Boys, Toys, and Music Break-Ups

I’m a firm believer that men never really grow-up: they just get bigger and want more expensive toys. Our fascination with games, be they sports, video, or gambling, never disappears. Our toys get pricier and more elaborate: Computers, Stereo Equipment, Cars, and women. Most of us still don’t know how to dress ourselves, clean-up after ourselves, or feed ourselves.

But we’ve learned enough about how to dress up and play grown-up for job interviews, family functions, and women. Women…I wonder if they really are fooled by men who pretend to be grown-up. Probably not. In fact, I suspect that a number of girls find these characteristics rather charming.

Just look at a man who starts talking about cars. His eye light up, he gets really animated, and he begins reeling off numbers like a kid reciting the stats of his favorite ballplayer.

For a while now, I’ve had this theory that a date that would absolutely KILL would be a “six-year old date.” Here’s what I envision:

You pick up your date, and take her out to go sledding. Then you go back to your place for Hot Chocolate and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, with the crusts cut off. After that, you do finger painting, watch cartoons and, if all goes well, have nap time.

Think about it: it’s original, memorable, and absolutely adorable. I’m pretty sure I could get Mother Theresa to put out after a date like that.




On to other topics…

I’m auditioning a number of musician’s this week for my band: singers and bass players. Every time I go through this process, I’m amused at how much like being in a relationship it is when you’re in a band. When you’re in a band, it’s like being married to three or four other dudes.

Once I was playing music with a singer, and she skipped a few rehearsals. So I called her up to find out what was going on.

Her: Oh…Hi…Umm…look, we need to talk.
Me: uh…ok?
Her: You know, you’re great. You’re really talented and we had some good times, but I’m just not ready for this kind of thing. It’s not you, it’s me. I have a lot on my mind right now and I can’t commit to this right now. I think we should see other people.

So she hung up and I thought, “What the fuck was that about?” I mean, it wasn’t that big a deal if she wanted to quit. It's not like she was doing that great a job anyway. What was with the drama? Just when I thought the situation couldn’t get any weirder, I ran into her at a dinning hall with a friend of mine who played the drums.

Her: Oh…Ehren…Ummm…How’re you?
Me: Uh…fine? How’s it going?
Her: Oh, good. Really good. You look great…well. I actually have to run, but we should hang out sometime and catch up.

Things were just never the same with that girl again. The two of us had never dated, and I never had any kind of romantic interest in her, but we could never even be in the same room together there-after. Personally, I think things would have been LESS awkward if we had had sex. At least then I would have understood where the weirdness had come from. I just wanted to slap her and say, "Bitch! I never saw you naked! Cut it out!"

Oh well. I guess she wasn’t the one anyway…running off to see another drummer behind my back. That musical slut!

Generational Warfare

I’m usually the last person to rise up and defend my generation. I mean, how can you defend an age bracket that is single-handedly responsible for American Idol, Metro-sexuals, and Body-Piercing as a National Past-time? It’s a generation in need of a role-model and an old-fashioned ass-whooping. My generation needs an Ike Turner!

However, I’ve been seeing more and more negative press about my peers and I feel it’s time to lay my pimp hand down in defense. Basically, we’ve been accused of being a generation of slackers, too attached to mommy and daddy to strike out on our own. And frankly, from the stories, it appears that Mommy and Daddy are starting to resent us for it.

1. Fuck you for resenting your kids and not, gee, I don’t know: TAKING IT UP WITH THEM! You wonder why kids have a problem facing adversity? It’s because you sell-out yuppie parents can't even have an honest conversation with your own kids. Model some good behavior for once in your life!

2. Believe it or not, Mr. and Mrs. Hippie, the world is significantly more fucked up since you guys took power and completely sold our future and the revolution down the river. My parents rented an apartment for $500 a month the first year out of college. I can’t rent a piano crate for that now. Between that, the cost of living and the mountain of student loans we have because you convinced us that we’d be living in poverty with out a college education, we can’t even afford to pay the taxes that support your evil, generational-buddies in power. Isn’t it ironic? For my entire youth, I was told about how poor I’d be if I didn’t go to college. Now I graduate and find myself poor because I listened.

3. Do you, as a generation, have any remorse, conscious, or barring that, a soul of any kind beyond your own bloated wants? What the fuck did you think all those reports about inflation and the national debt were about? What exactly did you think those stories about rising oil prices, and falling average wages were for? And remember that President most of you voted for? Little guy, born in Connecticut but pretends to be from Texas? Goes on vacation every 20 minutes and was manning the switch when September 11 rolled around? You know, the one who cut all those programs that help people get on their feet? Yeah, those things actually affect people. So you’re not allowed to bitch about how your kids can’t move out. This is a situation where one, just ONE of your actions is coming back to bite you in the ass. Finally, a small bit of karma is richly coming through. The least you can do is take it with a shred of the dignity that’s been so sorely lacking your generation.

Believe me; kids aren’t staying at home because they like you. We’re staying at home because you traded your kid’s financial independence for that new SUV you drive. We’re staying at home because your decision to pay low taxes back in the 80s meant completely fucking the next four generations of Americans. We’re staying at home because all those decisions you made the day you cut your hair and got a job, the choices you made that were the equivalent of a baby crying “me, me, me!” have crippled your kids. Every time you got your way, you sold a bit more of your children’s future. At this point, we’re looking at a future that resembles South Africa: Street warfare, unimaginably wealthy plantations, staring down shanty-towns. All while a puppet leader struts and dances for show.

Since 1969, you have made the sum total of one selfless act: you killed one of the Bee Gees. Thanks.

We’re hardly a great generation. We’re not too bright, we’re not too ambitious, and we’re way over-medicated. But you show me a bad kid and I’ll show you a bad parent. We learned from the worst, Mom and Dad.

Why I Stopped Dating Hot Girls

I’ve been blessed in my love-life to say that I’ve been with a number of girls who were just flat-out hot. I don’t mean the kind of girl that your buddies say, “yeah, she’s cute.” I mean the kind of girl who enters a room and every single male instant begins eye-raping her.

