Monday, December 30, 2013

Another Post About My Relentless Faith in the Lost and Abandoned Underwater City Called "Love"

Bloop bloop.

People keep telling me to date, to have many options and just have a "blast". Not knowing how I may have succumbed to signing up for meat market sites and apps such as OkCupid and Tinder. I've tried both momentarily just to see what this could feel like. I felt nothing. I just couldn't get into it. I think I liked Tinder for a period of 30 minutes to take screenshots of the single man photos. I've learned that men in Los Angeles have some pretty unique things in common. One of which being posing with a tiger. Something on many an LA man's to-do list. Where one goes to acquire a photo session with an actual willing tiger I do not know. Other popular Tinder photography includes far off in a distance mid-hiking shots. These are great because you get to learn right off the bat that the person you have stumbled upon thoroughly enjoys being one with nature. In which case, I thoroughly enjoy being one with noping the shit out of you. If you love the great outdoors, that's one thing. You're only entitled to five photos on Tinder and if you dedicate one of those slots to a picture a pal took of you from two mountains away where your posture is being severely impacted by your seventy pound assorted rock climbing shoe and flare gun filled backpack, then you make a whole lot of NO SENSE. Allow me to type as I'd text for one minute:

Cuz don't wanna have sex with National Geographic mag ya know haha.
Names are pretty screenshot worthy as well. Saw a guy named "Judson", an apparent hybrid of two shithead guy names Judd and Hudson. His parents must have asked the question "How can we make our child an immediate douchebag upon introduction?" In which case, they succeeded.
Please find enclosed absurd single human being in search of God knows what:

Red flag much?
Soon after this message, I deleted OKCupid for my iPhone has only so much memory and I needed that room to download Fat Booth and yet another iOS update. And the fact that I can not take anything seriously.
I must say in my Tinder half an hour lifespan, I learned that personalities need not apply. There's a small bio section that was created for the purpose on elaborating a bit about who you are. People like to do this really cool thing where they leave it blank. Very substantial. Obviously this is solely based upon sex. And this of course, perturbs me to no end. I would rather pick cat hair off a bunch of goth kids than have a one night stand. Allow me to type the way I text again:
Cuz gross 'N' stuff tho.
For me, finding someone attractive occurs about once every 5 years. Your insurance can cover more colonoscopies at 100% in 5 years than I can find love. Therefore, when I finally do find someone I am able to stand for more than an hour, I am faithful. It's actually natural to me and incredibly easy. Apparently I must be from the planet Nimphinompi or someplace people have only heard about like Cupertino for this is a rarity. I don't quite care about physique and muscle definition. At times, it actually sickens me. Male models and commercially attractive people are boring to me. I prefer "flawed" and interesting people that are unlike so many others I can see whenever I please in this city I live in encompassed by "beautiful people." The term beautiful should more so be used to describe the feeling delivered by someone you let that close to you, not a description based on mere physical appearance alone. If this aesthetically pleasing person were to come in the form of a dull human being lacking a warm heart, without the ability to make you feel anything less than amazing then it doesn't really matter, does it?
There was this one guy from high school, we'll call him "Splad." Splad was a handsome fellow with some sort of a muscle pattern going on along his stomach region. He was much more fond of this than that of shirts. As soon as he would exit the school doors, his shirt would come off like he was going to bust out into a full-on Chippendales performance in the middle of Queens in November. The ladies seemed to like this. I didn't know what was going on half the time because I had my walkman on but I saw brown lip lined mouths ajar and heavily eye-shadowed eyes oogling and knew he was making a shirtless impact. One day Splad sat down to chat with me, in which case I was annoyed because I had to stop listening to my walkman. With his chiseled cheekbones and sharp, angular jaw, he turned to me and muttered something so boring I forgot it as soon as he said it. It was that meaningless that I didn't even hear it. I can't recall anymore from the encounter asides from thinking "This guy has the potential if he just didn't open his mouth."
Another moment in life where I was supposed to be attracted to someone yet wasn't remotely even near that was when I worked the front desk at this hair salon in Italian-America, NY. In walks this especially height challenged man with shoulders that extended wide enough to make doorway entrance a feat in itself. Seemingly similar to Donkey Kong upon appearing at level 1, facing the front of the arcade screen on his stupid ladder in all his broad shouldered glory. The little Donkey Kong man came adorned in a white top with no sleeves, dark sunglasses and a hairdo that was comprised mostly of gel than of actual hair. He approached me asking for a back waxing. Being that he is of the ape family, this is to be expected. I led him to the back with the other girls, who already disliked me because I wasn't Italian enough and wore glitter to work. Upon the sight of him, they gagged and swooned as they fought over who would get to apply wax to his stumpy back. The alpha female with the most gold on her person won. When he left, the girls jumped up and down about how hot they found him to be. I think I might've said something along the lines of "Wha?" which resulted in looks of horror from everyone at the salon and probably outside and around the corner as well.
With this being said, finding love for me is never easy. Yet once found, I like to revel in how I can find this person to be pure, innocent and new. It gives me much hope and instills the same kind of faith a child has before their mind is capable of recalling nightmares and developing their individual fears. The enthusiasm I can feel is still strong and vital even after witnessing apathetic behavior and violent reactions from the ones I have loved so. Situations that could have permanently disabled my ability to give as wholeheartedly as I do. Yet no matter what, I still maintain the desire and the perpetual ability to trust. It is a naive approach being that I eagerly seek someone to believe in and so readily do. I suppose it must be easier to trust someone that I could never love than to love someone that I could never trust. Nevertheless, I like to think that each person is his own and shouldn't be dismissed because of negative personal experiences. No one should ever get second rate treatment due to the fact that a former lover left you with their former lover's issues. It's somewhat of a domino effect: A contemptuous lover meets someone with an open and vulnerable heart and in time, that person's burdens roll over onto this pure and willing person who was only seeking companionship. These unresolved issues spread like an airborne disease in an aircraft cabin or HPV in a Long Island community college. Resulting in qualms and reservations embedded in the back of our minds which beckon us to become self preserved and inevitably obtaining the worst trait ever: Caution. Caution, being a result of fear, is the cock-blocker of love. All these quote on quote playboy types and the likes are merely pussies doused in cologne and dread who lack the introspection to see this. Or perhaps they know, but don't want to feel that unsurpassable amount of pain again. Can I blame them? Absolutely not. Some people don't have the means or the know-how to heal. Yet I must say, I feel as though if you met your match all that anguish you've felt from your prior failed relationship is converted into a particle of nothingness and you can truly appreciate the one who can show you how you ought to feel. Which is why I, after all the unpleasantries, still have the utmost endurance to keep searching.
How can one be so fragile, yet so shatterproof at the same time? In New York, we would call my kind "schmuck." Which indeed, I sure am. Have True Romance be your favorite movie and Depeche Mode be your favorite band and see what lovely decision making ensues. I tend to give everyone the benefit of the doubt no matter how obvious the doubt is. So perhaps taking my search to OKCupid to find schmucks alike wasn't an awfully terrible idea. Maybe I should reconsider signing back in yet never, ever meeting any of them, for that will burst the bubble. Instead emulating my cologne ridden counterparts who have shut down that part of their brain that longs for intimacy. Only keeping men as a daydream of what they could be, for safety reasons. Like the way I would in my youth by idolizing performers such as David Bowie, Mr. Navarro and Tim Curry. Glancing over to their posters on my wall and envisioning how I hoped them to be. Creating a magical human being with majestical powers no short of flying who will do such fun activities with me like sit in a car and/or diner. For from what I gather, no one I could possibly share my love with can match the capacity in which I can love: Never partial, never diluted. I suppose I can always continue to screenshot the images of single LA men and come to more conclusions on where these:
Tigers r chillin' haha SRSLY tho.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Slut Cops: The Movie

