Just for one day

There’s no rhyme or reason to it. But sometimes, I just get so incredibly high. Like crazy college nights stoned. I can smoke all day and barely feel it. Like today. To the point that I’m thinking maybe I’m all smoked out. Perhaps it’s time to take a break. And then out of the blue: Blammo. I’m baked out of my gourd.

I have an odd new ritual; well into the evening, usually after 11PM, I’ll take a walk to my local 7-11, which is maybe a half-mile away. I’ll roll a fat joint, and smoke most of it on my walk to the store.

My neighborhood is very residential. Mostly old homes converted into apartment units. Lots of post-college wannabe professionals, young families, that sort of thing. Right down the middle, and quite diverse ethnically and economically.

So the walk is very dark and quiet. It’s rare that I run into another person. If so, they’re generally walking a dog.

By the time I reached 7-11 tonight, I was suuuuper stoned. Grabbed a bottle of Newcastle and an ice cream Snickers bar.

On the walk back I was thinking about this whole situation brewing with “MM.” That’s what I’m going to call the female up in the Bay that I’m about to go hook up with.

There are so many reasons that we work so well; always have. We’re equally twisted on the same shit. We both like to smoke a lot of pot, and we both like lots of dirty, kind of rough sex. Everybody wins.

But now we’ve come to this new place where everything is just so honest. All of the games and posturing of the past are there in the past.

“Give me something to look forward to,” was my plaintive request. “I need it.”

She reeled off a list that definitely gave me what I was looking for. The two of us will be in a secluded house out in the woods. There will be as much marijuana as I can smoke. Literally. And there will be sex. Lots and lots of sex.

If this all sounds too good to be true, well, it kind of is. Because the one thing I’ve left out of this story so far is that fact that this chick is also a mom. This whole sex and weed-filled sex party will be happening in close proximity to a toddler.

Does this all sound horribly irresponsible? I know. But it’s not. Really. She’s an amazing mother to her little girl. I’ve hung out with them before and it’s a real delight. Such a cute little thing.

The plan is that mom and I will hang out during the day, just taking it easy. She swears there’s nothing to do where she is. It’s literally a house in the woods. “People sleep a lot,” she laughs. I’m sure we’ll stay stoned all day long, eat cupcakes, stuff like that.

The kid is in bed by 8PM. And then the adults get to play. Nothing wrong with that.

I know we both need it, and kind of desperately. She’s had nothing but issues with the baby’s daddy, so sex hasn’t really been a part of her life for the past couple of years. And then there’s me.

It’s comforting to know there’s somebody out in the world just as fucked up as me. And she’s just as excited to get naked and exorcise these evil demons that lurk inside cold, crushed wings, smoothed out over and over again, forever dreaming of flying again.

Kiddie cupcakes & the Marijuana MILF

It’s happening so casually I don’t even have time to bug out about it.

More than anything, I think it shows just how much I’ve grown since I’ve been here. In spite (because?) of the drugs, the drama and stretches of isolation—I’ve still found a way to learn something. For me, that’s really what it’s always been about. More, more, more. Billy Idol style.

So when she finally relented and sent me tonight’s message, it just felt…right. 

I was the first to broach the idea. I figured I had nothing to lose. But more than anything, the last couple of times her and I spent any time together I realized how much we really work.

It’s that adage about people that are too much alike not being able to deal with each other. That was she and I. But when it was on, whoa, it was ON. The sexual shenanigans were legendary.

We were like animals. I guess there’s a certain liberation that comes from meeting someone on the internet. For all of the times, I’ve tried, she’s the only one it’s ever clicked with at all.

We shared deep passions for music, marijuana and fucking. A blissful combination indeed. 

But I was still in my Jay-Z FTW mode, and she was coming down from a wild run of her own and thinking about really big things. Never the two shall meet. The sex kept us close longer that expected. And after that, the weed allowed us the time to see each other occasionally, have a laugh, talk some shit for the hell of it.

Now…huh. The physical attraction never went away. She’s the kind of woman that will always turn me on. Dirty sweet dirty. When I manned up and threw my cards on the table, her immediate reaction was oh HELL yes. She was even a little touched. It made me feel good. So I continued. Push, pull, fun and games. And then tonight she says the time has come. She’s a sweet lady that needs to get in touch with her sexy side again.

It all feels so...adult. We're both single, but there's this illicit vibe that I'm enjoying very much. There are no bones or superficial dance. We enjoy each others company, and we like to fuck each other. And that's what we're going to do.

At your service…

Eternal repetition

I pick a couple of buds from the plastic bag. I break them apart, pulling out any stems.

I mash the buds into my silver grinder, which is shaped like a stack of silver dollars. The buds are sticky, and often get caught in the metal teeth of the contraption.

