HALF BAKED + RACISM ON TV.

So, I'm watching Half Baked on BET, baked out of my tree, when on comes the latest Snuggie Commercial. This was the only video I could find of it. If you haven't seen it already, you probably shouldn't click it. If you have, you may want to click it again to recall some kind of weird masochistic tendency you developed the first time you watched it. Apparently, since I'm watching BET, they air a different commercial. It's not the honky fest that you see on TV Guide or the Home Shopping network. No, apparently the Snuggie people decided that their advertisement was going to be hip and, as they say, "with it." They were about as on point as a Merle Haggart concert at a Shriner's convention. They dance in the video. Not trying to give anything away, just warning you. Their coreographer, apparently, had never gotten past the "white man's overbite" school of dancing.

Forgive me, I'm very fucking high and salivating thanks to some Pillsbury ads displaying the rising properties of Pillsbury biscuits versus other brands (which proved vastly superior to the store-brand).

The video is at once arrestingly pathetic in the sense that you think "Awww... They're trying so hard to be with it!" as you watch it, but it also you strikes you on the level of, "Wow, that's kinda racist!" Kind of in the way that Driving Miss Daisy was kinda condescending and antiquated, these people are raising their arms to some horrific infernal fusion of house and honky hip-hop while wearing their Snuggie everywhere - any activity a human being can do, they are there with their snuggies on. At the movies, walking the dog, watching TV, while cooking, while attending rallies - wait. Rallies? Yes. Fucking Rallies. There is a snippet in the video with at group of at least 50 people, on bleachers, attempting to "raise the roof" while that awful music plays and the voice over guy tells you that they're now available for your dog, and it is horrifyingly similar to some odd white power meeting/jousting competition. You must see it for yourself.

The next ad up was muted as a reflex action as soon as I shook myself out of my scorch-brained stupor. It featured some older black ladies that reminded me a lot of being in New Orleans after Katrina, so I thought it might be an ad for one of those mobile doctors offices that people are volunteering around the country since it's so fucked that nobody has health care in this country. So I unmute it thinking, "Oh, that's nice," then I lied to myself about how I'd totes donate if I had any money. It had a logo at the bottom advertising CareOne, reinforcing my theory that it was a mobile medical center. Nope. They were a credit card debt management company. "Help" comes in many forms, I guess.

Next was Avon, to round out the triumvirate with a nice racist Ponzi scheme designed to keep black people broke. The whole thing was pretty alienating. Also, they dubbed Dave Chappelle's voice with like three different people doing their best imitations. Sub-par, BET editors.

Then again, they also aired some Pillsbury doughboy commercials that made me very hungry.

FOR THE BRAVE:

MY FRIENDS ARE SICK

The Incident At 930 Alta Avenue from DeWalt Mix on Vimeo.


My friend's entry into the LA 48 Hour Film Festival. Personally, I am not reminded of 48 Hrs at all.

RE-ENTRY

SO I RECENTLY REINTRODUCED MYSELF into the life of a girl who is, among other things, very special to me. You may know her as emotionally-unavailable Valentine Candidate #1 from my Valentine's Day Post. It had been about a month and a half since I last saw her, but I was at my first shrink sesh in ages, so I was right up the block. I had just purchased a fantastic pair of sunglasses using my Banana Republic discount (among the only perks of working there), and was dressed rather snappily, so I decided to waltz in and sweep her off her feet. Apparently it had been too long since last I saw her, because I forgot that her feet were nailed to the fucking floor. I found myself having trouble meeting her gaze, my usually-rich baritone turning into a warbled screech, my palms sweating. I wondered what could be causing this frightful change in my unshakable demeanour. Yes, you guessed it - it was love. But I'm doing fine without her, I thought to myself. Why the fuck are you HERE? I reflected for a moment while she told me about her period which was the worst in recent memory and made her "look four months preggo." Because you'd be happier with her, dickhead! This was cause for consternation. My internal monologues are very infrequent, but when they occur they're generally right. I knew this was the case.


I realized that I was, in fact, happy to see this girl. She's always a mess, either because her stockings are running or because she's got a gnarly bruise or a hangnail. Today was no exception. She had just gotten some blemish removed right on the bridge of her nose, which she was perpetually worrying about despite it not mattering at all. I took a breath, grinned. She hadn't changed much, aside from the fact that she was seeing some Persian cunt who showers her apartment in rose petals or some such faggotry. She did give me great news, though - she'd decided to go back to school and was writing some scenes for herself. From what I've seen, she's a pretty good actress - I took her to a script reading for my Dad's new movie, and she cold read some bit parts really well.

I found my palms drier, and my voice steadier. She suggested we get a cup of coffee, so we went to Starbucks and had a pair of milkshakes for grown-ups (Frappucinos? Ice Blendeds? Something...) and a "Chocolate Banana Dream Cake" (who's the fag now?). We talked for a while about fulfillment and her lack thereof, and she played me some chick music that I pretended to like and we held hands for a bit. It felt great.

Then it was time for her to go to work, so I saw her off as she dashed in, late, then played around on the driving range to work off my drunk (I'd invited myself out for a few drinks, and I had accepted). We talked a bit on BBM and I read one of her scenes. It needed a lot of work. In her defense, it's an "episodic", but the rhythm was off (the first line is "I love you," for fuck's sake), and the dialogue needs some fine tuning. But I enjoyed it. Mainly because I'm familiar enough with her to know that she was writing herself, for herself, but it was nice to know I'm not alone in the fucked-up relationship department (I still have a slight scar from when my first - and last - Filipina girlfriend stabbed me in the chest with a pocket knife).

Then I left and got drunk with Brian.

THE FOLLOWING EVENING SHE WAS, naturally, going on a date with the Persian, but I grinned a double-wide grin of satisfaction knowing that at best he'd get his red wings on the worst rag of her young life, while I'd be out with a lovely blonde from work. I had a great time. We went to our "usual" spot for drinks, then we walked damn near three miles before settling on a place for dinner (ritzy Korean BBQ with tiny portions and enormous price tags), then made out and saw I Love You, Man (Hilar-bear - definitely see it) and made out some more. THE REST IS SECRET. But, gentle readers, at least you know now what I've had my hands full with lately. Also, I'm working on three graphic design jobs despite the fact that my work computer is in the shop so WTF. Talk soon, kiddies.

C'EST LA VIE

SO MY APOLOGIES for disappearing from the blogosphere. I can't really say what's been up, I've just been fairly stagnant creatively lately. I have been feeling amazing lately, though, like I hit up a Tony Robbins seminar followed by meditation and a high colonic. I was driving (well, being driven) to a friend's house in Glendale, and the sun was setting and casting this amazing glow over the mountains and I was suddenly grinning with this effervescence shooting out of my head. I felt at one with the universe. Everything was perfect. I could (and still can) do anything I want to, and I was everything all at once. It's hard to put into words, but it was almost like a moment of clarity for a depressed person to suddenly see all his gifts. I'm smart, funny, well-liked, well-traveled, well-spoken, and I've got shelter. I'm 21 years old and drug and disease free. Sorry if this sounds preachy and isn't the nihilistic dickhead talking that you've grown accustomed to, but I like this guy better anyway.  The world is wide the fuck open, and if you're privileged enough to be reading this (to have a computer, anyway),  odds are you're more blessed than you think, too. If you don't believe me, just remember one thing.

