The Snakebite Report

Out for a Wander

2011-10-06T13:35:00.000-07:00

I am never more at home than when I am in the Sonoran Desert, but I suppose it’s because I was born and raised there. The heat, the sounds, and the smells seem to make me feel better, more alive. Sequestered in Los Angeles the past ten years this became more apparent when I was back there for my sister’s wedding in September (see my wishy-washy post below).

The wedding was at an enormous compound on the far west side of Tucson, an isolated location for sure and perfect for a wedding. You literally drove for fifteen minutes due west to get there, never straying from the road. Then the road turns to dirt, and there was the house. Amazing directions: turn right on the road, then take it until there is no more road. No, really.

One of the many pre-wedding prep trips I decided to go for a wander into the twenty-acre backyard of the house to do a little photographing. I was really hoping to bump into my old friend the Gila Monster. Sadly they are still as elusive as ever, but the bug up my ass to take a picture of one quickly turned to shooting the terrain instead.

My father was always the photographer of the family. He’d spend hour after hour in a dark room, creating some of the most impressive art I have ever seen by way of photographs. When he’d finally exit he would always stink of chemicals and his brown hands had turned orange from the soaking in Fixer he’d given them. Dad, I thought putting your hands in Fixer was bad? It was, as he would say, but he didn’t give a shit, it was his process. He was never on for rules.

Though I know I’ll never be as good as he was I gave it my best shot. Nothing fancy, no stained hands or a chemical contact high just an iPhone 4 and some editing apps. After all I am my father’s son.

Turning About-Face

2011-09-30T14:54:00.000-07:00

About a month ago I managed to kick the Facebook Habit cold turkey. I got sick of it. No, that’s not all the way true. I got sick of myself incessantly checking it on my iPhone and computer. It was as though I was waiting for some critical piece of information, almost as though it was WWII and I was waiting on a wire for Intelligence about a foreign enemy’s whereabouts. But I wasn’t, just nosey.

After you see some girl you know posting a picture of her and her girlfriend’s, doing the Charlie’s Angels pose, hands cocked like a pistol, with a dapper look on all of their faces, you may come to realize that nothing important happens on Facebook. Unless of course you’re a serial rapist or a pedophile, then I’m sure it’s spellbinding.

As an actor/writer I am friends with many of the like living here in Los Angeles. Another thing that drove me fucking crazy was the nonstop daily affirmations that these people (usually actors) gave to the public in the form of a status update. “Today is the day you make it happen, take control of your destiny,” or “live life to the fullest by perusing your dreams!” It’s all a crock of shit, and it’s bad for you. Stop it before you or a loved one gets AIDS or cancer.

The same goes for quotes from a famous and/or person of note. Many of these quotes used as a status update is 99% of the time taken out of its original context. And this isn’t just the creative types I’m friends with. This most often applies to someone’s own political agenda or opinion. If you know an ultra-conservative Tea Bagger, then you’ve probably noticed that they love to quote fucking Ronald Reagan ad nauseam. There were a shitload of his quotes referring directly to the Cold War and the Soviet Union that where cut & pasted to apply to the free health care debate. But that’s not here nor there… for now.

I made no pomp and circumstance with my exit from Facebook. I played with the idea of some sort of self-loathing message to friends, but decided to scrap that bullshit. I think I did mention something about following me on Twitter before it was too late. And poof, I was gone.

I did hope this would force the hand of a few to get in contact the old fashioned way. You know, phone or email. Sadly only a few checked in with me. I had one acquaintance say “I guess that’s a sure way to see who your true friends are.” No, not really. I don’t need a website to know who my true friends are. Maybe she did, but my quantifier is far different, maybe even better than hers.

The few who did take it to task asked why I defriended them on the All Mighty Facebook. How dare I? Sadly this was by text message. Nothing personal, friend, I just deactivated the goddamn account. Now go worry about more relevant shit.

I’ll just go ahead and blatantly contradict myself by saying I’ll probably wind back up on Facebook. After all people watching is fun. I do plan on cleaning out the house of friends when I venture back. Mostly the people I went to High school with who I haven’t spoken to since, well, high school. I have zero problems with affecting someone’s high score on the friend count.

Snake

To my sister on her wedding day…

2011-09-22T13:46:00.000-07:00

I begin to write this on your wedding day. I think thispiece is going to wind up more self-serving and cathartic than anythingelse. For me, that is.

Right now we’re hours away from the big event. My nerves are shot, my stomach is in knotsand I can’t stop sweating. The sweatingpart has nothing to do with the fact it’s mid-September in Tucson, Arizona…It’s because I know I’ll be walking you down the aisle on your wedding day.

Eleven months or so ago, when I learned of your engagementit felt like a sledgehammer to my chest, it knocked the life out of me. Icalled mom and wound up drinking more than half a bottle of Bulliet bourbon while trying to make sense of it. How the fuck did this happen so quickly?

It had nothing to do with the man you were now planning tomarry. I like him; you know that, so thatwasn’t what took me down like a sick fucking animal. Last year when we were allin Santa Fe I wondered when this guy was going to finally marry you. I cried alot during that conversation. It wasgoing to happen eventually.

I guess it was another revelation that you were no longer alittle girl anymore. Very similar to when I finallylearned how complicated your job really was as a clinical dietician. Forlongest time I assumed that all you did at the hospital was telling people notto eat this or that, not the horrors of what you’ve seen and who you’ve cared for.I remain impressed to this day.

And it’s not as though you’re a teenage bride either. You’recloser to thirty than either of us wants to admit, every year you get older theolder I feel. Maybe it’s the six year gap we share, but I think it’s why I tookyour engagement so hard, simply put I still viewed you as my as my little sister.

It’s cliché to say, but you and I have been through someshit together, some very rough shit. Thanks to Dad dying days after yourbirthday, days before Christmas, and less than a month before my birthdayneither of us liked to celebrate, well, pretty much anything after that. Birthdays and holidays were definitely fucked.And thankfully, it didn’t last too long.

