like bacon stuck to tile

Watch David Letterman rag on Harmony Korine. And watch Harmony laugh.



Clue Chick talks body language:

I usually start with a handshake, unless we've been talking online a lot, in which case, I may start with a hug. Neither of these should be taken as particularly indicative of anything, though; pay more attention to how I say goodbye at the end of the meeting.

A hug is a pretty good indicator that someone likes you, however it's not definitive. Like Clue Chick says, better to go on what the other person does at the end of the date.

I met Teresa about a month after we started e-mailing and talking to each other on the phone (via MySpace). She flew up to Portland from the Bay Area and I met her at the airport. I walked right up to her, asked, "Are you Teresa?" and, without saying a word, she stood up, put her arms around me, gave me a really long super sexual hug, complete with rubbing the back of my head, and said, "It's so good to meet you." I was pretty taken aback by this. I've done lots of sweet hugging in my life, but shit, it was like we fucked in the middle of PDX. Also, we were definitely interested in each other, but weren't sure what was going to happen once/if we met. She was a lot less certain about it than I was and kept vacillating about how she felt and what she wanted, saying, "There's a good chance we could meet and totally not be attracted to each other." Which, of course, is very true and is a huge possibility when it comes to meeting people via the internets. She would say she just wanted to be friends one moment and then say she liked me the next, "But I don't know, we have to meet first." After a few weeks of this I just decided not to expect anything and I definitely wasn't expecting her to be so affectionate so suddenly once we were physically together. But she was. Don't get me wrong, it was really nice, but it just threw me. Never, ever go into anything with expectations.

But yeah, during that hug, I thought, Wow, we're so going to have sex. And we did. But that's another entry. (Actually, it's its own separate blog.)

If you touch me and I smile or blush, you're good.

If you touch me and I give you a pinched smile, or don't seem to respond at all, stop touching me, because I don't like it.

If you touch me and I move away, pay your bill and leave, because I'm about to.

If I touch you on the shoulder or arm, I like you and I'm trying to send you that signal.

If I touch you on the hand or knee, I'm ready to take you home.

My rule is never to touch someone first. I don't think I've ever just touched someone. That's bizarre to me. I always let the woman make this move.

Touching is weird, though, and you have to take the person into consideration. Are they just an affectionate person in general? If so, don't get your hopes up. I've hung out with a lot of women who will touch my hand or shoulder or something, but I see them touching other people in this way as well, so that's a pretty good sign that there's no physical attraction there. It's best to observe how someone is with others and to listen to what they say. If you're on a date or something and the other person has made it known that they're not typically an affectionate person, or reserve their affection for "special" people, but are affectionate with you, that's a good sign they're interested.

If you tell a really lame joke and I laugh, it's probably a good sign, but I laugh easily, so maybe not. If you tell a good joke and I don't laugh, though, it's a bad sign.

I get, "You're really funny" a lot, but it's like that scene in Igby Goes Down where Sookie keeps telling Igby "You're funny," but never actually laughs. I have a really sarcastic and random sense of humor and not everyone gets it (or finds it funny). It's a generalization, but I tend to get along with people from the east coast easily because of this. Sarcasm doesn't fly so much in the pacific northwest or even in northern California. This was one of the reasons Rachel and I got along so well: she's a sarcastic bastard.

If my cell phone rings and I ignore it, I'm not expecting an important call and I think it's rude to take phone calls when i'm on a date. If I take the call without explaining that it's unavoidable, I'm bored and I'm looking forward to ending our date. If I make a call, it's not going anywhere.

This can be slightly tricky. I was on a date with this woman named Stephanie and she answered her cell once during the date. But it was from a friend we were going to be meeting later at a club, so she kind of had to take it, you know? It just depends on who it was and the circumstance. If someone answers their cell and yaps it up for several minutes, yeah, the date is an official failure.

But perhaps Stephanie was trying to give me a sign she wasn't interested. See, after we eat she invites me back to her place. Which you'd think would mean something, right? So we go to her apartment and she offers to fix me a drink. Again, you think there's some kind of subtext there. She shows me her apartment, shows me all her books, then she says, "Want to watch a movie?" So I say sure. We start to watch The Yes Men and we get to talking about previous relationships. She tells me she used to be married to a guy from Puerto Rico or some shit and says, "Yeah, I kind of have a thing for dark guys." Right, and I'm sitting on her couch and she's sitting next to me, her body is kind of pointed toward me, she's got one knee pulled up to her chest, the other foot is on the table, so her legs are kind of spread and I'm just thinking, Uh huh. I joke: "So that's why you wanted to go on a date with me." And she pauses for a minute and says, very seriously, "Oh, no. We're not going to have sex or anything. I'm not attracted to you. I mean, nothing personal, I'm just—" And I'm just like, Uhhh, okay? And then she goes: "Oh, fuck. I'm sorry. That was really fucking bitchy. I'm sorry. No. I—fuck, I know I've, like—okay, I asked you to come back here and I've done all these things that probably totally make it seem like I want to have sex—" and then she abruptly stops. I'm just sitting there, thinking: ? And she says, "It's really weird now, huh?" and I go, "Little bit." And she keeps apologizing and after a few really awkwardly silent moments I say, "Hey, you know what? I think I'm gonna go."
"No. Don't go. I'm sorry."
"No, it's cool. Really. It's just—you know, yeah, it's a little weird."
"No, I'm sorry. Come to the Fez, you said you'd come dance with me."
"Yeah—I don't know. I think—"
"I don't know." I chuckle nervously. "Uh, there was just some, like, real miscommunication going on."
"Yeah. I'm sorry."
"Yeah. Cause, wow," I laugh, trying to relieve the tension. "So, yeah, I think I'm going to go now."
She sighs. "Okay. I'm sorry."
"No, it's cool. Have fun at the Fez."
"Okay. You should still come. Really."
I just kind of shrug. At this point I'm really close to the door and I just really, really want to leave. The whole thing is pretty embarrassing. I make my unceremonious exit into the cold, rainy night and am decidedly flummoxed.

