The "Do"s and "Don't"s of Dealing with a Girl You Don't Want to Date. Alternate Title: Sorry Oak

That title is something I made up back when I lived in NYC. Pretty cool, right? Yeah? Totally awesome, I say.
I used to think I was pretttttty radical. Still kind of do. I fancied myself the ADA of my own personal episode of Law and Order. Not the dykey red-haired one that's always trying to fist Olivia, but the tall, brunette that gave Jack McCoy the only stiff-arm of his long ADA-bedding career. (Or so I imagine. She very well could have had one too many Sloe Gin Fizzes and let him play "just the tip". I hope not though. These people are real to me. They're all I have.) I thought I was so cool, so cool that I could pick and choose what feelings I had, and avoid any sort of emotion that made me look less than totally ADA-y. In hindsight I was and still am, sweetly retarded. (Thanks Jen). Samantha Jones I am not. She's fictional. I don't think a lot of people understand that. Hot. Cool. Totally fictional. I'm not saying I've had my heart broken or anything. I've always been too chickenshit to fully get my heart broken, but I've been really fucking pissed off a couple of times and also one time I wasn't allowed to get pissed off. (I did anyway, but because I couldn't get mad at the dude I channeled it into an awesome diet which I have yet to be able to replicate. If I could bottle that shit I'd be a gazillionaire.)
I'm going to go over three real-life case studies of examples of guys that I wanted to date but that didn't want to date me and how things played out. (Note: I hate ALL of the nomenclature for the male gender in the English language. I hate "man", "guy", "boy". I also hate all words for female underpants. Actually, I kind of like the word "underpants". If I ever get a dog I might name him Underpants. DON'T STEAL THAT!!!!) This post is for all the homies out there who want to be able to bag chicks but still look like the good guy. Or less cynically, how to stay friend with girls you've hooked up with and want to be your GF. I'm going to teach you all you want to know. Why? Because I want you to think I'm the cool girl that has all of this figured out, thus fooling you into thinking that I'm too cool to become a clinger when in fact I'm the worst clinger of them all but you don't realize that until AT LEAST week 3 when you notice that my ability to climb tree and look in your window is neither cool nor cute. What do we think, Jen? Bored yet? Well it's only going to get worse so pour yourself some wine. Oh can't get the cork out? Sad face.

Case Study #1. Subject: Richard Dreyfuss. (names may or may not be real or spelled correctly.)
Richard was my roommate and we worked together. (I KNOW. Please hold all questions, comments, exclamations, under the breath mutters, rebukes, cat calls, racial slurs and facial tics until AFTER the lecture.) We hit it off immediately. We were both well into our respective alcoholism at this point but one time we even bailed on the bar to sit at home and hang out with our pet spider, Max. (Granted he drank 12 beers and I a bottle and a half of wine, but it doesn't count because we weren't at the bar.) Those were the happy times. A couple of weeks later I came to find Richard had a girlfriend who lived in Vermont. I think he may have told me straightaway, but I was either too drunk or too deluded to realize it. This was hard for me because I was totally clinger status at this point and we lived and worked together and he was wicked fun AND I was always drunk. But I managed stop anything really serious from happening further. Actually he may have stopped it, but history is written by the person with the blog so fuck you. Things were okay for awhile, and Richard and I still hung pretty tight. That is until he started fucking another girl with whom we worked. Nuclear. Psycho. Rage. Spiral. K-Hole. Crazy. I was inconsolable. Completely taken by surprise that this guy who cheated on his girlfriend with me would bang another girl IN FRONT OF MY FACE. The humanity!! The summer took a sharp turn for the worst at this point, and things ended with me smoking a enormous amount of pot, writing him a long hate letter and leaving it in a drawer in the house for him to find. Or to not find. "Dude, I'll just like, leave this here and if he's meant to find it, he like totally will and if he's not meant to find it, he like, won't. Totally, man. Pssshhh."

