http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ncjYnLgxyCI

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VMJdxiwhFFw

best part 2

Seems like it happens every holiday season: a family warmly invites man's best friend into their home to share in the spirit of the season and then some Scrooge wants to give them back to the pound and tell the kids that they ran away. My wife is that Scrooge.

Just the day after Jesus' birthday was Tough Tim's bachelor party in Atlantic City. A good time was had by all except for my white t-shirt which made it look as if I got a lapdance from Aunt Flo or was a shy German porn star due to the fact that I spilled Disco Fry gravy all over myself. This tragic event spawned true love.

As my friends ridiculed me with chants of 'Homeless man, homeless man' down the boardwalk, I walked into a cheapo gift shop to replace my shirt and fell in love with my 3 little canine darlings. The most beautiful shirt God or a Laotian in a sweatshop was right in front of me and only ninety nine cents. I was so excited that I ran onto the boardwalk and changed my shirt, right motherfucking there...the cat calls were ear shattering. For the first time in my life I was truly happy; thanks to those 3 little doggies with the nonsensical message: "Beach Bums, Atlantic City."

I wore my special shirt to a New Year's Eve party and was the belle of the ball. Every chick wanted me, every guy wanted to be me. It was all to much for the missus. She hates the site of the dog shirt so much that she refuses to perform her wifely duties if I'm rocking it and looking cool. So I have to give it away. I gave 2 bags to Goodwill today, but I couldn't fathom seeing a real bum wearing the Beach Bums. This shirt needs a good, loving home with an owner and sig other that will truly understand it.

2 hrs of sleep and off to Newark Liberty. "Drillbit Taylor" on the micro screen means that I get to finish reading 'American Vertigo'-- which is great news. In a world of bullshit job titles Bernard-Henri Levy is a good 'ol Philisophe and I dig what he does. Do you know what 118 degrees feels like? Serious shit, like a hairdryer on high right in your face. The shade isn't much better, it's like a hairdryer on medium.

Toby Keith has a place called "I Love This Bar and Grill" that serves fried bologna sandwiches, but it never happens. Vegas is Douche City, USA. The official uniform is head to toe Ed Hardy, a hat on sideways and cherub locks sticking out looking like Nick Hogan impersonators or the classier Affliction Guido fauxhawk look. This makes me ill. People pretending to be rich makes me even iller. Seems like every successful club/restaurant has a satellite in Vegas with assholes stepping over themselves to give the fat doorman a c-note for the opportunity to buy a $400 bottle of Grey Goose and mix their own drinks...fuck that.

My blackjack karma is good, but my hotel room sucks. The AC unit is weak as fuck and the beds have down comforters which means a feather in my throat and cartoon like snoring. Wolfgang Puck's MGM joint is the best in Vegas--Veg friendly too. Wifey's friend is a trooper: partying in Vegas one day after being diagnosed with a Guatemalan stomach parasite; fucking hardcore. I saw Mike Tyson in person and he's like 300lbs and looks nothing like my childhood idol.

I'm staying downtown in some grind joint next time. Those are my people, I don't need Michelin stars and South beach nightclubs. I want lounge singers, cowboy hats, fat people at the pool, sequins, 100 ounce margaritas, $5 table minimums, pregnant strippers, ill fitting suits, old cocktail waitresses, free shows that are worth every penny, karaoke singing and shady characters. That's my Vegas. I'll leave the strip for the rubes. 2 weeks after Amsterdam and Vegas ain't shit.

It's not a proper vacation if you don't accomplish the following:

1- Eat too much
2- Drink too much
3- Be near a body of water; natural or man made
4- Get a horrible sunburn
5- Have sex with a stranger

Considering the fact that I traveled with my wife, 4 out of 5 ain't bad.

