Friday, July 12, 2002
bud selig has a flying car too. and last night, right before i was tucking myself in to sleep, i heard him land on my roof, pissed as all hell.
he explained to me his point of view, but i said, bro, do you see my nite cap? do you see my empty tumbler of rum? do you see my oprah bookclub bookmark on page 234 of "dot.con"? im nearly finished, it's time for me to go to bed. come back this weekend if you want to complain.
he said, no. i want answers from you, pierce, i want to know right now what you would do differently going forward. forget the all-star game, that's over.
i said, ok, first thing i'd do if i were you is i would step down.
not an option, he said. arms folded. standing like a goblin with the sole candle light flickering in the california breeze.
then i would name me commissioner of baseball.
tony, get serious.
as commissioner i would abolish the DH rule, i would order the Cubs to tear down the lights of wrigley field and i would impose a salary cap.
you're in favor of a salary cap?
i said, as a proud american capitalist, no im not in favor of a cap, but i read somewhere that the Desire of money is the root of all evil, and i think that's what the problem is with the grand old game.
he said, so how would your cap be different than mine?
i said, because i would put a cap on owners and their incomes off baseball too. if a player could only make $10 million a year, so, too, would a team. profit that is. the rest would go to the united negro college fund for all those years you kept blacks out of baseball.
selig said, but many of the teams aren't making anywhere close to that.
i said, bud, this bedroom is a sanctuary. it's as close to holy as your midwestern ass is going to get, please don't bullshit the king of bullshitters with your dirty lies.
and he clammed up.
then, i said, i would move the montreal expos to las vegas.
and after he fell down i helped him back up.
then i would put pete rose into the hall of fame. it would be a year-long traveling celebration with parades in each city, culminating with the retirement of his number 14 in a similar manner as your predecessor did for Jackie Robinson.
that would never fly, bud selig told me.
that's what they told the wright brothers. i told him. pete rose is the epitome of baseball. he's an ignoramus who took what little skills he had and honed them into the finest ball player ever. he did what no other man ever did, he played all the positions except pitcher and catcher in the all star game, got more hits than anyone who ever played the game, won world series, managed brilliantly, all with a fucked up hairdo and a chipped tooth.
and, i said, and he got banned from baseball, was shunned by the game that made him, and now we will reinstate him to a glory deserving of the finest hitter the pastime has ever seen.
but he bet on baseball, tony.
get out of my mansion, bud.
lets get back to moving the expos to vegas.
lets get back to you retiring from baseball. nothing that pete rose ever did was as detrimental to the game than what you have done during your reign. Pete never bet against the Reds, you can barely prove that he even bet at all, but it's never even been hinted that he ever -- that Charlie Hustle ever threw a game so that he could make a few thousand dollars. so quit fronting.
you, though, i continued, in order to help the owners save millions and make millions, you canceled the world series, you colluded to stop players from making the market salary, you wiped your ass all over tradition in the name of Interleague Play, opening day in tokyo, contraction, Bob Costas!, and much more in the name of the all mighty dollar. and just because the chicago black sox didn't do that a hundred years ago, you get away with it today. fuck you, bud selig and your hypocracy. my warm milk is curdling.
but vegas? he asked.
las vegas is the fastest growing city in america. you could fill a 50,000 seat stadium from tourism alone. the hotels would pack the luxury boxes, Del Webb, Spud Webb, one of those guys, Seigfreid and Roy would own the team and all would be good in the hood. the front row of the bleachers would have slot machines, cocktail waitresses, scoreboards like you've never seen, between innings there'd be keno on the jumbo tron, im in my pajama bottoms and i can reel this shit off, imagine what some ivy league marketing major could think up, or the good people at Circus Circus LLP.
but wouldn't people worry that the mob, that gambling, that...
bud, nobody thinks that organized crime and gambling on professional sports could only happen in las vegas. what did you just try to tell me about pete rose and what he did in cincy? allegedly.
but how would it look?
oh, please, bud. like you've ever cared how things look. nice comb-over, by the way, mr. let's stop the all star game.
i hate you, tony pierce.
and when all this shit was completed, bud selig, you know what i'd do.
i'd name hank aaron as my successor and i'd move the brewers to the dominican republic.
at least i admit it.
he slammed the door and the wind blew out the candle and i set my alarm and said my prayers.
breathalizing: a drunken marc brown
Oh, look at my face, my name is might have been.
seems like summer has just started and i already want a do-over. it's like that Kevin Costner film where he says, "black is white, white is black, we're through the looking-glass people," everything that seems real is fake, and everything that you once trusted has turned its back on you.
my name is never was. my name's forgotten.
