Saturday, September 6, 2008


As we get older, it's important to avoid depression. Forget all those gross meds and lame self-help books - all you need to do is occasionally reflect and write a list of things that you're grateful for or make you happy. Here is mine, to be continued of course:

  1. children
  2. children porn (kidding)
  3. freedom
  4. free things
  5. things that aren't free, but I make them free by stealing them
  6. bowel movements without the help of laxatives or high fiber diets
  7. cute, quaint things
  8. old people who work in places that sell cute, quaint things
  9. stealing cute, quaint things pretty much in front of the old people who work in places that sell cute, quaint things
  10. knowing that other people have more debt than I
  11. tequilla on the rocks with three limes
  12. new peach Fresca
  13. eating sandwiches in graveyards
  14. funny email spam
  15. my mom

Sunday, August 24, 2008


These Nabisco Entertainment Crackers, which I bought in bulk at Costco for $9.98 last May, have done little or no entertaining thus far. I bought the "collection" as they are called within the cracker "industry", anticipating several (3-5) civilized cocktail parties, or one massive uncivilized cocktail party. In the uncivilized version, which I'd much rather have, the crackers would go way beyond entertainment in the traditional sense, and therefore the entire box would likely be consumed in one wild night. For example, the smelt biscuit cracker, which is quite thin, could be used to cut lines of cocaine.

But much to my dismay, no entertaining, civilized or otherwise, has taken place. Instead these Entertainment Crackers have been entertaining themselves on the third level of my cupboard, along with the fondue maker. The fondue maker was bought three years ago, when fondue parties were all the rage. Now those parties are out of fashion, and there's no way I'd break it out until they come back.

I fear this is what's going to happen to my Entertainment Crackers, although Oprah tells me (or rather her magazine tells me) that crackers are a timeless party treat. Well that's great Oprah, but I fear my crackers will go stale very soon, and moldy soon after that. Can you alter physics? Maybe you can, with all your money, but I cannot. So this is my solution: I'm posting an invitation on Craig's List for a giant, nuclear party to clear out all these Entertainment Crackers, and perhaps the fondue maker. This is going to be epic - come if you are able, and do say hello. I'll be the one in on the couch, eating cracker crumbs off a prostitute's fake tits.

Friday, August 15, 2008


Listen, ladies. I'm not the kind of guy you're going to like right away. It might take you months, years, perhaps a lifetime to fall for me. But when you do, it'll be damn intense. So just ride out this initial "beginning" time and let's look forward to the good things to come.

As mentioned, I'm an acquired taste. Take for example my habit of burping my name whenever I say it. If you don't know me this might seem strange; however, after a month or two or three, you will find this hilarious, maybe even sexy. Another behavior trait that might take some getting used to: spontaneous yoga poses. Health in body and mind are extremely important to me, and if I feel the need to do a downward dog or upward cobra during dinner, that's what will happen. In the beginning this will be embarrassing; in a month it will be relaxing.

When you think about it, things you like right away rarely last. Remember Beanie Babies? Everyone fell for them right in the beginning. A month later, they were stuffed in boxes, in countless attics and basements. Or the George Foreman Lean Mean Fat Reducing Grilling Machine. Once a hot ticket item is now a peripheral offering in just about every garage sale across America.

Ladies, I am not a George Foreman Lean Mean Fat Reducing Grilling Machine. I am more like a pair of shoes that hurt like hell in the beginning but feel like a million bucks in a month or two. Or three or four.

Monday, August 11, 2008


I never thought I'd say this, but I don't think the giant dreamcatcher tattoo I got on my back ten years ago was such a great idea. While hindsight is 50/50, it's pretty clear that the dreamcatcher design, so popular in the mid to late 90s, was just a flash-in-the-pan fad - one that i fell for like a total idiot. I hate my dreamcatcher tattoo, I hate Tom for making me get it, and I kind of hate myself too.

It was a Saturday in August, Venice Beach. Tom, my roommate at the time, was going to his guy to sharpen the colors on his roller-blading Tazmanian Devil (located on his left deltoid.) I was bored and nursing a hangover, so I took a walk with him. On the way, he stopped into this little Native American chachki store to buy some peyote, and that's when I saw it - a giant dreamcatcher. I asked the guy behind the counter what it's for, and he didn't have a clue, but another shopper did - you hang it by your bed, and it "catches" bad dreams before they seep into your consciousness. This concept blew me away and I had to have one, but Tom stopped me with this piece of logic: for the amount of money I was about to spend, i could get a dreamcatcher tattoo that would be with me for the rest of my life. It made total sense.

