Hell's Coffee Table

I was walking through a Barnes and Noble recently when I happened to drift through the “Coffee Table” section. From what I gather these are supposed to be books that you leave out in the hopes of starting a conversation with socially-impaired guests. I had almost finished walking through when a book caught my eye: a coffee table book on the Holocaust.

I’ll repeat that: A COFFEE TABLE BOOK ON THE HOLOCAUST.

Who the fuck leaves that lying around? I mean really…what conversations are you starting with that book?

“Speaking of your new gas-grill, you’ll never guess how my grandfather died.”

I’ve begun working on an idea for my house: a coffee table designed strictly to make guests feel uncomfortable. The Holocaust book is first on the list. What else would be on the table? I’m glad you asked.

First of all, there’s the matter of the table itself. I figure the only way to do things right would be get one of the glass top display cases, so I could keep objects in plain view. You know, just your usual conversation pieces: a human hand, a pile of jagged pebbles marked “kidney stones,” and maybe one or two pig fetuses floating in formaldehyde.

No coffee table is complete without some sort of candy…at least, that’s what I’ve come to believe based on all the old people I’ve met. And they seem to be the only ones who have coffee tables, so I tend to believe that for the first time ever, old people know what they’re doing. And I have just the thing for uncomfortable candy.

A few years ago, a friend of mine gave me a recipe for home-made toffee sucking-candy. I did my best to follow the directions, and when I finished, I had some pretty decent looking treats. I held my nose and popped one in mouth, fully expecting to keel over dead instantly. But it actually tasted pretty good. Just as I was getting hopeful that I might not be a complete bust as a desert-maker however, I sank my teeth down and tried to bite the thing in half. Big mistake. Turns out that I had created some sort of caramel-tasting crazy glue. The thing bonded with my teeth like whores on Charlie Sheen. My jaw was instantly locked shut. I couldn’t even pry it apart with my hands. It was ten minutes before the candy dissolved and I was free to resume all those fun activities like speaking and eating solid foods.

A lot of people would have been discouraged by the beast that I'd created. I wasn’t. The first thing I did was put the candies out on the kitchen counter and wait for my roommates to come home. I figure I’d have to have a bowl full of these babies on my coffee table.

It seems like a good place for pictures too. So I’ll want an 8”x12” framed color portrait of my cock. No explanation, just proudly and unavoidably staring right into the face of company. In fact, maybe I should just swipe some of the pictures they used to scare me back in Sex-Ed and make a photo album. I can see it now: my guests, already out of sorts from the pig fetus whose eye seems to be following them about the room, reach for the untitled leather album in a vain attempt to strike up a conversation. Then they open it up, and, because I’m staring right at them, feel compelled to cover their horror and make some sort of comment.

“So…that’s Chlamydia looks like.”

One can only image what the rest of my house will be like. “Don’t worry, mom. We can have Thanksgiving at my house this year.”

Playing God

Every so often I hear talk of geneticists cracking the human genome and bringing us a whole new level privacy invasions. “It’ll be the end of birth defects and illnesses!” they crow triumphantly. Soon couples will be picking their children the way they pick a new car.

“OK, we want the “Messiah” model in Republican, the deluxe “package” and the DiMaggio upgrade. Oh yeah, and do you have that in white?”

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, people. I can’t even find someone who can install a toilet properly. Playing God might be a little over our heads. These were the same people who promised I’d be living on a Moon colony and driving a flying car by now.

Still, it creeps me out that this is something that people want to shoot for. I mean, it pretty much guarantees the end of our country and culture in the space of no more than two generations. Americans can’t figure out how to buy anything effectively. Imagine shopping for a son like an SUV. Everyone would be having cool looking but thoroughly impractical kids. They’d say “I want John Kennedy” and then be shocked when they found him banging the step-mom.

I can just picture myself walking into a doctor’s office one day and saying, “Listen, Doc. I have a few ‘touch-ups’ I want done to my kid.”

“What do you want?”

“OK, give me those red cat's eyes, wings and fire breathe.”

“I don’t know if I can, in good conscience, do that. Besides, If your child breathes fire wouldn’t you be concerned for the safety of your wife?”

“So we’ll bottle-feed that one.”

I’ve never seriously thought about naming my kid “Ehren Jr.,” but if the kid could fly and breathe fire, I may have to reconsider. Think about it. It'd be the greatest investment in history. Everyone else would be having goody-two shoes pansies. There'd be no one to stand up to little E Ju. By the time my bad-ass kid hit puberty he'd be running the country.

I can just picture company coming over while my 3 year-old, clad in a diaper, darts through the room on bat wings, sending bursts of flame after a terrorized house cat.

“Ummm...Is that…normal?” they’d ask after a beat silence, looking visibly shaken.

“Oh that’s just Ehren Junior.” I’d say. “A regular chip off the old block, that one is.” Then I’d wink. And watch as the discomfort in the room escalated.

I guess I just know how to put people at ease. But come on. What else do you expect when you give me the permission to play God?

Ehren's Guide To Creative Vandalism

I think music stars have gotten soft. Either that or their publicists have gotten better. I remember the rumors of violence, depravity, and general bad-assmanship following the bands of the 60s and 70s…During a concert in 1966, Pete Townshend (The Who) walloped drummer Keith Moon with his guitar, inflicting a black eye and leg wound that required several stitches. The members of Led Zeppelin allegedly made a groupie have sex with a fish.

What the hell do we have now? Rock stars have been reduced to biting. Of course, it’s a bit of a stretch to call Axl Rose a rock star these days. Rock stars have to actually play music. I think FOX needs to bring back celebrity boxing and put Rose against “actor” Gary Busey. Now that’s good TV. You could almost guarantee one of them losing an eye.

Only once in my life have I really been tempted to trash a hotel room. And I was seriously considering going full-blown rock star style.

I was on a trip to Italy when my plane was delayed in Paris. The airline put me up in a hotel for the night, so I figured I’d forge around and make the most of my night. Everywhere I went, the people were unbelievably helpful and nice—except for my hotel. They refused to serve me dinner 20 minutes before the kitchen closed. They forgot to call me a cab. When I asked if they knew a place where I could change money, they said, “in town.” When I asked how to get there they said, “Take a train.”

It got to the point where I was lying awake thinking of how I could further trash the room. I think people need to move beyond the simple “destroy the walls and furniture” levels and get far more creative and vindictive. Think about it: I’m sure they’ve got tons of spare desks and TVs lying around. It’s almost no effort to swap them out. What you really need to shoot for is stuff that puts a serious time, effort, and profit hindrance on the joint.

Like voiding your bowels in the closet, or slaughtering a pig on the carpet, or stuffing frozen seafood into the mattress. If you’re going to smash something, fuck the desk. Go for the two things that are going to be a complete pain in the ass to replace: the sink and the toilet. There are few “Fuck You”s to the management greater than taking a sledgehammer to their porcelain.

Next, you have to move on to the furniture. And try to be creative, people. That’s why I recommend going down to the nearest hardware store and purchasing a case of crazy glue. I suggest smearing the entire table top with crazy glue and sticking it to the ceiling.

If you want to really be a pain in the balls and have the evening free, you could pick up some supplies and hammer about 100 headless studs three-quarters of the way into the walls. Next, take your six bags of instant cement and fill the bath tub. Make sure you spill an entire can of paint on the carpet—not just one spot, because the object is to make removal of the entire thing necessary. And, because no thorough trashing is complete without swarms of things, clean the pet store out of mice, snakes and bugs. Release them into the room before you leave and let nature take its course.