Being Halloween and all, I have a slight feeling that later on today when I venture off to the West Hollywood Parade I will surely end up annoyed by the many walks of life that will be present. Some of which will include a girl with those humungous 8 foot wide feathered angel wings that take up an entire car lane, the idiot with the pointy and very unnecessary bullshit thing on his shoulder that is capable of stabbing me through the face, the drunken guy disguised as drunken foam hotdog guy, Cheech but with no Chong because he smoked the costume and of course, 8,000 Slut Cops. So many of them walking aimlessly back and forth like some sort of Slut Cop zombie nation along Santa Monica Boulevard eventually being splattered upon it's sidewalks in the throes of hysteric episodes because their boyfriend, Super Mario with felt mustache, made out with Slut Pumpkin. But being that I give everyone the benefit of the doubt, let's make believe that Slut Cops serve a purpose to the community asides from looking sexy on a budget and with limited creativity. That way when you inevitably bump into one today, you can look at them in less of a demeaning light. Regardless of whether you are a female who would typically take pleasure in viciously smearing the contents of a bottle of Nair onto their head or a male who just wants to bone them. So, here's Slut Cops: The Movie.

    Slut Cops is a romantic comedy about two former models (Banks, Fisher) who at 37 years old, have surpassed their peak yet have the difficulty of coming to terms with their diminishing career and accepting a life with an average, run of the mill 9-5 job. When their rent controlled apartment goes up in flames after Banks leaves her flat iron on her cat, they are forced to seek a new means of accumulating income other than receiving residual checks and selling their old boots on eBay. They answer an ad on Craigslist from the private investigation company "Sexy Surveillance", operated by surly ex-cop (Eric Stoltz), which seeks attractive women to become undercover agents aimed at catching cheating spouses. Together the girls lurk in seedy taverns and local dive bars enticing husbands in question in order to collect as much photographic documentation to prove acts of infidelity. Obliging to all sorts of zany proposals, Banks and Fisher have the time of their lives regaining the sex appeal they had long lost in 2002. That is until they bust top notch, sort of fat guy with a super shiny ponytail, mob boss (Val Kilmer.) His wife (Mercedes Ruehl) threatens to divorce him on the grounds of adultery, in which case she gets half of his assets as well as child support permitting her to live the rest of her life watching the Oxygen Network on an otherwise zero income of her own. Also stars Owen Wilson for no reason and Matthew McConaughey just to make it somewhat romantic. Directed by that one guy who directed that movie with the girl with the face and written by Who Gives a Shit Man who takes up two parking spots at the Universal Studios stages lot with his 2014 Volkswagen Who Gives a Shit About That Either hatchback. Craft services provided by Doug "The Fork" O'Rouke. 

Monday, October 28, 2013

Idealistic 90's Revival: The Telephone Conversation

The other night a friend of mine contacted me to tell me she wanted to hang out and talk about a recent turning point in her life that she was super excited about. I decided I needed a break from diagnosing myself with nervous system disorders on WebMD and left the house. We went out for a drive where she went into a story of how she had just met someone in LA who was different from those she dated in the past. Typical story thus far. Everyone comes off as pleasant and on their best behavior in the first few weeks. But here's the kicker: Right after she gave him her number, he did an astonishing thing: He called her. This was strange. "Wait, he called you??!" I responded, just in case I had misheard something.  She quickly assured me with a "Dude, right?!" In which case I was all "What?! You mean, with your VOICE THING?" (I didn't say that but it would've been kind of cool if I did.) She went on to say that they did cute little impersonations, told jokes and related on many levels during their 2 hour conversation. I'll admit it, I was jealous. I haven't done this Get-To-Know-a-Guy-Over-the-Phone thing since 1998. Shit, man. I never let myself have expectations and tend to tell dudes to take me to a dinky diner or a cafe for a date since it's a comfortable setting for me but a phone conversation? Wow, if I could that and then go to Canters I'd feel like a princess.

