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Don’t believe me? Just ask David Belniak.
And who is he, you ask? He’s a man mentioned in a news story I stumbled across this evening. Belniak is a Florida man who has decided to sue the estate of a man he killed while he (Belniak) was driving drunk and high. To be fair to Belniak, I’ll tell you his side of the story. Belniak claims both he and the deceased Ray McWilliams were driving down a Tampa street when Mr. McWilliams abruptly changed lanes causing Belniak to hit McWilliams’s car. Belniak claims he pleaded guilty to a manslaughter DUI and accepted 12 years in prison to avoid the possibility of serving a life sentence if he took his case to trial.
When reading Belniak’s account of the accident, the lawyer in me felt that if the victim was partially responsible for the collision and the defendant just happened to be intoxicated at the time then I guess Belniak wasn’t a totally evil piece of shit. Pardon my French, unless of course you speak French in which case je demandez que vous excusez moi francais, s’il vous plait. But why am I speaking French? This post is about balls (or boules if you insist on being French) and Belniak has big brass ones. According to six eyewitnesses to the crash, the departed Mr. McWilliams was stopped at a red light when Belniak plowed into him driving 70 to 90 miles per hour. Before the collision several people called 911 to report Belniak’s crazy driving. He didn’t just kill Mr. Williams, he killed two other people as well. Three people dead and he’s only serving 12 years in prison. Oh and did I mention that Belniak is suing for his pain and suffering? David Belniak I salute you and your gargantuan, church bell sized balls.
When it comes to balls, that story cannot be topped. But Newt Gingrich deserves an honorable mention. Just ask his ex-wife. Not the ex-wife he divorced when she was going through cancer treatments. I’m talking about the ex-wife he divorced only a few months after she was diagnosed with MS. According to the MS wife, Fig (that was his childhood nickname, get it?) told his wife that he was having an affair and demanded that she accept that he was going to keep a mistress. Pretty ballsy, but cheating politician stories are as old as the hills. What distinguishes Newt’s giant balls is that (1) all this was happening as he took a public and very vocal stance against President Clinton for his moral shortcomings and (2) he is against legalizing gay marriage because he wants to preserved the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman. Or in Newt’s case marriage between a man and a woman and his mistress and his second wife and his second mistress and his third wife. He has done as much for the sanctity of marriage as Joran van der Sloot has done for tourism in Aruba.
In a grand display of his balls, when asked at the latest GOP debate about his ex-wife’s allegations Newt went on the attack, stating that by questioning his lack of fidelity so close to the primary, the media’s actions were, “as close to despicable as anything I can imagine.” Far more despicable than say dumping your wife while she has cancer.
And while it takes two to tango, I don’t want to come down too hard on newest wife Callista. It’s punishment enough that (1) someone convinced her that shellacking her hair into that helmet was a good idea
and (2) until she gets cancer or some other inconvenient disease she’s going to have to spend the next few years with that disgusting, jowly blob of a husband climbing on top of her.
Oh and the elephant? Well, the symbol of Republicans getting it on with two tourists on his back is pretty darn ballsy.
I would occasionally watch Suze Orman on television dishing out advise about putting eight months of salary in saving and scoff. Impossible. Can’t be done. And so it remained that in the many years I’d been an attorney I saw my salary triple, but my savings account remained at $25. BTW, my credit union required me to keep $25 in my savings account to keep it open.
I wanted to save money, but I didn’t know how. And as I write that sentence I realize it sounds ridiculous, but it’s the truth. I had no idea how to put away money. If I had it, I spent it. End of story. So what changed? I started saving money almost by accident. I noticed that many of my co-workers had set up deferred compensation accounts. My work offers us the option of opening a retirement account that takes pre-tax income out of our paychecks before it goes into your bank account. It was so effortless and in a short amount of time I managed to sock away $60,000. At the rate I’m saving, I’m projected to have over $900,000 in this account when I retire. That’s money on top of my pension. I know a lot of people feel uncomfortable talking about money, and I’m one of them, especially when if comes to saying how much I have in an account. But when I see so many women my age in desperate financial straits, I think it’s a good idea to talk about money using concrete examples of how much I managed to save in a short period of time.
I was happy that I managed to put away this much money, but deferred compensation wasn’t enough for me. That’s money that I won’t access for at least another 20 years. What was far more important to me was saving money that I could get to quickly if necessary. For that I needed to make a serious life change. And I did. And this is the part where most people falter. In order to save money I had to radically change the way I lived my life. It took me a while to figure out that it wasn’t the big, indulgent purchases that were draining my bank account. Instead, it was the small daily expenses that added up over time.
Here’s where my money went:
Twice monthly mani/pedi
Eating out four nights a week
Commuting to and from San Jose for work
Thursday and Friday happy hour cocktails
Cable TV
Weekly blowouts at the hair salon
Swiss chocolates (at almost $30 a box!!!)
Amazon.com—so dangerous at 2 a.m. after a few Chardonnays
Bed, Bath & Beyond
The list goes on and on. And these were all small expenditures. Nothing extravagant, except for the chocolates. But damn, those chocolates were good. I’d never been a chocolate lover until I had my first Teusher champagne truffle. It was like God in chocolate form. Tasting one was a religious experience. I may have briefly spoken in tongues the first time I had one. But I digress…
My point, that was lost somewhere in that chocolate haze, is that the little stuff adds up and the only way I was going to save any money was to be ruthless and cut out all of my indulgences. How did I steel myself against spending when my will is as brittle as graphite? I made a goal. My goal was to save my money and take a nice vacation. Yes, I realize that I was saving money to spend it, but the idea of saving money for any reason was so radical to me that I didn’t think I could do it. Like anything worth doing, I learned that saving is hard in the beginning but becomes easier over time. Now that I’m a saver, some part of my brain changed. I used to be able to spend money with abandon. Now that I’ve stopped shopping, it’s become so much harder to start again. And in just a few months of being very disciplined, I reached my goal and managed to save enough money to take a nice two-week vacation in South America. Now I’m looking forward to setting my next goal and saving for it.
Here are my saving tips:
1. Eat at home. I save more than $300 a month by not eating out.
2. Drink at home. Everything from wine to espresso. It’s cheaper if you have it at home.
3. Carpool. I cut my gas bill by almost $200 a month.
4. Turn down the heater. Jimmy Carter and your mom were right. Put on a sweater.
5. Buy discount. You don’t need department store mascara. They sell mascara just as good at Walgreen’s. $35 mascara doesn’t make your lashes look 35% longer.
6. Get a roommate. Either that or move into a studio apartment. Put away your pride and find someone to share expenses with.
7. Open a deferred savings account if your workplace offers it. And don’t touch it. That’s how I’m sitting on an extra $60K.
8. Have a goal in mind. Start small. Make your goal reachable within 3 months.
9. Don’t give up if you slip up. Couldn’t resist those Jimmy Choo’s that were 40% off and almost in your size? Just because you give in to temptation doesn’t mean you should abandon your goal.
10. Organize your living space. It’s something to do to fill the time that you may have used to buy more stuff and once you’ve organized your space you will realize that you have enough stuff already.
11. Stop relying on your parents to bail you out. Be it jail or a financial bind you’ve gotten yourself into, relying on Mommy and Daddy means you're not a full adult.
12. Don't buy something just because it's on sale. I've spent more money on sales than I have paying full retail price.
12. Don’t expect your current boyfriend or future husband to bail you out and never marry for money. As the old saying goes you never know when your man or his money will run out.
The reward for all your hard work is peace of mind. You’ll never again feel anxious
about not having enough money in the bank. And you’ll have a sense of pride knowing that you set a goal and accomplished it.
I don’t know what they’re selling. But I don’t want it. Seriously, WTF? Has Peter North ventured into the skin care industry? And, BTW, I don't "like" you.
Moving on.
Okay, you’ve got a decent product. But riddle me this, how do you get it out of the package?
And for the cat who has everything.