The thing is, I honestly did not like Stephanie in that way, yet the whole thing was pretty humiliating. I mean, I had been hanging out with indie/DIY/crust punk zinester kids and really just wanted someone to go to a club and dance to some M.I.A. with. And even if I brushed the whole misunderstanding off and went with her to meet her friends at the Fez, I know that at some point she'd tell her friends about The Huge Misunderstanding and I don't want to be That Guy Who Was Set Straight. Nobody wants to be That Guy. That Guy is almost as bad as The Old Guy at the Club. Plus, Stephanie is like 5 years older than I am and I would've been That Young Guy Who Got Told. Fuck. Forget it. So many other people to chillax with.

When we're saying goodbye, if I hug you, you'll definitely get another date. If I shake your hand, I have to think about it, but probably not. If I avoid shaking your hand by gathering up my stuff, we're not going to see each other again.

Again, it's hard to tell. I've been on lots of dates, faux-dates, "hang outs," etc. where I was given a hug. I've hung out with girls who've touched my hand, my shoulder, my face, my leg, etc. and it never resulted in anything substantial. Perhaps I missed dozens of opportunities and perhaps I was at the receiving end of really mixed signals. I'm no one to offer advice and this entry is only a smattering of suggestions by illustration of personal experience. One thing I've learned is to let the woman take the lead. If presented with ambiguities, I'll error on the side of caution. Don't assume much, if anything. I used to think a whole mess of shit before I went on my dating spree last year, but those convictions were turned on their heads. Maybe I was just too much of a dolt to pick on the physical cues. Who is ever certain about these things?

the kids are all right

LOS ANGELES - Tens of thousands of students walked out of school in California and other states Monday, waving flags and chanting slogans in a second week of protests against legislation to crack down on illegal immigrants.

Personally, I just don't care if people come to this country illegally. Let's be real: this is a racially-charged issue. It's not solely about race, but race does have something to do with it. Certain people just do not want to see their communities heavily populated with Mexicans. And it's not just right-wing conservatives, either. Mexicans place an emphasis on working hard and not so much on receiving a college education, an attitude that confounds both conservatives and liberals. For all their supposed differences, conservatives and liberals do not disagree so much when it comes to attitudes toward success and ambition. In fact, when you really examine it, the whole DIY/indie subculture is just good ol' fashioned go-it-yourself-conquer-the-last-frontier entrepreneurialism that any aspiring businessman would be proud of.

But hey, as long as people are lazy and can't pick up after themselves, they'll be a need for janitors. And as long as liberal celebrities can't be bothered to take care of their kids, they'll be a need for Juana, Lupe, Rocio, etc. to be the nanny. And as long as people need their fast food and precious lattes, they'll be a need for hard-working bottom dwellers. You know it, I know it.

So welcome these people. Who else is going to take care of you?



This postcard could've been something I wrote to Rachel.



I have trouble sleeping. Well, at night I do. During the day I can fall asleep anywhere at the drop of a hat. I used to fall asleep at my old job all the time. I think this is why my boss was reluctant to give me manuscripts to proofread. Sit me in front of a computer and I'm out. But at night I feel really awake. I got into this rhythm of falling asleep around 7:00 pm and waking up around 9:00 and staying up till sunrise. If I ever live with someone again, it could never be with someone who's out by 11:00. That's how Lucy was and it bothered me. Going to bed at 11:00 is like wearing sweats: it's giving up.

That said, I dislike sleeping in and will rarely sleep past 10:00 am.


"self-improvement is masturbation"

I'm glad I don't have a way to contact any of my old dealers because I want to get high out of my fucking mind right now.

I really want to go out tonight and meet someone to have meaningless, degrading sex with.


snakes on a motherfucking PLANE, BITCH

Click the shit. CLICK IT!

Update: Well, looks like this bad boy's been taken down. Lame, but it was guaranteed to happen. Instead, you can head on over to the Snakes on a Blog blog and bone up on yr snakey Sam Jackson sweetness.


political placement

According to the Political Compass, I am:

Economic Left/Right: -7.38
Social Libertarian/Authoritarian: -6.26

Here's the compass:

Which means:

Both an economic dimension and a social dimension are important factors for a proper political analysis. By adding the social dimension you can show that Stalin was an authoritarian leftist (ie the state is more important than the individual) and that Gandhi, believing in the supreme value of each individual, is a liberal leftist. While the former involves state-imposed arbitary collectivism in the extreme top left, on the extreme bottom left is voluntary collectivism at regional level, with no state involved. Hundreds of such anarchist communities exisited in Spain during the civil war period

You can also put Pinochet, who was prepared to sanction mass killing for the sake of the free market, on the far right as well as in a hardcore authoritarian position. On the non-socialist side you can distinguish someone like Milton Friedman, who is anti-state for fiscal rather than social reasons, from Hitler, who wanted to make the state stronger, even if he wiped out half of humanity in the process.
The chart also makes clear that, despite popular perceptions, the opposite of fascism is not communism but anarchism (ie liberal socialism), and that the opposite of communism ( i.e. an entirely state-planned economy) is neo-liberalism (i.e. extreme deregulated economy).

So, on this chart, I would be below and to the left of the Dalai Lama.

fucking bored out of my mind

-- Name: Aaron
-- Birthdate: 2/13/1981
-- Birthplace: Orange, California
-- Current Location: Irvine, California
-- Eye Color: Brown
-- Hair Color: Brown
-- Height: 5'9
-- Weight: I'm guessing 160, but I think the scale got lost in the move.
-- Righty or Lefty: I write left-handed, but play guitar right-handed. I use a knife with my left hand, but use scissors with my right.


-- Your heritage: Black, Mexican, and Native American.
-- The shoes you wore today: Adidas Adi Speed.
-- Your hair: Short. It used to be long. When it's long it's wavy/curly. I dislike having hair and prefer having a shaved head.
-- Your eyes: Numerous people tell me they're "intense." I've also been told I "see right through people." When I'm really mad at someone, I don't say anything to them, but stare a hole through them.
-- Your weakness: Sex.
-- Your fears: I'll die without having done anything.
-- Your perfect pizza: Eddie's Flat Iron Pizza in Portland makes a really good cheeseless pizza with pineapple, garlic, olives, and mushrooms. Extreme Pizza here in OC makes a decent vegan pizza with soy cheese. So either of those.
-- Goal you'd like to achieve: Record an album and make a film.


