She could dance all night and shake the paint off the wall

by anna at 06:40 PM on January 28, 2004

Well boys and girls, we're in for some fun now. The following is based on a story an old friend once told me. Loosely based, like Stephen King movies are on his books.

You're out at a club. A black guy approaches you and offers to buy you a drink. He's good-looking, charming and a great dancer. As you're chatting, he starts running his long fingers along your inner thigh. He then proceeds to tell you exactly what he'd like to do to you. A forward fellow, this guy.

Now you're not the sort of person who does that sort of thing with strangers. Normally you'd slap his face. But you've heard those stories about black guys and how well-hung they're supposed to be. You're relishing the notion of him splitting you open like a coconut. You explicitly agree to his proposition. You both adjourn to a nearby bathroom stall.

Things progress rather quickly. Before long you're rubbing him through his pants. It is fully erect but barely perceptible. He undoes his belt and lets his pants fall to his ankles. His weiner is about the size of a Vienna sausage. His nuts remind you of chick peas. This isn't at all what you had in mind. You try to resist the urge to laugh.

Hence the dilemma. You no longer wish to be ravaged by this lavatory Lothario. But you're not the kind to renege on an agreement. Nor do you want to be seen as a person who'd lead someone on only to let them down. Plus, you know it won't hurt and it will probably be over in no time.

What to do, what to do?

comments (19)

jen x

busting my cherry

by jen x at 02:44 PM on January 27, 2004

My romantic life has always consisted of relationships. I meet someone, I like them, they like me (or so they claim), then it’s into relationship territory. I think in my 9 years of active relationships, I’ve been out on three dates total – and one of them I didn’t consider a date ‘cause it was just friends hanging out; another wasn’t a date because the boy and I had had a romantic history together... it was only the third that really counted, and that was a year and a half ago.

Pathetic, ain’t it?

cont'd »

comments (11)


The past has passed I can never go back

by ezy at 12:42 PM on January 27, 2004

I cleaned my room, at my Dad’s house, two weekends ago. Taking into account my lack of house and all of my travels, Dad let me use it as storage. Over the past five years or so I would open boxes, to see what was inside, and usually find something I had forgotten about. I’ve never been too great at putting things back so, over the course of a few years, my room came to resemble Fred Sanford’s front yard. Did I happen to mention I’m a world class procrastinator? Well, if I didn’t, I am. I digress though. I went through every box and stitch of clothing in the place and came away with two bags of clothes, for the Veteran’s Clothing March, and five bags of old bills and other miscellaneous documents. I also threw away every shred of evidence that Stephanie was ever a part of my life. Let me tell you, it felt damned satisfying. Amy even helped. That’s my girl. I found a paper I had written for a college composition class when I was nineteen. It is amazing what a nineteen year old man will come up to facilitate getting laid. I completely wrote out what must have been my technique for getting past parents and getting them to relax the rules a bit. Did it help? I really can’t remember if the technique was sound, or not, but parents did seem to, usually, love me. My professor didn't give me very high marks for this paper though. He had a daughter who had just reached dating age. Sue me, I didn't know. Below is that paper for your enjoyment or ridicule. Bon Appetit.

cont'd »

comments (6)


My mother said she saw him in Chinatown, but you can't always trust your mother

by anna at 09:31 AM on January 27, 2004

Duly elected Iraqi president Saddam Hussein issued another ultimatum, insisting that embattled American dictator George W. Bush hand over his weapons o’ mass destruction by sundown. He also insisted that his longtime nemesis leave his country and go into exile in Rwanda. Failure to comply with these non-negotiable demands will lead to dire consequences for the Bush regime, he added in a well-received speech before the UN General Assembly. For good measure, he branded axis of evil members America, Britain and Australia as sworn enemies of Islam.

As the sun sunk into the Pacific horizon, Iraqi forces massed in eastern Siberia, poised to rampage into Alaska with guns a-blazing. A flotilla of Iraqi battleships sailed toward the LA harbor. Iraqi marines landed in New York and Seattle. The much-vaunted American military juggernaut proved no match for these crack Iraqi forces. 175,000 strong, they quickly overran the country. Bush, Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld and John Ashcroft all fled into hiding. Hussein himself flew a MIG fighter onto the deck of an Iraqi aircraft carrier and declared victory. He also vowed to track down all American weapons o’ mass destruction, from ICBMs to germ warfare agents to stockpiles of mustard gas leftover from the War of 1812.

Even his traditional defenders and trading partners in France and Germany denounced the Iraqi invasion of the US as a blatant power-grab. An unfazed Hussein thumbed his nose at his former allies, telling Chirac and Shroeder to freedom-kiss his swarthy ass.

