Homophobia?

{On the Podium of Shame}

ster: "Hear ye, Hear ye"
You: "Booooooo!"
ster: "ESPECIALLY the ENTIRE State of Texas..."
You: "Hook 'em" OR "Whoop"
ster: "I hereby denounce myself as having a homophobic experience."
You: {collective gasp}

I'm serious. The only open-minded person on the planet --- and constant speaker against ALL prejudice --- has stumbled from atop his pillar. But before I beat myself up too bad, let me explain the circumstances (insert "my excuses").

I have a gym next door to my place. Although I don't like working out, my recent fall has given me cause to use the sauna/steam room/jacuzzi.

EDITOR'S NOTE: You will be happy to know I am now "Ladder Certified" by my employer, not kidding.

Ok, so I check out the facilities. Unlike any health club I've belonged to before, the spa-like stuff is all segregated by gender. Which is just WRONG. Until today, I thought it was SOLELY because I wasn't able to check out gals in swimsuits. Nuh uh. Because the spa-like stuff is in the men's locker room, the idea of swimsuits has simply gone away.

Naked men should not be sitting next to each other in hot, sweaty places. I still believe this to be an undeniable truth, but it is NOT "homophobia." I do not FEAR naked men. Especially heterosexual men. I just don't want to see them naked, and if I have to, I would prefer they didn't sit too close.

Damn. This is really sounding closed-minded. Please note, this is just how I feel.

Back to the point, so I walk into the steam room. It is the size of a coat-closet and you can't see ANYTHING for the steam. So, I freeze. Stop. Listen. Finally, I hear "Over here!" Not knowing whether or not this is a warning or an invitation, I politely excuse myself.

A little nervous. But not fearful.

I head to the sauna, brightly-lit and empty I was suitably comforted. I went inside and used the towel to cover my FACE and not my package. Convinced that I was "ok" with this swimtrunkless world I live in.

Man, was I wrong.

I hear the door open. I keep the towel over my head and concentrate on my taffy-pulled back muscles on the hot cedar boards beneath me. From the conversation, apparently 3 men walked in. I had envisioned this to be a 3-person sauna, and with me lying flat on my back, I'm concerned how the other fellas squeezed in.

I tell myself, "Think about my back. They won't talk to me."

Wrong again. They did. Asked where I was from. I peeked from under my towel to see three OLD GUYS. Not old like me, or old like your grandparents... old like your math teacher. A little calmer. Three naked, balding old guys are no reason to instill fear in ME.

That is THREE times I was wrong. Didn't make it right.

It was at the point the conversation that one of the guys (Yeah, he had a lisp --- but that doesn't mean anything) told me that "I look pretty good for a 30-year old." That's it! I'm uncomfortable. I am CERTAIN that if all of these conditions are met, I should be:
1) I'm naked.
2) Naked old men too.
3) Closed-in 190F temperature room

NOBODY should be complimenting another man's body!!! Especially one in the room! ESPECIALLY MINE!!

My mind was spinning. I've lived in Austin for 4 years. I know gay men. I like gay men. I'm NOT a homophobe!! I live in College Station, Texas!! They're simply ARE NOT any gay men!!

I got out. Fast. I found my way back to the steam room. Alone, I gather my thoughts. I've been under a lot of stress, and I'm still a good person. Fast forward 60-seconds. Whereas ONE naked old man followed me to the steam room at stood at the entrance looking around.

Then I hear myself say "Over here!" (funny how that worked out)

Dude sat right next to me. There was more room in steam room. He was too close. He asked me how long I've been "working out."

I got up. I left. Quickly dressed. I went home. I was afraid. I was never so happy to be clothed in my entire existence. I haven't taken my clothes off since. So, I admit it. I've since had some time to think about it, and I've given myself time to change this into a learning experience.

And not fall off any more ladders. Ever.

ster

ps - pic for the few that are not sick of Chester pics!

Warning: This is GROSS. Really

"Dating for Dummies." You won't believe this, but they DO have a book.I've even read a little bit. However, it is NOT helping!!! Speaking as"King of all that IS dumb," with my kingdom being primarily the VoodooLounge and "my people" being those who frequent this dive --- I thinkI'm qualified to proclaim that my dating techniques are CLEARLY flawed.Maybe you can help.

Oh yeah, and bugs in Texas are NOT small. Unrelated? Not entirely.But don't worry, I'll explain after I tell ya about this HORRIBLE date Iwent on this week.

First, she wasn't that cute. Not ugly. Just not going to be anyromantic intererest without a lot more drinking than I intended for aTuesday. We went to my favorite mexican restaurant and the conversation was NOT going well. Honestly, I wish it would've just STOPPED. You'llsee why in a second. The conversation steered toward theoft-unnecessary topic of "Past Dates." My offering? I simply spun atale of one of my previous dates that began with "Hello" and ended with,"She told me she was 18!"

Her opening salvo? Let me preface by noting this is a direct quote:"The last date I went on, the jerk masturbated in my bathtub."

*THUD*
*thud*

That sound was my chin hitting the table. Followed closely by my desire to ever date again.Things have gone horribly awry. I simply did NOT know how to handle this. I consulted my book. Nowhere in "Dating for Dummies" does it provide you a retort that is sufficient to deal with this situation. It did however mention some key topics that are NOT to be discussed. Feel comfortably assured that MASTURBATION is very high on this list.

I was shocked, unsettled, and an iddy biddy bit intrigued. I was mostly unhappy because she had COMPLETELY trumped my entire bad date story withone poignant sentence. And it was a LEADING sentence.

I did NOT want to know the rest of the story. Not to be a masterbation-basher, but SHEESH! The word is completely taboo amongst all but your closest friends, and then only with written permission. I think the ACT itself is banned in Utah.