I arrived at the airport breathing like Tony Soprano due to my awesome chest congestion. "The Bucket List" is an awful movie, anyone who doesn't hate it doesn't know what's good. Don't order the vegetarian meal on Continental International--it tastes like curried turd. Banana Hammocks. Every chick at the beach has a "Howard Stern Ass" (the kind of 80's, 'lil flattie that Stern and his cronies love.)

The water in Israel is undrinkable--it's salty and makes you more thirsty, even the bottled stuff is as they say 'rock water' or 'stone water' AKA mineral water. I'm dying of thirst and my piss looks like whiskey. Worst. Mexican. Ever. My sweetie ordered veggie fajitas and got an Asian stir fry, fried rice with peanut and cold black bean dip. The 'nachos' looked like the aftermath of an abortion over pizza chips covered in melted mozzarella. 280 Shekels for that shit and the story isn't even funny.

Life is good. Sitting on the beach at night, smoking a hookah, sipping Goldstar, lamenting the bad Mexi food with other Americans who had an even worse experience than us and watching the champions league final. Chelsea loses...Israel mourns. We watch Russian Celebrity Boxing on the Commie channel: Ballet dudes Vs. rappers, Wolfman actors vs chubby comedians: good times.

My baby says it's so hot she wishes someone would steal her organs, just for the ice bath afterwards. We walk the entire city and it's official: unless you are 17 and like techno, the nightlife sucks camel balls. Back to the Hookah beach bar. Beni Hadayag is the greatest restaurant ever. Their fried Calamari blows away any Italian joint I've ever been too. On the topic of Brooklyn Guineas mangling the beautiful and melodramatic Italian language (I think this one comes from my sister's boyfriend): They are in the process of ordering and he chooses 'calamari.'Douchebag waiter corrects him and says "galamad" to which her boyfriend responds "Do you call Pavarotti 'Pavarad" too?" I like that one

Everyone's grandmother makes the best food, but my grandmother-in-law is whatever word means better than the best. My father in law's band plays and I really dig it and so does everyone else. His solo's are clean and crisp. We all had fun.

They say the best trip to Amsterdam is the one you don't remember...but I don't smoke pot. My first time since 1997 and nothing really changed except the quality of my lodgings. From the Flying Pig hostel to the Golden Tulip is quite a leap. Whores in windows, Charlie boys, weed and space cakes, blah, blah, blah. The pancakes are the real attraction.

Me and the lady are off on a Tel Aviv-Amsterdam jaunt. I'm sure that we'll have good pictures and stories to share when we return. Thanks for reading this and the real blog. Stay awesome.

[I try my best to avoid writing about past relationships, because being married can really get in the way of doling out experience based dating advice. I'll make an exception in this case because this was the Genesis of my awesomeness. Awesomeness that will one day lead to the brilliantly titled "A Rail Off a Stripper's Ass Still Smells Like Coolie."]



Infidelity in the confines of a monogamous relationship is recognized as the ultimate dealbreaker for anyone with the slightest bit of self esteem. At least that was the way I thought, until it happened to me. In reality, the best thing to ever happen to my sex life was the moment my long term ex admitted to cheating on me. Prior to that revelation I was a sucker who bought into the whole fidelity fairy tale. When she first hit me with the news, I was devastated; then at the bottom of a bottle of Jameson, I had a revelation.

My precious little angel was wracked with guilt after admitting to fooling around with a good friend of mine. She reeked of desperation as she saw our relationship crumble due to her lack of moral virtue. I could tell that she would do anything in her power to make things right with me, anything. After a week away I came home and we had makeup sex. It's wasn't the bland and vanilla (not French vanilla or Breyer's double churned or even vanilla bean but plain old store brand vanilla) sex I was used to; she was fucking like a porn star to get me back in her good graces, and it was working; but how far could I push the envelope?

Two weeks after she dropped the bomb on me I was in the middle of a three way with her and a friend of hers that I had wanted to fuck forever. None of this would have been possible without her cheating and attempting to transform into the 'perfect' girlfriend. This could get any better; or could it?

