that I would never touch them. Unless they were really, really hot. Or if I was left alone with them. Otherwise, I wouldn't lay a hand on them."
- "You look like someone who's on anti-depressants. Which is your favorite: lexapro, prozac, paxil, or zoloft?"
- "I don't know...I don't think I need a test to tell me whether or not I have an STD. I know I don't have an STD, no matter what the test said. A lot of guys get pus-filled whiteheads on the head of their penis. Not a big deal."
- "Cool music. So how do you feel about ass-play?"
- "Seriously, women like the taste of semen, right?"
- "I've been clean for a week and a half now and it's been the worst week and a half of my life."
- "You haven't kissed a black guy, have you?"

I know, I know - you're welcome. Just use them wisely, and if you live in NJ, don't use them at all. I plan on dropping those little love bombs at various bar bathrooms all over the state, in the hopes that one special little lady will say, "I can't speak for all women, but I love the taste of semen. Looking at you, I'm thinking yours taste like a mix of burnt popcorn and hepatitis, and I'd like to find out. Care you join me in the bathroom?"

Keep your fingers crossed. Just keep your fingers crossed.

Answers To Your STD Questions

I got an email recently that I thought deserved attention. Anytime someone sends me an email involving a love triangle and an STD, well, you're damn right I'm gonna help as best as I can.

I have a bit of a problem that I would like your help with. See, I'm in love with this girl. And not like the kind of love where you want her to swallow your jizz. I mean, this girl has been my best friend for a really long time. Well, we almost hooked up over thanksgiving last year, but decided not to because my parents were in the other room. Well she goes back to chicago after the weekend and the next weekend my Ex-Girlfriend shows up. We talk and she tells me she has herpes. This poor girl is convinced that she has given it to me so she is heartbroken. Well we talk as she is going through the whole testing phase, and everthing is going great. Then we get back together (I know what everyone is thinking, and by everyone I mean me and John, you're thinking that I am an idiot because she has an STD. Well, you'd be right. But I would be fat. Plus I have been a pretty big whore in the past so I am 97.4% sure that I gave it to her. The herpes though is neither here nor there. The point is I am living with this human CDC Lab now. And she wants to get married, I guess she figures this is the best way for us to Quarantine the virus. But I am freaked out now. And I really miss my friend. And I am pretty sure I am making the wrong choice. Please help me.

Jon-Paul Logan St. John
[location withheld]

By the way, if you post this please use an alias (and make it something tough, nothing new age and pussy.)

Well, Jon-Paul Logan St. John, this is quite a doozy. Let's recap: you're in love with a girl who's your best friend. You almost made out with her, but you didn't. She moved away, and then your ex came back into your life. The ex is upset because a) she has herpes and b) she thinks she gave you herpes. You got back together with her because you're fat and can't get any better and are pretty sure you're the one who gave her the herpes. Now you're living together and she wants to get married. And you miss the best friend. Hmmm...

First of all, I have no idea why anyone would ask me for advice. None. I can't imagine the desperate situation you must be in to turn to someone who hasn't considered another person's feelings, since the womb, for guidance. Especially since I'm only going to make lame and/or tasteless jokes anyway. To wit, you lost me on the whole part about your love not being the kind of love where you want her to "swallow your jizz". I mean, what other kind of love is there? What, are you all high and mighty just because you are able to feel that Hallmark/in-the-movies type love, whereas the closest thing I feel to "love" is my warm penis in my clammy hand after a night of binge drinking and starting garbage fires? Asshole.

Second, for your own health (and subsequently the health of others), you must get an STD test. This isn't even an issue. A lot of people get them, it's not a big deal. Sure, it may be miserable, but it's totally worth it. Probably not so much in your case, as you're fairly certain you have herpes. Either way, you need to get tested. You have to protect yourself (and your girl). Also, I don't want to be in the same room with you, have a few too many drinks, and then through a series of strange and homoerotic events end up with herpes myself. So get tested. Seriously.

[By the way, I just spent about 30 minutes on my computer at work reading herpes and STD sites. I can't wait for the IT department to review my internet history. I was just waiting for my boss to walk in and catching me looking at a site that said, "Genital Herpes and You: How To Treat Your Genital Herpes".]

Third, I have a lot of follow-up questions (Under what circumstances did you and the ex get back? Who initiated it? What do you mean "almost" hooked up? Is the best friend aware at all of your feelings? By any chance, your ex isn't a slightly chubby girl named Andrea who was in Brighton at The Avenue Bar on March 23, 2001, is she? Because something itches down there, and she's the most "questionable" lady of my past), but it's too late now and I needed a topic to write about for today, so I'm just gonna wing it. Also, I'm not even sure if this is serious, but I probably shouldn't write that, lest I hurt anyone's feelings (read: lest anyone comes to my house and sets me on fire).

Your problem is a complex one but your solution is simple. The way I see it, you have two options:

1) Stay with and possibly marry the girl you're currently with. I don't think I'd choose this option. It sounds like this girl is pretty serious about being with you (if she's talking about marriage), whereas, to put it mildly, your heart doesn't seem into it (calling her a "human CDC Lab" was my first tip).

Maintaining a relationship because of an inferiority complex and guilt is not the way to go (not that I would know what a "good relationship" is based on; most of my relationships are/have been built around jealousy and punching).

Instead, I'd chose...

2) Be honest with her. Well, actually, not really. Let's scrap this and instead go with -

2) Follow your gut. In my opinion, you should end it with the current girl and make your feelings known to the best friend. The reason I scrapped "Be honest with her" is because you should only use partial honesty. For example, you should not say, "Listen, I think we should end it. I'm in love with my best friend, and the only reason I was with you is because I think you're about the best I can do and I feel guilty about possibly giving you herpes. Oh, did I mention that I possibly gave you herpes? Sorry about that. So, um, yeah..."

Instead, tell her that you don't feel the same way about her that she feels about you, and you think that you two should go your separate ways. I don't really know how you can do this. In my previous relationships, I usually just stopped calling or one of us went to jail.

The point is that as it stands right now you're not being fair to yourself, your girl, or the girl you're in love with. To keep things status quo is a great and obvious error. Do right by your current girl, end the relationship, and, when you're ready, start to talk to the best friend about your feelings.

[One caveat: if your best friend is really, really hot and you are really, really fat and ugly, it ain't gonna work, so don't even try it. She's just your friend, and no matter how nice you are to her she isn't going to fuck you. Although, in your case I feel like you have a chance, as you said that you two "almost hooked up". As long as you don't mean it in the way I do when I say "I'm almost drug-free" or "I almost never masturbate with my thumb up my butt", then you're set.]

Case closed.

...

Geez, this shit is easy. Who's next?

