« July 2004 | Main | September 2004 »
Me: So now that we aren't sleeping together, can I still play with your boobs? I so love those boobs.
Her: No! They are like my "on" switch!
Me: Heh. That's funny. Mine too.
I wonder if I can get a silicone replica. You know, to keep on my desk. That's gotta work way better than a stress ball.
So...you think a man in tight black leather is hot?
If it's noon on SoCal asphalt in August, you're probably right.
My brother (who is in town on liberty for two days) snapped this blind from the open window of my truck while we were en route to Angeles Crest.
Yet another reason why I am still single.
Never trust a devil with a camera. Or a Jimbo with a strong gin and tonic.
Brent was just involved in a fairly serious motorcycle accident. It's a dangerous game we play on those things.
Get well my brother. You'll be back riding Angeles Crest in no time.
Everyone, send him some love. He may not be able to type a response, but I know he will appreciate it.
I don't mind jaywalking. Really. I do it all the time. But if you are planning to cross in front of a irritable, impatient, yuppie bastard in a fast moving SUV, don't you think you ought to be moving faster than, oh, a mosey? I’m not asking for a 100 yard dash or anything but how about some power walking? Even a healthy saunter would be better.
Let's do the math.
Me: Narcissistic egoist in a 4000 pound vehicle.
You: Fat tourist in Reeboks.
Doesn't matter who has the right. Right or wrong, you lose.
This is what my brother sent to my mother on his 27th birthday last week, resulting in a nearly instantaneous conniption fit and a fresh pot of sticky, viscous, familial guilt. With oregano and garlic. Where oh where did my mother go wrong?
I'm not sure if she has spoken to him since. I'm pissed too.
Sending my mother into fits as a result of totally insignificant lifestyle choices is my job! I feel like I'm sliding. My website has been the primary source of her aggravation for months now. I can't have that skinny little Marine stealing my thunder. I'd post more beefcake or fetish pics, but Lord knows, I'm sure everyone is sick of those.
So I'm thinking I may have to visit Newport Tattoo for a nice little band around my left bicep.
One that reads simply "Mom."
We all still love you Mom. Even if we are just a bunch of amoral ingrates who don’t go to church and don’t respect their poor, sickly mother and certainly don’t appreciate the many, many, MANY sacrifices made for her children.
After two months of my huffing and puffing, my favorite pink piggy finally came to visit. For three days my house was filled with pink and perfume and, well, pot smoke. And pictures too! Seemed the perfect time to break in my new Digital Rebel .
This little piggy came to Newport.
But as the waves were not cooperating, most of the time, this little piggy stayed home.
This little piggy got a new outfit.
Though not very much of one.
This little piggy flew back to Oakland on Monday.
But I think it was me who was crying "wee wee wee" all the way home.
Come back soon. Next time bikes and boards, K and Halcyon , and all the people and things we didn't get to this weekend.
You know, if there is one thing I have learned, it's that no two people find the same path to love.
Thanks for taking us down your path, Heather .
And here's to hoping that one day I find mine.
So I figure I'll just finish up with a tawdry little trifecta of posts before getting back to my usual business of Bush bashing, obsessive-compulsive navel gazing, and tearing off my emotional scabs for all of you good people to enjoy.
That and writing about my masturbatory habits, if only because my mother doesn't have enough aggravation.
So a few weeks ago a friend of mine approached me with a proposal to do some semi-nude, artistic, mildly-erotic photography with her. She was looking to do some test shots for a photographer she was considering working with. As she has already seen the goods in question (and with this site, really, who hasn't?) I wasn't overly concerned. Besides, do I want to take naughty pictures with a gorgeous, leggy, mostly-naked woman?
Duh.
And as she was going to maintain control of the test shots and my face (and other important part) wasn't to appear in any of them, there was almost no chance that any pics of me were going to show up on BaldBeefcake or Bearlovers.com.
In the end she didn't feel comfortable with the vibe from the photographer, so she decided to cancel the shoot. And being comfortable with a photographer for an erotic photo-shoot is pretty damn important. And I don't mean comfortable in a roofies and lubricant kinda way.
