Friday, May 28, 2010

My Dog And I Are Like Two Stoners

I have always spoken to my dog like a real person. I ask him the same questions I ask my friends when I'm curious and I make fun of him the same way I do with my friends when they're being stupid. We also dick around like friends.

Or at least I convince myself that's what we're doing (sort of like Shaggy and Scooby). Actually, I do this with a lot of situations.

Our dog is Dr. Charles Winston Kilroy. We mostly call him "Charlie," but sometimes "Lucky Chuck." When we're dicking around, it's usually just "Chuck."

He and I went on a walk this afternoon and I feel comfortable thinking of us as two stoner characters from movies and television shows. I imagine Charlie saying things and I respond to them accordingly out loud. I'd rather be caught arguing with my dog than baby-talking it. One time when Chuck wanted to go into the quarry at night, I told him, "Are you fucking retarded? We're not going down there. You wanna be murdered by crazy people?"

Here are three moments on today's walk where Chuck felt like a person:

INSTANCE #1: Pranksters.
There's this one large old-fashioned Victorianesque house with big front yard that has a dog in it. Chuck and I usually go out at night and I'm always nervous this dog is going to blind-side us in the dark, so we stay away. But, in the daylight, for whatever inane reason, I feel like we'd be safer because the owner would intervene or I'd punch it in the face (who knows, right?).

Anyway, I let Charlie go up to the yard's fence, which is widely space iron bars. Charlie and the other dog stare at each other until the other dog starts barking and running back and forth. Chuck says nothing but runs along with the dog, almost just trying to figure out what they're doing. The dog bolts straight at Charlie. Charlie jumps back and starts slowly getting ready to run.

Then the dog realizes he's stuck. The dog comically looks down at its body and tries to pull itself out. The dog is legitimately stuck. Charlie looks up at me. I shrug and I say, "I don't know, man. This dog is fucking stupid though."

The stuck dog then looks over his shoulder and starts barking, as if to maybe get more of his crew or his owner.

"Ah! Run!" I yell to Charlie.

And then we both take off down the block, jumping through people's yards, dodging trees and hopping walls or bushes.

INSTANCE #2: Headache.
Once we catch our breath from the sprint, Charlie wanders over to a man fixing his classic car. Maybe Chuck has some questions for the guy. We don't have time though, so I motion to Charlie for us to go. But he's still curious, so he wonders up the driveway. He creeps up until a buff-sounding dog starts barking through the window and pushing on the screen. Charlie looks up at the window and starts running away while still staring at the window. As he's in mid-turn to a full sprint, Charlie runs straight into a basketball pole. He tries to regain his footing, trips over the leash and gets his bearrings again.

He looks up at me.

"How did you not see that pole?" I ask him.

INSTANCE #3: Chicks, Man. Chicks.
Charlie wanders ahead of me and into someone's yard. When I finally catch up, I find Charlie sniffing the feet of a woman in her early 30s.

"Sorry about that," I say, embarrassed of my dog's foot fetish.

"No, it's ok. He probably smells dog on me," she says smiling.

"Oh," I nod in understanding, trying to drag Charlie away, but Charlie's hesitant. His head shoots up as he stares at the woman's van. He slowly backs away, but when the van doors open, he sees a whole lot of feminine-looking dogs.

"Chuck, let's go," I say.

But Charlie only turns his head to look at me, then the woman and then the dogs. He stays on the lawn for a while before looking back at the woman, then the dogs and then me again.

"Come on," I say.

Charlie cocks his head, as if to say, "Why would we leave? There's a chick here for you and there's, like, four here for me. Why would we go anywhere else?"

"Listen, you dickhead, let's go. I'm hungry," I say quieter.

Charlie looks sorrowfully back, as I have to legitimately drag him off the lawn, the leash straining his neck. We finally make it off the property and by the next house he stares up at me as we walk side-by-side.

"Don't fucking judge me," I tell him.

On an unrelated note, I know my dog has no testicles, but I think he should get laid. I think he wouldn't seem so sad at night if he had a ladyfriend or something.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

They Were All Something

The king was asleep. The jester was drunk. The queen was out. The prince was bored. The princess was wanting. And the peasants were gathering at the market.