This is why I need to be a rock star. It’s obvious that today’s musicians are far too busy maintaining angelic images. I want to bring serious danger back to the world of rock. I want to be the dude who gets drunk and has to be hauled out of the Grammies for throwing a whiskey bottle at a teen icon and knocking out his front teeth. I want to be that guy who does doughnuts on the lawn of writers who give my album bad reviews, goes to famous restaurants in boxers and a wife beater, and walks down red carpets with a box-cutter slicing through the ties on the “dresses” starlets are wearing.

Think about it: these days we never hear interviews with celebrities who actually speak their minds. It seems as if every single star we have is simply trying to be as bland as possible. Maybe that’s why we haven’t had a decent album or movie in the last decade. As these people act blander and blander, their art follows suit. And it’s time to take the suits away from Rock. Do your part: trash a hotel room today, and show Axl Rose how it’s done.

Fat People: Proudly Crippling Box-Office Returns Since 2003

I now understand why box-office numbers have suffered a significant decline over the past few years. Sure it’s easy to blame the movie industry for not having a single original movie or idea in the last 3 years. I mean, there’s a reason that all those cheesy 70s sitcoms went off the air. If you’re counting on “Love Boat: The Movie” to pack in audiences, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.

I went to the movies over the weekend and decided maybe the lagging sales weren’t exclusively caused by the death of creativity in show biz. Maybe it’s because audiences are getting more repulsive.

I was sitting in my seat near the front of the theater when I suddenly became aware that the theater was louder than usual. Carefully surveying the crowd I noticed a huge percentage of kids. And not just kids, infants. Strollers and carriers littered the isles while siblings perhaps two and three years removed from breast feeding tore up and down the rows screaming, whining and fighting. It’s not like I was in a Disney movie, either. I had come to see the newest Jack Black movie and was appalled by the number of kids.

Who brings infants and three year-olds to the movies? I thought about it and decided that it’s simply disturbingly anti-social behavior. Like people who walk around naked, or get obscenities tattooed on their face, or listen to country music. It’s a level of hatred for your fellow man that is rivaled only by the most horrible of prejudices. Unless you’re hating on the Dutch. Fuck the Dutch!

Where was I? Oh yes, hatred. I was sitting quietly with my friend when a family of six stumbled up the isle. They began fighting amongst themselves in a way that let everyone in the theater know that they brought a level of self-loathing to the earth that Klansmen could only dream of. The disheveled and disorderly children scattered about the adults pushed each other while the parents cursed. It’s truly disconcerting to hear parents curse each other in front of their kids.

Without so much as an “excuse me” they climbed their way over me and filled up the isle to my right. The mother, an enormous, acne-ridden woman wearing some sort of muumuu, lowered herself wheezing heavily into the chair next to me. There’s something deeply disturbing about a person who’s given up all hope of being even marginally presentable. I struggled to look straight ahead as the beast to my right shoveled pop-corn into her gaping mouth. Kernels tumbled down to the floor or spewed off into the next row when she turned to yell at her kids.

How do you not look at something like that? Everything about her appearance and behavior screamed, “Look at me!!!” It was like she was begging for a confrontation.

The lights dimmed and I tried to focus on the movie, which isn’t easy when you’re sitting next to Jabba the Hutt. At any moment I expected her to tug on a chain bound to the neck of the youngest daughter and demand that the kid dance for her. The enormous figure to my right was overflowing over the seats. The armrest had long since disappeared under a mountain of arm fat. Her elbows had cleavage that would elicit jealousy from Dolly Parton. Come to think of it, considering all the wrinkled, hanging skin, the comparison to Dolly is disturbingly accurate.

I still could have let everything slide. But then things took a turn. The beast next to me began struggling for air. Every single exhale ended in a sputtering wheeze. It continued for about ten minutes while I struggled with the impulse to win the undying adoration of the theater by strangling her with a projection reel. Then the moaning started. Each exhalation ended with a groan of effort and a sputter of saliva that I could picture sliding down her chin. I left when I felt condensation forming on my arm.

There’s a certain law that people try to follow when confronted with a person of unspeakably horrifying appearance or behavior: we all try to ignore it, or act as if we’re accustomed to it. Having lived near to New York City, I’m experienced in the art of avoiding eye contact. But enough is enough.

You should have seen the dirty looks this woman gave me when I got up and moved three seats down. The whole experience was enough to scare me out of attending movies for the foreseeable futures. I’ve decided that I’m not attending another theater unless I’m seeing NC-17 pictures. Now there’s an audience that knows how to behave. Still, I can’t help but think that if major studios really want to see a spike in ticket sales, the best option is sending a dump-truck carrying 85 gallons of congealed hog-fat to this woman’s door. If that doesn’t kill her, it should at least keep her occupied long enough to let me enjoy Superman Returns in peace.

Thanks, Oprah

Let it never be said I don’t owe something to Oprah. After all, it’s thanks to her that my legend started.

Back in high school, I had a friend whose mother was particularly bitchy. She used to tell her daughter that she was fat. She constantly demeaned her friends, and made very little secret of the fact that she despised us. Basically, she was a stuck-up white bitch whose sole purpose in life was inflicting self-esteem problems on her kids. This was such a fulltime occupation that she couldn’t even hold down a job. Instead, she stayed at home, watched daytime T.V. and yelled at her housekeeper.

At any rate, my friends and I were driving around one day when the topic of Bitch Mom came up. We understood that our friend was in a difficult situation, being torn between her friends and family so generally we tried to avoid the issue. But circumstances arose that left us with no choice but to make a stand.

Our friend had managed to procure for us several calendars featuring topless women on cars. She’d bought these for us under full view of her mother and had received no objection. That morning, however, her mother had come into her room and taken them all.

“What are you doing with them?” my friend asked.

“I’m going to give these to my friends.” Bitch Mom announced.

Now there are perhaps ten answers to that question that could’ve been substituted that I would have accepted without blinking an eye. If she had protested the idea of giving near pornography to someone else’s kid, I’d understand. If she had been opposed to the supposed degradation of women, I would have gone with it. Hell, if she had said that she needed the paper to manufacture a dildo so she could finally take our suggestion and go fuck herself, I would have cried Hallelujah.

But who would believe that her middle-aged friends were interested in topless calendars? And that’s ignoring the larger issue of:

“What friends?” I demanded on hearing a recount of the tale. “Your mom’s a raging bitch who never socializes with anyone. Gaurds at Siberian prison camps are more personable than your mother. We all know that she doesn’t have any friends.”

“Does so.”

Does not!”

DOES SO!”

“DOES NOT!”

“MY MOM HAS FRIENDS!!!”

“OPRAH DOESN’T COUNT!!!” I bellowed at the top of my lungs.

To this day, I have no clue where that line came from. It was one of those times in my life where my mouth opened and I didn’t know what was going to come out. But it cemented my legacy amongst my friends. I’m not sure if it’s really a flattering legacy, but at this point I’ll take what I can get.

So Oprah, I owe you one.”

REAL Must See TV

I really hate reality television. Not because the plastic characters and the unrealistic situations they’re placed in are so obviously distant from reality. Not even because watching human misery is the lowest form of entertainment. I hate it for a different reason. Much in the way a circumcisionist looks at a patient and wonders “what might have been,” I look at reality TV and say “if only…”

I think that reality TV is hated by many people because they feel it goes too far—I feel like it hasn’t gone far enough. Put me in charge of a TV station, and I guarantee shows that will absolutely dominate the ratings. And I’ve got a ton of them. Here are the best ones:

• 10 couples from Guatemala compete for the chance to get a green card. The competition includes drug smuggling, house-cleaning, and applying for work behind the Home Depot. The twist? The losers are immediately shipped off to military interment camps on the season finale.
  
