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  • Twitter’s for the Birds

    Twitter’s for the Birds

    Six months ago, I became entangled with Twitter because my line of work demanded it.  Prior to immersing myself in the reckless cascade of mandatorily concise zingers, I’d stalked the world for 2,000-word story ideas, hoping to appease minds with my self-deprecating tales.  Now, thanks to Twitter, I diligently observe every human flaw, pop culture phenomenon and remote inkling of emotion that scuttles by me, all in search of the perfect 140-character explanation.

    Since joining (@daniellebernabe), I regularly wake in the middle of the night with ideas for jokes, scrambling to save them as drafts:  “Simpsons are yellow;” “Birth control is hard to remember to take;” “Blind man using stucco to communicate.”  The next morning, my tired eyes struggle to make sense of the Christmas haul of ideas!!  I’m not alone in this:

     

    After six months of tweeting, I find myself chatting about it with my 6-year-old cousin, my shrink, and bartenders alike. I justify this behavior as paying homage to my late grandfather, who once owned a bumper sticker business aptly named ‘One Liners.’ #runsinthefamily

    I savor the ability to interact with those whom otherwise I might not have had the opportunity, among them celebrities (@juddapatow), fictional characters (@Lord_Voldermort7) and complete strangers willing to tolerate my venting about my fantasy football team via direct message (@tarahighman).

    It is an aviary of birds fluttering about, tweeting their songs, creating creative and social opportunity. I love it and can’t get enough of it and the birds that occupy this cage of expression are diverse–each of them tweeting with a unique individual purpose, all trying to be heard– and motivate my creativity.

    Parrot (The Celebrity)– A parrot, or macaw, due to its ability to imitate human voices, is the most well-known bird in the world.  We gravitate toward parrots for their often infectious charisma, sociable nature and in many cases, intelligence.  Resulting from these extremely marketable traits, they are susceptible to prey and exploitation.  They vary in temperament, noise level, communication ability and relations with people.

    Engaging with celebrities on Twitter is an exhilarating experience, a virtual autograph or handshake.  It also serves as reassurance that a tweet is being read, and gives a glimmer of hope that our existence is noticed by someone other than mom (and hello more followers!!!!).  More often than not, celebrities don’t tweet back because either their following is simply too massive (thus they can’t attend to each individual @ reply) or it’s not their style, so tweets to them fall by the wayside and we all feel like idiots for even trying. It takes timing and originality to be noticed, so think wisely before sending.

    @TomHanks is an example of the scarlet macaw (rarely tangible), who appears to be on Twitter simply to keep pace with culture. One follows a celeb like him to view day-to-day photos of this seemingly other-worldly figure eating ice cream or shopping; thus vicariously experiencing mundane activities that makes them human, and therefore that much closer to themselves. You still love them for everything they do because they are a celebrity and that’s how we function.  Recently, Mr. Hanks tweeted daily pictures of his healing toe nail. (Fear not, his condition has improved.)

    @MrHoratioSanz is the best, interacting with his followers constantly and even sending autographed Christmas cards via post! Who does that?!   (Other SNL alum- @AnaGasteyer… She’s a riot)

    @GarryShandling is a sociable parrot- He makes Twitter exciting because he, like Horatio Sanz, tweets back! He tests out jokes for the sake of reaction and interacts with his “audience.”  His Twitter act is visibly comparable to a stand-up routine–sometimes he nails it, other times he doesn’t, but he ALWAYS manages to control his audience. It’s brilliant. Watch it.

     

     

    Woodpecker (The Comedian or The Writer)– An antisocial, solitary species known for loudly excavating hollow trees in search of sustenance and shelter.  These birds are opportunistic.

    Comedians and writers on Twitter, much like in “real” life, hammer away at jokes in hope of unlocking a smorgasbord of laughter.  They seldom participate in conversation (unless with their inner circle of comedian friends) and tend to use Twitter as a space to finely tune their craft.

    @JuliusSharpe, a writer for Family Guy, is my absolute favorite.  His tweets are nuggets of gold.  Just don’t expect any engagement on his end; he doesn’t tweet anyone. He is purely present to entertain.  His tweets are ironic and smart and unearth the sweet sap of life’s common threads, but he keeps to his own.

    @RobDelaney, @TheSulk, @MichaelIanBlack @PattonOswalt, @jimgaffifan, @nealbrennan are obvious woodpeckers everyone follows.  My other favorites:  @corneezy, @joshcomers, @eddiepepitone, @Randazzoj, @albz, @kristygee

     

    Distinguished woodpecker:

    Ivory-Billed Woodpecker (@meganamram)– A bird of great mystery.  To bird enthusiasts, perceived as a myth and a legend.

    @meganamram: A comedian whose tweets run the gamut of everything unfathomable by you or me.  She is, at age 24, an anomaly.

     

    Bird-of-Paradise (The Overtly Shameless Narcissist)–  Known for its highly-overdramatic mating ritual, these colorful birds rarely go unnoticed.  They are also a monogamous species.

    Many people–especially celebrities–like to use Twitter as a billboard with which to flaunt every product they touch (including themselves).  Seldom will anything they ever say enhance your well-being, creativity or purpose here on Earth.  They are monogamous to themselves, their brand and anything that will boost their visibility and/or earnings.

    @KimKardashian indisputably embodies this category.  She vomits marketing garbage at an incessant rate to her 10 MILLION (how?!) followers.  Her dance is vibrant, loud and is clearly knocking her (brand) up.

    This is a post at 8:55 am

     

    Owl (The Information Sources)– Messengers and goddesses of wisdom.

    Twitter differs from Facebook in that it allows you to emit rapid information about anything, anytime (without irritating your friends & family).  If you want up-to-the-minute info, you follow the owls, sit back and let their knowledge rain upon your thirsty mind. There lies a vast selection of people/groups/companies that will provide you with whatever your heart desires: reliable news sources (@TheOnion); favorite fitness guru (@MyTrainerBob); sports services (@NFL); or life coaches (@PauloCoelho), all of whom offer the advice, motivation, or tips you crave to live a better and fulfilled life.

     

     

    Morning Dove (The Lonely, OPENLY INSECURE Single Girl)– These birds whimper in the night air, often mistaken for the sound of an owl.  They are loners with a shrill, distinct cry of desperation.

    There is a plethora of these fluttering about in the Twitter aviary.  She’s the lonely, single girl who lives with cats, begging to be noticed.  She works as a writer in Hollywood and whines about wine, her cumbersome sweatpants, a rarely decadent hair day, Spanx and her unaccompanied drunken Friday nights.  She sees her desperate cries as “charming”–after all, she’s beautiful like a dove–but the only way any man will ever put up with her likely involves slipping something into her drink at a bar.

