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Don’t Kill Yourself

27 Aug

My dad is 65, was diagnosed with bone cancer 15 years ago and given six months to live. Since his childhood he drank like a fish, smoked a pack a day, and used hard drugs. He is still living. Came to visit me. He’s beat up. Can barely walk up the hill to my apartment. His mind is slipping. He speaks slowly. Moves slowly.

But he is still alive. I introduced him to a couple of the women in my life. His mind is slipping, but he still knows nice eyes, nice skin, nice ass, nice tits. I took him to Joshua Tree. He’d never seen it. Hard to show that motherfucker something he’d not seen in this country. He’s been all over. But this was new. He had trouble walking. Had trouble speaking. But every new bird, every new rock, every new flower blew his mind. When night fell, every new star– there is so much to see in this life. So much to know.

Of course, the old man was also deeply interested in the 19 year old Hong Kong chick walking on our hiking trail. Son, you better make a move on that. She’s interested. Tell her to take your picture.

You will lose your mind, your body, your dick– whatever you value. But life still has things to show you. Life isn’t done with you. I get why people kill themselves. I get it, but they’re wrong. Seeing a god damn road runner drinking from a mud puddle changes my life every time. And it changed the life of a 65 year old man who I’d thought had seen everything. You could live for a thousand years and never run out of wonderful shit.

I get why people kill themselves. I contemplate it every day. Still. Don’t. It’s an arrogant thing to do. It’s saying: I know all the secrets. Bullshit. You never know. Tomorrow a seagull could steal a kid’s ice cream cone in front of you and you’ll laugh harder and better than you ever have in your life.

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Protected: Reader Mailbag: Superpower

13 Jun

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Male Body Image

28 Mar

mens-health-magazine

I’m worried that I’m fat now. Because Nikol is dating a guy who is a professional bicycle racer. He must maintain an absolutely lean physique at all times, burns 8000 calories a day or something. This guy has abs, real abs, not a mushy six pack with a little pooch at the bottom like mine. When you talk about an ideal male body you’re talking about a guy whose stomach doesn’t fold when he’s sitting down. You’re talking about 5 per cent body fat. Michael Phelps. You’re talking about people who have that for a living. Merely flirting with single digits body fat isn’t enough. Looking good lit from the side with high contrast lamps while flexing down isn’t enough. You gotta look like the cover of Men’s Health even when there’s Vaseline on the lens and you’re in the fetal position with all muscles relaxed. So that is my new fitness goal. I’d been lifting a lot; put on a few pounds of muscle. Now it’s time to drain the remaining fat so you can see striations. Tendons. Fat blue veins snaking over my forearms.

Physically this can be done, but it’s the psychology that gets you. It burns out some fuse that tells you how much to eat. You are constantly hungry as shit and constantly just thinking don’t eat don’t eat don’t eat, 16 waking hours per day. The smells coming from restaurants become something primal, like the musk of a cow’s cunt to a rutting bull. Don’t eat don’t eat don’t eat and it’s one of those things– you fuck up once and suddenly you’ve thrown down 1600 calories worth of ice cream. If you use cardio machines you begin to appreciate the horror that is calorie math. You can be on a Stairmaster at a full sprint for an hour, it won’t burn off food that takes you two minutes to put down. Continue reading →

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Protected: The Lives of Beasts

21 Mar

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Protected: Mother Nature, You Cunt

1 Mar

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No One in Greenland Likes Fake Rape, or: Let’s Gaze into the Navel of a Painting of Me Gazing into My Own Navel

2 Jan

In case you give a shit, here is WordPress’ “Year In Review” page for this web site.  Many wonderful memories.

My favorite parts are the world map that reveals that people have looked at this blog from a buttload of countries, and that the biggest search term that isn’t the name of the site is “fake rape sex.” Also popular were “underage cock” and “pubescent tits.”

I was also amused by revisiting my longest comments section.  I miss that guy “pffffffftttsssssssiimmbllllllddddddnnnnnnnnn.”  I wonder where he went.  His comments were better than the fucking blog.

I do not plan on taking the blog in a new direction in 2013.  Nor do I plan on taking my life in a new direction.  I plan on doing the exact same shit and typing about it into the exact same free WordPress “Bueno” format, which was the first one offered when I set up the page.  But I’ll probably get cancer or be crippled in a car accident or something, or go nuts from being unemployed, so, there will be new material.

Anyway.  Thank you all for coming, seriously.

 

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The Sad Part Is, It’s True

29 Oct

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The Googleplex

1 Sep

I love the big fantasy, that people who work for Google are playing ping pong and napping in giant bean bag chairs all day at the Googleplex.  That the whole company is just a giant rumpus room in a split level ranch home from 1972.  Florence Henderson will bring pigs in blankets around and there’s plenty of Sunny D in the fridge.  In fact it has to be a giant taint smelling veal pen where unlaid nerds are just staring glassy-eyed at computers and coding for sixteen hours at a stretch.  Or managing people who are coding, figuring out how to extract the most amount of coding out of them for the least amount of money.  And there are no women,  despite, I’m sure, their efforts to bend over backwards to try to recruit as many women as possible to code out of a sense of social justice or whateverthefuck. There are no women for them to hire.  Women aren’t interested in coding.  And it’s because coding sucks.  Women are right not to be interested in coding.  In math, engineering, science, the so-called STEM fields– all those things are fucking excruciating and women are smart to stay the fuck away from them and the flabby Aspergian gnomes who populate those fields.

But if I were a recruiter, I would save a bunch of dough on the ping pong tables and face massages and just hire five decent looking chicks.  Every coder in the world would flock there.

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Fuck Winnie Cooper

1 Aug

Yeah, but fuck Winnie Cooper. Winnie always looked a little alien, or like a Hapsburg or something. Her skull was shaped like a Lego person’s. And she always seemed uptight.
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Caps Lock

20 Jul

Really, it should be a much bigger deal to press caps lock. They shouldn’t put it right next to the other buttons. 95% of the time I press it, it’s unwittingly when my pinky hits it instead of “A” or “Shift.” I look like a douchebag on IM when i’m like “i’ll totALLY CALL YOU LATER.” It’s fucking stupid, and my advice to you is you should do something about it. Get your head out of your ass and take some action.

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