Whenever I come back to Tucson I seem to miss him more andmore. Today, nearly thirteen years later, I really wish he was here. However for once, I am not angry about it,just sad.

Now I am off to thewedding location, the below will be continued after the wedding…

After participating in the some prep work for the wedding, Ihave now seen the payoff of what I can only say must have been a colossal painin the ass. Jesus Christ, how the fuck did you not kill someone in the last fewmonths, weeks, etc? The massive house in the desert where the wedding washeld looked amazing.

When I got to the house I wanted to see you right away.However, Ma was quick to throw her hands up in protest. “No men are allowedupstairs,” she said. I was pissed. I’mher goddamn brother, what if she needs me! What if she’s changed her mind andI’m the only one at this compound of a house who can save her?!? But that’sabsurd; you have a cell phone and would call if in fact you really needed me.

I quickly let it go and continued on helping do whateverlast minute task I was able to help with (it was carrying multiple 50 lbs. bagsof ice for the beer by the way). I ventured off to the guest house (which wasmore of a locker-room for a baseball team), where your husband-to-be was and his groomsmen were getting dressed.

I had told myself weeks ago I wasn’t going to have a drop ofbooze before the wedding due to the fact you wanted me to possibly say a fewwords after the ceremony. My adrenaline was now at a highpoint, and the fifteenyear old single malt scotch in the guesthouse was looking good. Sympathy for the devil at this point orperhaps it was Dad’s as well as my own yen for a good scotch. I poured someover ice and sucked it down while bantering with the boys. Thescotch was no help.

Soon thereafter I was suitedup and ready to start my rounds among the family and old friends of thefamily. Of course many were Ma’s co-workers, all of whom I had seen in the lastweek leading up to actual day.Besides my stomach already doing hula-hoopsaround my asshole, I knew soon enough friends of Dad would soon be finding me,and talking about him and the inevitable comparisons they see in me. Fuck me…

My social duties were probably very poor. I felt like I wasin a spy movie, eyes darting throughout the crowd watching for the enemy, or my European contact. Not one of these conversations had my fullattention. The sweating continued and my nerves were now shot. Still I had notseen you and could only assume you were upstairs.

I also realized I hadn’t seen Ma since I arrived. I had familynear me, my girlfriend, and my best friend. Yet I was still nervous as a wilddeer when Uncle Walt walked into the forest (in fact that goes for any animalwhen he enters the woods). I started to worry that everyone could see I was amess, but I kept it together, never spending too much time in one specificconversation. Soon they’d all be on tome.

Finally, the word was out that everybody needed to take theirseats. From the balcony near the bedroom where you were getting ready, yoursoon to be sister-in-law shouted down to me to block the patio door to thewhere the ceremony was to take place. She said no one was allowed through anymore. I also herd something about photographs.

I wandered over to the massive archway to the kitchen.Several of your guests were stuffing as much free food as they could into their faces. I find this is a commonsight whenever I have been to a wedding. Had this been a Jehovah’s Witness wedding I would have packed a sandwich myself.

Along with one of the hosts of the house we managed topolitely usher them away from the troughs. Gofind a goddamn seat you fucking pigs, my sister is getting married!

Finally the house was empty. I looked back up to the highabove balcony and saw your photographer taking pictures close to where the twolarge metal chandeliers hung. Was thisasshole taking pictures for his collection? I had no idea what the fuck he was doing. ThenI looked to the adjacent wall, where several days ago I had noticed hand-carveddouble wooden doors with a wrougt iron guard rail.

And there you were.

Thankfully my sunglasses were on. Thankfully no one was nearme. Thankfully I looked up when I did. You stood there, posing for thephotographer in your wedding dress, hair done, make-up on. I went to pieces. I think I felt exactly howDad would have. You looked beautiful, although you were doing one of thosesilly wedding poses. You know the one,hands on the arch of the doors looking up at whatever it is you were supposedto be looking at.

The finality and the reality of this event had finally hitme. I was as ready as any brother could be. Though I knew time was short and we had to get this show on the road, Imanaged to get your attention. Though briefly, we made our usual across the crowd silly faces at oneanother as we typically do, and I finally calmed down choking back my tears. Isuppose making awful faces moments before your wedding was better than drinkingbourbon from a flask at our grandmother’s funeral…

Ma finally made her way down from the top floor and I knewthe next time I would be seeing you was when she and I would be waiting for youat the bottom of the outside staircase and off to walking you down the aisle. Whew!

You are my most trusted advisor, more than just my sister. Youhave put up and made time for so much of the bullshit in my life during a timewhen your attention was better spent on the planning of your wedding, yourcareer, and your personal relationships.

When you and I were younger, acting like assholes to one another, Ma would alwaysgive the same adage, “one day your dad and I will be gone, and all you’ll haveis each other.” Thankfully Ma is stillhere, but now more than ever I know what she meant the hundred thousand timesshe’s said it.

No matter what happens through the years you’ll always havea protector, you’ll always have me for whatever is needed. If the call comes and you need help burying adead body, I’ll be there.

I love you poop mouth, and I’m so happy for you today.

Your brother

The Un-Social Network

2010-10-13T21:18:00.000-07:00

Recently another social networking website has popped up and it bothers me. Scratch that, it’s fucking stupid. Basically it’s a website where people share/update what book their reading; if they’ve started it, what page their currently on, and of course when they’ve finished it. I have to leave this site unnamed; again, I think it’s fucking stupid.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m on Facebook and Twitter constantly, in fact I’m even on my iPhone more than my computer going to those sites (In fact the last twenty minutes were spent playing Angry Birds). Fuck the term smartphone, because it’s really a social networking device. Don’t believe me, try not sending a text message for one whole day, I guarantee your head will fucking explode.

