Wednesday, October 24, 2007



I just received word that I have been rejected for a job. A job that would pay me a boatload of money, however, would not be worth the 3000 billable hours that would be required. A job that a friend of mine quit without having another one in the hopper (an anomaly in my field). A job that the company has not been able to keep filled for more than six months in five years. And this made me wonder if it feels worse to get rejected from something you really want, or something you wouldn't take even if offered to you.

For example, if a job that you really would love to have rejects you, then there is something understandable. After all, there are many qualified candidates in the world, some of whom are simply more talented or qualifed. If, however, the job is dog-shit-taster or something equally distasteful, and you're rejected from that, isn't that more demeaning?

Perhaps stated differently. You approach a woman in a bar. She is attractive, slightly buzzed, and dressed to the 8s (not to the 10s, but damn close). You approach her with your best anti-Mystery game and she shoots you down. "Good. Smart woman. I wouldn't take me home either, if I were her." But...if she is the city drunk slut, looks like she accepted the job as dog-shit-taster and hasn't rinsed her mouth out since work ended and SHE won't take you home, don't you feel all the worse?

Tuesday, October 23, 2007


Morning Missives

This is the earliest I have ever written. It is still dark outside, and the only reason I am writing right now is to allow the cobwebs to fall away from my brain. That is because I have to go to work and have a "kick ass day." A "kick ass day" is either you kick ass, or you get your ass kicked. Since I am a professional writer, I figured a quick blog would assist to get the juices flowing. After all, if a singer practices scales, a baseball player hits fungos, and an actor does some method shit, then why don't more writers practice writing before jumping into the day? For that matter, why don't doctors play a quick game of "Operation" before they slice open a patient? If the fucker's red nose goes off, Dr. Slicem'n'dicem knows to stay out of the operating room on any given Wednesday and get his ass on the golf course. I guarantee the number of malpractice lawsuits would go down exponentially.

I wonder if the gossip industry warms up for the day by emailing friends about the prior night's dalliances of mutual acquaintances to other friends. In order for Gawker to publish its celebrity stalkings, does the editor email her girl Stacey (because I am sure they all have girls named Stacey) to tell her, "Guess who I saw, Rob, and he had a major cold sore!" before publishing, "Guess who I saw, Lindsay, and she had a major...."

Monday, October 22, 2007


This time, I am back for good, or until something better comes up

I have decided to try this one more time. While my professional writing career is languishing in the mental reject pile at the back of my head, I've decided to give the Christian Slater of "Free Radio" spirit another shot. I just hope not to end up naked in the forest tied to the star quarterback. Oh wait, that was "Heathers."

Friday, November 17, 2006


Are we becoming more perverted?

I saw this morning that Mark Foley was being investigated criminally for "allegedly" sending inappropriate instant messages to teenage pages at Congress.

What the fuck is going on?

Priests and little boys, Congressmen and a little bit older boys (but not old enough), gay governors (which is fine except when he gave his fucktoy a cushy job), ritual slayings of raped women who's only crime was they wanted to go dancing in Manhattan. It made me wonder if we are becoming more sick. Or have we just diluted the gene pool to such an extent that what we're left with is the mentally, sexually disturbed.

Or, in the alternative, is the argument that shit like this has lasted since the dawn of America. It is well documented that the Mayflower did not contain the wealthy gentlemen and women of merry ol' England, but rather the castoffs. The ones who the British assumed time would forget. This makes sense. If you were living in England, nice house, fine car (ok, horse and carriage), you're not making a voyage to the undiscovered country. As Seinfeld taught us all, "who leaves a country full of ponies, to go to a non-pony country."

So perhaps the American blacksmith, with 12 kids, was porking the next door neighbor's dog. But until the printing press, nobody knew about it except for a town of 100. Then, there was still a modicum of decency from the 1800s-1970s and Watergate. Watergate gave the press carte blanche to investigate, rob, cheat, steal, and lie as long as "truth" was the ultimate goal. And then Clinton and his pole being waxed poetic by you-know-who.

