Tag Archives: Culture

T.G.I. (t.e.o.) G.: Thank God It’s the End of Growvember: What I’d Do If I Had a Prostate

30 Nov

Like the majority of Americans, I had no idea why men across the country were growing hideous mustaches this month. And when I found out, I had no idea what a prostate was or if I had one. After asking the neighbor kids to do some research for me, I discovered that the prostate is a little sac of magic jewels that sits between the rectum and bladder. I should’ve known this- when I was 8, I would tell people that I wanted to be a proctologist. How would anyone take me seriously if I didn’t know what the prostate was? And I also found out that, like the majority of wondrous things in this world, I was excluded from having one because I didn’t have a penis.

Me after my mom told me that I couldn't be a proctologist/Me after the neighbor kids told me that I didn't have a prostate.

Me after my mom told me that I couldn’t be a proctologist./Me after the neighbor kids told me that I didn’t have a prostate.

So sometime in between crying in bed and eating marzipan cookies on the couch, I thought of all the things that I’d do if I had a prostate. I’ve often wished that I had a penis and all of the magical things that come with it- a sense of entitlement, big hands, a mom who actually loves me, and the ability to pee laying down (my dad used to do this at soccer fields by pulling his foot-long out of his shorts’ crotch flaps). And once when I was 14 years-old, my evil friend (a ginger) convinced me that my long labia was a miniature penis. And I believed her for a week- it made sense: my quickness to develop muscle, my athleticism, my tendency to leave the toilet seat up (after barfing up dinner).

I just looked at my labia with a hand mirror and it's, aaaaarrrgggghhhh, disgusting!

I just looked at my labia with a hand mirror and it’s, aaaaarrrgggghhhh, disgusting!

But the hard fact of life is, no matter how oblivious I am to others’ feelings or how many times I explode chili in the microwave, I will never grow a wiener. But as we begin to celebrate the birth of a dude who walked on water and resurrected himself (his prostate was probably spotless), I can imagine what I’d do if I had a prostate. Or a penis. But, first, there’s a couple of things that I would definitely NOT do if I had this magic sac of marbles:

1. Grow a dumb fuc*king mustache: It’s really long nose hair. Gross. And it’s not funny or ironic anymore. Sure, Growvember is the only time that I‘m excused from having lip hair, but other people shouldn’t be. Plus, I have small lips, and a really big chin; think Leno with a ‘stache. Aaron Rodgers grew one and look what happened: his di*k temporarily disappeared and he led the Packers to a 10-38 loss to a team of cleanly-shaven black guys.

Oh shit, what's that? Oh yeah, it's just the temporary loss of my dexterity, my manhood, and my  pride.

“Oh shit, what’s that? Oh yeah, it’s just the temporary loss of my dexterity, my manhood, and my pride.”

2. Drunkenly reveal my wiener-size to a group of sober babes: A friend recently got frat boy wasted and revealed to a group of college girls that his wang is wider than it is long- a genuine chode, like a wheel of cheese. My 30 year-old frat boy friend’s revelation was so shocking, I had to take a week off of laying on the couch to wrap my hand mind around it. Even though I don’t like sex and am a total asexual eunuch, if I were to actually desire human contact, it wouldn’t be with someone who reveals half the magic. And even though I don’t really care about wiener size (or having sex with humans for that matter), this really grossed me out.

My duh-yic is, aaaarrrrggghhhhh, this big!

Okay, now what I would do if I had a hairy sac of jewels:

1. Break sh*t with my bare hands. My arms are so thin and frail, they make my ass look huge. I recently made a profile on a nannying website and I had to disclaim “cannot hold baby for longer than 10 minutes. No breastfed monsters, please.” I wish that just for one day I had the upper body strength of a man. There’s so many things that I could do with it– smash cans on my forehead, throw garbage bins into the alley, enter arm wrestling contests. I’d also scare the shit out of people with my temper tantrums. Without a prostate, when I stomp on the ground and weakly toss pumpkins at people’s heads, everyone just laughs and tells me that I’m cute. If I had this magical marble sac, I wouldn’t have to be on my period to scare people.

"Ima break this breast-fed monster with my bare hands."

“Ima break this breast-fed monster with my bare hands.”

