Archive | May, 2012

4 Things I Don’t Trust on Memorial Day

29 May

Get in there poodles.

People Who Don’t Get in the Water- My friend threw an awesome party in Sherman Oaks. This is usually an impossible task, but yesterday it was 90 degrees, there was a pool, unlimited beer and countless cheese products and dips. There were approximately 50 people at this party. In my head I was formulating all kinds of crazy pool games. A 25 on 25 Marco Polo, Red Rover but with drowning, and a roof jump cannonball contest were just some of the activities that crossed my mind. I haven’t anticipated that much pool fun since the invention of the noodle. Peak sun hit around 3 PM and I would say only 15-20 people got in the water. What the hell is wrong with you? I overheard someone say the water was too cold. Someone else said they couldn’t get their hair wet, and one partygoer held a straight face and actually said they don’t like water, and some other idiot agreed with them! The only dude I had respect for was the fattest guy at the party. I asked him to get in the water and he said, “No, I have a terrible body and I don’t want people to see it.” Thanks for being honest. Every species gets in the water to cool off or enjoy themselves, what makes you such a rebel? “Oh no thanks, I’m actually quite comfortable standing on a hot ass deck in 90 degree sun talking about editing continuity for 3 hours. Get in that water!

You want a Beer? No I’m Good– If you aren’t driving and haven’t recently been to an AA meeting, there is no reason to turn down a beer on Memorial Day. Oh you only drink whiskey? Sorry Don Draper, but this is not a day for sophistication and beautifully structured dialogue, it’s a day for drinking luke warm beers with the American flag on them and then crushing that can with your best axe kick. Stop being a weirdo and join the party.

This Conversation– Inevitably there is someone who starts yelling, usually after a jello shot, “What is Memorial Day about anyway!? Like what are we even celebrating!”? Then another idiot will raise his shot glass and say something super witty like, “Alcoholism!” and people might laugh, but watch for the person who doesn’t laugh and tries to get deep and contemplative on the crowd by schooling everyone on the military industrial complex. If you or a family member have been affected by war, I offer my condolences and truly wish that weren’t a reality, but please recognize that heat exhaustion and binge drinking are not conducive to healthy political discourse.

Attractive Girls with Stupid Looking Boyfriends Who Wear Hot Bikinis Under Flowy Garments and Never Take it Off– Ok so this is a real specific call out and I shouldn’t hate, but it did kind of bring down my buzz a little. There is so much good this girl could have done for the party, but by keeping her silly shawl on, she only angered most guys there and ultimately brought negative vibes because of it. So much potential wasted.

Take that shit off!

Haggards at the Gate

23 May

Their Magic is Strong

The oft forgotten yet always there
Whose intentions made clear with vicious stares
The proud may fight and suffer terrible fates
When they meet the haggards at the gate

-A Fallen Hero

When you are a single guy out for a night on the town you must be a warrior. You must be prepared for battle in any form it manifests. I have conquered the unexpected stomach grumblers of the south and retreated to a nearby Chinese restaurant to re strategize. I have danced the forbidden “dance of the largess” and escaped with only mild B.O. and a phone number. I’ve engaged in the perpetual banter of the witty and come out exhausted but unscathed. My banner men (bros?) who fight bravely with me in the field would lavish me with praise and speak to my fealty and pretty sweet dance moves. There is one enemy, however, one battle I have yet to figure out or emerge victorious from. I speak of the haggards at the gate.

The haggards are a proud group. Undeservedly so, but proud nonetheless. They guard their attractive friends with a passion and bloodlust that renders most warriors useless. Depending on the rabid nature of a particular haggard, one may spend as few as twenty seconds or as long as an entire evening trying to marginalize their presence. On certain nights the numbers are in your favor. With a stirring enough whiskey induced battle cry, you might convince a fellow warrior to “jump on the grenade,” “fall on the battle axe,” or as it should be known “just generally have a bad night with an ugly girl.” Other nights you are outnumbered. Your banner men may be tired and resort to comment making in the corner or talk about how good In and Out sounds. You are forced to go rogue and face the haggard’s’ treachery head on.

Treachery behind those smiles

During my last encounter I was ten minutes into a delightful yell-off at a club with a Hawaiian treat when it happened.

“Where are you from?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Why do you dance like that?”
“Do you come here often?”
“Isn’t this place so random?”

Fuck off! Back you haggards! Back I say. But there magic was strong. Dances were interrupted, bathroom breaks were taken, whispering sessions were had and one was bold enough to back up her formidable and unshapely rump on my increasingly flaccid long sword. The night ended with quesadillas and light creeping on the book, not quite how I drew up the battle plan.

