In the late fall of 1999, Elijah Wood, of the movies, ruined my bathroom visits forever.

And no, I’m not talking about him filling my seathole or any other such chicanery.

Technically, I guess it was really James Schamus, who wrote “The Ice Storm,” who did it. For, you see, in that film there’s a brief speech that Wood makes to his classmates about molecules that has haunted me ever since I heard it. Honestly, I can’t go into a restroom now without my mind instantly flashing to that bit of knowledge he dropped on an unsuspecting movie audience. I warn anyone who doesn’t want to be grossed out every time they enter a restroom to read no further.

OK, you still with me?

Here’s what Wood said:

“Because of molecules we are connected to the outside world from our bodies. Like when you smell things, because when you smell a smell it’s not really a smell, it’s a part of the object that has come off of it, molecules. So when you smell something bad, it’s like in a way you’re eating it. This is why you should not really smell things, in the same way that you don’t eat everything in the world around you because as a smell, it gets inside of you. So the next time you go into the bathroom after someone else has been there, remember what kinds of molecules you are in fact eating.”

Adds new meaning to the phrase “eat shit,” no?

I entered the bathroom at work the other day and was greeted with a particularly foul odor. My bowels dictated that I brave the fetid room and I soldiered on. Every stall is equipped with a can of air freshener, though for some reason most shitters decide not to take advantage of this. I was unsure if I was breaking protocol or not, but the smell was such that I held the can aloft and sent a spray over the top of stall in the direction of the foul beast that had produced it. The thought of offending the progenitor of the smell crossed my mind, but I was ready with the ultimate shut down:

“Hey, guess whose shit stinks? Yours.”

I just put up a profile of Paul F. Tompkins, one of my favorite comedians, which you can read here.

If you’ve already stumbled across the absolutely horrific/amazing car crash of plastic beauties and the worst dudes ever, known as hotchickswithdouchebags.com, then I imagine some of the following images will not be new to you. If you’re not famliar with the site, then be prepared to have your corneas scarred for all eternity. I spent some quality time with the site yesterday, and laughed more than I have in a long time.

The concept is that people wade through the muck and mire of myspace, facebook, and other photo sites in search of the greasiest, nastiest, most mind melting douche bags, juxtaposed alongside sexy, scantily clad, heavily made up ladies and send the photos to the site’s editor, who posts the photos with his commentary. The editor’s idea of “hot chick” seriously differs from mine, though his radar for douche bags is second to none. Over the brief period of the site’s life, he has developed a stringent set of rules that define a douche bag, and has single-handedly introduced a new nomenclature to classify the different douches.

This is Cro-’bagnon, who inspired a rash of haikus from readers, my favorite being from The Douche of Earl:
No fake ‘n bake, that.
Mandana usurped by gel.
Love your geico ads.

Pictures go up constantly, and an increasingly growing number of readers and commenters have joined the HCwDB democratic society, helping to name the douchebag, his arm candy, and pointing out what makes the photo particularly douchey. Each week a vote is made, and a douche is elevated to the status of “Douche Bag of the Week.” At the end of the month all the ‘bags are pitted against each other, and a new “Douche Bag of the Month” is crowned.

Here’s Donkey Douche. His purple lips, absurdly orange skin, open necked shirt complete with fake dog tags, and ludicrous tough face made him a popular favorite from his first appearance. He ascended quickly from ‘bag of the week to ‘bag of the month, crescendoing with a coveted position in The Douchebag Hall of Fame.

“Warthog” is a personal favorite of mine, though he was never able to crack ‘bag of the week status, despite possessing many classic hallmarks of the douche bag. Check the Jesus bling, mandana, guyliner, bleached hair, orange skin and shiny shirt. He’s got everything going for him.

These two, like The Warthog before them, did not go far, but I find them to be particularly hilarious. Seriously, just look at those faces. The greasy dude on the right has by far the most amazing set of follicles and plugs I saw on the whole site, and the rock horns of his companion speak volumes.

And then there was The Trainwreck, the douche that everyone could agree on.

Words cannot do this man justice.

So instead I’m going to give the last word to someone who I believe is a true “hot chick,” Joanna Newsom. Joanna, what do you make of all this?

While walking by Prospect Park I discovered this photo:

And yesterday, while on a trip to Foodswings (vegan fast food!), this photo crossed my path:

A week ago I found a hamper full of clothes hangers, both items I was in need of:

Inside the hamper were some videotapes. Not in my wildest dreams would I have guessed that they would be editor’s copies of “Inside the Actor’s Studio” with Juliette Binoche and Kathy Bates, but that’s exactly what they were:

And here’s some pics from the last week:

Prospect Park

You couldn’t even see the city from certain spots.

The peppermint building

In the spirit of Gawker Stalker, I give you my recent sightings:

Jemaine Clement
172 Bedford Ave.
From the best show currently on television. Was shorter and older looking than on television, rocking a lot of grey hairs in his lengthy sideburns. Walked by him, we locked eyes, then both looked away. Am currently kicking myself for not telling him how much I like the show and doing my Murray impression (”Jemaine, come in”). Seemed very humble.

