Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Prelude to Scottsdale Stories

Quazar works as a consultant, and a little over one year ago, he was placed on a project in Scottsdale. Soon after I arrived, I took my first trip to visit him. To be more specific, Qz flew me out there. As a consultant working off-location, Quazar is entitled to certain privileges. Certain absurdly awesome privileges that is. First and foremost, he possesses the power of free flight. Once a week, he can fly himself, or anyone else, anywhere in the world. Second, he doesn't have to pay for his living expenses- his apartment is furnished and paid for by the company* he works for. He even gets $40 a day for food. So even though my mortgage business was going down the drain, I jumped at the chance for a free vacation to Arizona.

I was living in NYC at the time, and was just beginning to crest the top of the rollercoaster, awaiting the imminent freefall that has punctuated the end of my stay in every city in which I've resided. I was never suited to sell mortgages, I never really worked hard at it, and a mere 6 months after moving to this luxury apartment building, I was finding that my monthly income was around zero. Not very helpful when your rent is $1425/month.
Striker and I were working as partners in the mortgage business. I wasn't making money, which meant that he wasn't making any either. The insanely high cost of living in NYC had put us back into the familiar territory of the conservation mentality, which we had honed to a fine sheen in Miami. Money was reserved for booze first and food second. It was becoming an ugly scene.
To make matters worse, Striker was often having to grapple with a spiny black demon. A demon so foul as it was marinated in the tonsils of the Satan himself, accumulating the powers of his putrid, evil breath. For the first months of our stay in NYC, this beast lay dormant, but as the winter turned colder, so too did its soul, and it was becoming more powerful and of surer foot with each passing day. The only thing that could alleviate the icy grip of the demon's dark shadow was the emergence of a very strange and fascinating man named Gark. But all this will be explained later in great detail, when I begin the New York City stories. The bottom line is, "Browntown", as our apartment was known, was not a happy place to be. And so when Quazar used the power of free flight to bring me out and help him get a feel for the city, it was a very welcome change for me.

A 5 hour plane ride took me from the cold and dreary NY to the shining sun and blue skies of Arizona. Quazar had a very nice apartment which he didn't pay for, a nice rental car which he didn't pay for, and he was less than a 10 minute walk away from Old Town Scottsdale. Old Town is home to the bar and club district, so this location was incredible. I had a truly absurd weekend during this first trip, and I convinced Quaze to fly me out again soon after. He flew me out for a weekend in the beginning of March, and that weekend turned into a bender which last for most of the month of March. It is the story of 25 straight days of pure bedlam, and it is the story of how I eventually came to live here.

But now, one year later, I am on the cusp of a big change here in Scottsdale. Quazar, who originally brought me into this dusty cowboy town, is moving away. His project here has finished, and before the end of March he will be living in Tel Aviv, Israel, starting work on his next project. I always knew it was temporary, but I didn't expect it to happen so soon. Needless to say, I'm very upset. Because of my priorities, I don't have much time for going out or making new friends. My priorities are my girlfriend, my writing, and my job, and juggling those 3 has been difficult enough for me. Besides a few dudes at work and Lunatic Jim, I don't really know many people in town. I grew up with Quaze, and he radiates an instant familiarity, which reminds me of home. Not only is he leaving town, but he's going pretty far away, so partying sessions in the coming months will be few and far between.

But besides being a best friend, his presence in this city helped me in a number of ways. First and foremost, his apartment is much closer to my bar than my girlfriend's place. I work Friday, Saturday, and Sunday and so on those days I usually spend that night at Quazar's place. I keep most of my clothes at his apartment, and I'll have a truly difficult time finding a place to put them amongst my girlfriend's stuff. Qz pays for my gas and often treats me to meals. Moreover, because my bar is a good 20-30 minute drive my gf's place, it will be wholly unpractical to continue to work there for much longer. The cost of gas alone would severely cut into my already meager wages. Spreading my belongings and my time between 2 apartments worked because neither place was big enough to house the Eggman on its own. As soon as Qz departs, my girlfriend and I will be cramped into a place that's too small for both of us with a full 6 more months left on the lease.

So it's a pretty big deal that the Quaze is moving. That being said, his last day of work is Friday, and he is getting paid full salary until March 25th. So the next month should be very, very enjoyable. To honor his Scottsdale legacy, this coming month will contain the full story of my first weekend and the subsequent 3 week bender that would eventually cause me to live here.

As for old Raynok, I've got a lot of decisions I've got to make, and I will keep you updated on that as well.

*That is why, Chris S., Quazar allows his apartment to get destroyed. He doesn't pay for it, and it's enjoyable to watch. The full destruction of the place will be chronicled and photo-documented in the upcoming Scottsdale Stories series.

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

A Weekend with Ramon, Part II (by Quazar)

A quick change of plans sent Raynok, Ramon, Young Ramon and me to Drift, a tropical paradise-themed bar down the street from my apartment. There is never a line there and the drinks aren't too expensive. The crowd there is always a decent one, just a little more reserved than some of the other Scottsdale clubs. The 4 of us walk in and immediately heads start to turn. Going out with Raynok these days is a good thing; he is a spectacle, almost like a circus freak. Some people love it and immediately start laughing and pointing fingers at him in a fun-loving way. Some people treat him like a man with no arms or no legs, afraid to look directly at him, only subtly nudging their friends so they can get a glance of the magnificent beast. It was around 11:15pm and our level of drunkenness at the moment was nothing out of the ordinary. For some reason, the middle leg of my 3 day benders are always the hardest for me to get drunk, no matter what booze I throw down my throat. It might be my body still being accustomed to the liquor from the night before, it is a mystery to me.

A few minutes after we arrived we grabbed a table next to a group of conservative women who all turned out to be lawyers. One of them, very attractive with dark features, immediately took a liking to Raynok. She started running her fingers through his beard, and was legitimately amazed that a normal human would voluntarily walk around looking like this. Raynok introduced the rest of us but she seemed infatuated with him and his appearance. She mentioned that she's never kissed a guy with a beard and opened up her arms offering a nice make out session. Raynok, the loyal boyfriend that he is, politely declined and responded that he had a girlfriend. Without delay, she displayed her annoyance and got up to go to the other end of the table. She was angry. She probably has never been turned down by a straight man before. I am assuming that she pegged Raynok as a liar, and she couldn't imagine that he actually had a girlfriend, especially in Scottsdale where even the slightest facial hair is sometimes looked at as taboo. We found out the next day that this woman in fact had a boyfriend…..whores whores whores.

Soon after I got back from a bathroom I looked over and realized that Raynok's seven scotches from my apartment beforehand finally caught up to him. He was at a table in the corner of the bar, with his shirt up and around the back of his neck, exposing the hairy mane that covered his chest. He began his staple drunk dance of which I will attempt to explain…... I am convinced that at some point in time of human existence, this dance was part of a tribal routine, either a rain dance or a dance in front of a woman before they fed her to the lions. The base position is his legs spread apart and arms out at his sides, parallel to the floor, with his fingers waving up and down individually. He will face the crowd and then bounce side to side, moving his body up and down in a very smooth and rhythmic way. As he bounces side to side, he doesn't actually move anywhere, just from one leg to another. His head doesn't move much the entire time either, and he holds an intense stare directioned at the viewers. I am a good improvisational drunk dancer and have won my fair share of dance offs, but this is honestly one move I cannot replicate. After finishing his dance, Raynok sits down with the patrons, puts his arm around one of the girls and slams his fist on the table demanding a drink. He would repeat this entire act numerous times at different tables until drinks are in fact placed in his hands. At this point I knew Raynok had reached an intoxication point of no return and the two Ramons were still at the table engaging in conversation with the other lawyers. I knew that they would fuck that up, so I ventured off on my own. I went to get drinks at the bar and two female whores snuggled up next to me asking if I knew the crazy man who looked like the guys from the Geico commercials. They remembered him from the night before at Axis Radius; as I said, nobody forgets Raynok when they see him. I conversed with them for a while and could tell the taller one was into me. I noticed a group of girls across the bar taking photos of me and not trying to be so secretive about it. The two girls I was with also saw this, started whispering to each other and asked me if I was someone famous. To give some background, whenever I am out I constantly am referred to (especially when on the west coast) as Jason from Laguna Beach, that primate from the show last season who dates LC. I have also been compared with Jake Gyllenhaal and John Smoltz, both of which I don't agree with. I decided to go along with this hoping it would help my cause. I acted a little uncomfortable when the girls asked me who I actually was (they thought I was lying when I said Dave). I quickly smiled and said I had to go to the bathroom, planning to come back a little later guessing that this move would help them in actually thinking I was famous. This obviously backfired as they found two other guys and spent the rest of the night with them. It was for the better though as I realized at the time I would need to focus my attention on making sure Raynok doesn't kill himself or Ramon*.

After more antics as his shirtless self, at 1am the owner finally came up to the both of us and asked him politely to put his shirt on. Now, this is a reputable and nice establishment. Raynok should have been ordered to put his shirt on as soon as he lifted it up. People are literally afraid to tell his untamed creature what to do. Earlier in the night a man at one of the tables harassed by the Eggman came up to me asking what the hell was going on. I told him to simply tell my friend to leave. His response, "Are you kidding, do you see that guy? Who knows what he will do if I tell him that." As mentioned in part 1, Raynok is increasingly being allowed to do whatever he wants in this town. The only downside is when he does do something terrible, like accidentally kill a man, everyone in Phoenix will know who it is and the search will be on for the only caveman in Maricopa County


We plan on leaving, but before we do I point Raynok in the direction of an attractive girl I want him to bring over to us. He ventures over to her, lifts up his shirt, covers the girl with it and pulls it down, allowing her head to come out of his neck opening. At this point both him and the girl are inside of his shirt, and Raynok begins to walk along the bar introducing themselves to others. While most people looked on in amazement, the Ramons and I were cackling in the corner. Before we could stop laughing Raynok threw the girl out of his shirt and bolted out the door.

