Thursday, September 24, 2009
Work Sucks
FYI: Work Sucks. I know I'm stating the obvious here, but I just needed to put it in writing.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
No Pants
No pants is totally the way to go, people. In fact, I'm sitting here right now without pants. You know why? Because it's liberating. Ever been to a no-pants party? I have. It's the only way to go. I don't think I'll ever wear pants at a party again. When I really think about it, legs are one of the most attractive parts of the body. Take Ryan Malone, for example. The man's got LEGS, goddddaaammmm. So why cover that shit when you can let it shine?
Besides Malone, some of the other party highlights included my tongue and teeth belt and pants removal, whereby I took off a naysayer's belt and pants with just my mouth, Gregory in tight blue boxers, Edith cuddling me on the bed, Alice's pink wig, Carl's dancing, NICK, hot JoMarie, suck-and-blow with Kevin (thanks!), and of course Ms. King, the guest of honor and hottest no-pants participant! Not so great were two of my fav people wearing shorts all night and refusing to let me undress them despite my best efforts (aka aggressive force and peer pressure). Oh yeah, and for the record, next time I get in a room with Jesse Lee, I'm ripping his pants off even if I have to cut them with scissors.
Besides Malone, some of the other party highlights included my tongue and teeth belt and pants removal, whereby I took off a naysayer's belt and pants with just my mouth, Gregory in tight blue boxers, Edith cuddling me on the bed, Alice's pink wig, Carl's dancing, NICK, hot JoMarie, suck-and-blow with Kevin (thanks!), and of course Ms. King, the guest of honor and hottest no-pants participant! Not so great were two of my fav people wearing shorts all night and refusing to let me undress them despite my best efforts (aka aggressive force and peer pressure). Oh yeah, and for the record, next time I get in a room with Jesse Lee, I'm ripping his pants off even if I have to cut them with scissors.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Rubdown
It seems that some of you dear readers need more blog. Like a cup of coffee in the morning or a smoke before bedtime, you now count on your daily dose of written orgasm to get you through another day. I am always here to satisfy your needs. To quote Greg Weiss, "It's hard to be clever everyday." Agreed. That doesn't mean I will stop writing. I just might not always have a joke to tell at the expense of someone else.
Yesterday was a great day in my life because I got a massage from my friend, Jack, who is a certified masseuse (what a great word, no?). Now, Jack is a petite man, fair and gentle, but goddamn his hands are magical! He is certified to teach yoga, and making eye contact with him is like looking at the face of baby Jesus. He's really incredible, and NO, I'm not in love with him, I just love what he does to my muscles. I drank a cup of chamomile before the massage and I swear I was floating through strawberry fields for a good hour and a half.
Not that it's all fun and games. Since I'm a runner and waiter, there's a lot of places on my body that were plenty tight and today I can still feel the effects of Jack's technique. My arms are sore like I was lifting weights and my lower back is going, "gee, maybe i should sit up straight more often..." Anyways, no pain no gain. Gotta take care of our bodies, and massage is so powerful and relaxing (and reasonably priced if you know the right people). So don't be a coconut. If you feel like life has beaten your spine into a wrinkled shadow of its former self, see a specialist, or ask me for Jack's number.
Yesterday was a great day in my life because I got a massage from my friend, Jack, who is a certified masseuse (what a great word, no?). Now, Jack is a petite man, fair and gentle, but goddamn his hands are magical! He is certified to teach yoga, and making eye contact with him is like looking at the face of baby Jesus. He's really incredible, and NO, I'm not in love with him, I just love what he does to my muscles. I drank a cup of chamomile before the massage and I swear I was floating through strawberry fields for a good hour and a half.
Not that it's all fun and games. Since I'm a runner and waiter, there's a lot of places on my body that were plenty tight and today I can still feel the effects of Jack's technique. My arms are sore like I was lifting weights and my lower back is going, "gee, maybe i should sit up straight more often..." Anyways, no pain no gain. Gotta take care of our bodies, and massage is so powerful and relaxing (and reasonably priced if you know the right people). So don't be a coconut. If you feel like life has beaten your spine into a wrinkled shadow of its former self, see a specialist, or ask me for Jack's number.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Karaoke
It may excite some of you readers to know that this blog will only be a fraction as negative as my posts usually are.