BTW, if you think this is a freaky sex toy, you are wrong. This is a cat toy based upon the non-porn movie The Human Centipede. Here’s the plot: a German mad scientist decides to kidnap tourists and stitch them together ass to mouth to make them his pet human centipede. And this is just one more reason why Germans really shouldn’t have too much free time on their hands. I have to confess that I have not actually seen this movie. Besides the curiosity/gross out factor of wondering what three people stitched together would look like (which BTW you can see briefly in the film’s trailer) I can’t think of one good reason to watch this nasty movie. Oh, and did I mention that this cat toy costs $100?
Shut Up and Dance. Dance Before the Police Come.
First of all, you’re both committing a 422 and a 417. Second of all, guy on the right you are also committing a 12020. Third of all, why are you all greased up with baby oil? Fourth of all, is that a black guy with a mullet? I feel like there should be a law against that, but I haven’t found it in the Penal Code, yet… Fifth of all, why can’t I dance with the police standing right in front of me. Last I checked there’s no law against dancing. Sixth of all, dancing while holding deadly weapons and being covered in grease is just dumb.
Finally, to come full circle, who thought this was a good idea?
I want to find the person who came up with this toy and stitch him Human Centipede style to the person who made this commercial. Worst. Toy. Ever. And I would definitely avoid those "refills."
I got into the elevator at work the other day and it just reaked of fartiness. The elevator was empty so I’ll never know who farted it up, but what sucks even more is that someone got on on the next floor, took a whiff and said, “Oh, god!” It wasn’t me, I protested. I didn’t fart up the elevator. And it’s true. I didn’t. But my co-worker looked at me with suspicion in her eyes. Soooo unfair. Anyhoo, on to something entirely different…
There are items that come along every once in a while that just make like easier. Like the first apartment I moved into after I left home that had a dishwasher. So perhaps I should take a moment away from my usual rants that involve a litany of complaints and write about a few things that I’m loving right now.
Sephora, An Oldie but a Goodie
Remember when green was green, back in 1989. And then J. Crew came along and fucked it all up and suddenly green was moss and forest and even more confusing, lichen. Now it’s getting to the point where I can’t figure out what the color is based on the name. Deep Throat, Super Orgasm, Easy Lover, Strip Tease, Sex Machine. Would it surprise you to know that these are all lip glosses? And what exactly does a Super Orgasm look like? Pink. Easy Lover? Pink. Sex Machine? Pink. Wait a sec, this is turning into a rant. On to the positive: Sephora. It’s an oldie, but a goodie. If you want low pressure salespeople to give you makeup advice, this is the place to go. You’ll just have to overlook the fact that half the makeup names sound like something from a ‘70s porn. Although I do draw the line at a white Illamasqua fingernail polish called Load. Gross.
Shellac
Every girl (or really progressive guy) knows the pain of paying top dollar for a manicure only to see it look chipped and ragged just a couple of days later. Or worse, to accidentally bump your hand against something while you’re waiting for your nails to dry and have them ruined before you even leave the spa. $25 wasted. A couple of months ago I was having lunch with a friend when I noticed how nice her nails looked. It’s Shellac she told me. Shellac is a new process that uses ultraviolet light to dry your nail polish. They guarantee nails that are dry as soon as the process is over and that they’ll remain chip free for two weeks. My manicure lasted five weeks. My pedicure lasted almost two months. Hallelujah! I think I have found the nail varnish Promised Land. And bonus, the polish keeps my nails from breaking.
Pimple Preventer: You Complete Me
I’m at that awkward stage in life where I get acne and grey hair. Pathetic. Well, at least now I can do something about the zits. I recently discovered a device called Zeno Hot Spot. You turn this little device on and hold it against the pimple for two minutes. 24 hours later, shazam! The blemish is gone. Bonus: it’s tiny and fits in my purse.
Pixiwoo
I put on makeup like a retarded monkey. Some day I hope to improve enough so that I’ll be like a smart monkey who’s just not applying himself. To the rescue Pixiwoo. Pixiwoo is a company started by two British sisters who are makeup artists. They create makeup tutorial videos and post them on YouTube. What a brilliant idea. If you look, you’ll discover that there are lots of makeup tutorials on YouTube, but the Pixiwoo sisters, Sam and Nicola, have the best cameras, best skills and best lighting. Plus, they’re hilarious. If makeup is a mystery to you I highly encourage you to check out their site. Follow their tips and you will look almost as adorable as they do.
Apple TV
Tired of being gang raped by your cable company? A year ago I moved apartments and I fully intended on hooking up cable at my new place. Nevermind that it was outrageously expensive. $150 a month for cable and internet. Ridiculous. Through a combination of resentment and lethargy I never called Comcast to come set up cable at my new place. For my first week without cable I was miserable, but after that it became surprising easy to live without. Still it is nice to have some mindless form of entertainment to veg out to when I come home after a long day of sending people to prison. Welcome, Apple TV. It’s tiny, unlike my bulky, ugly cable box. So what does it do? It allows me to stream YouTube, Netflix and iTunes videos straight to my television. It only cost me a one-time fee of $100, which is less than I paid monthly for cable. I can watch network TV shows, BBC America, sports, movies, new releases. It’s cheap, tiny, easy and awesome. Like me. Except I’m not cheap…or easy.
J & P Organic Boxes
Eating out every night is pricey. Organic food is pricey. Whole Foods is pricey. The dent I put in my car trying to squeeze into a tiny grocery store parking stall was pricey. What’s a broke girl to do? My new hero is Juan, the owner of J & P Organics. He makes a weekly delivery to the County building with boxes of the freshest local organic fruits and veggies. And when I say fresh, I mean fresh. The carrots look like they got pulled from the ground that day. For a mere $23 dollars I get huge box of food. It’s so big, that I’ve stopped eating out because I don’t want any of my box to go bad. Result? I save about $325 a month on food, I’ve become a better cook, I support local organic farmers, and I’m not filling up on French fries and burgers every night.
Beautypedia.com
You can spend $75 on a tube of mascara or 99 cents, but you’re throwing away your money on both if the mascara is crap. To the rescue, Paula Begoin. She runs a website called Beautypedia. Her team reviews thousands of beauty products and tell you what you should buy (sunscreen), what you should avoid (eye cream), and more importantly that that $400 quarter ounce tube of magic wrinkle erasing elixir is made from the exact same ingredients as the $8 tube of face cream at Rite-Aid…and neither of them will make your wrinkles go away. Best of all, the site is now free of charge. Bonus: they have an iPhone app so you can look up product reviews while you shop.
Universal Wish List
This is so cool, that I don’t know why no one thought of it sooner. Let’s say you’re online looking for a fill-in-the-blank and you’ve found a bunch of different fill-in-the-blanks and you’re trying to keep track of them all. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could put them all on one webpage? Now you can. Amazon.com has created the Universal Wish List. Now when you see something online that you like you can just click a little button on your screen and your coveted fill-in-the-blank is added to an electronic wish list. Bonus, the product doesn’t have to be sold on Amazon’s site to be added to your wish list, hence the name “Universal.”
P.S.: I did NOT fart up that elevator.
I remember a few years ago seeing a story on the news about a coffin outlet that opened in Oakland. Curious about it again, I went to Google and typed “casket outlet Oakland” in the search bar. And I found the place. It’s called Sunset Casket Outlet. Well, I guess they shouldn’t call if Sunrise Casket Outlet. Even more curious, I decided to check it out. And while I have no immediate plans to be in one of these boxes, it’s always good to plan for the future, right?
I have to say I’m somewhat partial to the India Star Ivory Sovereign Velvet 16 Gauge Brushed Steel/Monoseal. I like how it comes with a pillow, like you’re just taking a nap, sorta.
Or maybe something a little more pimp-tastic:
Ick!
I’ve wanted a metal casket ever since I saw Stephanie Seymour in one in that Guns N’ Roses November Rain video. You remember that video, right? Well if not, let me reacquaint you with its awesomeness.
What I couldn’t figure out though is how she died and why was half her face covered by the mirror? Did something grizzly happen to the other side? I guess we’ll never really know.
Okay, I just looked up November Rain on Wikipedia. From what I gather she dies from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, which also according to Wikipedia, is why the mirror is there. It’s a technique funeral homes use to cover part of a person’s head when they have head trauma, but the family wants an open casket funeral. I had no idea. I thought it was just something they did in the video because it looked cool. BTW, both the casket and the wedding dress for the video cost the same amount of money, $8,000.
