Fuck you, Fortune Cookie.

This one is awesome. An Oscar Wilde quote above a urinal? Get outta town! I wonder if he wrote this whilst peeing. Because guys can do that. We can pee, standing up, while vandalizing public property. Everyone should really invest in getting a penis.

Today

This made me laugh:

"Who was the first guy that looked at a cow and said, "I think that I'll drink whatever comes out of those things when I squeeze them?"

-Calvin and Hobbes

This gave me chills:

And this made me nostalgic:

Well, the world didn't end. And good thing it didn't because I GOT PLANS, alright? I have to write a book, and like, learn to knit...etc.

At least we now know that, should the end of the world come in 2012, there will be enough status updates/tweets/blog posts to write a multi-volume encyclopedia. It's interesting how it takes an "end of the world" kind of day to make you realize the extent of our generations' need to document our every minuscule action on this planet. It makes me think that when the apocalypse happens i'll at least know I'll be able to find Tom because he just checked in at Pep-Boys, "Hella gettin the lift on my F350 bro. Bout time!" And Jackie will be digging through poolside rubble on the Las Vegas strip because it was "Girlz day at the pool with the besties xoxo omg"

these are my beast franz

Blog Fail

I have been a terribly lethargic blogger these past few weeks. I got through waves of feeling as though my blog becomes a bit too masturbatory. I find that when I have funny topics to write about, it has more meaning both to me and to you, dear reader. My friend Angela agreed provide me with prompts to keep me on track and hopefully get me addicted to writing like cracked out, meth dealing pimp, and provide me with a portfolio of sardonic essays at the same time. I also believe it is for her own selfish benefit to distract her from law school, which I am okay with. Maybe I should look into prostitution...I am surprisingly okay with being used and abused.

Whilst talking to Angela on the phone the other day, she was telling me how she was embarking on a road trip from Illinois to the Grand Canyon with her parents. Through a series of brain ties and advice about arriving in the desert, she provided me with my first prompt.

My Senior Prom.

According to every reenactment of high school that has been shoved down our throats since our pre-pubic hair days, the senior prom is supposed to be the "be-all end-all, horse and carriage, lose your virginity, ride a centaur off of a rainbow into a vodka filled pool full of mermaids" kind of night. And if my life EVER worked out like that, I would never have enough fodder to write a blog of this nature in the first place so...thumbs up for that one.

My night was headed for the shitter right from the start. Someone let me out of the house in a white tuxedo. Now, I understand some people look good in a white tux, but when you are a pale, gangly ginger with red skin and chapped lips from acne medication all being accentuated by the teal vest I just had to have in order to match my date's dress, well...you aren't breaking any hearts. The group I was part of included eleven other couples so there was twenty-four people total that would all be going to dinner together, taking pictures together, riding in a limo together, and sacrificing a baby goat together... if we got drunk enough. There was one boy who was essentially in charge of making the itinerary for the night so as far as I was concerned I just had to give him a certain amount of money and my life would be cake. I suppose I should have been a bit more skeptical when we nominated this particular fellow to be in charge of our funds. He was the "super-pepped, student body, go-getter, you'd assume he was on crack with how much he got accomplished if you didn't know any better" kind of guy. I would have been fine with the standard dinner, drinks, hook-up kind of scenario, which is why I was a bit overwhelmed when I arrived to the pre-prom party and was handed a t-shirt that read "THEprom2006" on the front and the names of each couple within individual stars on the back.

The limo arrived after the necessary pictures had been taken by the parents that cared enough to show up to the house we all met at, and away we went, all 24 of us in one limo that happened to have maybe four or five small air conditioning vents. The perfect situation to be in when you're wearing what feels like six layers, in the middle of May, in the desert, in the afternoon. So I arrived to the restaurant a bit more moist than when I had started the night. This was the perfect time to find out that our coordinator had arranged for us to be seated outside. Perfect. I was already slightly suffering from seasonal allergies but I knew if I didn't touch my face or eyes I would at least be able to remain somewhat comfortable. It didn't matter that I couldn't taste my food, I could at least still breathe through my mouth. Silver lining.

This leads me to the icing on the prom cake. Yes there was another hour or so of driving in the sauna limo and a lackluster experience at the venue for the actual dance, but its the after-party that really matters. We arrive to our party house, which was already set up with candles and rose petals lining the entrance way, once again thanks to our group leader, and we all changed in order to liquor ourselves up and dance like most high school seniors will do at an after-party. After four or five shots I was feeling pretty damn good. I was dancing, I was laughing, I was Prom fucking Peter, here for a good time. This was until I decided to take a break and step out on the balcony. I saw a couch at the other end that looked mighty comfortable and I decided to take myself a little rest.

