Monday, November 24, 2008

A Personal Note to Strange Women

Maybe I have some kind of disease. Some yet to be chronicled affliction that in reality, lots of people have, but nobody knows because it's never been diagnosed.

Then again, I probably don't. However I still don't understand it. Women kill me. And I mean, they kill me. Like the other night, it was late, I was walking home from some fucking thing I'd been working on, a meeting or a script or a website or something annoying, and crossing a street this woman turned up the same street about 20 feet in front of me.

I couldn't see her face, but she was dressed professionally (not whore professionally, like business professionally) but in a stylish manner; heels, a peacoat, long skirt, nice hair. Anyway, she stays walking in front of me, and as she gets to the top of the hill, end of the block, she stops and leans against a lamp post. As I'm getting closer to her, using only her foot, she removes one shoe and starts sort of massaging her leg with her foot. I think her feet hurt. Or her legs.

Anyway, it was amazing, but I don't really know why. As usual, I didn't say anything, or even look at her as I went by (I always feel weird about that, especially at night, maybe because I don't want whichever woman I want to look at but inevitably don't to think I'm some sort of predator or weirdo or something, even though, I probably am a bit of a weirdo), I just walked by, didn't say anything or even sneak look, then thought about her and her sore feet for the next three days.

The problem is though, this doesn't just happen intermittently. Like once a month, or even once a week for that matter, I could deal with. But that's not the case. A woman kills me basically every time I go outside. Every time one passes by. Every time one smiles or flips her hair or hangs up her phone or does her laundry or stirs her coffee or waits to cross the street. It's all killer. They're all killer. It really is a terrible disease.

I think the worst thing about it is that somewhere in the back of my mind I know that every time I see some woman do something small and sexy and I think it's the greatest thing on earth, I know that it's probably not. Not that it's NOT sexy, because it inherently is, that's not what I mean. What I mean is that because the woman's a stranger, I can imagine her to be anyone I want. So when she does something like bite her nail before answering her cell phone, I can imagine she's some great lady with brains and a sense of humor who's a great kisser and loves shitty movies and debates current events at dinner with her friends and happens to be nervous about answering some important call on her cell. The problem is that in the back of my mind, I always suspect that she's not any of those things, and that she and I wouldn't get along too hot or she doesn't know who Sarah Palin is or she's got some terrible laugh or she hates baseball.

And that makes it worse in the sense that even though I know she's probably not the fantasy I've just whipped up in my brain, I still imagine it and think whatever she's doing is the sexiest thing ever and I fall in mini-love 87 times a day just walking around the city. That's a lot of falling when you think about it.

But what can I do about it? Obviously I can't just stop falling in love every 6 seconds. If I could control that I wouldn't have this undiagnosed disease. Maybe I could just look at the pavement when I walk around. You know? Never look up or make eye contact or watch my surroundings or something like that. But if I did that I'd probably get hit by a bus. Then there are other dangers like low hanging tree branches or some other stupid obstruction I would likely whack my head on or trip over or bump into accidentally. So that pavement thing probably won't work.

I could try to just stop imagining how awesome she'd be if we were dating or screwing or whatever. But for some reason I don't think that's going to work either. Have you ever tried to stop yourself from imagining something once you're already heading down the path to imaginationland? It's frickin impossible. It's like, "Hey, wouldn't being a big shot playboy billionaire be totally awesome? Quick don't imagine it!" It's impossible. So that option's out too I guess.

I think my only real option is to diagnose myself and live with it. Which is difficult considering I can't even really tell when I have a cold. This can't just be me who walks around like this. I should probably try naming it for all the other people who have it too. Something like Fantastasia mitosis. That sucks. I can't name this. All I know is that I have a horrible and debilitating disease which causes me to fantasize about total strangers all the time. Yeah, I am definitely a bit of a weirdo.

