I Need To Do Something About This...

As 99.9% of anyone who will ever read this already knows, I play in a band. We meet twice weekly, every Monday and Thursday. Our rehearsal space is one of many inside a Costco-size warehouse just east of the highway 101 overpass on Cesar Chavez (or, as it says below Casar Chavez on the sign "(army)") street. We have occupied this space since Q4 of '07.

Compared to many rehearsal spaces in San Francisco, ours ain't bad. It's got high ceilings, decent ventilation; it's not huge, but it isn't cramped; it's not disgustingly filthy, and it's not located in a gross part of town (just a dismal part). It has other things going for it, but they're all too dull to mention. All's in all, it's totes decent. I have nothing to complain about. Except for... (above).

Fortunately, no one in the band can take credit for these; they were there when we signed the lease. However, a realization I find alarming -and possibly telling- is that between Q4 of '07 and Q2 of '10, it hasn't occurred (outwardly) to anyone in the band to paint over these total bummers. They were briefly obfuscated by a large poster of a photoshopped slut, but through some form of Dark Lord intervention, or gravity (we'll never really know), it tore off the wall, and now we're back to staring at these jenkem-inspired cave paintings 4 hours each week. That's 208 hours per year, or roughly 9 days per person per annum. With the exception of Ryan, our marvelous drummer, whose back is facing this wall most of the time, each of us has spent what amounts to the month of February staring at these. That means, collectively, we've spent at least 6 months branding these images onto our retina. We should be ashamed.

Take a moment and really look at each of these. Obviously, I don't need to. I can draw an exact replica of each from memory. What's worse is that you don't even need to look at them to feel their negative energy. If I stand in the room with my eyes shut, I can feel their retarded Ju-Ju encircling me. It informs each of my 9 million flubs, and 10 million terrible film, band, sketch comedy, startup, fashion, food, etc., ideas my friends have had to suffer through. Put it this way: They are 100% to blame for why our band is not opening for the original lineup of Guns n' Roses on the European leg of their reunion tour.

The first one (top) is the kind of thing that dumb kid in science class, the one whose Step-mom let him drink in 4th grade, who always got sent outside (not for being funny, but just for being lousy), who turned you on to Iron Maiden, and who smelled a bit like what you now refer to as Homeless Guy Smell...it's the sort of thing you would see penciled onto his book cover; right next to the Powell Peralta rat and the Stussy "S". It's not the sort of thing grown-ass adults form a semi-circle around.

The next one (center) I actually kind of like. No, take that back, I really like it. Were it not for its association with the other two, I would say it should stay. Sadly, it is an accomplice in Operation Mindcrime, and it too must suffer the same physical and spiritual erasure as the others. I imagine this is the product of some parallel universe, where at the critical moment, Picasso's dad pulled out, skeet-skeet-skeeted into the petri-dish Picasso's mom held ready; which he then popped into the microwave for about 10 seconds on high, before using to inseminate Mom. This would be the sort of thing that guy would draw. To me, it's an abstract depiction of a boy sleeping on his side, with someone putting what I interpret as two stinky fingers (judging by the one eye popped open) under his nostrils. It's says so much using so little.

The last one (bottom) really bums me out. To me, it's a a pre-op' Iggy Pop smoking (is that Mr. Grinch?) pot joint while giving Kareem Abdul Jabbar (who's wearing an invisibility cloak) a handjob. Sharing a room with it on a bi-weekly basis drains from me any notion of future happiness.

On a subconscious level, I've taken comfort in knowing that something external was to blame for any disappointment I have with my internal life; that's it's not the poor choices I've made, but my constant exposure to something so painfully lame that has put me in my current standing. It's very convenient.

But I know, now that I'm 30, that I really need to embrace a more proactive approach. I can't accept my life as is, as predicated by my proximity to this bullshit.

I need to buy a can of spray-paint.

Chi'-Mo' Democracy

Men of Principle watched in agony as their portfolios tumbled amid the economic collapse of 2008. Their fortunes, built upon Greenspan-approved economic bedrock (in reality subrpime landfill), crumbled as Atlas Shrugged. In the ensuing panic, men resorted to desperate measures. The shantytowns of 2008 exist not in the city's outskirts, but in boarded up Netflix accounts, Budget Gourmet lunches, and -most disturbingly- in men taking their hair into their own hands.

I've seen this a few times, each time, it's in the proximity of 4 Embarcadero where I (Tommy La) sorta-work. Significance? The men I see who do this work here. The men who work here work in lucrative industries. You would think that even in the sharpest economic downturn someone, say a middle-aged attorney at an international firm, has enough disposable cash to cough up $10 at Ol' Slapdick's Barbershoppe. But ooooh no.