There’s a certain smug sense of accomplishment to having a girl that is wanted by everyone, especially if you’re not a man of eye-candy status yourself. Ultimately, however, I decided that hot girls were way more trouble than they were worth. Hot girls are nearly all:

1. Self-Centered
2. Boring
3. Not especially bright
4. Lazy in bed
5. Shallow

Personally, I think it comes from the weight that we as a culture place on appearance. Everyone judges people based on appearance. When someone is hot it’s almost as if they don’t have to do anything else. So they become vain, don’t develop really good personal skills, and especially feel like they don’t have to do shit in bed. Hot girls have usually been with dudes who were so happy just to get them that they knocked themselves out trying to be the best lay Ms. Hot-Stuff ever had. As a result, hot girls never had to put in any kind of work. Sorry, Hon! But unlike the rest of the world, you can’t cut it in bed by lying there looking hot. If you don’t work that ass, I’m going to find a homely girl with a great work-ethic.

There are only two exceptions to the Hot Girl Rule: Girls who were late bloomers or Girls that don’t REALIZE they’re hot. They’re tough to track down. I mean, all girls like to bitch about being unattractive, but most of the hot ones know they’re not kidding anyone. They just complain so people won’t think that they’re the egomaniacal compliment-whores they are.

I switched over to cute girls not long ago and let me tell you: I’m hooked. Cute girls are where it’s at. They’re certainly attractive, almost all intelligent or, failing that, at least personable and fun, and to a girl have been dynamite in the sack. A while ago, I wrote a piece on how the girls who are the best in bed don’t have to advertise it. I think that with cute girls, this plays a role.

Some of the freakiest girls I’ve ever been with have been very sweet and innocent looking. Maybe it’s because if a girl acts and looks sweet for too long, her urge to cut loose gradually builds up until POW! Look out first exposed penis.

Man-Stench

Apparently, I’m the only person in the world who dislikes the smell of cologne. I’ve made it through my entire adult life on exactly three bottles of the stuff. When it comes to man-stench, I’m a firm believer that less is more.

Alas, not everyone shares my opinion. If I wear a cologne, I like to have just enough so someone could smell it when cuddling up to me. Apparently, some people believe that the true purpose of cologne is to create a wall of stench so powerful, that anyone in a 15 foot radius blacks out from lack of oxygen. Basically, it’s like bathing in ether.

I have to admit, I don’t really understand man-perfume. I mean, I have a friend who flipped out when he heard that I wasn’t coordinating my scents.

“Listen, you can’t just buy deodorant from the supermarket and use it with different cologne and then a totally different body-wash! What’s WRONG with you?”

Seriously, the guy looked at my like I had just suggested that sex with sheep wasn’t such a bad thing. Body-wash??? Does this man realize that I used to bath and shampoo with dish-soap? In fact, I started shaving my head because I was sick of having to buy shampoo!

I tried to coordinate my scents. I really did. I bought Armani deoderant, bathwash, aftershave, and cologne. But one day in, I snapped and rushed home to shower. I was sick of people smelling me ten minutes before my car pulled up.

Maybe I’m missing the boat on this whole thing, though. It may be that I don’t like the smell because it’s loaded with pheromones. I remember I had a female friend who checked my dust-covered bottle of Armani and said, “Oh my God! This is the greatest cologne EVER. It smells like baby-powder and sex!”

Honestly, I just can’t generate the patience to care about this stuff. I walked into Macy’s last week, with the intent of finding a really great scent. 20 minutes later I threw myself on the mercy of the saleslady. After 15 minutes of testing cologne I couldn’t smell a solitary thing. She could have sold me Sasquatch Urine and I never would have known the difference. It was three days before I could taste food again.

The only reassuring aspect of this whole sad story is that I know it’ll be another four years before I need to go through this again. In the meantime, I’ll be that dude rolling up smelling of Bigfoot musk.

DVD Extras

People, I think that the time has come to draw the line in the sand when it comes to DVD extras. Seriously, how much more of this can we take?

I’m not going to stand here and tell you that I’m not a DVD whore…I mean you’re looking at a guy who bought the special edition of Snatch two weeks after buying the regular edition. I’m sick.

At this point, it’s time we admit to ourselves that unless you’re planning on mailing body parts of yourself to Martin Scorsese or masturbating furiously to photos of Coppola, that no one has any use for the extra shit they cram on a disc. Like Lord of the Rings. The films were 3 hours long BEFORE the extended editions. Not even Quadriplegics can sit through movies that long.

On top of that, you’ve got 8 tracks of commentary in case you were in danger of forgetting the kinds of idiots who get work in Hollywood. Elijah Wood, your claim to fame is staring as the most prominent gay lead before Brokeback Mountain. Climb back in the hole with Mark Hamill. We’ll let you know when the next comic book convention roles around. Until then, we need you like the Middle East needs another cartoon demeaning Mohammed.

Each Lord of The Rings movie contains two entire DVDs of additional, behind the scenes footage. Who the fuck needs to watch 40 hours of behind the scenes footage? Are you going to call Peter Jackson with ideas about how he should have shot the film? Peter, I couldn’t even sit through your entire movie, what makes you think watching you film it is going to improve the experience for me?

Just once, I want them to make a REAL version of a “behind the scenes” documentary:

“Here’s Jason, the lead actor and teen heart-throb, snorting lines of coke and then taking it up the ass before his big scene. Wow, I haven't seen a man get nailed like that since Christ. You’ll notice the camera men eating donuts in the corner: they’re on strike to get their pay moved from $270 dollars an hour to $300. See that girl blowing the sound guy? She’s on screen for 10 seconds as a member of a crowd scene. To get that part she took more cocks inside her than a urinal at Yankee Stadium. What she doesn’t know is that a day after being gang banged by every crew member with a dick, her scene would be cut in editing. Welcome to Show-Biz, bitch!