The tattoo took four hours total and cost two-hundred bucks. For awhile there it was pretty awesome, I must say: the dreamcatcher was hot for another three years, and it definitely helped get me laid on at least six occasions. Perhaps it's worth it right there, but now whenever girls see it I feel like a big fat loser. Here i am, some white guy with no connection to Indians whatsoever (although I do love Indian food), with this massive symbol of their culture on my back. My girlfriend says I'm overreacting, but what does she know. She has a tattoo of the Chinese word for "strength", for God's sake.

Saturday, August 9, 2008


Count Montigue and Countess McDougal

Vampire larpers Count Philippe Montegue and Countess Kristine McDougal were married late Wednesday night at the Randolph memorial graveyard just outside Utica, New York, in a pagan ceremony involving animal sacrifice, fog machines and blood drinking. The bride is daughter of Deborah and Harold McDougal, both orthodontists in Middletown, CT; the groom is son of Ted Montigue, president of Nassau Capital Advisers, a real estate development firm in Princeton.

According to the Circle of Crone, one of the five major Covenants in the World of Darkness, married vampires can never get divorced - thus, the couple will remain together for the rest of eternity. While the couple considers marriage a "moral ritual" that was denounced by Invictus, Ordo Dracul and the Carthians amongst others, they deem it necessary for tax and insurance purposes.

The groom, 29, works at a gaming "gold farm" in Utica, which means he collects virtual money for others in the online game "World of Warcraft". The bride, 26, will continue using her name professionally. She works for Zendik, a radical/revolution oriented magazine handed out after concerts for a modest donation. She writes the monthly column Shio's Thoughts of Music, Creavolution and Magic.

Saturday, August 2, 2008


As a famous writer, I am constantly challenged to make something unusual and different. This is difficult, almost impossible - just about everything's been said or done before, usually by someone of superior talent. Yet this piece of writing is completely unique, because I will use different body parts to type on the keyboard. As a reader that's been trained to understand only what fingertips say, you will be challenged to make sense of the ideas my other body parts express. In an unprecedented move, I'm turning the monitor on the reader, making him/her work for the message. In this respect, I am like James Joyce and William Faulkner, fellow modernists whose tradition I am moving forward. So without further adieu, my nose:

gh jk ko er km

Did you catch that? No? The tip only gets two letters at a time, making it a dense language indeed. Maybe my ear will be easier:

joijihfod ijfdopppiii

Funny how the words kind of correlate with the body part. For instance, the above has an audible quality to it. See if you can guess which body part is saying this:


No it's not THAT body part, pervert! It was my right eye. Didn't you get the hint, "see" ? Jesus Christ. Anyway, one more:

`1234567890-= qwertyuiop[ asdfghjkl;' zxcvbnm,./

That of course was my tongue, sliding over each row of keys.
If you were frustrated by that experience, fear not: I just finished a dictionary with extensive translation of my body language (self published e-book, $25.99)

Tuesday, July 29, 2008


Due to new state regulations, all bloggers must post their daily medication regimen. The following is mine, as of 7/28/08:

Ambian - for insomnia. 2 and i'm out all night

Modafinil - for waking up. I have it by my bed, so when the alarm goes off they go in.

Biaxin - to increase my appetitive, so i'm hungry for breakfast.

Acetaminophen - to digest my breakfast.

Dexfenfluramine - to decrease my increased appetite so I don't eat too much during the day

Adderol - so I can concentrate at work

Topamax - for migraines, due to concentrating too much

Requip - for Restless Leg Syndrome, which I get frequently during meetings

Valuum - to decrease social anxiety during happy hour after work

Furoxone - to stabilize the toxicity from mixing alcohol with all these drugs

Medical Marijuana - for increased enjoyment of "The Golden Girls"

Ritalin - for increased concentration while reading in bed

CalmThoughts- an herbal remedy for inner peace and calmness

Thursday, July 24, 2008


Still a bachelor on my 43rd birthday, i had an epiphany: when it comes to dating women, I am looking past superficiality and seeking a deeper connection. Emphasizing things like looks, status, job, and style is a trap, and has not served me well. As I embark on my new love journey, these are the three qualities I will look for:

1. Spiritual connection. This is something I heretofore neglected but is now paramount: we must have an ineffable connection that transcends earth, the universe, and whatever comes after the universe. Our spirits must fuse, and for this to happen we must have great sex. Unfortunately, I am unable to have great sex with anyone over 110 lbs, so this woman must max out at this weight. Also, I'm mostly sexually attracted to brunettes of the Brazilian variety, so it would be best if she were one of those. A 110 lbs (or under) Brazilian brunette, so we can have great sex and therefore be spiritually connected, which I hold most important above all else.

2. Selflessness. An altruistic, selfless quality is immensely important as I embark on my new search for a soulmate. Perhaps she works at a homeless shelter once a month, or, better yet, for a non-profit. If she does, I would like it if she were at least above manager level, perhaps even director. It would be great if she were in charge of fund-raising, as she would get lots of perks and a large expense account that would benefit us as a couple. For instance, we could enjoy some free meals and Laker games, all thanks to her high ranking position and compassionate, magnanimous nature.

3. Compassion. My future soulmate must possess a compassionate soul for all living things and an empathetic approach to life. This means she will not only have her perspective, but will understand and feel the others too. She won't step on a spider because she feels compassion for that spider's life - it's not his fault he's a bothersome insect. She will not judge me when I come home at 4 am, stinking of absinthe and perfume - it's not my fault I'm an occasional promiscuous Lothario. The gift of understanding, of seeing from another's eyes, is so rare and beautiful, but I am determined to find it.

One last thing - she should come from a wealthy family, and in the possession of (or, at least in the very near future) a considerable inheritance. This might sound like the pre-epiphany me, a relapse. But rest assured, this prerequisite has an honorable, philanthropic intention: I plan on buying the Yankees.

Saturday, July 12, 2008


I'm having so much fun at this crazy party that I will tell everyone about it, right now, via text message. The drinking, the laughing, the eating - this is something people need to know about, immediately.

I'm not the type of guy to let himself get caught up in the feverish, carnival-like atmosphere of a party so much that he forgets his friends and family who could not attend. At all times I remain detached, thinking to myself, "what would so-and-so think of this party? Would they be having fun?" If the answer is yes, the cell phone is whipped out immediately and a text, along the lines of "@ fun party. :) " would be sent to him.

Also, I might take a bunch of photos and try to find an internet connection, where I will send pictures to people - crazy party pictures sent FROM the crazy party! I am known for doing such crazy things at parties. I do so much texting at parties that people come up to me and ask if I'm having fun. Of course I am, stupid! I'm texting, aren't I ?? If I weren't I would actually engage with the party - ironically, this is a sign of boredom.

The best is when I send such a text to a friend and get a sad reply back, something like - "DAMN! Can I come??" In which case I simply reply, "no".

Friday, July 4, 2008


Steven Bard
Steven Bard was married to himself on Saturday evening in his room in Staatburg, CA. He was the sixth to take advantage of the new California law allowing individuals to marry themselves. The ceremony, which took place over the internet, was conducted by Rev. Malcom Pritchett.

The groom, who had been single for 33 years, determined that no one better shared his passion for horror movies, mountain biking and x rated Japanese graphic novels than he. Also, marrying himself was a good way to get his mother off his back.

In a written statement on the electronic self-marriage form, the groom said: “Every girl I met was missing something yet I had no idea what that something was, making it impossible to find the perfect girl. This way, I can do no wrong - I’m not settling and not lonely. It’s a win – win.”

The groom is director of sales at Reflections, Inc, a high-end mirror and looking glass company in San Pedro, CA.

Sunday, June 22, 2008


All I need is one lousy goddamn nickel to complete the purchase of this soy latte. If I don't find one in the next five to ten seconds I will be forced to break a dollar, leaving me with a pocketful of heavy change. Please God. Please present me with a nickel, and in turn I'll remember to bring more change with me each morning.

I feel the pressure of the person behind me, his bated breath on the back of my neck as I dig deeply into my left jean pocket (it's the third time I've done so without result.) This is part of a strategy that's worked well in the past: stall until the clerk gives me a break. But I've had this one before, and he's a tough nut to crack. Last time it took close to five minutes, and he looks particularly obstinate today.

