baby daddy

Dear Rachel Nichols:

We would have beautiful children together.

Just something to think about.


your favorite music sucks

The Test Icicles have supposedly broken up.

Awesome! (If it's true, that is.) One shitty band down, so many more to go.

Others who should give it the fuck up:

The Arctic Monkeys (UGH!)
The Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (NO!)
Of Montreal
The Strokes
The Like
Sufjan Stevens
Franz fucking Ferdinand
The Killers
Death Cab

There's your definitive list of horrid, overrated, bullshit music. Rock and roll is dead. Stop beating the goddamned horse. Copying other bands is not risky or cool, it's safe and boring. But I guess this is why tasteless bloggers and music journalists like this kind of tepid shit.


all i ask is that you at least try not to be a trendy douche

I was listening to Morning Becomes Eclectic yesterday morn' and a song that sounded suspiciously like a cross between Alanis Morissette and Britney Spears was played. Strange, since KCRW usually plays good music (save for when they play The Arctic Monkeys, who are inexcusable). So I checked out the playlist and the song in question was the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs song, "Gold Lions." It's good to see that the band went from mediocre crap to full-on commercial pop rock horseshit.

Also, Sufjan Stevens is fucking rubbish. And just say NO to Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Worst fucking band since The Talking Heads.

good ol' Celine D

You know, it's just too easy to make fun of her.


wherein i reconsider my stance on non-violence

I've been in too many fights to know that violence is, 99% of time, not the answer. If someone is giving you problems and you kick their ass, well, of course they're going to cease pestering you. They're afraid. Sure, it solves the problem, but that's only because fear keeps people in line. Putting a gun to someone's head will result in me getting whatever the fuck I want from them, too. That doesn't make it right. It's cliche, but a good fighter rarely starts fights. He's been in enough to know better. I only entertain violent thoughts when someone poses as a significant threat to someone I know. I'm fiercely protective of the people I care about. For example, Tina has a stalker who has broken into her apartment twice. The police didn't seem to care that much and I started wondering about the bone-shattering capabilities of wooden bats as opposed to aluminum ones. That doesn't mean I'm actually going to do anything, but you get my point.

All that said, though, there are those instances where you meet someone who has done nothing to you or to anyone you know, and yet, you want to beat the living shit out of them. Ladies, meet Travis Frey. Travis Frey is a douchebag. Quoth the Smoking Gun:

This country, as you know, is filled with the deranged. And then there's Travis Frey, a 33-year-old Iowa man who is facing charges that he tried to kidnap his own wife (not to mention a separate child pornography rap). Frey, prosecutors contend, apparently is a rather demanding guy. In fact, he actually drew up a bizarre four-page marriage document--a "Contract of Wifely Expectations"--that sought to establish guidelines for his spouse in terms of hygiene, clothing, and sexual activities.

What size penis do you think ol' Trav is packing? Oh, I'd say about three inches. Flaccid? Maybe a half inch. Am I right, Trav? I mean, that's why you're looking at child pr0n, right? You're like those guys who only go after virgins because the tighter and smaller vaginas compensate for all that staggering non-penis. Dude, it's all a little too transparent. There's no need to take the rage directed at your inadequate genes out on women. I mean, you look pretty goddamned homely and any guy with this much loathing toward women is clearly hung like a preemie, but shit man, get some fucking class.

You know Trav, obviously, it's nothing personal. I just fucking hate people who think they're entitled. I know you're small and you're scared and the world's a big, confusing place, but you're not entitled to shit. This country is awash in spoilt brats, from high society rollers like Paris Hilton (who, I'm sure, would find you "totally hot," by the way) to nobodies such as yourself. I guess gross narcissistic entitlement transcends economic boundaries. Hey, you learn something snazzy and new every day. But busted-ass, small-penised douchebags who beat their wives and download kiddie pr0n? Unfortunately, that story's as old as the hills.


the definition of tangential

OMG, I found a cool blog. I know, I know! It's written by a woman who posts ads for casual encounters at craigslist. I've never posted an ad at craigslist, but it's interesting to read the experiences of someone who has. Plus, it's always nice to know what a woman thinks when it comes to sex and relationships.