I'm the best blamer in the world. if i make a foul and i get called on it i pout, i blame the guy with the whistle, i'll blame everyone around me. i'll raise my hand for the score keeper but in my head I'm saying, "this is so much bullshit."
but unlike the nba, in real life people won't always talk to you when theres a discrepancy. theres no press conference afterwards where you get to give your take and you get to hear theirs. and you don't always get a chance to lace them up the next night and prove to the world that you are the real deal. that you are the mvp. that you are the man.
my whole life ive felt incredibly misunderstood. i don't say that as a victim, im no victim. i say that as a curiosity. i know that sometimes i cause my own confusion, but most of the time i think to myself, "am i insane?" "did that person see what i saw?" "is that person for real with that shit?"
you better watch out, for what i wish for...
ive had a few dreams come true and usually they turned into nightmares. ive met some of my heroes and they were mere mortals, that broke my heart. ive had jobs where i made tons of cash, or had amazing amounts of power and freedom, and despite my best laid plans, the soaring heights that i reached only made for a more tragic and fucked up descent.
and when you fall that far, you don't end up at the beginning, you sink below the surface. it's not bad enough that you've seen the glory of the heavens, but now you've got to start over on the fiery sands of pandemonium.
when I wake up in your makeup, have you ever felt so used up as this?
but i press on. what else can i do? bandage up the shooting arm, slap a knee brace on, stick the elbow out and drive through the lane with my head down. everyone knows im going to shoot it. i cant pass it. you don't pay me to pass. you pay me to pull up and nail it.
but in life, sometimes, when you think you've nailed it, some people will try to convince you that you did something wrong.
theres no scoreboard to point at for reassurance, theres no instant replay or millions of witnesses. theres fucked up me and pissed off you, and after years and years of this shit i don't even know who to believe-- which is why i hung with you in the first place.
but the worst is when you bail on me. the worst is when you treat me like a common frat boy spilling his coors light with his neon visor flipped upside down and backwards. you'll listen to your fears, you'll listen to everyone else. you'll listen to people who are never there for you like i'd be. you ask others questions and you forget that they call me the answer.
honeysuckle, full of poison, i obliterated everything you kissed
now im fucked up
somewhere in westwood
so glad I came here with my pound of flesh.
you want a part of me?
well, I'm not selling cheap
im not selling cheap.
i feel so
clicking: the 50 page summer fashion special
Thursday, July 11, 2002
met her at the baja fresh salsa bar. i was just there for some taquitos, little did i know that id leave the place with her email address.
i asked for her number, but she sized me up and probably figured i couldnt afford a computer. so she gave me her hotmail address.
hotmail, i said to her as she handed me the napkin, thats pretty hot.
she scowled. secretly loving my pun. of course she did.
little did she know that i knew my way around the computer and i emailed her some nice letters and she found my website but still she was playing hard to get and made me wait months until i cornered her straight up at that very same salsa bar, and gave her the, "im young, you're young, lets have fun," line. which never works, but she emailed me back with these demands when i offered to take her to a romantico lunch.
she wrote: Don't press your luck! Just kidding. Here are the rules:
NO kissing or any sexual behavior what so ever.
NO romantic gestures such as paying for my meal or bringing me flowers.
NO sharing of food.
NO cameras or audio recording devices.
If you can live with that, I'll meet you out front of Marie Calander's at noon.
a week later she was on my couch shaking. i said why are you shaking? she said, cuz youre a boy and this is scary for me. i said dont be scared all im gonna do is kiss you. she said, oh no youre not. i said, im going to put my hand on your neck, im going to nuzzle up to you, im going to press my lips against yours and then im going to tounge wrestle with you. so get ready.
she closed her eyes and sucked in her lips, giving me no target whatsoever.
i didnt make a move.
she opened up one eye.
dont listen to people who tell you to look at a girl's body language. everything is a fake out, fellas. everything. you are the one they want. you are the one theyve always wanted. you. girls want to kiss. they buy lipstick and gloss and liner and fancy clothes, they shave their legs, they work out they eat right they clean their ears, they do myriads of things you'll never even know all so you will kiss them on a tuesday night in hollywood.
and i kissed her.
and it was terrible.
she said, happy?
i said, how can i be happy? lets do it right this time. she said, get out, no way. no! i said, i know you can kiss. you told me how much you like making out. lets kiss.
she said, its dark, ive never been this east in hollywood. you live near that scary church, you write about being with all these women.
i said, it's not that dark. welcome to east hollywood. thats not a church its a cult, and nothing on my site is true so pucker up.
she said no.
i said, then porno kiss me.
she said what the hell is that?
i said just stick your tongue out for the camera and i'll stick mine out.
she laughed and thats when i got her.
ladies, and gentlemen...
today is Free Slurpee day.
today's bagel day and nobody calls in sick on bagel day. people who i never see around the office suddenly are in the kitchen with their plastic knives and their blueberry bagels and the schmeer.
that's not how you spell it.
oh, hi blog.
hi tony, hows it going?
you know what tony, i used to like being your blog, but you've turned into such a whiney little bitch lately. i swear.
you have everything in the world. everything. everything that matters at least. but you're missing one very important thing.
oh, please tell me, oh all-knowing bloggy blog blog.