Shit! All I need is one nickel! Ok fine I'll break the damn dollar, if you're nickel is so important to your profit margi- wait a minute, what's this? The clerk stepped away for a second, and there's a nickel just sitting in this tip jar.

Done and done. Everyone's happy, especially the guy behind me.

Friday, June 20, 2008


My pot habit is being compromised by my increasing inability to remember to smoke it. This is a troubling development, one which I will stem immediately.

It began last month, or thereabouts. Actually, it was six months ago. No wait, three and half weeks because it was my sister’s birthday – although now I’m not totally sure. Anyway it was between one and six months ago, hanging out in my apartment playing guitar (I know three songs, and play them over and over instead of learning new ones.) When the session ended I was shocked to realize that I hadn’t taken a bong hit before playing, or even during. In my forty years on this earth, I’ve never neglected to smoke when playing “Sweet Baby James”, “Light My Fire” or “Ripple”.

The bad habit of forgetting to smoke pot seems to be infecting my friends as well. A few weekends ago, Andy came over to watch the new Firefox director’s cut (we are doing a Roy Schneider moviethon in honor of his recent death). When I asked him if he brought any pot, he looked at me in shock – he completely forgot, and it was the 3rd time he’d done so that week. Let me tell you, Firefox isn’t that good when you’re not high.

Measures have been taken. Thank god for yellow Post-It notes, which I’ve stuck in places obvious and not-so obvious around my apartment. On each I’ve drawn a pot leaf, and you can be sure I didn’t forget to smoke before this artistic endeavor. I’m proud to say I’ve not forgotten to smoke grass once this week, and only twice last week. I think.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008


I can’t understand my British friend Dave, and it’s beginning to affect our friendship in an adverse way. His accent is way too thick, which is particularly annoying since he’s been in America for five years. He should work on it, just as a person with a lisp works on his speech impediment.

It is grating and, at times, inconvenient. Mostly it’s just a lot of me saying, “huh”? in the course of conversation. I probably average 20 – 30 “huhs?” per communication, depending on length. After about the fifth one, he looks at me like I’m an idiot. This is ironic, since Dave’s the idiot for having such a thick accent.

One time I was getting directions to the museum. What sounded like "walk to 82nd street" was really 22nd street, so I walked from 14th to 82nd, all for nothing, all because of him. I was furious. Another time, when we were drunk, he said in his thick, English accent, “I love you man”. I thought he said “I love your mother”, so I punched him in the nose. He was furious.

I see trouble down the road if Dave doesn’t fix this problem. I confronted him about it a few times, but he always has the same response: “It’s YOU who has the accent, mate.” Yeah, right Dave.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008


Last month my wife gave birth to world's first certified organic “green” baby. Not in the sense that he's an innocent, natural infant unblemished by sin or moral corruption, but literally his blood is certified organic by the FDA. We have documentation.

How did we do it, and how can you do it? Pretty easy. First, at the time of consumption, my wife and I had been eating only organic food for a little over 8 years. According to the FDA website, you need to be eating organic for a minimum of five years, so we were all set. Also, we consummated on a bed with 100% organic sheets - another requirement (that particular session ended on the floor, which luckily is made from non compressed, untreated organic wood from Guatemala, so it's totally additive free. Yay!) My wife has always used organic tampons and we both wipe with organic toilet paper (we bring rolls to work), and the pot I occasionally smoke is totally organic.

The logic, according to the FDA, goes like this: if everything that’s touched your body (inside and out) for the past five years is certified organic, then your sperm or eggs are organic, and therefore so is your offspring.

The certification process was simple. The easy to use Are You Organic? Self Test Kit from Whole Foods tells you instantly – like a pregnancy test, the color on the paper determines your level of organicness. If you’re in the red, don’t go trying for an organic baby; wait until it’s green.

The “green baby” process, as its called, was ineffably fulfilling, and I urge aspiring parents to pursue it. And yes. I'm seriously considering getting him a tattoo of the organic logo.

Saturday, June 7, 2008


This morning started innocently enough, until I encountered a dilemma that is still with me at this moment: I can't decide whether to button the second button on my oxford shirt , or leave it open. There are good arguments on both sides. Buttoning one's second button gives him a look of control, wealth and power. This is a good look, especially for attracting certain members of the opposite sex. They will think, "hey, this guy really has it together - he would be a solid provider for my children." The fact that I am unemployed and have been for two years is of no consequence, because I will look like money, and can just lie about the job thing (as usual).

