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.")

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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.

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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.

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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.

Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough

I don't have a Facebook page, or a MySpace page, or a Twitter account, so I can't share in the joy of alerting everyone I know that Michael Jackson died a little while ago. I'm pretty sure that's what blowing up on the Web 2.0 shit right now.

But I was reminded of a great piece that Jacob Weisberg wrote for Slate back in 2005, making the case that Jackson was NOT a pedophile, just a weird guy:

But the main reason I never bought the prosecutor's depiction of Jackson as a premeditating sexual predator "grooming" his victims is that it doesn't ring true in psychological terms. Whether or not he has ever touched a boy inappropriately, Michael Jackson seems too emotionally stunted to act in any grown-up way, including a deviant sexual one. Naive, juvenile, and terribly damaged, he seems pathetically incapable not just of criminal intent, but of adult consciousness.

For all that money, homie never had an easy life. Rest easy, MJ.

Also: MJ's egomania was something else, so much so that I forgot about the Moonwalker video game. ("Want more proof that Mr. Jackson's not all there? He has a pet monkey named Bubbles... and he put the little guy in the game. But wait, it gets better. When MJ comes in contact with Bubbles, he turns into a robotic killing machine. Regular Michael was pretty badass with his fire attack, but Robot Michael has friggin' lasers and nothing beats lasers.")

That'll Never Get Old

I've watched this a 100 x 69 times before, and I agree.

Didn't I Blow Your Mind This Time

There's a couple who live on the first floor of my building with a pair of great, friendly, well-behaved dogs. Their apartment is right next to the elevator, by the building entrance, and they frequently leave their front door open so the dogs can play in the lobby. I love dogs, and it's way fun for me to play with them when they're hanging out.

I just ran out to the market, and saw one of the dogs -- Skittles -- laying on the floor in the lobby, looking bored when I left. I gave him a friendly pat. When I came back, he had moved over by the entrance to the elevator, and was looking really sad. I guess his ownerpeople had some friends over, so he was just chilling in the lobby, but he looked morose. I sat down next to him while I waited for the elevator, scratched and him and asked him, "Who's a good boy?" That cheered him up a bit, but then the elevator came and I was anxious to get upstairs and eat my Doritos. (I also don't want to seem like the kind of guy who's only friends in the building are a couple of dogs that hang out in the lobby.)

As the door closed and I waved bye to Skittles, he had that sad look on his face again. I figured he was sad that I was leaving, as he enjoyed the petting and the attention.

But then I thought about it. A dog doesn't really understand an elevator, especially if he never has to ride in one. He just seems people open a door, go into a room, and then not come out again. Or if someone comes out, it's an entirely different person. It's like some weird, trick room that must blow their little doggie minds. Into this little room I go, and then a short time later a little Chinese girl emerges.

It's amazing how dogs remain so cheery in a world they clearly cannot understand.

So Fuck All Your Protests And Put Them To Bed

One of the things that annoys me about SFist is how not-on-top of local events they sometimes are. For instance,

This morning was another example. Did you know (San Francisco people) there's a vigil being held today from 6:00-8:00 for Laura Ling and Euna Lee, the two Current TV reporters being held in North Korea for, uh, illegally breathing? There is! (A webcast of it, also, at the link above.) It's being sponsored by the Academy of Art (at the Morgan Auditorium at 491 Post St.), normally best known for buying every single piece of real estate they can find and stuffing them with Parliament-smoking 19-year olds, but which also graduated Euna Lee.

I heard about this from... an Associated Press link on my Yahoo! homepage (Yes, I still use my.yahoo as my homepage. I am old and stupid and fat and deserving of your ridicule). The Associated Press told me what's going on in my city -- my neighborhood, even, almost-like. But SFist? Nothing. I'd guess that there likely will be some news about it on SFist later today, maybe around 3:30 pm or so, which is kind of late in the day to be finding out about this kind of shit. Anyhow, 3:30 is my bet, based on past SFist experiences.