Berfday Recap

I'll spare you the suspense: nothing exciting happened at my birthday party. I know this opener doesn't exactly lure the reader in, but I also know that you are just so fucking bored at work you're going to keep reading anyway, so to hell with it.

But 30 is not a fun age anyway. 29 – sure. 29 means I'm still in my twenties, 29 = c-e-l-e-b-r-a-t-e. But 30? It's crap. The next big birthday I'll have is 40, and let's not kid ourselves; there is no way I'm making it to 40. Good lord. I have a better shot of winning Ms. America or not jerking off than living until 40. But let's change the subject because I'm starting to get sad.

The good news is that this year's party was better than last year's. In some ways, at least. We had the impromptu party this year at The Brass Ring, the same place that we went to last year. You might ask why we would return after such a horrible time. The answer is that my friend Dan and I don't really have a go-to bar. Sure, we go out, and sure, we know a lot of bars, and sure, one time at work I shit out a 24 oz. can of Miller Genuine Draft, but we don't have a home base.

The Ring was the closest thing we ever had to a home base. I live only a few miles away from this place. Not only that, the beer is reasonably priced and the jukebox is excellent. More importantly, it never really gets crowded. So when it came time to pick a spot, we had no other recourse. Back to the Ring, for better or worse.

But unlike last year, this year NO ONE CAME.

Before I go off on all my "friends" who didn't come to my party, a few things:

1) I owe a big thank you to everyone who did come. It was nice to see you, and I appreciate you stopping by. I hope you enjoyed yourself, and I enjoyed myself when I hung out with you. Really. It was only when I looked out to see all 10 people there did I think, "Where the fuck is everybody?" and thus became enraged. Otherwise, it was a great time.

2) I fully realize that I suck as a friend. And as I went over the list of no-shows in my head, I realized that over the years I have not attended many of their parties, preferring instead to sit in my condo to watch VH1 Classic and drink Bud Bombers, ignoring their calls and text messages asking where I am. So I should understand why they didn't come to mine. And I do. But I still hate them. You know, being a generally hateful person and all.

3) I am not the type of person who derives self-worth from the approval and/or love of others (biggest lie I've ever told in my life). Nor am I an annoying birthday person, the type of guy who has to have everyone stop everything to celebrate the day he was born (still a lie, not as big as the first). It is important for you to know this.

Having said all that, last year, even though the party sucked I'd say about 50 friends were there at various points of the night. I felt awesome about this. Loads of people were there to wish me a happy birthday, my buddies were there to buy me a shot, and my female friends were there to let me linger a little too long after getting a kiss on the cheek. Despite the shitty location, these things made me happy.

But this year, no dice. When we got to the bar at 10pm, I was happy to see that it wasn't crowded, meaning my friends and I would have plenty of room to hang out. Unfortunately, I thought this same thing at midnight. And then at 1am. Then at 2:30am. Etc, etc, etc.

So to my friends who didn't come, you have made a serious mistake. As I have mentioned here before, I am good at holding three things: titties, hoagies, and grudges, so you're all fucked (yet another lie). Not only that, your timing couldn't have been worse, what with me on the cusp of super-stardom (I'm just full of shit today, aren't I?). So I will see you all in hell, where I will make sure to come over and kick you in the genitals. We are no longer friends. Unless you are one of my attractive female friends and you would like to seduce me to make up for your no-show. Because then everything will be ok. Because I am lonely (not a lie).

Speaking of being lonely, I do have one little nugget worth sharing from this weekend. My buddies Mike and Earl were in Jersey, from NYC this weekend. On Friday night, a handful of us went out to – what else – drink beer and not talk to girls. We drank a bunch at my place and then hit the first bar, which was generally lame. Our self-confidence buoyed by drugs and alcohol, we decided to try to meet some chicks. It sounded like a good idea at the time, but that's what drugs and alcohol will do to you.

We left the first bar and went to another nearby. As soon as we entered, we saw three attractive but not necessarily unattainable girls sitting by the bar. Score!

To give you a better idea of the situation, allow me to list the dramatis personae:

Mike, 27, former contestant on "Average Joe: Hawaii". Generously 5'6", generously 185 pounds, and generously 20 beers deep.

Earl, 28, "associate producer" (read: coffee boy). Was up at 4:30 in the morning for work and had been drinking since 4pm. Time when we entered the bar: 2:15am. Earl was barely breathing at this time.

Dan, 30, the handsomest of the group. Of course, just as it is with women, the best looking is always involved in the serious relationship, which was the case with Dan...he's married. And no, I'm not gay because I realize Dan is handsome. Leave me alone, ok?

John, 30, one of the 50 most gorgeous men ever, alive or dead. Famous, fucking famous. And gorgeous. In his own mind.

I smoothly approached the bar to buy us drinks and also to eavesdrop on the girls' conversation. I thought maybe if I listened to their conversation, I could interject with some of the witty repartee that has made me America's Favorite Internet Celebrity (notice the caps).

Hanging all over the girls was this extremely drunk, kind of sketchy British dude. It looked like an uncomfortable situation for the girls: this guy was hanging on the hottest one, and she was turning away from him, rolling her eyes, and trying to get him to buzz off. Eventually (and I mean eventually – he was there for a while), he got it and went away. And it was time for me to make these ladies' night.

Suavely, and more importantly, unthreateningly, I walked up to the ladies with an easy smile and said, "Man, that was brutal, huh?", referring to the guy who relentlessly hit on them.

Let's stop right there.

Now I wasn't expecting them to burst into laughter. Nor was I expecting them to start clawing each other's eyes out over who would be the first to give me a handjob for my comic relief. All I expected was some smiles and an opening, so I could come back with something like, "If you want, I'll go kick his ass. I did, like, three push-ups this morning, so I'm feeling pretty invincible right now."

Instead, the three girls looked at me, stared for a second or two, and then turned away.

Ouch baby, very ouch.

I slowly slinked away, much to the delight of my friends, who watched the approach, the attempt, and the horrible, horrible failure with great interest. To add insult to injury, the girls then got up and moved to another table in the bar. I think at this point Earl peed his pants a little bit because he was laughing so hard.

To be honest, I wasn't bothered by this. The delight it gave my friends far surpassed any hurt feelings I had, so it rolled right off me. But I think that I should re-think my approach. Instead of opening with a lame line, perhaps I should just be honest. Something like, "Listen, I'm not very good at this. But the good news is that I'm too drunk to have sex with you anyway. So I guess what I'm hoping for here is an hour or so of good conversation, followed by you and I going back to my apartment to slow dance to Bad English's "When I See You Smile" before falling asleep. Then we'll wake up, go to the diner by my place, and have some eggs. Then sometime next week we'll get together again, I'll get you nice and drunk, and I will basically attack you with my sexual organs. Thoughts?"