I have no idea how it happened. But I am willing to bet in the next twenty years, a public figure will be caught fucking a barnyard animal...on tape. And it'll appear on YouTube.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006


Batted around

In baseball, it is a feat to bat around the order in the same inning. That means that the person that led off the inning, is back up to the plate because the other team has not been able to cause three outs.

In my dating life, batting around the order means that I've run out of dating all the females I know and I have to start back with the first boink. Either that, or I have to recruit from another team. To help my recruitment, I enlisted the help of a "scout." A major league scout traverses the Earth trying to sneak promising ball players out of their home nations to groom them for baseball infamy. (N.b.- I hear that Madonna is now a scout)

Of course, I don't have the financial wherewithall to hire a professional scout. So I recruited the next best thing, my mother.

You would expect that my mother, who nurtured, fed, cared for me; who watched me mature from a toddler to awkward child, to more awkward adolescent, to an extremely awkward adult, would have some understanding of what I would find appealing in a mate. Apparently, she's gone with: "breathing." And, considering my last date, I can only assume that she was breathing because she didn't fall on the floor and have a convulsion. But I KNOW that oxygen was not getting to her brain.

I am going to keep out the more mundane questions (family, job, hobbies, etc.)

So after walking in a half hour late, she says that she has to use the restroom. I offer to get her a drink while she's indisposed and says that she will have a "cab". I'm sorry but a "cab" is the vehicular homicide device that I spend my existence avoiding. But, I decide to let that one go. She asks, "What are you going to have?" I decided on a Gin and Tonic (because that sounded mighty, mighty good to me) and she had this look of disgust.


"Yes, really. Why?"

"Oh, no reason."

Ok, so maybe her ex was big G & T fan. Maybe she thinks only fascists drink gin. I don't know, but I had to let that one go as well.

In general the conversation flowed -- at least for five minutes until she started text messaging on her cell phone. She apologizes by explaining, "my roommate wants to go out with her boyfriend and she wants to know when I am coming home so I can watch the dogs." Umm...ok. Then she asks me:

"So when you go out on a date for drinks, how many drinks do you usually have?"

Now I know this date is DOA, and I am going to start having some fun. So I tell her, "usually around ten. If the date is going well, then we end up at one of the city's finer establishments imbibing and enjoying each other's company. If the date is for shit, I need to dull the pain."

She was not amused.

Anyway, the text messaging becomes more fervent as she is peppering serial-dating questions about my family. I tell her about my sister, soon to marry, and who is soon to be a DA (we're like our own "Johnny Dangerously" family-- just Jewish.)

So long story short, the date lasts one drink because she has to go home and watch the dogs. I then ask her if her roommate is gainfully employed. "Of course." "Then who watches the dogs while you two are at work?" I have now crossed the line from date, to the Grand Inquisitor. She says that her dogs were mistreated as pups and can't be left alone, so they have a dog walker. Now I am torn. Do I follow-up with, "So you're telling me you have a dog walker who walks the dogs 8-10 hours a day, every damn day?" But the story about the mistreated pups got to me, so I let it go.

Now I am not happy that I just spent an hour (with only one drink mind you) that has no been lost to the ether. Nonetheless, I am a gentleman and offer to walk her home as she lived in the neighborhood.

On the way home, she turns to me and asks, "Do you have any siblings?"

Thinking that she means any others, I reply, "Just the sister."

Then, I couldn't believe it. She said, "What does she do?"

"Oh. She's a chef."

"Really? That's cool"

"Yeah, she's always loved to cook but I am afraid that her busy schedule at the restaurant is going to make it hard to find a future husband."

You would think this would jog her mind about my sister and her betrothed, but she only said, "Yeah. It's hard for us working women out there to find the right one."

That was it. Luckily, we were just approaching her place, so I said, "Well, if you can find a dog walker to walk the dogs 8-10 hours a day, then I'm sure there's hope for my sister."

I wonder who is on deck.

Thursday, November 02, 2006


And we're back....