Now, in SFist's case, I think it's just that they are kind of perpetually out of the loop about things. They're not that good at finding out important or entertaining or interesting news or events, or at least, they're wildly hit-or-miss on them. Plus, they're presumably a shoestring operation, and there's only so much they can do.

On the other hand, there's the Bay Area's least favorite collection of idiots, Indybay (they get no link). Now, normally a vigil for two imprisoned women of color is something that Indybay would be all over -- assuming said women were imprisoned here, in America, or at least, Israel. BUT! Lee and Ling had the unfortunate luck of being imprisoned in North Korea -- a friend of Indybay ("US general menaces North Korea with the "military option")!

A search for "Euna Lee" on their fuckdiculous site yields nada.

But, uh, hey, maybe the tools at Indybay are out of the loop as well! They're busy writing and reporting other shit, like...

"Is the Uprising in Tehran a CIA Backed Exercise? Tehran Protesters Address Progressives"

Uh, no. Fuck you, Indybay.

In Another Life You Might Have Been A Genius

Tonight I drunkenly texted a friend and asked her (yes, it's a her) if she wanted to see Maria Bamford with me on August 12. I've been asking my comedy buddies, Don and Magi, if they're down, but they're evasive because they're saving up for their annual trip to Jersey. (And, after playing GTA IV, I do not understand their love for it.)

Anyhow, forget about me texting a girl to see a comedy show. (I don't believe I've ever seen one without one.) I just really love Maria Bamford. Today I got a t-shirt I ordered from her, as well as an autographed photo that referenced passive-aggressiveness, so I was all turned on.

She was also one of the four stars of the Comedians of Comedy tour, along with that guy from The Hangover, Patton Oswalt, and Brian Posehn.

Comedy! From chicks! It's a vastly underrated pleasure in life.

I'm Burning Diesel, Burning Dinosaur Bones

I'm usually pretty good at finding out info on the internet. Not everyone is as gifted as me, though. For example, this fellow wasn't satisfied with the results Amazon was giving him, so he posited the following question on an XKCD forum (?!):

What are some good books with raptors invading cities and devouring populace?

At least he's looking for "good" books. None of that Michael Chrichton shit for him.

The Vision Was A Masterpiece Of Comic Timing

Also:

Like most people who have a job, I've never watched Current TV before. But Sarah Haskins is my new favorite entertainer person lady in the world.

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

Saw The Hangover last nite. Funny. It made me forget for 90 minutes how much I really don't like Las Vegas and have never, and will never, have a good time there.

Points:

(1) I love Ken Jeong's Mr. Chow character. I especially loved the fat jokes he aimed at Zach Galifianakis ("Its funny because he's fat!"). I find little else funnier than fat jokes. Alas, I am also a fattieshark, so I felt like Ken Jeong's insults were aimed at me. I felt bad as well.

(2) Ed Helms, who plays "Stu," the uptight dentist friend of the group, loses a tooth in the film. Helms actually has a gap in his teeth where an adult incisor never grew in. I had that same problem, only I think I had two (three?) adult teeth that never grew in. Nice work, dead dentist. I've been painfully embarrassed and ashamed of it ever since the baby teeth got pulled. ("Cut to 26 years later! Time flies when you are anxious!" -- Maria Bamford) Ed Helms' reaction after his character discovers his missing tooth, "I look like a nerdy hillbilly!" made me laugh and cry at the same time. So then late last nite, while stoned and drunk, I texted that quote to Jess. Not that she responded (she never does -- not that I blame her... much). That kind of painful, self-deprecating humor is something she loved. (Past tense, Dave, past tense.)



(3) Rachel Harris, who played Stu's bitchy, controlling, fun-hating fiance Melissa: I've never had the opportunity to fuck the pain away before. I think the closest I've probably come is fucking away the memories of a boring, typical work day. BUT!if I ever did have the opportunity to fuck the pain away, she -- or at least her completely hateful character -- would be Numero Uno con una bala.

(4) I have never studied Spanish.