As Iraqi America came under the grips of this occupying army, Saddam produced a deck of cards with unflattering photos and names of the most-wanted fugitives from the toppled Bush regime. The person-hunt intensified as soldiers hauled a furtive-looking Colin Powell from a rundown safe house in Des Moines. Convinced that they’d run a super-secret security service when they weren’t busy partying or attending college, Hussein’s henchmen attempted to collar those evil Bush twins. In a trendy Houston bar, both were shot dead as they fished for mace in their purses. Their mangled bodies were proudly displayed on ABC, CBS and NBC, their private parts coyly blurred. Fox went with a rerun of Malcolm in the Middle.

One by one the fat-cat Bush cronies were rounded up. But W himself remained as elusive as a DVD copy of Gigli. Some said they’d seen him piloting a speedboat with his dad off the coast of Maine. Others thought they saw him alone at a Texas Rangers game. Meanwhile Iraqi forces crisscrossed the American heartland, kicking in doors in hot pursuit their prey. Months went by. An “interim governing council” i.e. puppet government was hastily established. While members promised a quick turnover of power to the beleaguered Americans, delays were encountered when it was discovered that the US lacked a working system of elections. Hussein aides found that rampant corruption and faulty voting machinery had resulted in Bush’s 2000 election. They pledged that the next election, tentatively scheduled for early 2005, would be a fair and honest affair---just as it was in the homeland circa 2002, when Hussein won in a landslide. Defense Secretary Baghdad Bob indicated that whichever sort of leadership the voters chose would rule, so long as it bore no resemblance to the discredited Bush administration.

After what seemed like the longest of times, Bob turned up beaming on the new state-run TV station to announce, “We’ve got him.” He rolled grainy footage of a sheepish, scruffy-looking Bush being plucked from an oil barge off the coast of Galveston, Texas; a hotbed of loyalty to the ousted tyrant and home to some of the fiercest American insurgents. Doctors poked and prodded him, checking for head lice and concealed weapons. It was clear from the look on their faces that he smelled repugnant. Diehard skeptics scoffed that it was either one of W’s surgically-altered doubles or Jeb Bush gone bearded.

In private conversations President Hussein and his top aides express dismay that certain elements of the American populace, notable those residing in the Jewish Triangle, have as yet failed to embrace his troops as a liberating force. But in public they’ve continued to put a happy face on the ongoing occupation. It’s just business as usual, they claim.

Yet, the good ol’ US of IA is indeed a very different place. Animal-drawn carts are a commonplace sight on city streets. Everyone drives a battered cab. Moustaches have grown quite popular and are no longer considered a sign of insincerity. The women’s fashion industry has disappeared from Manhattan and has gone back to Paris where it belongs. All local smoking bans have been lifted. Bazaars sell strange meat with flies crawling all over it. It smells as it looks. There are other day to day annoyances, such as when Iraqi soldiers will bulldoze your home with you still in it. The government runs everything, badly as with all state endeavor. Life under the occupation is like having your face shoved in a steamy pile of dogshit, only less pleasant. But whadaya gonna do?

comments (4)


My Dennis Miller Interview

by effenheimer at 10:10 PM on January 24, 2004

Normally, I wouldn't bug you guys with this, but it's pretty cool. OK, I lie, OF COURSE I would bug you with this. Are you kidding? DN is Daily Nonpareil ie me. DM is self-explanatory, CHA-CHA! Read on...

cont'd »

comments (6)


I'm dynamite...And I'll win the fight

by anna at 09:47 AM on January 24, 2004

By now just about everyone has seen and heard Howard Dean's arm-swinging, hotheaded rant following his defeat in some sort of election: "We're going to New Hampshire, we're going to South Carolina, we're going to Guam, we're going to American Iraq. And then we're going to Washington DC to wrest the White House away from that smirking SOB George W. Bush! Aaay!"

It was that eerie, almost AC/DC-esque shriek there at the end that flipped people out even more so than his caustic tone and the way he had his shirtsleeves rolled up as if prepared to start a barroom brawl. So he goes into self-effacing mode, allowing that sometimes he leads with his heart instead of his head. He's like, "Yes I can be a bit of a loose cannon but I speak the truth that others shun." No Aaay!

Aaay! I think he's got it all wrong. He needs to adopt the Aaay! as his signature move, like Clinton wagging his manicured finger or Reagan shaking his vacant head as he peered down at his shoes.