Case Study #2. Subject: Morgan Freeman
Morgan Freeman and I worked together. (Yup. I know.) Morgan was really nice. I was just coming out on the other side of Case Study #3 when MF and I started hanging out. I was sad, and he was nice. It was pretty innocent at first. Movies and shit. We made out once and then nothing for months. Then one night I went out to sushi dinner, got drunk, called him and shit got real. I was surprised by the whole thing and I think he was too. Especially considering I was supposed to be moving to another country in a month, so no matter what happened we had a hard date when it would all be over. I suppose that's what made it easier for me to commit. I didn't actually have to. So I totally threw myself into it, and from what I understood he did as well. We spent almost every day and night together in the two weeks up to my departure. Then I left. We hugged. It was sad. Get on plane. Arrive in foreign country. Said country didn't like the taste of me, and spit me right back to the U.S. like so much rancid Unagi. So I was back. And I called him. And he didn't call back. And then I saw him. And he wasn't happy to see me. So I got drunk, and I called. And I called. And I called. Then I moved to another city (in America) and cried. For a million different reason (probably least among them, Morgan) I cried for about a week. Then I emailed him, and he was very nice and tried to explain the best he could but I still don't get it and probably never will. What happened in the 22 hours I was on an airplane? If it was anything less than at least 3 phenomenal blow jobs with full ball cuppage this kid is fucking hit.
Case Study #3. Subject: Anjelica Houston
WE FUCKING WORKED TOGETHER. WHAT?? I could have gotten fired for this shit. I don't even know how the whole thing stared, but I know there was booze. I think the moment I hit clinger stage with him was watching him take shots of vodka and chase with water. SWOON!!!! Anjelica was very honest with me. He told me daily that he was a total asshole. That he was going to hook up with other girls, that he didn't want a girlfriend. That totally sucked to hear. But you know what sucked more? The night we were out at a bar and he tells me that he's going home to hook up with another girl. He looked me in the eye and told me this. I think he even said "sorry". Well, fuck. What's a girl to do? No self-righteous rage? No lies? He has not lied to me at any point. How am I going to deal with this? And he knew I was fucking pissed, at least I hope I told him as much. I'm not sure that I actually did. In my experience with Richard and Morgan (And TV shows.) this is when dudes check out. Peace. It's been nice knowing you. You're about to go crazy and kill my bunny. I'm cutting all ties. Anjelica didn't check out. He stayed around, but not in a mean, taunting kind of way. He didn't go out to the bar when I was there and let me throw myself at him like the sad, battered drag queen I turn into when I have too much Boone's Farm. He still talked to me and treated me as he always had, but he wasn't around as much as he used to be. I was incensed. How can he not let me hate him? How can he be treating me like he still cares about me but just as a friend so I'm not totally confused? How could he be helping he deal with this in the healthiest way possible? I don't even know if he was doing it on purpose, which is even worse! Is this dude so good to his core that he just naturally treats all people as he would wish to be treated himself? WHAT A FUCKING COCK SUCKER!! The real shitty part about the situation with Anjelica was that we had to be in the same office and the other chick he hooked up with was there too. Otherwise I've moved on from that pretty nicely and I count this chap among my best friends.
So what? Who fucking cares? No really. Who cares. I'm not going to try and answer those questions. I wrote this post because it's my blog and I wanted to get it all out. I think deep down I hope Richard, Morgan and Anjelica read this because I never had the balls to be as honest with them as I'm now asking them to be with me. If they do read this I want them to know one thing: THEY'RE FUCKING REAL!!! ALSO, that I know all of you (well maybe not Richard) were doing the best you could. We're all just fucking chumps walking around trying to not die and in the process protecting ourselves the best we can. I guess the one thing that stands out with Anjelica is the honesty, which is the hardest fucking thing in the world. Why did he have the balls to just be honest with me when nobody else did? I don't know why. I wish Morgan had known that he wasn't into me before I'd left and told me as much. The worst part about that situation was feeling like a total idiot. I wish Richard had...well I wish I'd never met Richard. (Richard: Call me. Seriously.) Clearly I made mistakes too......Ha. Just kidding. I totally didn't.

So dudes, here's moral #1: Never hook up with me. Moral #2: if you absolutely HAVE to hook up with me NEVER tell me you like me. Moral #3: If you have to hook up with me and you have to tell me you like me and you actually don't like me JUST TELL ME THE TRUTH. And then duck. You're a fucking deadman.

