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.

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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.

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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.

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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.