I also don’t participate in any of the “here’s my location” apps or websites, like FourSquare, which is basically Where’s Waldo for Sociopaths. For one I don’t want you or anyone else to know where I’m at, secondly who gives a shit where I’m eating, spending money, or what goddamn movie I’m seeing? I’ve seen a friend check-in to their shrink’s office three times in one week for six consecutive weeks. Chances are they’re not getting any better.

I do enjoy (most of) these sites, but come on, one for what book you’re reading? Really? That is some pretentious bullshit, comrade. If you happen to notice a friend posting this information, usually via one of the two aforementioned sites, it’s probably by that chum of yours that’s a little snooty, maybe a bit condescending, and sometimes an asshole. Either way, they carry themselves as though you were just a piece of dust they can easily brush away at any time. Chances are you don’t give a shit either way.

If tomorrow a site was created where you could tweet which jock itch medicine or tampon you used, no one would want to know and possibly that long lost high school buddy would no longer be a follower or on your friend list. They’d drop you like the itch on their cock they’re trying to get rid of.

Personally I’d love to start a Twitter-like site called Shitter. Basically you’d post (let’s call it Shat) about your current bowel movement: color, consistency, scent, noise, frequency, what you were reading (I know, somewhat contradictory, fuck yourself), comfort of the seat, etc. There would also be a geo-tagging feature, so all your friends and followers can know you’re dropping a deuce at the Chevron in Blyth, California on your way to Arizona. Lastly, who doesn’t want the ability to add some nice color hi-resolution pictures or HD video? No one will want to shit without their smartphone. I don’t.

Maybe I would end up on CNN one night, hopefully on Anderson Cooper’s show. Can’t say why, but it seems like he would love the topic. I’d like to be asked to explain why Shitter was socially relevant in this age of online social networking. My explanation: if someone can post, update, or tweet something as uninteresting as what page of a book they last read, then I can go online and say I do give a shit, and now everyone can know about it.

- Snake

Of course you can always follow on Twitter @SnakebiteReport

Sorry for the delay

2010-07-19T17:53:00.000-07:00

Fear and Loathing
Los Angeles, CA

July 19, 2010

In regards to: Not writing a proper blog since December 2008

To:Danger, my attorney in Europe
Somewhere in Europe

Attention: All other readers

Subject: New article on The Snakebite Report coming late summer 2010

Dear Danger (my attorney in Europe),

Message received. I am currently writing a new piece for this seriously neglected blog.

I am back in full effect with this thing and will be working double-time to complete it .

Hopefully it won’t be a colossal piece of shit.

Regards,

Snake

Don't make your loved ones Digital Douche Bags this holiday season

2008-12-16T11:24:00.000-08:00

I avoided mentioning the Digital Douche Bag in Prêt-à-Porter Douche (May, 2008). And to my audience I am sorry for failing you. However I can no longer take it. Maybe I’m in the Christmas spirit of giving, or maybe I just miss baseball season…

The other night I really wanted to take a pipe up the side of the head of a Digital Douche Bag. And I know you’ve seen him or her; usually it’s him, sometimes her… Okay, close to never a “her,” but sooner or later you’ll see a lesbian who you’d swear was a man and call her a Douche Bag thinking she was a dude. I’m just saying, but you know exactly what and who the fuck I am talking about.

Short hair, taped boobies, men’s clothing…I digress…back to business.

Back in the mid-1990s the Digital Douche Bag was training for the new millennium. It was the kid who walked around the campus of your school wearing headphones connected to their portable CD player all the goddamn time. Typically it was a Sony Discman, and they were pretty cool I suppose, but these kids never unplugged it seemed, anti-social pricks.

That same asshole now seems to go everywhere with a Bluetooth headset on his ear. Bothering me and everyone else around him with a little flashing blue light pulsing from the side of head, fooling us into thinking he is shit-house crazy when we see him talking into thin air. That guy grew up to be part of or society’s downfall, with his illuminated skull beacon announcing he is indeed a Digital Douche Bag for all to see and fear.

This past weekend I accompanied my girlfriend to her company’s holiday party. It was held at any typical resort, she looked as stunning as ever in her black dress, I in black on black suit without tie. We took the time to look good, but like any company party there are going to be a few people who just don’t try.

At least three individuals, each dressed okay, decent, and little bit better locked and loaded with Bluetooth in ear (this is the part I mentioned where I wanted to take a pipe up the side of someone’s head), sitting there, eating prime rib (possibly chicken), talking with friends and coworkers, hopefully having a good time, but for some reason or other they decided to sit there looking like a retarded person from a lame-ass sci-fi film.

Seriously Neo, is there any event, much less a time of the day when you can unplug from The Matrix?

Today the Digital Douche Bags of tomorrow are training on iPods while on family trips to the mall or movie theater. Sometimes this new generation will be traveling in packs and every one of these little assholes is wearing headphones. Making the rest of us wonder how the fuck these kids communicate with one another when apparently they’re all listening to music?

Oh yeah, the text message.

Which brings me to “close to never” for women in the role of Digital Douche Bag. Ladies, look, we boys had our Nintendo’s, Game Boy’s, and Sega Genesis’ alike in the late 80s early 90s. I can’t remember any girls ever playing video games during those awesome days.

So it’s very fitting women have adopted the Blackberry as their source of entertainment and cellular device in the post 2000 era. Just texting away like they’re writing the next great American novel.

But please, put that motherfucker away for five minutes when you’re in polite situations. You don’t need to be sending text messages every five seconds when you’re at a restaurant or bar. It’s that behavior that has given you digital douche bag paranoia, where although the phone has not vibrated or rang, you incessantly pick it up and look at it for your next message. Stop it!

So whether you’re on a date, out with a mixed group of people, or with the girls drinking Cosmo’s in your gold jumpsuit, fake n’ bake tan, and pretending you’re on a dead TV show, put that son of a bitch down; leave it in your car, in your purse, or up your ass. Because like any male wearing a Bluetooth headset in the same type of situation, you too will end up looking like a Douche Bag, digital or otherwise.