Preppies. Wow.

I live in Martha's Vineyard. I won't get into why I haven't posted in more than a year. Nobody noticed. Except Jen. I love you Jen.
SOOO I live in (or on) Martha's Vineyard. I came here for a job, which is interesting considering I grew up on Cape Cod and never came here before two weeks ago. (For those of you that don't know, MV is an island off the coast of Cape Cod. Oh wait, Jen is the only one reading this. Jen, MV is and island off of Cape Cod.) The locals here call me a "recent transplant". I keep telling everyone they're real. Then we all get uncomfortable and I go home and cry into my pillow.
There are a lot of preppies here. I thought I knew what a preppy was. I went to boarding school. All those guys wore khakis and "bucks" and called each other by their last named and fantasized about sodomizing each other. I figured they were the true preppies. I had head rumors of the denizens of Martha's Vineyard. I have a ribbon belt with bass on it. I've stolen a flippy wallet from J. Crew. I figured with that wealth of knowledge and experience I knew exactly what was up with the people on this island. To say that I had any idea of preppiness from my days at boarding school is like saying that I am a marine biologist because I once looked into the toilet after I peed. (I always do. It's a sign if health when...whatever. Judge me if you will.)
This place is out of effing hand. You go to a game park in Kenya to taunt wild lions by hanging your younger siblings out of the door of the jeep until they cry so hard they poop their pants. You come to Martha's Vineyard to see preppies in their natural habitat. I realize now that the buck wearing sodomites in high school were either total preppy posers or they were scared to practice their true, undiluted preppy religion lest they be persecuted for their beliefs. I know how THAT is. I DO look at my pee, and it's intolerant jerks like YOU people that make me ashamed to talk about it.
I've never really thought about the meaning behind the term "preppy". If you have you're a huge douche bag. Wikipedia says "Preppy also spelled "preppie", is a chiefly North American adjective or noun traditionally used in relation to northeastern private university-preparatory schools, as well as those who attend some of America's prestigious private colleges and universities." I say poppycock. (Ha. I just said cock.) I think "Preppy" is short for "Prepared" because these people are fucking PREPARED! For what you might ask? Well I'll tell you in a roundabout, super confusing manner.
I'm sure the people of Martha's Vineyard don't go out onto their yachts every day. They're just humans, right? They lead normal lives. They have families and cars and other shit that makes someone appear normal. But what if they had to go out on a yacht at a moments notice? What if they were whisked up in a yachting plan with no forewarning whatsoever? Well, they would not be caught with their oddly colored pants down. Oh no. They would be ready. Armed to the teeth with all of the accoutrement required for an emergency day of yachting. Let's start from the bottom up, shall we? (Everybody now: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!!)
Deck shoes. Those yacht decks are slippery! We should all wear shoes that are made of leather and don't really have a good tread on them, but someone once told us this was the appropriate footwear for yachting, they say! Wait! Make sure the laces aren't too long! Mother Buffy warned us with tales of little prepsters pitching over the side of our 100-footer after tripping on an errant lace. Just go ahead and tuck those suckers right inside. Who cares? It's not like you're wearing socks!
Shorts! Pale red, or even better PATCHWORK MADRAS! We like pale red because when the sun beats down on regular red this is the color it fades to so we're just preempting the harsh effects of mother nature. I submit the madras fabric came the famous marine disaster tale of the "Buffy III" out of Edgartown, MA. Old salts tell of the 2 harrowing hours that Jock Hippenpoof Von Waterdale IV spent with a Pepsi stain on his favorite pair of Nantucket Reds, and how he heroically saved his reputation and his snazzy ensemble by crafting a pair of shorts out of small square pieces of dinner napkins he got from his yacht maid. And thus a hectic style was born.
Next, and arguably the most iconic image of preppy style; the polo shirt. The polo shirt spans many style movements and can be seen anywhere from the front-butts of fat, old, tourist ladies to the fake-tanned biceps of the Gotti set of Strong Island, NY. However, what earmarks the preppy polo is the "popping" of the collar. Popping means to ignore the manufacturers pre-fabricated fold of the collar, and instead flip the collar up and away from the body. This, of course, serves the function of protecting the neck from the harmful UV rays of the sun. Thank goodness all the traders on Wall Street have that protection on casual Friday or we might see some serious irregularly edged moles on the St. Paul's class of 2003!! An additional element of sun protection is of course the hat, which is not complete without some embroidery announcing the wearer as a crew member of one the America's Cup boats. Gosh, where do they hold the America's Cup? Is the starting line the entire coast of Australia? It would sort of have to be because if all of these hats are to be believed there are a KAGILLION ex-crew members of the America's Cup.
These "prep"ared people have really got all of their proverbial bases covered. Footwear, thighwear, neck and head protection. What could they possibly be missing? Oh GOD! The retinas!! They must be protected as well! That's what sunglasses are for. But we're not just strolling around on land! We're yachting! Shit gets pretty messy on a yacht. What if the sunglasses are suddenly flung from the wearers face into the briny! Really? Do you REALLY think the preppy set would be unprepared for this eventuality? Hell NO they would NOT! Those sunglasses are held onto their ever-so-tan faces with FROGGIES!! Neon pieces of squishy fabric that not only clash with the baker's dozen of hues they are already wearing but make sure that no Ray Bans will be lost to Davey Jones' Locker this day! (Note: I might have made the name "Froggy" up. I can't find any evidence to back up my claim that this is what they are actually called. But neither could Copernicus.)
I can not pretend to be making a scholarly report on the full life cycle of the preppy. I know nothing of their behavior in the fall or winter. I know nothing of their mating habits (But who knows, I'm here all summer! Know what I'm saying? Huh? Right? No? Okay.) I only know what I have observed of the early summer preppy in their natural habitat, and from what I can see these folk are READY!! So in conclusion, preppies: I salute you. If the world is ever under alien attack, and our only means of escape is via yacht, the lives of every man, woman and child will depend on your preparedness to man aforementioned yacht. The rest of us will be slipping around on the desk, with faded red shorts, sunburned necks and we will be blind because our goddam sunglasses fell into the frigging ocean! I think we can all breathe a sigh of relief knowing that you preppies are more then prepared to save the world.