I pre-fold a Zig Zag white rolling paper, and then place the fragrant mulch inside the waiting sheath. I still roll the exact same way (REDACTED) taught me all those years ago in our shared upstairs apartment.

It was on the job training; She was a classic old-school burn-out, as were all of her friends. Long-haired dudes, denim jackets, Motley Crue t-shirts, the works. But they were cool people. It wasn’t long before I fell into their routine.

It was simple; every night around 9PM, (REDACTED) would start making calls to her battery of weed dealers around the college town. She’d call until one of them would say, they did have an eighth of grass they could sell her. I don’t think she ever even bought a quarter. It was always an eighth. Every night.

So she’d procure the pot, and whoever was around would gather in a circle on the living room floor. (REDACTED) would pull out her special Motley Crue rolling tray (where she found the thing I’ll never knew. But she had pretty much everything ever produced with MC emblazoned somewhere on its’ surface. That and Camel cigarettes. She was queen of the shit found in the Camel cigarette catalog). She would start talking shit and rolling joints. And so it would go, every night, for what seemed like forever.

I knew I’d been fully accepted into the circle the night she tossed the bag and the rolling papers in my lap.

“Tonight, you learn how to roll.”

And she sat there with me, patiently going over each step of rolling a joint. But then came the real test.

“OK, no one smokes until he rolls a joint.”

Oh, shit. The pressure. A room full of well-done burn outs, all waiting on my rookie hands to craft something for them to smoke.

It definitely took me longer than it should have, but when I was done, there was a crooked but smoke-ready joint of the finest schwag weed money could buy. 

There was no applause, just the appreciative nods from around the circle as each person took a long, heavy pull on my handiwork.

I miss college.

Girls are dumb, too

We already know that boys are dumb and girls are weird. Old news.

But the total opposite can also be true. Case in point:

I have a very cool (for the most part) female friend. She invited me to a fun party last night.

When I get there, she introduces me to her date. He’s an extremely good-looking black guy. No surprise, he used to be a model. OK, fine.

She pulls me aside to give me the real story. I guess this dude used have it going on—modeling contracts, multiple homes, mad loot, the whole deal. Somehow through the recession or whatever he loses everything. To the point that he’s currently living in a fucking HOSTEL in L.A. Um, OK…

She met him on Match.com. I’m like, really? This dude that’s down & out and living in a hostel is looking for love online? Then she tells me how on their first date he gave her some sob story about his dad dying and all of this shit and how all he really wants is a good woman to settle down with and love him la di da.



Oh, really? Now that you’re not pretty-boy mack daddy player, all of sudden you want some awesome woman to lock you down.

As she’s telling me this story, anger is rising in me like boiling lava. She feels so bad for him, and would love to be there for him, and…

WTF? You don’t even know this fucker. But because he’s pretty, you’re willing to overlook some pretty glaring warning flags waving right in your silly face.

How am I supposed to feel sorry for this idiot? More than anything, I’m appalled at his gall. But that’s the curse of the beautiful (AKA “Pretty Boy Syndrome,” AKA “PBS”), especially dudes. They never have to develop any kind of personality, cuz they’re just sooooo purty to look at that they still get everything they want in life.

The dirty secret of the beautiful people, though? It eventually runs out. Some sooner, some much later, but at some point that crutch catches up with you. And when it does, those pretty-faced fucks are so shit out of luck they don’t know weather to shit or sing Kelly Clarkson.

So my friend insists that yeah, I’m right. She doesn’t even know this moron, really. Swears she's gonna leave him alone. Uh huh. We'll see.

I could go on, but I won’t. Girls and dumb, too.


“Sometimes you gotta sleep alone/Sometimes you gotta cry yourself to sleep/Sometimes you gotta dig a little too deep/Sometimes, you gotta sleep alone…”

Miles of smiles

Greatest Girls Making Out Video Ever - Watch more Funny Videos

Gone fishin'

Not really. But sort of. I'm not really sure. It feels like I'm still trapped in the skin of 2009, clawing desperately to free myself into this new year or whatever the hell. Everything is still kind of hazy. The people on TV are giddy to report that Los Angeles will be assailed with torrential rains next week. Something's happening, y'all. And it's not just the Mercury Retrograde. Which I'm happy to report is dunzo on Friday. Come on and get here already, Friday.

In the meantime (cue Spacehog song). I'm here. I'm going to get doughnuts at the Farmer's Market in the morning. I write. I fucking pump shit out on Twitter like a man on fucking fire. I smoke a lot of pot. And again.

I bought these speakers at Wal-Mart today. No big whoop. But for me, right now, they kind of are. They came with a sub-woofer and everything. $19. And they sound really sweet.



I've been on a crazy classic rock tip lately. For the past couple of days, it was all Stones. Now I'm deep into a David Bowie appreciation party. The "Young Americans" album is soooo underrated. Plastic Soul is the jam.