Leaving the second button open presents a new world altogether. This is the weekend guy, or the work is over and I'm ready for happy hour guy, or the I'm making so much money I don't need to wear a tie nor do I have to button my top button guy, or the I'm not Latin but white guys also need to let loose from time to time guy, or the I'm going to order a 30 dollar bottle of Pinot Noir because I don't give a fuck guy. I will be one or, perhaps, a culmination of all of these guys, with my second button unbuttoned.

The critical moment is upon me, and, like Hamlet, I cannot make a decision. Both options are so fecund and rich with potential. They also have their pitfalls, which I will not go into now as I choose to focus on the positive.

There. It's done. I walk outside into the day, the bright sunshine splashes my navy blue polo. Yes, I chose not to make a decision, and am a stronger man for it.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008


Within my car, you will find a comprehensive history of my accumulated road snacks. From Animal Crackers to Swedish Fish, crunchy KFC skin to spongy Magnolia cupcake bits, there is evidence of virtually everything I've ever eaten on the road, all of which I can trace to a precise date. That white blotch with black chunklets embedded in the floor mat? Choco-chip ice cream, August 12, 2001. It was 95 degrees out so I got an extra large. It was too much, so put it on the passenger side seat. Of course it melted in about two seconds, and when the car came to a stop it spilled to the floor mat. Oops!

Don't limit yourself when inspecting my road snack museum on wheels, for the deeper you dig the more treasures you will find. There is an area of every vehicle that, for lack of a better term, I call the seat-taint. It's the area between when the seat is either all the way forward or all the way back, and you cannot clean it. A brief glimpse at my left seat-taint reveals the only questionable snack in my collection. It is this black goop that must have been soft at one point but now is hard as a rock and permanently adhered, so it's basically a miniature sculpture that kind of resembles a tree with arms. I'm sure you have some such fun surprise on your seat-taints.

It is important to remember the past, and checking out your road snack history is a good way to do it. Great car memories are triggered by little things like Cheese-Its wedged deep into the passenger seat, or a sticky wheel thanks to those damn Cracker Jacks.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008


Is it too much to ask to expect a simple "bless you" after a sneeze? Allergy season always exposes rudeness, and it drives me bananas.

For instance, this morning I sneezed at work - and it wasn't a small, womanly sneeze either. It was a gigantic one from the belly, and it seemed to shake the entire room. A full five seconds went by before Christine (whom I suspect has the hots for me) said "bless you." Glaring at my other cubemates, I thanked her. Then came the second sneeze. And the third. And fourth, which included a large projectile snot that adhered itself to my computer screen. Not ONE SINGLE bless you!

Did everyone think that Christine's initial "bless you" counted for all five of the sneezes? I mean, where do these people come from? It's common knowledge that a "bless you" can actually stop someone from sneezing. It serves a purpose, and that's why you say it. If someone's having a sneezing fit, don't wait until the end to say it - make yourself useful and bless them after every one.

To protest the lack of bless you's, I'm not going to cover my mouth when sneezing. If you can't extend me this basic courtesy, you will inherit my germs. Also, I'm not going to flush the toilet.


I'll show those meter maids, who just gave me parking ticket for the amount of $115.00. Sweet revenge will be mine when I rip that ticket off my car windshield and run, not walk, to my computer. I will go online to the website detailed on the back on the ticket, and, right away, I will pay the full amount.

I hope to God that my payment goes through before the ticket is even entered into the system, because it will be like a nullification - my way of saying, yeah you gave me a ticket, fuck you here's my money! If I could give the meter maids cash right when they gave me the ticket, I sure would. I tried, and the guy looked at me like I was nuts. He's never seen anything like that before.

I also hope they try and hit me with late fees for not paying the ticket. If anything, I should be charged an "early fee" for paying it so quickly. If they did, I'd pay that equally as fast. They wouldn't know what to do with me, beating them to the punch not once but twice.

There, it's done - got my confirmation number and everything. They will think twice about giving me a big fat ticket in the future, because they know that every dollar they charge me will be exacted upon them right away.