Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Cross-Tribal Mating Disasters (Part 1)

By some insane comedic twist of the universe, I actually dated a girl I met at one of the yuppie stockyards my straight friends always went to.  We went out four times, then simply stopped returning each other's calls: that made sense, as we had absolutely nothing to say to each other.  We were at one of the T.J. O'Mulligan-style bars, and I was sitting at the bar, drinking diet Cokes and feeling bored: it was 1998, and my friends, being in tech, were discussing the revolutionary possibilities of the World Wide Web.  (By 2002, many would be assistant managers at their local Starbucks, and happy for the work.  Their cars and furniture had already been repossessed, and now they were just happy to make rent.)  For now, their conversation both bored and irritated me --- I admit it, I was a militant Luddite when it came to personal computers, the Internet, or "any of that other digital bullshit.".  A good kitchen fire would have improved my mood, but no matter how hard you focus your mind....

Cross-Tribal Mating Disasters (Part 2)

She went in the bathroom, I unlocked my door, then remembered I needed to check messages.   (For various reasons, I had my own phone line.)  I was listening to them when she came back out of the john, walked into the middle of my room, and said in horror, "What in God's name is that?"
I looked around the room, trying to figure out what had her so startled.... And realized she was staring at my Dwarves poster, the one from the "Blood Guts & Pussy" album.
"Um, that's a poster for the Dwarves first album.  Didn't you say you graduated high school in 1990?"

Cross-Tribal Mating Disasters (Part 3)

We stepped out of my door and immediately ran into Rory the Mick, returning home from band practice, with his guitar slung over his shoulder and a bottle of Guinness in one hand.  Very brief introductions were made, and I asked him, "So who's playing at Gilman tonight, do you know?  I have no clue."
Rory said, "Ummm.....  I can't remember band names, but at least three I, like, mentally associate with OBHC, so that should give you a clue as to what the show and the music will be like.  I ain't going.  It started over an hour ago anyway."
"Yeah, but with five bands, what's the diff?  Besides, as long as you stay out of the pit, the whole OBHC thing is just plain overrated.  I know some of those guys, and they've always been mellow with me, even when they been drinking."

Saturday, April 26, 2014

Inhabitants of the Friend Zone: Bombing Will Commence in Thirty Seconds

Having always harbored an intense loathing of the show "Friends," I never heard the phrase 'Friend Zone' until the series was off the air. Despite all the analysis and explanations, there are still gray areas, vague unexplained concepts of the 'Friend Zone.'

The Friend Zone (FZ for short) would seem to be similar to Nice Guy Syndrome, in that you're dealing with a guy who has a romantic or sexual interest in a girl....  But lacks that last two inches of backbone to front up with the girl and ask her out or tell her how he feels.  However, a few things separate the two.  First, there's a chance that a guy who self-defines as being in the Friend Zone may actually have laid it out to the girl he's interested in, and got shot down ("You're a sweet guy, and I do like you, just not in 'that way.'").  Personally, the guy should suck it up, accept the reality --- gosh, you have a good friend, doesn't life suck --- get over it, and move on.  Nope: they pine for the girl instead, like a Nice Guy: she'll see what a Nice Guy I am and come around.

Friday, April 18, 2014

Fun With Pizza (Pt. 4: Students)

First, a bit of hate.

Really, the biggest problem with college students is that they're all dumber than neon tetras.  You know what, junior?  Fuck what your Stanford-Binet Intelligence Quotient came out to be.  Fuck your SAT scores, fuck your 4.0 GPA all through high school, fuck what your high school guidance counselor said about the future success you'd have, and double-fuck how mommy and daddy always told you what a gifted child you are.  News flash, brat: you're as stupid as a box of chalk, and even more worthless.

You know what college students are gifted in?  Taking tests.  That's all.  Outside of that scope, they have the self-preservation skills of a box turtle with fetal alcohol syndrome, the problem-solving skills of crab lice, the real-life comprehension skills of refrigerator mold, and the grasp of how everyday life works of a pine cone.  College students, no matter the meaning of that 1600 on their SAT, are unable to function without massive amounts of hand-holding aid and support.  "Intelligence," as measured via Scan-Tron, is useless unless coupled with a more basic concept: common sense.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Depravity (a.k.a. I Destroy Pedophiles For Fun & Profit)


This particular article has some rather disturbing content.  Please keep this in mind before you proceed.

The Depravity Event Horizon was passed even earlier than the Internet.  I worked in an "adult book store,"  and a few times a week we'd have creeps coming in looking for "the good stuff:" torture porn, rape, snuff (which I don't believe exists), bestiality, and of course pedophilia.  They were always sure we had the "good stuff" under the counter, or in the back.

The answer was "no," for all of it.  If they were looking for kiddie porn, the answer was "fuck no, get the hell out of our store you sick asshole."  I was sort of the semi-official bouncer, and seriously, the higher-ups (the store was part of a chain) told me that if someone came in looking for child pornography, and didn't immediately leave when told, I had permission to knock him around while "escorting" him outside.  "Don't actually injure him, but make it very clear he is unwanted in our stores and to never come back."
"What if he calls the cops for me roughing him up?"
The manager laughed.  "Yeah, right.  Some guy trying to track down kiddie porn calling the cops over a few bruises?  Don't worry: in a million-to-one chance that happens, the company has your back."

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Crushes, And "Nice Guy" Syndrome

I have never obsessed or gotten worked up over "celebrity" women.... With two exceptions.  The two women were Wendy O. Williams (of the Plasmatics) and Lois Ayres (of the adult film industry).  Wendy O. was definitely my thing when I was fourteen or fifteen: I liked aggressive women (and the use of electrical tape over nipples in lieu of a shirt); Wendy O. created an obsession with mohawked women that lasts to this day.  Seriously, I think women with mohawks are drop-dead sexy.  (It's been thirteen years now; my wife still refuses.)

Friday, April 11, 2014

A Little Bit About Dominatrices

It seems like I write about sex a lot, and I guess that's true.  But for me, there is no prurient drive in what I write; what I have to say is exploratory (like the article 'Perversion') or discussing things that have happened in my own working life, or the working lives of friends (like this piece).  As someone who has spent a lot of time around sex workers of various types, both professionally and just people who were friends, I appreciate anything that shows the human aspect of people in "naughty business."  The performers in porn?  They're fairly ordinary people who just happen to earn a living with their genitals.  And they're perfectly nice folks, too.

And today, we're going to discuss dominatrices, or dommes.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Fun With Pizza (Pt. 3, Modesto Interlude)

Modesto Interlude...

So I'm driving for an indie pizza store located on University Avenue.  Started off with a 1985 Honda Prelude, then moved up to a 1998 Civic DX....  The first "new" car I ever owned; the Civic was a fleet lease return with about nine thousand miles on it.  I'd change than number upwards, but quick.

I originally started off working a six-to-ten shift four days a week.  It was just supplemental income for my day job driving for a corporate mail service, which paid a crap hourly wage but had health insurance, not a bad trade-off.  The only reason I left that day job was I got snookered into moving back to Modesto, ostensibly to help run a courier service I'd worked for a couple years earlier (a whole different story in itself).  I got out to Modesto to find they didn't want my help running the business at all: they were just so starved for competent drivers, ones who weren't either geriatric or dumber than a boot full of pebbles, that they out-and-out lied to me to get me back.