Dry Martinis Are Not Sexy

Something is drawing the moisture out of my body and turning me into a sad mummified sack. Now, in the middle of the most humid summer we've ever had, I've become a dry, weathered husk.

It actually rained in Santa Monica this morning. Real raindrops falling from the clouds, moisture floating all around me. And yet I suffer with chapped lips, severely dry skin and a parched throat. It makes no sense.

Forget kissing. One little peck and I'm slathering on more lip blam. Which isn't sexy. The amount of Chapstick I've been going through, you'd think I'd been engaging in more vigorous activity. I assure you, it's the evil invisible gnomes sucking me dry. (Which would also explain these strange little bite marks I have all over my body now...I blamed someone's bed bugs, but it must be the gnomes.)

I've been drinking water like it's going out of style, and yet I'm thirsty all the time. What the hell is wrong with me? Isn't this how diabetes starts? Am I about to go blind and have my legs amputated?

Definitely NOT sexy!!!

And for the record, I take my martinis sweet, dirty and only with Tanqueray. Very sexy.


The Gods Must Be Crazy

What the fuck is going on with the weather? I was out of town for one day and came back to find out that October has arrived already.

Not that I'm complaining, because the heat was driving me homicidal. But this year has witnessed some incredibly strange weather patterns.

In March we celebrated the Lil' Princess' birthday with 42-degree rain. At it's coldest, the temperature never falls below 55 degrees in the SFV. 42 degrees? Hell was freezing over, clearly.

Then the June gloom came in April and we didn't see the sun for 2 months. Which was fine really, until it came back with a vengenance and triple digit temps at the beach.

And now, at the tail end of July, we've suffered through thunderstorms and suddenly it's cold out? Well hooray!! Lets just hope it stays this frosty for tomorrow's run. Which begins in Santa Monica at SEVEN AM. That's "very fucking early" for those of you playing at home.

Because if it doesn't, I'm stabbing the first asshole who cuts me off in traffic. Which would not be good.

For any of you.


Well, Hot Damn!

Today's scorecard totally trumps yesterday's. Even with the catcalls and whistles I was getting at Fry's parking lot for wearing my cute interview outfit.

I got up early and decided against a 2 mile run. Instead I sent out a few resumes, and by 10 am had a job interview set for Monday. Shortly thereafter, the company I interviewed with yesterday inquired as to my salary requirements, saying they're very excited about me.

I love it when I kick ass.

All this, and now Def Leppard is covering Damian Michael's
Rock On?!

I still have so much to look forward to today, too. Especially the celebratory dinner a certain young man is making me tonight.

It's going to be a really great weekend, y'all. Go out and enjoy it!


Half-Bored Thursday

My biggest accomplishment thus far today was eating breakfast. Most people don't even eat this most important meal of the day, and if I'm home in the morning, I'm usually one of them. So the fact that I got my ass out of bed and into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal is a big deal.

I have an interview in about 4 hours. Not in my chosen field, but for something I'm competently qualified to do, and the pay is better than unemployment, so there's no harm in taking the job from an undeserving American. I've got bills to pay.

Skookum Joe is also between work assignments at the moment, but he's using his free time for good, not evil. While I am planning my weekend of well-deserved drunken debauchery, he's cleaning his house and otherwise reminding his wife what a wonderful husband she has. I don't have a wife or anyone else to impress. Except those people who will be interviewing me later.

Wish me luck.

In the meantime, thank you TNT for your "Primetime in the Daytime" ER reruns. It's been so long since I've had a Clooney fix and you're doing me so good.


Allergia = Not Allegria

My body hates me. It's tempermental and bitchy, which should be no surprise seeing as I am who I am. But who gave my body the greenlight to act like this?

For example, every once in a while I develop really random food allergies. It's always stuff that I've eaten my entire life without any consequence, until the one day my internal organs decide to throw a hissy fit and I can no longer tolerate egg yolks. Or peanuts. Or Thai food.

It only lasts about 6 months at a time. Then the body strike ends and I go back to eating whatever the fuck I want. Until the next time.

Currently, it's anything caffeinated. Like chocolate. This particular malady has been an on-again/off-again irritant for a couple of years. One time, I had a teeny slice of super moist chocolate cake and within 5 minutes had hives all over my left arm. That extreme a reaction is rare, usually my throat just gets really sore and itchy.