The best response I could come up with, short of screaming "FIRE!" was"Whuh?" So, against my wishes she continued a DETAILED description beginning with the dude flogging the baby seal and calling her in towatch the grand finale. By the time she had gotten to the gory bathtubclean up details, my chimichanga had lost all appeal. Dating sucks.

Betchya you're wondering how I'm going to seamlessly segue to the Big Texas Bugs story? Bear with me.

I'll admit, I've spent WAY too much time in apartments. For approximately 10 years, I've lived in a veritably sterile environment. My apartment complexes have taken care of ALL pests. Insects, rodents,Amway solicitors... you name it.Unfortunately, my new house needs a visit from the Orkin Man. And he better be packing heat.

It was early morning. I was into my routine getting ready for the day. I was getting into the shower, (yes, THAT shower) and I found it wasalready occupied. My first ever cockroach. And it was a DANDY.

Fully the size of many household pets, "Big Nasty" was unimpressed with myfinding him.. The thing that really "bugged" me (pun intended) was that the roach was NOT intimidated by ME. That is just wrong. Bugs should not exhibit bravery. So I shrieked. Threw on a towel and went to my roomie (still sleeping) for help. Seeing as how it was HIS house, I figured it was HIS responsibility to kill it. I was wrong. If the bug was found in HIS shower, it would be HIS responsibility. I think he added a slurred "Screw you" for good measure.

I had limited options. I wasn't prepared. I checked my bathroom and the most threatening choice I had was Shower Cleaner. It kills "germs, soap scum, and bacteria." Certainly Big Nasty was vulnerable to it. Not a chance. I doused him with half the bottle. Chemical warfare was uneffective. I think he liked it.

Remembering an episode of "Three's Company" whereas Tripper killed athreat to their house with a shoe, I found a weapon. Armed with a Reebok, I pounded Big Nasty. Twice. I was most surprised with the sheer density of the bug. It felt like hitting a jawbreaker. The first shot pissed him off, the second blow cracked the bugger (pun!) open. He basically exploded. Innards EVERYWHERE. Mixed with the shower cleaner, I made a "Big Nasty Stew" that was definitely of the chunky variety. It wasn't a pleasant or quick mess to clean up... but I can think of WORSE ONES!

See? Bathtub messes. Bugs and Jerk-offs. Congrats to me!

ster

The Shower Incident

My shower exploded this morning... more on this later.

This weekend was interesting. Dating-wise, I think I might be heading
for a level of infamy that is seldom achieved without a the word
"scandal" tagged to it.

First, I dumped Tats. Hard. Three times. Twice on the phone. Why
twice? The first one didn't take. I NOW know that when girls have
suggested to me that "we just be friends," they MEANT "go away or I'll
have to pretend I don't know who you are." Ignoring my almost-pleasant
attempts to sever ties via SW Bell, she found me at a bar Thursday
night and did her best impression of my shadow. I considered using heavy
explosives, but settled for legally changing my name to "Notwith Tats."
It was a bitch, but she's gone now. NEXT!

So then I went out Friday and threatened to put a quick end to my life.
Have I ever mentioned Karen? Well, she's great. Really cute and very
personable. I've mugged down on her a couple random times at random
bars at different random strata of inebriation.

Friday was no different. This is a good thing, right? Nuh uh. Two
problems. One, she is 6'0". That is the equivalent of 3 solid inches
of nearly palpable insecurity. I'm not tall. I know this. Apparently
she doesn't. I've seen pictures of us together. Have you ever seen
Sonny and Cher? I'm a bushy mustache short of singing "I've Got You
Babe."

The other problem? She has a boyfriend. Not always, but often. You
know the type, the "has-a-boyfriend-but-they-break-up-once-a-week-type." So, being the
newly-cautious fellow I am, I ASKED. Point-of-fact, "Karen, do you
have a boyfriend?" She said, "No, we broke up." I said, "then bend down
here and kiss me!"

She did. Life is good. Then her boyfriend showed up. Life started
sucking. I can't wait for the time that she forgets to mention her
dynamic relationship and dude (who is a full Sonny taller than I am)
shows up and uses my head like Gallagher uses watermelons. I start
reconsidering my break up with Tats... only to quickly reconsider that
reconsideration. The dating world is evil and full of liars...
excluding ME of course.

Remember Ruby? The married gal? Well, she called at 1am on Saturday.
Note, there is very little that a person could possibly want to talk
about at 1am. I know, because I make phone calls at 1am. I think the
approved topics are limited to "sex" and "my car is broken down, I need
a ride."

Ruby's car is fine.

That means that I'm one step removed from being a "bootie-call." Since
I wasn't home to answer the phone, I was able to avoid a potentially
messy moral dilemma. Drunk as 37 emus playing battleship, would I
allow for this oh-so-clear breach of dating etiquette? Doubtful, but always
put $2 on the long shot.

Back to my shower exploding.

So one problem I have with my new house is that MY bathroom (unlike my
roomie's) doesn't have a shower. Just a bathtub. I'm guessing from
the odor that the old people that lived here weren't big on showering.
Unfortunately, I AM.

So, doing his best Jeff Spicoli impersonation from Fast Times, my
roomie says, "I've got this killer set of a tools... I can fix it." In his
defense, he DID try. He spent $9.95 at Home Depot on this contraption
that is essentially a condom attached to a garden hose. Essentially,
it wraps around the bathtub faucet and funnels the water to a sprinkler
that mounts to the wall.