This woman seems cool. I can definitely relate to this post, wherein she writes:

Some people have noticed that I'm a bit of a snob. I snark the net-speak emails I get that replace "you are" with "u r" and I blithely ignore the emails that don't meet my high standards. Aren't there women out there on the net who are less particular in the ways of intellectual seduction? Shouldn't I cut guys a little more slack?

The answer to the first question is: Yes, absolutely. There are millions upon millions of women in the US -- hell, just on my side of the Mississippi and Mason-Dixon line -- who are less fussy than I am, especially about things like coherent sentences and good grammar. Just because I mock these things in conversations with my friends, family, and strangers on the internet doesn't mean that I'm the last word on them. If you'd rather fuck someone who doesn't care about such things, by all means, go for it!

The answer to the second question is: Heh.

I'm very uptight about grammar, spelling, and usage (e.g., refer to this post). I used to proofread at my old job and frequently wanted to stab my eyeballs with a pencil, going over those damnable manuscripts. What really bothered me was that most of the manuscripts were written by college graduates. What on earth were they doing in school? I'm a drugged-out product of Californian public education and I can write these people under the table with a lead pipe through my frontal lobe. However, I can admit that my standards are too high and I make unreasonable demands on people. For example, it bothers me when people split their infinitves and it really bothers me when people use ellipses to indicate a pause or break; you should only use an ellipsis when excising words from a quote. See, now I'm just being ridiculous. I never hold people to these standards (although I can be a real dick when proofing), but I admit it's awfully arousing when someone is aware of these rules. My biggest pet peeve is when people use an apostrophe for the possessive its. For example, " . . . anal sex in all it's glory . . . " would, technically, mean: " . . . anal sex in all it is glory . . . " or: " . . . anal sex in all it has glory . . . " which is just inexcusable.

Actually, "in real life" I don't care about these things. At least not anymore. I've come to accept that most people couldn't give a shit about proper grammar. It's a hopeless fight. More important, does it matter? My ex-girlfriend Lucy was an indignant intellectual and we initially bonded over our contempt for the general laziness and stupidity of most people (mostly, though, it was just the hot fucking sex that did us in). She was a brilliant mathematician and logician; she had saved voluminous amounts of old school work, just so she could admire the artistry of algebraic and geometric formulae. She was the stereotypical academic who fretted over a 98% on a paper; could pick out flaws and inconsistencies in any argument you threw her way, but had no idea which direction was south or west. She was in love with David Foster Wallace and Liebniz; obsessively counted the steps that led up to our apartment, no matter how many times she walked up and down them; and carefully allotted certain activities a specific length of time in her day planner. Me? School bored the tits off me. DFW is okay, but a better essayist than a novelist. I'm only obsessive about music and sex. I notice and remember details about people's personalities, not about objects. And I'm impulsive to a fault; I can't think five minutes into the future, let alone five days. Lucy is brilliant in an academic sense; I'm a working-class sort. I tried going to college, but I didn't fit in. I can talk my way out of fight in the streets, but all I want to do in a classroom is argue with the professor. Lucy and I have a lot in common, but ultimately our relationship didn't work out. We're different in ways that I wasn't cognizant of while we were together. I grew up poor, whereas she had a pretty good childhood. I suffer from depression and anxiety; she is calm and collected and generally optimistic. She needs stability and security and I'm the most unstable car-wreck of a human being you'll ever meet. Most of her friends from high school went to college; most of my friends became parents, are strung out, or both. Everyone who knew us thought we would get married, because we have so much in common, superficially. I thought we would, too. Maybe she did as well. I'm not sure. Looking back, I feel as if I never really knew her. You live with someone for almost three years and walk away scratching your head. We broke up early last year and she promptly met someone else, whom she married over the summer. It's like, Uh, okay. It's as if all that time we spent together meant nothing to her. And maybe it doesn't. It used to bother me because we seemed so right for each other. She was what I thought I needed in someone else: intelligent, funny, and extremely sexual. Yet our relationship still didn't work out. The real problem with us is that she's really sheltered. I was only her second boyfriend. Her previous boyfriend was some super Xian who denied her sex for the five years they were together(!). She was still with him when we met and then she meets her husband about a month after we break up. She just doesn't know how to be single. I've been with almost thirty people and she marries number three. She lacks a lot of "life experience," to use a ridiculous phrase. I mean, she's never smoked a cigarette or gotten high or anything. We always did fine financially when we were together, but she always complained about us "being poor," which really bothered me since I grew up on welfare and actually was legitimately poor.