I myself am victim of Bluetooth usage. However I live in California and by law I have to be “hands free” while driving. Supposedly it makes the roads safer, reducing the driver’s distraction behind the wheel. I say it makes it easier to light a smoke, stir your coffee, eat a cheeseburger, and fuck with your radio.

I will say Bluetooth headsets have improved the likelihood that my phone conversations will not suddenly end. I simply put the phone in part of home where I actually have reception, and then carelessly wander my home talking away like a character on Star Trek.

But if you ever see me outside of my home or car talking on one, feel free to shoot me in the head. And let it be known I was killed in order to never be known as a Digital Douche Bag. Thank you for saving my dignity, and bear in mind I too am probably packing a gun.

Some new stuff

2008-10-09T15:31:00.000-07:00

So after a long time away a new blog is here. However it is a piece of fiction as opposed to my usual bullshit. I’ll be getting back to the normal stuff soon enough, otherwise Danger my attorney in Europe is likely to come back to the states and fuck me up.

Sorry Danger, I will fix your lack of Snakebite Report soon enough.

So without further ado part one of an ongoing story.

-Snake

A Bedtime Story for You

2008-10-09T15:29:00.000-07:00

There used to be a man who would tell you about your soul. Part I

It was similar to palm reading or even tarot cards. As bullshit as those methods might seem, this one took the cake for bullshit, at least in terms of method.

You’d enter through his shop which contained nothing special, just knick-knacks, bamboo plants, and cheap knives. After you gave him an envelope of cash he’d bring you to the back of the shop, pour you a hot cup of tea, and you’d simply sit there. He’d sit silent, sip his tea, and just look at you. At this point you felt pretty stupid sitting across an old table from this guy with a cup of hot tea in hand while he just looked at you. Some people were afraid to drink the tea. Thinking you’d hallucinate if you drank it or something else of the sort. But you didn’t; just very strong Earl Gray. He put too many bags for the amount of water. Yet you would continue to sit there, not knowing what was going on. Tension ran through you every time he would let out a sigh or take a deep breath.

The room smelled of Earl Gray and fresh lemon zest, it was actually quite pleasant come to think of it. The sound of traffic from the outside street would break the uncomfortable silence every now and again. Maybe a car horn or some screeching tires.

The only light in the room came from the front of the shop and through the frosted glass of the door to the alley. There were two small lamps in the room, but neither was ever turned on. One had the word “Montana” across a mountain backdrop in light blue.

Usually after half his tea was gone, he’d close his eyes. This usually made anyone across from the man a touch nervous. This however was followed by feeling a bit silly. After all you were there to see a man who told you about your soul.

Broken patches of green felt were stuck to the table, obviously a past card table. The flimsy aluminum legs looked as though they had seen better days, better games, and other times. A few crusty cigarette burns adorned the old felt where the green had turned white and worn.

On the wall were old calendars of years past and posters advertising everything from car cleaning products like Carnauba wax to power tools. The ones with power tools featured women who were probably now well past their prime. One poster mentioned the new revolutionary cordless drill! It was no wonder that this back room was seldom used, unless that is, to have a stranger tell you about you soul.

The metal folding chair you sat in would give any member of Alcoholic’s Anonymous a feeling of nostalgia. The man sat in a much nicer chair than yours. It was a red and green plaid easy-chair, with a flannel finish. The kind of chair you’d find your old uncle Mike in, dead from a heroin overdose with the needle still hanging out of his arm with rubber tubing still wrapped around his bicep as a tourniquet, with an overflowing ashtray of cigarette butts next to him… maybe that’s just me.

There really isn’t anything better than having your mother call you in a panic and ask you to go to the bad part of town to check on her degenerate brother to make sure he’s okay. Furthermore it’s even worse to find him dead from a needle full of Smack in his arm with Jeopardy showing on the television and a buzz of an old stove timer droning through the apartment. Maybe old uncle Mike needed to be sitting in this room right now, well maybe he’s should have three months ago.

To be continued

The ramblings of a madman

2008-09-24T17:01:00.000-07:00

New stuff is on the way. I promise.

-Snake

Vote Atheist 2008

2008-06-01T01:31:00.000-07:00

"Historically, as a class, atheists cannot claim that the public's prejudice against them is as widespread, harsh or blatant as that experienced by racial minorities and women, but the distorted and irrational prejudice against atheists nonetheless runs deep and has a price. By exalting religiosity and scorning non-belief, the public and the media help to validate the religious right and its agenda."

-David A. Niose

Thanks to previous drug use, criminal records in two states, and the number or women I have slept with, I have no doubt in my mind of ever holding the office of President of the United States of America… oh one more I’m an atheist.

Sometime before Easter weekend 2008, I was walking into some retail establishment or other. A kid about 10 or 11 years old walked up to me and asked for some money for a charity with the promise of a box of candy in return for my support. He was holding a clipboard with a piece of blue paper describing what I could only guess was a description of the group who was asking us strangers for money.

I took a quick glance at it and noticed the top of the sheet was adorned with crucifixes. Not one, but three. I wasn’t rude to the kid when I declined, I simply said, “no thank you, atheist.” He only needed to hear no thank you, and he was on his way to hit up someone else who might give a shit. No harm done.

It was his mother chaperoning him who took issue with me.

“What did you just say to him?” she growled to me.

“I told him I was an atheist when he asked me for money.”

“Well what the hell does that have to do with giving money to charity? You tell me!”

“Well madam,” [always throw in a madam when you want to piss off a woman] “I simply don’t believe in giving money to the cross when I don’t believe in it.”

Her tone was now harsher, though lowered, “You! It’s assholes like you who are ruining this country!”

Like me?

“Well itis assholes like you who re-elected Bush and are fucking up this country.”

At that point she was as red as a human being could get and I could sense violence (like most people of faith, in the name of Christianity) towards me was a very real thing. I hurried into the store. A man in his 50’s came up to and asked what that was all about? I assumed he was going to add to the harping, however I learned he was shocked not by my response to the kid, but to the attack from the mother. “Some sense of Christian values,” he told me. You got that right pal.

