But What If No One Can Afford To Live Here Anymore? Well I Guess You Can 'Cause You've Got A Trust Fund

Look, it's San Diego:



Hah-hah, it's funny because now everyone in San Diego is poor! There must already be lines of unemployed white people hanging out on street corners, begging for some work or just some fish tacos.

BTW, this video was shot around Vista, the North County town in San Diego that fake-boobied boob Carrie Prejean is from, though she won her tit-le as "Miss La Jolla." Faker.

I also worked in Vista for my dad during summers in high school. Looks like it sucks as bad now as it did then. It's the most boring place ever, until you've been to Irvine.

My Heart Is Broke, But I Have Some Glue

I read this Beth Spotswood person's blog and occasional other pieces at SFGate or SFAppeal and think, "She seems like a nice person." She's funny, charming, intelligent, and she -- in my opinion -- bravely decided to confront her alcoholism late last year and go into rehab for it. She is, as far as I know, still sober seven or eight months later. Good for you, Beth.

She also seems to have lotsa friends who still like her and hang out with her now that she's sober. Maybe she's a total liarpants when she writes about it, but that makes me ridiculously jealous. I'm not afraid to quit drinking (I've done it before -- repeatedly), but I'm afraid that this time, if I do, my friendships with everyone else in the universe will dry up. Because what else do I have in common with everyone I know (or at least, want to know)? We drink.

I was so lonely here for years until I started drinking again. Now, I'm still kinda lonely (break-ups and depression and all that), but at least I know I have friends here who like me and care about me. I didn't have that before.

Life: Confusing!

==========

Also: The saddest looking animal ever.

Because He's Fucking Up Even The Simplest Lines

You know what's incredibly maddening? (And I'm mad, so I can testify!)

When it seems like you're the only person in your office who, when you call in sick, everyone gets an e-mail notifying everyone else in the office that you're out sick. And NOBODY else gets that e-mail when it's someone else calling in sick. I've had days go by where I notice someone is not in the office and I have to ask where that person is. The answer is never in my inbox.

I hate my life.

(And no, I'm not paranoid. Believe me, I can read about mental illness and say "That's not me! Close, but no cigar.")

Mama Won't Shave Me, Jesus Won't Save Me

A guy says, "I hate Jews," and I said, "Why?" He goes, "Because they killed my God." They believe that. If I believed that the Jews killed my God, I'd worship the Jews, 'cause shit, there's some badasses on that team, man. I haven't seen God ever, I see Jews all the time – go figure. -- Bill Hicks

I don't care about people's religion much. To each his or her own. Religion has been a part of every society ever (right?), and even though we're all fancy dancy now with our telescopes and movies about dinosaurs, there are still lotsa people who are religious out there. (Like, billions and billions of them.)

I'm an atheist, and I became one when I realized that I didn't have faith. I didn't, and still don't have faith in a God or gods or some sort of higher power. But lots of other people do. So I'm not gonna hate on the religious just because I lack something they have. I'm not one of those Richard Dawkins/Christopher Hitchens "new athiests" or anti-theists or whatever they call themselves. So long as I'm comfortable in my atheism, and they're comfortable in whatever they're comfortable in believing, and no one is hurting another person or infringing on their rights in the process (Note: Definitely not always the case), then Budda Bless Em'.

(Note: This does not include people who believe in astrology. Those people are dumb.)

Having said all of that, professional basketball players are not where one should look for religious guidance or profound thoughts. Other than knowing which strip clubs are the best and where to find a good lawyer to handle those palimony claims, professional basketball players shouldn't be look to for guidance about ANYTHING. (Especially fashion.) They're people, many of whom are especially bright or well-educated, who have pretty much dedicated their entire lives to putting a ball through and stopping other people from doing likewise.

I thought of the above quote from Bill Hicks a little while ago after I read this this gem from Stephon Marbury, who I never imagined to be particularly bright but also didn't think of as a particularly religious person.

"Do I believe in aliens?" I don't know, because I've never seen one. But I believe in Jesus because I saw him in the shower the other day."

See? The Jews didn't kill Jesus -- he's taking a shower at Stephon Marbury's house. With Stephon Marbury!

Fortunately, there are no aliens in Stephon Marbury's shower, so we're safe. FOR NOW.

(After reading the other excerpts from Marbury's live stream of his life, uh, I think he's just a mixture of equal parts stupidity, ego, and insanity.)

And that reminds me of this:

I'm Gonna Do A Lot Of Drinking, Cause It Don't Hurt When I'm Drunk

Last nite, I came home drunk (is there any other way to come home? Oh, right, drunk and with a girl), and went to my computer after I stuffed my burrito in the microwave.

I go on the Facebook. I see an unfamiliar name in my feed: "Rachel Wilkinson." Who the fuck is Rachel Wilkinson? I don't remember meeting anyone recently named Rachel, and the only Rachel I know is... oh wait -- I know who that Rachel is. It's the (former) Rachel Mills, founder of the late, great Loin's Mouth, and my buddy, who I saw just last month at Zeitgeist.

She just married a guy who's nickname is "Pants."

I remember her complaining to me about how there were zero datable men for her in San Francisco, and she was actually thinking about moving away (to Portland) to find a man. And she used to hate on the Mission so badly.

Then she meets Pants, they move in together in the Mission, and now they're married. Life can be funny. Good job, Rachel (and Pants!).

Also: since Jessica and I broke up, I believe everyone* has either gotten engaged or gotten married.

==========

*"Everyone" does not include gay people in California.

Nowhere To Go To But Down, Down, Down, Nothing But The Ground Left For You To Fall To

Dear Supervisor Daly:

Fuck off and die.

Better yet, resign first, then fuck off and die.

Thank you.

==========

Dave's weight loss plan has hit a major snag as his knees, burdened by a college-age injury and thirty-five years of supporting his ass in all of its failed endeavors, can't take running anymore.

It's been a week since my last run, and my knees ache. Walking to work is painful. Going down the stairs is painful. Life's painful, and I live it, but I can do without chronic knee pain.

Gotta find a back-up plan.

Love Love Love Don't Live Here Anymore

Geary and Jones (I think).

It obviously ain't my corner.

==========

Ways Dave Is Trying To Conserve Money Number #1:

I'm checking out sites like Redtube and Xtube for free porn, rather than paying for video-on-demand.

I am such a hypocrite. Being poor robs you of your soul! It's like being a racist, but much less fun.

Also: Redtube and Xtube suck.

==========

You know, the question over whether the use of "nigga" by black folks is ever appropriate or not, whether in music or in person or wherever, is one thing that I think about when I smoke.

But the use of "faggot" is generally accepted to be wrong by most people (exception: gay humor?). Straight people shouldn't refer to anyone, really, as a "faggot," whether as either a homophobic or childishly emasculating putdown. Sure, there are bigots and hill people and some ghetto people and six year-olds out there, but for the rest of us, we kinda know it's bad. If you're local newscaster referred to your local mayor as a "faggot," that'd be a "What the fuck did he/she just say?" kinda moment, and then you'd immediately Twitter/Facebook/Blog/Text Message Your Friends about it, because you are an attention-seeking whore.