You could have a pimp.

Ciao for Now.

HOW HAS IT BEEN ELEVEN DAYS

11 DAYS SINCE MY LAST POST? WTF, YO? I vow to get back on it ASAP. I just wrote a long email though and it took a lot out of me but I've been feeling awesome lately. I've got great friends, I'm happy, I'm goodlooking, still jobless but what the fuck, and I'm creating something new every fuckin' day. I will drop mad knowledge first thing tomorrow. Happy Sunday Night people.

MUSINGS ON EVENINGS

SO LAST NIGHT I WENT TO A SAVED BY THE BELL PARTY. I had been looking forward to it for weeks, so I got decked out in a Letterman jacket and some groovy hi-tops and conned my friend Brian into driving me on this route. And presumably back home again. In exchange for this I'd bring him to a party where we'd be in an environment rife with nubile girls looking to be facebook friends. Perhaps even some love time. Either way, I convinced him to drive and, better yet, to go as Screech, going so far as to lend him one of my dad's shirts from the early 90s that looked very similar to a Dashiki.

We made a quick stop to buy birthday presents for the girls (a bottle of Don Julio that we were gonna drink and a shitty card), then drove the endless miles out to fucking Westchester to see what this party had to offer.

The answer, we soon found, was not a lot. There were slight ruminations of bass emanating from an empty garage, and a lone girl was trying desperately to re-hang a sign emblazoned with "HAPPY BIRTHDAY NAT AND MAD" but she was too short to reach. I gave Brian a look belaying my hesitance, comforted myself with the fact that I had some amazing Dr. Simon weed in my pocket, and headed in. Scattered crowd. No music inside, just an iPod in the garage. Dead as Elvis. As I turned to Brian and started to say "At least there's not that many dudes," EVERY guy in the greater Los Angeles area showed up and started mobbing on the few girls that were there. I wasn't too mad as there hadn't been much eye candy and the girl whose affection I was vying for (the birthday girl) looked really worn out and way too tired to fuck.

We decided that the only solution that will fix every problem is more alcohol, so we applied the theory in full effect. The Jungle Juice that allegedly had "six handles of vodka in it" got a little tequila face-lift from the girls' birthday present that Brian and I had helped ourselves to in true indian-giver fashion. Everything began to seem more interesting for the moment, and I talked to a couple girls doing the "stick and move" routine that usually works really well. It didn't.

This party was so full of guys, you had to book an appointment just to have a two-minute flirt. So I went into the dining room and played the worst drinking game of all time, flirted with somebody's wasted girlfriend, and killed time while Brian tried to lay the mack down. I decided it was time to dip into my supply of Dr. Simon's magical weed and invited a girl I had been talking to to sit down with me and smoke a J. She accepted, I got a couple frenchers, and we went about our business. I went back inside to see what Brian was up to. Let's just say he wasn't winning it. I was pretty fucked up, but I decided the best thing to do was to snatch bottle of Don Julio and nurse it until Brian got sober.

While I waited, I met with a fabled creature of yore, the uncharacteristically ever-present unicorn of parties - the beautiful, boring-as-fuck-girl. This girl was about 5'5", with bright, perky c-cups and long brown hair. She was sitting at the table getting hit on by two guys and I was drinking the Don Julio so I elbowed my way in and started talking to her. I instantly regretted it. Even my most base of flirts was met with a look of complete confusion. This girl was dumb as a fucking rock. I tried to get her to tell me about her stay in Germany, and heard the same boring stories of beer-halls and museums that everybody fucking has and I had to close my eyes so she wouldn't see me rolling them. I couldn't help it. She told me she spoke fluent Spanish so I busted out the classic "Entonces hablamos Espanol," which usually gets girls to raise their eyes in amazement that a guero has such a good accent and a degree of fluency on par with a native speaker. Not this little muffinbrain. She just looked at me like I had punched her in the face with a pillow. Complete confusion and a stupid grin. I decided this girl was not worth my efforts and smoked the middle third of the joint. I went back in. 1:15. I texted Brian to get us the fuck out of here, but he was still drunk as a priest. The solution was for him to eat cake. After fifteen minutes of him stuffing himself with birthday cake, we decided that it would soak up enough of the alcohol for him to be  roadworthy.

Not the case. He makes a wrong right turn that lands us on a familiar-sounding street, and all seems well for the moment. We bitch about the party and girls and life and muse on music and movies and pop culture and economic downturns while heading down this street for about twenty minutes. "Where the fuck is the 405?" Brian slurs, looking around in a fog. He is shitfaced, and we are doing an easy 80 down this street. I cannot possibly attempt to describe where we went because honestly, I have no idea what fucking portal we entered into alternate-universe Los Angeles. I do know that we were, at some point, in Windsor, then El Segundo, and finally Randy's Donuts. The route, as I can retrace it, is something like this. Except more driving. But while we were at Randy's Donuts, as I smoked the last of the joint and Brian pissed on a wall, the experience began to transcend into one of those magical evenings that affirm friendships so well. We bought 20 dollars worth of 80 cent donuts and milk and OJ and downed the shit like a hooker on crank. We sat in Brian's car, high, lost, and happy to have found this magical 24-hour donut shop that served pure joy. We sang along to Biz Markie's Just A Friend, and we sounded so amazing I had to send it to my friend Michele. We had fallen into a shitty evening, gotten lost, and found ourselves at a donut shop at 3AM.

We took pictures outside of Randy's iconic 20-foot donut knowing we'd never be there again. It was just by the magic of the evening that we'd even wound up so far from home.

But sometimes, far from home is right where you need to be.

REMEMBER THIS?

Common Mistakes When Receiving Oral Sex

BE WARNED: THIS IS KIND OF GRAPHIC. MY 21st BIRTHDAY PARTY. (SORT OF)

I had gone out with some old friends - the kind that you hang out with despite being utter fucking losers - and had decided to drink from one end of Santa Monica to the other. This being my first legal drinking binge in the continental US, I approached with vigor. The first part of the evening consists of shitty dinner whose purpose was simply to mop up the booze we'd later consume, then a few drinks at Makai - an overpriced bistro overlooking the Santa Monica Bay. The glitzy whore train that is Friday night at Makai was far out of the reach of my confederates and, being the team player that I'd decided to be that night, we split for Barney's Beanery. The atmosphere' something that can only be described as "Post-Wisconsin-Shithole-Community-College Stupidity", but despite the presence of most of the lower-end of the intellectual spectrum, there's quite a few visually-appealing specimens of the feminine form. So we stick around. My friend and I approach the bar as the rest of the gang mobs the pool table, under the auspices of him buying me some Johnny Walker Blue apart from the rest of the gang (none of us are flush, so I have no qualms about accepting free drinks). But instead of the usual glazed-over eyes and belly-button piercings usually found behind the bar at Barney's, there's a little gem of a girl (5' 6", Brunette, C) who'd eyefucked the shit out of me on the way over. So I have to get the first round, and when my friend attempts to order something girly, I give him a verbal thrashing that the bartender (Let's-Call-Her-Sally) finds amusing. Hearing it was my birthday and being an unrepentant cradle-robber, she buys me a shot and, against regulations, slams one back herself. We chat for a bit as my disheartened friend mopes back to the group with drinks, and she tells me she'll be off around two and would I like her to come over afterwards? I say maybe and take her number then go back to suck at pool for an hour and drink myself into an increasing stupor.

