and the thing is, he's not even my type

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i dunno if you ever go to manhunt--because god knows i wouldn't be caught dead there. but from what i hear, their splash features an ever-changing panoply of models in various states of undress--all shapes, sizes, races and types--apparently, you never know what you're gonna get when you go there. and sometimes, from what i hear, you have to hit "refresh" up to fifteen or twenty times before the above-featured image even comes up.

not that i'd know first-hand, of course.

hold everything, folks

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clicked on drudge, and i swear i thought there was something wrong with my eyes. i honestly didn't think this could happen, considering the level of enmity between these two, but if this picture is everything it portends--and if clinton and obama don't pose for one like it very soon--then i'd say you're probably looking at the next president and vice president of the united states.

this one took me a few minutes

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seems simple enough, right? au contrare; logistically speaking, it's quite complicated--i mean, put yourself in this guy's place for a minute:

1. first, you've committed yourself to showing up naked outdoors [on second thought, not a huge problem, especially in that neighborhood--on to no. 2];

2. "ddf" (drug/disease free)? yeah, because anyone willing to piss on and then jerk off all over you in his own driveway at three in the morning could not possibly be of the risk-taking, disease-susceptible, drug-imbibing temperament you obviously find so distasteful, so you're probably safe there.

3. after being showered with piss and cum (but more likely just piss) in some strange backyard or driveway by some guy who'll zip up and turn his back on you the instant said events have played themselves out, you find yourself on your own, naked and dripping--so, now what? because you gotta get home somehow, and it's not bloody likely your host is gonna invite you in for a quick rinse-off and towel-dry; best you might could hope for is a cold squirt with a garden hose (and trust me, it was damn cold in los angeles at three this morning, so i don't even wanna think about that)--and that's only if you're lucky and there actually is a hose and/or someone who's willing to turn it on you--the questions i ultimately ended up asking outta this situation are

4. how do you keep the piss outta the car you have to drive home and then drive every day, and

5. if this is what it takes to move your needle at 31, what are you saving for 50?

and after working on these questions for awhile, i couldn't come up with a definitive answer--lots of moist towelettes? raincoat? hose-off interior? hose-off psyche? i dunno.

so i asked him. haven't heard back yet, but soon as i do (and i'm sure i will) i'll let you know.

good point, if we were talking about anybody but bill

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What kind of president would say, "Hey man, I can’t go because I might get shot… but I’m gonna send my wife and daughter. Oh and take a guitar player and a comedian with you".

sinbad, commenting on the now-infamous trip to bosnia he took with hillary, chelsea and sheryl crow.

and now we are grown, with debts and regrets

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down in the garage, pulled out a box, started flipping through some old vinyl and what should turn up but this album.

its cover is significant for any number of reasons, not the least of which are

(a) its gorgeous representation of a gorgeously-talented woman at the supreme pinnacle of her gorgeousness [i mean, look at those lips--if, of course, you can tear your eyes away from the nipples on that magnificent rack pushing its way through the fragile fabric of that flimsy jersey]; and

(b) it may well represent the last time i spontaneously sprung a boner at the thought of a female [except for maybe during uma thurman's nude scene in dangerous liaisons, but that might've had less to do with the sight of her nubile young flesh than with the guy whose tongue was in my ear at the time, so i'm not counting it].

anyway, back to the album.

its buy-me track was "you're so vain," a song i never cared for. but there are two obscure, unknown little gems buried inside which endure in what's left of my memory--one about the sweet pain of unrequited love; the other about the innocence of lost youth--songs that came instantly and fully back to me as soon as i found that album, and that still sound as good to me now as they did then.

so i ripped 'em to mp3--enjoy. or not.


his friends are more than fond of robin


it was so easy

and please...drink responsibly

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see the look on that kid's face? that, in case you don't know, is the classic "i'm starting to sober up" coupled with the "it's just beginning to dawn on me how much fucking trouble i might be in" expression with which i can so totally relate--except that what he and a couple of his fun-loving college buddies did is several orders of magnitude more serious than anything i or anybody i know has ever even thought of doing drunk (or ever been nailed for, anyway).

see, these three instant felons apparently figured it'd be a hoot to set off a stick of dynamite on a balcony of this hotel they were staying at over spring break in florida, thereby blowing the thing to smithereens, shattering several windows, scaring the shit outta god only knows how many people and, remarkably, not killing or maiming themselves or anybody else in the process. read about it here; it's kind of entertaining.

[and the thing is, these days when i see a story like this i increasingly don't identify with the kid as much as i do with his poor dad who presumably was, at the moment this picture was snapped, back home in middle america, sleeping like a guy who still thinks he's financially solvent--i'm gettin old, i guess.]