omniscient. the word is omniscient. be concise for pete sake. people have jobs they have to get back to.
you need to learn how to be a man, tony pierce. this pouting stuff. i know where you get it from. you get it from anna and ashley and it's ok if youre a cute blonde chick, but its really not even attractive for a grown man.
dude, i know i know. trust me, the last person, the last thing i need is a blog to tell me how to be a man.
best thing you ever had, motherfucker.
i know what a man is, blog. theres a look a man gives you who isnt a whiner. the same look you get from a man who works at a brick factory in kabul for $2.50 a day. confident, strong, beaten but not broken.
but sometimes, blog, it's ok for a fella to let down the facade and cry into his corn meal.
for a second, yes. but for a week? uh, no.
why not for a week? why not for two weeks. why not get it out and be done with it?
because theres work to do, superhero.
gotta build a brick shithouse do i?
no, that job's already taken. your job is to show them how its done. and spread the word.
i thought that was your job, slacker.
no, my job is to sit here an look pretty, and i sure do look pretty. now get to work, fuckr.
ok, blog. fine.
wishing: i had a dirty car
your double doors slowly close and your chassis groans as the mexican ladies run with their hands up holding their transfers and the kids flip you the bird and i just shake my head cuz like marilyn manson, i don't have enough middle fingers.
every lap dance, or chance meeting, job interview, blind date, or cross country airplane flight, at some point someone asks what i do for a living and i can only imagine what you say. but i know what you should say you should say Fuckr.
you dont deserve the e cuz e brings smiles.
you see us waiting for the Walk sign to glow so we can sprint across the street and race you to the bus stop but you don't even care if we win, you'll just blow off the stop if no one in your half million dollar office rang the little bell. you've got places to go. you've got a schedule to keep. you've got people to pick up. people other than us.
LA bus drivers are like doctors. they don't like it if you haven't waited a while for them. several differences between doctors and bus drivers though, let me work real hard to see if i can think up a few. hmmm. ok, heres one. doctors at least pretend to like the common man.
who rides the bus in LA? everyone. poets, priests, and politicians. maids, janitors, lots of security guards. old ladies, kids going to year-round-school, xbi agents, whores, drunkards, convicts, David Byrne, and the homeless who stretch out in the very back row and sleep and sleep and sleep. when they wake up and sober out they'll apply for a job, yours, and they'll get it. and you'll go back to your old gig at the DMV.
bus driver, and i know you read this, all of you read this. I've seen you read the print outs as you kill time at your Chill Out stops. you blow off riders at the big intersections like Wilshire and LaBrea or Hollywood and Highland so you can make up time, but when you're ahead of schedule you open your double doors at the Chill Out and punch holes in your stack of transfers and make all your passengers wait with you. you don't care if it's during rush hour. you don't care if it's at two in the afternoon. you have no life. why should others?
prolific sci fi typist Piers Anthony reversed my name for his pseudonym like no one would notice and no one noticed. but he's a decent writer and in one of his books he tells the story of a young man who accidently kills Death so he must assume the duties. After he kills you, he reaches his hand into your chest and releases your soul, if it floats to the heavens, alls good in the hood, if it sags in his hand, he has to put it in his satchel and deliver it to the Depths.
look around the MTA locker room tomorrow morning, bus drivers who keep pulling away from the curb as the immigrant beats on your door, because there will be a bus drivers conventions in the Depths and all your pals will be there.
and when the convention is over theres a shuttle to a very dark place. very dark.
and trust me when i tell you that the shuttle driver will wait for you to climb aboard to take you there.
and finally you will experience
Wednesday, July 10, 2002
hi, my name is bud selig, i'm the guy who shut off the baseball game last night.
before i begin i would like to thank the good people at tonypierce.com for allowing me this opportunity to explain myself, tell you how sorry i am, and beg forgiveness from you.
i have never been a bright individual. my parents were dullards, my schooling was subpar, and i ate a lot of paint chippings from my grandfather's barn.
i dont what the hell im doing, and i never did.
but i love baseball, the history, the tradition, the pagentry, the rivalries.
you might forget, but i was the one who thought up Interleague Play and implemented it, despite public opinoin, and history, and tradi... but you love it. you know you do.
im the one that got all these immigrants to play here. guys like ichiro whose voice youve never heard. and those cuban brothers. and john rocker.
michael jordan quit basketball because he wanted to play baseball.
michael fucking jordan, people.
so go ahead and boo me, ingrates.
i didnt even know you cared about the all star game. i dont remember too many of you voting.
but suddenly you care about it, infact, you even care very much about who wins. and why is that? because of me, thats who.
in 1994 i canceled the world series. i wasnt even technically the commisioner at that point, but i made you care passionately about it.
absence makes the heart grow fonder, and by taking the world series away from you because we owners disagreed with the players union, poof, you loved and subsequently missed the october classic. genius, if i do say so myself.
