Now I ain't one to gossip, but ain't heard this from me...

Last night a cop pounded on one our neighbor's doors, yelling "court summons" with the authority and only a man of the law could assume. The neighbor's car was there and the lights flickered off (idiot). He was obviuosly home and knew he was in trouble. Big C and I were in the dining room hanging out in front of the computer when this growing spectacle first caught our attention. We watched from the dining room, mouths open, intermittenly saying "oh damn" and gasping in disbelief.

Then, the purple cloud of curiosity, which is inherently part of our natures growing up in neighborhoods where you stare at the unfamiliar car (and in turn, you were stared at when you went to a new neighborhood), led us to my bedroom, where we could watch more discreetly with the lights off and have a better view because it's on the third floor. The three of us, Matt, Big C and I, ran gleefully upstairs, cigarettes and beers in hand, and positioned ourselves in front of the window as if it was our own big screen television.

The cop evenutally left and about 10 minutes later, the lights turned back on. Then a calm neighbor man and his woman who we SWEAR is a stripper (strange schedule plus big bag plus big boobies equals stripper, according to our estimations) walked out to the car. He opened the car door for her and then they were off. Where could they have gone? To hide the stash? To get a lawyer? To tell their friends? To run away?

We didn't see any bags and they left their dog, so we figured they'd be back. He came back alone, which meant to us that he went to drop off his woman at a hotel. You know, for protection from the cop. The show was over at this point. It lasted a whole cigarette.

We came back downstairs, tuned in to some reality "miracle" show where they show blind kids and people all messed up from debilitating diseases and they make you want to cry because they're so fucked up and they get surgeries and in the end they're all better, and proceeded to talk about what we would do if a mother/daughter combo propositioned us with sex. Our answers:

Big C: "Hell yeah."

Matt: Makes a face.

Me: "I couldn't do it because I'd be thinking the whole time how fucked up they are for doing this. I mean a mother and daughter."

Maybe it's different for dudes. I'd like to hear some thoughts on this. That means you. Go!

My lint brush is not up to par

Hey. I'm alive.

I'm just pissed off as usual. I feel the way Avril Lavigne looks: all "aaaahhh, screw you, and ahhhhh..."

aaaaaaaahhhh.

At least kitties make me happy. Thank you, Mando.

I'm going to finish my Topo Chico and watch MTV and maybe fall asleep on the couch.

aaaaaaaahhhhhh.

To prove that all I really want in a woman is boobs and permission to laugh at poop jokes

Sometimes I think about how my life would be if things were, for a lack of a better word, different -- if I was six inches taller, if I had grown up in some far away place like The Congo, if I liked the taste of beets, if I had not spent every day after school in my parents' music shop during my formative years...

If I liked women instead of men...

After some serious thought, I came up with this list of famous women I would want to be with if I were gay. Some of them, I have to admit, are so yummy I would jump right out of the closet for if they gave me the "come hither" eyes. That is, if I were so inclined.

Jennifer Aniston



I once read in GQ that she has a house in Malibu and the writer described it so beautifully that I envisioned myself spending many a quaint Saturday morning reading the paper, drawing moustaches on the pictures while sipping my green tea with no sugar. She'd be reading the entertainment section, scoffing at Lindsey Lohan's latest drunken display because we both hate her and her publicist's abuse of the media in an effort to get her name out there. Then she'd take off her white bikini top and let me play with her boobs for the rest of the morning. I've always kind of wondered what her boobs were like.

Scarlett Johanssen



Again, boobs. If I were gay, I would be a boob gal. And she's got some big ones. Not to mention that there's a mature, sultry woman behind that sweet smile. Her smoky voice would perforate the night air with conversations about Chekhov's seemingly trite, plotless stories over a bottle of Merlot.

She'd be the kind of girlfriend who would be happy watching old episodes of "I Love Lucy" or glamming it up on a Wednesday night and hitting the hottest clubs in our matching blue babydoll dresses, flirting with guys all night and smiling at each other all night knowing we're going home to our king-sized love cloud we call a bed in our black-and-white-themed bedroom and totally doing it.



