Slurring really turns me on. NOT!

So, back in October I temporarily stopped drinking for a (very) short period of time. And during these few days, I still managed to go out and have a good time despite replacing my Whiskey Gingers (or beers) for Shirley Temples. On one particularly memorable night, I was at Double Dutch with Kiss, entertaining myself as she worked, by counting alcohol bottles on the shelves behind the bar, people watching and downing my ST's .

Toward the end of the night, a guy came up and sat down next to me in the booth I was occupying. To be quite blunt, this guy was nothing short of a complete dick. He tried to make small talk with me, which was fine, but I found it incredibly difficult to understand him through his heavy slur. He also thought he would impress me by telling me that his mother is a famous writer here in San Francisco, but didn't think it appropriate to give her name...riiiiight. He also apparently was an artist and had an art gallery he ran with a few friends, but I could not for the life of me figure out what it was called, despite asking him to repeat himself at least 3 times.

At one point, he offered to buy me a drink, but I politely declined. And then he asked again, and again and again; getting angrier and angrier each time I refused. Kiss came up to offer him a raffle ticket for the painting that was being done that night, at which point he started talking trash to her and giving her a hard time--I really don't understand the artists in this city. They don't seem to want to support eachother and they all have the same excuse when asked by Kiss to buy a raffle ticket, "I'm an artist too." OK, and that renders you incapable of helping out your fellow artists?

Anyway, after the way Mr. Slurs treated Kiss, I was absolutely turned off (not that I was ever turned on) and decided an escape plan was needed. It was about this time that he started to tell me that I was beautiful. That's nice, but you're wasted and full of shit. He told me again, and I laughed which did not make him very happy. Seriously, though? Ugh. He got up to get himself another drink (as if he needed it) and I ran out of the booth and over to Kiss who had escaped to the opposite side of the bar. We were reflecting on Mr. Slurs poor attitude when I noticed him return to my booth and continue to stare me down. Creepy.

He finally finished his beer and got up to leave. Unfortunately, Kiss and I were in the way of the door to get out. He came up to us, and being the nice person I am, I politely tried to say goodbye and that it was nice to meet him, at which he replied, "You don't give a fuck! You don't give a fuck!" And then there was some inelegant slurring after that and a, "Go google my last name! You'll be sorry." Yeah, I was sorry alright; sorry I had to just go through that.

Perhaps if I could have understood his mothers name through the slur, I would have in fact googled her. Or his supposed art gallery. But the truth of the matter is, I don't give a fuck who his mom is, he was a fucking dickhead and I was not at all impressed with his stinky, pretentious attitude. End of story.


Yours,
Big Red

Be-Dazzle My Disgust, Douche Bag

So, I'm in a really fucked up mood right now. Earlier I tried convincing my Mom that I'm bi-polar so that she'd support my decision to abuse prescription drugs. She, in turn, accused me of ALREADY abusing perscription drugs! This I quickly denied because, really, Vicodan is practically over-the-counter these days, (doctors hand that shit out faster than the free lollipops you get at the counter on your way out) but, alas, my Mother was pretty firm so I think I'll have to postpone my Prozac prescription! :-( It's just been that sort of day. . . Anyways, in light of these events, I decided it's a good time to rant about how all the assholes I come across in the city have a direct effect on moods like this.


Case in point: A few sundays ago Amy and I, being the amazingly devoted and supportive friends that we are, decided to make an appearance at our friend Tony's new weekly party at Roe. We were a bit hesitant at first, considering I had an early flight the next morning and we were probably nursing some sort of gnarly hangover from the night before, but hey, like I said we're amazing friends, so we went. ((That AND Tony convinced me not to be such a pussy, and that plane rides were for sleeping anyways, so I could postpone my precious slumber for the sardine can that awaited me the next morning.)) Now, neither Amy nor I knew what to expect. We'd never been there before, and had the hardest time trying to find what to wear, but once we pulled up I was a little relieved to find Tony standing outside. After handing out our complimentary hugs and 'Hello's!', Tony told us to take off upstairs and take a seat at his table, which apparently was "to the left of the DJ booth", and help ourselves to the booze that was sitting out.

[[YES, PLEASE!]]

