Doorman Diaries

Why is this addendum even in question?

2011-12-10T11:51:00.001-08:00

http://sanders.senate.gov/petition/?uid=f1c2660f-54b9-4193-86a4-ec2c39342c6c

Happy Halloween Kiddies!

2011-10-31T12:34:00.001-07:00

My Little Cereal Killer

2011-10-29T03:53:00.001-07:00

Merry Happy Kwanzchrist...aww whatever.

2010-12-26T13:26:00.000-08:00

As our holy moly-ist holiday shows up in red slacks on a ramshackle wooden sled with feral flying beasts and a wispy white beard, I really thought it appropriate to throw a few words toward the menace, malice and majesty that is our mis-celebration of your lord and savior.

Yes, a mis-celebration because even if Jesus was really born, he was most likely birthed around April or March and some argue around six months after Passover. The early adopters of the Christian gunk thought it would be a peachy idea to piggyback our Pagan brethren and absorb a few of their super sweet sinful ideas about celebrations.

Back when Babylon wasn’t a horrifying, constantly exploding little nugget known as Iraq, the denizens of that area would willingly enjoyed the feast of the Son of Isis (Goddess of Nature) and just happened to celebrate this debauched occasion on ... you guessed it — Dec. 25! Since then, vomitous partying, irresponsible eating and mindless gift-giving have been a winter tradition.

As I tap these words on my laptop in the wee hours of my birthday, I can only imagine that Santa is throwing S’Nick points my way toward a new Android Tablet (on general principle, if you have an iPad, kick yourself in the face) or something else technologically fancy on which I can beep-boop-bop my way toward pointless celebrity gossip satisfaction and online zombie killing.

Perhaps an Xbox 360 Kinect so I can forgo any restricting controllers and flail around my living room as only Jesus would have done in his tiny, dirt-floored carpenter’s shack.

How do I accept gifts on the most religious of holidays when I am a very vocal and vociferous agnostic/atheist you ask?

Tradition.

Though my daughter Samantha sometimes occupies a place in my heart I hold dear only for televangelists and smooshbags, I don’t feel the need to rob her of the pure joy that I had when I would sneak out of bed in the wee hours of Christmas Eve, much to the chagrin of my poor beleaguered parents. It was common knowledge that I liked to get a 3 a.m. preview of what gift Santa had brought and what fantastic little knick-knacks he’d left in my stocking.

None of that had anything to do with Jeebus or pointless religious overtones. It was about my family being together and enjoying a day of giving to each other.

Until my brother Chris touched my Star Wars figurines, to which I felt a swift death was the only appropriate solution.

In a time of ever-increasing separation of our populace, gather your friends and relatives and just enjoy the time you have to spend together. Our holidays are less and less about some archaic event that may or may not have happened. They are about choosing to celebrate our time with one another.

But seriously, I want an Xbox. And if Chris touches my Boba Fett figurine one more time, I am seriously going to cut his head off with the soup ladle.

Rejoice!

Dreams

2010-07-08T13:45:00.001-07:00

Dreaming permits each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives.
- William Dement

I have this recurring dream where I’m hardly wearing any clothing and for some reason I’m walking around in around in public. I try to come to grips with the fact that I’m only wearing a pair of Sponge Bob Square Pants boxers. Which, strangely enough, wouldn’t really bother me in real life.

Dreams to me are usually just a tiny window into our thought process for a brief moment in time. The dreams can vary from common realistic situations, to far-fetched fantasy scenarios.

Just like bad breath and choking snores, everyone has dreams that they feel are important to blather to the rest of us.

A word of caution: Don’t be that person that always feels the need to share their demented dreams with other people.

If you’re having sex with Big Bird on the set of Gone With the Wind and your third grade teacher is filming the whole thing on a Speak-And-Spell, please do all of us a favor and report to your nearest psychiatrist. It’s best to seek the proper medication because you’ve passed nutty quite some time ago.

One of the more comical situations I’ve dealt with is when someone you know wakes up from a crappy dream they’ve just had in which I’ve had a starring role. They’re instantly pissed off, even though I’m completely innocent. I’ve even had my wife Shannon wake me up after having one of these dreams and give me the stink eye as if I had a fugue-state affair with someone she works with.

And speaking of bad dream experiences, we’ve all had to deal nightmares at some point in our lives. I remember one of the first real night terrors I had was when I first watched “Nightmare of Elm Street”.

Now that I think back, I have no clue as to why Tom and Annette were letting their ten-year-old son watch a horror movie about a cackling roasted-faced child killer with knife blades for fingers.

I recall waking up and not being able to differentiate between what was real and what was dream. So, I just lay petrified in my bed, occasionally peering out from underneath the safety of my sheets.

And we all know that no monster, killer, or nocturnal evil can get past a pair cotton San Diego Padre sheets. Apparently it holds some form of magical protection for kids, something akin to kryptonite for all things that go bump in the night.

Another part of nightmares that can be equally frustrating is when you’re in a situation that requires either running from or defending yourself in a fight.

What type of intense gravitational pull is exerted on my body as soon as I enter dreamland? I can remember having a dream where I was pitching in a baseball game in college, only to have it seamlessly revert to a game of wiffleball in a walk-in closet.

Please spare me your Freudian evaluation…

I also tend to sleep walk. Well, not really walking. More like jumping out of bed and ranting nonsense and freaking my wife out to the point where she’s relegated to being a nighttime bouncer. Most of my antics revolve around keeping my daughter Samantha safe, so at this point, I’m safe in my freakery.

To me, dreaming is a healthy process that we should all embrace and explore. There’s even ongoing studies regarding something called lucid dreaming, which is where you train yourself to realize you’re in a dream so that you can delve deeper into why you’re actually having that dream.

I guess in the long run, just try and accept what they are. Dreams are just fantastical home movies set within our own mind. Write them down, remember them, study them, just don’t take it too seriously.

I just have to figure out why I have a tendency to sleep walk though. It sure makes my family’s life interesting...and my staircase a insurance liability.

2010-06-16T13:44:00.001-07:00

As I awoke this morning to my daughter's siren's serenade of "dadaaaa", my tired smile turned to horror as I caught a whiff of what I thought had been month old roadkill.

Alas, it was not.

With my daughter Samantha turning two recently, I thought I might share small bits of wisdom that I've gleaned over the years that might help her out in her young little life.

Or she'll most likely read this in ten years and tell me I'm lame and should get a life. Yes, I'm sure of the latter...and I'm not sure I disagree.

Do...as I say, not as I do.

Do not...eat M&M's with beef jerky with hot sauce for breakfast.

Do...eat those disgusting Pop Tarts I put on your plate. Or jam them in your ear. I'm sure they have the same nutritional content either way.

Do...continue to use the cute words that make me want to squish you into a pile of lavender smelling blond curls. And eat those Pop Tarts...they're not cheap.

Do not...mimic the words that Dad uses when he's fixing just about anything around the house. Its bad enough when you say the word "truck" in public and people glare at me like I'm the devil, let's not hone your ability to enunciate.

Do...read every single book you can get your hands on. This includes the Bible because it's funny, sad, and scary at the same time.

Do not...read tabloids. Fake boobs, money, and shiny cars seem to be the sum total of what they're pushing. It's like Del Mar. Except in Del Mar, you don't have to be literate to be sucessful.

Do...watch as much Fox News as possible.

Do not...stop laughing as you watch those silly sycophants try to make their silly doctrine make sense to anyone who's under the age of 60.

Do...pretend that children's statue across from Leucadia Pizza isn't frighteningly creepy.

Do not...GO NEAR IT. Ever. If you are the lunatic that designed that bronze monstrosity.. go away. It's awful and passersby cringe and wonder why you hate kids.

Do...remember that going to college is an important right of passage and a logical step upon high school graduation.

Do not...think that every person with a college degree is intelligent. It only means they stayed within a certain discipline and finished what they started. They are by no means smarter than anyone else.

Do...go to bars and restaurants. Enjoy yourself and don't forget that waiters, waitresses, servers, bartenders, and hosts aren't slaves to cater to your every whim. If you think that, you're most likely brain dead and beyond help.

Do not...forget that the waitstaff will kill you where you stand. Seriously, we will kill you. Know the rules and don't be rude or your service will be non-existent.

Do...remember that your Dad is and always will be vehemently overprotective.

Do not...take everything he says as gospel. He's scared and cautious when it comes to his daughter and just wants you to avoid all the problems he had to deal with.

Fine...you can have beef jerky for breakfast. Just don't tell Mom.

2010-06-08T03:25:00.001-07:00

As June peeks its gloomy head around the clouds and begins the blistering pace towards the August finale, I wanted to discuss a sport that is severely lacking national attention.

Or any attention for that matter.

Throwing horseshoes, or "pitching" to those privy to the appropriate lexicon, has been a Waterhouse extravaganza dating back to the days of pretending that El Cajon was a viable real estate choice.

My Dad and uncles would gather most of their truck-driving brethren and do their best to not crush knees, smash shins, or crank ankles of those involved in the backyard shenanigans. This was a big event around the neighborhood, and nary a chucker of bended steel missed one of these events.

Though Coors Original did not help the festivities, I'm sure that the participating athletes in the East County Horseshoe Olympics felt that those golden circles of hopped delight were indeed a performance-enhancing substance.

Children were strictly forbidden to play horseshoes and yet played a role in every tournament. We were usually relegated to gofers and neophyte bartenders yet we eagerly grabbed those mangled steel shoes at any given chance always wondering what type of mammoth horse these shoes actually fit.

A quick note to purists: my brother Chris throws left-handed and pitches his horseshoes overhand. Is he the devil? I wanted to run it by my fellow pitchers. He is, isn't he? I knew it.

Over the years, my love for the game never wavered but finding appropriate venues and viable opponents seemed to cleave away my time in the pits. I'd get a beach game here, or the occasional family tournament there, but they never really reached within and grabbed a hold of me like it had in my youth.

This lull lasted until a breezy conversation with my fellow co-worker Kenny Buckner. Though his last name brings dread among Red Sox faithful, he's excellent behind the bar and a person I've found has a keen respect for the fine art of the ringer.

KB and I thought it appropriate to test each other's clanging skills at Glen Park on a blindingly bright day where the sun sears your eyelids shut when you don't bring sunglasses or a low brimmed hat. Which I did.

Though I was victorious that day (YES!), I felt a certain camaraderie and kinship with my fellow employee. We chatted as we finished our requisite innings and concocted a plan to continue practicing until we elevated our game with a very specific goal in mind.