It's not life threatening but it is deeply annoying. People look at me like I have three heads when I tell them I'm allergic to chocolate. Because really, how random is that? In the meantime, I can't have soda or coffee or any other yummy-like drink.

Annoying. Because I really want a diet Coke right now. Mmm, diet Coke.


I've also developed some lovely gout-like symptoms. How, why, what the fuck, I have no idea. It's ridiculous. I'm going to trade it in for a newer model. Without lopsided tits!

Livin' La Vida Los Angeles

Jet Blach Jabber's H. Wood (aka Thor or I. Curse, I don't think he's decided yet) has just moved into the neighborhood. You can read all about his travels from Michigan to the wonderful city of Los Angeles on his blog, complete with pictures of Evil Bob, his garden gnome sidekick.

And because we now have ourselves a shiny newbie to devour welcome, I want you all to be on your best behavior. His only complaint thus far is that gas is too fucking expensive, which isn't a lie but what can you do? They'll start drilling in the Alaskan wilderness soon enough and gas will go back down to something relatively cheap...like $3.18 a gallon! (Which I actually paid at a station in Santa Monica this morning. I shit you not.) So make nice, dammit.

A little primer for our newest Hollywood transplant:

- We apologize for the ridiculous weather. It usually really is only 72 degrees in Los Angeles, with negative percent humidity. But it's been a fucked up year. Rain in July? Total sign of the impending apocalypse. Or that the poles are shifting.

- Never, ever try to drive along Santa Monica Blvd ANYWHERE in this city between the hours of waking and sleeping. It's our designated non-highway parking lot. Especially as you don't move towards the ocean. By some cruel joke, there's always usually a stretch completely ripped up for construction of unnecessary decorative center medians or sewer piping (which may actually be necessary).

- The same goes for the 101 freeway. Why the fuck people choose to commute in this city is beyond me. They are the reason there is traffic. And they should all be shot.

- There are some truly excellent neighborhood bars all around. Staying in and around the west side:

  • Backstage on Culver Blvd, just behind Sony (it's a silly pun on the location, but they have a fire pit and cheap beer)
  • Joxer Daly's on Washington Blvd is a great Irish pub where the owner will buy you drinks if you're a pretty girl (this might not work for you, sorry).
  • Irish Times up on Motor is also a great pub, though the crowd skews a little bit towards the cranky elder side.
  • Boardwalk 11 on National is known for its karaoke fest (if you're into embarrassing yourself), and the bartendar knows what "tequila without training wheels" means (this is very important if you're me and/or a tequila fan).
  • For a trendier crowd, there's Main Street, which links Venice to Santa Monica. There's never any parking, but it's littered with millions of bars and pretty people.
  • Saints & Sinners in Culver City is everything the name promises. Unless you make the mistake of flirting with the doorman. Then all bets are off.

- But if Hollywood atmosphere is what you want, then that's a different story. One that you're on you're own for, since I prefer my alcohol sans attitude, and would rather not try to keep up with what the hottest of-the-moment place is, or was 5 minutes ago. Though I assure you, it's probably not in the Valley. (Try Beechwood on Washington at Abbot Kinney. The westside hipsters seem to have invaded it.)

- Speaking of the Valley, it's a trillion and eight degrees there right now. Avoid it at all costs.

- If you want a celebrity to run you over, hang around The Ivy on Robertson. One of them is bound to be too drunk to drive on any random afternoon, so you can get your t-shirt made right quick.

And that is all I've got for the moment. I have to busy myself with planning a fundraising event for cancer research and also maybe finding a job.

Kids, if you've got anything feel free to add any of your own interesting, intelligent, or useful info and anecdotes. It's why we're here.

H. Wood, welcome!


And Then, This...

Mercury must be in retrograde, or something equally as retarded is going on in the universe. That would explain the myriad of shitty things that happened over the last few days. Like my computer crashing every five minutes for the past week. And poor Exile breaking up with his girlfriend. And then me losing my job.

I tried installing Norton Antivirus, but it doesn't like playing nice with the internets, so now I don't know what to do. And that damn thing cost fifty frickin' dollars. Money is about to become a precious commodity.

