hot young girl, reputed virgin, which some people like, but not me, calls me up and says shes in bed, and that shed like to crawl into my bed.

so i go, “strangely i was just thinking how there was something missing,” and since she had accurately pinpointed the erorr, i instantly rewarded her with an invitiation.

“oh, no, i cant go over there, im too drunk to drive,” she said.

“no problem, i’ll send a car over.” i said.

im not sure who the cab company is, hollywoodies, but if you live in the 323, just dial 666-9999 if you want a cab. i cant remember what i ate for lunch, but i can remember that.

the virgin giggled.

and then declined the red car pet treatment.

something about how scandelous it might seem to her friends whom she lived with whom she’d known forever.

in the coming months, friends, we will go into indepth discussions as to how to overcome the objections that the ladies raise on occasion that are rooted to the age old conundrum of “what will my friends think.”

high schoolers, stay tuned. if you learn one thing over the summer, that should be your main lesson.

so i told the young woman that her phone call was very appreciated, and that sometimes is is nice just to be nominated. and i told her that i was going to go back to sleep, now with a nice smile on my face, and i hoped that the same would befall her.

she said, “well, im not sure, even though im in bed now, my friends are going to take me to a nearby bar for last call.”

i said, tell me which bar, i’ll have a car outside of it at 2am.

-9999.

she said, “no, no, no. i really can’t do that.”

and ladies, this might be flirtation to some of you, but some men, id even say most men, are far more logical than romantic, and so when an obvious come-on gets pulled back, guys like me start thinking things like “disease?” “terrible rashes?” “is there a penis in there?”

so be careful.

and she said more nice things, giggled, and hung up her cell phone as the knocking became louder in her locked bedroom.

and i tried to fall asleep.

and eventually i did.

alone!

and ive told you many times before that i dont regularilly have dreams when i sleep. some of you have said that i just dont remember my dreams, i say i remember all of my dreams. some say that every one dreams, i say theyre full of it. some say they love their dreams. i say my dreams are dirty lies layed on me while im in a terribly vulnerable state. some say that they learn from their dreams. and usually i say theres nothing to learn from any of those lies.

but last night i had a dream.

i had two actually, one was of a young guy who was claiming to be kurt cobain’s brother. he had been in hiding the whole time.

but the other one was i was the coach of some small college basketball team. we couldnt afford matching uniforms. they were raggedy, the kids were poor but had big hearts. and we won our quarterfinal game in the NIT tournament and i was so excited that i kept yelling, “WE WANT CAROLINA!”

and the fans were screaming and the players were hugging and i was screaming wearing a vest holding a clipboard and some kid was trying to pull off my toupee and our mascot was running around like a little freak

WE WANT CAROLINA

i yelled over and over and finally a reporter said, “this is the NIT, they’re in the NCAA tourney.”

and i looked straight into the camera and said, “we’re the best team in college basketball. we’ll take them on in the parking lot, at the Y, on the beach. i have a nerf hoop in the galley of my yacht at the club, we’ll go three on three! WE WANT CAROLINA!

the mascot was climbing a pole behind me trying to get to the frenzy of fans in the upper deck of the packed stadium.

the cheerleaders, the streamers, the band in the striped shirts and the trombone players

i didnt even have a mic on me and i was yelling, BRING ON CAROLINA!

and i swear i nearly had a heart attack when i woke up i was so out of breath.

bet

on

winners.

and even though it’s so trendy to be a lakers fan during the finals and even though i shouldnt feel weird rooting for them since ive lived here since 84, i do root for them and now i must adjust this second half by doing something different, namely write to you.

my mom is very superstituous when she “watches” the teams of her choosing, she brings them good luck by not watching, which is sorta a bummer for her since she has lived in chicago for most of her life and missed a good portion of michael jordan’s career with the bulls. but look at all that luck she gave him!

fortunately my brother in law tapes many of the games and watches them in awe with her and my sister years after the fact.