-- Your most overused phrase on AIM: "hahaha"
-- Your thoughts first waking up: Fuck, I'm horny. Wait, actually, it's, Fuck, I gotta pee, directly followed by, Fuck, I'm horny.
-- Your best physical feature: Hands, eyes, lips, skin (in no particular order).
-- Your bedtime: Betwixt 2:00 and 5:00 am.
-- Your greatest accomplishment: So many.
-- Your most missed memory: It was this one time when I was feeding Tina's daughter. She wasn't really in the mood to eat her lukewarm slop and kept smearing it all over her face, so I just began to smear it all over her cheeks and forehead with her and she started going hysterical with giggles and Tina was all, "Ugh, you guys!" That was fun.

You prefer...

-- Pepsi or Coke: Coke.
-- McDonald's or Burger King: Totally McDonald's. That McRib is so awesome and so totally vegan, mmmmm.
-- Single or group dates: Single.
-- Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: Tea sucks.
-- Chocolate or vanilla: Both.
-- Cappuccino or coffee: Coffee is rubbish.

Do you...?

-- Smoke: Kamel Red Lights.
-- Weed: Not since I was 16.
-- Cuss: Heavens, no!
-- Sing well: I guess? I can only "sing" along to Leonard Cohen.
-- Have a crush(es): I guess.
-- Who are they: Yr mom.
-- Do you think you've been in love: Yes.
-- Want to go to college: No.
-- Like high school: No.
-- Want to get married: I don't know.
-- Type w/ your fingers on the right keys: No.
-- Believe in yourself: No.
-- Get motion sickness: No.
-- Think you're attractive: Yes.
-- Think you're a health freak: No.
-- Get along with your parents: Comfortable indifference.
-- Like thunderstorms: Yes.
-- Play an instrument: Guitar, bass, piano. I used to play the clarinet, but the clarinet is gay.

Have you ever...

-- Played a game that required removal of clothing?: Why when you can just fuck?
-- If so, was it mixed company: See above.
-- Been trashed or extremely intoxicated: Sure. One time I can remember: downed about 20-30 shots of vodka, straight up, in about 30 mins. Still not sure how I lived through that. Another time I remember: smoking hella bowls and started tripping balls. Called my dealer and asked him WTF he sold me and he said, "Oh. Fuck. I think I sold you guys that dimebag laced with Angel Dust." It was cool.
-- Been caught "doing something": No, I'm too much of a paranoiac to get caught. I'm super stealthy.
-- Been called a tease: Ha.
-- Gotten beaten up: Yes.
-- Shoplifted: No.
-- If so, did you get caught: Actually, when I was in junior high, this douche kicked me and my friend John out of a Tower Records by accusing us of trying to jack a fucking Jodeci tape. I would've been pissed if I could stop from laughing at the thought of stealing a Jodeci tape. I guess that douchebag didn't notice the fucking Black Flag hat I was wearing.
-- Changed who you were to fit in: No.

The future...

-- Age you hope to be married: I don't know.
-- Numbers and Names of Children: I think it'd be cool to have a daughter named Elle.
-- Describe your Dream Wedding: Just her and me and a justice of the peace and a witness. Either in the middle of a desert or on a beach in central America, during a thunderstorm.
-- How do you want to die: In a plane crash or suicide.
-- Where you want to go to college: If I cared, Juilliard. That'd be my first choice. Next choices: Berklee or Boston University.
-- What do you want to be when you grow up: I'm an artist.
-- What country would you most like to visit: Antarctica and Chile. Fortunately, they're pretty close.
-- Opposite sex (or the same?): Opposite.
-- Best eye color? Honestly, it doesn't matter. I like all colors. It's really about shades. Blue eyes can be boring, but icy, piercing blue eyes are beautiful. Brown eyes are almost always hypnotic. I love girls with brown eyes. Violet-blue eyes are amazing. I knew a girl in high school named Jessica who had violet-blue eyes. Teresa has really icy blue eyes. Dark green eyes don't do much for me, but really pale, bright green eyes are beautiful.
-- Best hair color? Again, it doesn't matter. It's about shades. Naturally red hair on women can be really amazing or ghastly. Orange-ish red hair is frightening, but really vibrant red hair is beautiful. Tina has super-vibrant red hair. I've never seen red hair like hers before. It looks dyed, it's so perfect. And she has really pale, bright green eyes. I love dark hair and dark eyes on girls. Natural blonde hair is pretty, of course. Fake blonde hair is a huge turn-off. But I admit I have a fetish for dyed black hair.
-- Short or long hair?: Either. I like it when a girl has really short hair because it brings it out her face. Plus, only really beautiful women can pull off having really short hair. But my favorite length of hair on a woman is chin-length.
-- Best height: It doesn't matter. Women seem much more hung up on height than guys are. Most of the women I've been with are shorter than I am, but I've had a few GFs who were taller and it didn't bother me at all. As long as they're cool with it, I am.
-- Best weight: It's about proportion. I like a little junk in the trunk, but I've been with really thin women, too. Lucy was super thin when I met her, like 98lbs at 5'4. Rachel was really thin, too, but the girl ate like she was on death row. Teresa is pretty thin. But I've also been with women who were fat (I don't mean "average" or a "few extra"—I mean fat). So, it really depends. On proportion and how comfortable she is with her body.
-- Best articles of clothing: You can never go wrong with a tight pair of jeans.
-- Best first date location: It's really about mood and chemistry as opposed to location.
-- Best first kiss location: See above.
-- Number of girls I have kissed in my life: 25, maybe?
-- Number of girls you have made out with: 23 or 24.
-- Number of girlfriends you've had: Somewhere around 20.
-- Number of boys I have kissed: Zero.
-- Number of boys you have made out with: Zero.
-- Number of boyfriends you've had: Zero.
-- Number of drugs taken illegally: Not sure. 4, I think. I don't remember much about those years.
-- Number of people I could trust with my life: I don't know.
-- Number of CDs that I own: Shitload.
-- Number of piercings: Zero.
-- Number of tattoos: Zero.
-- Number of scars on my body: A lot.
-- Number of things in my past that I regret: I regret a lot of things. I think anyone who says otherwise is lying.


like a burning guitar

My favorite band in the world, The Arctic Monkeys, were on SNL this past weekend and, wow, they're even gayer on TV. The singer/guitarist had his axe hiked up to his chin and sported that sweet Liam Gallagher shaggy bowlcut circa '97.