I've discovered a wonder cure for boredom, depression, weight gain, and dignity... Yes, I'm talking about Karaoke. The sport we all love to belittle, simply because we don't know how to play. The reason karaoke has sucked hard balls up until now is because the San Francisco karaoke scene spends too much time goofing off and not enough time pretending it's American Idol Live. My friends, that is all about to change. If you have never had the opportunity to drink at the Mel-o-Dee Lounge in El Cerrito, grab your white pants and your red jacket, and get your ass on the train tonight.
I was lucky enough to be experiencing my first nervous breakdown yesterday, which happened to be a Thursday. Instead of band practice, Bob (my spiritual guru) suggested I come to El Cerrito for a drink... "You HAVE to get out of the house, you have to, you cannot sit in your room all by yourself tonight because it will make you suicidal". Good point, Bob.
And with that I found myself at Mel-o-Dee, also known as welcome back to 1970. Whoo!
First of all, this place is in a shopping plaza with a Trader Joes, so you know I'm not expecting what happens next. The bartender, Sandy, looks like a retired Tenille, the walls are red and white embroidered patterns like a disco lounge, the furniture is all leather seats and booths... need I say more? This place stepped right out of Boogie Nights, and in fact I felt a little like Roller Girl when I was pounding back $2 cran/vodkas because it was "ladies night" wink wink.
But I promised this was about Karaoke... by 8:00 the place was jumpin' and by 9:00 I was entered to sing in a "tournament". There was actually a moderator who read us the rules, my favorite one being: "No person may leave the room to hang out at the bar during the tournament. All participants are required to be present for each performance, and must fill out the scorecard." Well, well, well. Karaoke with rules, unbelievable. The performances were incredible, including my version of George Michael's Faith. I believe I opened up the number by adlibbing, "this song isn't talking about God people, it's about Sex", and ended the number wildly gyrating on the ground. Bob, of course, sang Captain and Tenille's Love Will Keep us Together. And the girl who won, Hattie, sang Tina Turner's Proud Mary in a tight tanktop that read Barleycorns. I'd have to say the most noteworthy part of this karaoke scene was variety, all different sizes, ages, races, and hotness levels were getting up there and showing the world what's what. You're not going to get that at Silver Clouds or The Mint. On the other hand, you're also not going get stuck sleeping at the Bart station because you were still crooning the Pina Colada song when the last train left.
I've discovered a wonder cure for boredom, depression, weight gain, and dignity... Yes, I'm talking about Karaoke. The sport we all love to belittle, simply because we don't know how to play. The reason karaoke has sucked hard balls up until now is because the San Francisco karaoke scene spends too much time goofing off and not enough time pretending it's American Idol Live. My friends, that is all about to change. If you have never had the opportunity to drink at the Mel-o-Dee Lounge in El Cerrito, grab your white pants and your red jacket, and get your ass on the train tonight.
I was lucky enough to be experiencing my first nervous breakdown yesterday, which happened to be a Thursday. Instead of band practice, Bob (my spiritual guru) suggested I come to El Cerrito for a drink... "You HAVE to get out of the house, you have to, you cannot sit in your room all by yourself tonight because it will make you suicidal". Good point, Bob.
And with that I found myself at Mel-o-Dee, also known as welcome back to 1970. Whoo!
First of all, this place is in a shopping plaza with a Trader Joes, so you know I'm not expecting what happens next. The bartender, Sandy, looks like a retired Tenille, the walls are red and white embroidered patterns like a disco lounge, the furniture is all leather seats and booths... need I say more? This place stepped right out of Boogie Nights, and in fact I felt a little like Roller Girl when I was pounding back $2 cran/vodkas because it was "ladies night" wink wink.
But I promised this was about Karaoke... by 8:00 the place was jumpin' and by 9:00 I was entered to sing in a "tournament". There was actually a moderator who read us the rules, my favorite one being: "No person may leave the room to hang out at the bar during the tournament. All participants are required to be present for each performance, and must fill out the scorecard." Well, well, well. Karaoke with rules, unbelievable. The performances were incredible, including my version of George Michael's Faith. I believe I opened up the number by adlibbing, "this song isn't talking about God people, it's about Sex", and ended the number wildly gyrating on the ground. Bob, of course, sang Captain and Tenille's Love Will Keep us Together. And the girl who won, Hattie, sang Tina Turner's Proud Mary in a tight tanktop that read Barleycorns. I'd have to say the most noteworthy part of this karaoke scene was variety, all different sizes, ages, races, and hotness levels were getting up there and showing the world what's what. You're not going to get that at Silver Clouds or The Mint. On the other hand, you're also not going get stuck sleeping at the Bart station because you were still crooning the Pina Colada song when the last train left.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Goddamn Labor Day
Am I the only loser that has to work every labor day? To add insult to injury, just about everyone agrees that only shitty restaurants stay open for this holiday...