Maybe women could just stop doing those things. I mean, I know I'm asking a lot here, and asking it of a lot, well, all women. But seriously, could you just think about us lonely daydreaming losers for a minute before you go out and sneeze cutely? Is that too much to ask? Probably it is. Shit. Well, women, if you could just cut down on that crap I'd really appreciate it.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

AIG Rapes Taxpayers Again, Gov. Feigns Anger

For a long time, I have believed that abhorrent fuck ups of government were simple due to bureaucrats gross incompetence. How naive. I realize now that it has absolutely NOTHING to do with incompetence (I mean honestly, even Bush isn't a flagrant moron, rather he's flagrantly wrong), and it has EVERYTHING to do with fucking the taxpayer in the ass.

Go ahead and have a watch of this video:

That's right, nary a month after the government steps in to bail out these thankless assholes, and less than a few weeks after these ungrateful dicks got busted blowing taxpayer cash on a spa retreat to SoCal, AIG is trying ever so quietly to keep from being busted AGAIN for blowing hundreds of thousands of dollars at another posh hotel pampering its failing salesman.

Here's AIG's lying sleazeball fuck of a CEO Edward Liddy:

That's right, Liddy's trying to spin the fact that there were no signs listing AIG at the events because his company is "tightening [their] belts".

Um, bullshit. And, fuck you.

Now you may be wondering how on earth AIG can pull audacious shit like this and get away with it. Didn't the government impose restrictions on this type of rampant pissing away of money? Didn't the government assign some person or regulatory body to oversee how these craptastic douchecocks are spending our money?

The answers: nope and nope.

And here's the icing: you know how I know the government didn't assign anyone to regulate these lying fucks? Because the government just fucking admitted it.

From AFP:

"The independent oversight posts set up by Congress to prevent corruption and government waste remain vacant, and the deadline has passed for the first monitoring report required by the legislators."

This is not gross incompetence. This is thievery. This is criminal. And what's worse, is that it's being perpetrated by some of the most powerful men on the planet.

God help us.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

PROPs to Keith

As we rejoice that our country was smart enough to vote for Obama, we mourn the loss of a very important right with the passing of Prop 8 and that our state was dumb enough to vote for it. In his "Special Comment" last night, Keith Olbermann explains rationally and thoughtfully why PROP 8 is so wrong. Go Keith.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Rock-a-bye Baby

Take a moment out of this crazy day in politics (we probably wont find out until late tonight, or tomorrow morning anyway) and listen to the hottest new thing in music- Harlequin Baby!

Currently based out of Santa Cruz, CA these hip young kids will give you something to think about... or just dance about. They have their first gig in January. But if you can't make that I'm sure they will be traveling the extra hour north to show SF what they've got.
IM THE LEAD SINGERListen Now @ (my personal fave is Mommy's Drunk)

I had a dream last night...

I realize this is a common affliction so I've never put too much thought into it until this morning, but I never remember my dreams.  Sometimes I remember having had dreams throughout the night but I can never remember specifically or with any detail what those dreams were about.  I've woken up in a cold sweat after having had a particularly bad nightmare and I've even woken up in tears after a particularly sad dream but usually after I'm actually awake I can't remember any of the details about what happened in them.  No so last night.

