foam soap

As we move further and further into the 21st Century, there have been innovations in life I’d never even thought about thinking of ten years ago. Blue tooth technology, internet dating, text messaging, segways. And then, then there’s foam soap. For those of you who know need no explanation, and for those of you who don’t I must console you and fill this void in your lives. I don’t know how the foam soap works, but I do know how it feels: like the hand of God preparing the soap for handwashing, washing your hands for you, and those hands happen to be the silky, fragrant feminine fingers of a lady.
Bluetooth technology is a mystery to me as well. Though I don’t use it. It seems to be a technology that simply uses wireless technology to officially make a tool out of any human being who uses it. I’m sorry, but everytime I see some ass, male or female, with a futuristic Secret Service ear piece, meandering, talking to themselves. I want to flick it off as if it were a spider crawling on them. They’re ridiculous, the people who use Bluetooth look ridiculous. YOU AREN”T THAT IMPORTANT!
Internet dating: I’ve tried this. I am ashamed of it, although some say I shouldn’t be, that people meet their soul-mates on the internet. Dirty old men coerce young children on the internet as well. Internet dating feels unnatural. I tried at the behest of my oldest friend, and I’m sorry to say, I can’t take it seriously. I paid for it, tried it, won’t do it anymore. It’s embarrassing; filling out the profile, reading your own profile, submitting pictures, it’s humiliating trying to break down your whole life into one page and three pictures. It’s a cop out. I know it’s hard to meet people, but internet dating takes the risk and fear and exhilaration out of putting yourself out there to be with someone new, whether it’s for instant pleasure or the making babies kind.
Text messaging has ruined my life. And it’s my own damn fault. I am a self-proclaimed text messaging whore. It drives most of my friends crazy. It’s almost as pretentious as Bluetooth. Little conversations between two people, like passing notes in class. These conversations are so secret and so brief that they don’t warrant a verbal conversation. They save time, maybe, but the reality is there is plenty of time for everything. That’s a whole other argument, pace of life. An exquisite young lady and I were discussing the mutual joy of traveling internationally: no cell phones. Anonymity, what a concept. Not being able to reach whoever at any given moment about every little thing. Only communication with those who are physically present. Now I text message any quip I like to anyone I like, and it’s helped me in certain ways, but as with internet dating, it’s a noncommittal form of communication. And I need to stop. But I won’t. And that makes me sad.
Segways are an invention dear to my heart, but for one reason only: GOB Bluth. The segway was invented for GOB. A man who travels around on a contraption so ridiculous, it can only be described seriously as “a personal transport device that uses five gyroscopes and a built-in computer to remain upright. The Segway HT has no brakes and does a nifty 12 mph. The speed and direction (including stopping) are controlled by the rider shifting weight and a manual turning mechanism on one of the handlebars.” (I had to look it up) Isn’t a personal transport device called a car? Didn’t we invent that already and it’s ruining the world slowly? Who needs one of these though? Lazy people? People who can stand but can’t walk? I’ve only ever seen one being rented at the beach. Maybe I saw one once, in the city, but I’m pretty sure it was my imagination. The Segway says, hey, look at me, kick my ass. But I want one anyway.
The foam soap, in contrast to these other inventions, is flawless. I’ve never wanted to wash my hands more. The aromas are phenomenal, providing long-lasting scents that make me reminisce about washing my hands in foam soap. What other product provides such instant gratification without harm. Even my favorite restaurant, Tio Leo’s, has foam soap. Foam soap is a bubble bath for the hands. Beat that, dickhead talking to himself on his Bluetooth, text messaging to his crazy, ugly eharmony girlfriend, running people over on his segway.

Qutting is Amazing

Ahh, the freedom of being poor. And staying poor, at least for a little bit longer. I parted ways with the service, a.k.a. restaurant industry yesterday, or for you laymen: adults acting like childish little bitches and employees seeking continuous validation in the form of 15%. don't get me wrong here, I have the utmost respect, well maybe that's not true, but I do have respect for those who choose a career in the service industry: entertainers with an unconscionable desire to meet the needs of others. And I have to consider the disgusting amount of money that goes into it all. But all this work and money going into something that either constipates or escapes the rectum like a convict fleeing prison? I just can't dig on that, at least not anymore. And so, I quit. An unamerican avenue, since, winners don't quit. And Americans are winners, right? Well fuck that. Nothing can be more liberating than quitting; quitting smoking or drinking, or a woman. Correction: a crazy woman. And so I encourage everybody to quit. What are you made of? What's your reaction to the nakedness that ensues from leaving something that became in a sense, an integral part of your life? I quit California recently. The time was right. I'll relapse, I'm sure; too many things to come back to, but for now I'm happy with quitting. My next quitting is quitting doing nothing. Quitting not writing. Quitting bitching and complaining. Quitting settling. One thing I don't ever want to quit though, candy. Can't do it. They created false teeth for a reason, es verdad? And so, go out there and quit something today, it could be ther greatest thing you ever do. I mean, how many people do you know who should really just quit talking, or existing?