Where was I? Oh right, the other "f-word." So in my old age, I still get embarrassingly shocked whenever I hear Dire Straits' Money For Nothing and then this comes along:

See the little faggot with the earring and the makeup
Yeah buddy that's his own hair
That little faggot got his own jet airplane
That little faggot he's a millionaire

I know this song came out in 1984 or whatever, and times and attitudes were different. But still.

Liberal guilt. Harumph.

(Also: Blogger accepts the other "f-word" as a correctly spelled word in its spellcheck.)

Well I Got A Bad Liver And A Broken Heart

Dear Dave:

It's official: You're broke. Broke and really in debt. You need to stop drinking. Or at least, stop drinking so much.

And yeah, I know that realization is depressing for you for a number of reasons -- you basically have nothing to show for it except a bad liver. But it's been a long time coming, and you gotta face facts. You're depressed and all, I know, but drinking doesn't help that, and you know it. Don't fucking cry about it, either.

Now get your head back into your job.

Signed,

Yourself.

When The Moon Is Round And Full, Gotta Bust That Box Gotta Gut That Fish

I had a dream last night that I watched the movie Moon.

I haven't seen Moon in the non-dreamy world. It looks intriguing, and I like Sam Rockwell, but I've heard it's slow and boring.

But what I watched last nite in my head... it was Sam Rockwell in a Moon-like movie, but it did not appear to take place on the Moon. Like somewhere in that kind of setting, somewhere in space, but not actually on the Moon.

Afterwards, I discussed that aspect with someone else who watched Moon in my head with me. That person said it was Moon, but it was heavily edited in post-production to make it not appear as if it was on the Moon. The screening results indicated that film was too slow, and so the producer-director people decided that was the fault of it being on the Moon.

And despite that, it was still a boring film -- in my head.

And then this morning, I woke up early (because I went to bed early because I was hammered) and within five minutes I discovered Patton Oswalt's upcoming film, Big Fan. This is guaranteed to be the opposite of suck.

I Wanna Holla, But The Town's Too Small

There is no way this bill -- which I fished out of my wallet last nite -- was written on by a single, available, semi-attractive, cool chick in the neighborhood. No, it was written by some gay dude who gets laid every night. Just check the handwriting! I just know this shit.

I hate people.

Turbo-Crushed Is Our Mission, On The Table Or In The Kitchen -- YEAOWWW!!!

A week from now, I may be going to a Muppets-themed party at a friend's place in SOMA.

A month from now, I'm supposed to box my friend in another's friend's courtyard in the TL.

And on October 5, assuming I don't pass out in the next 24 minutes, I'm supposed to go see the Motorhead-Reverend Horton Heat-Nashville Pussy with a ton of people.

I define Permadolesence. And fattitude.

I Caught A Snuffleufagus and Smoked A Boogaloo Spliff

So last night I was down at Whiskey and not much was going on. My boy was working over in Portero Hill, so I cabbed over. Not much was happenin' there either, but I learned two important things:

1) One of the bartenders is an amazingly awesome and hot woman from Jacksonville who I hit it off with incredibly well. She's also gayer than Christ. I'm going to think of a creative way to break my mom's heart tomorrow by relating that story ti her,

2) I'm not what the boys call a "breastman," but the other bartender last nite had tits that belong encased in carbonite.

A'igth. Wish me luck on trying to sleep tonight.

Oh, and I love this fuckin' country. Canada couldn't produce this shit in a bazillion years:

(Just Humming The Theme To Family Feud)

I'm busy and lazy and have nothing interesting to say. So, here is some random shit:

The self-confidence level of Californians is making me feel insecure about being a Californian. (Via the pretty interesting OKTrends.)

And I'm never flying on a plane piloted by an Oregonian.

==========

From The Onion:

DENVER, CO—Like a desperate shipwreck survivor clutching at flotsam in the North Atlantic, area bar patron Kyle Whaley kept his eyes glued to a muted episode of the sitcom King Of Queens Monday, attempting to look as if he had some reason to be at Snooker's Bar and Grill despite not knowing anyone there. "Last I hear Bob was back at his landscaping job," a nearby bar patron said in a conversation Whaley had no hope of joining. Watching without sound or subtitles, Whaley shifted nervously on his barstool and locked his gaze on the program like a man cornered by an angry bear. As of press time, there was only one segment left after the upcoming commercial break, and Whaley's options were quickly running out.

Hmm, that sounds like something I read about three years ago...

SAN FRANCISCO, CA—Like a desperate shipwreck survivor clutching at flotsam in the North Atlantic, area bar patron Dave kept his eyes glued to a muted episode of uninformative sports talk show Baseball Tonight, attempting to look as if he had some reason to be at Whiskey Thieves despite not knowing anyone there. "Last I hear Bob was back at his landscaping job," a nearby bar patron said in a conversation Dave had no hope of joining. Watching without sound or subtitles, Dave shifted nervously on his barstool and locked his gaze on the program like a man cornered by an angry bear. As of press time, there was only one segment left after the upcoming commercial break, and Dave's options were quickly running out.

The good news is, now I know people there! And it only took three years, thousands upon thousands of untold dollars, and years off my life!

==========

Via Ned Hepburn (and a buncha other Tumblogs, or something:

I so love that Matthew Lesko actually rocks this suit when he's not on camera. Even when he has to catch a flight. I wonder if Vince from ShamWow always wears that headset, at least when he's not beating up hookers?

(Probably, he's a douche.)

==========

Another busy week at work, and the week's not even over yet! Working on Saturdays... man, I really should have gone down the game show route when I was younger and didn't smell like pee.

I Just Might Have a Problem That You'd Understand, We All Need Somebody to Lean On

My brother is one of the nicest people you will ever meet. Incredibly sweet guy. There's a story I tell to illustrate this:

Back when my folks and my brother still lived in San Diego (1996 or so), my dad and my bro went to a Chargers/Raiders game. Charger/Raider games tend to be ugly affairs in the stands because, well, Raider fans.

They both see a fight ready to break out between a Charger fan and a Raider fan. Not an unusual occurrence, unfortunately. What is unusual is for a person to step in between the two, calm them down, and convince them to just walk away, and to do it without threatening force or ejection or the police on them or something.

And that's what Scott did. He got between these two mad cats and talked them out of trying to kick each other's asses. I don't think they hugged it out and became best friends or whatever, but at least there was one less fight.

My dad called me and told me that story when it happened, and said it was one of the most amazing things he's ever seen in his life. And no, my brother isn't some hippie.

I relate this tale because my brother, while a very nice guy, wasn't much of a traditional "big brother." He's got 5 1/2 years on me, so you'd think that'd be a good age difference where he could show his younger sibling "the ropes." Well, he wasn't like that. Didn't drink or smoke pot, wasn't popular with the ladies, and he had all kinds of self-esteem issues (sound familiar?) that occupied him. Hell, he needed a big brother.

(I should probably point out that I was, and still am, a terrible little brother.)

So I drifted through my younger years aimlessly, looking for guidance and approval from the friends I made. None of those guys were very good with the ladies themselves because they were either inept or gay. But I did learn about drinking, drugs, gambling, and other useful tips that have made me the man I am today. But I still have issues -- particularly with the ladies -- and I need some further instruction.

