Sunday, September 21, 2008

How To Save A Life...

Two months ago I met a girl at Happy Ending's, a bar/club within stumbling distance of my apartment. This was the maiden voyage of my white, long-sleeved shirt -- back when it still clung to my pectorals and hugged my arms. Sadly it has since stretched and I don't look as massive in it anymore. But it's still a good shirt and I wear it often.

Anyway, we hit it off. I had lit her Parliament Light on the smoking deck and mentioned it's the number one cigarette in Hollywood because everyone can do cocaine bumps out of the recessed filter. She giggled a cute, coquettish, overly-girly giggle and we ended up making out all night and singing the lyrics to Chattahoochee in each other's ears, trading off after every line.

"Way down yonder on the Chattahoochee..."
"... it gets hotter than a hoochie coochie."
"We laid rubber on the Georgie asphalt..."
"... we got a little crazy but we never got caught."

I drove down to Hermosa Beach a couple weekends later to see her. I have never received so many penile compliments in my life. Pretend a dickhole is a mouth and imagine it smiling. That's what my penis was doing.

There was a problem though.

"Baby, you're bleeding."
"You're bleeding."
"I just had my period last week."
"Well it's back."

She fell asleep with her head on my chest. I woke her up with doggystyle.

"Yes, yes! Harder, HARDER!"
"You like that cock?"
"I love it."
"Big enough for you?"
"Soooooo big."
"Ohhh yeah!"

I had gone too deep. When the pain didn't subside after two days, she went to see her gyno, who gave her painkillers and suggested lube. I went to Hustler's of Hollywood the next day and picked up a tiny bottle. I made sure to specify that I was looking for vaginal lube so the slutty-looking rocker clerk wouldn't think I was gay.

"Do you want water or silicon-based?"
"I don't know. Whatever's good and not expensive."

She picked up a tiny bottle of something that cost ten dollars.


"This feels great on my pussy."
"Cool. Can we gift wrap it?"

Blank stare.

"Holly, do we gift wrap?"
"I'm kidding, I'm kidding."

The girl came up to see me a week later. We had drinks with her friends at their house on a hill in Echo Park and then hit up Happy Ending's again. I stayed soberish because I had french-kissed my toilet the night before. She got sloshed. I ushered her back to my apartment at 12:30, after I bought her a chicken sandwich at Burger King and watched her high-five the backpacked-brontosaurus in the middle of the restaurant.

She french-kissed my toilet. I held her hair. She sobered up. We had sex again.

"Oh my God, baby. You're so fucking wet."
"Oh, yeah..."
"Shit. You're bleeding."

Like an asshole, I made a remark about how expensive it is to dry clean a down comforter. She started to cry. I held her and hushed her and apologized. We fell asleep tangled like a retard's shoelaces.

Sex in the morning. Blood again.

"I don't know what's wrong with me."
"It's okay."
"I'm scared."
"Don't be."

We kind of cut things off after that. Not because of la sangre, but because of my unwillingness to commit to anything more than silent promises of under-the-influence fucking.

DVD chapter-skip to last night.

We reconcile, reunite, and go to a bar in Los Feliz for her friend's moving-to-New York party. Vodka flows, good times are had.

"I have something to tell you."
"Not right now."
"Come on. You can't just say that and not tell me."
"I'll tell you later."
"Tell me now."
"Fine... I'm getting surgery next week."
"Surgery? For what?"
"You know how I was bleeding?"
"... I had a tumor on my uterus."

She had a tumor on her uterus that she didn't know about. That she wouldn't have known about had it not been for the courageous efforts of my dick. Now I don't know much about the schematics of the vagina, but I don't think this is possible for two reasons.

A: From what I remember of 10th grade Health, the uterus is way up there.
B: I pack heat, but I am not John Holmes.

But I take her word for it. She's drunk, so maybe she means her cervix or her vulva or some other vaginal part that would be on a test, multiple choice or write-in. Either way, I feel like a fucking hero. Like a lone firefigher who prevented a vaginal 9/11.