• 10 ambitious college grads compete in a cut-throat contest to win a job as a corporate Yes Man. They’ll compete at such basic skills as weaseling out of responsibility, placing the blame on others, and being two-faced sacks of shit without a personality or opinion of their own. I can instantly nominate 5 people from my past experience that’d be perfect at this.
  
• 5 men start their own phony religion unbeknownst to the public. With the backing of some money, exposure and TV stars, they see who can convince the most people and whacked out celebrities to join. Hey, as far as I’m concerned this is exactly what’s going on with scientology.
  
• An Amputee, a Non-English speaking immigrant, two side-show freaks and a house-plant compete to be the next Governor of California.
  
• 20 beautiful women compete for the attention of one man. He’s smart, handsome, rich, and not a convicted rapist—or so they THINK. Welcome to Joe Not-A-Rapist.
  
• My next idea essentially plays out the same as the last one—only it involves 37 different forms of STDs.

I know. The real shock is that I haven’t already slick-talked my way into running FOX. I suspect that the only reason I haven’t is my inability to fit my entire tongue, nose, and head up George Bush’s ass. Isn’t that a lovely image? In fact, it’s enough to give me the idea for my last show: Who Wants to Be a Republican Shill? The winners would have to believe that every issue has only two sides, spin every world event as being anti-American, and in the last episode, be shot in the face by Dick Cheney.

My Solution To The Energy Crisis

While I was sitting in traffic this morning I solved the World’s energy problem. Every day I somehow manage to trick myself into getting behind the wheel of a car that’s essentially going to be parked on a bridge for 40 minutes in rush hour traffic. So each day I can be assured of about three quarters of an hour of uninterrupted thought. Usually, I think about boobs. Today, for some reason, it was the earth’s energy crisis.

This morning I was looking at a slender, middle-age woman driving an escalade. At least, I’m assuming that it was a woman. Really, all I saw was the top of a head and two hands clinging desperately to the wheel. In all seriousness, the driver was eye-level with the bottom of the window. I wanted to get out and give her a phonebook to sit on, but then realized that she probably wouldn’t be able to reach the pedals. In retrospect, that might not have been a bad thing. There’s generally an inverse proportion between a person’s driving abilities and price/size of their car. I notice this every time a rich woman in a Hummer switches lanes without looking, runs a light, or cuts me off while waiting for gas. Which to say every 20 seconds or so.

I’m continuously shocked by the trends in today’s automobiles. Why would people who never go off-road buy off-road vehicles? It’s not like they’re practical, or cheap on gas, or even all that nice looking. Escalades and Hummers have about as much sex appeal as an open sore. However, Americans have spoken. They've said, "Please, Big Oil, I know you're already fucking me over, but there's so much of my rectum that still hasn't been violated. Can't you fuck me so hard my children, the nation and the world feels it?"

Given the trend, I know exactly what the next big thing will be: tanks. We’ll go from one military vehicle to another. I’m talking full on bullet-proof siding, rocket-guided missiles, and side mounted machine-guns for the kids. I guarantee I could stick one of those on a Cadillac lot and the only question Yuppie America would want to know is “Can I get one in pink?”

Anyway, back to my great idea. When my car dies, I'm not getting another one. Instead, my next method of transportation, considering I have to commute over a bridge with icy water, will be a walrus. I can see it now: decked out in a scarf, riding gloves and a pair of those goggles that World War II pilots wore, I come barreling through the snow up into the parking lot at the office. Cut me off now, bitch!

Off course, with the demand for power these days, maybe I’d be better off getting about a dozen and harnessing them all to a sleigh. What’s that? Your Maserati has 400 horse power? Well, it looks like three of my walruses mistook it for a female in heat. Good luck repairing that axle and getting the smell of walrus love out of your seats! Now that’s a sight you don’t see every day: a skinny, fedora wearing Jew at the reigns of a fleet of 12 matched walri.

On Pee Wee, on Surly, on Khan and Evil Lincoln!
On Smelly, Petunia, Fat Albert and P. Hilton!
Go Isuzu! Go Shakazaramesh, in your stylish white turbans!
Now Felix and Brutus, go trash that Suburban!

Yeah, I’d pimp them out with gold tusks, and medallions. Get some leather seats and a subwoofer installed in my sleigh. My only concern is that there’d be no place to put spinners.

I guess the points of today’s post are two fold:

1. I have way too much free time.
2. Don’t just complain about the impending energy crisis. Be part of the solution.

Willis Haviland Carrier Is A God

Last June, I bought myself the greatest gift a man can get for another man. I’m talking about something that would, by comparison, make a night at the Bunny Ranch seem like the gift of Hepatitis B (although, in some cases the two are one and the same). I speak, of course, of the gift of Air-Conditioning.

Laugh if you must, but until you’ve lived through three solid months of 96 degrees and 85% humidity, you don’t really understand how fantastic a gift this was. I remember lying in my bed one night, covered in ice-filled water bottles and praying for the sweet release of death.

It seems to me like A/C is still a novel thing. Maybe because owning a unit is still so new to me. I don’t think I even owned a car with working air-conditioning until 2002. I’m sure that I was the last person in Western Hemisphere to own one. That doesn't stop me from acting as though I’m one of only three people in world who has one of these mystical devices. I brag about it to all my friends. I even tend to drop it into conversations where it has absolutely no bearing.

“Guys…I have cancer.”

“So what? I have Air-Conditioning!”

Awkward silence.

Sometimes I wonder about the man who owned the first air-conditioner. No matter how big a fortune he made, I think he was being a little short-sided on the pussy aspect of his invention. Think about: it’s 110 degrees. Women are literally collapsing in their hoopskirts around the cracker barrel at the town’s general store. Men are trying to impress the swooning ladies by comparing whose hat most resembles Lincoln’s. Suddenly, our man swoops in.

“Excuse me, madam” says Bartlebee Hupswithen, a fellow whose wagon wheels are equipped with spinners. “Mightest thou come thither and gettest thy groove-thing on athwart my mule?”

“Oh Mister Hupswithen!” proclaims Abigail Cockswollow, a lady who is so top-heavy, she looks to be in immanent danger of being toppling over. “Pray tell, is it true that your pants conceal a length of sausage greater than three hand-spans?”

“That and more, my lady.” Grins Bartlebee. “Come forgo thy hoopskirt and modesty. Let’s gettest us busy.”

“Excuse me, Abigail” says our inventor. “I’ve just completedest an aero-conditioner.”

“Fucketh me now!” demands Abigail.

Seriously, if you were the only man with an air-conditioner, the amount of women you could get would be unholy. It wouldn’t even be fair. It’s ten times the equivalent of the man who invented funk.

In my mind, the man has already been elevated to the status of God on Earth. It’s him then Prometheus then George Foreman. I’ll have you know that it’s currently 20 degrees in my bedroom right now. My dog is one nap away from being encased in ice for future generations to discover. I'm considering installing a number hooks on my ceiling in case I want to store 35 sides of beef there. And I’ve never been happier. I know a lot of people are probably thinking that I’ve gone overboard here. However, we’ll see who’s laughing when August rolls around. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go sacrifice a goat to Willis Haviland Carrier.