You know what? I should print that line out and put it in my wallet now to use next weekend. Because otherwise I might forget and instead start with something like, "Did you ladies know that I won a silver medal in the National Latin Exam four years in a row from 1994 to 1997?" or "Do you girls want to see me drink a beer real fast then punch that bartender in the mouth?" Don't get me wrong - those lines are great, but perhaps their time has passed. Sigh.

Happy Berfday to me anyhow.

Berfday

On Saturday, I will be 30. 30 – damn! I never thought I'd be here at 30. I thought I'd be in Hawaii solving murders with a half-Indian partner who drives a helicopter.

And that pretty much sums it up (well, not exactly, but bear with me). When I was a kid, 30 was old. Like, real old. My friends' parents had them when they were in their 30's (let's not talk about my parents...they were geriatric to begin with, now they're ancient), so naturally I assumed that when I was 30, I'd have at least one kid, possibly two. And I'd love them, as they wouldn't be blind or constantly lighting things on fire. I'd live with a beautiful wife who made the best chicken parmigiana in a house with a giant lawn and big, friendly dog. On weekends, we'd go to fancy dinners and take vacations to nice places. Yes sir, everything would be great at age 30.

Instead, at age 30 I don't have a wife, but I have some friends who come by often, who smoke my pot, owe me thousands of dollars, and one time punched me in the face in my sleep. I do love kids, but in the way that could get me in trouble. I live in a modest condo, spend a third of my income on alcohol and narcotics, and every night when I go to bed I'm so anxiety-ridden/hypochondriacal that I'm not sure I'll wake up again.

Such is life.

Further, I always thought I would be either a doctor or lawyer when I was younger. I didn't really know much about those profession, but I was a very cocky bastard and knew that the smartest of the smartest became doctors and lawyers. I dropped the whole "doctor" thing in sophomore year of high school, when I learned that I, in fact, suck at science. Mrs. Brown was a great teacher and all, but all that crap about plants and cells - no thanks. I spent most of that class in the bathroom, reading the Daily News, pooping, and wondering what it would be like to touch a booby. Maybe that's why I didn't do so well, but it was a long time ago, so I don't really remember.

The lawyer idea stuck around a bit longer. For the first three years of college, I thought I was going to law school. Not because I was interested in law (I took a business law class my sophomore year and hated it; I spent the entire time staring at this gorgeous senior from Florida who I thought was perfect until she maced me after the midterm - twice), but because I didn't have much else to do. I think this is the reason why a lot of people go to law school. "Well, I don't really know what I want to do, and I don't mind being in school. I don't want a masters degree in something useless like history or math and I ain't going to med school, so I guess I'll go to law school."

That was my reasoning until one summer day after my junior year. I went, hungover, to the library to take my first practice LSAT. And I did so poorly that in three hours, the previous thirteen years of wanting to be a lawyer went right down the drain. I bombed the test and scrapped the law school plans forever. And now I'm an internet celebrity, so at least it worked out. The moral: if you're not good at something, give up immediately and try something else. There is no shame in quitting. There is great shame and trying over and over again when you clearly suck.

[Actually, it wasn't until two years later that I learned that I didn't do as bad as I thought on that fateful first LSAT. Apparently, everyone (or mostly everyone) really bombs the test the first time the take it and my score was actually not that bad for my first time. However, since I'm a complete dick when it comes to things like this, I thought, "Well, if I don't get at least a 163 I'm never taking this test again." I'd say about 3% of people who take the test get a 163 or better on their first time. I didn't and immediately gave up. But again, I'm pretty much fucking famous, so it all worked out.]

And now here I am at 30, and an engineer. And in this department, I couldn't be happier. I like my job, I barely work, and I make decent money. So at 30, I don't mind what I do. When I was a kid I didn't know jobs like this (the one I have now) existed. I only thought there were about twelve career choices: doctor, lawyer, cop, fireman, worker in a store, longshoreman, athlete, musician, actor, banker, person in jail. You'll notice "engineer / internet celebrity" is not on that list. And that's ok, because at least it's better than being in jail. Mostly.

And so goodbye to 29 and hello to 30. 29 was a good year: fame, fortune, women, drugs (well, not those middle two - and not much of the first either). But now it's over and I must welcome 30 with open arms.

On Saturday, my friends and I will be having a little party to celebrate my birthday. No, you are not invited, mostly because I don't want you to see that I'm actually a fraud who in real life is in great shape, is devastatingly handsome, and doesn't drink. But you're also not invited because last year's party was a disaster. I don't want you showing up and having a bad time. But this time around I am cautiously optimistic. Of course, deep down I know it will suck. But fuck it - I'm going to get good and drunk. Stories (or complaining about lack of stories) to follow on Monday.

So have a good weekend and have a beer for me. I will have several hundred for you as I get officially get closer to 40 than I am to 20. Yikes.

10 Things, Not 100

Often bloggers write “100 Things About Me” lists. I, like pretty much everyone else, hate these. On the one hand, it’s very egotistical to believe that a reader would spend 15 minutes reading about the minutiae of your life (“I like cheeseburgers!”, “I have green eyes!”). No one cares, jerkoff.

On the other hand, these things are really hard to write. Not that they’re hard per se, but they take a very long time.

I have solved both these dilemmas. In response to the first, I am not your average blogger and also my “100 things” will actually be interesting. In response to the second, instead of listing all 100 at once and boring you to tears, I will list them 10 at a time. This is also not hard for me to write, since I’m giving you them as the come to me, not sitting and trying to hammer out 100 things at once.

So may I present to you, “100 Things About Me, Numbers 1 through 10”:

1) There's only 3 people on the planet that have my last name.
2) I am punctual to the point of compulsion and will seriously fuck you up if you are late or keep me waiting.
3) The first concert I ever saw was Kiss, when I was 12.
4) The second concert I saw was Rush.
5) I read all magazines starting from the back.
6) I cook and clean daily.
7) I love spending time alone, usually stoned, with a book.
8) I have never given blood.
9) I never wear white socks, unless it's with white sneakers
10) I can’t shuffle a deck of cards.

Is your mind blown or what?

What The Fuck Am I Doing?

I haven’t written about it as much as I should, probably because I don’t want to rub it in your faces. But it’s time to face facts: not working totally fucking rules.

For the past 2 years, I have worked about 2 days per week (on average). I did this because my difficult job actually requires very little from me, and the hardest part of my work week is trying to figure out what to charge my time to on my timesheet. But this will come to an end in the middle of February, when I go back full time (which means maybe 4 days a week). I can barely even write that without breaking into sobs and convulsions.