As Amy and I made our way upstairs, we immediately noticed the musical stylings of none other than Ginuwine, which I must say made me quite happy (and a little horny) -- just the mood I need to break it down on the dancefloor. As I entered the room and got ready to 'ride that pony', I skimmed the premises to check out the crowd. MUCH to my dismay, I was immediately assaulted with the sight of some skanks in vagina-skimming mini dresses and stripper stillettos. YIKES! I was appalled, but I moved on. As I quickly scanned for some relief, I was only met with a group of 'Guidos' who were obviously on vay-cay from the Jersey shore, an area full of unfriendly asians, and a table to the left of the DJ booth with a pair of pretty boys sipping on Cape Cods. Yes, that's right, pretty boys, sitting TO-THE-LEFT-OF-THE-D-J-BOOTH. . .aka--our table, with Cape Cods!!! Realizing this was our only option to post up at, we made our way to the table. As we approached, the violations continued with the sissy boys eye-fucking the shit out of Amy and I. I suppose it was our own fault. . . , though we can't help it if we're cute, but-- REALLY, ninnies? Your libido is NOT encouraged here. Nor are your outfits. So you can go grab each others asses on the dance floor now! Buh-Bye!

After Amy and I gave each other sexual assault counseling, we sat down next to them and asked if this was Tony's table. After all, I wanted to avoid any contact with these men if possible, so in order to not waste my time, I inquired of our location: "Is this Tony's table?". I thought maybe the music was just loud, because they sort of gave me this blank stare, so I repeated myself. They looked at each other, looked back at me, and said,"Who's Tony? We don't know. . . um, I don't think so. . ." Uh, Oookaaayyyy?? Thanks a lot, assholes! After receiving this unhelpful information, Amy and I decided maybe we were at the wrong spot, so we got up to walk around-- awkwardly, of course, since I didn't want to get too close to the stripper girl, nor the guido guys flanked at her sides. ((STD's are a major killer these days, or so I hear. . .)) Luckily, Tony walked in, and assured us that we WERE at the right table, and he had no idea who those pansies were. Too bad Tony's such a nice guy, cuz I would've kicked their shaved little asses right down to the Castro, where they might get more play and not drink all our free booze! I swear to god, if this was some sort of buffet, these guys would be the ones stuffing the twice-baked cornbread deep down in their pockets. Dude, they were pouring 3 drinks at a time so that they had "back up drinks" for later. ((Ya, they actually said that)) As if the little, pink, Vodka/Cranberries weren't enough to put these pussies over the top, they needed "back-ups" for later. Is this some sort of JOKE!? Ugh. Regardless, Amy and I kept to our side of the couch, and sipped on our DIY cocktails as a few of our friends decided to float in and join us. Things seemed pretty normal for a little while. . . well, as normal as they could be at this point. . . But, seriously, wait-- it gets better! After we had settled into our corner to take in the madness, shit really started to hit the fan.

Naturally, the more time goes by, the more people drink, and get drunk, and act stupid.! Now, I'm not talking about Amy or I, because as I already described, the girly-men next to us were already hot on the booze, which left little (much needed) resources to get a buzz. Rather, I am referring to the douche bags that lined the bar. I mean, seriously!? First of all, it's really unfortunate that I'm even having to write this. Tony is a nice guy, and the music was actually pretty decent, (You know, the kinda shit I lost my virginity to when I was sixteen) but for real, the bling that was bedazzled onto one particular Guidos 'Ed Hardy' tee-shirt, standing near the bar, was killing me softly! Now, it's actually hard to say when I noticed, 'said Guido'. He was puttin the moves on some "wanna-be, Puff Daddy video girl, backup, dancer" I think, when I first caught eye of the glimmer. But, I believe I started watching his antics when my friend, Tony, informed me that he was a participant in the popular, Cirque du Soleil show "O", in Las Vegas. (Figures) Yeah. Well. After seeing this guy, I was as far from an "O" than your dick on whiskey. But, being the nice, tolerant, individual I am, I continued to watch this fucking ridiculousness as it unfolded before my Vodka tainted eyes. 'O-face' decided that he was going to battle it out with 'backup-dancer', and an immediate buzz killer was upon the whole crowd!