2. Roofie Women: I have no idea what it’s  like to actually have to work for the human contact that I don’t want, so I’m sure that I wouldn’t have the patience for it. Some think that drugging women for sex is morally reprehensible, but so is using womanly titty charms to lead a guy into marriage and fatherhood. Men’s brains are 85% mushier than women’s; it’s not fair that we take advantage of these child-like nymphs like we do. I’ve even considered roofy-ing myself and have oftentimes left my drink unattended for long periods of time in seedy bars. Who knows- I might wake up midway through, fascinated, and think, Hey, it’s like a hairy wheel of cheese! This isn’t so bad!

"Oh no, don't roofie my Apple-tini. I'll just puke it up in an hour. Put it in my beer. It''l stay down that way."

“Oh no, don’t roofie my Apple-tini!…I’ll just puke it up in an hour. Put it in my beer. It’ll stay down that way.”

3. Never Shave My Genitals: I know that guys do this to create the illusion of a really long dong, but that seems like a lot of work for little payoff. I don’t know how many times that I clipped the labe or short-circuited Greg’s beard trimmer when taming the wild shrew. I look for every excuse possible to not shave my pubis: Growvember, too busy blogging, feminism. Having family jewels that extend beyond the bush (well more than an inch beyond) is the perfect reason to throw away the clippers.

"I'll pay you extra to de-clog the pool drains."

“I’ll pay you extra to de-clog the pool drains.” Score!

4. Shave My Head Bald: I’ve thought about doing this, but it’d only make my ass look even huger. If I had a prostate, it’d make sense.

5. Reach really high things: Growing up, my dad never let me cut the grass. There was a lot of things that I couldn’t do because I didn’t have a prostate as a kid: clean the gutters, carve turkeys, use the snow-blower. If I had a prostate now, I would do this sh*t all day. I’d be a Mexican wielding a leaf-blower like a torch of gold, like an extension of my spicy churro. I’d take a power tool with me everywhere I went. Here’s your Apple-tini, now let me snake your drains. Here’s your Schlitz, now let me power-drill your mind. And, with a hammer in my belt-loop, my flannels would finally make sense.

"Now, you just go lie under that Oak tree. It's tool time baby...Don't mind these guys. There making us martinis."

“Now, you just go lie under that Oak tree. It’s tool time baby…Don’t mind these guys. They’re making us martinis.”

6. Collect Unemployment: I haven’t checked the books on this one, but I’m pretty sure that it’s exclusive to people with prostates. C’mon, ACLU and feminist Ryan Gosling, get on this shit.

7. Play high-stakes Poker: Poker has been explained to me over 25 times. And I have still no idea. Statistics suggest that men are much better than women at math and other god-awful topics that don’t require critical thinking and emotions. Statistics also suggest that men who suck at a lot of things are much more intrigued by gambling because of the chance of luck. If I had a prostate, I’d carry around a portable Poker set in a suitcase. And I’d walk on my tip-toes just to throw people off. People never think much of tip-toe walkers. I’d hustle people too and back it up with my bare knuckles, my pool stick, and my hairy genitals. If I had a prostate, I’d be bad-ass like Tom Selleck.

"You're gonna want to double down on the queen of spades and fold on the suicide king.   Whatever you do, throw down some more chips and don't ever call me again on my beach phone."

“You’re gonna want to double down on the queen of spades and fold on the suicide king. Whatever you do, throw down some more chips and don’t ever call me again on my beach phone.”

8. Know What’s Actually Going on Under My Hood: I’ve never actually opened my car hood. I don’t even know how to or know what’s under it. If I were to figure out how to unlatch it, I’d expect rainbows and unicorns to pop out. Once I drove for 20 minutes with my hood on fire and couldn’t stop raving about how good burning Autumn leaves smelled. I swear I wasn’t high. And I learned just this past summer that you can’t idle on the top of a hill in San Francisco. If I had a prostate, I would know how to operate and fix that thing dripping oil in the neighbor’s driveway. Until I get one, I’ll have to rely on my dad’s to send him powerful messages as to when to change the oil and refill the wiper fluid.

"So you're telling me that this thing doesn't run on birth control pills and and mixed tapes?!?! And how did I get on the passenger side!?!?"