The stowaway was waiting. The captain was staring. The first mate was ordering. The cook was laughing. The mapper was plotting. And the crew was playing cards below.

The outlaw was riding. The sheriff was squinting. The deputy was cringing. The bartender was busy. The rancher was depressed. And the townspeople were keeping off the streets.

The orchestra was loud. The bandleader was happy. The singer was coy. The waiter was smug. The lover-boy was grinning. And the city was out on the town.

The writer was coughing. The musician was loopy. The dancer was slouching. The actor was smoking. The painter was judging. And the art would just have to wait.

And, with books stacked on his night table, the boy in bed had no dreams.

My Kind Of Pornography

I'm getting pretty sick of porn's high-and-mighty attitude.

Now, there are those who will always react to this notion with the predictable reply: "How can you think of porn stars as high-and-mighty?"

It's easy. They drive Hummers (and give 'em too, woo!). In a lot of the classy porn videos, there's a Hummer in the giant driveway. Or maybe I just feel like they'd be the type to drive Hummers. And I can't say I've ever seen someone driving a Hummer who I didn't think was doing way better than me. I mean, Hummers are pretty fucking stupid, but I still look at the drivers as doing way better than me.

Also, the quality of porno I'm talking about is the high-class stuff. I'm not talking about the grody you-can-tell-it-was-filmed-in-some-suburban-house-in-Downey. No, I'm talking about the ones with gigantic North-of-Los-Angeles mansions and legit office, school, gym setups and more.

And then who's getting down? Hot bitches. Sure, maybe one of them has a lazy eye, but it's probably a porno-related injury from earlier. But who's giving it to 'em? Goofy-looking dickheads with tribal tattoos who probably rip Kottonmouth Kings or Insane Clown Posse on the way to "the river."

It's bullshit!

This kind of porn is so very obviously telling me to go fuck myself that it's hard for me to really keep my rage down. So here's what I'm saying: no more hot chicks getting plowed by lame dudes in gorgeus sprawling modern-but-fake-Spanish-influence mansions in the Hollywood Hills.

Also, I'm not buying this whole shitty-younger-dude-with-the-shittier-job getting these big ol' baskets of poon. No more pizza delivery guys, mailmen, gardeners, pool boys or whatever. It's so asinine (and misleading) to tell story after story about dumb twentysomethings falling ass-backwards into ass. No more, I say! It's all so incredibly and bogusly unreal.

Oh, everyone has a great job? Oh, everyone has a nice car? Oh, everyone just decides at the drop of a hat to bang each other?



Fuck you for even making it seem like somebody would risk their job to grab a few titties or weiners. No way. Maybe in the '90s when Clinton was around, but nobody would be risking their day career in this job market. It's just so unbelievable. Who would get down in an office? Do you know how hard it would be to find a new job? It's fucking impossible. Trust me. I looked for six days once. There's nothing out there. It's a barren wasteland.

So, anyway, what I'd like to suggest is realistic porn.

You know, make it something believable for the average viewer. Maybe the guy could be wearing a Modest Mouse shirt or something. Maybe she has a tattoo that doesn't suck. Maybe they're just playing cards or watching a movie.

Actually, yeah, that's what I want. That's the scenario. I want a man and a woman, both in their twenties, watching a movie. Also, they're getting drunk, so the porno sex doesn't seem so sudden.

There we go. Yeah. Ok, so they get way drunk and they're talking about their past failed relationships or whatever and finally the guy says something like, "You and I would never have these problems if we dated."

The girl laughs and lets go of an ambient "Yeaaaah," smiling and almost reminiscing about something. And then one of them says, "Is that so crazy?" Finally, after a few minutes of conversation sprinkled with sexy jokes, they agree to marry each other if they're both single at 30.

Oh, you think it stops there? Fat fuckin' chance! The guy then drops a line like, "Maybe we should get started on the physical stuff right now and let our emotions catch up." BAM! Bingo-bango-sexo!

That's what I want!

Or maybe they're just sitting around listening to music and getting high or something. And the guy says, "Hey, do you wanna listen to Godspeed and think we're gonna die?"

And then she'd say, "Who's Godspeed?"

And then he'd say, "Oh, that's right. You only like stupid acoustic bullshit."