We were going to barnstorm the NHPA (National Horseshoe Pitching Association) and make our way to fame and glory as the oh-so-inventively nicknamed "Dead Ringers". Don't worry, the t-shirts will be available for sale on our website. When we get a website.

So the next time you hear the clang of metal on metal or a flurry of foul language by men trying not to curse in a public park, take heed: We've thrown the gauntlet. You know where to find us and we're taking on all challengers.

Dead Ringers...coming to a pit near you.

Yeah, we do hate you...

2010-05-05T17:38:00.000-07:00

http://www.generation-awesome.com/bartender/

There's a season two of "The Bartender Hates You" also. Please watch them. Learn.

Sartorial choices...

2010-04-29T11:04:00.000-07:00

I've just recently come to the conclusion that I'm the type of person whose wardrobe choices are often dictated by which pair of jeans already has a belt in them....

Children at play....

2010-04-27T12:09:00.000-07:00

It was me.

I was that little jerk that pounded on your door as the moon shone white with my young group of marauding miscreant cohorts. Those stifled giggles weren’t coming from your fence or a feverishly sentient raccoon that patrolled your front yard.

No, that was just us laughing at you. Because we were bored and had nothing better to do with our time than waste yours and steal precious hours of sleep that you desperately needed.

I do recall having to branch out to other areas, or make new friends so we didn’t have to keep doorbell ditching the same handful of people who actually got up and answered the door. That would mean my parents could have found out, which would put me on lockdown for a couple of weeks.

At some point we’d get caught and have to apologize, which was worse than running in scattered directions when the old guy threatened to shoot us with rock salt. I don’t know if that’s even possible but to this day I fear the lawns of white haired men in flannel.

Playing hide and seek was another way for us to run around the neighborhood unsupervised, albeit with less chance of getting beaten or having vicious canines sicced on us.

There was always something oddly exhilarating about playing a block-wide game of hide and seek with thirty five kids, doing your best to climb under cars, in trees, or stay stationary just long enough to find that perfect hiding spot...only to have it spoiled by having to pee as soon as your in it.

I had the hide and seek bladder of a small infant. I would keep moving from spot to spot because I left whiz tracks wherever I went.

Then there was the curious schoolyard game of Butts Up. A group of kids throwing a ball against the wall in hopes of one of them muffing it. Then, someone within the group pounces on it and rushes to chuck the tennis ball against the wall before the muff-ee touches said wall.
If that person drops the balls three times, then he or she is forced to face the wall and take a firing squad of one throw per Butt’s Up participant. There’s something to be said for simplicity.

Another simple game concocted by seemingly homophobic children is the ever popular, and always schoolyard banned, Smear the Queer. Poetic, no?

Anyway, this one revolved less on rules, and more on brutality to maintain it’s dominance throughout the decades. One person has a ball. Everyone else does their best to smear his or her face into the ground until everyone is roughed up to the point of bloodied submission.

Oh, how the games we play in our youth rarely translate to adult life. Or do they? You screw up, your Butt’s on the line. When you’re on the ball, everyone wants to Smear you into the dirt. Hiding from the masses is usually good for the soul on occasion.

And doorbell ditching? Well, okay, not all games translate. But you have to admit, you still want to. But not at my house.

I have rock salt...

Imoway...

2010-04-18T13:25:00.000-07:00

In casual conversations with my two-year-old nephew Zach, he's fairly
liberal with his usage of the English language.

At this point, he's got a rudimentary understanding of verbal
communication and giggles his way through discussions about food,
baseball, motorcycles, and constantly reminding me about the F bomb I
accidentally muttered. Again.

There are words he likes to share with the rest of the world that he
knows aren't appropriate to utter. So instead of singing it out loud
and letting everyone know about it, he quietly saddles up next to your
ear to share these words with you.

There's something about a curly-haired little blond kid whispering
curse words to you with a sly Cheshire grin that makes it really
difficult to chastise him.

But there's another word that he utters. A word I don't understand,
yet I've become acutely fascinated with it. Perplexed and infatuated
with a term I can't possibly comprehend and with the thousands of
words I've pounded into my keyboard, this one utterance still haunts
me.

Imoway.

Six innocent little letters spoken from the mouth of grinning little
towhead. With his eyes quietly laughing at me, as if I should know
what he means. He taunts me with vocabulary I can't possibly decipher.

I've even tried every permutation to figure out what he's trying to
say. I've Googled it. I'm beginning to think it's not even English and
might be some type of global infant conspiracy.

It usually starts with me simply saying the word to him. I'm a glutton
for punishment and I can't help myself. A typical conversation is as
follows:

"Hey Zach…Imoway."

This simple sentence usually resets his demeanor, and he'll sit down
next to me and look me straight in the eye and tell me:

"No Cowey…Imoway",

He says this with a stern face as if warning me of my foolish adult
transgression. If I repeated the word imoway, he'd become more
insistent and sit on my lap to remind me, that he himself was…imoway.

I thought this was just a fun game for him and me to play until recently…

I was having lunch a few weeks ago and a young lad had freed himself
from his parents and was walking around greeting people waiting in
line. Jokingly, I shook his chubby little hand and instead of hello, I
said "imoway".

As he walked past me, he stopped dead in his tracks, turned and looked
me straight in the eye. He knew what I was saying. Realizing I knew,
he promptly walked in the direction of his parents.

Just to test my theory, I had my wife say the same thing to a
kid at Island's last week. He glared at us and sat down while the
whole time sneaking sideways glances at us. He whispered something to
his younger sister, and I swear they spoke into their wrist like
secret service agents.

As I write this, I feel like every child I see looks at me like I'm on
to them. I know conspiracies are for the mentally unstable but they're
after me. Seriously. The Imoway Society knows my every move.

Try it for yourself. The next time you're around a little rug monster,
mention the word imoway. Watch their reaction. Then kiss your ass
goodbye. They're on to us. You've been warned…

Imoway…

People watching...

2010-04-18T13:20:00.000-07:00

People watching is a wonderful activity, but you people are freaks.

I was lucky enough to sit at the Coast News booth during the Encinitas Street Fair. I sat there with the intrepid Jean Gillette of "Small Talk" fame and a couple other fine scholars that the Coast News employs. We all spent a few hours trying to get passers by to fill out surveys about our local papered blog.

What started out as a simple grass roots fact finding mission for the newspaper became a people watching event of mythic proportions. And that was only after two hours.

My attention was initially sparked with the amount of grubby people that were walking around without shoes on. Shabby hippies that reeked of patchouli and parental disappointment. I was starting to think that a small percentage of people living in Encinitas were born in a barn.

I’ll admit, I wear my slippers in public, but the thought of walking around without shoes on is just repulsive. Dodging spilled drinks, toppled funnel cake swirlies, and roughly ten million stinky dog bombs dropped on the 101 is not the proper arena to shed your shoes. Nasty...

Then a nice lady was talking with us about some local piece of news that she liked (we’re much more patient when given compliments) when I noticed that she had a large slash of chocolate across the right side of her chin. Apparently the idea of having to eat chocolate-covered strawberries and talk was too tough a task. I didn’t bother telling her either because she was on a roll, and like I said...we like compliments.

Even though the weather was overcast and a tad on the chilly side, there were clearly muffin tops as far as my sad eyes could see. A vast ocean of belly and back fat cascading over the top of jeans that wouldn’t have fit these women in high school.

Please, stop wearing tight jeans and cropped shirts. We don’t want to see your Grateful Dead tattoo anymore. After fifteen years, it looks like someone set those poor stoned bears on fire and used a baseball bat to douse the flames.

I’m so tired of seeing Mom’s dressed like their daughters and daughter’s dressed like their for sale. Have a little self-respect. There were children present. And I have eyes.

Speaking of children, I was curious... when are people not related to a child allowed to punt them? I’m not sure of the legalities just yet, but I’m pretty sure if a kid is a whiny little twit and the parents don’t attempt to rectify said brattiness, we as a society are allowed to drop kick them into the ocean. Just a thought.

Then to top it all off, there was a bright orange electrical cord near our booth that seem to attract those with three left feet. Instead of just leaving the little orange wire, they put a large black plastic piece over it as a "safety" precaution. I wish I was a lawyer...

I was sitting there with another employee marking down how many people tripped over the black plastic precautionary device.

Final tally: 60+ in less than three hours.

Another street fair comes to a close in our little hamlet, and Encinitas has once again been proven to be the eclectic dwelling of ethnic, cultural, and socio-political melting pot that it’s known for.

Now if only we could get deep fried Twinkies like those rich bastards in Del Mar...

2010-03-31T14:15:00.001-07:00

We've all had one of those nights that started innocuously enough, just intending to have a few measly cocktails and chatter about topics of little consequence like sports or current travel. A Coors Light here, a jigger of Jager there and the path to obscured memories becomes clearer.

Yet we also know that these nocturnal excursions also take a u-turn for the absurd when we accept "just one more drink" into the night's liquid lexicon.

Let's follow the clues to revealing just how drunk you "really" were, Sherlock...

Arguing with a stranger for an hour and a half how the designated hitter is necessary for the survival of major league baseball.

Waking up with a phone number illegibly scrawled on each hand...and they're both your own.

The car in the driveway is not your own. More pertinent information: the bed and clothes you're in also do not belong to you. And yet your shoes are your own.

New tattoos: Multiple, misspelled and some scripted in a language recognized as possibly not earthbound.

Wedding band made primarily of braided animal hair. Discuss.

Passport stamp on forehead and impossibly-tan buttocks. From Thailand. Three weeks ago.

You have 127 text messages on your cell phone in a four hour time period. All sent.

Drinking enough Patron to realize that it really is that bad...and a sudden interest in cliche auto-tuned hip hop songs.

Drinking enough Jack Daniel's to realize that it really is that good...and a sudden interest in family reunions.

Arguing with your "new" best friend that the designated hitter will eventually ruin major league baseball forever.

Seeing the idiom, "Dance like no one's watching" vibrantly come to life on youtube and playing the role...fumble funking your way around a dance floor.

Receiving 127 text messages back, all with the short reply: "Take a cab."

Scribbled notes on "it all being Hurley's Twinkie-induced dreams..."

Waking up with a nicotine patch on your eye, a Marlboro bandana on your head, and a "I Was Puffy the Pirate Smoker for Halloween" t-shirt on. It's March.

So when you find yourself at the drink.drank.drunk stage of the night...use a dash of caution and a splash of common sense or nightmares and nicotine fits are in your immediate future.

A shower and a good attorney on retainer can't hurt either.

Zombieland

2010-02-12T01:04:00.001-08:00

If you haven't seen it, you should.

If you've seen it and don't like it...then you're a putz.

That is all...