I took things a step further after rationalizing that I had a "free pass" to hook up because she crossed the infidelity threshold first. My revenge seeking roving eye led to quite a few guilt free encounters. Picking up chicks became much easier, knowing that if I failed I still had a plan B waiting at home for me in the form of my cheater chick. I'd approach the best looking girls with all the confidence in the world because I didn't have the desperation of a single person, I could take it or leave it. Sometimes I'd even wear a fake wedding ring to pick up a married chick. I had the best of both worlds: chicks on the side and my lady still playing good girl at home.

Face the fact...Everybody cheats,
It's part of life, you all did it and it has been done to you whether you know it or not. Women do it to feel pretty or get attention and men have planting the flag in different places programmed into their DNA, you just can't beat nature, so you might as well accept it. Why wait 15 years until she cheats and you're too old to pick up 21 year olds. Cheat early, cheat often. Be first or be worse.

I have a new term for something that is talked up to no end and turns out to be a crushing letdown: Tel Aviv Nightlife. I'm usually with Chuck D when someone is zealously recommending anything in order to avoid disappointment. Even with my reservations, I find that I am able to find something redeeming in almost any hype job, with one notable exception: Tel Aviv Nightlife.

I learned to take everything Israeli's say with a grain of salt. To hear them tell it, the seaside city of Tel Aviv suddenly turns into Ibiza crossed with Vegas when the sun goes down. My experience was something vastly different. On our first visit we went into some place that unbeknownst to us was the 'cool' rock club, there were 7 people there including myself, my wife and my brother in law; we listened to Hendrix and talked about New Jersey with the bartender---Rock on. We were scolded for going out so early--Israeli's don't go out until midnight, we were told.

Armed with A Time Out T.A. we picked an ultra lounge, arrived well after the clock struck 12 and it was a half empty jazz club that served dangerously undercooked chicken kebabs. Undeterred, we went to the top rated bar: Mikes- an awful American-British sports bar across the street from the U.S. embassy where some curly haired creep kept telling me how beautiful my wife is and couldn't figure out why she was with an unclean Gentile like me. Anyway, we were informed that it was the wrong night and anywhere on Friday was going to be crazier than a foam party at Plato's Retreat.

Friday night on Allenby St. was like Mardi Gras...minus the people, fun, drinking and tits, seriously, some grouchy Russian bouncer tried to charge my girl a prohibitive entry fee to keep her out of a strip club. Now the excuse turned to the wrong time of year, but there's an Irish pub we should check out that was imported brick by brick from Wexford--Fuck me!

So, we're going back in 2 weeks and things aren't looking too promising. We found a goth club, but the website is in Russian and a Goth-Fetish night that features regular ass Shikira looking chicks domming it up; a good thing, just not our thing. Coming up empty on any rockabilly or garage rock nights...Hello Mike's.

I guess nothing ever lives up to the hype except a slice of DiFara Pizza, sipping champagne and watching the sun set on the pacific with someone you love and looking down and seeing 2 chicks doing an impression of sharing a nice corn on the cob.

Apart from Prada coke straws, chicks like nothing more than feeling special. Buy her a ring garnished with 10k worth of dead Africans and she's on walking on air until the next event in the princess progression. Unfortunately, all women won't get the ring, parties and attention that comes with that shit show. What to do about the lonely, yet attractive girl at the bar? How do you make the day she met you stand out in her boring life?

I have a theoretical long con/pickup scheme that hasn't been field tested, but I'm pretty sure is as good as my dozens of other 'tardish gambits. It's called 99 Problems and it goes like this: You're talking to a regular ol' barslut and feel like jazzing up the 'What's your name and what do you do?' bullshit that starts 8 out of 10 stupid people relationships. If you're pretty sure the chick you're chatting up wants to hang out with you for a good time, not a long time, start telling her about your recent 'struggles'.