me, i like watching the games as they are happening, but if i see that something is going contrary to how i’d like them to be, i’ll do something like quit sitting on the couch and move to a different chair, or switch from beer to rum, or flip on the computer and write you.

hi.

what did you do last night?

yeah.

rene came over and we pay-per-viewed “mullholland drive” which i was doing fine with for the first two hours but then i started nodding off then i got confused and really nodded off. whoever the chick was who played that main blonde girl was a pretty awesome actress.

and david lynch is a master.

that movie made me want to rent all of the twin peaks and play drinking games where you’d have to take a drink whenever something fucking crazy happens.

ok, im gonna go back to the game, this little experiment seems to have worked. the lakers have cut their deficit down to 8.

youre welcome.

a dog doing a pikachu,

an enlightening link to a story about how the feds are trying to disprove the effectiveness of pot on HIV patients by growing shit weed,

a link to a page describing the finest athletic achievement of all time: doc ellis throwing a no hitter on acid,

and a link leading to apparent proof that j.lo doesnt wear enough underwear—

mobius writes in the comments of the entry where we threw out the notion that the only good women writers were crazy, that Stanford this week released what might be a link between creative genius and mental illness, which might explain a lot.

he also gives us a link to a bbc article saying that the inventor of jazz was a schitzo, and therefore the most creative music of all, jazz, was created by madness.

the j.lo upskirt pictures are being displayed by a guy who added a poll next to the photos, sort of like what i did with the penthouse anna kournikova pictures, he even has a guestbook, which i think is a pretty usefull addition, and if i ever find myself in the situation of such popular material that the rest of the web seems uninterested in displaying, but very interested in looking at and discussing, then i will add a guestbook to that page as well.

the fat guy left a comment to yesterdays post that i feel compelled to reply to but i cant in full detail due to the fact that in all truth i am the luckiest person in the world and im about to be swept away by a sexy lass who was recently kissed in a bar in santa monica by a man who, reportedly, could put antonio banderas to shame, witnesses say, check that, the chick was the one who planted the wet one on colgne-wearing european visitor with long hair and manly arms. lets hope the aggressiveness continues throughout the weekend.

theres a lot of magic still twinkling in tinsel town, scott, have no fear and in six to eight months i will write them down in here and pretend like they just happened. hows that for compromise?

in other news emmanuelle welcomes summer with a nice new graphic to her tres jolie naughty bytes, and she seems to have forgotten to tell us that she has a little sister.

the other week about how much booty i get, but the catch22 of being a single man is if you kiss n tell, nobody’s gonna wanna kiss you any more.

except for the exhibitionists.

i do pretty well among that crowd and fortunately for me i live in hollywood where theres more cameras per capita than convertibles.

this superhot babe from the video king finally accepted my invitation to accompn’y me to the white trash bar in burbank where they serve pabst, play skynyrd, and feature homemade tv dinners served in the aluminum trays that we all love.

the parking lot action was nice. i hadnt steamed up backseat windows in quite a while and the whole time she kept telling me that “this” doesnt mean that i’ll get any. i kept telling her that what i was getting was plenty.

of course we ended up at my place.

eventually it was she, not i, who lost at chicken but there are no losers in these games just withered will power.

but seriously, those who are interested, im hardly getting any play. most of the things in here are my wildest dreams and even in la la land dreams rarely come true, and if they did why would they to a black man who doesnt look black in a town full of surfers, rockers, and multimillionaires. not only is my hair receeding at a ridiculous rate, but instead of a cell phone and a corvette, i carry a backpack and a bus pass.

aint no way the ladies would fall for that no matter what you choose to believe as you read the internet.

maybe one day my luck will change.

in the meantime i’ll just continue to write these lies and attempt to make your visits here worthwhile.

to finish the story, the hot chick took care of herself on the couch and instructed me to do the same while i sat compelled on my chair in the computer closet and obeyed, listening to her list off one filthy promise after another while opening and closing her eyes uncontrolably.