Windy Wonderland

2009-12-17T13:44:00.001-08:00

The winds of change they are a blowin'...down my back fence. Which therefore set into motion a flurry of events that to this day continues to baffle and bewilder my fragile and exceptionally simple brain. Lemme explain...

During our most recent STORMWATCH 2009, the tan and spoiled denizens of southern California had the pleasure of enjoying a little bit of weather. A dash of wind and a pinch of precipitation to wash away the sins of our indulgence and blithe expectation of perfect weather that we enjoy daily.

The Event:
About ten minutes before I'm set to leave for work, I notice that my back fence seems to enjoy the weather so much that it's dancing back and forth, twisting at the will of its windy partner. At which point I do the homeownerly thing and brace the fence with boards I find lying about in my garage. Where did I get the boards you ask? Not important to the story, pay attention...

A couple of wistful to and fro's, and my back fence decides to belly flop backwards towards the street. I watch in mock TV horror...mouth agape..as I simultaneously drop a long, drawn out F bomb in front of my not yet two-year-old daughter. She looks up at me with a disapproving smirk that I'm afraid I'll see for the rest of my life.

Then I'm forced to engage in a roundabout jousting of insurance company, HOA and hungry holiday contractors who all want to royally screw me for the holidays. Here's how it breaks down...

Homeownerly Logistics:
So I called USAA and let them know that the almighty Flying Spaghetti Monster has since decided that I should have a better view of Hope Elementary school by flattening my back fence. They told me to get off my lazy arse and get a few quotes to fix my fence. Apparently, homeowner's insurance does work! Minus a painful kick-to-the-groin deductible that is.

The next step is calling every fence company in the local vicinity to come out and pretend like I'm going to pay them to fix my fence. I feel they all know I'm only courting one fence fixer, and they each do the minimum amount of work to produce a quote. Eff you customer service!

HOA (Hypocritically Objectionable Assholes):
I've been succinctly clear about my feelings towards Homeowner's Associations. In my obviously one-sided opinion, they're all scum of the earth lowlifes who take money to do nothing positive for a community. I appreciate that they don't let my neighbors paint their house orange with purple trim but do they really need authoritative control over my choice to put a white vinyl fence in my backyard as opposed to a wood fence? How exactly does that dilemma fall to a group of people that don't live in my neighborhood? If it was my choice, I'd make every single person employed by an HOA viciously fired and then forced to get a real job and stop leeching off of people who own a home or condo. And yes, I'll take my soapbox with me when I go...

Denouement?:
As much as I'd like to say there's a conclusion to this sad windy affair, alas, there is not. I'm still waiting on the five different fencing companies to share their property bordering insights with me and my homeowner's insurance. Then I have to beg and plead with my worthless HOA for permission to fix my fence the way I want to.

Hopefully then I can submit said paperwork to my insurance company and then...finally then, I can have a back fence up again...just in time for next winter's storm.

2009-11-18T14:03:00.001-08:00

Thanksgiving has now passed, Tubby. You can put the turkey leg down and pretend like you're only eating like this because "it's the holidays" and "you're just putting on your winter weight" and not actually "just developing diabetes" and "super-sizing yourself out of last years clothing". Piggy please...

After Halloween, Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays because it's revolves around a wonderful little invention called sin. Then again, so is every major holiday that I can think of.

The seven deadly sins are deftly represented in the days we choose to celebrate and delve into unabashed revelry of our dark side.

The sins will be noted with their initials. If you can't figure out GL, or GR..than put this newspaper down and go play on the yellow dotted line on the freeway.

Let's explore this socially endorsed frivolity, in no particular order...except chronologically.

Thanksgiving (GL,S): Turkey day just screams gluttony and sloth. Some day the genius think tanks at Kraft or Butterball will just invent a intravenous gobbletastic dinner and we can then melt into gelatinous blobs on the couch watching the Detroit Lions get eviscerated like that tasty bird sitting spread turkey on the table next to you.

Black Friday (GR,E,A,GL,P): Yes ladies! Debilitating debt is only a few blocks away! Quickly and with pre-approved credit cared in hand...run away from your families on Thanksgiving so you can buy buy buy their love and affection!

Christmas (GR,GL,E,P,possible icky L) The mother of all the pointless holidays...I'd say Xmas shows true signs of impending Armageddon. If there was a Jesus, he would probably turn the other cheek and vomit at what "His" birthday celebration has become. Greed, Anger, Gluttony, Pride, Envy, and Lust if you count women with a beard fetish. Nothing says love and family tradition quite like children crying on the lap of a drunk mall Santa...

New Year's(GL,L,A): DUI and drug induced delirium. What a wonderful way to embrace the new year...with a renewed sense of hope and the delight of a $10,000 fine and a seven year itch on your DMV record. There will be checkpoints. If you think you might be tipsy, you are. If you think you're Elvis. You're drunk. Take a cab.

Groundhog's Day(huh?): This is a baffling observance. Other than a good Bill Murray movie and a way for people to misspell the word Punxatawny, I have no clue or use for a rat telling me about the weather. That's what fat guys in checkered blazers are for.

Valentine's Day(GR,GL,L,P): The dumbest of Hallmark holidays and yet we continue to pretend like February 14th means something. This "holiday" should mean something only to ad execs and cherubs with archery gear. Adults with half a brain should just laugh it off and buy her flowers for no reason. Trust me on this one.

St. Patrick's Day(GL,P,L): This is another asinine holiday that really only pertains to people in Boston who drink green beer and then beat each other up, only to then cry, hug, and profess their undrying love and devotion to Tom Brady and Big Papi. Schmucks.

Women's Equality Day(P): What?!? When the hell did this happen?? Next thing you know they'll want to vote...

Columbus Day(P,GL,GR) Celebrates the first European explorer to set foot on north American soil. Where he then murdered everyone he met.

So the next time you feel pressure from an ad pointing out how inadequate you are if you don't hand over your rent money so that your family or loved ones will know how much they mean to you...then let's just start celebrating one holiday a year: Exterminate Advertising Executives Day. It's every day.

Let's start tomorrow....

2009-10-11T11:06:00.001-07:00

I saw this posting on a website about 1st Street...and remembered the situation immediately. So...I couldn't help but respond to this particular patron....

"I was very disappointed in your bartender - "I don't want to name him". He not only disrespected and embarrassed me in front of my wife, but actually threatened me and would not give me the name of the manager or the owner. I definitely felt violated tonight. I am a 37 year married man and could not believe what happened to me tonight. I actually tried to contact you the owner, but would not give me your name or number. He told me that he new who I was and where I lived because I paid with my credit card. I am now contacting my attorney as I have filmed the most of the confrontation."

and my response..

“Dear Shawn...”

To Whom It May Concern... I'm the bartender that you're speaking of in your review of 1st Street Bar. Let me take this opportunity to respond to the allegations you made against myself and the establishment.

The entire situation can be summed up with my choice to stop serving you because I felt it was unsafe to do so. I was neither rude nor confrontational, and as I do with any customer I stop serving, I told you quietly and to the side so as not to embarrass you in front of other customers. I even gave you the option to stay and continue playing pool, if you so chose.

Instead, you decided to attempt to coerce another customer into unknowingly buy you another cocktail. At that point, I politely reminded you that you'd been cut off, at which point you became belligerent, so I offered to get you a taxi cab and told you calmly and quietly that it was in everyone's best interest that you leave the establishment.

Cut to 15 minutes later with you calling the bar no less than 14 times to file complaints against myself and the doorman working that night. With each call, you made another false claim against myself and the security professional working the door.

At one point, you claimed that I kicked you out of the bar because you were dating my ex-girlfriend. Which is strange because you're married and my ex-girlfriend lives on the east coast. The SD Sheriff's department was called (by you) because you made a claim that the doorman and I were threatening you with violence and that we planned on "beating you the next time we see you out in the surf", which was an odd thing to fabricate seeing as how neither of us surf.

As for embarrassing you in front of your wife...that must have been done at your home because you were by yourself in the bar, and also alone when you came back with a video and digital camera to "document the harassment" you faced at the bar.

To the claim about not giving you the owner's contact information, yes, I absolutely did not do that. It's against protocol and isn't something they deal with on that level. I did however give you the name of my manager and his contact information.

As to knowing where you live...no I have no clue other than your claim of being a "local" and living up the street. Yes, we do know your name because you paid with your credit card and the fact that you called 14 times and your name was stored in the caller ID.

I hope this addresses some of the concerns you have and I also hope this illuminates what actually happened that night and doesn't sway other people from coming in and enjoying themselves at the bar. Unfortunately, this is just another byproduct of dealing with certain patrons who can't control themselves nor accept responsibility for their actions.

Thank you...

2009-10-07T15:36:00.001-07:00

I have a sneaking suspicion that Curious George's owner, The Man With the Yellow Hat, is a drug dealer.

Or at the very least, he's probably a pimp because I don't know any other person that would wear a canary yellow suit, yellow tie, and a big brimmed yellow hat if he wasn't peddling something illegal.

Since some of you don't have children, you might not quite understand the following words, terms, and spectacular frustration that I internalize on a daily basis(usually thrice daily, to be exact). If it doesn't make sense now, it might later on...so feel free to laminate this column and just keep it on your person. But I digress....

Back to the eerily calm(I.E. prescription drug abuser) The Man With the Yellow Hat. What I have a hard time believing is that he hasn't beaten George with a baseball bat and thrown that furry little jerk off a bridge yet. If my daughter, Samantha, had caused even a small portion of the enormously exorbitant "accidents" that chimps been guilty of, I would have sold her off on the black market a long time ago.

With Google's tentacles slithering through the inter webs, it seems I've pierced TMWTYH's seemingly innocuous alias to find out that his name is really Ted Shackleford. Which sounds like another alias to me. How many layers does Yella Hat have?

Maybe he works for the CIA. I don't have a clue what he does. I've seen him walk around a museum like he owns it. He's even been an astronaut, a chef, and a bird watcher. But he owns two homes and lives a fairly extravagant lifestyle for a guy without a day job.

He sure as hell seems to have a lot of access for a guy that dresses like a banana and has a monkey for a best friend. Then again, maybe that why George sticks around. He's waiting for his chance to gobble that big banana. God, that sounded bad. Moving on...

Dora the Explorer (is that really supposed to rhyme?)is another one of the cartooned propaganda programs that seemingly breeds inside my Tivo and is able to bore its way into my skull where it remains entrenched for weeks without any relief in sight.

