Exactly like that, only different

Our society is governed by a means of associations, of comparisons. When you think about it, nearly every aspect of our life owes some significance to this thought. When friends compare different models of computers, they're exactly the same, only a little different. During a fight, a husband says to his wife she is exactly like her mother, only little different. We are always changing as people and as a society, and in order for us to understand something, we use comparisons. It's an interesting topic to think about in its own right, but listening to how other people compare themselves is equally entertaining.

For example, I was cruisin' along in the Camry today - it's an '85, if you're wondering - flirting with lines of girls on the hot beach strand. Actually, it's raining here. And there's no beach, no strand. We have Wal-Mart, and people fucking love that place. But anyhoo, my ghetto-rigged tuner was only picking up the soft-rock station, again. I heard Gwen Stefani's poppy classic "Rich Girl" rattle through the 1 1/2 working speakers. It was the first time I had heard the song in it's entirety, and I got a little kinky - I performed a role reversal with Gwen. It was hot.

I didn't really focus on the words, I focused on Gwen, the artist. I'll be the first to admit I know jack crud about Stefani, other than she used to sing for No Doubt. But from what she says in the HP commercial, we're practically the same person, only different. I couldn't help but think we follow the same passion: harnessing and defining creative energy. But she's rich, and has a hot body, and is so far successful. We're pretty much the same person, only different.

Yesterday at Barnes and Noble - my home away from home - two teenage girls were comparing their cell phones. They were different brands, different services, but functioned very similarly. One said, "It's exactly like yours, [slight pause] only different."

At the bar, I overheard a couple guys talking about women; more specifically, their female parts. The conclusion: They're all the same, just a little bit different.

I'm not sure this post has any real significance. But with all the talks of holiday gifts lately, and the excitement people show for their new-found material goods, I find it funny, curiously so, how that excitement will soon fade in the wake of a newer, updated and perceptibly better product, and how when that time of newness and recycled innovation comes around, that product will be compared to the ones they unwrapped Christmas morning. We have found ourselves in the fog of a disposable economy where differences - be they good or bad - are presented as new, and therefor, better. And unfortunately this method of comparison applies not only to material goods (though, there it seems most evident) but to people of status as well. I'm exactly like a lot of people, only different. And I think that's where many of us get caught up. At least I sometimes do...

Tangerine dreams

I have a theory. It involves the effect of certain foods on your dreams. I am sure genotype construction, types of food, levels of stress, when the food was eaten and other factors are sure to have some measurable effect. But for me, if I eat citrusy foods within half hour of laying down, I get some wild-ass dreams. Like the other night...

I walked out of my apartment and stepped onto the streets of San Francisco. Weird. I then came across a park - one that I saw in Harlem, NY. I am walking and playing with people's dogs when I realize I have to pee. So I find a bush. In the middle of the day. With tons of people around. And I take a leak. I close my eyes for a moment, apparently it felt great, and when I opened them, I was standing there with nothing on but a towel. And it was wide open. And there was no more bush.

A group of black men walked by and stopped. I was in shock and stood with my arms spread - the towel's ends in each hand. They pointed and started to laugh. One said, "Haaahaha, man, you have a small-ass penis!" And his buddies chirped in. "Hey, everybody, come look at this guy's small weenie!" And yet I stood there. Towel open. I tried explaining there was a chilly breeze, that it's usually not that small, that I had stage fright. Each explanation only yielded more laughter. Then i looked down and it had disappeared.

I woke up sweating and immediately felt myself. Good. Still there. Still the same. Dreams are good, but threatening my manhood, well that's a different story.

Why couldn't it be me?

I'm sitting here, at my desk, in the sub-zero space known to be the office. At the risk of sounding like a bitch-fest, it has so far been one of those days. I walk in to a nagging, yelling, angry boss telling me I was wrong. I was wrong for other people screwing up and I was wrong for not predicting other people would screw up and I was wrong for not correcting the screw ups. Even though I haven't worked since Friday. I was wrong. And apparently I am in charge of three people now. Sounds cool, but if you realized the peasant's wages I earn, you would shat yourself in embarrassing laughter.