Milla Jovovich



Milla is probably the first woman I’ve ever thought was worthy of being gay with. When I saw her on “The Fifth Element,” I wanted to dye my hair orange and talk funny. Multi-pass…

Our relationship would be the kind where I would constantly feel inferior and not worthy because she’s so tall and gorgeous and thin that I would feel like the elephant man next to her. This would wreak havoc on my insecurities, paralyzing me from sitting next to her on the couch in our lounge clothes (she in lingerie and me in my Man Show t-shirt and boxer shorts -- totally looking like a slob who's unworthy of being in the presence of such decadent beauty)



to going out to a random bar (once getting to the bar and meeting her fabulous friends -- and by 'fabulous' I mean people who may not be necessarily famous, but nonetheless people with foreign accents who have slept or done coke with famous people, which in my book qualifies them as 'fabulous' -- while I go to the ladies room and check my teeth for spinach because I ordered the appetizer with the lowest carbs because she's only 1% fat body content and I am 3% and my fat ass can't risk embarassing her because she's got an image and her girlfriend slash life partner HAS to be almost as hot her if not AS hot...). I would be the butch by default, only because my boobs are bigger, I'm slightly hairier and I'm more ethnic. This relationship would eventually end because I couldn't handle being the butch. Moving on.

Shane on "The L Word" (Katherine Moennig)



This woman is hot. She’s the perfect mix between being mannish and pretty and when I find myself lusting after her when I get my Sunday night fix watching “The L Word” (not to ever, EVER be compared to my Sunday night fix of yesteryear, “Sex and the City.” Nothing can replace my SATC.), I feel like I have a crush on the cutest, most untouchable bad boy in high school...you know, the one who smiled at you once in the hallway, but never did it again and you forgave him because you felt lucky enough to have had his attention for two seconds. Shane is that boy to me: she is aloof, but has the capacity for passion, comfortable in her skin and so, so sexy. If Shane asked me to drop everything and run away to lesbianland with her and frolic up and down the corridors of Lowe’s with her holding hands on a Saturday afternoon, I would. No question – except I’d ask her to take me to her friend Kit’s way awesome LA café, The Planet, instead so I could meet Foxy Brown. Shane would be fun to shower with and for some reason I want her to carry me around on her back, piggy-back style.

Sarah Silverman



Ms. Silverman said (at the end credits of the Independent Spirit Awards, which she hosted), "if I hear the word 'independent' one more time, I'm gonna shit myself...then eat it...(eats a couple of popcorn kernels and thinks for a second) then digest it, then shit it again. Then I'll eat that, puke it up and...(ponders for long time) shit on that. And then that's it. We can all go home then." If Sarah will have me, I will take her hand and we will giggle forever, out-doing eachother's shit/fart/molestation and other inappropriate jokes till we are side by side, six feet under and worms are crawling in and out of our wrinkled, grey, dead cooters. It would be my absolute pleasure to grow old with such a deliciously sick individual. Plus, she plays the guitar and sings songs about how people of all colors fart.

Be still, my heart.

You ain't shit

I've had an epiphany.

I've realized today that I ain't shit. I've been going about life all wrong. I whine and complain that I don't get the respect I think I deserve, I should be invited to all meetings, everyone should listen to ME -- basically I should have it easy because I'm me and screw everyone else.

I'm awake now. I realize that this attitude will get me nowhere. In fact, I look like a damn spoiled princess, alienating everyone around me, causing everyone I encounter (who doesn't by some miracle like me in spite of my flaws...I call these people my friends and family) to dismiss me or worse, dislike me. And up until an hour ago, I have been that spoiled princess. Call this "growing up," if you will. What you are witnessing right now, my dearests, is the maturing process of deconstructionist. Now if we can only get her to stop referring to herself in the third person.

I have to admit, it was nice being a spoiled princess. I floated through life effortlessly riding on the momentum of youthful cuteness and charm. It's amazing how easily many people cave when you pout and sprinkle some elegant, subtle manipulation in the air. (I used to disguise it in the form of fairy dust.) Those days are over. Everything finally makes sense. You witnessing an integral step in the maturing process of the d, my friends -- acceptance that I ain't shit.

My plan now that I know I ain't shit:

- Actually play by the rules -- it's easier than it sounds because I just have to watch everybody else. They've been doing it all their lives.
- Have a beer because I can now relax.
- Excel at everything I do because even though I ain't shit, I still have some of my old "getting by skills." I'm a creature of habit and the mix between my humble acceptance of my newfound post in life and my irresistible charm will make me queen superstar of the planet earth.

I'm telling you, it's the perfect formula for becoming the queen superstar of the planet earth. Acceptance that you ain't shit plus charisma equals superstardom...if not a sound life at least.