Saturday, October 10, 2009

Lo Siento...

That's "I'm sorry" in Mexican. I haven't been writing because I've been focusing on my screenwriting.

And something is happening with one of my scripts.

Stay tuned. My foot is finally in the fucking door.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009


To flakes there's always tomorrow:

"I know we made plans and you blocked off your night to hang out with me and it's too late for you to really do anything else, but I'm a little tired. Can we hang out tomorrow?"

No, motherfucker. No. Why am I going to give you another day of my life to waste? If you make firm plans with someone, you should follow the fuck through. I can understand if there's a family emergency or something in that vein, but being "tired" is unacceptable. It reaches the point where you should go out just to be a friend and a non-flake. You piece of shit. If I had my way, flakes would be executed. You don't say please or thank you? Fine. You're an asshole. But to make plans and not follow through, THAT'S the lowest of the low when it comes to shitty manners and I won't put up with it. Flake once and you're done. End of story. Bye.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009


Watching two married guys hit on a single woman is like finding out Santa Claus doesn't exist.

If you're female.

Marriage is an institution and a covenant and whatever, but it's also an idea. And we all know how ideas don't necessarily formulate. Especially in LA:

"Hey, I have an idea about a show for ABC Family about a guy and his dog and the dog tries to help him find a woman but..."

For a guy, it's not surprising. Our dick often takes the reins and will take us on journeys beyond our wildest dreams, regardless of who we're invisibly bound to and whether or not we wear an iron circle on our finger. The government may say one thing, our heart may say one thing, but our biology says another -- something we regret after the initial nut-busting (until we're ready to fuck again).

Because while we can speak and think and make money doing a job we never wanted to do, we will leave the conference room to grunt, shit, and enjoy the smell like we never thought we'd do.

Fidelity is for love songs and Oprah.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Executive Derision

A beautiful woman with a Cheshire Cat smile loses the key to her lock. I engage her in some light flirtation. There is giggling (not me). While I'm being my natural, goofy, charming self, I sense my manager watching me through the tiny window in his office. This is the window that ruins my life at work:

"Don't lean. Where's your nametag? He owes us money. Did you check that person in? This is how you should do it next time..."

All shit I have to grin and bear. If I die and get reincarnated, I want to come back as the person that makes someone like me miserable. Just to gauge how much of a tool I really am on an intimate level.

I tell her I'll be up in a second with someone to cut the lock for her. She goes upstairs. I grab the bolt cutters. I like walking around with the bolt cutters. They make me feel tough and authoritative and I think I look semi bad-ass (especially in my tight black t-shirt). I usually sling them over my shoulder for a casual look, or, if I'm going for a more powerful look, I'll grip them in one hand and flex my bicep. The arm I do this with will vary depending on which side the most girls are on.

Just as I'm about to head upstairs, my manager comes out of his office:

"Wait for her to come back down. I'll get someone to help her."

What. A. Prick. He heard the conversation. He knows what he's doing. Keeping me at the desk serves the dual purpose of giving himself a chance to talk to her and making me look like a negligent asshole.

"But I like walking around with the bolt cutters," I mumble as I mope back to my front desk cage.

The woman comes back down a few minutes later and I quietly explain to her that my manager wouldn't let me come up to help her. I know this makes me sound like a powerless bitch, but that's better than a negligent asshole. Actually no, it's not. Fuck. Oh well.

My manager comes out of his office with his chest puffed out like a cartoon rooster's, imaginary lats flared to create the illusion that his arms hang three feet out from his sides. He clutches the bolt cutters tightly with one hand -- just like me -- and his face is fixed in the position that he thinks is sexiest. He's 175 lbs of Dep hair gel and micromanaging hotness.


He introduces himself and proceeds to make things awkward with his social ineptitude and general inability to deal with people in an unscripted dynamic. Normally this would be something alcohol can fix, but since he drinks on the job I know this not to be the case. Once he's asserted himself, made it known that he runs the place, and gotten enough of an eyeful for a possible masturbation or think-about-you-while-I-fuck-my-wife session later, he struts off to look for a female employee who can help her.

It's at this point our new maintenance manager comes out of the office. He's short, pudgy, and bearded -- a porker in a polo shirt, a white guy with a Hispanic last name. Probably hired for his Anglo looks and proficient Espanol. Latin workers always fear a white Spanish-speaking boss because he's not one of their own and has the ability to uncover any treachery or dissent. Corporations love white Spanish-speakers because they can deal with the undesirables and answer the phone without an accent. No accidental "holas" there.


It's his turn. He tries to engage the woman in small talk, realizes he has nothing to say, then scampers off to find a cleaning girl to help cut the lock. For a fat guy, talking to a beautiful girl for more than thirty seconds is an accomplishment. If he does it without sweating profusely or fumbling his words, it's a victory. It's his four-touchdowns-Al-Bundy moment, his touch with greatness. Something he can tell his grandchildren about if he's lucky enough to fuck someone, have a kid, then have his kid fuck someone or get fucked, and have more than one grandchild.

My manager returns with the girl from the shop and gets her to help the woman. He retreats back into his office to finish the pizza he ordered but didn't offer me or my coworker a slice of.

One thing that I hate about my job is the protocol for dealing with a situation can change depending on whether or not the member has an ass. Which is fine. I understand. But this means you can't sermonize to me. You can't spout bumbled maxims with your glassy eyes and vodka breath, comment on a pair of tits, and then tell me to be professional. That's the problem with my manager: he believes he's a corporate messiah when he's really just a false idol. Hell, they're all false idols, but he's a golden calf that shines brighter than most. His power is appointed, not earned, and yet you'd think he slayed the dragon, fucked the queen, and vanquished the invaders.

But really he just didn't go to college.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Bar Rule

Never try to dance with a girl you don't want to be rejected by. Obviously you don't want to be rejected by any girls, but this applies to girls that can hurt your self-esteem. Hot girls? Okay. Fine. You probably didn't have a shot with them anyway. But average chicks? Chubby chicks? No no no. Do not dance with them unless they give you an in. Because in the bar dynamic, they rule. Girls come out with the sole intention of rejecting guys. Any girl that you could meet in a grocery store suddenly becomes Wonder Woman in the bar setting. Every guy is on the lookout for pussy and every girl knows this. Suddenly their vaginas become diamond-encrusted and they're the hottest thing on the antique block. DO NOT FEED THEIR EGOS! I don't care how desperate you are. Try to engage them with an accidental bump into:

"Oops. Sorry. What's your name?"

Be as subtle as possible. Look for signals. NEVER GO IN COLD! It's a death wish even Bronson couldn't handle. Whether it be prolonged eye contact or a half-smile, wait for the girl to contact you. Otherwise it's fuel for her tank.