And then she'd make him take back what he said about Dave Matthews.

And then they'd argue.

And then they'd bang.

And I honestly don't think that's asking too much.

This is real life. This is perspective. But, instead, to give you your point-of-view, porn keeps the camera angle where the man's head is supposed to be. Oh, that guy's supposed to be me? That guy with the three foot dong who bangs hot skanks in his beachside mansion? That's me?

Listen, porn industry, since I saw my first porn in seventh grade, I have never seen myself as that guy. I know there are guys who do dilude themselves into believing they're that guy, but I think the industry should start catering to realists. Why?


So forget that noise. Instead, give me two people who are sitting around some Friday evening too tired to go out but too awake to go to bed. Maybe have one of them makes a really dank snack. Fuck, it could just be ice cream for all I care. Maybe the girl gets super into it and she moans, "I'm so h-"

But we end that word in "ungry," not "orny."

"I'm so hungry," she repeats, maybe with her head on the dining table. To make her feel better, the guy politely and kindly makes her, like, this fuckin' kick-ass grilled cheese. And then she eats it and she's stoked. All of a sudden, she's really awake. She wants to do something. Why? Because there was grilled fucking onions in that sandwich and nobody hates grilled onions.

"What made you toss in those onions?" she asks with a coy slide of her lips.

"Oh, I don't know. I thought you'd like 'em," he cooly replies with a shrug.

"Yeah?" she asks sensually. "You got go with that goddamn sandwich, you motherfucker?"

"Whoa," he says. The guy doesn't know if he should be turned on or pissed off. Well, guess what? He's both, so deal with it.

"I think I have half a bag left in my car from the gas station," he tells her.

"What?" she says, now feeling in command of the situation. "Go get 'em, bitch."

The guy is confused. She's never spoked to him like this. What is happening? He wonders. He wonders on his way to the car to get the Cheetos. He wonders as he digs through his car for the Cheetos and finds that friendship bracelet that he thought he lost but it was just under his seat next to an empty CD case for some classic rock album that he lost the actual CD to. And then he wonders about the girl as he walks back into the house.

Guess what? She's wearing lingerie. But who the fuck cares? SHE FOUND SOME FUCKING OREO'S.


They embrace super hard because Oreo's sound SO good to both of them.

"Do we have any milk?" he asks.

"I've got plenty for you," she whispers.

Oh, did you think that was sexual? Yeah fucking right! Check the fridge! Two gallons of milk right next to some Mexican food leftovers wrapped in tin foil. And they have a whole weekend of cookies ahead of them. Maybe they'll feed each other cookies and it'll be all sexual and whatever!

She nibbles on his ear and says something that's barely audible like, "I'm so happy right now."

He says, "Are you still really hungry?"

And she says, "Man, I'm so many H-words right now."

Bam. That's what I want. It's not even some weirdo foodie thing either. I don't care if they even eat any of the junk food. I just know that real people talk about food. Real people argue about music. Real people watch movies. And all of this could lead to sexy storylines. I've got a million of them.

IDEA #462: Two people get lost because the girl gave bad directions and the guy wouldn't ask for them. It's almost midnight. They rent a motel to stay the night. They go to the local tavern. They get into a big fight about James Cameron. Guess what makes them get sexy? "Beast Of Burden" by the Rolling Stones comes on. They go back and share their feelings until they bang for a month. BAM. DONE. NEXT STORY.

IDEA #988: Three people are at the Olive Garden. Someone orders dessert for the table. When the bill comes, he thinks they're going to split it. There's a tiff. Someone goes to the bathroom. The person apologies for acting like a jackass. The other person apologizes too. They both wonder why they're fighting at the Olive Garden. The third person returns from the bathroom and suggests they all go to the movies. They go, accidentally eat too much popcorn and get stomach aches, so they all drink Pepto Bismol, except it's expired. Guess what? It gets them all super ripped weird and they starting see weird shit. They think Burt Reynolds is in their pool. And they're so amped on it. They all do cannoballs into the pool (get it?). They have a fourway with Burt Reynolds. But it's not Burt Reynolds! It's the neighbor who just also happens to be tripping on acid. And then there's a twist! What is it? The twist is that this is all a sex dream of Burt Reynolds. BAM. DONE. NEXT FUCKING STORY. I GOT A MILLION! LET'S KEEP GOING.