“Oh, here’s one of my favorite scenes: Don, the director who never went to college, is throwing hot coffee at an intern with three PHD in film. Why don’t you get a degree in not fucking up my Latte, Asshole?”

Why I Hate Jersey: The Thrilling Conclusion

The New Jersey Road system was designed by a man who had never seen roads or cars before. While, this alone would hardly have distinguished him from the vast majority of valid New Jersey Drivers, our man set himself apart by having no concept of basic directions and having never actually visited New Jersey. In order to find your way around the state, you are constantly dealing with road signs that set up only to confuse the way-ward traveler.

Actual example: I was driving with my friend to a concert in New York. He decided that the best way to go would be to drive a little ways down to a park and ride and take the bus. So the two of us puttered down the road trying to ignore the horrible stench of Jersey, when we saw a sign: Park and Ride: 5 miles. We continued driving and saw another sign: Park and Ride: 2 miles. On we went. But there were no more signs. Fifteen minutes later, we turned around and saw the same succession of signs but northing else. Finally, we decided to use the odometer and actually track the number of miles from the last sign. Sure enough, two miles from the last road sign was a turn off. I made my friend stop the car so I could get out. There, 6 inches behind a massive tree was a sign that read, “Park and Ride: Turn Right.” The sign was conveniently placed in such a way that there was no physical way to see it from the road.

Because the signs are set up expressly to fuck with out-of-staters for the amusement of the locals, the only way to get somewhere in Jersey is to have been there before. Getting directions is like asking for the location of a mystical relic: drive east for 8 miles as the crow flies, then turn south at the large tree that points one finger towards the setting sun. Cross the river that flows around the boulder shaped like a man peeing and turn due north. Only then will you reach the greatest treasure our state has to offer: The mall.

I know. At this point many of my readers are probably thinking that I’m exaggerating. There’s no way it could really be THAT bad. Well I just happen to have another story.

I was driving down to Philadelphia last weekend and I took 95 south. All was well until I stopped to ask a toll-booth attendant for directions. Here’s what he said:

Take 95 South over the bridge and then take 95 North straight into Philly.

That’s right, 95 North and 95 South don’t run next to each other. The two are miles apart AND RUN PERPENDICULAR. 95 North actually runs from east to west, and then drifts south before looping up to run north again miles away from 95 South. I’ve included a picture from Mapquest in case you don’t believe me.

I’m fairly certain there’s something in the water that’s fucking with the residents. It’s like they’re all missing a chromosome. This mutation causes the following side effects:

• Women all think that fashion is a competitive sport, decided by who has the largest hair and finger-nails.
• All residents profess to have “Jersey Pride” but if out of staters ask where they’re from they say, “Near the City.”
• For some reason, they think that hailing from the state that produced Bon Jovi is something to brag about.

Listen to me: Bon Jovi is to rock what Vanilla Ice is to Gangsta Rap.

I’ve developed a new phrase that I really hope will catch on. When ever something is scummy, disgusting, or bad I say, “That’s Jersey.” Spread the hate, people. And Jersey, when you have something to contribute to society besides “Living on a Prayer” feel free to raise your hand. Until then, sit in the corner with Tennessee and think about what you’ve done.

Why I Hate Jersey, Part 1

With stress and wanderlust mounting, I decided to hit the road last weekend, leaving my poor blog unattended. Maybe in the future I’ll set up guest authors when I’m out of town. That way, people can get a window into the minds of the crazy friends I keep referring to.

Q: Why are New Yorkers so pessimistic?
A: Because the light at the end of the tunnel is always Jersey.

My journey led me south, through New Jersey. I’m aware that I have a large contingent of readers in California, Virginia, and (for some reason) Canada. For those of you who have never had prolonged exposure to Jersey, allow me to fill you in a few well known facts about this armpit of the United States:

• New Jersey became a state in 1787. It was the first and only state made up entirely of landfills.
• New Jersey’s only two contributions to society are cheap gas and cigarettes. Only fitting of a state whose water, soil and air are technically classified as “Biological hazards.”
• Every “Welcome to New Jersey” sign contains the small print: Surgeon General’s Warning: Pregnant women should stand clear as prolonged expose may cause birth-defects.
• New Jersey alternates between slums and mansions. There is no middle-class. As a result, most of the state now resembles nothing so much as South Africa: Palatal Mansions, guarded by mercenaries with submachine guns overlooking shanty-towns where armed locals, covered in flies and disease, fight over the carcasses of rats and dogs.
• New Jersey drivers abide by rules known only to themselves. To say that their goal is to break every existing traffic law each time they get behind the wheel would be implying some sort of logic. The rules aren’t as easy to grasp as “red means go” or “’Do Not Enter’ means hit the gas.” The second you pass over the boarder, you instantly enter a reality where the rules of the road no longer apply. Red means up; stop means west; merge means engage in cannibalism.

Having observed New Jersey drivers for a good length of time, I’ve put together a few guidelines that would explain their behavior:

Rule 1: Arriving at your destination a fraction of a second earlier is worth risking your life along with the lives of everyone else on the road. It’s as if every single New Jersey driver is perpetually 20 minutes late for the most important event of his or her life.

Rule 2: The only thing more important than arriving at your destination a half second earlier than normal is impeding the progress of everyone else on the road. As such, turn signals should be used only to confuse your enemies. Your enemies are, of course, anyone you happen to be sharing the roads with.

Rule 3: Under no circumstances allow your vehicle to conform to emission laws.

Rule 4: In order to qualify for a New Jersey License, you must have no regard for the lives of your family, friends, strangers or yourself. Common courtesy, indeed, fundamental decency should be spit upon at every possible instance. So what if someone has been waiting in a line for gas? Fuck him! Cut him off and then give him the finger. You decided to make a left on red, across six lanes of traffic and killed a pregnant woman pushing her paraplegic grandmother? Fuck them! Get out of your car, rape grandma and then piss on the corpse.

The Exlympics

You know, a lot of people like to bitch about their exes. Hey, it’s the national past-time of single! Everyone does it; however, have you noticed how some people do it competitively?