Their attractive friend is in the middle somewhere. So tough.

So congratulations haggards on another battle well fought. You saved your friend for another night, from what I’m not sure. Nobody wins in this situation, unless you count grinding your sweaty back against me for the entirety to “Make it Nasty.” Are you really hoping I will make an egregious error in judgment and choose/jump/fall on you over a Hawaiian treat? This is not college, my nocturnal tastes are too discerning. I know we will continue to meet in battle, but it is my wish and great hope that one day I will approach the gates and not have to draw my sword in such haste. That I will be shown respect for my courage and wished well on my arduous journey that lies ahead. Until we meet again…

– Another Fallen Hero

The Curse of Howie Mandel

17 May

Who are you really?

Congratulations graduates of 2007. It’s all down hill after the bagpipes. Ms. Veronica Dalton’s commencement speech is riddled with enigmatic phrases. It is not an interesting speech. Ms. Dalton drones on about worlds and oysters, babies and bathwater and other parabolic pearls that leave the sweaty audience prodding their temples and massaging their eye sockets.

My family sits with Cheshire cat smiles plastered across their faces, proud of their son for all of his accomplishments. They sit on the plot of land where I and forty other College Freshmen used to smoke copious amounts of marijuana on our well-deserved holiday of weed Wednesday. Several rows in front of my family sits Howie Mandel. Wait a second. One hundred degree heat and several shots of strong whiskey can make even a porch drinker delirious, but I’m fairly certain this is the guy. His bald dome drips sweat onto the lapel of his expensive shirt, most likely a shirt he uses when selling those briefcases of money on TV. Why is he here though? Why is he listening to Ms. Dalton’s dribble? Why isn’t he giving the commencement speech? Is Howie Mandel too good for Santa Cruz? “Screw him,” I utter out loud. A fellow social studies major tells me I seriously need to shut up and that he can’t hear Veronica’s speech over my mutterings. My apologies to Ms. Dalton.

I focus long enough to take my cue and toss my mortarboard to the sky. I purposefully fling mine in the direction of Mr. Mandel, but his chair is vacant. I look up at the hill, past the weed spot to where the bagpipes played and there he is. His head vibrates in the hot mess of the noon sun. He knows something I don’t. I want to run up there and confront him, but as the mortarboards fall back to earth, I am bombarded with fist bumps from bros I barely knew and hugs from girls I never got a chance to fuck.

“So what’s the next step?” asks my Aunt. “The right one” I reply. Uncomfortable chuckles all around. I swear when I’m around friends and immediate family I’m actually quite delightful, it’s extended family I haven’t gotten the hang of. They are like those acquaintances at school or work you always aim to avoid, but they always seem to find you. They have collected thousands of facts about you through casual conversation and so your social interactions begin to take the shape of a morning history lecture. In this case they are family, so I’m obligated to respond. “I’m seriously considering teaching English abroad, or maybe in some random ghetto of America.”

This is quickly becoming the popular pre-requisite for affluent graduates who don’t have a clue and don’t have loans to pay off. Middle-class family. Yes. Grandma’s education fund for me and my cousin. Check. Penchant for eating exotic food and canoodling with foreign members of the opposite sex. Indeed. So there we go by the thousands. Hordes of ill-equipped, undertrained white missionaries set out to have casual conversations with perverse businessmen about the benefits of fake breasts.

Upon my return, during the car ride back from the airport, I realize the great mistake we all make when we return home. Home is a comfort zone and nothing gets done when you are comfortable. When you are comfortable your blood slows, brain festers, that group of almost friends that never left still hasn’t and your parents (lovely as they may be) are always there to put things in perspective.

Minor failures and inconveniences have never been so frustrating. Struggling to twist off the top of a pickle jar or separating an icepack from its plastic casing become the ultimate test of manhood and maturity. To make matters worse, the injury that required ice was during a game of basketball with drunken bums. A bum collided into me at full speed with no intention of stealing the ball and inadvertently kicked the outside pad of my right foot under the little toe. My mother was naturally worried when I came home gimp and cursing the homeless. She called my Uncle who is a doctor and after a few questions informed me I most likely had a “dancer’s break.” Ballerinas get them while performing dainty hops and spins. I swear I heard my mother call me a bitch under her breath. I would have to inform my work of the unfortunate news.

