Further Discussion of Kenny Rogers

20 May

Today I’m afraid we must venture into the darker corners of Kenny.

A devoted Kenny fan such as yourself will know that in the last decade Kenny has undergone a series of cosmetic surgeries, turning into a hideous, shiny shell of Kenny.  Worse, he has disconnected the goatee portion of his beard from his iconic mane by removing his lustrous Civil War-era muttonchops.

Kenny as a young man never looked quite right.  His face was chubby and oafish, and his tawny, sloppily feathered hair made him look like a drunken St. Bernard.  No matter how high he climbed on the charts, his unconventional appearance must have haunted him.  Yes, Kenny is the closest thing we have to a god.  But also a man, with human insecurities. Continue reading →

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Diary 3/13/12: Nikol Has MRSA

19 May

So, Nikol now has MRSA.  This means “(Something) Resistant Staphylococcus (Something).” Which is the “superbug.”  The strain of ordinary bacteria that a TV news piece comes out on once every few months, that you can get in the gym, that eats away your flesh until you die and normal antibiotics can’t do anything about it.  This is the sort of thing that organic farming types are warning us will happen with all sorts of bacteria because we pump our livestock full of antibiotics constantly.  The germs, for whom a generation is about three minutes long, are going to out-evolve drugs so fast that we will have created virulent megagerms that we can’t kill.  Now we will again be vulnerable to bacterial infection, as we were through most of history and as we still are to viral infection.  If you have a virus, they can’t do shit for you.

Well, this feels like a wash to me.  1,000,000 BC-1920whateverthefuck, whenever penicillin was invented: no cure for germs.  1920’s-2012: cure for some germs.  2012- on: no cure for germs.  I mean, it was nice having that little vacation I guess but really, humanity survived eons without any protection from bacteria except our immune system; if it goes back to being that way it doesn’t seem like such a big deal.

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Hipsters

18 May

I am often accused by extremely unhip people of being a hipster. People who wear jeans with a blazer and have short, neat hair cuts, people who have no hobbies and talk about their jobs constantly and are pleased with their professional success use this slur because while I work in the same industry as them I wear tight pants and live in Echo Park and in the scant hours I have outside of the same office doing the same horrible things as these people I occasionally manage to put my penis in a nineteen year old who likes non-mainstream music.  They discuss how I must like drinking Pabst and how they are surprised that I don’t sport an “ironic” mustache.

All this tired, old shit– the tight pants, the mustaches, the Pabst drinking– all these tired old stereotype are in fact completely true; there are scores of these exact people whom you could have made by listening to anti hipster douchebags talk shit and then feeding this info into the computer from WEIRD SCIENCE.  They are real, and they’ve been around for over a decade, and they share the Echo Park streets with their fellow stereotypes, undereducated Mexicans; a guy with a teardrop tattoo pushing a stroller alongside his pregnant seventeen year old wife.  The whole scene looks like something out of Grand Theft Auto, where the game designers wanted to take a tongue in cheek jab at our culture but didn’t have they processing power to make realistic  human beings. Continue reading →

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OKCupid: No Men No Men No Men

17 May

I keep looking at this one polyamorous chick’s profile.  There are a lot of them on here.  Most of them are noise, as far as a guy is concerned, because most of them are “F/bi/available” but have the NO MEN NO MEN NO MEN disclaimer that every bi girl has, or the friendlier “I do like guys, but sorry fellas, I have a harder time meeting women in real life so I’m on here looking for girls only.” Looking for girls to bring back to their strong jawed bartender boyfriend who sings about communism in a band.

And almost all “bi” women are like this, poly or otherwise. NO MEN NO MEN NO MEN. The bitch of it is that because it’s a woman looking for women, and thus having to do some actual work, these profiles are the best ones. You get to see a side of them that’s actually trying to present their lives as something you’d actually want to be a part of.  Of course these parts are walled in by giant blocks of NO MEN NO MEN NO MEN type ward-you-off stuff in all caps.

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Protected: Diary 2/17/10: One Drop

16 May

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Cats and Dogs

16 May

The people with their dogs. What if I had a dog. I like to think I would be out walking it all the time; it would have gotten me out more, and perhaps I would have net a nice young woman out with her dog. You know, out in the park, the dogs are frolicking, you get to talking… and then, you know, she comes over to your apartment, the dog recognizes her; she fucks you.  They say this kind of shit happens.

But really, my cat is the exact right amount of pet for my lifestyle.  He has his own life.  It would be immeasurably cruel to have a dog, go to work for eleven hours per day; sometimes do drinks after, you come home and the dog has been trapped in 400 square feet of poorly ventilated carpeted space with only the smells of garbage under the kitchen sink to amuse him. The dog’s whole life is waiting for the moment you get home. You get home and it’s just looking at you all expectantly, like, please focus one hundred per cent of your attention on me.  Please spend every waking second not otherwise occupied, throwing a tennis ball again and again. Continue reading →

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In My Dreams, I Am Kenny Rogers, 1972

15 May

Just popped a couple ‘ludes and took down a shot of Wild Turkey; tore off a piece of fresh backwoods poon like only Kenny Rogers knows how.  Stepping onstage with the First Edition behind me, about to level the place when I tell ’em “don’t take your love to town.”

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Good Looking People

15 May

Just talked to my neighbor.  He’s a good looking dude.  This makes me hate him.  The way the poor hate the rich, you know.

Because fuck all other shit– fuck being tall, fuck being in shape, fuck being funny, fuck being smart.  Nothing matters as much as being good looking. Or at least, nothing else can give you that visceral reaction. That gut, hormonal, hindbrain reaction.  Everything the rest of us are doing, with our fastidiously working out and tanning and our jobs and money and funny stories and whateverthefuck– everything else is just man trying to build something that can only be built by God.  Like trying to reverse engineer a unicorn.  They did it, you know; they grafted one goat horn onto the forehead of an unfortunate white circus horse, but the result is this hideous unholy thing.  Even making the effort is gross.

And you can date attractive people, even if you are not one of the one percent of those accidentally blessed with perfect symmetry, a small nose, and an appropriately-sized chin, but you are never going to make them feel the same way, that same instant, unanticipated rush that you get from catching a glimpse of an extremely good-looking person.  That first instant of giving someone jelly-legs is worth infinitely more than all our lifetimes of work.

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Protected: A Vestige

15 May

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Diary 2/24/12: Nikol’s Living Will

14 May

Nothing funny about this motherfucking shit: I am going to be the executor of Nikol’s living will.  Because she is going to die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow.  But soon, and for the rest of her life.

She has no hair now and no eyebrows, and pukes so much that her stomach and/or esophagus is ulcerated and she vomits fountains of blood.  I saw some on the toilet seat.  We both remarked that it was good that it wasn’t black blood.  Because… why is it again? Because black blood means that it’s internal bleeding.  That the blood has somehow seeped between organs and sat there and blackened.  If you are puking black blood, you are really in trouble.  Where the fuck did we learn that, HOUSE MD?

Whatever– my view is regardless of the color blood you are shitting or puking, you are well and truly fucked and thinking the red blood is so great is merely hair-splitting.

She is going to die and when that is real close to happening she wants me to pull the plug if necessary.  She has no relatives she trusts to pull this off without chickening out, and since she’s a product of the foster care system there is no one who takes legal precedent.  So when her brain has liquified, I’m to give the order: cease all resuscitation efforts or whatever the fuck.  Then I’m gonna sit there and hold her hand until the machine goes BEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPP.

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