“You think you got stuck with a loser? Let me tell you about MY ex!”

You know, it’s really not the kind of thing that reflects well on you. Even if you did nothing wrong in the old relationship, you were still attracted and stuck things out with Mr. or Ms. Horrible.

All that aside, in the honor of the Olympics, I’m proud to announce my Bronze, Silver and Gold Medals for Worst Ex Story Ever. The following stories are all hand to God true, because there’s no WAY I could make this stuff up. Only the names have been changed to protect the victims.

Bronze: My friend was in a relationship with a guy who totaled his car in an accident. She let him use her car, because that’s just the kind of girl she is. She became puzzled, however, when she received a parking ticket from New York City, when she hadn’t been to New York in weeks. So she did some digging and found that her car had been illegally parked outside the apartment of her man’s ex-girlfriend.

Let’s recap what went wrong here, shall we?

1. Was born
2. Got drunk and wrecked his car
3. Somehow convinced amazing current girlfriend to lend him her car
4. Decided to use lent car to cheat on current girlfriend
5. Was dumb enough to not park legally when cheating
6. Was too dumb to pay off the ticket before a second notice was sent

Silver: I was listening to my friend talk about her new boyfriend and frankly, sort of tuning everything out when I heard something.

“Whoa. Whoa! What did you just say?”

She then proceeded to recount her largest complaint about her CURRENT (that’s the key word here—she was STILL DATING HIM) boyfriend. Our boy lived in the dorms and, as college boys are apt to do, was not exactly King of Hygiene. If cleanliness is next to Godliness, our boy was hanging out with John Wilkes Booth, Stalin and Hitler. Not only was he not showering, He was less than prompt emptying a piss-pot.

I’ll repeat that.

HE WAS LESS THAN PROMPT EMPTYING THE PISS-POT.

How lazy and dirty do you have to be to own and use a chamber pot? Seriously. Even in the south they use an outhouse. If you’re 19 and haven’t mastered the high-level skill of potty-training, how did you manage to get into a college?

I know what you’re thinking. “How in the world is that story only number two on the list? What did the hell did Mr. Gold Metal do??? Rape a goat???” Oh my friends, I wish it were only that horrible, but the truth is much, much worse.

Gold: In order to fully appreciate the inappropriateness of this story, I have to set the mood for you:

My friend and her new man of two weeks decided to go camping one night. The moon was bright, but not too bright to drown out the millions of softly glinting stars. Crickets chirped in the bushes, as a breeze whispered through the trees. The two lovers sat in front of a slow fire, their bodies melted against each other and lips explored soft skin. My friend heaved a contented sigh, as women do when feeling generally satisfied with the course of the world, cuddled closer to her beaux and listened to his heart beat for a while. Then she asked, “Honey, where do you see yourself in three years?”

Long silence.

Our man, pressed against a loving woman, surrounded by the beauty of nature, miles away from anyone considers his answer carefully. Our girl is waiting in anticipation. What romantic answer is he considering, “Marriage, kissing you, desperately in love with you”? What will he say?

He clears his throat and my friend leans even closer, trembling just a bit in anticipation.

“Prison…I’m pretty sure I’m going to murder my brother.”

Damn, how do some guys get so smooth?

NASCAR: Why Don't You Just Stay Home And Molest Your Sister Instead?

Every morning I wake up, switch on Sports Center and try to convince myself that I have a good reason to get up. This battle usually takes about 30 minutes.

Sports Center and I usually get along pretty well: I love baseball; I tolerate football and basketball, and have no interest in golf or hockey. I subliminally soak up the sports news of the day and all is well.

Recently, however, Sport Center has been testing the limits of my patience. And not just because of Ron Artest, either. Every morning, for the last two weeks they’ve been flogging the Daytona 500 with segments like “The Legacy of Dale Earnhardt” and “The Safety of NASCAR.”

Listen to me: NASCAR is not a sport. It's not even a game or entertainment. It’s the lowest rung of Natural Selection. Death is the only possible out come when you put drunken hicks into cars and have them make left turns for four hours. I’ve had rashes that were more fun to watch.

And don’t talk to me about the “skill of these great athletes.” I doubt half these drivers can read the advertisements on the sides of their cars. Skill my ass! I drove a truck professionally for a year. When they have to make a left turn across six lanes of traffic, in driving snow, in a busted-ass Ford Ranger without spilling their frosties, I’ll be impressed. As for the athletic part, they are to athletes what Dungeons and Dragons players are to Viking Warriors.

Someone tell me again about what hero Dale Earnhardt was. Ok, here’s the deal: to be a hero you have to do something brave, selfless, and at great personal risk. Dying in a blaze of failure and grease-fire is none of those things. He’s a hero in the same way John Beluschi was a hero. Oh wait, that’s not fair. John Beluschi had talent. Being a dumb redneck and crashing your car doesn’t make you a hero. That’s why everyone in Tennessee doesn’t own a purple heart.

For some strange reason, huge percentages of the south seem enthralled by this pseudo-sport. Hey, I don’t really care if they want to waste their lives. The more time they spend obsessing about NASCAR, the less time they have to don bed sheets, burn crosses and sodomize their siblings.

Generally, NASCAR takes the same general spot of my consciousness as girls shitting: I know it’s done, but I’d rather not have to think about it. And you know what? So far it’s worked pretty well. Then Sports Center starts in on this bullshit and I have to decide which is more entertaining first thing in the morning: Rednecks and they’re cars or the Jesus Channel with the lady with pink hair.

After about a week, I’m about ready to start mailing my money to Pat Robertson.

International F*ck Men and Buy a Vibrator Day

I’ve got it all figured out: In 1701 the yet unborn and un-conceived fetuses of John Wilkes Booth, Hitler, and Star Jones met with Satan to devise a Holiday so evil, so putrid, so absolutely pitiless and devoid of compassion that when the Marquis de Sade first heard about it, he said, “That’s fucked up.”