After my friends strike out, I decide it's time for Buster to call it a night, but on my way out I stop by Sally to confirm. We joke around a bit in an innuendo-ridden exchange and as we drink another Mind Eraser (Vodka, Kahlua, and Tonic), she says something stupid like "I can swallow anything." Music to my ears. I tell her I'll scoop her up when she gets off, so I do.

Driving back to my place is agonizingly difficulty given the booze, the hour, and the fact that the little minx to my right is alternating her lips between the flask of Everclear I had at the time, and a terrifyingly competent dose of road head. "This girl's a freak," I think to myself, "We might just have to get hitched!"

We make it back to my house and stumble in, where we make out with each other's dry, boozy faces for a few minutes, then I make a joke about her swallowing anything I give her. She laughs and tries to do something stupid like retain a shred of her dignity, but I'm not having any of that. By the grace of God we make it into my room, where I set my brand-new laptop (ah, what the illusion of wealth will do to a girl's thighs) to play some Chet Baker. She leans me back over my bed, says she's going to give me the best blowjob of my young life. Yeah, yeah. But her effort is earnest, and she works valiantly to make me squirm like a little girl. For the most part, she succeeds, but when I feel the throes of ecstasy working up my taint, I decide to wrap my hands in her hair and pump away instead of issuing the usual courtesy tap. She's pretty sauced too, but not nearly enough to not understand what's going on. She pulls back and, since I'm about to come and don't really care what she feels like doing, keep pumping as I stand up.

This is a bad idea because:

A) I have very little muscular control when I'm coming into a girl's mouth.
B) I'm shitfaced, so said muscular control is even less effective.
C) She really, really doesn't want to swallow my load.

As I stand up, she points my dick away from her and screams half of a "No!" before getting the first squirt into her mouth, when she grabs her throat, slaps my dick away, and stumbles backwards. I fart, the loudest, raunchiest, gnarliest fart that's ever come out of a human orifice, and keep coming. Another rope hits her in the face then, given the momentum my dick has from her cock-slap, I unwittingly aim my dick at my new $2,000 laptop and finish the third, fourth and fifth ropes onto its screen. The combination of shock, semen, and asshole stench have caused this poor girl to lose her shit completely, and with a face that looks like it's been freshly-doused in pepper spray, she falls ass-first into my Ikea trashcan, where she teeters for a moment before falling, trashcan attached to her ass, onto the ground.

Suffice it to say, I never saw her again.

TELL ME SOMETHING GOOD

SO A LOT OF PEOPLE OUT THERE ARE INSECURE. This we know, as an indisputable truth, to be a widespread phenomena that affects millions (probably billions) on levels from the mundane to the devastating. The rub, as the bard would tell it, is how these insecurities manifest themselves.

I got a call tonight from a pretty special friend of mine; "Let's-Call-Her-Michele". So Codename Michele texted me about twenty minutes ago with a hell of a spiel. It began with - and I'm paraphrasing - "I had a shitty evening tonight. I was hanging out with a friend of mine I was really jazzed to see, and she blew me off and it made me feel horrible. So horrible, in fact, that I cried myself to sleep (until she BBMed me) and decided to call you and apologize in case I'd done a similar thing." 

She seemed pretty distraught, so I tried to talk her down, but it got me thinking... Why the fuck would somebody's friend blow them off? The only reason I could think of was insecurity. My friend Codename Michele is very beautiful, and she's got a personality that can make you smile regardless of what's going on. With her or at her is a different story, but nonetheless, she's very impressive. So her cunt friend is obviously under the 8th grade impression that if I make somebody feel bad, I'll make myself feel better. I was upset, but I realized slowly that we're all guilty of similar sins. I do it all the time. Michele admitted that she did it. Her twat friend did it. My Dad does it. My friends do it (Yes, I have one or two). But at the heart of it, it's because we're not secure in our own skins. 

She asked me if she should try to be a bit less cool, a bit less intimidating, a bit less herself. My answer, of course, was a resounding "NO" because if somebody is going to be a dick to you about who you are (especially somebody close to you), then FUCK THEM. It is absolutely, 100%, their problem. I gave my brother a 1500 dollar laptop for his birthday. It bought me two days of pleasantry. Now he's back to being a perpetual douche and you know what? The knowledge that I don't have to live in his insecure, bitter skin is reward enough for me.

So if you're ever down because somebody's dumping on you, realize this: THEY ENVY YOU, on some capacity or another. If they didn't, they'd just ignore you. And odds are, if someone's a dick to you unprovoked, then you're a better person than they are so find solace in that. 

With that, I'm back to bed, but I leave you a parting gift. 

RUFUS AND CHAKA KAHN'S "TELL ME SOMETHING GOOD"

BUSTER'S TOP JAMS OF THE WEEK

UNO: DANGER MOUSE & JEMINI: THE ONLY ONE.
Hyphy music. Put it on the iPod, get in your car, bump it and feel like a total badass. GET IT HERE.
DOS: AUDIO BULLYS: I'M IN LOVE.
Groovy tune to have a crush on somebody to and wish you had written it about them. GET IT HERE.
TRES: MGMT: ELECTRIC FEEL.
Sexy time music. Put this on when you're about to get down with a crazy girl and she'll ride you like a fucking jockey. GET IT HERE.
CUATRO: KINGS OF LEON: THE BUCKET.
The best singalong song I've come across in ages. Once you get that howly whiny droll tone down you'll be bitching about being out of cigarettes and the strains of touring with the best of them. GET IT HERE.
CINCO: THE CLASH: LONDON CALLING.
Another driving song. Play this and you will be a fucking badass when it's cranked all the way up and the squares on Sunset Boulevard look at you astonished at the awesomeness coming out of your beater car's speakers. GET IT HERE.
SEIS: CAGE: AGENT ORANGE.
Badass weed-smoking music. If you know the words to this song and you're angry and stoned, you will have quite a bit of fun wowing your friends with your (read: Cage's) lyrical prowess. Filthy, nasty flow set to the music of A Clockwork Orange. GET IT HERE.
SIETE: NELLY FURTADO: TURN OFF THE LIGHT.
Remember this shit? It would have been I'm Like a Bird, but the chorus of that song doesn't match the coolness of the verse. Not like this song. She's up, talking about fucking, and she's got a voice that could kill flies in mid-air (I don't know what that means, but she sounds awesome). Set all of that to a cool beat and catchy tune, and you win. GET IT HERE.
THE PLAYLIST

BUSTER'S GUIDE TO PHARMACEUTICALS

SO AS SOME OF YOU MAY KNOW, I'VE BEEN ON SOME MEDICATIONS FOR MY "MENTAL HEALTH." I'm not going to tell you which ones, you nosey fuckers, but if you feel as stagnant as I do occasionally, here's what you need to know, in ascending order of narcotic goodness. Also, at the end we can reach the Valentine's Day Conclusion begun yesterday!