"I'd like to welcome both my supporters and thank them for braving the bitter cold. I'd also like to string my detractors up from trees and flog them unmercifully. Aaay! Yet, for all our differences, surely we can all agree that George W. Bush is the antichrist. Just as we can agree that it's foolhardy to allow citizens to maintain any of their earnings for personal use. The government clearly knows best how the money should be spent. Leave you hedonists with any cash and you'll just blow it on fast women, faster cars, booze and betting on ponies. Far better to fork it all over to me so I might oust the true evildoer from the White House. Aaay! I'll then lead us to salvation in lockstep with our pals in France, Germany, Cuba and North Korea. After that I'll commence negotiations with that much-maligned freeedom fighter Osama bin Laden. Diplomacy is the key to winning the war on terror, not brute force. Failing that I'll let him bend me over an ottoman and drill me in the dry-dock. Aaay!"

Aaay! is right. The last time I heard an other-worldly noise like that it was emanating from my roommate's bedroom. Later a disheveled debutante emerged looking a tad worse for the wear 'n tear. "Aaay," I parroted. She glared at me with a look of utter disdain. People are always doing that to me. Aaay!

comments (7)


even the dream with a bonus, just another alibi

by mg at 12:40 PM on January 23, 2004

A recent report has said that most generation X and Yers get their news from comedians. As sad a statement that is about the future, you have to accept that many people learn about the events of the world from completely unreliable sources. As such, I thought I'd share with you some of the biggest news stories of the week:

After spending most of the last few weeks as the front-runner for the democratic presidential nomination, Howard Dean comes in a distant third in the Iowa Caucuses. Jimmy Dean, founder of Jimmy Dean sausages is replaced as the encased breakfast meat's spokesman. If I were Dean Cain or Richard Dean Anderson, I'd keep an eye out for falling pianos.

George W. Bush gave the annual Presidential State of the Union. The UPN network decided it was more important to show a rerun of The Parkers.

In other political news, Dick Gephart announced this week that he was withdrawing from the race for the democratic nomination. Oh wait, this story isn't from this week, it's from four years ago. And eight years ago. And twelve years ago. And sixteen years ago.

In way-too much money with little or no payoff news, NASA has lost contact with the Mars Rover. The Rover abruptly stopped communicating with NASA on Wednesday and hasn’t been able to connect since. Their most recent attempt to retrieve diagnostic information received a cryptic response from Rover: "If you don't know what the problem is, I'm not going to tell you." An average man has trouble decrypting such messages, but the NASA scientists, who've yet to see a non-Internet boobie, are completely befuddled as to what they've done wrong or how to fix it. Might I suggest 1-800 Space Flowers as a good place to start?

Ben Aflek and Jennifer Lopez finally announced the dissolution of their "relationship." The Nobel Prize committee awards them an honorary medal, for finally brining about the retirement of the term "Bennifer." In related celebrity news, Brittany Spears didn't marry anyone this week.

The New Jersey Nets have been sold to a real estate developer intending to move the team to Brooklyn. He might as well move the Nets to the second ring of Hell, since the Nets, and every other Eastern conference team, don't have a snowball's chance of winning a championship any time soon.

In parts of the country, it is very cold. In other parts, it isn't quite as cold. And yet in other parts, it's actually quite warm.

comments (7)


Everything you've ever thought of is everything I'll do to you

by anna at 06:32 PM on January 21, 2004

In this month’s (iffy for work) FHM magazine, “award-winning actress” (I swear it says that) Jenna Jameson appears in a photo spread wearing considerably more than she does in her movies. She also fields questions from readers, one of whom indicated that his gal pal had voiced her willingness to go for a threesome. He wanted to know about the etiquette involved. Ms. Jameson graciously sets forth the rules as follows: 1) She gets to pick the girl. 2) You don’t kiss the other girl. 3) The girlfriend gets your come. 4) Make sure she really wants to go through with it. Now, I find rule #4 ridiculous on its face. What guy would do that in real life? I mean, she brought it up or so he claims.

But the other three do raise a host of intriguing questions in my mind. Namely, with all those rules to follow, wouldn’t it leach all the zest out of it? You know, the way a litany of penalties and endless call challenges can ruin a perfectly good football game? Do those same rules apply if it’s two guys ’n a gal? Isn’t it a tad unfair to your invited guest to treat her as you would a common whore? What if your gal-pal picks a dog with oozing sores? What if she kisses you in the heat of passion? Would it make any difference vis-a-vis where you deposit your load if a condom were in use? Are these the real rules for a menage-a-trois or is she just making it all up? And what qualifies this Jameson to promulgate the rules in the first place?

In my humble opinion way too much sex advise gets dispensed these days. Each month, even such staid magazines as Redbook and Good Housekeeping share recycled “new” positions, techniques and alleged hot spots. We’re told how much more our sex lives will sizzle with Durex condoms. Self-appointed “sexperts” write books and go on and on on the radio to promote them. They’re always telling guys how important it is to satisfy their mates every time. Next thing you know they’ll be telling us not to fall asleep immediately afterwards.