I go back to full time work on February 13 (I know this because it's when one of my jobs begins) and in some ways it won’t be a moment too soon. Not that I exactly live a “healthy” lifestyle otherwise, but I have essentially become preoccupied with destroying both my body and mind during this time off. And it’s pretty awesome (most of the time).

In the meantime, I write. Alot. With the hopes that one day I can hone my writing skills to the point where someone will pay me to do so. I write stuff mostly at night (as I write this, it’s 3:11am on Monday night, though I’ll finish and post it tomorrow afternoon). I find it nearly impossible to get work done during the day, what with emails and TV and phone calls and the like. Also, I’m lusty during the day, so I pretty much compulsively masturbate from the time I wake up until the evening. When I’m finally finished making love to myself, I start working on my writing, usually about midnight. This will continue to around 3am.

Of course, what kind of writer doesn’t drink when he writes? I learned early on to find the delicate balance between “Drunk enough to write well” and “Too drunk to hit the proper keys and OH MY GOD I JUST KNOCKED OVER MY BEER ON THE FUCKING COMPUTER!” Alcohol should be handled with care. Think about it: just the right amount of booze makes you better at everything – playing pool, having sex, writing, etc. But too much and you’re scraping the pool stick against the table, trying to stick your bird in your girl’s heinie, and writing things that read like:

I don’t know what the wolrd is coming too. I mean, serioulssy. You knew? HOW THE DUCK WONT IT SOPT? I know.

My greatest difficulty with this whole process, aside from not getting too drunk, is that I have had more trouble writing blog entries than I ever have before. Before I decided to take a serious stab at writing, the blog was my hobby. I had my normal job and this was my release. But now, it’s the other way around. Writing funny (or trying to write funny) is what I'm working on. So even though I write posts when I need a break from thinking about what to write, it’s like picking up another term paper or taking on another client or – I don’t know – adding more work to whatever the hell it is you already do for a living. And I think (as some of you have noticed and gone to great lengths to point out) the blog occasionally suffers because of this.

But aside from that, life is pretty peachy keen. I wake up anywhere between noon and 2pm and eat so much cereal that I feel sick for the next few hours (currently we’re enjoying Golden Grahams, but last week I ate a whole box of Cookie Crisp IN ONE DAY). Once I’ve showered, I’ve pretty much met all of my goals for the day. If the mood strikes me, I can continue writing and try to do some work in the day, or I can go lay on the couch with my hand down my pants to watch “The Cosby Show.”

Sunday night was a good example of the freedom that I now have. I met up with my friend Lauren who was in town from DC for dinner. Lauren has the distinction of being one of the only girls that I am friends with who I have not tried to make out with. This is not because she is unattractive or anything (she is actually purdy, though I admit that I’ve never let something like “unattractiveness” or “penis-having” stop me from trying to force myself upon women before), but because when we first met at work I was already secretly dating two girls at work and it was a very stressful situation. I look back at the time in my life now and think that sounds like a pretty good problem to have, as today my “women problems” mostly consist of “How much trouble would I get if I ‘accidentally’ walked into the women’s bathroom?” or “This craigslist’s personal ad is very hard to write. Should I use ‘healthy’, ‘robust’, or ‘a little extra’ to describe my weight problem?”

But anyway, Lauren and I met up for dinner. I have a problem eating in front of women, even if they’re my friend, because I don’t know how to properly eat. There are blind horses with better table manners than me, as each meal is a contest to eat as quickly as possible. Also, I'm growing a beard, so that means the occasionally slab of goat cheese gets stuck in the moustache or a nice streak of vodka sauce runs from the corner of my lip, down my chin, and through my neck beard.

(Is anyone else really turned on right now?)

Lauren was still full from a late lunch and only got a famous dessert. I got a salad, when I could have eaten a terrier. But we got wine. Boy did we get wine.

Three hours and three bottles later, we stumbled out of the restaurant. Lauren was staying with a friend nearby, so after saying goodbye I decided to take the train back home. So I took off, my purple-stained mouth scaring away any dangerous people that approached me.

When I got home around midnight, I was feeling pretty good and so had myself a Guinness. Then I had another. When I ran out, I tapped into the PBR that is now a fixture in my fridge. The next thing I knew, it was 2:45 in the morning and I was on the couch crying while watching the show “Intervention” (and it wasn’t even a good episode – a bulimic and a homosexual meth/sex addict). After drying my eyes at the end of “Intervention”, I was flipping through the channels but couldn’t find anything, so I went to HBO. I watched a lovely lil’ documentary called, “Gladiator Days: Anatomy of a Prison Murder”. It’s a documentary about a racially-motivated prison murder in which two white inmates stabbed a black inmate 67 times. And, oh yeah, this attack was caught on videotape. Because really, when it’s 3am on a Sunday night, you’re drunk, alone, and sad, is there anything better than watching a man stab another man?

That was sarcasm. If you take one thing from me or this site, let it be this: do not watch this documentary late at night when you’re really fucked up and depressed. Trust me on this. The subject matter itself is disturbing, the video of the attack is worse (especially stabs 60-67, which focused primarily on the head and neck), and I will carry the memory of the autopsy photos with me to my grave (though the photos are not from this attack, but from the original crime the defendant was in for – another murder). I felt physically ill several times during the show and it made me very sad, even though I can’t remember much aside from the graphic stuff (thank you, PBR). Any way you cut it (pun intended), it was not the perfect end to the night.

My time off has been like last night. For the most part, very nice. Going out to dinner, getting drunk, walking through the streets of NYC, with friends, around midnight with a smile on my wine-stained mouth, taking it all in. I get to sleep in, do what I’ve always wanted to do, and have fun.

But then, there are times. Not good times. I don’t know what’s worse: watching that horrible documentary or sitting in front of a blank Word document, watching that cursor blink, and thinking, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Just write, you fat bastard! You can churn the shit out for the blog in no time, so what’s the problem here?”

So when I go back to work on February 13, I think I will have mixed feelings. I’ll miss some freedoms, but I’ll be glad to have some routine to my life. And I’ll be content.

(That is, until about 10:10am on the first day back at work, when I’ll think to myself, “This fucking sucks. I wish I was at home downloading porn and writing. I guess I’ll go poop or something. Only eight hours to go!”)

Crappity Crap

I am having an EXTREMELY stressful day at work today. I don't want to get to into it lest I start throwing some elbows, but it's not good.

And it's not a good time for me to have any extra stress since I'm already semi-hungover. Again, I'm not sure why I enjoy drinking so much, since it has taken years off my life. That, combined with my lack of sleep and my abuse of drugs, and all that poison I take, and I should have been dead at age 7. John: defying the odds.

Also, I got a terrible email recently from Alisa from Wollongong, Australia (I'm so hot in Australia right now). See, I have athlete's foot. Alisa must have somehow found out about this, so she wrote about my athlete's foot, which, in case you were interested, is still in the process of turning my feet into fleshy lumps of gnarly, irritated skin. For now.