That's why I am so THRILLED to see Andy Botwin has his own university where he teaches students the kind of lessons they didn't learn when they were younger! (See video intro below.) The University of Andy sounds completely awesome and exactly the kind of positive guidance that I need in my life right now. I'm so stoked about it that I don't care that it's not a real university, and that Andy Botwin is a fictional character and a giant fuck-up. I mean, have you watched Weeds and see the kind of tail he's pulled over the years? Zooey Deschanel, an Israeli chick, a hot Mexican illegal immigrant, and, well, I haven't watched Season Five yet, but I hear he gets some nice tail there as well.


New Beginnings, Happy Endings

Last Night I Dreamt Somebody Fell Asleep Between My Knees

A tear-jerking reminder as to why women from San Diego will break your heart and leave you empty and confused and alone while they go off and have a great time:

"Silo and Roy, two male chinstrap penguins native to the South Atlantic, made [New York] headlines six years ago when they came out with their same-sex relationship. … That all ended when Scrappy, a single female newly arrived from SeaWorld in San Diego, caught Silo’s eye. … On Thursday, Roy, all alone, sat disconsolately at the edge of the penguin area, staring at the wall."

They even give the sads to penguins! Five'll get you ten that Scrappy gets frustrated with Silo's feelings and moves on to a hotter, younger, much richer puffin.

A truly horrible species of woman.

==========

Also, I finished GTA IV a few nights ago. What is up with video games and these morally-complex, bittersweet endings? When I was a kid it was all about kicking the bad guy's ass and then taking the princess home and fucking her, forever, The End. But now -- I make the right choices and my girlfriend is gunned down while attending my cousin's wedding. And she was one of these crazy virtuous women who also was saving herself for marriage, so I never got to tap that! (And she died a virgin!)

And even after I blow away her killer on the equivalent of Ellis Island after a long car/motorcycle/boat/helicopter/foot chase, I'm left completely numb, my hope for a new life in America ruined because of the lifestyle I chose to pursue.

Fuck my video game life.

Global Robo-Depression

Fucking depression. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. I don't like you, depression. You make me not want to do anything besides sit around and hate on myself. You make me want to write mean things about myself or other people in a public forum. You put every negative adjective invented in my head and apply it to myself. I so fucking hate you, depression, for making me hate my life and be so unhappy. Of course, you won't die until I die, so I'm stuck with you until that day rolls around.

Fuck off and die, depression.

I'm So Lonely, I Wish I Was The Moon Tonight

You spend a nice weekend trying to enjoy yourself, have fun, live semi-carefree.

Your net result is to be broke and horribly depressed and cursing the existence of the guy who invented sunny days. And you think your inability to get a cab when you're late for work (because you're horribly depressed) has something to do with that.

Fucking mood swings.

They'll Recognize Just what I Stand For And What I Just Can't Stand

What modern times have wrought:

You plan to go to an event. You're on Facebook, and you can check out who has also decided to attend this event that is being promoted on Facebook. And you do. You find a (fellow) person that is also planning on attending the event who appears attractive and interesting and possibly quite masturbatory-worth though you do not know this person. You arrive at said event, and notice the attractive person you found on Facebook, and admire their taste in baseball teams, beer, and nail polish (Green, for instance). You fail to find an opening to talk to this person, so you ask a friend if they know that person. The friend tells you that the individual sitting next to the attractive person with the interesting nail polish is her boyfriend, even though the Facebook page of the attractive person indicates that they are single.

Notice the several dozen other attractive people who are at the event, and who are no doubt going to square off and fuck other people not named you. Feel depressed.

Wake up at 1:00 in the morning with an unopened bottle of whiskey next to your computer, and wondering, "Should I take my meds now or wait until I wake up later?"

Lose more faith in continuing to breathe.

Also: You notice a another person who is way more likable than you are who recently got a large tattoo on his fucking head.

Plus: You are thirty-five years old and you think this is a beautiful site:

Just Because You Came Across It, And Lost It

OK, shower, go to BBQ fundraiser and drink and eat, resume weight loss/self-improvement tomorrow after lame weekend.

Also: Stop watching Pot Psychology. It's funny and all, but I keep imagine every question is being submitted by Jess.

Frownypants!

So Go Ahead, Go Nuts, Go Ape Shit

Is it OK for one person with obvious mental health issues to point at another person with mental health issues and say, "That chick is totally fucking insane," not to their face, because you don't do that (because of mental health issues), but to a few other people you speak with over the course of an evening, all of whom agree but still make you feel bad that you turned down an opportunity for free and no doubt insane sex?

Tell me it's OK.

So, tomorrow there's a BBQ fundraiser at a bar in Portero Hill that some friends own/work at/visit often. The fundraiser part is about bringing and donating a new board game. (Read about it here, no one!) I decided to go to Jeffrey's this morning and pick up a board game because a) it's close, and b) they have boardgames.

I get there, and of course I have no idea what board game to get. (They have a lot.) So many choices, so overwhelming, etc. Then I realize: I have no idea who these board games are intended for. Like, little kids? Teenagers? Adults?(!) Anxieties, anxieties!!!

I then spot a game called Anti-Monopoly. It sounded very hippy-dippy-ish, and upon further examination, uh, it I think it is. (It's created by a now-retired SFSU economics professor -- go read about it! Interesting stuff!) But I'm in SF, going to a fundraiser where the average person attending it is somewhere to the left of Ralph Nader, and I think the person behind it is some sort of hippie herself. Perfect! It says ages "8 and Up," but whatever, so long as I don't have to actually meet any poor children in need of a board game, I don't give a fuck. Just take it, and tell me where the fucking cole slaw is.

So now I have a reason to go and drink, eat fattening foods, see friends, and hopefully meet new people who I can masturbate about later.

I'm also proud of myself that I can go into a toy store and not spend $1,000 on random shit. ("I never had Operation as a kid, why not get it now?")

I See Losers Losing Everywhere, If I Lose I'll Only Lose A Care

I was just in the bathroom, brushing my teeth and putting some product in my hair. I'm wearing a black t-shirt, still fat and old, and still rocking a beard, so as I was slicking up my hair this unwanted thought passed into my mind:

Do I look like Paul Mitchell?

I thought about posting that as a Facebook status update, but I got anxious, because I was afraid I was just being my typical annoying, narcissistic self. And that pause was good, because then I got scared that people would read it and start calling me "Paul Mitchell."

And then I would have to kill myself.

So I didn't, and I'm alive to finish this up and go get a sandwich.

(Random Trivia Fact! Paul Mitchell is a co-founder and owner of Patron Tequila! Another good reason to not drink tequila, kids!)

(Also: his real name is not Paul Mitchell. What a complete douche.)

My Self Esteem's Not Low Enough To Date You

Things I've learned in the last five minutes via Facebook quizzes that I never publish the results of:

1. I'm a good lover.
2. I'm totatally datable.
3. I should be living in San Francisco.
4. I'm from the Mastic-Shirley region(?) of Long Island, which is where all the trailer park-types live.

I hope at least one of these four things is true.

Your Orphan Clothes And Your Long Dark Hair, Lookin' Like You Didn't Care

Why it's a good idea to keep an extra shirt in your office/cubicle/locker/cubbyhole:

When you're really, really hungover, and twenty minutes late for work, and you discover halfway to work that you forgot to put on a shirt.