I shudder to think how these kiss ’n tell tendencies must be perceived in less secular cultures. Surely it only reinforces their image of Americans as decadent, self-absorbed infidels interested only in earthly gratification. Which, come to think of it, many of us are. I know I sure am.

comments (15)


for tonight i went running through the screen doors of discretion

by mg at 11:15 AM on January 20, 2004

Now that it’s finally 2004, the overwhelming rage every time I see that “Vote 2004” logo on every ABC news program is subsiding. Sure, the election is still 11 months away, and they show the logo even if the most political moment of the program its shown during comes during an in-depth interview with Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey, but at least it actually is 2004 now.

Speaking of the elections, the Iowa Caucuses wrapped up last night. If you are coming here for news about who won, boy, are you in the wrong place. I’d point you to an actual news story, but why don’t you just wait until the Daily Show comes on tonight.

In my 4 years (6) in college out there, I was only around for one presidential election. That isn’t actually true, but since I can’t remember the first one, I’ll just pretend it never happened (which means I can also ignore President Clinton’s second term).

During the 2000 Caucuses there seemed to be more presidential candidates wandering around town than actually Iowans. My (student) offices were in the building most of the candidates gave their speeches. Sure, it is nice for your community to be the center of national attention, but it was kind of annoying because it made the lines for lunch that much longer.

One day, while I was sitting in my office, a couple dudes in black suits and earpieces starting skulking around outside my door. Then presidential candidate George Bush had just finished a rally in the ballroom directly upstairs from my office, and was going to use the back stairs through our office to leave the building. The secret police were scooping out our office, maybe making sure we weren’t “Students for Medical Marijuana” or something.

Within a short period of time Dubya himself was walking through our offices. I got to shake his hand. I didn’t notice, but one of the gals later remarked he was wearing a lot of make-up. He was shorter than he seems on TV.

It always seems as if shaking the hand that shakes the world is one of those moments you’ll remember all your life, but except for the rare occasions, such as today, I completely forget about this event – and I voted for the guy.

Now that the Iowa Caucuses are finally over for this election cycle, the rest of the country can go back to ignoring Iowa for another four years. “Iowa? Isn’t that in Ohio?”

comments (10)

chuck woolery

Job and life: Intersections, and Crossroads

by chuck woolery at 11:54 PM on January 19, 2004

As most of the people who frequent here have undoubtably seen, I haven't been posting much since being granted author status. Thankfully the other author, Lajoie, who came on at the same time has been similarly unprolific. At least I don't think I look too bad in comparison.

Mostly I haven't been prolific because I have been busy. Not so much with work, but mostly spending time with my girlfriend, Erin. Happy times for the most part.

I do find though that from time to time we spend less time with each other, and not necessarily when I would like us to spend less time together. Oops published teh beginning of the rambling. If you're reading this in a previous post, and it trailed off unexpectantly just before here, its because I got called away after trying to save and then delete this post. Not quite up to speed with this entry system yet. but I digress...

Anyway, back to Erin...

cont'd »

comments (16)


A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing

by anna at 10:01 AM on January 18, 2004

Asses Hollywood's Nancy O'Dell seems bright enough. The former Miss North Carolina still fills out an evening gown pretty well. How then did she wind up with her head so far up celebrity ass?
Someone had to fill the vacancy left by the departure of John Tesh.
I've grown awfully tired of that "Can you hear me now" fellow. What can be done about him?
Verizon is unveiling a new ad campaign in which unseen parties will fire automatic weapons at his feet and make him dance. It's expected to be wildly popular.
When Bill Clinton used to give speeches, I always envisioned that he had Monica wedged into the dais. Now, on the rare occasion when W speaks, I envision Dick Cheney behind him with his hand up his back, like a puppeteer. Which is worse?
Well, I wouldn't want Cheney's face that close to my ass.
What does W hope to find on Mars, Saddam's weapons o' mass destruction?
Either that or Cheney.
Behind door number one is Michael Jackson, with his bathrobe slightly parted. Behind door number two is a roiling snakepit. Where would you send your 13 year old son?
What's behind door number three?
Jackson is accused of having "consensual" sex with a 12 year dude. R. Kelly is accused of having "consensual" sex with a chick about the same age. Why is there so much more uproar over the Jackson case?
Girls grow up faster than boys.
Howard Dean's wife intends to continue practicing medicine after he's elected president? Will that work?
It should be fine so long as she doesn't bake a batch of cookies in a show of false femininity.
I sometimes feel as if Dean's talking down to me. Does this mean he's like, smart?
No it means you're stupid. Smart people are too busy talking down to others to feel that way. And they use words like "counterveiling" and "auspices."
NBC will put Frasier out to pasture after this season. Long overdue?
What was once Must See TV is now Must Flee TV. Maybe they should bring back Jerry Seinfeld to star in I Will Steal Your Wife.
How do you suppose Martha Stewart and Enron's Andy Fastow will fare in the rough 'n tumble milieu of prison?
I don't know but it sure is fun to think about it.
What ever became of Jazzy Jeff?
You know how sometimes you're driving along and you fish this huge booger out of your nostril and you aren't sure what to do with it?
Is there any point to this rambling, disjointed Q&A session?
No. If you want depth and insight, tune in to Asses Hollywood.


