I Won’t Tell You I’m Right But… Wednesday, Nov 18 2009

The person in this unfortunate scenario confided that she was heart achingly lonely and desperately in need of some male companionship, however,  she had her eye on someone new and she was going to go for it.  Short of calling her a fucking idiot I told her it was bad news to get involved with another idiot, in this case the married cop who arrested her husband (idiot!) for drug possession.

He’d been sniffing around her place of work and keeping her up at all hours of the night as they flirted and conversed and made out in the squad car.  There was nothing veiled here – he told her he wanted to have sex with her and she eventually submitted to his will.  He must have told a few of his work buddies because she said she’d seen them drive around the parking lot conspicuously as she and the cop sat in his car and flirted and conversed and made out.

These cops.  They stick together.

That I’m purely disgusted by cops in general is not the point here.  I warned that she was aiming for the bottom of the barrel and she retorted that Rocco the valet boy was as low as you could go.

“Look, if you’re really interested in him, you can’t sleep with him right away.  He’s a fucking cop. He runs on adrenalin. He wants a chase.  If you don’t at least play hard to get he’s going to lose interest.  But,” I added, “I don’t want him to be interested in you. I want him to get lost.”

“He’s coming by my work again tonight,” she said, ignoring me.

I made her promise to text me when he got there.  “Maybe I can talk some sense into you,” I said before hanging up.

Hours later I receive a text.  I immediately call her.

“That guy is an idiot!” I reiterated.  “Did he tell you he was going to leave his wife?”

I could hear the hesitation in her voice.  “Well, yes,” she finally said.

“Where is he?” I demanded.

“Right here.”

“Great!” I said.  “He can hear everything!”

“I told him I have herpes,” she giggled.  “Right, right?” she said louder.  Now they were both giggling.

I knew right then and there she was going for it.  The next day she sent me a text saying they did it.

He also never spoke to her again.

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New York Photo Shoot Wednesday, Nov 18 2009

I have an important and potentially career enhancing photo shoot in New York on December 5th.  I have to be in near excellent physical shape, at least showcase some of my muscularity but I’ve lost fifteen pounds in maybe less than six weeks and the author of the comic I’m shooting for is going to be very disappointed when I show up softer and fleshier.

It’s too late at this point to bulk up.  Rather, I should find a way to cut and look harder but I can’t seem to get rid of the extra ten to fifteen pounds to make myself look vascular.  Then again, I’m not trying hard enough, either.  I don’t feel particularly motivated and I suspect it’s because I’m suffering from gym burn out.

Imagine being hot and svelte at 118, then hot and muscular at 132, then powerful and bulky at 147, then you’re back down to 132 but there’s additional fat you’ve accumulated from gaining weight.  Now I’ve got to walk a tightrope between svelteness and muscular density?  What’s even sadder is most of the weight I dropped is from my hips and my derrière!

Frankly, I’d like to be left alone to write and work on my photography and maybe audition for some acting gigs. In fact, I wish I’d never embarked on this whole ridiculous bodybuilding kick.  Controlling and egotistical jerks like Meatwad (the manager of my former gym) and P the Destroyer (my former trainer) have basically turned me against a lifestyle of pumping iron.

[P, that fucking asshole. We should have stopped at 132.  He didn't give a shit about sculpting the body, it was his burning imperative to turn me into a dude.]

132

I’m ready for some pharmaceutical help or liposuction.

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Stiletto’s Sexy Shoe Secret Saturday, Nov 14 2009

It’s too delicious not to share.

Pages and pages of sexy French shoes by my favorite designer for more than half off the price.

And boots to boot -

It’s more than one woman can take!

[By the way I need those boots.  I really do].

I mean, what gives?  Are they fake?  Hot?  Is the economy that bad?  How can Christian Louboutins be so heavily discounted?  Alas, who cares.  I want it all!

[If their business spikes I deserve a complimentary pair!]

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Photography Lesson – Last Leg of the Trip Saturday, Nov 14 2009

[You absolutely must read Part I and Part II.]

I was promised a good time in Mexico.

“Do you have your passport?” the Brit inquired.

Fuck.  Me.

“Who the hell carries their passport on them?” I snapped.

“Well, I’m not certain, but I think you might need one.”

I began to roll down the window.  If the Brit objected I would tell him to go get fucked by William Wallace.

“Well, maybe your license will do,” he said.

“Hold on,” I said grumpily.  I picked up the phone and dialed my father.  “He was just there,” I informed him.

“Didn’t you say your father is married to a Brit?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “Hello, dad?  Yes, yes, okay, that’s nice, uh huh, well, are you sure?  Bummer.  Really?  For sure?  Okay.  Oh, my friend?  He’s a Brit.  Okay, hold on-”

“What did he say?” the Brit asked anxiously.

“You need a passport.  Anyway, he wants to know what part of England you’re from.”

The Brit for whatever reason looked agitated.  “London.”

“London, dad.  Oh, really?”  I turned to the Brit.  “My father says no one comes from London except ragheads and Muslims.”

The Brit frowned.  “I’m not religious. But I do come from London.”