We left the bar, chase after him and realize that Raynok is in another world. Jumping through bushes, screaming gibberish at cars, climbing up walls, he is officially a 11 on an insanity ranking of 1 through 10. He is not speaking comprehensible English; the only words I could make out had to do with him injuring Ramon. We make to my apartment and I was legitimately afraid for my walls as I didn't think how much more of a beating they could take. Raynok and Ramon talked earlier about making a hole in my living room wall big enough to climb into and sleep in. I was hoping they forgot that discussion. Besides Raynok breaking my outside door light with his hand and tearing down the blinds on my balcony door, the night ended pretty quietly. Some rough housing did flare up but before it could escalate I wrestled Raynok to the ground and tamed him appropriately. Sensing I would hurt all 3 of them if anything else was broken, the Ramons and Raynok retired for the rest of the night.

So after 2 straight drunken nights with Raynok and the Ramons, the only damage was 3 new holes in my walls, a broken door light and destroyed door blinds……..could have been worse.

*As posted in part 1, Raynok and Ramon have had a decade long rivalry. I have never seen anything close to the rivalry that these two best friends have. Sure they love each other, but their moods improve instantly if something bad happens to the other. And of course when good things happen to either of them, their displeasure is known. More importantly, when gallons of booze is involved, the rivalry gets more heated and more physical, leading to actual violence. The only rivalries that come close are Ramon vs Terry, Ramon vs Quazar and Ramon vs Pete. Yes, there is a pattern.


A few notes from Eggman:

- After I denied the lawyer woman and told her I had a girlfriend, she was clearly insulted and rudely told me that she didn't care if I had a girlfriend because she didn't want to sleep with me. I paused for a moment, looked her in the eye and told her that she quite obviously did want to sleep with me, and it wasn't going to happen. It was at this point that she left the table. Most girls see my marginalized appearance and assume that I'm single and that I'll take whatever I can get. This makes denying them that much more fun, since they don't expect it.

-When the bar owner approached me in a fawnlike manner and nicely asked me to put my shirt on, I told him that I work in a bar myself, and that we kick people out who act 1/4 as drunk as I was at the time. He took note of that, yet still didn't not kick me out. I put my shirt down until he walked away, then immediately ripped it off again. No one employed by the bar would approach me for the rest of the night.

-When I woke up on Saturday morning, I discovered that I was nude, that I was damp, and that I was locked inside Quazar's roommate's room (the roommate is gone during weekends). The Ramons said they had heard me talking in there during the night, but I didn't have my cell phone, and I was completely alone in the room. So only I know exactly what went down at the very end, except I don't know since I completely blacked out.

Part 3 of the weekend coming soon.

Sunday, February 25, 2007

A Weekend with Ramon, Part I

On Thursday night, Ramon flew into town from Los Angeles. Quazar and I picked him up at the airport and went straight back to the apartment to pregame. Ramon's brother, Young Ramon, was already there waiting for us. He is more or less a clone of Ramon crossed with Baloo from Disney's animated Jungle Book. He lives in Tempe, not far from where I work, and he joined the 3 of us for our weekend of debauchery.
As per usual, Ramon and I drank hard and fast, fueling each other and escalating the overall alcohol intake for the group of the whole. For reasons which will be explained later, Ramon and I have been locked in an ancient rivalry since the closing days of high school, and it is this rivalry which fuels our bad behavior.
On this particular weekend, Ramon and I were really looking to unleash. We had both moved to new cities around the same time, and neither of us have had much time to party- at least not in the raging, booze-demon sense. On the other hand, Quazar gets to party all the time, and he aimed for a more reasonable goal of very drunk. Afterall, it was only the 1st night of a scheduled 3 day bender.
We started out at Mulligan's, a little Irish bar. It's right on the outskirts of the fancy-boy Scottsdale district, where you can't wear sneakers to the clubs contained within. Tad joined us there, and the 5 of us braved an onslaught of Jager Bombs and vodka tonics during the first few minutes of our term. Tad is one of our buddies in Scottsdale. He has spiked, flat-ironed hair and plays online poker for a living. Successfully. And he knows a lot of hot babes and other people around town.
After a couple more rounds at Mulligan's, the group expressed boredom at this location and before I knew it, we were in fancy-boy town, the heart of Scottsdale. Tad got us into Axis/Radius which is a very large, loud bi-level club. It took about one lap around the place before I remembered that there are only two types of people who can endure the tortuous club environment: horny single people and those on serious drugs. Clubs are awful- I didn't even like them in my single days (post-college*). You have to scream to speak, and they are strange, disorienting environments filled with weirdos that you can't ever imagine seeing during the daylight hours. The highlight of the time we spent there was spotting a lost Ramon from the 2nd floor and dropping ice on his head.
Young Ramon and I were hungry, and Quaze and Tad were out looking for women. YR and I wanted to get some pizza, so we left the club and Ramon had no choice but to tag along. We ordered a whole pizza and greedily devoured it, lavishly dipping the oily slices into ranch dressing. After our meal, we lingered at the pizza place for a while, and I referred to a stranger as Barry Bonds; this made the man quite angry.
Meanwhile, Quazar had met up with a girl that he bangs from time to time and was heading home himself. He called to check on us, and asked Young Ramon to bring home a pie of pepperoni for him. His last words proved to be poorly chosen. On speaker phone, Qz admonished Young Ramon to "Make sure nothing happens to that pizza". To an obliterated Raynok, this was interpreted as a direct challenge. Wisely, Young Ramon got the hell out of my way. This left his ill-suited older brother to become the unwilling participant in my ridiculous game, as he was left in charge of my hot and tasty quarry. I had no plans to eat the pizza, I simply wanted to destroy it.
Immediately upon departing from the pizza shack, I jump-kicked the box out of Ramon's hands, spilling its hot cheesy slices onto the ground. Ramon and Young Ramon quickly shoveled the dirt and gravel-embedded slices back into the box as I ran into the darkness to plot my next attack.
The trek back to Quazar's, while brief, includes passes over and through several walls, fences, and foliage, providing me with ample room for cover. During the chase home, I was able to jab the pizza out of Ramon's hands once more, and on one occasion he bobbled the box out of his own hands from fear alone. He and YR were sprinting home ahead of me, jumping walls and fences, throwing the now severely maimed pie ahead of them as they went, further adding to the unintended toppings.
When we finally got back, complete madness erupted. All 3 of us jumped into bed with Qz and his lady friend, laughing, screaming, and jockeying to see her nude. Quazar was doing his best to keep us in line, when the 3 of us split up. Ramon hid in the closet, Young Ramon hid in the bathroom, and Quazar offered me money to clear his bedroom of drunken maniacs. I flung open the closet door and lunged forward into a quagmire of Ramon's flailing, noodly limbs. His foot caught me in the nose and I flew back screaming and hit the wall. My elbow crashed through the drywall, making perhaps the 9th or 10th hole in the wall of Quazar's apartment. I was screaming, "You broke my nose!" and tearing around the apartment like a lunatic while Qz rid his room of Ramons and locked us out. Upon discovering that my nose was not broken, and in fact was not even bleeding, I calmed down and turned my attention back to the pizza. I began slapping it on the walls and pressing it down, hoping it would stick in place, but it kept sliding down the textured white walls, leaving a trail of oily orange film in its place. For a while, the Ramons and I were actually eating the few edible parts that remained, while I would continue to redecorate the apartment with sauce and cheese. By the time I finally retired, there were half eaten, torn up slices of pizza strewn all across the apartment, as well as Ramon's name scrawled in smeared pizza above the television. Having finally worn myself out, I laid on the couch and pulled a large painting off the wall to use as a blanket. The Ramons took to the floor.

The next day was fairly uneventful. It was a bit too cool for pool weather, so we hung around the apartment, got some food, and rested up for the Friday night awaiting us. Ramon and Qz had cooked up a fancy boy plan of dinner at Roaring Fork and drinks at Skybar, neither of which I could afford. However, they were kind enough to help me with the cost, so that my meal only ran $17. It was already around 9 at this point, and Qz said we needed to get to Skybar before 10 in order to guarantee us entry. I had a major problem with this plan.
None of us were drunk, I was still relaxed and digesting my fine meal, and I didn't have a pair of shoes that were acceptable for such an opulent watering hole. I had no interest in strapping on Quazar's size 14s and booking it over to the Mondrian so I could get raped for $15 a drink all night. Because I was scheduled to work on Saturday night, I reasoned that we could do round 2 at a more modest Scottsdale location, and the 3 of them could have their ostentatious Skybar outing while I was working. They agreed to the plan and I started taking down scotch like a demon. We walked over to Drift, and I blacked out nearly everything that happened. I'm told my behavior was even worse than our Thursday night engagement. Quazar will narrate the events of the Friday night in Part II.