Oddly enough, Dora's best friend is also a monkey but his name is Boots because...yep, he wears boots. She's also real chummy with a Map from her backpack that has the stupidest theme song I've ever heard. Just say, "I'm the Map" five times, and you've now memorized that musical gem. Fred Flintstone is rolling over in his bedrock coffin...

Now that I think about it, Dora's entire existence seems like a really freaky acid trip. She talks to a lot of animals and inanimate objects and is constantly afraid of a masked bandit-fox whom is aptly named Swiper. Swiper is even more inept than fan favorite and uber-violent Wile E. Coyote because the children ward Swiper off simply by saying, "Swiper, no swiping" numerous times. Then they cut to Swiper snapping his fingers and saying, "Awwww man!"

More like, awww man, will you stab me in the ears and eyes so I don't have to watch this show anymore?

I guess this is just a way of me saying I miss all those violent, misogynistic, racist, and stereotypically offensive cartoons of my youth. At least those were fun and our parents could quietly chuckle at all the adult humor that was flying over our innocent little heads.

Well, at least Barney's dead and those daffy gullible Christian's killed off The Teletubbies. So we've got that going for us, which is nice...

Dell Can Kiss My Ass

2009-09-11T10:58:00.000-07:00

Here's a little bit of advice if you buy a Dell laptop.

While you're logging on, buying all the accoutrements and gushing about how wonderful they are...make sure that you buy six or seven battery chargers for said laptop...because that is the greatest scam that I've ever seen. I'm on my THIRD charger now and I've had my Dell laptop for about three years.

So...yeah. I'm buying a Mac. Dell can go fuck itself.

2009-06-04T01:38:00.001-07:00

Let me just start out by saying that if you've liked reading my column in the past, then you most likely won't like this one.

Though I'm not a bitchy liberal or brain-dead conservative, you might think I'm the devil incarnate for voicing the things I'm about to press on with. That being said, proceed with caution...

I'm going to start off by saying that this column isn't going to make anyone smile. It's not going to be funny, or pithy or sarcastic. It might make you think, but it's also going to paint me into a corner that I'm still not sure I want to stand in. But writing a column means expressing your opinion, regardless of how unpopular that opinion is.

Though I hate conservative Republicans with a seething devotion, I have to say...with a grim apologia mind you... I think I agree with some of the things they have to say about immigration.

Here's where your mouth drops open and you can't believe I'm siding with disgusting, close-minded brainless assholes.

Those sprightly portions of thought going through your head right now are mostly right. I'm not sure where I joined the fold either, but I know the thoughts I have are definitely my own.

Don't get me wrong, when it comes to religion or their idiotic hatred towards science, I think they're a bunch of old men who've closed their eyes towards rational thought and just prayed to get reelected.

But pretending I feel otherwise would be lying to myself...

Okay, in a nutshell...here's the issue: If you want to be an American citizen, then do it legally. Simple, right? Go through the appropriate process, respect the necessary course of action and appreciate the procedures that we've put in place to make sure you're here for the right reasons.

"But what about all the people who are struggling to make a better life for themselves?"

Here's what they won't tell you...we all want a better life. It's how the world works. But our society is governed by rules, and I don't rob banks, steal from work or put myself above the law just because I feel it would make a better life for myself or my family.

Here are another set of rules: If you want to be an American, then you have to follow the same laws as every other single immigrant to the United States and not listen to opportunistic attorney's looking to make a name for themselves by making a case for illegal immigration.

Here is the infuriating, I'm-annoyed-for-having-to-include- this-caveat-in-my-column: NO. I don't care what color you are. If you're from Sweden. Tough shit...enter legally. If you're from England. Tough shit...enter legally. Canada? I couldn't care less about how much poutine you try to bribe me with. Your skin color means less to me than the disgusting politicians who're pretending they care about you obtaining citizenship.

Procedure is there for a reason. Walking through airport security in a suit and holding a briefcase is the same to me as jumping a fence and hoping I.C.E doesn't catch you gliding illegally into our country.

When it comes down to it, I have a simple homework assignment for you. Try to legally, without a student visa, find a job in another country without bringing either boatloads of money or a very specific (I.E needed) skill that the country needs to further its infrastructure. Trust me, I tried. They shut you down without cause, care or compunction...completely.

Though it's popular meme to utter and it feels like the right thing to say in our political climate...illegal immigration is still just that: illegal.

I know I sound like an evil, cold-hearted troll for actually writing what I feel, but that's exactly what my column affords me...the ability to freely speak my mind, regardless of what your opinions are.

So I'm asking you to think about the words you've just read. Some of you will agree, and some of you won't. I'm fine with that.

But ask yourself...if your first act as an American is breaking the law, do you really deserve to hold that title?

2009-05-08T09:58:00.001-07:00

    With all the panic about the economy lately, it sure is nice of Mexico to help divert the attention away from our sickly bank accounts with something that could potentially remove the upright, two legged swine from the planet.

    Finally!

    The more television I watch or newspapers I read about the subject, it seems like they're just trying to sell more ad space. When the loopy folks that rely on Fox News start trying to understand terms like pandemic, zoonotic, H1N1, people tend to get paranoid and stock up on canned goods, water and shotgun shells to eventually fend off the oinking zombies that are sure to shuffle across the countryside.

    The media only recently began calling it the H1N1 influenza because the pork industry was upset and felt like it was getting a double helping of bad publicity. Really? I'm not a pig farmer or nutritionist, but I'm fairly certain that any product that comes from Babe the Pig isn't going to be good for me.

    Isn't that part of the deal we have with our curly tailed brethren? We look past the sleeping-in-their-own-poop, and they let us enjoy parts of their body with scrambled eggs and toast.

    Is this their version of a P-I-Jihad against the humans for cannibalizing them for centuries? Pigs and jihad. How ironic...who knew Muslims had a legitimate reason for hating ham? They somehow knew around 622 A.D. that the hogs would someday weaponize their flu bug and spread it to the planet via pig farmers. Yeah, when pig's fly...

    Wait..pig's flying...swine flu...flew?!?! I knew it!

    But seriously, when it comes down to dealing with this sort of scary bogey man media blitz, it's always a pretty safe bet to take a step back and review the situation with a clear head before making any impulsive decisions regarding holing up in a bunker, stocking up on canned goods and waiting for the Miss Piggy epidemic to eradicate a third of the world's population.

   Science and rational thought have gotten us through more that a few health issues over the years. Let's trust the doctors and scientists to do their jobs while we remain calm and take appropriate precautionary measures.

    Plus, bacon comes from pigs and everyone loves bacon, right? So how bad could this be?

2009-05-08T09:56:00.001-07:00

   Aaaaaaaaaaahahahahhaha...ha..hahaha...oh wait? You were serious about that?!?

    That's what I thought when I heard about the impending discussion regarding lowering the drinking age in the United States.

   Apparently, there's been a debate raging in the past few years about lowering the legal drinking age from 21 to 18. Over 100 university presidents from well-known stiff-twig universities like Dartmouth, Duke, and Ohio State are all on board saying that they think by lowering the age three years, it will persuade college students to drink in moderation.

    I heard drinking Drano and punching yourself in the nuts is a good idea too.

    As a libation professional who has a distinctly strict reality when it comes to alcohol and social behavior, I'm going to go ahead and vote that you're a mental deficient if you think that's a good idea.

   Shocking as it may seem, the youth of America are at best obnoxious and ill-informed. Now when intimate with the actual possibility of giving them LEGAL access to alcohol and local watering holes that help them ascend to the level of "wasted idiot", then yeah, kudos...you did a great job protecting our nations youth.

    Can you imagine graduation day from San Dieguito Academy? How exciting! Caps gathered and thrown into a bag with rumpled gown, replete with tassels and frills from a high school career since matured.

    Instead of going to a handful of parties, our fresh faced grads filter down to the local bars and do their best to ring in a new era of their adult life by drinking themselves into a blackened oblivion punctuated by arrest sheets, public intoxication, and an ignorantly naive hope that someone isn't going to die as result of drinking and driving.

   Unfortunately, these kids don't know the first thing about responsibility or a life lived without Mom or Dad's hand on their every movement.

    So, on graduation day, guess what I would tell every single one of my security personnel? Do not, under any circumstances, let anyone under the age of 21 into the bar. And we have every right to do so with a simple sentence that is every lawyer's dream...

    We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.

    Or if they wanted to get creative, I'd ask the doorman to make something up, lie, I really don't care what it would take...but there's a bottom line here folks: Regardless of age, I really don't want someone in the bar who can't control themselves and yet I think that's the definition of a high school graduate. Someone who has yet to understand the appropriate parameters for controlling one's self.

    ...And here comes the gigantic hypocritical portion of my argument: I think that America should start letting their children drink even younger.

    If you've had a beer when you're twelve, then I have a succinct feeling that you also know how to handle your intake of alcohol and understand the adverse affects of over-indulging.

    Put simply...if you don't start letting your children sample a sip of beer or a taste of wine at the dinner table while they're growing up, then it's only going to thirst their taste of the forbidden when they're nearing the age when they can actually do damage to themselves or others.

    Suds or vino, booze and aperitif..it's all relative culturally. We do our best to protect our children, but at what cost? I've been to enough places around the world to know that we're sadly behind the rest of the planet in maturity and a social understanding that moderation and experience is what helps us to make an informed decision.

    Maybe we just need a few drinks to catch up with the rest of the world. Might help us realize it's not all bad, unless you tell us it is...

...and just watch a few videos by this guy..

2009-04-01T10:43:00.000-07:00

Rep. John Shimkus (R-IL) .....Wow.

Like I've said more than a few times...if there is a God...which I'm pretty sure there isn't...

Please tell him to hit: CTRL-ALT-Delete

We're a failed experiment, too greedy to continue...and too pervasive to end of our own accord.

You Should Probably Watch This...

2009-04-01T09:56:00.001-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r0IV651z1wk

Just watch...all twelve. Don't ask why, just do it. Like brushing
your teeth...it's good for you.

Shhh...they're all around us....

2009-03-25T15:27:00.001-07:00

If you don't read this column, then you're not doing your part as an American.

Baseball, your Mom (YES!), and shiny red apple confections aren't pushing our nation to be a beacon of hope, strength and commerce to our broke ass brethren.

They're among us. If you can't see them, you're either implicit or too laconic to see them.

You're un-American if you can't see how quickly they've infiltrated every facet of our culture. They've become a vile greenish brown swath of heathens, bouncing meandering paths of slip and slither.

We scour our culture at ever facet to find you. We know where you are and what you're planning.

Your enterprising push towards making us a weaker nation has been blown apart by those that care about the United States.