Room Wars II: The Empire Strikes Back

After reading yesterday’s account of my first college roommate situation, a lot of folks would be tempted to say, “Wow, I’m sure that’s the absolute worst roommate situation you were ever involved with.”

If only that were true.

My junior year of college I transferred back in the spring semester, so I was forced to throw myself at the mercy of School’s boarding department. And boy did they pick me a winner.

I first met my new roommate a day before classes began. He was a tall, dark, and brooding looking fellow. I smiled and extended my hand in greeting. He didn’t.

“Hey, it’s good to meet you.” I said, trying to ignore the fact that my handshake had rejected like a homeless guy at the Bunny Ranch. “We’re going to have an awesome room. I brought a fridge, a TV, a computer and a DVD player. Plus, I just turned 21, so we can have a fully functioning bar. Our pad is going to be absolutely TITS.”

“I can’t drink.” He responded curtly. “It interferes with my medication.”

You know, I probably should have just packed up my shit right there.

My new roommate, in addition to being as charming as a bag of rocks, suffered from Tourette’s syndrome and was a pathological liar. I'm sure Western New York has planty of relatively normal college students. But what are the odds that I'd get the only pediphile AND the only Pathological Tourrette's patient? Seriously, it's as if I had won some sort of karmic lottory. Maybe I was Hittler's roommate in a past life.

How did my roommate's two strange afflictions play out in day to day life, you ask? I’d be reading a text book, when he’d suddenly scream something. I’d say, “Jesus, are you ok?”

“Yeah,” he’d answer. “Why?”

“You just screamed, ‘fuckyourpenis!’”

“No I didn’t.”

It was truly a bizarre couple of weeks. Things didn’t REALLY get interesting, however, until his girlfriend came into the picture. That’s right; he had a girlfriend who lived about 40 minutes away. To this day, I have no clue how they got together and how they managed to stay together. Basically, she was wildly insecure regarding everything he did and said because he kept lying to her. And he, meanwhile, proceeded to lie to her about things that didn’t even matter. He lied about EVERYTHING. He lied about his classes, his meals, his hobbies...he even lied about me--while I was in the room.

Somehow, it became my job to be the fact-checker. At the end of each conversation, she’d ask to speak to me, so I could confirm everythingg that he’d just told her. It made me really uncomfortable. On one hand, I didn’t want to start a war with my roommate. After all, look how the last one had turned out. On the other hand, I felt really bad helping to screw over a wildly insecure, but otherwise well-intentioned girl. Basically, I just tried to high-tail it out of there anytime he got on the phone.

The whole situation blew sky-high one day, when I came home to find the two of them in the room.

“Ehren,” the girl asked. “Has my boyfriend hung out with ANY girls since he started living here?”

“Ummm…not that I can recall.” I answered. “He’s been the model of faithfulness. The only girl I ever remember seeing came by about two weeks ago to get a copy of a missed assignment. That’s it.”

Acid looks were directed at me from my roommate. Meanwhile his girlfriend directed a glare at him that would have melted plastic. I looked around helplessly. I was just trying to be the good guy here.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!!! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST TELL ME THE FUCKING TRUTH ONCE IN YOUR LIFE???”

“FUCK YOU, EHREN!” my room screamed, causing half the doors on the floor to open. “JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN’T FIND LOVE DOESN’T MEAN THAT YOU HAVE TO LIE TO MY GRILFRIEND IN A PATHETIC ATTEMPT TO RUIN OUR RELATIONSHIP.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m having problems finding love because you’re currently fucking every girl in a 30 mile radius. I’m beginning to wonder why you even bothered packing pants.”

With that, I grabbed my coat and headed for the nearest exit. The sounds of destruction that followed me down the stairs were enough to make any man wince. Atomic Bomb Girlfriend had just blown sky-high. Suite mates ran for the cover of their bomb-shelters.

Mr. Pathological moved out a day later. I like to think that this victory made up for my failure to drive away my first roommate. On the other hand, what does it say about me when people with neurological disorders decide that I’m too weird to live with? Just something to ponder.

Room Wars

I was writing about my high school guidance councilor yesterday and it got me thinking about a meeting my whole class had near the end of the year. We were sitting in a room and my councilor was explaining something about “getting along with new people” and how it’d be required at college, particularly when dealing with a roommate.

“Not me.” I explained proudly. “My plan is to be so repulsive and creepy that I get my own room.”

It wasn’t a bad strategy. If you’re irritating enough that your roommate drops out, you get a single for the rest of the semester. Of course, it never occurred to me that other kids had arrived at the same conclusion. The result was a hygienic and psychological game of chicken played out over the first three weeks of school.

I stopped giving him his messages. He stopped bathing. I started hiding his belongings the room. He chased a girl from my room, threatening to rape her.

Clearly this was someone who was more committed to privacy than I was. It occurred to me that I might be overmatched.

He stopped doing laundry, going to class and started watching me sleep. He also began suddenly standing up and looking nervous each time I entered the room. It was the look of a man who’d been caught masturbating to pictures of his mother.

I started to weaken. I mean…I wanted my own room, but I wasn’t ready to give up my social life like this guy. Then I stopped wondering if my roommate was trying to scare me off, and started thinking that the act was genuine. Seriously, if you’re willing to give up sleep and stare at another dude for hours on end just for effect, who know how far you’d be willing to take this? Tonight he’s watching me sleep, tomorrow I might find him in bed with me.

The final straw came one night when I sat down in front of my computer and started clearing off the memory. Out of curiosity, I looked through the internet history. It was then that I happened on perhaps two hundred sites featuring prepubescent kids and bestiality. That was it for me. Ten minutes later I was pounding on the door of the R.A. demanding, “You have to get me the hell out of there NOW!”

Once pictures of crying ten year-olds being sodomized came into the equation, I decided that I just wasn’t willing to take the chance that he was messing with me. That’s my limit. Coincidentally, you’ll never guess what he was there to study. That’s right, Elementary Education. Keep you eyes open. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a news story about him any day now.

I guess the whole point of this story is: thank God colleges try to match likeminded people together. Otherwise, I might have been might have been paired with some freak.

Asshole Blogger By Day, Felon-Thwarting Triceratops By Night

Every year, my boss makes me hand in a self-evaluation of how I’ve done since my last review. In addition, I’m expected to come up with an answer for the question that’s plagued me since Junior High: Where do you see yourself in 5 years?

How the hell is anyone supposed to answer that? The first time I heard the question at the office, I groaned and asked my boss, “Is this one of those ‘what-do-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up’ meetings?”

“Yeah, sorta” she responded after a second.

“Look,” I told her. “I’m just going to give you the same answer I gave my high school guidance councilor. It’s the same thing I wanted to be since I was four: Crime-Fighting Dinosaur. Can I go back to work now?”

Needless to say, I didn’t get along well with my guidance councilor. Actually, she might well have been the most hypocritical, two-faced, useless person ever to draw air. She once confronted someone from our school and asked if he had ever done drugs. He answered, “uh…yeah, a few years ago I smoked pot a couple times.” She promptly made arrangements to have him expelled if he didn’t go to rehab. Then she called the parents of all his friends and told them not to let their kids hang out with this “junky.”

As charming as all that sounds, however, my defining memory of her will always be this:

She had arranged for a bunch of pointless, uppity liberal arts schools to send representatives to come and speak to our class in 11th grade. So every few weeks another guy in a sports coat would come and explain how Oberlin students really “followed their souls to education.” Really? Because during college my soul was leading me to sleep with as many women as possible, while under the watchful eye of Professor Jack Daniels.