Apparently, the designer forgot to add LOTS of DUCT TAPE to the
do-it-yourself installation kit. To put it quite simply, water doesn't
compress. I didn't make up the laws of hydrodynamics, I just follow
them. So, as you increase volume of water going through an orifice,
you increase the pressure. Something has to give.

This morning, my new-and-improved shower "gave" until it hurt. Me.
The rubber mounting had sufficient pressure built-up behind it to BLOW OFF
with an almost comical *POP* sound and a flying superball-like funnel
clubbing me in the knee-cap. Ouch.

So there I sit. Holding my knee-cap, caustic soap dripping into my
eyes, searing my contacts like a pre industrial LASIK surgery guinea
pig. It is this point that ALL logic goes out the window. Blind as a
bat, I try to RE-ATTACH the funnel so I can get the soap out of my eyes
and hair. Not smart. Remember that little dutch kid that tried
plugging the dike with his finger? I hope the mental picture is as
vivid as my memory. Water is spewing everywhere EXCEPT on my head.

I finally give up the ridiculous attempt and try something EQUALLY
impossible. I begin to crane my neck under the spigot to rinse my eyes
and hair. You know the joke about "if I could give myself a blow job,
I'd never leave the house?" Similar concept. Similar results. I
think I might have cracked a couple vertebrae and I still have at least two
ounces of Pantene affixed to my scalp.

Why do I have a feeling this is not going to be a good day? My
birthday is Sunday, send me Bob Vila and a shower cap.

ster

Bongo Naked

So, I am to meet seven of my friends from Seattle in Vega$. Long story
short, it takes me 21 hours to get to Las Vega$ from Austin. No, I did
not take a camel. Thank you very much to American Airlines for routing
me through Chicago after bumping me off my flight.

Chicago, for those without an atlas, is NOT "on the way" to Vega$ from
Austin. And the SEVEN HOUR unscheduled layover was a treat. Airport
time is the slowest incremental measurement of time in the known
universe. There is only SO MANY ways you can plot a screaming child's
death before it becomes boring.

Children should not be allowed on airplanes without trigger locks
installed to their mouths.

So I arrive in Vega$ at 3:30am. WIDE AWAKE. My internal alarm clock is
ringing "BLACKJACK!!!" Blackjack is crack. You can't stop playing even
if you tried. I sit down at a table and one of the drunk crackjack
players asks me, "heyyy dude, wherrr ya frommm...?" Smelling the
pre-vomit, I shrug out, "Austin."

"BONGO NAKED DUDE!!!!" *thumps the crackjack table*

Californians. Can't live with them. Can't shove a stick of dynomite up
their nose. And a special thank you to Mathew McBonghehey (sp?) for
making THAT what Austin is known for in California.

I was staying at the Rio, and they have some of the ugliest blackjack
dealers I have ever seen. It is amazing how ugly a person has to be to
get demoted down the Vega$ food chain to "Blackjack dealer, 4am shift."

I think the progression goes, "waitress-stripper-whore-blackjack
dealer-Oprah." Something like that.

So the ugly blackjack dealer is ALSO the unluckiest wench ever. In a
matter of 2 hours I am up about $700.00. Of course, 3 hours after that
I am only $400 up, but the Californian has left and that is "Cool...
Dude."

It is 10am. I haven't slept yet. No need. My friends are starting to
wake up, we hit the buffet. For $14.95, The Rio will slay a spotted owl
and serve it alfredo, delicately poured over a cloned sheep. Nice
buffet.

It is after brunch that things get ugly. And I don't mean Oprah.

My friends start goading me into drinks. I haven't slept, but I've had
my full of crackjack and Rum & Coke is an excellent stimulant. Five
"stimulants" later, we are at a strip club. It takes quite a few drinks
for me to enjoy a strip club. "Quite a few" in this case is about 15.
At one point I remember looking at the table in front of us and seeing
19 drinks and 8 bare breasts. Life is good.

We bumble out of the strip club about 9pm. We hit the hotel for a quick
change and shower. Strippers smell nice, but smell a LOT. And they
leave about a gallon of nasty stripper perfume all over your lap...
errrrrr, I mean FRIEND'S lap. Sorry Mom.

We are sterilized and drunker than 37 emus-playing-craps by 10pm. We
head to the Venician and their swank night club, "C2K." I don't know
what C2K stands for I and I don't care. Just serve me $8 drinks and
throw a bunch of near-naked drunk women INTO your club, and I'm there.

This is where we start to break rules in a town where there ARE --- NO
--- RULES. I don't even think they have LAWS. If you've seen the
strippers, you KNOW the law of gravity has at the very least been
suspended.

It is 12:30am and I'm popping No-Doz like they are Tic Tacs. I'm
CHEWING them. Pulverized caffeine, mixed with enough alcohol, is the
equivalent of pure heroin. My eyes are GLOWING and my heart was doing
the macarena.

I find three blonde swedish women. I'm not kidding. With a drunken
lisp and a caffeine-induced facial tic, I order these women to "cut out
thaaaat stupid ack---sent, I know ya are jusssst trying to sound cool!"

Passports don't lie. They were from Sweden and I now know how to say,
"Screw you jerk-off" in swedish. For some reason, the gals take a
liking to me and it is at this time that I do something that I have
NEVER done before.

I drink a cute girl ugly.

No. I didn't mix that up. I know, normally if I have enough to drink,
I lose some of my natural genetic filters that allow me to SEE ugly. I
have a pair of beergoggles, that I can pull down like a visor,
permanently-affixed to my temples.

Saturday night, they broke.

After about 35 hours without sleep, about $200 worth of rum and cokes,
and enough No-Doz to choke a full-grown grizzly bear... something
snapped. One of the swedish gals decides that I'm not such a bad guy.
One of my friends tried to convince me that I should "go for her." I
told HIM that, "I ain't gonna 'go-fer' any gal 'dat ugly."