Anyway, Alisa writes that the best athlete's foot remedy is for me to piss on my affected feet. I always thought this was an old wive's tale, but she tells me that she saw a movie in which Matt Damon plays an army medic, and he advises his patient to do just that. Of course, after the beauty and majesty that is "Good Will Hunting", I trust Matt Damon and any character he may play with my life, so I'm going to start peeing on my feet. I've been waiting for years for an excuse to do so without being judged, and now I finally have it. Thank god.

However, Alisa closes her email with the following tid-bit: "Also - severe tinea [the fancy name for athlete's foot] can be a signal of diabetes. Get your blood sugar checked, if you haven't already."

Well.

I don't know how much more clearly I can say this, but again, for the record, I AM A HYPOCHONDRIAC. I read this email at about 2PM on Saturday afternoon. By 2:03, after consulting with webmd.com (aka "The Hypochondriac's Worst Nightmare"), I was convinced that I have diabetes.

I don't know anything about diabetes, but I know that I'm overweight and I have athlete's foot. Therefore, logic would imply that I have diabetes. Add to this logic and completely irrational sense that something is seriously wrong with me medically somewhere in my body (head, penis, testes, scrotum, nose, etc), and it makes for a bad weekend and following week. I've been thinking I have diabetes since this email. I think I even remember telling people I met on Saturday night when I was drunk that I have diabetes. Last night I told my neighbors. Today I told my accountant (and yes, I have an accountant - his name is Maury and he is a lovely man).

So what I'm trying to say is that a) I have diabetes; b) I'm shitting myself because I have diabetes; and c) it's all because of Alisa from Wollongong, Australia. Please do not send me emails saying, "You know, since you haven't had sex with a consensual, non-dead, Caucasian woman in a while, you probably have legionnaire's disease", because my mind will spiral out of control and I will essentially will Legionnaire's Disease on myself.

...

See - just after writing that, I think I have Legionnaire's Disease. Fuck. I'm looking forward to the fever, chills, and a cough, which may be dry or may produce sputum (I'm hoping for sputum).

And now I have to go back to pretending like I know what I'm doing.

Maxwell's

There's really nothing better than taking a long weekend, especially when the day you take off is Monday. Sure, many will argue that taking Friday off is superior to taking off on Monday, but I disagree. When you think about it, Friday is the best day of the work week, the day when I say to myself all day long, "C'mon - almost there, you fat bastard. Just a couple more hours until you're sitting on the couch enjoying a tall cool Budweiser, watching VH1 Classic, and thinking about that Indian girl who lives downstairs who you just wanna get all messed up on gin and Nyquil and touch all over." Whereas Monday is spent thinking, "Fuck - four more days of this. I wish I had money so I didn't have to work. Maybe I should give a second thought to robbery or arson-for-hire, because something has to give." So give me Monday off any day of the week (get it? "any day of the week"? god I am fucking awesome).

Anyways, so after work on Friday, I went over to Hoboken, to a lil' place called Maxwell's to see Twin-A play.

Some background:

1) Hoboken: I don't like it. It's basically a college town, filled with people in their mid- to late-20's all trying to get drunk and have sex. Now on paper, this sounds great, but in reality, it means bars packed with a bunch of gelled up douchebags who all work in banking in NYC hitting on girls who love their sororities and US Weekly.

And yes, maybe I'm jealous because these girls don't like me, but really, NO girls like me, so I'm not holding their disinterest in me against them. I will, however, hold my penis against them as I wait by the bar to order another drink, and hope they don't notice. If they do notice, well, I am deceptively speedy when faced with the prospect of a sexual assault charge.

2) Twin-A: Awesome. For a pop-rock band, they have a great full sound (they're only a trio), and they rocked the crowd.

3) Maxwell's: a hip bar-restaurant with a tiny backroom that holds maybe 150 people. This bar regularly puts on some good acts, and is known as the place where indie gods Yo La Tengo got their start. A refuge for Hoboken's hipster crowd, which is small, but present.

Verdict: very good night. Some friends and I met there and had dinner, which was lovely, but if what I had was "Hoboken's best quesadilla" then I no longer dislike the people who live in Hoboken, I pity them. Twin-A sounded awesome and was entertaining, with the lead singer drinking and going back and forth with the crowd, at one point leaving the stage to walk around among the crowd playing and singing. Good stuff.

The audience was mostly middle-aged people or people in their 30's, but there were a fair amount of young people like myself. Out of the young people present, my friends and I were the only ones who didn't rock the "Rockstar" look - vintage clothes, messed up hair that actually isn't messed up at all, sunglasses, etc.

I hate these people. I don't know why, but I have a lot of hate to give, and these people seem to be as good as any to be recipients of my hate. They're one of the things I hate about going to NYC - all these young people with the rockstar look, walking around with guitars on their back, with an air of superiority because they get it, while others do not.

Well, I certainly do NOT get it. I don't know how these people can allow themselves to be so affected: their appearance is so contrived, it's almost laughable. I thought that the number one way to be cool was not to try too hard, but these people...ugh. I'm not saying that you have to go to an 80 year-old Italian barber and start shopping at J. Crew, but when you have the same hair Rod Stewart did in 1977 and your t-shirt looks homemade but costs $80, it's time to take a step back and get some perspective.

[And yeah, maybe I'm jealous because women eat these guys up, but fuck you. There's something very sexy about being an internet celebrity. Once I figure it out, I'll be sure to let you all know.]

Hearing Love Live

Last night, I was in my condo cleaning up. It didn't get very far in this endeavor, because I kept leaving whatever I was cleaning and going over to the living room to smoke a bowl. Then I would lay down.

So instead I decided to work on cleaning my bathroom, and began the process of cleaning up the pound and a half of hair that I shed every time I dry off after showering, which had accumulated so much that there was about a solid inch of it covering my bathroom floor.

Remember, I live in the suburbs, in a condo, which basically means it's a fancy-pants apartment. There are only 2 floors, each identical to each other, so that below my bedroom is another bedroom, below my kitchen is another kitchen, below my bathroom is another bathroom, etc.

As I was cleaning my bathroom, wearing short shorts and a sexy lil' bandanna, I heard some strange noises coming from the vent above my shower in my bathroom (apparently the vents from the 2 floors are connected somehow). I turned down my music to get a closer listen, and lo and behold - it was a woman making all kinds of sexy noises!

(!!!!!!)

Now, this is probably the greatest thing that's ever happened to me. It's been quite a while since I've heard noises like that live, without paying for it. So I stopped and had a good listen. And this girl was going NUTS. I'm not talking a few lil' noises here and there - this was some real porno star shit. And I was absolutely enthralled. I thought about calling somebody over, but I decided not to - two guys, standing in a small bathroom, listening to a girl get off? Kinda weird.