It's at the intersection of Robert Blake in Lost Highway, and Adam Haynd-Beard in Little Man Tate, this haircut. I accidentally gave myself one in 6th grade using kid-scissors (lefty). In lieu of the door-to-door routine, the state could mandate this haircut as satisfying the requirements for registered sex offenders to inform their community. This haircut would clear a playground.

Time's are Ford Tough. I feel awful for everyone nearing retirement who envision their golden years working at the golden arches. It's both frightening and emasculating. But please Men, hold it together. Hold onto your sideburns (and give the scissors back to Timmy).

Cherish The Little Moments

I pull a boot out of my duffle. The hand-to-sole contact transports me to the last disgusting place the boot was. The men's room. As this sinks in, its implications become tactile. Starting at the point of contact, spreading up my forearm, my shoulder, my neck. I'm overtaken by the sensation of drowning. Drowning in an abyss of old, cold, stinky urine.

Sinking deeper. I can still see them. Backs arched. Laughing. Their wavy silhouettes flicker in the torchlit cavern. Pelting the crushed beercans. The piss demons. 500 strong. Encircling me above. The horrifying synthesizer intro to Styx' "Too Much Time On My Hands" though muffled is audible -bassy- from these depths.

I put my lunch in that duffle. I brush my teeth with that hand. Goddamn piss demons.

Lunchtime outside the Taqueria. I watch Dumbass set down his $10 burrito. He leaves for a napkin. Pigeons descend. Lunch is now up for grabs. He runs back arms-a-flailing. He swats them away, but not before one walks on his burrito.

A filthy pigeon. A creature with no regard for what it walks in or on just walked on his burrito. He looks pretty bummed. I totally understand. Half his lunch hour (it's 2x longer now).waiting in that line. If he goes back, it won't be for a free burrito. He's fucked. His choices are: don't eat, or burrito con paloma pie. Best drown that shit in salsa.

Skip ahead. He's sitting across from his coworker. He looks at her. Watches her chew ."I won't be able to taste it," he thinks, spreading the salsa. He carves a big bite.

A Piss Of Shakespearian Proportion

Waiting in line for the port-a-potty's outside a performance of "Pericles", I stood behind a group of strangers. Smarting a few up-and-downs, I suspected these folks -a straw hat here, overalls there, Crocs everywhere- are now, or were at one time, involved in The Theater. An overwrought response to a flowery 'yes or no' validated my hunch:

"Will you join Alex next summer when he hikes the mountains of Austria?"

"Oh, Roger, you know not my woe. Within my breast, great conflict wages! As I would much cherish traversing those exalted peaks, I have fiduciary responsibilities to consider. You see, next year I intend to purchase my first domicile. Under such constraints, I fear cannot partake. Nay, I know I cannot.

Please forgive the paraphrased dialogue; it is but singed wings. Forthwith, I plummet: earthbound. At the time, I had not quill, nor scroll, nor mind; only bladder, and piss. Believe me, dearest reader: to stand aside such creatures is to momentarily glance a world of endless wonder. As I stood there, squirming, I thought, "were my mind equipped as these, how easily it would transform the mundane into the profound! The piss I endeavor to take? No longer a mere biological imperative. Now, an epic journey in (quas)iambic pentameter!"

Scene 1: William enters the portable rest facility.

William: To pee or not to pee is not the question
for it is nigh, and now the task in hand.
To issue forth in multiple courses.
Spray, in this way, I pray to not offend.

Champagne, mimosa, wine, and beer combine,
intoxicating me for quite some time.
But now nature, run afoul of this list.
Like a racehorse, I piss and piss... and miss!

The Diceman within says, "keep goin'!", but I think it wise to leave it at that.

Introducing: RySco

I introduce to you, fellow reader, the inimitable stylings of one Ryan Scott. A close personal friend of some years, Ryan brings to this blog a tenacity and earnestness to writing heretofore unseen. Ryan knows more about writing code, building a bar in his apartment, installing a blue-tooth enabled MP3 player in his car, and Meshuggah than you. Much to the relief of his lovely girlfriend, he is not a registered a sex offender. Without further ado, I give you RySco's "Rock Guy".