im always amazed at how some women could consider themselves slutty if they had sex on the first date, but somehow bringing themselves to completion on a stranger’s couch while he watches is kosher.

and as much as i love my television, it’s never shown me that before.

but it did show me a helluva playoff game this afternoon in boston.

and once again, im glad that i ignored my astrology that advised that i go outside to find enlightenment, when everything i ever needed today was either on the tv or five feet away from it.

except for you, miss usa. where were you today? competing in a goofy white bikini contest?

yeah.

arent we all.

for example, when i come home my st. bernard fetches my slippers and my sheep dog retrieves my pipe. i stir a martini and unwrap the afternoon paper.

in the mornings at work i power on the computer, turn on the tv and clean my sidearm. that is followed with a trip to the break room where i have either apple or orange juice and donettes or whatever pound cake is available in the machine.

vending machines have been around for centuries but here at the xbi theres a competetive nature towards our collective original employers that drives some (not me) to continually aquire the latest and greatest.

we have the coolest Coke machine on the block.

all the cans and bottles are visible. when you put your buck in the machine and punch in your selection, a motorized shelf zooms to the correct row, the soda is released and falls gently and sideways upon said arm and the mini conveyor belt sends the refreshment to a slot and, hi, theres your pop.

because there are so many moving parts it is a spectacle in itself, but it is also, not surprisingly, incredibly vulnerable to breakdown.

last night some joker seems to have shoved the million dollar machine releasing dozens of bottles, but the arm would not be fooled and did not raise nor activate its conveyor belt to move the drinks to the glory hole. indeed, the arm remained stubbornly at the bottom of the contraption awaiting its friend, the vendor guy.

which is to say i had to greet this early morning with a cup of bottled water, and not my nurishing juice.

tgif?

hardly.

fortunately Psoma and Nerf Herder were swell last night at Spaceland and when i returned to my bachelor pad drunk from the two gigantico beers they serve at the silverlake hotspot, i was able to fall asleep peacefully with ears ringing as soon as my ‘fro hit the pillow.

i guess everyone does. but my critics are lazy. i have a lot to attack, but they always go for the most obvious things.

date a girl for while who’s 19 and they say i like younger chicks. date a girl with big boobs and they’ll say im a boob man. date a hawaiian nba cheerleader and they’ll say ive got asian fever.

bor-ring.

this is why people dont go to your web page, idiots.

anyone can see that im an extremely equal-opportunity dater, and you cant even call me a player since my relationships last years and years. so if you’re going to criticize me, at least do it in an area where i dont kick your ass repeatedly.

like felching.

from what i hear you’re quite skilled there. so brag about it, tell the world im rotten at it, then sign your damn name to it, you pathetic hump. and dont lie and say that you’ve been my friend for years and you know me because i live in a fantasy world where none of my friends talk shit about each other. we love each other. we have for years and we will forever. it’s disgusting in its sweetness. bizarre, really.

and it’s not even as cliquish as you’d think. layne didnt go to ucsb, nor did axel, or monty, or emmanuelle, or a lot of people who you’ll see at the tsar shows or at the rustic or any place featuring mc brown, which is what keeps it fresh and fun and interesting — and normal.

my friends are real people who are intelligent and creative and open minded and loving and beautiful– and we dont talk shit about each other cuz the only thing that we could diss each other for is for not taking the world by the cajones and turning the whole place into what we have here.

cynthia lander, miss venezuela knows a thing or two about cajones. her great uncle was Ezequiel Zamora, one of the most beloved and important leaders her country ever had. defender of the federation, fighter for the poor.

75 young women will vie for the crown of Miss Universe and cynthia has refused to hold back. who doesn’t love a latin lady who isnt afraid to show a little leg? who doesnt love a woman who won her country’s crown a blonde— a gorgeous blonde— but has chosen to keep it real for the big pageant?

bonne chance, my little 20 year old bonita petite fleur.

viva la revolution!