So anyway, prior to this cancellation, I referred this photographer to my own personal favorite, pink-haired subject and source for all things naughty as she has had a fair amount of experience both in front of and behind the camera. When he asked her what her boundaries were, she responded "I'm not interested in anybody I don't know trying to put any of their parts into any of my parts. I don't do porn."
To which he replied, "How about some light bondage or light bukkake?"
Light bukkake?
Author's Note: For those of you who are new to the internet, uneducated in the world of digital smut, or, oh, my mother, and don't know what "bukkake" means, I strongly, STRONGLY urge you not, repeat, NOT to type that into Google in order to find out. I promise, you are not going to like what you find. Just for you, I'll post a definition in the comments section of this post. Then you can decide if you want to Google that bad boy. Thank you. We now return you to your regularly scheduled penis jokes.
Light bukkake? What, are we talking about reduced calorie semen? Or just smaller portions? Is this kink for Atkins perverts? Bukkake Light! All the semen but half the carbs!
I'm really hoping the photographer was making a joke, cause really, it was just about the funniest thing I have heard in weeks.
So not to get too candid about my personal life (as if that's ever been an issue around these parts), but I really don’t understand pay-per-view hotel porn. Hotel porn is just as explicit as regular porn, only they don't show any of the orgasms. They just fade out of the sex scene like a bad seventies pop song.
I'm wondering, just who is offended by this? Let's really think about the customer here. The customer who JUST BOUGHT PORN.
I'm pretty sure they aren't exactly prudish.
As if they are sitting there enjoying a five minute long macro shot of genital slapping sex only to be shocked my the inevitable end result. Yeah, hook me up with some more of that deep throat action, but god forbid, semen, that's a no-no. Let's have an entire video of condom-free group sex, but let's not show any bodily fluids. It's more socially responsible that way. Then we know nobody got pregnant. Look, I know the Bible is sitting in the nightstand, but I don't think the lack of a money shot is fooling anyone, least of all God.
People. It's porn. It's not simulated sex. It's sex. And I don't know about you, but unless I've been doing it all wrong, when I have sex, I have an orgasm.
Porn without orgasms just seems so, well, anti-climactic.
It's nice to know that after seven years, despite all the cha-cha-cha-changes and the evolution into the man we now know as Halcyon , John can STILL find ways to surprise me.
He dyed his pubes to match his hair.
His PINK hair. (Not for the timid or easily tickled.)
Sigh. Hal, we all like blowjobs, but I'm pretty sure you didn't need to make it look like a snow cone.
Despite what some people claim is my own slow metamorphosis into Halcyon, what with the pink clothing, the way too candid website and the occasional beefcake, I can promise you this: I'm never getting bleach anywhere near the package. NO WAY.
Ow ow ow ow ow.
Yeah, it may be pink, but nobody can accuse him of being a pussy.
Sure. He looks sweet.
Gentle.
Innocent.
And harmless.
The kind of face you just want to bite.
But don't be deceived. Evil lurks within.
And when you least expect it...the attack!
The violent end comes quickly for the wayward human. And the helpless victim lies bloodied and bruised, drenched up to his neck in sticky, Purina-scented, canine saliva. Trapped beneath an orange blur of green-eyed fury.
I don’t like myself lately. I don’t like what I have been feeling. And I don’t like how it makes me behave. I’ve got a self-inflicted wound that’s been festering. I’ve been gangrenous. And I’ve had to swallow a bitter, bitter pill.
I’ve been jealous.
I don’t like to be jealous. It’s the heartburn that never goes away, just smoldering in your gut, and even though you know better, you just can’t resist feeding it another helping of curry. It’s the scab you just won’t leave alone. It’s an emotional toothache. You can live with it, but it makes you angry. It makes your head ring. You can’t eat. You can’t sleep. And all you want to do is drink away the pain. Nobody likes you when you have a toothache.
Jealousy is the most duplicitous human emotion. It’s treacherous and rotten and malignant. Jealousy loves her and hates her simultaneously. Jealousy makes you feel righteous and repugnant. Jealousy shakes the bottle till you feel ready to explode. It’s the fire that warmed you, but now is just burning you up inside. It a carnival mirror that makes her seem more beautiful than ever but makes you appear contorted and ugly. Jealousy makes you hate her as much as it makes you hate yourself. Ironically it still allows you to love her, but it will never let you love yourself. Jealousy lies to you. You don’t miss having her, you miss her having you. You don’t want her. You want her wanting you.
