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.