Funny, i just got off the phone with my friend Tiger. Thought you might want to do some cutting-and-pasting.

Sorry that I’m not writing about lesbian sex, bukkake, or hanging out in Philly. And you really don’t want to see me wearing a plaid catholic girl skirt.

A conversation with Tiger Woods:

Yo, Tiger!

Word.

How’s it hanging?

Could be better. I kinda blew it on Saturday, huh?

Man, everyone shoots 81. I wish I could shoot 81 on the front nine.

I think the last time I shot 81, I was, what, 8? Ah, hell, who cares? Life is good.

You’re telling me, brother. You just played some of the worst golf of your life and you still walked away with thirty-eight grand. Not bad for four days.

You think I shouldn’t cash the check?

Heck no! It’s what you do. Funny, though. How much is GM paying you to push their Buicks?

Can’t tell you that, Paulie.

Don’t call me that, Eldrick.

Touche. Tell you what — every time they run one of those ads, I get a check.

You got The Man working for you.

‘Xactly.

And you got a blonde Swedish swimsuit model waiting at home.

Chicks dig the long ball, what can I say?

You know, I think that some people might be saying that you don’t think a sista’s good enough for you.

That’s bull.

Whadda mean?

I mean, come on. Do you see anyone bustin’ Derek Jeter’s chops because he goes out with white girls?

Derek’s goin’ out with half the female population of Manhattan. And he was dating Mariah for a while.

Maybe that’s what pushed her over the edge.

Maybe. But anyway, it’s not like people think that D-man’s the great black hope.

Man, people keep forgetting that I’m half-asian, too.

Well, it’s not like you’re reminding them.

Should I?

Can’t answer that question for you. But you’re not exactly going out of your way to be progressive.

Nature of the game, man. You think that I should get people riled up because some stupid journalist has a bone to pick?

You could stick your neck out a little. People listen to you, ya know.

They do?

Yeah, they do.

They shouldn’t.

Why?

I wear red polo shirts and I can whack a little little white ball three-hundred yards. It’s what I do for a living. I play a game. I’m the best in the world at it. And people think that I should be Martin Luther King, Jr. because of this?

Hey, someone’s got to say something.

You know, the old saying? Hand, dog, biting? Is being the greatest golfer ever not enough? Is being the first black man–

–there you go with the black thing again–

–OK, first black/asian man to win a major, let alone all four of them, not enough? Maybe I’m not Jackie Robinson, but I got the hate mail, the death threats, all that, too.

So what you’re saying–

–is that hey, cut me a little slack. So what if I’m not organizing the sit-ins. I’m here, and I ain’t going anywhere. And I’m doing more, just being here, than anyone could be out there banging on the drums.

Well, still, it wouldn’t hurt you to express an opinion every now and then. Come one, look what you did to your pal Casey.

Oh man, you’re bustin’ me for that?

The guy was your roommate, for freaks’ sake.

Look, walking in an important part of the game.

Uh-huh. And the Laker Girls were the reason the Lakers three-peated. Hey, all you had to say was one word and Finchem would have folded like a pair of deuces staring at straight up.

Maybe. But remember that hand-dog-bite thing.

You are the PGA, Tiger. You own them. Without you, they’re just a bunch of flabby white guys waving a stick at a little white ball.

Not gonna totally deny that. But hey — I’m not beating anyone up.

True.

I ain’t doing the thug thing. You want your kids too look up at someone? They gonna look at the Answer, who’s looking at hard time? Or they gonna look at me, a guy who drives a Buick, smiles a lot, is nice to the kids?

Well, I’d rather they look at you.

Exactly. Hey, I gotta go. Elin says dinner is ready.

The girl can cook, too?

Oh yeah. And she cooks with gas.

Swedish food?

Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.

In my dreams, Tiger. Peace to you. Hey once more thing — it’s a red shirt? It’s always looked more maroon-ish to me.