After twenty years of formal education, it appears the only thing I’m technically qualified for is part-time yard duty official. I don’t mean to make light of the yard duty profession, but any job in which the description reads, “Must be able to eat absurd amounts of string cheese and know how to yell and blow a whistle,” should probably be under the ‘idiots’ section on craigslist rather than part-time jobs. Again, I’m exaggerating only slightly, but I put more kids on timeout, yelled at more toddlers for playground indiscretions and drank more milk mini-milk cartons then I ever will as a parent. Lactose intolerant need not apply. In this beastly economy, however, I’ll take my snack pack and meager hourly wage and shut my mouth.

I don’t watch much TV. I think it’s because we are one of the remaining families in the US to own a TV and not have cable. This affords me the neurotic luxury of memorizing every local news channel anchor and correspondent. KTVU Consumer Editor Tom Vacar. Political Correspondent Randy Shandobil. South Bay Correspondent Lloyd Lacuesta. Nightly news anchor Frank Somerville, who my parents always remind me went to high school with my older brother, and of course Meteorologist Bill Martin who my dad always curses for botching the report. His work has been waning as of late, and I think Gasia Mikalian is being eyed as a replacement. Sometimes when I watch television or I am in an equally dull situation in life, I fantasize about moving to Brazil and starting a youth hostel and surf camp, or living in Europe playing for a Division III soccer club, or better yet moving to Saudi Arabia and creating the first international giraffe racing league. All these things require money, which is something I don’t have and it makes me angry at times.

A particularly obnoxious commercial usually rousts me from my wanderings. ‘Coming up next. Howie Mandel’s Deal or No Deal.’ We meet again Mr. Mandel. Your digitally enhanced baldhead is even more impressive on TV. I watch silently as all the questions on that fateful graduation day churn about. What is his profession really? Is he a game show host, briefcase salesmen or mind meddler? Why can’t I have this cushy job? I try to place myself in the dank flats of the delightfully plump Ms. Carnie Packard who is playing for the million. Howie changes cameras and turns his glance to me. He seems to be offering me a choice. Given my present circumstances, would I blindly choose one briefcase from a group of 30 briefcases, ranging in value from one cent to one million dollars, in exchange for not having to figure out what to do with the rest of my life? Although it’s hard to imagine living off one cent, I honestly don’t have an answer to Howie’s hypothetical. There is a certain warped quality to my generation and me. We tend to put in the least amount of effort and expect the greatest rewards. We are spoiled. I am not willing to give up yet, but as I sit and watch another friend dragged off to law school, my eye cannot help but think that briefcase number seven looks especially shiny.

Why I should be in the Rick Ross Entourage

16 May

Man tatums.

– I don’t like my current job.

– I’ve always wanted to live where “Gettin’ Jiggy with it” was filmed and visit the shooting locations.

– I speak pretty alright Spanish which could help smooth over potential disputes with Cuban coke lords, or help holler at attractive Latinas who prefer blonde hair blue eyed devils to obese black rappers.

– I would add diversity to the crew. (Possible tax write off? I’m not sure. I don’t think that makes much sense actually)

– I want to be around girls with huge asses all the time

– I have a clean record. Think of all the cases I could catch for you. Speeding in your Aston Martin? No problem, lets switch seats, I got this one big guy. Assault and battery? Forget about it. Throw some brass knuckles on me and point the finger. Drug charges?! No fuckin problem!!! Dump cocaine on my face. My rap sheet is yours to fill, but I will only do this for you if I am well taken care of in prison. You know what that means. No butt play is what I’m getting at Rick.

– I used to freestyle battle in High School. I once rhymed dental plan with mental spam. I thought that was pretty cool. I could clearly provide light amusement and “Look at the White guy trying to do Black things” moments for you and your boys.

– I like Aston Martins and if I had money to blow fast, like if you gave me some kind of weekly allowance or per diem, I would surely blow it so fast.

– I took a NOLS Wilderness First Aid Responder course one summer. If you have any more health issues like that congenital heart failure episode on your private jet, I could…well I would be severely undertrained and ill prepared to help in that situation. Legally speaking, I shouldn’t even touch you if you were in cardiac arrest. If you cut yourself eating crab or something though, I would give you so many band-aids and words of encouragement.

– My Mom knows a speech therapist. If you ever wanted to not sound like evil Kermit the Frog on a whiskey bender she could hook up a discount. I mean its cool now, but when your rapping days are over it will just be creepy.

– We all know Miami breeds an unbearable sticky, humid heat. I can only imagine the amount of sweat that accrues under your belly and man tates. If you like I can scrub you down when you overheat and your XXXXL’s stick to your back……KIDDING Ricky! I have a sense of humor. I’m not like that, but seriously, how do you survive in Miami with all those rolls?