After about five or so minutes of laying on this couch my throat starts to feel a bit itchy, and with a slight gust of wind I feel little tiny particles fall onto my face. I open my eyes, look up, and see that I am laying underneath a canopy of six or seven, full in bloom, olive trees. In other words my kryptonite. I reach up to wipe the pollen off of my face and by doing so, smear all the pollen that I unknowingly had on my hand, across my entire face and into my eyes. Immediately my eyes start watering, itching, and slowly swelling shut. I ran into the kitchen to wash my hands, and by this point I'm only able to see through two slits basically, so I just say fuck it and stick my head into the sink to have the running water basically pour into my eye sockets. Apparently I looked fucked up enough to have one of my friends run and grab his mother next door, who told me she wouldn't give me any medication since I had been drinking, but suggested I take a shower.

My response, "OHHHH mmmmk THANKS!"

After showering and changing my friends recommend I lay on the couch in the basement for a little while. When I woke up an hour later I see, barely, that my couch had become somewhat of a resting place for the "party flat-liners" which included a girl sleeping at my feet who had given a blowjob in the bathroom earlier that night and promptly vomited right after. This was my prom. A night that started red faced and sweaty, and ended with me drunk, blind, and left for dead.

C'est la vie, fuckers.

Advice from a Bear

Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day

my return...coming soon

freedumb

Cleaning out an email inbox full of 500 some odd emails collected over the past year can turn into quite the cathartic experience. So long Los Angeles, so long graduate school, it seems high time for a new plan. Or maybe it feels like a time to forego all planning...

No expectations, no obligations, no limits.

Hoist the sails. Drink up me hardys yo-ho.

Smile.

Wonn

Once I started to write a one man show. This was the opening.

One man show: Take 1

If I could perform this show anywhere, ideally it would be somewhere magical...like Hogwarts......or Costco. Or my trampoline. If I had to sum up my childhood in a nutshell it would be me with a lateral lisp, pretending to be a girl, jumping on a trampoline. An odd combination, right? You think I say that for the comedic affect, and then my mother will show you the video of me on Christmas throwing a hissy fit because the Peace bear beanie baby was for my sister, and not me. I can only thank God that the same situation involving ski-barbie wasn't caught on tape from the Christmas before. But SANTA BROUGHT IT FOR ME, KALEIGHHH@$@#$!!!

It's weird because I have never been able to distinguish if I liked things like that naturally, or because my sister and I were essentially raised as twins, and I thought I was supposed to like the same things she liked.

I was a weird kid. I often look back on my childhood and feel bad for myself. I was really shy, and got embarrassed really easily. I also was very sensitive and had my feelings hurt often. I would get home from school lots of times and just go jump on my trampoline until it was dark enough to be a hazard. In complete humble modesty I still must admit, I'm pretty bad-ass at the trampoline. That's what having no friends got me. I wouldn't just do tricks, either. I would pretend I was in dangerous situations, lots of times involving things exploding around me. And I would just throw myself around like I was being blown away. Weird, right? It's so weird, and then pair that with me being painfully shy...so when a commercial plane would fly overhead, I would get worried someone might see me pretending to be blown up, and so I would just sit in the middle of the trampoline and not move til it passed over me. Like they would be pointing down and laughing at me, thousands of feet in the air.

That thing ended up becoming completely dangerous. Over the years it had lost all of the pads over the bars supporting it, multiple springs were missing, the remaining structure was completely rusted, and it had tears on each side. I think I was 12, jumping on it, running away from vampires or something in my mind, and I landed right on one of the tears, and the damn thing ripped in half. Unrepairable damage from my pre-growth spurt chubby ass.

That's when I started drinking.

Smilez

"Laughter. An essential ingredient for survival. And we laughed a lot."

-Patti Smith. From her autobiography, Just Kids.

......or B-U-S-T.

I've recently reached a state where I'm feeling very restless, bored, and quite artistically starved. So much so that when I do happen to find an outlet for some form of creativity or creation, it manifests itself in very sudden outbursts with no real direction.

For instance, I've found myself more so writing for the sake of writing every now and then, but to no sense of completion. I've written a total of seven postcards that I've yet to send. I've cut and ripped out a stack of pictures from different magazines to collage but have left them in a plastic bag in my backpack. I have brief outlines of unfinished, if even attempted, scripts. I carry around three unread plays, a pair of scissors, glue, paint brushes, a journal, and a video camera daily but usually leave my bag unopened. Choosing, instead, to stare mindlessly off into space while I listen to music on the patio of the closest Starbucks.

