“I know this is going to sound strange,” the email began, “but is the story about Jared you posted seriously true? I worry since a friend of mine and I are supposed to meet him.”

She went on, “He said he’d get us into a venue since we are his ‘friends.’ If he really did that, I’d rather not go out there and deal with him.”

The “Jared” she was referring to was Jared Leto. The “story” in question was an essay I wrote detailing an encounter Leto had with a friend of a friend. And “she,” I discovered after a myspace search, was a 17-year-old girl who loved Leto and his band, 30 Seconds To Mars.

“Yes,” I wrote back, “the story is true.”

The Story

Originally written for the now defunct website otherpeoplesstories.com, the essay detailed events a friend of mine told me happened to a friend of hers.

Basically Jared Leto, coasting on the goodwill generated from his preternatural ability to lean and pen odes to automobiles on “My So Called Life,” came to town with his band, acted like the uber-douche that he is, and, prior to coitus, gave the friend of a friend the choice of calling him “Jared” or “daddy.”

Months passed after the encounter and she became obsessed with him, but he never called. Then late one night her roommate answered the phone and heard a drunken voice talking about erect penises. After explaining who she was, the voice apologized and said, “Oh sorry. Could you tell her Jared called?”

He never called again.

The Response

Shortly after posting the story to my website, I began to notice a spike in visitors coming from a message board called “Jared’s Place.” After registering an account, I was able to read the thread dedicated to my essay. There were a variety of responses.

Many expressed doubt that Jared was capable of such actions and pointed to the vegan talk from Jared as a sign that it was all made up. (At that point in time Leto had not publicly identified himself as a vegan. He would later go on to record PSAs for PETA). Others posited that an angry former fan, no doubt rebuffed by Jared, had mixed fact and fiction. But the vast majority of the fans didn’t care if the story was true or not, and got caught up in a heated debate of whether Jared or “Daddy” was appropriate.

“Daddy is just gross,” LetosGuRL87 wrote, “I’ve gotta go with Jared.”

An official moderator deleted the post after it ballooned to three pages. But shortly thereafter it was resurrected and the debate began anew, “Jared” or “Daddy”?

I assumed that the interest would eventually die out. But not only did it not die, it crossed international waters.

“Mad funny story about how Jared ‘bad,’” was the translation for a link I found on a Russian message board.

Apparently the Japanese were interested in Jared’s sexual proclivities as well, because I started getting hits from the land of the rising sun.

As it got more and more visitors, I began to feel an air of nobility envelope me. There I was, out there fighting the good fight, riding my electronic steed through the village, calling out to the townspeople that they should batten the hatches, lock their daughters up, and make sure the chastity belts were securely fastened, for The Jared of Leto was fast approaching. And he was bringing with him an unruly band of mascara-ed men who were dead set on soiling the women of the land, as well as the ears of the towns folk with their accursed “music.”

My Response

While I found it commendable that the young lady did her research, I was also a bit scared that she could not see where Jared was heading with his interest in her and her friend. I told her to exercise caution with the minuscule rocker and not do anything she didn’t feel comfortable with (because I wear a sweater and care about children).

She replied:
“I see.. its an 18+ private party, and I was a bit leery since he dates a lot of girls my age… (18 to 20 ish) and it just seemed weird when he asked me as a photographer, and a friend of mine, but said he couldn’t get any parents or siblings, etc in, One person per band member… Thanks for the reply, this seems pretty fishy now.”

So, sorry Jared Leto. You mercilessly toyed with the feelings of bitchin’ chick Angela Chase, made god awful music while looking like a gothic raccoon, and preyed upon innumerous impressionable fans, but thou shalt not be giving high school age girls the choice of Jared or Daddy. No sir, not on my watch.

“John, you ever had a pair of jeans that fit you like no other?” the bald woman in baggy pants said into the phone as her body shook and spittle formed in the corner of her mouth, “Then, John, you know why I’m so FUCKIN’ PISSED that you lost my laundry!”

Ten minutes earlier this same woman had walked into the laundromat I was sitting in and immediately started hassling the nice Asian couple who ran the place.

I didn’t notice her at first, I just heard her voice. And what a voice it was. No doubt finely seasoned with a daily regimen of Pall Malls and booze, she had the pipes of a Glengarry Glen Ross-era Al Pacino.

Her sartorial choices, on the other hand, appeared to be informed by 8th grade skateboarders. Stubby feet were encased in puffy, boat-like sneakers, and a long chain hung from a pair of pants that looked to be fashioned from a shower curtain of denim.

In a perfect world she would have extolled the virtues of a sensational bowel movement, just as Pacino did in that fine film, but she had more important things on her mind. Namely, what happened to 37 pounds of laundry.

Her inquiries about the missing clothes were civil enough at first, but quickly devolved into an odd mix of constant cussing and inappropriate and irrelevant personal information.