    It’s easy to be lonely, but it’s even easier to cry about it–so if self-loathing and abandonment issues tickle your fancy, pull up on your couch with a  pint of fat-free fro-yo and join the pity party.

    Seagull (The Nuisance)– Recognized for its harsh wailing or squawking call.  It scavenges ruthlessly, often displaying signs associated with bullying, attacking and harassing.  It also shits on people.

    One of the most unfortunately populous subspecies of tweeters who’ll pounce on any opportunity to aggravate the pleasantries of a tweet is the seagull. Should you find yourself being followed (stalked) by this type, you’ll also find he/she (usually a “he”) won’t let any grammatical or syntax error go unnoticed–much like a piece of food accidentally dropped at the beach, provoking a flock to recklessly descend upon it. They don’t know any better. As they fly off, they excrete further nuisances on you, leaving reminders of just how far from perfect you really are.

    Fear not, they’re only acting out as a result of their own societal inadequacies. These creatures are clearly starving for creativity of their own, responding the only way they know how– hunting for solace in the mistakes, misfortunes or sullied happiness of others.

     

     

    Dodo Birds (The Dumb)– Known for their clumsiness and for becoming extinct due to their incapable brains, which prevent them from functioning in civilization.

    Dodo tweeters add nothing to anything.  They aren’t funny, don’t make sense, ramble incoherently, and will eventually (hopefully) burn themselves out.

    However, fluttering about in the Twitter aviary are a select few who are usually quite lovely, yet occasionally suffer from “off days”–and may be mistaken for a dodo if encountered at the wrong time.  Here is an anonymous example to spare the feelings of the real idiots:

     

     

     

    Mockingbird (The Constant Retweeter)– A bird that mimics the songs of other birds, often loudly and in rapid succession.

    This tweeter will seldom add a thought of his/her own, existing solely to echo the sentiment of others via retweets. Often a friend or colleague you’ll hesitate to unfollow out of obligation (or fear of losing a precious follower). These are typically the same people who still send chain emails.

    However, in some instances, mockingbirds can be a brilliant commodity, with the shtick of providing the masses with a common, amusing theme (@joemande and @EliBranden are real good at retweeting for the sake of mocking others).

     

     

    Hummingbird– They can hover in mid-air by rapidly flapping their wings 12—90 times per second.

    Certain people tweet way too much, forcing you to wonder how they sustain a decent following (or pay rent).  It’s exhausting. They can’t stop. They won’t stop. They’re obsessed. They will suck the sweet nectar from your very soul.

     

     

     

    Orange Throated Tanager (ME)- Penetrating, deliberate voice. Represents those “birds without a name” and has been written about in a book titled “Parrots Without a Name.” Strikingly colorful and difficult to find, even within a narrow latitudinal range.

    Then there is I, the tanager with a following of 256.  I tweet one-liners about everything from daily musings to mishaps. I observe the interactions of tweeters, meticulously strategizing when and whom I’ll tweet.  The whole psychology of Twitter fascinates me and I am engrossed in the never-ending ingenuity tumbling down my screen. (I follow comedians, and these other gems, also tanagers- @heybeccahey, @rsub27, @laurenne, @themikewhite, @zineelizabeth, @mkstrodel, @nbernabe, @laurenbruno, @korylanphear)

    In this vast space, I simply adore the tweeting of other birds.  Whether it’s ruthless or not, Twitter lends the birds a place to sing together in whatever tune their hearts desire…

     

  • Literary Matchmakers

    Literary Matchmakers

    My life as a single lady has reached the 3 1/2 year mark and I am currently not putting forth any effort to change that.  You won’t find me on dating websites (Twitter exempt).  I live and work in West Hollywood (I’m straight). And I spend most of my free time inside my apartment watching football alone (Go Eagles?). Some say the latter of the aforementioned circumstances is a shoe-in to grab the attention of a man, but I’m somehow missing the conversion from football banter to a steady relationship and am instead collecting male besties all over Southern California (unless of course you’re a Raiders’ fan…I hate you and you’re my worstie—“worstie” and “bestie”…perhaps the story could stop here?).

    After some calculations, I figure at the pace I’m going, and in the geographic location I’m living, I’ll either end up marrying someone from a fantasy football message board or becoming a beard to a gay man I meet at my neighborhood Trader Joe’s.  As long as my pops gets a grandchild out of it, it shouldn’t matter.

    The truth is, my heart isn’t in any rush, but the recent influx of set-up dates by friends, family and/or members of my mother’s book club has me wondering if everyone thinks I am.

    I love blind dates and actually prefer them because I appreciate a referral and the security that I won’t end up on Dateline Murder Mystery.  Other attempts don’t even make it as far as a date, like the time Luke (http://bit.ly/sAa14k) held a mystery dinner specifically to set me up with his friend.  The “friend” never showed up, and I became the seventh wheel. Story of my life. And title of my future autobiography, probably.

    My older lady literary friends (aka my mom’s book club) are my number one advocates and try very hard, but never make it past the screening process.  A couple of weeks ago we held our meeting at the Getty Villa after reading Chasing Aphrodite, a novel about the Getty’s acquisition of looted art.  It’s fascinating.  On the way home, I started discussing a recent recipe I created that ended up in People magazine.

    “Hold on a second,” a newer member said. “How are you not taken?”

    “Because everyone in my local area is either gay or not interesting.”

    “But you like to cook and you like football! It seems like they’d be swarming.”

    “Well, they usually end up being my best friend.”

    “I think you’d be perfect for my son.  He’s smart, he likes art, he’s a great cook, he’s so nice! Yes!  Sally, don’t you think they’d be great?”

    “Oh yes! This is a perfect match!!!”

    I stopped them.  “Wait, how old is he?”

    “He’s 22.  But don’t worry, he has an old soul.  Oh he’s so nice,” his mom said.

    “I’m 28.  Let’s set him up with my sister who is also 22 with an old soul.”

    They discussed the two potential soul mates with my mother.  I let them cackle while I tweeted about it…

     

    The next day, “Cougar Dates” started following me on twitter. Things are looking up…

    Exactly a year ago, on another book club field trip, the same type of conversation occurred.  This time, the male in question had two years on me and sounded kind of lovely.  After I agreed that we could move forward with the process, the group giddily high-fived.

    Four days later, I received this email:

    Danielle,

    I am Jessica’s friend; we met at Carolyn Wall’s lecture. And, I sent you the information about the Ventura County Writers Club. Well, this e-mail is from a friend, who has a 30-year-old single son. I can attest he is a nice guy from a nice family. He’s lives in Santa Monica right now, working and going to school. He told his mother he can’t find any “nice girls.” I immediately thought of you. So, contact him if you wish.  The email is below…

    Ana

     

    Merry Christmas Greetings to you!