My fucking point with all of this is: "academic intelligence" is nice and all, but if I had to choose, I'd rather be with someone who has more "life experience." The two significant relationships I've had since I broke up with Lucy were with women who were self-professed white trash. Both had gone to college but knew they didn't fit in. Rachel is brilliant, but she downplays it quite a bit. She's probably the most perceptive and clever person I've ever known (she can read and see through people with an almost preternatural accuracy). She grew up poor and was raised by her mother. Her mother was the first person in her family to go to college, so it was really important that Rachel and her brother go, too. Rachel is an academic, but she's not sheltered by any stretch. She went to a small liberal arts school in the northeast and felt like a complete outsider amongst her overwelmingly privileged classmates. Honestly, I couldn't believe someone like her actually existed. She's everything Lucy isn't. Rachel is strikingly beautiful (I know how that sounds and I don't mean it that way at all; Lucy is beautiful, too), has a lot of sexual experience, has a drug problem, grew up poor, comes froma broken home, etc. but her thesis was on Lacanian psychoanalysis. We would talk about music and film for hours. She's a model, with amazing style, but she's total trash. She's a bi-polar fucking maniac; even crazier than I am. With Lucy I felt I had to hide my depression because she just didn't understand, but Rachel understood completely. (Maybe she understood too well.) Rachel is a total bitch who would call you a fucking douchebag to your face, yet she worked at a children's center and is one of the most caring and giving people I've ever known. She isn't self-absorbed at all, which is very attractive to me (and pretty rare for someone in their early 20s). Same thing with Tina, the girl I was with after Rachel. Tina is a horrible speller. But she knows that to live is to struggle. She had the absolute worst childhood ever—she doesn't know her biological father; the man who raised her beat the shit out of her, put her in the hospital dozens of times, knocked out her two front teeth, shattered her jaw from her to ear; and she OD'd on smack as a child. Tina would talk shit on anyone to their face and didn't care. She wasn't afraid of anyone. Why would she be? It was amazing being around someone that fearless. Yet I've never seen anyone more patient and affectionate and giving.

Life sucks. It's hard, it's painful, you die, and then people forget about you. American culture is built on the precarious notion that life should be fun and happy and easy. I look back at my relationship with Lucy and I feel alienated from her and from myself. Like I said, she wants security and stability and I wish her all the best, but I can't give that to her. I can't because I don't believe in it. It's great to be an academic, but the academe is only going to carry you so far. It's great to want the middle-class, assured, suburban lifestyle the American Dream promises, but it's folly. It's great to want success, but what does success teach you about life? Reality is icily indifferent to your wants. I want Tina to return my calls and let me know how her daughter is. I want to be a part of her daughter's life. I don't want to be in love with Rachel anymore, but I am. More than anything, I want a family, but I know that will never happen. Maybe I'm just jealous of Lucy. Jealous that everything seems to work out for her. That everything is always so effortless and perfect for her. Maybe I'm jealous of everyone for whom life seems so simple. It drives me crazy when men leave their families or don't father their children. They have no idea how lucky they are.