Women, as a gender, like to assign importance to special dates: first time they met their man, the first time they kissed him, the first time they agreed to gang-bang 12 of the guy’s best friends behind a Denny's on a Wednesday night: it’s just something they do. Men are somehow expected to recall these events with perfect clarity and without prompting 364 days later. Ladies, here’s what you don’t understand: I can’t even remember the date of New Year’s. I’d forget about my birthday if people didn’t remind me. There is no way I’m going to recall every date that you randomly assign importantance to.

Fuck Valentine’s Day! Anyone who's ever tried to buy a gift for a girl that he’s dating knows that shy of hooking up a car battery directly to one’s prostate, there is no greater hell than shopping for a female. Valentine’s is just another opportunity to fail miserably at finding a gift that, based on truly bizarre, random tidbits known only to those who have a uterus, sums up the entire relationship a man has with a woman. Bitch, you're lucky I even remember your name, let alone what kind of chocolate you mentioned you like in passing two years ago! When guys exchange gifts it’s fun. I never had a dude ask, “What exactly is this cigar supposed to say about your feelings for me???” It says you’re a flaming, phallus-shaped, $10 trick. Now shut the fuck up before I slap you!

If nothing else, at least Valentine’s Day is an equal opportunity misery generating machine. While it rains a world of hurt upon guys in relationships, it pours flaming agony on every single woman. It’s as if Hallmark has somehow managed to sanction an international “Congratulations, your biological clock is one year closer to needing a new battery” holiday. And if you’re a single girl on Valentine’s Day, you’re going to need those batteries for a device a whole lot more important than your biological clock.

I actually used to be into Valentine’s Day. Actually, Valentine’s Day plays a large role in my generally negative outlook on life. For the span of four years, I used to write a poem for every girl I knew. I don’t mean I would write one poem, copy it 40 times and then hand it out. I mean I wrote an individual, personalized poem for every woman. I would say that in the span of 4 Valentine’s Days I wrote, conservatively, 120 poems. Would you like to know how many women that got me? Go on, guess.

ZERO.

That’s right, girls who did nothing but bitch about how guys never did anything romantic for women anymore ALL had better things to do than hang out with someone who had busted his ass in the name of selfless chivalry. It’s not like I was asking for sex. But if just one of them had taken it on themselves to give me head, they might not have killed the idea of romance for me. Oh well. If you’re female and you don’t get a hand-written poem from me, you can thank 120 single woman who were too good to take one for the team.

In retrospect, I realize my fatal error: I bought into this bullshit holiday and acknowledged its existence. The truth is that this is a holiday that is nothing but and empty, never-ending cycle of hostility, loneliness and inadequacy.

Needless to say, no one sends me Valentine’s Day cards anymore.

Lawyers, Guns and Money

I’m sure much will be made in the blogosphere about Dick Cheney shooting a guy over the weekend. There were really only two comments I have about the whole incident.

The first is how sensitive we’ve become over violence. I believe Alexander Hamilton was the last Vice-President to shoot someone…while in office, at least. But Andrew Jackson used to duel. He even beat off an assassination attempt with a cane.

Normally I’d be the first one to jump on Cheney (he is, after all, one of the 50 most Loathsome people in America), but in his defense:

1) His pact with Satan not-with-standing, the man can only survive so many heart attacks. Cut him some slack

And

2) It was a lawyer. And a republican crony lawyer at that. I think we can let this one slide.

Besides, anyone stupid enough to pose for the picture below and still make the major news due to gun carelessness deserves our pity. It’s the political equivalent of Magic Johnson endorsing condoms a few months before announcing he had HIV.




On to other topics...

I woke up today to a Sports Center interview with Ron Artest. For those of you who don’t follow sports, Ron Artest has a six year deal that will earn him $42 million dollars. He also charged into the stands and assaulted a fan who threw a cup of beer at him, inciting a riot, gave an interview where he said he wanted to desert his team for two months to work on his rap career and demanded to be traded from a team that had stood by him and supported him through out.

It’s a sucky way to start your day. Well, it would have been sucky enough if he was just giving a standard “I just want to put the past behind me and do what’s good for the team” interview. But within 15 seconds of consciousness I heard this exchange that flipped me from barely cognoscente to a full-on, murderous rampage:

Pretty dark-hair Interviewer: Ron, why do think you have a bad image?

Artest: Racism.

You know, African Americans have been discriminated against in the past. There’s no way around that. They got a genuinely raw deal and racism is a terrible and all too prevalent reality in American Society. But you are not allowed to assault someone and claim people hate you because of racism. You certainly can’t make $42 million dollars over six years and complain about being discriminated against. Ron, people don't hate you because you're black. People hate you because you’re an immature dick who refuses to exert any self-control, forethought or consideration. Your life resembles nothing so closely as a plantation owner circa 1823. If you’re being discriminated against, I’m Malcolm Fucking X. Shut you’re privileged ass up and play ball.

Somehow both my heart and my TV survived the interview, but Sports Center: You’ve been warned.

Pure Fluff

Generally, I like to write about stories or experiences which happened to me that somehow relate to whatever I'm going through. I was watching The Aristocrats yesterday, and it inspired me to write a pure comedy ruitine. For those of you haven't seen the movie, "The Aristocrats" is a joke that comedians tell each other. The joke changes depending on who’s telling it. It goes like this: a guy walks into an agent’s office and pitches an act that he does. The act is always the most horrible, disgusting, offensive thing that the comedian can think of. Generally incest, bestiality, violence and bodily functions play a big role. But the punch line is always, “What’s the act called?”

“The Aristocrats.”

The dialogue below is NOT true and is simply me giving my own offensive and funny version of the joke. Enjoy:

I was speaking to a girl the other day who happens to be Catholic. Very devout: no premarital sex, worships every Sunday…some Sundays twice. Of course, evil, sinning, Jew that I am, I started questioning her about it.

Me: So, everything in the world is predetermined, God knows everything that we’re going to do before we do it, and we are made in God’s image. Why exactly should we feel guilty for things we do again? Isn’t everything we do part of God’s plan? Or is his plan just the good stuff? If it is, then it’s not much of a plan. If it’s not, why should we feel sorry? Aren’t we just carrying out His will?

