Tuesday, June 29, 2010

My Humble Little Abode. Like, really little.

Yup, finally out of the house, the Hotel Pequito.  Moving from a large house by the beach to a small apartment further inland has some drawbacks.  One, I miss the view terribly.  I miss having my own driveway.  I miss having the counter space to cook a large meal.  I miss having a bathroom that is more than four feet away from the head of my bed (no more Taco Night at Drew's place).   And I do actually, to a point, miss having the space and the freedom to entertain.

But my little apartment has some perks.  One in particular - it is MINE.  When I wake up, I can walk around in my boxers and not worry about blinding another human being with my pastiness.  I can scratch myself on any spot on my body, at any point in the day, let out a long sigh - and I won't have to deal with judging eyes.  And when I come home after a long day (of which I have many) I can pour myself a whiskey, and do...well, whatever the fuck my little heart desires.

So here it is, my little nook.  I don't know why anyone but me would care, but it makes me happy.  And sometimes, you just have to share that shit with people.

My building, from the outside.  I'm on top, natch.

No garage, but covered parking works for me.

Not a spectacular view, but the sunsets are pretty killer.

The view coming in the door - cozy, ain't it?

Any idea what to put on the shelves?  Pictures, candles, etc?  And that TV stand is very temporary.

My present to myself, for getting through the move.  My 42" Panasonic Plasma, 1080p.

The wittle kitchen.  Not hosting Thanksgiving dinner here, that's for sure.

The 'breakfast nook' needed a purpose.  It is now home to the much discussed DVD collection.  There are about 1,000 more in my closet, no joke.

Derby's Tavern (A Christmas present from Laurnie - I finally put it up!).

**The quote at the bottom reads:

"Let's drink to California
way out by the sea
where a woman's ass
and a whiskey glass
made a horse'e ass of me."

Thanks BFF.

My favorite picture, Picasso's The Old Guitarist.  There is just something incredibly melancholy and peaceful about it.  And a little sad.

Gotta have a spot for the booze.  In case you are wondering where the Jack is - I am living on the cheap at the moment, so it is Seagram's 7.  And Red Cups - classy all the way.

This is where the magic....doesn't happen nearly enough.

Anyway, that is it.  The place is so small (yet expensive - fucking Southern California) that I can't even get in good position to take a picture of the bathroom.  Which sucks, because I am proud of the job I did on the color scheme (Oh shit, did I really just say that?).  And the lack of pics from the bedroom and patio are due to the fact that they aren't finished yet.

Ok, now go away.  I gotta play a little Wii Punchout, and you people are getting in the way.  This joint ain't big enough for the both of us.

Saturday, June 26, 2010


Pretty devastated right now.  That goal in extra time, not much you could do about it.  Lightening will strike, you just hope it happens in your favor.  This time it didn't.  But as a lot of American soccer fans know, you wonder if the US isn't overdue for it's turn.  I am proud of you boys - can't say you didn't fight hard.  My hat's off to you, Team USA - I just wish I didn't have four years to wait for your next chance.

The Cup goes on, of course, but now there will be a little something missing.  I will route for Ghana, and the people of South Africa.

But DAMN, it was a hell of a lot of fun while it lasted....

Friday, June 25, 2010

My Personal Plea to the People of the United States of America

This is me on me knees begging, people.  Watch the video above.  I need your help.  Team USA needs your help!

I know all the arguments:

"Soccer is too slow..."
"There's not enough action...."
"Why would I watch something that will just end in a tie?"
"They fall too much and fake being hurt.  I hate that..."

I don't want to hear it anymore.  I. Don't. Care.  Whether you like it or not, this is the biggest sporting event in the world.  It is the biggest fucking SPORT in the world.  Football, baseball, basketball, MMA - nothing even comes close to comparing to it's global popularity.  You think LeBron is a big star?  Google Cristiano Ronaldo.  Michael Jordan?  On his best day, doesn't even come close to matching the worldwide phenomenon of David Beckham.  I know that we, as Americans, have chosen to deal with the game of futbol in a mature and adult manner - we basically close our eyes, put our fingers in our ears and yell, "LALALALALALALALALALALA!"

But not all of us, as you may have noticed in the video above.  Some of us eat, drink, and breathe the sport.  Some of us have played it since we were too little to even kick.  Some of us worked our asses off to become the best we could at it - bled for it, cried for it, sacrificed our bodies for it.

To those people, this tournament means more than the World Series, more than the Olympics, even more than the friggin' Superbowl (calm down, I'm not a communist - it is a close number two).  To us, this is the end-all-be-all of athletic competition.

But here is the thing - I don't expect you to be like that.  Hell, I don't even care if you watch another soccer match for the next four years!  90% of the people in that video?  I am betting that they can't tell you the difference between a corner kick and a goal kick.  I'm betting that they can't name one player on the team other than Landon Donovan (a name they only learned in the 91st minute of the Algeria game).  But they are out there, cheering like mad - not for their soccer team, but for THEIR COUNTRY.