(5) I don't know what was worse: Having to sit through a trailer for Rob Zombie's remake of Halloween 2 (even the sequel needs a remake!), or the following trailer for the next Final Destination film, in 3-D. It like Hollywood execs don't ever care if their studios make money anymore, they just want to throw money to make sure that pretty, thin people -- and Rob Zombie! -- stay pretty and thin. And that requires cocaine, which requires money, which requires grossly undeserving Hollywood salaries.

Mister Congressman, You Can't Understand.

Pete Hoekstra Is A Meme is fantastic.

Mental Wounds Not Healing, Who's To Blame?

I like it when people post stuff I send them on their blog or whatever. Orson Swindle did that over at Every Day Should Be Saturday with a picture I took of a ticket ad/personal hygiene PSA at Pac Bell for Stanford football. Come to think of it, Swindle also posted the bit I forwarded him a couple of years ago about a linebacker from Cal going apeshit outside the Lusty Lady.

There was also the photo I snapped of a warning of this city's impending doom, which forwarded to SFist, where Brock made it a Photo du Jour.

There may have been others, but those are the three I remember. Oh! I also came up with rules for the 3 Fast 3 Furious drinking game, which the girls then read on their podcast. (I was very flattered.)

The Tenderblog isn't quite at SFist/EDSBS level of popularity, but it's a handy, pretty portrain of my neighborhood. Anyhow, a while back the Tenderblogette posted a photo of Kahn and Keville's famous marquee sign, where the management or whoever will put up quotes or words of wisdom or something like that. She also asked for readers to send in other quotes they've seen on the sign in the past.

I remembered that there was an Ozzy Osbourne quote a on it a while back, but I couldn't think of either the quote, nor when I saw it. But on Sunday, while cleaning my apartment, I came across it on the back of The Loin's Mouth, issue #6. I scanned in the back and sent it off to The Tenderblog this morning. It was posted soon after. I forwarded the link over to my friend Rachel, who was the editor of the (now-defunct) Loin's Mouth.

I guess the point is that I crave approval, and sending shit into to other peoples' blogs or whatever is one way I can get it, while at work, and without leaving my desk.

When I Was Only Thirteen I Got Connected

When I walked into work this morning (Stan Bush's epic "Dare" echoing through my whiskey-addled head), I was handed the brand new 32gb iPhone 3G S I ordered (drunkenly!) last week. I was going to post a picture taken from my old iPhone of my new one, like a proud parent or something, but then I got kinda self-conscious about it (what kind of dickhole posts a photo of his new iPhone?), and started thinking about the "Xzibit Yo Dawg" meme and could picture myself mocking myself with "Yo dawg, I herd you like iPhones, so I put an iPhone in your iPhone so you can douche while you douche," and I got anxious about it, and then my old iPhone wouldn't send the fucking photo to my e-mail because it sucks and it's broken which is why I got this new one to begin with.

I've needed a new iPhone ever since I spilled beer (or something) on my old one a few months back, and said old one has been annoyingly half-functional ever since. Also, lint gets in the earbud jacks on these things REALLY easily. For both of those reasons, I'm going to by some sort of cover or case for it (which I will research, perhaps at work!)

So, you get no photo of iPhone. However, you do get the music video for "Dare," which features robots inside another robot so they can transform while they transform.



==========

I never have had anything resembling street cred, so I shouldn't be embarrassed to admit that I've always been kinda queasy about the whole illegal downloading shit. I mean it's illegal for a decent reason -- you can't just take stuff for free that's not normally sold for free! -- and, you know, it's like the only instance where I hear the term "artists' rights" and don't reflexively think, "What a bunch of whiny hippies." And I picture some bored white girl, a couple years out of college, downloading songs off her laptop while shopping for shoes online and, really, that's not a group I'm too sympathetic to.

But then I read this horrible story of a 32-year old mother of 4 from Brainerd, MN being ordered to pay $1.92 million for illegally downloading 24 fucking songs. (Ya darn tootin!) And I'm reminded that as much as I may (or may not) respect an artists' rights to remuneration for their work, I also say, "Fuck Record Companies."