“So you’re telling me that this thing doesn’t run on birth control pills and mixed tapes?!?! And how did I get on the passenger side!?!?”

9. Fart Without Shame: I do now, but I’m pretty sure that every time I do, a boner inverts somewhere around the world.

10. Play golf. Kidding with this one. It’s such a stupid fuc*king sport.

11. Be flamingly gay. Finally, if I had a prostate, I’d be flamingly gay. It’s been hip for like 10 years. And that’d be two people in the house who can reach really high things, who can cut the grass, and who can play Poker. Plus, if I was a flamingly gay person with a wiener, I’d get more prostate checks than straight guys do.

"Not only do we never have problems reaching things, we never have to work hard for ass." Team Prostate.

“Not only do we never have problems reaching things, we never have to work hard for ass.” Team Prostate.

Pot Brownies for Thanksgiving: An Ode to Party Animals/Toasts for the Holidays

21 Nov

As I near 30 and my prospects of having a family are dramatically dwindling, I’m beginning to see who I really am. After quitting my teaching job (I really miss the fat gay boy who’d sit in my class even though he wasn’t in it), I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on the trajectory of my life. And that shit is depressing. I mean who quits 3 jobs in one year? My friend summed it up when he told me I was non-committal and asked if I have a fill-in-the-blank resignation letter. Dick. After a solid week of laying in bed crying and mustering up the courage to visit the Red Box, I’ve resigned myself to my true essence: a spinster who’s more irresponsible than her teenage nephews. And what to do with it but embrace it.

I could let my single and childless status really depress me on the holidays, but I’d rather own that shit. And what a better time to do it than on one of the biggest party nights of the year: the night before Thanksgiving. In honor of all the single, irresponsible, high-functioning potheads and borderline alcoholics out there, let’s make today the real holiday of thanksgiving. Tonight, let’s give thanks to the party animals, losers, and dropouts who came before us and paved the way for the food, pot, and beer comas that we’re all about to get into. Let’s serve pot brownies for Thanksgiving and pray to the gods of partying. Let’s raise our Pabst cans and cheers to the guys who really understood that responsibility is overrated and that there’s no better time than now:

The Dude (The Big Lebowski)

“Here’s to White Russians, parachute pants, and abiding.”

Wooderson (Dazed and Confused)

“Here’s to high school girls staying the same age as we get older. Alright, alright, alright.”

Adam Demamp (Workaholics)

“Here’s to getting weird and swole with it.”

Spiccoli (Fast Times at Ridgemont High)

“Here’s to bringing pizza to a class that isn’t your own.”

Kramer (Seinfeld)

“Here’s to feeling good all of the time.”

Ferris (Ferris Bueller’s Day Off)

“Here’s to looking around and not missing life when it moves too fast.”

Tommy Callahan (Tommy Boy)

“Here’s to chocolate melting inside the dash and a brain with a thick candy shell.”

Droz (PCU)

“Here’s to being the guy who wears the shirt of the band he’s going to see.”

Thornton Melon (Back to School)

“Here’s to being the old Jewish guy in the hot tub.”

Leslie Chow (The Hangover)

“Here’s to doing so much coke that you’re heart temporarily stops beating.”

Beanie (Old School)

“Here’s to earmuffs and Styx.”

Tom (200 Cigarettes)

“Here’s to Casey Affleck looking like a total fag and acting like shit.”

Dean (License to Drive)

“Here’s to being a Corey Feldman instead of a Corey Haim”

Mitch Hedberg

“Here’s to not wearing green pants if you have a pear-shaped body.”

Reed Rothchild (Boogie Nights)

“Here’s to making margaritas in a Speedo and having curly hair.”

Joel Goodsen (Risky Business)

“Here’s to dancing to Seger and starting a call girl business.”

Penny Lane (Almost Famous)

“Here’s to OD-ing on Qualuudes and making pre-pubescent boys fall in love with you.”

*Party responsibly and call me if you need a really good drunk, designated driver.*

What To Do When You Shart In Berkeley: A Road Tripper’s Guide to Bodily Fluids and Other Mishaps

17 Aug

August is National Road Trip Month. Actually, it’s not. But it’d be cool if it was. What August is, for me anyways, is the beginning of autumnal reflection. Yeah it’s a little premature to reflect on summer fun while it’s still summer, but I’m pretty sure that I was conceived from premature ejaculation. So it’s kinda in my blood- being premature that is, not the ejaculation. That’s on my stomach.