Jealousy is the toxic byproduct of desire. Desire is the fuel. Desire can be changed into power, into productivity. You can use it to work harder. Train harder. Try harder. Jealousy is not desire. But desire unfulfilled, unrequited, unused can ferment into jealousy. And jealousy can feed depression and delusion, resentment and rage.
I hate feeling jealous.
I hate feeling like a Christmas toy. I hate wanting but not having. I hate knowing. God, I hate knowing. No one wants to feel like the silver medal. Nobody wants to be second choice. Nobody wants to be the consolation prize. Nobody wants to be a convenience fuck. Nobody wants to lose.
I remember when I was the light on her radar screen. I remember when those text messages at midnight were sent to my cell phone. I miss the kiss, not the screw. I miss the warmth not the heat.
She is fickle and fleeting and free. And as much as I want to keep her, she is not mine to keep. As much as I want to choose her, the choice is not mine to make. She was intoxicating, but intoxicants make you foolish. She was the high, but highs make you fall. She was the party, but the party has to end.
And I knew this all.
But it’s easy to accept when she is accepting you. It’s easy to sleep with when she is sleeping with you. It’s a lot harder when you are feeling lonely and insecure and are suddenly confronted with the dark emptiness of that freedom to choose when the choice isn’t you.
This of course is the risk of any open relationship. As much as we like to convince ourselves otherwise, sex is so much more than just steam and sweat and saliva. And it’s profoundly tied to our most basic needs and our strongest emotional states. It’s easier when it’s with an emotional stranger, someone without an attachment. It’s much harder when, no matter how well you compartmentalize the sex, you have a strong emotional connection. Simply, it’s harder when you care.
I have to remind myself that she isn’t mine. And I am not hers. For as good as she is, she isn’t good for me. She is the drug to take in moderation. I have to remember to let go of the rope when she runs; it’s a tug of war I’m bound to lose. The harder I hold on, the harder she pulls away, and all I’ll end up with is blistered hands and skinned knees.
I know this place. I’ve been there before, and I don’t want to go there again. This emotion is irrational, even if it's natural. It's unhealthy, for everyone. I'll let it go. I'll accept her for who she is, accept us for what we are, and will embrace the reality of what we have. Not the fantasy of what I want. I won't dwell in the darkness of my own creation. And I won't let it grow.
I’ll walk away from it. Swallow hard to drown that fire in my stomach. Recognize what I’m feeling, accept it, and move past, forward along the path I have chosen. I know there is always the hope, no, not hope, the possibility, that she may choose my path again. I’ve made my bed, and I’ll sleep in it.
Maybe she will too.
So I've heard this assumption from many of you that I lead this fabulous life of adventure and travel with pretty girls and pretty boys and that I'm generally having more fun than you are when, in reality, the bulk of my days are spent obsessing over my complexion, going to bed sad and alone, and/or sitting quietly in some plane or train or hotel disillusioned with my professional and love lives, or more accurately, the appallingly unfullfilling lack of both.
Sometimes, however, you are right. I am having more fun than you.
Like when we are in Los Angeles at The Arsenal.
On her birthday. Though I must warn you that going to a party attended almost entirely by Buzznet digital photographers will almost certainly leave you blind.
Yes, she always looks at me like this. The Devil loves me so.
Now that's really a wonder bra.
The aftermath. Well. One table's worth.
The new addition to my wardrobe, inspired by my dear, dear friend Jaden .
And I'm not gonna tell you why.
Revisited and reposted (sort of) when inspired by recent conversation on Lifestudent .
She shares her body. She gives it freely. She wants me to have it. She wants me to take it. She needs me to take it. She wants it tied up. She wants it bent. She wants it abused. She wants it controlled. She wants it locked away. Her pain is her pleasure.
I want her heart.
Only its already been bent. It's already been abused. And she already has it tied up, controlled and locked away.
Her pleasure is my pain.
Finished with Chicago. Two days and I never left the airport. They actually attached the Hotel to the airport. Yeah, my life is filled, no, chock-filled with excitement. A full day of sales training and professional networking and skin-crawling, eye-twitching, and quite probably cancerous boredom. I couldn’t even entertain myself by imaging anyone naked as everyone in the place was a middle-aged white guy, all of whom the kind of people who consider a good steak and a day on the golf course to be the pinnacle of self-actualization.