I also offered to get Exile drunk, because break-ups require liquid soothing. And I just discovered that Kentucky bourbon does wonderful things for whatever ails ya.

Unfortunately, it won't fix my computer. And I don't have any whisky in the house anyway. But I do have several bottles of tequila. With nothing else to do. So I'll be in the corner enjoying the fuck out of it, if anyone needs me.

PS: don't ask questions. I'm not in the mood to get into it. Offers to drink with me, though, are more than welcome.


Operation: Surprise!

Snippet of a phone call I received this morning:

Mom: I just wanted to let you know your dad came out of surgery just fine.

Me: What the hell? He had surgery today?!?!?

Mom: Yeah, but he's totally fine. It was nothing. In fact, he'll be home later tonight.

Me: Yeah, but still!

Mom: Mija, he's fine! ¡Calmate!

It's not like I didn't know this was going to happen, I was just under the impression that it was scheduled for next month. And I was aware that it wasn't going to be a big deal, but you know how it is.

About 4 years ago, my dad was diagnosed with Peripheral Vascular Disease, which required him to have a major wacko emergency surgery. They had to cut him all the way down the middle to remove a blockage from the main artery that runs down your torso, coupled with a bypass in each leg. It was brutal and left him with what looks like a zipper running down his chest and stomach.

This procedure was nothing compared to that, they just had to remove some scar tissue that had formed as a result of the original operation. In fact, his dressing was apparently nothing more than a band-aid.

It was still disturbing to hear that he'd gone under the knife without any prior warning. But I suppose it was better than worrying about it all morning.

And it IS a great relief that he's okay. Yay!


Boobs Askew

I'm asymmetrical. Which I'm told is normal. And not in that grossly obvious way either. They both straddle the smaller side of the Victoria Secret D-cup fence. Most of the time, they look full and pretty and normal under clothes.

But sometimes, one wants more attention than the other.

The other day, I had on a really nice v-neck blouse with matching camisole underneath. This was also the day that my left boob decided to assert its dominance over my right one. The cami kept getting pulled to the left, making me look all rumply and decidedly unprofessional (this while I had meetings with hotel reps). It was quite obvious that the v-necks weren't lining up.

I played with the straps on the tank, tried tucking it into my pants to hold it in place, but nothing kept me from having to yank it back every 5 minutes. There was no way to be discreet about it either.

This used to happen with a different shirt. Except that one always pulled to the right. What the hell??? It's like they take turns making me look lopsided.

There are worse problems than your tits hanging out of your shirt. Some people actually have jobs that require it. Unfortunately, mine does not. So I've got to figure out how the hell to keep them under control.

Any suggestions?


Marked by What?

I've already lamented out loud about what a complete klutz I am. It's not easy being me and staying unbroken for too long a time. I was on a pretty decent streak for a little while here, I think I may have gone a whole week without putting myself in an ouchy situation (running aside, that is).

That all changed in Texas last week. Somehow I've managed to come back with the oddest collection of unattractive hurties, all on my legs. Really, so NOT pretty.

Starting from the top, I have a bright red line about an inch long on my upper left thigh, two superficial scratches (one on the right calf, one on the left shin), and finally, what appears to be a strange orange/green bruise on my left ankle. I thought that last one was just dirt from running on the track on Saturday, but a hot shower followed by friendly observations later determined that it is indeed swollen. It's slightly tender, but not painful.

Per usual, I cannot explain a single one of these strange markings. It's like invisible
evil gnomes use me as their battering ram while I'm sleeping.

Those gnomes can be such assholes.


Girl Logic

Given that us girls are crazy, we have the privilege of asserting the most ridiculous opinions and forcing them down other people's throats with little more factual basis than our own conviction. That leads to this:

1. It's common knowledge that the ambient temperature of a room will rise the more people that congregate in it. What we don't know is by exactly how much each body adds to the mix. Well, today I figured it out.

To make it simple, lets assume that everyone's body temperature is 100 degrees Fahrenheit (98.6 is close enough to round up). If there are 3,000 people in a room, then the room temp is just about 300,000 degrees.

100 x 3,000 = 300,000

It's very simple math. And completely explains why the Pasadena Civic Auditorium felt like the center of the sun this evening. (Btw, watch
Last Comic Standing on Tuesday. You'll see me in the tenth row melting in the 300,000 degree room.)