She held forth on a number of topics, including: what life was like as a 47-and-a-half-year-old Latina woman on disability, a recent court settlement of six thousand dollars, and a firm belief that the proprietors had both copulated with their mothers. Not surprisingly, this ended up being an unsuccessful form of negotiation. When it became clear she wasn’t going to get anywhere, she screamed for them to get the owner on the phone.

“John, I have the ticket in my hand and my clothes aren’t here,” she yelled after being handed a phone. “How does you do this, John? Listen to me, John, how does you do this?”

The woman averaged three Johns per sentence and seemed to make a point of bookending every phrase with the owner’s name. She whipped herself into a lather in no time, promising law suits and beat downs, and then, inexplicably, began using the name Julio.

Apparently John was unsure how he did it, because the yelling did not let up for another five minutes. The couple stood by quietly, waiting to get their phone back. Finally, mercifully, the conversation came to an end with a “Fuck you, pendejo!”

The woman realized that everyone in the laundromat was paying attention to her insane ranting, and for a second just stood there, taking us all in, then bellowed, “FUCK ALL YA’LL!” and left.

A strained silence lingered in the air. Then the Asian woman said simply, “She crazy,” and went back to her work. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief and went back to what they were doing, because really, what else could be said?

This Halloween I donned a pair of women’s maternity shorts, threw on a yellow polo and called it a day. Because I was The Snuggler.

Here’s my inspiration:

Not a single person recognized the costume.

Last week, Fred Nicolaus, one half of Department of Eagles, looking dapper in a blue blazer with a gold button, stood outside a Starbucks in Manhattan and spoke with me about a number of topics, including Conan O’Brien, Jerry Springer, and bad puns. The bulk of the interview will be published in Thrasher magazine in the near future, but what interested me most was the heart-warming drawings on the band’s website. Nicolaus’ mother, an elementary school teacher, put on her son’s album during a free drawing session and the class produced some amazing results:

Click here for more.

Fred and I spoke about the drawings, and since it probably won’t be published in the interview, I’m going to put it here:

I was looking at the website and loved the section where your mom had her students do drawings based on your music.
That’s my favorite part of the site. The funniest part about them is that I don’t understand this concept of a band being two people on a tropical island. There were about twenty of them and almost all of them had an island. It’s really weird; it’s a simple motif and I can understand why kids would be attracted to it, but I don’t know what it has to do with playing music. Normally when you see people on a desert island it has nothing to do with music.

I think my favorite was the one with the guy saying, “I know, I rule!” and the other guy saying, “Yeah.”
Yeah, that one is great.

Have you decided whether that’s you or Dan that’s ruling?
That’s Dan and I’m the one agreeing. At that point I don’t think the kids had met Dan so maybe it’s an extrapolation of his personality.

How did your mom decide to do that?
Well, I don’t know if you have any relatives are teachers, but my mom is always working my brother and I into her stories. So every time I go to visit the kids know everything about what’s going on in my life, like if I just broke up with my girlfriend or something. There will be 5-year-old kids telling me “I’m so sorry.”

And if you haven’t heard In Ear Park yet, I highly recommend checking it out.

In Ear Park

No One Does It Like You

Some more than others:

Fading Away [The Smoking Gun]

Never in my wildest fantasies did I think it would be possible that out of the shadows a contender would emerge, ready to dethrone the reigning King of Constipation, Harrison Ford. For decades now the man has made a career of pursing his lips, furrowing his brow, and demanding that he be given something back (his family, his airplane, his crystal skull, etc.).

He wants for the bad men to return his property

And then along came Dennis Quaid in the shitfest that is “Vantage Point.” “Vantage Point” attempts to tell the story of a terrorist kidnapping in a Rashomon style ripoff, replete with rewinds, a vast array of underdeveloped characters, and Quaid grimacing his way through the film.

Quaid plays a shaky secret service agent, still recovering from a bullet wound and frazzled nerves.

The first closeup of DQ reveals he is in dire need of an outhouse

Still looking

Looking left

Looking right

Looking up and to the right

Still no end in sight

Damn it!

Chipmunk imitation! (it kills me that this wasn’t in focus)

Give me back my POTUS!

It’s ok DQ, I’m safe. William Hurt says you can take your exlax now

I think it’s working…

It’s definitely working

Hopefully tomorrow will bring a better bm

I think so.

Recently my friend Dan told me he wanted to edit a trailer of “The Bucket List” and change around the story a bit. I wasn’t optimistic it could be done, but he didn’t take “wasn’t optimistic it could be done” for an answer. So we got together and made this:

If Jackie Stallone isn’t in your life yet, I recommend reading Eliot’s guide (which includes many more photos), then watching this video, which was my first introduction to the human equivalent of a car wreck that is Jackie Stallone. In the video, Jackie Stallone details her patented “rumpology,” which is the reading of ass auras. She deigns not to explain her powers, but when you’re the person that brought Frank Stallone into the world, a certain amount of leeway must be given.

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.”