And I don't know what my deal is lately, but I've been in a crazy obnoxious mood. Have you ever felt like you were about to literally go insane? I think that's how I feel. Like any day now I am going to start seeing an imaginary friend who follows me everywhere. Maybe I'll start talking to him. His name will be Marc, or Steve, or whatever he wants. After all, I'll be the only one that can see him. I'm talking Drop Dead Fred kind of crazy. Which, by the way, was a phenomenal movie. It might be neat at first, but it wouldn't turn out nearly as cool as "A Beautiful Mind." I would be the real-life version. I'd get locked up for talking to myself in public, having intercourse with inanimate objects, and to top it off, I would only have a marginally OK mind. Nothing beautiful about that.

But my dissatisfaction with work is at an all-time high. This is higher than the moving-back-home incident of 2006 - and that was a hard time, indeed. I've passed the point of anger. For a while I wanted to literally staple people's mouths together. Now, it's more a self-inflicting pain I desire. The reason is simple. I could hypothetically staple every on the employees' mouths together and beat them senseless with their own shoes. But time has proven again and again and again that stupidity follows stupidity. And when the next batch of little fucktards comes through the door, I'm going to want to do the same thing. And that would just waste a lot of staples. So if I can mame myself in some way, I think we'll be better off.

In fact, I've recently taken to climbing high ladders to replace light bulbs and such - my only wish, that somebody bumps the madder and I come crashing down and break an arm. Worker's Comp, how lovely you sound. It's not that I'm lazy and not that I am afraid to leave. There are no jobs locally worth my time now. I look. Every day. And when I close my eyes, all I see is a sad face :(

That being said, I know that one day, some lucky little bastard is going to be hanging Christmas lights along the ceiling when he loses his balance and falls through the glass display case. Everybody will be rushing to help him. I will be standing back, crying, wishing it was me. That lucky little prick.

PS, it snowed here yesterday. :)

Is this burning an eternal flame?

Just to clarify, the title has nothing to do with this post. I just heard it on the soft rock station, and I think I'd publically like to add that song to my Confessions posts. And to spare you any surprise or confusion, this post is a little random.

1. I was introduced to the term "Hater Vision" about a year ago. I reside in a city with less than 100,000 people in Northern California. I had never heard of hater vision, but I guess I live a sheltered life because apparently this idea is pretty big. The concept: Have LCD video screens placed in your car, positioned so that only the people driving behind you can see the screen. The logic is flawless: I have so much money, I can afford to give the haters driving behind me something to hate me for. This guy knows what's up:

The mudflap! The goddamn mudflap!

But some people have opted to go achieve "middle-class hater" status.

Kind of interesting, I guess.

2. I spend way too much time Stumbling sites. I have my settings set to find humorous, funny things, so that I may have some refuge from my mundane job. Instead, I find this:

Here's my problem with it: It's not funny! That was supposed to be the "coolest prank to ever pull" but it's really not. Here's what would happen: The teacher would walk into class and say, "Ha, very funny, whoever did this. We are going to have class in the cafeteria because we'll make a mess in here. Before I call the janitor I will file a police report to fingerprint for which one of you little fuckers did this."

Plus, there is nothing grabbing about this. The first thing I thought of was how much time was spent pulling this off. I can bet it totally wasn't worth the effort. In short, I thought way too much about this to think it was funny. In fact, I grew angry at it.

3. Here is the story of a Bored Asshole.

Hey dumbass, here's an idea: Just donate the $7,500 to educational funds, and stop flaunting your affluence just to draw some attention to your bored, useless, pathetic self. While you're at it, throw some my way. Daddy needs a new pair of shoes.

4.My grandmother read my blog. She said, "I don't get it." It's my birthday today. I might go celebrate this weekend. But probably not. I started this Men's Health program that allows me one [they greatly emphasize this number] beer or wine per night. I guess that brings me to my novel, which is coming along ve-ry slo-wly. I guess it's a pretty common habit, but the plot has changed like 30 times. It usually changes when everybody I know gets married and they all start popping out babies, other peoples' happiness is a little depressing, isn't it? I wonder if there's a pill that can help me focus...

Fuckitol! Of Course!

Karma a la extreme

Don't you feel that it's much easier to only see the negative side of karma? You know, when something bad happens you think, "Hmm, I shouldn't have cheated on that test. I guess karma got me again." I seem to say that a lot more than, "Gee whiz, I'm sure glad I donated all my free time and what little excess money I have to the homeless shelter, and because of my good deeds I've been rewarded with a shiny new car and a beautiful girlfriend with rich parents."