2. Leaving the taping this evening, we had to walk down a creepy stairwell, the kind they tell good little girls to stay out of lest they become a rape statistic. But since there were three of us only-sorta-good girls walking down it, we concluded that if anyone was at risk, it was the poor man who might attack us. We'd run a gang rape on him instead.

And then we laughed our silly, evil laughs* and continued on to the car. The guy walking in front of us, on the other hand, hunched his shoulders a bit and picked up the pace.

3. Due to the cost of raw materials, the penny has become more expensive to produce than it's actually worth. It's made up of something like 4 cents of various metals. So the debate to remove it from American currency is heating up (at a slower rate than 100 degrees per person, though. Don't freak out!). Discussing the problem with a friend recently, he argued that we have no need for the penny. My retort went something like this:

"But the penny has Lincoln's face on it! He was a very important historical figure. We can't just get rid of his face. Next you're going to suggest that we do away with the 5 dollar bill too, since Lincoln is on that. Why do you hate black people?!"

See, because of that little Emancipation Proclamation thingy, doing away with the penny amounts to racism.

(That was by far my favoritest argument EVER! The look of utter bewilderment on his face was absolutely priceless. I love having boobs.)

4. For those of you who didn't know, I'm training for a half-marathon in October. I'm working with a great organization called Team in Training, which supports blood cancer research through the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. As such, I have to raise about $3000 to run my race. Anyone I've asked for money who shows the slightest hint of balking is informed that their reticence is clearly linked to them actually supporting the spread of cancer, and they are therefore a terrorist.

I've raised $500 so far. Modern day jingoism is really working in my favor.

*Rape is in NO way a laughing matter. Using humor in ominous situations, however, is a really good defense.


The Mutual Admiration Society, Texas Chapter

It was nearly midnight on Sunday night when he finally got into Dallas.

"Oh my god, look at this room!" he exclaimed walking into her hotel room, which was nearly half the size of her entire apartment, then turned his attention to his host. "Wow sweetie, you look great."

She smiled sleepily, knowing she looked like hell after a long and unnaturally hot day of meetings, and simply hugged him hello.


While he pondered ordering a martini by waxing poetic about the supremacy of gin over vodka, she gleefully remembered how she had saved him from his vodka tonic fascination by insisting he drink Tanqueray with her five years earlier. When she ordered her martini sweet and dirty, he followed suit, which required educating the bartender on the type of vermouth to use.

After the tequila, beer and whisky she had already enjoyed at a party prior to his arrival, she knew she'd be in trouble after this drink. And when the heartburn kept her up past 3 am, she cursed silently. Outwardly she merely rolled over and grimaced in his general direction.


When a drunk girl ran up to the bar cackling and generally acting the fool, they both rolled their eyes. She sighed in painful recognition of a stunt she had pulled too often in her youth.

A few minutes later, as if reading her mind, he randomly said, "you make me feel good about being an adult."

"I'm not sure how to take that."

"You've matured so much over the course of our relationship, and we've stayed close through all of it and I feel like that's a reflection on me. Like I've matured too."

The comment vaguely embarrassed her, though she knew he didn't intend for that to be her reaction (finally hitting 'adulthood' was the unofficial theme of their week together). "I was 22 when we met, so...yeah. But I was thinking the same thing when that chick came up here, how often I used to pull that shit too."

Then she flashed him a smile. "I just had one of those moments when you clearly see your life. This is what adults do: they go on business trips and drink martinis in the hotel bar, visiting friends they don't ever get to see. Look at us being all growed up!"

They giggled like little kids and finished their grown up drinks.


"Since we have several hours of driving in front of us, I'm going to take the opportunity to give you your Pearl Jam education."


"We'll start with No Code," he continued, since she was his captive victim. It was four hours until they'd get to Austin.

It wasn't her favorite music, but he loved it so she played along. They discussed Eddie Vedder's voice and the imitators since him. After a while, they sat in silence watching the countryside pass them by.

"If nothing else, at least my Texas memories will now have a Pearl Jam soundtrack," she offered when he finally accepted she would never fully appreciate them on his same level. "We're making memories!"

"We're making memories," he agreed.

She continued staring out the window at the green Texan expanse.


"Sweetie, it's so cute!!" She walked around his house as he proudly showed off his new home.