And I wrote this in a generic vodka-fueled, less-than-four minutes. WHAT!

Friday, August 7, 2009


It's going to be a glassy-eyed night.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Funny Exchange of the Day

Outside the grocery store, a junkie Russian girl approaches me:

Junkie Russian Girl: "My friend, do you have two dollars I could have for the bus."
Me: "I'm sorry. I just spent it all on vodka."
Junkie Russian Girl: "Vodka. Fuck you."
Me: "Are we still friends?"

Friday, July 31, 2009


I'm the guy you recognize:

"Hey, Equinox! Hey, Katana! Hey, Western!" (Western is what Michael Rosenbaum calls me. We both went to WKU)

This is because I'm not important enough to actually know. I validate parking, I lift the rope. My name is the place you see me.

And it's cool, because I'm the same way with a lot of people. Remember that scene from Swingers where the guy approaches Jon Favreau at a party in the hills and Jon Favreau pretends to remember him? I've been there so many times.

"Hey, Equinox!"

Forgetting a face is worse than forgetting a name. It's like the person never existed. Some people should never exist. Anyway, let's get to my overanalytical sensibilities:

1. The Initial Meeting

Wherein we shake hands and introduce ourselves. I'm usually not paying attention because most introductions in life are bullshit formalities that begin and end with both parties not giving a fuck who the other is. If nothing can be gained from the other person why reserve valuable brain space for something as inconsequential as a name? We're dumb enough as it is.

2. Forgetting Your Name

If I forget your name, I tend to forget it within seconds. Some people have the balls to call themselves out on this ("I'm sorry, I already forgot your name"). Not me. Once I realize I've forgotten your name, I spend the next few minutes trying to remember it. It's one of those tip-of-the-tongue feelings where you feel like a complete retard for not being able to remember something so simple. It makes things worse if you're using my name every chance you get. It's like you're daring me to say your name, even though I know it's just a device so you won't forget my name and be stuck in the same embarrassing position that I'm in.

3. Remembering Your Name

Wherein I shut the fuck up and play Encyclopedia Brown. At parties and other social events, introductions are usually solicited by a third party:

"Hi, Jeff."
"Hi, Jill."
"This is my friend, Bob."
"Hi, Bob."
"Hi, Jeff."

(Bonus points if you can figure out what this introduction really means. Answer at the end of the blog.)

This means I can play the child role and not speak unless spoken to. If I'm in a position where I need to remember your name, I shut the fuck up and listen for clues. Actually, no. There won't be any clues. I just listen for someone to say your name. It'll happen eventually. Either that or I'll extract myself from the situation, go somewhere else, and then find our mutual friend later and quietly ask her what your name was again.

4. Saying Your Name

This is key. If I haven't said your name the entire conversation and then spit it out after someone else says it, it's obvious that I forgot your name and am just piggybacking. Most people will overuse someone's name once they relearn it to compensate for all the times they didn't say it. This is socially transparent behavior (but then isn't most?). One well-placed "Bob" at the end of the conversation brackets it nicely and makes Bob feel special:

"Oh, wow. He remembered my name. Cool."

Then I can move on and forget someone else's name.

(Answer: Jill wants to fuck Jeff, or she used to fuck Jeff. Now she's fucking Bob, or is close to fucking Bob, and she wants Jeff to be made aware of this because she wants him to know what he's missing. Jeff doesn't give a fuck because he's already fucked Jill or doesn't care to fuck her. Jill's plan to make Jeff jealous backfires and she ends up sending Bob home early because she's upset, or she sleeps with him and fantasizes about Jeff. )

This is an entirely fictional scenario. Or maybe the names have just been changed.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Complimenting* a Girl on Her Breasts

I know I shouldn't, but her fake, oil-filled, kickball tits are pouring out of her low-cut top like two fucked up Kuatos. Plus her face is carved to shit. She looks like a past-her-prime Nascar wife who graduated from the University of Florida's community campus with an associates degree in Sociology. And she's only in her twenties. I know I'm supposed to ask her a bullshit question, compliment her smile or her eyes, but I don't give a fuck. Her shit is outside of her shirt in an overfilled water balloon manner. If I don't mention the elephant in the room then I'm as transparent as she is. Plus I'm not attracted to her in the slightest, so it makes it easy to be an asshole.

"I like your tits." (even though I don't)
"I'm sure everyone's told you this, but you have really nice breasts." (lie)

She gets a look of disgust on her face. How dare I!

"That's rude."

I walk away with a buzzed smile. If no one else is going to call her out it may as well be me. Don't come to a bar dressed like a former Hooters girl and think you're the hottest thing since an oozing dick, because you're not -- no matter what the chubby Mexicans tell you. You're the equivalent of the tanktop douchebag with an armband tattoo. To take offense, to pretend you're not trying to show off -- and actually believe it -- is pure naivete.

I'll be the realist. You'll be the bimbo who gets free drinks and walks away from her benefactors.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

The Utility Belt

Like Batman, a guy should strap on his utility belt before heading into that dark unknown that is the night. No matter the characters you meet, the places you go, these are the essentials:


There are two things in this world that people can never seem to find: pens and lighters. Drunk girls could lose the key to the universe, so it's a safe bet that any given number will be looking for a flame on a blurry Saturday night. This is where you come in. Lighters are opportunity creators. In-givers. But they're not a license to stick around. Lighting a girl's cigarette is a classic, polite gesture. Don't creepify it. Swoop in, compliment her, see where the conversation goes, and then swoop out. If things go well, you have a good chance of bumping into her later when she's more-than-buzzed. The extra alcohol in her system will distort the memory of the cigarette-lighting and make it seem even more romantic and gentlemanly, especially now since she's dealt with assholes trying to grab and hit on her all night. You'll stand out. Maybe even be her hero.


The lighter squared. Alcohol turns non-smokers into smokers. Cigarettes enhance the buzz and give people something to do. Even if you don't indulge, you should always carry a pack on you for those pretty girls that do. They're a good icebreaker and provide you with an in you otherwise may not have. The trick is to keep the girl around after you've lit her Parliament. Difficulty will vary depending on her situation (attitude, friends, drunkenness, etc.), but at least you'll have a chance. Be careful not to become the cigarette dispenser, though. This is the bar equivalent of the cuddle bitch. If you've seen a girl rubbing on some other guy all night or making eyes at some almost-model with a square jaw, she gets nothing. Never give a girl a cigarette for her friend or "for later". This means she has absolutely no intention of sticking around or even pretending to be somewhat interested in you. Politely tell her you don't have anything and watch how quickly she drops the sweet girl act. On to the next one, sugar pie.

