Friday, February 27, 2009


That's what you are.

Thursday, February 26, 2009


make your bitches laugh!
use a gun to make whitey
do the honky dance.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009


In middle school, which is what we call junior high here, I ate lunch with the biggest dorks ever. They commonly talked about ballistic military helmets and level 12 elves. Star Wars, Star Trek? Too common for these guys.

I was, if you can believe it, the coolest guy there. I had a mini-me 6th grader who looked eerily like me. I had a guy who'd run errands for me if I paid him with food. I was like a demigod to those poor little souls.

What an asshole I was. At least I eventually learned to be nice to people. Sort of. Aw, fuck you.

But I'm still a dork. A lovable dork.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Dial Antibacterial Soap

He pushed the needle through my navel and I thought shit, that's impossibly large, too terribly thick to break through someone's flesh. I could actually hear the skin puncture and rip. Tears pooled in my eyes and I watched a thin line of brown blood trickle down to the opening of my underpants.

Well, that was done. Now, clean it three times a day, he said. I couldn't even see his lips move under his moustache. Maybe it wasn't even him talking. His arms bulged and were covered with ink, like shoulder to wrist. But his fingers were immaculate. My head pulsed with adrenaline. I gingerly touched the tiny blue ring. Ow.

Use this, and he handed me a little bottle of Dial antibacterial soap. The orange kind. It smelled clean. Like it'd protect me, keep my belly button from exploding into a pus-covered infection. Don't let your boyfriend lick you there for at least a week, he said, and stuck out his tongue. Yeah, thanks, I won't, I said, getting up. My legs were rubbery.

The following week I went on a train with my family to visit my dying grandfather.
My head was so far up my own ass, I'm ashamed of my behavior now.
It was the first time in probably ten years my parents, sister and I had taken this 18 hour ride together to Florida. We were banging into each other and tense, but not arguing, not actually saying anything.

I'd methodically go to the bathroom several times a day and wash my navel with my special orange soap. I couldn't even turn around in there, but somehow managed. It gave me something to do.

It burned so badly I couldn't button my pants.

The three of them would watch me as we sat in the dining car, engaged in a quiet, familiar battle. I poked boiled potatoes with my fork, mashed up baked fish, pushed everything to the outside rim of the plate, to make it look like I'd actually eaten some of it. We know what you're doing, they said. I'm not doing anything, I replied. I'm not hungry. This food is gross.
We'll get you something else, they said. How about dessert?
I looked at them like they were crazy.

I went to the club car and smoked Marlboro Lights.

And I washed my stupid bellybutton.

At my grandfather's house, I bought several containers of sugar free General Foods International was thick and creamy and I could make it with water but somehow it felt like sustenance, and I liked the caffeine buzz. I smoked and smoked out on my grandfather's porch. I didn't even really talk to him. This was the last time I'd ever visit his house with him alive in it.

Why does she do that, he asked my father. Can you ask her at least to close the door.
I sat out by the pool and smoked. I took the car out for hours. Every dinner was an adventure in avoidance. An angry dance I'd have with my parents. I'll win, I thought. I always won at this. I was angry, so angry. I'm still not sure at whom or why. I guess mostly at myself, because I was the target of so much of my venom, so much fucking hate.

I went to bed with the sweet smell of orange soap in my skin, feeling elated as tiny balloons of air popped in my stomach. I admit that I loved it. I know it's wrong, but I did. And that's crazy.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

cunnilingus: a haiku

dirty old painting

the warmth of my breath
makes you moist. you moan, as i
kiss your clitoris.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Chocolate martinis and cats

I drank me two chocolate martinis
they tasted so good going down
so sweet and so cold and so creamy
the glass garnished with Hershey's brown

I woke up next morning quite groggy
my mouth felt all covered in fur
my chest and my head were all soggy
my kitty, he started to purr

He came and he sat down upon me
he butted me with his sweet head
saying, 'come, bitch, it's time to feed me'
I don't give a fuck if you're dead

so I wiped cat fur off my eyeball
and whispered, 'you are such a creep,'
cuz cats don't care 'bout hangovers
so I fed him and went back to sleep.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Cool Kids

At Samohi, the cool kids ate in the quad.

Funny thing, any courtyard formed by the space between an even number of rectangular buildings will form a quad. True fact.

We had the quad quad and the science quad. Guess where I ate. Not because I was good at science, but because there was less pressure and more readily available seating. One time, I was wearing a Morrissey shirt and this hefty girl smiles and asks if I like Morrissey. I say yes, and she says "well, fuck you then." I still wonder what the Moz ever did to her.

Funny thing, most of my friends were cool kids, but not me. I was too quiet and too preoccupied with being different to compensate for being misunderstood. True fact.

A lot of the cool kids were goobers. They weren't all even that attractive. I think they were thought of as cool largely because they had the air of confidence that comes with certain life advantages. Social, economic, racial... If I had to pick a single thing that contributed most to their being de facto cool people, it would be that they all knew each other for a really long time.

