Tongue-biting

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.

I am...

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

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?"
"Nothing."
"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.

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

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.

Waves

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.

Rejeffson

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.