*Clubbing in college is quite a different story. Because so many of the promotions are run by students, most of the clubs you end up at are filled with kids you know, or at least have seen before. In these cases, clubs can be very fun. However, as soon as you graduate (or move away from the city you went to school in), you're introduced to the standard vampire-laden creep dens that everyone else who frequents clubs have to deal with.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Riposte to MTV Comments

Michael- you are an idiot. I am not an internationally broadcast television network. I am a lone dirtbag who lives in a corner of his girlfriend's apartment and empties ashtrays for a living. I've engaged in outrageous behavior in the past, and it's likely that I spread a curable STD about 4 years ago. I have chosen to relate these stories of my life on this site. What the fuck does that have to do with my critique on MTV? How can I be a hypocrite for complaining about what I feel is a dangerous trend, especially when said trend doesn't relate at all to me or my life. I'm not sure what makes you dumber- comparing my tiny sphere of influence to a multi-national conglomerate which broadcasts into tens of millions of homes a day, or getting pissed off because someone insulted the vacuous reality TV shows you like.

Joe- everyone likes the show NEXT, it's hilarious. It seems like you missed the point of the entire column. I'm not saying MTV's programming isn't entertaining; I've been drawn in myself on many occasions. My problem with MTV (besides the lack of actual music) is the way they glamorize and perpetuate a false reality, and then market it to children. Again, I DON'T have a problem with the behavior of the kids on these shows. I have a problem with what ISN'T shown. MTV makes shows about the social lives of rich, attractive teens but it covers up everything that's "real" about that world. They don't show the overindulgence, the drugs, the booze, and the depravity which permeates that scene. Show the actual reality or show nothing at all. Instead, MTV chops up the footage and sticks it together in whatever manner they want in order to illustrate whichever points or ideas that they want. That's moralizing, and it's not only wrong, it's dangerous. If you're going to show footage to impressionable, developing kids then give them the truth and let them make up their own minds. If you're not willing to do that, then don't make the show, or don't aim it at youngster. It's grossly irresponsible to make kids believe that everyone deserves to be rich and beautiful, and that success requires neither talent nor hard work.

s- you're right, Super Sweet 16 is perhaps the most glaring example, and it was my mistake not to include it. This show perpetuates the idea that it's cool to be spoiled, snotty and rude.

lurker- I agree, the teenage girls are nice to look at.

King- thanks for the support.

Jones- glad to finally see you commenting on here.

Bob- despite King's little barb, I enjoy your comments and find them to be valuable. I agree that the public has always been fascinated by the rich and famous, but never before have we lived in a time where those who occupy those hallowed positions are less worthy. It's not like we're talking about Grace Kelly here. Our current crop of famous people has to be the worst of all time. Paris Hilton and Britney Spears spring to mind as two particularly worthless celebrity icons; never before have we had so many people who were famous simply for being famous. As I said in the original post, it's the convergence of celebrity worship and reality TV which is so dangerous. Truly, you no longer need talent to become rich and famous. In this warped world, all you need to do is submit an audition tape to one of the hundreds of reality shows, and boom, you're famous. But the sad truth is, these reality stars don't live good lives; they're constantly scrapping and whoring themselves out on the surreal life or celebrity boxing to keep up the lifestyle. It's certainly no life that a sane person would aspire to, yet MTV continues to glamorize it.
In fact, I believe the reason we are so accepting of talentless celebrity these days is because we love so much to tear them down. We build up some poor whore, tell her that she's the best and shower her with attention and media coverage. When it inevitably crumbles to shit (because living under that kind of scrutiny will drive anyone insane), we are overjoyed and can't stand to look away. Britney is the quintessential example- she was a young girl who was pretty and could sing OK, but for 5 years, she was on top of the fucking world. It had nothing to do with talent and everything to do with marketing, and eventually, the bottom dropped out and she's completely lost her mind. And the country is fucking loving it.

So is the whole thing MTV's fault? Certainly not, but at the same time, I can't think of a single other entity which can claim responsibility in propagating such a broad range of bad trends, including dumbing down our music, dumbing down our youth, and glorifying no-talent celebs.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Fuck You, MTV

MTV is a powerful, money churning, internationally popular network. Behind religion, I believe it will be a leading cause in the decline of Western civilization. MTV and its celebrity obsessed sister, VH1, have had a profound impact on the entertainment industry and our American culture as whole. That impact has been 100% negative.

The original idea of MTV is a great one, and in the beginning it was a great channel. It was even somewhat subversive. It helped to break some amazing, influential artists and it introduced the music video concept to the world. But today, it truly is an evil beast. It preaches liberalism but practices censorship. It purports to foster individuality, but instead promotes brainless beauty and wealth. And on top of all this, MTV boasts an ever weakening association with actual music.

It's obvious to even the most casual observer, and it's been said many times before: MTV no longer plays videos. You get a few in the morning and late at night, but that's more or less it. In its place, 'music' television plays an onslaught of awful, stupid, amoral reality shows. Now I understand that MTV is a company, and a company's goal is to make money. Reality shows obviously garner a larger rating than music videos, and so over time MTV overhauled its format to give music a smaller and smaller role.

So then MTV came up with another channel- M2, or MTV2, which was supposedly going to air music videos 24/7. But before long, even that channel gave way to regular programming. I used to enjoy watching videos on M2 while working out in my parents basement. Then one day while exercising, I noticed M2 was playing 'The Diary of DMX' in lieu of music videos. All I wanted was some music- music of any kind- to listen to while working out, but instead I'm treated to the musings of some imbecile with a tattoo of a dog's face across the whole of his back. Or fucking Viva La Bam or High School Stories. Now this adds insult to injury. It's not enough that I can't hear music, but the substitute itself actually infuriates me. Reality shows about a group of morons, half as intelligent or entertaining as my group of friends, and I get to watch as they do a piss poor job of living my dream (of fucking around for a living), while I can only stew with searing jealousy.

Then, MTV tried to right itself by adding the MTV Hits channel. And yet again, this channel proves to be worthless to an actual music lover. The channel features the crappiest, most worthless pop videos from the past year or two played in continuous 2 or 3 hour blocks. If you tune into the channel a couple times a day, you are guaranteed to see the same shitty songs. In addition, you get old episodes of TRL airing as well. When I want to write, work out, or just relax and enjoy music videos, I have to settle for 60 second snippets of terrible formulaic songs followed by screaming girls and inane commentary from stupid fetus-head, milquetoast Damien or the other VJ, "Quddus", who's ambiguous ethinicity appears to be genetically engineered- skin brown enough to appeal to minorities, but not dark enough to scare whites, small, almost non-existant features, and a hypnotically triangular shaped face. On one small, bright note, Vanessa Minillo is super hot. However, not hot enough to take the place of music.

MTV's sister channel, VH1, is no better. But rather than make reality shows about teens and young adults, it centers on celebrities. Even when VH1 did play videos, it was generally adult contemporary drivel like yoga-era Sting or lesbian-haircut-sporting Bon Jovi. But some music is better than none; sometimes a man just needs to unwind and not be subjected to the speaking voices of human idiots for a few minutes. But instead we get hour after hour of C-list comedians taking the easy shot at old fads and washed-up celebrities, and a number of crappy reality shows dedicated to showcasing the debilitated mental state of celebrities.

The few videos that still get decent airtime on these channels are groups and singers that have been fabricated to fit perfectly with the MTV credo of superficiality and money-lust. The two "artists" that are the most popular today (in terms of video and radio play) are Fergie and the Pussycat Dolls. I want you to think about that for a minute. The Pussycat Dolls are a burlesque dance troupe group that began in LA and then moved to Vegas. Then someone realized that you don't need to make good music to get on MTV, you just need good-looking whores in the video. So they got some nameless, anonymous whore with a stretched cat-face to sing the lead, and 4 or 5 other whores dance around in the background, and voila! you have a Grammy Award-nominated group.
Their song "Buttons" was one of the biggest hits of 2006, and it's also one of the worst songs I have ever heard in my life. Ever. It starts with incredibly annoying arab music that sounds pilfered from the Aladdin soundtrack and then hits you with the most embarrassingly moronic lyrics in recent memory. This is the chorus:
"I'm telling you to loosen up my buttons, babe, but you keep frontin', saying what you gon' do to me, but ain't seen nothing. I'm telling you to loosen up my buttons, babe."

What the fuck does that mean?!? LOOSEN up buttons? Is the whore asking you to pull on the buttons until the thread comes loose, thereby ruining the garment? Is she confusing "loosen up my buttons" with the phrase "pushing my buttons"? Was the songwriter illiterate? From what I can tell, the whore is upset because the male protagonist keeps "fronting" that he will bang her, but then won't make the move. Does that sound like a typical scenario to you? Hot whore wants to get fucked, but the man is too scared?

And onto Fergie, who is just as cheap, vapid and inconsequential, but at least she gets a name (I find it notable that the Pussycat Dolls have had so much success, yet nobody can name their lead singer). Her music is just as horrible, but it seems to center on one major theme: Fergie is awesome. Each of the 3 singles that she has released are all about how hot she is. They sound like bad poems written by an arrogant, petulant 6th grader. "I'm fergalicious- I put them boys on rock, rock". Such beautiful, though-provoking poetry. It's curious, because I don't actually know anybody who thinks Fergie is hot, and I'd sooner shit on her face than fuck her, yet somehow, she enjoys incredible success.

It's sad, because Madonna was the prototypical female video whore, and in some ways this new crop of whores is patterned after her. But even a cursory comparison puts Madonna miles ahead. Madonna made good music. She was intelligent. She stood for things. She was not just a robotic automaton whore with a passable face and a whole mess of tunes about how awesome she was.