I seldom catch any shit from Jews or even friends who are Jewish when they learn I’m an atheist. A Jewish friend told me once, “After the shit we’re been through over the last two-thousand years…and especially in the last sixty years. We don’t have the time to judge atheists for free thinking.” Not bad my friend, not bad.

Even recently I was shocked when Time magazine ran an article discussing who the American public would/would not vote for based on the candidate’s religious faith and race. The highest percentage said no fucking way to an atheist running for president with about 87% feeling that way.

Pew Research Center did their poll “Clinton and Giuliani Seen as Not Highly Religious; Romney’s Religion Raises Concern,” (based on answers from 3,002 adults conducted over the telephone between August 1 to 18, 2007) to determine who Americans would be less likely to vote for in November 2008 if he/she were:

Atheist: 61%, Muslim: 45%, Mormon: 25%, Evangelical Christian: 16%, Hispanic: 15%, A woman: 12%, Jewish: 11%, Catholic: 7%, Black: 6%

In a similar poll taken by Zogby, parents were asked if their child began dating some outside their own faith, which religious group would cause the most alarm:

Muslim: 42%, Atheist/Realist/Humanist: 17%, Mormon: 14%, Protestant/other Christian group: 3%, Roman Catholic: 2%, Jewish: 1%

My ex-girlfriend’s mother in a similar regard was no help either. She was a religious person and undoubtedly knowing I was an atheist was just more icing on the cake of dislike. The very first time I met her and her husband, he was quick to point out my atheism as dinner was being prepared by the ex and mom. I could tell mom was listening to my answer in that I’m not really paying attention to this conversation but I am sort of way.

Unfortunately at the time I felt guilty. Now thinking back to it I should not have felt that way. Especially when you put into thought one of the teachings of Jesus Christ called love and this woman was pretty much ashamed of the fact her son was gay, so I was to be punished for my “sins” as it seemed.

And there I was feeling guilty because I was in love with her daughter and wanted to impress her as much as I could. No breaks were to be caught that evening, and neither was for the teachings of Christ.

My father was a college professor and atheist. I was lucky on several occasions to attend one of his many lectures on religion. One such time the topic of prayer in schools came up. Though many were thought provoked in his classes, others got quite angry.

A young woman said to him, “as long as there are tests in schools, there will be prayer in schools.” No bullshit. I picked the right day to attend.

My dad was fast with his words, “Oh yes, I’ve seen the bumper sticker too.” Oh shit, I thought, he was going to get really tuned up here in a second. My friend from high school, Leather Balls, was a student in that class and with me being there as well I knew a good time was coming.

“Okay,” he began. “I’ll throw a hand grenade into the classroom and you pray it doesn’t go off.”

The young woman was appalled by this idea. “Well I was referring to actual exams and prayer.”

Another student quickly interjected, “what if it’s a dud?”

“Fine,” my dad continued, “I’ll throw in two hand grenades and yell pop quiz!”

Some of his students were offended, others shell shocked by the comment, I was laughing with the rest. I learned a lot about free thinking, searching for fact as opposed to truth, religion, and what to expect from people as an atheist from my dad, but that’s a whole other story altogether.

When my father died I was told by several people they were praying for him. I heard that quite a bit but I was never angered or put off by it, we all mourn in our own ways, if that was your way then thank you for the gesture. Nevertheless one person told me she was praying for him so he wouldn’t do to hell because he was an atheist. Alright dad, I get it now.

So what really can an atheist aspire to? Not the President of the United States, and probably most political offices. Relationships are a tricky one; I’ve had a few where her parents didn’t approve of me for that reason alone. Generally they were more concerned for their possible grandchildren going to hell. If only they knew what their daughters and I were up to.

Since aspirations of holding a political office are in the shit house (by the way ask Sen. Obama what religion did to his campaign), than what about meeting new people? Most people of faith are very put off, not so much by that you don’t believe what they do, but that you don’t believe at all. Looks of disgust are usually followed by a tightening of the shoulders, like we’re going to steal a handbag off them.

Most will default with the hell thing. You’re gonna burn in hell, you’re going to hell, blah, blah. I actually kind of like it when that happens because there is nothing better than an atheist reminding a religious person it’s time for a refresher course in their own faith because they obviously do not know the set values of their specific sect. That probably burns more than anything.

I tried the online dating thing as well, and was contacted by more women who wanted to tell me I was going to hell, than women who wanted a relationship or at the very least get a quick lay. However I did meet an atheist and fell head over heels for her and not because she was like me, but that’s a whole different story altogether.

I basically see it one way, if a supposed god created man in his own image; He has to be an atheist. After all who would god pray to? He’s fucking god, the chairman of the board who reports to no one – ever.

If god and heaven does exist, then atheists are going to get the royal treatment, my friend. I’m talking about the best jobs, best food, blow jobs, whiskey, places to shop, places to live, etc. Just for being a freethinker who is without a doubt what god is. And what a pat on the back it would be for staying home on Sunday’s doing fuck all.

“Atheism is a conclusion, not a decision.”

-FMB, my father.

Prêt-à-Porter Douche

2008-05-21T00:41:00.000-07:00

I fucking hate douche bags.

Military captains are identified by two metal parallel bars, fire trucks are usually red, and police typically drive black and white cars. The douche bag’s representation changes every fashion season.

Fuck I hate the mall. If it wasn’t for losing a ton of weight and needing to try on clothes before I buy them I’d never go to the mall. I’d buy everything on the internet just to avoid the mall. I actually already buy all my athletic shoes online because I always buy the same brand and the length of my foot will not change with weight loss. At least I hope not, I just got a pretty sweet pair of trail running shoes.

For those of you know me personally, you for sure know I wear and own a lot of polo shirts. For the most part they are black or dark blue. I’m very comfortable in them; they look good with jeans, make my arms look more muscular than they already are and of course make me a more modest person.