Dearest Rock Guy,

Surely you are correct that I can do better than that, I am sorry for this. I had a very long week at work and, well, to be completely honest, and I apologize for burdening you with this, but my grandfather's Parkinson's disease is advancing to a very difficult point now... things have been very crazy for us. Please know that I, at the very center of my soul, wanted very badly participate. Under every other circumstance I would have been right there with my hands in the air, clapping and trying to do better each time at your request. Under every other circumstance I would have sung along the infectious hook of your chorus with zeal and fervor. Speaking of your performance, can I just say “Wow”. I am wowed, I was wowed, and I will continue to be wowed until your next concert when I will certainly and undoubtedly be wowed again. You are so powerful on stage. You seem to know that the key to being good is acting like you are good. You were so committed to your perception of excellence. I found it refreshing that you have ostensibly not listened to a radio or seen a TV in the last decade. The way that you endeavored to be different... That's the way rock and roll ought to be. Your breaking from conventional musical “Wisdom” was so bold. The end of your closing number (can I say “Wow” again without forfeiting any sort of editorial credibility?) with the droning guitar line and the repeated refrain “Love is like a river” would have been long winded at nine minutes in anyone else's hands, but you... my hat is off to you sir. You really make that Stratocaster sing man! Mark my words Rock Guy, at your next show, you won't have to put the progression of your song on hold and ask me to clap to the rhythm fifteen times in a row... because I'ma be right there on the first one, just, just fucking bringing it.Love,

-That Guy In The Crowd That Wasn't Clapping When You Asked Him To Clap

I say Vet, You Say Due Diligence.

Alongside the clamor surrounding John McCain choosing Sarah Palin for Vice President comes the emergence of a positively sexy word; 'vet'. A transitive verb, 'vet' means, "to subject to thorough examination or evaluation"; as in, before selecting Palin, McCain's staff scrutinized (i.e. googled, and called her mother) every detail of Palin's personal and public life, "[they] vetted [the shit out of] her".

For those of you sick-to-death of political jibber-jabber, let me assure you: this has nothing to do with the '08 election. I reference McCain/Palin only to provide a context for the popularization of this word. This, as you already know, is a smart-free zone.

With the exception of myself, everyone is either vetting or not vetting somebody or something. Having not vetted anything, I feel left behind. Like the last abductee on the spaceship to receive an anal probe; now, I want mine.

Below, I am compiling a list of things I have vetted (some without even realizing it!), am currently vetting, and plan to vet. Feel free to make your own list, or add to this one. Join the club.

This morning, I vetted a carton of half & half to determine whether it would enhance or ruin my coffee/morning .

Last night, I vetted a pimple to determine whether it would yield its seed. Update (9/9/08): success.

The vetting process for determining whether I am "fresh" involves raising my arm, lowering my head, and sniffing.

Let's see if you're getting this...

Pop Quiz (hotshot)

Match the adjective to its corresponding noun, and verb:

"I vetted the_______of _________by ________ it."

radness, hash, stroking
tastiness, pornography, smoking
potency, steak, pettting
silliness, a baby seal, reading
cuteness, fish, eating
freshness, puppies, smelling
deadness, The Bible, clubbing



more to come...

Footprints In The Sand '08

One night I was walking along the beach with the Lord.
Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.
In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand.
Sometimes there were two sets of footprints,
other times there were one set of footprints.

This bothered me because I realized
a lot of those times, I totally blacked out.
when I was super high, in a K-hole,
or one particular night in Ibiza
I could see only one set of footprints.

So I said to the Lord,
"Lord, you remember that
one night in Ibiza,
you turned that bottle of Advil into Ecstasy?
I have noticed that during
the most intoxicated periods of my life
there have only been one
set of footprints in the sand.
Especially that one night.
Why, whenever we party,
do you always wait until I'm totally wasted
and then bail on me?"

The Lord cleared his throat,
"You don't remember what happened that night?
You'd better sit down a sec.
Okay, you remember the Advil into Exstasy?
Well, we were walking down the beach, suuuuper fucked up,
both kinda horny, kinda feelin' it,
and there were no girls in site.
I was like, "you ever mess around with a male diety before?"
and you were all, "No, but I figure, I'm in college, that's
when people experiment, right?"
I took that as my cue.
So I lifted you up, turned you upside down,
and we performed fellatio on each other
while I walked on the beach."

When Things Go Terribly Wrong: A True Story Of Failure & Immasculation

On the evening of September 6, 2006, 51 year old Portland nurse Susan Kuhnhausan came home from her shift wanting nothing more than to relax. Her right arm cradled a grocery bag. Her right hand clasped a stack of bills. Her left hand removed the keys from her purse. She unlocked the door, nudged it, and entered. Her right foot shut the door behind her. She set the mail and the groceries on the antique by the entry. She got hit over the head with a claw hammmer.