But more important than diminishing the role of music in our lives, which as a music lover infuriates me, is the cultural impact that MTV's format change has left in its wake. For one thing, the dating shows are unconscionably awful. Take the show 'Next' for example. On this show, a teen or young adult has a pool of 4 or 5 members of the opposite (or sometimes same) sex to take on dates. If the person doesn't like the first date, they can 'next' that individual and try again with the next person from the pool. The concept doesn't sound that bad, but in practice it's ridiculous. The person always sets up some sort of humiliating, pride-swallowing challenge and the date always goes along with it. Why? Because if he or she gets picked, they get to go on a second date with the chooser or take the money- one dollar for each minute they last on the date.
Some participants are judged as being unattractive immediately upon showing up, and are brutally sent back to the bus with a coarsely screamed "NEXT!". Also, many of the 'next'ings are wrought with hurtful, personal insults, and the person is almost always rude, judgemental, petty and dismissive. But aside from the obvious damage this show extols on the self-esteem of its participants, just think about the money/date concept for a second- you earn a dollar for each minute that you last on the date. What the fuck is this? A whore training program? 13 year old kids are coming home from school and watching this show, seeing people enduring these unpleasant personal and even sexual encounters for like 17 dollars. What they are they supposed to think? Do anything, compromise your personal values and your comfort- as long as you get money! Don't be afraid to conform to your partner's sick concept of gender roles , kids! Do whatever it takes!

But wait a second- why would middle and high schoolers care about money? I know I didn't a give a shit about money at that age. That question is answered by the other category of MTV reality programming: shows about stupid rich people.

MTV Cribs, Laguna Beach, Maui Fever, The Hills. It really is sickening. For anyone who hasn't seen these shows, there's not much to summarize- it really is just stupid rich people living their stupid rich lives. Honestly, the people are really, really dumb. As a 26 year old man, I can tell that the shows have been produced in a way that highlights how dumb these people are, and the shows can be watched with some sort of comedic edge; I know plenty of intelligent people who enjoy these programs. It's fun for them to laugh at the stupid rich people. But at the same time, my age group is not the demographic MTV is marketing to. They completely glamorize and glorify the lives of these societal parasites, and then market it to teenagers. These little kids can't pick up on the subtleties which suggest that these people might not be the best role models. All they see is how awesome it is to be rich and good-looking. And that has become the ultimate goal in the modern era- to be rich and pretty- that's it. No one wants to accomplish anything or make a difference, they just want money and sex appeal, and then they want everyone to know how much they have. People like this, and motherfucking soulless MTV which markets the lifestyle, are rapidly destroying our country. When muslims see American TV and want to level our country, its these shows on MTV that are driving them insane. If a guy is living in sand and eating dirt, how do you think he's gonna feel when he sees some 17 year old, plastic surgeried, whorishly dressed cunt complaining because the valet is taking too long to bring her BMW back to her? As much as I detest the terrorists, I'd consider temporarily joining forces with them for the common goal of eliminating these worthless invalids from our population. I really think it needs to be done. Just think about how many more women Stephen and Jason will impregnate now that they are 'celebrities'. I think I'd have a pretty good time doing the shrill arab yell and spilling the blood of these privileged rich kids with a bunch of furious insanos.

Even when MTV tries to do some good with 'positive' shows, it's a complete travesty. For example, the show MADE helps high school kids achieve their dreams. But MADE doesn't advocate working hard. It advocates asking MTV to help you with some ridiculous self-important fantasy, and then hires a coach to make you work kinda hard for like 6 weeks. What about the legions of the other fat losers across the country who MTV didn't pick? I guess their dream of becoming homecoming king or an extreme bmx rider won't come true. Hey MTV- how about helping a kid who's dream it is to go to college or to get a scholarship?

And then they have the nerve of having a show like Juvies, which illustrates the doldrums of the Juvenile Detention system. Well, when you constantly bombard less fortunate, misguided youth with images of undeserving, ungrateful rich people, what the fuck do you think is gonna happen? Of course they're going to commit crimes. What other option do they have to achieve this lifestyle which you promote? Even I fantasize about hurting and stealing from rich people, and I'm not even that poor.

This may all sound petty, but I truly believe that we are in a dangerous place. The two independent storms of celebrity worship and reality TV have combined to form a maelstrom; a demon force of sprawling stupidity which blankets the country. Fucking US and Star magazines- no one read that shit 5 years ago, but now it's infected every girl I know like a virus. We are heading in a very bad direction and I think we are coursing for one of two outcomes.

In one scenario, everyone will finally succumb to the propaganda and accept that money is the most important thing in the world (followed by their own appearance as a close second). Soon after that point, the country will either self-destruct or dissolve into a spineless mish-mash of shit, at which point the muslims, the chinese or some other angry culture will destroy us.

In the other scenario, I think we are hurtling towards a second civil war- a clash of culture. Too often we forget that America contains 50 states; there's a whole mess of states in between the east and west coast, and they live very different lifestyles. With more conservative and provincial values, the glitz and glamor of the city are distasteful to them, offensive even. I was raised on the East coast and have spent the past 9 years living in major metropolitan areas, and even I am finding that city life is no longer for me. The nightlife has simply gotten ridiculous. The price of drinks continues to rise, and every time a new, hotter club comes into town, they raise the stakes by upping the price (and thereby, their profit margin). And it's all a result of the MTV-ification of our society- 'we have to go to the hottest place because we might get to look at a famous person! hooray!!'. We know the drinks are a rip-off, but we go because we're told it's the best. Well, being the best club or bar is about more than have cool space-age lighting or a modern design; it's about attracting the best people. But these money-grubbing, ultra image conscious drinkeries aren't attracting the best people- they're just attracting the rich, the stupid, and the conformists.

And as this schism between the coasts and the middle of the country grows, a clash between these two vastly different cultures is inevitable. The sad thing is, we're all Americans, and our core values and ideals are probably not all that different. But thanks to the incessant pounding of MTV culture down our throats, we coast dwellers are slowly transforming into spiritless reptiles, simultaneously insulting and horrifying our midwestern neighbors. Don't say I didn't warn you.

You've taken music from us, you've jaded our youth, and you've decayed our cities. If you were a person I'd rape you with a fucking mace. I'd tear the skin off your face just to choke you with it. You are the most deplorable and repugnant entity on the planet. Fuck you, MTV.

Sunday, February 18, 2007

Oldface and Titanium Hands

I'd been living in lower Manhattan for a few months, but I was still working out of New Jersey. I was doing mortgages and working for my dad, and so I still had to come home on a fairly regular basis to take care of some business at the office. I hated doing this because I hated the work, but also because I hated that awful train ride. So instead of taking the trains at peak hours like the rest of the assholes, I would often take an early afternoon train into Jersey to spend the night at my parents' house and go back to the city the next day after completing whatever work needed to be done. A highlight of these trips though, was that I got to party with Gohn at the New Brunswick bars, which was a welcome antidote to the $10 dollar drinks of the City.

On particular winter night that I was in town, we started at our old haunts, the illustrious Knightclub and Olde Queens. Finding those scenes to be sub-par, we grudgingly crossed over to uptown New Brunswick, home of such upscale drinkeries as Harvest Moon, Clyde's and Glo. Glo was the newest bar in the area and it was supposedly modeled after swanky Manhattan lounges. What it actually looks like is the Halo board 'Longest' from Halo 1- which is basically a long, thin, dark and eerily lit boner shaft. On this night, we found Glo to be less crowded and uncomfortable than the college bars, which were packed to the gills with sweaty college kids clutching their balled up winter coats.

Gohnny and I indulged in our usual routine of Jagerbombs and Gin & Tonics and, just like the old days, we were stinking drunk. I saw a pair of older looking women. Upon approaching, I noticed they were older than I had originally anticipated- definitely over 40. The one I had stepped to had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a passable face in the permanent midnight of the Halo board. After a bit of introductory conversation, I was giving her a fierce, churning french. Seizing the opportunity, Gohn struck up a conversation with the other woman, a very pretty, seemingly artificially enhanced blonde woman. Both women were well-dressed and had a somewhat stately manner about them. We learned they from the town of Princeton, of the world renowned Princeton University, home to a legion of rich, snooty assholes. We also learned that both of these women were divorced, each with an 8 year child.

Gohn and I were both bearded at the time and looked like a cool pair of lumberjacks in our bulky winter attire. The women were into us, and they soon agreed to come back to Gohn's place with us to get high and maybe get in the hot tub. We walked them to their car and in the truthful glow of the street lights, I noticed that my woman was quite wrinkled about the face. On the other hand, Gohn's woman had a mysteriously robotic appearance about her, looking spookily bionic with her smooth and tightly stretched skin.

Gohn and I got into my car, and I drove us back to Gohn's, with the newly dubbed Oldface and Titanium Hands following close behind. When we pulled into Gohn's driveway, there was a bit of confusion. Titanium Hands hired a babysitter to watch her 8 year old son for the evening, but somehow this had slipped her mind until the babysitter called her on the way into Gohn's. TH was supposed to be home by 2, and it was already well past that time. The women apologized and asked if we'd follow them home to their house and continue the party there. Princeton is a solid 20 minute drive South of Gohn's house, and I was smashed. Ignoring this, we grabbed some weed and a pipe from inside and headed on our way.

In order to pass the time of the lengthy trek into Princeton, we decided to get high on the way. This transformed me into a giggling, child-like mess. Gohn and I were laughing it up, listening to tunes, and smoking the entire way. When we were only a few miles away from TH's place, a cop car began to trail us. I was pretty nervous, as I was clearly smashed and we'd been hotboxing the car the entire way; disguising the pot smell would be impossible. I focused and concentrated all my efforts on keeping the car straight and steady with two hands on the wheel. The cop followed me for a solid few minutes, but finally when we turned on TH's street he continued on his way.