Okay, seriously. People! PLEASE! If you are going to show off by dancing ((which I often do)) please leave room for the rest of us! As I had mentioned before, the music wasn't that bad, so you better believe that when Sean Paul's "Get Busy" came on, I wasn't gonna sit back and let these circus freaks take the show! On any given night, I completely support the notion to get wild. . . but on THIS particular night, I couldn't stand the characters that were shoving me toward the DJ booth! Im not fucking joking, this freaking guy was doing BACKFLIPS on the dance floor! Yeah, that's right, acrobatic maneuvers that were FAR TOO inappropriate for a club. Shit, I was learning front handsprings in the 5th grade, but that doesn't mean I'd be bustin' em out in the club! This guy must've blended in between the bedazzled dew rags and the popped collars, cuz i swear he came out of nowhere! I honestly feared for my life. And it was not pretty. I DO NOT CARE if you are in one of the most affluent acrobatic shows in the world, please do not round-house kick me to the face on the dance floor! It's not cute. And -that's that! Not even the back-up dancer wants to compete against you. It's okay. We realize that when you did the splits it meant you were gay, and that's okay!! But, please DO NOT take up the whole fucking dancefloor with your bedazzled ass! JEEEZUS!

Man, Ugh. Well! After that whole scene, I really don't know what to say. I was shocked. And, after fearing for my life, and my beautiful nose, for a few hours--Amy and I, and our other friends, decided that enough was enough! His be-jewels were impressing me as much as the brownies did in my "E-Z Bake Oven" back in '94. Yup, you guessed it--they sucked! So, we took off, and admired ourselves instead. . .

Here's my shameless promotion: I promise you'd rather watch me shake my ass WITH YOU at one of our parties this weekend! I got one this weekend at Club 6 on 60th Sixth St. SF, or on the 26th at 111 Minna Gallery. All are worth attending, and I can promise, but not guarantee, that "O-boy" will not be there!

Peace--Kiss.

I attract assholes.

On more than one occasion in very recent past weeks I have attracted douche bags on my outings in the city. I don't know why this would be, considering I've taken to scowling on a constant basis and apparently don't look very friendly (according to my friends--thank you very much). This particular night had previously been a school day, and on school days, I wake up, brush my teeth, throw some jeans on and I'm out the door. That's right-- no change of shirt, no shower (which equals dirty hair), no new make up and occasionally, no undies. This is my Monday, Wednesday, Friday routine. So, when Kiss and I ended up at 111 Minna on a Wednesday night, I can guarantee you that I looked like trash...but I must wear it well because as soon as I got my beer and sat down some idiot came up to me with his cup out in a "cheers" gesture. I don't even know where he came from. Rarely do I notice the men in Minna because I'm usually focused on the art, which was what I was trying to enjoy when the idiot came up.

This man was not at all my "type", and even though I barely know what my "type" is, he definitely was not it. As soon as he sat down he did not stop talking about his "rough" Buddhist upbringing and how his overt confidence sometimes makes people uncomfortable--Gee, go figure! I didn't even have to actually pay attention; but I did listen enough to know that he was an actor, a psychology major and annoying as fuck. The rest of the conversation consisted of me throwing in a "Hm", "Yeah" and "Oh". If he happened to ask me a question, I just pretended like I couldn't hear well and had him repeat (the music was pretty loud, so I easily got away with it).

I guess he took my short answers and stink faces in his direction as a sign of silent genius and decided that I was a psychological case that needed to be cracked because he then proceeded to psychoanalyze me. He proceeded to make me feel as if I had no artistic outlet, ("You have a blog, ha, who doesn't!?) and apparently I "sandbag myself". So, I'm lazy and worthless, but hey! I am sexy! Which is what he told me next...at a bar (slash art gallery), how cliché, I mean creative! And this coming from an "actor". Someone, please give this man an Oscar. It took every ounce of willpower to not tell him about my Wednesday morning regiment, and to reveal just how "sexy" I truly am. If only...

So he kept blabbing, blabbing, blabbing and not actually listening to my answers to his questions (some psychologist), while I tried desparately to think of an exit plan, getting zero help from my friends (whom I kept giving the "HELP!" look to, to no avail). I finally decided that I was going to go check out the art in the adjacent room in Minna and Kiss said she would come along. Thank you sweet, baby Jesus!

As I was about to escape, the idiot asked for my phone number! Are you kidding me? Did I seriously seem remotely interested? Is this some sort of JOKE?! I, of course gave him a fake number. What else could I do? He apparently thought I was interested? Ugh.

I guess I need to develope a stinky attitude to go with my infamous stink eye, 'cause the eye alone just isn't cutting it.


A.Rosie posie puddin' pie, kissed the boys and made them cry.