This is pretty embarrassing...

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I'm an Auteur

Last night I dreamt I was attending the premiere of a film I had written and directed. I stepped out of the limo and onto the red carpet and people were going nuts. Apparently the movie had been very well received and critics were using words like "brilliant" and "sublime" to describe it. The adulation and praise being heaped upon me felt amazing--and so real!

Unfortunately I woke up without an ounce of knowledge regarding the film's plot, characters, or individual scenes. The only thing I do recall--and I recall it quite clearly--was a glimpse I got of the movie poster as I was ushered into the theater. The poster consisted of a bare (male) ass. To the left of the ass was E.T.'s glowing finger. Bold letters across the top proclaimed the title: Phoning Home

Valentine's Day 2010

As I pulled into the parking lot of 24 Hour Fitness this evening, I was a bit surprised to find it full. Given that it was Sunday--and Valentine's Day--I had hoped to get in a good workout without the crowd, but here I was searching fruitlessly for a spot as if it were 5:00 p.m. on a weekday shortly after New Year's. Looking at all the cars taking up all the spots that should be free and clear and available for me, I just kept thinking: Who are all these pathetic losers? Don't they have anything better to do on Valentine's than go to the gym?

I mean, really. Come on.

In the elevator from the garage to the main floor of the gym, I silently hoped there was some other explanation for the multitude of vehicles in the parking lot and that I'd be able to work out without all the annoyances of a crowded gym, but when the doors slid open I was confronted with the cold, harsh reality: the place was packed, absolutely teeming with dateless losers! I couldn't believe it. I glanced at the non-existent watch on my wrist and scrunched my face into a look of utter confusion. It was way too late for anyone to be getting in a quick, pre-date pump or cardio fix. No, these people were all bona fide freaks that no one loved. Unbelievable. The odds of having a smooth workout, unencumbered by the masses, were looking slim indeed.

I let out a really heavy and audible sigh at my misfortune, then slapped a couple plates on the bench-press bar and went to it. In between sets, I looked around at all the schlubs and schlub-ettes relegated to the gym for a workout on the most romantic night of the year. Some of them were actually pretty attractive. I figured they had shitty personalities or something. I mean, why else wouldn't they have plans tonight?

Continuing my workout, I was all set to get started on some Bent-Over One-Arm Tricep Extensions, but I couldn't find the 40-pound dumbbells. Turns out some girlfriend-less asshole was bogarting the 30-, 35-, and 40-pounders. They were all clustered around him on the floor while he struggled to do a Seated Palms-In Alternated Shoulder Press with some 25's. I calmly approached and asked if he was using the 40's. He replied that he was "about to" and waved me off.

That really got my blood boiling.

Settling for the 45-pound dumbbells (which were too heavy) and working through three (sub-optimal) sets of ten (less-than-ideal) reps, I ran through all the things I wished I had the balls to say to the guy: Why are you here? I can understand nobody wanting to date you. I get that. But don't you have any single friends you can hang out with tonight? Wild 94.9's "Bitter Ball" started 30-minutes ago and it's supposed to be a ton of fun for people who find themselves alone on Valentine's Day. Why aren't you there? Why didn't you just stay home and masturbate? (I know it crossed my mind.) Are you really just that big of a loser that you have no girl and no friends and nothing better to do on Valentine's Day than come to the gym and workout--and fuck up my workout in the process?

I mean, come on!

Anyway, despite having to contend with a number of society's cast-offs--the freaks, geeks, and lame-o's who decided to descend on the gym tonight--I actually had a pretty decent squeeze. On my way out, I spotted the super-cute, front-desk girl that I've been secretly fantasizing about for months. She has the sweetest smile and absolutely gorgeous eyes. I'd always assumed that someone as beautiful as her would undoubtedly have a boyfriend or, even if she was single, be totally unapproachable. But here she was, alone and looking better than ever. I knew that if I ever had a shot, this was it, and I knew I'd regret it forever if I didn't say something to her.

"Shame you have to work on Valentine's," I said as I walked past her toward the elevator. She looked up at me and smiled.

"Oh, it's cool," she said. "I don't have a boyfriend anyway, and I didn't really have anything better to do..."

I stepped into the elevator and watched her as the doors closed. When they had fully closed and I could no longer see her, I couldn't help but think: What kind of a pathetic loser has nothing better to do on Valentine's Day than work--at a gym, no less?

Speaking of work, last week was brutal and I've got some serious catching up to do. I better get started right away or I'll be up all night...

Light My Candle

I threw out my IKEA candles the other day.  I can't have candles because they're dangerous.  Well, they're not dangerous by themselves, but me and candles don't mix.  The problem is I can't just light some candles and relax and do other stuff.  I have to watch the candles burn.  It's fascinating to watch the flame flicker and move and the wax start to melt, but inevitably I get bored.  Instead of, say, writing something or doing something productive, I start to 'mess' with the candles.  I blow just enough so they're about to go out, but not enough to actually blow them out--you know, just to fuck with 'em.  Then when that's lost its fun, I usually start putting things in the flame--small bits of paper, the used matches, action figures, etc.  I still haven't learned that burning plastic stinks like shit and I go open all my windows and what not.  Something else I like to do is lay a couple of the matchsticks over the candle in a tee-pee fashion.  What this does is create a much bigger flame.  The matches don't burn--they just provide another means for the flame to feed off the wax.  Anyway, I fell asleep last night and woke up to the sound of my smoke alarm screaming.  One of the burning matches had fallen off the candle and into the candle dish which--get this--was FLAMMABLE!  So the candle dish is on fire and the metal part of the candle that holds in the wax is on fire and I'm delirious, it's 3:00 AM, and I'm like oh shit!  I almost burned the house down.  And that was like the eighth time in the couple months that I've had the candles that I almost did that so I threw out the holders--they were all blackened anyway.