I really do miss the initial intensity of the first phone conversation upon meeting someone new. When you can hear the jitters in a person's voice. The exchange of awkward laughter to the tone of nervousness. The quick bond you can establish about your past, present, likes, dislikes as well as going off into unedited tangents. Not typing "lol" like a 12 and a half year old but actually laughing and reacting to a person's wit and timing. All the while being genuine. Nowadays it's texting between two strangers trying to get to know one another and in the end, you uncover half of what you could have had you used your voice and not your thumbs.

Growing up in the 90's, things were more on an intimate and personal level. Not only with talking to another living human person on the phone, but even with music. We all had CDs with liner notes that had lyrics and artwork so you got to know the artist more. You could idolize them and you could show your admiration by collecting their musical contributions by displaying actual tangible items on your shelf. That was the utmost in appreciation. I loved my rotating CD case that was alphabetized by artist name and genre. Now everything is obscured and hidden. As are emotions. We use emojis and emoticons because we are all now Japanese school girls apparently. Even if you are a 42 year old guy named Joe eating an Okie dog in a truck, if you used emojis, Joe, you are too a Japanese school girl.


I mean, the fuck is this?

I've actually googled this just to make sure I could reply in a way that made sense to the sender and Google didn't have any idea either.

If I remember correctly, the primitive stages of texting consisted of "I miss you" and "See you soon". A mere step up from beeper codes like "411" and my personal favorite 8008517701210, which roughly translated into "BOOBSWORLD" and meant nothing. Overtime it became the only form of communication. Yet there should be a balance, not an extremity. Texting and an occasional phone conversation. I, for one, understand the beauty of not being bothered with constant interaction. I liked how prior to having a cell phone I was able to sit outside somewhere at night and not have anyone interrupt my alone time. Remember that scene in Reality Bites where Winona Ryder left the house and no one could get in touch with her? Wow. That was a really good part in the movie. Ben Stiller had to go to a payphone to call the diner that she was at. And she had this expression on her face like "How'd he know I was the diner? That's so cool that he went out of his way to think. This guy straight up knows romance." It's great to never have that obligation of responding based on being completely oblivious to the fact that you are being summoned.  My excuse for not answering the phone my whole life was always "I wasn't home." Now that's out the window. With my need to live life guilt-free, I have to face text messages head on as soon as I see them and reply. And when in the worst mood, this could just make me either sound disinterested, boring or unfunny and can make my relationships go downhill fast. Of course you could wait and respond when you please. But WHO ARE YOU AND HOW DO YOU DO THAT?? Surely you must be of that reptoid race David Icke wrote all those bullshit reptoid race books about and have no real human emotions and sleep at night as an iguana or whatever the hell that guy was talking about. Or you could just have patience and the rational mind of someone unlike myself, I suppose.

I'm pretty sure I've ruined a few friendships via getting involved in unnecessary miscommunication thanks to text messaging. If my repressive brain remembers correctly, my marriage was officially called off through a text message. My written words, not backed up by a jolly facial expression followed by a typical Candice giggle were taken as "My love for you is gone." (I think. I repressed it along with the time I had a serious mullet and briefly lived in Upstate New York and other unsatisfactory experiences.) Avoiding displaying your emotions? Cool, we got something for that. Not to sound like I'm in the middle of an Above Top Secret conspiracy theory forum but if we continue in this manner in 20 more years, everyone will have the inability to relate to other people and you know what that's called? Sociopathic behavior. SO COOL, GUYS! LET'S ALL GET THIS. We'll be near sociopaths who'll go to the Dunkin' Donuts to get a small Turbo iced coffee and have to hold up signs of round, yellow expressions of smiling cartooned heads to convey our appreciation while not being able to see jack shit because we're busy watching Batman Returns Again But Dark This Time From Rising From the Beginning Forever in the Dark Again Though on our Google glasses. And in that timeframe, emoticons are just going to get even more 3D-ier where little happy heads will become as realistic as possible like the characters in GTA 5 where they are virtual crazy happy heads as people slowly lose the ability to make facial expressions. It'll be fun.