Big Flask

What'd you start off with, vodka? Then this is what you'll keep in here. Order a drink or a mixer and add accordingly. No matter how drunk you are, always refill in a bathroom or remote corner. Don't get bold and pour in the middle of the club. That's when security sees you and throws you out. Not that it matters to them, but they look bad-ass if they bounce someone and that could net them pussy at the end of the night. Never let a girl know you have a flask. She'll be turned off by your cheapness and think you're an alcoholic when in reality you're just trying to get fucked up at an economically sound rate: free.

Small Flask

This is your backup. Or it can be your alternative. Think you may want to switch to tequila as the night progresses? That's what this is for. Keep the alcohol in here ultra-cheap though. I'm talking $6 a bottle shit. By the time you dig into this you should be sufficient. That's when your tastebuds are asleep being spooned by your judgment. You don't need anymore, but you keep going because it feels right. You'll hate yourself for it in the morning.

Money Clip

Wallets make you look like a grandfather, and they take up too much space. A simple money clip with a few bills, your ID, and an emergency credit card is all you need for a night out. Just be careful not to lose it. I recommend checking your pockets every few minutes to ensure that you didn't drunkenly drop it when you pulled out your cell phone.


When you're drunk, there are few things that feel better than the vibration of a new text message in your pocket. Your phone is essential for number-getting and backup plans. It can also be a conversation-starter if you have something new and/or fancy. I can't tell you how many times I've heard people discussing their BlackBerries. If things aren't looking promising by midnight, shoot a few texts to potentials you've already met, or a safe bet that you wouldn't mind seeing. Never text your last resort until closing time. Premature texting can kill unforeseeable hookups, so play it safe. The last thing you want is to invite an old girl over when a new girl is ready to come home with you.


Keep these hidden. A girl will feel like a slut if she thinks you anticipated sex with her and deep-six the entire hookup. Still, you have to be prepared. Raw sex is always an option but it really isn't. Not with easy club girls and definitely not with easy LA club girls. As important as your nut is, it's not worth the silent panic you'll endure the morning after. Strap it on, deal with the warm discomfort, and then finish yourself off when the condom bunches up, kills her lubrication, and dwindles your hard-on. You can still tell your boys you had sex. And that's usually what matters.

Thursday, July 16, 2009


All late night drive-thrus should become express-thrus after 11pm. Five items and that's it. Baconators and other specialty items count as two because they take so long to prepare. Oh, you're in an Escalade full of your boys trying to get your grub on before you hit the club? Tough shit. Pull back around and wait in line again. That'll teach you to wait until the last fucking second and inconvenience everyone else.

The snaking line of cars that runs into the parking lot is a weight on the appetite, a plague on the soul. No one should have to wait half-an-hour for a five-piece nugget. Most people in the late night drive-thru are just looking for a quick fix anyway. Not a fucking Thanksgiving dinner.

But there's always that one car -- usually with blaring subwoofers and tilted-hat silhouettes. You'll be moving along with a Jamaican's speed and then all of a sudden... nothing. It takes you a second to realize that progress has stopped. The song on your radio becomes another and you're still a car back from the menu-before-the-menu. An asshole up ahead is taking too long, ordering too much. Everyone must suffer because of it.

Maybe five items isn't the way to go. Maybe there should be an abbreviated menu with easily prepared late night essentials: hamburgers, french fries, chicken nuggets. None of that fancy, for-a-limited-time-only shit. When we're drunk and ravenous, we don't need bacon. Maybe extra barbecue sauce, but definitely not bacon. Our palates are anything but refined at 2:30 in the morning.

And so things must change. No more should we have to wait for the asshole-packed SUV with the obnoxious figures inside. Let's speed things along. Let's sate that hunger.

Who's with me?

Monday, July 13, 2009

The Girlfriend Face

The Girlfriend Face is something I've long tried to define, but have never been able to fully articulate or explain. It's my opinion that some girls have faces that are more conducive to long-lasting relationships. I call them Sunday Girls (because you can spend all Sunday with them and feel like it's the greatest day of your life). Perhaps it's just me and my tastes, but I think I'm onto something objective here. And so I shall proceed.

Girlfriend faces are comprised of softer, sweeter features. Maybe a perfect imperfection or two. A misplaced dimple, a stubby nose, an eye that squints too much when she smiles. Girlfriend faces are more cute than hot. More pretty than beautiful. They're mostly defined by their sunshiney smiles, their pleasant demeanors. A true girlfriend face does not drastically change if makeup is added. In fact, makeup can detract from a girlfriend face if not applied correctly. If a girl can look as good in the morning as she can at night, there's a good chance she has a girlfriend face.

Girlfriend faces belong to the movie girls the guy doesn't get until the end. The girl the guy doesn't realize he wants because he's too caught up chasing the bitchy, overly hot girl who's preoccupied with money and status. The girl next door, the cool best friend, the wallflower -- these are all girlfriend face archetypes.

Remember the cinematic teensploitation explosion at the end of the 90s? There was a new, shitty unlikely-high-school-romance movie hitting the theaters every few weeks. And who was always playing the bitch? This chick:

Jodi Lyn O'Keefe. The object of desire until the end of the second act. She made a killing in these roles because of her harsh beauty. Downturned eyebrows and piercing eyes, she's a sexy, somewhat thick demoness who probably smokes cigarettes like she sucks dicks: film noir, genie lamp style. No wonder she ended up playing the femme fatale in a direct-to-video Poison Ivy sequel.

Now compare her to her She's All That costar Rachael Leigh Cook (who I see all the time and who is as cute as fucking ever):

Contrast, what? We just went from hard-on inducing late-night phone call to heart-on inducing "wanna maybe see a movie sometime?" RLC has a spritely look to her that suggests fun, faithfulness, and longevity.

A girlfriend face.

Here are a few more celebrities with girlfriend faces:

Late 90s Jennifer Love Hewitt
Emmy Rossum
Anne Hathaway
A Walk to Remember Mandy Moore
Garden State Natalie Portman (as much as I hate that fucking movie)
Olivia Thirlby
Vanessa Hudgens
Blake Lively
Shenae Grimes
Brenda Song

Here are a few with non-girlfriend faces:

Megan Fox
Olivia Wilde
Posh Spice
Paris Hilton
Charlize Theron
Nicole Kidman

See the difference?

What's beautiful about girlfriend faces is they're warm and inviting even if you don't have a shot in hell. You'll spot that mile-wide smile from across the bar, feel your heart quiver and spasm with a rush of warmth, and feel like you're in a pop song for however long you'll let your mind picture you two together. Other girls are too coldly beautiful to allow you that deranged escapism.

A girlfriend face does not a good girlfriend make, though. I've bumped into my fair share of cuties with enough bitchiness to fuel a thousand MTV shows. And I've bumped into maybe two or three extremely beautiful model types who weren't all about money. It all comes down to the individual. You can never know for sure, but you can play the percentages.