It's sad, I know.

But I didn't post an AIDS Awareness post on Dec. 1, National AIDS Day, like many of the other bloggers participating in Bloggers Unite. And now I prepare myself to weather the repercussions.

I awoke this morning to unfriendly rapping on the front door. So I answered it - hair askew, robed in my finest flannel PJs, sans shirt (a scary sight at this point in my life). There stood a man with white hair. "Is Carol (roommate's made-up name) home?" he asked. I said she was in the shower. Sometimes Carol has clients meet her at the house, and I didn't know this man. I caught a glimpse of the driveway -- in the background was my roommate's car, hooked and loaded to the man's tow truck. Then came the curve ball. "I'm here to repossess her car."

Some might imagine that isn't the best way to welcome the morning -- eyes glued together, wearing no shirt, letting the 35 degree weather ferociously bite my nipples. But I persevered. That's what I do. I persevere.

I asked the man to hold while I went down the hall and woke Carol. While she tried to throw some clothes on I sculpted my bestest haphazard BS face and tried to knock that curve ball right outta the park. "You want some coffee?" I asked. "No, thanks. She owes $xxx amount, and I only accept cash," he said.

"OK. How do you expect her to have such a large sum of money at 8 in the a.m.?" He looked at me, searching for an answer, "These are the orders." Carol had overheard and came screaming down the hall she is paid to date and flaunted certified payment history from the bank.

By 8:30 I was making coffee for a strange man ready to "steal" - as the term should come to be known - with nipples erect like the Washington Monument. Carol is screaming on the phone to the bank. The man is talking to me about my day job. Carol starts crying. I tell her to pull it together. She cried more. The man got ready to leave. I said, "Pal. Don't take the car."

I know it didn't sound profound. But I didn't have a speech prepared. Silly me. So Carol spent the next 45 minutes running around town trying to collect a grip of cashola. I made this guy eggs. And more coffee. He finished nearly the entire pot. Then Carol came back with a wad of cash, but wanted a cashier's check. So I ran to the bank for her. The teller was a very attractive young lady. We flirted. Then some D-bag came from nowhere and kissed her. He had spikey hair. And an Abercrombie polo. Go figure. Real fuckin original, guy. I came home, the man left. Carol was still sobbing, call it the curse of the PMS. Then I went to work.

And I feel terrible, because I think all of this could have been prevented if I had written an AIDS post. So to those of you who have HIV or full-blown AIDS, I'm sorry I let you down. It is a serious and very real disease. Many of us think, "I know, I know" but the reality is there are still too many people who don't know. So please, help spread the word.

That said, who wants to get drunk?

Them b*tches are crazy

Pigeons annoy the crap out of me. You'll just be sitting on a park bench, trying to enjoy a nice turkey sandwich and before you know it you're swarmed by them. They look at you, side-eyed, and mock you. They scream Hoorlooorloorl - which is the sound a pigeon makes. And with each step they bob their heads. Which leads me to believe that pigeons are byproducts of South American drug shacks from long ago.

It was a nice nesting place, the pigeons thought. The warm, tropical climate made it comfortable and the lush scenery made them the envy of all their pigeon friends. One day a group of them went out for a joy flight, just soaring over the landscape, drinking in the beauty when, hark! They spotted a party. The barbecue was roaring, there were lots of people, lots of guns and everybody was nude. And pigeons looove to party, so they swooped in. They noticed how hyper everybody was. The adults were talking and dancing, still nude, and were very fidgety people. The children ran into the jungle and wrestled gorillas. And they ran back smiling, toting severed gorilla heads.

But the pigeons were a chill group. They just kicked it off to the side, sippin' on some tequila. One of the pigeons noticed a large mound of white powder all the human-peoples kept going to. So the pigeons slyly made their way over the the white mountain. Hoorlooorloorl, they said, giving head nods to the gunned lunatics. The gunned lunatics replied, "Hoorlooorloorl." People were smelling the powder. "I bet it's scented!" one of the pigeons exclaimed. Human-people were stirring it into their drinks and rubbing it all over their bodies. This party was legit.

Pigeons were at the time notorious for knowing how to get down, so they imbibed. "I don't smell anything," one said. "Well, maybe we need to smell a lot of it," another followed. Within minutes the pigeons were themselves nude, acting a fool.Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! Then the pigeons just started humping like crazy. "It's not mating season," one of the females said, "but this feels so right." And they had lots of crazy pigeon sex.