Everything is just so simplified these days. You don't have to think, speak or leave your house if you don't want to. It's controllable if you can find a means to limit how much ease in life you actually need. Romance has dwindled down to half-ass fragments of what it could be. Instant gratification is needed. Everything is now, now, now or never. She isn't around, move onto the next one on POF or on Facebook somewhere. The beauty of pining and yearning for someone is slowly escaping us all simply by distracting oneself. Which is the utmost easiest thing you could possibly do. Has everyone become replaceable since millions of people exist within the palm of your hand? You liked your ex's ass? Hashtag #ass on Instagram and here's your new heart's desire.  Don't even give yourself a few days to mourn a break-up. Just go read someone's shitty tweets about how today is leg day at the gym and send them an @reply and then maybe boink.

Internet and text messaging is obviously a way of life and isn't going anywhere fast since were so accustomed to it. Just do yourself the favor and don't take away from letting yourself get to know someone to the fullest extent. Those first few weeks after meeting someone who sparks your interest and allowing yourself to revel in it is really the stuff that life is made for. Pick up the goddamn phone and try not to subdue it out of fear or laziness and make it less than what it could be. You shouldn't deny yourself a bit of bliss and a possible anxiety ridden adrenaline rush. Unless you're nuts then don't call anyone except Rite Aid pharmacy and get yourself un-nuts.

Saturday, October 12, 2013

How To Passive Aggressively Get Your Male Roommate To Move Out.

As I've stated in previous posts, my former husband and I broke up earlier this year. Surprisingly, we remain good friends and do favors for one another whenever we can. He moved out and in his caring Canadian way, told me that I could stay in this apartment without changing the lease. My options were that I could live here alone or rent out the bedroom or even the living room to someone else. Since I am accustomed to being uncomfortable, I took the living room and rented out the bedroom. I was never in there much to begin with and spent most of my time near the front door so that I could easily evacuate the apartment if my ex-husband were to start doing that thing where he'd talk about house music, Detroit house music, techno house music, techno techno music and how we don't have sex. As a person who doesn't know other people, I took my search for a roommate to Craigslist. A great website where you can meet some real all-stars in your area. My first potential co-occupant was a 24 year old ex-party girl who seemed to be going through a phase of enlightenment. So much so that her imagination was clear and vivid and it involved installing shelves in my home, refinishing the wood in an English oak hue, painting the bathroom and retiling the countertops. She was the type of person that expressed such an amount of overzealous joy without shutting the fuck up that your personality excuses itself because it just can't handle all that is exploding right in front of you and you're left standing there with only the mere ability to nod every once in a while. Regardless to say, I later sent her a text that simply read "Nope." I was already going through a huge change called No More Husband and didn't want to deal with energized, dominant female looking to play arts & crafts with my apartment like it was some sort of fun project to eventually sell on Etsy. I then continued my search and interviewed other prospective roommates. Some of which included a man with a tinge of I Can't Help But Rape In My Sleep look to his eyes, a girl who seemed as if she just took ADHD medication that she found in someone else's purse and a few typical Craigslist flakes. All hope was lost until this wonderful thing happened: A young guy in his 20's came over and said these words "Ok this place is nice. I don't have anything but a sleeping bag and some shaving cream and I keep to myself." I said "Cool, you're in!" He had a girlfriend that he couldn't stop talking about so I knew he wouldn't invade my bed in the middle of the night as I slept alone and vulnerable in zit cream. A completely harmless person whom I had a good feeling about. He still stays in his room for the most part and I think collectively I may have seen him 12 times during these last few months. So with that being said, I do feel as if I live alone in a studio apartment. But the fact is no matter how much I can make myself believe otherwise, I still have a roommate. And we all have moments where we just want to be alone. So I thought to myself: What could be the most passive aggressive tactics one can use to get their male roommates to leave their living quarters? This is what I came up with while I sat around on yet another eventful Friday night in face mask:

-Create the most high-pitched, obnoxious ringtone you can and make it your default tone. For this I would opt to use a sample of a 1960's Sci-Fi movie laser beam. Then go ahead and text everyone in your phone a very easy question. Something along the lines of "Do you eat food sometimes?" will do. Wait 30 seconds and leave your phone as close as you can to his bedroom door. Then put your headphones on, watch some YouTube and unwind.

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

The Adventures of Trader Joe's Guy.

As an avid thinker of absolutely nothing, I wondered to myself: Does the Trader Joe's "Captain" wear his glorious Hawaiian shirt in a life outside of the Trader Joe's facility? With this ever-present need to know, I took my ponderings to Google. Again, as they tend to be, my assumptions were in fact truths. Here are some rare images of Trader Joe's Guy in mid-adventure:

I found this gem on an old archive site that had stored away various images from Hit Parader magazine. Here's Trader Joe's Guy '84 being a pretty bitchin' dude as he hangs with Van Halen on a nice, sunny day:

Trader Joe's Guy remained bitchin' throughout the 90's as well. Here's a shot of him crowd surfing during a NOFX set at Van's Warped Tour '98:

Trader Joe's guy clearly loves his outdoor festivals. So much so that this past summer he rented an RV and drove to Black Rock Desert in Nevada for the annual Burning Man event. Here he is after taking 12 double dipped hits of acid posing for a group shot with whom he called "Big White Oblong Head Bag Man" and others. All of which are not real people, only mere open-eye visuals from his psychedelically hallucinatory imagination:

Trader Joe's Guy also loves to take time out to relax and unwind. Just like he's doing here at Morongo Casino and Resort after winning $35 on the Wheel of Fortune slot along with his Aunt Rose and her girlfriends from the assisted living home:

Monday, October 7, 2013

Let's Talk About Being Single.

Now that I'm single for the first time in 8 years, I forgot about all that's involved when it comes to dating. From the planning, to deciding on what shoes to wear, to the "Oh wait, you're not my ex, I should probably put on some pants that smell good" to the "Hey hi, you're not my ex, whoops, I totally just forgot about sexual boundaries" and then to the "Oh hey, you're not my ex, so I probably can't sit here and do that thing where I binge eat and stare at the wall while I ignore you, huh?" and various other dilemmas. Here are some things that perplex me and make me all the more content on sitting alone at the Coffee Bean like I have been for the last 4 and a half hours.

The Initial First Date Planning Issue: I often get asked the question "What do you like to do for fun?" And apparently what I like to do with my free time is of major concern and it is just so out there that I must be from someplace odd like outer space or Danbury, Connecticut. As I mentioned above, I like spending an inordinate amount of time in coffee shops. I like car rides where zoning out and listening to music is involved. I like conversations and hearing other peoples' stories. I don't like expensive food and especially don't like eating it. Watching people overspend on things that can be purchased and prepared for yourself or anything unnecessary makes me uncomfortable. Sometimes I will have a night life. It mainly will consist of walking home from 711. Occasionally I will get really dressed up and go to a place that plays Morrissey, or something of that nature, and sit there. So with that being said, for the most part I am home and I am happy with what I do in my spare time. Despite the fact that others seem to find it peculiar. Let me quickly shine some light on this: Home is safe. There are no drunks with cars in my home. There aren't any guys with "No Fear" caps and Alcohol Flush Reaction on their face sitting on my couch. Sometimes there's all the elements available to build the foundation of a healthy sandwich and it doesn't cost $22 (Canters). And plus, there's so many outlets to choose from and they're all MINE.