Bravery: Cruella, Kate and Nicole (If you're easily offended...fuck off.)

I've been thinking about writing a post about weight issues and images in the media for a while now, but haven't been sober enough to come up with any coherent thought in a while.

One of my first idols was Cruella Deville. She was really skinny, and she wore a huge fur coat. I knew that she was probably way too busy hunting dalmation puppies and smoking butts to eat every meal and that seemed so cool to me. I was always a tubby little fuck, so to see her dress hanging off her gaunt frame made me want to work hard to lose any and all extra lbs. I actually haven't changed. At all. In the last 20 years. (Awesome.) I still think it's cool to be skinny. That's why i'm particularly struck by the strength, bravery and fortitude of two young women in the media today.

I'm pretty sick of the way the media is harshing on the proverbial mellow of people like Kate Bosworth and Nicole Ritchie. (Okay, I think "mellow" might always be proverbial as it's not an actual object. Oh well. I went to a commuter college.) Okay, sure, them bitches is mad skinny. Who cares? I think Nicole looks better tan and skinny with good hair than she did fat and drunk with pink dreadlocks. And Bosworth looked pretty dope in Blue Crush as boyish girls go, then she got herself so that she looked awesome in couture. Again, who fucking cares? These girls felt a pressure to be a certain way so they dedicated themselves to a goal. How is that bad? I've been trying to get anorexic for like 16 years. That shit is hard! You get hungry! I'm proud of them. And you know what? They are helping our society. In a world where people don't have enough to eat, we should thank people like Kate and Nicole who are leaving more resources for the less fourtunate. I used to hate it when my mom would use the rationale: "There are starving children in Ethiopia." to get me to eat my dinner. I would always think to myself "What the fuck are you going to do, Mom? Package up this leg of boiled chicken and mail it over to Addis Abad
c /o Skinny Black Children?" (Yes, i thought "fuck". I don't lie. Stop looking at me like that.)

