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