So I've been off in Never-Never Land for the last six months and I apologize to all my loyal readers-- both of you. It has been far too long since I've been here and I promise to at least post every two weeks or so. Although, in this land of anonymity, I don't think I have to worry about castration if I don't keep my word.

Life has become a little bit too ordinary, and I have forgotten my creedo, "Why the fuck not?" This is probably why I haven't written in far too long. Nothing to say. It seems every day I do the everyday schedule-- wake up, work, drink, sleep, repeat. I never thought I would become this person. But I'm not unhappy, just unfulfiiled-- if that makes sense. Or perhaps I've just entered into self-indulgent bullshit. In which case, you have permission to hunt me down for that ceremonial castration.

So this past weekend, I did have the pleasure of going to my sister's engagement party. Little sister. The problem, of course, is that I am a bachelor (perhaps, entering into "confirmed" bachelor status) and my LITTLE sister is getting married. From a personal standpoint, this is a wonderful occassion. From my mother's standpoint, this is a wonderful occassion but would be made better if we could get a two-for-one special on the wedding ceremony. Luckily, I've hit a status in life where I can imbibe in front of my parents without them thinking that I am an alcoholic (they know I am), and the pangs of guilt become blunted.

Luckily, this weekend, the question "so when are you..." was asked, I had pat responses. Sometimes, I interrupted the "so when are you...." -- "going to Greece?" Of course, this double-entendre was left lacking on everyone who asked the question, but the quizical looks were no less priceless. The best is when the single, OLDER, uncles/aunts/friends asked the "so when are you...?" question. Easy response -- "The Day after you, which is probably the day after the pigs fly, but the day before hell freezes over."

My new family is going to love me.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006


On my Own

There comes a time in everyone's life when they realize they are on their own. Even though I am in my late 20's now, I have friends who have failed to realize this concept. They are serial monogomists. I have one friend who has dated, non-stop, for the last 12 years. I've known him for about 10 of those years and I can say, with almost distinct certainty, that he has been single for three days in the last decade.

It started off innocently enough. He came to college with a high school sweetheart. For our sake, let's call her "controlling-psycho-bitch-who-was-constantly-PMSing." So contolling-psycho-bitch-who-was-constantly-PMSing would be on the phone with our protagonist for anywhere from 2-6 hours a night. Regardless of what we were doing: conversing, drinking, playing cards, watching a movie, etc.-- life would stand still for him. It was mind-boggling to us all, but he was our friend, our pussy-whipped-into-utter-submission friend. So we let it go...YEAH RIGHT! That guy spent 4 hours on the phone being told what clothes to wear the next day and then the next 4 hours being lambasted by his closest friends for being told what clothes to wear the next day. When they broke up, they're was cause for celebration throughout the land. Finally, it was time for the wicked witch to have the house dropped on her.

So what does male Dorothy do? He drinks, excessively. Puts his hand through a glass encasing a fire hydrant and is run to the hospital. A day later, a new girl appeared in my dorm room. She was part of our "college crew" and the three of us would spend hours lying awake in our room debating the issues of the day. Such as who's-fucking-who and which shitty fraternity we should hit that weekend.

Now during this time, I assumed life was going to improve for our male Dorothy. After all, he-she was a good looking dude and could bed half the campus if that was his desire. So the fact that our friend, who looked like a cracked-out munchkin, was sleeping in his bed didn't bother me. No way would he fuck her with MY dick. And I was right. He wasn't fucking her. Every night, after I went to bed, she would go down on him. He wouldn't kiss her or "please her back", she would just "finish him off" before bedtime. For 8 months, I thought Dorothy was finding himself, learning to be on his own, when in fact, he found another co-dependent to share some one-way fluid exchange. A bedtime blowjob to welcome Mr. Sandman.

And I don't even think it was the oral pleasure in which he delighted. Rather, it was the fact that another warm body was close to him, was helping him cope with life. After that ended, there was a parade of women, and he lives with another one now. Maybe they'll get married and then he'll never learn that he has to be on his own.

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