Space Wasters

So my brother, The Douche, and I have a little TV Show on Public Access in San Francisco.  Initially, it was just gonna be a TV thing, but we've decided to make the episodes available for download for those who don't live in San Francisco or those who do live in San Francisco but can't not see the second half-hour of 24. 

Below are trailers for our first two episodes.  They're stupid, but they're definitely improving.  I think our next episode is going to be our best one yet and hopefully the one after that will be even better.  So stay tuned!

Anyway, check 'em out and let us know what you think:

Episode 1
Episode 2
Full episodes can be downloaded at
I got nothin&#39;

Here's Something

I went to the gym tonight, which is something I do on occasion. Tonight's occasion? I didn't have any muscles. So I went to the gym to go get some.

While I was working out, I saw this guy wearing an AWESOME pair of pants. For the briefest of moments I considered walking right up to him, telling him how cool I thought his pants were, and asking where he got them. But I decided that would be totally gay, so I didn't. Then I spent the next half-hour following him around, sneaking furtive glances at his ass (in what proved to be a futile attempt at reading the label on his right butt-cheek).

During my attempt to discern the clothing company responsible for the super-cool pants, I overheard Awesome-Pants-Dude telling Old-Muscle-Guy-in-Tank-Top about a girl in the gym whose body was "absolutely perfect" but whose face was "absolutely hideous." (For the record, I saw the girl he was referring to and his description was completely accurate.) Anyway, Old-Muscle-Guy-in-Tank-Top just laughed heartily, slapped Awesome-Pants-Dude on the shoulder and said: "Dat's why God invented light-switches!"

Every once in a while a situation arises in life that has the ability to become a revelation of sorts, forcing one to rethink the world and everything in it. Clearly this was one of those times. For even though I'd been using light-switches on a daily basis for more than a quarter-century, I had never really considered the reason for their existence or that God Himself may have invented them. Thanks to Old-Muscle-Guy-in-Tank-Top-(with gold chain and overflowing chest hair) my mind was blown. And given that I hadn't been blown in quite some time, it was a pretty cool feeling. It was as if I'd been walking around in the dark all these years and someone suddenly--wait for it--flipped the light-switch, allowing me to look at the world in a whole new way.

Later in the evening I found myself in the grocery store. Well, I guess I didn't actually "find myself"...but anyway, I was there, at the grocery store, and I kind of fell in love with this girl behind me in line. The whole time the checker was checking me out, I was checking this girl out. She was beautiful: her hair, brown; her eyes, green; her lips, silently counting the number of items I had placed onto the conveyor belt; her mind, trying to determine if I belonged in the Express Line. I did, in fact, and I was out of there quickly, but not before I overheard her say the most amazing thing: "I forgot my Club Card, but I can give you my phone number." Not surprisingly, the time it took for me to gather up my grocery bags turned out to be exactly the length of time it took for her to recite her phone number.

Now I'm in bed and I'm dreaming about calling her. I've got the perfect plan: I'll pretend like I dialed the wrong number, but instead of apologizing and hanging up, I'll say, "Hey, this is gonna sound crazy, but..." and the next thing you know my awesome pants will be on the floor, we'll start having sex (with the lights ON) and she'll stop kissing me just long enough to say, "Wow, you must work out."
my story

February 14, 2006 - According to my mother, I'm not retarded

I received an envelope in the mail today with my parents' return address on it. Inside the envelope was a card. On the front of the card were the words, "You're Special!" surrounded by a large red border. There were little colored hearts all over it and all I could think was:

Oh shit... It's Valentine's Day and I forgot to get a girlfriend again.

My heart sank. I couldn't believe it. Had it really been an entire year since the last time I got a Valentine's Day card from my mom? My God, it had. But according to the Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen calendar hanging on my bedroom wall, V-Day wasn't until Saturday, so I still had a couple days to find a date.

Or, rather, I thought I did until I tore my eyes away from the sweet, angelic beauty that is the Olsen Twins just long enough to notice the digits 2-0-0-4 tucked away on the far side of the calendar, right after the word February (and the Real Calendars for Real Girls insignia). My heart sank. I couldn't believe it. Had it really been two years since I bought that calendar at Target for five dollars, brought it home, wrapped it up, and put it under the Christmas tree with a "TO BRIAN LOVE SANTA" tag on it before immediately ripping it open and feigning genuine surprise while gushing, "This is exactly what I wanted!"?

My God, it had.

And now, thanks to a loving mother and an outdated wall calendar, I suddenly found myself contemplating the fact that I was old and alone. I tried to remember the last time I had a date for Valentine's, but I was drawing a blank. There was one Valentine's Day, a few years ago, where I distinctly remember calling a girl who looked exactly like P!nk, but I'm not sure if that, technically, constitutes as a date or not because a) it was 11:00pm when I called her, and b) she didn't answer the phone.

Anyway, back to the card from my mom. Here's what the inside said:

This Valentine just seemed to be
The best for you by far,
Because it says "You're Special,"
And that's just what you are!

And then, right after that, my mom had added a hand-written parenthetical note: and I only mean 'special' in the best possible way!

Happy Valentine's Day, everybody! I hope you're not retarded and that somebody loves you!


Don't be silly! You can BOTH be my Valentine!