Get a new television, man. It’s red, trust me on this. Peace to you, too. And send the love to Tony.

Will do.

—

paulf | Some days you’re the windshield.

@ | Some days you’re the bug.

panix | ——————————–

.com | <http://www.asterius.com/pf>

Good morning class my name is Miss 677 and I�ll be subbing for Mr. Pierce today while he is out recuperating from a nasty case of the carpal tunnel syndrome, one of the last remaining syndromes known to man.

Mr. Pierce and I go back to 1994 when I was 21 and living slash existing on Pine Street in West Philly. Back in tha day when the Internet consisted of some lame chat rooms on AOL, back when I made $6.60 watching TV at Annenberg and getting by on Entenmanns chocolate glazed donuts and pasta.

That shit was a long time ago. Now I make five times as much and a chocolate glazed donut would wreak havoc with my slowing metabolism.

Very good class. I am almost 30. And mad as hell.

First things first � housekeeping items. Yeah, I said housekeeping so now you know I am sitting in an office someplace on the east coast. For the sake of level setting, let�s just hold these truths to be self evident mmmmkay:

For those of you 30 plus, an age not a size: 30 is a big deal. It was too you when it happened to you, so don�t deny it. And just cos yr beyond it doesn�t mean yr above it. It�s scary, whether yr married with kids or single and renting. And for us ladies, we get the extra added bonus of all the biological clock shit commentary slash inquisition (the male equivalent: thinning hair? I don�t know but that shit sucks too).

For those of you basking in your 20s for lo the years to come: Please, player please don�t be getting up in my face telling me its all in my head and that I only feel as old as I think slash act cos I will refer you to my calcium supplements, fine facial lines, random grey hairs, inability to consume more than 3 alcoholic beverages on a school night, the 15 pounds I put on and took off this year and a corporate job of nightmarish proportion that requires me to spew useless nonsensical phrases that demonstrate what a total fucking loser sell out I now am. Are we all singing from the same sheet here? Have we mindshare? Or do I need to net it out for you further?

Class of 1990, we�ve lived through interesting times. Always on the cusp we were: the cold war (we had the fear but didn�t grasp why), HIV and AIDS (we�re all just starting to feel the love then we�re all shrink wrapped and paranoid) the Internet (encyclopedias fed our brains, word processors took it all down), the boom (we were close on this one), and now the bust (oh snap we caught it on the back end). But the thing that did us right: the music.

How lucky was I? Busting in to my older sister�s room so I could listen to Pink Floyd, The Who, Styx, and Genesis records. The lamer part of me spent my weekends trying to tape Pat Benatar and the Go-Gos (cassette player next to radio speaker effort) so I could bring said player and 4 C batteries on the bus and feel like a rock star, shit and groupies and all.

Years later, we�ll call them my late teens, I saw the Ramones, the Sisters of Mercy, Public Enemy, the Dead Milkmen, Jane�s Addiction and countless other now non-existent acts live within a twelve month timeframe. I saw the first Lollapalooza as an idealistic saucy surplus wearing 19 year old and only years later caught Nirvana at the Roseland Ballroom. As a DJ at my college radio station, I was on-air when CNN reported Kurt Cobain�s body had been found. No you didn�t?? It�s true.

677�s apex: When she was 16 and saw the Cure/Love and Rockets/ the Pixies in Toronto. She wept. Eyeliner everywhere. She wept cos she knew she�d never feel that way again. And class, me thinks she was right.

Cos here I sit with my lame marketing job that pays for my Volvo (f you too) and downtown apartment reading stories of corporate baby boomer asshole types ruining it for me and my parents. Trying to understand why the fuck O-town gets a TV show and Lance Bass goes to space when the only fing malternative station in Boston wouldn�t play the Afghan Whigs EVER and now they�re gone too. But Eminem gets steady rotation. And the only music I hear that I like slash know slash can sing along to is on some kitschy bone throwing lunch hour horror show.