"Lets hang the art!" He was excited about the return of his framed piece, the very first she had ever shot of him, that she had confiscated "for safe-keeping" when he left Los Angeles. "Until you're settled," she had promised him. And now she made good on her end of the bargain.

"I'm so proud of you," she told him after they decided on the proper place for the picture. "You're all grown up, what with your own house and everything."

He smiled sheepishly.


"Oh damn, this is good tequila," he said as he enjoyed the aroma from the freshly open bottle. She been waiting for him to crack it open for 5 days. He tortured her by insisting they have dinner and catch a movie before delving into the agave juice. One of his band members joined them.

"To your new home," she toasted, raising her glass.

"To you visiting," he countered.

"Salud," said the platinum-haired bassist.

They sat in the living room for a while, discussing where the TV would go and why Johnny Depp seemed so queer in the latest Pirates movie. The bassist insisted the tv go in the corner, to give everyone equal viewing access. The homeowner slowly came to the same conclusion. She took pictures of all of them in various degrees of drunkeness.

Earlier, they had regaled her with an improptu private concert in the car. The curly-haired lead singer and his quirky bassist with the piercing eyes, pretending to do vocal exercises and then breaking into song. Later, when it came time to say good-bye to the bassist, he gave her specific instructions on how to deliver his hugs to everyone.

She didn't want to leave.


"Jesus, what's IN here?" he said, struggling with her oversized luggage.

"My laptop weighs about 10 pounds on its own," she explained, reaching for the suitcase. "Here, I'll take it so I don't have to listen to you complain about it."

"No no no. I've got it. Stop. Give it to me!"

She raised an eyebrow but let him take over. He insisted on taking the stairs instead of the elevator.

"Well aren't you super strong?" she mocked.

He grunted.

"Wow, you're my hero," she giggled, continuing her good-natured mocking at the bottom of the stairwell. "Now you can cross 'hero' off your to-do list!"

"Yeah, I did have that as a life goal. Mission accomplished," he agreed as they walked into the terminal.

He fetched the coffee while she stood in the check-in line.


He sauntered up with water for her as they walked to the security checkpoint.

"Aww, thanks honey," she said, desperately needing hydration after a long night of much tequila and little sleep.

He checked the time.

"Do you have to go now?" she asked, knowing the answer.

"Yeah," he shrugged apologetically. "I wish we had time for breakfast..."

"I'm gonna miss you!" She threw her arms around him.

"I'm going to miss you too," he responded, squeezing back.

She didn't want to let go of him, but he had to get to work and she had a flight to catch. "Thanks for everything, honey."

"Thank YOU for coming to visit."

It was the moment she'd been dreading since she'd arrived in Texas. She stared at his face, knowing she wouldn't get to see it again for a very long time.

"I'm so proud of you," he said suddenly.

She gazed up at him quizzically. "Why?"

"The fancy hotels, the big girl job. Look at you, sweetie!"

She rolled her eyes, but thanked him for the compliment. They smiled at each other, and then she turned away so she wouldn't have to watch him walk out the door.


I Just Couldn't Stay Away

So I'll regale you with stories of my time in the Republic of Texas thus far.

Overheard at the airport baggage claim:

"So have you lived in LA all your life?"

"Actually I went to school in Philadelphia for some time."

"Oh yeah, which one?"

"Penn...The University of Pennsylvania."

"Oh wow, I didn't realize I was sitting next to a smartie."



It's 10 pm and currently 8,000 degrees Fahrenheit outside. Plus 27,000% humidity. This is not an exaggeration. I tried to go for a run on the outside track this morning at 8 am. The glass doors leading outside were all fogged up from the wet heat. It was like going to the sauna.

And it rained today on top of it. The Curly Haired Girl is less than happy.


A stranger from Boston introduced me to Maker's Mark tonight. I've never drank bourbon...except for that one SoCo night in college. This was AFTER the double of Cabo Wabo. And yet, other than a little tired, I feel nothing.

Which bodes well for the bottle of San Matias that is awaiting Austin Rocker's arrival right now. Yay!

Don't look at me like that. I was SUPPOSED to be drinking with strangers. That's what a networking event is specifically designed for!


When I checked in, my room wasn't ready. I complained, went to dinner, spent $50 on tequila, and ended up in a suite. I'm going to be a squeaky wheel more often!!


