Archive for October, 2005

Just so you don’t think I’m really a racist, I’d like to inform you that my best friends are Mexican. They are also black, gay, Jewish, orphaned, handicapped, and every other social underdog you can think of.

See? Here I am with a real Mexican (and some other guy; no one knows what the hell he is) making authentic Mexican tamales. Would a racist eat tamales that were made by a real Mexican? I’d definitely say not!

And here’s another pendejo I used to work with.

Just kidding! That’s Ram and he’s Indian. If you think every brown guy in a sombrero is Mexican, I pity your lack of culture. I mean, if you want to pick and choose the groups of people with whom you’re racially sensitive, that’s your business, but I really suggest you open your mind and be a little more respectful of other people for a change.

See how I turned it around there? Ya know, *switch*switch*? See, now you’re a racist and I’m politically correct.

Man, being politically correct is great! They give you free food, your own parking space, bumps to first class when you fly, daycare for your kids, discounts on health club memberships… Wait, no they don’t. In fact, no one gains anything from political correctness because it’s an idiotic tool used by pretentious pseudo-intellectuals as an excuse split hairs and listen to themselves talk.

That said, I’m going to get in touch with my roots by drinking a case of Bud Light, watching Nascar, and banging some dude with a mullet.

Addendum: Mexican Spanish is the only language I know that has a word for a thief who robs your house and then shits on the floor (zorrero). That must happen quite a bit down there in order for it to have its own word.

I almost sound disappointed, don’t I?

Oakland is a fun town. Its reputation for crime precedes it. In fact, we ran into more weird shit getting gas in East Palo Alto than we did the whole evening in Oakland. But it was harmless weird shit, like the Mexican dude walking around with a huge pair of wire cutters in hopes to sell them. Yes, I called him a Mexican. ‘Cause that’s what he was. Oh noes! I must be a racist!

For entertainment purposes only, I believe in reincarnation. Specifically, I believe that most dogs living on earth today were once humans in another life. I’m not sure that they did anything wrong as humans to cause them to be reincarnated as dogs; maybe it was just time to be a dog.

Regardless, the dogs that were formerly humans usually possess some traits in common with the type of person they were. Here are some of my findings.

This is my childhood pet, Pepper. Pepper was a professor of natural sciences in the 1950s. He was a small, rotund man who was very fond of sweater vests and corduroy blazers. He won a teaching award once, but it was nothing special. Still, he was highly regarded as a kind and intelligent man in his surrounding academic community.

This is my current dog, Zoey. Zoey was a teenage runaway who never felt like she could trust anyone. She lived a hard life on the streets as a prostitute and had to kill several of her johns in self-defense. Eventually, she stopped hooking to become a drug mule, and later a mafia wife. She longed for a simpler life, but accepted her fate, as it was better than the alternative.

This is my roommates’ dog, Woogie. Woogie enjoyed the hip excessiveness of the 1980s as a happy go-lucky gay health enthusiast. He had a small frame, but was amazingly buff and all the boys adored him. A mainstay in the San Francisco club scene, he enjoyed the finer things in life until he contracted AIDS at the young age of 30 and died a year later.

This is my grandparents’ dog, Barkley. Barkley was a southern belle in the 1800s. Her father owned a huge plantation where she had free reign to do whatever she wanted. She used to abuse this power as a child and through her teens. But a valuable lesson taught her that being a kind person and a good friend would help her lead a more fulfilling life.

This is my best friend’s roommate’s dog, Artemis. Artemis was a cow.

If you want to know what your dog was like in a past life, we can schedule a meeting and I will perform my analysis for $4.95 the first minute and $2.95 each additional minute. You must be 18 or older and have your credit card ready.

I do not perform this service on cats. Being reincarnated as a cat is a completely different journey. While being reincarnated as a dog is probably kind of frustrating for a former human, being reincarnated as a cat is a rewarding break from the burden of human responsibility. Also, all cats are pretty much the same.

I can’t stand it when I’m walking somewhere and someone else will get right in front of me and walk really slow. It’s even more annoying when they kind of half turn around with a look on their face that says, “Are you following me? You’re right behind me…” and continue to cluelessly amble down the middle of the path, already forgetting that someone is behind them wishing to get by. I’m usually thinking, “Look you wretched snail who’s going nowhere in life, don’t act all surprised that someone’s walking behind you when you stagger down the hall like a retarded, crippled three-legged dog with cancer!” Yep, I usually think that. But then there was that one time that I said it…

It was a week of firsts, most notably, my first phone interview (stay tuned for details on that) and my first hold ’em tournament in a casino. Actually, I won a three-hour high-hand limit tournament at the Luxor when I first started playing a couple years ago, but that doesn’t count because it was limit.