As we walked up to the door with the ladies, the babysitter emerged. She was a young Princeton student, and did her best to choke back her laughs at seeing her normally dignified employer and her friend bringing home two thick-bearded young New Brunswick dirtbags.

Following that treacherous voyage I could allow the full brunt of the high to consume me once again, and wanted another drink to settle me down. As soon as we walked in, however, my interests were quickly diverted to something much more interesting than booze- a robotic dinosaur. Oldface had scarcely poured me a glass of red wine before I was all over that dinosaur like an enraptured 6 year old. I was no longer responding to the other people around me, focusing all my attention on controlling the fascinating robotic contraption. The other three were going outside to get high, but I wasn't interested, opting instead to remain with the toy.

This behavior must have puzzled Oldface. The Raynok whom she'd met in the bar was bold, virile and sexually aggressive. The man who'd just entered the house was a heavily dazed, easily amused, incessantly giggling man-child. Between awkwardly manipulating the mechanized ancient reptile, I was fiercely gulping down the red wine. After a long and exhausting dinosaur session, I headed into the toy room to sit down on the couch.

Titanium hands had a very nice house and her son had an ocean of toys. I needed to get some rest before I could play some more. Gohn, Oldface, and Titanium Hands had finished getting high and came back inside. Gohn and TH went directly upstairs while Oldface joined me on the couch. After a brief reintroduction, I remembered the pleasures of the female body, and started to french, grope and disrobe Oldface. She tried to slow me down, but I was so fucked up that my only two speeds were full-speed and off. Our pace slowed to snail's crawl, and upon reaching down her pants I felt her C-section scar and then a thick patch of pubic hair. She brushed my hand back up and away from her privates, so I withdrew and instead grabbed my glass wine. Within seconds, I was passed out on my back, splayed across the couch, the glass of red wine resting placidly on its side with its contents spilled across my chest.

Meanwhile, upstairs, TH was showing Gohn her son's room. It was a nice room with rocketship sheets and vibrant fish tank. TH was explaining to Gohn the myriad benefits of the fish tank for her son's development, and before she finished, he was fucking her on top of her son's tiny bed. Where was her son at the time? We don't know. But after a short time, TH got weirded out. The realization of having gone so far, so fast on her innocent child's bed had finally dawned on her. Knowing that this marked the end of the sexual encounter, Gohn wanted to get the hell out of there and go home to sleep. He descended the stairs to find me loudly snoring on the couch, covered in wine, with Oldface sitting on the small bit of unoccupied couch with her arms crossed, appearing very angry and frustrated. Gohn roused me and said he wanted to go home, first relaying what had transpired between he and Titanium Hands. I learned that she was upstairs, still nude under the covers, and I rushed up the stairs and into the room. Her sexy naked body was covered by a single sheet, which I immediately tried to pull off. She laughed and covered herself and I implored her to let me see her naked. "Come on, let me take a little peek," I bargained, but TH held fast. Having exhausted the potential for fun at this particular place, Gohn and I got back on the road, and headed home in the slowly breaking dawn.

The next morning, I received a number of calls and messages from Titanium Hands. She had blacked out and woke up naked in her son's bed. Furthermore, Gohn had left one sock and his cell phone behind. She wanted to find out what had happened between them, but I didn't want to be the one to tell her. I told her I'd go over to Gohnny's and have him call her on my phone.

He explained to TH what had happened between them, and she invited him to come back to retrieve his belongings. She had to take her son to some sort of little kid sports practice or something, and we tried to coordinate the pickup so that we'd avoid seeing TH again. After several densely packed bowls and some BK Chicken Fries, we made the journey back into Princeton. TH had left Gohn's things in the mailbox. No sooner than he had collected his stuff and gotten back in the car, TH pulled up in her shiny white Volvo station wagon with her son's tiny round blonde head in the passenger seat next to her. We both slowed our cars and had a quick, polite exchange through the windows. Her son did not remove his eyes from the strange bearded dirtbags the entire time, no doubt pondering how such unsavory characters could know his mother. Titanium Hands, for her part, looked hotter and less mechanical than the previous night. I really wished I had seen her naked.

Friday, February 16, 2007

How Paleosaur became Handjobs

Before Handjobs was known as Handjobs, she was known as Paleosaur, and she was my sister's friend. At the time, my sister had two distinct groups of friends- her hot sorority friends and a somewhat cute but goofy bunch from her hall. As you can surely guess, we experimented and threw haphazard game all over this B-team, while remaining cool with the sorority crowd, only swinging at perfect pitches*.

My sister had strictly forbidden her friends to hookup with Striker or I, and I guess I can understand why. It was her freshman year, and she didn't want the indiscretions of 2 much older scumbags to taint any of her friendships. For out part, Striker and I couldn't really see things from her side, instead frequently arguing to "let nature take its course". It was infuriating to us. These were freshman girls, 18 year olds! Even when they weren't that hot, they were still hot since they had those awesome smooth young bodies. We could tell that a bunch of them dug us, but there was nothing we could do; my sister kept watch over them like a hawk, and they'd scarcely be left alone with Striker or I for too long. It drove us crazy. I actually called my Mom after one particularly frustrating happy hour and complained to her about this very problem (she took my sister's side).

But as Spring semester wore on, my sister became less close with this B team, her relationships with certain individuals dwindling more than others. One such girl was the aforementioned Paleosaur. Paleosaur was fairly dorky, but objectively attractive, mostly due to her sweet young body. She had stringy black hair, a huge upturned smile which made her look sort of like a raptor, and a golden tan with sexy tanlines. She was really only average looking, but there's just something about those unspoiled freshman bodies**.

Striker had somehow acquired Paleosaur's IM address and had been chatting with her over the computer for a few weeks. Though she was a virgin, Paleosaur was far and away the most eager of this B team. Meanwhile, Striker and I had been committing some of our most ridiculous deeds to date and, as with the switch, we were always looking to push our work farther. Lately, in attempt to facilitate double team scenarios, I was using a new approach, inviting girls to "help with our group project"***. I used to say this to girls that we knew quite often, and though it hadn't resulted in a double team, at least it usually drew laughs.

One off-night, my sister and Paleosaur went with Striker and I to Barracuda for some pitchers. I had asked Paleo if she would help Striker and I with our group project when the girls had just arrived, mostly to piss off my sister. Because her friends were off-limits, it became something of a contest for Striker and I to taste the forbidden fruit.

At the bar, I had gone off on my own to search for women, and Striker was concentrating on Paleosaur, leaving my sister bored and annoyed. Halfway through the night, she took a cab home. It was just the 3 of us and we were starting to get drunk. Striker had gotten a large head start on Paleosaur, and rather than butt heads or compete with him, I resigned myself to laying back and making the occasional rude or outrageous comment. Among these witticisms, I continued to suggest that she help us with our group project.

While Paleosaur was in the bathroom, Striker told me that she admitted to being interested in contributing to our group project. Impossible, I thought. She must be confused or misunderstanding me. "No," smiled Striker, "she knows what you mean". When Paleosaur returned from the bathroom we rushed to kill our current pitcher, and Striker took the reins inviting Paleosaur back to our den of sin.

After driving us home, I emerged from the car and began urinating on our own garbage cans. While doing so, I asked Paleosaur if she really was interested in our group project and shockingly, she said yes with a smile. So the the three of us went back to my room and Striker and Paleosaur sat on the foot of my bed while I loaded the bong and put on some music.

They started kissing, and I took a bong rip, and gingerly started rubbing Paleosaurs's thigh while choking back laugher. Paleo was enjoying herself and things escalated until she was laying on her back on my bed, with Striker and I on either side of her. We had worked out a little system where one man would work her face, neck and titties while the other man was on vagina and ass. At the same time, Paleosaur had her hand in each of our pants simultaneously jacking us off. At one point, while transitioning from upper to lower region, I moved too slowly and Striker's face accidentally grazed the top of my head. This was too much contact for us. We realized that things couldn't go much further without it becoming awkward and so we came up with a fair, albeit ridiculous compromise. Instead of the 3 of us being in my room together, we reasoned, why not have Striker retire to his room, and Paleosaur divide her time equally between us. To my shock and delight, Paleo accepted this plan.

I had called first dibs, and so Striker left and I had Paleosaur all to myself. Before long, I realized that despite her openness to new experiences, she was by and large worthless in bed. Being a virgin, she wouldn't let me fuck her and being that it was our first hookup she wouldn't blow me. So she continued to administer a worthless, dry handjob while I fingered her and tried to convince her to do otherwise. Soon enough we reached an impasse. I wasn't going to release my load through this primitive genital manipulation, and she wasn't going to go any further. Tired of looking at her stupid face and listening to her stupid bullshit, I sent her to Striker's room early.

I went to sleep, but apparently she took the same hardline with Striker, going no farther than handjobs. However, being more patient and tenacious, he was able to will himself into painting her with two cumshots. From then on, Paleosaur was known as Handjobs.

*One has to be careful when attempting to infiltrate a large society of hot girls. Having a reputation among them can be a very good thing, as hot girls are generally catty and jealous, and will fuck you just to piss off another hot demon. But having a reputation among them for always striking out paints you as a loser, which is why with these serious babes, you must be sure before you go in for the kill. Conversely, since we didn't give a shit what these B-team chicks thought of us, we would say and do anything around them, experimenting and trying new material.