30 here I come. I can�t eat what I want without acid reflux or drink as much as I used to without other bad shit, and I think my brain has some damage from bygone weeder days. I watch the news and read the paper and gripe about the kids (useless. pointless.) and the adults (tanks middle aged white guys bunny cos that 20K that I earned coming to this (and other) mind numbing spirit robbing job(s) was really only my chump change). Therapy: I long for gap cord overalls ringer t shirts and royal blue nikes and repeat bullshit mantras about my 30�s having the potential to be the BEST and MOST EXCITING!!!!! decade of my life.

Riiiight. At least I�m genX enough to be all whatever and can stare off into space reminiscing about the time I made it to the stage at a Beastie Boys show and had to get pulled out of the crowd by a beefy security guard. Could have pulled me arms right out of me sockets. Yeah and now they�re all divorced and shit too rocking the mid life crisis at the drop of a hat.

Class I�m certain I�ve failed you miserably. Mr. Pierce should be back tomorrow so show him some love and don�t be talking shit about me out in the hall.

kitty bukkake

Tony said in his blog today that he, as a rule, does not meet up with people who contact him from the internet. That’s not true. I guess it is if they contact him, but not if he contacts them. Tony and I met last summer, almost a year ago.

He emailed me in response to a diary entry, he said:

there’s not that many people, really, who know what bukkake is. and what they really truly want to see, instead, is in your diary. so help em out.

Yeah, well, from time to time, I get a “what, no bukkake?” email, but for the most part, Tony was right.

Is this too meta? A guest blog about blogs?

He asked me to write about something sexy. I could tell you the whole story about how he and I met that very same night we started emailing,

but if Tony hasn’t already told it, he probably doesn’t want you to know.

So I’ll say this: after watching 3/4 of the Sex & the City women expose 5/6 of their tits over the course of half an hour last night, I decided that nudity is waaay too much of a Big Deal in America.

I have been thinking about how much I wish I could hang out at a nude beach for a weekend.

I think about seeing the naked landscape. I want to know if people walk differently when they’re publicly nude, and if the men get boners all the time. And whether personal space is different.

I hope so. I’m not nude beach material though, and not for fear of being naked in front of strangers–I used to be a figure model.

I just don’t think I could handle the beach experience because

1. I sunburn easily and there’s no way I want peeling nipples

2. I’d be afraid of creeps (had a little of that in the art classes too but in the workplace there are rules to protect your naked ass), and most of all

3. I am squeamish as sweet FA, and I’d be so scared of getting bugs crawling in my parts. Never mind sand. I’m talking about sandfleas. Screw that.

No pants on a beach? You get the fleas and crabs (not the disease, the crustacean) and dolphins all fighting over who gets to be up in your warm, wet stuff.

I can’t even handle having an ant on my foot, never mind a fucking monster in my crack. So I think that’s the biggest deterrent for me.

But that all makes me think: why do it at a beach? And why allow creepy people?

How about a private, casual nude party?

Sure, my college days are finally over but so is most of my false modesty and leftover, post-adolescent insecurity.

I’m thinking nude cocktail party at dusk, no bugs, no animals, no creepy strangers, soft towels and cold drinks for everyone, voila, nude party.

And I’m no hippie either, so don’t think it’s like that, and no drugs, because I hate drugs, and it’s my fake party.

And definitely no “show us your tits, girls gone wild!” mentality, because that’s not sexy.

But just having them out there, with everything else out there too, is pretty cool. I think.