The tourney I played recently at Bay 101 was a real tournament with a real buy-in and I really lost my ass. I placed in the top half. Even though I didn’t play like a complete idiot, there were a few times when I should have thought more about the hands I was calling the big blind with and been better prepared for a raise or possible all-in. By the time I had to move tables, my chip count was high and I was getting decent hands so I came in swinging. Not a good idea. I need more practice with live games. Playing online so much has obviously warped my brain.

Other than a major ass-beating, I also enjoyed some quality time in San Francisco this weekend. My companion and I stumbled upon a National Day celebration in Chinatown after a mid-afternoon lunch, and I took some pictures (still looking for a good image display program).

I was driving home from work when I popped in a mix cd I made containing “I Only Have Eyes for You” by The Flamingos. It’s an old, cheesy ballad that I love to sing, but must sing in the privacy of my own car.

Listening to me talk can sometimes be hilarious and much fun, but listening to me sing is downright torture. I can’t even stand the sound of my own singing voice. It’s really bad. But sometimes, you just gotta belt out that tune no matter how bad you suck. Singing, like dancing, feels good and there’s no excuse for not doing it if you want to.

Anyway, I am crooning as I approach the California and Ortega intersection, and three Mexicans are walking down California, about to cross Ortega. One of them catches sight of me mid-croon and continues to stare. As he and his stubby-legged, lazy-ass friends step into the street, he nudges them and gestures in my direction.

Now they’re all paused in the middle of the fucking street where I need to turn. Those scummy little sons of bitches are just sitting there in my way as I’m belting out, “But they all disappear… from vieeeeeew…”

Did I stop? Yes I had to, or I’d have dead Mexicans all up in my grill. But did I stop singing? HELL NO!

“And I only have e-eyes… fo-or yoooooooou…”

*rolling down window*

“Assholes!”

Today I want to show my appreciation for a grossly underrepresented portion of the blogging population: Ostentatious Female Sex Bloggers.

Man, there just aren’t enough of those! I’m sure all those people who don’t blog about sex everytime they have it, wish they’d had it, or plan to have it probably aren’t having sex in real life at all. Those losers aren’t nearly as exciting and adventurous as you gals.

What better way to show how out-of-control but extra-insightful you are than to talk about a subject that is so extremely taboo in today’s society? And since you’re so outspoken and uncensored, the best way to show it is to write about sex as much as you can! How will the rest of the world know that you’re free-spirited and willing to try anything if they can’t read about your sexual escapades on your blog every day?

Usually, everyone is so shy on their blogs. They might talk about the weather, or maybe their 17 cats. Some people even blog about boring stuff like politics and finance–who cares about those?! There are also humor and newswatch blogs… That stuff is okay, but it’s really not the edgy material most people are looking for when they need to feel validated despite their vacuous lifestyles. Where else could the few, proud sex enthusiasts find a forum to make cutesy, sycophantic comments for you to answer in a sexually suggestive way?

Luckily, the world has you, Ostentatious Female Sex Blogger. It’s obvious that you can handle a lot more than a keyboard and mouse, if you know what I mean! You’ve been out living the fast life for years and you definitely show no signs of slowing down!

With all the humility and chastity flooding the internet these days, it’s so refreshing to find bloggers who “keep it real.” In this age of talk shows, reality TV, and tell-all interviews and books, it’s so hard to find a woman who really wants to come out of her shell and honestly talk about the S-word.

Speaking of S’s, I must say to the younger generation of Ostentatious Female Sex Bloggers, using the letter “z” instead of “s” to make nouns plural and purposely mispelling simple words like “love” really capture the essence of your truly unique and “street” personality. Anyone can follow those constricting rules of spelling and grammar that have kept our language from becoming a series of grunts we utter at one another when we’re hungry. But you’re original! You spell words your way because you’re unique and cool!

Anyway, I’m just so glad the world has this captivating group of women who like to write all about their one-night stands and casual flings. They obviously take great pride in their accomplishments and really care about contributing to the greater good. And let’s not forget, anyone can just have sex, or write about sex, or whatever, but these are Ostentatious Female Sex Bloggers, and they write about sex intelligently.

So everyone, support your favorite Ostentatious Female Sex Blogger. Let her know that you respect her choice to bang four dudes in one night and that you appreciate her candid synopsis of the event! If you don’t give her kudos on her forward thinking to justify her deliciously salacious acts, she just might stop committing them. Then what will you do during your next dry spell? Read a porno mag? Of course not! That’s dirty!

Big thanks to farker JG Longbotham for giving me a one-month subscription to TotalFark, an elite sect of Fark.com. I use the term “elite” in an everyone-knows-you’re-prowling-on-the-internet-in-your-mom’s-basement sort of way. It’s cool for the people that have it, and like full-service web hosting, it’s something I want to have but don’t want to purchase. (An ongoing thanks to Gus for the web hosting!)