Who knows? Maybe you'll find your next Sunday Girl.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

Back like the McRib

I must confess: I've been scared. Scared to continue this blog, scared to face the wrath of my readers. I know I've disappointed you and I'm sorry. But I do have a life to live (and oh how I've been living it) and I do have people in my life who would cease to remain if I chronicled every fucked up detail I've experienced.

As you can probably tell, I was mostly seeing someone for the past few months. An Indian princess. A Bengali beauty. My Bombayshell. A girl who made me give a fuck about the outcome of us. Work took her from me, though. Six figures on the east coast -- which is fine. If it wasn't her job it was bound to be my dick. I don't think I'm built for relationships. I don't think relationships are built for me. Ideally, I'd like to be involved during the week and single on the weekends. I had a friend who used to start a fight with his girlfriend on Thursday. They'd break-up on Friday, he'd go out and have a vodka-drenched, pussy-filled, guilt-free weekend, and then get back together with her on Sunday night.

"Baby, I'm so sorry. I miss you so much..."

That's the thing with guys: an unbusted nut is the most important thing in the world until we actually bust it. Then we can't fathom how it was so important in the first place. It's a deadly, deadly, beautiful cycle -- one that I'm beginning to feel right now.

We said our tearful airport goodbye. I cried hard. I've noticed I sound full-blown retarded when I cry. Deep, body-rattling sobs. My soul gagging on the sadness of reality like an amateur bulimic who can't believe she just ate that hamburger. You never know someone's true impact until you have to let them go. As long as they're around you can treat them like shit and take them for granted. Just ask Michael Jackson.

I guess now I'm technically free again. Summertime singletime in the sun-soaked city. So what should I write about? Nightlife? Women-juggling? The deaf transsexual pornstar who threatened me? I think I'll start with this:

"Fuck Me"

I'm strongly considering banning all "fuck me's" from my bedroom. Well, bedroom area (I have three walls and a curtain). I'm thinking about putting up a sign and everything. Why? "Fuck me" creates pressure. Expectation. When I hear "fuck me", I fill with silent panic:

"You better fuck her, Jeff. You better impress her. Don't disappoint her. Then she'll tell all her friends you're a limp-dicked dud, and you're not. You're really a large-cocked stud. So you better fuck her and you better do it well. Impress her with that dick. Do it!"

That's my mind telling my body to get its shit together and perform. My body, which to this point has been going with the flow and running full steam ahead, which has not even considered the possibility of not filling her vagina with penis, begins to act defiant:

"You can't tell me what to do, motherfucker. I run shit."
"I know. I'm just saying..."
"Don't say shit! I got this!"
"Good. Fuck her then."
"Fuck you, motherfucker. I don't have to do a goddamn thing!"

And the dick. Shuts. Dowwwwwwwwwwn. During sex, your mind has to be a silent spectator jacking off in the corner. If he starts barking orders he's going to kill the moment. It's like telling a kid not to touch a hot stove. Now that you've told him he's suddenly aware of it. And he focuses on it. See, the body functions best as a child. Let it play, don't interrupt it. It'll be fine. The second you ask it to do something is the second it throws a temper tantrum. Regardless of how horny I am, how badly I want to have sex, if my mind is thrown into the equation my penis will take a cigarette break. It's a trade-off: only one head works at a time.

For me, the only time "fuck me" is acceptable is when I'm already fucking. Then it actually fuels the sex, the moment, the animal horniness.

"Fuck me!"
"Yeah? You like that?"
"Oh fuck yeah!
"You like getting fucking fucked?"
"Oh yes! Give me that fucking cock!"
"This fucking cock, yeah? You love it? You love fucking this fucking cock?"

Is it just me or is "you like that?" the number one question asked during sex? Maybe I'm just insecure and want to know I'm doing a good job. I don't know.

So, in closing, pre-sex "fuck me's" are a no-no. Heat-of-the-moment "fuck me's" are perfectly acceptable, so long as everything's going okay.

Goddamn it feels good to be back.

Alienating My Fanbase...

All 20 of you. :P New post this week. PROMISE!

Friday, May 1, 2009

It's been a month...

I'm bad, I know. I've been busy finishing a first draft and living the sordid life of a single white male. Things I can't really write about, but perhaps may be able to write about soon. Just know that this blog hasn't been abandoned and I am constantly thinking about you, my loyal readers. I'll have something for you guys soon!

Saturday, April 11, 2009

I am so poor...

... I take my shit to the dry cleaners just to get new hangers.

How poor are you?

Tuesday, March 31, 2009


You have no rights when you work in customer service. It's comparable to being a black man in rural Alabama.

"He shot me, officer."
"Why were you in the way of his gun?"

It's weird. Sometimes I actually mistake myself for a human being. I guess it's easy to get confused. I exhibit a lot of the traits: thinking, breathing, masturbating. I know how to wipe myself, know how to operate a microwave. I can shout racial slurs at Mexican drivers then go and bang a Hispanic girl. I have many facets, multiple dimensions. I am a contradiction.

But I'm also an employee, which negates allllllll of that shit. If you tell me to go fuck myself, I have to go fuck myself. And I have to do it with a smile. You, the customer, the member, are always right. Me? I'm your bitch. Your slave. Your gimp.

No, I'm definitely not human.

The gym enforces blackout hours. During the week, from 5 to 7:30, employees are not allowed to use the facility (not even the bathrooms) so as not to get in the way of real live people. These are enforced regardless of gym traffic. I've been chewed out before for taking a shower in an empty locker room.

"It's the rules," my manager told me, booze on his breath.

In order to comply with these rules, I lift at four, finish by five, and wash my ass at home.

That wasn't good enough today, though.

I came back from my superset to find a gay man with Val Kilmer hair stripping the weights from the Smith machine I had been using.

"I'm on that, man."

He looked up, ready to retort with something assholish, like he was going to let me have it for not physically standing by my piece of equipment. His expression changed when he saw that I was bigger than him and probably didn't have a small dick.

"Oh, uh, well, I asked everyone around and they didn't know who was on it so..."
"You didn't see my belt and towel and keys right there?"
"Well you weren't here."
"That's because I'm hopping back and forth trying to get everything done. I work here and they kick me out at five."

I pointed at the clock. 4:53.

"Can I work in then?"
"Yeah, but we're doing two different things and it'd be kind of inconvenient. I'll be done in a few if you want it then."

Completely polite with a hint of firmness. He hung around for a moment while I threw my weights back on -- one of those things people do when they're embarrassed but don't want to look like they're embarrassed. Then he walked away. I continued my workout and things were good.

At 4:58, my manager came up.

"Did you just tell a member he couldn't use a piece of equipment because you were on it?"