At any rate, we were allowed to skip classes to attend these propaganda sales pitches. So, in a desperate attempt to skip 4 period French, I tried to enter a meeting. There were already perhaps 10 people in the room, when Mrs. “I’m watching Out for Your Future” blocked my way. “Ehren, you can’t come in here.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded. “I’m genuinely interested in Middle Upper Ivory Hawthorn College.”

“Back to class, Ehren. They don’t want your kind here.”

To this day I have no idea what she meant by “my kind.” I’m going to assume she meant people with huge cocks.

I’ve decided that my life is way too hectic to be planning out five years down the line. How the fuck should I know where my path will lead me? I imagine that by then I’ll have been fired. I’m not sure for what yet, though. I keep going back and forth between “Assault with the paper-cutter” and “Sex on the boss’ desk during my lunch break.” But like I said, I guess I won’t know for certain until I get there.

I’ve found that a lot of people like to make plans for way down the road. Women in particular like to ask “do you think we’ll get married someday?” or something to that extent. My answer is usually, “Yeah. But 5 years ago I thought I’d be an international Rock Star by now.”

And it’s not intended as a slam against them. Because I’m not being insincere. I’ve just always found that my life takes some very strange right turns. Example: I currently work for a fairly substantial internet company that in turn is owned by an enormous corporation. You know where I worked before this? I DROVE TRUCKS. Before that? I worked in a library. Before that? I built guitars.

I guess I’m not good at plans. Or maybe, my life doesn’t seem to follow plans well.

The 50 Year Itch

I was trying to describe the male orgasm to a woman and I realized that there’s just so much about sex from a male perspective that’s almost impossible for women to understand. To REALLY understand what it’s like when a guy blows his load, you can’t just look at the sensations afterwards, or the actions leading up to it. You have start YEARS earlier.

Imagine that one day you wake up with an itch in the middle of your back. Not just any itch, an itch that’s so intense that it’s almost painful. You flail around with your arms for a while but it’s precisely in a spot that can’t be reached no matter how you bend. So you go out and buy a backscratcher, but no matter how hard you rub, the itch won’t go away. Finally, you go to a doctor who tells you that the only way to eliminate it is to get someone of the opposite gender to scratch it for you…only by this time you’re back is so disgusting from scratching that anyone you show it to runs away screaming.

All day long, all you can think about is how much you need to be scratched. Still, you somehow get your shit together enough to keep a job, pay your bills, and maintain some sort of social life. Years go by. Finally, you manage to pretend to some one that you’re not really thinking about this terrible affliction that gnaws at you night and day and they agree to take your shirt off, and scratch your back.

Can you imagine that feeling?

It’s the feeling of having an overwhelming, irresistible thirst. Something so powerful, that it’s driven your consciousness and actions almost exclusively for the past 15 years has finally been satisfied in that split second of orgasm. It’s a feeling that started when you woke up that morning, intensified throughout the day, climbed to an unbelievable level of need during sex and the second that orgasm washes over you, it’s completely washed away. Essentially it’s as close to a 180 degree change that can be obtained.

For a few minutes you’re free. You have time to relax, be content, stretch out, get a glass of water…then the itch comes back and the whole thing starts all over again.

That’s really what the male orgasm is like. I don’t think women really experience it the same way. Yeah, they can stack their orgasms one on top of another, but they don’t get that sudden sensation of “Holy shit! I’M FREE!”

The point of this whole explanation is really this: girls, don’t be so hard on stupid guys. We’re stuck in that awkward period we through between puberty and death. Plus, the few moments of clarity we have in our lives are nearly always interrupted by requests for cuddling.

Lip-Service Lesbians

A few years ago I was dating a girl who called me up and announced, “I think I want to sleep with a girl.”

“OK.” I said. “I think I want to buy some more khakis. I like them.”

“That’s it?” She demanded. “I tell you that I think I’m having a life-altering sexual transformation and you say you want to buy new pants!!!”

“I heard you. Go nuts. I hope you see more carpet than the groundskeepers at the Metrodome.”

“Why aren’t you jealous?”

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha. You’re bisexual. I think that’s adorable! Have fun. All I ask is that you promise me ‘no fisting.’ When you come running back to men, it'll seriously kill the mood to find a watch around my cock.”

“How do you know I’ll come back to men?”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! That’s hysterical. I’ve got class. Talk to you later.”

I’m not sure why it is that girls think it’s some huge event when they announce they’re bi-curious. It’s about as rare as another internet porn site. “You’re bi? Wow, welcome to 90% of the female population.” And I’m really not shitting on you bi-curious girls. You want to try it? Go for it. But stop expecting anyone except your parents to be surprised.

I have nothing but respect for girls who are fed up with men. But I generally have a hard time being threatened by it. Maybe it’s me being sexist. I’ll admit that I don’t really see girl-on-girl action as “real” sex. That doesn’t mean that I don’t download hundreds of clips onto my computer for “recreational” purposes. But it does mean that I wouldn’t take it too hard if a girl I was seeing announced she wanted to experiment.

Here’s the line of reasoning that women go through as I see it:

Guys are assholes and idiots. Plus they’re kind of weird to look at. Women are way hot, plus I understand how they work. This is the best decision I ever made!

In theory it’s a great plan. But for the casual bisexual, they’re really overlooking a few of huge facts:

1. Women are WAY crazy. And don’t think that just because you’ve been friends with them for years that you understand what goes on with carrying on a relationship. The jump from friendship to fucking is the difference between waving at a kid on the street and adopting.
2. WOMEN ARE CRAZY. I mean REALLY crazy. And you know what? Not all the lunatics in the asylum understand the other psychos.

I don’t mean to demean straight up lesbians, because I think that’s another thing entirely. And I certainly don’t intend to mock bi-sexuals, either. But come on, it’s a whole lot easier for women to decide that they want to fool around with other girls than it is for men. I don’t care what you say: penetration is a whole new level of commitment. And I’m not alone on this either. As always, the world of porn has shown the rest of us the way.

Upcoming actresses generally balk at hard-core scenes initially. But they have no problem dyking it up onscreen at the first sign of a paycheck. It’s only after the weight of a thousand sex scenes has broken their souls, addicted them to drugs, and completely devoured any life behind their eyes that they agree to do hardcore. If girl on girl sex was really as important, as “meaningful” girls wouldn’t distinguish between the two. But once you start making distinctions like “penetration is more hardcore than eating out” you’ve just fleshed out a ranking system about what sexual acts are more intimate.

Essentially here’s my stance: if you’re female and you think being bi makes you “unique” and “special” I suggest a quick tour of the internet. You’re not a snowflake—you’re a college kid who’s bored with dick and thinks that women have fewer issues than men.

World Cee-U-Pee

So the World Cup is on us again. This is an event whose purpose seems to be to bring as many angry Europeans together in enclosed spaces and rile them up as much as possible. It’s like they took two tribes of those South American war ants they’re always showing on the Discovery Channel, placed them in a glass ant farm and shook the thing like mad.

I’m a pretty big baseball fan…but I’ve never actually felt the urge to come to blows with fans of a rival team. From what I gather about Soccer, the premise is that if you attend a game without taking the life of at least 4 other individuals you’re a poseur.