Her: It’s not like that! You should just come with me one day!

Me: Yeah, I can see it now. I’ll come sauntering in and give the old pistol salute to the priest. "‘Sup, Padre?" Then the quick point over to Christ on the Cross. "Jesus. Good to see you’re right where I put you."

Her: That’s a terrible thing to say!

Me: You want to hear terrible things to say in a church? You should have heard the things that priest said to me the last time I was in a church.

Her: You were in a church? What’d he say?

Me: I don’t know…You’d think it was the first time he ever walked in on someone having sex with a "technically" underage girl in a confessional. Wasn’t it Jesus who said, "Suffer the little children, come unto me"?

Her: That’s NOT what he was talking about!

Me: Were you there? All I know was he was a single dude who hung out with 12 other single men, roaming from town to town. And FYI, it’s a good thing for him that the Messiah thing worked out for him. Because if He was any kind of halfway decent carpenter, His dad would have made Him stick around. How shitty a carpenter do you have to be where when you tell your dad that your life calling is to wander the desert with other single men, your pops says, "You know…yeah. You do that. I got the carpenter thing taken care of. It’s not like your mother or I need any help supporting ourselves in our old age."

Her: Are you saying that Jesus was a bad son?

Me: All I know was my parents wouldn't let me drop out of college to join a band. I guess Mary must have known something when she said, "No Joe. His path is roaming campsites and truck-stops with unshaven single men."

Her: Oh my GOD! What does your shirt say?

Me: This? It says, "Jesus was gay." The other side has a picture of two Mexican dudes making out. Now listen, you should come hear my band play.

Her: What's your band called?

Me: We're a Christian Rock band called "Pious."

Ta Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Break Up Lies And Torture By Indifference

I was reading Gary’s blog and he had a post about women using the phrase “Let’s just be friends.” It’s a great topic, so I’ve decided I’m totally going to mooch off of him and steal it.

I’ve never actually been told “I like you as a friend,” but as far as I’m concerned, hearing that line would lead to a bitch out of epic proportions. Here’s why: I have no problem with rejection. Rejection is fact of life. Not everyone can get along with everyone else. What I do have a problem with are blatant lies. Lies that just insult your intelligence and have obviously not even warranted any amount of effort. Like when people say that that Maria Carey is good.

If I’m going to be lied to by a girl, I at least want there to have been some energy put into the lie. That’s why I would much rather hear any of the following lines from a girl who didn’t want to see me:

• I have a crime-fighting alter-ego, and I can never risk the lives of the ones I love by getting too close. Now I must go, for the good of the city!
• Tonight at midnight I will magically return to mermaid form and spend the rest of my life under the sea.
• Tomorrow I leave the country on a swash-buckling adventure to search for the legendary arc of the covenant.

See, I’d like to think that woman letting me down actually had to suffer a little bit. And if I feel that they haven’t suffered adequately, then I think it’s my right, nay my duty, to make her squirm.

For example, one of my favorite moments was when I was in the room of a girl I had been seeing for about two days, and she said, “I don’t think I’m right for you. You’re too good for me.” In a split second, I decided that I was going to punish her for her lie.

Without blinking an eye I said, “Yeah, I agree. So what’re you up to now?” Where-upon I proceeded to park myself on her couch with a grin on my face, not in the least bit troubled. I hung out with her for about two hours, chatting away, joking and smiling. She had a miserable time. I could see the surprise fade to agitation, and the agitation fade to resentment and the resentment fade to anger. By the time I left, I’m pretty sure that she was ready to stab me on sight.

See, when you prepare to break up with someone you always mentally prepare yourself for the worst: yelling, crying, begging, or pleading. No one prepares themselves for indifference. The worst part about my torture was not even sitting there twisting the emotional knife in her heart for two hours. It was that late at night she was going to wonder why I had absolutely no reaction to being dumped. Was she not pretty enough? Not smart enough? Bad in bed? Was I seeing someone else?

So here’s the cardinal rule of break-ups: be honest, or, failing that, at least be plausible. Otherwise, you have every right to be called on your bullshit. And there are still some people out there who have no problem doing it.

Women Drivers

Not too long ago, I dated a very upfront, take-charge type of girl. We got together like this:

I was outside a bar one night, when I stuck up a chat with a girl who was smoking outside. Things progressed nicely, and I ended up joining her and her friend at a table for drinks. We had a great time joking around, but finally she had to leave with her friend.

“Hey, I’m having a small get together at my place next weekend. Do you want to come?” she asked.

“Yeah, let me get your number. Maybe I’ll swing by and make an appearance.” I answered.

So I recorded her number, said fair-well and hugged her goodbye. Then I moved closer to stage to get a look at the band. It was a small venue, perhaps the no more than 30’ across. The band was all the way in the back, and a number of chairs and the pool table had been pushed to one side to form a small dance area just in front of the stage.

I was off to one side, leaning against the pool table, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Ms. “I’ll see you this weekend.”

“So,” she huffed. “You were just going to let me leave without making out with me?”

Far be it for me to deny a lady’s request. I promptly picked her up, placed her on the pool table and made out with her like a felon at a conjugal visit.

When I ended up sleeping with her (it wasn’t that night. I’m sleazy, but not that sleazy), what I was struck most by was how opposite she was in bed. This was a girl who had no problem picking me up and asking me to make out with her in a public spot, but in bed she really didn’t like taking charge at all.

It was really adorable. She liked to curse, and yell and state her opinions, and was upfront about what she wanted, but when the lights went out, she needed a guy to throw her down and treat her like an object.

I’ve found that this is the norm and it’s not necessarily something I mind. There’s a certain deep-rooted satisfaction that comes with absolutely tossing a girl around in bed, putting her exactly where you want her and doing it right. I suppose that deep down every girl wants to be dominated a little. But I once knew knew a girl who never wanted to be on top.