Todd Solondz
Washington Square Park
About 10:45 at night and the director of “Welcome to the Dollhouse” was walking around by himself, looking dazed. Was tempted to call him “weiner dog.” Seemed very weird.

At every subway stop in New York I’m greeted by the beaming, beatific, well-coiffed vision of reality TV star Tim Gunn. Bravo has plastered Gunn’s visage from Brooklyn to Broadway to promote his upcoming television show, and I for one couldn’t be more pleased. Tim’s familiar face has proven to be a source of solace as I’ve attempted to navigate New York’s labyrinthine subway system, and this slightly altered ad made me laugh out loud, despite the fact that they misspelled Andrae’s name.

Yesterday, as I was carting my belongings to the 4th Ave stop, a rail thin Latino man in obscenely short shorts sashayed his way towards me, barking at what appeared to be a caretaker/companion by his side. While his clownish, hip shaking gait could be spotted from nearly a mile away, it was the booming, bull-frog like voice emanating from his larynx that came to define him. Imagine if Tom Waits and Mario Cantone somehow spawned a child and you still wouldn’t come close to the horrific sounds this man produced. As he walked by a child, he pointed a spindly finger in its face and laughed, a sort of modern day Cruella DeVille with a flamingly homosexual twist.

I thought that I was done with this man, but as I was leaning against my luggage waiting for the train, I heard his unmistakable voice echoing from a nearby staircase. He emerged red-faced, and took a beeline for an empty seat next to a Latino father and his children. Throughout this whole time he was spewing forth a non-stop mix of Spanish and English. One of the kids just sat there, mouth agape, staring at the man like he was a monster. Then a Thai homosexual couple entered his line of sight and he stopped his incessant chattering and began sizing them up. They noticed his lecherous gaze and moved to another area. The man whispered excitedly to his companion, “Chinas locas!” and then called after them, “Where are you going sweeties?”

The train finally arrived and we all got on. At the next stop the Thai couple exited the train at a full gallop as a discordant, disembodied voice yelled, “You couldn’t handle me!”

Later in the day, I was waiting for the G train to arrive and a Mexican family sat on the bench next to me. The daughter, about three, would not stop crying and the mother would not stop yelling “cállate” at her. Their call and response went on for what seemed like ten minutes.

Finally, the mother led the little girl behind a nearby trash can and the crying stopped. I couldn’t figure out what was going on until I heard the unmistakable sound of trickling water and noticed a yellow puddle slowly oozing out from behind the trash can.

Today I travel on foot.

Yesterday in Brooklyn, I:

Ate at Vinnie’s Pizzeria for the third time in as many days. Vinnie’s features an assortment of vegan slices that are really incredible. This is the black bean burrito with vegan cheese.

Then I went here.

Apparently “Brooklyn Eastern District Terminal Site Reclmation” means beautiful park, for that’s exactly what was past the gates.

There was a really nice view of Manhattan across the East River.

I listened to the new episode of This American Life about break-ups and waited for the sun to set.

Both were excellent. One of the stories is about a writer’s break-up and her subsequent obsession with break-up songs in general, and Phil Collins’ oeuvre in particular. She becomes insired to write her own song and miraculously gets Collins on the phone. The drummer dispenses advice on love, life, and how to craft the perfect pop song.

Over the past few days I’ve been rubbing elbows with the drunks and pill poppers at the Long Beach Airport bar for a feature writing class I recently wrapped up. The following profile is a result of my research.

Nearly every Sunday night for the last two years, Candace Courtis has had the same nightmare.

She’s standing behind a winding, marble-topped counter, surrounded by bottles, in a confining, brightly lit area, while an insatiable sea of people bark drink orders at her. Try as she might, the demand for drinks overwhelms Courtis, 24, and her body fills up with anxiety. She wakes up worried, and it takes her nearly 45 minutes to recover.

While Courtis’ dream may recall shades of Sisyphus, it’s also a fairly accurate representation of a Friday night at the Prop Room, located on the second floor of the Long Beach Airport main terminal, where she’s tended bar for the last two years.

Despite the nightmares and the occupational hazards, Courtis loves her job. A pert blonde with an oval shaped face and square black glasses, her personality—stuck permanently on ebullient—is perfectly suited to bartending.

Over the past two years, the bar has become an unwavering source of entertainment, education, harassment, money, and, when needed, prescription pills.

“I got up at 6:15 this morning and wanted to punch babies,” Courtis said on a Monday afternoon near the end of her shift, “and I love babies.”
(more…)

Recently, my landlord Dave—a trim, white-haired fellow who spends most of his time fishing in the Bahamas—asked my roommate Andrew if he knew where to buy some heroin. Dave didn’t want to get high.

He wanted the heroin so he could plant it in our neighbors’ car and call the police.