You pretend to care about who we are, yet flail arrogantly in a public forum about the "greater good". I'm tired of shielding my face and dampening my voice from your jingoistic trail of a pursuant fiscal path for the greater good of our country.

Eff you Thin Mints.

Kiss my ass, Dulce De Leche-you're in America now...speak Spanglish you communist bastard.

Samoas...I don't even know what that name means. But you have coconut, therefore it's my job as to hate you.

Tagalongs...how could you do that. Peanut butter? The culinary paste that holds our raisins onto our celery? That's low, you sick bastards...

By now my editors are struggling to find words to replace the disallowed list I'm not supposed to fling into my column when I'm describing Girl Scout cookies.

But I thought it was time someone said something about those pig-tailed terrorists, marching their way up and down my street, squeezing bits and pieces out of my mortgage that I don't have, to pay for things I don't want...only to lead me to medical conditions that I don't expect.

Isn't that the definition of a domestic terrorist? Spreading fear and disrupting the very fabric of societal existence that helps us to be productive citizens? There's also another term to describe that: Cookies.

Though what is life without those small circles of molten caramel and gooey pastry? Or those little chocolate medallions of minty magnificence? Yes, I know...Girl Scouts hate Americans along with Fox News, but I can't help myself and find it generally pointless to resist.

Just for those of you who haven't figured out sardonic tone yet: Girl Scout cookies aren't good for you. They have about a thousand million calories per box. If you eat three sleeves of those scrumptious little disasters, you might want to schedule an angioplasty the next day and scrape that crud out of your arteries.

But I'm still going with the anti-American terrorist vibe for the Girl Scouts. Come on, you seriously don't see it? The uniforms, the beret's? The attack-dog tactics at grocery stores? Until we stand up in unity, they will continue to bombard us with their guilt speech and tasty heart disease in a box.

Viva la Oreo!

Drink.Drank.Drunk

2009-02-15T14:36:00.000-08:00

Holy shit, I'm drunk.

It's my day off. Or...one of my days off. A Thursday. Whatever.

As I take attack upon my keyboard, I don't really have much to say in terms of another socio-political rant. I'm also tired of talking about the fetid mongoloids that come into the bar. I felt I was entitled to let loose a little bit. Become that person that I so loathe in my establishment.

I decided to just drink Ketel One and Hornitos. From the bottle. This may or may not be a cry for help.

My plan was to keep drinking until I thought of something funny to write about. And I haven't. So, I just kept drinking. Which, in and of itself became kinda funny.

So, I tried to keep a mental log of my thoughts and activities. By mental log, I mean what I extracted through the addled haze. I refuse to accept responsibility for the authenticity, because my blood alcohol hovers somewhere near an Irishman on St Patrick's Day.

9:17PM: I'm really bored and have almost next to nothing to do. I decide I'm going to have a few cocktails. I hear the baby next door start crying. I tell myself it's only a coincidence.

9:39PM: I fart so loud, I hear my neighbors laugh. Which in turn makes me laugh and turns into a machine gun anal outburst. Apparently I have no shame. Or class. I head to the toilet just in case.

10:06PM: Being just above functionally retarded, I decide to pour myself another shot and a sip from the bottle. This is the beginning of The Decline toward infantile behavior. Again.

10:21PM: I talk to a Jewish friend online and ask him about an anti-semitic slur on TV. He says he's never heard of it. I spend the next twelve minutes using that term in various permutations associated with his name. I no longer have a Jewish friend.

11:04PM: After missing my mouth and dumping my drink into my lap, I go downstairs to make myself another cocktail. I discuss the finer points regarding Padres ace Jake Peavey's pitching mechanics and my belief that he may be heading for elbow surgery. With Bubba. A yellow lab.

11:44AM: While watching an episode of Three's Company about Jack Tripper growing an mustache, I consider growing a push broom over my upper lip. I have a feeling I've developed brain damage.

11:59PM: I watch a docudrama about Def Lepppard on VH-1. I remember a joke. What has nine arms and sucks? Def Leppard. I'm a jerk.

12:07AM: I call my younger brother Chris to tell him he's an asshole for hitting me with a wiffleball bat when he was nine. He sighs and tells me to grow up. I vow revenge.

12:19AM: I spend fifteen minutes discussing Jake Peavey's career and his obvious path towards the Hall of Fame. I rail on about his seemingly impervious ability to avoid injury. Bubba licks his butt. I personally feel I won the debate.

12:42AM: As I'm walking downstairs, I flub the last few steps and eat it at the bottom. After I'm finished laughing/cursing, I walk to the kitchen to make another drink and stub my toe on the fireplace. Sailors should take notes on how to curse from my tirade.

1:07AM: I convince myself I can speak Swahili. I also convince myself I should start a movement towards speaking this African language. I call my friend in Colorado. He tells me I should hit myself in the head with a rock. Pencil him in as secretary of defense for my cabinet.

1:34AM: Stumble and bumble my way to the restroom. I cringe at the hideous creature in the mirror and make my way to the toilet. I'm not going into detail, but suffice to say my aim wasn't spot on.

10:04AM: I wake up on my floor. My TV is showing a sneering Kevin Bacon in Footloose and my laptop sits dutifully next to my head. I'm not sure how I got there. I do have a sneaking suspicion why I feel like a bag of ass though.

Oh Hornitos..I thought you were my friend. E Tu, Ketel One?

2009-01-31T11:36:00.001-08:00

I was going to write something pithy and topical about Barack Obama ascendinghis golden chariot to his place in political and world history. Alas, I'm lazy and didn't want to actually do any research.

While everyone else is going nuts and applauding like a bunch of mental patients who found a bag of Skittles, I tend to lean away from popular opinion like it's a befouled diaper and look at things from a more realistic
skew.

This is also known as being negative and condescending.

First things first...I'm sure he'll have to change the White House doorbell from "One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer", to something a little less offensive...like Barry Manilow or Celine Dion. Actually, from what I could
gleam off the Googles, Obama has Frank Sinatra, the Rolling Stones and Kanye West on his playlist. Not too shabby, except for Kanye West. He's a delusional prick.

The incoming tenant of the big honky house is going to be forced to walk around each of the 35 bathrooms and throw away GW's copies of Maxim magazine, and I'm sure the daft cowboy will be very sullen when his
subscription to US Weekly is canceled. Fortunately,I hear that he will continue in W's consistent use of Ann Coulter's books as toilet paper. So at least those trees didn't die in vain...

And since I brought up vanity...even though Rush Limbaugh is begging and hoping for Obama to fail, he's secretly ecstatic because our new presidentsingle-handedly rejuvenated his stagnant, boorish,Oxycontin snorting life by giving him something to direct his simple-minded, vitriolic
little diatribes at while drooling on himself during his radio show.

Now that I think of it, it's no wonder all those bumbling republican talking heads like Hannity,Glen Beck, and Micheal Reagan have radio shows. Their audience is quickly shuffling into their 70's and like to reminisce about sitting next to the radio when they were kids.

Same goes for Alan Colmes, Rachel Maddow, and Keith Olbermann and the rest of
the left leaning loons. To me,they're just another seeping crew of vapid,
smarmy media blowhards who really only care about their ratings and seeing
their face on the boob tube fighting the great evil known at the conservative
right.

For the most part, yes, we're all happy that our nation is finally pullingit's old white head out of its' collective ass, but until I see actual tangible proof that we're heading in a different direction, I'll still deride those who think that they can show us how to live our lives better than we can.

Because at it's core, that's what politics is: People with money and power telling you what you can or can't do because they think it's best.

Here's to hoping Barack Obama lives up to the hype and actually does something positive for the people of this country, instead of lining the pockets of his smooshbag friends like our dimwitted and incompetent 43rd president did.

Here's to high hopes and good riddance...

You assholes...

2008-12-03T15:36:00.001-08:00

The summer crowds have rushed back to work, and the college kids have stumbled back to their dorm rooms, which can only mean that those of us in the booze business are hitting a little bit of a slowdown. It happens pretty frequently this time of year, and to compensate, we use a variety of tactics to put your butts on stools.

A staple of barroom attraction was the immensely popular ladies night. This is where ten girls would attract seventy guys, and would therefore be inundated with feeble lines just to enjoy three dollar Cape Cods all night.

About four years ago, to our eye-rolling chagrin, two silly little men wanted to attract attention to themselves and and pretend like we care about their small, insignificant lives. They sued seven local nightclubs and bars because they felt that "Ladies Night" was discriminatory against men.

Um...what?

Are you trying to tell me that after years of going to bars with similar discounts boosting the attendance of the fairer gender, that these aging douchebags suddenly decided to file suit? Apparently these weenies are just upset because they have to pay five bucks at the door and it hurt their little feelings.

In reality, they're vermin attorneys, paralegals and saw a $125K payday. This was just another in a long line of legal shakedowns, and we all know it.

You whiny, pointless, frivolous, litigious little turds.

I'm sorry that women in general don't like either of you old, sad little me. Yes, you're laughed at by the opposite sex, but why do you feel the need to hurt your chances even further by killing ladies' night for the rest of us?

So I felt I should write a missive...

Neil and Bob (seems appropriate),

I'm sorry your mommy didn't breast feed you long enough. I'm sorry you had to take your cousins to the prom. I'm sorry you two still wear acid washed jeans and think Clay Aiken is a masculine role model.

I'm really sorry you both have a background in law because you're going to continue to muck up the legal system with inane lawsuits that allow the rest of the country to look at the Left Coast and chuckle...Oh, you stupid Californians.

I almost fell out of my chair when I read a statement by Erik Jenkins, an attorney for the whiners, who I presume tried his best to keep a straight face as he made comparisons between ladies' night discounts and discrimination faced by blacks in the south.

WHAT THE FUCK?!?

So, Mr. Jenkins, clearly what you're saying is that when I have to pay an extra couple of dollars at a club, it's akin to being attacked, intimidated, beaten, segregated and murdered by some inbred honkies in Alabama? Yeah, I may have a hangover and my wallet might be a little lighter, but I can't say that I've ever been put through the same tribulations as a black person in the south.

I've had guys give me a hard time about ladies' night in the past, but I just tell them to come into the bar in drag, and maybe I'll serve them a reduced priced cocktail. Which I won't, I just want to see a throng of cross-dressing daffy surfer kids walking around Encinitas.

Seriously if you're that destitute, then maybe you shouldn't be in the bar in the first place. Both the plaintiffs had professional occupations so I doubt they were counting food stamps at Von's. This is simply a cash grab and a way for them to graft money from people who actually have to work for a living, while they feebly grasp for their fifteen minutes.

Well, that and broadcast their names to thousands of women who'd now like to kick them square in the nuts.