(I mean, I had an undershirt on, but totally forgot about the dress shirt part of it. I'm also a very shitty writer who is terrible at telling stories and has a very annoying reliance on parentheticals and has all kinds of self-esteem issues. Fuck off.)

It's A Long Way To The Top, If You Want to Rock N' Roll

Killing a few minutes before I leave work for the day, I was reading AC/DC's Wikipedia page. Today would have been original lead singer Bon Scott's 63rd birthday, had he not died from drinking too much. (Cautionary tale!)

Down in the Recognition section of the page, it stated:

In 2009 the Recording Industry Association of America upgraded the group's US sales figures from 69 million to 71 million, making AC/DC the fifth-best-selling band in US history and the ninth best selling artist, selling more albums than Madonna, Mariah Carey and Michael Jackson.

That seemed pretty amazing to me -- AC/DC sold more albums in this country than Madonna? Or Michael Jackson? Granted, as a group they've been around since the mid-1970s, but Highway to Hell, their first big hit in the States, wasn't released until 1979. So they had, say, four or five years head start on MJ or Madonna. They were really popular at one point, and still are, and are still putting out albums every now and then, but still.

Curious guy that I am, I checked out the RIAA's page listing the best selling artists in America. Yep! They've sold roughly 8 million more alubms than Madonna, and 10 million more than MJ. What's way more interesting is who is listed above them.

The Beatles are #1, no surprise there, I guess. But #2? GARTH BROOKS. Oh, America, c'mon.

(Also: Billy Joel at #6? Barbara Streisand at #8?)

A Wiggle And Jiggle Can Make The Night Complete

I went to a baseball game yesterday afternoon, and I did not drink. I had one 16-oz bottle of Diet Coke for $4.75. I was rather proud of myself. I also walked to and back from the ballpark, beating my firm on the way back even though we left at the same time but they insisted on taking the N-Judah. When I got home, I went for a run/sweating exhibition for almost twenty minutes.

Of course, my friend wanted to give me two Super Anime Heroes Kinnikuman toys he picked up in Japan last year for about ¥650 (about $6), so I had to go to the bar, where I drank much and spent much. So you see, I didn't want to drink -- I was compelled to by the promise of toys.

Then I coasted through this morning hungover and hungry.

You're All Dressed Up Like A Lady, How Come You Behave This Way?

This is absolutely the most adorable thing I've seen in my life:



If there is anything more reliably cuter than forcing animals to wear clothes and prance around on two legs, I do not know what it could be.

Fat Boy On A Diet, Don't Try It, I'll Jack Your Ass Like A Looter In A Riot

See if you can guess where Day 2 of Dave's Unofficial Diet went off the rails:

1) Tempeh salad for lunch;
2) Ran 1.5 miles (give or take);
3) Small Quizno's veggie sandwich (no mayo, forgot it had cheese);
4) Three Kettle & Sodas while catching up with a bartender who's been on tour with one of his bands for the past month;
5) Learn that another bartender and his new wife are apparently getting divorced, get saddypants, drink three beers and four whiskeys;
6) Go home and drink more beer;
7) Cry.

And I am so fucking hungry right now.

==========

Also: Fuck Carol Migden.

You Can Say I'm Desperate, Even Call Me Perverted

I'm not much of a reader of books. I get bored, I guess. Also: I have no capacity to understand literature at all. Metaphors, analogies, themes, characterizations, whatever -- I don't fucking get it. Two years of honors English classes followed by a year of AP English translated in me not passing the AP English test and having to take English 101.

I'm not -- or at least, I wasn't -- a terrible writer, so I was able to get by in English classes, especially the more writing-focused ones, but I just don't get literature. I wish I did -- it's one of my failings that makes me feel like a failure -- but I don't.

Franz Kafka's birthday was last Friday, July 3. He'd have been 126 if tuberculosis hadn't killed him in 1924.

I read three Kafka works in high school -- The Trial, in 10th grade, and The Metamorphosis and The Castle in 12th. I actually had to read them, and then do research on them to discover literary conventions like themes and allegories and whatnot, then write papers, with footnotes and stuff, on them.

Man, those were not good books for a depressed, self-hating teenager who was terrified of the world to spend a lot of time on. You are alone! There are forces working against you that you cannot understand and have no control over! Women are strange, and probably won't like you! If you're weird and ugly, not even your parents will want to deal with you!

At least, that's what I took away from them.

So the above-linked mentions that Kafka was really into porn, which linked to this piece that showed that, wow, he was really into porn.

Thanks to the masturbation superhighway as well as changing attitudes towards fucking, we're pretty cognizant as a society that lots of people look at porn. I'm guessing that most people -- certainly most men -- I see look at porn at least occasionally. Kids, lawyers, politicians, Jews, stoners, busboys -- most of them look at porn, especially if they have semblance of privacy and lack a willing and perpetually horny sex partner.

("SWM, 35, Tired of masturbating to porn, looking for willing and perpetually horny sex partner. No water sports.")

Porn has become more acceptable because it is so available, and because it is easily available and horny people crave it, we're aware that a lot of people enjoy it. However, when Kafka was chilling in early 20th century Prague, that wasn't the case. There was no internet, no glossy smut magazines available on the top shelf at the bookstore or the airport, and, presumably, no sex shops located adjacent to a strip club where people could wonder in and get their cellophane-wrapped foot fetish magazines and vibrating vaginas.

But where there are men, there is horniness. And where there is horniness, there is a buck to be made. And where there is a buck to be made off of horniness, you can bet you'll find someone willing to exploit themselves for it. So, yes, there was porn back then.

When I read that Kafka was into porn, I thought, "Well, he probably just had some grainy black-and-white photos of zaftig, pale ladies posing nude or having awkward-looking sex with an awkward looking dude." While of course there was real... "sexual weirdness" (defined as "any kind of sex to kinky or illegal for me"), I kinda assumed that there wasn't some sort of sordid, underground porn industry back then, at least not in Central Europe. And if there was, then Franz Kafka wouldn't have been collecting that shit.

Wrong!

"These are not naughty postcards from the beach. They are undoubtedly porn, pure and simple. Some of it is quite dark, with animals committing fellatio and girl-on-girl action... It's quite unpleasant."

GAH! Franz Kafka was whacking it to horses giving dudes blow jobs! I mean, "girl-on-girl" action, that's cool. Hell, if he was secretly getting off to "guy-on-guy" action -- well, that'd shed some light on a facet of his personality that no one knew about. But... horses and blow jobs. Kafka fantasized about horses (well, "animals" -- dogs, pigs, cows... none of it sounds pleasant) licking his wiener. I think I saw an episode of South Park where that was part of the story.

Anyhow, normally I don't give a shit as to whatever floats your boat -- consensual sex between adults is all good. But bestiality, ugh. Really, Kafka? I mean, porn was hard for me to get when I was a kid, but homie, I was never so hard up I thought about animal porn. (Never mind the kook who got off getting photographed while having a tongue bath from a four-legged friend.)

I guess it doesn't matter. All those people (and animals!) are dead now. I wan't on planning on reading any more Kafka anyway. But his works live on for all to enjoy, free of any underlying themes of bestiality. I think. There definitely wasn't any girl-on-girl action going on in The Trial. I'd have remembered that.