I had thought to myself that it would be funny and fucking ridiculous if the member went and told on me. I'm always concocting scenarios in my head, anticipating the next move. I'm like the kid in Searching for Bobby Fischer, looking ahead on life's chessboard: if I move this, he'll move that, then I'll move this, then he'll move that... I'm pretty accurate for the most part, so this queen didn't surprise me too much, but at the same he did. What a prick.

"Yeah, I told him I had to be out of here at five and I'd be done in a minute."

My manager got this look on his face like a movie-father gets when he's telling a boy to stay away from his daughter.

"You are an employee of this company. He is a PAYING MEMBER."
"I understand that, but I'm just trying to follow the rules."
"No, you're not following the rules!"
"I am!"
"You know what? Just go. Go home."
"Are you serious?"
"Go. Get out of here. Stop fucking my daughter."

Okay, he didn't say that last part.

I grabbed my stuff and followed my manager downstairs. Inside, I could feel my soul die a little more. Ever smush an ant and watch it hobble around? My soul is that ant. Except glowing.

My manager told me we needed to talk and took me into the personal training office where they usually fire people they regret hiring. Inside sat the fitness manager, a Napoleonic complex with a goatee and LA Looks-hardened hair. He used to be cool back when he first got hired as a trainer, but then they promoted him and he turned into a major dick. Shit like that happens when you drink your own Kool-Aid.

"You need to quit with your primadonna attitude!"
"I was polite. He's being the primadonna."
"He's allowed to be a primadonna! As an employee of this company, you are here to serve him! He pays for a membership. Me and you are employed because of him."

And I understand this. In theory. But a line has to be drawn somewhere.

I tried to explain where I was coming from. I told my manager that this wouldn't be an issue if I had more time to work out and wasn't rushing to finish by five -- a case of the corporate snake coiling back to feed on its own tail. He told me that was my problem. Not his. Not the member's.

Basically, I argued I was a human. He argued I was an employee.

What hurts and bothers me is that my manager is so blind as a corporate android that he didn't even stop to consider that maybe this guy was being self-centered and more than a little fucking demanding. It's one thing to pretend to be on the customer's side for the customer's sake. It's another thing to actually be on the customer's side. Because I am an employee, I am automatically wrong and the member is automatically right. What if I were a member? What recourse would he have had then? I should quit, BUY a membership, and drop a fucking dumbbell on his head. And then complain to my manager about the blood and skull fragments on the floor.

"There should not be brain matter on this floor! I pay way too much money to work out here."
"Yes, sir."
"Eat my ass."
"Yes, sir."

And then I bend over and he eats my ass. Not because I'm gay, but because I'm powerful.

I considered walking out. Telling him to fuck off. But then I thought about the economy. About Obama looking to the heavens. About my networking opportunities. About my free membership. And I saw the fitness manager sitting there with that overly concerned, managerial look on his smug face, hands folded by his chin, and I knew he wanted me to fly off the handle because I almost kicked his ass at a bar one night and made a bunch of short jokes because he had tried to get me fired for "undermining" him.

I took a deep breath and literally bit my tongue.

"You're right. I'm wrong. I'm sorry. It will never happen again."
"I'm glad you realize that."

And then I went the extra mile:

"Where's the member? I'd like to apologize to him."

You could almost hear the pre-cum leak from my manager's dick tip. And oh how I knew it would. To him, this would be a grand gesture from a veteran employee who had an unfortunate lapse in judgment. To me, this would be suppressing my rage and discontent long enough to save my job, earn brownie points, and get a closer look at this guy's face so I could fuck with his life at a later date.

We left the office and my manager ushered me over to where the asshole was doing wrist curls for his forearms -- an exercise to improve his mojito-fueled handjobs at techno-powered dick bars, no doubt. I crossed my fingers on my left hand and obscured them with my towel. I mean the company's towel.

"I'd like to apologize for my behavior. I was rude and inconsiderate and I'm sorry."

The member's reaction -- a mixture of entitlement and satisfaction -- pissed me off even more.

"Thanks. I mean I'm all for supersets, but you should let other people work in, you know."

I bit my fucking tongue again. I wanted to tell him, to beat it into him, that I HAD NO TIME. That he was a tattletale bitch with the hair of Iceman, and that I would gladly key the Porsche he cruises Santa Monica Boulevard in given the chance.

"I know. I'm sorry. I was wrong."
"Well okay."

He put his fist out. Really. Really. I gave it a weak tap and walked away.

"There you go! That's what I like to see!" my manager exclaimed, slapping me on the shoulder in a "did you see that touchdown?!" way. We were friends again. And we'll always be friends -- just as long as I'm on the customer's side.

I need to sell a fucking script.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

I am...

... never fucking skiing. Thanks, Natasha Richardson.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Actively Single

I refuse to be in a relationship. I've already had all my eggs in a basket and that basket broke and those eggs shattered. The last thing I need right now is another basket.

I'm well aware that my situation is the beginning of a character arc you'd see in a shitty romcom:: Matthew McConaughey was left at the altar by a one-dimensional bitch he never should've been with in the first place and now he's afraid to fall in love again. But through a series of quirky moments and wacky misadventures with Kate Hudson (and perhaps a montage or two), he learns to open up and leave his past behind. Twenty-million dollar opening weekend. DVD on the shelf of every girl who owns a pair of Pink sweatpants.

I'm not really afraid to fall in love again, though. I just don't want to. Why should I? I'm 25. I'm out here to do something with myself. Things aren't exactly going to last anyway, so why bother? It's a bad investment.

But feelings creep. You can tamper with them all you want; they'll remain.

I try to ignore them. Sad, right? There's always that scene at the end of the second act where the best friend tells the protagonist to stop being a pussy, to not make the same mistakes he did. Or where the parent or grandparent or a misunderstood elder is wistful about the one that got away. The protagonist then realizes the error of his ways and spends the third act trying to get the girl back. This usually involves running of some sort. Add rain to make it more dramatic.

Hollywood peddles this everyone-falls-in-love fantasy, this notion that there's someone out there for everyone. It's romantic and it sells tickets. We confuse it with reality, though. I feel like I can conquer the world after I watch Rocky. Do girls feel like they can get a boyfriend after they watch 27 Dresses?

Most of us will not find "the one". We'll find someone who's tolerable and adapt to them. That's if we're lucky. There are thousands of fat black women in America. Thousands of short Asian men. The only shot most of them have is pairing up. So should we think of them when we find someone that shows promise? It's like finishing your dinner because there are starving kids in Africa.

"You better stay with that girl. There are fat black women who have nobody."

Too often we settle. I've been told I'm afraid to be with someone, but I think it's the other way around. I think people are afraid to be alone.