So, we as a people strive toward an equal populace, where everyone has the same chance and men and women embrace blissfully in the flower-laden fields. Sorry to burst your bubble Sparky, but that only happens in Zoloft commercials, and you'd have to eat a handful before you buy all that crap.

There are going to be gender differences regardless. Did suing those clubs have a positive impact on gender relations in San Diego? No, of course not. One club actually went out of business because of it.

Eventually, this stupid situation will just go away and those two dingles will always be known as the men who took away ladies' night.

How's that for a legacy? Neil and Bob can tell their children that they battled demons and slew the dragons for the betterment of gender equality everywhere!

In actuality, their kids will realize their dads were just boring, greedy assheads that ruined a good time for everyone else.

When all is said and done, we need to be more personally responsible and concern ourselves less with other people's actions.

How does this lawsuit affect you personally? For most of you, I'm sure it won't make much difference. For me, and every person that works in a bar, it absolutely does. Very simply put: less women come in, therefore less men come in looking for them. Which means I make less money.

I wonder where this is leading though. What can of worms is this opening for other bars and nightclubs and the specials they use to entice people to patronize their establishment?

I think Neil and Bob should have just done that and left the rest of us alone.

...and this is the kind of moronic e-mails I have to deal with...

2008-12-01T12:31:00.001-08:00

(This is a real e-mail I received from an obviously enlightened dongle with the cryptic email address cleancnc@aol.com)

Mr Doorman! I was reading your article the other day and had a few comments!

In your article you came off very passive and then hit your
readers right between the eyes! I do not know if you really understand what is really going on with Prop 8? First of all, Since when is it's anyone's business what your sexual preference is or what YOUR taste is?

This is the problem with the GAY community! How come you never hear from STRAIGHT couples if they are straight or gay? Why don't you ever hear of STRAIGHT couples going around telling others what their personal preferences are or what they prefer! If gay people would read their bible and obide by what was written hundreds of years ago they would understand that Marriage was meant for a man and a Woman!

Why is it in almost all Gay relationships that one person plays a more dominant role and the other a more passive role? The reason is ! GOD made man to be a MAN and a woman to be a Woman! It is as simple as that! It really hurts me to see that not even 10% of our population tries to upset our Tradition that has made our country what it is today! It' usually the minority that tries to rule! I really feel the reason why their is such a huge problem with our Gay community is because most of all Gay people are very frustrated with their own physical or mental outcome! Believe me! All you have to do is read a little in the bible and you would understand this issue and not jump on the political band wagon and fuel this political fire!

In closing! If you do not believe in the bible or GOD! Please explain to me one thing! Explain to me WHAT ENERGY SOURCE KEEPS YOUR HEART CONTINUOUSLY PUMPING?

Thank You and have a great day!

Hippy Cars

2008-11-22T16:05:00.001-08:00

Dear Prius Owners,

Thank you for doing your part to make the planet a better place. It’s nice to have a conscientious group of tree hugging tofu monkeys out there, willing to drive a hunk of poo so that the polar bears aren’t forced to cannibalize each other. But I feel it’s time we addressed your means of transportation.

Your car looks like a cross between a hot wheels and a toaster. I mean, it’s Ugly. Capital YOU. That whizzing, whirring pile of moving parts looks like a shoe...unfortunately it’s your car.

I’m sure you get looks from the ladies when you pull up to a red light, your pony tail whipping in the wind as you rev your engine...only to have your car make a sound like a robot getting a boner.

It’s not like driving a car with batteries and gasoline is any safer for the
driver either. A sardine can with flammable liquids and charged coiling plus a
person behind the wheel with way too many grande soy macchiattos in their blood
can only mean carmageddon...and even hippy blood spills red on the asphalt.

And not to bash hippies, but I’m going to and who doesn’t just love making
fun of them. With your hackey sack circles, hemp necklaces, and your undying
love of folksy double entendre bumper stickers.

Oh look, it says CO-EXIST, in all different religious symbols on the back of
your Prius. How...cute. And trust me, with your stinky closet full of Bush
hating T-Shirts you got from Hot Topic, you’re sure to land that barista at the
Daily Grind. You know, cause Starbucks is just soooo corporate and poopy.

Trashing the president is like beating a soccer mom with a baseball bat. It’s fun at first, but then they’ll probably find some way to arrest you for it.

What I’m saying is that we’re all very proud of you for choosing to drive a
car that gets great gas mileage but please don’t break your arm patting yourself
on the back.

We get it...you’re a great eco-warrior, battling the world’s oppressive hold
on our wallets, chaining us to the gas pump, raining down woe and destruction,
kicking puppies, punching babies, blah blah blah.

If you could just do all of that over there in the slow lane, we’d all
appreciate it...

Prop 8

2008-11-12T10:39:00.001-08:00

You hate gay people.

They’re quirky and yucky and they make you feel uncomfortable.

It’s okay to admit that you’re a homophobe.

You try not to be “that guy”, but you have a couple of drinks and then use the word “fag” in a passing sentence about people you don’t agree with.

It’s just a joke. Who cares...right?

They’re different. They don’t see the world like you do. Their flamboyant lifestyle is a minority belief and they chose to exist within the dalliance of an alternate existence. It’s embarrassing and goes against all that you’ve been raised to believe in.

Their lifestyle is a stereotype like any other statement by a stupid moron too lazy to actually discover the truth.

Honkey’s can’t dance, do math or be cool. Asian’s can do math but can’t drive. Black people love watermelon(So do I ). Middle Easterners own convenience stores.

Does that make things easier for you? Do you feel better putting everyone in a little box?

Oh wow, I forgot to tell you...they’re just like you by the way.

No difference, no change, and nothing separates them from you other than a biological imperative and your smug/snug hold on your bible.

A bible that means just as much to them as it does to you by the way, except they have to be exceptionally Christian and forgiving to accept the fact that people in their own congregation disagree with their lifestyle. Just because of a worthless book of fiction...written a thousand years ago by sad, small-minded men whose sole intent was to control people with a wee understanding of the world around them.

In a word, they feared difference. If it skewed from their comfort zone, it was sin and was to be punished.

If you think a gay man or lesbian intentionally chooses to be different and ostracized by society at large, then you’re just as dumb as the men that wrote the bible.

They want to live their life like the rest of us...liberated of governmental interference, societal exile, and with a feeling of freedom from prejudicial judgement. Weird huh?

So when you voted for Proposition 8, what you’re saying is that you’re upset about people that are only slightly different than you, yet they should not enjoy the same legal, financial and moral benefits that you live with every day.

Proposition 8 says that according to the California constitution, two consenting American citizens can’t get married. Even though they love each other and are in a committed relationship. Even though heterosexual relationships are flailing at about a 70% failure rate in California.

Of course the religious right and those silly Mormons were bound to show up and throw their sacred-underwear-wielding cash into the mix. Even though they’re based in Utah, they donated millions to a proposition in California to keep things traditional.

You know like slavery was traditional. And internment camps were traditional. And separate bathrooms, sitting in the back of the bus, and how it was traditional for women to stay barefoot and pregnant and couldn’t vote until suffrage.

Yeah, tradition has been wonderful for America...

Okay...

2008-11-05T09:32:00.001-08:00

Well, here you go President-Elect...we gave you the reins. Now it's your turn...

Education

2008-10-21T13:06:00.000-07:00

Barack Obama:
Columbia University - B. A. Political Science with a Specialization in
International Relations.
Harvard - Juris Doctor (J. D.) Magna Cum Laude

Joseph Biden:
University of Delaware - B. A. in History and B. A. in Political Science.
Syracuse University College of Law - Juris Doctor (J. D.)

John McCain: United States Naval Academy - Class rank: 894 of 899

Sarah Palin: Hawaii Pacific University - 1 semester
North Idaho College - 2 semesters - general study
University of Idaho - 2 semesters - journalism
Matanuska-Susitna College - 1 semester
University of Idaho - 3 semesters - B. A. in Journalism

Education isn’t everything, but this is about the two highest offices in
the land as well as our standing in the world.

You make the call.

http://larrykinglive.blogs.cnn.com/2008/10/17/mccain-and-letterman-make-up-is-lkl-next/

Third debate for President of these United States...

2008-10-16T04:46:00.001-07:00

Well, I'm sorry...but McCain looked angry, irritated, mystified and perplexed. He was outclassed, ill prepared, and obviously the eloquence of the debate danced towards Senator Obama.

Trust me, both parties are a rapid fucking joke. They neither represent me, nor anyone I know but unfortunately I have to vote for Obama to cancel out my Dad's vote.

Simple as that. Obama/Biden can do less harm than McCain/Palin.

Today's Empires/Tomorrow's Ashes...

Strap in folks...the next four years are gonna get bumpy..

Listen to Bad Religion...

2008-10-09T03:06:00.001-07:00

Early man walked away as modern man took control.

Their minds weren't all the same, to conquer was his big goal,

So he built his great empire and slaughtered his own kind,

Then he died a confused man, killed himself with his own mind.

Hmmmm....sound familiar? And that was released over 25 years ago...

Palin is an Idiot

2008-10-08T03:48:00.001-07:00

Seriously, let's see how many hits I get on my blog by saying that Sarah Palin is an idiot. I'm just curious
how many people are thinking the same thing I am.

Here I come Washington!

2008-09-12T00:35:00.001-07:00

I’m running for office!

Considering the current state of politics in our perpetually polarized little nation state, I feel it’s time I officially announce my candidacy for the office of Mayor/Czar/Supreme King Ruler of our little hamlet known as Encinitas.

Contrary to most of the e-mails I receive, I’m not a complete low brow mouth breather. I realize I’ll have to start at the local level before I can move on to attaining a seat in the senate. Yet I also know I’m going to have to join either the ‘Pubs or the ‘Crats...since you can’t make any real difference in this world until you declare your allegiance to one of our archaic Jackass and Dumbo sideshow parties.

Since John McCain and the Grand Ol’ Party (that even sounds racist) have finally lost their collective marbles, along with their campaign hopes, in choosing Alaskan Governator Sarah Palin, I don’t think I’d like to join their crusade. There’s just too much pent up sexual tension and when you add extreme right wing evangelicals to the mix, only bad things can come of it.

When I first read about their decision to tap the uber-Christian mother of five, I thought it was a joke. I’d never even heard of the woman who looks like that naughty schoolmarm from those late 80's Skin-O-max flicks that were only shown at 4AM.

Then there’s the Democrat's nominee, the neophyte senator from Illinois whom in his early days was fond of smoking weed and doing cocaine. His vice presidential choice, Joe Biden, was near dead last in his college class, and was 76th in a class of 85 in law school and somehow finagled four deferments from the draft during the Vietnam war.