However lately it seems the prêt-à-porter douche bags who continually monopolize the polo shirt have taken to perverting their polo’s by wearing two at the same time, both different colors, one over the other so the collar of the inner shirt is overlaid the top shirt’s collar.

Go to any Banana Republic or American Eagle Outfitters and you’ll see what I mean. Mannequins, store adverts, company website, or the douche bag kid working one of those places are all good examples if you want to see this ridiculous trend in play. Or just live in southern California or walk the campus of any NCAA school. Frat houses too.

You know the Douche Bag, you’ve seen him: Pink polo shirt with a flipped up collar with a logo of a little animal on the breast accompanied by plaid shorts and some flip-flops. The kind of guy you can tell just by looking at him that he has to put drugs in a woman’s drink just to have borderline corpse sex with her (On a side note, I don’t care if it’s your brother or your best friend, if they wear flip-flops with jeans at any time they are automatically a douche bag. If they go back inside and put on normal shoes then they’re ok. Living near the beach is not an exception or excuse.).

Last year it seems we were all treated to the a revisit of the 1980s, where the Douche Bag once again took the collar of his polo shirt and flipped it up like he was auditioning for a remake of Silver Spoons along with his douche bag friends. Flipped up collars on polo shirts, Reaganomics, and bands like Winger and Poison need to be left in the fucking 80s where they died not so long ago.

Even fat guys are becoming douche bags. Yes I said it, fat guys.

Long gone are the days of fat kids dressing up as their favorite Star Wars character ruining my memory of what Jedi Knights are supposed to look like on film.

The other night some portly 19 year old college student was interviewed on the local news about his involvement with a new non-surgical medical procedure to lose weight. I can’t remember what the procedure was exactly, probably because I eat healthy and go to the gym; you know, the correct way to lose weight.

At any rate as he’s slamming three chili dogs down his throat I noticed he too was wearing the double polo shirt. And you could see this kid was sweating. It was over 100 degrees most of that week and wearing an additional shirt wasn’t helping this kid. He’s gushing sweat, and crying to the news why he just doesn’t understand why he can’t lose weight. How about lose the chili dogs and run somewhere? Anywhere.

Where had this guy’s Star Wars shirt gone? His jean shorts? I’ll tell you, it was the douche bag new friends he made when he got to college. Or he was rejected from every fraternity and now thinks dressing himself this way will impress the ladies, much like the frat douche bags who must have impressed him or made him think people dress that way. Just go back to the Star Wars convention kid; at least there your people skills never fail you and you know you’re among friends.

It has to be the worst fashion trend since pegging your jeans. Shit, I did that but was sure to leave it in the 90s, and honestly it had no business in that era either.

Douche bags come in all shapes, colors, and behaviors. Be wary or you local douche bag and his double collar. I will however continue to wear my single layer, single collar polo shirts. It’s almost a trademark of mine. However if you see me on the street, or maybe even at a party, and I’m wearing the double collar, go to your car* and shoot me in the fucking head. Make sure I’m dead and shoot me in the chest for a second time.

But if you go to a party and your local douche bag is wearing the double collar, his jeans are pegged and he’s got on flip-flops, then make sure you not only kill him but make sure to go after his family. It’s the only way to end the douche bag bloodline.

*If you’re in Arizona this is a very real possibility as you most likely have a gun in your car. Anywhere else you borrow one from your dad.

The Over Hang of Drinking

2008-05-16T03:04:00.000-07:00

When I was sixteen years old I had an amazing ability. I felt like nerdy Peter Parker walking around my high school campus knowing full well I was Spider-man. However my ability was not the super strength, the aptitude to stick to walls, nor any spider sense associated with him, I was able to walk into the local Circle K convenience store and buy booze. No I.D., no argument with the clerk, I couldn’t even grow facial hair to look older than I was. It was a very special time to say the least.

So it was at a somewhat young age when my friends and I began to learn what amount of booze made you throw up, what a hangover was really all about, and what came with it from getting shit-faced at sixteen years old. Subconsciously we knew it could be bad.

My father was a bad example for hangovers, because he never seemed to get them. A quart of single malt scotch at a family dinner, me using a tiny suction cup to pluck the contact lens’ from his eyes, and back at it early in the morning for some Earl Gray. Now that’s the measure of a man.

I’ve never had the dreaded morning headache that come from a night of hard drinking, however I am pretty much useless the following morning with what can only be explained as cold and flu symptoms. Inevitably this has gotten worse with age; luckily the frequency has diminished because I no longer drink cheap beer but expensive scotch, bourbon or vodka. Cheap domestic beer will take me down like a sick fucking animal.

I presented an idea to Mr.Vex just the other night. He has long been a good friend and we have shared many benders together. I told him when I was younger I thought puking your guts out and hangovers would go away the more you aged and drank. Just one day your body would say, “Drink whatever my friend, this shit is taken care of because we are finally numb to the affects of alcohol, I got no reason to lie to you.”

Over time it seems all the body does is just raising the bar for itself (that’s a pun if you want it to be). At some point in your life you go out and have three or four glasses of the Macallan and everything is fine; you wake up and go to the adult book shop as planned. The next time, knowing what you can handle, you go for five or six and you end up vomiting $80 worth of scotch plus the $8 you spent on Mexican food at 2:41 in the morning at Los Betos. But eventually you’re drinking six or seven with no problem; you figure you’re good to go at least for the time being.

I’m always impressed by what Mr. Vex and Danger, my attorney in Europe, manage to get down their gullets without getting sick. On one delightful evening, the three of us managed to drink a bar’s worth of liquor at Mr.Vex’s home, just three champion gladiators in the arena waiting to see who will tire first.

I for some reason or other can maintain a semblance of sober when I am piss drunk. But unlike my close friends, I seem to manage under such guise until I pass out in the hallway between a bedroom and a bathroom. I did such on that night. Mr. Vex will go from zero to shit faced in about ten seconds, however the man can still put away more martini’s than James Bond on his best day. Danger seems to lose his ability to form words and speaks in a language all his own with lots of odd screams and random tongue movement. I simply lie where I fall. Endurance seems to improve with time; hopefully it’ll treat us all well.