Back to the societal pressure thing. One might say that it's a negative thing that our society puts pressure on women to be really skinny. One might say it's unhealthy, and that we should all just be happy the way we are. Well i'm a fucking alcoholic. Is that okay? Bad example. What about the pressure that is placed on people to be doctors or lawyers and the devote their whole being and existence to that effort. They may not be healthy in mind spirit or body, but because the end product is considered prestegious nobody writes any US Weekly articles about it. I don't think fat people should be praised for being "just who they are". Fat is unhealthy. The human body was not made to hold up a whole lot of weight. People weren't meant to sit on their asses all day and eat Wendy's. You slobs aren't being who you are, you're being lazy. Work out. Eat less. Look to Bosworth. She's dumb as hair, and she managed to work it out. (Jokes, Kate. You're my girl.)

So i say "you go girls". Blow your coke. Eat your cotton balls. Do what you've got to do to get to where you want to be. I think MTV should do a Made show about Anorexia. I'd be first in line. If i wasn't so damn old.

Glossary of Terms

Spice: n, v, adj:

• n. something that adds flavor. See also Spicy.
• v. to spice. To engage in an amorous encounter, usu. (hopefully) without emotional attachment.
• adj. spice / spicy. The predecessor to the Paris Hilton catch phrase "That's hot" but way more nuanced. Spice refers to anything cool, interesting, sexy, intelligent, controversial, and will be used by someone who is too drunk to think up anything more eloquent.
  

Schoolie: n.:

• n. Literally "a school aged person". The meaning of this word is derived from the practice of pursuing those that are much younger that oneself. See also Schoolie Stalk. Originally it referred to recent college graduates going after those in their teens. More recently it has evolved to also encompass almost 30 year olds going after late teen / 20-somethings. See ie eg Matthew McConaughey in Dazed and Confused . "I keep getting older, and they stay the same age."

Jag: n, v, adj.:

• n. A party or celebration of epic proportion usu. without any floor for classlessness. Often schoolies are stalked at the jag with every intention of spicing them. See also Jagger.
• v. to jag. To drink without regard for societal norms or conventions. Jagging is usu. done in the company of other jaggers, who have a similar taste for strong spirits.
• adj. On the jag. Engaging in a consecutive series of jags, resulting in a perpetual state of drunkeness. Only the hardcore jagger can truly be on the jag, and other more novice will aspire to such said level of jag.
  

9,489.....9,490!

Today is my 26th birthday.

I'm finding 26 to be sort of a tough age. Yesterday somebody asked me how old i was, and the shock and awe that registered on their face when i answered was a surprise to me. That was until i looked around me and realized i had beer on the front of my shirt from my most recent keg stand, and my cell phone was ringing to the tune of Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend".

Okay, so i don't necessarily "act my age", but as someone with a penchant for stalking schoolies, i've always been of the mind that age ain't nothing but a number. I don't FEEL like i'm 26. i still have dreams of being a professional figure skater or possibly winning a gold medal in the pommel horse one day. Clearly the only reason neither of those things is going to happen is because of my advanced age. It has nothing to do with the fact that I'm built like a duck-billed platypus and i have the coordination of a can of baked beans.

26 is four years from 30. 30 is 10 years from 40. Then i'm pretty much dead.

So i guess i'm starting to understand the idea that life is short. However if the space time continuum seems to have shifted to shorten months and years, why the FUCK does the work day still seem like it's 1,000,000 hours long???