I assumed that this girl was masturbating in the shower, because I didn't hear any male voices. I listened to it and was just completely freaked out, turning bright red and jumping up and down with happiness.

(bear in mind, out of the 8 people in my building, I only know what 2 look like, so I could only assume [and hope] that I was listening to a young, hot, buxom brunette)

However, after maybe two minutes, the moaning stopped. I fought back the urge to yell "Bravo!" into the vent, because I figured that if I did that, I surely wouldn't get a repeat showing.

After that, there was no way I was going to get any cleaning done, so I did what any other man in my position would have done: went to the kitchen to heat up some sausages. I watched a little tv while I ate, but soon after I was finished, I felt a lil' rumble in my belly (probably because the sausages were of indeterminate age). So I went to take a poo.

As I was sitting on the toilet, I heard the woman from the bathroom below me moaning again. I couldn't believe it - it had been 20 minutes since the moaning had stopped, and she was at it again! Though I had a terrible case of the runs and my bathroom smelled like a garbage fire, I was still turned on, because she was going at it even louder than before. I mean, really, really getting into it, yelling and screaming and the like. So I sat there wiping my ass, captivated.

This went on for a good five minutes, and then I heard a guy moaning and making all sorts of sex noises. Right away I realized that she was obviously not masturbating but getting sexed up.

I couldn't believe she was having sex the whole time...it had been, without exaggeration, 20 minutes. No way some guy could be having sex with her for that long, especially since she was going crazy. From what I recall from my own sexual experiences (and this admittedly is very, very hazy), I have absolutely zero stamina when a woman starts showing interest in love-making. In fact, I like to ask my ladies to act disinterested while we made sexy time (i.e. watch some tv, read a magazine, send some text messages, place some bets - you know, whatever they normally would do) in order to make the process last a little longer.

So I dismissed the idea of one guy having sex with her whilst she was going that crazy for 20 minutes, unless they were filming a porno in the bathroom above mine. And then I had a horrible insight: what if some guy heard her masturbating like I did, but instead of taking a monster shit, he went down to her condo, suavely knocked on her door, and was invited into her bathroom to fuck her silly?

This was crushing to me, and to be honest, I still haven't fully recovered. I know that that's probably not the case, but my goodness - what if I blew it? What if I could have been having all sorts of crazy sex, but instead ate some rancid sausage and pooped? These kinds of opportunities don't present themselves very often, and I blew it.

The lesson: be more aggressive. If you think about it, this is the best way to go about meeting women. If you're eventually going to get rejected anyway, what's the harm in going up to a lovely lady at a bar and saying right off the bat, "Hey, I'd like to get you home and stick my fingers in you. Thoughts?" At least you save yourself the hassle of kicking it to her all night long, and don't have to drop $50 on her drinks. What would have been the harm if I knocked on my downstairs neighbor's door to offer a hand, or yelled through the vent that I was ready, willing, but probably unable because my blood pressure was very high at that particular time? If she says no, no big deal. If she says yes, I can die a happy, happy man.

I mean, crap and crap again.

Worst.Hangover.Ever.

I had the worst hangover of my life on Saturday.

I know I employ hyperbole a lot on the site, i.e. “It was the best sandwich I ever had” or “There is an International Jewish Conspiracy that is out to destroy me” or “I was so upset that I ran him over and it was the best Sunday ever.”

But there is not a hint of overstatement when I say that this past Saturday, I had the worst hangover of my life. My twenty-first birthday began a month-long drunken orgy that ended with my roommates and I being evicted and sued for $23,000 in damages to our apartment. I went to Oktoberfest – the real Oktoberfest, in Munich – where I spent an astounding ELEVEN days and nights drinking $7 liters of beer fourteen hours a day, leaving in such a state of withdrawal when I got home that I would sit at my desk at work, shaking and sweating, counting the minutes until I got off from work and could go home, smoke pot, and take a very long shower.

None of those hangovers compared to Saturday.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about it and I think I know why I was so hungover on Saturday, but before I go into these reasons I should provide you with a satisfactory recap of Friday night.

On Friday night, my friends and I got together in NYC for a drinking tour. It all started last year by my buddy David to celebrate his birthday, and the going away of a couple of our friends (who moved to Israel to start a company or some shit). This time it was to celebrate even more friends moving away. I am now down to 3 friends in NYC, and none of them drink or smoke. Sad, I know.

Long story short, David has a flair for the dramatic – and I mean this in the most heterosexual way possible. Simple nights or standard drinking tours do not entertain him. There always has to be something else, something usually retarded, to make the time mo’ better. Even if it involves something illegal and could possibly result in your friend serving very real jail time for a federal offense, well then so be it.

Thankfully, there was nothing illegal about this Friday’s drinking tour, but there was a catch. There were about 14 guys on the tour – and one panda suit. Each guy had to wear the panda suit to a different bar. We started at 7pm at a bar in the Village, and we worked out way down to the meat packing district, stopping at every bar on the way, back to David's apartment (he was one of the people that was moving away).

And let me tell you, things got pretty ugly pretty quickly (of course, I don’t mean “ugly” in the “not good” sense, but rather the “booze soaked and totally and completely fucking awesome” sense). I should mention that my buddy Mark really upped the ante. Unbeknownst to the rest of the crew, Mark went out and procured a Polaroid camera, film, and (literally) dozens of flowers. This was the perfect compliment to the panda suit (see below).

His friend Doc raised the bar pretty high when he was the first to put on the panda suit. There is something wonderfully iconoclastic about a panda buying a round of shots, pounding a beer, and then screaming at the TV, “C’mon! panda’s got $200 on the Sixers, so let’s go there Allen, you motherfucker!”

I was determined to get out of wearing the panda suit in any way, shape, or form. Don’t get me wrong – I loved the idea – but early on it was apparent that I was too drunk to be very jovial. This doesn’t mean that I wasn’t having a good time, but it means that I just wanted to drink, sit back, and laugh. One of the rare moments that I didn’t want to be at the center of attention.

So we kept drinking and moving on, guys switching in and out of the panda suit as we entered or exited each bar. Eventually, the idea of being a panda started to appeal to me. I’m guessing this has something with the fact that we’d go into bars and girls would start lining up for a Polaroid on the panda’s lap (and a flower, of course). There is nothing I advocate or enjoy more than having strange women sit on my lap.

But near the end of the night, it didn’t look like it was going to happen. At the second to last bar, this guy Phil had the panda suit on. The plan all along was for David, the one leaving, to wear the panda suit at the last bar. That would mean no panda for me. But the good news is that by the time we were at the second to last bar I was so drunk that I was nearly incapable of sitting down. All I could really do at the point was breathe, piss, drink, and lean.