    Remember how we talked about Dave and the young woman from your Literary Club? Well, I casually discussed the idea with Dave and he was receptive of the idea. He felt, also, Facebook might be the way to go. Although I wonder because when I check out Dave on Facebook, it’s pretty zany with lots of pics, that don’t reflect a Monk. If you were to mention, that Dave is really a mild manner guy, it’s just that he does have a lot of friends that love to take photos and communicate via cell phone photos and Facebook photos. He appears to be a real party animal . . . but he truly is a gentle soul, caring, compassionate and has a good work ethic. So no harm no foul if you wish
    to pass along his email address.

    Cheers, Susan

    p.s. I think the young woman can also contact him via Facebook . . come to think of it maybe it’s a better first impression if it’s by email, tee hee!

     

    What would YOU do?

    After much deliberation, I chose not to contact sweet Dave via Facebook. Despite his mother’s best efforts, he sounded like a Raiders’ fan.  And despite everyone else’s efforts, the inevitable is that I’ll keep nudging men for football picks or fashion tips because that’s just what I do and apparently my usage of the word “fuck” is keeping me single (according to a coworker)…Woopsy daisy!

    Cheers to the odd wheels out!

  • Shroomin’ at My Reunion

    Shroomin’ at My Reunion

    It’s Saturday night, and my best friend and I kick things off by smoking a bowl in his parents’ backyard– because since high school, on through college and into adulthood, that’s how most good nights start. (And bad nights, and mediocre nights, and nights when I wake up at 4 the following morning on the couch with the TV blaring and cake in my mouth.)

    The only preparation I’ve made for my 10-year high school reunion is buying a pair of skinny Seven jeans (earlier this afternoon). I’m not successful, I’m not feeling particularly sociable or witty, I’m just gonna look the part. If I get laid tonight, better believe it’s gonna be for all the wrong reasons.

    Actually, denim isn’t my only preparation. I’ve also armed myself with a fresh pack of smokes, gum, and a condom hidden in my blazer pocket. Because you never know, especially when you’re me. I usually don’t even know after the fact.

    Then there are my buddy’s chocolates. And by “chocolates,” I actually mean “mushroom chocolates,” but that’s just too many syllables. And less catchy. So, there are chocolates.

    Having agreed that arriving at our reunion stone sober is a bad idea, we meet up with a half dozen girls from our class at a bar on Main Street; four of whom I’ve spoken a collective dozen words (if that) in all of high school, one I’ve already told my buddy I’m planning on sleeping with, and one who, understatedly put, has blossomed. Holy shit. How–and WHEN–did she get that ass?

    Since I’m already baked, not successful, and not feeling particularly sociable, I nurse a $10 beer for a half hour and stick to my game plan: innocent chit chat with my target, a few “you work in entertainment too?!” moments with the duckling-turned-swan, keep my career word total below 20 with the other four. No offense, ladies–I’m already planning on taking this one home, and–look at her, she just can’t stop kissing my cheek! What, do I have some peanut butter on there or something?

    Before I can verbally cockblock myself, we’re back in the car and headed to the Moose Lodge. Have I mentioned our reunion is at the FUCKING MOOSE LODGE?! We park, spark another bowl for good measure, and take our first crescent moon-shaped bite of chocolate. (Final reminder: mushroom chocolate.)

    –                        –                        –

    Walking around the corner of the building, we realize it’s only been 45 minutes since the doors opened. We have zero desire to be the first ones in, let alone in the first third. Thankfully, a small crowd’s already smoking outside. Oh yeah, we can do this now! No detentions for smoking ciggies! We’re greeted with handshakes and fist bumps from a few immediately recognizable faces: the druggie skater donning the same baggy sweater and cargo pants I last saw him in ten years ago, the half-black dude with the perfect smile who’s legitimately cool enough to pull off the leather jacket/tie/baseball cap trifecta, and the ambiguously ethnic loudmouth with a waxed chest and two too many shirt buttons undone. The latter can’t stop talking about how he’s got five bottles of Dom and Veuve Clicquot waiting inside. See? Told you there’d be bottle service at the Moose Lodge.

    Before we can finish our first cigarette, one of our classmates pulls up in a shiny black Maserati. No valet, homie– it’s the fucking Moose Lodge, not Mastro’s. He scrapes the bottom of his car violently pulling into the parking lot, eliciting a hearty cackle of “Ohhhh”s from the whole smoking section, as if he’d been caught passing notes in geometry. Perhaps this won’t be so bad, after all.

    –                        –                        –

    We suck it up and head in– down a narrow, dusty hallway with Warren G’s ‘Regulate’ blasting on the other end. After filling out the obligatory name tags and receiving three drink tickets apiece (my heart sinks at this reality; no open bar?), we proceed through a curtain of cheap streamers and it hits me– I’m standing in a transplanted cafeteria of the last group I actually referred to as “my peers.” (Well, if anyone had actually hung out our school’s cafeteria, that is.) I deserve a hemorrhoid for making the reference, but there’s no better way to put it: this is straight out of Napoleon Dynamite.

    No one’s dancing, and the only people sitting at tables are the plus-ones: husbands, wives, dates. Remember the kids’ table at Thanksgiving? It’s like that, without all the enjoyment of being a kid. Instead of chasing the family dog with a turkey leg in his mouth and tracing crayon outlines of your hand, you sit with the other misfits and watch your significant others being eye raped by their entire graduating class. If you’re lucky, she’ll turn around once every few minutes and blow you a kiss– but it’s gonna be a long night. There are many things in life I’ve never wanted to be: a meter maid, an amputee, and now a plus-one at a reunion.

    My buddy taps on my shoulder. “We’re about to get drunk in a real life Facebook group.” He couldn’t be more on. Facebook has changed everything. Even if I haven’t seen you in person over the last decade, I do know what you look like, I do know that you got married to a disproportionately hot girl, and I do know that you ate lunch at Bay Cities yesterday. All I can think is “I’ve defriended so many people in this room!”

    First up, the girl who couldn’t have been more than a few months away from becoming my stepsister. Her mom was my dad’s first girlfriend after my parents split, and her family moved to Santa Monica to be closer and make things work. They didn’t. I would’ve hit it back then. Not much has changed.

    There’s the cheerleader I ended up going to college with, who complained after I didn’t take advantage of her the one time we hung out and killed three bottles of Charles Shaw. She’s a single mom now. Savor small victories.