Nude party. My house. Someday.

wanna help tony and write something for the blog? write it and send it here.

as a rule i do not meet up with people that contact me from the Internet. even if they’re super hot babes.

i like the internet because for the most part you will be judged by your thoughts and your thoughts only.

once someone sees you or hears your voice or watches you eat, they start changing their ideas about you. i don’t like that.

in a perfect world you’d only be judged by your ideas and how you express them.

our bodies are simply the cars that our souls ride in.

i know im not my hair, yet as it leaves me, i feel worse about myself, same goes when i had zits as a teen. as humans, it’s very hard to think differently.

similarly i want to extend the same courtesy to others, and simply reading their words and looking at their design is plenty for me. but inevitably i see their pictures, or they call me on the phone, and the idealism is shattered and my feelings about them change. rarely for the better.

when i heard that s.e. hinton, author of my favorite novels as a youth, “the outsiders,” “that was then, this is now,” “tex,” and “rumble fish” was a woman and used her initials to disguise her sex, i thought it was brilliant because even as a kid i merely assumed that because the narrator was a young boy, the author then, of course, must be a man. and her little misdirection worked perfectly.

j.d. salinger, my favorite writer when i was in highschool also didn’t want his work tarnished, so he asked his publisher to avoid using pictures, illustrations or fancy graphics on the covers of his book. this is why when we think of “Catcher in the Rye” we usually recollect the classic maroon cover with gold lettering, even though the first editions had an illustration which salinger objected to vehemently. as he became more successful, his wishes were allowed to become reality.

when aol first came out and brought irc chat to the mainstream, hundreds of thousands of people were once again simply being judged by their words. i was shocked at how well received i was because i could write decently. i didn’t have a picture in my profile, i didn’t have any personal information on there. if anyone asked me what i looked like, i borrowed a phrase from mr. kfi and said, “better than some, not as good as others.”

i also saw how i was making my inevitable “judgements” of people simply by their points of view and how they wrote them.

if some ass wrote “u r f##ing stoopid” it wouldn’t matter to me how cool their car was, or the similar interests that they had to me, or if they were a super hot chick in her thong at miami beach working on her deep dark tropic tan.

blogs have now entered into a similar situation. people like a.beam and (when he was anoynomous) the rallying point are my favorite examples since no one knows who “he” is and “he” is simply judged by his words, as sparse as theve been recently, but we like “him” not because of his pictures or position in society, but because of his thoughts. it’s perfect.

so saturday night meesh calls me up. shes in town. we’ve chatted a little bit before that. exchanged photos because i never expected to ever meet her. exchanged phone numbers. and then she betrayed my trust by calling me and saying she was in town and wanted to meet me at the coolest hollywood hotspot on santa monica blvd.

meesh, my friends, turns out, is one of the top five beautiful women ive ever met in my life. her pictures do her no justice what so ever.

tall, dark, not a blemish on her gorgeous face, lovely, happy, sultry, womanly, slender, exotic, fashionable, girlie, fun.

sitting on her left was a young black woman who works at a huge hollywood agency that represents all the biggest actors, directors, writers, producers. she was awesome and looked hot in her blue velvet bustier. sitting on her right was a super cool blonde who i’d discover was born on my exact birthday, her name is simone.

apparently sweet babes are allowed to stay at bars after the 2am deadline. and because i was surrounded with hotness i got to enjoy the benefits and when the bouncer turned on the lights all that was left at the club were the most amazing chicks and a few lucky fellas. it was like what 49ers hoped for after they sifted through the sand and debris while looking for gold.

nuggets of shiny gorgeousness were everywhere.

the only riff raff was me.

we had one more round and me and meesh jetted over to my house to grab some coronas and a bottle of absolut. we then went over to simone’s luxurious apartment right off of wilshire, wonderfully decorated and filled with awesome art, rare oriental carpets, incense, all the things you’d expect from a libra scorpio young woman with taste and enough means to bring it to reality.

the four of us partied till 6am listening to cuban mixes, millie jackson, and rufus wainwright. four air signs, enjoying beauty and peace and love and incredible music. everything was mellow and happy and balanced and nice and free.

yes, i am the luckiest man in the world.

yes, all the ladies seemed to like me, mostly cuz i kept my big mouth shut and let them entertain me with their beautiful stories and fabulous spirits.

but no, i will probably never chat with my pal meesh again, she’s way too hot and now im super intimidated.

today: is os‘s birthday.