Let’s just say there were a lot of cell phones on a lot of (large) belts.
Sigh.
I was reduced to requesting dirty text messages from most of the single and some of the not so single women in my rolodex, and I’m pretty disappointed none of you stepped up to keep me entertained. Where is Tassy when I need her most?
So two days in Chicago and now I’m in back in first class (after way too many cross-country trips in coach) en route to Las Vegas for a quick business lunch with a potential client. I was planning on heading straight home, but there has been a girl from Match that I’ve been wanting to meet for a long, long time now. And with my schedule I’ve been having a helluva time making the trip. Seems I’ve been everywhere but Vegas. Some creativity with my travel agent, a quick call to my customer, and I’ve got myself a date. On an expense account even. Now if I can just find a way to write off what I’m destined to lose at the blackjack table and I just might keep this job.
So anyway, I’m giving this digital dating yet another go. I didn’t have too much success with the last round. Sure I had a number of first dates, not so many second dates, and very, very few thirds. Maybe I should be more up front that I’m such an opinionated, arrogant, asshole, right Glovia?
Sorry. Couldn’t resist.
I’ve got profiles up at quite a few of these sites now. Most of them I think are pretty much a waste of time as they are a bitch to use, filled with advertisements for cam whores, thinly masked promotions for bars or bands or adult sites, or the majority of the people who use them are unemployed 21 year old kids with skull tattoos and nose rings who wonder why they can’t find a good job.
I have been back on Match for a while, and, admittedly, the quality of the profiles seems significantly higher. Then again, that should be expected on a site you have to pay to use. Unemployed 21 year old kids with skull tattoos and nose rings who wonder why they can’t find a job generally aren’t willing to move money from their marijuana budget just to get some cyber booty that they can usually find for free somewhere else.
As I mentioned, however, despite the better profiles, I have failed to find better results. Ironically, my Yahoo profile, which I never use, has at least gotten me laid. Twice even. Now I just keep it active to see who will come calling next. So to speak. Before you get all twitchy with me, I don’t have a swingers profile up or anything, and these women didn’t just send me a email with the header “hey, wanna fuck?” Besides, I’m so not that kind of boy.
Ok, maybe I am, but at least let me keep this last little shred of dignity. I’ve already given up the rest of it on this blog.
I digress. So I’ve been using Match again, and as I mentioned, my success has been limited. And lately I’m getting flat out ignored. Maybe my site has become stale. Maybe my shtick has become transparent. Maybe I need a new pitch. Maybe I need to post some beefcake. Who knows what these women are looking for, although as most of the searches are being made for women in OC and LA, I’m betting the answer to that question is found in my wallet.
God, when did I become so jaded?
I gotta get out of here, or maybe go gay. At least men are up front with the fact that they really just want to fuck you.
Regardless, I like my profile text. And as it was inspired by the illustrious Sarah Brown , it can’t be all that bad.
"I'm a globe-trotting, rock climbing, vegetable-eating, beach-dwelling, reluctant yuppie in Orange County. I dig DMB and U2, Bouguereau and Rothco, Eggers and Kingsolver, NYC and Vancouver BC. I like full contact bowling, competitive yoga, vegan taxidermy and people with a good sense of humor. I am practiced in the art of back rubs and foot massages. I can fasten and unfasten bracelets with remarkable dexterity. I have defeated my addiction to the remote control. I have learned that the seat can go down and always remember to put it up first. Moms like me. I have spectacular taste in shoes and lingerie and know how to remember your birthday. You will never look fat in those jeans. I have learned how to say, "I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking." I do not fart in bed, and I will never, EVER wear tighty-whiteys."
And this text is what led me to my date tonight. I’m hoping things go different this time around. For the first time in a long time, I’m actually excited about a blind date. And I think I found someone who gets me. Don’t believe me?
j: Hi there, you have a great profile!
tmj: thanks!
j: You've sold me, where do I sign up?
tmj: you can send an application to newport beach
tmj: i love the dog! (she has a Basset Hound with her in her profile photo)
tmj: I’m so jealous
j: Sounds good, the dog does come with the girl if that makes any difference.
tmj: i grew up with dogs. like them more than people usually
j: They rock. I agree with you.
tmj: what do you do in vegas?
tmj: are you a professional gambler?
j: Nah, I'm a stripper and porn star.