David, however, was in worse shape. I don’t remember the specifics, but I went to the bathroom, came out, and he was gone. When I asked Phil where he had gone, he told me that David had to be taken home by two other guys in the drinking tour because he was too drunk. It was about 12:15am. A total pussy performance to be sure (the first of three in a row for him), but this meant the panda suit would be mine for the last bar! Victory!

At about 1am, I got into the suit, and the remaining four of us headed to the last bar. And that’s when it gets a little fuzzy.

I remember that Mark and I were the last two guys left at the bar. I remember doing a lot of shots with Mark. We stayed until 3am. I don’t remember any girls sitting on my lap (by that point, I’m pretty certain that at least two detectives from the New York City Police Sex Crimes Unit were following me around as a precautionary measure), but there some Polaroids of me at the bar, which sadly I don’t have to scan.

And I do remember leaving. Or rather, I remember getting back to David's. Knowing that I would be terribly wasted, I made some preparations: I had a sandwich and some Gatorade waiting for me. After I housed those, I popped two aspirin and passed out, the room’s delightful spins lulling me to sleep.

And then – wham. When I woke up the next morning, I was in the throes of death. I never sleep in when I’m hungover and so was up at 9:30 in the morning. My usual remedy is aspirin, water, and a long shower. When after my first shower I felt like shit, I took another shower. And then another. And another. All told, I took FOUR showers through the course of the day Saturday, leaving the shower each time only when my I drained the apartment’s hot water heater and the cold water left me shivering. I had to make it home. So I drove back to Jersey (all 1.5 hours worth) to recover at home.

I can’t begin to describe the misery. Obviously, it was bad. All day long I couldn’t move, look at anything, or touch anything without something hurting. I looked the part too: my eyes were red and bloodshot; my hair, which hasn’t been cut in almost two months, was a mess; I had stained the undershirt I was wearing; and my breath, and 4 day beard, stunk of death and SoCo and lime. Just nasty.

At dinner time I finally got some strength and was even able to make it out later that night. However, I had about three beers in five hours before coming home and sleeping the sleep of the dead. But the damage was done.

So why was I, a semi-seasoned drinker, so hungover, even when I was “prepared”? Two main reasons:

First, I was bombed. Duh. That isn’t going to make for a good morning any way you cut it. But on this particular night, two things did me in:

1) Late binge drinking. The tour started at 7pm. By midnight, I was in the bag. But between 1:30 until the bar closed, I must have had six shots. Six shots at the end of the night (especially sugary shots like SoCo and lime) are going to ruin you. If anything, it’s best to drink heavily early and more slowly later or to pace yourself all night. Of course, I drink like I make love: quickly and without remorse. And someone usually gets punched in the face. So no dice.

2) When I went back to David's apartment, I ate a chicken caesar wrap and a 32oz (or thereabouts) Gatorade High Endurance. Gatorade is a TERRIBLE thing to drink before going to bed on a load, since it’s very high in sugar. Sugar is very bad for hangovers. This is because sugar takes longer to break down in the body and robs it of hydration. I just made this up, but trust me, sugar is bad. One should drink water and only water the night before a hangover. I know this, and don’t know why I had this lapse on Friday evening.

Secondly, I’ve been miserable lately. Duh. Alcohol is a drug that induces mood shifts, usually (in me, at least) helping me get from low to high. But once the alcohol is retreating from your body, so go your good feelings.

So as I lay there on Saturday morning/afternoon/evening, I more readily wallowed in self-pity. Instead of thinking, “God, you’re so hungover and such a pussy. But I have to admit that it was pretty awesome when you hit that junkie with the snowball and then blamed it on the other junkie and the two junkies fought each other.”, I was thinking more along the lines of, “Way to go, chubby. Keep pissing away the opportunity of a lifetime because you can’t stop drinking anything put in front of you. Now roll over, fat chops – our left arm is going numb.” This doesn’t help.

And so what is my resolve and/or solution? None and none. Things are looking decidedly downward: I’m getting older, I can’t drink like I used to, and I’m wasting precious time. Not only that, but it was the holidays, which I'm not the most fond of (I'll elaborate in some other post about how my cousin and I burnt down his mother's kitchen one time). In the meantime, I can only do what I do best: sit and stew. And of course, keep you updated – whether you want to be or not.

Wait

It seemed
like years
before
I picked
a bouquet
of kisses
off her mouth
and put them
into a dawn-colored vase
in
my
heart.

But
the wait
was worth it.

Because
I
was
in love.

Produce

Every year, some friends and I get together in an effort to prove that we’re not cretins and we see a Broadway show (just let me get through this, ok?). I’m not very into Broadway shows. If you’ve read even one other post here, I don’t think I have to explain why.

But I do like comedy. And allow me to join the chorus when I say that “The Producers” is pretty fucking funny. I’m not about to go see the movie, but it was very enjoyable. It started a little slow, possibly because I had such high expectations, but then it got hot. Totally fucking hot.

And I’m slowly learning one thing: in order to make it in Hollywood as a comedy writer, I’m either going to have to a) convert to Judaism; or b) learn how to use my "Greekness" to my advantage. On the one hand, if I convert, I’m immediately part of a large fraternity. I’m “in”. Also, in the past I’ve dated a ton of Jewish girls, and have been confused as Jewish many times; a former co-worker just recently said to me, “Well, us Jews have to stick together” and 2 weeks ago, my friend, who is half-Jewish, asked me if “as a Jew” I would be offended to receive a cd of Christmas music as a gift. So I’m down with the Tribe and the conversion wouldn’t be that big of a deal (although I’m not sure if “Tribe” should be capitalized or not, nor do I know why Jews are members of this Tribe/tribe).

But on the other hand, if I can properly milk my Greekness, I can be viewed as a freak in Hollywood – in a good way. It’s kinda like when Jimi Hendrix burst on the scene, and all the white Brit rockers and rock fans were shocked with his exotic appearance, his wild antics, and his sexual chocolateness. Maybe if I walked into my entertainment meetings with a goat under one arm and an olive brach, eating spinach pies and drinking ouzo, I could shock the establishment just like Hendrix did, become a legend, and then die by choking on my own puke. Keep your fingers crossed.

(And yes, I did just compare myself with Jimi Hendrix. Leave me alone – I haven’t had a decent shower in three days and am starting to lose my mind, hallucinating on the fumes of my own body odor.)