Funny thing, I had this friend Brian Samuels. His dad, Nardy, was the Principal. And apparently had the bestes of testes. Brian and I used to goof off in class a lot and be loud and start shit. He knew all the chicks and they used to look at us oddly as chicks often do. Well, when they weren't around, he'd go on and on about this chick and that chick. How he wanted to fuck 'em, how hot he thought they were, how he wanted to smell their fingers... The usual. Well, years later (about 15 years later), I realize he was baiting me. I was supposed to express some similar interest so he could let the girl know it was there. If I'd just said I thought that one girl was adorable, chaos theory may have changed my whole life. True fact.

Well, now that I'm an adult, it's nice to be hanging with the cool kids like I do here on Alphabet Soup Bullshit Blog with Cindy, Jeremy and Sara. Having people to shoot the shit with makes all the difference. Thanks, guys, I appreciate you. True fact.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

"Can I call you Sara?"

This is what my daughter just asked me.

When I said no, she whined, Saaaaraaaaa! Saaaaara!

I hate that.

C = Camera

Which I lost on Friday because I got all fucking drunk and left it at the bar. Damn you, Jagermeister. Damn you straight to hell. While I'm at it I should probably damn the tequila from the margaritas I had with dinner.

But not you, Coors Light. You would never do this to me.

Friday, February 13, 2009


I don't know about the rest of the damn country, but in LA it was often about surfer clothes.

And not that raggedy-ass homeless surfer shit they sell now that looks like they went over the border, brought back a bunch of peso ponchos and dyed them light blue.

I mean the classics. In the beginning, god created T&C (Joe Cool, motherfuckers!), Maui & Sons, and saw that it was good

Then there was Rusty's and Limpies--the lame middle period.

Then there was the renaissance of Stussy and Mossimo. Fuck, yeah. My favorites were the Stussy shirts with the art deco collars. $35 it cost for just one of those damn shirts, and they never went on fucking sale. Maybe you could get two for $65 if you'd blow the guy at Pacific Sunwear (which is what they used to call PacSun you little shits).

But Billabong was also a classic. Billabong was the understated and kinda intentionally lame thing to wear that seemed to appeal to the stoners. And not just because it had "bong" right in the name, either. Something about the fabrics or the colors or how they looked with unkempt hair.

A billabong is a seasonal stream in Australia, so they always make me think of Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport, by Rolf fucking Harris back in the way back.


Thursday, February 12, 2009

B = Brownies

I ate almost the entire pan of brownies.

Yeah, I know I'm a fat cow but C is next week, so keep your damn opinion to yourself!

Monday, February 9, 2009

buttermilk biscuits

y'all ready to get busy?

now buttermilk biscuits here we go,
sift the flour, roll the dough.
clap your hands and stomp your feet,
move your butt to the funky beat.

buttermilk biscuits

we're from l.a. to the carolinas,
dip them suckers in aunt jemima.
it don't make a difference what food you make,
use buttermilk biscuits to clean your plate.
you eat 'em in the morning, you eat 'em at night,
kentucky fried chicken makes the suckers just right.
i eat 'em with jelly at my favorite deli,
wrapped and sealed by a freak named shelley.

buttermilk biscuits

one day i kissed my freak, hit the street,
looking for something to eat,
in an 18-wheeler, looking real swass,
all the girls smile 'cause i'm the big boss.
said i gotta eat now, can't eat later,
made a lot of noise to attract my waiter.
the boy walked up, and what did he say?
he said "buttermilk biscuits free today."
well what you waiting on boy? get up, shake a leg,
gimme 10 of them suckers with grits and eggs.
a glass of koolaid and a whole stick of butter,
them biscuits make me a superfast cutter.

buttermilk biscuits

now grab that can and wrap it in your hand,
bang that sucker till the dough expands.
put them suckers up in your oven.
grab your girlie and get a little lovin'.
add a bit of honey if you want to get funny,
microwave the suckers if you want your honey runny.
gonna get naughty at the mix-a-lot party
and rub them suckers all over your body.

buttermilk biscuits


I seriously felt like giving these out by the handful last week.

But I'm feeling better now, thanks.

So good, in fact, I fear that this week I might start deserving them.

Saturday, February 7, 2009


I've always wished I could be distant and uncaring. You can seem so cool. Take up smoking, even.

Who's that guy?

I don't know.

He doesn't look like he gives a fuck about anything.


It just wasn't in the cards, though. When I find people I like, I strip naked of pretense. And the guy who comes out of the can naked at the dinner party ends up leaving early. I'm just a kid excited to have someone to play with for a change, but intense earnestness can really fuck some shit up.

Then other people tend to wish I were more aloof, too.
(Then I shouldn't give a fuck, but I still do.)

Thursday, February 5, 2009

A = Agreed

I'll try to keep up
but I can't promise I'll post
for every letter.



Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Adam's Apple

Oh! Manly neck-bump
I can tell you're a drag queen
I want to poke it.