Wow, this whole line of thought is starting to feel very creepy and morbid. On to something else.
And Now it’s Time For Another Episode of Drunk Vegas Lawyer
(And btw, that title could have applied to me last weekend.)
Speaking of YouTube videos I have just become acquainted with the awesomeness that is Drunk Vegas Lawyer Causes Mistrial. It’s in four parts, so it’s on the long side. I've only attached the first video, but the payoff is so good by the time you get to video number four that I highly encourage you to watch them all.
So, to recap Drunk Vegas Lawyer Causes Mistrial. He was in an accident and he didn’t call the police. Except that he did call the police. And he was rear ended by one car that ran off. Except that he was rear ended by one car and which caused him to rear end another car and they both took off. Except that he doesn’t have any rear end damage to his car. Except that it’s not his car, it’s registered to a guy who’s in prison. And he’s got a concussion. Except that he doesn’t want to be seen by the court nurse. And he arrived to court with his girlfriend for moral support. Except that that’s not his girlfriend, just a friend. Except that he met her 20 minutes earlier. Except that he has a fiancée. And he’s stone cold sober. Except that he can’t walk straight and he’s slurring his words and his blood alcohol level is .075%.
BTW, Drunk Vegas Lawyer led me to an even better Video: Moron Trys to Fake Heart Attack at Court Hearing
God, I love that judge.
Bunnies Spotted at Gas Station
Goodbye bunnies, or so I thought. That night I worried about the little bunnies. Feral cats populate the field next to the gas station. Not to mention the hawks and raccoons that live there too. And if the cold and rain and predators didn’t get them, it was just a matter of time before they got run over at the busy intersection. The next day on my way to work I drove by the gas station looking for bunnies at best and smushed bunnies at worst. I saw neither. That evening at 5 p.m. I drove by the gas station. No bunnies. I met my friends for drinks at a nearby bar and when I left I drove by the gas station again and I saw a little white bunny nibbling on a gas station bush. Bunny! Hurray! You made it through the night, but where was the other one? I pulled into the gas station to investigate, but again it hopped away. I went into the gas station store and looked around for some food to give them. The gas station had lots of chips, hotdogs, donuts, blue colored energy drinks, but alas not one piece of fruit. What exactly do truck drivers live on? They must all be dying of heart disease if this is their only offering. I settled on a bag of potato chips and sprinkled them in the places I’d seen the rabbits. Next time I’ll bring my own carrots I decided. And I did. I tossed out some carrots and next day and while I didn’t see the bunnies, the carrots disappeared.
It bothered me that these little guys were out in the wild. Someone must have dumped them there after Easter. It was clear to me that they weren’t wild rabbits. For one thing they were albinos. And I’ve never seen a wild albino rabbit. For another thing, they weren’t that shy of people the way wild rabbits are. These bunnies were hopping amongst the gas station without much fear. So I decided that these rascally rabbits had sowed enough of their wild oats and it was time for them to be re-domesticated. But first, I had to catch them.
How to Catch a Rabbit
You will need three things:
1. A cage
2. Radishes
3. 4 inch black patent leather Christian Louboutin pumps
About number 3, I decided on a Wednesday that I would get my rabbit catching tools, so I bought a cage and some radishes. But my plan was to go out on Thursday the two bunnies. Thursday was better because I could bring a change of clothes with me to work and change after I got off. I bought a small wire cage at Pet Smart and assembled it in my office after work. I carried the cage out of my car and one of my co-workers asked me what I was doing. I explained that I had the cage to catch some gas station rabbits. Odd that he didn’t bat an eye over that. Instead he offered to help me then and there. Not exactly what I planned because I didn’t have a change of clothes yet. But I was happy to get an extra pair of hands. I have to admit that I was a little creeped out about walking through a field after work on my own, so that also made me glad to have the company. But no change of clothes meant that I’d be walking through said muddy field in very high pumps.
So off we went to the gas station. Cage, check. Radishes, check. Rabbits… Rabbits… Rabbits… Uncheck. No rabbits. My co-worker waiting around but he had to get home so off he went. Still I thanked him for tromping through the field with me and not calling me a crazy person. So I sat in my car for a few minutes, rabbit-less and annoyed when suddenly I noticed a little white hopper bounding in front of my parked car. Ha! Rabbit. I jumped out of my car, yanked out my cage, readied my radishes and followed it as it hopped from the gas station to the field. And then I saw the second one nearby. So there I was Louboutins, silk DVF dress, Louis Vuitton handbag ready to rock.
And then my luck got even better. I heard a voice behind me. Are you trying to catch those rabbits, it asked? I turned around and saw a woman standing with a son. He looked to be about nine or ten. She explained that she and her son had seen them a few days ago at the gas station and they came by feed them. She’d been leaving food for them as well. She said she’d had rabbits as a child. She offered to help me catch them. She got a big cardboard box out of her pick up truck parked at the gas station and walked back to the field. As we were trying to round up the rabbits she told me that her son was autistic.
Between me, Noelle (that was her name), my cage, her box and the radishes, those bunnies didn’t stand a change. I lured them with radishes and when I got close enough I dropped the cage on top of one. Noelle transferred the captured bunny into her cardboard box and her son kept it closed. Bunny number two hid under some brush, but Noelle found it and I got close enough to drop the cage on him.
So that’s how I ended up with two rabbits living in my bathroom. I named them Honey Bunny and Dennis Hopper. Here they are chilling in Noelle’s box.
I noticed that my little guys had fleas so I made an appointment with the vet. Plus I wanted to get them spayed/neutered. I took my cat Muffin too, since I figured that he’d need to be treated for fleas too. I looked like a crazy bag lady trying to get around carrying three animal crates. But bunnies and kitty made it in one piece, although not without a lot of protesting from all parties. The vet examined Dennis Hopper and told me some news I did not want to hear. Dennis Hopper was pregnant. Noooooooo! And then the vet starts talking to me about nutrition for pregnant rabbits and on and on. I interrupt her and ask if a pregnant rabbit can be spayed. Yes, I’m told, but they prefer not to do it. She tells me to give it some thought before I make a decision. So apparently I’d wandered into a pro-life clinic looking for an abortion. Next I figured that she’s start showing me pictures of bunny fetuses and force me to listen to the heartbeat and start talking about adoption options. How many babies are in a litter, I ask? Four she says. All I can think is Nooooooooo. I don’t want a litter of rabbits. When will this rabbit give birth, I ask. It could be tomorrow, it could be next week, she says. I tell her that I want the bunny abortion immediately and she reluctantly tells me to talk to her receptionist about billing and setting up an appointment. And for the first time I start to feel mad. Mad that someone would dump a pair of pets into a field next to a busy intersection. Mad that someone would keep a male and female rabbit together when neither had been spayed or neutered. Mad that I was now faced with the grim task of making an appointment for a bunny abortion.
So I talk to the receptionist and I’m floored. She hands me a price list and neatly typed and itemized I see that the spay, neuter and bunny abortion will cost $1600. $1600! That’s what I pay in rent every month. The receptionist gives me a number for some low cost spay/neuter clinics and I call them all when I get home that evening. And they’re all closed. And I start to get nervous. I don’t have a rabbit anymore, now I’ve got a ticking time bomb waiting to go off and spew tiny rabbits all over my apartment. I started to think about those rabbit plagues in Australia. I don’t sleep at all that night. But the next day I call the first number on the list of clinics and someone answers. The Peninsula Humane Society did the spay and neuter for $200. One of the workers there tells me that my rabbit was pregnant with 12 kits. OMG! I feel like I dodged a huge bullet. I wasn’t ready to be a single mother with 12 kids.
So now I have two de-flea’d, de-pregnated albino bunnies hanging out at my place. They are in perfect health, spayed and neutered and super cute. And I’m looking for a home for them. They like hay and broccoli and lettuce. I stuck a cat’s litter box in the bathroom and one of them jumped inside and took a poo. And that’s how I discovered that they were litter box trained. Bunnies can poop in a box just like a cat. How awesome is that?