IDEA #1,031: A girl is teaching another girl how to play the ukulele. At some point, one of them says, "I'll uku your lele." They fool around. BAM. DONE. NEXT STORY. JUST BREEZING THROUGH THESE.

IDEA #3,247: It's a college philosophy class. The professor has two volunteer students make love in front of the class. Then he talks about St. Augustine and the existence of love and its relation to passion. Some dick turns it into a "God vs. No God" argument. He gets a bad grade. It's a super liberal school, by the way. Later, we find out that a-hole who wanted to talk about God's probability is actually having an affair with the professor. Whoa! BAM. DONE.

Actually, I'm stopping right here. It seems like this really got out of hand. Sorry about that. Ah well, you get the idea. But, more importantly, why the hell did you read all of this? Didn't you realize how incoherent a lot of it was? Was there even a structure to the narrative? No, not really. Not even close in some instances. This post shouldn't even count as being about porn. This should be more about your tolerance for my total lack of respect for your time or even my blatant attempt at dragging nonsense out. Seriously though, scroll up and see how long all that was. It's a lot, right? You're damn right it's a lot. A whole lot. A whore lot. A whore bot. A whore cot. A whore cat. A whore can. A whore's cans. Someone should bang.

Whoa! I'm really sorry about that. I ALMOST started up again. Whew!

Friday, May 21, 2010

A Mysterious European Girl Has My Number

I took my mom out to dinner tonight.

It was for Mother's Day. And, before you get all "you're late, buddy" on me, you should know that it was for Mother's Day 2009. That's last year, just in case you're an idiot.

See what I did there? Now who's on the defensive, dickhead?

Anyway, we went to Rutabegorz near the Orange Circle. We had finished eating and were just talking, and we were actually having an honest discussion of family and money. It was a conversation of depth when our waiter approached our table awkwardly.

"This is going to sound weird," our waiter said reluctantly.

"You want us to leave?" my mom said with a laugh. "Do you need the table?"

"No, no," the waiter said with a smile. "It's that...ok, there's a girl sitting at one of the patio tables. I think she's European or something, but...anyway, she wanted me to get your number."

"What?" I said, visibly confused.

"For her, not me," he said with a smile and a shrug.

My mom started laughing.

Years ago, I would've made a joke of it or gone up to the girl and said, "Yo! I heard you wanted my number! Well, we ain't gonna do that. You and me, we're gonna do differently. You down? Good. Here's my address. Send me yo underwear in the mail instead."

Alright, alright, alright. I never actually did that. I never even thought of it until now. But it's certainly something to consider saying, yeah?

Anyway, I think I reacted with the five stages of grief.

1. DENIAL: "There's no way a girl asked a waiter to get my number."
2. ANGER: "This should happen all the time!"
3. BARGAINING: "I'll give the waiter my number if he tells me how hot she is."
4. DEPRESSION: "Why would a girl want my number?"
5. ACCEPTANCE: "Ok, here's my number."

So I wrote down my name and phone number on a blank bill and handed it to the waiter. He thanked me and admitted that the whole thing was bizarre but pretty funny.

As the waiter was rushing off with my phone number for the European girl, my mom said, "But tell her he's already here with another woman!"

My mom continues to laugh watching the waiter dash off before turning to me and noticing that I'm staring at her like a crazy person.

"What?" she responds. "How do they know I'm not a cougar?"

To this, I just keep my eyes wide and shake my head. And my mom continued to grin.

I realized then how full of shit I am. Well, not really me. Joke Me is full of shit. I have always made jokes about how great it would be if girls approached guys (maybe they do it in Europe). And it finally happened and I didn't talk to the girl. Instead, I felt awkward. Some mysterious European girl asked for my number in a local cafe and I didn't talk to her. I just felt out of place. The whole thing seemed surreal. It was so cinematic and weird that I just sort of wanted to get out of there before the European girl maybe came and talked to me.

As I was leaving, a waitress approached me and said, "Hey, thanks for doing that. The European girl was at one of my tables and she asked me to do that."