(SIGH) I'm a pretty sexual liberal person and all that, but bestiality, pedophilia and rape are all really, really bad, wrong things. I do not approve!

Also: I'm not sure how much I approve of this:



I'm not sure how down I am with Seinfeld porn, either.

But I'm Staying On My Meds And Drinking Plenty of Diet Coke

When it's 2:50 in the morning, what else would you rather be doing than fighting off a depressive episode with Budweiser and herb?

I have a stuffed dachshund toy that she bought for me one Friday. It's name is Bendypants. He's looking right at me. I feel like I've let him down, and because of me, he'll never see Jess again. That makes me way so irrationally sad.

I'll be OK, and all that; I'm a lot different person than I was four months ago or whatever (thanks, Doctor Therapist!).

Depression: It sucks!!!!

And Honey, You Can Make My Motor Hum

I want to have sexylovetime with Sarah Haskins. I'm also very, very drunk.



Cheers to a lazy, drunken July 4, surrounded by friends who like you for who you are. America has something to do with that.

We Got A Black Quarterback, So Step Back

One of the greatest moments I've ever had watching sports was watching McNair do this in a Super Bowl:



And it's in Spanish!

But I Knew The Sense Of Worthlessness She'd Have To Raise Above

Feeling very guilty about getting drunk four times in twenty-four hours. I'm washing my running clothes right now, and I want to go for a run in a bit.

I'm also way, way, way baked at the moment, and have never gone running while stoned before. So doing that on a beautiful San Francisco July 4 afternoon should be interesting.

I told a few people that I planned on getting back on Facebook this weekend. So I did that today. Facebook welcomed me back by suggesting that I add Jessica as a friend. Fucking terrific. Just seeing her little micro-profile thumbnail pic was like, "Really? That wasn't what I needed, Facebook." Facebook doesn't care, though.

Craptastic. I'm already thinking about her enough as it is this weekend. This is the one year anniversary of our move, two years ago we were chilling at Dolores Park, and yesterday I asked a mutual friend to inquire about getting my share of the deposit back on our place. I knew this weekend could be rough for me -- I told my shrink as much -- but I'm a little surprised at how much it's gotten me down.

I don't think getting drunk four times in 24 hours helped, either.

And Steve McNair! What kind of bullshititude is going on with the world today?

Reminiscing, Got Me Feeling Kinda Low, I Broke Out The Everclear and Then I Drunk Some 'Mo

1:56 in the morning of July 4. This is the 4th time I've been drunk in the last 24 hours. There is some fool out on O'Farrell playing a recorder, which is the most incorrectly-named musical instrument of all time. It doesn't record fuckall, it just makes irritating noises that you want to get away from. If I was prone to beating up people on the street, that guy would be all hurty by now.

Last nite I was talking to some guy named "Dean," which I thought was amusing because I was drunk and when was the last time you talked to a guy named "Dean," especially when you're drunk? Anyhow, during our discussion about the neighborhood, I realized that the random street noise in the 'Loin really does aggravate me. It's not people coming home drunk from a bar at 1:00 in the morning that annoy me. It's the people who make loud, unnecessary noise at all hours of the day. Like some guy playing a recorder, f'r instance.

Goddamned depressed. July 3 of last year was my last day of work. July 4 was an awesome BBQ with a ton of friends, followed by karaoke at Encore. July 5, we were on the road to our new life in San Diego. I still miss her so much.

I've also never had a massage.



Also: last nite I suggested that a friend name her new kittehs Mr. and Mrs. Snugglepants.

I was laughed at. Just like Sarah Palin is laughed at every day, by everyone, because she is a clown. God, I always thought she was just a narcissistic egomaniacal weirdo, but her resignation speech is kind of a strange mess, n'est ce pas?

Anyway, Happy Birthday, America. Keep on dancing:

If I Should Die, Darlin', In Your Arms, What A Lovely Way To Go.

A good nine-and-a-half minutes to pass the time on a lazy Thursday night with a joint, a beer, and a cigarette:

We laugh together, we care for each other, we have highly proficient sex... why can't we get married?

I'm Your Girl, I See The Light, I'm Gonna Walk You Through The Tenderloin Tonight

Oh, hello there, people who might read The Tenderblog who might have clicked on the link to my blog that Tenderblogette posted. Hello especially if I actually know you but you don't know about Squalor and Despair but you do read the Tenderblog and are only now discovering that I have a new journal. (Hi, Friend Don! I was trying to find a way to tell you and Friend Magi last nite in some way other than, "Hey, I have a shitty new blog," without sounding like I a lame-o. So I didn't say anything.)

Obvs, this blog is kind of a mess, as I've been making due with one of the bland templates that Blogger provides instead of making my own (where did my HTML skills go?) It's kinda frustrating to go back and look at some entries and realize that, "Ew, that just doesn't look the way it should." Of course, I say that about myself all the time, so I shrug and forget about it.

But I should do something about.

I really don't know why I started another new blog up. I guess I just miss writing about whatever shit I feel like writing about, putting up funny photos, uselessly promoting things that I like, and occasionally finding someone who reads it and likes it. It doesn't really have a point.

You know, I think I'll use the prior paragraph in Description field for this thing.

Oh, and Happy Belated Canada Day.

And Fuck Chris Daly.

When You're Only Having Seconds, I'm A-Having Twenty-Thirds

Things I Wish Were True But I Fear Are Not:

Those little microwavable pizzas that I buy from my corner market at 11:30 at night after I'm smashed but haven't eaten dinner? I wish they were only 250 calories.

Last Dance With Mary Jane, One More Time To Kill The Pain

Important news update (via The Awl):

If you're holding Percocet or Vicodin, start hoarding (also, come sit by me): An FDA advisory panel has recommended that the pills be taken off the market because the acetaminophen in them tends to blow up your liver when taken at high doses or with alcohol. The move has been condemned by some doctors who worry that it will have an adverse impact on patients who use the pills to combat severe pain, but let's be honest: Most of you guys use it because it gives you that sweet, fucked up, itchy underwater feeling. Get ready to start lying to your friends about how you're all out while surreptitiously sneaking into the bathroom to knock one back.

Now somebody give me some. I've never had some. Really. I dislocated my kneecap in college and was in an immobilizer for like six weeks, and the strongest shit I got was Ibuprofen.

==========

Hey, SFist, I know one guy at KTVU who is definitely pro-sparkles and fun: Traffic Guy Sal Castaneda!

Sadly, my attempt to post this as a comment didn't work at SFist, so now I feel stupid.

==========

Also, my new beard has led a friend to start calling me "Fozzie Bear" and randomly saying "Wocka, Wocka, Wocka" whenever I'm around.

Another friend said I looked like a grizzled war veteran.

That's quite the dichotomy: A Muppet, and a PTSD-inflicted solider.

I told the second guy that I probably look like a grizzled veteran of the Muppets. Now I'm starting to wonder what ever happened to Fozzie Bear after the cameras finally shut down. Maybe I'll put together a VH1 special on him.

This is almost certainly completely not true, but from Fozzie's Wikipedia page:

In the late 1990's Fozzie Bear was forever immortalized when Mr. T., a popular pop culture icon from the show "The A-Team" had Fozzie's face tattooed on his right Bicep, along with the phrase "Fozzie pitys the fool!"