If you can provide them with a good home and not turn them into stew please drop me a line. These bunnies are little survivors. More than a week of dodging cars and cats and hawks. Sure they come from the rough streets of San Jose, but they’re reformed and looking for someone to love. These little guys are great. And don't we all want some bunny to love?
Angry Bunny Hiding After Getting Washed
Lured Out of Hiding With Parsley
Hanging Out in My Living Room
Too Gay to Skate
Quick quiz. Do you know who any of these people are?
1. Johnny Weir
2. Michael Weiss
3. Ben Agosto
4. Jeremy Abbot
5. Charlie White
6. Tong Jiang
If you said that Johnny Weir is a male figure skater and you don’t know who the fuck those other five people are, then you’d be right on both counts.
Well, I've got bad news for Johnny. I’m sorry Johnny Weir, but you are too gay for male figure skating.
Yes, you heard me right Johnny; you are too gay for male figure skating.
Get that surprised look off your face. You heard me right. Male. Figure. Skating. Even the name of the sport sounds gay, so how could Weir be too gay? Well, according to several news sources Weir has been rejected by the ice show touring company Stars on Ice for not being “family friendly”. Whenever I hear a story like this I always check to make sure it’s not an article from The Onion, but no, this story came from CNN. BTW, Stars on Ice has denied that they are barring Weir because of his sexuality. Instead they claim that there simply was no room for him on the tour. No room? No room for the second highest finishing American male figure skater at the Olympics? No room for the man that legions of teenage and tween girls scream over? No room for a three-time US Championships gold medalist? I don’t know squat about male figure skating, but I know who Johnny Weir is. In fact, names two through six at the beginning of this post I got from the Stars on Ice website. They're all male figure skaters. I had to look them up because I couldn’t name another male ice skater who’s currently touring.
Stars on Ice is sponsored by Smuckers. Yes the jellied fruit. Oh irony upon ironies. So essentially, Smuckers, maker of strawberry jam, is saying, “Johnny you’re too fruity for our jelly.” BTW, I hope I’m not outing Weir, since (also ironic) he’s never claimed to be gay. He doesn’t discuss his sexuality publicly.
Weir’s reaction to this whole shameful event? He’s decided to tour on his own. And for that he’s my hero. Stars on Ice, I hope you go the way of the Ice Capades…out of business.
Now pull your pants back up and get out there.
Too Gay to Awkwardly Slow Dance
Constance McMillen, adorable as you may be, you are too gay for prom. At least she is according to the Itawamba County school district of Fulton, Mississippi. When McMillen asked to bring her girlfriend as her date to the prom and asked permission to wear a tuxedo she was told no and no. Since both she and her potential date are students at the same school, there’s nothing stopping them from arriving separately and hanging out together, right? Wrong. Constance was also menacingly informed that she’s be thrown out of the prom if her presence made anyone “uncomfortable.” To the rescue comes the ACLU who demanded that the school reverse its policy. BTW, the ACLU wasn’t treading on new ground. There are MANY federal cases that guarantee a student’s right to bring a same-sex date to a school dance. Interestingly, none of these other schools that were sued and caved to legal pressure and allowed same-sex dates, saw all of their student body collapse in terror from having to watch two girls dancing together.
Another BTW, why can’t she wear a tuxedo? Is this Mississippi school board made up of Vogue fashion editors? From a style standpoint, I would urge her not to don a tux, but from a First Amendment standpoint, I would wholeheartedly support her. And considering how slutty some teenagers are dressing for prom, you’d think the school would be relieved to have at least one girl who wants to cover up.
Moms of tween girls, this is what awaits you in just a few short years:
BTW, when I Googled the words “slutty prom dresses” I found a totally cute dress that I’m definitely getting.
Cute, right? I mean, I wouldn't wear it to prom, but a fun cocktail party perhaps with some matching gold sandals and...
Oh, wait. I totally got distracted by online shopping, so what was I talking about? Oh yeah, the idiots of the Itawamba County school district. So in true Scrooge-like fashion, the school district decided to just cancel prom rather than allow Constance and her date to attend. And won’t this make Constance the most popular girl in school? The school’s given reason for canceling prom was, “due to the distractions to the educational process caused by recent events.” Huh? If you’re scratching your head wondering how same-sex prom dates affect the educational process, then I’m right next to you doing the same thing. Why don’t you just sack up Itawamba and tell the truth? You’re a bunch of small-minded bigots.
So there’ll be no prom, right? Well, not exactly. Instead of having a school prom, the district is encouraging its students to hold a private prom where they can invite (and exclude) anyone they want, namely Constance. State encouraged segregation? In Mississippi? Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing. That’s not the Mississippi I know.
As I was reading one of many news articles online about this story, I found this post in the comments section of one article from someone named Don:
“We don't care for her or her lifestyle in our little town of Fulton. I'm sure SF will be glad to take her.”
Posted: Mar 3, 2010 at 12:10 pm
While I’m no advocate of people being chased from their homes by angry villagers carrying torches and pitchforks, I have to agree with Don. Constance, you’re 18. As soon as you graduate from Small-Minded Redneck High, it’s time for you go get the fuck out of Fulton. Welcome to San Francisco, if you can afford the rent, that is.
The Louder You Shout, The Gayer You Are
Ah, Republicans. The Do as I Say, and Not as I Fuck party. In the tradition of Republican senators Mark Foley and Larry Craig, I give you California Republican state senator Roy Ashburn.
Oh wait, that’s the wrong picture. Let me start over. I give you California Republican state senator and opposite marriage father of four Roy Ashburn.
Yup, that’s Senator Ashburn’s mug shot. He was arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol after a Sacramento police officer witnessed him swerving all over the road in his state-issued SUV. It was 2 a.m. He was coming from Faces, a Sacramento gay bar. Oh and he had some company, an unnamed man, in the passenger seat. Ashburn, who issued a no excuses apology, later admitted he was gay. Ashburn, by the by, is also a vehemently anti-gay rights legislator.
This is a pic from the Faces Nightclub website. BTW, I've been to Sacramento many times and I've never seen anybody who looks THAT hot. Then again, I've never been to Faces.
What’s Senator Ashburns voting record on same sex issues? The conservative Capitol Resource Family Impact group keeps score. And they’ve given the senator a 100% rating. His votes:
• voted against the legalization of same-sex marriage
• voted to dissolve the marriages of same sex couples who married pre-Prop 8
• voted against the monitoring of adherence to a law that bans same sex discrimination in public schools
• voted against outlawing the promotion of bias against gays in sex education
• voted against Harvey Milk Day in California
• voted not to recognize same sex marriages from outside the state of California
• voted against protecting gays from housing discrimination
• voted against protecting gays from workplace discrimination
• voted against giving funds to LGBT organizations that serve victims of domestic violence
• voted against same-sex partners being allowed to receive death benefits from their deceased partner’s company
• voted against allowing same-sex couples to file joint tax returns
And on and on and on. In his short six years in office Ashburn has voted against gay rights on 40 occasions. The only time he didn’t vote against a gay rights bill was when he was absent.
Ashburn has more than earned the title hypocrite. But one could argue, and Ashburn has, that his voting record is merely a reflection of the desires of the communities he represents. You know, like Pontius Pilate giving the crowd what they want. However, that doesn’t explain Ashburn’s participating in anti-gay rallies with the Traditional Values Coalition. (Thank you Joemygod.blogspot.com for the helpful links and photograph.)
But does Ashburn really represent the wishes of his constituents? Actually, no. His voting record is far to the right of the people of the counties he represents. While they may be against gay marriage, the majority of the voters in his counties are not against other gay rights like freedom from workplace discrimination. So how does one explain his vehemently anti-gay voting record and his vehemently anti-gay public stance outside the capitol building? Eager to explain this troubling scenario I typed “self hatred gay” into Google to see what popped up. I didn’t get an answer to my question, but I did learn a new word: baumgartner. According to UrbanDictionary.com, a baumgartner is:
"A slang term for a racist of German descent. Particularly hates Jews, blacks, and Mexicans. Typically obsessed with Nazi paraphernalia and maintains a fetish interest in Nazi uniforms and speaking German. Often likes the band Ramstein. Is not an actual member of neo-Nazi or white power groups, but enjoys the alleged "cool factor" of racism and pro-Nazi feelings among a certain subset of alienated white youth. Often, baumgartners are self-hating gay males who try to pass as straight and who enjoy the homoerotic nature of Nazi hypermasculinity and sadomasochism."