An Email

I get a lot of really fucked up emails. This sort of comes with the territory, and I get a kick out of many of them. Some are annoying. These include the many emails I get from “hot” girls who talk about how “hot” they are and proceed to tease me about their “hotness”, but fail to include a picture. In the old days, I used to press these women for pictures, and when I eventually got one, 95% of the time it’d be of a 250-pounder eating a big-ass bowl of chili, looking like Mama Cass on a hot August afternoon. But now, jaded and disappointed, I don’t even respond to these emails. So ladies, if you’re only point in emailing me is to tell that you’re hot, please don’t. However, if you want to email me a picture of you eating a big-ass bowl of chili, that’s totally cool. I collect those.

Most emails are fun to read. These include some of the stories that y’all send me, links to stuff you think is funny, and drunken ramblings (and I have been getting an inordinate amount of drunken ramblings lately – gotta love the holidays). Really, I could put up one email a day instead of a post and it’d be more entertaining than any of the garbage on here.

I’ve seen a lot of crazy ones, but I think this is the single strangest email I’ve ever gotten.

Hi John,
My name is Sarah. I'm 32 years-young, and my husband recently died. I just saw your internet profile and I loved it. You're very attractive! I LOVE to travel, and I'll be visiting the US in January. Also, since my husband died (he died by overdosing on Velotrin - I'm curently sueing them and I hope to get a lot of money - I feel bad he died but I'm glad he died the way he died, he was fuckin' till the very end!!!!) I've become a chronic masturbater. My phsychiatrist tells me that the best way to cut down on jerkin' is to meet a man. So, I'M REALLY GLAD I FOUND YOUR WEBSITE ;)!!!!!!!!!! Hopefully, we will be able to meet up when I visit. I travel a lot, and I would love to travel with you. Lookin' forward to hearing from you,
Sarah
…



…



[This is me, being speechless.]



…



…



[So Sarah, where are we going?]

Fun With The Homeless

I always give money to homeless people. I rarely give to organizations, but always to people on the street that ask me for money. I know a lot of people are against this. Their logic is, “Well, if you give that bum money, he’s just going to get drunk, and that’s not going to help him any.” On the contrary, I think it will help him a lot. If you’re homeless and you use the $2 I give you to buy a bottle of Mad Dog, well, then go on with your bad self. If you have to sleep on the street every night, I’m not gonna judge you for wanting to get a lil’ fucked up. Whatever gets you through the night, s’alright, s’alright.

I admit that my willingness to give is not out of the kindness of my heart. It is rather a selfish gesture. I give to people less fortunate to cleanse myself of all my sins, which include but are not limited to lying, swearing, wishing death upon enemies and most women, misogyny, one count of manslaughter, twice masturbating to Dakota Fanning, and hatred toward those less fortunate. My hope is that when I die on September 15, 2008, I will stand before God at the gates of heaven and He’ll say,

God: “Let’s see here…on January 12, 1998, you punched a dog – in the face AND in his testicles – over a turkey club. On March 22, 2001, you lit your roommate’s car on fire because he beat you at Trivial Pursuit. You spent most of April 2004 on a crime spree in Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio. You have paid for sex on numerous occasions, three times with a man – whether or not it was ‘accidental’, as you claim, is not important to Me. And you haven’t been to Church regularly since you were 11. So tell me John, why should I let you into heaven?”

Me: “Well, um, I did give a lot of money to homeless people.”

God: [giving me a good look over, conferring with St. Peter, taking a deep breath] “Ok, here’s the deal: 500 years in Purgatory. If you get enough prayers, I’ll knock it down to 400. Take it or leave it.”

Me: “We have a deal!”

[Me and Gary Shandling, who will die only seconds after me on 9/15/08, exchange high fives.]

But I’m not stupid when I give either. If I don’t have any change or spare ones at the ready, I’m not about to be stand with a homeless person, routing through my wallet, only to eventually say, “Sorry, I don’t have any change.” If money is not at the ready, I’ll get change at a nearby store and then give some to the guy. This wariness was heightened when a few months ago a homeless man in the Lower East Side, stabbed a guy. So I’m not about to get shanked while I’m standing there looking for a dollar bill.

Right now, I’m staying with friends in Queens, and (almost) every morning (read: early afternoon) when I wake up, I head down to the Georgia Diner for breakfast. It’s only a few blocks from where I'm staying, but hey – I’m fat – so I drive. There I get my usual meal: creamed chipped beef (if you don’t know what creamed chipped beef is, my sadness for you could fill an ocean). I then take the CCB back to my friend’s house, where I eat it in peace and quiet.

After parking in the lot of the diner, I was approached by a homeless guy, the first of three that would ask me for money (god I miss being home). A black guy in his late 30’s, he had the bottle of “cleaning fluid” and mess of newspaper and offered to clean my windshield for $1.50. He offered me this as I was walking from the car to the diner, and I told him I didn’t have any change. Then he started following me, asking, “What you need change for? I’m out here tryin’ to hustle!” I shouted back, “I need to get change. I’ll hit you when I get out of the diner.” At this point, he began stomping after me, now yelling, “I said, WHAT YOU NEED CHANGE FOR! You need it for $5? $10? $100? I got it baby! I’M A HUSTLER!” I wasn’t perturbed by this, but rather walked into the diner and went about my business.

I got my creamed chipped beef and my change and left the diner. I gave one homeless guy standing by the entrance a buck. Then I gave a homeless woman laying in the handicapped parking spot of the diner a buck too. As I headed over to my car, I saw the guy who was yelling at me, standing near my car (actually, my friend’s car).

As I walked toward him and the car, he slowly moved away. When I got to the car, I learned why. He had taken it upon himself to “clean” my windshield: there was a disgusting, milky-looking residue smeared all over the windshield, a mix of blue cleaning fluid, newspaper ink, and the windshield’s natural grime. My reaction? That motherfucker. Even though he was yelling and being a dick, I was still going to give him a dollar. And the jerkoff goes and messes up my windshield.

What followed was a parking lot shouting match between me and a homeless guy that I’m almost embarrassed to recount here. When I said, “What the fuck did you do this for?”, he asked for change. When I said, “Look at my fucking windshield!”, he laughed. And kept on laughing. Then I shouted, “Fuck you, dude. I’m going home – TO MY HOME!” I was hoping that this would sting him, what with me pointing out that I have a home and he doesn't – but he was unphased and kept laughing like a goddamn hyena. I got in the car and drove away, the wiper fluid shooting over the windshield, trying to clean off the mess, cursing the whole way.

There’s no real point to this story, except I admit that in retrospect (since this happened about an hour and a half ago), the homeless guy totally got me. He got some chubby white kid to yell and curse at him after he intentionally dirtied his windshield. I was the one looking like the crazy person, yelling at this guy, while he laughed. I only wish that a car full of my friends would have driven by (“Why is John getting all red and yelling at that laughing homeless guy?”).

Homeless guy: 1, Me: 0.

Be Forgot

Happy New Year Motherbitches!