That is too awesome to be true. Can't find any evidence online that Mr. T does have said tattoo. Goddamn, Wikipedia, for get my hopes up like that.

==========

And how do you handle having a bearded lady as the maid of honor at a wedding? Well, for one, don't ask the bearded lady to be the maid of honor. Or two, you can ask Dear Abby!

No welfare Supporters, More Conscious Of The Way We Raise Our Daughters

At 3:50 on a Wednesday morning, I want:

1. Jack in the Box.
2. A cat.

3. To stop posting YouTube videos from Cutebreak.
4. To stop getting so loaded that it takes me 30 minutes to find my glasses the next morning.
5. The motivation to go to Jack in the Box.
6. Eight hours of sleep.
7. To know it will all be OK. Or better than OK.

I Might Be A Woman Beater, But I'm Not A Pussy Eater

A negative plus a negative equals a bigger negative. I learned that in math class at some point. 3rd grade? Anyhow, if you take something that you don't like -- say, Hawaiian Pizza -- and combine it with something else you don't like -- say, humanity -- then you're not going to get a good result. The entire planet eating Hawiian Pizza is bad (save for starving kids, but they're poor and nobody cares about them).

Or say you hate outlandish bling on rappers. I do. And you hate guys who beat women. I do, as well. How can a positive outcome be reached?



I'd Chris Brown Chris Brown to snag that rope.

You Were Wearing Funny Shoes, You Were Going To A Dance, You Were Dressed Like a Punk

Nike Dunk Low Premium Teen Wolf

is having the right to say “yo girl. these are my Teen Wolf shoes” really worth $200? i cant believe i’m actually thinking it might be.

See, I'm stupid enough to buy something like this, and then wear them, and then have nobody notice them, and if I do say something about them to somebody, like "Hey, check out my shoes! Only 72 pairs made! Cost over $200! And the best part? They're called 'Teen Wolves!' You know, like the movie, with Michael J. Fox, Teen Wolf? No, these aren't the shoes he wore in the film. They were INSPIRED by the film," I'd feel like a guy who is just trying way to hard.

I might have two friends who would be impressed with this. Wait -- four. The others would realize that spending $200 on a pair of shoes that were inspired by the film Teen Wolf -- Fuckin' Teen Wolf! -- is a ridiculously bad idea, especially when you're broke. Also: while it would be possible for a guy wearing them to get with a girl, they'd both trustafarian hipsters with coke problems. And that ain't me.

Glad to see I still have a shred of common sense.



==========

That reminds me: my Chuck Taylors both have holes in the sole. On Saturday, someone noticed that not only did my left shoe have a hole in it, but so did the sock beneath, so about a nickel-sized amount of bare skin was exposed.

And Zappos -- WTF, Zappos? -- Zappos doesn't seem to have any navy or black Chuck Taylors. Orange? Sure, orange they got. And yellow, chocolate, and a bunch of other colors I really wouldn't want to wear out on a daily basis. ("Why are you wearing bright orange sneakers?" "Um, Zappos didn't have em' in black.")

==========

OH GAWD. Wikipedia:

"In June, 2009, MTV announced that they would be adapting Teen Wolf into a television series "with a greater emphasis on romance, horror and werewolf mythology".

Because that needed to happen.

And if you've never seen Teen Wolf, here's a quick summary via, uh, An Original Idea:

Had A Million Dollar Vibe And A Bottle To Go

Oh noes: Pour one out for Vibe Magazine.

==========

Ran for 10 minutes last nite. Pathetic. But that what's you get when your 50 pounds overweight. Try again tomorrow, Tubbytits.

And All You Wanted Is My Love In Your Mouth

I realize that my hatred for people who fuck around behind their partners' (or whatever) backs, and my subsequent moralizing about it, condemns me to repeat that same mistake and cheat on someone in the future.

And even though that means I'm guaranteed to have sex with at least two more women in my lifetime. That might seem like not such a bad thing, but afterwards, I'd probably kill myself. (Or die suddenly, then have my widow find out how much I'd been cheating on her, like this poor lady. Then of course I would learn that there is hell, and my rotten soul was condemned to burn for eternity.)

I should stop reading Crap E-Mail From A Dude. It reminds of what a bunch of childish pricks men are, and contributes to my man-hating, which is not a good thing for a dude with self-esteem issues. (The Mark Sanford one is all kinds of awesome -- I know, I said I didn't read his e-mails, but here I just read the footnotes and scrolled up to see what section of the e-mails they pertained to. That does not not make me a hypocrite.)

"15. Here the speaker reveals he is also not a specialist in metaphor. Readers should be warned of the dangers of putting gas in one's bank account, or love in one's gas tank."

==========

OK, I'll stop. Wait! One more thing about cheating. So you're cheating on someone. What do you do?

(1) Stop the affair, then admit it to your partner. Probably the most honorable thing, as it is also the most difficult. No guarantee of forgiveness, of course, but it might be your best shot.

(2) Stop the affair and don't tell your partner, and hope she doesn't find out about it later. Riskier, since if she does find out you're should be fucking toast. So don't take any photos together, definitely DO NOT make a sex tape, do not keep e-mails or texts or (gah!) Twitter twats about it. Oh, and make sure your mistress or whoever doesn't have an STD. Giving your wife herpes or the clap after you've been married is a dead giveaway. Even if it was just a one-night thing and it "doesn't really count," because (a) it does, and (b) herpes lasts a lifetime!

(3) Keep on fucking, so you can get caught. People who are cheating on their partners are probably not completely with it (what with hormones and all that) and get sloppy and make mistakes. Besides the aforementioned texts, sex tapes, e-mails, and STDs, stuff like scarfs, socks, condom wrappers, long hair that does NOT match your wife's hair, etc., can be left around during your encounters. Your credit card bill will show you spent a lot of nights at hotels in town when you were supposedly somewhere else. You can be caught fucking someone else in your own bedroom, which will result (at least) in your aggrieved "partner" throwing all of your shit out the window. (In San Francisco, your shit will likely break when it hits the sidewalk.) A friend will find out and then tell your partner. I mean, there are all kinds of ways for not-so-famous people to get caught cheating. It'll happen -- assume it.

Of course, you can be like one-time Wonkette and Gawker editor Alex Pareene, who was caught cheating with his friend's wife(!) when a local paper wrote about his "girlfriend's" apartment being robbed while she and Pareene were there and her cuckolded husband found out about it from the article.

Pareene high-tailed it to New York soon after.

(Oh, and the slut he was sleeping with was Ally Kearney. If you Google "ally kearney," the first hit that comes up is the previous link re: Pareene fleeing. So that's nice to know.)

So yeah: assume you will get caught. That is why I don't commit crimes ...anymore... and it is (another) reason why you shouldn't fuck around.

==========

And yes, I realize that no woman would ever want to cheat with me, because I am a broke-ass Lard Smuggler.

Would It Be Enough For Your Cheating Heart

Re: my I Hate Adultery and Am Morally Superior to You Cheating Fucks post:

I remember how lucky Mark Sanford is married to Jenny Sanford, and not, say, any of these women.

Of What I Think I Thought I Heard You Loved Me

I've been sporting a beard the last few weeks. I didn't make a decision to grow one, it's just that my laziness and dislike for shaving grew and grew and one day I had a beard and people I ran into lied and said they liked it. Which is nice -- I need some fucking compliments, people. Us needy, terrible insecure people thrive on them.