Then again, John McCain is no scholar. He graduated 894th out of 899 students at the Naval Academy. He also managed to crash four planes but at least he didn’t hide from the war.

Back in Encinitas...the first mission would be to take the mayoral seat away from Jerome Stocks. Or maybe I can start by sneaking in under the guises of a council member.

Let’s see who I can replace first...whoa! Apparently James Bond is a member of the Encinitas city council? Well, forget that one then. I’m not going to risk getting double O-kicked in the face.

That leaves Dan Dalager, Deputy Mayor Maggie Houlihan, and Teresa Barth. But the problem with taking their position is that they are real public servants. Civic minded people who’ve stepped forward to make their community a better place.

I just kinda wanna abuse my power, siphon funds into my bank account, and maybe smile for pictures and kiss a couple babies (if necessary) before I jet off to Washington D.C. and really begin enjoying the spoils of a political career.

I don’t even know where to start. Is there even a local election process? And when can I start earmarking public funds for my junkets to Las Vegas or spend the tax payers money for my own morally bankrupt reasons? Since when did rules apply to politicians?

In reality, I have to believe that people initially get into politics in an effort to improve the lives of their constituents. But as they progress towards bigger offices and expanded territories, it seems they get a little sidetracked and lose their way.

So let’s take a few minutes to look at politics on a grass roots level, where you can still sit in on meetings, the people are tangible and actually care about what’s happening around them.

Oh, and vote for me in the next election! If there is one...

Governor Palin's Daughter

2008-09-02T13:09:00.001-07:00

So, politics is a big shit sandwich that we're force fed every day. At this point both candidates care about nothing but themselves and prolonging their brief stay of power.

But the big glossy drama lately is VP choice Sarah Palin's 17-year-old daughter's pregnancy.

Okay, we all know what happened and while glaringly hypocritical in the face of Republican's "Family Values" platform (and not to mention a huge whoops about preaching abstinence), let's remember this is still just a kid in high school whose face is now thrust onto the national media scene. Small minded people with their snide remarks and hateful comments aren't doing anything positive and only stand to make current politics more disgusting that it already is.

Let's just focus on the our sad choice of inutile candidates and the issues, not the unfortunate choice of Palin's daughter.

2008-06-25T14:34:00.001-07:00

Thank God I'm an Atheist

Don't be an brainless idiot...

2007-12-26T01:55:00.001-08:00

Intelligent design...

are you fucking serious? Come on, I know that most of you brainless fucks wanna believe in something that espouses the hilarious divine direction...but don't be a daffy asshole.

Seriously...grow up.read.and accept the truth.

Science triumphs Faith

um..okay...

2007-12-05T17:35:00.001-08:00
Death...

As another birthday creeps along the calendar to find me, life and death usually pop their silly heads up and beg another conversation.

The final breath that walks us through our last steps towards what will continually be the original enigma. What happens after we die?

That’s the ultimate question. The quintessential quandary that we all shoulder on a daily basis. Our hesitating pulse about what comes after we let go of our last breath.

I’m guessing the Christians who are holding this are going to expect me to spew some wonderfully angelic missive about divine acceptance, bright lights, relatives, St Peter, and Pearly Gates.

Unfortunately kids, that’s Hollywood filling your heads with silly antiquated nuggets of pride and pompous allegations from an old book that still doesn’t make sense.

Being an agnostic on good days, and an atheist on most, I’m guessing death is akin to a long journey down a hollow black tunnel ending in a nice long nap. Also know as simply losing your consciousness. Unless you croak in some horrific accident or something. Yeah, try and avoid that.

Regardless of what every religious group wants you to think, we’re all just a bag of blood and bones. Sentient tissue that for some reason thousands of years ago, became aware of itself.

Now we fear death. And the worst part is we waste minutes of our life worrying about how it’ll eventually end.

Or even worse we spend time worrying about how our sack of flesh is going to be presented to our grieving loved ones. Personally, I don’t care what you do with me. But after watching CSI enough times,

I’d rather be torched and just dumped somewhere that I might have liked. Drop me off at BevMo, the pitcher’s mound, Stockholm, into my Mesa Boogie, Julian or even San Clemente.

And people are so distraught at funerals. I’d rather just have everyone show up at the bar and have a good time. I’ll come back and haunt all you assholes if you have some sappy memorial that involves heartfelt stories and tears.

Enjoy the fact that we were all alive at the same time and got to revel in sharing our space on earth. Tip your glass and have a good time. That’s my idea of a send off.

As dreadfully a cliche as it is to mention enjoying every day and telling those around you how much they mean to you, I’ll do it anyway. We’re only on this muddy rock for a short time. It’s up to you how you spend your consistently dwindling time here.

Work, bills, and stress will always be there for us to wear throughout life. Shed those gremlins and grab a smile occasionally. And try not to take yourself too seriously, because no one makes it out of life alive.

As I'm reading Paul's blog...

2007-12-01T10:12:00.000-08:00
and I'm beginning to realize what a hypocrite I am for not even owning a bike anymore. What a douche....

Southern California burns...

2007-11-10T12:11:00.001-08:00

If started off like any other day.

After having a post-shift drink and blathering about nothing of consequence with my doorman Ilich, I got into my Jeep and drove towards San Elijo Hills. I thought nothing of the night and only smiled inwardly at the thought of eating my turkey sandwich from 7-11 and getting some sleep before tomorrow nights shift.

I got a phone call from my roommate right about the same time I realized there were a few Carlsbad police officers blocking San Elijo Hills Road.

Evacuation.

We were told to leave. But how do you pack up your life within minutes? I didn’t even get that chance. I was turned away before I could gather any of my belongings.

That old question about what to pack if your house was on fire came in black comedic waves as I did my best to take a mental inventory of what I had in my Jeep and what I could possibly lose if the fire chose my direction.

So I had to quickly weigh my options. I could drive to my parent’s house, wake up various friends or co-workers, or I could stay at the Howard Johnson on Leucadia. Which I promptly did at $89/night.

Rubbing my eyes and clearing my sore throat after a horrible night of sleep, I peered outside my room to a jaundiced lilting haze that gave a surreal look to the trees as they bowed in the face of the wind’s enthusiasm.

Knowing I would never make it to my parent’s house in El Cajon without sitting in gridlock for three hours, I decided to poke around Encinitas.

The wind and ash made it tough to even be outside, and no one argued with my opinion. Downtown Encinitas looked like the set of a really smoky post apocalyptic horror film, replete with a yellow sun and crying dry winds.

So I went to 1st Street and did what anyone else would do in my situation. My manager Shaun and I called all the bartenders knew to come in and commiserate with us. With most of the businesses in the area closed, our community shelter replete with booze was soon a bustling little activity of commerce for those of us watching the 24 hour pyro pornography on all news stations.

With little or no sleep, I didn’t expect to work that night. I was wrong.

I instead had to serve all the scared, angry, distraught people who were evacuated from their homes or had lost their dwelling to the angry flames that danced through our little hamlet.

I also had to serve the jubilant(like myself) patrons who’s homes had been spared the fire and were lucky to still have a place to lay their heads at night.

The dichotomy between the groups was palpable, even if the booze blurred the line between the two. For them, and me.

This is something none of us will ever forget. No matter what paths our lives follow from this day forward, we all sat at the mercy of nature just when we feel indestructible. Cell phones, computers, satellites, internet and the like have a way of keeping us connected by separating us.

It’s times like these that help to remind us that we’re all in this together. Mother Nature picks and chooses our fates…we just deal with her decisions…

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God...

2007-10-12T17:28:00.001-07:00

I fucking hate religion...

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Ya know why I hate politics...

2007-10-11T02:01:00.001-07:00

One simple reason...it poisons people's minds. Good people get pushed in the wrong directions because of fear or hate...

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My Buddy Paul...

2007-10-02T15:23:00.001-07:00

Check out my friend Paul's blog....thought provoking, definitely worth reading, and I once saw the guy threaten to pummel an entire youth hockey team in Quebec. Gotta love him....

http://thenewamericancity.blogspot.com/

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Billo

2007-09-27T16:16:00.001-07:00

Seriously, how do you go on Bill O'Reilly's show and not wanna punch him in the face? He makes me fucking sick sometimes...

Vote Ron Paul...

2007-09-27T16:07:00.001-07:00

Everyone else seems like a fucking lunatic compared to this guy...and the worst part..he won't even make a dent in race...

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Milton Bradley is a GIGANTIC ASSHOLE

2007-09-27T04:36:00.000-07:00
I'm so fucking tired of hearing that pompous asshole bitch and moan about how the whole world is coming down around him.

Take a wild guess why that is you stupid dick.

Because you're a child with no means to control yourself. I don't wish an injury on anyone, but don't blame that shit on the umpire. He might have agitated the situation, but you're the fucking nutbag who flipped out and tried to attack an official.

I don't condone Winters, but serious Bradley...grow the fuck up for once. Accept that you have serious impulse control/Ego issues and move on you self-centered prick...

Cartoons

2006-11-09T10:08:00.000-08:00
Boring.

That's the most succinct way for me to describe the shows and cartoons
that are on for children nowadays. I was trying to watch some stupid
thing my nephew was watching the other day, and could barely get
through ten minutes of it before I had to walk out of the room.

I think current network broadcasts are breeding a generation of
pansies with all that soft, boorish crud that kids are digesting every
day.

Where's the calamity? The gore? The wanton violence and blood lust
that I was privy to? I awoke each morning at 6am with two thoughts on
my still forming mind: Cartoons and cereal.

So with eyes wide with gleeful anticipation, and the next brutal
beating of one cartoon character by another imminent, I dove into my
Cheerios and kept the 'toons flowing.

Who says cartoons and early morning entertainment weren't educational?

I learned about physics. Like if you step off a cliff, you won't
actually fall until you realize that you're still hovering over empty
space. You usually get three running steps before you disappear in a
downward plume of smoke.

I also learned that umbrellas don't do squat when you jump off the
house. Mary Poppins is a goddamn liar.

I learned about drug use. If you can honestly tell me that Scooby and
the gang weren't smoking dope, then I'll personally buy you your own
Mystery Machine.

Plus, did you notice that Fred kept sending Velma, the closet lesbian,
with Shaggy, the shiftless hippy, and Scooby, the only dog with a
speech impediment, off on their own so that he could "search for
clues" with Daphne. Yeah, whatever Fred...nice neckerchief.

I learned about abstinence from watching the Smurfs. Since there were
about a hundred of those little blue freaks and only one was female.
Or maybe Smurfette was just a filthy smurfing whore.