Well there you have it. Call it my plea, resume, wishful thinking or dementia. I would make an excellent member of your entourage and I await your call. Boss! Also this video inspired me to apply for the position.

CSI Facebook Creep

15 May

Boyhood Boners

14 May

Orphan Hot!

Topanga– What can I say about this wild haired lass? Is she White? Armenian? Or some exotic mix of unbridled passion and scornful lust. Whatever she is she made sitting thru Corey Matthews bullshit far more tolerable. The best thing about her is she has no point of reference. Mr. Pheeny is the principal and neighbor. Sean is the best friend who lives in a trailer park, and to my knowledge Topanga is some incredibly attractive orphan girl who shows up in episodes periodically to remind me I’m a red blooded American boy.

Before Lil Wayne made a song…

Dion– I never thought I would admit this, but D from Clueless makes me wish I were Donald Faison for those 2 hours, pubic stash, gap tooth and all. She was beyond dope. She looked ridiculous at that High School, mainly because she was Black in Beverly Hills, but also because she was 100 times doper than any other student. I didn’t fall for Alicia Silverstones’ whiny voice or dumpy frame, and I certainly wasn’t enticed by weirdo turned entitled bitch Brittany Murphy. When D came out rocking that bikini in the pool scene, I had to excuse myself to the bathroom for some alone time…to poop guys. I ate too many Reese’s Cups and was nervous because it was my first sleepover. Also Stacey Dash was super hot.

So easy to tell.

Tia from Sister Sister– Yes, one twin was finer than the other, and everyone knew it. I can’t imagine growing up the less attractive twin in front of a public audience, albeit a small, afternoon UPN public audience. It must have been excruciating, but I couldn’t help see Tamera as anything but a goofy study buddy, whereas Tia exuded sex and sophistication.

Not racist…right?

Yellow Ranger– In a 1992 interview with Esquire, Fox executive Don Holcomb said, “The Yellow Ranger suit was literally the last color we had, and Trini Kwan was the last actor we hired for the show. Swear to God bro.” This is a fake quote and what Fox did is insensitive, but if we can look past the suit, we find a beautiful Vietnamese orchid who kicked and hi-ya’d her way to my heart. She also had an incredibly strange and tragic life before and after her stint with the Rangers. Check it out.


Mya– Her only song I know of is “Ghetto Superstar” and that was enough. She is the only person I’ve waited in line to get an autograph from. Pretty weird right? I stood outside the Rasputin Records on Telegraph in Berkeley, CA for over 2 hours to get an autograph from Mya. I’m cracking up writing this. She was dope though. I still remember her outfit. Atlanta Braves bucket hat, lime green tank top, jean skirt and Timbos. Yes Mam, now that was an outfit.

Why did this happen?

Starship Troopers Shower Scene– There really needed to be some extra special rating for this movie. Maybe like, “Don’t go see this with your Mom because there is a shower scene out of nowhere that will make you feel super uncomfortable.” As you can guess this is precisely what happened. I was fully immersed in the intergalactic bloodbath, rooting for Rico to avenge his smoldering hometown of Buenos Aires, (WTF?) when that skinny red head decided to challenge gender roles and show her tits in the shower. Oh man. I had seen boobs in Porky’s, and a pair of panties in Revenge of the Nerds, but I was not ready for exposed ginger nipple sitting next to my Mother.

Wants it so bad.

Kelly Kapowski– What a dreamboat. With her short shorts and those little white Keds, she would shuffle around the halls of Bayside High rousing the attention of students, teachers and Mr. Beldings alike. She wanted it bad. Who knows if Zach Morris ever got her? Part of me thinks Belding was involved in some scandalous aftercurriculars, but we may never know. Or will we? Quick side note: Mr. Belding hangs out at bars in the Sherman Oaks all the time. He is apparently very friendly and approachable, so if you are so inclined go ask him yourself. I’m certainly not going to the valley.

So bad.

Tia Carrere– I was sha-winging all over the place.

Jasmine– She’s so sexy when she’s mad.

Never thought she would have a career.

Kelly Bundy– The hot, trashy white. She was dumb, pretty and poor, and 8 year old Me was very intrigued. She was both dangerous and accessible and ultimately a great life lesson. This was the girl you date for a summer, but never bring home to mother.