Time is easier to kill when you have company. But that's what pets are for.

I'm not a fan of a girl's expectations. TV and movies have conditioned them to expect the world from a guy who eats most of his meals out of a microwave. When I dated Richelle, the girl after Kimi, she criticized me for not being romantic enough.

"I was watching the Bachelor with my mom and..."
"And what?"
"... you've never done anything like that for me."
"What, given you a flower and gone on a televised boat ride?"

It's not enough to have a good time with a girl. Lay around on the couch. Laugh. Goof off. Maybe have sex. No. You have to keep up with what's being broadcasted. All those trite scenarios concocted by writers, that's all the shit you're supposed to be doing. A girl is special when she doesn't expect you to compete with shit she reads in Cosmo.

As I've written before, I believe romance is in the little things. The last French fry. The big t-shirt. The slightly overcooked eggs in the morning. Rose petals in the bathtub are for R&B videos that are more about loving and less about fucking.

The feelings are still there, though. I've locked myself into this Catch 22, where the girl knows I'm guarded and closed off and we keep hanging out and seeing each other and I do gradually begin to let loose a little. But in that time the girl and I are together, she's out on dates with other guys who might commit, who are open to the boyfriend/girlfriend label. Because that's what girls want: labels.

"What are we? What is this?"

They don't care if the product is shit; they just want the guarantee on the box. So, basically, when I'm ready, she's already moved on, and I'm left feeling hurt and rejected all over again with more of a shield than I had before.

And so here I am, alone. I've brought it on myself -- the result of my not opening up. Call it a fear all you want. I'm just playing it safe.

Maybe my outlook will change at the end of the second act.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Drunken Hollywood Poem

Expensive vodka
Flask in the stall
Saved twenty dollars
fuck you all

Things getting hazy
music getting good
girls getting hot
me getting wood

Just kidding
I'm not thirteen
dick is floppy
brain hurting

There's skinny guys
in skinny ties
rocking fat wallets
with skinny flies

It's all about image
all about cash
roll in that Benz
get that ass

Me, I'm me
embrace my cheapness
work with my substance
like I'm last in the Preakness

Thursday, February 19, 2009

How to get cheap fruit

Money doesn't grow on trees. Fruit does. This is why I don't like to buy fruit.

I do though. Sometimes. It's weird: when I was 7-years-old I would've never thought I'd be paying for something my grandma would cut up and serve to me for free. But here I am, spending fifty cents to a dollar for an apple.

Oreos are cheaper.

It costs to be healthy in America. Subway. Whole Foods. Jamba Juice. The little Kale Acai Whatever elixirs you see sweaty yoga people sipping cost more than a large pizza. Which is fine. I think the overly health-conscious should be preyed upon and abused until their wallets run drier than organic raisins.

"Excuse me, was this grown locally?"

Shut the fuck up.

The rest of us who enjoy an orange here and there shouldn't have to endure such prices. The next time you're at the grocery store, try this:

1. Find out what produce is selling for the cheapest. Depending on stock, a supermarket may run a crazy deal. Granny Smiths were going for fifty-cents a pound the other day.

2. Stock up on your fruit of choice. Lately I've been getting a lot of astronomically-priced citrusy stuff.

3. Go to the self-checkout. It's usually "monitored" by some deadbeat who's too retarded to run a register on his own or a manager who's half paying attention because she has a million other things to worry about. Either way, nobody gives a fuck about you. This is typical customer service.

4. Perform an item look-up and ring up your fruit as the cheap produce. The computer goes by weight and can't tell shit from champagne. This is how you get four pounds of Tangelos for the price of green onions.

5. Bag your shit and exit the store. If you're feeling extra bold, steal a magazine. If anyone stops you -- and they won't -- play dumb and pretend you got caught up reading it.

It happens all the time.

Saturday, February 14, 2009


Any girl who swears she is not a slut is a slut, a recovering slut, or is so afraid of being a slut that she keeps herself from engaging in any type of natural sexual activity that others could perceive as slutty.

When you're hooking up with a girl like this, you can see, feel, hear the battle. Making out. Her eyes shut, breath heavy. Hands on your arms, back. Squeezing, feeling...

And then she pulls away. Breathes, "We need to stop" or "Okay, okay..." followed by a shoulder pat. She turns her back to you to fall asleep or watch the movie. In a minute, your hands wander and it starts all over again.

Be patient. Know that she's going to stop you when her brain interrupts to tell her she's being a slut. If something feels good to a girl and it's not at least the third date, then that feeling is wrong. Slutty. You can thank society and its guy-pimp/girl-whore double standard for this.

You have to approach hooking up with these girls in waves. A wave starts with physical contact. It ends with her pushing you away. In order to succeed, you'll need to build. It's all about the progression. You have to keep chipping away at her until she's so overwhelmed with lust that she tells that bitchy little voice in her head to fuck off. You CANNOT start with breast or vaginal contact. You have to work your way up to that. Example:

Wave 1: get to her ear
Wave 2: get your knee between her legs
Wave 3: make a weak breast move
Wave 4: make a strong breast move

Try to combine established moves from previous waves with your next move (ear/knee to breast or ear/breast to vagina). This will serve to distract and arouse. Bombard her with pleasure.

Once you've worked your way up or just lost your fucking patience, hang back from a full makeout and tease your tongue over her lips. She'll lean forward with her mouth open and try to kiss you. Hold back. Tease more. She'll pull you in to her. This will lead to a hungry makeout. Use the intensity of this moment to your advantage and make a full on, go-for-broke desperation move (pussy rub, finger fuck). If you're meant to get laid, this should be her breaking point. If not, she'll push your hand away.

If this happens, accept your destiny and excuse yourself to her bathroom. Steal a wad of toilet paper.

You'll be jacking off into it later.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009


In life we hit more red lights than green lights. I think. Or does it just seem that way because we don't remember the green lights? Take them for granted?

I was a baller for a good three month stretch. Baller is a relative term, of course. I couldn't buy a new car or have anyone killed or anything like that, but my $2200 a month income had me feeling like a king. I was working as a doorman at a fancy restaurant, getting paid an obscene amount to smile and lift a rope for asshole Persians and their expressionless women. I was training my client, earning a dollar a minute to watch him lift weights and keep him motivated. There were side jobs -- security, moving -- that earned me a decent amount. The good thing about LA is that people have so much money they tend to overpay when it comes to simple shit.

"Can you help me move my bed and dresser? I'll pay you."
"How much?"
"A hundred dollars."

That job took an hour.

But why do people have so much money? Because this is a me town. A town based on individuals; not family. Would-be college funds are disposable income out here. Money you would've spent on your kid's education goes towards a nice car and lavish lifestyle. People aren't born out here. They're imported.