He thinks I'm crazy. It's 3am and I'm convinced that he is trying to
screw with my skittle-sized mind.

He keeps prodding. I finally cave and dance with her. I make out with
her. I can't wait to get away from her. Really. She's heinous. My
friend is sticking to his "she's cute" story the whole night. My other
friends are selling the same story the next morning. I ain't buying it.

I just developed the pictures from our trip. She was cute. THAT is how
drunk I was. At 4am, I leave the club and taxi drivers won't even stop
for me. I must've looked like fur ball that a drunk white tiger
coughed-up. Ugh.

I wake up on Sunday and pray for an early death. I'm face first on the
couch and I'm not even sure we HAVE a couch. I would trade my manhood
for a Vicodin. But at least I'm alive. Another Vega$ trip down,
another mental scar gouged into my moral fortitude.

My roomie is heading to London for a "Korn" concert tomorrow. He won
the trip from a local radio station. He's bringing his brother. Me?
You aren't going to believe this, but I'm going BACK to Vega$ on
Friday. My sis is going to be there and I wouldn't miss it for the
world. Maybe Helga will still be there!

And I promise to do something stupid.

ster

ps - the pic is me "and da boyz." Would YOU let that motley crew in
YOUR limo?

Vega$ II, the Electric Boogaloo

Ugh. I'm SO sick. Sick of Vega$. Metaphor aside, I'm seriously
hurting. What was I thinking? Vegas twice in two weekends? $atan
would be proud. I'm beat. Screw that, I'm clinically dead. Suffice it
to say, next weekend is going to be somewhere that is NOT Vega$. I'm
going to stay home and lick my wounds. How I'm going to lick my brain
is still a myStery.

Last weekend, I was painting Sin City red with the boys. This weekend,
I was with the girls. ALL of them. My sister, her friends, my friends
from Austin, and their friends from Cleveland. Almost exclusively
women. 15 women to be exact.

That is a lot of estrogen.

But I'm a trooper. We arrive in Vegas about 3pm on Friday. That gives
me seven hours of advanced drinking before we go out. Unfortunately, I
take FULL advantage of this time to reconnect my ass to a chair at a
blackjack table. Felt good too. Like a glove. Like a
cigarette-smelling, rum-and-coke-dripping, double-8-dealing faux leather
glove.

It is at this table that I meet a waitress that I will NEVER forget.
Maude, the Bad-ass Biker-bitch from Mars.

I really only sat down at the blackjack table in order to get a comped
drink, so I was delighted when almost immediately this attractive older
woman in a french maid-like uniform takes my order. It is at this point
I do a double take. This is NOT an attractive woman. I don't even know
WHAT this is. From a distance, you didn't notice the actual DEPTH of
this woman's make-up. This tart had enough spackle on to caulk a hot
tub. I know, "Who cares, she's bringing free booze!?! Shut up and
drink."

I get that. I drink that.

But about 6 rum and cokes and 12 hands of blackjack later, I start to
notice the disturbing trend... this waitress meant business. Drinks, in
those iddy biddy 6oz casino glasses, were coming FASTER than I could
drink them. Please note, in all my years of drinking, a waitress has
NEVER been able to take my order as fast as I could drink my order.
Especially inVega$. EXTRA especially in those iddy biddy glasses.

SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Iddy biddy glasses of rum and coke, in large
enough numbers, CAN kill you.

I wonder out loud to the table, "how can Maude be so efficient AND so
attractive?" She takes this not-so-well. Maude issues a challenge.
She lets me know, in no uncertain terms, that she is "ON IT."

Like there is a grading system, and she is bucking for extra credit?
Remember, I just wanted a free booze. I completely space off my
blackjack games. I'm concentrating on my drinking. The dealer starts
concentrating on kicking my ass. By any account, Maude was the clear
and decisive winner.

My Dad once told me that I didn't know the value of a dollar. I NOW
know the value of $230. Thirteen rum and cokes, three COMPLETELY
unneccesary "double downs," and a waitress with an attitude.

Sour grapes? Probably. Was she still ugly? Definitely.

So it is 10pm and I am well-oiled. I fetch the women from their
primping.

ALL the girls I went with are GORGEOUS. None will sleep with me.
Ever. But I do decide that I simply MUST HAVE one of the Cleveland
women. She was really cute but talked REALLY funny. People from
Cleveland have the WORST accent. The nasally-phonyms were annoying, but
I wasn't leaving Vega$ without throwing myself at her. LET'S PARTY!!!

So the bunch of us head to the Luxor night club, "Ra." You'd think for
the $15 cover, they could afford another letter. C2K only charged $10,
and they even had a number. The doorman recognizes me, sees the company
I'm keeping, assumes I've got a drunken-idiot for a twin brother.

So I pounce on the Cleveland gal. She put up a struggle, but when she
started making out with another guy, I knew she was just trying to make
me jealous.

So I start scamming on the rest of the bar. Then I remember what my
buddy told me last weekend.

EVERY woman in Vegas is a "pro."

Simply put, THAT means I can have ANY woman in the bar. For a price.
And seeing as how I have 73 bucks left, I don't think even Maude would
sleep with me. But I'm drunker than 13 hippos playing pinochle, so I go
back to hanging out with the girls.

The girls are all dancing with each other. I jump in. It is at THIS
point I start stealing dance moves.

No, not from Gregory Hines or even Vanilla Ice... I choose to copycat my
best friend Dave. Dave is a VERY BAD dancer. But he is fun to watch.
PLUS, he always looks like he is having a good time. So, since the last
memory I had of partying in Vega$ is WITH Dave, my stupor took on a
Dave-flavored salsa-styled jig.

SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Cleveland women would think Dave dances like
a dork.

New strategy. Everybody in Ra is wearing some sort of neon glow stick.
I decide to get everybody a glow wand/stick/necklace. I double wrap one
of the necklaces around my friend's arm. Make a note, THIS is a bad
idea. An hour later, my friend --- put delicately --- explodes? She is
COVERED in glowing-blue Predator blood. Dripping this Plutonium-239 goo
from her gown, I go to her rescue. Somehow, some of it gets on my
fingers... then to my mouth. How this happens, I don't have a clue.
All I DO know is that I have irridescent fluid on my tongue.

Pre-emptive rhetorical question: "Hey, I wonder if "glow stick goo" is
going to taste worse than ANYTHING in the known universe?"

That pretty much put an end to my night. It was 3:30am. My sis had
left, my glowing friend was ready to head home. I just wanted my
stomach pumped.

SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Going to Vegas will make you want to have
your stomach pumped.

ster

Ps - the pic is me and two of the fifteen gals that I went with. Life
sucks, right?




Pps - Yeah, I know I only covered one night. My therapist says that if
I try REALLY hard to forget, the sinning doesn't count.

Dear Santa

Mr. Christopher Cringle
100 Reindeer Lane
North Pole

Dear Santa Claus,

I know it has been awhile. I haven't written you since I was 8 years
old and asked you for an Atari 2600. Yeah, I know you are too busy to
be delivering me the PlayStation 2 with all the truly deserving little
brats out there. Besides, I don't have a fireplace and don't like old
dudes visiting in the middle of the night.

So, I just assumed that your email addy was at AOL because old people
keep AOL even after they realize it costs more and sucks. If this is
misaddressed? Quit pretending you are somebody you are not.

First and foremost, please do not forget to get all my friends and
family what they want. This is important as I am deathly afraid of the
mall. I went yesterday. My mind in a haze of twirling candy canes and
the echo of commerically-designed Xmas songs, I tripped over a bench
(decorated like a present) and nearly killed a mall elf. Not at the
same time though. The trip was accidental, the "elficide" was entirely
intentional and nearly a full hour later.

With that request out of the way, I have a few smaller requests:

Give me a President. I don't know how government works at the North
Pole, but here it sucks. Simple request: Tell all Americans that the
Republicans cheated and that the Democrats need to quit whining about
it. Then appoint Harrison Ford President of the United States. His
movies don't suck and everybody seems to like him.

Get Brittney Spears in Playboy. The time has come. The little tart is
just DYING to shed those leather pants and I find it morally
reprehensible that they may wait until she is age 50 and broke to do
it. (See: Farrah Fawcett)

Kill Regis Philbin. Now. Please.

Give me a stock tip. Really, any ol' stock will do. I've tried
EVERYTHING. If I buy a company, it goes south. Automatically. My IRA
is single-handedly sending us into a recesssion. I've tried every
system. I even tried, "stock-the-name-of-my-friends-cat." It was
named
"Dell." Too bad it wasn't named "CSCO."

Find me a rich, caring, and honest girlfriend. Notice that I did NOT
ask for "attractive" to be included. I've tried dating hot chicks.
Too
many other guys want them. Nopes, just give me a nice rich gal so I
can
quit my job, start a family, get fat and find a mistress.

Lastly, I want my memory back. See, I KNOW I've done some REALLY bad
things and could learn some VERY good lessons from them.
Unfortunately,
I am almost exclusively DRUNK when these alleged things happen. I
always wake up with an Etch-a-Sketch brain that magically shakes the
slate dry.

I know, you are "busy." But if you get the chance, I'd appreciate the
help.

ster

Oh, and by the way, thanks for the Atari!

Santa Parties

Santa Parties. Yeah, I know that "Parties" is poor grammar and not a
verb, but I'm tired. But, this IS kinda funny. Remember my letter to
"santaclaus@aol.com?" Well, he/she/they responded, it was unexpected
and maybe a little unsettling. You decide:
____________________
Dear ster,

Merry Christmas! Rudolph, and Mrs. Claus say "Hello."
Thanks for letting me know what you want this year! I've got to say,
however, that your Christmas list is quite different from the other
lists I get from girls and boys! Thanks for letting me know what you
want this year! I always find getting letters like yours extremely
helpful, since it helps to give me a better idea of what you and other
people just like you want for Christmas. About finding you a girlfriend
and that Britney Spears stuff -- your wish, however, is a little more
complicated than a toy, making it a little harder for me to pull
through. Please remember that if you do not get exactly what you
wished
for, it doesn't mean I didn't try my hardest!

Now, remember to be good all year round -- my elves and I are always
watching!

Santa
Mrs. Claus, the elves, and the reindeers =)
_____________________________

So, somebody read that damn thing, took it serious enough to respond,
and then threw-in a subtle threat with that "elves watching" thing. So
Santa parties and digs Britney Spears? Pedophilia and Xmas. Ya gotta
love it.

Ok, I admit it. I'm confused. I've got Sunday's paper in my hand(s)
and I THINK that it is saying that George W. will be my next president.
Not because more people voted for him, but because the USA couldn't
give
a rip anymore and the Supreme Court(s) has decided we should be paying
more attention to Ally McBeal then to all this political hullabaloo
(not
a word I've EVER used before, just sounds like something that Strom
Thurmond would say).

Read my lips. No more new recounts. Just make Harrison Ford President
and Michael Jordan Vice Pres. Not one person in this country would
oppose.