    There’s the kid who paid me $500 to do a semester’s worth of world history homework in tenth grade. (I loved history, it was a labor of love. Not to mention the fact that I was only copying mine verbatim.) He’s some sort of financial consultant in DC. You don’t say.

    The worst thing about reunions? The moment you see someone you’re genuinely excited to catch up with from across the room, you’re charged with navigating a sea of familiar faces and handshakes just to get to them… and that’s assuming they don’t move on their own. Thankfully, my buddy’s got a reasonable size advantage on this portion of the crowd, so I call an audible and follow him through the crowd like a running back behind his trusty lineman.

    And there she is, the closest thing I had to a long-term crush in high school, pint-sized and barely looking a day over 19. (We also met in world history; naturally, I did her homework for free.) We’d actually grown close after college when we both found ourselves back in Los Angeles, but nothing ever became of it, as I’d convinced myself my salary was less than half her prerequisite. She tells me she’s just broken up with her boyfriend in New York, and for the first time all night, I realize I should’ve driven my own car. But since I didn’t– to the bar!

    Disappointed in my lack of foresight, I finally make it to the watering hole, wrestling for standing space next to an unidentifiable cue ball who looks better suited to be on the other side serving me. Before I can order, he’s on my shoulder: “What we drinkin’, son?!” Boy, this may get awkward when I can’t remember who you are. There’s a reason people write both their first AND last names on their tags, you know. When he offers up his name with a handshake and a double whiskey rocks, it all comes back. When he tells me he’s “livin’ the dream, producing porn in Texas and ridin’ a redhead with double-D’s,” I’m reminded why I didn’t have much of a reason to talk to him in high school, and tonight is no different. Thanks for the whiskey, though.

    –                        –                        –

    A handful of smokes, shots and Nate Dogg tracks later, we’re liberally slapping fixings on tacos by the food table with our good friend’s ex-girlfriend– the one we haven’t had much (if any) contact with since they broke up after 8 years together– since sophomore year. While he had the option to attend tonight, he declined. (Likely in that for the past few years, he’s found a different girlfriend who’ll likely be more than a girlfriend someday, and who’d want to deal with any of that nonsense?) I’ve bumped into her a few times already tonight, each time muttering something along the lines of “Thank God I’m high for this,” each time slightly less coherent than that which preceded it.

    “You two smoking any more tonight?”

    My boy and I lock eyes like we’re in a beer commercial; there’s understanding in our gaze.

    “Blunt?”

    God, yes. A friend with weed is a friend, indeed.

    We step outside again. Ciggy, bite of chocolate, stare at the sidewalk for a hot minute.

    “Anything yet?”

    “Not really, to be honest.” You haven’t been accidentally feeding me just chocolate chocolate, have you? These jeans are so tight my balls are asleep, I don’t want excess calories unless they’re fucking me up.

    “Alright, I thought I had an Optimo on me. We need papers.”

    “No sweat, we’ll walk to the market right down the street.”

    We walk down to the market right down the street. Closed. No biggie, we kill the last of the chocolate, hop in the car and drive to the nearest liquor store, back so fast we don’t even lose our parking spot.

    I should mention I finally started losing my shit while waiting in line at the liquor store. I should also mention we were the only patrons in the liquor store. Must’ve been those lights on the ice cream freezer I couldn’t stop staring at. I should’ve gotten some ice cream. Ice cream sounds good right now.

    In order to keep inconspicuous (and not have to share our drugs), the three of us stand a good 30 feet from the door and spark our blunt. Before it’s made a full rotation, two more have joined, but they’ve also contributed a joint. This has to be how the whole Occupy movement got started. While they’re moving in opposite directions around our mini-circle, I keep ending up with both the blunt and the joint at the same time. Plus, I’ve lit another ciggy, so I’m smoking like a goddamn factory at this point– a factory with a busted assembly line, sleeping employees and a faulty emergency system. My knees get wobbly and I can’t feel my right foot. Always a good sign.

    –                        –                        –

    Next thing I know, we’re back inside. I slink my way next to an absolute stunner who wouldn’t give me the time of day back in high school; from what I can gather in a matter of seconds, she’s a singer now, so she still won’t. Joke’s on her, I don’t even HAVE a sense of time right now! Plus, her older boyfriend blew a load in her eye junior year and everyone’s been joking about it ever since.

    Remember the loudmouth with the waxed chest? He’s roving about with his merry gang of rich kids-turned-rich young adults, all of whom have an arm wrapped tightly around their dates’ waists. (Any tighter, and it might constitute rape.)  As promised, champagne has been popped, so I’m grabbing at glasses like a toddler for treats. While gorgeous, these girls are virtually identical, one moment half-struggling to separate themselves from their captors’ steely claws, the next giving up and laughing at one at jokes I can’t even hear.  I wonder if they’re all sisters, but I realize it’s likelier they all have the same employer. I wonder which one’s being paid the most for her company tonight. When did the  Twilight Zone take a bath in hepatitis and hair gel?

    After all that bubbly, I make a mad dash (read: determined stumble) to the bathroom and piss for a solid eight minutes, though looking back, the last seven were probably just me staring at patterns in floor tiles with my dick out.

    Now I’m making small talk with the tall blonde I hooked up with in my little brother’s bed the summer after graduation, when my parents were out of town and I went all Risky Business on their house for the better part of a month. (It would’ve been my bed, but my room had been designated the VIP lap dance lounge by the strippers we’d hired and I couldn’t get past the bouncer standing guard at the top of the stairs.) She’s engaged now, to a 40-year-old with an Affliction t-shirt & receding hairline; he greets me with little more than an uninterested “Yeah.” In his defense, my input isn’t much richer, so I feign interest with a flat “CongratsI’mgonnagotothebarnow” and a limp handshake. Probably better than “I put those fingers on your fiancée’s cooch for fifteen seconds a decade before you, bro.”

    I run into two of my old friends from elementary school all the way up until college, formerly scrawny little cousins who look nothing alike. One’s bursting out of his shirt in muscles I didn’t even know humans were supposed to grow, drunk as fuck and bouncing off everything (and everyone) in sight with his tongue wagging freely like a dog’s. Without a doubt the most forceful hug I get all night. I jokingly ask if he’s fighting UFC, and it turns out he’s actually fighting MMA. I think back to the time I gambled $64 away from him on a putting green after school; when his aunt showed up at my house to pick him and his cousin up, she’d made him pay. Probably wouldn’t go down that easily today. He suddenly grabs the back of my head, positioning my gaze squarely on the ass of the shortest girl in our graduating class, whom, as luck would have it, I’d also gone to college with. “How good does she look?!” I’d thought the same thing when she walked in in front of me earlier.