"No, that was pretty cool. Super flattering for sure," I said, looking out the window to try and spot her.

"She's at the last patio table in the back," the waitress said half-pointing.

"How old is she anyway?" I ask without thinking.

"She's not jailbait, if that's what you're asking," she says with a grin that looks like it's swimming from cheek to cheek.

"I'm actually not really sure what I'm asking," I said, leaning against the door, heading out slowly.

So, we left. I looked for her and I didn't see anyone. I didn't think much of it at the time, but now I keep checking my phone. Ugh. And now I'm going to have to come up with excuses why she hasn't called or texted and I don't even know her! I've never met her! I've never even seen her! But, goddamn, she's stressing me out.

See, this is why my number's not in the phone book. It's too stessful.

That's it. If she calls, we're breaking up.

I have no idea what stage of grief I'm at. I hope insanity's one.

Ah well, farewell, European girl. You boosted my ego for an evening. I've enjoyed your sexy mystery.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Dear Kid I Tried To Kidnap Years Ago...

Dear Kid I Tried To Kidnap Years Ago,

How are you?

I suppose you never expected to hear back from me after that muggy spring afternoon. However, I'm generally interested in how you're doing these days. But not too interested (haha).

Let's be real though. I didn't really actually do anything to you, so, if you're all pissed off about this letter, you're probably overthinking this. I mean, come on, all I did was follow you a few blocks and compliment you and try to get you in my car. Is that really all that bad? My dad use to do that to me when I'd ignore him when he was late to pick me up from school and I was actually related to him! He looked like a kidnapper!

Sure, yeah, I was in fact trying to kidnap you once you were in my car, but you don't know what I had. My car could've been a ball pit inside or filled with your friends (I wish! Haha!). But, no, you stubbornly refused me, and I suppose I can respect that. I mean, it certainly wasn't the most ideal plan. I admit, I didn't really have a gameplan. I was just kind of wingin' it, you know?

Anyway, I'm sorry if you were creeped out. I think after all these years you should be over it, but that's just me. Actually, you should be flattered. Out of your entire school, I chose you. Why? Because you were so gosh darn adorable. You looked like fun, you little asshole! Nah, I'm just joshing you. Let's pretend I didn't call you an "asshole." Let's make it that I called you a "bugger." I've never said that before, but you seem like a nice enough kid. I mean, I did choose you to be my "little buddy."

Well, I don't really know where I'm going with all of this. I'm just kind of bored here in jail. Oh, that's right! Hey, I went to jail! Guess what for? Did you guess child abduction? Ha! Gotcha! Joke's on you!

It was for murder.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

I'm A Boring Person

Someone recently wanted to know what I did in my free time. So I told them that I didn't do much, that I'm kind of a boring person.

"On the weekends, I drive around town and take pictures of vanity license plates," I said.

"One time, some years back, I saw a shooting star. You know what I wished for? More staples for my stapler," I added.

Some time later, the person told me that they thought I was a decent enough writer and should maybe write a book. To which, I told them that I had, in fact, started an autobiography.

The chapters were:
Chapter One: That Time I Saw A Frog
Chapter Two: School? I Don't Need No School!
Chapter Three: That OTHER Time I Saw A Frog

But then I saw another frog! So I abandoned my memoir. I figured it was probably just gonna be about frogs anyway.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Men, Drunks & Buffalo

Two weeks ago, I was sitting around somebody else's backyard with my friends Rex and Grant. We were talking about chicks. Why? Because that's what men talk about when they're not working out, talking about sports, sweatin' for no reason (that's how we spell it too: sweatin'), fixing cars and other macho stuff like that.

And, if you haven't already guessed from that lackluster description above, none of us actually know how to be manly men. Rex plays Taylor Swift while studying, Grant listens to Miley Cyrus to get amped for rock-climbing and I saw the midnight showing of the Sex And The City movie (and was plenty stoked on it). There are better examples, but I just included the first things that came to mind.


Also, we high-five chicks.

So, with long eyes and his cigarette smoke floating, Rex says, "I feel like we were more charming back then."

"We were definitely in better shape back then," Grant adds.

And, finally, I follow up with, "Jesus, it sounds like we were at least more confident back then."