Fun Dating "Activities"(?): People seem to be big on activities. I also am not big on activities. I often get asked to participate in dates based solely around physical exertion as if I was suddenly thrusted into an episode of Wild & Crazy Kids or MTV's Spring Break Challenge. I don't understand why I have to go rock climbing, horseback riding, go-karting or get involved in any sort of obstacle course in order to be on a date. It's very perplexing. I'm not sure if this is an LA thing but when I was a kid in the Bronx, we didn't have a lot of options as far as what we could do for fun time. We sat on stoops after school and if Mr. Softie drove by we'd lose our shit and buy out all the Sonic the Hedgehog Ice Cream Pops and also smoke bombs that Mr. Softie somehow and definitely illegally sold off the truck. We'd then eat Sonic the Hedgehog in his entirety, while cracking our teeth on his frozen gum balls for eyes before we lit the smoke bombs and quickly dislodged them into park garbage cans, then ran off into the night. I suppose we had a limited amount of horses to ride on and definitely no rocks to climb up and if we did, some kid would've probably threw them all at my brother.
To be fair, I definitely don't mind that others might have hobbies that involve the outdoors but I do not wish to join you on this venture upon meeting you. I don't know about you guys but I can not have a logical conversation by any means climbing up a mountain behind your back while being consumed with the fear of possibly losing my footing, which in turn could either leave me dead or at the very least impaled by the edge of a tree. Although this may seem like a good idea in your kooky little man brain, it's way far from that.

Although my first date in my recent single life was not a 45 minute power walk or a dance off, it wasn't what I would typically consider normal. It was a Direct-to-Social-Environment-Date. Meaning there was no sit down and get to know you or anything such as that involved except of course for the car ride there which was filled with delightful conversational topics such as "Watch the guy in front of you because you almost hit him." and "Where exactly are we going?" Real fun stuff. At the social gathering we spent most of the time not talking to one another and instead talking to other party guests above high volumed 90's dance pop classics. I'm still pretty sure he has no idea what happened and that I was even in his car at some point in his life.

Here's some quick pointers for those who aren't as well informed as others on how to treat and woo women.
-Please get the door. Don't ask questions. If it's a door and it's there, go and open it. Of course we know how to open doors, that's not the point. That's your man job. And this is obvious with the simple fact that most Hotel and high end apartment complexes have a Door MAN.
-Please watch a girl get in her house! Jesus shit, seriously. My old school New York dad would have a stroke and punch your mom in the face in the middle of his stroke if he knew you drove away without making sure I got in safely. Nothing shows how much of an absolute selfish and shitty specimen of shit you are at heart more than that. Women have this need to feel safe and secure. This is the simplest way to demonstrate that you can provide this without having a full on knife fight or slaying a wild boar. Dope.
-Listen to a girl even if she's talking about complete and utter nonsense. Because she probably is anyway. But make like you get it as much as you can and don't go and make everything about you. Exchange conversation. Weird that I even have to say this but you'd be surprised. A lot of dudes think they're mighty extraordinary to the point where it just overwhelms them and they burst. Actually, I'm only referring to one person, TED. No, there's no Ted, I made that up. But with a name like Ted, you probably suck at life anyway, so it's ok.
-Hey check this out: I'm not your ex-girlfriend. Surprise fact, I know, but I'm not so whatever lingering issues you have with her, try to find a logical means to resolve them whether it's via a few personal journal entries or years of cognitive therapy. Whatever floats your piece of shit resentful and bitter boat. THEN maybe start dating. K? Cool.
-Don't be a guy who whines. In my head I like to think that men can do things like lose 8 fingers in a car fire while singing "Eye of the Tiger" or something equally as triumphant/melodic as their face is being burnt off and still smell like sexy man musk.  So please don't complain when you can't fit your car into the parking spot nearest to the entrance of a Gelson's Supermarket.
-Don't say the first thing that comes to your mind when you're mad. You will most likely say something really shitty that you will be apologizing for about 15 minutes later. This accumulates over time and then you will have to eventually enroll in couples' counseling which is expensive so shut the fuck up and do what my Dad would do and punch the living room wall and then punish yourself by spending two hours drywall patching it.
-Don't be disrespectful to your mom or anyone's mom ever and take the time to get to know a girl's family. Being that I'm half Italian I am very big on family and if you're some dude who has slowly graduated into relationship land with me yet you haven't made an effort to get to know my family then you go bye bye. I'm sure every other girl on earth has an inner Italian so just play make believe that she is and definitely don't call your mom names, jerk off.

