I left out some heavy hitters last time, so here’s another list. (The list is almost 100% male again, because the subject of gap toothed women has already been covered by the legendary Les Blank documentary GAP-TOOTHED WOMEN, which I totally ripped off.) Honorable mention to Greg Fitzsimmons, Dana Snyder, Muhammad Ali, Russell Westbrook, me, Turf Talk and Vernon Chatman, who sort of have gaps but not enough to be all-stars. I've gotten a lot pickier about my gaps.
Do you spend a lot of time thinking about the opposite sex,
fans? I know I do. I think about girls every goddamn day, it feels like. I
guess I'm a romantic at heart.
Unfortunately, the girls I keep falling in love with don't want
anything to do with me. They want some fairytale Mr. Perfect,
with perfect Hollywood breath and popular, pro-semitic political theories, who'll
sweep them off their feet and take them away to Perfectville. They see a lone,
beat up old wolf like Tesse "The Wolfman" Wolfson and run for the
hills. (Watch out for coyotes, girls!) Here's what they're forgetting, though:
I have a lot to offer them that this "Mr. Perfect" they're dreaming of can't offer. Do Mr. Perfect's parents have a
hot tub, for example? Is he as good at buying CDs as me? You might like the way
Mr. Perfect can talk to you for hours, and satisfy your soul with his poetic,
thought-provoking words, but I bet I can talk louder than him. If I get lost at
the farmers market, or injure myself in the woods, you'll always be able to
find me. Just follow the sound of my yell!
These great points I'm making go right over girls' heads,
though. They're so busy dreaming of Mr. Perfect and picking out a slutty dress
to wear to prom (my romantic interests tend to be blonde, 18-year-old
cheerleaders with huge tits and lots of makeup), they don't even notice that
the real Mr. Perfect is sitting right
across from them on the bus, giving them the "finger guns."
It just goes to show you that life isn't always the way they
make it seem in the movies. In real life, the wisecracking lone wolf doesn't always
get the insanely hot girl. Sometimes, the insanely hot girl ends up
with an insanely hot guy instead. (Yuck!) I don't mean to be a Debbie Downer, but I worry
sometimes that I'm going to become so desperate that I end up settling for a plain-faced
or slightly overweight girl, who's "quirky" and shit. Who would want to see THAT movie?
Anyway, if you want to go out on a date, let me know in the
The most pleased I ever was with myself was in the year
2000, when I went to see BATTLEFIELD EARTH in theaters for a birthday party. Before
the movie, there was a preview for MISSION IMPOSSIBLE 2, and right after that
there was a preview for THE PERFECT STORM. (Like many years, 2000 was a shitty year for movies.)
Just as THE PERFECT STORM preview was drawing to a close, I leaned over to my friend and whispered "FISHIN'
That was the moment I first learned I could dunk, comedically. It
was an incredible feeling. (Truth be told, I can't even remember that happened
in BATTLEFIELD EARTH. I think John Travolta went to a rave, or something.) The universe,
in its benevolent wisdom, had tossed me a perfect alley-oop, and I'd slammed it
home with the casual self-confidence of a Brent Barry, or a Dan Majerle,
demonstrating that I was worthy. Life was going to be easy from now on--all I
had to do was kick back and wait for another perfect alley oop.
Unfortunately, though, it wasn't that
easy. Perfect alley-oops are few and far between, it turns out. The universe
only gives em to you about once every ten years. In the between time, you have
to go back to being a regular schlub. And sometimes when you get an alley-oop,
you're unprepared or overexcited, andyou screw it up.
Not yesterday, though. Yesterday, I caught another alley-oop
and dunked it home. It wasn't a funny joke-dunk (sorry), but I'd argue that it
was even better.
I figured out who the Zodiac Killer was!