While on the subject of all things ejaculatory, the beau and I went on an orgasmic 3-week road trip this past June. Like all road trips, it didn’t go without mishaps. And a lot of these snafus dealt with bodily fluids. There’s something about eating fruit in cars that keeps me regular. I composed this “what to do list” for any future road-trippers or people who have frequent bodily fluid mishaps. Here’s what to do…

1. When you shart in Berkeley:

There’s this place called People’s Park. I guess that it was a hotbed for civil rights action in the 60s or some shit, but now it’s a garden of and for homeless shape-shifters. When we were there, this rad 60 year-old chic was circling it without any pants on. My hero. Walk here, the habitants don’t care if you have shit in your drawers. Because half of them do already. And they’ll probably offer you weed. Which always softens the blow of dookying in your pants. Or, if you’re like the beau, press your water bottle tightly to your ass so shit doesn’t run down your leg. Waddle shamelessly into UC-Berkeley’s book store bathroom, discard your unders, and use all of your girlfriend’s expensive individually-wrapped vadge wipes to clean your hinder. Both will work.

Apparently, being shirtless and eating seeds isn’t trashy enough for this guy. He has to shit his pants too.

2. When you get your period in your host’s bed in North Portland.

You know those tags on mattresses that you’re not suppose to rip off. Now’s the time to do it. Locate that enigmatic tag and rip the fu*ker off. Your host will be so mortified that you did this that she won’t notice or care about the head-sized blood stain on her mattress. Then leave within an hour to cover all bases. And buy more vadge wipes.

I had to get wasted at Rogue Brewery Farms in Independence, OR to forget about the period snafu.

3. When that same host (the one whose shower, bed, and house you’ve been sharing) complains about the wicked foot fungus that she picked up in Nicaragua that she can’t get rid off.

You shut your fu**ing mouth because she’s letting you stay for free. And introducing you to some really cool lesbians and crazy inventive food. And then you invest in Clotrimazole when you get home.

This lady knows more than two cool lesbians.

4. When the San Francisco rapid transit stalls for an hour and a half in a tunnel and shuts of all power because some douche outside of Oakland doesn’t know how to kill himself proper-style.

Start to panic. And then get mad at your significant other, the 3-week old baby, the elderly, the pre-conditioners, the Giants fans who are missing their game, and the gun-supporter from Texas for not panicking. WTF people, is there anything that panicking has not solved? You can trace “SOS” into the window’s thick condensation or dramatically seize on the floor. Either way, you’re going to want to avoid your fellow passengers’ dripping sweat because it’s f**king gross. And because you’re not going to make it to Little Italy in time for the EuroCup final between Spain and Italy, you’re going to want to walk into the first downtown bar that’s playing the last 15 minutes of the game. It doesn’t matter if it happens to be a f**king Spanish bar and you’re wearing an Italy shirt and your team’s losing 4-0. True f**king story.

When I finally got to Little Italy.

Italy fans, Little Italy, San Francisco. Still celebrating despite the loss. They look suspiciously Spaniard…

5. When there’s a traffic jam in the Badlands (yeah, WTF) and it’s hotter than sh*t. 

You walk around with open intoxicants. And shoot a rap video.

“It was all a dream, I used to read Word Up magazine.”

I don’t look nearly as cool with my open intoxicants. I guess I was doing an indie video.

6. When you don’t want to spend $120 for a hotel in Oacoma, South Dakota.

Sleep in your car. And then trace SOS in the window’s condensation during the middle of the night because you realize it’s impossible to sleep in a compact car. But you will continue to do this in Auburn, California; in Grants Pass, Oregon; and in Omaha, Nebraska because no one wants to pay to stay in these places.

Not bad for sleeping in a rented Nissan Sentra.

Clearly Greg doesn’t know how to look good sleeping in a car, like I do. At least there’s no shit in his pants this time.

7. When you don’t have enough money to go to the zoo.

You find someone who has a backyard petting zoo in Portland, Oregon. Duh

Billy Goat says: “Fu*k a zoo.”