For the record, my boobs looked awesome today in their red harness underneath the lacy crimson shirt. And made lots of new friends. Like the aforementioned strangers from Boston, who were indeed male. But throughout the day it was mainly women. Which just goes to prove that us ladies prefer a nice set of boobies, too.

Like that was a secret.

Or it could just have been that I represent a rather lucrative account.



It's amazing how easy it is to adopt a Texan drawl. Especially when savoring conversation with a Dutchman on the shuttle to the conference. I'm saying "y'all" like I've lived here all my life. All that's missing is a cowboy hat.

Someone kill me before that happens!!

Okay, that's enough for you. Tag, y'all are it!



Dear John Letters #4

I'm off to Texas for a week, where there will be little time for blogging what with all the cowboys and musicians with which to amuse myself! I apologize to you, my dear readers, but a girl has to have some fun once in a while. In a country like Texas.

But lest you think I love you not, I give you these:

Dear Nature,

You are one cruel bitch. Why is it that when we lose weight our boobs go with it? Why, instead of storing fat in our thighs, where it carries absolutely no value, can't we leave it on our chests? This would be the aesthetic preference for all involved, so get your cousin Evolution to start working on that pronto. Like, in THIS generation.


Dear Lime Green VW Bug Driver,

There are few cars less masculine than a late-model VW Bug. But to actually drive one in the definitively effeminate lime green hue not only emasculates you completely, but in effect shames the entire male species. How on earth do you justify driving that humiliation on wheels? The metrosexual trend has gone too far. Not even a self-respecting gay man could pull off that stunt. If it was your girlfriend's car, then you should break up with her immediately because no man should ever even be seen in the vicinity of such a monstrosity. That's how awful it is.

Full disclosure: one of my whores has one of these cars, complete with matchy lime green rims. She is crazy. 'Nuff said.


Dear Comatose Guy Laying in the Middle of the Street,

I hope you weren't dead. But you didn't look like the typical homeless person (read: dirty), though one would wonder why else you would be completely passed out in the middle of Jefferson Blvd on this Friday afternoon. Crazy homeless people pull that shit all the time. I imagine the new residents of the marshy Playa Vista development will have an issue with you casually sleeping on their thoroughfare, but I suppose they'll burn that bridge when they find it. In the meantime, get the fuck out of my way.


Dear Cal-Trans,

You know how race horses have blinders on to keep them from getting distracted by the surrounding animals? We need something similar to that on the freeways so that when one or eight assholes decide to have themselves an accident on the opposite side, I don't get stuck in traffic for 45 minutes because humans are basically just dumb animals too and can't resist the urge to ogle at the damn mess. I suggest erecting partitions on the center dividers to maintain the traffic flow in at least one direction during these rather frequent occurances. There was no reason for me to spend 15 minutes on the connector between the 10 and 405 freeways today because someone doesn't know how to use their brakes. I had tequila to buy and these morons made me wait that much longer for it. This can no longer be tolerated.


Dear Boys Still Holding Onto Your High School Glory Days,

She's married (with kids, for Chrissakes!) and I'm not interested. Let us drink our beers in peace. Oh, and you guy who said I laughed like Karen from Will & Grace but didn't exactly make that sound like the compliment you intended: please see above. My boobs were hidden behind more than one layer of clothing, clearly signaling that I wasn't on the prowl. Just because my girl-date was shoving her camera down my shirt to take pictures of them does NOT mean that we were trolling for dates. Note that and move on.



Try this little site for an amazing way to waste time.

It's best in Manic Mode, which, unfortunately, doesn't turn the sheet different colors like I wanted it to, but will make the popping instantaneous.

(For the record, I picked this up from a blog dedicated to event planning. See, even party planners need a mindless break sometimes!)


Hiding From the Authorities

First, a welcome to my readers from far flung places like Australia, Singapore, the UK, and also the Department of Justice in Salem, Oregon! I don't know what the hell you were doing scanning my archives, other than looking for evidence of my illegal immigrant status. I assure you, however, that I am indeed a tax-paying citizen and not involved in anything remotely subversive or entertaining.

It's my mother you wanted.

30 years ago.

Oh, too late! Sorry, better luck next time!