THE MEDICATIONS

These are the fellows that you take to feel better generally. They're medications, not drugs, so you have to take them for about two weeks before you start feeling the effects.

1. Abilify - This is a mood-stabilizer. I used to have rage issues (see Christian Bale for some insight), so I started taking this and got a lot more zen. I was initially prescribed too high a dose so I turned into a Zombie and started having memory problems, but on a lower dose and in conjunction with meditation, I started feeling a lot better. Now I don't even have to take them! Tell your doctor you have rage issues and these will be yours.
   
2. Lexapro - My Main Man. Very stable and calming, I took these for generalized anxiety and depression, and I still take them. They're pretty good, just elevate your mental state to one where you're not constantly thinking about hypochondriacal symptoms like Ebola, AIDS, and the black plague.
   
3. Wellbutrin - I don't have too much experience with this one, but from what it sounds like, it's a kid version of Abilify. It's an antidepressant, and also takes a while to get going. Mellow, but not really noticable in the dosages I was taking.

THE REAL SHIT

1. Klonopin - The baby Vicodin. Vicodin's a little dated, so this is a nice alternative that comes on fast but leaves just as quick. I took 14mg of these yesterday over the course of two hours and all I felt was a little buzz. Happy, if you will. I churned out like two and a half pages on my screenplay and life was groovy.
2. Xanax - My favorite. As I've stated before, this is the bliss pill. But it's also very dangerous. I completely forgot that I watched "Balls Of Fury" the night before, despite my dad asking me questions about it. He looked at me like I was crazy. It was also responsible for my DUI and the destruction of my laptop. But when you take it on your own, in your room, with some amazing music and the iTunes visualizer going, then you will attain nirvana.

Above all, please be careful with these meds. They can make you feel great, but they can make you feel awful and descend into madness and black out. So use caution.

In other news, I've decided to go off my anti-anxiety medication and replace it with pages for my screenplay (which will rock your socks off; it's epic). I'm like 18 pages in, and I'm writing diaries for my characters, working on my resume and generally, and genuinely deciding to be a more proactive person. Fuck this lazy shit. I'm getting my ass a job, even if I have to sacrifice my dignity, but it'll be worth it. I'll be able to pursue my actual passions - writing, singing, acting, directing, painting, trying new foods, cooking traveling, enjoying life and absorbing every goddamned thing out there. I'm feeling good this morning, and you should, too. You have control. Find your passion, make shit happen. It's not easy, but the rewards are unquantifiable.

Hope you're all well,
--B

P.S. OH YES! THE GIRL! I reflected on it today, and I've decided candidate number three is the best call. Either way, I win. I value her friendship the most, and what's a relationship without friendship? Also, she had the balls to kick me out after I put the moves on her out of loyalty to her midlife crisis having boyfriend, so points for that. And she's probably the raddest girl I've ever met. She's not without her negative points, but she's amazing and I genuinely want to be her friend. If something romantic evolves out of that, then fantastic, but I'd rather have a lifetime of adventures with her than a couple random hookups. Thanks for the feedback Cristina, Bella, and Toni. Candidate 3, if you read this, you've won my Valentine's Day letter.

Today is going to be a better day than I thought.

VALENTINE'S D(ISSAR)AY

TOMORROW, AS I'M SURE YOU'RE ALL AWARE, is Valentine's Day - that hallowed day of expressing affection to a member of the opposite sex (or same sex, if that's your thing), where lovers rejoice in the adoration of their partner, where one can give something lavish to their sweetheart and get rewarded with excellent sex. BUT THAT IS ONLY FOR THE LUCKY FEW.

What about the rest of us? The downtrodden, the ugly, the broke motherfuckers? Or even worse, those of us who are hopelessly in love with more than one person (three at the moment, in my case)! Two of them are taken, one is emotionally unavailable. In a touch of insight into me, the first problem generally doesn't matter all too much. I think if a bond exists between two people it'll hold up despite temptation, and if they slip, then it's a sign that things aren't working out.

But in the mean time, what the fuck do I do tomorrow? Do I send them all letters that I've lovingly fashioned from red construction paper and poetic flattery? FedEx them flowers? Call? None of them are my girlfriend, but I'd happily give a finger to be with them. So it begs the question: Which one do I send my special Valentine gift to?

Let's introduce the candidates before we make any hasty decisions.

Number one is a girl who I feel a deep, deep bond with, despite her being everything I'm not. She (like me) has had her heart broken, but on a deeper level than most of us can understand. Specifically, her fiancé was cheating on her with a 19-year-old and left her 30 thousand dollars in debt. Consequently, she's working her beautifully-proportioned ass off to get out of hock, and while we've had some hook-ups (encounters?), they've been all too brief or poorly-timed to get them to mean something real. Also, she doesn't trust men at all at the moment (or at least, that's the excuse I've been given. She's not terribly forthright). When we hooked up on New Year's Eve, she actually cried while we were kissing because that was the night (a year or so prior) that her boyfriend had become her fiancé. Fucked up, eh? But I still keep coming back to her, in a way that almost makes me feel like a stalker, but we always have a really good time together and I feel a very deep spiritual thing going on with this chick.

Candidate numero dos is a bookworm I picked up while I was buying some underwear at the Gap. She is sophisticated, she's got a wry wit, and she's an amazing lay. Unfortunately, she has a boyfriend who she's got a two-year history with and she's addicted to the drama that that entails (our little triangle, that is). So I'm assuming that in her mind, she wants to perpetuate this little cycle of fucking me and loving him. A year ago, I'd be totally cool with that - sex on call without having to deal with an actual relationship? Sweet. But now, I think I'd rather be the guy who gets the love than the guy who gets the sex. Both would be ideal.

Now, the last candidate is an odd number. We grew up on the same street and by happenstance, we were at a party over the Christmas holidays in our hometown together, and she said (in this rich, cigarette-husky voice), "Hey. Didn't you live on my street?" We talked for a bit and she turned out to be pretty cool, then we took to each other like a match to gunpowder. We talked for about three weeks non-stop and I enjoyed the shit out of every conversation, taking opportunities to rag on her much-older boyfriend and generally having a laugh about the most random things that came to mind. We were remarkably similar - funny, odd people with a penchant for being unique and not conforming by any means necessary, who are also quite fond of the drink.

Then we met up in LA, and I took her out on a "faux-date" (read: friend date) then we went back to her place at around three. I put the moves on her, and while it seemed like she was enjoying it, we were really stoned, at her boyfriend's friend house, and she ended up asking me to go. Normally, I'd just say I blew it, I shouldn't have kisssed her, etc, but here's what's fucked up: SHE SUGGESTED HOOKING UP WOULD BE FUN. I showed restraint, for fuck's sake! People, do you know what that means for me!? So after about a week of awkward we started talking again, and now we're back to flirting/friend stuff. She's still indecisive about her boyfriend, but from what it sounds like, they're at very different stages in their lives (15-year age gap, anyone?), and she should probably split with him and be with somebody else who's at a similar spot. Preferably me. I really dig this girl.