So help me people!  Go out to a bar, wear some red white and blue, and for two hours of your life, allow yourself to feel the passion that is out there for this game.  The United States has a chance to accomplish something they never have before.  The semifinals are not impossible.  If this sport is ever to grow out of the shadow of American apathy, it needs you to start paying attention!  I will be there, in my jersey, chanting for Jose, Landon, Clint, Tim, Carlos, and the rest of the boys.

Sing it with me now:

Monday, June 21, 2010

Keriophobia's a Bitch

Keriophobia - The Fear of Candles.

Yup, no joke, it is my phobia.  Don’t get me wrong, I love candle light, I dig the smell, and I still think a bedroom lit by them is sexy, in an old fashioned kind of way.  But the candles in my apartment are under my control – I choose when to light them, when to put them out.

But when I am in someone else’s place, their domicile, and under the control of their odd habits and peccadilloes, I fear candles and candle wax, and their ability to do me physical harm.  I am not crazy, there is a very good reason for my deep-rooted fear.  For those of you who are freaked out by 'TMI' - might as well take this opportunity to go and visit one of those blogs that tell you what their Yorkie does on a daily basis.  For everyone else, read on.

Her name was….let’s call her Meredith.  Why Meredith, you ask?  Cause her name was fucking Meredith, and I don’t care if she ever sees this.  She was an odd, vengeful little trollop.  I would love to throw her last name up here too, but I can’t, cause I don’t remember it (don’t you judge me, I can feel your eyes).  And despite the fact that her name made me think of Grey’s Anatomy, a show that I truly believe was secretly invented to set the Women’s Rights Movement back 35 years or so, I went out with her after a friend from work introduced us.

Meredith….shit, I don’t want to keep typing that, let’s call her ‘T’ (for Trollop), was extremely hot.  She was short, about 5’ 2”.  She was a former college gymnast.  She was one of those girls that had a tiny ass (I am definitely an ass man), but it still worked for me, cause you could cup it in both hands and imagine that you were testing the ‘ripeness’ of two grapefruit at the grocery store.  I met her at a bar, which of course, for any of you single guys out there, is just the perfect place to meet normal, well-adjusted women.  Oh wait, you can't actually hear my voice while reading this.  That was said in my head with an overtly sarcastic tone. 

Here’s the rub – good ole 'T'?  She was not particularly interesting.  Not a great conversationalist, and certainly didn’t stimulate my mind or my soul.  But she was hot, and interested, and at that particular time, I had recently lost my fuck buddy to a relationship.  So obviously, I was being guided not by my mind or my heart, but by another organ altogether.  One who I have a love/hate relationship with, depending on his judgment.  I am often, because of whiskey, at his mercy.  And he, to this point in my life, has gotten me through 32 years without disease or procreation – so I take my hat off to him.  (I love ya buddy, so don’t get mad at me for this story, ok?)

‘T’ and I began to have a ‘relationship'.  And by relationship, I mean I would go over to her house after work, get my pickle tickled, and leave before dinner.  I will completely admit, I was a acting like a complete and utter douche during this two month-long period.  I love and respect all women (except Katherine Heigl, that ungrateful harpie), and my father raised me to treat each and every one of you like a princess.  That you are a gift to us, and we don’t really deserve you, deep down.  But this woman, she brought out the worst in me.  She convinced me that she was cool with our situation – and I have learned over the years that it takes a very particular type of women to completely accept this type of arrangement.  ‘T’ did not fall into that category, and I was well aware – but I played the part of the ostrich, burying my head in the sand.

One night, I made the short drive from work to her apartment after receiving a very eloquent text – “COME OVER.  I’M NAKED.”  I should have known that something was wrong the minute I walked in the door.  There were candles everywhere.  On the coffee table, on the TV, on the end tables, on the kitchen counter.  In my diseased mind, I heard that creepy Latin chant that you hear in every movie where the villain is about to sacrifice a virgin. 

She opened the door in a negligee (BITCH!) and took me by the hand to the bedroom.  While I used my peripheral vision for signs of chicken blood or human hair, I realized that I was experiencing a very new emotion.  I was simultaneously turned on and creeped out.  To be honest, it was a rather powerful combination.

So while trying my damnedest to not freak you all out with details, the ‘act’ began, and I was on bottom.  I ain’t gonna lie, I was digging it, and at some point closed my eyes and turned my head to the side.  ‘T’ chose that exact moment to grab the nearest candle - next to the bed – and without permission or hesitation, turned it over and allowed burning hot candle wax to drip ever so abruptly onto my bare chest.  Now once again, don’t get me wrong – I’ll try anything twice.  But give me a friggin’ heads up.  Tease me with it, let me steel myself for the oncoming pain, and decide whether or not the current sensations are worth a little risk, or whether I am going to scream and run like a little girl who just saw a large spider.