Aside from the fact that it was National Deviled Eggs Day,
it was an evening like any other.I woke
up from my afternoon nap at 7:00 PM, bit the wine stained part of my upper lip
off, and applied lip balm. I'd been having a bad dream. Not my normal bad dream,
where a bird is eating my fingers, but a Halloween-themed dream regarding the
I was alone in the house with a big bowl of candy. There was
a knock at the door, and when I opened it I saw a babyfaced man, dressed in a
trenchcoat, with an executioner's hood on and a decorative bib bearing the mark of the Zodiac Killer.
Scary costume, right? And what is a grown man doing
trick-or-treating all by himself? But it was a dream, after all, so I reached into the bowl
to get him some candy. He declined, telling me in an eerily high-pitched voice:
"No. I want big boy stuff."
Weird request, obviously, but I wanted him to go
away so I gave him a cigarette. He took it, without thanking me, and lit up--then took a gun out of his coat and shot me!
As I was falling to the ground, my mother showed up out of
nowhere, let out a dramatic gasp, and said THE ZODIAC KILLER IS....THE ZODIAC
And then I woke up! Crazy right?
I felt like I should mention this nightmare in my dream journal,
but I didn't want to write the whole thing down, because I'm lazy, so I just wrote
in big creepy block letters. Maybe my dream holds the answer somehow I thought.
And right then, my mother knocked on the door, asking if I
wanted to play bananagrams. I did, obviously, but just as I was about to say
yeah, sure, of course, it occurred to me that maybe this dream message was an ANAgram!!! We all know how much the Zodiac Killer loved puzzles. So I told
my mom to fuck off, I'm busy right now, and cut the block letters out of my
dream journal with scissors, for rearranging.
I scrambled and scrambled and scrambled, and after half an
hour of furious scrambling, listening to John Carpenter's "White Pulse" on repeat, I had the answer. A message, from the Zodiac Killer,
via the realm of nightmares: THE ZODIAC KILLER IS...
Of course, right?!! It was three lil kids stacked on top of each other, in a trench coat! That explains why The Zodiac Killer mysteriously stopped killing (he grew out of it!) and why the spelling in
his letters to The Chronicle was so shitty!
Hey fans, how the HELL are ya? You doing anything for Halloween this year? (I put the word in
italics to make it spookier. Do you know if there's a way to make words look shakier
and/or drippier as well? Sound off in the comments...)
If you're anything like me, you're pretty tuckered out from
all the eating and partying you did last Saturday night, in Sausalito, but that doesn't mean you
can't have fun tonight, too. You just have to be a little more creative. Last
year, for example, Halloween was on a Monday, so instead of getting drunk I
went down to the Portland waterfront with my pals Joe Cutty and J-Bird Osprey,
and frightened the geese.
This year, I decided to do a bird-related activity again, to
get myself out of my parents' spooky garage (which I've decked out in cobwebs
and fake ants, in celebration of the season) and get this blog back on topic.
You mean you're going
to do some actual birding again?? You ask.
Not quite, my scary friend, but close. I'm going...BAT-ing.
An American Bat
Bats, according to Wikipedia, are the only mammal which is
also a bird. You might remember them from the movie DRACULA, or FERNGULLY: THE
LAST RAINFOREST. If you have a really
good memory, you might even remember some bat "facts" you learned
from the kooky old lesbian who visited your school when you were 12. ("Bats are NOT
Even if your memory is on par with mine, though, the only
way to truly understand bats is to go out into the dark and look for them. At
least, that's what I'm guessing. Maybe it's impossible to understand bats.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Walking up to an attractive couple who are cuddling in the park, tapping the woman on the shoulder and saying “is this guy bothering you babe?” Pretending I can’t figure out what my parents’ dogs want from me when they beg for food. (What’s that, Bella? You want to borrow $20? You want me to hand you a CD?) Flipping off kids behind their parents’ backs, then telling the parent their kid just flipped me off. (And then flipping em off one last time, while they’re getting scolded.) “Let’s do one where we pretend I’m running away with your camera.” (When people ask me to take their picture.) Referring to Oakland as " 'land-town " Telling the barber to "gimme the G.I. Jane."