Really the only thing I have to compare that level of fanaticism to, are Bills fans up near Buffalo. Every single day, regardless of season, the Buffalo Bills are the front page of the sports section in Buffalo. Mark McGuire broke Roger Marris’ single season homerun record? Who cares? Our third-string running back has a new work-out regiment. Anything less than four articles about how this affects the team would be criminal. Michael Jordan’s come out of retirement? Sure, I guess that’s interesting, but where would we put our 12 page spread on the trainer’s switch from Advil to Tylenol? I mean for a team who did nothing but finish second place (which is just a fancy way of saying “loser”) the level of coverage is completely absurd.

I’ve actually been to a soccer game before. Apparently it’s all the rage over in Rochester, NY. (And if it’s popular in Rochester, all I can say is “Watch out Utica!”) I watched the game for a while and finally asked, “How many teams are out there?”

“Only two. The refs wear different color uniforms.”

“Why are there three guys named ‘Renaldo’? Don’t these people have first or last names? Are they like ‘Cher’ or ‘Sting’?”

“I don’t know…that’s just the way it’s done.”

“Hey, did that guy just give Renaldo 3 a green speeding ticket?”

“They’re called ‘cards’ in soccer.”

“The irony of this situation is that’s the only green card Renaldo will ever get.”

There was a lot more, but essentially this is what I learned about the game:

1. It’s some primitive form of “Land Hockey.”
2. Except no one carries sticks.
3. The only time you’re allowed to use your hands is flail femininely at your opponent when you think the ref’s not watching.
4. Unless you’re a goalie. If you’re a goalie, you have to prove that you’re cooler than the rest of the players by wearing a different color uniform.
5. The game is basically 4 hours of men in gay short shorts running through a field interspersed with scoring celebrations.
6. Said celebrations entail more running through the field and engaging sweaty, lingering man-hugs.

I guess I just don’t get Soccer. Not that Soccer fans should be all that upset. It's only one of a long list of sports and "pseudo-sports" whose purpose eludes me. Rather than single them all out, I'll just say this: If the only thing preventing females from stepping into the ring and wiping the floors with you so called "professionals" is bigotry and the fear of being exposed as the nansies that you are, give up the dream, man. Seriously, stop calling it a "sport" and admit that you're just a bunch of homoerotic hacks whose "talent" is roughly as impressive as learning all the languages from “Star-Trek.” You’re not an athlete: you’re just a loser with a moderately entertaining party trick.

FYI, I still call tennis “Land Pong.”

Uppity White Women, Please Stop Trying To Sing

Why, I almost thought that we made it past 6/06/06 without the apocalypse. Then this happens. Damn you, Satan! How’s that quote go again? “From Hell’s creamy, nougat center, I stab at thee!” Look, I skipped lunch.

I like going to concerts. I’ve been fortunate in my lifetime to see a bunch of shows that have absolutely kicked ass. However, I have a hard time imagining people getting all pumped up to attend Barbra Streisand. I mean…is it REALLY going to be that different from listening to her shitty music on an eight-track?

Here’s the thing: when music sucks on your CD player, it sucks 300 times harder live. That’s just the way it is. Those of you who read my blog regularly know that I’m not exactly the most even-tempered, live-and-let-live dude under the sun. I like to think that’s why you keep checking back here. (Hey, I wonder if that crazy, foul-mouthed Jew has finally flipped out and shot someone.) You can only imagine what I’m like when I’m drunk and attending a show.

Heckling is a fine art. You want to make sure that you’re relentless, being heard by the band, and obliterating all lines of decency and common courtesy. Hey, it’s what I do. If a band or performer is smart, they won’t even acknowledge me. If they do, it’s all downhill from there.

Generally, I have respect for musicians…however my patience, respect, (and occasionally bladder control) are all severely impaired by alcohol. As is my ability to make sense. Here are some of the lines I’ve used to heckle:

“You sing like Shatner!”
“Yanni rocks harder than you!”
“Go back to Russia!”

Honestly, I don’t even know where the last one comes from. I’m sure it made sense to me at the time.

However, I was thinking recently about one particularly sucky band and whether it’s worth it to actually attend strictly for heckling purposes. The situation is this:

I went to high school with an absolute cunt of a girl. And I don’t say that word lightly. There are perhaps three or four women on the planet that I reserve that term for. This girl was a cunt: rich, snotty, always talking down to people…just a spoiled, stupid bitch. Let’s call her “Misty.” She’s actually the niece of someone famous...At any rate; it came to my attention a few years back that she’s in a band with her sister. I found out this way:

Ring. Ring.
Me: Hello?
Random whore from high school who I don’t speak to: Hey, Ehren! How are you?
Me: Um…who is this?
Girl: It’s [insert uppity-white girl name here].
Me: ok? What the hell do you want?
Girl: Well, remember Misty? She’s in a band and guess what?
Me: They got shot by Suge Knight?
Girl: They’re playing in our hometown! I was thinking that we could round up some people and support them!
Me: OK, do you even remember who I am? I HATE that bitch! What have I ever done to convince you that she isn’t someone I pray gets raped? Are you PSYCHOTIC? Can you remember a single instance when she was even tolerant towards me?
Girl: Ummm…wow…ok…
Me: Tell you what, let me see if I can find Buddy Holly’s travel agent. I’ll set the two of them up.

So I’ve learned that this terrible person is fronting a band that will be playing at a school festival (sounds like they’re shooting right to the middle. Ooooo…High Schools! How’d they ever get that gig?). It’s the type of place where families sit on blankets, sip lemonade and get their face painted. The only question is: am I THAT dedicated to making a chick from High School cry? Because I’m seriously considering breaking out rotten fruit.

The only drawback to my plan (other than the possible jail time for disturbing the peace, and depending how worked up I get, public nudity) is that it would mean letting my high school know that I’m still alive. See after I got that call, I found out that my parents had been keeping the place up-to-date with my personal information. I went home and told them:

“Listen, if anyone else calls about me; tell them I was killed in a tragic ballooning accident. Tell them my dying wish was that they carve me a memorial statue.”

I was thinking that maybe I’d change my story to, ‘Ehren’s a 9 time World Kickboxing Champion. He’s dedicated his life to walking the earth and righting that which is wrong.’

That ought to make for an interesting snippet in the alumni bulletin.

How I Passed Calculus

I was speaking to a friend a while ago and she mentioned that her boyfriend had told her, “Some men just can’t last long in bed. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

I’ll be honest, I’m not really up on the whole “premature ejaculation” line of literature, but that sentence just smacks of pure laziness. I’ve often said that if you’re going into sex just looking for personal satisfaction, you’ve got the wrong outlook. Honestly, if I were just looking for an easy orgasm I’d be better off doing it myself.

When it comes to sex, we guys are pretty easy to please. Sometimes I’ve had women who say to me, “What can I do for you?” I keep telling them not to worry. I’m a guy. I know I’m getting off. Unfortunately, this is a blessing and a curse. While I’m assured of getting where I want to wind up, it means that I have to pace myself and take my partner into consideration.

Look, we guys have all seen the movies of porn stars pounding away like jackhammers. There’s a time and a place for that…but you’re probably not going to be able to keep that up all day. So pacing yourself is an important factor. Plus, if you start fast and hard you’ve got no where to go at an unexpected moment to drive her crazy. Plus, that’s how latex burn happens.

All guys have a decision to make eventually: do I get that post-coital smoke fired up, or do I change things up so I can keep going? If I’m getting really good personal results out of a certain angle or position, I file it away for future reference and switch to something different. I like to find a spot where she’s having fun and I can sort of relax and not worry about how long I can last.