I swear I got all tingly.
I’m hoping it goes well, but you never can tell with digital dates. Sure, I’ve seen a photo, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned on the internet it's that you can’t always believe your eyes. Most everything you see is either ten years old, the result of the judicious use of Photoshop, or a bald faced lie.
I should know. I’m actually a 300 pound black woman named Estelle. Won’t she be surprised?
If you aren't reading Alice you deserve to be strung up by your toes and flogged within an inch of your miserable, meaningless life.
Or at least deserve a stern talking to.
And as her stellar little corner of bloggerdom was introduced to me by the amazing Heather Armstrong , it's more proof that The Mighty Dooce is really the only reason I need an internet connection at all.
Well. That and porn.
Quick question. Who is making the money on the publication of the 9/11 Commission Report? This book is on every news stand and in every bookstore in the country, as well as in half the hands of the people at the airport (which freaks me out a little if you stop to think about it). It was a federally funded investigation. Now it's a best seller.
Who is pocketing the coin? There is a part of me that's just a little bit disturbed about the possibility of blood for profit.
So anyway, Shrub and Co. have told us that terrorists might use helicopters and rental vehicles in attacks.
Rental vehicles? Duh. Who would blow up their own car when you can get insurance for $30 bucks?
I'll watch out for anyone lighting a fuse attached to a crappy maroon Grand Am. As far as helicopters, I'll take my chances. Besides, anyone who has lived in an urban area or near a Marine base or both in the off chance you live in OC knows that the police and government already use helicopters to terrorize. Ever tried to sleep with one of those things over your house? Nightly.
And since I'm already being tasteless what with making terrorist jokes and insulting our fearsome leader, I might as well share one of the many tasteless jokes told to me by a drunken Irishman while sharing numerous drinks with the illustrious and sexy and frighteningly talented Dirty Fez .
How come some women fake orgasms?
Cause they think men give a shit.
Thank you and good night! I'm off to Chicago.
PS: If this comment box isn't filled with tasteless jokes by the time I get back I'm totally getting new readers.
Ever wake up and wish you could forget what love feels like?
Ever wake up and wish you could remember?
Yeah. Me too.
Anybody else marvel at the irony (and audacity) of spammers promoting anti-spam solutions? They even spelled it sp@m.
Sigh.
@ss c@n-cer to them all.
I just purchased my ticket to London, followed by an EasyJet connection to Milan. $547 bucks to Gatwick, then another $50 Euro for the Milan flight. My climbing partner is meeting me there for a week of international rock hopping, then I have a week of knocking around my homeland. Question is, where to go when I get there?
Bigger question is, should I come back?
And no, that's not rhetorical.
I keep hearing people claim that they are comfortable with George Shrub because they feel he represents their "values."
Really? Values? And what, pray tell, are those values?
Nepotism? Cronyism? Greed? Dishonesty? Gross incompetence? Ignorance? Fiscal iressponsibility?
Or how about a total disregard for the Bill of Rights?
Right now what I value is that we have one more chance to remove this embarrassment from office.
Either that or I'll have one more reason to move to Canada.
I'm not a huge fan of Democrats, but at least Kerry is seemingly better qualified for the job.
Hell, toast is better qualified for the job.
So apparently none of you are interested in pretty pictures of trees or climbing stories about adventure in the great outdoors. It's all about the beefcake and penis jokes, admit it.
Fine.
A Saturday Night in Los Angeles.
More evidence that every place in LA is infinitely cooler than anyplace in OC. Especially when that place is the Forty Deuce, LA club and cabaret. Small. Dark. A recessed bar, dark wood fixtures, a catwalk stage, a three piece band. A stellar DJ. Gold sparkles on the ceiling. And bathrooms labeled simply with "Penis" and "Vagina." Not surprisingly, there's always a line of people trying to get into the vagina.