By the party's end, they decided this was too much fun to forget about. But they noticed the mound was quickly dwindling. So each of them swooped up a beak full of the happy powder and flew back to their pigeon village. They shared it with the locals. Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! Hoorlooorloorl! all the pigeons screamed.

Pretty soon all the pigeons started doing their best friend's pigeon and lying to each other. There were lots of pigeon orgies and lots of diseases that ensued, and also lots of incest. Before long, there were too many pigeons and not enough magic powder. So they started going insane. But they still reproduced in great numbers.

So that brings us to today. Now, human-people can't enjoy a day at the park, alone, because of the conniving, codependency of these orphan birds. What was once a grand animal is now a twitchy, head-bobbing creature, desperate for attention and their next fix. Don't be fooled, them bitches are crazy.

The cursed case of the wicked wonders of why we do what we do

Lately I've been a little bummed. I met a girl I ended up liking, and something went wrong and now we don't talk. The not-talking isn't what bugs me, it's why we're not talking. The reason: There is no reason. Very awkward thing. But anyhow, this is a recounting of last weekend's trip that made me realize I'm totally not ready to grow up.

What is it about sporadic ideas that make them sound so appealing? And what is it about going out of town that makes you think, "Gee, I totally have money to spend. I'm just gonna live the good life?" I don't know the answer, but I spent last weekend in the city of lost hopes, moral vacancy and stereotypically blond people. But it wasn't LA per se, it was Hermosa Beach. Auggie lives in Hermosa Beach.

And as a note, I've changed, if only slightly, the names of people involved.

My friend, Papa Bear, called me up Monday and asked if I wanted to drive down with him. I said, "Sure, Papa Bear. Let's rock and roll." (What I said wasn't actually that gay.)

So we left at 8:30 in the p.m. on Thursday night. We didn't arrive to my friend Auggie's house until 4:30 in the a.m. Friday. Papa Bear dropped me there and headed to his girl's house in a land far, far away. When I woke up, about 9:30, everybody I knew was at work. So I did the only logical thing. Took a shower, got myself prettied up, and headed to Sharkeez for a beer. Which turned into a few more. And a shot. After realizing my money was going much too fast, I decided to head back to the crib. On the way there I passed this
and it made me smile. A little further down the strand, just feel from where I was staying, was this charming little watering hole.

And yes, if you're wondering, it did in fact smell like vomit. And yes, if you're wondering, I went inside and had a beer.

This carried on for several hours, until I met up with some old friends for dinner. And then it carried on after dinner. Next thing I know, I'm at some bar, August is buying shots of tequila...then my memory fades for what I can only assume to be about an hour. Cut to next scene, getting out of a cab at somebody's house. everybody else is hammered drunk. I'm not. I tried to go to sleep on the couch but was kept awake by somebody in this picture making the sex with one young lady, totally unafraid to express her pleasure through the art of moans and screams. And occasional thumps on the wall. And more screaming. So after the unanticipated marathon concludes, 5:42 a.m., I fall asleep and am awoken by somebody on the phone at 7:34, also in the a.m.

We go pick up Andy (also in the picture) and head to January's house. By 9 a.m. we crack our first beer and Andy tells us of his adventures. He went home with a zoo keeper. We laughed. Then laughed some more. She allegedly woke him up at 7, decked out in her safari attire. And we laughed some more. Until this weekend, I thought zoo keepers were mythical beings, chained down by their Dr. Doolittle-ish qualities. But they're real. And some have piercings in places that, well, just use your imagination.

So we keep drinking all day (complete waste of life, I know) and decide it a good idea to go out that night. We went to a place called Union Cattle. All I remember was a mechanical bull. I really wanted to ride it, but I couldn't even remember my name. But according to my bank account, I decided to order a few more drinks for myself. By midnight we left the bar, brought home a pizza I don't recall eating, and went to sleep. But not before we played lots of loud music and had an unofficial dance party.

The next day, not much happened. We hung out at Sharkeez again for Sunday Funday. I met these girls: I think their names were Amanda and Kim. If not, I apologize. Oh, and I saw this girl:

And I know what you're thinking. That's gross, right? Yeah. But only in SoCal. Thank you, semi-nude beach-goer.