Of course, fat, slovenly and bearded make me look like Zach Galifianakis. And that's OK, because right now I wistfully imagine that people are better able to tolerate ugly people, at least this summer, anyway.

I'm gonna pick up a beard trimmer tonight from Walgreen's. That'll give me something to do besides drink.

==========

The Mark Sanford adultery confession thing was amazing. I was listening to the Slate Political Gabfest on Friday, and realized I had a very similar reaction to John Dickerson and David Plotz (I can't remember what Emily Bazelon said. But that's not being sexist, because she's pretty, and it always helps to pay attention to what pretty people!). Both Dickerson and Plotz seemed to go into it with some level of enjoyment and enthusiasm -- here's another idiot elected official admitting to sexytime with someone not-his-wife, and he's a southern Christian GOP-type to boot! Awesome!

But as they watched it (as I did), I became increasingly uncomfortable with it. I was embarrassed for myself for taking any sort of joy out of it. Sanford was a fucking trainwreck. He was really emotionally unstable out there, and was confessing to being an unfaithful husband to the entire planet. He hadn't moved beyond it, because he was still caught up in the moment, which is never the best time to go on TV and apologize for anything. We were watching a human catastrophe, and I'm not that into schadenfreude. (Also: it's not like Mark Sanford ever really did anything to me. I live far, far away from his shitty hillbilly state.)

Cheating on your spouse or partner or whatever is bad. I think it's really bad -- among the worst things a person can do in this country without breaking the law. And a lot of it is old person morality -- don't fucking cheat on your wife/husband/boyfriend/girlfriend! You only end up hurting the people you love, or at least the ones who love you. Especially if you have kids. Why would you do that? For some secretive, guilt-ridden sexytime? No thanks. I am a horny-ass bastard, but folks who are taken are completely off my radar. (Yes, even the really hot ones.)

And then I also get made because... look, I'm a single, straight guy. (All of the following apply to others regardless of gender or sexual orientation. Unless you're into bestiality, in which case you need to be shot in the head.) There are plenty of single, straight guys out there who need fucking. Probably a lot of single ladies, too. And so if a guy goes around cheating, he has not only taken one lady off the market (his wife/partner-person), but he's also removed another lady from the pool of available ladies for single, straight guys like me. You're double-dipping, and double-dipping is not allowed with either salsa or fucking ladies.

The fact that congressman, senators, governors and presidents have all been caught in the last decade or so fucking people who are not their wife also points to the stupidity and egomania these assholes possess. It's one thing when Joe Schmoe has an affair -- that's stupid and bad enough. But elected officials like these guys are famous, Important People, which means they have things like an army of staffers, PR people, security details, and reporter-types around them all the time, focused on you, the Important Person. How do you expect to fuck around and not have these people notice? Because then you're entrapping your staff-type people in your affair, because if they notice something is going on and don't say anything, then their complicit in the adultery. (Not saying they should say anything, necessarily, but whatevs.) And if the Important Person lies to them, then great, now they are not only being lied to by their boss (and quite possibly someone they admire -- their are a lot of idealistic idiots out there), but then disseminate that lie to other people.

Reporters don't have that kind of loyalty to an Important Person, of course, so if they catch wind of it then you're fucked. And they probably will catch wind of it, because they're paid to, and EVERYONE loves a good adultery story, even if they're too embarrassed by it to read the horny e-mails you wrote to your mistress in Argentina -- like me.

Of course, I'm also the forgiving, normally not-judgmental sort.

Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except For Me And My Monkey

So I'm at a birthday party yesterday, and we're sitting around drinking and smoking, and somehow the topic turns to Michael Jackson. Big surprise. But it's OK, since Michael Jackson is one thing that ANYBODY can talk about, which attests to his fame and impact.

Somebody inquires as to whether Bubbles, Jackson's pet chimpanzee, is still alive. I say I think he's dead, but I really don't know, so I fall into my famous addiction of fact-checking anything via my iPhone.

I learned two interesting things about Bubbles that I shared with everybody:

1. Bubbles is still alive. (He's been living in an animal sanctuary, because if you don't know, mature chimpanzees are fucking savages.)

2. Bubbles allegedly* tried to kill himself in 2003.

One of those facts is way more interesting than the other.

How the fuck does a chimp try to kill itself? Although the "why" isn't so hard to figure out:



*Can't find any sort of real confirmation -- beyond a Wikipedia citation -- that Bubbles did, in fact, try to kill himself.

"Bubbles the chimp's personnal [sic] style defined an era."

I'm Not Afraid of the Black Man Running

I may have related this story before on my old (extinct :()) MySpace blog, but I want to say it again, because I find it funny, and I miss my Dad, even though he's still alive:

So, Dad was living in New York. He was probably engaged at that point to my Mom, or at least they were seriously dating, because he was living in New York, and they moved to Jacksonville after the wedding. (Yawn.) Anyway, Dad went to watch the second Cassius Clay-Sonny Liston fight with a co-worker, who was black, in Harlem. Very important to the story.

(They didn't watch it in person -- I believe it was in Lewiston, ME -- but it was also the 1960s, and they didn't have HBO or Twitter or anything, so they went to an auditorium to watch it on closed-circuit TV).

So, it's the mid-60s, Kennedy's dead, black militarism is on the rise, Clay/Ali is a visible proponent of the Nation of Islam, wokka wokka wokka. Great time to be white in Harlem. My father is particularly blessed, because he is the only non-black person in the auditorium.

Before the fight, they play the National Anthem. My dad's friend (he's black, remember) was also a veteran like my Dad, so he stands up in respect of the anthem. He's the only one. In the entire crowded auditorium-place they are in. Again: They're in Harlem, in the mid-1960s, and standing up for the National Anthem just wasn't something you did if that's where you lived back then. Dad didn't live there, but he's a pretty sharp fellow, so he realized he probably shouldn't stand up, either.

Dad's friend, however, gets mad. He begins to yell at the people around him (I picture him in my head as the best-possible street-corner crazy in the TL), "STAND UP! STAND UP!" and begins motioning with his arms for them to stand up. Dad becomes terrified for his life because he's white and sitting with a guy who's antagonizing a black crowd in the mid-1960s before a fight featuring a nascent, athletic-version of Malcolm X.

But the people around them are also terrified for their lives, because crazy black people scare everyone, I guess, so they stand up.

The fight was over halfway through the first round.

I Don't Think I'm Ever Going To Figure It Out

I can't tell a story. Here's an example of me making a very funny story not funny:

So, my friend's cat died a couple of days ago, and she was talking about her boyfriend handling the removal and disposal of the body. I guess she'd been telling that story at work earlier in the day, because one of her co-workers had the following story:

So, this woman was housesitting for a couple who went on vacation for a week. The couple had a dog the woman took care of. Well, one day the dog dies. She's unsure of what to do; apparently, she's unable to contact the couple to get instructions from them, and she doesn't want to leave a dead dog body lying around the house for a week or whatever. She decides to have it cremated and the ashes put in an urn, because that's what she thinks the couple would have wanted.