Finding myself in this stagnant position just makes me a huge negative energy to be around or converse with. You know those times when you aren't too happy with a particular situation in your life and you find yourself inexplicably taking it out on those around you? It's as if you go into out of body experiences and you hear that you're being a complete ass for no reason and yet you just can't stop yourself or muster up the energy to explain that it's no one's fault, it just is what it is. Well.......yeah.

This is probably a sign that I'm ready to pack up and leave again. Which, If I leave before August, will be my fourth home within one year. At this point in my life I've developed a Goldilocks complex, trying all the options available until something feels just right. In all honesty, I haven't minded this pseudo-gypsy lifestyle thus far. And better that a move should cure my boredom as opposed to a slue of tattoos and haircuts, which would probably be the only other alternative to scratch this lethargic itch.

And maybe that's okay. After all, if the feeling of being stuck in a town where there is no potential to grow and expand, to create and be inspired, and where the monotony of life has ignited a spark that will inevitably conclude with a massive internal implosion, what other option is there?

You pack your shit, and you go.

Happ-penis

Finding things to smile about is a good waste of time

Pootie

Don't let the sweet, pretty face and cute pooch fool you. This little lady is as feisty as they come, and to top it off, knows how to shoot an array of guns and crossbows. Besides that, she'd be the woman I'd try to marry if the world had of made me a man that was looking for a woman to marry. Nonetheless, she has a beautiful blog that you should follow right here

You know when you just feel like this?

I wish my deaf dog understood sign language, because I'm always worried that I hurt his feelings.

hellla gayyyyy

So, I have made an observation of my life. It seems to me that the only people I really get into altercations with in my adult life, are other gay men. Do I know why this is? No. Do I know where this hostility manifests itself from? No. Do I know why the gays are always in attack mode and ready to pounce on another gay at the drop of a ten calorie tic tac for lunch? Maybe.

I've noticed a major difference in the ways that the gays fight as opposed to straight men. Yes, there are instances where a homo can throw a beer bottle at another or "throw some bows" as my man Ludacris so eloquently puts, but it always stems from the same basic gay fighting tactic. Which I believe is making you feel like shit on the inside, rather than making you feel physical pain on the outside. Think about it, these sassy stanley's are skilled in the art of verbal assaults, probably learning from years of torment on the playground and a thick skin that not even the sharpest stiletto can puncture. All it takes is that one look. You know the one, the one where eyebrows get furrowed, the eyes travel up and down your entire body, and then the not so subtle scoff as they lean into their friend laughing while still looking at you. And then all of a sudden the insecurities flow like a stampede.

"What are they laughing at? Is it my outfit? Is it my hair? IS IT MY FACE? I thought I looked nice tonight. Don't I look nice tonight? Mike? Mike, I'm talking to you. Do I look nice tonight? Well, it's just they're laughing at me. No, I'm not projecting my insecurities. Fuck you. Just tell me I look nice, bitch. DON'T I?! .......thank you. Yeah, fuck them. FUCK YOU! Yeah I'm talking to you, Sally. I said fuck you. Don't....don't you fucking point your finger at me."

That's always the second stage of the gay fight. The finger lift. It's as if an invisible magic wand is being lifted in the air and the index finger comes up, not pointing at you, but more so raised towards the roof so you are essentially looking at them holding up the number one, while making a stank face. And that finger just WORKS IT. It is used so intricately to gesticulate on all the right words.

i.e. Fat. Bitch. Slut. Queen. Loose.

And then a finger is used in retaliation. So much so that if someone hearing impaired happened to be watching it would appear that two queens were trying to out do each other in a Mariah Carey impression.

Of course, if all of that fails to scare the competitor the testosterone levels can't be ignored and here come the beer bottles, drinks thrown, claws out, fists clenched. But I am always impressed with the devious, strateigical mind games that always preface the physical violence. It, to me, is truly more frightening than throwing some fists around.

Solooo

So, my friend Molly (who has herself an awesome, witty blog right here ) has already put this song either on her blog, or on facebook before, but I don't care. This past month I have been re-reading, and finally finishing, one hundred years of solitude, and everyone should REAADDSS IT.

Unless you're in a bit of a slump. Despite the beautiful language and magical story, the passage of time and somewhat sad endings to some of the family members' stories can be a bit of a downer. Especially if you're a recent college grad who is being forced to realize that EVERYTHING CHANGES.

So....there's that.

Aargh.