Of course, sometimes there’s nothing for it but to start the mind working. Girls ask me what I think about during sex, and the answer is usually:

“Baseball. The weather. Videogames. Math. TV series'. The Trade-Deficit” Hey, I’ve even mentally recited poetry during sex. I’ve composed essays for class while engaged in reverse cowgirl. In fact, I probably would have failed out of school if it hadn't been for the study time I put in while between a woman's thighes.

"Oh baby, I love your cock! Talk dirty to me!"
"Acceleration is defined as the rate of change (or derivative with respect to time) of velocity! It is thus a vector quantity with dimension length/time²!"
"That's right, stud! Slap my ass!"

Maybe that’s part of what women don’t understand about their bodies. The hotter they are, the LESS I really look at them during sex. Because one minute everything is cool, then I notice how perfect their breasts are and BAM--I'm lying there trying to figure how long I have to cuddle before I can go take a leak.

Lastly, a guy who says that men can’t control themselves needs to learn this: Just because you’ve fired torpedo one, doesn’t mean that your attack is over. It simply means it’s time to get your second missile primed for firing. There’s no reason that a guy can’t go twice at least once in a while. I actually prefer that. By round two, I’m generally desensitized so much that I could be making love to a rusty zipper with roughly the same sensation.

Speaking of a lack in sensations in that general area, one time I was hanging out at a friend’s house with a girl I knew. One thing lead to another and over the course of the evening it was made clear to me that she had activities in mind for me that did not involve studying, hanging out, or clothing. All was well, until I realized that I had no condoms. So before I left, I discretely pulled my friend aside and asked if he had any protection.

“Sure.” He said, and handed me a few condoms. I shoved them into my pocket without examining them.

Later that night, in a position that would make a gymnast wince, I suddenly became aware that I couldn’t feel anything. I mean ANYTHING. It was like my nether regions had fallen asleep. A few minutes later, my ability to perform had gone the way of my enjoyment in the act. I started to freak out, then went and checked the wrapper on the condom. It read:

New Climax Control.

Essentially, they were Novocain filled rubbers. Finally, when I stopped laughing at my friend’s prank, I sat the girl down and explained what had happened. She tried her best to revive feeling, but the only result was her tongue going numb. Ah, good times.

So ladies, the next time a guy says, “we men just can’t control ourselves.” I suggest that mid-thrust you fake one of those orgasms the way you do, roll over, light a cigarette and say, “Sorry. I couldn’t control myself. Maybe we can get you off next time.”

It's The End Of The World As We Know It...

Today being 6/6/06 I spent much of my afternoon awaiting the sweet release of the apocalypse. It’s about 4:30 PM as I write this, so I’m assuming that the four horsemen aren’t coming today. Then again, perhaps they’re just biding their time until 6:06. If the end of the world is really coming at 6 tonight, I’m going to be pissed. That would mean I suffered through a whole day of work for nothing.

I was scanning the headlines all day waiting for “The dead have arisen the seas are flowing with blood.” Because the second that news item flashed across the screen, I was high-tailing it to three places. In order they’d be:

1. The emergency kit in the trunk of my car.
2. A 6 hour alcohol-fueled, whoring, looting and arson rampage.
3. The closest church so I could convert and repent my sins.

I’ve got my priorities straight.

Seeing as how the end of the world is noticeably absent, I guess this means my rampage will have to be put on hold. Then again, maybe it’s high time I get a head start on the inevitable looting. Look, one way or another, I’m burning SOMETHING down tonight.

I’ve always been a bit of a morbid mother-fucker. When I was in high school I was convinced that it was my destiny to be a famous rock star and then die at 30. I used to joke all the time about my death. I had all sorts of scenarios picked out for it.

When picking a death for a rock star, it’s important to pick one that really sums up the lifestyle and upholds an impossibly cool image. Rock stars die all the time, but not all of them get it right. Here are the worst rock and roll deaths:

1. Elvis: Not even close. There’s absolutely nothing cool about dying on a toilet 30 years after your peak.
2. Terry Kath (from the band Chicago): the dude was a gun nut and liked to carry pieces of his collection around with him. Very drunk at a party he pulled one and held it to his head before uttering his final words, “Don’t worry, it’s not loaded.” Fucktard.
3. Mama Cass/John Denver: Ham sandwich/own incompetence in piloting a plane. Either way, it’s not glamorous.

So I figured that when I died, it had to be memorable and very elaborate. Here’s what I decided on:

I would be playing a show to a sold-out outdoor arena. There’d be about 100,000 people rocking out under the sky. Suddenly, the stars are blotted out. Is that a meteor hurtling towards earth? The audience and the band are too locked into the music to care.

Meanwhile, a quarter of a mile away, the engineer on a military train succumbs to a rare tropical disease. He pitches forward and bleeds through every orifice, ruining the controls. The train lurches forward at a suicidal pace.

Meanwhile, 20,000 feet above on a cargo plan of exotic animals, all hell breaks loose when 2 rhinos, four lions, 70 king cobras and a great white shark manage to escape. The crew has no choice but to abandon ship. The plane lurches towards the stage.

The meteor rips through the plane's fuselage and the whole thing ignites.

The train jumps the tracks and hurtles towards the arena where an oblivious rock god is playing the greatest song ever heard: women weep, and tear their clothes. Men bow down and worship.

The animals, crazed by fear and smoke charge, leap, slither, or thrash to freedom.

The guitar player plucks the last, glorious chord and an instant before the audience can respond in adulation, the great white, two lions, the cobras and a rhino bite, maul, poison and gore him. Before anyone can rush forward the train annihilates half the stage. Emergency teams arrive on the scene seconds after the cargo jet levels the rest of the stage and ignites a nearby gas line. The fire ball is seen for miles.

Now that’s a death worth looking forward to. If the end of the world doesn’t happen first, that is.
Speaking of rock stardom, I’ve been asked recently about what direction my band is going in. I’ve stumbled on the perfect stock reply:

“Yeah, we’ve always tried to model our career after Great White.”

What can I say? I’m a classy son of a bitch.

The Fast and the Uxorious

Uxorious means "pussy-whipped" by the way. I know it's a stretch, but I couldn't come up with anything else that rhymes.

This weekend I asked myself, “How confident am I with the size of my penis?” and headed out car-shopping. I wonder if a century ago men looked to buy horses based on the same criteria.

Women can say what they want about how silly men get about their rides, but they secretly judge guys based on what they roll up in. Maybe it’s not even a conscious thing. But all I know is that the looks I got rolling around in the Mustang Convertible I rented out west were far different than what I got when driving my brother’s busted up Chevy Nova. Yeah, apparently women are not driven wild by rust spots and black clouds of exhaust fumes.

I’m not really motivated to go crazy with my ride. I see a lot of people racing around in the dumbest looking tricked out rides ever. Let me explain something about where I live: we have road work going on pretty much year round. But the only purpose of the work is to hold up traffic: they never actually repair anything. Meaning that all those idiots with the low ride vehicles are pretty much confined to parking lots. There’s a dude I’ve seen a few times who’s got a rear spoiler that’s about four feet high. It’s enormous. The funny part is he mounted it on a brown mid 90s Saturn. These people are lunatics.

My favorite all time moment regarding these fruitcakes was this:

I was driving up the main drag in a white ford ranger. The back was filled with car parts and the front door had a huge dent on it. The truck was about as sexy as Judi Dench. At any rate, I was sitting at a light when a kid pulled up next me in an absurdly low and ugly yellow car. It had black stripes and a spoiler that looked like it had been pulled off a jet. I was spacing out, listening to my music when I noticed that the kid next to me was staring me down. I looked over and without breaking eye-contact he starting shaking his head in contempt like he was saying, “What, bitch?” Then he revved his engine.