words of wisdom for my newly-today-born nephew, noah

What life experiences do I possess that have amalgamated into wisdom for my only hours old nephew? I being a gentleman who welcomed the world by urinating on the physician who brought me out. As i find myself being childlike constantly, I feel that I have gained a peer more than anything else. Will Uncle Zach-weird-be the fun uncle or the deadbeat uncle? Lord knows I'm on the path toward the deadbeat uncle, jobless and penniless, owing money all over the world, but having a grand ole time doing it. Not that I bleed irresponsibility, instead it oozes out with the tacos and pizza I continuously consume. A college graduate after five and a half years, a struggling, unpublished writer waiting tables in a delusory dining establishment; what in the hell am I supposed to impart on a man just coming into the world? Who knows, maybe my nephew is the reincarnation of Martin Luther King Jr., or George Burns, and he can impart his great wisdom unto me? Or maybe he will be individually phenomenal? I'm not pushing in either direction, I already know this kid is destined for greatness, whether he likes it or not. I've heard, in passing, that children are the truly wise ones. That through the eyes of a child we can see the world in all its beauty, thus bringing me back to my own childish tendencies. Instances of staring at the sky through leafless trees, or standing in the snow to feel flakes lie on my tongue, I can only be excited for all the newness in Noah's life, and the warmth he will bring to my family. But most importantly, how lucky he is to be conceived from two people who are devoted to one another, devoted to making each other the best people they can be, and through this child I am confident they are bringing another good soul into the world. Even if it is in Los Angeles.

nnnn sexy

read it, like a name. Lying on my recently bought (that evening) air mattress, chatting with my roommate, Colter, I was officially welcomed to the neighborhood. Two young Puerto Rican mothers, taking their children in a stroller for a walk, happened to pass our curtainless, first floor windows. One looked right at me and with a smack of her tongue against the roof of her mouth, said "nnnn sexy," and continued on her stroll. I have felt at home since. Not only have we discovered a new world around us, we have seen a familiar face or two. One aforementioned pumpkin-haired munchkin pacing as if time were too slow for her, and one ink-faced miscreation lounging at a nearby piss station. There may even be more hope. We were riding in a yellow vehicle, you might call it a banana vessel, late in the evening and fell static behind two parallel, equally obtuse minivans. A man jerked himself out of the driver seat, slamming his own car door against the otherrepeatedly and screaming at him in an unfamilarly familiar language. As the driver who stayed in his car violated the accelerator, the other, without hesitation, closed his door and sped after him. In one of the vehicles, or perhaps out of thin air, a young man went sprinting down the street, keeping pace with the vehicles. Unfortunately our captain made his turn and they forever disappeared. Where else am I gonna get this?

noo yawk 24 hours

hypothetically, a 32 year old virgin agrees to a blind date; the girl sounds cute, an interesting background, knows he can get laid, so he decides yes, only when he meets her she's a meth addict, tattooed everywhere, dirty, but nice, so he goes ahead and sleeps with her. the next day, he can sleep with her again, now he fulfills an obligation but at what cost? maybe this makes no sense, maybe it does, maybe i should quit while i'm not too far behind. how does this story relate to our first 24 hours in new york? to preface, colter and i agreed to sublease a room in a converted school house in bushwick, ny, which to white new yorkers is a scary part of town. one month minimum, craigs list listing, pictures of a stage and bathroom only, we soon found out upon arriving at 6:30 a.m. why the bathroom and stage where the only featured photographs. driving into bushwick on an early saturday morning, to a delapidated, unmarked address, we were greeted by a lovely young girl, about 4'10", with an orange mop top, black tights, an overall/skirt combo who welcomed us with an unnerving perkiness, led us through a trashpile to an empty room save for an alarm clock, a lamp sin lampshade, a bookcase and a bunkbed/loft combo consisting of street dividers and plywood, although architecturally sound with a miniature duo-desk combination and futon mattress. given the time of day, colter and i agreed to share the futon, however ten minutes into attempted sleep, colter's slight adjustment for comfort spiraled into a cracked frame and support beam crashing to the floor. colter braved through and stuck with the futon while i went to ground level and lined up two large suitcases and my south america travel backpack and slept on luggage. we unplugged the lamp to turn the light off and attempted to sleep off our collective nightmare. waking up didn't put us in any better a position as leaving the room required the meeting of new people, one a seemingly normal gentleman, while the other was a tattoo laden individual depending on a four inch bone through his nose to maintain his equilibrium-a mumbler to boot. we got the fuck out. first train ride led us into williamsburg, a stop that delivered a wonderful scent of fried chicken. wandering at first, colter took me to a pizza place he had attended on a previous trip and despite my lack of appetite, it lived up to the hype of a new york slice. somehow we managed to walk into a polish realtor's office and viewed a dumpy, underground loft that we wouldn't have considered hadn't the realtor been a walking hour glass--human nature is human nature. with the thought of spending an evening in bushwick, we began to look for other realtors to help us apartment hunt. we walked into a well designed office off of bedford to one guy on the phone who after hanging up, greeted us by saying "fuckin bitch, hey how can i help you guys?" a busy guy on a busy saturday, we wandered williamsburg for hours, frequenting a local clothing store and sitting at a coffee shop with a nervous stomach before being led to a beautiful, renovated duplex loft. things were looking up. after beginning the leasing process, we needed to return to our halfway house to hand over a deposit check to the realtor. our return was welcomed by new rascals, one of which looked like a typical, white midwestern girl but surprised us when as we left she rocked a puerto rican accent and was selling t-shirts to neighborhood girls on the stoop, presumably stolen goods. speculation of course. delivery of the check and a restaurant recommendation put us at a hip, refreshingly comfortably yet busy thai fusion restaurant called sea. a simple dinner, a few beers for me and a tom collins for colter, yes, make fun of him every chance you get for drinking a menopausal woman's "fun" drink. and then, we were off to our friends' brian and owen's for a night of seeing old friends, meeting new people and escaping in pabst blue ribbon until four a.m. and crashing on what felt like a giant cloud compared to the awkward pointy luggage i slept on the morning before. two hours of shaky sleep and boom, twenty fours hours gone. WE ARE NEW YORKERS. right?