This is happening in Chicago, BTW, which is very important to the story. The woman doesn't have a car and gets around by the subway or whatever they have out there. She doesn't want to bring a dead dog stuffed in a garbage bag on the subway, and thank god for that. Instead, she puts the body in a roller suitcase and brings that to the subway instead. Guess it wasn't a very big dog.

One guy asks her if she needs help getting it downstairs, but she's very protective of it and says, "No! I'm fine!" But that doesn't help when another guy runs buy and steals the suitcase with the dead body inside.

So now she's got a new problem. She doesn't have to worry about getting rid of the dog anymore, but she also doesn't have any ashes to present to the family as evidence of their dead little doggie. So she goes to their BBQ grill and takes the ashes from there.

A thief stole a dead dog, and a couple in Chicago have spent charcoal that they think was their precious dog.

==========

What happened?

I don’t know. You know, ask anyone in Hollywood. Everybody has a Bill Murray story. He just punishes people, for reasons they can’t figure out. He was a student of Gurdjieff for a while, the Sufi mystic. Gurdjieff used to act really irrationally to his students, almost as if trying to teach them object lessons. There’s a great story along those lines that Jim Belushi tells about Del Close, the improv teacher: Jim went up to Del once, when he was a young actor, and he said, “Del, I want you to know that I really, really trust you.” And Del kneed him in the balls, really hard, and asked, “You still trust me?” Bill was always teaching people lessons like that. If he perceived someone as being too self-important or corrupt in some way that he couldn’t stomach, it was his job to straighten them out.

Harold Ramis has a really great interview in the new GQ, btw.

==========

Also: I just learned that Afroman's "Because I Got High" was a #1 single in, among other countries, Australia, the UK, and Norway (Scandinavians really loved it as a whole.)

I mean, it's OK and all, and it's about weed, which is cool, but really, Denmark? It's a simple novelty song. It's Dr. Demento-like. I like Dr. Demento-like songs and all, but I wouldn't want or expect any of them to be the #1 song in the fucking country. Especially if it's in a foreign language! Or how about you, France, don't try to act all, "It didn't reach #1 here," which doesn't hide that it reached #2 over there.

Fuck foreign snobbery.

==========

Gotta go to a birthday party. Not doing any things for Pride weekend since I have no gay pride, but that's only because I'm am completely absent of any gayness. I never caught it. I was innoculated young or something. Maybe it was watching Heavy Metal as a kid and seeing a hot naked animated lady with a faintly lavender bush. That may sound very gay, but even at age seven or whatever, I was like, "I'd be down for some of that."

So there you go: If you don't want your kids to be gay (not that there's anything, y'know), make them watch Heavy Metal when they're very young.



(Also: South Park had a Heavy Metal spoof? Why was I not informed?

==========

Gotta run. Here is adorableness.

Everyone Loves You When You're Dead

It's kind of a shame that MJ had to die in order to get the kind of music sales he would have needed to get himself out of debt. Like, it's going to do him any good now, people.

If there was an afterlife and he was in it, I'd imagine he'd be kind of pissed about that.

Big Gun, Number One

Such an awesome cover from my childhood.

Also:

Sunbeams Are Not Made Like Me

Speaking of famous dead musical legends...

"Very sad. Looks like a normal soccer-playing kid."

I agrees.

==========

I guess I was feeling a bit overconfident because by the time the waitress was able to direct the woman’s attention over to the bar to see who had ordered the drink for her, I was already masturbating.

Tom Oatmeal is my internet find of the workday.

==========

Things I Would Like To Learn How to Do:

1. Photoshoppin' -- like, actually Photoshop shit, not just add text to a photo or use the macrame filter or something.

2. Make videos. Just like, record shit off of TV or the Internet and make it into a video, and not just hold a camcorder or an iPhone in front of the TV.

3. Moonwalk. I've wanted to moonwalk forevs. Being old, white, fat, and not terribly coordinated are four strikes against me. Also: Running Man.



4. Drink less.

5. Have amazing sex.

==========

Things I Used To Do But No Longer Do Because They Reminds Me of Jessica:

1. Watch Flight of the Concords.

2. Watch 30 Rock.

3. Watch It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia. (OK, I've never watched it, but I want to, but I can't, because it would remind of Jessica, who after we broke up developed a love for the show.)

4. Walk on Sutter Street.

5. Be happy.

==========

Eight or nine hangovers in a row, plus about six hours a sleep a night, plus being ridiculously busy at work all week leaves Dave with little energy to do any work at all on Friday.

I'll Hit You With A Dose of OakTown Power

2:30 and my hangover is still going strong. I need a drink.

However, if you're all saddypants about Michael Jackson's death (or Farrah Fawcett, or you're making plans for Willie Nelson's death, etc etc etc.), here are two useful tips for you that the Internet has provided.

1. If you're going to have a vigil on his spot on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, make sure it's the right spot.

Via the hilarious Ned Hepburn, via something called Clandestine Industries:

Last night nobody told these people that this Hollywood star was for this Michael Jackson, not the King of Pop. The actual MJ star was covered for the Bruno movie premiere.

2. If you don't have time for a vigil, but just want to drop something off at his childhood home (you know, the one where his dad regularly beat him), please leave something that Michael Jackson (or whoevs) would appreciate (e.g. teddy bears, flowers, baby chimpanzees) and not, say, an old jersey from a washed-up, broke football player who's only connections to the music industry is that he once appeared in a MC Hammer video, and that one time his crazy now-dead girlfriend from that one group burned his fucking house down.

OK, the 2 Legit 2 Quit Video started playing in one of my tabbed windows while I was typing this. I am helpless to resist:

I'm A Pitiful Site, And I Ain't All That Bright

Holy Fucknuts, I was really drunk last nite.

I am a Bad Decision Generator. If you want to make a bad decision -- e-mail me.

In this case, it was the idea to drink until 1:30 in the morning when I had clients coming in at 11:00.

I was also wearing my "A Wizard Has Turned You Into A Shark. Is This Awesome? Y/N" t-shirt last nite. This girl who I kinda know found the t-shirt itself awesome, and kept raving it about it the whole night, while I was feeling kinda awkward about it, because I have body issues and am too fat to wear almost anything else so I felt like I my t-shirt was just a canvas covering my blubber.

(Also: She put some serious thought into whether being a shark would be awesome or not. Reminds me of these people.)

I also gave away a bunch of burned comedy CDs to people that I had originally intended to give to friends Don and Magi. But they didn't come out last nite, so I got to share Paul F. Tompkins, Mitch Hedberg, and Maria Bamford with other people.

But I think I generally behaved like an idiot because I can't remember much else.

(Also: being hungover and cranky is not the best attitude to have when you meet with clients, so I decided I'd sequester myself away in my office and let the lawyers deal with him. I was unaware that not only did the client bring his cute little daughter, but he also brought a DOGGIE! THERE IS A DOGGIE IN OUR OFFICE. SO CUTE.)

(Also x2: Yesterday when I came home there was a notice taped to my door advising me that I have three days to pay my rent or GTFU. I'm dealing with it. But coming on the heels of (1) A friend who just got a $10,000 bill from the IRS, and (2) his girlfriend, who's cat died the day before, (and (3) -- the guy I met last nite who teaches pre-algebra to 7th graders), I realized I have nothing to get worked up about. It'll get worked out.

I am too blessed to be stressed.