Remember that whole rockism thing bloggurz were bloggin' 'bout not too long ago? From the Wikipedia entry on the theory:

The fundamental tenet of rockism is that some forms of popular music, and some musical artists, are more authentic than others. More specifically, authentic popular music fits the rock and roll paradigm; it is made using the basic rock instrumentation of guitars, bass guitars and drums, and fits the structures of a rock and roll song. Rockism is suspicious of the use of technology, from synthesizers to Pro Tools-style computer-based production systems. Rockism places value on the idea of the composer and performer as auteur; authentic music is composed as a sincere form of self-expression, and usually performed by those who composed it. This is as opposed to the notion of manufactured "pop" music, created in assembly line fashion by teams of hired producers and technicians and performed by pop stars who have little input into the creative process, designed to appeal to a mass market and make profits rather than express authentic sentiments.

Lots of people take issue with rockism and accuse it of being a primitivist ideology and even racist, sexist, homophobic, etc. I reject the entire premise because it's predicated on the notion that there's a difference between pop and rock. There isn't. Rock is just as contrived and manufactured as pop is.

I won't name names for obvious reasons, but I know some of the members of a well-known rock band. One of those The Bands that are all the rage these days. They're not insanely huge, but they make enough money to buy their moms and dads houses, which is precisely why they started the band. See, the band was formed from the ashes of other bands the members were involved in. None of the guys' previous bands were going anywhere and eventually those bands folded. The guys, all friends from childhood, decided to get together and form a new band, but before they even got together for their first practice, they got in touch with a manager. Well, before even that, they constructed a new image for themselves as a bland, vaguley indifferent group of dudes with bedhead, fros, super tight jeans, blazers, and Chuck Taylors. Then they got in touch with a manager. The manager liked their look and the description of the band and agreed to manage them. Then, without having written one fucking song, they landed a record deal. Amazing, huh? The guys know what's up and knew exactly what to say and do to get their foot in the door. So they wrote some shitty ass music, just like The Arctic Monkeys, and voila. Now they make enough money to buy their parents new homes.

Fame is easy if you play the game. Talent has little to do with it. It's like when people come to Hollywood with artistic aspirations—I just want to pat them on the head. So cute.


the internets have officially jumped the shark

Tried other friend or dating sites only to be disappointed? You know the drill. You go on the site, you see a HOT picture, you talk and then.... You meet in person. Turns out that "HOT picture" was a glamor shots photo from 6 years ago and besides it was just a head shot anyways.

Yeah, it's happened to us. That's why we created PodDater.
PodDater is a new way to find a friend or a date. You make a video profile, add it to your profile, share it with others and you download video profiles to your iPod.

PodDater!? Okay, I've met people via the internet and whatever, but this is a little much. Instead of shilling for Corporation You in a video and uploading it to a site so other narcissists can rapidly skip onto the next profile, why not just, uh, you know, go outside? I know it's fucking hard meeting people in "real life," but try it. Quit being so fucking afraid of rejection and just go up to someone and say something honest. Yes, you'll get shot down, but so what? Happens to the best of us. You don't always get it your way, tragically.


empty house

Grandmother's funeral was this morning. It was okay, I guess. I was one of the pallbearers.

My grandfather died on a Monday and was buried on a Friday, too. But it was really hot that day. It was in the late summer. It's very wintry out today.

Saw my cousin Josh. Hadn't seen him since I was little. His father, uncle Robert, gave a speech at the cemetery. It was about Josh's brother Jeremy and how he's going to Iraq in the summer. Uncle Robert talked about how, to most people, what Jeremy is doing is considered heroic. And then uncle Robert said that his mother was his hero and his voice started to crack, which was hard to listen to because uncle Robert is a very stoic man, a veteran, of whom some of my earliest memories are him lugging trash bags of shell casings into my grandparents' backyard. Once, he pulled a gun on my cousin's husband, who happens to be a pedophile scumbag, but one of my aunts talked uncle Robert out of killing him.

Grandmother was Catholic, so there was a mass at the church. Pretty weird for an atheist like me. Lots of sitting and standing. Fortunately there were other Catholics at the service, so I just followed their lead.

I found out that grandmother played piano and sang! I couldn't believe it. I still can't believe she's dead. She took care of us and then we took care of her and now she's gone and what're we going to do?


the fetal position

Grandmother died today. Around 4:00 this morning. Just saw her last night. Her skin was really cold. She was asleep and could hardly breathe. She hadn't eaten anything for about two weeks and stopped eliminating on Friday. She would've been 94 on the 12th. I guess I was close with her. Or as close as anyone can be in this family. No one's really close in this family. I'm glad my cousin and aunt still totally hate each other and found the joy in telling each other to fuck off last night while grandmother lay in her deathbed. That was just amazing.

She was the last of my grandparents. My gradfather died about ten years ago. I don't know who my father's parents were. I know my father's mother was named Helen and I have no idea who my paternal grandfather was (my father was raised by his grandparents, both of whom died when he was a teenager).

All kinds of things died with my grandmother. There are so many secrets in this family and no one is interested in telling them. For example, my grandfather probably had another family before he met my grandmother. Or while he was with her. Oh, and my grandparents didn't even marry till 1983—two years after I was born. I just found that one out the other day. The aforementioned aunt is a huge lez and her marriage to her husband was a joint sham (he was queer, too; he's dead now) to placate both of their families. Which explains why my cousins are so fucked up. Which also explains why I have vague memories of him in drag. And on and on.