The banality of actors

I hate when I am perceived as a writer. I just don't like it. It sounds pretentious, and I'm not the one saying it. I want to write, I think my resume says writer, it makes me sick. I think I only say this because of actors. "I'm an actor." Maybe I'm the only one, and I know I'm not, but actors are deplorable, continuous streams of oral diarrhea--a nightmare that became true-like the movie "Mannequin." Let me first say, I have 98% rule, which means, whatever i say i like or hate, there exists a 2% give which supports an opposing argument. Say, all people are trash in Orange County, CA; by my rule, i have to allot 2% of the population to be worthy of existence, maybe more maybe less--suffice to say, there are no absolutes, as much as I'd love to abide by one. So anyways, an actor told me once that without actors, stories wouldn't come alive--this in response to my saying that an actor is a puppet, dead weight, a vacuous vessel--I have a thesaurus and just possess a plethora of synonyms for the word empty in relation to actors. I have to say that it got me thinking, are actors responsible for the execution of a beautiful story? Yes and No. And No and NO! My skewed view of the world says that actors are the end of the imagination, but I understand my own contradictions when I tell you that I hate to read but love to watch movies. Maybe nobody else understands, it's like this: simply because I need some sour cream to give my guacamole great texture doesn't mean I like sour cream. And many know how I feel about sour cream. I digress, I digress quite often. My point is that actors are merely an ingredient, an expendable ingredient at that, for the true vision, in film at least, comes from the story's creator and its visionary, which might be one and the same, in the form of the director. I'm sorry, but this subject gets me so fired up that words cram in my head like people in a burning building all trying to escape out the same door. When someone talks about a movie and I ask, "Who directed it?" I am often surprised that I receive the response "Who cares?" more than the answer to the question I asked. And my response, "Are you fucking kidding me?" I had an argument the other day about how actors are all shit, scum of the earth, and then my counterpoint goes and throws in Johnny Depp. Good ol Johnny Depp. Solid right? Her argument, "Pirates of the Carribbean," a shit movie that he rescucitated into two more excruciating sequels, I can only assume the third is shit as the second was exponentially worse than the first. But she's got me with Depp, partly. "Edward Scissorhands," arguably my favorite movie, and yes he was stellar, but tell me Brett Fatner makes that movie and Johnny Depp saves it? I'm sorry Mr. Burton for even referring to that fat, coked-out courtesan in the same sentence as any one of your films, including and most importantly "Pee Wee's Big Adventure." Anywho, back to Depp. First of all, maybe I'm committing sacrilege when I say, 21 Jump Street was one horrible piece of garbage, but I'm sayin' it. 45 film credits on imdb, and batting 500 in the big leagues is unheard of, but everywhere else it's failing. For every "Donnie Brasco" there's a "Nick of Time," "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," "Benny and Joon." Now I gotta say, he personified the Hunter Thompson I saw in my brain when I read the book before seeing the movie, and I felt for Joe Pistone giving up Lefty, but come on now, Mr. Thompson lived that, and the great Terry Gilliam distributed a visual recreation of one fucked up trip, in both senses of the word. And while "Four Weddings and a Funeral" isn't "The Godfather," it's still better than being credited with "Van Halen: Video Hits Vol. 1," "The Avengers," "Saturday Night Fever," "Another Stakeout," "Bird on a Wire," the list goes on, but at least these guys are directors. And while my silly rage brings overflowing tangents in my favor for the dismissal of the pretty marionettes, I am disgusted with my disgust for the derived form of the very thing that I admire most, a storyteller.