I am so plastic soul right now.

We have lift-off

The 1st chapter is alive and breathing on its own. Success.

Thanks to Bob’s Coffee & Doughnuts, my college town, TCR, the band Ride, everyone that ever passed through the doors of (REDACTED), L.A. Farmer’s Market, Jay Electronica and most of all, her. Miss J.K. Wherever you are, I’ll never forget you and what you taught me.

COCAINE PARTY ON DISCO MOUNTAIN*

Only for the sexxxy people. Clothing optional, swinging encouraged! Play safe and have fun, kids.

Side Two: Got Some (The Ghostface Killa Make-out Remix feat. Adrienne Bailon's fine ass*)

Karma, baby.

Got a text from an old and dear friend.

The message was short and sweet. It was on at a certain spot in the Silver Lake area of L.A. My presence was requested.

I was already pretty fucked up. Smoked an insane amount of weed today, and was countless fingers into a bottle of Jim Beam.



Then the 2nd txt message arrived. Sex Bomb was in the house. The same Sex Bomb from my amaaaaazing hook-up over 4th of July 2009 weekend. THE Sex Bomb. I couldn’t get ready fast enough.

Hit the spot. Soooo many people. Ones that I know. Run into my last hook-up. The sexy Chinese girl with the stellar manual skills. The one that gave me the whole song and dance about how we should just be friends and forgo “the sweaty sex.” Booooo. But I was nice. Karma, remember?

Chatted it up with some fools. And then there she was. Sex Bomb. Hotter than ever. And ON me. We kissed. Kind of more than appropriate for a public space. OK. Nice.

End up on the dancefloor. She’s all up on me. Her crotch grinding on my rapidly growing cock. I shove my tongue in her mouth. She returns the favor.

We get into heavy conversation. She’s going on about how she always feels like my last option. How I only see her as a plaything. How I’ve never really wanted to hook up with her on the real. Um, WHAT?

This girl is crazy fine. Like so fine that I never even entertained the idea of being able to kick it with her seriously. I mean, this girl has dated famous people you’ve heard of. She is model-hot. And she’s saying this shit to ME? Life is fucking straight insanity.

The rest of the evening was a blur of drunken confessions/confrontations, accusations and admissions. And lots of tongue. No matter where I put my hands on her body, she just smiled and pulled herself even closer to me.

Ended up in her car. At one point I was biting her ass (ha). But in the end, we were just two slightly wasted and oh so pretty people (HA!) making out on Sunset Blvd like lovesick teenagers. And it…was…AWESOME.

OK, now I think I can sleep. Not even going to jerk off. Nah, this I’m gonna savor.

Nuthin new about it

I really have no right to complain. I bring all of this shit on myself. I do.

But still. I mean come on. Is this what I get for watching cinematic tripe like “He’s Just Not That Into You”?

I met a girl recently. I liked her immediately, for myriad reasons. It seemed the feeling was somewhat mutual. The night we met, we hung out and had a really fun time at one hell of a sweet party. Much weed was smoked and booze quaffed. No one was feeling any pain. And then we had our moment.

At some point we happened to glance at each other. Emboldened by various intoxicants, I held her gaze. She didn’t flinch. We stared each other down for a good four seconds before turning away. It was the hottest thing to happen in my life in so fucking long it actually makes me want to cry.

Being on this whole go-for-it kick, I set about trying to make something happen with her. Phone calls, e-mails, fucking Twitter—we communicated constantly. The timing sucked though. The holidays kind of dropped in and shut everything down as her family came to town, la di da. Fine.

Fast forward to New Year’s Eve. Run into her on Twitter. Of course. Soon enough she asked what I was doing for the whole midnight thing. And like that, I was meeting her at a party to celebrate the new year, decade, all that.

Best part: I show up to the party. I’m outside dealing with the drama of getting in. I text her that I was there. She says she’ll come out. And she does. She looks great. She walks up to say hello — to me and this dude standing behind me. Moral: this chick had invited two dudes to be her date at the same party. Awesome, right? Right.

OK. Um. She grabs a friend and the four of us go in the alley and smoke a joint. OK. We go inside, drink, chat, hang out, whatever.

Midnight comes. She gives me a hug and a classic side-cheek kiss. Same for the other dude. OK.

Time comes to leave. Everyone is set to hit next party, which is kind of across town. OK. Being L.A., everyone is in different cars. I drive to the other spot.

When I let her know that I was there, everything goes all wobbly. First her friend wants to drop her off. Then she wants to skip the party and go to this OTHER party, which is all the way back on the side of town I just left. OK.

As I’m driving back, I get another text. She’s just going to call it a night. On New Year’s Eve. At like 1:30AM. OK. Cool.

I’m sure she fucked the other guy.

Story of my life.