8. When you buy fake scalped tickets to a Giants game.

You encourage your boyfriend to go beat the scalper’s ass. When your beau approaches him with “excuse me sir,” you scoff until the scalper very apologetically and sincerely refunds you fully and directs you to a legit pair. And then you thank Shiva that you don’t have a penis and the testosterone that comes with it because if you did, you’d be in jail for the majority of your life.

Scalped tix: $40, garlic fries: $7, the view: priceless.

9. When there’s forest fires.

Put them out with your urine.

Watering the Redwoods.

10. When you have B.O. from infrequently showering because you’re staying in a college dorm with a big uni-shower full of hair and STDs.

Go to the rose gardens. It’s like potpourri for the decaying body and soul.

Portland Rose Gardens. Better than patchouli.

11. When you go to an all-ages show at 924 Gilman and see two kinds of bodily fluids within 15 minutes.

Go across the street to Pyramid Brewery and wait for your partner to get his fill of loud music. Take it as a sign that the people who are in line behind you are from your home city that it’s time to head home. The West Coast is bomb, but the midwest is best. Represent.

Apparently, these guys don’t mind seeing a 15-year-old covered in puke. Ready for home.

Girls and New Leading Ladies: From Jenny McCarthy to Lena Dunham

16 Apr

When I was little, I idolized two people: One, my brother . He was 13 years older than me and had a curly mullet so high that it grazed the descending ceiling fabric of his Buick LeSabre. Two: Jenny McCarthy. Yep. Because she embodied two things that women aren’t supposed to simultaneously embody: humor and hotness. I didn’t know that I was on to something when watching Lip Service and doing whippets on my mom’s sofa.

An angsty memoir that I’m reading for my thesis (impending deadline date: May 12th) talks about the perceived exclusiveness of certain qualities for women. It goes: a woman can be hot, but not smart; a woman can be funny, but not hot; etc. and vice versa. Apparently, being both is too threatening (to men and women). Hey, I didn’t create this world of pussies. I just live in it.

Perhaps we’re getting away from this thinking, but  most of us have, at some point, wishfully envisioned the chic who’s way hotter than us writing backward “R”s in crayon. There has been some mediated women who defy this binarization. Lucy? Goldie Hawn? Sarah Silverman? Tina Fey? What about smart and hot: Sarah Palin? Somewhere on this blog is the disclaimer that it’s for entertainment purposes only.

We see female fictional characters embody seemingly oppositional qualities. Especially with “funny” being subjective. But we don’t really see characters embody all 3: hot, funny, and smart. Would it be combustion on arrival? Would our brains and our loads be blown all over our flat screens the moment she graced celluloid? And I don’t have any damn cats to clean up the mess.

Last night the HBO series Girls premiered. It’s created and produced by and starring 26 year-old Lena Dunham. Bitch. Lena’s character Hannah is a 24 year-old unpaid writing intern, 2 years graduated from a Liberal Arts college, living in Brooklyn. Must I proceed? Yes, she wears skirts and boots. Yes she has dinner parties with opium tea and sleeps with a guy who has fixed gear bikes in his apartment loft.

Her character, and I’m sure her real-life self, is smart and funny (Netflix says witty and cerebral). She isn’t conventionally “hot” but what’s interesting about her character is that she seems to be part of a trend of new leading ladies. They’re witty, subdued expressions, wry, teetering on cynicism, and oh-so-fucking hip in their mild (but not complete) rejection of conventional beauty. Zooey Deschanel. Juno (that’s her real name, right?) Ramona Flowers (Scott Pilgrim), Clementine (Eternal Sunshine). Gag me with a f-n spoon.

Is this a step forward? It’s interesting to see leading ladies deter from stereotypical beauty standards (Zooey arguably doesn’t), but is it more of a side-step? Why can’t a bitch be banging, smart, and have men shooting milk out of their mouths instead of shooting– you know. Like what’s the message– (aside from “hot” not working with fart and smunny smart and funny): that if you aren’t pretty by mainstream standards, it’s okay to wear hideous combinations of attire from different seasons?

The only thing that this breed of obnoxiously eccentric young people is going to get me to spew is regurgitated falafel. And I won’t even get into the class factor of this quirky, subdued, hipster leading lady.