I died laughing. I actually pointed and laughed so hard I cried. The kid looked flustered, but honestly, I’m not sure what the fuck he was expecting. I mean, old ladies on mopeds could have out-raced the truck. Still, he felt like his honor had been challenged, so when the light turned green, he floored the gas and promptly stalled out. I left a cloud of exhaust fumes for him and headed on down the road.

One of my friends had the right idea about what to do should he ever become wealthy. It was his dream to one day mount a jet engine in the back of mid 80’s dodge caravan. You know the kind: sliding door, wood panel, rear windows designed to suffocate kids in the summer. He’d leave the outside completely stock and have a separate ignition for the Cessna engine. Then he’d cruise up and down the streets looking for one of these loser kids to race. Imagine for a second that you were a single, unemployed 25 year-old who’d spent 15 grand and four years turning a Honda into a racer. Then you get dusted by an old dude in a minivan. After that the only move is to turn in your license, sell your car and resign yourself to riding bikes for the rest of your life. And by “bikes” I mean the kind with a basket and hand bell on the front.

Rock N' Roll Molestation

From time to time (being the guitar-player/singer in a band), I get asked about groupies. Supposedly women are driven wild by a man playing an instrument. You know: good rhythm, strong hands, that kind of thing. To date, my experience with girls throwing themselves in my direction as a result of my musical abilities has been disappointing to say the least. Maybe I have to practice more.

I had just finished playing, one night a few years ago, when a woman of approximately 45 approached me. And by “approached” I mean walked up until her nose was about a quarter of an inch from mine. She stared at me unsteadily for a few beats before slurring, “Yer cute. Ima buy you a drink.”

“That’s ok,” I gasped around the overpowering stench of tequila, hairspray, and cheap perfume. “I have to get up early tomorrow and I really shouldn’t drink anymore.”

“Ima buy you something,” She insisted. “And yer gonna drink it. So you might as well tell me what you like.”

I got the feeling that this wasn't a battle I could win. So I gave her my order and tried to give her the slip.

I somehow managed to wedge myself into a booth with the rest of my band mates, throw a hat on and crouch down. It was no use. It was as if she could smell fear. There was only about 2 inches of free space on the bench next to me, which I figured would prevent me from being accosted by a woman roughly the same age as my mom. Oh how wrong I was.

“I’m back!” she crowed happily, parking herself in my lap. She had with her what appeared to be a pint glass of Southern Comfort. Not to mention a face like a baseball mitt. She locked eyes with me and I squirmed uncomfortably as she handed me a piece of paper with her phone number. I quickly made an excuse about having to go to the bathroom. I was making exaggerated eye-motions to my friends hoping they’d take the hint and help me sneak out the back. They stared back at my obliviously. Perfect.

The second I had gotten up from the table, she leaned towards the drummer and announced, “Your friend’s hot. I'm going to take him back to my apartment for some hot and dirty sex.”

What the hell are you supposed to say to that?

After exhausting every possible escape route and excuse, I returned. On my way back to the table I felt eyes burning into my head. I glanced over and saw a dude wearing a leather jacket. The guy was in his late forties and weighed about 260 pounds. His beard, jacket and demeanor all screamed “Don’t fuck with me.” I suddenly realized that this night was about to go from bad to worse.

“Well guys,” I announced. “I gotta head home.”

“So soon?” purred the burn-out from the Johnson administration. “How about I drop my old man off and come pick you up?”

“Your old man?” I asked weakly.

She nodded in the direction of the leather jacket. I glanced over at what I expected to be the source of my imminent demise, and she used my moment of preoccupation to launch herself into my arms.

The man in the leather jacket stood up.

I stopped struggling, realizing that he might get the impression that I was trying to get a feel of 50 year old breasts, and instead raised both hands in the air. It was the universal sign for “See where my hands are? HELP!”

He pried her off me and started yelling at her. For the 800th time that night I looked over at my friends and made eye-contact. This time they got. Five seconds later, a scene from Dukes of Hazard exploded in the parking lot. I flung my self and my guitar through an open window and screamed, “DRIVE, DRIVE, DRIVE!" A few yards behind us, Mr. Leather Jacket was pounding pavement shaking his fist. A few yards behind her, Mrs. Old Enough to Be My Mother was yelling after me to call her. At least, I think that’s what she was yelling. About halfway through, she leaned against a car and was violently ill. It was the first time all night that I shared her feelings exactly.

And that, my friends, is the story of the only real groupie I’ve ever encountered. Sometimes I wonder, “What if that’s the only kind of female fan I ever attract?” And then I have a horrible vision of playing a show for 50,000 screaming, topless 50 year-olds.

I guess what I’m saying is, being a Rock God ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Keep rockin’, bitches! See you next week!

God Kicks Me In The Balls, Part LXXIV

Have you ever had one of those days were it seems like the purpose of the Universe is divinely and expressly bent towards kicking you in the teeth? I’ve heard the saying, “Bad things come in threes.” Why the fuck can’t spectacularly GOOD things come in threes. Like double-jointed, playmate, Japanese triplets? Or the rack on the girl from Total Recall? Why do you always have to come home to, “Hey, your house is being repossessed, you’re being arrested for treason in Iran, and your ex-girlfriend left a message to tell you that you need to get tested for AIDS”?

The worst part for me is when two bad things happen. I’ve heard the damn expression so many times that all I do is stress out waiting for that last thing to blow up, break-down or nest in my urinary tract. It’s like the universe is just fucking with: watching me squirm before crushing another one of my dreams.

Today, The Powers That Be decided to fuck with my wallet, my ride and my creative outlet. And it’s put a huge crimp in my day, month and summer. But I know I’ll live. I just wonder why everything has to blow up on the same day inside of an hour and a half.

Three hours ago I was a fairly prosperous band leader who owned a car free and clear. Now I’m broke, without a car and my band has been fucked up the day before a show. It’s like I’m back in high school again…only without the acne.

For specifics (I know, super boring personal shit that’s not interesting. But if I’m going to spend this much time bitching, I might as well let you know WHY), here’s the full deal:

• My car needs a new transmission. This is bad not only because it wipes me out and destroys my social life for the next two weeks, but because it also annihilates my vacation funds for the end of the summer…I have one word for you: Vegas.
  
• My band is scheduled to play its first two shows tomorrow night and Saturday night. An hour ago I got an email—an EMAIL—from the singer, letting me know that she’s quitting the band. Who the fuck quits a band the day before a gig? Do you have any idea how fucked up that is? That’s like breaking up with your girlfriend the day before prom.

At times like this, there’s really only one thing you can do to release your anger: fall to your knees in a public place, turn your palms and visage skyward and scream at the top of your lungs:

“KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!!!”

At least, it always helps to cheer me up.

I know that the universe will eventually lift its foot to stop grinding my testicles into the pavement. Karma and all that. But the divine force of the Universe is going to have to work pretty fucking hard to put things back on the plus side for me after today. Karma has some serious fucking boot-licking ahead of itself. It can start with all those birthday presents that I never got (hello Teddy Ruxpin, Atari, and Hungry, Hungry Hippos!) and work its way up to making my semen taste like freshly-squeezed strawberries. Then a series of unlikely coincidences could lead to me being awarded sole ownership of Halliburton, Maui, and the Hope Diamond. I figure that will just about put us square-sies.

Until then, Karma, I’ll be right where you left me: crushed, broke, and confined to my room like a dateless high-school-er.