**Only when you're out of college can you truly appreciate the body of a college freshman, just like you can't fully appreciate the bodies of high school girls until you're done with high school. When everyone around you has this same young look, it means nothing. But when you're a little older and you see most of your peers with their bodies already beginning to slowly decay, these soft, fresh, naturally fit bodies look amazing. It's unfortunate that most girls carelessly booze and eat these bodies away, turning into pudgy crap sandwiches until they get their act together around junior year when they try rebuilding the body with exercise and diet, but it's never the same, and ends up somehow sturdier, weathered, and less appealing.

***A new spin on King's old standard, "Have you ever seen the movie Double Team? With Dennis Rodman?"

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Fuck You, Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day is a wet swath of berry-filled moose shit to the face. It's an incorrigible and contemptible holiday and serves as a blight on an otherwise pleasant month. The idea of Valentine's Day is nice enough; a day where you pay special attention to and demonstrate your love for your significant other is a fine idea. But like everything else in our scum pond of a society, it has been corrupted and raped by greed and commercialism.

Most people have barely switched their calendar to February before the deluge of Valentine's related bullshit begins. We get bombarded by TV and radio advertisements, gaudy red hearts, and displays of cheap chocolates in supermarkets. There is no hiding from it, and the closer you edge toward that hallowed date of February 14th, the more the bullshit intensifies.

I'm sure that right now, sitting in your office, you have already heard a ton of crap about Valentine's Day. Coworkers discussing their Valentine's plans, losers lamenting their lack-thereof. And all of the onus falls on men. There's no pressure for women to create some sort of magical trancsendent experience on this arbitrary date. And sadly, it all comes down to money. A man (who has a wife or girlfriend) basically has two choices on Valentine's Day: either come off like a cheap, selfish asshole or get completely ripped off.

Let's say you've only been dating a girl for a few weeks when V-day approaches. You're caught in a rough spot. You don't know how serious things are going to get between you two, but this goddamn holiday makes it impossible for you to avoid making some kind of statement about your budding relationship. Maybe you like the girl, but you're not crazy about her, so you pick up some nice flowers and one of those stupid candy samplers they sell all over the fucking place at this time of year. Well, that makes you look like an asshole. You have purchased the most generic and thoughtless gift possible, and the girl will realize you exerted little to no effort. This is arguably worse than doing nothing at all.

It really is a no-win situation. It's a disgusting thought that a nice gesture could be so wildly misconstrued because of the run-away commercialization of the holiday, but it's true. You want to do something nice, and girls like flowers and candy, and every goddamn place you look you see flowers and candy for sale, but if you actually purchase the flowers and candy, you're a chump because you didn't do anything original. But at the same time, it's almost mandatory that you get that stuff. Like a Valentine's Day robot, you have to get flowers and chocolates because everyone else is. That's par for the course. Then, your V-day fate becomes a matter of what you do above and beyond the flowers and candy to show your affection.

What if, like me, you planned to forgo the traditional bright red and pink schoolboy flowers and candy horseshit, and just want to take your girlfriend to a nice dinner? Well, prepare to get raped. I feel sorry for any of you that are taking a loved one out on this evening. Every decent place has a prix fixed Valentine's Day menu, and you're gonna drop at least 200 bucks before you even think about drinks, wine or tip. It truly is outrageous. But if you try to avoid a nice restaurant because it's too pricey, you end up at some shitbox like Friday's with the rest of the scum of the earth and their cheap flowers and Whitman's Samplers.

Furthermore, I don't even think women like the holiday. The ones that don't have husbands or serious boyfriends become crushingly depressed and the ones that do become jaded by the colossal expectations heaped on by our putrid, despicable media.

Basically, men have the choice of looking like a boring cheap skate or getting royally ripped off, and women have the choice of being either depressed or disappointed, and that, in a nutshell, is Valentine's Day. But remember, we do have a choice. I, for one, will never celebrate Valentine's Day again. I have planned a very nice evening for my girlfriend and me, but I have already told her that this is the last time ever. Next year we will pick an arbitrary date to celebrate, and I will watch and laugh as I see the poor masses scurrying around to do something nice and original when everyone else in the country has the same idea. Men- we can unite and bring this thing down. All you have to do is tell your lover (with ample time before the holiday, say 2 weeks) that you'll be having a celebration of your love on a different day, any day, but February 14th. You can take your woman to a nice dinner, bring her flowers and get her a little gift, and you'll be a hero, simply because you don't have to stack up against all the monumental expectations of Valentine's Day. At the same time, you'll have the satisfied feeling that you didn't get ripped off. The idea that a certain type of behavior is mandatory on Valentine's Day only exists because we allow it. And if your girl gets upset that she doesn't get to celebrate Valentine's Day on the 14th like everyone else, then she's a worthless cunt. Dump her immediately.

Again, there's nothing wrong with the idea of Valentine's Day, but merely with the idea that we all must behave a certain way on this certain day. I have a serious problem with being forced to do anything, and so I will no longer wear the shackles of this holiday gone wrong. If you continue to celebrate Valentine's Day, then I will continue to laugh at you as I enjoy my special day with my girlfriend at half the price and in a calm and relaxed atmosphere.

Monday, February 12, 2007

One That Got Away: The Story of Courtney

I met Courtney the night I contracted chlamydia at the hot sorority's crush party. She had approached me and really dug how I was older and unemployed. Before our encounter was cut short by Clownface, she had discussed getting together with me for another encounter; she wanted me to take her to lunch. I explained I didn't do that. The real reason was of course that I couldn't afford to waste precious booze money on some fancy overblown lunch. And for two people?! That could run nearly $30 or $40, which could easily last me for 2 nights in the Grove*. And even if I did decide to shell out the money to take Courtney out, she wanted a lunch date. This ensured that I'd have to be sober, which would mean the date would quickly unravel into a complete nightmare. We would go to the Grove, and we'd sit outside in the humid Miami heat. The second she asked a couple questions about what I was doing in Miami or how I got there or what my plan was, I'd crumble. I'd sweat and I'd stumble and the cool facade of the wild man who didn't have to work would wash away to reveal a scared, lonely, and hopelessly lost 24 year old guy. And that makes it very difficult to get laid.

So I played it off to Courtney, I told her dates were just something I didn't do on principle. It sucked to turn it down- Courtney was a very pretty girl. Maybe 5'8 with stick-straight, dirty blonde hair that came down just past her chin. She had a real nice looking face and a bigger body- not fat, but it looked like she coulda been a little fat when she was younger. Overall, she was a high 6.

After our initial meeting, I starting seeing Courtney alot in the Grove, usually at Moe's on Thursday nights. When I talked to her, we'd start to get real close, holding hands, doing that kinda whisper talking and face bumping that's almost like hooking up. She'd let me get my lips real close to her lips, but she wouldn't let me kiss her. Again, she was clamoring for that goddamn lunch date. Man, how that pissed me off! But since she wasn't backing down, I knew I couldn't either, otherwise she'd have all the control. We had several more encounters like this- so close to hooking up but stopping short of any sort of satisfying physical contact, and then she'd demand lunch. I was beginning to get the picture. Courtney was a senior, and at UM and in her sorority, she'd probably seen and done alot of shit. She was likely sick of the Beach and tired of being dicked over by the frat assholes in pike. Since she had approached me, she was obviously aggressive, and since she was insisting on a date I knew that she was out for respect. She probably had a real decadent freshman and sophomore year, got a reputation, and spent the rest of college trying to repair it.

Courtney and I remained deadlocked like this for some time. After a few weeks, or maybe months, both of us had grown annoyed with the routine and things tapered off. We always said hello in the bars, but gone were our long, sexually charged conversations. Then one off-night in the Grove, we ran into each other in Barracuda. The place was very sparsely populated, and to not talk would've been awkward. We joked about the whole lunch thing and kinda made up, and we came to a compromise. I'd take her on a date, but it'd be at night, to a bar. She suggested Barracuda on the following Monday (I think they had a special on pitchers or something). I agreed and she gave me her number.

I called her the next Monday and we planned to meet at Barracuda around 10 or 11. I had a few strong cocktails, but nothing like I'd have before going out, and smoked just a little bit of weed. Striker came with me to the Grove, figuring he'd just lone wolf around the bars and see what he could dig up. When we walked up to Barracuda, Courtney was already there. Inside at the big table were Big Arms, Gary and some other fringe members of their group, so Striker sat down and got to work.

Courtney looked good. We got a pitcher, but we didn't sit down for some reason. We stood at the bar, drinking our beer and talking. I had a nice buzz working, but this was definitely the most sober we had been together. We decimated the first pitcher and were slowly working into the second, and things were going well. She claimed to enjoy smoking weed, and earlier in the night we had talked about getting high back at my house. We still had quite a bit left in the second pitcher when she said she was tired and wanted to go back to my house now to get high, if that was ok. I was pretty happy to hear that and told her that of course it was ok. I downed the rest of the pitcher as fast, but reasonably, as I could and gave Striker a smug 'I'm getting pussy' nod as Courtney and I walked out together.

We got back to my house and went straight to my room where the bong and my stash were kept, and we sat on my bed and got high. She got destroyed. She was laughing all hard at nothing, and soon she was saying that was too fucked up to drive. She wanted to know if she could sleepover. I thought I was getting laid for sure. I should've taken her to lunch months ago! She asked for some sweat pants and a t-shirt and changed in the bathroom, and then we got into bed together.

We started frenching and rubbing and all that, and after what I felt was an appropriate amount of time, I started rubbing her mound over her pants. But she stopped me short. More kissing, more titty rubbing, and tried again to escalate it. This time, I was sharply reprimanded. I couldn't believe I was being stranded at 2nd base. What kind of behavior was this? We stopped hooking up and sorta cuddled and she fell fast asleep. I was ruthlessly pissed off, obviously couldn't sleep, and so I got out of bed and took my bong to the living room. I watched my cartoons and music videos and smoked myself sedate. Courtney woke up pretty early- she had set an alarm which woke me also, adding insult to injury. I said a groggy goodbye, and that would be the last I'd see of Courtney for another little while.