I feel numb about it, thank god. Grandmother was crisp till a few weeks ago, when she suddenly stopped eating, seemed to lose recognition, and just slept every day, all day. I visited at least three times a week and she was either sleeping or awake, but not really there. She was always fierce, even now. She was mad up until the very end. But this time she didn't recognize anyone. Before, she'd have these spells where she'd call out for papi or something, but then she'd snap right back to reality and grill me about work. "Are you working? You had better find another job or Lucy's going to leave you!" One time when she was in the hospital, this nurse came in to give her her meds and he was this Asian dude who had broken English and he looked at grandmother's chin hairs and said, "Ooooh, you got goatee! Like troll!" And me and grandmother started laughing so hard, I thought that son of a bitch was gonna kill her.

But even last night when my aunt tried to give her some morphine, grandmother fought her. Tensed up and yelled. Just wanted to be left alone. She was mad. She knew she was dying and she was mad. Mad and alone.

Grandmother always tried to keep the peace between everyone in the family. And now that she's gone it's probably going to get worse. And everyone's just going to die angry.



The other night I'm talking with this girl named Chrissy on AIM. She wants to send me some new pictures so I say cool. She sends them and I say, "Cool, thanks." Okay, me and Chrissy aren't together or anything. As far as I know she doesn't like me. So I don't understand what happens next. She says, "I'm sorry for sending the pix. I knew I shouldn't have sent them." I ask her why she's saying that and she says never mind. I ask her what's wrong and she says she's going to go. I ask her to wait and tell me what's the matter, but she just repeats that she's going to go. So I say okay and tell her I'll talk to her later. But she doesn't sign out. I'm not really in the mood to play this game with her; I wish she would just say it. I know she's mad at me because I didn't compliment her, not her pictures per se, but her. So our chat window just sits there for like ten minutes until it starts blinking. Again, she's saying that she's sorry for sending the pictures and I tell her she shouldn't be sorry about that. Then she mocks me by typing "'cool, thx.'" I laugh and type, "You're really annoyed with me, aren't you?" She says that she is and then says, "Just kidding." I tell her that I doubt she's kidding and this is where it gets ugly. She tells me that she is annoyed with me, that I'm a "total asshole" and that I always go out of my way to be one. She tells me that the reason I'm single again is because no one can deal with how big an asshole I am. She tells me that she's a nice person and that she's always there for me, but that I'm always just a dick to her. I don't know what to say, so I say nothing, which just bothers her more. I mean, what do you say to something like that? There's not much you can say that'll ameliorate the problem at that point. I understand she's really mad at me and I know I can be a really, really difficult person to know. She tells me that she wishes I would just say one nice thing about her. I tell her, "Chrissy, you always think I'm bullshitting you whenever I say something nice, so it's difficult for me to say anything nice to you now." She disputes this, but I counter by pointing out that she said exactly that just the other night. She tells me to say something nice to her, but now I feel that it will be completely fake since she is telling me to. She doesn't say anything for a while and then this huge block of text appears, wherein she says that when she first met me she liked me a lot and that she was "totally infatuated" with me because I was "mysterious," but also "genuine." But now I'm just a "total asshole" who's "impossible to figure out." She tells me that she's a good person, which she is. She tells me she deserves a lot better, which she does.

The point: anyone who says that women always go for assholes obviously knows jack shit about women.


I spent Saturday maxin' n' chillaxin' in Chinatown with my brother. Goddamn, those motherfuckers are out of control with the party snaps. Shit's funny when you're 10, not 27. "5 boxes for a $1," bro said (or is it 6 boxes?). It's cool, but I was saving up for cigs. Anyway, my brother worked my ass like a dog, walking all over Chinatown looking for some goddamned mug he saw in some dingy-ass shop months ago. Surprisingly, he didn't find the mug. And man it was colder than shit outside! When did LA turn into Portland for crissake? (It's supposed to rain most of the week, which means everything is going to flood and we're all going to die.)

Anyway, it was cool. MILFs were out in full force. But you know what sucks? Even though I was amongst all of these hot women I couldn't stop thinking about Rachel. She's never been to LA and I wanted to show her around the city. Even after we broke up she wanted to come to California to visit me and so I got into the habit of thinking of all the places I'd take her to. I just wished I was there with her and not my brother, which made me feel like shit. But I'm sure he probably would've rather been with whoever his latest crush is than with his little bro. I hate that I can't get over her. I hate that I listen to Aaliyah's "At Your Best" for hours on end and cry my eyes out. I know it's pathetic! I mean, my feelings for her haven't changed at all. I lived with Lucy for two-and-a-half years and I was over her in like a month. (She met, and moved in, with a guy who is now her husband about 4 minutes after we broke up. I guess neither of us really meant that much to each other.) I mean, when a relationship ends, I move on. I don't pine for the other person, no matter what happened. But I think about Rachel every day. I guess it's because I have no idea what happened to us. Everything was amazing and then, literally, over night she says she can't be in a relationship with anyone. I had just moved in with her and then she says that to me. And it wasn't like I moved to a different part of the city or whatever—I moved across the motherfucking country. Clearly, that's a lot of pressure to put on a relationship, but honestly, she was the one who asked me to move in with her. If it had been a situation where I kept nagging her about living together, then I could definitely understand why she would feel pressured and uncertain about living with me.

You know what fucks with my head, though? About two weeks after I came back to California we were talking on the phone and her roommate was in the process of moving out of their apartment. I guess her roommate felt weird about a guy living with them and told Rachel about it, but didn't try to make it a big deal (even though the roommate knew that I was moving in about a month before I left Portland and told Rachel she was cool with it). Anyway, Rachel says that if the roommate had moved out before or during the time I was there, things would've turned out differently. But is that the only reason why she wanted me to leave? Who was the asshole who said "don't sweat the small stuff"? The small stuff will kill you.