That's all I have to say about that. I like being alone. It's nice. But if one day I find a man with 0 fingers that can somehow open a door for me with his rugged man nubs whom I can trust like a motherfucker and makes me laugh who also likes to sit in the house as much as I do, then maybe I'll consider it.

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Here Are the Updated Lyrics to My Brooklyn Song.

"I Got a Cool Haircut, So I'm Gonna Move to Brooklyn."

(Sung by the guy in the B-52's)

I got a cool haircut.
So I'm gonna move to Brooklyn.
I got a cool haircut.
So I'm gonna move to Brooklyn.

I'm gonna take the L train.
And then I'm gonna transfer.
I'm going to the Whole Foods.
And I'm gonna eat some tempeh.

I got a cool haircut.
So I'm gonna move to Brooklyn.

I'm gonna ride my bicycle.
Bicycle with the basket.
I'm going to the thrift store.
I'm gonna buy some corduroys

I got a cool haircut.
So I'm gonna move to Brooklyn.

I live in a great, big loft.
Where I make
Some great, big art.
I live with 5 other people.
We share only 1 bathroom.

We all got cool haircuts.
That's why we moved to Brooklyn.

I got me a girlfriend.
She wears
A cat on her shirt
She's got a cool haircut.
That's why she moved to Brooklyn.

We came from South Carolina.
We came from Omaha.
We like to reuse fashion.
We like slip-on shoes.
We like wayfarer glasses.
We like Beacon's Closet.
We like hi-top Reeboks.
We like Indie Rock.

We all got cool haircuts.
That's why we moved to Brooklyn.

I got a cool haircut.
So I'm gonna move to Brooklyn.

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

I Found My Old Yelp Reviews and They're Kind of Absurd.

A majority of these Yelp entries were written during my coupon phase. 

Friday, February 15, 2013

And Here We Have Some Fucked Up Dog Wigs.

"The Sexin' Perm." 
This wig is aimed at an audience of female dog owners who are not acquainted with the penis of a man.  

The "Last Second Halloween Costume Oh Cool Looks Like I'll Be That One Obvious Guy From A Seventies Disco Where I'm Making References From Saturday Night Fever All Night Long Until I'm Passed Out Drunk In a Parking Lot Shit Now Someone Stole My iPhone and Also My Car" wig is a hit at all major celebrations. To further accessorize this look, pair it with a collared shirt. Preferably one with a spiral pattern. (TIP: the more directions that spiral takes on the better). I repeat: THE MORE DIRECTIONS THE SPIRAL TAKES, THE MORE THIS WILL INDICATE YOU ARE THE ULTIMATE PARTICIPANT IN ANY DISCO FRENZY)

"The Toup'"
This works well if your dog aspires to be a politician. Put your dog on the fast track to success in this lovely hair piece that naturally bred Republican descendants would marvel at. Weaved from the bountiful scalps of the original old money, this mahogany masterpiece will have everyone RSVPing to your $8k plate party in a flash.

This versatile wig can go many ways. Because it is versatile. And that's what that means. Instructions on how to prep this style range from thrusting yourself face first towards a high powered fan to fancifully tossing yourself out of a 4 story window. The higher the altitude, the better the results. Set with cold and you're good to go.