My only question is HOW IN THE HELL did Jeb Bush SCREW this up THIS
bad!?!? George W. owes Jeb a wedgie. Big time.

And I also want to know where Madonna got that BIG ASS gap between her
front chompers. That's new, right?

Right now I'm eating egg nog on Capt. Crunch. That makes me either 1)
stoned or 2) REALLY really lazy (I'm out of milk). You decide.
Regardless, it tastes awesome and it is REALLY chilly outside.
Yesterday, volleyball weather. Today,
make-do-with-what-is-in-the-fridge weather.

What about the weekend? Ok, but I should warn you that it is a tad
fuzzy.

I can tell you that due to the gaseous permeability of my contact
lenses, I have absorbed enough cigarette smoke that they are acting
much
like the Nicotine patches that people love. Except that that they are
stuck to my eyes like Saran wrap.

And I have my car back. Das Cabrio ist sehr gut. I know, who
cares!?!?

I've been going out WAY too much. I think I need another hobby. I
went
out Thursday, Friday, AND Saturday.

Thursday night we went to the "Last Chance for Romance" party at
Momo's. That pretty much sucked as I was unable to find any romance.
Just some sleezy older ladies and a nasty hangover.

Friday night I went to "Ropers" which is a Kicker bar where even
sleeziER and oldER women hang out. I hooked up with the same gal that
I
hooked up with the LAST time I was there. What a great concept...
wouldn't it just be GREAT if you could have a regular girlfriend and
any
number of different bars? No? You're right. That is sick and wrong
and I apologize. {crosses fingers}

Saturday night was little more interesting in that I set an all-time
precedent. What could I POSSIBLY have done on 6th St. that I hadn't
done before, EVER?

Well, I working really hard on this one gal at Elements. It is a
pretty
swanky N.Y. poser club. Lots of lights, over-priced drinks, and women
baring their midriffs. All the stimulation you want in a bar. I
distinctly remember the hispanic gal that I was making out with looked
a
LOT like Jennifer Lopez. Granted, my FOOT probably looked a lot like
my
ASS to me... but normally my beer goggles are FAIRLY accurate... just
skewed toward the better.

I just got the pics back. Not only was she NOT attractive, but she was
ASIAN. Never before have my beer goggles dynamically effected
somebody's ethnicity. Ever. I'm quite impressed with myself. I'm
just
surprised I didn't act out the Kristi Yamaguchi fantasy beer goggle
that
I patented years ago.

Maybe I should just go now. You know where to find me...

ster

The Little Things That Make Me Happy

I'm 12 days into June and I only have two drinking days left.

That is a daunting statement. I'm staring at that sentence and
wondering if I could find a crack dealer. I've never even seen crack
before, I don't even know if they still make it, but I'm guessing it'd
make an effective substitute for making me fall down a lot.

Oh, this just in --- I fall down a lot. AND I lost my milk. I'll
explain that further if I get a chance... promise.

Quick breakdown of the weekend. Picture RAIN. Lots of RAIN. It RAINS
harder in Austin than anywhere on planet earth. The RAIN here pours so
hard it HURTS. So, this weekend was essentially ster vs. Mother
Nature. The victor? Ma Earth in a torrential downpour. BUT, Steve
and
I built an ark and found our way downtown both nights. Nobody goes out
when it rains. The first night we watched senior citizens sing karoke.
'Nuff said. We paddled our ark back home.

The second night was not without incident.

First and foremost, do you remember the 6' tall gal that I have NO
business making out with? Well, we were back in business. She dumped
her boyfriend (again) and wound up falling for some of my really bad
lines (again). Fortunately, she didn't literally "fall" though.
Another of my friends wasn't as fortunate.

Ok, I confess. I like to dip. Not (just) chewing tobacco. I like to
dip women. Almost exclusively when I'm a dancing. My reason? I'm a
bad dancer. And I KNOW this... after this weekend there is an OFFICIAL
MORATORIUM on my dipping of women. It is official because there was a
vote. Of the 5 women I dipped this weekend, the vote was 5-0 for me to
NEVER be allowed to dip again.

But I at least know the origin of the word "dipshit" now. It starts
when begin "dipping" a gal and then forceably exclaim "ohhhh SHIT!"

Yeah, I dropped one of my best friends. Hard. She's still pissed.
Rightfully so I guess. Dancing is not supposed to be an X-treme sport.
I don't even know exactly how it happened. I'm normally a pretty good
dipper. I do know that our legs got tangled, in a very unproper way,
and we fell. The tangled legs made it impossible for me to get back
up. Yup. We had fallen and couldn't get up.

If you don't think that is funny... you are not alone. I'm gonna be
doing a lot of dogsitting to make up for that, my final dip.

I was just thinking how fortunate my friends are that the "ILOVEYOU"
virus never found it's way to my computer. Do you have ANY idea how
fast I would *click* on an attachment that said "ALOVELETTER4U?"

For ME? Yes, I would like to read that. Twice.

And AFTER I had sent little viral code to each of my friends --- Twice?
I would try to open that attachment AGAIN and AGAIN. I'd be like a
love
letter junkie.

I would LOVE a love letter. I think the last love letter I got --- and
NO, those stupid web-greeting cards don't count --- was during my
sophomore year in college. Stacy Parker, from my home town and just a
senior in high school, put together one of the most elaborate love
letters ever written. Complete with glitter, cut-out pictures, and I
think... a spritz of perfume.

I still have that letter. I break it out every year or so, just to
remind me what it feels like to have somebody REALLY care. Two weeks
later we broke up. But she can't have the letter back!

(Please note, I don't use MS-Outlook. According to the newspapers,
that
is analogous to being a crack-smoking, heroin-shooting,
gay-transvestite
who is alergic to latex, and asking, "Would you sleep with me?" So
you
won't be getting one of those viruses from me. Promise.)

