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!

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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.

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*"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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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.)

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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.

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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.