Allow me to share my dream with you.  It begins with me frantically running around my house donned in hundreds of campaign buttons pinned to my clothes.  Strewn about my house are hundreds of picket signs all stacked neatly against the walls.  I can hear the sounds of  thousands of what I think are protesters outside in the streets.  The harmony of what sounds like protest chants fill the air and I can feel the rhythmic thud of thousands of feet beating the street like a heartbeat.  I can't really make out what they are saying but I still chant along humming the tune like you do when you don't know the words to the song.  "Hmm, hmm, yea, hmm, hmm, yea, we won't ever, hmm, hmm, yea"!   My body is on fire with excitement and all I have to do is pick the right picket sign with the right slogan, and open my front door and join in the festivities.  I look for the appropriate protest sign with which to march but they are all facing the wall.  I turn the first one around and it's blank.  I turn another one around and it's blank too.  What the fuck?  I turn around the rest of them and they are all blank.   I'm confused but this doesn't deter me though because the chanting is still going on outside my door and the adrenalin is still rushing through my body.  I figure that I can borrow a really cool picket sign from someone on the street after I get out there.  I was almost ready but before I hit the door I ran over to the full length mirror to see if all of my buttons were on straight only to be shocked again.  All of the buttons I had pinned to me were blank too and not only that, the chants that were almost deafening right outside my door only moments earlier were starting to fade into the distance.  Now, I'm a little freaked out but still undaunted and eager to join the crowd, I dash to the door, swing it open and...nothing!  Not a single soul to be found and the silence was like I was in a vacuum.  I look up and down the street to find the crowd of protesters and see no one.  I frantically run to the top of my street, look both ways and still see no one or hear anything.  Where did everyone go?  Where were the protest chants that beckoned me?  Where were the thuds of thousands of feet pounding in time with my heartbeat?  I was completely alone standing in the middle of the street.  

Now, I know this sounds like the beginning of one of those zombie nightmares where all of a sudden creepy dead people start coming out of the gutters and digging themselves out from their graves but it was nothing like that.  It was just quiet.  I looked around again and at the end of one of the streets I see our town's City Hall with a huge American Flag majestically waving in the wind atop the old building.   As you can imagine I slowly start to walk toward City Hall and when I finally get there I can see that one of the two huge front doors is open an on the other door is a sign with an arrow on it pointing inside.  As I enter City Hall I can now see a flight of white marble stairs and at the top of those stairs, illuminated by what seems to be the light of the heavens is a single voting booth.  I walk up the stairs to the booth and of course, you guessed it, there was a ballot and a pencil waiting for me when I got there.  I don't remember seeing anyone's name on the ballot or any measures for that matter.  All I remember was standing at the booth with pencil in hand and then all of a sudden I'm back at the bottom of the staircase looking out the front door.  I can hear people outside now.  It was the same chanting I had heard before.  I could feel the thud of a thousand feet and feel the collective heartbeat of an army of protesters.  Reinvigorated, I run to the doors of City Hall, swing them open, anticipating a 60's style, old fashioned, Berkeley protest but am stopped in my tracks at what I see.  Instead of an angry mob of protesters holding picket signs and yelling at the top of their lungs, I see a huge row of fold out tables set end to end running down the middle of the street as far as the eye could see.  The tables were covered with red, white, and blue table cloths and decorated with miniature American flags.  The entire community was sitting around the tables laughing and joking and eating barbecue ribs and corn on the cob and drinking National Bohemian from red plastic cups.  The sound of Ray Charles singing his unique rendition of "America the Beautiful" was being  piped through speakers mounted atop the street lights.  It was the great American small town scene, a sight to behold.  Strung from one street lamp to another was a banner that read: "HOPE RESTORED".

I suddenly awoke from my dream feeling as rested and invigorated as I've ever felt in my life.  I washed my face, brushed my teeth, put on some clothes, and walked down to City Hall with my beautiful girlfriend and cast my vote for Barack Obama.  GOD BLESS AMERICA! 

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Feeling Dirty Right About Now

Oh my. Oh dear. Oh, oh dear.

Sarah Palin Pranked by Faux Sarkozy

Wowie wow wow.

In other, wholly unrelated-to-the-current-general-election news, today comes the revelatory information that they are making "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell" by Tucker Max into A MOVIE. Dear lord! I almost think I can't go see this. Somewhere in me, in some deep part of my soul, the innate and total wrongness of Tucker Max really bothers me. I mean, it's horrible. This guy is degrading, and an asshole, and self-absorbed, and hilarious, but yes, it's true, he's just that funny.

If you don't believe me, please read the Sushi Pants story.

Or, sweet heavens forgive me, the Midget Story.

Or, oh God, please please say this is fiction: the infamous Buttsex debacle.

Okay. That's it. I can't write anymore on this topic. Please don't tell my mom I read this stuff.