And then I fuck it up:

"God... I hope I can still get a hard-on later."
"... I don't think you were supposed to say that."
"Yeah. I probably shouldn't have."

Sunday, September 14, 2008


I was recently Facebooked by a minor celebrity that I know from the gym. It kind of took me by surprise because we're not really buddy buddy or anything. In fact, our relationship doesn't extend much beyond the exchanging of pleasantries and me bumping into her every now and then at Ralphs on the late night.

I'm not going to lie, though: I feel kind of G-ish. Somebody who's regularly featured in Us magazine and other tabloids reached out to be MY e-friend -- although I'm pretty sure I owe it to our one mutual online friend. It's not like she searched for me and spelled my hard-to-spell last name right. But still...

Something odd:

I was pretty fucked up last night and when I'm pretty fucked up I always hop online to see what's up. Now, I'm almost positive I posted something on her wall. Nothing rude or vulgar or questionable enough to be perceived as so. I think I mentioned Ralphs and her new TV show and then spent the next five minutes proofreading and editing the comment to make sure everything flowed and didn't sound drunkish or creepy. Grammar is the one thing that doesn't change when I'm faded. You should see my text messages. Apostrophes, commas, semicolons, etc. I am on point with my English.


The comment wasn't on her wall this morning. And that bothers me because I spent time on that shit. There is no way she could have deleted it for being inappropriate.

So why did she delete it?

A quick list of possibilities:

-- She was embarrassed by me posting on her wall.
-- She was embarrassed by my comment because she doesn't want people knowing she goes to Ralphs late.
-- My comment was more than one line and looks inadvertently creepy because it's obvious I wasn't shooting from the hip, therefore making said comment seem disingenuous and a bit try-too-hardish, therefore making me look more like a fan than a friend.
-- Her status update says "Still trying to figure out Facebook" and she accidentally deleted my comment.

What's strange though is I checked my own wall and there is no record of me ever posting on her wall. Did I waste precious minutes of my hazy state scripting a comment that I never posted? Or does Facebook delete the record of a deleted comment to save you face and embarrassment if someone decides to e-stalk you and laugh to themselves that you had a comment deleted?

What do you guys think?

And yes, I realize I am way too fucking overanalytical, but that's what will put food on the table one day.

I hope.

Drunken Revelation

"Dude, Asian chicks are so hot!"

Also, something I've noticed recently: lemons and limes are a Mexican's ketchup and mustard. Those motherfuckers can't eat a meal without either or.

Saturday, September 13, 2008


There are usually three lines at hotspots in LA: not a fucking chance, might get in, and don't have to wait.

The not a fucking chance line is the line to the right -- the line I'm always in, if I choose to wait in line (most of the time I go somewhere else). It consists of unconnected guys, minorities, and girls no one would buy a drink for. For some reason, the people who wait in this line cling to the hope that there's a chance they may get in. You can leave, get shitfaced at another bar, come back, and the same motherfuckers will still be waiting in this line:

"It's been 90 minutes. I gotta get in now."

Wrong. You'll never get in. You're actually doing the club/bar/lounge a favor by standing in this line. People will walk by and see you waiting like a chump and they'll automatically think this establishment is the shit. So cool and exclusive. They'll tell their friends and then their friends will tell their friends and everyone will come to see if they can get in, if they're cool enough, if they pass the test.


The might get in line, the line to the left, consists of Persians, Armenians, people who know somebody who knows somebody (two-degrees motherfuckers), and thin-enough girls who wear a shitload of makeup to compensate for their lack of beauty. These people look down on the not-a-fucking-chances with a sad mixture of pity and derision -- like they feel sorry that we're dumb enough to still be waiting in line, but it's also kinda funny at the same time. Plus they wouldn't want to party with us anyway. These cocksuckers wear casual-ish clothes to project an elite, too-cool-to-give-a-fuck image, even though they spend more time thinking about their outfits than the not-a-fucking-chances who take the time to dress up and look nice. They check their cell phones and fake watches and faux huff and puff if they don't get in in under ten minutes.