Anyway, I was doing alright. For a good minute I was looking at buying a nice TV. I mean why not? Christmas was on the way and I never get myself anything awesome. Fuck it. Splurge.

Right around then I got cut from my door job. "The economy," they said. This was about a week after they hosted an investors dinner for the new restaurants they'd be opening in Vegas and Scottsdale. I never thought they needed doormen in the first place. Image is a huge part of LA though, and nothing says "party here" like a guy with a rope.

So, like that, my door job was done. Half my income, gone. What sucks is I sacrificed a few of my gym shifts to accommodate the door gig. Shifts that are no longer mine. Shifts I can't get back. Not that I want them back. One night working the ropes was three nights of validating parking and being told not to lean on the desk. It feels like a giant leap back. But it's a leap I would force myself to take given the opportunity. Unfortunately, there's no opportunity.

And my client's car just died. And his job is paying him less. And his clients (he's a psychologist) are cutting back their sessions with him. Shit begets shit begets shit, and now, I'm going to feel it. Four times a week has dropped to three, which is dropping to two, which has a good chance of dropping to one or even zero. Abracadabra, another $650 a month disappears. What's $2200 minus $1650?

You know, I see these old rich white guys on CNN in their $300 ties and $4000 suits, asking for money, for help, and I just get mad. These fucking laid-up CEOs with their sentinel cars and hotel lunches and weekend yachts and they want more money. Being in the top two percent is not enough for them. Why?

In our minds we create these lines in our bank accounts. Imaginary zeros. If we dip below a certain amount, we feel poor, in danger. That line for me is $1000. That line for them is in the millions. That line for a homeless man may be a bottle of liquor.

But who's really in danger? Are we all as bad as the suited foreskins asking for handouts?

No. Those guys are pure shit.

Things can always be worse. I'm still able to make rent, eat, get a haircut. My bank account will slowly deplete until I find something to boost it back up again. I figure if I get real desperate I can do porn.

I'll just... sustain. Which is fine. In life, there's more truth at the bottom than there is at the top.

Kind of like green lights.


"Wow. You look really cute without your glasses. Completely different."

I always have my glasses on.

Saturday, February 7, 2009

Free drinks...

... are never free. Because when you know the bartender he expects you to tip out the ass -- at least fifty percent for each drink. Therefore free drinks are discounted drinks. You're essentially using a "you're my boy" coupon. If you fail to tip accordingly you jeopardize the relationship AND the friendship. He may play it off like he doesn't expect anything, but if you call his bluff he'll be disappointed. It's a sign of disrespect. This is the procedure:

-- you order a drink
-- he tells you this round's on him
-- you tell him you'll pay
-- he insists this round is on him
-- you thank him
-- nurse the fuck out of your drink
-- if the next round is on him, be prepared to tip big. if not, the drink will probably be significantly discounted. be prepared to tip big anyway.
-- leave or go to a different bartender

DO NOT hang around and try to get more than one or two free drinks unless you saved this motherfucker from ass rape or unless he's your best bud of all time. In my case, the bartender would have to be Patrick for me to take liberties with him. And even then I'd still tip substantially.

Play it smart.

Saturday, January 31, 2009

Parallel Parking

One of the benefits of not driving a nice car is creating your own parking spaces. All of those almost-spots left by inconsiderate Benzes and Bimmers become fair game if you don't mind dinging your bumper up a little (and theirs).

And I don't.

Patience runs thin in a city full of assholes and no one is taking steps to depucker themselves. It's beat 'em or join 'em, and I don't like to assimilate. Gone are the days of frustrated sighs and cursing under my breath. I'm like a fat woman with an undersized pair of Wal-Mart jeans.

Shit will fit come hell or high water.

I back in my Subaru until I hit either the curb or the vehicle behind me. It's usually the vehicle, as I've gotten pretty fucking decent at parallel parking since moving to LA. Once I feel that bump, I tap the gas to see if there's any resistance. If there is, I turn my wheels and shift to drive. No gas. Just let the car roll until I bump the vehicle in front of me. Once our bumpers are touching like teenagers, I surge, skidding the cocksucker forward until I have enough room to be comfortable. I'll then straighten out, detach my stereo, and get out of the car to admire a job well done.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Problem Solving

Safety is the bastard child of fear and we are a society of boot-quiverers. Safety is more than justified in certain cases (motorcycles, rollercoasters, sex with shady people), but mostly it's just plain annoying. There's too much of it. Like Asians at the Beverly Center.

We let safety hinder what would otherwise be a productive, if not dangerous, way of life. But danger keeps us on our toes. It forces us to grow, adapt. Live with your shoes untied and you become a better walker.

That being said, fuck stop signs. I hate these goddamn things. Only a handful are necessary. The other 99% operate on "what ifs":

"What if there's another car coming? What if there's someone crossing the street?"
"What if there's not?"
"Stop anyway. It's best to be on the safe side."

Because people are inherently retarded, they often stop for too long or become confused if there's more than one car at an intersection. They forget whose turn it is and end up yielding through a whole 'nother cycle before puttering forth. This usually happens when you're already late for something (work, gangbang, etc.).

Besides my usual rolling pause, I've taken to cheating at stop signs. This means that if I sense me and another car may hit opposite signs at the same time, I'll stop a good five to ten feet short so that I can go first. But sometimes that car cheats, so I have to cheat even more.

This has led to me stopping for a stop sign almost halfway down the street.

My solution:

We should raze all stop signs and hire illegals to direct traffic on our suburban streets and side roads. Companies could advertise on these illegals:

"Why is that Mexican in the two-for-one Big Mac shirt waving me ahead?"
"He's the new stop sign, bro."
"I'm hungry."

The advertising money would go towards paying the illegals and the city wouldn't have to spend a dime. Things might get confusing in the dark, which is why all nightshift stop signs would be required to purchase their own reflectors and neon vests or face deportation.

There could even be nametags so you could get to know the stop signs on your street.

"Jose! What's up?"
"No carro. Go go."

We wouldn't use the homeless because they're mostly deranged and take America for granted. Too many x-factors. If you hire an illegal for a job you know he'll work his fucking ass off as long as he thinks he's being watched. Plant the seed of paranoia by telling him he's being videotaped and he won't even take a lunch break.

And you won't have to stop so much.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Hazy Cerebralness

There are New York pizza places in Los Angeles, but are there Los Angeles taco places in New York? And what the fuck is in Chicago? (Is this an original thought? Am I blazing trails like red pubic hair?)

Friday, January 16, 2009

In traffic...

Would you rather get stuck behind:

-- a Mexican in a work truck with a bunch of shit sticking out of the back?
-- an old Beverly Hills bitch in a Mercedes?
-- any Asian in a Kia?
-- forearm-tattooed OC douchebags cruising for chicks in a GMC Yukon?
-- a topless Hollywood tour van/bus/whatever?