Speaking of my mom, she lost her job this week. She has been a dental assistant for the last 20 years, a job she obviously stole from some poor, underrepresented, deserving American. But she's been shamelessly living on disability (read: welfare) since she lost the sensation in her fingertips from the caustic chemicals she's been dealing with for two decades. And now her employer doesn't want need her back due to "decreased patient flow." Now, my mom was very popular with her patients, so I'm guessing the lack of flow is due to the lack of Momness, know what I'm sayin'? Or the fact that the dentist is a scary motherfucker that nobody wants to see anyway.

So, if anyone has a tomato farm that needs a-pickin', my mom won't cost you any legal hassles about proper "papers." But since she's legal and all, you will have to pay her at least minimum wage.

Us honest Americans will just have to deal with the increased produce prices.


Clichéd Reality

I'm watching Reality Bites while cleaning the house, rediscovering old pictures of the days when drinking and debauchery were the only things that mattered. Welcome to my 20s.

I hadn't seen this movie in quite some time, until I received it for Xmas last year. Upon watching it one cold December morning, I realized that the birth of my love affair with musicians can be traced back to 1994, with the release of this movie.

I cannot stand Winona Ryder, but somehow, I forgive her supreme acting AND personality flaws when it comes to this movie. And it was back before Ben Stiller became...well, Ben Stiller. Because there was that one archetypal character that made it all worthwhile. I admit that, as a tender 16 year old, I fell prey to the romantically flawed ideal presented by Ethan Hawke's character, the dirty unwashed Troy. Because it was the mid-90s and subversive meta pop culture irony made that okay.

Remember, I was only 16. You cannot hold that against me.

Several years later, happily bouncing along in college, I found myself surrounded by the reality of a life with musicians. It did not bite, as evidenced by this random smattering of strangers bonding on the road to Vegas for a weekend of sex, drugs, and rock n' roll:

Where's GPG?

I've known too many guys since then that completely embodied the Troy character, from the goatee to the flakiness to the tortured soul bleeding through his music. And I've loved every single one of them.

I'm laughing at how silly we were, how much fun it was, and how few battle scars I actually have. The self-obsessed are usually pretty harmless, if you don't let them get in the way.

The other funny coincidence of all this is that the movie is set in Texas, where I will be next weekend, with the very musician we were going out to support in that picture.

This, also, does not bite.

I guess I'll never be able to let go of that part of my life. Or those boys that I still idealize, despite knowing better.

Eh, what can you do?

Better than Counting Carbs

From The Dieter's Guide to Weight Loss Before, During, and After Sex:

You can burn 600 calories putting a condom on a flaccid penis.

Good to know!



There must be an unofficial ordinance out there stating that everyone is entitled to set off illegal fireworks for the entire week BEFORE the 4th of July. Because there is no appropriate explanation, other than a lax LAPD presence, for what is going on in my neighborhood right now.

I can't tell if we're having another thunderstorm, a drive-by, or it's merely some assholes having fun. When you're ghetto-adjacent, you get used to a certain type of noise. Mostly sirens. But this constant pop-pop-pop going on is pushing my tolerance for poor people.

I hate being home this time of year for that very reason. But my other option is to hang out in the Valley instead, which I did today and nearly melted.

Why can't some kid just blow his hand off already and serve as an example for everyone else? Is that really too much to ask?

June by the Numbers

1 Masters degree conferred on my older brother
30.3 miles run
2 injured legs
14 days of last minute trade show planning and execution
30 hours of overtime earned
2 separate bbq parties missed because of said trade show
300 dollar bar tab racked up by raucous, but generous, sales guy
25 years of continuous living achieved by my baby brother
1 Batman piñata sacrificed to the birthday gods
155 pictures taken for headshots
4 headshots actually used
1 girl closer to 44 women completion
90 dollars spent on another pair of running shoes to avoid further injury
1.5 weeks spent limping like a lame animal
2 rambling phone calls from the new, tattooed admirer
50 dollars saved at the Victoria's Secret boob harness sale
5 hours of tequila drinking
4 new tequilas savored to their fullest extent
1 new addition made to The List
3 additional days of Texas lovin' planned
16 blogs posted
3 novels started
2 novels finished (don't read Wilcken's The Execution or Albo's Hornito. Just don't.)