Besides loveletters, I've decided that there are a lot of little things
that make me happy. Sno-cones. Grape Kool-aid. An afternoon off
work. Women wearing belly-shirts. My favorite baseball team on T.V.
That Katrina and the Waves song, "Walking On Sunshine." Finding my
sunglasses.

Wait a minute. Belly-shirts are MUCH better than ANY of those things.

One thing that does NOT make me happy is losing my milk. No, that is
not a metaphor. I actually LOSE MY MILK a lot. I just did it. I had
a
glass of milk. Now I do not. No idea where it could possibly be.
I've
retraced every step in my house. No milk.

Actually, LOSING my milk isn't so bad. It is FINDING my milk that
makes
me grumpy. Because, no matter how good of a job of losing my milk that
I do, I always wind up finding it eventually. This is a bad thing.

See, I've already given up the search for this particular milk. I just
got another glass. And I know it won't be (too) many days that pass
before that peculiar olfactory experience, that IS the discovery of my
lost milk, occurs.

No more crying over lost milk. I'm gonna start thinking of new and
interesting ways of finding loveletters and belly shirts. A
rededication of sorts. I'm now officially dedicated to getting a
loveletter from a girl in a belly shirt. And I only have two more
nights of drinking to do it. And no more dipping!

Wish me luck. And hope my roomie doesn't find my milk first.

ster

Survivor

I am a total sell-out. I admit it. I have given in to Corporate
America and all that they stand for.
If they are selling it, I’m buying it. Two of ‘em. Please give me
more.

Yeah, I’m talking about “Survivor.” The compelling testosterone-ridden
amalgam of The Real
World meets Gilligan’s Island. I love it. Can’t NOT watch it. I’m
serious. I actually caught
myself rescheduling my day yesterday so I could set my butt down on the
couch and gawk at a
bunch of idiots who volunteered to get banished to a hell-on-earth with
the remote chance of
getting their grubby (literally) little hands on a million dollars.

Is a million dollars still a lot of money? I think so. But ever since
Regis started shelling it out like
so many gummi bears, I’ve had my doubts.

Who cares? I’m still gonna watch. As a matter of fact, I’m buying it
ALL. Everything. I love
selling out. I’m heading to the Gap right now. After that? I’m going
to buy the soundtrack to
Mission Impossible 2 and a Pokemon Happy Meal. Thank you Big Brother,
and “Yes, I would
like another.”

It has taken me a little while to throw my entire life away, but I’m
making up for lost time. I’m
actually having homicidal tendencies toward the fat-ass Anti-Christ
“Richard” on the show. And
“Colleen?” DAMN. What is scary is that Colleen has been on this stupid
island for 28 days
without a razor, shampoo, make-up or even that sparkly glitter cream
that strippers wear ... and she is STILL hotter than ANY gal I've EVER
dated. Screw it. I'm making a raft and floating my ass to the South
China Sea, I'm gonna fish for some stupid Cuban kids floating out there
while I'm at it ...

And here is what is REALLY pissing me off right now. I've been looking
forward to the skin
flick "Coyote Ugly" for about two months now. In the commercials they
just keep showing hot
chicks dancing on bars. By definition, this is my perfect movie combo
right? It is rated PG-13.
Ya gotta be kidding me. I'm 2 1/2 times older than I need to be to see
this stupid movie. I'm
gonna watch X-Men and have some screwy dreams about a chick with blue
scales.

So what is new other than selling my self to The Man? Oh, let’s see...

First, I’m cursed. Big time. Don’t believe me? Well, give me a second
here. Friday night,
everything is normal. I’m making out with a 40 year-old in hot pants at
Polyesters at 3am.
Nothing new here. However, my exit was EPIC.

(I should note that this recount is ENTIRELY second-hand. I don’t
remember anything. But to
my buddy’s credit, considering the evidence, it sounds credible.)

To hear my buddy tell the story, I pointed myself toward the entrance
(not exit) of Polyesters and
against the warnings of the doorman, continued out toward the street.
Sounds fair enough. It is
here where my memory gets a little fuzzy. The way I understand it,
Polyesters entrance is
RAISED about 2 feet off the street on a pad of concrete.

In retrospect this is good information. Why? Because in my stupor, the
only thing that I see is
the life-giving roof-light of a taxi, BEGGING to be hailed. I hailed.
He stopped. I dropped. I’m
licking asphalt at high speed.

Again, my buddy is telling me the story, but I guess I fell hard and
fast. This is where those silly
laws of physics come into play. Somehow I had to absorb all this new
kinetic energy that I had
picked up on my descent. Most of it wound up as friction on my poor
khakis and my newly-
charred knee. Ouch. Some of this energy went into a nifty scab on my
palm and the REST went
into a not-so-coordinated ROLL. Yup. I rolled up on to this taxi cab
and without skipping a beat
said “Home please.” and “Ouch.”

Ok, so my life sucks AND my left knee isn't symmetrical with my right
knee anymore. Not
enough whining for you? Don’t worry, we are just to Saturday. I’m
still dogsitting Cole, a black
lab. It is still 100+ degrees out and this dog ain’t reflecting any
heat. He just keeps sweating.
Somebody told me that “Dogs don’t sweat, they pant.” If this is true,
Cole has the smelliest
tongue EVER. The dog-stink was not confined to the room he was in, it
actually carried at least
two to three airspaces from wherever he was. At one point he stunk up
the garage. That is no
small task, I’ve tried to do this myself.