sure the judge ruled in favor of the union when we went to court, and said i was totally wrong, but im not wrong when i say you will never forget that lost world series.
but i have one question for you, the year before i yanked the world series away, the average attendence was 31,612 a game. if you missed baseball so much during the strike why arent you proving it by coming back to the game?
ive juiced up the ball, ive let people use steriods, ive let steinbrenner cheat so that you can hate him. just for you, america.
all these home runs people are hitting nowadays, you didnt see anything like that before i showed up.
guys have hit 50 or more home runs in a season 34 times in the history of baseball, 18 times players hit over 50 in the 8 years that ive been around. so blow me.
since ive been around you've seen a ton of new baseball stadiums.
i was the one who said that fans would like new ball parks and they would really like new ball parks that look like old ones. a lot like the acid washed jeans i see all the kids wearing today.
i can't believe that the cubs havent torn down wrigley or the red sox havent demolished fenway so they could build a brand new replica impoved with sky boxes, swimming pools, and ELECTRIC scoreboards, hello, we have electricity now. but whatever. what do they know?
i know theres no real Monday Night Baseball on ABC in primetime any more, and theres no saturday afternoon doubleheaders on NBC, but theres bobbleheads now. bobbleheads! when you think of bobbleheads you really should be thinking of me, because i made you fall back in love with them.
and God have i made you love that gambling fool Pete Rose. you people used to boo him as a player, but every year when we put people in the Hall of Fame, there you people go on and on about how he got more hits than anyone whoever picked up a bat.
you know who has a lot of hits?
and last year was my best year. the mariners got more wins than any other team in baseball, it was a great world series with a very new team playing the bronx bombers, seven games, bottom of the ninth drama. what, are you going to give all the credit to byung-hung kim? come on, now.
yes, one of the baseball parks last year was called Enron Field, and the owner of the twins loans me money from his bank, and we owners lost our collusion case a few years back, and we probably lied to the senate committe when they asked us how much money we make.
but if it werent for me, america, you'd never really realise how much you love this game.
theres no lightness without the dark, no pleasure without pain, no love without hate.
boo me, baseball fans, it wont be the last time i ignore you.
anyway, sorry about last night, i should have had ichiro tell you to get the hell out of my daughter's stadium instead of the faceless public address announcer.
i promise the next time i prematurely end a night's festivities i'll pick a more familiar face for you to throw things at.
listening: the super mellow new beck watching: weezer with the muppets
pssst, tony, down here. hey.
oh, hi crazy italian bull.
hi. yeah, im not italian, im spanish. basque, actually.
oh, hola, senior.
yeah hi. hows it going?
me? ive seen better days.
yeah, me too, im about to die.
all our days are numbered, bro.
oh i know that tony, but my number you could count on one hoof.
ouch, keemosabe. i dont know what to say.
yeah. uh huh. yeah.
so did you have a good time here on earth?
meet some nice cows?
oh yeah, there were some good ones, some bad ones, you know.
actually, i dont know, whats a bad cow like?
stuck up. thinks shes all that. swats you away with her tail when you're trying to get close.
you know what they say, if youre not getting said no to, youre not out there going for it.
yeah but some times, im just saying hi, and theyre all, moo. and im like fuck you, whore.
ok, well, maybe thats your problem. part of being a girl is the dance of them saying no. you cant be calling them names off of that first no.
well these are the stuck up ones, the heffers. dont they know who i am?
maybe they do, dude. maybe they know that you are a bullfighting bull and you wont be around for all that long and they dont wanna commit to that and just get their heart broken.
i know, trust me, i know. but they might be liking the regular bull and he might get sold before i get shipped out, or he might just keel over. there are no guarantees in life. you gotta live for the day.
you know what i like though. and it's the reason im talking to you right now.
yeah, whats that?
well, i do like your site, of course.
but i dont think you know it, but we like this running of the bulls stuff. we like stomping on all these fucking hooligans. these pussy ass bitches that call themselves men. want some adrenaline? here's 12 curved inches of it right up your ass. we know we're going out in a few days, and it's nice to get a few shots at these fuckers before we go. take a few down with us.
never thought of that.
yeah so quit sticking up for us so much. we dont need your help, helper.
and keep chasing that anna chick. enrique aint got shit on you, partner.
play on, player.
digging: tomorrow's baseball strike
apparently this web site is huge in the netherlands and this magazine interviewed me yesterday around midnight when i was in the middle of doing a photo essay on the all star game. the interview went on for so long that i couldn't really concentrate on the work at hand and the proof is in the pudding. please accept my apologies.
here's excerpts of the interview which will be published in OCTOBER! in the beautifully romantic Dutch language.
What's your middle name?
That's a weird first question.
Are you ashamed of it?
No, it's Hugh. I think it's a cool middle name. It's no Maximillion, but I like it.
Tony Hugh Pierce?
No, if you're going to use the middle name, i think you have to use the formal first name and the suffix, Anthony Hugh Pierce III.
How do you like being an Internet pioneer?