Four years ago, I was 21. I sure wasn't smarter then (I know that now), but I was a hell of a lot more confident and arrogant, which can be mistaken for intelligence during your youth, I suppose. Well, actually, arrogance kind of mistakes everything from something better. That's all arrogance is. It's looking at a sky blue and convincing yourself it's navy.

I also had a brief conversation with my friends Dave and Kaia at a brewery two weeks (two weeks ago was quite a week, I tell ya) about what we were like at 21. In it, I tried to come up with precise (almost mathematical) reasons why that was such a wild, wild age. Obviously, it's because everyone is drunk for the entire year they are 21. I, for one (with many in my roll-into-bar posse), was at the bars every Thursday, saying how stupid everything was, but it always ended up being one for the books. However, it was more than that, as it seemed like most of everyone I knew was single and mingling up a storm. A SEXY storm.

But this comes back to chicks. Somehow, in your mid-twenties, it seems like a weird grace period where a lot of people are getting married and/or having babies. It's not so much my close friends, but I just sort of hear about it. Now, I love attending weddings and I'm stoked for the couples. But, generally speaking (without real war crimes), as each girl you used to kind of get all romantic with gets married, you start wondering.

Now, I'm not wondering what mid-twentysomething girls ponder in movies: Why not me? NO. FAR FROM IT.

What I wonder is more along the lines of conversation that Rex, Grant and I shared: when all the girls that you have fond/fondle memories of start disappearing, you have to seek out new ones. I mean, fuck, if all the buffalo disappear, you have to find new buffalo, right?

Is that a dated reference? What year is this? What state am I in?


Anyway, you have to kill all those goddamn fucking buffalo.


Wait. No, that's wrong. Actually, that's really off-topic here.


Ah. Ok. I got it.

Back to it.

When you scroll through your phone and notice girls' names that you can't call anymore (because their strong boyfriends have become stronger husbands), you should probably start reconsidering the effort it takes to go out and find new buffalo. And it's for sport, sometimes even relying on an easy kill. It's not out of hunger. I'm not hunting buffalo to eat. I'm hunting buffalo because my friends and I just want to get drunk and shoot our rifles at buffalo for fun.

Ok, this blog post is taking a turn for the worst. Jesus.

Don't tell Jesus though. He'd probably be PISSED about all of this.

I don't know if I even have a point here. I really don't. I started writing this because I didn't want to go to bed and I'm too tired to read. Also, I was going to watch Terry Gilliam's Brazil, but that just seems like too much to take in before bed.

Let me just get back to all this and finish it out.

When I was 21, I was wilder. Most idiots were. But with that came such a lack of consideration for my actions and consequences that I probably would've told cause and effect to go fuck themselves if I could speak to literary devices or scientific explanations.

So, what was it about four years ago that made the buffalo so very there in the field? Why were there so many? Is it because other hunters wanted to eat later on, trading sport for feast? Is it because my friends and I are not as good as hunters as we used to be? Or, maybe, are there always more buffalo when you look back on the past? When you reflect, doesn't everything seem more plentiful?

Maybe it's a combination of things. Maybe there were more buffalo because they were better at dodging bullets while the hunters weren't really trying that hard, wounding them at best, while my friends and I were way better hunters back then when we were drunks and all those hunters were scorin' buffalo titties like crazy.

Ah. Shit. Whoops. Sorry. I totally gave the analogy away and fucked up all the poetic undertones. My bad.

Monday, May 10, 2010

My Birthday

Today was my birthday and I spent it how I wanted. Well, kind of. I went to work instead of sleeping in and maybe shooting rockets off in my underwear in my backyard or something. But, anyway, I spent the evening playing a huge game of basketball with friends and then, once the park lights went out, playing capture the flag and lava monsters.

It was the most joyous blend of adult exercise (a look to the future) and children's games (a reflection of the past). I loved every second of it and my heart felt full and stretched. I was everywhere that is home.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

The Craft of Writing is a Failing Plane

"Being a writer is like being the last to evacuate a failing plane. You're fucked, but women will dig you." - Grant

Monday, May 3, 2010

Droppin' Lines

I think the line "I want to carve the art out of your body" would be a really sexy line to drop on a chick if it didn't sound so violent.