Wow, I really have no idea what I'm even saying anymore. This post was originally going to be about expectations in relationships and how, even when you're with someone who seems perfect and fits your criteria, there could be another set of criteria you're not even aware of that trumps your previous set of criteria. Lucy and I seemed perfect for each other, yet our relationship didn't work out. Why? It's obvious to me now, but at the time I wasn't sure. What really confuses me is what happened between Rachel and me. She doesn't know what happened, either. It's been eight months and I'm still totally confused by it. She basically asked me to give up everything for her and I did. Then when I did she freaked out and broke up with me. I moved across the country to be with her. She told me: "I know I'm fucked for asking you to give up everything for me, but you're just as fucked for doing it."

I should stop. This is starting to depress me and I'd rather go on being comfortably numb. I haven't really written about these things and I guess shit just needed to get out. Strangely, I don't feel any better. Regularly scheduled snarky, shallow, and unemotional posts to resume tomorrow or something.


for sale

Dear publishing industry:

Hi. I actually was a druggie. Like, a real one. And even though I was in my early teens when I started using, I wasn't so retarded as to get arrested for the shit I did. Also, I was sexually abused as a child. Really. I grew up in a weird religious household with two druggies for parents. Plus, I grew up poor in Orange County. Obviously I didn't grow up in the nice parts of the county, but the seedy, working-class parts like Santa Ana. I could expose the gritty underbelly of one of America's whitest, wealthiest areas. In addition, I'm a minority. Now, on top of all that (no pun intended?), I've had lotsa sex with lotsa crazy, awesome women. And, I just turned 25, which is still super young in literary circles, right?

To recap:

Youth? Check.
Sex addiction? Check.
Drug addiction? Check.
Sexual abuse? Check.
Weird religious stuff? Check.
Status as "the Other"? Check.
Depression? Check.
Trust fund and connections? Tragically, no.
Overall sexiness? No doubt.

So, feel free to contact me for a publishing deal at slowdeepandhard at gmail dot com. (Appropriately ironic e-mail address? Totally check.) I'm sure I could churn out a few novels of sweet, drug-induced salaciousness (all of which would actually be TR00) that will surely restore a little bit of that precious street cred to the lit. industry.

Bidding starts now, bitches.


quarter-life crisis

Fuck, I'm old. I'll be 25 on Monday. (Like many great people, I was born in February.) It's hackneyed, but it really does seem like I was 18 just a few days ago. What the hell happened to my ass? Oh well, I still look like I'm 18 and that's all that matters, right? Right. That's one of the cool things about my parents: they're in their early 50s but they look about ten years younger. Plus, Johnny (the old man) is black, so I've got that going for me, too. I've got really youthful, clear, elastic skin. It's softer than most of the girls I've known, which is just weird, really. Even the calluses on my fingers are soft (and I've been playing guitar for 12 years now). My ex-girlfriend Rachel was obsessed with skin and youth and would spend a frightening amount of time putting lotions and sunscreen on herself. I used to tease her about smoking and how it was going to age her prematurely, which would cause her to freak and blurt out: "I don't even wanna think about it, baby. God!" It was funny because she just turned 23 but could easily pass for 16. Waiters would swoop down on us with alarming haste whenever we hit a bar. Speaking of smoking (mmmmmmm), I'm reading this book, Survival of the Prettiest, which says that young and/or youthful-looking people may smoke to showcase their youth, i.e., as a way of flaunting that they can smoke and not worry about the cosmetic effects. Perhaps. All I know is that I have five more years of legitimate youth and I properly intend to waste it.


grammy dispatch

Iron Maiden couldn't attend this year's Grammy's, but their lovely mascot, Eddie, turned in an appearance. A little out of control with the make up, but hey, he's a mummy.

Eddie in better days.



I wish I could sleep.


seventeen years

"Films today show only a dream world and have lost touch with the way people really are... In this country, people die at 21. They die emotionally at 21, maybe younger... My responsibility as an artist is to help people get past 21... The films are a roadmap through emotional and intellectual terrain that provides a solution on how to save pain."

John Cassavetes was the greatest filmmaker and actor in the history of cinema. He died seventeen years ago today. Go here to learn more about him.