I’m goin’ off the rails on a Gravely train

by ezy at 02:10 PM on January 16, 2004

When I was at Ft. Bragg I had a roommate named James Gravely. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Actually, I always thought he was mildly mentally challenged. How he got through basic training I’ll never know. I used to have to inspect every aspect of his uniform before he left our room. Something was always amiss from buttons not buttoned to lacing his boots wrong. We had to have our boots highly shined, uniform starched and pressed, pants bloused in the tops of our boots, and berets shaped just so. Well, these things were too many for Gravely to get right all at one time. I couldn’t let him get chewed out every day so I helped him out. Well, I wasn’t alone. It took a concerted effort by all of us that hung out together to keep Gravely straight. Right Dutchy? We all took him under our wings and tried to make him feel better about himself. Sometimes this backfired.

cont'd »

comments (47)


Puts a whole new spin on the pet Ross had at the beginning of Friends...

by doyce at 08:28 PM on January 15, 2004

Christ, I can't decide whether to build an entry around a link to or Monkey helpers for the Disabled. I'm frozen with indecision.

Tell you what, let's combine the two:
Monkey helpers for Masturbation!

Monkey helpers for Masturbation is a non-profit organization dedicated helping those individuals too goddamn lazy to... help themselves. By training capuchin monkeys to assist...

Eww. Probably not where I want to be going.

Focus your thoughts and energy towards love and peace.

Not normally what does it for me...

Encourage others to do the same.

Like you people need encouragement.

Also, please fill out the petition below and tell us how you intend to...

Hey, HEY, HEY! Private Time! Sheesh.

comments (9)


Subtle Flava

by effenheimer at 04:35 PM on January 15, 2004

Been gone some time, no offense to all present, but I got a bit wrapped up in me own life fer a bit. What with congestive heart failure and the new diet and taking about 9 or 10 pills a day for depression, the heart, the diabetes and now apparently I have an iron deficiency. My doctor wants me to wipe crap on a card three times in a row and give it to him. This is to see if I'm shitting enough blood to account for the massive iron loss. I think my doctor has Munchausen by Proxy. Either that or the government magnets are finally depleting my blood of its precious iron. Oh and I've got bronchitis too. Plus I am surrounded by massive tools all day.

I haven't shaken salt on anything since the middle of November, which is the least of my concerns because come to find out, I don't really care about that as much as I thought. Sure, I'd like to dig into a trough full of cottage cheese some time or order a pizza. But this salt restriction is about the only thing keeping me honest. I eat a lot of chicken spiced to the hilt but minus all salt. It's amazing what kind of difference salt makes in everything. Luckily, Chef Paul Prudhomme invented this Magic Salt-Free Seasoning that rocks hard-core.

The entire experience has been one I can only compare to turning down the volume in your mouth. It's like when you watch TV real loud, you don't even notice how loud it is until a commercial comes on and then you think, "Damn, that was loud." So you turn it down just to make your mom proud and you realize you are much more comfortable watching TV at a lower volume anyway instead of getting blown out the back of your La-Z-Boy.

Except that in your mouth, you begin to appreciate the subtleties of flavor. I found myself munching on Romaine lettuce the other night. No dressing. No salt. Thinking, wow, this lettuce rocks. Deprivation of one kind always seems to lead to opening the lesser used senses.

Still, I'd fuckin' murder a plate of nachos about now.

comments (11)


What you don't know you can feel somehow!

by anna at 06:51 PM on January 14, 2004

I just finished reading Have You Seen Me? It's a mindless tale of this girl who gets seduced by her dad's pal and contracts a mean case of Hep A. Thus begins a downward spiral into stripping, drugs, prostitution and kinky porn shoots. While it may sound sexy on paper, the detached way she relates the story borders on clinical.