Dishes and Chunks: On Ineptitude

There are certain people in this world that avoid responsibility by feigning ineptitude. I've done it. I think you all have too, at some point or another. It's a pretty neat trick and will work if you surround yourself by the smart, capable and egotistical. If you pretend you can't do something as well as someone else, there's always some eager beaver that will throw themselves at the particular task, thus absolving you of responsibility. The uber-talented bullshit artist can even spin this to make themselves look better. When questioned about why they couldn't complete the assignment, they retort that it's not every employee that has the self-awareness to realize what they can and cannot do. This person has simply realized that on that particular subject another person would have been more capable, and it was for the benefit of the project and in turn the company thay someone else work in it. Is it not true that the great leaders realize where their strengths and weaknesses lie, and seek to surround themselves with people that can fill in their gaps? This is exaclty what the feigner has done. As i've mentioned before, most people are too wrapped up in their own bullshit to care who gets anything done, as long as the still look good. This excuse can get the feigner pretty far up the corporate ladder, although upon closer inspection they have done absolutely nothing at all.
Now to balance out the corporate feigner, we also have the corporate martyr. This person picks up the slack when the feigner is feigning. This person will gladly be accountable for all projects that come their way, regardless of their work level or aptitude. They never complain, and pretend that they are ashamed when lauded for their hard work and follow-through. This is simply another form of pretense, because in fact it is the compliments and gratitude that get them out of bed in the morning and if anybody forgets about how hard the work they'll find myriad ways to indirectly remind everyone within shooting distance. The martyrs are the mitochondrial work horses of the company, and are the reason anything gets done at all. They all burn out after three years and end up sitting in dark basements writing out lists of the feigner's name while fondling their assault rifles.
At times in my life i've been both a feigner and a martyr. We all have. But there was one particular instance in my life that caused me to think twice about pretending to suck at stuff, and as usual this lesson came from my shitty brother. He used to ask me to do the dishes. Being that i'm royalty in my own mind this request came as a full-frontal assault to all of my sensibilities. When he finally beat the shit out of me and forced me to do them, the job was half-assed at best. The next time it came to be my turn for dish duty, recalling the last episode. I would whine, "But Oak, look at what happened last time. I did such a bad job. There were chunks all over the dishes."
His response: "Fuck you. You're not going to get out of this by pretending you're bad at it. A drunken marmoset can do the fucking dishes. Take some responsiblity for yourself. Asshole."

In those exact words.

This post isn't about favoring either position. I could not care less what you do. I'm just observing shit everybody else already knows. Just more astutely.

Like how i'm trying to cover my ass for being self-indulgent about my blog? That's why i'm awesome.

Fruit Bats and Other Tales of Love

This is probably the first and last time you'll ever see me give a shit about whether a relationship works out or not, but i really want to see Pam and Tommy end up together in the end. These crazy kids have been through a whole lot together: from the kids, to the porno, to the illeged abuse, to the Hep C (or Hep B, i'm not sure which they have, but it's something they share.)
Pam Anderson is one of my favorite celebrities because she's unabashedly fake, and doesn't pretend otherwise. When i somehow manage to make enough money to afford all the plastic surgery i want i'm just going to bring Pammy's pic into the doctor's office and say "Let's do this thing." Also, she wrote a reoccurring article in Jane Magazine for a while that i rather enjoyed. This was before i realized that Jane is a magazine for hipster chicks that are pretending they're not lesbians and for rich chicks that like to buy wicked expensive clothes with holes and stains on them in order to pretend they're hister chicks that are pretending they're not lesbian. BUT I DIGRESS... I realize that Pam's article was most likely penned by one of the lesbos on staff at Jane, but i really liked her moxy.
Tommy is one of those guys that's so ugly he's actually really fucking hot. I really can't put my finger on what makes him so attractive. I've always really like tattoos. And he seems like he drinks a lot, which has always appealed to this genteel lady. I also think it might be that deep down he seems like the type of guy that just got all wrapped up in this big rock and roll life, and doesn't really know how it all happened.

Awesome. I think drug/drink-addled morons are hot. My mom is sitting in her room at the asylum clapping her hands wildly , and she's not really sure why. (Note: This opinion of Tommy i have created from what i saw of their short-lived reality series. I CLEARLY have no fucking idea what he's like. He's just hot. Same holds true for Pam. They're probably both total assholes.)

At any rate i hope these two eventually realize that they're made for each other and live in a huge house in Malibu with their nipple piercings and their big floppy hats. Also, this is probably the best plan to prevent the further spread of Hep C (or B). Also, from what i've heard of T. Lee's proportions Pam's most likely ruined for other men forever anyway. (Yeah, gross, whatever. You've all thought it.) Especially that weenie Kid Rock. I submit he's hung like a fruit bat. That just got out of a cold pool.