    The second of the two cousins is slightly more proportionate, but comparably trashed. He’s finally growing a little facial hair. Turns out he lives down the street from my current apartment. He hypes the fact that despite the little sex we had in high school, tonight we’re surrounded by this “pussy buffet.” (Except for “the bitches with babies.”) He points out the duckling with the sleeper ass. Dude, I know!

    –                        –                        –

    As far as I’m concerned, the final hour or so didn’t happen.

    I vaguely remember fielding a redundant barrage of questions on whether I still play golf, how I’ve been since my accident, and if I still remember any Latin. (When I can, awesome, nope!) Another old crush’s husband whom I’d only briefly met two weeks ago at a wedding told me he’s since fallen in love with my funny status updates. There may have been a slideshow. Pretty sure they didn’t hand out an award for funniest Twitter feed. Not that I’d prepared a 140-character speech or anything, who does that?

    Seeing I’ve yet to hear any horror stories about how I poured a drink on my chemistry lab partner’s chest, my blazer didn’t require a trip to the dry cleaner the next day, and there’s no reason to believe I sexually harassed anyone with my iPhone, I can only assume I kept my shit together. (Reasonably.)

    I do remember leaving. I got plenty close with my original target. Call it selective memory and maybe she was only holding me so tightly to prevent me from tumbling, but she kissed my cheek goodbye for what felt like 20 minutes on the way out and her name tag ended up on my lapel. Had I been of a better constitution at that point, I likely would’ve made a bold decision or two. Crap, I could’ve left this thing with a new reputation.

    On the plus side, I’m visiting my best friend next weekend in San Francisco. Cheek kisser’s up there too.

    I suppose the moral of the story is this: the best reunions require no specific date or anniversary– and much like this post, they never seem to end.

     

  • Broke Game

    Broke Game

    Being broke is like jail with no free meals.  It’s a physical and mental torture.  And, like most painful events, it is an opportunity for tremendous personal growth.  We all handle it our own way.  Here are some of my tips for playing the Broke Game.

    PHYSICAL

    The twangs of true hunger mess with your head.  You can’t survive without a plan.  Make your plan quickly, before you lose brainpower.  Budget.  Make strict guidelines for what you are and are not willing to do to yourself.  After this, you are no longer allowed to be picky.

    • Eggs, pasta, rice — you can live very cheaply for a long time.  Only eat when you have to.  To clarify — Those first stabbing pains in your stomach are a total bluff.  The hunger is trying to intimidate you.  You have hours.  The pain takes a break, eventually, so don’t tap first.  I have survived for 4 days/nights on 1 bag of brown rice, 2 eggs, peanut butter, and a half sleeve of stale saltines.
    • Apples are cheap, hunger-assuaging ways to up your blood sugar.  USAID and other leading charity organizations believe peanuts are the key to eradicating hunger in Africa — forever.  Do some research.  Your palate has rich taste.  Knowledge is free.
    • You are not going to be eating much meat.  You are not going to be eating much anything.  Adjust.
    • There is going to be a very serious bitter taste in your mouth at some point.  It may sound poetic — but it is very real.  The lack of flavored foods in your diet, as well as the lack of sugar or carbonation, will leave a nice ashtray coat along your tongue.  This will decay your mood, among other things.  Get sweet mints if they are ever offered.  Check your medicine cabinet for any left over cough drops.
    • At some point, you may consider eating dog food.  You have either been this hungry before, or you haven’t.  I will be upfront with you here.  The afterburn is what’s going to get you.  Burp up murder.

    MENTAL

    The hardest part is not complaining.  What I do here is totally surrender.  Yes, I’m broke.  No, I can’t do anything about it.  Yes, I will survive – that’s the plan.  Okay.  What now?

    • First, I think about who to ask for cash.  I let my stomach curdle about that for a while.  Everyone else is hard up, too.  I rub my temples and remind myself, “I’m 26 years old.”
    • I stare at all my DVDs, books, and record albums.  Each one cost several days worth of food security.  I find myself mentally murdering the past version of my self that bought two copies of JG Ballard’s ‘Crash’.  Perhaps I can boil one down into a nice paste.  I stare at the clothes in the back of the closet — What’d those cost?  Go on, let in the self-loathing.  It is okay to think like this — for a little.  It’s not you, it’s the shame and worry talking.  Lurking in your stomach, growling — hunger stalking.
    • I continue to assign new values to the things I own — but now, to the things I love.  That bukowski book, which was leant to me, is now worth 3,000 matt value units.  The speakers are 14,000.  Under my bed, a bottle of vitamins one month from expiration might be a lifesaver.  I don’t have any expensive toys, but I am suddenly a rich man.
    • The word ‘cherish’ has supernatural significance in the 21st century.  At some point in your Broke Game, the fridge will not look as empty.  Is that a box of old pasta back there?  What’s that worth now?  Cliff bar from last July in an old backpack… Manna from heaven.  There’s a reason why Jesus, Buddah, and Mohammed found epiphanies isolated in the desert.  Tempting Devil, get behind me, and take your $199 iPhone and stick it up your ass. 
    • When the ‘cherish’ effect starts to happen, you are probably on your way back out of the darkness.  Make a thank-you list credits reel.  This will occupy all the time in the world, if you have any left.

    One day, hopefully, you’ll have some money again. You’ll almost want to turn it away at first — because if you have it, you spend it.  But don’t deny your luck.  Don’t worry.  You’ll be broke again.

    Thanks for playing.

    Happy Thanksgiving.

    Thanks for my grandmother, Toronto Dominion, loud speakers, good friends, my own kitchen, new pens, warm clothes, peanut butter, bukowski poems, running water, socks with holes, a brown dog, being broke, a job, a soft chair to sit in, my parents, my bed, and Canadian Thanksgiving.

  • Goats, Chairs and Dulce de Cacahuate

    All family, friends and freedom aside, here are some other things to be thankful for this holiday:

    Kaleidoscopes

    Goat Cheese and/or Goats

    Artificial Hearts

    Corn Candles

    Aretha Franklin

    Chairs

    Baby Elephants

    Suction Cups

    People Named Gladys

    Water

    de la Rosa Dulce de Cacahuate

    And last, but certainly not least, Google Images.

  • Giving Thanks (‘Cause Baby, I’m a Giver)

    Giving Thanks (‘Cause Baby, I’m a Giver)

    Don’t forget to dangle the grandkids near an open oven this Thanksgiving! (Preheat to 350.)

    Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. (Especially since 1990, when I learned at the age of 7 that my birthday was not officially recognized as a holiday by the Santa Monica-Malibu Unified School District.) Growing up in a “half-and-half” household, Hanukkah was too long, and my parents typically gave my brother and I books on Christmas while our friends got video games, paintball guns and other fun things that weren’t books. Flash forward twenty years– Hanukkah’s still too long (always involving a minimum of five work nights), and Christmas, while a jovial affair, is all but a typical weekend for me: rounding up my Jew buddies for bong rips, gorging on Chinese food, and wandering to our local movie theater. Also, my mom still gives me books, despite my desperate pleas for “practical gifts.” (Also, I still don’t know how to read. Shh.)

    Sure, the first Thanksgiving probably involved a few casual rapes, an obnoxious cacophony of Bahstonian accents, and more smallpox than stuffing, but on an ideological level, how can you go wrong with an occasion which rewards a little introspection with 3,000-calorie meals, football, and parades?

    Seeing as nowadays, we tend to spend the whole year lamenting the monumental misfortunes of our middle class American existence (like gluten allergies, DVRs forgetting to record the first two minutes of Parks and Recreation, and not having enough Twitter followers <<follow Mike White on Twitter!>>), it’s spiritually vital we step back and devote at least one day (or at least a few minutes of said day) to gratitude. So, here goes:

    More so than anything in this life, I’m thankful for my unconditionally loving, understanding, non-judgmental family. Yes, they’d probably waterboard me if they found out how much I smoked (or that I smoke at all), but without family, we’re nothing. (Unless you’re either of Lindsay Lohan’s parents, in which case without family, you’re hungry.)

    I always have been and will continue to be blessed by these beautiful, compassionate, honest people. My ageless mom, who’s implored me to positively impact others without losing sight of myself, not-very-subtly hinted I should date all my attractive Jewish female friends, and provided more free psychoanalysis than one can shake a stick at (more often than not, I don’t even have to ask!). My quirky dad, who somewhat resembles a George Clooney-Dustin Hoffman lovechild who can whip my ass without trying on a pool table, all while providing genuine encouragement to challenge myself creatively. My talented little brother, who shares in my passions for photography, pot and exploring strange new places. (When he moved to New York this summer to participate in a photojournalism program, we rented a car and drove out from Los Angeles; one of the best weeks of my life, even if it was in constant fear.) My stepmom, who, above all else, makes my dad happy. (These days, I’ll take all the affirmation I can get that marriage can in fact work. Culinary prowess doesn’t hurt.)

    I’m thankful both my parents are finally learning to text. For now.

    I’m thankful for this perpetually growing ensemble of friends I’ve found myself engulfed by. Especially my two new roommates this past year: one who filled our apartment and my stomach with sublimely delicious baked goods, assisted me endlessly in fostering a puppy, and reminded me of my affinity for getting ripped and watching cartoons from my childhood. Then there’s my current roommate, the uncanny combination of the little sister I never had and the second (well, third) mom I desperately need. You’re my rock, Clarke.

    I’m especially thankful for the new people in my life this year, even the gingers. (Bonjour, girl!)

    I’m thankful for my health, or whatever’s left of it. My own well-being is without a doubt the single entity I take for granted most often. Despite a magnificent disregard for using my better judgment, the last year has resulted in no broken bones, no burning sensations, and despite my relentless dedication to not exercising, I haven’t ballooned into one of those people described in pharmaceutical commercials as “unfit for sexual activity.”

    I’m thankful for my job. And not just any job, but a job that allows me to pursue my desires, hone my talents, and get home before the sun goes down. (Mind you, I’m only doing only one of these currently, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.) I’m insanely fortunate to get to “work” with such a unique cast of witty, interesting, like-minded individuals. I spend a solid hour of each workday laughing my ass off, which most certainly beats working. Furthermore, we recently got an espresso machine that enables me to put as many shots into one cup of coffee as my bloodstream can tolerate. Also, not having to look for a job. And our holiday party’s gonna be on a boat. (Time to find that nautical-themed pashmina afghan.)

    I’m thankful for all the people who’ve helped me cope with a debilitating sense of loneliness this year. (Especially those who’ve given themselves to me in sexual congress. Like I probably told you that fateful night, you’re doing God’s work.)

    I’m thankful for the fact that smoking hasn’t killed me, at least according to Dr. Murray. (Yes, I’m fully aware my doctor shares a surname with Michael Jackson’s infamous doctor. Thank God I’m a big boy and can take naps all by myself.) I’m quitting cold turkey by the end of the year (I’ll still eat it roasted though, zing!), but I’ll be the first to admit I love a good fag with my coffee in the morning (Zing again, how do I turn it off?!). I wish I knew how to quit you. (I’ll stop now.)

    I’m thankful I’m learning to “turn it off.” (Previous paragraph not withstanding.)

    I’m thankful my penis hasn’t quit on me in the last year, despite his workload being slashed dramatically.

    I’m thankful that Jack, the 80-pound pit bull/”lap dog” I fostered earlier this year, found his forever home last month. He was the perfect canine companion– and if I’d had a yard and more than 200 square feet of dog-appropriate play space in my old apartment, I’d still happily have him waking me up at 5 AM every day for a 2-mile walk. Also, pugs. (They’re the dog god’s deformed little angels.)

    I’m thankful I passed out at my desk the other night before I could finish creating a Match.com profile. I was high as fuck, and that shit’s expensive.

    I’m thankful it’s legal for me to fart in my car on the way to work. (Might shed some light as to why I’m single.)

    I’m thankful for girls with bangs, abnormally big eyes, and/or thick plastic glasses. (I’m looking at you, Silver Lake/Echo Park.)

    I’m thankful I wasn’t arrested this year. (I’m looking at you, respective law & drug enforcement agencies in California, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, and Rhode Island.)

    I’m thankful that every time I think I’ve found bedbugs in my sheets, they turn out to be cookie crumbs.

    I’m thankful simply to have been born into a species physically and mentally capable of loving. Considering all the living things on Earth to be incarnated as, the odds are staggering. Think your life sucks? You could’ve been born a cockroach. Or a celery stalk. Or one of the Real Housewives of Detroit. You lucked out.

    I’m thankful for Bruce Springsteen. (Your timeless songs make me wish I’d grown up in Jersey, even if being to Jersey has made me thankful I didn’t.)

    I’m thankful my alma mater (Arizona) beat our rival (Arizona State) in our annual football game last weekend. Makes our upcoming nuclear winter that much shorter.

    Oh, and Muppets. We should all be thankful for Muppets.