So what, pray tell, happened in that instant that the wax touched my chest?  I did what any red-blooded American man would do.  I squealed like a little bitch and bucked my hips in shock.  Not a good thing, mind you, as she was kind of launched into the air.  Which, her being a gymnast, I have to admit to being disappointed.  That was the most awkward dismount I had ever seen.  Keri Strug did that shit on one foot and won an Olympic medal, for Christ's sake.

She managed, in her surprise, to drop the candle, wick facing down.  Three guesses where that candle landed - and the first two don’t count.  I remember sitting in the emergency room a short while later, my fly completely open because the feel of denim on my wounded member made my eyes water.  I filled out the paperwork, 'T' sitting beside me with her chin so deeply buried in her own chest that she probably bruised, trying desperately to figure out how to describe my current state of being without the doctor looking at me like some ball gag-in-the-mouth sexual deviant (BRING OUT THE GIMP!).

So what's the moral of the story?  There are only three instances when using a candle outside of your own place is acceptable:

1.)  When the power is out.
2.)  When you are christening a child.
3.)  When you are holding a candlelight vigil because a meteor is about to strike the earth while a band of deep sea oil drillers try to blow it up with a nuclear bomb in the 11th hour (thank you Michael Bay)

Everything else?  Don't risk it.  I still have a scar.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

I Hate Goodbyes

I have moved around so much in my life, from town to town, state to state.  And despite some of the great situations I found myself in, I have always struggled to find somewhere that felt like home.  A place that matched my personality, made me feel safe, and jazzed with my way of life and my perspective at that particular age.  That is, until five years ago.

I would like to introduce you to the Hotel Pequito.  This is the house that I am moving out of for good this weekend.  For those of you who speak Spanish, that moniker is not a personal reflection.  I actually live on a street called 'Pequito Drive'.  And the house is known in my social circle (and even outside my circle) as a hotel because, well, we have not locked our doors in over five years. It has served as a beacon in a drunken haze - where people of all shapes, sizes, and maturity levels stumble through its open doors at any time of night or day, pick a spot on the floor or in a bed next to one of the residents, and pass the fuck out.   People don't knock when they arrive.  They barge in with a bottle in hand and scream, "Where you at, bitches?"  There's not a lot of personal privacy, no chance of walking around in your undies.

But it was also the house where most of the parties/cookouts/football Sundays took place.  Now don't get me wrong, I love to entertain - but I have decided that I have reached that point in my life where I have earned the right to pick and choose when I go out and what parties to hit; instead of always being expected to provide the festivities.  Hence my move to my new, solo apartment.

And oh yeah, the Hotel had one other perk:

The view from the balcony.  This is my happy place, where I can sit, chill, and find my power animal (he's a platypus, by the way.  His name is Ernie.  He likes Triscuits).  I am going to miss this most of all.  This is where I would write.  This is where I would chill to my iPod and enjoy a quiet cigarette and a whiskey.  Where I would get into fantastic debates with my friends over politics, religion, sports, etc.  And where finally, after years of searching, I felt at home.

So many of my adult life memories took place at the Hotel:  Lifelong friendships were forged - and broken.  Art was inspired.  Babies were conceived.  A communal family made up of vastly different ethnic backgrounds, personalities, and values grew out of a never ending barrage of booze, music and spirit.  I will truly cherish each and every one of you as I continue to head down my personal path in life.  You all know who you are.

But many of you reading do not - so I will let a series of images introduce you to the joint, and to my Hotel family.  To all of you who have made the last half decade such a wonderful Clusterfuck, I thank you. 

Christmas Time at the Hotel

Just a block or two from the house....

My beautiful Moni

Nater-Tot, the amazing Laurnie Dubs, and Yours Truly

Halloween - always the biggest party of the year

How I spent most Sunday mornings

Flip Cup, a Hotel favorite

Brian and Katie

THE Bud Sant, Jr., L. Brock, and Pounder

Chris Cooke, a.k.a Cookie, a.k.a. Muffin

My best friend and brother Jason, Laurnie Red Riding Hood, and Steve Irwin, back from the dead....

Rissa, my BTHA (Big-Tittied Half Asian)

Dr. Wright, Unlicensed Gyno

Chris, Tatum, and T.J., fondling each other

Just letting you know you are Number One in my eyes

Sheila, Shannon, and Feather


My two favorite ladies...hands off boys, they are spoken for.

Kim Chuckles, Jonathan, and Hot Morgan

Cookie, PEANUT!, and Joe

The future Mrs. Nater-Tot, Brittany, being fabulous as always

Toga, bitches

Greg the Giant, Mr. Laurnie Dubs, Gay Pat, and Tiffany

The Obama-toga

Two of the greatest people I have ever met.  See, look how happy I am!

Big Mike

Crys, and her wonderful tush...

My Bubbas - my godson Connor - at his first party, the Luau.

Uncle Nate

I pay my respects to the late Patrick Swayze, with my little monkey

Goodbye, Hotel Pequito.  I will miss the life you allowed me to live.

For another perspective of the Hotel Pequito, go over to Laurnie Dubs (my BFF and former roommate) at Some Whine with Cheese
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