Pirate Dreams

Needles and pins, Needles and pins,
Sew me a sail to catch me the wind.
Sew me a sail strong as the gale,
Carpenter, bring out your hammers and nails.
Hammers and nails, hammers and nails,
Build me a boat to go chasing the whales.
Chasing the whales, sailing the blue
Find me a captain and sign me a crew.
Captain and crew, captain and crew,
Take me, oh take me to anywhere new.

— Shel Silverstein


God Shel.....write mah lyfe why don't you?

Draaaaank

These are the dashing gentleman I got to spend my past weekend with. I feel like no photo comes so close to our relationship as this one. Because obviously I'm the classy one, Titus in the middle is the charming one, and Nicholai Steen on the right is the alocoholic.

I just returned to Las Vegas after spending a weekend in San Francisco auditioning for graduate programs. So...we'll see how that turns out. On my travels back home I spent a good portion of the morning walking in the rain looking for the train station to take me to the airport, finally getting there soaking wet and learning my flight was delayed an hour and a half. My solution to this problem obviously involved me drinking four tall glasses of beer, followed by a mix drink on the airplane while I watched Jersey Shore, delivering me to my mother in a nice drunken state. Being that it was Valentine's Day, my concubine Derek suggested we go out drinking to a plethora of bars down on the Las Vegas strip, launching me into a state of utter intoxication, exhaustion, and delirium. Its as if all the overtly stimulating experiences of my weekend and travels home mixed together in what felt like a lucid dream but happened to be reality.

For example, I truly believed at one point in the night I was talking to Ronnie from the Jersey Shore, and in my efforts to confirm this I proceeded to take a step back from him and stare at him with one eye closed so that he would stop multiplying. My friend Dylan calls that move the drunken pirate. Then, if falling asleep in the back of the cab ride home wasn't enough, I got yelled at by my mom for making a racket in the pantry at four in the morning, and didn't understand why she failed to remember that I was a gladiator and had an important fight the next morning. When I woke up, I was greeted with a loving, "you were eating raw noodles at four in the morning again."

I attribute the gladiator fantasies to my indulgence in the series (porn) Sparatacus over the weekend. Who doesn't love a show full of bare breasts, man ass, and frequent decapitations? And today, it was the only thing distracting me from checking my e-mail every ten minutes to see whether or not I got the next callback to these graduate schools. I think I now can relate to a crack addict who is waiting on a call from his dealer. Gotta get it gotta get it gotta FUCKING GET IT.

meow.

Bafroom

A little known fact about me is that I have a strange affinity for bathroom stall graffiti. One of the top three I've ever seen is "I have herpes and I used this toilet..good luck!"

This one I took a picture of because I appreciated how concise and simple it was. This guy is a straight to the point kind of dude. I respect that. Wherever you are red pen graffiti man, I pay homage to you.

TSQ

The only thing better than this song is the "most liked" comment underneath it that reads, "I want this song playing as my backround music when im outside doing stuff. :D"


It would make the scene in which you ride over to your friends house on your razor scooter a lot more substantial, now wouldn't it Tomajm24?

Ketch-up

So, I am apparently not quite sticking to my resolution of updating my blog multiple times per week. This could easily be blamed on my procrasturbation tendencies, or more so that I never feel quite productive when I'm at my own house. I don't know if anyone else feels this way, but even in college, being in a residence that I associate with sleeping, eating, drinking copious amounts of alcohol, and (besides my parents house) having the occasional romp in the sack, just doesn't equate with productivity and working in my mind. So, this requires me to make the effort to get out of my house and go to one of the 9 million Starbucks establishments that litter the continent. Which can be tricky because I like the sit and write for sometimes around an hour, but for some reason the Starbucks think its trendy and hip to close at 8, and the only one close enough to my house that stays open until 10 has only two outlets for me to plug my computer into, which are always occupied by Japanese girls on their macbooks. That's not being racist, it's being observant. Add to this the fact that I feel like I have to make myself presentable before I go to a coffee shop because I am just convinced in my mind that I will meet an attractive stranger, proceed to make sexy eyes at each other, and later go home to check missed connections to find the add that reads "cute ginger in the tight jeans," and then finally have a relationship for the first time in eons.......well, it's just HARD.