     

  • “In Deformation, We trust”

    “In Deformation, We trust”

    To the congress that just reaffirmed the USA motto, I will be sure on this day of plentiful thanks, a day when there is so much thanks that it gets thrown into zip lock bags to be used later, that you and your cohorts receive none. In fact I will be wasting more government time next week when I show up to propose my own motto that has been the lifeblood of Americans and the human species alike…

    “In Deformation, We Trust.”

    More government waste will be avoided with this motto as it will eliminate bullying in all of our schools. Replacing the current motto with this one will remind that one girl with inverted boobs to be proud of her deformation. That one guy who has to pee with his pants all the way on the ground for some reason when at the urinal will now look up proudly at this new motto and put his hands on his hips and sway proudly as he pees. So your voice breaks wine glasses with it’s high pitch-ness, so what that one testicle is enormously out of proportion to the other, so what your front teeth are perpendicular to the rest, so what your freckles hide your normal skin, so what? With my new motto our already deformed nation will finally have a reason to open up and reveal the truth. Now walk forward America and join me in Washington to show the world exactly what we are and who we trust in.

    Deformed and elongated middle toes.

    I need this motto to feel good about the two by fours I have been walking around on for the last 28 years. My deformed middle two toes stick out way past my big toe making it virtually impossible to wear normal shoes. It was this deformation that gave me two ingrown toe nails after wearing soccer shoes that were not block foot ready. Did you know insurance wont cover ingrown toe nails because it is self inflicted? With my new motto, maybe the shoe lobbyists will finally get off their wasteful and unneeded pedestals and allow for the creation of square foot shoes.

    Evolved hitchhikers thumb

    I can’t even count the times that I have been hitch hiking and stuck my deformed thumb out to get picked up and no one would pick me up. “FREAK!” “BEHEMOTH!” “RIGHT ANGLE!” They would scream at me as I cried on the side of the road. So what I have to use my first knuckle to push on things? Who cares that the police have to remind me that they do not want knuckle creases on their finger prints? My deformity is my evolution and it is about time that our nation embraced this and what better way than changing the nations motto?

    So on this day of eternal thanks and celebration of temporary peace between murderous white people and native american indians, I want to give thanks, nay, give great celebration to my deformities and to all those of the readers of this deformed blog.

    Thank You and Merry Thanksgiving!

  • How to Lose a Girl in 4 Weeks

    “You two would be perfect for each other,” my friend Dylan’s girlfriend insisted after knowing me for five minutes. 

    “You’re such a great guy! Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” she pressed annoyingly. 

    I reflected on her question for a moment. If I was truly “great” she’d be slipping me her number when Dylan wasn’t looking and sending seductive glances – not talking to me like an overgrown baby. Still, she was right. I needed a girlfriend. I agreed to a blind date with her friend. (more…)

  • Drugs Are Bad MM ‘Kay?

    Drugs Are Bad MM ‘Kay?

    Put yourself and six other people on a deserted island. One of you finds a tattered box labeled drugs and decide to ingest the myriad of colors inside. As a microcosm of the real world you all came from, the group decides to eliminate that person and 1/7th of the population for no good god damned reason and cage the smiling drug user. Makes sense right?

    Loosely translated from a Joe Rogan pod cast.

    In The Beginning

    I was introduced to marijuana on the New Years Eve of the new millennium. The bong we used had unremarkable, but detailed glass sketching and the owners claimed it was ensured. I fought off the urge to freak out and went to find the over excited giant who was making the room contract and expand like an accordion.

    I wanted to like marijuana but every time I tried I would drink three jack Daniel mixer bottles. Two would be a rambunctious night. Three with a sniff of marijuana smoke and I typically woke up beneath the lawnmower and fertilizer on the side of the house, clutching the rake for warmth.

    Magical Experiment

    To describe externals, you become a scientist. To describe experience, you become an artist.

    Timothy Leary

    A friend told me he could have magic mushrooms shipped to my house.

    They arrived in a glass Nestea container with construction paper hiding the contents. I called upon Bashaw and Rockero to help me find out how good this stuff was.

    “Gotta make tea man, it’s the only way for purity.”

    Five grams go into the tea.

    We drink the green water with baby poopy faces.

    Thirty minutes later, nothing…

    We split up the soggy tea remnants and chew them down.

    Another forty minutes later…

    “Maybe we should smoke some.”

    We stuffed crushed up mushrooms into a four-foot tall glass pipe and think we are feeling something. We go to the park to play who can throw the Frisbee the farthest while a light drizzle coats our sandaled feet.

    It was clear it was not working. As the rain intensified Bashaw announces the end of the experiment and says that him and Rockero are going home. Begrudgingly I concur and eat thelast gram that I had put into my pocket.

    Defeated, I returned to the house to find my roommate and friends preparing to watch Blade Runner for a philosophy class. Now two and some hours after the beginning of the experiment, I recounted our efforts to the amazed group who all understood the necessary quantities usually required with magic mushrooms.

    I was offered a conciliatory sample of the tall four-foot glass bong. As I prepared to inhale, the glass turned into a giant bird beak and fused with my mouth. I laughed hysterically and lifted the behemoth glass piece into the air letting the nasty water fall onto my face and floor. It had begun.

    The Edge… there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.

    Hunter S. Thompson

    The rain was pounding down outside and my last few coherent thoughts wandered to Bashaw and Rockero driving 80 miles back home.

    Ring …. Ring … Ring

    Calm, collected, “Bashaw, how’s it going.”

    Too calm, too collected, “Good. How ‘bout you?”

    “I think it’s working. My face grew a beak and my toes are much longer. Dude, where are you?”

    “Ya we’re pulled over on the side of the freeway. It’s definitely working.”

    Bashaw and Rockero later explained that they drove for quite a while in silence. Each of them battled with the idea that they were moving down the highway at high speed, in the rain, and the effects of an unusually high amount of magic mushrooms were permeating their spines. The first words exchanged were “I think we should pull over. We’re not going to make it.” Sanity briefly
    prevailed.

    Relieved that my friends were safely parked on the 405, I spent the rest of my night taking pictures of myself slowly falling down the stairs, locking myself in the bathroom, pressing my body into the corner of the wall and the floor, and imagining three dimensional space giving way to my mind pressure, allowing me to transcend space, but not time. Apparently, I was making noises the whole time doing it.

    There Must Be a Better Way

    “I’ll do anything twice that isn’t gay.”

    A Fresnonian koala

    A sometimes wise Englishman explained to me that the atomic spin property of the THC molecule is what determines how good a strain of marijuana is. More left spinning, more effect. If you isolate THC, then slam it with ultra violet light, you convert right spinning THC into left spinning THC. Simple. Incidentally, the Englishman explained, THC is soluble in acetone and ultra violet lights can be purchased on ebay.