Two days ago, Sunday, which is supposed to be a day for picnics in the park followed by an evening of heavy intoxication, was neither picnicky nor intoxicating for me (unless you count getting verbally shit on as intoxicating). I spent the morning doing chores around the house and practicing music to further my awesome music career, which so far has earned me a total of $40.00. Then I set out with a stinky bag of laundry which I was actually excited to do because I thought I had a friend joining me for the festivities. Instead of that happening, I spent the afternoon alone at the laundromat wondering why I ever bother to leave the house. My laundry date cancelled on me but apparently I'm not even worthy enough of a phone call to say "I'm cancelling on you". Instead, I got to sit all by myself shirking other offers of companionship while waiting for the appropriate 2 hour window to elapse so I could make the official "fuck you" phonecall to said laundry date. After 30 minutes of back and forth insult hurling (thank you AT&T for making this all possible) it was agreed upon by both parties that we would never speak again, nor attempt any further contact. Wonder-fucking-ful. In this lovely state of positivity I prepared for my evening at work, musing all the while why my supposedly fantastic restaurant stays open on such a wonderful holiday meant to be shared with good friends and family. Suddenly, as I piled into my roommate's car with my work uniform in hand, I made a revelation that should have occurred to me long ago. My good friends and family are the people I work with, so our dear lord (that would never forsake a cheery lamb like me) bestowed a blessing in disguise as a curse by making me work both Sunday and Monday night of this year's Labor Day holiday.
I haven't had this much clarity since two Labor Days past when I ate mushrooms with Elliot and Emmanuel, and then roamed through Golden Gate park, only to discover that those little people running through the grass were actually children.
Two days ago, Sunday, which is supposed to be a day for picnics in the park followed by an evening of heavy intoxication, was neither picnicky nor intoxicating for me (unless you count getting verbally shit on as intoxicating). I spent the morning doing chores around the house and practicing music to further my awesome music career, which so far has earned me a total of $40.00. Then I set out with a stinky bag of laundry which I was actually excited to do because I thought I had a friend joining me for the festivities. Instead of that happening, I spent the afternoon alone at the laundromat wondering why I ever bother to leave the house. My laundry date cancelled on me but apparently I'm not even worthy enough of a phone call to say "I'm cancelling on you". Instead, I got to sit all by myself shirking other offers of companionship while waiting for the appropriate 2 hour window to elapse so I could make the official "fuck you" phonecall to said laundry date. After 30 minutes of back and forth insult hurling (thank you AT&T for making this all possible) it was agreed upon by both parties that we would never speak again, nor attempt any further contact. Wonder-fucking-ful. In this lovely state of positivity I prepared for my evening at work, musing all the while why my supposedly fantastic restaurant stays open on such a wonderful holiday meant to be shared with good friends and family. Suddenly, as I piled into my roommate's car with my work uniform in hand, I made a revelation that should have occurred to me long ago. My good friends and family are the people I work with, so our dear lord (that would never forsake a cheery lamb like me) bestowed a blessing in disguise as a curse by making me work both Sunday and Monday night of this year's Labor Day holiday.
I haven't had this much clarity since two Labor Days past when I ate mushrooms with Elliot and Emmanuel, and then roamed through Golden Gate park, only to discover that those little people running through the grass were actually children.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Where has all the bohemia gone?
Last night was first Thursday in my neighborhood, meaning that the local businesses display artwork made by local artists, while selling booze and food at discounted prices. This is really cool if you are a local artist, or a local resident looking to cash in on some fun. Now, I went down the block with my date to the cafe on the corner that I frequent during the week. The place was JUMPIN. The was a line out the door (mind you this place sells pints of beer for $1.75). Everyone standing in the line was gorgeous in the "I-didn't-wash-today-because-I-have-such-a-delicious-natural-scent" kind of way. Artists were painting outside on giant canvasses, leaving the intoxicating smell of spray paint all around. A few feet away, between my fav cafe and the other one on the block was an acoustic blues band! Does it get anymore bohemian than young folks doing their thing and making a ruckus on a Thursday night?