Never bring your ego. Here's the rub. When you go to a popular bar in Los Angeles, you will be the ugliest person in the room. The VIP section is usually filled with celebrity types. People with fame, money, talent, looks, and typically a small entourage of women who look remarkably like Playmates because, um, THEY ARE. Everyone working in the bar is better looking than you, all of your ex-girlfriends, boyfriends, and the person you thought about while masturbating in the shower last night. All of the people IN the bar, although not necessarily famous, rich, and talented are TRYING to be famous, rich, and talented and subsequently are way better looking than you, all your ex-girlfriends, boyfriends, or the person you thought about while masturbating in the shower last night. I swear Los Angeles sets an impossible standard. I think I want plastic surgery. Anybody know where I can get a life transplant?
Despite the fact that I was probably the ugliest person in the bar, a totally random, terribly intoxicated and surprisingly attractive little blonde girl stuck her tongue in my mouth while we were chatting. I have no idea why. She tasted like lemon drops and made me promise to remember her name as she insisted that one day I would be working for her.
So Courtney, it's a shame your boyfriend whisked you out of there before I got a handle on that job description. I'm more than ready for a career change if it means lots of good, old-fashioned sexual harassment in your office.
B-list amnesia. Inevitably, unless you are a total celebrity whore, you will spend a lot of time looking at people thinking, isn't that the girl from that movie with that guy from that band? And yes, it is.
Owen Wilson looks way better in his man blouse than you look in yours. Maybe that's why he is dating the white-hot, South American cabaret dancer, the one on stage shaking her groove thang, and for the record, what a heavenly, heavenly thang to shake. Speaking of shaking, paint mixers can't move like that. Seriously. Call me. I'm sure Owen won't mind.
Should I be embarrassed to admit that when Vince Vaughn nodded hello and touched my shoulder to pass I almost got wood? Vince! Vaughn! Swingers! I'm so money baby!
Although, after Saturday, I certainly don't HAVE any money. You know you are in Los Angeles when your bar tab is more, no, considerably more, than your sushi dinner for three. Care to guess what two Sapphire and tonics, three lemon drop shots, and three eight ounce bottles of water cost at the Forty Deuce (with tip)? Bet you are wrong.
Really wanna know?
$128 and change.
For five drinks. And water.
And that doesn't include the $10 bucks to get in.
Or the valet charge.
If I ever do leave SoCal, I think I'm going to miss the town of Idyllwild on Mt. San Jacinto the most. More than even Joshua Tree, San Jacinto has some of the most rewarding rock I have ever experienced, all combined with perhaps the most pure alpine experience in Southern California.
And why not? With the sole exception of Yosemite, Idyllwild has a richer history of climbing than anywhere in America. Royal Robbins, Yvonne Chuinard, Tom Frost, Tobin Sorrenson, John Long and countless others all made history on these walls. The men who defined the sport, introduced us to what was possible, and then later, the men who refined it. Popularized it. And introduced us to what at first seemed impossible.
It's hard to believe that this location, complete with 1000 foot granite walls and 2000 year old sequoia trees is only 100 miles from my home.
Climbing at Suicide and Tahquitz Rocks remains one of the greatest pleasures in my life, despite the gut-busting, seemingly vertical, 45 minute approach trails to the rock.
But maybe that's why. Tahquitz and Suicide take effort. But after you have finished with that hike and are sweating and aching from the weight of the pack, and after you have scaled the rock, trusted yourself completely, palmed the rock face, stepped boldly out onto desperate, microscopic crystals and reached up and pulled over a prehistoric stone roof some 200 feet off the ground, and after your hands are bleeding from jamming cracks on dramatic buttresses of gleaming white granite, and after you are sitting on top of the wall, looking out over the forest of lodgepole and sequoia and ponderosa, staring at an impossibly blue sky for Southern California, and after you are smiling and exhausted and dirty, you remember why you started doing this in the first place and why you can't imagine ever stopping. It's in those moments that you feel most complete. Most confident. And most at peace with yourself and your place amongst all things.
Maybe in the end it's all just a climb. The rocks were here before we were and will be here long after we are all gone. Life is going to be difficult and dirty and dangerous, but maybe if you can trust yourself, step boldly, and look past the aching joints and the bleeding knuckles, you will realize the reward isn't the summit, but the climb.
As always, if I haven't bored you yet with pop-philosophy, rocks and trees and more portraits of my do-rag and seeming inability to smile in a photograph, you can find the rest the pictures here .