Probably 9 times out of ten I’ve got no problem doing most of the work, but there are nights where I just want to lie back and let her drive. If I were really mean here, I’d insert some comment here about how poor women are at driving. I just think that they’re out of practice. With that in mind, I’m proud to announce the opening of Ehren’s driving instruction course. Get your engines started ladies and bring some protection. Driver’s Education is now in session.

The Rolling Stones 2079: The Colostomy Tour

A few thoughts about the Rolling Stones after watching the Super Bowl Half-Time Show:

• Jagger is now probably banging the grand-daughters of the girls he screwed during the Stones’ early tour.

• The Stones still think they're 17. There is no excuse for 65 year-old men to be wearing belly-shirts and sequins. In fact, there’s no reason for any man to wear belly shirts or sequins unless your name is Siegfried or Roy.

• Last night history was made, when it was revealed that the new bass player is black. It was only the second Rolling Stones concert in history attended by a black man. I believe they made a documentary about the other one.

It was really sad to watch them stagger around the stage. At one point, these guys were dangerous, unpredictable, and electric. Now they can’t even shit on their own. Mark my words, on the Rolling Stones’ 2079 World Tour Keith Richards will have a colostomy bag hooked up to his guitar while Jagger struts his sequin wheelchair up and down the stage.

The Stones really summarize everything that sucked about the 60s and Rock Music. There was so much hope, possibility, and real willingness to change the status-quo. Where are we now? The Stones are sponsored by an insurance company and play a half-time show because The NFL commissioner doesn’t want anything Risqué.

Can anyone remember the last band that people were actually scared to go see? It depresses me that this generation has boy bands and teen idols as their spokespeople and role-models. What happened to the days of liking bands that your parents forbade you to go see. In fact, can anyone even name the last band that made people nervous?

I’m not really an Ozzy fan. I appreciate his contribution to music history, though. And I get real pissed when people refer to his tunes as “Devil music.” Ozzy’s music is pretty much based on a society of outcasts. The points of Sabbath’s tunes were “fuck the norm. Embrace your differences. Don’t bother trying to blend in.” Compare that to N’ Sync which pretty much says, “The only way to be cool is to be exactly like this.” Which is more evil? Minor chords do not a Satanist make.

In case you didn’t notice, I utterly failed in my attempt to drink the Superbowl into tolerance. The day after has left me feeling like a woman on prom-night: not nearly buzzed enough, bored, and utterly unsatisfied. Welcome to American Culture and Rock Music!

Game On!

I’m just about to launch myself into the fray of male-utopia: violence, meat, alcohol, corporate sponsorship and a sport involving a ball. Look, the Superbowl is no longer about football. Everyone should understand that. No one really cares who wins or who loses: we’re all just looking to be a part of an annual tradition like Thanksgiving or that crazy, Mexican, dead-person Christmas.

And now a list of the things I hate about the Superbowl:

1. The 17 hour pre-game special. The entire country has been mercilessly flogging this event for two straight weeks already. There shouldn’t even be a pretense that any time during the 50 straight uninterrupted hours of pre-game show anyone will say ANYTHING meaningful, insightful or accurate. Basically, it’s just an excuse for retired players to parade in front of lights and pretend that they’re capable of abstract thought. You just want to pat their heads and say, “Awwwwww…they think they’re people.” The only possible use of the pre-game show is the final motivation to snap and kill 37 people in a bloody murder-suicide.


2. The National Anthem. Does anyone remember when the National Anthem stood for anything other than horrible singers testing the limits of their range and our patience before a disappointing sporting exhibition? Listen to me, Aaron Neville. You’ve already butchered enough songs during the course of your recording “career.” Do everyone a favor and continue our agreement: you proceed to stay the hell out of my way and I’ll overlook your existence. Slink back under the rock you've been living under and assume the role of permanent irrelevance and anonymity.


3. The Halftime show. I remember a few years back when the country pretended to be shocked about Janet Jackson. Listen, the halftime show is produced by MTV. If history has taught us nothing else, it’s that MTV knows absolutely nothing about music, TV or good taste. To quote Lewis Black, “MTV is to music what KFC is to chicken.” The network is just 24 hour soft-core porn set to worse music. It was a breast. Stop pretending that no one in our country had ever seen one before and move on with your lives.


4. The commercials. I know a lot of people get really excited about the commercials during the Superbowl. Let’s be honest though. There hasn’t been a really good ad in years. Furthermore, it’s really sad that we as a country dedicate a whole evening to being corporate shills.


5. The game. I always forget that the Superbowl actually includes a game. It’s because after the 780 hours of pre-game coverage, the 15 minute version of the National Anthem, the introduction of the players, the coin-toss and the 9 billion commercial breaks they’ve already taken, I’ve completely forgotten what the hell it is I’m supposed to be watching in the first place. On top of that, the game is almost ways bad. And football is a pretty lame sport. I get really tired of the 70 minute touchdown/interception/kick/I managed to tie my own shoe celebrations. I don’t see me holding a 50 minute long dance celebration when I file a report correctly. Big deal, you did what you were paid millions and millions of dollars to do. Sit the fuck down and let us watch the cheerleaders.

Fortunately, I’ve found away around all these problems: alcohol. Yes folks, the reason that beer is such a good seller at football games is that it’s impossible to watch the event otherwise. This year, the plan is to drink enough that I completely overlook all the issues I listed above. That’s the beauty of American Sports: it’s not who wins or loses, it’s how drunk you get. Game on America!

Bad Call

Probably the worst part of dating is the first phone call. That’s the stage where you feel like you have the most to lose. You’ve already impressed the girl enough for her to give you her number, so you know she’s interested. The trick now is to be charming enough over the phone that she’s still convinced she wants to get to know you.

This is usually the place I end up shooting myself in the foot. Chances are that her number’s been burning a hole in my pocket for three days and I’ve thought of nothing but what to say and how to act. This is why I don’t succeed. One of my biggest problems is over-analyzing situations. So I’ll walk around for three days thinking up things to say, and then call the girl and nothing will go as planned.