    Now ignore the fact that acetone is used to strip paint, and ultra violet light was determined to give you cancer. If I told you that I could take four grams of your good weed, and turn it into two and half grams of outrageously awesome weed, would you do it?

    The Lowest of My Life

    Moderation in all things — including moderation.

    Benjamin Franklin

    My colleague invited me to his wedding in San Francisco. Two hours before the ceremony, I headed to the Men’s Warehouse to get a moderately expensive and extremely flashy pin stripe suit. The wedding went off without a hitch and everyone was very merry.

    At this point, an aging, overweight black lady, who was not a member of our party, coerced me outside and offered some quality drugs. I follow her and her very large male friend into what I later learned was the worst part of town. Chatting away, cracking jokes, spinning my jacket – I was cock of the walk. As we walked down a very long hallway to the apartment, I had a vision of the TV show “The Wire”. At the front of the hallway was the landlord, hidden behind a steel grated window. He said nothing.

    The apartment was no more than a bed, a bathroom, and a kitchenette.

    I was immediately pushed hard to the bed by the towering male. He slapped the girl hard and told to sit next to me. We then did drugs, which were not that great. Then the large male jumped up. He grabbed my collar and pulled me up, demanding I give him my ATM card. The girl attempted to intervene and he backhanded her back onto the bed. He got my card. I even gave him my pin. He left and told us to stay. I know I should have ran, but I didn’t.

    I stayed, trying to grasp the moment.

    Who was this girl? Did I owe her any help? I felt bad for her. Did she do this often? Fish guys out of bars with her horrible looks and bring them to this den of depravity?

    The guy returned in more of a rage than ever since my card only allowed $300 to be pulled. He stormed around the tiny apartment and beat on the girl some more.

    I ran.

    I left my new jacket and its contents and ran. I desperately tried to urge the landlord to do something. He just groaned something and turned around. I ran outside and called the police frantically. I shouted horrible directions into the phone and they were there in minutes. They attempted to extract information from me as I bounced up and down, looking around, as if the big guy was running for me. I pointed to the building and said which apartment. They told me to go to the hotel and they would be in touch. I made a few more drug addled phone calls to friends in southern California purely to freak them out and provide no details but only concerns. I made it back to the hotel where the police came and gave me everything but the jacket and the photos that they erased on my camera.

    I have never been so ashamed and have never tried those sort of drugs since.

    It’s as Easy as Going to the Grocery Store

    Certain cough syrups can make you really high. Drink an entire bottle of Robitusson and you’ll know what I mean. Nico and I tried this one night. We visited a friend who I never usually visit and all I could say were a few mumblings and then I ran to the bathroom to begin the hardest shit of my life. Sweat, tears, and groans for what seemed like 40 minutes. I exited the bathroom to eyes of shock. The party later that night only served to bring my anxiety to a maximum level and I was not sure how to respond. When confronted with conversations I felt like my brain was about to explode because I was thinking too hard or they were asking too many questions. I have no idea what happened to Nico but I know I will never do that again.

    Or As Easy As Going Online

    I desperately wanted to do mescaline after reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and figured out that it came from the San Pedro cactus. Turns out you can get these online. Three days later a 12 inch piece of live cactus is delivered to the door. Staring at it, I pondered how to extract the Mescaline. Apparently there is a lengthy and difficult process to do it. So I opted to circumnavigate these problems and eat the entire thing. I diced it up and covered it in salad dressing and spent the next four hours slowly ingesting this enormous plant. No results.

    And in Summary

    If you don’t think drugs have done good things for us, then take all of your records, tapes and CD’s and burn them.

    Bill Hicks

    These times have passed me and my only drug now is the pain I endure during hours of bike riding at ridiculous speeds. Maybe equally as dangerous. I have no regrets from these tales nor the others that avoided these pages. You walk through life attempting to define yourself through experience and interaction and failing to do these things will make for a boring individual. Now whether it is drugs or skydiving or broccoli, get out there and put yourself in an unknown situation.

  • Eat Cat

    Eat Cat

    There is an overpopulation of cats.  Neutering is expensive and perverse.  These are tough economic times.  Look to Darwin.

    In both suburban and metropolitan areas, cats are plentiful and easy to hunt.  They are fast, but can be outsmarted.  If you’ve played Mousetrap, you are ready to go.  Eating cat is cheap, delicious, and rewarding.

    Look at how much fun we're having!

    It is preferable to catch them alive.

    Once you’ve caught your first cat, your gut instinct may be to try and place it in a boiling pot of water.  This is exactly what the cat wants you to try.  Don’t.  If you have bathed a live cat before, your scars should remind you that this is a poor idea.

    First, it is important to gain the cat’s trust.  Put a hat on the creature.  Talk to it in a baby voice.  Cuddle.  Keep it in a confined space.  This is a test of wills.  At some point, Stockholm syndrome will take over and the cat will be yours, purring as you baste its skin with another layer of marinade.

    Feed it regularly.  Fatty foods high in Omega-3 are best.  When the cat’s stomach is bulbous and the coat is glossy, you are ready to prepare your meal.

    There are a number of recipes.  Use your imagination.  I have prepared cat tacos, cat sandwiches, and cat cereal.  My friend Hank enjoys cat smoothies and cat burgers.  We once roasted a cat — it is important not to pre-heat the oven in that instance.  The cat will sense danger, and react.

    Cats contain several minerals with holistic properties.

    How rare or well done you like your cat meat is entirely at your discretion.  Cat tempura carries a gamey crunch.  Cat sashimi is for the advanced palette.

    You can remove the fur with a filet knife or leave it on.  Try it both ways.  Think of it like a fig.  If you decide to skin your cat before eating (there are many ways to do this) MAKE SURE YOU SAVE THE FUR.  It is perfect material for mittens and slippers.

    The bones have utility, too.  The skull makes both an excellent pencil holder or a classy ashtray.  A candleholder is not out of the question.  Be creative.  Channel your muse.  Use all parts of the buffalo.

    Cat cuisine is something you can really sink your teeth into!

    Once you have the basics down — hunting, brainwashing, cooking, carving, cleaning — feel free to express yourself.  The art and spirituality of cat eating is as deep an ocean as you wish it to be.  Invite your friends over.  Share the gift of cat with another.

    Occasionally, you may come across a militant vegetarian who will lecture you on the cruelty of cat cuisine, perhaps handing you pamphlets describing how evil you are for feeding yourself cheaply.  In that case, explain that plants have a right to exist just as we do.  Tell them to take their disgusting tree flesh dollar bills and go buy tofu at Albertsons.

    Bon Appétit!