Ha! Well, that doesn’t answer my question, but it’s still pretty funny. Further down the page, UrbanDictionary.com also provides a definition of the word faggot:
"Self-loathing (usually Republican/GOP), closeted, gay bashing/hating conservative, usually married with children, who has sex with other men 'on the down-low.'"
That definition was written in 2007.
A few months back I wrote a post about stuff I want called Doin’ It Scooby Style. The Scooby reference was because I wanted one of those rotating walls like in the Scooby Doo cartoons. But enough of what I want. Now for Stuff I Don’t Want.
1. J&D’s Baconlube
Let’s get one thing straight. I love, love, luuuuuuuuvvvvv me some bacon. I will eat bacon anywhere, anytime, anyplace. You name a time and place and put some bacon on a plate and I will be there and hit that. You think I’m some bacon Johnny Come Lately? Well, check out this email I sent to my non-bacon eating friends back in June of 2008:
It has recently come to my attention that because of religious restrictions or vegetarianism (or in the case of you K. possibly both) or because of some misguided attempt to be healthy, you have made the regrettable decision not to eat bacon. I cannot express to you how much I think that is a reflection of your bad judgment.
I recently became a fan of bacon. I’ve been a lifelong lover of bacon, but I recently became a fan because it has its own fan page on facebook. As a fan of bacon, I feel it is incumbent upon me to address you’re non-bacon eating lifestyle.
The benefits of bacon have long been recognized by reputable scientists. You need look no further than the Canadian Institute for the Advancement of Bacon Studies. Since Canada is a bilingual country, the council is also known as L’institut Canadien pour L’advancement D’etudes de Lard Fume. See www.NationalBaconCouncil.org for more information.
What are bacon’s benefits? Well, there are too many to name in this forum, but I will address one. An internationally observant bacon fan page member observed that the reason that there isn’t peace in the Middle East is because neither Jews or Muslims eat bacon. Bacon has well known mellowing, non-violent effects. Don’t believe me? Eat an entire plate of bacon and then try to start a fight. You. Just. Can’t. Do. It.
Beware on non-bacon eaters in your life. J. this messages goes to you. While I understand that you are a bacon eater, your wife the vegetarian is not. I fear that because of the number of years the two of you have been married that you will become a sympathetic bacon avoider.
Finally, I’ve said this once and I’ll say it again. Bacon MUST BE FRIED. Baking bacon? That’s faking bacon.
With love,
your friend Leigh
www.NationalBaconCouncil.org
So you see, I am on the frontline of bacon defense, but even I cannot get behind (ahem) J&D’s Baconlube. This is a bacon abomination. Their tag line is “Keep it Sizzlin’” Here’s the product description from their website:
Love bacon and all its goodness? Want to spice things up in the bedroom? Well, you’re sure to love this new product, baconlube™ . baconlube is a delicious personal lubricant designed to “keep it sizzlin’”. Now you can have your cake and eat it too.
BTW, on their website this company has the absolute balls to claim that they're kosher.
2. Another Year of John and Kate Plus 8
I hate her and her stupid lopsided hair.
Okay, first let me say that I’ve never watched the show, so how can I be so sick of it? That’s how much their silly saga has invaded the media. So what exactly is the premise of this show? From what I’ve gathered it’s about a shrew who’s crapped out eight kids and likes to publicly emasculate her unfaithful husband. Why exactly has this drama captured the nation? Who gives a fuck?
3. The Tiger Woods Show
Yes, I get it. This one is a fascinating story. Hot, blonde Swedish wife clocks philandering billionaire athlete husband with his own golf club. It was fitting that it was a golf club, after all it’s the instrument that made it possible for him to put his other instrument in so many women. Husband wrecks his car fleeing from wife. Porn stars and Vegas restaurant hostesses come out of the woodwork and go on daytime television to give up the intimate details of his lovemaking prowess and insatiable sexual appetite. This has all the makings of a fascinating story. You’ll get no argument from me. All that being said, I’ve had my fill thankyouverymuch. Somewhere around girl number six or seven the whole sordid story felt kinda played out. Yes, Tiger Woods is a very bad man. Can we please move on?
4. Christian Louboutin
Why is it that when something good comes along, everyone’s got to have it and then it becomes omnipresent and it’s not special anymore? The same thing happened with my beloved Coach bag. I remember 15 years ago when I bought my Coach bag. Before those hideous canvas C logo bags popped up everywhere. Back then Coach was special. Now Coach is like Starbucks. Coach is the Starbucks of handbags. Now Louboutin is being Starbuckitized. My Louboutins. How I’ve cherished each and every pair of you. From my patent leather Mary Jane’s to my peacock suede penny loafer pumps. You’re all special in your own way. And then came Sex and the City and now every two bit, wannabe fashionista with a credit card is Manolo-ing and Louboutin-ing past me.
5. Flesh Colored Tennis Bloomers
Venus, Venus, Venus *sigh*. Frankly, I would expect this kind of behavior from Serena, but not you.
6. Ted Haggard
Oh wait, that's not him.
Ted, Ted, Ted. Where to start? If you don’t know who Ted Haggard is, here’s his story. Haggard and his wife Gail founded a Colorado mega Church boasting about 18,000 members. Haggard was not a friend to the gays and was quite vocal about it. Check out this clip of Ted in action.
Yup, quite vocal, to the utter chagrin of his gay lover/meth supplier who outted him to the national media by leaking recorded phone messages of Haggard asking for sex and drugs. His church didn’t take the news so well. He was forced to step down, as he should have been, but they got nasty and took it one step further. They BANNED him from the state of Colorado. How does one get banned from a state, you ask? The church leaders offered him a small cash settlement on condition that he leave Colorado and never, ever come back. BTW, he wasn’t the only one banned. His entire family was banished from the state of Colorado. I’m not exactly sure why his wife and children had to be banned too. They didn’t do anything wrong. And this all came from a church. What happened to forgiveness? BTW, I don’t think he should be forgiven for being gay, because that’s not a sin. I’m talking about forgiveness for using drugs and cheating on his wife.
Well, Haggard and his wife are back in the news because—big sigh of relief—he has now cured himself of The Gay. Congratulations Ted! You beat the gay. Way to go. According to Gail, who’s also promoting a book in news interviews called Why I Stayed, all Ted needed was some counseling. For you see, the only reason he was gay is because he was molested as a child. And he was only having sex with other men to replay that prior molestation he suffered as a child. This explanation sounds fishier than a sardine’s cunt and I am gleefully awaiting the day when he gets busted…again.
7. Rourke Martinez’s Dangerous Embrace
As a junior high student, I had a minor obsession with Harlequin Romance novels. And apparently Harlequin had a minor obsession with me. This is the second Leigh Frazier heroine I’ve seen in one of their books. My love interest in a man curiously named Rourke Martinez. And what kind of name is Rourke Martinez, anyway? Did an Irishman rape a Puerto Rican? Anywhoo, this is from the book’s website:
"Love led her down a different path


Leigh Frazier, impatient at the separation imposed by her father, went to join her fiance. Getting to Peru was no problem. However, she discovered that getting to the archaeological dig in the high Andes, where he was stationed, was almost impossible.

Her womanly wiles failed to persuade Rourke Martinez, a returning archaeologist, to help her, and she misguidedly set out on her own.

When Rourke rescued her, he did help her--but not to find her fiance rather to forget him in a new and dangerous embrace. For under the magical spell of the Andes, real love changed Leigh's life...."
Of course I have to order this book. Updates to follow.
My Thai Guy
If I had to guess his sign, I’d say he was a Pisces and when we met it was love at first sight. Or at least it was on my part. He was more the strong silent type. Not that he didn’t know how to show emotions. Whenever he felt like I was encroaching on his territory, he’d puff up his jaws and become aggressive. Sure we came from different backgrounds—I’m black and he was Thai and um, red—but when I saw that adorable little fish in all his crimson glory swimming around in a bowl on my desk, I knew I’d make it work.