Because I manage to get stuck behind all of these jagoffs on any given day.

Saturday, January 10, 2009


I wear a tie, jacket, and tight-fitting ironic t-shirt (Bomb Diggity in faded letters) to a hipster bar. Coupled with my Clark Kent glasses, this should be a nice experiment.

When I arrive, I take off my jacket to show off my arms -- triceps, biceps, forearms. I order a drink and flex my right arm -- the arm I hold my well-vodka soda with. I drape my jacket over my left forearm, forcing me to bend it at a ninety degree angle. That gives me a reason to flex this arm also. I make a round through the bar -- glasses on, tie dimpled and tucked between my pectorals -- with my arms subtly bulged. In a bar full of hipster d-bag wannabes, girls don't expect to see biceps above thirteen inches and a chest that doesn't resemble a bird's. With the jacket draped over my left forearm, I create the illusion of not trying too hard. With the glases, I create the illusion of belonging, even though I really need them to see.

"Why is he flexing his big arms and wearing a tie that shows off his pecs?"
"His jacket is off. He must have gotten hot."
"Ohhhhh... I like his glasses."

The jacket is my out. My alibi. The glasses are my trojan horse. I got a lot of looks tonight. Smiles. One girl threw a lemon wedge at me to get my attention. The trick is going somewhere you don't necessarily fit in, creating the illusion you fit in, and then drawing that contrast between reality and the illusion you created. For me, it's muscle hipster. Being able to mentally back that up is a big plus.

"So, do you girls like MGMT?"

Tuesday, January 6, 2009


My ex-girlfriend from 11th grade -- my first real girlfriend and my first or second blowjob (it was either her or this Korean chick who worked at Starbucks) -- messaged me on Google chat today to tell me this:

"Yesterday was my birthday and I got engaged."

I actually posted a happy birthday on her Facebook wall the day before, but used a period instead of an exclamation point so as not to convey any excitement or jubiliation. Just to acknowledge that, biologically, she's still alive: Happy Birthday. You have a pulse.

Marcie was always kind of a bitch. She had this I'm-smarter-than-you air that soured her otherwise pleasant demeanor -- one of those sexy AP girls who studied way too hard because getting into a good school meant life or death. Now she's working a cubicle job alongside C students who skipped class to smoke pot. What oh what were those achievements for?

I've noticed that intellectual condescension tends to be a common thread in bookish girls who aren't Barbie-pretty, even though they may be attractive in non-generic, non-assembly line ways. It's a defense mechanism: "If I can't be popular and hot then I'm going to be smart and make fun of everyone who is." I call it the reverse cheerleader.

Marcie was pretty though. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Nice hips. Big smile. A classic beauty. Our first date (and my first date altogether) was to see American Beauty at Fairfax Town Center. It was one of those hot-feeling dates where we both knew we really liked each other, and as much as we liked the movie we couldn't wait for it to be over so we could look at each other and gush some more. We ended up making out for an hour in the orange-lit parking lot while rain tapped and windows fogged. Lots of face-brushing and hair-running. Pulling back to look at each other and smile like we couldn't believe how lucky we were for finding each other.

"I'm glad you came into Blockbuster." (that's where I worked)

But we were too insecure and immature for a relationship. She kept thinking I was going to dump her and I kept thinking she was going to dump me. We lasted two months and then dumped each other. I cried.

We maintained weak contact after that. Every time we'd try to reconcile and at least become friends, I'd do something she wold perceive as boorish and then that would be that until the next half-assed reconciliation.

We became Facebook "friends", if only to check up on each other to see who's winning in life. I remember she filled in the how-do-you-know-this-person section with high school. I countered with used to date, which she refused to accept -- probably because she didn't want all of her proper friends to see she dated a profane meathead with a penchant for assholishness. I felt like an embarrassment from her past. But then I considered the source.

Anyway, today was the first time we talked in over two years.

"I posted a happy birthday on your Facebook."
"I know."
"So basically you're messaging me to tell me you're engaged."
"Yeah. It's fun."

Translation: I'm a big girl. Nanny nanny boo boo.

I'm not bothered by her engagement though. I'm bothered by her behavior. Her announcing it apropos of nothing. It feels like an attack: "I'm engaged. Beat THAT!" Like she's throwing it in my face trying to make me feel like shit. And I don't. I actually feel kind of bad for her.

So many paths in this life and she chose the one with the least booby traps.

Sunday, January 4, 2009


The greatest cockblock of all. What's funny is I'll hold it against a girl too, especially if I'm horny and under the influence.

"Come over."
"I can't."
"Why? You have a car."
"I can't."
"It's not a good time..."
"Oh, you're bleeding?"
"Next week for sure."

Number deleted. It's wrong, I know, but when you're ready to go any excuse is offensive. Fuck it.

Saturday, January 3, 2009


Months ago I was in a frenzy looking for a notary. I had spent the past two weeks finessing my application for the Disney ABC Television Fellowships and the last step -- getting the shit notarized -- was eluding me like a motherfucker. Everyone was either busy or not working. And the clock was ticking -- 4:00 and I needed to hit the post office by 5. Hope lied at a small travel agency in Beverly Hills, right off of Rodeo. I barreled through rush hour traffic and found the place, parking, by 4:40.

Beverly Hills is only three miles away.

A kind Armenian man notarized my application and wished me luck. I ran four blocks to the post office, waited in line, and got my shit out just as they locked the doors.

Today I received the rejection letter.

I figured I didn't have a chance, but when you believe such things there's always a small part that believes the opposite. That's where all the good stories come from: ignoring logic.

"Why didn't you have a chance?"

The Disney ABC TV Writing Fellowship is a diversity fellowship. A large part of the application process involved me writing about my background -- where I came from, who I was, etc. I dodged my whiteness, of course, and instead focused on my juvenile delinquency and love for hip-hop, and how certain experiences (i.e. riding the short bus my Senior year of high school) have shaped my writing.

But my name is Jeff Tetreault, not Jamal Smith.

"But diversity can mean your writing..."

Not in TV. No. In TV, diversity means you better be black or Hispanic or Middle Eastern. Diversity in TV is code for not white. If you're a crippled Native American with a vagina, no matter how shitty your writing is, you have an exponentially better shot at getting your foot (or wheel) in the door than a white male. This is because studios receive tax breaks and the like if they meet racial quotas. Fucked up, right?

I'm not against diversity. It's just that it's usually forced and not genuine in the slightest. It's a step forward and a step back at the same time -- MLK's dream in the hands of the greedy. One black guy in a commercial on white TV. One white guy in a commercial on black TV.

Only Telemundo has it right.