Also: Only old people still call them "record companies." Gack.

Friday was Pizza Day, The Best Day of the Week

Today I had to check to make sure my shrink knew what a "booty call" was. (He did.)

Yesterday I got a free stack of blank CD-Roms. I need to burn comedy for friends.

This past Sunday morning I woke up at 6:30 am and spent three hours cleaning my apartment so the Comcast cable internet guy could get through the front door.

Sunday is Father's Day. I'm starting to remember what it's like when you know there aren't too many of them left.

July 3 is an old friend's birthday. He'll spend it, as he spends every other day of the year, at a state penitentiary in Nevada.

July 4 is a Saturday. I need plans that involve me drinking somewhere besides home.

Tuesday, my friend gave me his bad luck SF Giants cap as a parting gift -- he left for New York last nite.

Tomorrow is Casual Friday, but stupid clients mean I still gotta wear slacks and uncomfortable. That'll last until they leave at 2:00. Then I'm going pantsless.

Tuesday would have been my grandmother's 92nd birthday.

Saturday is Koko B. Ware's 52nd birthday. I remember watching him as a kid, before his "Birdman" run in the WWF, when he and Norvell Austin teamed up as the Pretty Young Things. ("PYT!")

Last Thursday I got drunk.

Today I admitted to myself that as much as I loathe serial wife-cheater Sen. John Ensign (R-Nev.), I see why hunnies want to get with him: The man has hair that I would kill for.

And everyday I still miss her.

I Sit Alone In My Four-Cornered Room Staring At Candles

So much to do, not much to say worth saying, but I've been ridiculing this crazy woman (Deborah Perez) who claims her dad was the Zodiac (and she went along with him in the car!) ever since her and her very shady team of lawyers showed up at the Chronicle or somewhere. AND THEN it came out that she claimed (at one point) that she was the daughter of John F. Kennedy. And that became far more interesting, because if John F. Kennedy was the Zodiac? Holy shit. The Zapruder Film was a fraud, Oswald really was a patsy, and apparently JFK decided to fake his own death and cede power to Lyndon Johnson so he could hide away in the Bay Area and kill five people.

Warren Ellis couldn't have thought of a better batshit insane idea.

Today, there's a report that her claims match SFPD forensic evidence from the 1970s. Yeah, OK, whatever SFPD and Crazy Lady. If there are two less reliable sources in crime investigation, please tell me who they are.

But, if it indeed turns out that her father was the Zodiac (whether he was JFK or not), I will eat vegan for five months, one for each of his victims.

So I'm getting loaded tonight, and my friend (and possible very distant cousin) Kristine mentions to me that:

"Morrissey (not my real name), I saw your Chris Daly video."

"What?!"

"I saw you saying 'Fuck You' to Chris Daly. I was online and I saw it."

"What?!?!"

She then explains that she was on teh Youtube, looking for Whiskey Thieves-related vids, and she saw me hatin' on Chris Daly for one of his many silly smoking ordinances. Friend Rik then chimed in by relating a similar story he had with Friend Armand, where they stumbled upon the same vid and had a chuckle about it.

Here is said video. Dry your panties, ladies:



(BTW -- I have no idea how either Kristine or Rik could have found this video. But hey, my old apartment!)

==========

Also, I know there are plenty of truly sad things in the world, but: you know when you move out of a place, and you're closing the door for the last time, and you know you won't ever seen it again... is it possible to not be sentimental and wistful?

With A Sweet Hangover And The Headlines Too

"High school grad finished college too"

Really? So did I. So did most people I know. None of them saw it as something that deserved to be celebrated on the home page of the LA Times. A more interesting link would be, "Web editor for major American newspaper writes least interesting link ever." A little wordy, I guess.

(Of course, if you click on the story and read it -- or even bother to just read the story's actual headline ("The graduate wears two caps and two gowns") -- then you would realize it's about a guy who finished high school the same time he finished getting his B.A., and right now is putting a bigger smile on your girlfriend's face than you ever have with just his penis.)

