Worst Blog Ever.

There are two quotes I really like about having to listen to other peoples' dreams:

"You dreams are fuckin' boring. That's why you're asleep when you're having them." --Ted Alexandro

"I hate listeining to peoples dreams. It's like flipping through a stack of photographs, if I'm not in any of them and nobody's having sex then I don't care." --It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

I don't really think I could express my feelings any better than the aforementioned quotes, so what I'll do instead, is tell you about my dream last night anyways. Don't worry, it'll be brief.

Last night I dreamt that Jerry Seinfeld was the President of the United States, and as a result, he named me the Pun-master General.

How did I acheive such a title?

Well, when I arrived for the casting session, I was the only one who showed up with a fishing pole.

Ok, so I didn't dream this. I should probably be put to death even thinking of a pun so bad, let alone publishing it. But it should be a punny death. Maybe electric chair?

L.A. Fit-Files Volume 2

Some quick bullet points about the men's locker room facilities at the gym:

-- There are no curtains at L.A. Fitness on Hollywood Blvd. In this day and age have we not progressed past concentration camp style showering in brand new fitness facilities? L.A. Fit-schwitz, I say.

-- In the adjoining room (where the toilets and urinals reside) there are partitions, walls, doors, and door locks. No full nudity takes place in this room. Is this ironic, or just whatever it is everyone thinks ironic means?

-- Free soap in the showers. The same exact kind they have dripping onto the sinks in the bathroom at Burger King.

-- No one is attracted to naked men. Not even women. Wait. Gay dudes.

-- I'm not homophobic at all, but I make a lot of eye contact and have a multicolored towel. I feel like something about this combination should concern me.

-- I have a great deal of admiration for the guys who have no problem walking around Gentleman Godiva style at the gym**. It's the exact same type of admiration I have for guys who fart in public or have sex with horribly unattractive women. I admire them for the fact that they can take something so disgusting, and out of sheer attitudinal willpower - are actually able to convince you that it's cool. "Yeah, I fuckin' did that! That's right." They totally own it. And they own my respect.

**Dear Gays -- You don't count.

-- I do not yet "own" being naked at the gym. I am, however, frequenting the gym with the purpose in mind that I might start spending more time naked. So I guess showering for the entire world to see is a good start.

Rap Warz 2007

After the Grammy's last night, I got to thinking a bit about music. After seeing the winner of "Best Rap Album" and having all the nominees sound just like bells and whistles to me, I was reminded of something my brother always says:

"I know you don't like rap, but you gotta listen to this!"

He insists on making me listen to rap "punchlines."

As far as I'm concerned, when you start a sentence with "I know you hate ____" and end it with "but you gotta try ____," it had better be fucking amazing.

I know you hate sushi, but you gotta try the Shu-Toro at Kiokawa.
I know you hate sci-fi, but you gotta see Dark City.
I know you hate anal, but you've got to try these beads!


Here are a few examples of the beauty, poetry, and genius that are supposed to make me like rap:

"I get more butt than an ash-tray"- Biggie

"I pack heat like I am the oven door"- Jay-Z

"I push the mayonnaise colored Benz, I call it Miracle Whip."- Kanye

These rap lyrics are neither beauty, nor poetry. They are not genius. They are, at best, moderately clever - but this is the best rap has to offer!

Scott and I discovered this today as we were having a conversation and I stumbled upon one by accident. He fired one back, and before we knew it, we had:

RAP WARZ 2007!!!!!!

Joe: You might as well be an alcoholic astronaut because you overuse the spacebar.

Scott: Joe Staples, more tons than a gastric bypass surgery, ya heard a me?

Joe: That's right, I got more rhymes than Leann on fertility drugs. I drop more beats than Tito Ortiz. I smoke mo' niggas than Lisa Lampanelli.

Scott: Yo, Yo, Yo, son, yo check my shit. Make sure my shit is hot. Like mutherfucking flapjacks up in this bitch, yo, yo. Hotter than a mutherfucking dutch oven on the sun up in this mutherfucker...what... check my mic

Joe: For realz yo, Joey Stapes in the house, I got more bling than a Korean guy shouting "BRING!" HOLLLAAA!!!

Scott: Watch me Shred Joe like half of a Ninja Turtle nemesis' name, then watch me maim...Joe-y the whack M-C, like I'm slapping the Irish out of a fast food chain.

Joe: Huff thinks he's got me, he must be high, he's more whipped than Jim Caviezel's topping for pumpkin pie.

Scott: Oh, but I was just getting started like an NBA rookie. I've got rhymes for more times than Joe gets butt nookie.

Joe: Bring it, LeBron James - I got more skills than Puffy's got names.

Scott: Names you may have many, but so does the devil, my rhymes are like heaven, bringing you to a whole new level.

Joe: Your shit is whack, don't fake the funk, I got more props than Carrot Top's trunk!

Scott: Joe's completely whack on the A-I-M, like Helen Keller in the biathalon. What bitch, taste my mutherfucking jumpoff.

Joe: --long pause-- Sorry. I am also working and arguing with my roommate.

Scott: HA HA HA! That rhyme sucked.