"Where the fuck is Farzad? Why are we not in yet?"

A lot of these assholes get in. Especially the girls with bad teeth and blonde hair. As long as their faces are intact they're okay.

The don't have to wait line is not a line so much as it is a cluster. They gather in front of the velvet rope and name-drop without trying to sound too obvious.

"Is Tyler working?" "Kris told me to stop by." "I'm here for Shahram's party."

Some conferring will occur between the doormen to make sure that bullshit isn't being spouted, and then the velvet rope will unclip and lift. Ed Hardy apparel and smarmy, slicked-back Euro haircuts will enter and you can almost picture the size of the money clip in their back or side pockets. You may also see an oldish man or someone who looks like complete shit and try to place them with the appropriate TV show or shitty band. Some of them are with hot women. Most of them are with women you talk shit about ("Bitch looks like...") but would totally fuck if they smiled at you. Secretly you wish you were part of this non-line. Not because you necessarily want to be a personality or pseudo-celeb, but because you want to feel like a G and look like a baller in front of all these assholes waiting in line. And you may.

But we'll just talk shit about you.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Alcohol and kush and no one to push...

... into. Maybe I should plan my nights better.

Saturday, September 6, 2008


A Mexican family crossed Sunset tonight. No crosswalk, no green light, no giving a fuck. Traffic slowed and came to a full stop as they ambled leisurely from the north side to the south side of the street.

Not one horn honked.

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Ass Smell

One night, a couple weeks ago, I brought home this girl from In-N-Out at two in the morning. I had struck up a drunkenish conversation with her and her friend about the Thousand Island spread and fetched them some more when they couldn't get their packet open. I had the Mexican girl at the counter cut it open and took credit for opening it myself.

We sat and flirted and I was somewhat charming and mostly self-deprecating. It was an odd dynamic, one of those situations where you have to hit on both girls equally so you don't alienate the one you have the best chance of fucking. The friend was the one I wanted, but an exchanged look between the two followed by a prolonged smile from the less attractive one -- the one with a reddish birthmark on her forearm -- gave away who I'd be sticking my dick in that night. Apart from our banter, there wasn't really anything that attracted me to her other than the fact that it was late and I felt like I should have sex with her because that's how you successfully end late nights. Everything about her was average. Not sexy, amateur porn average either. Just average average. Off-brand vanilla ice cream average.

SMASH CUT to doggystyle.

You remember Ghostbusters when they're in that ballroom and they've got Slimer with their proton guns and they open the trap for the first time and all of them have to squinch their eyes and turn their heads because the ray of light is so fucking bright and strong and dangerous?

Well that was me.

I had encountered ass smells before -- that stench of cheesy sweat that wafts up while your balls slap and make the sound of a retard clapping -- but never had I ever encountered something this epic. This was the Braveheart of ass smells. It was like Kraft Singles and Parkay Squirt Butter teamed up to create a fragrance no one wanted. Something too strong to be chalked up to a faulty showerhead and not enough Dove.

I continued fucking her, trying to block the smell with my hands. It reminded me of trying to suffocate an old man with a pillow, and then I thought about the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and then I thought about Jack Nicholson, and then large Native Americans and their B.O.

And then I felt my dick go limp inside of her.

She and her mouth were confident they could get me back into fighting form, but I knew better. She ended up staying the night because I can never find it in my heart to kick a girl out ("Do you want me to leave?" "Uh... if you want...") and I got no sleep. When I woke up in the morning, she was gone. Thank God.


What sucks is that I came away from this looking like a chump. Nevermind that she was kind of homely and her ass smelled like a pit of hellbound souls. No, that holds no weight. She was going to gossip to her friend that I was a dud and they'd share a good laugh and turn me into an inside joke and tell their other friends about me when those friends questioned said inside joke and then turn it into an even bigger inside joke and now maybe I'll flash through her head for a nanosecond before she dies in a head on collision with a truck full of illegals or a BlackBerrying BMW owner.

Am I being too presumptuous?