Speaking of "missed connections", I sometimes peruse it for my own enjoyment and have made an observation of most people's attempts to avoid impostors in their quest to find their potential one true love they checked out in an Arby's parking lot. They make it an absolutely ridiculous quiz.

i.e. "To the cute guy I saw in the whole foods. I think you're really hot and have great style, would love to meet up and talk more. Message me back and tell me what three different kinds of organic produce were in my canvas satchel and we can set something up. xoxoxo"

Seriously, if it's not something as ridiculous as that it isn't far from. I think I one time saw one that asked the person being sought to give his license plate numbers in order to get the chance to meet up with the seeker. Okay....I couldn't even tell you what I had for dinner last night, let alone tell you what brand of white bread you were holding when you checked out my package. This is why you're single and trying to mend unrequited love through craigslist, for chrissakes.

And obviously I'm single because I mock you for it.

What happened to romance goddamit? What happened to love letters and gentleman callers and lighting someone's cigarettes? What happened to telling someone you wanted to sleep with them when you were actually in their presence?!

So we can't find a solution to save polar bears from drowning but we can spend the time to make an application to tell us how close the nearest gay guy is to us, whose name is punkrboi69 and is "down to party, get drinks, and whatever lol"

For shame, America.

Dayley

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Rape Victim Abortion Funding
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor & Satire Blog The Daily Show on Facebook

Im glad my reintroduction to the daily show started with this.

Bloggie

I just bought myself this little number for my birthday. Prepare to welcome me to the world of video blogging.

Mollz

She gets me.

oh, just a photo booth nbd

I thought if I went in order from most drunk to least it would just leave everyone with a prettier picture of me in their head. I like that in the top picture up there, it is apparent how drunk I am by the fact that I have apparently given up on trying to make any interesting faces.

My Birthday in NYC was preceded by a trip to the green living, blue hearted, snow fucking covered land of Providence, Rhode Island, where I partook in vegetarian meals, coffee shop book reading, a love affair with a space heater, a drunk night dancing on a gay bar platform, and a party crash that resulted in a window being broken by a member of my party and me running away from the house through the dark, icy night, continuously falling as I discovered that alcohol, fast speeds, and brown suede cowboy boots just don't mix like my usual whiskey and coke. At least I looked cute. Which, incidentally is my new life motto whenever I experience random moments of self reflection and examine my depressingly stagnant position in life. Well....at least I look good today. Ka-boom.

Hooheyhoorah

I don't think this is an effective way to clean.

Goooon

This is what I tell myself when my mom thinks I'm not being productive with my life. This is MY TIME DOWN HERE. I'm always a bit perplexed at the end of this movie when Mikey throws his inhaler away and says, "Aw, who needs it?"......You do. You do, Mikey. You have asthma and now will die. It's just...it's just irresponsible is all I'm saying. It's kind of like in Willy Wonka when Charlie finds the golden ticket and then throws the chocolate on the ground. I am ALWAYS frustrated when I see this part. Charlie....you're starving. You have four bed-ridden grandparents sharing one bed, and a mother who washes clothes at night and sings in dark alley ways. Someone would have eaten that chocolate. The trip to the factory isn't until tomorrow...what are you going to eat until then, I ask you?

I mean, RIGHT?

D-ROCK

Derek: I woke up this morning and saw that my mom was sleeping next to me...it was one of those nights.

Riley: Could be worse...I woke up next to an empty bag of beef jerky.

merp merp

TFRP: (Text From Riley's Phone)

1. SM: (in regard to her bikini wax) She said she doesn't do shapes bc they usually look lame. bummer.

2. MR: My facebook status should really say..."I give him blow-j's...he gives me hand warmers"...but my mom would be pissed

Me: But in all honesty, those would be great song lyrics.

MR: Call Ke$ha...let's book it.


3. SM: I had a dream last night that you turned my cats into cigarettes and smoked them and buried the butts in my backyard. sickk.

Noo Yeer

Titus introduced me to the website www.garfieldminusgarfield.net.....and I don't know why I've been without it for so long, so I thought I'd share.

So I was thinking for New Years, maybe if I write out my resolutions I will actually stick to them. I don't know if it counts when you make them on January 3rd but I feel like resolutions give me that extra kick in the ass I need to actually commit to change.

1. Only drink once a week. (heavy sigh)

2. Work out and swim every day: I actually have a chant that I say when I work out and it gets too hard. It goes "look good..(lift)....naked..(down)....look good..(lift)....naked..(down)..."

3. Read 2 new books a month: I figure this will help me finish the two books that are currently occupying my back pack and have been doing so for almost a month now, unfinished. I'm sorry, but reading a book that takes place in Communist Russia just gets a bit HEAVY sometimes. Jesus.

4. Update my blog at least twice a week. Someone, somewhere might eventually be drunk enough to let me write a book.

I can't think of any more. I suppose I will in the following weeks and add them to the list. And if someone tries to tell me it's too late for resolutions, I will pee on them.