EDIT: I should point out that candidate #3 is somebody I really appreciate as a friend, not just a romantic interest. The other two are girls I'm in love with, but #3 is somebody I could be cool with on a non-romantic level as well. Not that I wouldn't want to be friends with #1 and #2, just that I have more in common with #3 and I value her friendship.

SO I SUBMIT TO YOU, GENTLE READERS (assuming anybody reads this tosh): Who should be the object of my affection? Feel free to leave comments, concerns, feedback, etc. If somebody could write something in ebonics, that would be wonderful (That bitch gotta get her shit together, leave her man, and get with you, muthafucka!).

In other news, I went back for a second interview at the Banana Republic at the Grove. It would be a sweet gig because it's really close to home and I love the clothes, but the interviews really take a lot out of me. I like to think I can be myself around other people easily, but it's hard for me to act like I don't need the job. By the same token, nobody's doing great right now, so holler if you hear me on the economic note.

Anyway, a merry Valentine's Day to all, and may you be blessed with a lasting, passionate, movie-style romance! For now, I'm going to buy myself a bottle of Johnny Walker Black and mix myself some Johnny & Gingers and drink myself into a stupor, pass out, and pray I get a call back from BR tomorrow. Ta for now.

WORD OF THE DAY

SO DON'T ASK, but when I wake up, I occasionally get a word stuck in my head and muse on it for anywhere from the first half hour I'm awake to the rest of the day. Some words are good, and philosophical, and thought-provoking (like "Paragon" or "Monolith"), while others are funny ones like "clam". Others still, however, are nasty. The word I woke up with in my mind today (and I pray it's not a little shape of things to come) was discharge. Isn't that a fucking nasty word? Anything you put in front of it makes it gross or bad. Vaginal Discharge. Arterial Discharge. Rectal Discharge. Discharged from your job, motherfucker. See? The word "Discharge" is pretty much responsible for .0001% of the world's suffering and unpleasantness. So in conclusion, if we stop using it altogether, we'll have contributed to a better world.

One word at a time.

BUSTER HANDS OUT CORPORATE JUSTICE

Note to the Reader: it is very early, I am hungover, on my laptop in some strange person's room, and I don't know where the coffee is and they're still fucking asleep. Please don't judge me.

SO I JUST STARTED using my actual URL for Champagne & Apathy, and by god, after purchasing the domain name and following the steps detailed by a "customer service agent" (read: some doddering old fuck who doesn't know how to turn a computer on, let alone tell you how to get your website up and running) when my URL was redirecting to Google, the problem was not resolved.Fortunately, the man was not from India. I immediately get irate when I get connected to Indian people who seemed to have faked their TOEFL and ask me to "Please repeat, sir." But I would almost prefer that to the stuttering, vacant-minded, faux-authority-on-all-things-internet, "We've got you covered" Verizon scumsucking corporate douches I had the misfortune to be connected with. The first genius told me to type in the wrong info. Thank you very much, I said, happily waiting for the two to 48 hours I might have to wait to be over so my site would be on line. Naturally, my site started hitting Google instead of Champagne & Apathy's blogspot site. Then I send them an e-mail wondering what the fuck's up, and I include pictures of what's happened, etc.
Their customer service agent tells me that it's perfectly normal, and the problem will rectify itself. "Okay," I say, irked. Next day, I check the site, and voila!

FUCK ALL HAS CHANGED. CHAMPAGNEANDAPATHY.COM STILL = GOOGLE.

I send my last civil letter, explaining the problem in FULL DETAIL, and get a canned response that says - get this - "It's not a GoDaddy problem," that apparently their forwarding is "working perfectly."

Attached is my message of fury to these degenerates along with a response from poor Donald C. Be sure to click it so you can see it in its full glory. PACE.

BUSTER CALLS THE OSCARS (Or, As I Like It)

SO IT'S AWARD SEASON, and the nominations are in. Being the son of a Director, I have stacks and stacks of screeners I've filled my days with since my DUI-imposed house arrest, and have a pretty damned good idea of who's winning what. Since I'm not interested in most of the films that are up, let me just say this before I call my picks: Watch Milk.

Now let's dive right in, shall we?

NUMERO UNO: BEST EDITING
I know, I know, nobody gives a shit about this one, but if you watch Milk, you'll see that this is an integral part of moviemaking that's often overlooked by the general public (read: You, Motherfucker). The intercutting, the flashbacks, the timing, the transitions, all perfect and spot-on.
Call It: Elliot Graham for Milk.

NUMERO DOS: BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS
Taraji P. Henderson in Benjamin Butthead. She's come a long way from Baby Boy's pivotal scene. "LEMME SMELL YO DICK, NUGGUH!"

NUMERO TRES: BEST ACTRESS
Honestly, I don't really give a shit about this category, A. Because I'm Sexist, B. Because all of the movies I've either not seen or were total shit. Consequently, I'm going to write in my choice for this category with NAOMI WATTS IN FUNNY GAMES. That movie was the creepiest god damned thing of all time, but Naomi played the part of a hostage/housewife to a T. Check it. But as for the actual award, I have no idea.
End Thoughts: No Clue.

NUMERO CUATRO: BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY
If Slumdog Millionaire had been an original screenplay, it would've been a lock. The flashbacks, the structure of the gameshow as a narrative device, the funny, sad, beautiful parts that characterize that film are amazing. But it was based on a book, so the award goes to Dustin Lance Black (who according to my friend is "a little cocksucking hottie") for his epic work on Milk.
Win Win Win: Dustin Lance Black for Milk.


CINCO CINCO CINCO: BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR
This one's kind of a coin toss. I'd love to see Robert Downey Jr. get a win for Kirk Lazarus, given that it's one of the funniest, movie-making inside-joke jabs at another actor, and it was such a ballsy move to wear fucking blackface in a major motion picture, but again, politics rears its ugly head and pretty much hands this one to Heath Ledger for two reasons. One, he gave a great performance in spite of all that hammy bullshit lip-licking, and Two, THAT NIGGA DIED! Tragic overdose takes a star before his time, and all that jazz. I think this one's dependent on who receives his award posthumously. If Michelle Williams accepts it for him, or if they can get his daughter to say a few words, or his parents, it's a lock. If they can't figure out who to book for the acceptance, then it's RDJ, baby.
Bottom Line: Heath Ledger as the Joker.


NUMERO SEIS: BEST ACTOR
This one's kind of a toughie. Given the politics behind the Academy Awards, it's difficult to judge the call based on outright performance. Try as they might to say that performances are subjective, I know that it's based on who's sucking enough metaphorical dick. Should it be based on performance alone, the award would go to Sean Penn's beautiful, enchanting, captivating characterization of San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk. But fuck, Sean, you already won in '03 for that mediocre Mystic River! So it tips the scales a little bit in Mickey's favor for his heartbreakingly honest Randy "The Ram" Robinson, but he already got his Golden Globe, so fuck him. All I know is that if Brad Pitt wins for his down-home southern drawl and CGI masked performance in that shit-streak of a film Blah Blah Blah Benjamin Button, I'm gonna shave my head and climb a clock tower with an assault rifle and take potshots at people driving BMWs.
Tally Up: Sean Penn as Milk.