She was pissed that I didn't call her, I was pissed that she teased me; another stalemate. But as it got closer to the end of the semester, we both softened. We had a few more in-bar frenchings, but that was pretty much the extent of it.

One day, I had been at the pool or in the gym and hadn't had my phone near me for a few hours. When I checked it, I saw that Courtney had called 3 or 4 times. She left a message asking me to call her and saying it was important. I called her back and she asked me to her sorority formal. I was stunned, but I had to answer. She really caught me by surprise and visions of suits and ties and flowers and small talk raced through my head. I said the first thing that came to my mind- "I don't have a suit". She was a little surprised by this bizarre answer, and I quickly recovered by saying I'd ask Striker or some other friends if I could borrow one of theirs and call her back.

I did kinda want to go, purely for status reasons. This was the best sorority; the hottest girls in school would be there all decked out and getting so wasted. Being seen at that formal would open doors for me with tons of new girls, as it would bring me legitimacy. But then I got a hold of myself and realized that a formal is like a bad date on steroids. I'd be dressed in an uncomfortable suit, which immediately brought back horrifying memories of Nordstrom, the wounds of which were still fresh on my psyche. I'd be surrounded by college morons who I had zero to discuss with, and I'd have to spend a bunch of money. In the end, I'd probably just get teased again. I also thought about the fact that Courtney called so many times in quick succession and realized that she was desperate; her original date must've bailed or something. I kinda felt bad- she was a senior and this was her last formal, but then I thought of those lonely nights my boner had to endure because of her, and my mind was made up.

I called her up and told her I couldn't find a suit. She started saying she'd ask her guy friends if I could borrow one but I interrupted. I said I didn't wanna borrow a suit from some dude who I didn't even know, and made it clear that I wasn't gonna go.

After the semester ended, most of the kids were gone. Only the seniors who were waiting to graduate were still around. During these days, running into Courtney was a certainty. I went home with her one last time, and this time, though we still only went to second base, she took her shirt off. She had a gorgeous pair of tits. I never got to see the rest of her naked.

I left town soon after, and Courtney was one of the very few girls in Miami whom I left on good terms with. There was an attraction there, and she was a pretty cool girl, and it's just a shame that we could never get on the same page long enough for me to rhythmically move my penis inside her vagina.

*Striker and I would generally take turns buying handles of Jim Beam which we'd drink straight on the rocks until we were drunk. Once in the Grove, I had a number of different ways of making my dollars last. In Tavern, which served only beer, I'd simply walk around like a stray cat, holding my cup out to different people, nudging the cup against the pitcher until they'd pour me a beer. 9 out of 10 times, this worked. In fact, I met alot of girls this way.

At Moe's, I had befriended 2 bartenders (and made enemies of one: May). One of them was Ryan, a man who looked alarmingly like a pirate. He was a younger guy but he was missing some teeth and always wore a bandana. I had hooked him up with weed a couple times and always tipped him well, and he treated me extremely well. I'd walk up to him and ask for the Blackout Special, a mixture which he concocted just for Striker and I. It was just a bunch of different liquors mixed together over ice, and for some reason it tasted vaguely like cream soda, but it never tasted the same way twice. Only Striker and I could tolerate this libation. Normal humans cringed at the very scent of it. And the best part was the drink was basically free. He didn't charge me. I just gave him whatever I could afford to tip him and it went straight into his pocket. The other bartender, a very hot Hispanic whom I called Babs also gave me great deals on booze. In addition, people who I had smoked out or partied with would always buy me drinks. Instead of taking cabs, I drove drunk. So a whole night out in the Grove could end up costing me $15, which is what a normal man might spend on 2 drinks.

The Neighborhood Girls: The Switch

I’d always had a taste for the booze, but as the Spring months passed on I found myself having more reasons to drink by the day. The countdown to my departure from Miami was growing ever closer as my bank account continued its rapid descent towards zero. My sister was on her way to completing her freshman year at University of Miami in May, which, from the looks of it, would be right around the time my funds were completely depleted. This made it convenient for my parents, and they had already planned to come down and get us in early May, right after finals. I’d already committed to work under my Father at a mortgage company, and so the real world was breathing down my neck. Sobriety led to unpleasant thoughts about this uncertain future, and so I avoided it all costs.

Though I’m a very lazy man, I knew that if I stayed in Miami, I would need to find some kind of legitimate enterprise to support myself. I made a few attempts to find work (which would allow me to prolong my stay) but I didn’t have much luck. The breaking point for me was when I applied for a job with the South Beach Ritz-Carlton which, at the time, was just opening. Money was tight and I was hesitant to jump up to the next level of drug dealing. Generally, I purchased ounces and broke them up into eighths and quarters for a modest margin of profit. In these halcyon days of Spring, I had begun to move up to buying quarter pounds at a time, which would net me an extra 200 dollars per pack moved. But I was dealing with small numbers and that’s the way I intended to keep it. I had neither the inclination nor the client list to start working with pounds.

I learned about the opening of the Ritz from my Mom and upon looking into it, I found that they were conducting mass interviews at a convention center downtown. I showered, shaved and tucked in a crisp white dress shirt finished with a tie. When I arrived at the scene there looked to be a solid 3 or 400 people there applying. The whole process was broken up into different sections. First, there was the standard paper application where you try to cram your life into the pre-drawn boxes. You turned this in, waited around a bit and, if they liked your piece of paper, you got called in to interview. You were also supposed to mark your top job choices, and for my first pick, I chose Health Club Attendant.

Despite the dearth of work experience that was apparent from my application, I was granted an interview. It went smoothly enough, and I was ushered into the next room. The paper application and the 1st interview had thinned out the larger crowd a great deal and I was told to wait some more for the next round. Oddly enough, the next round was a telephone interview. It was conducted in a room with about 15 other applicants, each of us on the phone with a different member of the senior Ritz staff from somewhere randomly in the country. I felt very awkward using my exaggeratedly eunuch Guy Smiley phone voice in front of all the other people in the room, but I transcended my self-consciousness and acted every bit the sniveling faggot that these service industry types are looking for. The phone interview lasted quite a while- somewhere between 30 and 60 minutes, and at the end I was told to wait some more. The whole interview process had taken about 2 and a half hours by this point.

Finally, I was called into a smaller room with even fewer remaining applicants, and I was offered the job. I had gotten my first choice, and was told I’d earn 10 bucks an hours. What I was most excited about though, was the job description. Seriously, all I had to do was sit behind the desk in the gym and hand people towels. It was a stoner’s dream. I signed the job offer and I was feeling great. I had set out to do something to better myself, and I had actually done it. And then, mere seconds after shaking hands and being congratulated, I was ushered into a line which led into the mens’ bathroom. It was an impromptu drug test. Needless to say, I was fucked. I had considered the possibility of being drug tested at a later point in the process, but I never expected an on-the-spot drug test immediately following the interview. Helpless and dejected, I sprayed my contaminated urine into the cup, knowing full-well that I had just seen the first and last of my employment with the Ritz-Carlton.

In the ensuing days, I still held out a bit of hope. I had honed a perfect excuse (which I can no longer remember) and felt that if I argued my case well enough I could get a second chance drug test, and this time I’d be prepared. But when they called to tell me my job was revoked due to a failed a drug test, they didn’t leave me many options. I argued the best I could, but it was to no avail. I was directed back and forth to call different people in different departments and other assholes at the lab company. In the end, my case was left to drown in a sea of bureaucratic red tape, and I was left more jaded than ever*.

I took it out on the bottle and smoked myself silly and went out in search of women. One night it came to my attention that neighborhood girl Missy was interested in me. Because of the depth and breadth of my post Ritz blackouts, I had no idea who Missy was. It was explained that I had wooed her one night in the Tavern by repeatedly approaching with a fully unbuttoned shirt, swirling my sweaty and well-trimmed chest hair in her face and boldly pouring myself beer from her pitcher.

This inside information came at the hands of Cartoon Bunny Korver, who Striker had recently begun a frenching affair with. Korver lived dangerously close to us (a few houses to the left), and displayed a questionable sanity. Missy was Korver’s best friend and, though they were not roommates, Missy spent a lot of her time hanging out in our neighborhood. Though Missy and I were apparently pretty well acquainted, my sober mind had absolutely no idea who she was or even what she looked like. When we were reintroduced for what was probably our 3rd social encounter, I was pleased, as Missy was definitely attractive and conventionally better looking than Korver. Missy had light brown hair (which, in an ill-advised move, she later dyed dark), pale skin (especially for Miami), and blue eyes. Handful tits and a big juicy ass rounded out the package for a respectable 6.

Striker arranged for Korver and Missy to come over for some pre-Grove boozing. I laid back and played it cool, mostly because I had no idea how to act around this stranger. By the time we reached the Grove I was pretty-well lubricated and Missy and I were hitting it off, and we were frenching like old chums before long. In what seemed like a pre-arranged demonstration of solidarity, the girls refused to come back to our house after the bar. They teased us and made it clear that they dug us, but in the end we were left empty handed. I saw Missy at the gym a couple times that week, and we had a brief chat, but I tried to limit my sober interactions. I saw her in the Grove a couple days later. She had given me her phone number, but of course I hadn’t called, and Missy seemed upset about this. Nevertheless, she did come home with me that night. We got nude and I thought I was gonna score, but Missy wasn’t ready. I respected this, but there was still the problem of my raging boner, which didn’t much care for logic, or Missy’s feelings, for that matter. She didn’t seem to know what to do, and so I recommended the blowjob, my personal favorite on the menu. She appeared to be slightly uncomfortable with this, and when her mouth encircled my red rocket, it was obvious why. Missy didn’t have much of a clue of how to administer a knobber, and my boner was left to listlessly sway about like a lonely buoy on calm seas, before eventually wilting and melting back into a flaccid marshmallow. The whole scene was pretty awkward. Korver was in Striker’s room performing similar sexual acts to markedly higher degrees of success. I don’t remember what took place, but I know Striker was stopped short of banging her.