Joe: Yeah, apparently, someone changed my favorite channels on the tv.

Scott: That is the worst rap punchline ever.

Joe: All I can say is I'm going to kill that little fairy, I love high definition more than Snoop with a dictionary.

Scott: Yo, hold up the cable guy is here, he don't pay for Rent like he ain't a mutherfucking broadway stage manager and shit. Yeah booooy.

Scott: Don't forget that he's your boy, and that's yob spelled backwards, and if you ever need a yob, you always have a backwards boy.

Joe: I'm pretty sure the nicest thing he ever contributed to the house was a Quizno's sub.

Scott: To your dome, and that's emod spelled backwards, and if you ever need an emod, you always have your mutherfucking DOME PIECE.

Joe: I don't want to do this anymore.

Scott: Yeaaahhhh, boyeeee.

Joe: Now I know why rap causes violence. I'm swear to fucking Christ if I get home and that tv's not working right, I'm going buy a gun.

Alright, so maybe rap isn't as easy as it looks.

Drivers Wanted?

On my way to work today, I found myself thinking about metaphors and adages:

"Drivers Wanted"
"If you're not the lead dog, the view never changes"
"Don't take a backseat to life"

Et cetera, et cetera.

Then I started trying to think about the best times in my life. I'll give a moment for you to also do so. Ok. Good. Now, how many of those stories begin with "I was driving...?"

Then I started thinking about some of the worst times in my life, and quite a few of those begin with "I was driving..." "I had to drive..." They're always stories about how you didn't get to drink, or how you got stuck in traffic, or how you went all the way to Chula Vista and you forgot the tickets to the Carrot Top show, and you had to drive all the way back West Covina to get them.

No story is ever made better by being the driver. Fender benders, speeding tickets, road rage - all fun if you're the passenger, and it's awesome if you're in the backseat.

So on my way into work this morning, I was thinking of those phrases about "being in the driver's seat," and I realized what a lonely and solitary existence that is most of the time. Sure, you get to where you want to go at your own pace, with no one to blame but yourself. Things from the backseat are a lot more fun. A speeding ticket in the front seat is a week-long stomach ache, a speeding ticket from the backseat is actually almost kinda funny. A flat tire in the front seat is a huge pain in the ass. A flat tire from the backseat is a bit of an adventure. Conversations to pass the time, throwing and yelling shit out the window, slap fights, maybe even a secret handjob - all things far more likely to happen in the backseat.

And then I got sad.

Think of what being in the backseat means! The backseat usually means that this particular vehicle is so crammed full of your friends, that you've got to use the auxiliary seating compartment in the back! (On certain occasions it can mean you're in a limousine. And, seriously, how many of your greatest memories are from times when limos are involved?)

I got sad because I realized it's been months, maybe even years, since I've spent time around enough of my friends to warrant us all being crammed into one car. Don't get me wrong, we've all been around each other, but we all take seperate cars, show up at seperate times, and it's usually for seperate singular activities.

These days we all meet at the predetermined location five to zero minutes before we're supposed to get there. Nearly as many cars as there are bodies. We all exchange pleasantries, handshakes, high-fives, and hugs - but it quickly ends as the movie/show/Superbowl/concert is about to begin. At event's end, there is some discussion of letting the good times roll, but the good times quickly check the real times on their cell phone, and one by one - the good times roll out the door - and back into their drivers' seats. Drivers, after all, are wanted.

Long gone are the days when we go out together, get drunk together, eat together, and pass out together. Long gone are the days of the Vegas road trip. Long gone are the days of hanging out early, staying all day long, without a predetermined exit time.

Long gone are the days of riding in the backseat.

The good news is this: We're all the drivers, we're all the lead dog, the scenery constantly changes, and no one's taking us anywhere we don't want to go.

Drivers wanted?

I just want a ride in the backseat. I'll even take bitch.

L.A. Fit-Files - Introduction/Volume 1

As some of you may or may not know, I've been hitting the gym pretty hard since the New Year. After seeing all of the pictures from Christmas and New Year's where I had more chins than a Chinese phonebook, I decided that if I ever wanted to have sex again, I was going to have to get my ass into shape. Then I realized that if I got into really good shape, I could have a lot of sex, and as a result I've been going 5 days a week, nonstop, since the beginning of January.

Ultimately, my goal is to be in such good shape that I no longer have to be witty.

With all this time spent in the gym, I was shocked when more than a few weeks went by without me witnessing any awful, L.A. gym behavior. Just when I thought that maybe I was judging the people of Los Angeles a bit harshly, and I was a little disappointed in myself for thinking so negatively of people, L.A. eventually came through for me, in a big way.

It was like the attitude had somehow gotten clogged up in a kink in the negativity pipeline, and all of a sudden it all came spewing out.

In addition, I have such an aversion to any sort of exercise in which a score isn't involved that I literally have out of body experiences while at the gym. As a result, I come up with some pretty funny shit. Wait. I guess if I'm working out for the purpose of sex, then I guess a score is involved any way you slice it. Moving on.