NUMERO SIETE: BEST PICTURE
Best Picture is soooo fucking hard this year. As 2008 progressed, I really only left two movies going, "Wow, that fucker better win." Those films were, in order of my watching them, Slumdog Millionaire and Milk. The truth of the matter is, I generally hate most Best Picture winners. I hated Crash, hated A Beautiful Mind, was bored shitless by Chicago, and LOATHED Million Dollar Baby. But lately, they're getting good. The Departed was fucking B.A. and made me go get into fights for kicks and No Country for Old Men made me weep because I knew I'd never make a film that good. But Slumdog and Milk were both really, genuinely well-made films. Since I've been to India but I've never been gay, I'm gonna go with the former.
CHECKMATE: Slumdog Millionaire.

Ladies and Gentlemen, keep in mind, I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about, I'm just highly opinionated. That said, enjoy your Oscars!

TELEMUNDO PARA BUSTER

SO I WAS BROWSING CRAIGSLIST looking fruitlessly for a job that didn’t require a degree or involve rectal cleansing. I was frustrated, bored, on house arrest, and I had been filing applications all week. None of them had called back. So there I sat, like Steve Butabi looking for more girls to reject him when, nestled between a request for a live-in maid willing to perform her job topless and a hedge trimmer at a senior center, was the headline “SEEKING SPANISH-SPEAKING CAUCASIONS[sic]!”

“Spanish Speaking Caucasian,” I said aloud, “Why that’s me, by golly!”

There was very little information, but it said they were casting for a Telemundo show. On a whim, I snapped a pair of Photo Booth pictures and sent ‘em in. Expect nothing, gain everything, my friends. The very next day, I got a call from Let’s-call-him-Miguel who asked me my Zodiac sign and was I available tomorrow at 3? I said yeah but I got a DUI so I can’t get there. No problem, says Telemundo Miguel, we’ll just send a chauffeur out for you. I almost cry at these words. A chauffeur? Pour moi? Well thanks, Miguel.

So sure enough, the next day at three my driver appears. I still don't know what the premise of this show is. We drive to the heart of East LA ghettoville to pick up two of the other 'contestants' on the show, where we see three (count 'em, three) arrests of vatos going down. The girls are not ready, so the Driver and I have a pair of cigarettes and out come the two raunchiest girls I have ever seen. One of them looks like a skeleton with makeup on and I spot the beginnings of a cold sore beneath the six ounces of lipstick she has on, and the other looks like the female Latina equivalent of of Jack Black. Apparently, the driver tells me, there is a chance that I will be kissing these girls for the sake of the show. I look back at the hoodrats in the backseat and laugh at the driver's naivete. I kiss 7s, fuck 8s, date 9s. These are 2s, and there is no chance I will be kissing these two, televised or not.

So we make it to the very, very rundown studio lot and I'm ushered into the tiniest dressing room ever conceived. Inside are my four other male costars, and a supper peppy PA who looks exactly like Chayanne, and two bottles of champagne. The others have been briefed already, and they're all professional actors, which makes me nervous. Chayanne gives me the rundown on what this show is all about. "It'th called Dothe Corathoneth," he says his fruity latin tone, "and bathically you will be competing againtht thethe gentlemen for the heart of one girl bathed on your Thodiac thign." The producer comes in, a 30-something latina broad with a retainer and a lazy eye, and assigns us our Thodiac Thigns (excuse me, Zodiac signs). I'm assigned Virgo, despite my being a Leo and, from what I'm told, one hell of a Leo at that.

Let me just say that I know nothing of Zodiac signs, so I begin to worry that I'm not going to know what the fuck is going on. Then I realize that I am Buster, and I'm a champion bullshitter. I also realize that I have a pocketful of Xanax and an untouched bottle of seven-dollar champagne at my beck and call. I take both into the bathroom, finish the bottle, and pop a Xannie or two. I am feeling good. I am in the zone. I am up to the task.

And thank god for my intoxication, because apparently, whether or not we stay on the show is contingent upon how well we perform the tasks to woo the girls. The first of these is to dress up in full Mariachi regalia and serenade them with song.

Another producer arrives and asks me if I'm okay and assigns me my song, which despite only having five minutes to memorize under the haze of alcohol and drugs, I can still recite. Here goes.

Para todas las Latinas For all you Latinas out there
Yo les traigo un regalote I'm bringing a gift for you
No son joyas ni dinero It ain't jewels or money
Si no este bello papazote It's this rockin' handsome Jew

The translation, as you may have gathered, is a loose one. But nonetheless, after making a Zoolander-style entrance and getting my Mariachi gear on, I was called to the stage by the hottest 40-year-old Latin woman I've seen up close. MILF STATUS. Anyway, my fucking mustache wouldn't stay on because instead of spirit gum, they were using scotch tape. Welcome to Mexican Television. I strutted onto the stage and did the Mariachi Stomp up to the girls, and sang my little heart out. After the last line, I naturally had to do something ridiculous, so I pulled my hat off my head, pulled it to my crotch, and hung it on my belt buckle so it looked as though it was supported by a massive erection. Then I toss my mustache off into the girls' section of the audience (the audience was divided into men on one side and women on the other) amidst screams and peals of laughter. The crowd is mine. The rest of the guys do their thing, but none of them speaks a fucking word of Spanish so they sound like crap and it's kind of awkward.

At this point, the girls pick who they want to eliminate, which is the guy two seats down from me who's sweet but kind of a moron. I almost get nervous when one of the girls picks me to be eliminated, but she was the only one who wanted to vote me off so fuck her.

We take a break for commercials, and one of the girls asks me who I'm with. I'm like, "I'm here by myself." She goes, "No, who are you with?" I tell her adding "no" to the exact same question does not change the fact that I don't know what the fuck she's talking about. She laughs and says "What agency?" I say, "The Craig's List Agency" and she just looks kind of shocked. Apparently her agent actually booked her for this thing.

The hostess of the show walks by and I ask her how we should pick if we like her instead of the contestants. She laughs and gets something to eat. On the way back, I flirt with her for a few minutes and joke about her having shit in her teeth. She laughs again and says, "Chocolate!" and I rub her cheek to brush some brownie remnant off. We go back to our positions.

Next challenge up: Pole Dance time. I won't go into the details, but it consisted of me climbing up the pole and doing my best stripper slide to the ground, then humping it for thirty seconds until they cut.

Apparently the girls had no challenges, which was bullshit, but whatevs. The last bit was great.
I had to recount a story of how I'd gotten a girl to fuck me who didn't speak English. I have several of these stories, so I picked my best one (I'll type it out later, I have a meeting to get to) and let her rip. The hostess made fun of me for the length of the story, so she made me pick up a mannequin (like, pick up a mannequin in a bar, not physically pick it up) and tell me how I'd get her in the sack without touching her. We cut to the commercials and the guys rave at me and tell me I'm the best.