The stranger wielding the weapon, Edward Dalton Haffey, intended to kill Mrs. Kuhnhausan. He believed his strength combined with the mechanical advantage of a claw hammer would quickly dispatch his victim, a woman more than 20 years his senior. "A few cracks and she's a goner." he quipped to himself in the aisle at Ace Hardware. "A hammer's cheaper than a handgun. Anything more than five bucks is a waste."

Michael James Kuhnhausen Sr., Mrs. Kuhnhausen's estranged husband, the owner of a local adult video store, Mr. Haffey's boss, and the man hiring Mr. Haffey to murder his wife, didn't think to inform Mr. Haffey - a man of slight physique- that his wife was not a "garden-variety" 51 year old nurse; that his $5 purchase was not only a poor choice of murder implement, but that it would offer Mr. Haffey no protection from Mrs. Kuhnhausen.

Soon after the initial blow, a struggle ensued between Mrs. Kuhnhausen and Mr. Haffey.

With minimal effort, Mrs Kuhhausen managed to wrest the clawhammer from Mr. Haffey, and overtake him. Without a weapon, Mr Haffey resorted to biting. This method proved useless against Mrs. Kuhhausen's superior strength. She wrapped her relatively large hands around Mr Haffey's relatively thin neck, and proceeded choking him.

The autopsy confirmed that Mr Haffey succumbed to asphyixiation brought on by being a "complete pansy dumbshit who got his wimpy ass choked to death by someones grandma".

His name, and the name of her husband have both made the short list for this year's "World's Biggest Loser/Pussy" competition.

Nice one, guys.

A Definitive Guide To The Politics of Shitting At Work

Starting a new job is difficult, settling in takes time, and the interim between "new guy" and "that guy" is cattywampus. Determining when and where to take a shit -creating a "poop schedule"- is essential, as not establishing one prolongs "uneasiness". In the long-term, not having a consistent "window of oppurpoonity" can lead to disillusionment, despair, and the possibility of shitting your pants at work (i.e. social death). For those of you looking to start a new job, what follows is a list of guidelines to help you.

Be Mindful Of Others

Your new coworkers already have a consistent poop schedule. Knowing when they poop is the key to knowing when you can poop. As the "new guy" (if you're reading this, I'm assuming you're male. As we know: 'girls don't poop'. Hence, the information provided below is of no consequence to the female reader. An upcoming article entitled, "Where Do I Lay My Golden Eggs?"will offer advice to women on how to address their unique condition in the workplace) you do not want to find yourself "storming in" or disrupting a coworker's personal journey. Doing so can lead to tension between you and said pooper. Successive interruptions can quickly earn you a reputation as a "maverick"; creating fear and distrust. If you continue this course, news of your recklessness can spread through the office, reaching senior management or HR, and resulting in possible disciplinary action or termination.

"Location, Location, Location"

Depending on the layout of your office, you may have more than one place to poop. If this is true of your workplace, consider yourself lucky, as this distributes your coworkers, and eases the pressure. Take stock of your fellow coworkers. Notice where their workstation is, and use that to inform your choice. Some offices have tragic floorplans; placing the single, attractive worker's station adjacent to a single occupant restroom. If this is the case, heed this advice: assume all sounds from this restroom are audible, all odors are traceable, that everyone in that vicinity knows how long you're in there (rule of thumb: more than 3 minutes equals "you're taking a shit, I'm picturing it in my mind, and we're never having sex"), and avoid using this restroom. Playing it safe in this fashion will help your odds of having intercourse at the holiday party. If this is your only option, I suggest you shit before or after work, during your lunch break, or not at all. Alternatively, if you harbor no attraction for this person (or any of their friends) make them The One: the one person you subject to your foulness on a daily basis. There's no substitute for a daily dose of schadenfreude.

Don't Laugh

The first two guidelines should help you to avoid acknowledging or interacting with a majority of your coworkers (as they abide by these rules). But as there are no guarantees in life, there are none in the bathroom. Inevitably, you will find yourself in the unenviable situation of sharing the bathroom with a superior. The shit habits of upper management are highly unpredictable: they tend to be older, less inhibited about shitting, with erratic schedules, a rich diet, and a stressful job. Eventually, these elements coalesce into a "perfect shitstorm", that lands them in the stall next to you. First, I suggest coughing, sniffling, rustling the newspaper, or tearing off some T.P. to alert them of your presence. This is not to deter them -that is impossible; they plan to unleash- this is simply a way to avoid giving them the "silent treatment", which is creepy. Prepare yourself: your boss is an unabashedly noisy shitter. Expect many plops and pops. As Americans, our upbringing has taught us to regard these sounds as the height of comedic genius; except when it's your boss, and it's their ass making those sounds. Do not under any circumstances, snicker, giggle, chortle, or guffaw. Such a response could quickly find your personal affects in a box and you being escorted out by security. Do not laugh at your boss' diahrea farts.