Newspaper Taxis Appear on the Shore

Saturday morning, the four most viewed articles on the LA Times site were all about porn:


This kind of interest over a unnamed and apparently not well-known porn contracting HIV leads me to wonder where the LA Times should establish a permanent porn beat to drum up circulation and views.

Also in the news, the unhappiness over Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's apparently sham re-election caused riots in the streets. According to Bill Keller at the NY Times:

"On the streets around Fatemi Square, near the headquarters of the leading opposition candidate, Mir Hussein Moussavi, riot police officers dressed in RoboCop gear roared down the sidewalks on motorcycles to disperse and intimidate the clots of pedestrians who had gathered to share rumors and dismay."

It's fantastic that a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter is now using "Robocop" to describe riot police gear. Charles Manson, what do you think of Robocop gear?



(It's times like this when I regret not having any Photoshoppin' skills. Cuz I'd totally color Robocop in Iranian national colors. Robocoppin'. With Robotussin'.)

And then, today, a kinda inspiring story of UCLA legend (and one-time fellow student) Ed O'Bannon, trying to maintain in Nevada despite the disappointment of his adult life. Go Ed!

Sleep Away The Day If You Want To But I Got Something That I Gotta Do

Hangover. Hangover. Saturday morning drinking. That's been my AM hours for the last 24 of them or so.

Shit: Facebook and fucking Twitter have tag-teamed to make short blog posts more vain and unnecessary than ever before. Goddamn you people!

It's Been A While Since I Was Your Man

I refuse to give up the self-referential writing game!

Also, when your very last blog post is of a TV crap pitchman who likes to relax by punching out hookers, uh, well, that just can't stand.

I guess I've been feeling better about myself as of late. Work has consumed my daytime for the past six weeks, and pot and GTA IV has consumed my nights. I'm pretty much that boring, fat 22-year old stoner of a roommate you once had, except I have a job, no roommate and I was born during waning days of the Nixon administration. (OK, maybe I'm not feeling so much better about myself.)

Been making slow progress towards overcoming a lot of the anxieties that have besieged me over the past year or so. Also, last Monday was the ex's birthday, and while I was very depressed leading up to it (it had been a major dealio the last two years of my life), once it passed I felt a little relieved. Don't have too many more memorable Jessica-related dates left this year. There's something to not get too depressed about! (The small things, they matter.)

As far as not-so-small things go, I got to lose my fattypants. I realized that so long as I'm overweight, I just won't like myself. That's always been true in the past. Hell, the first time I ever dieted was when I was sixteen, and one day, while washing my dad's car or sweeping leaves or something, my dad told me that "Fat people are never happy. You think John Candy is happy? I guarantee you he's not." (Note: John Candy was several years away from death at that point in time.) Of course, the task is harder than ever now -- I weigh more than I ever have, I'm 35, and my social life revolves around copious amounts of beer and whiskey. So yeah, got to make some of those lifestyle changes I always hear about. On the plus size side, I got my card for the 24-Hour Fitness across the street from my office. I know, I shouldn't be so superficial, but if I can judge a woman's body, I should be forced to judge my own, right?

Also, my friend bought boxing gloves and mouthpieces and wants to wail on me, so I should try to get into some kind of shape so I can fight back. Yesterday I got worn out after 2 minutes of playing fetch with my neighbor's bulldog. The day I can't hang with a four-legged fartsack like that is the day that's clear to me how outta shape I am.

And that dovetails kinda nicely with what my shrink told me a few weeks back: "Dave, you need a girlfriend." While I hate having to admit that I am a needy person -- it's one of those things I never wanted to be, like an alcoholic, that I now am! -- it is healthy to admit it, as losing weight no longer is a goal in and of itself: it is part of the plan for the return of my sexy ways.

Anything else? Well, I was an hour late for work this morning because I was totes hungover, and speaking of fartsacks, I am one.