Back on the air, and down to the wire: Who gets to pick who? This part is interesting. The girls get to pick guys based on attraction, but the guys have to reject or accept based on who's willing to kiss who. The producer comes over and naturally, the two girls I have to kiss are: A, the hottest one there and I'd give a finger to fuck, and B, Herpelip from the car ride over. I say fuck that, I'll kiss A but I ain't getting an STD for the sake of your show. They say it's a stage kiss, there's no tongue. I remind her that Herpes are not spread by the tongue, and she leaves in a huff. The other male contestants are actors (read: whores), so they assign the pretty kid to stage-kiss with Herpelip and Hottie. Instead, I get to do my favorite thing in the world:

REJECT BEAUTIFUL WOMEN WHO WANT TO MAKE OUT WITH ME.

Little Miss Taurus comes up, a 98-pound Latina Iman who many, many men would break old ladies' knees for a date with, and I look at her, hold her hands, pull her close, and SHUT HER THE FUCK DOWN. I am having a blast. I sit back down. Surprise surprise, the next girl picks who? Shut up, she picks moi. I tell her she's too fucking short for me. The next one comes up and describes her perfect man, looking at the ugly fuck to my right most of the time, then she says "Virgo!" and I'm called to the stage once more. I'm on a roll, baby. I tell her I don't like her tattoos and up close, she doesn't smell that good. SO NO, THANKS BUT NO THANKS. The fourth girl comes to the stage. There's no way I've managed to capture the hearts of four Latin hotties, is there? Oh, wait, yes there is. In spite of my drunken douchebaggery, she picks me, and I get to reject my fourth fuckable Latina of the night. She almost cries, and shoves me as she does the walk of shame off the stage. I cackle with laughter and return to my seat. Then, in the scripted part, pretty boy and Herpelip make out, and I laugh at the bullet I've dodged. Then the other girl comes up and simply says "Ese", and points to Pretty Boy, they stage kiss, and we wrap.

I flirt with the hostess of the show some more and she gives me her number. I LOVE MILFS. Then Chayanne grabs me and says it's time to pick up my compensation for the show. We walk over to a folding table and hands me a stack of tens. I'm like, whoa, we actually get paid for this shit? I had a blast! I count the stack to see what I've earned for dressing like a mariachi, pole dancing, and grinding on a mannequin, and the total is a whopping 80 dollars in cash.

Apparently that is the price of my dignity.

GALLERY GIRLS

SO MY FRIEND MR. SIMON told me about an amazingly funny little web strip. I'm far too hung over to write much right now, but let me just say this: if you love "the scene," odds are you'll love Gallery Girls. Gallery Girls is run by Mr. Simon's friend whose name I believe to be Kate. Either way, she's one funny beeyotch. Check it out at http://ceceliawestgallery.com/

Personally, I find the human beings represented therein disgusting and morally reprehensible, but I'm a piece of shit too so who am I to judge? Also, I think that's kind of the point. Anywho, enjoy.

--buster

FUNNY SHIT THAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DO DRUGS

A LITTLE SOMETHING FOR YOUR SUNDAY. I recently got arrested for driving under the influence. Consequently, I've been on parentally-imposed house arrest because I'm too broke to pay my own car insurance (because mine is, well, rather high). But in an uncharacteristic batch of good news, the case was set aside due to insufficient evidence. So I thought I'd share my little DUI adventure now that I'm (mostly) in the clear from it.
Some of you may've heard this before in its other forms, but to all of you who haven't, here it is. Be Warned.

Notice to all Law Enforcement officials: This is not an admission of guilt. The following is simply an assemblage of the recollections various people have of a night's events, and their interpretation thereof.

It was Saturday evening, and I got a call from two friends inviting me to a party. Since I knew I'd have at least two solid drinking buddies, I figured it would be worthwhile, so I decided to go. This was a mistake.

Apparently it was Mike's girlfriend's birthday party, although when I got there it looked like some impromptu Overeaters Anonymous social. Well, at least there was booze and a recently-filled prescription for 2mg Xanax sitting in my pocket.

Let me just say this: I love Xanax. In conjunction with alcohol, it turns me into a delusional, ranting, semi-composed loudmouth who knows he's not going to have any recollection of the night's events the next day, thus freeing him from any semblance of social restraint or tact. I popped one, ground another up and put it into my drink.

After a few minutes, my friend Brian and I decided that our attention would be better spent elsewhere. Apparently I had already spiked two fatties' drinks with large doses of Xanax and was Danger-Close to succumbing to their torrid plans for me.

We had seen a party around the corner, so we decided to head by. I brought my drink with me, either because I thought we were just going to say hello or because I thought there might be some Xanax pasted along the bottom.

The people had decided to throw the party with their neighbors, and had themed each house as Japan and the US. Ever the patriot, I hit the US first, and was immediately greeted by a gay guest who offered me a "Blow by Blow" which apparently means a coke induced blowjob. Since he turned and laughed hysterically at a good-looking blonde I decided to spin it on its head and be charming, which I can be. I politely declined asking instead if he'd show me around the party and introduce me to his hot friends. I bent my arm out so he'd take it and winked at the blonde.

I paid little attention to what the fruit was saying, and vaguely remember my friend leaving me alone in the company of two samoan guys who'd play little part in the evening.

The punchline is that the aforementioned blonde and I wound up together in a bathroom and she let me do a line of blow off her tits before giving me head on the toilet (I'm not sure if this would constitute a blumpkin as I wasn't actually taking a crap).

These stories, however, would not be as funny if everything was hunky-dory and it was simply that I did coke and got head from a girl. No, it must contain at least one instance of the following:

-A Boyfriend.
-A flat tire.
-The Police.

Although, as the rest of the story will tell you, all three is perfectly acceptable.

Brian confirmed his candidacy for the Amazing Timing Awards when he showed up JUST as the boyfriend pinned me down with his two friends. They had me backed into something of a corner, and we seemed to be moving towards the door as though an altercation was inevitable. When I saw Brian stumbling down the street, drunk as a fucking priest, who threw up his hands and said, "BUS! WHAT UP, NIGGA!" I knew that the fight was, indeed, inevitable.

I looked at the boyfriend with a grimace on my face. "Fuck you! What are are you getting mad at me for? I didn't SUCK ANYBODY'S DICK."

He looked down at the ground and then back up at me, straight into my eyes. I quietly added, "On the toilet," thinking this was a good idea. He shoved me, and I shoved him back, and he flying-tackled me down the steps.

Luckily I was coherent enough to see this coming, and when he reeled back from my shove and charged at me, I kind of side-stepped him and he wound up taking the brunt of the fall. My hands, unfortunately, were on the underside of him, and scraped along the pavement (I'll see if I have any injury-fresh photos).

Since my hands were trapped, I reeled back, and fucked a good headbutt across his nose. He yelped and grabbed his nose, and I freed my hands. At this point, I was on him full on, so I pounded on his face while his friends jumped on my back and punched me in the face. They were both standing, and I was kneeling across this guy, so none of them really got in any good blows, but I can only assume this is when I got my black eye. Brian just walked up the street and casually got up behind one of the guys and started choking him out.