He was a gift from my secretary. I little fish whose breed had the incredibly superlative Latin name of betta splendens, more coloquially known as a Siamese Fighting Fish. Searching my brain for a name for my new and unexpected friend, I dubbed him Fishstick.
While I was very appreciative to have this feisty bit of life flitting around, I was more than a little nervous. For I was a pet fish serial killer. In a failed seventh grade science experiment I managed to kill off not one, not two, not three, but seven—SEVEN—goldfish in just a matter of weeks. To say that I was traumatized by the experience was an understatement. I never had another pet fish for the next 20 years. And now that I had a new fish, I was scared. Every time I’d walk into the office and see him sleeping, I’d shake his bowl just to make sure he just sleeping and not sleeping with the fishes, so to speak.
Determinted not to have the blood of another pet fish on my hands, I set about insuring that Fishstick would not have an early demise. I went online and read up on betta forums. Following their advice I went to the pet store and bought a 5 gallon tank to replace his small bowl. Aquarium gravel, a waterproof heater, pH testing kit, chlorine remover, cleaning brush, fish net, live plants, filters. My four dollar fish cost about $200 to maintain. All worth it. Fishstick set up shop in his new digs and thrived. He thrived for more than two years happily living the life of a kept fish. He provided me companionship, he was pretty to watch, he even let me pet him. When I had a bad day in court, I’d come back to my office and stare at him for a minute or two and start to relax.
As with all fish, there’s a time to be born and a time to die. Fishstick’s time came this month. It wasn’t sudden; I’m quite surprised that he lingered as long as he did. Six weeks ago he began to eat less and less. Until in the last month of his life he refused to eat anything. How I tried. Pellets, flakes, bloodworms (ick), brine shrimp. Nothing worked. I cleaned his tank. Changed the water. Added a heater. Nothing worked. I pleaded, cajoled, begged him to eat. Nothing worked. Instead he just drifted to the bottom of the tank, and became sicker and sicker. His breathing looked labored. He looked like he was suffering and every day I felt so unhappy watching him linger. He even changed colors. No longer his vibrant ruby self, he turned grey. Literally grey. When I left for the MLK three day weekend I was sure that he wouldn’t be alive when I returned. I couldn’t bear to look. I sent a co-worker into my office to check. “Yup,” he said, “he’s gone. No, wait a sec, he’s still alive.” And he was, but barely. He only lasted a couple more days after that. The last time I saw him alive he was laying on the leaf of a silk aquarium plant. When I came in the next day he was finished.
I had a co-worker fish him out of the tank. I couldn’t bear to do it myself. I said a few last words to him. My co-workers hummed Amazing Grace, so sweet of them, and we gave him a (ahem) burial at sea. Three years isn’t a bad run for a betta; that’s how old he was. Still, I feel like we just met and now my beloved fish is gone and all I have left is an empty tank.
Year in Review
Last year it was my goal to master the WASP-y sports. Specifically, skiing, archery, fencing and squash. I never got around to squash, but three new sports in one year’s not a bad tally. Plus, it was so much fun.
I was trying to decide what my new resolution would be this year. When I flew home for Christmas, I got kicked out of my room. Here’s the story of how those last two sentences are related. So I get home and I’m the first of my siblings to arrive. I put my suitcase in my bedroom. No, no, I’m informed by my stepmother. I’ll be sleeping in my brother’s room instead. Ex-squeeze me? I’m told that now that my brother is married he and his wife get my room. My room. MY room. My room that’s bigger than his and has an en suite bathroom. Plus, my brother’s more than 10 years younger than me and now I’m in the little room. I can get my room back, I’m told, when I get married. Total blackmail. My stepmother delivered this news with a sense of triumph, like finally she had me trapped and I would have to succumb to her wishes and walk down the aisle. So when I was thinking of what my new resolution should be I thought perhaps I should get married so I can get my room back. It’s either that or burn down the house. Okay, now that I’ve written that I pray to god that that house never burns down because everyone will be pointing the finger at me. Still, getting married just to get a room back, you ask. Leigh, that’s so petty. Yes, it is, but so am I.
Alas, my room is lost. I’m not husband hunting. Nope, my New Year’s resolution will be… Hmmm, I don’t know yet. For my consideration:
1. Try (again) to learn French. Ugh, I hate homework.
2. Decorate my apartment so that it doesn’t look like I live in a dorm room.
3. Pay off the car I bought. Instead of paying over the loan period, my goal could be to pay it off in one year.
4. Go back to Africa. Whites have been making that friendly suggestion to black people all the time. Maybe they’re on to something. Although, how can I go back if I’ve never been there in the first place?
5. Take up skeet or trap shooting in earnest. I’m from the South; why aren’t I shooting more stuff?
6. Learn to fly a helicopter. It’s not as farfetched as it sounds. A helicopter pilot/instructor in Palo Alto has been pushing me to take his lessons.
7. Learn to ride a motorcycle. That was on my list two years ago until the Deputy Coroner talked me out of it.
8. I don’t have an 8 yet.
9. Tackle my fear of heights. If I can get over my fear of snakes, I can do anything.
10. Finally answer the question that’s been eating away at my soul: Why is Fiji Water so much more delicious than other bottled waters? I had a friend call their 1-800 number a few years ago, but I don’t remember if we ever got a definitive answer. Damn! That is some good water.
11. Learn to drive stick. My last three S.O.s have all had a second car (and a motorcycle, weirdly enough) and a second car would be great when my first and only car is being serviced, but all three second cars were stick shifts. I could save myself a lot of rental fees if I just learned how to drive stick.
12. Learn how to kick ass and take names. I’ve always wanted to be more like Chuck Norris.
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=23
13. Floss more. Every year I try. Every year I fail. To quote the late great Mitch Hedberg: "People say I don't know how hard it is to stop smoking. Yes I do. It's the same as trying to start flossing. 'Man, you're looking jittery.' 'Yeah, I'm about to go floss.'"
Frankly, I’m at a loss. I love, love, love New Year’s resolutions because I’ve always considered myself a work in progress, someone who could use some improvement. When I look at myself, I see holes, and New Year’s resolutions are the perfect spackle to patch them up. But it’s already February and I’ve got no resolutions to fulfill. I should have started January 1st. Maybe I should resolve to just make up my mind and pick one.
All of this was very relevant to me because I wrecked my beloved Infiniti G20 and I’d been puttering around in a rental car. Okay, I have a shameful secret. I wasn’t just puttering about in that rental car. I’d had it for seven weeks. I just couldn’t bring myself to go car shopping. I was dreading the idea of getting suckered. And who knows, I might have driven that rental car for another seven weeks but for the fact that a bunch of warning lights popped up on the dashboard and I had to take it back to exchange my rented Camry for another car.
Curious, I asked the sales associate what my balance was. $1000 he tells me. Wha… exsqueeze me? My chest starts to tighten and my face feels hot. I had that feeling that I get when I’ve been clothes shopping in a store and adding up the balance in my head and I think I know what it is and then I pile all my clothes up at the register and the saleswoman rings me up and announces that my total is about $500 more than I thought it would be. $1000, I repeat to the guy, trying to quell the panicky tone in my voice. Yup, he replies. I try not to get faint.
He tells me that they don’t have another Camry available, but they do have a Corolla. Okay by me since it’s cheaper. Okay, until I get in the car and realize that it’s no bigger than a shoebox and about as comfortable. That’s it, I decided. No more putting it off. I was suckering myself by paying these crazy rental fees. I decided to get off my ass and go buy a car. Period.
I went with my friend to a car auction in South San Francisco. One of the cars for auction was a Porsche Cayenne Turbo. Hmmmm. I pictured myself, Porsche-ing it with 500 horsepower under my shiny patent leather Louboutin. Yes, yes, oh yes. Cayenne, I vowed, you will be mine. It was a silent bid auction, so I bid on the Cayenne, twice. Both bids rejected and for good reason. It was a Turbo. Turbo equals twin V8 engine and it’s twice the price of a regular Cayenne. I’ll just look for Cayenne that isn’t turbo, I decided.