Eres Tu (Mamacita)

7 May

Facebook Challenge

4 May

Facebook has become a real bummer. I will not provide statistics or studies on how it makes us lonely, enraged with jealousy or less productive, but I will say that my creep sessions on girls and my tasteful self-promotion of my blog are being ruined by a steady stream of shitty news and excessive wedding albums. Seriously? A three part series of side profile shots in front of a bush? My friends who I want to keep in touch with seem to get lost or buried in this thick mud of depression or hyperbole of acquaintances I have picked up along the way, and I am forced to wade thru it all.

It’s my own fault really. I keep logging back on to check the inane status update of some haggard who has been trying to get in shape since ’07. As mentioned before, I have already relegated my role on the book to shameless self-promoter and occasional creeper, but I still find myself annoyed.

So it is with great pleasure that I announce the first ever Facebook: Race to Ruination. Starting on Monday, May 7th I will assume the persona of your most annoying/inspiring/depressing/idiot Facebook friend in an attempt to collect the most comments and likes possible. They can be sympathetic, ironic, or just a plain eff you to my face. My goal is 50 comments and 50 likes on a single post or status update. The 50th comment will receive a $50 cash prize from yours truly and a personal thank you note for helping me on my path to a more productive and emotionally fulfilling future.(I’m not trying to get super serious, but clearly one person cannot just comment 50 times. Let’s say 10 people minimum) I will then promptly retire from Facebook. Hope to see you all on the other side.

Vegas Recap

2 May

I know I said I would post on Monday about my weekend in Vegas, but sometimes after hurting your liver the last thing you think about is logging onto your blog and trying to be clever. So here it is some days later. For those counting at home, I will give myself a win for this trip , which brings my all time record against Vegas to a respectable 2-2. I did not win exorbitant sums of money, or go home with Kate Uptonesque girls (Hippos!!!), but I learned a lot about myself this trip. The theme for Vegas 2012 was called Getting Older. From watching 20/20 specials sipping whiskey in my room on a Friday night, to I’ding girls who claimed they were 21 on the strip, to bringing a Dave Eggers novel poolside and actually reading an entire chapter, to shopping for a nice dress shirt at Zara, to asking strippers about their health benefits, it all tied in to that inevitable clock-ticking truth. And I could really care less. I raged hard this weekend, don’t get me wrong. I drank unhealthy amounts of Jack, hollered at girls, bet on stupid things, and saw the sunrise because I know that won’t last, and I’m pretty happy about it. I embrace the fact that Vegas allows me to act like a degenerate for 2 days, but I also embrace my more mature proclivities. So let’s raise our Hennessy and flat red bulls and have a toast. To Vegas 2013! May it be filled with expensive steak houses, spa treatments, and The Blue Man Group.

8:37 PM Friday: Arrive at Treasure Island in an overheated ’65 Mustang. Pit stains non-existent because I’m wearing a Turquoise tank. Swag?

8:59 PM Friday: Fatigued from the hot ride, drink Gatorade and watch the last half of Speed in the room, friends tell me I’ve changed.

10:45 PM Friday: Guy in Ed Hardy shirt asks me “How do you play craps!” Turns out to be an all right guy.

12:25 AM Saturday: Make out with questionable looking drunk girl. (Or does she think she’s making out with questionable looking drunk guy? Wig out mind meddler)

1:40 AM Saturday: Next “Too Close” might be on, but I’m in a full BO so its’ hard to tell. Girl asks me to hold her Iphone, I pocket it and forget, and she accuses me of trying to steal it. I leave the club. #Lightweightjealouscause Ihaveaflipphone

3:17 AM Saturday: Make a terrible order at the Bellagio café such and such. Eat Fish and Chips with drunken 21 year olds from Tacoma. Feel old.

4:10 AM Saturday: Win $300 dollars in Craps; think I know how to win at Craps.

4:25 AM Saturday: Seriously contemplate seeing Carrot Top live.

5:45 AM Saturday: Painful rest.

9:45 AM Saturday: Awoken by friends who convince me to bet actual money on a three team parlay involving the Knick to cover, Pacers to cover and Celtics to win straight up. Good lord that went poorly.

10:30 AM Saturday: Watch first two quarters of the Heat game, want to cry and take a nap.

11:18 AM Saturday: Go to pool, apply sunscreen, look like a geisha girl, and listen to Flo Rida.

11:45 AM Saturday: Flo Rida is still on, and that red German is still dancing in front of the DJ, how is this possible?

1:54 PM Saturday: Stripper asks me where I get my haircut. I reply “At Rudy’s on Sunset” She gets up and walks away.

4:27 PM Saturday: Mustang won’t start for 2 hours. Saved by a redneck. Leave Vegas slightly sun burnt in the company of good friends.