When I was finished with boyfriend, I spun around on the violent friend, and caught a good elbow to his temple. I'm about 6' 2", and the friend was only about 5' 9", so it wasn't terribly hard. Brian and I had trounced them.

I decided to sleep this off in my car, so he walked me to it and I closed my eyes for a while. I woke up hours later, laying backwards against the dashboard with my feet propped up against the passenger seat, crust covering my eyes, and retrieved my keys. I decided it was probably prudent to get the fuck out of dodge, so I drove back home. Fate, it seems, had other plans for me. As I was pulling onto the 10, I busted a flat on a very, very loose right turn.

I got out of the car and started attempting to flag people down. People mainly just honked and told me to get the fuck out of the way, this being the 10 freeway. Finally, a cabbie stopped and let me use his cell phone to call Triple A. I asked them to bring me a spare tire as mine was already on my other flat tire. Naturally, when the guy showed up he didn't have one, and to clinch it, his truck wasn't big enough to haul mine to the towyard, so we waited for dispatch to send a bigger truck. I did not let him off easy, nor did I let the second guy off easy, which is why when we got to Sears' Tires on Lincoln he left me there and tore off into the day.

The salesman came over at this point, and I told him what I needed and asked him to quote me a price. He quoted me something outrageous and I looked at him and cursed. Allow me to point out that I know nothing about tires - every car I've owned thus far has already had them. All I know is every week someone drops off a book of coupons and is says $89.99 for a set of four tires. I tell him this. He disagrees. I tell him to get fucked. My Xanax was swinging into full effect.

I decided I'd call around to see where there were cheaper tires but the salesman told me to get the fuck out of there. Three cars had pulled in behind me, so I decided I'd go out their other exit and busted a left. I vaguely remember a policewoman screaming at me from her car. The next thing I knew I was in the back of a cop car, and had just pulled my legs between my cuffed hands, because the cuffs were incredibly uncomfortable behind my back. Suffice it to say I was in bad graces with the Santa Monica Police Department by the time I was hauled in to get mugged by the guy in charge of the drunk tank. The guy didn't say anything, just put me in a half nelson. The other cop put me in an arm bar. I said something about my Grandmother doing a better one and he nearly popped my arm out of the socket.

They rolled my prints and threw me in the drunk tank. I didn't like my digs. It was all one piece, from the looks of it. The walls were white, there was a roll of toilet paper, a sink, and a toilet. The piece-de-resistance was assuredly the bed/seat, which was basically a 4 foot by two foot rectangle. That was it. I can't say I remember much about this part, except that I took to calling one guard "Shirley" and the Mexican one "Cheech." As a sign of their appreciation for the new nicknames, they decided to answer my pleas for clean water or a cup or something with "Shut up."

In protest, I laid out all my toilet paper on the bed and wet it down with spit and whatever loogies I could conjure up with my coarse, Xanax-and-alcohol-parched throat. I formed it in the sign of the cross and patted it up against the window of my cell. I had to apply a few more loogies to get it to stick. Shirley did not find this funny at all. He was wearing green SWAT-style fatigues and the hair from the crown of his head seemed to have immigrated to his upper lip. He didn't say anything, simply grabbed the toilet paper roll, tore the paper off down the middle, and tossed the cardboard piece into my face. I laughed. I was feeling very good.

I turned my eyes heavenward, and noticed that there was a ventilation duct in my cell. I calculated that if I could pry it open, my chances of escape were probably excellent. I stood on my bed/seat to examine the lock and noticed that the lock was, oddly enough, shaped like an M or a W. "Perfect," I thought, "I'll just tear that toilet paper roll into a key." I cannot remember how much time I spent on this arduous task, but I would conjecture now that it was probably to the tune of 45 minutes to an hour.

Finally, my key was ready, and it was time to escape. I stood on the bed/seat, and found that the duct was a bit further away than I had initially calculated. I steadied myself, alternating between bracing myself with an arm on the wall and a hand on the ceiling. I try to work my "key" in, and it shows a promising 15 degree turn in the lock. I work it more, taking care not to force it, but the lock is deeper than I thought. My arms are getting very tired. I am switching hands and have to put the key in my mouth every time I do. I work the key in a bit more, and I've got it in there really good. So I push my forearms against the ceiling and try to work the key around, actually gaining some of my stability from the cardboard's integrity. It rips. I let out a scream and go crashing into the wall; my coordination is lousy, but so is my pain reception. I am mainly furious that my key is broken. Escape is out of my reach. I am rapidly approaching sober. Shirley and Cheech have started ignoring me completely.

I curl up on the bed/seat, trying to find a comfortable position, when the guards come in and drag me by my shoulders out of the cell.

"Little fuckin' plan didn't work, huh Birdman of Alcatraz?"

"Easy, Cheech. I was only going out to get Shirley some flowers."

"Come ON!"

They clenched up their grips in my arms so I decided to let them just carry me. I let my body go limp so they'd have to drag/carry me and I guess they decided to be assholes. They let go and I just flopped. It's hard to go from ragdoll to rigid in the time it takes to hit the ground.

"Ow, fuck! What'd you do that for? I was gonna get you some, too, Cheech."

They called over another cop and gave me the bum's rush. One of them grabbed me by the belt on my lower back, the other two got me by the shoulders. I fought them on this point, tossing my arms around as uselessly as possible. The just laughed and kicked open the door and tossed me sailing into the evening.

I pounded on the door and yelled, "Hey, my fucking cigarettes!"

Cheech just gave me the finger from the doorway.

Suffice it to say, I did not feel well the next day.

RINGING IN THE AWESOME

IN A PERFECT WORLD I would've already been balls-deep in blogging fame by now, given that I created this blog ages ago and fancy myself, among other things, quite the writer and intellectual. I guess I'm not. But thanks to the glory of the internet, I have a place to conceitedly share my opinions on every subject under the sun. So let's start with my favorite subject: ME.

I am, at the moment, an out of work writer who lives in Los Angeles. I have no pets, although occasionally my friend Jose will bring by his turtle Petunte, which he is trying to sell to me for an ever-decreasing price. I generally tell him that I won't commit to buying the turtle until we know its gender, and I'm fairly certain he's not hard up enough for the cash to figure that one out.

I cook religiously, but not with the variety I crave. I don't know how the hell housewives perpetually dazzle their husbands with new dishes in between Hubby's Favorite Pot Roast or Meat Loaf, but if you're lucky enough to have a woman that cooks for you with any semblance of variety or panache, count your fucking blessings because I am getting very tired of my pasta.

Apropos women, I don't have a girlfriend. I do have women I have sex with, but truth be told, I'm finding it unfulfilling. Actually, that's not true; fucking is fucking great.

Occasionally, I can be the funniest person in a room. I generally accomplish this with the assistance of about 4mg of Xanax and two of my favorite drink in the world - Johnny and Ginger (A shot of Johnny Walker Black in an ice-filled highball glass, then topped up with Ginger Ale) - but when I get that wonderful deadly mix in me I become the love child of George Carlin and Caligula. I also enjoy cigarettes.

That said, welcome to this little bloggywog, which I hope you'll be enjoying on a regular basis now that I've gotten off my ass and am writing actively. Ta ta for now!

--Buster