Now every rational part of me knew that I had no business in a Cayenne. I travel 100 miles round trip every day to and from work. That car was a gas guzzler. Moreover it got a terrible rating from Consumer Reports for reliability. Still, I thought, Cayenne, vroom, vroom, yummy! Me + Cayenne + Tahoe. Cayenne-ing to the beach in a bikini, hell yeah. Zero to 60 in 4.8 seconds. So I found a few on Craigslist and set about on my path, neigh, my destiny to owning one.
The Porsche dealership had Cayennes galore, but they were all at least $10,000 more in price than those offered by other dealerships and private sellers. So I found an ’06 Cayenne at Stevens Creek BMW. The asking price was $29,971. A bit steep. Especially when I compared it to the cost of other Cayennes, but I figured I’d negotiate the price down to something more reasonable.
I email a woman at the dealership and inquire about the car. I don’t hear back. On Saturday I was on the Peninsula taking my riding lesson. I decided to swing by San Jose and check out the car. I meet with the salesman, and he looks for the car. And looks. And looks. And looks some more. It’s a huge lot. Finally someone tells him that the Cayenne is over at the Porsche dealership getting a light repaired. And the Porsche service center is closed on Saturdays (huh?) so nope can’t see it. It’ll be ready Monday, I’m told.
So I call on Monday the sales guy isn’t there, but the woman I emailed is. She says the car’s not back yet, and that it needs to be detailed so it’ll be ready on Wednesday. Wednesday’s no good for me, I tell her. Can I test drive it on Tuesday before it gets detailed? Yes, she agrees and says she’ll call me back. So Tuesday. I’m waiting. I’m waiting. No call. I call her at the end of the day. I get another person who tells me that internet lady can’t come to the phone because she’s negotiating the sale of the car. What?! On the car that supposedly wasn’t ready? They tell me that they’ll call me back if the car doesn’t sell. Now I’m annoyed. The next day I get a call from the sales guy from Saturday. He asks me if I want to come test drive it. I agree to come on Thursday.
So Thursday. I test drive the car. I have a lot of questions about it, but because it’s a Porsche and he sells BMWs he doesn’t know the answers to most of my questions. I finish the drive and go back to his office to make an offer. Things don’t start out well. I’m immediately suspicious because he tells me that I should get an extended warranty and that I have to buy one when I buy the car. He says that if I don’t buy an extended warranty when I buy the car that I’m not allowed to buy one later. That’s not true, I tell him. I could go to Porsche a week or a month later and buy an extended warranty. He doesn’t contradict me. Okay, so lie # 1 down. On to negotiating.
So the sticker price on the car is $29,971. My offer is $25,900. Too low the guy tells me. Okay, 26.9 then. He leaves to talk to his manager, ugh, I hate it when they do that. He comes back with a number typed on a piece of paper and it is… $29,971. Huh? Uh, excuse me, that’s the original asking price. How ‘bout you come down on that number. No, I’m told.
Then his manager comes. Odd that he’s the manager because he’s much younger than the salesman. The manager looked like he was about 25 years old. Definitely younger than me. He reminded me of Doogie Howser. A smarmy, evil, dark haired Doogie Howser. I’m good at my job, he announces. I know what I’m doing, he tells me. Okay, so he’s arrogant too.
So to recap, he’s a smarmy, evil, dark haired, arrogant Doogie Howser. He says he wants to get me into this car. Then lower the price, I tell him. No, he says, he isn’t going to lower the price. No? You’re not going to lower the asking price, I ask him incredulously. No, he tells me. Okaaaay, now what do I do, I wondered. In all of the car buying scenarios that played out in my head I hadn’t imagined one like this.
He says he’ll offer me a lower APR than my bank, which will save me money. Great, I tell him. Now lower the price on the car. He tells me that he’s losing money by offering me a lower APR than my bank. That made absolutely no sense at all to me. He gets a cut of the money from the financing, so how could he be losing money?
I had no intention of paying the sticker price and I didn’t come empty handed to our discussion either. I show him a list of other Cayennes thousands of dollars cheaper than his. He tells me that those are all mom and pop dealerships. Not Honda of Serramonte, I point out to him. He tells me that if I go to other dealerships I’m guaranteed to get a higher APR on my loan. I’m not going to assume that, I tell him. He says he wants to work with me. Fine, I say, lower the price on the car. He furrows his brow and cocks his head to one side. He gets a fake confused look on his face. I don’t understand, he tells me, I’m offering you such a good deal. Look, I tell him, all I want you to do is lower the price on the car. I point out the Cayenne at Honda of Serramonte again. They’re asking for $5000 less than you, I say. We own that Honda dealership, he tells me. He’ll sell me that car for their asking price. No! No, no, no! I’m not paying the sticker price for any car, I tell him. Now I’m completely exasperated. This was something I hadn’t anticipated. What kind of car salesman won’t haggle on a car price? Not even drop it one penny? Inside my head I hear Malcolm Gladwell taunting me.
He offers me an extended warranty, but it’s not as comprehensive as the factory warranty. I tell him that the warranty is all fine and good, but what I want is a lower price on the car. I tell him that if he’s not going to lower the price, I’m not going to buy. He tells me that he will lower the price. I tell him that he said earlier that he wouldn’t lower the price. He tells me that he said that he didn’t want to lower the price, not that he wouldn’t lower the price. Fine, I say, lower the price. But he doesn’t. Just give me a number, I tell him. Instead, he starts talking in hypotheticals. What would you say if I lowered the price $500, he asks. Problem is, he’s not lowering the price $500, he’s just asking me what I think about him lower the price $500. Just give me a number, I say. He keeps saying he’ll lower the price, but he refuses to commit to a number. Instead he keeps telling me about what a great deal he’s giving me and why don’t I understand that. Basta! I’ve had it with this guy. I’d come in to buy a car after being at work for nine hours. I’d had a bad day in court. It was raining and cold and dark outside. I had a 50 mile drive ahead of me to get home. Basta! Enough! I leave, really pissed off. Two and one half hours of my life wasted with this idiot.
Granted, buying cars is not an everyday thing for me, but what kind of salesman won’t haggle over the price of a car? It’s not like I’m trying to buy a Prius in the midst of a gas crisis. There’s no waiting list to get a Cayenne. That guy must have looked at me and thought, sucker. What other explanation is there? But I wasn’t a sucker. I was wearing a business suit since I’d just come from the office. I’d researched other cars and showed him the prices. I countered every argument he made. I was firm without being rude. All for nada. Was I getting the Chicago treatment? The next day his salesman calls me and leaves me a voicemail saying they’ll lower the price $1000. Thanks, but no thanks.
After test driving seven cars from five dealerships, I finally decided that the Cayenne was not for me. Too expensive. Too much gas. Too much hassle. Too much of everything. Instead I called Lexus of Marin and made an appointment. I met with a sales guy who didn’t announce to me how great he was at his job. He haggled on the price, he offered me an APR three points lower than the BMW manager offered, he didn’t lie to me, and most importantly, he didn’t talk down me like I was a silly little girl. I bought a Consumer Reports recommended, certified pre-owned car, with a three year/100,000 mile factory warranty, Bluetooth, backup camera, navigation. I paid $3000 below the Kelly Blue Book value and I’ll save $4000 in finance charges. I’m very, very happy. The salesman was a nice guy and I genuinely like him, but I was careful not to let that feeling affect the price I offered for the car. (If you’re car shopping and you don’t want to get screwed, let me know and I’ll happily pass on his contact information to you.)
Sadly, it looks like all of my future Porsche days will have to be in the passenger’s seat. But it’s not really sad at all. I got a zippy, sporty little car with all the bells and whistles for a great price. If I’d bought that Porsche and paid the sticker price I would have been unhappy every time I got behind the wheel.
My mortal enemy has been vanquished. That’s right cruel viper; I have conquered you. I did it! I conquered my fear of snakes. Or maybe I can say, I’m not afraid of this particular corn snake. Her name is Lilu, like the character in The Fifth Element. She doesn’t have teeth.
My Caramel Corn Colored Nemesis
I have been terrified of snakes since I was a child, but not anymore. Snake aversion therapy worked. I’m feeling a bit smug right now. So I’m wondering what fear to conquer next. What are my biggest fears? Heights and being buried alive. I can’t imagine I’ll be buried alive anytime soon, soooooooo, heights it is. If I get over my fear of heights I’ll be a better skier. Getting over my fear of being buried alive isn’t going to make me better at anything.