The club where she works fires her after a patron complains that she infected him with the dread disease (as if he played no role in the transmission.) A former dancer invites her to join this commune up in the hills. She bonds with her housemates, particularly one named John. He bangs her but won't sleep with her, claiming it would be hypocritical. He turns out to be an FBI snoop investigating the eco-terrorists who make up the rest of the group. She mulls a return to the wild life but her love for John prevails. As Fabio used to say, that's ni-i-i-ce.

This is the sort of escapist fare I've come to relish. I used to slog through such weighty tomes as Pat Buchanan's scary Death of the West, but no more. I no longer have any use for Serious Screeds with all their cumbersome footnotes, indexes and analysis. Give me a breezy novel over that any day.

I'm real picky when it comes to fiction. Hardbacks are too expensive. I don't like anything that isn't set in these times. But most of all, I don't go in for used books. Reading a used book is like being a Muslim who commits an act of martyrdom only to be presented with 72 whores instead of vestal virgins. Yes, to me nothing compares with the crisp pages of a new book; except maybe clean ***** hotel sheets. Certainly online books will never be able to duplicate that.

Though I'm not one of those leisurely people you see with their noses buried in books at Starbucks. First off, I could never relax enough to do that. Plus, I don't read that much. But when I do, it's with a vengeance. I pick up a book and devour it like a hyena. I could plow through War and Peace in a weekend if it were set in 2004. (Maybe Tolstoy could retitle it War Forever.) Never mind that I'd probably miss the entire point.

Speaking of pointless matters, I had an odd experience while stuck in traffic. The Howard Stern Show was on. Ever determined to skirt FCC rules, Howard was playing this cheesy tape of a chick simulating sexual sounds and ultimately an earth-shattering, Meg Ryanesque orgasm. As she cooed, "Oh baby, you got it all over my neck," I happened to glance at the car next to mine. Therein was a girl laughing hysterically. I knew why. Our eyes met ever so briefly. We both knew what the other was listening to in our little private Idahos. Talk about an uncomfortable moment. Thank god the light changed.

Or at least I thought what I heard was laughter. Then again, her hands were nowhere in sight. Interesting fact: At the haircut place I read an old issue of Glamour. I learned that 45% of guys responded that they'd masturbated while driving. Think about that next time you're stuck in traffic.

comments (16)


The stillness of remembering what you had

by anna at 09:20 AM on January 10, 2004

I’ve absolutely no regard for my own safety or well-being. I still smoke a little and drink like a fish and then I smoke more. From age 13 to 30 I did every drug known to man. I didn’t “stop” for health reasons but only because it started to make me feel all paranoid and isolated. I don’t wear a seat belt. Although of pale Nordic descent, I eschew sun screen. I haven’t a clue what my cholesterol count is. I tune out whenever those discussions of “grams of fat” ensue. How much could a gram amount to unless it’s coke?

I made no New Year’s resolutions. I exercise but only in the context of competitive sports like tennis and soccer. I play on a team despite the fact that it’s not a sport suited to brittle old men such as myself. I’ve torn my quadriceps, fractured my patella and developed a dependence on painkillers as a result of all my soccer injuries. (Eventually the doctor slapped the drug-seeking behavior label on me and that was that.) It’s my dream to water and snow ski in a single day. My will specifies that my body should be hurled into a ditch from a moving vehicle. I think grand mal seizures are fun.

This reckless bent spills over into the way I conduct my home life too. Confession: I haven’t balanced my checkbook in ten years. We routinely deposit all our money into a checking account. Every month a statement comes and we glance at it as you might a cooking show. Mainly we look at whether income exceeded outgo or vice versa. Usually it’s about equal but no worries, since I get a bonus every February. It’s only a few thousand dollars, but it provides a cushion so we don’t need to fret about an unexpected expenditure (orthodontia, yikes!) breaking the bank. Plus, we’ve got overdraft protection at the mom ’n pop bank I’ve dealt with for 30 years.

But now it’s been taken over by one of those huge banking conglomerates. When I mentioned it to meticulous, checkbook-balancing, coupon-clipping, 401k, price check people, they warned me to keep a close eye on my statements because they’re prone to mistakes over in Indonesia or wherever these things are keyed in. I figured it probably all evens out in the end. And besides, after all those years of ignoring my finances, there’s no way I could begin to reconcile it all.

Enter me, Christmas shopping tipsy and in the holiday spirit big-time. I’m scrawling checks like there’s no tomorrow: An antique 78 record player/CD player for my mom finished in a handsome mahogany, consider it done. Snap. Faux fur and fine perfume for the wife, check. Snap. A snazzy computer and desk for my son, it’s all good. I silenced the tech salesman with all his talk of memory, megahertz of ROM and CD-burning features with a curt, “I’ll take it.” New Year’s Eve we enjoyed the traditional surf ‘n turf ‘n champagne by the magnum. If we’d had any firewood we’d have thrown our fancy flutes into the fireplace. We won and lost $1,000 gambling online. Hoo-fa! Ring in 2004, a banner year.