I’m sure the show (what Greg accurately described as MTV I Want My Pants Back meets PBS British comedy) will be a hit. And I actually really like it. It’s good. But give it a rest ladies, writers, and producers. Knowing that boots, a braided belt, and a skirt shouldn’t be paired doesn’t negate a character’s or your badassery.

Our Counter St. Paddy’s Party

19 Mar

This was the first in a long time that I stayed in on St. Paddy’s Day. I don’t prefer one to the other, but definitely partook in some things a little more interesting than the standard green beer, lucky charms, and puke-sighting.

We didn’t drink all of these. Well not all at once and not all on St. Paddy’s. The beau and his friend have started home brewing. These are the sanitized and reused bottles for their beer.  The friend’s wife, Erin, and I “help.” Which means that she usually knits and I get in the way or sit on Pinterest. I am also an official taste tester. That means 25% of the profits, liquid or paper. This weekend when the boys worked on their lager, I helped Erin take pictures for her knitting company Knotageek. The pics turned out pretty rad and required us to frequent a groovy little downtown alley amidst the bar hoppers.

Erin is vegan and doesn’t drink. So being with her on one of the biggest drinking holidays was refreshing. The beau (Greg) and I continued with our more liver-friendly weekend festivities by riding bikes. We successfully hooked up his new car bike rack (without yelling at each other) and stopped at my parents’ house so Greg could test out my mom’s new adult trike.
And we discovered that my dad clearly had no idea what holiday it was. That’s red not orange.

Deciding to fully take advantage of the unseasonably warm weather, we ventured downtown on bike and encountered an unusually festive bike rack. Being both festive and utilitarian, I naturally dug this.  It did however make me want a half and half (which is more culturally sensitive than “Black and Tan” as the latter refers to Irish paramilitary troops). We imbibed a little, conversing with two Polish guys who rode 45 miles from Evanston, Illinois. They rode with a rather eccentric older American man who talked about his spare tire (abdomen not bike) for a good ten minutes. And I kind of felt bad for the lively, funny Polish men. Greg and I imagined them being newer to America and not having the easiest access to people more their age and interest level. We somewhat awkwardly tried to incorporate all the patio-dwellers in our conversation (even the “dog” people wearing Poison shirts and sharing Bloody Mary garnishes with their pets). What ensued was a sort of humor misconnect. Like foreign people not “getting” Seinfeld. But Greg and I felt that it was more the Americans and not the Poles who couldn’t as easily translate or transcend language and culture barriers.

Seeking food, we left the Poles to their lunch and chatty old friend. After a block and a half, I noticed that I had left my phone. Greg called it and who else but our Pole friend answered. Let’s just say that the following phone conversation ensured his understanding of American humor in misunderstanding. And also in vulgarity.The weekend made me further appreciate an “alternative.” I always thought that I had a first-hand view of more European perspectives and lifestyle because of my dad. For some reason, I envision Europeans to be looser, funner, and, perhaps, because of a less overprotective hold on life, better in touch with the bigger picture. And it seems that this groundedness subsequently (and ironically) makes them more moderate than their counterparts across the pond.

I find America’s interpretation of St. Paddy’s Day very revealing. I feel that even our celebrations indicate some deep-seated and underlying anxiety. Maybe it’s because I associate anxiety with a kind of binge-purge lifestyle, but I find it unusual to always couple celebration with overconsumption. I feel that my dad offers an insightful anecdote. He drinks everyday, but never gets drunk. Cheers.

Disney Community Homicide

9 Mar


Yesterday I sent a pair of “Wedding Girl” socks to a woman in Celebration, Florida. Celebration was established by the Disney Company in 1997. The planned community, with candy-colored buildings, was inspired by Walt Disney’s dream of a utopic society with small town values– think Stepford Wives, 1950s. Creepy, right? They have a road that connects directly to Disney World, a “worship” page on the town’s website, and communications services run by Disney. Shockingly, they even have a Jewish congregation.

Celebration had its first reported homicide in November, 2010. A retired male teacher was found dead in his kitchen. Later that week, after a standoff with intervening cops, a man died of a self-inflicted gunshot–making the 2010 Thanksgiving week the week that Celebration saw its first homicide and suicide.

Ultra creepy, right? Is this not perfect fodder for a movie…stay tuned.