Keep an Open Mind To Seize the Opportunity

Sometimes, you need to make the most of situation. If you find yourself sharing a stall with a coworker, listen closely to understand their ways. We weren't all taught the same skills growing up, so it's possible the person next to you knows a few new tricks. If it's a superior next to you, show them you've got the right stuff: push hard, piss like you're trying to erode the porcelain, and take short confident wipes using minimal paper. Exude confidence, experience, and adaptability at the shitter. It's a way to communicate non-verbally that you have management potential. While it may not come up in your review, you can be sure it crossed their mind.

Redefining Luxury In San Francisco

Normally, I'm not one to boast about my latest-and-greatest, so what I'm about to say may surprise you...
(Drum roll, please.)
I am now, and have been for some time, the proud -proud- owner of a luxury automobile.
You read that correctly. Luxury.
I know what you're going to say...
"Luxury automobile? You can't afford a luxury automobile."
You're right: I can't. Not now; maybe never. That I can't afford one doesn't mean I don't have one.
Just so we understand each other: I'm not talking about your run-of-the-mill, namby-pamby, 'hey girls, check me out' luxury automobile. I'm talking about something completely different. Allow me to illustrate:
Most luxury automobiles, rouse feelings of inadequacy in others. Mine does not.
When parked, most luxury automobiles attract gawkers. Mine does not.
When handing the keys to a valet, a luxury car owner might say, "scratch it, I cut you. Dent it, I keel you". I will never say that.
If I see bird shit falling, I don't dive on my hood.
Unlike most luxury automobiles, mine does nothing to compensate for my tiny penis, or my receding hairline.
In a drag race, a 1989 Toyota Tercel would blow the doors off my luxury automobile.
I repeat: It does nothing to compensate for my tiny penis (That's false advertising anyway. Next time you go to a Mercedes dealership, ask the dealer, "can I rub my penis against it?" Spoiler: they won't let you. That's because they don't want you to know until after you've paid 60k that it doesn't actually work. Then, when you try to return the car, they won't let you. Why? You rubbed your penis on it, that's why. Classic scam).
With all this talk of "doesn't", you're probably wondering what my luxury automobile "does" have. I'll tell you.
But I still haven't finished the doesn't's.
My luxury automobile doesn't have leather seats. This is not for any political reason, but because the manufacturer doesn't offer it.
My luxury automobile doesn't have AC. Another feature not offered,
As of February, my luxury automobile no longer has "heat"; which has nothing to do with the manufacturer, per se.
My luxury automobile doesn't have carpet. Instead, it has a synthetic ploymer called plastic (fact: carpet comes from baby hair).
The key doesn't work on the passenger side. This is a sort of bonus feature.
In the 10 years I've owned my luxury automobile, I've installed 3 stereo systems. Aesthetes deemed each not luxurious enough for my luxury automobile. Subsequently, each was removed.
Now let's discuss what my luxury automobile does have:
My luxury automobile does have a massive dent on the passenger side. I added this feature myself, a few years ago. Around '03, I decided to have some Mexican guys drill holes into the dent. When they finished that, I had them primer over it. Big, primered dent with a bunch'a holes in it. Luxury.
I had long-term ambiance enhancement installed on the interior. Over the last decade, all the lights on the dashboard slowly dimmed. One sexy night, they died.
"Sexy + Luxury = Suxury."
Driving my luxury automobile in extreme hot or cold makes me feel rugged. In the summer, when everyone else is driving "comfortably" with the AC "on", I'm peeling my sweaty back from vinyl seats. Should I mention buttsweat? No? I got that too. If it's more than an hour of summer driving, I need a full change of clothes. Luxury.
Reading this over, I realize there's not much about my luxury automobile that's luxurious. I ask you to consider this one last feature: bumper-to-bumper "don't give a shit". If you're not familiar with this rather extensive feature, here's how it works:

Wash my car? Don't give a shit.
Scratch my car? Don't give a shit.
Dent: "
Break into my car (what're you gonna steal, an apple core?) Don't give a shit.
Hit my car? You think I'm gonna fix that bumper? Give me money (Don't give a shit).
I can go all day, but that's the gist of it.

"In this city, an automobile you don't give a shit about is a luxury automobile." (Jello Biafra)