At some point or other we were all witness to our parents not acting their usual selves after coming home late from whatever dinner party they had gone to on whatever Saturday night. There may have been something you noticed about mom on the following Sunday morning when you expected pancakes and apple juice for breakfast. She just seemed a little off, didn’t she? Maybe it had something to do with the faint smell of cigarette smoke coming off the overcoats she and dad wore to the party wafting through the house. And wasn’t dad and you supposed to be cleaning the garage this morning, why is he still in bed at 11 a.m.?

Time it seems is fairer to us in some ways more than others. Unfortunately it sometimes is fair in the unhealthiest of ways. Getting sick form drinking and hangovers will never go away, unless you’re my dad. I still wish I knew how he was able to do it.

I guess I need more practice…

The Anti-antioxidant

2008-05-14T23:42:00.000-07:00

So I’m out doing a little shopping today at my local Target and began to wonder if a biological attack of some sort is eminent. Seems everywhere you go that sells food and beverage the good folks who produce these products have been nice enough to add antioxidants to just about everything. Some food products, but mostly drinks are now very antioxidant friendly.

It seems to me there is a sudden sense of urgency to save all of us from disease, sickness, and to protect our overall general health. While walking the aisles of the store I saw everything form drinking water, energy drinks, veggie chips, and even Diet Coke plus which contains a wide variety of vitamins for “better health.” Are these manufacturers really that concerned for our health and wellbeing? Or do they simply have better military intelligence than our own government and are getting us ready for a shit storm of illness?

I felt like a more evolved person today because I rarely get sick and seldom buy these food and drinks? My sister is a registered dietitian and encourages the benefits of antioxidants in food, yet she is always sick with something or other.

Do they really work? I browsed through a few websites after my trip to Target today, and the arguments for antioxidants remind me of the arguments for global warming, a shit load for it and a shit load against it. Some of these credible experts claim antioxidants are only good for preventing sickness and other health conditions, but not necessarily effective in all people. Some questioned their effectiveness at all.

Most of these food and drink items are bullshit in their representation. It’s fucking scare-marketing in its purest form. It’s also funny when some of these items boast they have antioxidants when they already existed there. It’s like spending extra money for antibacterial soap when soap is already inherently antibacterial, so what’s the point?

These companies aren’t doing anyone a favor or a public service, they acting like the Christianity in the middle ages and scaring the shit out of the uneducated and just plain stupid people who are their most lucrative customers.

Sooner or later I’ll be taking a trip to the beach and there will be a billboard off the freeway advertising sand or a large body of water with waves. Thanks for the update asshole!

At some point during the remainder of the human evolutionary process we’re going to get fucked. Antibiotics are already helping the bugs that make us sick become more resistant and strong. I’m not stubborn when it comes to seeking medical assistance when I’m injured or sick. However I have to be damn near death before I take antibiotics. My immune system is bad ass because it gets a lot of practice, hence why I rarely get sick. Sure I throw up every now and again, but that’s usually after a bender with Mr. Vex and four quarts of bourbon.

If antioxidants become more present in everyday foods, are our bodies going to become over reliant on them? After walking through Target I dread the day I buy a pack of antioxidant hot dogs, or even worst seeing an advertisement for the new Big Mac with antioxidants. Shit, someone will need to fucking firebomb the McDonald’s headquarters the day that happens.

I guess my trip to Target today just pissed me off. I don’t the idea of some corporation who I don’t know on a personal level watching my back or telling me how to think and eat. At least when my sister gives me advice on what to eat or drink she can back it up with scientific fact. Gatorade fails to impress me with a half-ass drawing of molecules on the side of their bottle.

Similarly I don’t like to eat at In N Out Burger after discovering the little John 3:16 stamp on the bottom of their cups. Just give me what I want and mind your own goddamn business.

Of course to top everything off today, as I’m leaving Target the last this I see on the automatic exit door is a sign reading, “have a safe trip home.” Don’t worry about me Target, I’ll be just fine.

And maybe, just maybe the next time I discuss a topic like this I’ll actually call my sister to get some scientific facts and provide more answers than questions.

Just maybe.

Yes to high gas prices

2008-04-30T16:51:00.001-07:00

I’m going to safely say that whether you’re at a party, out with friends, or maybe standing in line at the grocery store the prices of gasoline will sooner or later come up in conversation. The other day I sent my Ma an instant message, I asked, “Guess what costs $56?” To which she replied, “What?” “14 gallons of gasoline,” I wrote.

I for one am glad gas prices are skyrocketing here in Los Angeles. And to be clear it has nothing to do with that carbon footprint bullshit, because you can take your hybrid science experiment of a car and kiss my ass.

Living here everyone who has a car knows traffic sucks. Well maybe it doesn’t suck as much as the freeway’s unfortunate design itself. But that’s another argument altogether.

In the summertime traffic undoubtedly gets worse because of the overabundance of tourists who come to southern California. And its one thing to get stuck behind a local on I-5 who doesn’t know where they’re going, its even worse to get stuck behind some asshole from Des Moines who can’t find Universal Studios.

So I’ve come up with a few reasons why we’re all better off:

No tourists, less traffic. Californians have probably the worst work ethic in the United States. No one is on time to work here. Now you can still be your normal 15 minutes late to work as opposed to 25 minutes late.

They don’t know how to drive here. Many of these assholes aren’t accustomed to southern California traffic; they don’t know what the far left lane is. High gas prices means no more additional people on the road and everybody can all continue to do 90 MPH while being late for work.

Some of these people don’t act their weight. By having fewer tourists none of us have to bear witness to people fifty pounds overweight, dressing what they think is California. Shorter than normal shorts, wearing t-shirts with logos from the park they’re visiting, and black socks with sandals and/or running shoes. Trust me when I say this, the fanny pack and the four digital cameras around their neck does not help them blend in.