On a funnier note (because all of that heartbreak/"what if?" stuff is fucking hilarious, but not as funny as what I'm about to lay down on your ass), brother and I went to see Chappelle's Block party at the Huntington Beach Mall. Goddamn, that shit was crisp. Chappelle was in prime form and the music was out of control. My only complaint is that there wasn't enough footage of the show. I wanted to see more footage of Jill Scott and Erykah Badu, but maybe there'll be some more shit on the DVD. And why no footage of Erykah backstage? I mean, there were little clips, but nothing substantial. Goddamn, that woman is hot. I'm convinced Dead Prez played "Turn Off the Radio" for Kanye. At least I hope they did. Fucking Kanye.

Random joke from the movie:

"How many white people does it take to screw in a lightbulb? None. Cuz they'll get a nigger to do it for them."

Random picture of a zeppelin in ascension on the way down to HB via the 405, which I dubbed the flying roach:

Random picture of my shoes:


norepinephrine plus

Clue Chick ruminates on her status as a slut:

I was recently talking to a friend of mine about the realization that, you know what? I'm pretty slutty. I haven't had any particular hangups about the concept of slut, or sluttiness for quite some time. A lot of the women I spend time with happily identify as sluts, or as having been slutty in the past, and that's something they're quite comfortable with.

For a long time, I was a "good girl" by almost anyone's definition of the term, and for some of that time, that was important to me, that I be good, by some external, socially accepted metric, even if I rejected that metric when applied to other people.

And goes on:

I had a man, recently, after a play date with me, tell me that it was fun, but he didn't really like sluts, so it was only a one-time thing. This, as you might imagine, left me flabbergasted. I make no bones about being a slut, or being easy; after all, I post it on the internet, specifically with the intent of practicing my sluttish arts of fucking and sucking. So, to him, apparently, a slut is good once. Needless to say, this pissed me off.

What's the male equivalent of a slut? That certainly would apply to him, no? One of the things that drives me crazy in the gender politics of casual sex, is the double standard: a woman who engages in casual sex is dirty, or bad, but a man who does the same is a stud, admirable.

Do you go out with a slut, or do you keep her at home? She's good for a lay, but not for a date, where people might see you with her, perhaps?

I'm totally a slut. I'm obsessed with sex. I love it. I love women. I love love. I need it. I'm a needy person. I admit it. It's all I care about. I think about sex all the time. Even as a child. I started masturbating at the age of 5. I lost my virginity when I was 14 and I've been addicted ever since. I remember the night I lost my virginity very vividly. It was a Tuesday, sometime in late August. It was around 9:00 at night. Her name was Cris and she was older. We were in this park and she said she had to go to the bathroom, so we walked over to the women's restroom and I waited outside. It was dark at this point and no one else was around and Cris walks out of the bathroom with her pants around her ankles and tells me to follow her. I do and she unzips my pants and take out my cock and she lifts herself up onto the sink and slips my cock inside her. It was like a bolt of lightning had erupted from my crotch and spread throughout my body. I knew sex would feel good, but I couldn't believe it felt this good.

Falling in love and having sex is better than the greatest high ever and I say this as someone who was (is?) a total druggie. After all, orgasms are "akin to a shot of heroin."

I love kissing. I love the feel of a girl's lips pressed into mine. I love the smell of her skin. I like to stare into someone's eyes when I kiss them. I love that kind of closeness and vulnerability. It's almost impossible to be anything other than what you are in that moment. Sex with someone you just met can be really intense because there's a (false?) sense of intimacy with someone you don't know. It's easy to be vulnerable with someone who doesn't know you. But it can be empty. I like being used. I like being controlled. But what do those words mean? People can only use me because I let them. So who's in control, really?

I love going down on girls. I love it when girls sit on my face! I think about it constantly. It's my favorite thing in the world, next to making out. I love the smell and taste of a girl's pussy. I love kissing her thighs and slowly working my way up. I love to kiss a girl's pussy. Slowly at first, rubbing my lips against hers, then taking her vulva into my mouth and sucking. I have a huge tight jeans fetish and it drives me crazy with lust to smell a girl's crotch through her pants. I love ripping her pants and underwear off and smearing my face all over crotch. I mean, I come all the time just from going down on girls, which is kind of a drag, but that's the great thing about being young: it takes mere seconds to get hard again, especially when you have sopping wet pussy in your face.

I want to die every time I slip my cock inside a girl. It's boring, but my favorite positions are when a girl straddles me or when I'm on top. I've never fucked in a position I didn't like, even the ones that hurt, but I need to look in someone's eyes. I hooked up with this girl named Teresa last May. She is really beautiful: 5'8, thin, light brown hair, and really expressive, pale blue eyes. She would always turn her head away when I'd look at her. "Don't look at me like that," she'd say. "Like what?" I'd ask. "Like that," she'd say. All right. So I would keep looking at her. She would pout and say, "Aaaaaron." One night in bed she told me I was the only person to look in her eyes when having sex with her. I didn't know what to say. I mean, what did other people do when they fucked her? People are afraid you'll see something. I love sex precisely because I can't hide. I get tired of hiding. I get tired of everything, really, except fucking. It seems that the more sex I have the more insatiable I become.

I admit I have a problem. I guess most people would probably say that I do, but I'm not sure. Despite my sluttiness, I'm really not one to cheat. I mean, I've cheated before, but that was when I was a teenager and I'm not sure that stuff counts. And despite my sluttiness, I care about everyone I have sex with. It's impossible for me just to fuck someone and not talk to them or see them again. There's too much dopamine and vasopressin pumping through me for that. Unfortunately, though, that kind of shit happens. Even if you want to remain in contact with someone, it's difficult. You're not sure if they're just using you or what. Everyone is too interested in playing it cool. Or maybe they just don't care about you; perhaps you're just another body. This can be intense and fun too, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't leave me feeling empty.