I’ve been afraid of snakes my whole life. I remember as a young child seeing a garter snake slithering through the front yard of my stepmother’s grandmother’s house. My step-cousin swung a hoe down on it and chopped its head off. The poor snake writhed and twisted. I’ll never forget that image. I remember seeing other snakes as a child. Sometimes they’d be shimmying through the water next to our boat when I was on fishing trips with my grandparents. They never bothered me before. I don’t know when my fear of snake really took hold. Maybe it was watching my step-cousin kill one so brutally that planted the thought it my head that snakes are awful and dangerous.
BTW, that scene was repeated when I was 17 years old in college on a retreat with other students in the San Bernardino Mountains. Pretty, huh?
Pretty full of rattlesnakes, I should say. See the arrow on the mountain? I consider that a Native American warning.
One scaly intruder that appeared to be the size of a semi truck slithered it’s way to our rooms. To say it was big would be to say that the Taj Mahal is big. It was BIG, and it rattled. Someone from our group called the maintenance department. A guy pulled up in a pickup truck, pulled out a hoe (apparently the weapon of choice for snake-i-cide) and chopped its head off. He took the hoe and flipped the head in the bushes. He took the body and threw it in the back of his truck and drove away. Just like that. It wasn’t seeing the snake being killed that bothered me so much as the casual way that the man did it. Like it was the kind of mundane task that he did 10 times a day. Which meant that I was in 10 Times a Day Rattlesnake Country. That was a place I did NOT want to be. So I spent the rest of the retreat a bit jumpy and constantly looking underfoot.
I started snake therapy by just looking at pictures of snakes. Not pleasant. As I kid, I wouldn’t even pick up the S volume of our World Book Encyclopedias at home, for fear that I’d accidentally turn to the wrong page and be greeted with a bunch of color pictures of snakes. Funny, when was the last time I saw a set of encyclopedias? I guess Wikipedia must have been devastating to the World Book/Encyclopedia Britanica sales force.
I graduated from looking at pictures of snakes to looking at real life snakes. Then I made it to the final frontier. I can now pick up a snake, hold it and put it around my neck. BTW, when I put her around my neck she tries to go into my hair and down my shirt.
Excuse me snake, but I don't like you like that.
It feels amazing to conquer a fear. I feel like I’m powerful. I went from the kind of person who would run away from a snake to one who will let one coil itself around my wrist, slide up my arm, twist around my fingers. I haven’t just overcome a personal fear, I’ve overcome an instinctive one too.
We color coordinated our outfits. Animal prints are in. Snakes are very fashionable.
I totally want a snake bracelet.
TV Killer
I did it. I finally killed my TV…sort of. It died from neglect. I moved three months ago, and I never called Comcast to set up cable at my new place. I kept meaning to do it, but procrastination ruled my life. Instead, I got a subscription to Netflix. Love it. It’s weird to go through life without MSNBC. No more Keith Olbermann. No more Rachel Maddow. No more Chris Matthews. Then I stopped listening to NPR in the mornings. Now I’m living in a bubble. I have no idea what’s going on in the world, with dire consequences. I was the very last person on the planet to find out that MacKenzie Phillips had been screwing her father for 10 years. When I hear stories like that it makes me realize how thankful I am to have a normal, caring dad. And now I can forgive my dad for anything because he was never weird or creepy or deviant. Hey Dad, remember that time when I was four and you went out for cigarettes in the middle of the night and I woke up and you weren’t there and I freaked out and ran up and down the halls crying? Forgiven. Hey Dad, remember that time when I was five and you made my oatmeal and I complained that it tasted funny and you told me to eat it anyway and then later you realized that you’d put spoilt milk in it? Forgiven. Hey Dad, remember that time when I was four and I was sitting at the table with you and my sister Macy and I leaned back in the chair and accidentally tipped back and fell and hit my head and started crying and instead of getting up and helping me you and Macy sat there cracking up? Unforgivable! I’m still holding a grudge about that one.
Car Killer
I did it. I finally killed my car. Not sort of, for real. I wrecked my beloved Infiniti G20. Beloved because it lasted for so long. 220,000 miles! I was going to drive that car until the wheels fell off, but no. Instead, I rear ended another car on the 280. *sigh* It was so sad seeing my hood all crumpled up, headlight broken, radiator dented. I looked at its broken little body at the mechanic’s and thought, so this is what it feels like to be a murderer. I wonder if that car knew when I picked it off the lot that I would kill it one day. Kind of like how plants in a nursery start to shake when they see me reaching out for them.
Okay, so that's not actually a picture of my car, and my car wasn't that badly damaged, but this is what my soul felt like inside.
So now I’ve got to go get another car. I soooo loved not making car payments. I’m tempted to use my insurance money and just get another 1999 Infiniti. But there’s a spicier side of me. A side that wants something, hmm, faster. Zippier. Sadly, zippy comes at a cost. I wrecked my car more than three weeks ago and only yesterday did I make it to a dealership to test drive another car. I know I need to get another car, but I don’t want to haggle over a car with some guy in a cheap suit.
Mastery of the WASP-y Sports Continues…Archery!
My WASP-y sports pursuits have taken a turn for the lethal lately. Fencing, shooting. I seem to gravitate toward weaponry. And why not? There’s something incredibly satisfying about taking up arms. Makes me feel all caveman-y and primal. What will it be next? Jousting? Well, I don’t think it’s fair to say that I’ve mastered archery. I’ve only taken one lesson. As with fencing, I decided to turn to the internet for guidance. I typed “Archery San Francisco” into the search engine and voila! Cupid’s Gate at Golden Gate Park. The cost: $80. For my $80 I get two hours of instruction, a bow and a quiver of arrows.
The archery range is far out in the Avenues, close to the chilly Pacific Ocean, and it occurs to me as I’m standing in the park in November, shivering with my Ralph Lauren ski jacket on, that archery really should be a summer and/or indoor activity, because while it’s technically a sport, it’s not something that you can warm up and work up a sweat while doing it. Under Armor, my instructor informs me, is necessary to keep me warm.
First I get safety instructions. Don’t dry fire the bow, meaning don’t fire it without an arrow loaded. Why? Because it can damage the bow, I’m told. Don’t walk across other lanes where people are shooting. Well, that certainly seems wise. I don’t want my session to end with me looking like Saint Sebastian.
Is it just me or does he look like he’s enjoying being tied to a post and shot with arrows? Surely this must be a fluke. Let me investigate by looking at some more pictures.
And why's he wearing that tiny loin cloth?
And where are those other guy's pants? Last time I checked pulling out arrows was not a pants optional event.
Alright buddy. That's it. You're not fooling me. I'm on to you and your arrow penis. Put it back in your pants.
How did I never notice this before? Saint Sebastian was a total freak.
So what was I talking about? Oh, yeah, archery. So how does it work? I take a heavy metal bow, I load my arrow onto it and pull back the string. I line up the target, the tip of the arrow, my lips and eyes all in the same line of sight. I look through a sight on the left side of the bow and when everything is in line, I release.
So I shoot off about 100 arrows, and a few times I manage to hit the yellow center. How do I like it, asks my teacher. Hmmm, it’s okaaaaay, I answer hesitantly. He looks disappointed that I’m not showing more enthusiasm. Truthfully, I was bored and both my arms were sore from holding the heavy metal bow. He tells me that I’m pretty good for a beginner, but that with practice I can get to the point where it will be unusual for me to not hit the center. He takes a few videos of me shooting arrows to show me how to correct my form. I finish my two hour lesson, pay him his $80 and take off. The next morning I wake up and both my arms are hurt.
Over the last few days I’ve been thinking about archery. I’m surprised because I was initially so bored with it, but now it’s planted itself into my head and I want to try it again. I want to get to that magical point where it’s unusual for me not to hit my target. I think I might go back for a second lesson.
Here I am. Check out that form.
http://sharing.theflip.com/session/936a
Next and final WASP-y sport of 2009, SQUASH!
Squash, prepare to be mastered…
