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.