I learned that when you take a young boy into your home and share with
him your love of tight spandex, manservants, and cave dwelling you're
not a pedophile...you're Batman. And he's not a scarred, abused youth
in need of therapy...he's Robin, the Boy Wonder. I think it's more
like...the Boy's Wondering what the hell he's doing with this this
creepy guy sporting the codpiece.

I learned that creativity can come from anywhere. I personally feel
that Sid and Marty Kroft must have been eating handfuls of blotter
acid before they created H.R. Pufnstuf. That show freaked me out, but
strangely enough babysitters and older relatives with bloodshot eyes
for some reason thought it was hilarious.

I learned that the dinosaurs from Land of the Lost would eat that
silly stupid stuffed Barney the Purple Dinosaur. That's if the
Sleestaks didn't get him first.

Then there's the crowning achievement of all violent cartoons: Tom and
Jerry. That frisky cat and smarmy mouse did battle for decades, never
once wavering from their pervasive onslaught of pain and torture upon
one another. I'm not really sure what the ASPCA's official feeling was
about the show, but it couldn't have been very positive.

I also learned that hitting your brother in the head with a frying pan
doesn't change the shape of his head into a frying pan. Oh, and a fire
cracker blowing up in your hand/face doesn't actually turn you black
from the explosion. It only results in second degree burns and
lifelong ligament damage. Whouda thunk it?

So when you hear people discussing my age group as the "Lost
Generation", don't readily take that erroneous pablum as
truth...because it's not. After all the violence, creepy animated
adventures and drug addled television we've seen growing up, we're not
lost...we're just hiding.

...and I have

2006-10-08T04:56:00.000-07:00
...An Amerikan dream

But it involves black masks and gasoline

One day I'll turn these thoughts into screams

At a world turned its back down on me

Censor Me

2006-09-01T13:30:00.000-07:00

Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines censorship with the simple sentence: to examine in order to suppress or delete anything considered objectionable.

Anyone who’s ever presented a piece of art, writing or photographic interpretation of what they’re trying to express usually describes it as something else. Bullshit.

Now, what really ticks me off is that the word I chose to describe how I feel isn't going to be used. They’ll say BS, or bull puckey, or some other childish term that doesn’t offend those with soft ears or who are pure of heart.

I used to be able to write certain words and phrases and it would get published verbatim. As long as I didn’t drop an F bomb in all its grand glory, my column would be published exactly as I’d written it.

But it seems as The Coast News has started to infiltrate the more affluent areas of San Diego, I’m getting much less room to negotiate my point of view.

My column regarding the Hotel del Coronado was supposed to have the sentence, “That place is as scary as shit.” Instead, the S word was edited to say “you-know-what.” It made me look like a moronic second grader. I was instantly irate. I felt like pushing an old lady down a flight of stairs or punting a bag of kittens.

I couldn’t believe that the same newspaper that has let me run rampant for two and a half years was starting to censor the ramblings that fell out of my head and into newsprint every week. Then the realization of advertising money and who exactly was reading the paper became clear.

What I discovered next shocked me like I’d taken a leak on an electric fence. They don’t even run my column in the Rancho Sante Fe version of The Coast News. Apparently the thought of the wealthy reading my column and regurgitating their Starbucks all over the Persian rug is just too much for them to handle. God forbid.

Censorship has gotten to the point where simple words are offending the puritanical masses so profoundly that ridiculous sums of money are levied against those that dare verbalize a word that the FCC deems too ghastly to say in public.

George Carlin made national attention in 1978 when one of his comedy routines was played at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon. One thing lead to another and it was established that there were seven words that could never be spoken on air. The naughty police will wash your mouth out with soap. Nuns will punch you in the face and grandmothers will kick you square in the gonads.

As my editors have been pulling my leash even tighter lately, I thought I’d share these seven potty-mouthed words in terms that I’m allowed to express myself with.

They are poo, tinkle, fug, rhymes with bunt, a person who inhales a rooster, someone who engages in coital relations with a mother, and hooters. To me, those words are way more offensive than their predecessors.

Hitler’s a disgusting word to millions of people, yet I hear that every other day on the History Channel. Obscenity is an objective term and depends upon each person’s interpretation of what they find offensive.

Today we have a cadre of right-wing fascists who are trying to tell me what I can or cannot hear. Whether it’s FCC Chairman Kevin J. Martin, or members of the Morality in Media Inc., they all want to lend a heavy helping hand and push me into believing what I can or cannot listen to. They “protect” us by trying to determine the difference between indecent (which is just below how I’d describe the Bush regime) and obscene (which of course ruins all moral fiber, forces us take drugs and make babies out of wedlock).

Our government thinks of us as retarded simians. The oligarchy believes that if we’re left alone long enough to think for ourselves, we might lose all social culture and start living in trees if we happen to hear a few four letter words.

So, take a deep breath and calm down. The next time you get home from work, sit back with a cocktail, let your bitch outside, say hello to your neighbor Dick and change your pussy’s litterbox. You might try cooking up some shittake mushrooms and use your remote cuntrol, er control to waste away the rest of your night.

Quite simply, they’re just words. Air and guttural sounds emitted from our throat and larynx, changed and altered by our tongue and teeth so as to become coherent for us to understand.

We are the one’s who give them meaning and the power to offend us.

Personally, I have better things to worry about.

Shopping is fucking lame

2006-08-25T07:20:00.000-07:00
Shopping is so fucking lame. Unless it's for sports cars, season tickets or a new huge rack for your girlfriend, shopping is the just boring.

I'm the worst culinary procrastinator when it comes to having food in my house. I'm such a lazy ass, I'll wait till I'm down to two tortillas, four crappy rice cakes, and a jar of peanut butter before I'll schlep my way toward Von's. I never know what aisles carry what items, plus I turn into a teenager with a credit card.

Yeah, so what I admit it. In the past few months, I've purchased three toy guns, army men, IncrediBalls, squirt guns, a rubber snake to terrify house guests and more than a few of those sticky slimers that roll down the wall when chucked at the closest drywall.

I am Man. Hear me purchase...stupid inane items that usually only children with a paltry allowance and funds from a summer of lawn care entrepreneurship would ever buy.

My common plan of attack usually involves grabbing a cart. Because those little basket things are useless, and I do my best when whisking down the aisles, finding what I need to keep my life near equilibrium.

At Von's, I race my cart with mercurial fluidity, grabbing the various meats and cheeses that tickle my fancy. This usually means shredded cheese for quesadillas and burritos, and a few bags of smoked turkey for post-work sammiches. Though I graduated from college years ago, I still shop and eat like I'm 19. Stop laughing please.

I'm always a sucker for the household cleaning area too. I'm susceptible to any new cleaning product or new fresh-rain scented device I can plug into a wall socket and/or bottle I can spray in my shower even thought I pay for a housekeeper to clean my place twice a month. I am clearly a moron.

I try to avoid the aisle with all the feminine products and adult diapers. That's the guy kryptonite zone. Unfortunately, at one time in our life, every guy has had to do the walk of shame and buy something for his girlfriend or wife.
Buying tampons can neuter a guy pretty quickly. So, to up the testosterone level of your purchase, you have to buy something that's really manly. Like a Mitre saw, or a mountain lion. I settle for beef jerky and a toy hammer that squeaks.

Then gliding down the frozen foods section, I'll buy the mainstay: Pizza and few frozen dinners that never look like the box when I cook it. It just always looks like the creeping crud you'd get in third grade. Four sections of brown, yellow, or green stuff that tastes like brown, yellow and green stuff.

As per usual, I write my initials on the inside of the glass doors, so that everyone knows I was there.

I buy a new shaving kit even though I have four news ones at home. I think this new razor has fourteen vibrating blades that should turn my face to mulch in no time. Sweet.

Last and not nearly the least is the booze section. Unfortunately, my Von's kinda sucks with it's selection. I'd advise going to BevMo in Encinitas. It's like a drinker's toy store. Just bring a credit card, and try not to drool.

For some reason people tend to give me dirty looks when I'm coasting down a certain aisle with a red firefighter hat on, six shooter cap guns strapped to my hips while I tear into a fresh bad of Red Vines. Why can't we have fun shopping too? Being an adult all the time is boring anyway.

So, don't judge me, I'm shopping.

Things I've learned working at a bar...

2006-08-25T07:07:00.000-07:00
-Waiting twenty minutes to get into a dive bar is just dumb.

-Always use an open stall when urinating. It only takes one drunken customer who sprinkles your shoe to learn that little gem.

-If someone says something dumb to me when I check their ID, they're statements are going to get increasingly less intelligent with every ensuing cocktail they pour down their throat. This is known at the Shhh-You're-Drooling-On-Yourself Paradigm.

-Seeing your customers away from the bar makes you think, “Who the fuck is having sex with these people?”

-The women's bathroom stinks just as bad as the men's.

-I still feel very fortunate that I get to write a column every week. I think my Mom is bribing my editors.

-Working at a bar doesn't necessarily equate to frequent, random sex. A girlfriend does.

-Roadhouse and Cocktail are the dumbest movies ever. and yet I still watch them.

-Even if you show me your boobs, I'm not giving you a free drink. But the rest of the bar appreciates your attempt.

-Not tipping = Bad karma. And pissed off bartenders.

-Friends and enemies come and go, but homeless guys will always smoke other people's cigarettes.

-Winning a bar fight is like getting free tickets to a Kenny Chesney concert. Even if you win, you're still really lame.

-Barroom intellectuals seem to gather strength and momentum if left to their own devices. It's best to fake a poop cramp and run away.

-My attention span has dwindled to sad proportions while bartending. Watching humans and their nocturnal predilection for booze begs the question of Darwin's sobriety.

-Hooking up in a bar is usually not such a hot idea. More than likely you're just another stop on her drunken carousel.

-It's usually a good idea to stay (somewhat) anonymous when you're out boozing in Encinitas. Having your friends read about your dumb ass can be hard on a fragile ego.

-If you're going to act like an asshole, people know you're full of shit.

Apparently it's quite evident that I've only gleaned a wee bit of wisdom during my tenure as a vodka jockey. Go figure. Then again, it's not like I learned that much in college either.

At least with this situation, my drinks are free...

Finally...and who the fuck took my name?

2006-08-25T06:37:00.000-07:00
First off, I wanna know who stole my Doorman Diaries name. Honestly.

Fess up. Tell the truth and I won't hit you in the head with a bacon press. If you're a fucklick and you swiped my name, stand up...and claim it.

Granted, it's not really mine...I think. I do remember through a Ketel One hazed fog that I copyrighted that term....right?