So I thought.
Turns out no matter how hard this city tries, it just cannot unclench the sphincter long enough to have a truly good time. I'm not going to say I didn't have any fun because for being nearly sober I thought the scene was pretty cool. I just got a little perturbed when one of the members of the band (the tenor clarinet player from Cafe International) asked someone not to dance in front of the band. WHAT? It was an immense buzzkill for me, and trust me, I earned that natural high. Then a few minutes later, some random guy faked like he was going to tip the band and instead stole 2 dollars out of the case! My friend who witnessed this wasn't manning up to stop the guy so he made a clean steal. But seriously? That is karmic death.
I'm willing to say that the artists and cafes are pretty awesome for starting up a first Thursday that far exceeds the scene on Geary Street by the same name. But next month I refuse to bring my manners to an event that is clearly a nod to the bohemia of 19th century France, or even 1960's San Francisco. Besides, if I have to hear one more person talk about how many thousands of dollars their "fine art" is worth, you can bet the fighter in me is coming out.
Here's some advice San Francisco: put down the weed, get a job, and quit complaining that you can't collect unemployment because you don't pay taxes. Ughhhh.
Trixie
So I thought.
Turns out no matter how hard this city tries, it just cannot unclench the sphincter long enough to have a truly good time. I'm not going to say I didn't have any fun because for being nearly sober I thought the scene was pretty cool. I just got a little perturbed when one of the members of the band (the tenor clarinet player from Cafe International) asked someone not to dance in front of the band. WHAT? It was an immense buzzkill for me, and trust me, I earned that natural high. Then a few minutes later, some random guy faked like he was going to tip the band and instead stole 2 dollars out of the case! My friend who witnessed this wasn't manning up to stop the guy so he made a clean steal. But seriously? That is karmic death.
I'm willing to say that the artists and cafes are pretty awesome for starting up a first Thursday that far exceeds the scene on Geary Street by the same name. But next month I refuse to bring my manners to an event that is clearly a nod to the bohemia of 19th century France, or even 1960's San Francisco. Besides, if I have to hear one more person talk about how many thousands of dollars their "fine art" is worth, you can bet the fighter in me is coming out.
Here's some advice San Francisco: put down the weed, get a job, and quit complaining that you can't collect unemployment because you don't pay taxes. Ughhhh.
Trixie
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Cell Phone Insurance?
For fucks sake, people. Come on. Cell phone insurance? Really? (Feel free to pause here and shout that with all the rancor and disgust it deserves.) Not only did it cost you $250.00 to buy the damn piece of plastic, but now you're supposed to pay the fuckers five extra dollars a month just so if you lose it at a club (or god forbid a taxi) you will now only have to give att or verizon or whatever other douchebag company you have $50.00 for a new phone as opposed to the original $250.00. I kid you not, these people told me the cheapest deductible is $50.00. REALLY? It's a fucking phone people! We used to buy landline phones for twenty bucks a pop, or those of us really crafty would just get an old clunker from the goodwill!
Honestly, I get why some people (johnny) need the insurance because they can't stop losing shit and these phones are motherfuckin' expensive. It seems worth it if you consider that being without a cellphone is akin to being without oxygen. You can live that way for about 5 illuminatory minutes before you suffocate and die, realizing that this whole time the joke was on you. So there's that option, there's the insurance option, or there's the don't lose your shit option, retard. All I'm saying is that the more of you assholes who give into this scheme, the more power you give to the other assholes that want to charge $250.00 for something that a small child was only paid 2 cents to make. Think about it... that's all I'll ever ask of you.
Thanks for tuning in to my first blog ever.
Honestly, I get why some people (johnny) need the insurance because they can't stop losing shit and these phones are motherfuckin' expensive. It seems worth it if you consider that being without a cellphone is akin to being without oxygen. You can live that way for about 5 illuminatory minutes before you suffocate and die, realizing that this whole time the joke was on you. So there's that option, there's the insurance option, or there's the don't lose your shit option, retard. All I'm saying is that the more of you assholes who give into this scheme, the more power you give to the other assholes that want to charge $250.00 for something that a small child was only paid 2 cents to make. Think about it... that's all I'll ever ask of you.
Thanks for tuning in to my first blog ever.
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