Well, the money sure is good.
Do you make a lot of money from your site?
No. It was a joke.
What are the top ten web sites do you read?
Welch, Layne, Collins, Beam, Smith, Brown, Bukakke, Vaine, Sullivan, Sullivan, and Rabbit. I know that's more than ten, but Rabbit doesn't update much, neither does Amy. not enough, at least.
What do you like most about those sites?
'Cuz sometimes they write about me. just kidding, actually because they write great and i like their topics.
Who do you wish had blogs or journals?
People you wouldnt know. friends of mine like Jeff Whalen, Stacy Sullivan, Genevieve Field, Charlie and Bonnie, Jeanine, Karisa, Morgan, Coulter. all these people have great stories to tell and i think it would be cool to read them every freaking day.
You are a bachelor, what web girl would you like to have on your date?
I wouldn't call her a web girl, but i think Moxie lives up to her name.
Have you approached her?
No, I don't think i'm jewish enough and i dont think i drive the right car.
Hi, Holland, my name is Tony, i'm a young Christian minister.
What type of car do you drive?
Depends on what i rent that weekend. Last weekend it was a Saturn.
You seem to have a crush on Anna Kournikova, why?
Even though I write about her, i really have very little interest in her. It's all a joke. I do it because the readers seem to like her.
How much of your blog is fiction?
all of it.
How much is true?
none of it. only very handsome rich white men could live the life that i portray on my blog. i'm none of those.
Why isn't Ashley your girlfriend?
She's too young. But I will tell you this. Of all the girls who ive dated in the last year, she understands me the most, she is into me the most, she understands our relationship the best, and she wants to be with me the most. i was with her on the 4th and when i dropped her off and she walked to her apartment i looked at her, her long blonde hair, her belly shirt, her new butterfly tattoo peaking out from her hip hugger jeans, i thought, what the hell are you doing man? dont let that girl walk away. but i did.
Why did you?
cuz im not selfish. she should be with boys her own age.
Do you smoke pot?
only when im in Amsterdam.
Have you ever been to Holland?
several times, i love it there.
Sure, what's not to love? It's more American than America.
Why do you write about sex so much on your web site?
I don't think i write about it enough. i censor myself all the time. most of the biggest blogs around mostly talk about sad, terrible, horrible miserable news regarding liars, murderers, and less than appealing people. i would like to see more blogs that write about happy things and the pursuit of fun. then i would like to see them actually talk about the good times they had.
Why don't people write about those "happy" things?
well it's not easy, first of all. it's so much easier to say, "oh, that george bush, what an ass, can you believe..." than, "this girl came over the other night and we banged so hard it was like two Mack trucks playing chicken."
But you write those things and you're quite popular.
Ah ha, i don't write about those things. I hint a lot but i dont really write about it. And it's sad because people shouldn't feel ashamed to talk about the good times they have.
I'm sure you get a lot of hits when you write risque material?
No, i get mean letters, and people call me terrible names. These are the same women who watch Sex & the City, and put hundreds of pictures of themselves in sexy poses, but when a guy talks about dating in a frank manner and actually gets lucky now and then, suddenly he's a manwhore who degrades women. it's pathetic.
But i know people who have written you pleasant emails.
yes, i get them, but not because of one particular topic or entry. i totally love the nice emails, when people write them it's to say that they are regular readers and they're appreciative. they're the reason i do this every day.
Don't you do it for the attention?
not at all. i wish i hadn't done all of this on tonypierce.com, i wish i would have had the foresight to call it sonnyilavista.com. i prefer anonymity. the main theme about my blog is that i am a normal person who doesn't have a lot of physical or material things, im not terribly handsome or bright and all this good shit happens to me because im nice and i was blessed with great friendships.
What do you want to be when you grow up?
I doubt that i'll ever grow up, but i would like to have a cable access talk show called "Bloggers."
checking out: kitty bukakke's unmentionables
Tuesday, July 09, 2002
anna and i have an interesting relationship. she tries to make me jealous and i dont fall for it. why should i?
this morning she sent me an email of a story one of the British tabloids wrote about she and Enrique messing around in a hotel:
Quiet please!: ENRIQUE IGLESIAS and ANNA KOURNIKOVA�s romps kept hotel guests up all night.
The reception of the plush Four Seasons in London was bombarded with complaints about screams and moans which went on until 4am on Saturday. The tennis beauty and her Latin heart-throb lover made the racket in his hotel room after canoodling at the Mayfair Club in the West End.
One hotel insider told me: �They were so noisy. I could hear Anna screaming and it sounded like cries of pleasure.
�Another guest several doors down the corridor complained twice about the noise and there were complaints by people in the next room and also from the room below. People were calling the reception until past four in the morning.