“Uh huh, dad.  Well, he is authentically from London.  A what?  Oh, I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“What now?” asked the Brit.

“Well, my father wants to know if you’ve heard of headbangers.  Whatever that means.”

The Brit rolled his eyes.  “Yes, yes, of course.”

“Oh really, dad?  Uh huh.  Well, that is too bad.  Oh, really?  I didn’t know that.  Well, I guess I’ll have to go by myself.  I really wanted to check out the pharmacy. I hear they have steroids.  Oh, I just wanted to look.”

“Did you just tell you father you wanted to look at steroids?” interrupted the Brit.  All of a sudden he sneezed.

“Bless you,” I said, covering the phone.

“Oh, please, don’t say that. I don’t want you to bring me to the attention of God.”

I ignored him.  “What, dad?  Oh, yes, the language tapes.  I’ll be looking for it in the mail.  Yes, yes, four languages.  Spanish, Italian, German, and French.  That’s right.  Send them all.  Thank you.  Goodbye!”

“Did you mention steroids?” the Brit repeated.

“Yes,” I replied.  “But don’t worry, I didn’t mention anti-viral medication or barbiturates.  Also, my father says we are missing out on $3 Italian silk ties.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and-”  I hesitated “-he said people also travel to Nogales for cheap dental work.”

“So I’ve heard,” he replied in a rather good natured way.  “But I have an aversion to dentistry.”

“Really?”  I said. “I had no idea.”

He moved on.  “About your father.  The volume was rather loud.  Did I detect a Southern accent?”

“Oh, yes, his accent is as obvious as yours.  Say—are you really from London?”

We found a place to turn around but not until the Brit spotted this random and unmarked grave sight.

Snapping several photos (this is my shot, btw), he looked across the street and remarked, “Those mountains are fabulous.  But the tracks are in the way and we need to get a closer view.  Follow me.”

“How can we get closer?” he asked aloud.  “Wait, wait—look!”

“Surely you don’t want to crawl through those tunnels, now do you?” I asked.

“No,” he said.  “That is what you are getting paid for.  I want you to crawl through the tunnel.”

Oh my god, I thought!  They were never going to find my body!

“Come now,” he implored.  “Meet me half way.”

“I’m coming to get you,” he joked.

I took one last photograph and hurried back toward the main road.  I decided then and there I wasn’t cut out to be his assistant.

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Photography Lesson Continued Saturday, Nov 14 2009

Somewhere along I-19 we passed a sign for Sahuarita. In metric.

Apparently, someone during the seventies had the nifty idea to convert portions of the southern Arizona highway from miles to kilometers.  This greatly confuses most Americans such as myself who are adamant that unless the Europeans convert then why the heck should we?

“Do you understand the metric system?” my soon-to-be erstwhile mentor inquired.

No, I replied unapologetically.  Nor did I care for a math lesson.  I simply wanted him to put a lid on his dirty filthy stinkin’ garbage mouth.  At least I didn’t wish for him to never exhale through his nose again.

Not taking the hint he went on to explain all the fascinating aspects of the metric system ad nauseam. Satisfied that he’d exhausted the both of us, he asked if I wanted to go to Mexico.

My ears perked up.  “Really?”

He promised that after we snapped sufficient shots of missiles we could head straight to the border town of Nogales.  “I’d like to pick up more anti-viral medicine,” he said.  “It’s just too bad they’re so strict about barbiturates.  Best sleep medicine, really.”

Visions of steroids danced in my head.  I only wanted to be tempted.  That’s all.

We finally made it to the museum where we were immediately ushered into a conference room and forced to watch a ten minute presentation narrated by some retired military fellow who was accidentally comical.

Between the math lesson and the history lesson I had no qualms about diverting my attention to a much more interesting subject matter.  I texted hello to the Italian Angeleno.

I just saw Bruce Willis! he wrote back.

“What are you doing?” whispered the Brit.

“Nothing,” I whispered back and slid the phone into my pocket.

The film wrapped and we were ready to blow this joint.

I think it was the look on my face that betrayed my insufferable boredom.  Thank God we didn’t opt for the five hour tour.  I am certain I would have prayed for the Russians to drop a nuke right then and there.  The Brit apologized and promised an exciting shoot in Mexico.  “I’m sorry this was such a boring first date.”

Whoa!  Did he say date?

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Photography Lesson Pt I Saturday, Nov 14 2009

This Veterans Day of 2009 I went on a photographic excursion of modest proportions with an eccentric British American author and photojournalist who befriended me on on the internet.  Since I’m always interested in learning how to better myself, obviously with the camera in this instance, I accepted his generous offer to work as his paid assistant for several hours and accompany him to the Titan Missile Museum.

[I was also quite aware that he'd be toting a super fancy Canon along with an infrared camera.  I was eager to get my hands on his equipment.]

Located just fifteen miles south of Tucson in a town called Sahuarita (about a two and a half hour drive from Phoenix), we didn’t set out until noon because for possibly the first time in my life I was running late.

[I am one of those annoyingly punctual people and I expect you to be the same, too.  If you use traffic as an excuse I will dismissively tell you to leave earlier.]