I love slutty women. I would never hook up with a woman I knew was open about her sexuality and then try to get rid of her after having sex with her. That's pathetic. It's hypocritical and deficient in basic self-awareness, not to mention it lacks class and style. Last year I went on a "date" with this woman named Jamie. The "date" was okay. Not bad, but no "spark" as it were. She was nice to spend some time with, but I was really thrown for a loop when she told me that, not only was she a virgin, but she had never even kissed anyone before. Pardon the pun, but come again? I played it cool but inside I was dying from ghastly guffaws. 24 years old and never even kissed anyone before? A real head-scratcher, that one. I know a lot of guys are into that whole virgin thing, but I think I would gouge my eyes out if I ever had to have sex with another virgin. Why would I want to be with someone who has little to no idea about what the fuck they want? All the hemming and hawing and giggling would drive me into the arms of the bathroom for a hearty jerk. I want a bitch who will take charge. Which brings me back to the beginning of this paragraph: I love sluts. I love bitchy women. I love women who know what they want and don't give a fuck. I love women who are emotional and passionate and crazy and aren't afraid to start shit. In other words, I like bitches. I'm totally attracted to women who "don't know when to keep their mouths shut." That's what I loved about Tina and Rachel and Teresa. They just said whatever came to mind and didn't give a good motherfuck. "Aaron, you got something in your teeth," "Aaron, I want your dick inside me," "Aaron, you're an asshole," "I fucking HATE that bitch, Aaron! I don't care if she can hear me," "Aaron, I'll fucking kill you if you ever leave me," etc. I hate phoniness. Rachel always used to say, "How can you be with me? I'm such a bitch," to which I'd reply: "I know. That's what I love about you."

If you're hooking up with a guy who can't deal with who you are, fuck him. Why waste your time? If you're with a guy who can't deal with your sexuality in any real way, you're with an extremely small, insecure man who's swallowed every load fed to him about women and sex. Sex and love are beautiful. It is the greatest thing we upright animals have to give. It is the stuff of the cosmos. Certain people hate sex because sex is inextricably linked to women. We live in a society where teams of men are praised for clobbering the shit out of each other over an oval ball, but is plunged into an abyssal moral crisis at the briefest flash of a woman's nipple. The message is boringly clear: aggression and violence and competitiveness is virile and good; sex is vulnerable and feminine and bad. But being bad feels pretty amazing, doesn't it?


let us dig up rock n' roll and pound it into dust

Have I mentioned that I fucking hate The Arctic Monkeys? "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor" is the worst song in recorded music history. It's the sound of someone putting a shotgun to your ear and farting before pulling the trigger. It's everything that is inexcusably wrong with Western culture. It is big, dumb, absurd, simple, lumbering, rehashed, safe, and completely devoid of objective substance. It is what put Bush in the White House. It is what fuels Bill O'Reilly's popularity. It is the same sort of nebulous blandness that has carried a wholly unremarkable, yet simple-minded and didactic filmmaker like Steven Spielberg into the dubious annals of "cinematic greatness." It is what propelled Ashlee Simpson's career into the limelight. It is that nameless, shapeless force. It is not malevolence, but assuring and lukewarm. It is popular and sycophantic. It is mediocrity.

The first time I heard the song's opening riff I thought it was a Third Eye Blind b-side or perhaps a Stone Temple Pilots number I had blessedly managed to avoid in the band's heyday. Sadly, no. It's a "new" song by a horrid new band that no one will give two shits about exactly one year from now. Remember Jet? Not really? They were that shit band that more or less stole Iggy Pop's most mundane riffs and put 'em in a shit single that everyone lapped up. I used to think it couldn't get any worse than Jet and, Jesus MOTHERFUCKING Christ, was I ever wrong. The Arctic Monkeys, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Bloc Party, The Like (like, the dumbest fucking band name ever, 4 realz), The Yeah Hot, The Yo Clap Unaboriginals, The Hot Shins, The Shills, The Sucka Yucka Low-Fi Monosyllabic Hunky Spunky Rock Explosion (With or Without Parenthetical Aside [Hello, McSweeneys]), The The The The The The Period, The Ohs, The Fucking Yeah Hot, The Sahara Hot Ligers, The Grandma's Broken Coccyxes, etc. are The Nickelbacks, Creeds, and Chicagos for The Cobra Snake set. That whole "three fucking chords, we're so like fucking like punk, man, shhhhhhit!" thing is like a paper cut on my scrotum. The whole thing just makes me wanna go all Tyler Durden. The quaint irony of all this safe rehashing of rock and roll's most tried n' true power chords is that if the first wave of rock and rollers like Chuck Berry or Little Richard just rode on the coattails of everyone who came before them, well, there'd be no fucking rock n' roll. Rock n' roll was interesting and exciting because it took things from the past and turned them into something new. Just like the blues and jazz and hip hop and electronica.

You can play three chords on yer crusty Strat and snarl into a microphone, wow, fucking swell, champ. So can Corky's kid sister. That's the easy part. The question is: do you have the set to say and do something new, live in the moment, and face the goddamned consequences? Good on you that you wanna be popular and "just get the music fucking out there, man." Yes, yes. Yawn, yawn. You and everyone else. Instead of pumping your fist into the air and rocking the fuck out on yer cool Jaguar, why don't you just stand there and stare the audience down for five minutes straight? Why don't you just be quiet for a moment instead of constantly being hot and entertaining? Why don't you aim a little lower? Fuck, why don't you fall flat on your face and fail? Failure is interesting. It's painful and it teaches you something about life. It's dangerous. And isn't rock n' roll supposed to be dangerous? Or are you all talk?


I didn't sleep much last night. Maybe an hour or so. It rained all night and for whatever reason the rain excites me. It was a warm sub-tropical storm with decent winds and fat rain drops.

One thing I miss about the northeast is the weather. It's so different from how it is here in L.A. I mean, I was only in the northeast during the dead of summer, so I don't know jack shit the seasonal changes, but the summers there are intense in a different way than the summers here are. Here, heat is dry and scorching and you don't sweat so much as burn; there, it's not really hot so much as it is humid and suffocating. As soon as I stepped off the plane in Jersey it was as if I walked into a trucker's asscrack.