So I start up my first ever dog washing facility in my bathroom. Just
to make sure, I asked my
roomie if there was any trick to washing dogs. My shampoo says “not
tested on animals” and the
last thing I wanna do is get PETA peeved by chemically scarring poor
Cole. He tells me no
worries.

Long story short — too late — my bathroom is a disaster area, three
towels are ruined, , the dog
still stinks and it looks like I tried to stuff a Furbee into my shower
drain.

Still not convinced that I’m cursed? One last story for ya then. Hey,
I’ve been slouching lately,
give me some room, OK? Thanks.

Consider THIS my new personal ad:

“SWM seeking cute blonde gal with great eyes, tight jeans, slow drawl,
and a penchant for
SWERVING into my lane”

Yeah, you guessed it. The Cabrio is kaput. This is the first time I’ve
wrecked my car since I was
in high school and that doesn’t count ... drinking and driving was a
sport back then and the car(s)
belonged to my parents anyway.

The details? Simple. Cabrio going 45 mph in one lane. Stupid bitch
going left from the right
lane. Cabrio bounces off Stupid bitch and careens into median.

When you get into a relatively serious accident, you are forced to pause
and consider your
mortality... Uh, wait a minute, the chick that hit me was CUTE!!!
Whiplash schmiplash. I just
want this gal’s digits. Irony of ironies is that in Texas it is the LAW
that she gives me her phone
number! Finally, I catch a break.

Not so fast. Stupid bitch isn’t from here and she lies to her insurance
company about the cause of
the accident. Fortunately, I have pictures and a cop as a witness.
I’ll try to keep you updated as
my neck heals. I’m still trying to figure out how to blame the scab on
my knee on the accident.

ster

Kissing Thresholds

Ok, this is the LAST embarrassing moment I share for a while. I've been humbled. It would be nice to have a *little* self-esteem built up in time for starting a family. Which my best friend JUST DID. Happy "born day" to Mr. Sammy J. Allessio, Dave's first progeny.

I hope he turns out half as great as his parents.

Ok, enough with the sentimental stuff. Let's get ugly.

After dating the 20yo gal for about 6 weeks and realizing that we really have NOTHING in common, it was time to put an end to the farce that was my attempt to get intimacy without hurting her. Basically, I flailed. But DAMN, she is a full DECADE younger than me!

She doesn't know who "Jack Tripper" is/was. Doesn't "get" the Breakfast Club. Likes Brittney Spears but considers Madonna old. See, I'm loyal to my age. I will ALWAYS love Madonna in ways that I couldn't possibly share and give it justice. See, Madonna got ME laid. Really.

Madonna came around at a time when teenage girls needed a role model. And unlike Whitney Houston or any other "superstar," Madonna was just plain SLUTTY. And teenage girls ran with it. Being a teenage boy? Well, I remember that George Michael was one of MY idols. In retrospect, I might have had more than a couple psychos as idols. Michael Jackson, Prince, and ALL the hair bands come to mind.

I just remember being 17, wearing a mullet, an earring and "O.P." shorts one summer when one of the Madonna-wannabes made me a man. Thank you Joy Pillian.

And Madonna still turns my crank for that reason alone. Thank you.

Oh, was that a tangent? Sorry, but this story IS embarrassing. It is/was funny, and so I gotta share. And I won't pull any punches. I took the time to digest the event and have made it into a learning experience. At the end of this, you can choose if I am
A) A pathetic loser
B) Insightful into my failed relationship.
C) Paranoid Schizophrenic
D) In need of a mullet

So the 20yo and I are having our break-up talk. The one where I explain that it isn't her fault and that she is REALLY great and that I have learned to date in my own generation (cross-your-fingers, please). She takes it pretty well, and we talk and chat and actually have MORE fun together that we ever had. When I drop her off, I give her a goodnight kiss...

She tells me she HATES kissing me.

A 20yo gal thinks I'm the worst kisser EVER. If THAT doesn't send you to the Quack Shack, nothing will.

I thought about the situation. Do I REALLY want to enter into this discussion? I mean, I don't want to tell HER that I've said the same thing about HER to MY friends. This could turn into a drama-like thingy that I despise worse than abortion protesters..

No. I can't fight back. I'm just going to leave. Do the right thing.

No, I'm not. I'm going to find out what this little belly-shirt hottie MEANS by "hates kissing me." Big mistake. She goes onto explain in detail, "BOY! Ya GOTTA gets that tongue MOVING!" She might even have snapped her fingers. My ego was already fragile, but my libido now had the structural integrity of that tasty candy shell on a melted M&M.

And I decide that it is "ok," and said goodbye. Almost gracefully. I went home and REALLY thought about it. I called some younger friends and asked them. I called my OLDER friends and asked THEM. And I came to the conclusion that, with as much PRACTICE I've had kissing, this was just a part of growing up.

A learning curve of sorts

I actually REMEMBER when I was age 19-21. I was a tongue fanatic. I was tickling tonsils and cleaning braces with ernest sublingual probing. I liked that. It was new. I was kewl. It was RIGHT for that age.

I eventually moved on. Kissing like they do on T.V. or at the movies. Slow, direct, deep breathing through my nose. An occasional sigh. LOVE THAT.

But I can't just spin my tongue like pinwheel at first contact anymore. Kissing is a preliminary activity. One of my FAVORITE activities. But, to a 20yo, I suck. Literally, and NOT figuratively.

Regardless, I still think she is cool.

But I can't REGRESS in my kissing. If I allowed it, I'd have a similar blow dealt to my relationship life when I go a decade OVER my age. And don't think it can't/won't or HASN'T. I'd be freaking women out with my goodnight kiss that added a teeth cleaning.

So, you decide. A,B,C or D.

ster