Before the girls left, they insisted that we see a movie with them the following evening. All night long they had been clamoring for a ‘real’ date, and it seemed that withholding sex was their trump card, the coup de graˆce of their genius plan. What they didn’t realize is that withholding sex makes me very angry** and even less sympathetic to acquiesce to their idiotic notion of a proper date. I hadn’t taken a single girl on a date during my entire time in Miami, and that included Violet, who was actually my girlfriend for 8 months- and Missy was definitely no Violet. Out of pure exhaustion, Striker and I half-heartedly agreed that we’d do something with them the next night, which was a Friday. Weekend nights were obviously bigger business than weekdays, and taking them out on a night like that was really saying something. We had only agreed to get them out of our house. We intended to just avoid them the next day, which proved to be more annoying than we had expected.
Unlike me, Striker was a law student and actually did have a few day to day responsibilities. His day had gone poorly, and after class he closed himself in his room. The light was off and the door was locked, and it seemed like he was done for the night. Still reeling from the course of my life and my uncertain future, I had spent the day like most of my others- alone and very high. Upon seeing that my wingman was crapped out, I took a nap myself, during which I was disturbed two times by phone calls from Missy, who had also called once during the day. I turned off the phone and went back to bed, emerging around 11 pm. Striker’s door was still closed. My cousin Brad and I weren’t on good terms, thanks mostly to the incredibly selfish way that I lived in our house, and I’d have rather died go out with Gail and her terrifically awful group of hound dogs. I had other people I could call, but none of them went out the way I did. I wasn’t looking for some good old time laughs or good conversation, I was looking for pussy. I had a no frills gameplan that I adhered to, and I desperately needed a wingman so that, if nothing else, I could be told what I had done the next day.

I knew my Friday night was fucked, which made me feel even more depressed, and the particular house I lived in compounded those feelings. Because I lived below 4 hot, popular sorority girls I could always hear them giggling and running up and down the stairs and having people over, etc. It sucked seeing them look so hot and nicely sauced, vibrant and ebullient at the prospect of a night on the town. I had to walk outside past them and, in my Miami uniform***, my appearance made it obvious that I was staying in. It made me miss college and regret the choices I made, and worse yet I still didn’t know what choices to make to right the ship.

I was feeling very low when I got to my car. I had enough change and crumpled dollar bills to purchase a whole roasted chicken from the drive-thru at Pollo Tropical, and that was pretty much going to be the extent of my Friday night. And then I saw the note. Under my windshield wiper was a folded piece of white paper. I noticed it right before backing out of the driveway. It was a large drawing of a fish bowl with a cartoonish fish looking up toward the surface at a crudely drawn dick which was dipping into the water. Above the picture a caption was written in bubbly, girly hand-writing. It read: “It’s OK to say No to bad things!”. I had no idea what this stupid note meant, but I suspected that Missy and Korver were behind it, and it pissed me off. After retrieving and consuming my whole chicken, I woke Striker for his input on the note, and also to warn him. After the Lunatic 2.0 incident, we couldn’t be too careful with crazy women.

Waking Striker up is somewhat of a dangerous prospect since he gets very cranky and at best, his mood and appearance will be similar to that of Quatto in Total Recall****. But having been asleep since early afternoon, he was well-rested and displayed an unexpected alacrity. His phone had been called a bunch by Korver, and we discovered a very similar note pinned to his window. We were both annoyed. Who did these girls think they were? It was already close to midnight, and we decided to start drinking. A couple Beam on the rocks later, Korver and Missy showed up. This bold move was obviously the work of Korver, the dominant one in the pair. Missy was a soft-spoken fawn, seemingly dragged along to suffer the antics of the self-assured, brawny Korver.

I thought we should’ve told them to leave immediately, that we had to send a message that this kind of behavior was unacceptable. But Striker was anxious for closure with Korver, and he offered them booze. Eventually, I warmed up to the idea as I felt the comforting warmth of bourbon pumping through my veins. The four of us went out to the Grove, which seemed to satisfy all parties. Friday is the deadest night in the Grove, which meant that Striker and I had little danger of being seen with these girls by anyone who mattered. At the same time, this sort of was a date, and so the girls were satisfied. We all got smashed and ended up going to Denny’s, and in order to allay the pride the girls were feeling at having gotten us to take them to a meal, I made a complete spectacle of myself at the table. Any of you that have eaten with me at a late night restaurant when I’m drunk know exactly what I’m talking about. I unscrew the salt and pepper, cover the table with sugar, dip my fist into other people’s water and play with my food to a repulsive extent. Imagine a 2 year old child in the body of a 6 foot gorilla man- manically laughing the whole time, and you’ll get the picture. But apparently this behavior was charming enough, and after the ‘meal’ the girls came back to our place.

It was very late at this point, and before getting into bed with Missy I took a giant bong rip. She let me fuck her, which I did in the sideways position, entering her from behind. After a little while I withdrew and, to no on in particular, exclaimed, “Fuck this!” while I ripped of the condom and slapped it onto my night table, and completed the act raw, making mark on her back before falling blissfully asleep.

Striker had settled for another blow or perhaps handjob, and was becoming increasingly frustrated with Korver’s antics. He was really beginning to hate her. Meanwhile, idiot that she was, Korver was thought she was a real cunning mastermind who would eventually have Striker eating out of her hand. Things would turn out much differently than Korver expected.

I nailed Missy a few more times over the next week while Striker was forced to stay in the cat and mouse game with Korver. Missy was getting a little too clingy, and Striker was just going around in circles with that moronic Cartoon Bunny. One afternoon while enjoying the Miami sun and a nice even-keeled high, we were each complaining about our respective girls. Missy had no self-esteem and it really made my attraction to her wane. At the same time, Korver’s boorish confidence was irritating, since all she really had going for her was blonde hair and a nice set of tits. We decided we wanted to switch. We considered doing some sort of elaborate plan, making the transition over time, but neither of us wanted any part of that. We really didn’t care about these girls’ feelings, and we really didn’t care if we stopped hooking up with them. We decided honesty was the best route.

Later that night in the Tavern, we ran into Korver. She had been turning up her flirting with me to make Striker jealous, and so this time I flirted back by staring at and making slow deliberate grabs at her juicy tits. She found this behavior flattering, and seemed to be really enjoying it. At this moment, Striker decided to break the news to her. She got angry, and at first thought he was merely reacting to seeing the two of us flirt. But then I clarified it for her. I explained that he was done with her and that he now wanted Missy, while making sure to stare directly at her tits the whole time. She was pretty upset, and when I explained that now she was assigned to do me, it didn’t seem to be much consolation. She disappeared into the crowd at Tavern, and Striker and I moved on to Moe’s. Later that night, we ran into Missy, who had already gotten word from Korver. I really didn’t have much to say to her, so Striker took over as I watched from a distance with one of my random, nameless Grove friends****.

I knew Striker would sell the Switch to Missy harder than I had to Korver, and Missy had such weak confidence that I knew he had a good shot of succeeding. Before long, my Grove pal and I were stunned as we saw Striker dutifully frenching Missy. We doubled over with cruel laughter. I can’t remember if Striker banged her that particular night or the night right after, but bang her he did. By engaging in this act, Missy had effectively destroyed her friendship with Korver, who was infuriated by the whole thing. The two girls, who had planned to live together post-college, were now no longer speaking. Korver also stopped speaking to Striker and I.

On the other hand, Missy became a plaything for us. I had completely lost sexual interest in her, but it was fun to have her around because you could say or do anything you wanted to her. She also found the new situation preferable since she actually enjoyed being dominated and felt freed from the reign of the brash and foolish Cartoon Bunny Korver. Interestingly enough, having now been fucked by both Striker and I, Missy was allowed into the fold of our sinister dealings. We spoke to her with complete honesty about our intentions and sexual exploits, and she was cool with it. After all the shit we pulled and all the girls who would live to revile us, Missy always stood by us, and is one of the few women we kept in touch with after leaving the city.

*While I stood in that drug test line my mind was racing. I thought about just bolting or saying I got sick or that I wasn’t told to take the drug test, but I was a pussy and stayed in the line like a little bitch. In retrospect, I’m glad I did. Had I actually gotten the job at the Ritz, I would have stayed in Miami, and the course of my life may have turned out very different.

**Withholding sex is very different from not wanting to have sex. If a girl doesn’t want to bang a guy, I totally respect that. But if a girl does want the guy and is only refusing sex in an effort to trap him in a relationship, it’s quite a different animal.

***My Miami uniform was bright yellow shorts (or sometimes bright green shorts), no shirt, and sandals.

****Quatto is the little guy with the angry scrunched up face who comes out of that guy’s stomach and says “Release your mind, Quaid”.

*****I had a ton of buddies in the Grove that I met through going out to the same bars all the time. Though many of them knew me well, and while drunk I fell into easy routines with them, I would not have been able to pick any of them out of a lineup in the sober daylight.