Or not. Nancy makes a rare appearance at this bank to cash her monthly stipend from her dad. The teller is like, ma’am you’re $950 overdrawn. We can’t cash your check. Hell, you’re lucky we don’t sell you into prostitution. She is mortified by reality’s rude intrusion into our insular dream world. Talk about a post-holiday downer.
So I go to the bank to investigate this fiasco. Mohammed pulls up the month of December. It’s three pages and I’m getting this awful sinking feeling like Ron Jeremy pushing your face into an ottoman. I recall that I’d left my paycheck on my nightstand. It’s for $1,700, for all the good it does us now. Turns out the goddamn reason we’re so far in the hole is that with this overdraft protection they cover your check alright---and then whack you with a $30 charge---per check. So far there’ve been twelve of those. More are coming but we have no clue how many as we never record our checks. You do the math. We are so fucked. And we have nowhere to turn for funds. There are no markers to call in. I just learned that there’ll be no February bonus this year. Sperm bank here I come.

Though it didn’t exactly inspire confidence in my new bank’s veracity when I asked Mohammed to show me November. He clicks “previous month.” The screen shows nothing. He says, “You had no transaction in November month.” I tell him that’s impossible as this is my only account. He is adamant. The computer doesn’t lie. Oh well, it all evens out in the end. Doesn't it?

comments (6)


i've got a driver and that's a start

by mg at 01:52 PM on January 08, 2004

Apparently it’s 2004.

The year has started off well enough. My Christmas haul was pretty respectable, I didn’t get everything I wanted, but I did get something I didn’t even know I wanted. I realize Christmas was technically last year, but since Jesus may very well have been born in June, who are we to quibble with dates?

Amongst my gifts came some frankincense and myrrh delivered to my door by the three wise men (FedEx, UPS, and the USPS). I’ve so far received presents from MrBlank (Pop Gun War was fantastic), and something from someone I’m ashamed to say I couldn’t recognize by their “real” name. Phil, if you are reading this drop me an email so I can thank you in person. Well, email.

I can tell I’m getting old because I spent New Year’s Eve with family. Family who were in bed around 9:30. And I wasn’t really bothered by that. It wasn’t too many years ago that I’d be out drinking until 2 on an average Wednesday night, much less on New Year’s Eve. Yet, I was very contented to hang out with the family at home. Even still, I did sneak into the bathroom every couple minutes to do shots of mouthwash and rubbing alcohol (since they were the only things in the house a higher proof than some over-ripe potatoes).

After a nice relaxing holiday, we returned back to the city to begin a new year. I flew through Pittsburgh, and had contacted Linz about getting together in the ‘burghs airport, but the timing wasn’t right, so we’ll have to save that introduction for another time (hopefully before the calendar turns over on another year).

Arriving back at Laguardia, I must admit it was good to be home. There were no flight delays, all of my luggage arrived in tact, and it was nearly 60 degrees in January. I called up my usual car service and what to my wondering eyes did I see, but a stretch limousine, to pick up me!

I didn’t go to prom, haven’t been to many funerals, and my love affair with Liza Minelli to cash in on any palimony. So, I’d never ridden in limo before. I’m sure if I’d had an entourage of strippers with me, it’d have been much better, but it was still pretty kick ass rolling around in my white stretch limo. I’m sure it made quite a sight to anyone seeing me pull up to my ghetto apartment building in a limo. All in all, this was a pretty damn cool parading into the New Year in a limo, but that was all about to change.

For one, I was locked out my apartment. In my time away the landlord had replaced the front door. Unfortunately, this move was a bit of a surprise, which is usually the case when someone down something without telling anyone about it. Luckily the super was around, and let me in. Next came the much bigger, colder surprise.

The buildings boiler had broken down on New Year’s Eve, and hadn’t yet been fixed. Apparently it was on the verge of explosion, and if left to its own device, probably would have burned down the entire building. I that regard, I suppose I’d have reason to be much more depressed if I returned home to a smoldering pile of rubble than what I did return to, a living room only a couple degree warmer than the inside of a refrigerator.