�It was obvious what Anna and Enrique were up to. There was a lot of laughing, it went quiet for a while then it started off again. The two of them were giggling for hours."
i didnt write her back for a while. she got on AOL chat and asked me, "so what do you think?"
i said, i dont think too much of it. sounds like two kids having fun the night before you lost a big match.
she said, youre not jealous?
i said, why should i? i want you to have fun.
she said, oh, i had fun alright, can i tell you what i did?
i said, fire away.
she said, "first we drank this vodka my aunt sent me from moscow. not the bullshit vodka that you get here in the states, but the real deal. we drank a little and enrique's back has been hurting him a little bit - guess why - hehehe - and so we spilt a vicodin.
that mixed real nice with the BODY SHOTS he was taking off me. all over me, tony, my belly, my neck, my back, my bum, my hehehehehe. we were toasted, but not too much. just right.
uh huh, i said. bored. i taught her this shit like years ago.
then we went into the anteroom, enrique doesnt like to do it in the bed that we sleep in because he's a neat freak and likes to sleep on clean sheets.
she said what was that?
i coughed haggot cough.
shuttup, then he lit the candles, he had all sorts of candles and they smelled nice. i dont know what it is about candle light but its a lot better than those cheap christmas lights in your house.
when i sell a million records off my daddy's name i'll be sure to get you some candles, hun.
i dont know what it was about that night but we were super aggressive, he ripped my clothes off and threw me on the carpet. my skirt was around my ankles, i tried to kick them off but they were tangled. he held them down with his foot. and sunk his head where it BELONGED, american boy. and the combination of being restrained and not wanting to move got me so crazy that i started screaming and unlike you, he let me.
i bet he lets you do lots of stuff i dont.
the phone was ringing, people were knocking at the door as lamps broke and the music boomed but you know what tony, we didnt give a shit, somehow we made it to the bed and i got on top of him, twisted his neck to the side and gave him the biggest hickey he ever got.
sure you didnt rip off a mole?
no! i sucked that thing hard and he wasnt afraid to let me know that he liked it.
sing a little song, did he?
no, he flipped me over and tried to... but i flipped him back, he nearly bashed my head on the bedpost and you know what, i wouldnta felt it if he had. nor would i have cared.
and in one movement he took the condom out of the drawer, out of the wrapper, put it on and omg OMG right away it felt great. i pushed him close to me with my feet and he kept working on my neck but i wanted to kiss him and he was doing me so good, no offense, but so good. hes a dancer, he can move.
moved right to america from honduras didnt he.
but i wanted to see him so i flipped him over and got on top and i pounded him. i got up on my toes and slammed down. got up and SLAMMED down. it was like we were trying to kill each other.
dont you mean "bore"?
it was exciting, not boring.
pun, baby, pun.
but the vicodin was doing its magic and i could do anything i wanted to him and i wanted to feel it harder and deeper.
so you called in the black man from down the hall?
no, i was backwards, head on the floor almost, ass on the corner of the bed, and tony, he was using gravity to help him get at me harder. shit it was awesome. i just wrapped my arms around the back of his head and thrust my hips and met him with each bash.
what was on the cd player?
CD PLAYER? who the fuck cares. i came like six times.
i swear to you.
then we got in the doggy style.
oh shit, anna.
but i wanted to get close so i backed into him and he got close. first my hands were where the pillows would be, but as we got going he got closer and i was running out of bed and i put my hands on the headboard and crept up until my hands were on top of the headboard and he didnt care he kept at it, i dug my fingernails into the wall, i grabbed whatever i could. i grabbed the painting that was over the bed and he had his hands on my hips whaling away and it was perfect and i was coming again when i heard a horrible crash.
what, you woke up?
no! i had pulled down the painting and the glass frame had broke.
he didnt care. he flipped me over his shoulder and we did it in the front room right on the couch. me sitting on his lap. him looking at me, then him leaning back a little and me leaning back a little.
how do you remember all of this, anna?
because, tony, he fucked it into my memory forever. i could never forget something like that even if he hadn't.
guess so. so is that why you lost your match the next day?
no, it's why i love him. and why i dont want to be with anyone else. ever.
oh, so its like that? mexican fratboy gets lucky with booze and pills and thats it for the rest of the boys of the world just like that?
just like that.
i say youre back in a month.
i say you better not put this on your site.
i say you better work on your serve.
in the sloppy orgy of rock n roll only the fool is king. ask puffy, ask korn, ask flava flav. the wind might howl, kicking up plastic grocery bags that once served mankind, but now only dance with the forgotten sports page in front of an east hollywood titty bar advertised to neighbors as Cherry's but known to the undercover miscreant as home.
her name was lola, she was a show girl. see thru high heels up to there and blonde streaks all through her hair.
tony sat at the bar. alone.
normally the ladies' favorite with a joke and a laugh and a welcoming lap, this afternoon he mindlessly stirred his rum punch with the tiny plastic flamingo and stared through his happy glass and followed the trail of condensation down the dirty glass, down the curvy side, down into the puddle at the base slowly soaked up by the generic napkin that had the word "napkin" imprinted in cursive.