6000 major tourist destinations in the U.S. and you chose Hollywood? Hookers, pimps, crack heads, drug dealers, punks, transvestites, heroin junkies, and homeless people begging for your money. These are the regular attractions on Hollywood Blvd where you brought the whole family for vacation so you could see a famous person’s handprints in cement in front of an old movie theater. Was this the best Google could come up with? And careful you Christians, nearby West Hollywood is full of gay people.

At the very least these are my hopes and dreams. I won’t comment on the environmental effects of cars and gasoline use. Not until environmentalists change their slogan from “Save the planet” to “Save the people.” It’s us that are on our way out, the planet isn’t going anywhere.

People will most likely still trek the whole family to southern California this summer, they’ll just complain more when they’re hit with $4 at the gas pump. Someone won’t be getting their Mickey Mouse ears this year…

And this doesn’t only apply to theme parks. People love the ocean but they love the beach even more. Thankfully there is a Great White shark patrolling off our waters, and it just had its appetizer last week. So please, take a swim.

The Hairy Squirrel

2008-04-22T22:10:00.000-07:00

How to perform a Hairy Squirrel at a party:

You need a friend to help. This friend needs to already be inside the party.
Find a window where everyone at the party can see in full view. This window should be at crotch level.
Remove your testicles and Johnson from your pants/shorts and press them against the selected window.
Once your cash and prizes are pressed to the glass, this is where your friend needs to scream at the top of his lungs, “holy shit! It’s a hairy squirrel!” while pointing at the window.
Everybody in the party should at this point look at the window and see your vein- covered meat pipe and balls smashed up against the glass resembling a hairy squirrel.
Hopefully someone, due to the amount of alcohol consumed, will vomit.
This is why cell phones with cameras and YouTube exists.

An Idea for the Homeless

2008-04-22T20:39:00.000-07:00

Who hasn't been to Starbuck's? I myself hit the place two maybe three times a week. I truly believe I am the best customer the guy or girl behind the counter could hope for; I order a Venti drip, or a large plain coffee. Coffee flavored coffee and that's it.

Living in Los Angeles you'll no doubt get stuck behind the asshole who wants a Venti light café Alpacino. And that son of a bitch wants it Carlito's way with extra heat. I may be playing the devil's advocate, but any given Sunday you could be having a dog day afternoon.

At any rate, I get my over-priced hot beverage and proceed to the small counter just adjacent to the cashier to prepare it for drinking, where at his counter, I am now in another line to put some half and half and some artificial sweetener in it.

While waiting and you've seen it, everyone becomes a coffee-bartender. Throwing sprinkles, sugar, skim milk, and whatever else is on that little counter into their cup. And some of these people have the balls to add more ingredients after they've just given a soliloquy of do's and don'ts regarding their drink. I've yet to understand the salt shaker with cinnamon, what the fuck is that for?

However, before chemistry class begins (and I do this too), everyone pours a bit of coffee into the trash can. Shit I do it now even when I have already been given "room for cream."

So about two days ago, while in said line, I wondered why homeless people didn't just wait around for the runoff. After three or four people, they'd have a full cup of hot gourmet coffee. Better yet, why not have a separate system to funnel it out to a tap of sorts outside. This way Starbuck's can avoid a bum in their store, save the teenage idiot who hauls the coffee filled trash out the trouble of a possible leak in the bag (which could lead to a lawsuit if someone slipped), and the bum gets a free cup of Joe.

This way Starbuck's is the hero. They end wasting their product, make their employees feel they're important to the company, look good to the community by helping the less fortunate, thus making us all feel better about giving up a dollar eighty-five for what is basically hot water filtered through flavored dirt.

Mission statement?

2008-04-22T19:33:00.000-07:00

So I decided to finally go to a real blog website after much encouragement from friends who would always ask, “Did you blog about it?” At first I thought that was a pretty lame thing to ask. However in an age where things are “googled” more than actually researched, I thought it was about time to get going on one. After all I moved to Los Angeles to act and to write, so this way I can act like I’m writing. So to those of you who told me to blog I thank you for the compliment in my storytelling abilities.

So it’s pretty simple. I’m going to call it like I see it. When Obi-wan Kenobi told Luke Skywalker in Return of the Jedi, “…what I told you was true. From a certain point of view,” I pretty much see it the same way. So I guess that’s my way of letting you the readers know not to sue me if I write about something you didn’t want known. Now to be fair I decided to refer to friends and others by codenames of sorts to give a vague sense of anonymity. You’ll hear names like Dr. Eyeball, Mr. Vex, Captain Comics, and Top Heavy and so on. My ma and sister will just be ma and sister, that one was easy. Hopefully you’ll know who you are or whom I’m referring to by these names. And if you don’t like the codename you’ve been given then tough shit, I’m the writer.

Recently Dr. Eyeball, a dear friend, was quite upset about some semi nude photos I had of him on Myspace. I did a bit of photoshoping to cover his nakedness, and he was still upset the pictures were on there. So the way I see it, if you planned on aspiring to anything great in life, then you probably should have thought about that before you pressed your balls to a window showing everyone at a party in high school. The person in that story will be codenamed in a later blog. Just to be clear Dr. Eyeball never showed his balls in that manner.

Let me make one thing clear, none of my friends will ever be a U.S. senator or president. And there are several who might just be qualified one day. We all have too much dirt on one another, and it would be very obvious if we all suddenly got a cabinet position in the White House. Then again Gov. Bush* hired all his friends . . . hmmm.

At any rate I hope to have a new posted blog every week. I really hope to get this thing going with your support. Think of it this way, when you invite me to your child’s celebration of mediocrity know as “graduating from kindergarten,” you know I’ll be there to give the kid a Spider-man toy. So please check back and pass it along to your friends if you think they might like it.

*George W. Bush will always be addressed as Governor because that is the only legal office he was ever elected to.