Or even worse, I’ll get the voicemail. I don’t have a whole lot of filtering between my head and my mouth, but the problem is only exacerbated by nervousness. Translation: I’m usually that guy who calls and leaves babbling, semi-coherent messages on a girl’s machine. Some girls find it endearing. Most do not.

Example:

“Hi Cindy. It’s Ehren. The kid from the club a few nights ago. Not that you probably know a whole lot of Ehrens. Well guy Ehrens. There are a lot of girl Ehrens that you might or might not know out there…but I’m not one of them. I mean, you know me, but I’m not a girl. Anyway, I was thinking that it would be cool to go…what the devil are the kids doing these days? Um…Hang out at the Box Social together. So you can get in touch with me through Bat Signal, Vulcan Mind-Meld, Astral Projection, or you could be conventional about things and call me back. Here’s my number. Hibye!"

Generally, I’ll give the girl two days and if I don’t hear back I’ll call once more. That’s it. I figure that if she’s not calling back after that, further messages aren’t going to help. What would help? Sending dead puppies. Girls like dead things, right? Damn, I’m smooth.

I’ve discovered that I’m far better when I don’t have time to obsess over these things. Last night I made a snap decision to call a girl with no preparation what so ever. And things went fantastic. Granted, I still rambled a whole lot and probably scared her off when I granted her request for a complete dating history. But all in all, I think it went well. Hey, I consider it to be a rounding success to only slightly freak a girl out.

Men Behaving Badly

There are just some moments that totally sum men up as a gender. I walked into my friend’s house one day and yelled, “I’m coming in! Are you wearing pants?” This is the kind of thing that can never be assumed. Let’s just say I it’s a lesson I learned the hard way.

“Ehren, it’s 3:30PM on a Sunday. Hell no! Why would I ruin my weekend like that?”

So I walked in to see my friend stretched out in bed, watching a movie. True to his word, there were no pants in sight. Luckily, he was wearing boxers. I counted myself fortunate and pulled up a chair.

After about 10 minutes of the most excruciatingly horrible dialogue and plot developments, I turned to my friend and asked, “What the hell are we watching?”

“The Gift. I hear Katie Holmes takes her shirt off.”

“I’m in!”

So I proceeded to waste a sunny, Sunday afternoon watching one of the most tasteless B-Movies ever created with my pantsless friend simply because there was a chance of seeing Katie Holmes’ boobs. And you know what? It was a fair trade. Of all the gifts given to mankind over the last hundred years, there are few greater than Katie Holmes’ breasts.

Somehow I don’t think it’s the kind of thing that women would do. I was speaking to a girl recently who said that a man’s attractiveness increases, the better she gets to know him. That implies that attraction for women is more of a cerebral thing.

Men are attracted to things far more shallow.

I had a friend who was lying in bed with his girlfriend, when she said, “Honey, would you love me even if I got a little bit of a belly?” My friend’s response: “Are you kidding? If you don’t drop five pounds by next week you and are finished.”

Warning: Politics May Be Hazardous To Your Health

I’d like to state right now that I did not watch the State of Union address. Why? I decided I’d spare myself the unneeded stroke and/or brain aneurism.

I have reached the point in my life where I feel that the politicians have won: do what you want, just don’t bother me anymore. Seriously. Don’t even pretend that you want my voice, opinion, feedback, guidance, interest or criticism. I’m ready to just bend over and take Uncle Sam’s inevitably bloody ass-rape.

Following politics today boggles the mind. Every time I turn on the news or read a news story I feel like I’m the only sane person left in the world. Example: Bush says Iraq has weapons of mass destruction and is going to bomb us. We go to war and there are none. Now the administration says that we went to free Iraqis. Everyone nods sagely and goes back to work. Apparently, I’m the only one who notices or cares.

Example: Bush supporters attack John Kerry as being cowardly during Vietnam. Somehow, this gets air-time. Look, John Kerry could have gone to Vietnam and slaughtered children and his own troops and STILL been more courageous than Bush. Bush didn’t do dick during the war. He allegedly skipped out on the champagne unit and got high on cocaine. I was more courageous than Bush, ok? And I wasn’t even born yet.

Example: Bush is accused of illegal wiretaps. He says it’s for security. Everyone accepts it and moves on. And I sit here wondering how different this really is from Watergate. But I’m the only one who cares.

Following politics these days is like this: a Bush crony comes out and takes a massive shit in front of the cameras. Someone asks, “Why’d you do that?” Bush crony attacks the journalist as unpatriotic and the rest of the room stands and applauds. The next day, the Bush crony denies there ever was a shit.

I used to follow this stuff. If I seem like a stressed out person now, you should have seen me during the Republican National Convention. I literally reached my snapping point. I found myself standing on a chair, screaming at the top of my lungs at the television. My blood-pressure must have been at the same level as a hummingbird. Why?

OK, someone correct me if I’m off base here. The entire Republican National Convention was based on: 9/11 was tragic and Bush led us through that. The Daily Show had clips at the end counting the number of times the words “September 11th” were spoken. It had to be in the high 30s.

So here’s what led me to my meltdown: I fail to recognize how overseeing the biggest security melt-down in U.S. history is grounds for reelection. Unless the point was, "we promise not to fuck up again!" It was like Clinton running on a pro-blowjob platform. And yet the entire country just nodded and agreed. No one in the media said a thing.

The current goal in politics today is to punish you for thinking or knowing anything, so I’ve finally decided to play ball. I’ve accepted that apparently I’m the only person who pays attention and I can’t deal with that level of stress and responsibility anymore. If I didn’t quit, the only possible path for me was to take a riffle up to the old book depository.

What’s life like without politics? It’s ok. I have a lot more things to be stressed about: women, my job, the weather, car-payments and music. The only thing that’s really bad is that politics keeps poking its head up around the periphery of my world and getting my heart-level racing again. So do me a favor: don’t ask me if I watched the State of the Union Address. It should be obvious I didn’t. Why? I’m not dead of a massive coronary.