napkin tony thought to himself. napkin. what sort of name was that, what did it mean. where did it come from. latin?
lola lifted her g-string and released the hard earned dollar bills and counted them one by one. organizing them by denomination, lining them up neatly on the bar, folding them and rubberbanding them and placing them finally into the tiger print mini purse that hung close to her heel.
buy you a drink, stranger? she asked tony and winked at him.
he didnt even look up. just bit his bottom lip and traced his finger on the glass.
disco lights gave the illusion of motion on the ice that melted in the tumbler as kid rocks american badass blared in the nearly empty club. women's pro beach volleyball, muted, gave color to the unwatched zenith big screens as the ceiling fans twirled lazily and rosalita slapped the first hand away from her cooch.
lola leaned over and put her heavily made up face on the xbi agent's shoulder and tried to see the world from her hero's perspective. what fascinating mystery was buried in the alcoholic refreshment she wondered, what was visually more interesting than a dozen latinas, four asian cuties, three barely legal blondes, and the nastiest black girl and her micromini catholic girl skirt as they all waited for the whistle to blow and for the construction to stop and for the party to get started proper.
he thought about baseball. specifically the looming strike. motely crue's girls girls girls signaled the end of the round of two-for-one lap dances and lola spun around in her stool and scouted out the gentlemen to see who she would choose to enjoy her dancing next.
tony sipped from the skinny straw and lola whispered that she had a line of crystal meth if he wanted it and he told his napkin no thanks.
gracias, mi bella senorita. no.
and she tapped her feet to the disco beat and the ladies of the house said ho.
finally the sadness was broken up when the bubbly korean teen called lei gently pulled back tony's tshirt collar and dragged her tongue stud across his exposed collar bone up the base of his neck around his ear lobe and behind his head sending shivers and awakening the giant within.
there was an unusual silence.
and then the familiar three swats of a high hat
of ac/dc's back in black.
and indeed he was back.
just like that.
checking out: yambiguity.com
im 108 years old, my landlady is 178 years old. shes been living in hollywood for most of her life and i like her because she's a racist and she isnt ashamed and she likes me and i like her.
she knows im not white and she knows that im a preacher and she hates religion and i dont blame her. we've only known each other for a year and yet she says that im one of the few people that shes met her whole life that she likes. i say, you say that because you dont really know me, she says i know you well enough.
she asks me what things are like for younger people and i like when she asks me those things because i feel old, not young, a lot. i say things are about the same, i suppose, as what she had to deal with when she was my age. she says what do you know about what things were like way back when, and i said, i read a lot. she says you do, i say, shhhh, dont tell anyone, but yeah. she says what do you read? i say, penthouse forum, shes all, ive never heard of it, i say, its good.
i never ask her about the olden days. shes a pessimist. she likes to worry.
she says do you have any regrets? i say, that i never learned how to shred on guitar. she says you're still young, i say, yeah, but i still have to work on my kissing. she says i doubt that.
she says, do you have regrets about who you kissed? i say, i only regret who i didnt kiss. she says that she regrets who she kissed. she says she regrets the boy she kissed in nyc who then convinced her to move to hollywood, this damn city, she says.
her bed smells like urine, her sink is lined with rows and rows of rubbing alcohol and i wonder if she drinks it and she offers me Ensures as i leave and what can i do, i have to accept it. she says you really dont regret any of the girls you kissed? i say, no way, i think when we're done with all of this we probably should have kissed about three times as many people than we ended up kissing. she says oh, but that ruins the specialness of it.
i say, i eat dinner every night and some dinners are special because of the people, some because of the presentation, some because of the location, some because of the circumstance some of because of the magic.
she said that she once ate french bread on a train riding through france with a man who knew no english and the bread was warm and the cheese was runny and the wine was cold and her toes tingled each time the train would bump and their feet would touch and i say tell me that if you had a train ride like that a week later it still wouldnt be just as special she said, who said i didnt have a train ride like that a week later. and i said, see.
she said, you have a very special way about you. i say, you can see that with just one eye, she said i dont even need an eye to see that.
checking out: edrants.com
Monday, July 08, 2002
tony, are you ok?
yeah, anna, hi.
seriously, is everything cool?
everythings great, now that you're here.
im sorry ive been blowing you off lately, baby. Wimbledon was a bitch.
yeah but you did good. you made it to the quarter finals in doubles and mixed doubles.
yeah, but i lost in both.
come on now, comrade, you know what aerosmith says, "life's a journey, not a destination."
aerosmith says that?
they sure do.
and you still love me?
more than ever, thanks for the pictures you emailed me too.
i didnt want you to forget me. especially since youre always surrounded by beatiful girls.
beauty comes from within, hot chick.
then maybe i should have sent you my x-rays.
hey anna, what was serena saying after she and venus beat you and chandra?
oh, she was talking shit about how she could do you better than i could.
well, maybe she could.
well, maybe she will never get that chance.
lifes a cabaret, old chum
and i love a cabaret.