He insisted that it was quite all right because he had one of those super fancy radar detectors (still a source of awe to me since you’re not allowed to have one in the Commonwealth of Gestapo Virginia) and assured that we’d get there in “record time.”

[Of course, he would have been good on his word if it wasn't for that blasted beep every fifteen minutes which caused him to brake and go, brake and go, brake and go.]

We made it in about two hours.  But – ah.  Never again.

It was clearly a day for firsts.  I’ve yet to recall being an occupant in a vehicle that smelled solidly of urine (and I say solidly because there is no mistaking the smell of piss, trust me, I’ve walked past plenty of alleys) and I had to keep in check my compulsion to frantically execute a commando style sweep under the seats for the dirty diaper that someone had unfortunately forgotten to discard.

[My mind eventually wandered toward the contents of the trunk.]

My own radar which is strongly tied to my olfactory (since my visual faculties are compromised by severe myopia) pointed to the culprit and that was the person sitting behind the wheel.  Frankly, I was not surprised because if there was a smell that could possibly be worse than the tell tale urine which leaked from some unproven yet suspected source, it was the man’s breath.

Hot garbage and rotting chicken skin.  Decay.  There was no mistaking the source of this stink.  It came straight from the Brit’s mouth and his crazy crooked yellow teeth.  Filled up the car like a toxic sulfurous cloud.  Even when he didn’t move his lips I was assaulted by several fetid blasts as it rolled out of his nostrils and perhaps other orifices I dare not ponder.  Like Ebola.

When I motioned to roll down the window he threw his right hand up in protest.  “No, no,” he waved.  “Too noisy.”

I practically begged for fresh air.  “Five minutes,” he said.

Those were the sweetest five minutes of my life.

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So Fucking Faustian Friday, Nov 13 2009

The Old Man demands I temporarily uproot and migrate to Northern Virginia for six months and right back into my old crib but there are important considerations he seems to have glossed over in his unrighteous quest for pseudo cohabitation.

Like finances.

Like I loathe Northern fucking Virginia.

Like the winter weather.  In Northern fucking Virginia.  Which I loathe.

[Did I mention I loathe Northern fucking Virginia?]

Like, I’m very close to Los Angeles.

[Read between the lines. Ahem.  If you can't you have not been closely following this blog.]

Like, work.

Like, I make extra income from the dude who sublets my apartment.

Like, I am happy.  Really fucking happy.

So the Old Man—a man who is not 100% available to me in more ways than one and when he is it appears to be at his convenience because it is at his convenience—this man, whom I’ve been unflinchingly faithful loyal to for six straight years, expects me to just drop everything, give my tenant and my extra income the boot, pay both rents in addition to my bills, all the while freezing my ass off while suffering through the inhumanity.

I feel as if I’m in a predicament of Faustian proportions.

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Romance, Worship Saturday, Nov 7 2009

Where a man should spend some of his time.

Self explanatory.

I love this photo.  More here.

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Personal Jesus Saturday, Nov 7 2009

We interrupt the onslaught of self incriminating photos to bring you Johnny Cash’s reverent acoustic interpretation of Depeche Mode’s synth pop hit, Personal Jesus.

[Purge, Stiletto, purge.]

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The W – Scottsdale Friday, Nov 6 2009

Update:  Look who is in 944 magazine…

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A Very Hollywood Halloween Friday, Nov 6 2009

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What’s More Complicated than One Italian Thursday, Nov 5 2009

In your life?

Hollywood, California

Roll cursor over photo for answer.

Another story for another time.

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Beware a Certain Hotel in Arlington, VA – Part I Friday, Oct 30 2009

Let me preface this post by pointing out that I have stayed in many a hotel and this is by far the most horrible experience I’ve encountered.  Men, take note – think twice before you put your daughters, mothers, sisters, or wives in a similar dump just because you are a cheap ass mother fucker.  If they should never speak to you again, I can’t say I blame them.  Single female travelers, also take note – just don’t do it.

I fell into the latter category.  I made the unfortunate mistake of trying to save a few dollars by booking accommodations at a lower end chain because I would only be away for no more than four days and I figured I could handle a short stay in a dump of a hotel.  Also, it was ideally located in a upscale neighborhood where I could reach various destinations by foot or metro—how bad could it be?

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Destination WeHo Friday, Oct 30 2009

Driving to Los Angeles tomorrow for the annual West Hollywood Costume Carnaval where Ms. Adams and I will roam the streets among the weirdos and freaks and misfits and misanthropes and revel and roll and rock and roll and get our trick or treat on…

A lazy LA Sunday beckons a topless cruise toward Venice Beach where I’m eager to practice my love of photography and hopefully capture more freaks on film…

If I’m not visibly excited know that I am.  I’m a little tired of Phoenix (gasp!) and I’m gravitating toward the idea of moving again.  Want to get into some trouble of a glamorous sort.

Just a little.

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Vanishing Act Friday, Oct 30 2009

I’ve been psychically mauled and I’m still licking my wounds.  Story to follow.

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