This came at a time when I’m trapped in a cycle of continuous hope and disappointment, so I could use a good laugh. Every 3 minutes. It’s time for some quality farking!

I feel the need to address some comments about a previous blog post about my ex. I received a couple of pitying, “Awww, sorry he broke your heart” comments that were completely irrelevant to the post. I invite you to take a closer look and see that I am obviously not one to be pitied. At least not for that.

If you read the post at all and have a somewhat steady grasp of the English language, you would pick up annoyance, frustration, and maybe a hint of regret. Those may not be on the opposite side of the spectrum from heartbreak, but they’re at least in different quadrants. At no point was I ever laid up for days, sobbing about losing this pretentious fartknocker. In fact, I’m the one who moved away!

The purpose of that post was to laugh at his retarded ass for putting himself in his retarded-ass situation. Me: Successful and committed to a wonderful man. Him: Rotting in the eye of a hurricane and dating a meth-head.

Now, my heart has definitely been broken before, just not by this guy. I’ll tell you about another failed relationship from my youth so you can understand the difference.

Let’s talk about Tom Knudsen. Sure, I’ll use his full name. I actually keep in touch with the previous-blog-post ex (which is how I came to know his whereabouts), but I doubt Tom would interrupt his busy schedule of paint-huffing and shooting heroin out of a garbage can to google his name and read this little gem of a post.

Tom totally broke my heart. And because I was even more of a self-destructive idiot at 16, I let it bother me longer than I should have.

See, heartbreak happens when you think things are going well and then suddenly, out of nowhere, your mate decides he can’t stand the sight of you and starts being mean, or if he’s a halfway decent human being, says, “Hey, things aren’t working. I want out.” But when the guy is a jerk and you can’t stand him, breaking up is a-okay. Breaking up is cool.

The former was the case with Tom, which really sucked because I liked him and thought he was cute. All my friends gave me the thumbs up for snagging such a cute boy (who was also funny and smart), and for a few months, I was on top of the world. His momma liked me, his friends liked me… I even thought he’d be “The One.” And I’d be his “The One” too.

Nope! Broke up with me over the phone on Valentine’s Day. Good thing I didn’t buy him anything. I don’t remember if he’d given any kind of tangible explanation or not; I just remember getting a barrage of phone calls from all of his less-worthy cronies once they’d heard the news.

And thus began an embarrassingly long period of meaningless heartbreak over a meaningless relationship. I guess it’s better that I learned how stupid that was at 16 (or 17) than say, 30 or 40 or never like some women do. We all figure shit out at our own pace I guess.

Thus concludes my first ever girlishly introspective and life-affirming blog post. Have I turned into Stephanie Klein yet? Will someone please blow my fucking head off if I have? Eric, I know you’ve been wanting to use that new glock…

Unlike most of the heathens I grew up eating with, I take a little extra time to enjoy my food. Instead of shoveling it into my mouth like a rabid dog, I take regular bites and even chew them a few times.

Sometimes I am mocked for eating slow. And some assholes are downright impatient. But you can be sure, no amount of your sighing and moaning is going to make me eat any faster. I like eating, and I’m going to do it at my own pace.

Do not mistake me for a food connoisseur. I don’t eat slowly so I can “taste the impeccable fusion of diverse flavors” or “savor the rich texture blended with a crisp finish”. In fact, sometimes I want to smack the people who do.

No, I have no reason for eating slow. It’s just how things are. I eat slow for the same reason some people are tall and some are short, and for the same reason some people have detached earlobes.

So imagine my delight in having a free Saturday afternoon, a large appetite, and one of the Bay Area’s top 100 restaurants right around the corner from my place.

Amber India is hidden in a strip mall, but much like Star of India in Austin, you don’t care when you walk in and compile a huge smorgasboard of unpronounceable ethnic delicacies. I won’t even compare the two buffets because they serve completely different dishes. However, I must nod in Amber India’s favor due to its proximity to my bed, which is precisely what I need after just about any buffet I visit.

I tried almost everything they had. The butter chicken was the clear winner. Since it’s Saturday, it was easy to go back for seconds. I could casually dine and read the local Indian publication with no one to rush or interrupt me.

Toward the end of my pleasurable feeding, a man and his son were seated next to me. The son began complaining about what his father had brought for him, and the father made failing attempts to calm his son and teach him some manners. On my other side, a couple argued about something incomprehensible, not only to me, but probably to each other as well.

I think if people ate alone sometimes, they’d realize how good food tasted and how dumb it is to ruin it with tableside bickering. Another reason I was glad to be alone is that I could choose that moment to leave.

Then I remembered that the one thing that sucks about eating alone is that there’s no question as to who picks up the check. A small price to pay!