So as opposed to my other blogs, which are usually quite long without nearly enough payoff (like this one), I will be sharing with you, the readers, brief tales and snippets from the exercising community - both of the insane ideas flying through my brain, and shining examples of the epitome of horrible L.A.

I call them, the L.A. Fit-Files.

L.A. Fit-Files - Volume #1

I'm not going to lie. I'm a total looky-loo when I'm at the gym (as far as I know, I'm not one of the creepy ones...). Well, as a result of this, I made a rule for myself:

While doing abs, if I look up and see a girl that I want to have sex with, I must add 5 extra reps to whatever exercise I'm doing. This has had two effects.

1) I do an average of 30-40 extra reps per day.

2) I have begun to seriously reconsider my standards.

Text Messages Are Fucking Up My Shit...

I have to admit that until now, I was a big fan of the text messaging.

As my brother put it: "It eliminates awkward pauses."

About 8 months ago, I went out and bought a Treo Palm Pilot Phone Camera Camcorder Day-Planner mp3 Player Internet Device.



I realized that with this device that I could now not only take photos of my penis, but I could schedule it, video record it, and upload it to YouTube. As amazing as all that was, I really only bought it for one reason: it had a full-sized keyboard.

I was constantly texting on my crappy old PM-8200 (pictured below). Christ. Look at it. Gross. It's like the kinds of phones they have in disgusting, poor third world countries like Africa, or something.



As antiquated as it was, I felt as if texting on that thing was corrupting my brain as well. First of all, I don't believe in text abbreviations. They're fine for other people, but I treat them like I treat most drugs. I'm afraid once I start using them, I'll never stop. First it's "How r u?" and the next thing you know I'm writing a screenplay where characters "h8" each other one second and "r 2gether 4eva" the next.

The only other alternative to the end of my grammatical life as I knew it, was to use T9. T9 is the computer program that tries to figure out what word you're trying to spell and makes it for you. You know the one. The one that doesn't have the word "movies" but does have words like "moistiew" and "hubbad."

And then if you weren't paying attention, you could easily send messages that contained the wrong words. Like "he" and "if."

I was actually pretty ok with T9 until I realized that every time I got drunk, I would text my ex girlfriend saying the following:

"I wish I could kick your puppy."

It takes a second. Figure it out before moving on. I'll wait.



In the end, I decided I needed a phone with a full keyboard, so I ended up getting the Treo. I was excited. I was basically buying a $400 texting machine!

In the beginning, it was awesome. All your texts get arranged in little conversations, much like IM's. I was in love.

For a day.

Come to find out, that with Treos, (as instructed by my customer service agent) every time you go somewhere that you don't get service, you need to turn off the phone, remove the battery, and use the stylus to press the reset button in the back. After that you'll "probably" get all your text messages.

I have Sprint. If anyone else has Sprint, you'll know just how frequently you will lose service. See, Sprint built all of their towers in such a way that there are thousands of tiny 3'x3' areas in Los Angeles in which their coverage does not overlap. Many times I will not realize that I have lost service and regained it, because my phone's been in my pocket the whole time. As a result, I find myself resetting my phone several times a day, like a crazed lunatic, if I've gone too long without receiving a text. Sometimes I get none. Sometimes I get 10.

In the last month or so, the problem has gotten worse. This week alone, I've had two people tell me they didn't get my texts, one tell me that I didn't get hers, and one who said she got the same text seven times. This is probably the worst thing in the world that can happen to someone like me.

I have FINALLY, in my 25th year, started to learn how to "play it cool." And text messaging is totally fucking my shit up.

I used to be able to tell when someone wanted me to fuck off from their general lack of response. Now, I'm a total basket case. Am I missing any texts? Did my last text get received? Cool people do not think such things.

Cool people say "fuck if I care."

Cool people do not take apart their phones twice a day to hit the reset button.

Cool people do not text their friends and then call them to see if they've gotten them.

Cool people do not call Sprint and have the following conversation:

Joe: I don't think I'm getting all my text messages.
Sprint: Ok, sir, what makes you think that?
Joe: Well, I was having a conversation with this girl and I just stopped getting texts.
Sprint: So she told you she sent you messages that you later did not receive?
Joe: Umm, no, but the conversation was going really well. I'm pretty sure she's into me. I don't think she would just stop in the middle like that. I mean, I had just asked her if she wanted to come over and watch a mov-- Oh. I'll call you back.

Cool people are way too busy for that. They're way too busy having sex, and hiking Runyon Canyon, and having "drinking parties."

I guess the more things change the more they stay the same. I've always had an excuse. Before this, it was wondering if "junk e-mail" was filtering out my messages and before that it was "the shoddy answering machine" that maybe ate the message, and before that it was "not having call waiting." I can only tell how many calls from girls I "missed" because my Mom wouldn't get off the phone...

Today it's the same story. Honest. If it weren't for text messaging fucking up my shit, I'm positive that I would not be writing this blog. Instead, either the bartender from Skybar, or the trapeze dancer from White Lotus, or the cute teller from the bank - one of them - would have answered my texts by now, and she would instead be here, watching The Goonies with me, and it would have been quite romantic.

I guess I'll just keep sending them till one finally goes through.

I'll let you know how it goes.

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