Dave felt this was the best way to deal with our dirty, thieving, gypsy neighbors who had recently begun siphoning gas from nearby cars.

As it turns out, in addition to selling a cornucopia of home appliances out of the back of their truck that no doubt fell off of another truck, the neighbors also sell drugs. So why Dave didn’t just buy the stuff from them and then drop a dime is beyond me. Maybe he has a sense of decency, I don’t know. But his plan was thwarted, as neither I, nor Andrew, have the connections for scoring some horse. It was back to the drawing board.

While Dave was busy calling up a friend on the housing board to see if he could file a complaint and get the neighbors evicted, Andrew went outside and found a length of hose and a gas can near their dumpster. Without hesitation, he scooped up the siphoning tools and threw them in the dumpster down the street.

While this was not the most creative solution to the problem, and didn’t involve the planting of illegal narcotics or police, it was the most effective. All I know is that the gas siphoning stopped, and that I will never cross Dave.

Note: This essay was published elsewhere, but the editing and formatting were not what I asked they be, and I felt like the good guys should win once in awhile, so here it is in its intended form.

Some time ago, a heavily tanned, broad-shouldered, 6-foot-tall baseball player from Texas, who used the word “dude” to refer to male and female alike, took up residence in the cubicle next to me.

His name was Pat, and he was the son of one of the attorneys at work. Word ’round the break room was that all the ladies found him to be delicious eye candy. My initial impression was that he was a nice guy, if a bit dopey.

Pat noticed my calculator watch during our first encounter and asked, “Do you balance your checkbook on that thing?” Before I could answer, he added, “Damn dude, I haven’t seen one of those since the ‘80s!” and started laughing. I was at a loss for words. “I got it at K-Mart,” was all I could think to say.

A few days later, I found myself in the bathroom. I was absentmindedly studying the porcelain tile in front of my face when a booming voice, asking if I did anything fun that weekend, so startled me that I nearly lost control of my stream. I looked over to see Pat standing in front of the mirror, applying gel to his bangs and giving me a smile. I’m normally a bit reticent to divulge personal info with people I don’t know very well, particularly so when I’m urinating, and ended up saying, “I got my hair cut, but that wasn’t too fun.” Pat replied, “Sweet, dude! Looks good!”

Later that week I passed by Pat’s cubicle and he asked, “Did you get a haircut Brian?” I paused for a couple seconds, trying to figure out if this was a joke, but judging by the expectant look on his face and the lack of laughter, he was really asking. I told him that I had gotten my hair cut the weekend prior. He nodded his head thoughtfully, as if I had just said something wise, but didn’t add anything more to the conversation. I took this momentary lapse as the opportunity it was, and slowly inched away from his cubicle. When I was about twenty feet away I heard a loud voice call out, “Sick haircut, dude!”

I didn’t have any problems with Pat other than the fact that he made a lot of loud calls on his cell phone. The most memorable was a twenty-five minute chat with, what I was able to discern from his opening greeting of “Lorenzo, what’s up fool,” a friend from Texas named Lorenzo. It seemed Lorenzo had suffered some sort of setback, and needed consoling. In a hushed (for him) tone, Pat asked Lorenzo for his zip code so he could send him a postcard, and asked if Lorenzo had received his text message. “If that doesn’t cheer you up,” Pat said of the text message, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you.” And then, much to my entertainment and surprise, he upped the ante and said, “If that doesn’t cheer you up, you should go out into the woods and shoot yourself.”

As the weeks passed, my study of Pat became more nuanced. He became less and less a source of entertainment and derision, and more and more, to my surprise, one of inspiration.

I’m not sure if it was a result of hailing from the lone star state, or being genetically blessed, but Pat was so direct and honest, so genuine and unselfconscious, that he put most people instantly at ease. He also possessed the kind of curiosity about his surroundings and other people that most adults had long since shed.

Surprisingly, I witnessed Pat work his magic not on a female co-worker, but a married man who worked in the copy department. Within five minutes of meeting Edgar, a guy I had worked with for years, Pat had him telling his life story, a harrowing tale of his exile from Cambodia, and the eventual emigration of his family to the United States. Up to that point I had always assumed Edgar was born in the U.S, and had never thought to ask where he was from. “Wow, that’s amazing, dude!” Pat said to Edgar after listening intently to his story.

“How do you say ‘hello’ in Cambodian?” Pat asked. Though it took him about a week to get the pronunciation down, he greeted Edgar every morning with, “Chum reap suor.”

One by one, Pat won over the rest of his co-workers.

I never quite got used to conversing with him in the bathroom, and it took some training to shut out his deafening cell phone conversations, but after awhile I no longer thought of him as the goofy jock that I once did. Just when it seemed we were starting to become friends, the summer ended and it was time for Pat to return home to his cheerleader girlfriend, baseball team, and to Lorenzo, who apparently did not commit suicide in a forest.

I like to think that it was because of Pat’s text message.