Surprisingly, though, I liked the humidity. I liked how the haze washed out the landscape and coated everything in a sweaty opacity. In L.A. the sun is severe and omnipresent, but in the northeast it's only hinted at; sometimes it pierces through the humid milky coating.

But, god, I had some good sex in that heat.

One day Rachel and I drove to Albany, NY so she could visit her mother. However, Rachel hadn't told her mother that I had basically moved in with her, so I couldn't really stay over at her mother's. I told her I was fine with staying behind, but Rachel didn't want me to have to hang around the apartment by myself so she offered to get me a room in Albany, not too far from her mother's. I agreed, but only if I could split the cost with her. So we left Northampton and drove about an hour or so to Albany. Right around the Massachusetts/New York border we were deluged by a really beautiful summer thunderstorm. Above us the sky was dark and it was raining so hard visibility was reduced to shit, but in the distance the sky was clearing and the sun was setting. A slow, blinding, hypnotic arc of golden sunlight flooded the atmosphere. As always, Rachel and I were silent. It was one of those moments you can't plan, that presents itself suddenly and quietly, and sears itself into your consciousness. I remember that day so vividly. It was Friday, July 15th. I was wearing corduroy pants, a black t-shirt, and my black Converse. Rachel was wearing a white tank top, shorts, and flip flops. She was bringing her cats to her mother's because they kept peeing all over the apartment and they were in their cages in the backseat, yowling and fouling—the car reeked of shit.

We got to Albany and eventually found the motel. A shitty haven for serial killers if there ever was one. Fortunately, there was only one pick-up truck in the entire parking lot, so I figured my odds of being killed were slim. The room was crap. Rachel asked me if I was sure this was okay. I said yeah, I'll be fine. She kept saying she was sorry for having to leave me. I kept telling her it was all right. I walked her to her car and we kissed and hugged and she told me she'd be there at 11:00 the next morning. I said okay. Then she kissed me again. Then she walked to her car and turned around. She stared at me for a moment before walking toward me and kissing me again. She said okay. I said okay. Then she walked back to her car and got in and started it and looked at me and pulled out. I watched her drive away before walking back to my room.

I tried to turn the TV on, but the bitch wasn't havin' it. I freaked out a little at the thought of having to lie in bed all night listening to the deafening silence of a seedy-ass motel situation. I mean, I've done a decent amount of traveling and I've stayed in some shitty motels, but this place was out of control. It was even creepier than the Motel 6 I stayed in in Kansas, Central California (most people tend to think of L.A. or San Francisco when they hear the word California, but California is a dynamic state and the central valley is mostly farmland, more akin to the midwest than to points west) with significant blood stains on the sheets. I mean, someone was probably dismembered in that bed and I didn't realize the blood stains until the next morning, after I had slobbered all over the sheets and pillow. Yeah, this Albany motel was more fucked than that. I could write an essay on the toilet alone. Anyway, eventually I realized that the TV doubled as a radio—something I wasn't aware even existed!—and I had to switch it from the radio setting to the TV setting. So, awesome, I could finally watch TV and veg out and forget about my immediate circumstances. But not quite. The TV doesn't like changing channels. Oh, it'll change, but only for about 34 seconds, then it will stick to one channel for three hours before giving you another window of opportunity to see what else is on. For part of the night I watched what seemd to be a Talk Soup marathon on E!. Then the TV felt like working but decided it hated me when I landed on The Weather Channel. So I spent the rest of the night watching Overnight Outlook.

I ventured outside to have a smoke and to wrassle me up a cold, canned beverage from the soda machine but was robbed when the infernal monstrosity gave me a goddamned iced tea instead of a Coke. I hate tea. But it was really humid out, so I drank it. The storms had ended and the sky had cleared out. It was still really humid, but not really hazy. I stared at the moon and dragged away on my cig.

I went back inside and a swarm of flies trailed me. I sat on my bed and watched TV and tried to ignore them, but the beasts began harassing me by nosediving onto my head and face! These were fat, stupid flies with a loud, insufferable buzz, more akin to a chainsaw than the soothing whir of your typical west coast housefly. These bitches were east coast, and needed to be dealt with as such. It was easy killing them: they would kamikaze themselves into a wall or unto ceiling, momentarily concussing themselves, whereupon I would seize the moment and crush them with my shoe. Turds.

I finally fell asleep around 3:30-4:00. But woke up a few hours later, to watch the sunrise.

I masturbated so many times that night, thinking about Rachel and all of the crazed, sweaty sex we had had that week. The sex between us was so intense and so possessive. We would fuck for hours; literally, until she physically couldn't any longer. After we broke up she told me that it was "too much." She said we are like soul mates, but that being in a romantic relationship was too much and that we are too alike. I understand that now. I understood it then, too, but I didn't want to accept it. Rachel and I understand each other in a way that is terrifying. We just see right through each other. We all play games. Every relationship is a game that we play to some extent, but Rachel and I couldn't really play each other. I always knew when she was trying to control me or make me feel insecure or whatever and I always let her do it. I let her because it's fun. Honestly, it makes me feel wanted when someone tries to control me. She only could because I let her. We were completely obsessed with each other. She would've done anything for me and I gave up everything to be with her. That's so much to deal with in your early 20s. I knew it would end badly, but I did it anyway. I'm too impulsive. And I would do it again.

I miss her. I miss talking with her for hours. I miss being around her for hours and not having to say a word. I miss her sitting on my lap and locking her arms around my neck. I miss the way she'd smile at me when we'd wake up in the morning. I miss holding her when she cries. I miss spooning her and running my fingers through her hair. I miss the soft plump of her lips; the glimmer in her blue eyes. I miss her New York accent pronouncing itself whenever she'd get excited or angry. I miss the glow of the afternoon sunlight in her hair. I miss the way she would always touch me, even when we fought. She never let me feel like she didn't love me, no matter what happened. I miss the feel of her dew-scented skin. I miss running my hands over the soft blonde hairs on her legs; her breath on my face. I need her love.