thanks for calling me, anna.
any time, tony.
just leave me alone, beyonce.
why the long face?
do you understand the meaning of the words "leave me alone"?
do you want me to sing "Bootylicious" for you?
come on, it always cheers you up.
what? im never depressed.
hmmm, thats true.
come on, you can be michelle and missy and i'll be me and kelly.
i want to be kelly!
oh, tony, i dont think you're ready for that jelly.
ok, go fly away somewhere and die, will you, please?
those are words not suited to be directed towards a diva, honey.
you're not a diva, you're an irritating black girl with dyed extensions. vamoose!
well i hope whatever crawled up your butt finds its way out.
for some reason i think it just wants to sit up in there and fester and make me miserable.
then whatever you do, tony, keep snapping at your friends, like me, who just want to help.
you can help me by shutting your big fat pie hole.
looks like i have to stop volunteering at the Invisible Man shelter since i got my 100th link yesterday, but it's all good.
i will miss busting all the jokes over there though.
"see you around, charlie."
"hey phil, long time, no see."
"pedro, you losing weight?"
way more invisible men walking around than you'd think. we tried to hire a bunch of them at the xbi but it never really worked out. personally i loved working with them but only because it was an endless goof-fest. sometimes i would go into a meeting room and if someone walked in i would start talking to an empty chair, "now listen, paul, you fuck, i told you to take off your hat and you fucked the whole thing up." and the dude would apologize for interrupting the meeting and i would go back to drinking.
i've been drinking a lot lately.
i blame Bud Selig who is singlehandedly bringing down baseball. ok, maybe he's using both of his hands.
i guess at some point though, i should thank all the people who wrote nice emails and linked me on their sites. last month was incredibly eye opening for me. 100 links in a month is amazing to me. especially since im not writing about the things that a lot of the people write about, and im not a hot babe, and, etc. etc. it's very nice, i appreciate it a lot. now let's never talk about it again.
finally this morning, i got a super long e-mail from a very distraught young lady who thinks she has ruined a great thing she has going with a guy she met at the flea market. to make a loooooooooong story short, girl meets boy, boy blows her mind, girl freaks out and sleeps with his roommate (who is his brother!), brother blows off girl, now girl wants boy back but doesn't know what to do.
dear girl, believe it or not, i get these sorts of emails all the time. just know that we all make mistakes and nothing smoothes out boy/girl problems than a whole bunch of booze while watching a ball game. and since baseball will probably go on strike any day now, i suggest that you invite yourself over and watch the all-star game with him tomorrow.
bring a pony keg.
and if the brother says anything, deny it all.
Sunday, July 07, 2002
even though the switchover may be the cause of my dates/times being off by about 8 hours, i bought into Blogger Pro today.
welch and layne and the others moved to moveable type recently and i was almost ready to go until i realized that Blogger is the one program i use nearly every day. and it's been like that for nearly a day.
didn't that mean that Ev had won the bet?
isn't shareware a dare that says, "i bet you that my shit is so good that i can give it away and eventually you'll pay me for it out of the goodness of your own heart."
i think it is.
Blogger Pro has some useful features that i cant figure out, but for the most part the $35 was a nice way of me telling Ev and Pyra that i appreciate their invention and they deserve to be billionaires. fuckers started a phenomenon.
if i start a phenomenon and in the end i don't become a billionaire, i'll feel robbed.
in the meantime i will settle for the few millions that im sure all of you will just paypal right over.
ashley came over this weekend.
one of her friends had just had dinner with her and graciously dropped her off.
two hot girls over at my house eating strawberries and whipped cream for desert.
earlier in the day a few of the bros invited me over to hollywood park to gamble on the ponies. the last time i went there was in 86 when i lived about a mile away and i needed to turn $40 into $160 real quick. elvis costello was in town and only murray's tickets had tickets.
first race on saturday i bet $5 on the nose of the 5 horse and i was instanly ahead.
it was free visor day.
third or fourth race i put $5 on a long shot-favorite exacta and hit that too. it was good to buy everyone drinks and coulter a popcorn.
bought the beers from a red vested black bartender with an eyepatch.
all sorts of people at the racetrack. smiled at the blackest girl i ever saw in my life. barely saw her. she had long braids and a white visor. she was there with her three uncles. nobody was talking to her. she just watched. smiled at her again a little later in the day and she smiled back real nice.
ken had me betting on a gray horse. don't ever do that.
coulter had me betting on the devil horses. don't do that either. lost on Lil Bit Devilish and lost big on Wicked Britches.
me and ken got into the habit of watching the horses in the paddock before the race, that worked okay, but that's a big fakeout too. project all you want, the skittish little pony sometimes does run around the track faster than the big black mighty stallion, but a lot of times the medium sized normal brown guy wins when no ones looking.
afterwards we all ate soul food on florence avenue and drank grape soda.
im luckier than you'll ever know.
99. all about george
100. my single mom life
98. laura crane