The temperature got as low as 50 degrees, which doesn’t’ seem that cold, but let me tell you, when you lube up and your hand freezes to your junk, it’s pretty damn cold. It was three days between when I got home and when the heat got fixed. It is now a nice toasty 72 degrees in here, things are moving nicely, and I can once again say, 2004 isn’t so bad so far.

comments (12)


Livin' lovin' she's just a woman

by anna at 06:38 PM on January 05, 2004

I found it a tad unsettling to learn that pop tart Britney Spears wed in a spur of the moment Vegas ceremony, since annulled. I always thought marriage was supposed to be serious business. Indeed, I’ve been faithfully married for fifteen years. Before that I had a series of long-term girlfriends, none of whom I cheated on. I had no one night stands. I guess I’m what you’d call a serial monogamist.

Now I don’t mean this as boasting. Nor am I claiming the moral high ground. Truth is I never played the field because it’s too much bother to juggle multiple mates. I’m lazy and self-satisfied. I never cheated in part for the very same reason, in addition to fearing the inevitable consequences. See, cheating or mate-juggling requires sneakiness and that’s not in my nature. I hate sneakiness. Even as the sorrow of Sept 11 engulfed me, I decried the terrorists’ sucker-punch tactics.

Many people believe the oft-repeated factoid that says 50% of marriages end in divorce. This statistic was derived by comparing the number of divorces and marriages in a given year. It doesn’t take Ask Marilyn to see the fallacy in that. The true figure is probably closer to 25% and most of those couples remain faithful to one another throughout.

Part of the reason is purely logistical. Most spouses don’t have large blocs of time that can go unaccounted for. Nor do potential cheating partners materialize too often. Even when the opportunity does arise, people tend to flinch. Example: Once I was cutting through the woods on the way to my girlfriend’s house. From behind a tree I heard all this frenzied moaning and panting. As I approached the scene I caught a glimpse of two pals (both quite attached at the time) riding the town bicycle tandem-style. One was in front and the other behind, she on her hands and knees. They beckoned me to join them, as in the more the merrier. But I just couldn’t handle it. I strode purposefully by as if I had somewhere important to be. I told myself that it was because there was no orifice readily available. (Double anal wasn’t on my agenda. Ditto for sloppy thirds.)

Then again, a lot of my friends have gotten away with cheating on their wives and girlfriends with alarming regularity. Oftentimes they’d cheat with ladies who were far less attractive than their mates. I always had the sense that they did it strictly for the thrill of risk-taking. Myself I am averse to risk. Besides, so long as my lovin’, ego-stroking and companionship needs are met, what use have I for sordid side action?

So you’ve got to wonder about a guy like Ethan Hawke. Here he is married to Uma Thurman, arguably one of the most sultry women around---and one who wields a mean Samurai sword that would put Lorena Bobbitt’s puny steak knife to shame. So what does he do? Takes up with some scrawny-ass slice of Canadian bacon, that’s what. (Note: This homewrecker’s name is Jennifer Perzow. She is supposedly an established model, described in print as leggy, 36-24-36, blonde and all of 22. Yet I’ve searched for any image of her to no avail. A clear shot of Mullah Omar is easier to find. So we’ll just have to imagine what sort of stunner would tempt a man to cheat on Thurman.) Ethan Hawke’s lucky his greasy dick isn’t discarded in a gutter somewhere.

In searching for a shot of the elusive Ms. Perzow, I chanced to read a number of stories about the breakup. Oddly enough, Ms. Thurman could live with the idea of her hubby having humped the hottie. But what irked her was the fact that there was an emotional component to his fling. They enjoyed romantic dinners, canoodling, pillow talk and everything. By contrast, Bill played tonsil hockey with Monica whilst he chatted on the phone. He didn’t even offer to reciprocate, a major breach of casual sex etiquette. He and Hilary are still wed if in name only.

Call me a prude but it’s the same way with sundry permutations of kinkiness. I’ve never had any earthly desire to tie somebody up or to be tied up and treated like a human pinata. The only aspect of porn I find amusing is the stilted acting beforehand. I am not itching to fist anybody. I’m not adventurous that way. But even if I were so inclined, dude, it would never happen. I mean, how might one go about broaching such a touchy topic without risk of rejection, mockery or both?

He: Hey darling, lookie here. What say I shackle you to the bedpost and torture you with a feather duster?
She: What say I impale you on the bedpost?
He: Heh-heh, just kidding. Now where were we?
She Nowhere. I am so out of here.

comments (6)


whatever / letters i've written, never meaning to send

by lizard at 07:41 PM on January 04, 2004

in the inimitable words of my daughter, "you should just be all, whatever". and she is, as usual, absolutely right.

and 'whatever' was indeed my first response, although it came with some rather judgemental thoughts tacked on, words that ran though a few uglinesses at first and settled into the least judgemental phrases i could manage, since unconditional nonjudgemental is a personal goal of mine, it's the person i want to be, although i am a realistic individual and understand there is no such thing as unconditional.

there are always conditions.

cont'd »

comments (9)