Since you hooked up with girl number 99, you haven't had any action in months. You are in a worse funk than when Gary Carter was chasing his 300th homerun (that shit took forever), you can't hit triple digits to save your life because you want number 100 to be remarkably good looking and therefore memorable. FYI, Women react to words like 'stunning' and 'beautiful' much more than 'hot'; which they hear from bums and grown up frat men on a daily basis.

She's going to rightfully assume that you are judging her as a potential candidate for your centennial conquest and start revealing gems about herself in order to upsell. Women will always revert to upselling when you take a power position; taking them out of their comfort zone of being able to get any man by virtue of having a vagina. After a few drinks it should be hook, line and sinker. You established yourself as the experienced good time Charlie and she'll be coming home with you looking for that elusive adventure. It wouldn't hurt to have some streamers, confetti and balloons at the ready once the deed is done...it'll make for a better story when she's telling her friends about the wild night she had.

..


So after all that slamming of Guys/girls night out I did yesterday, I forgot to make a large part of my point, which tends to happen to me often because I drink. The number one reason why I'll never be part of the He Man Woman Haters' Guy's Only cum on a cracker club is that I'm an optimist. I have this notion, although it has never, ever, ever happened to me before that if the stars are aligned right and the alcohol hits at the precisely right time, that I'll be able to swing a three way. My chick is kind of a chick magnet and has a low tolerance for booze which is a hell of a good start. All I need to do is get her drunk enough to think it's a good idea and find a girl who doesn't find me physically revolting; which isn't that easy of a task. So although I have a better chance of talking to a burning bush, I keep hope alive like Jesse Jackson and there is no hetero hope of a three way when hanging out with your boys. What are you going to do: call your girl at home in her pajamas and no makeup telling her that you're bringing over this wildcard broad you just met? Fat chance of something like that working.


The other thing I neglected was in reference to the unloved portion of my blog. I wanted to voice my annoyance at people who consider a pet their best friend. That shit drives me up a wall--make a fucking friend that wasn't bred into retardation over generations to be dependent on you who will eat your face when you die....My best friend won't. And I really wanted to use the word "Cat'll"

...If you're into Girls/Guys night out. If single sex nights out are your thing, I regret to inform you that you are unloved. There is nothing inherently wrong with hanging out with the guys or the girls, but when you insist on behaving like a Muslim all the time, it tells the world that the other side of your bed is as cold Newfoundland in January.

I happen to enjoy the company of the woman I married and don't really want to waste valuable weekend time spent apart because someone jerk objects to people being happy when they aren't. Guys Night's in the traditional sense consists of bullshit parlor games like darts and pool and drinking 'till the point of 'I love you man." Obviously I don't roll with fools like that and when I'm with my wife I'm exactly the same as when she's not with me because I'm not pretending to be anything other than what I am and she seems to dig me that way. So many guys have to 'watch themselves' when their girl is around and I wish Don Corleone would smack their faces like he did to Johnny Fontaine and remind them that they have a set of balls between their legs and to cut the shit.

I have no problem with independent activities. If she wants to see an awful movie or go to some Gothic Bellydance reeking of armpit event, she has friends that will gladly go with her and spare me. Likewise, if a sporting event or an Irish pub is on the agenda, she'll find something-anything else to do. All I'll say about girls nights out is that it's codeword for making out with strangers, but getting cockblocked by your less attractive friends if you want to go any further.

Next time you insist on a single sex night out, take a good look in the mirror and try to figure out just what it is that's preventing another person from truly caring about you. Then fix that problem and let go of the jealousy...you'll be much happier that way.

I somehow managed to pull a muscle in my back while drinking coffee yesterday. I'm not actually sure if it's a pulled muscle or a pinched nerve, but it's one of those back things that come around once in a blue and feel like Chinese torture. Who the fuck hurts their back drinking coffee? This is a new low, even for me. I feel like someone is jabbing my spine with a hot poker every time I move. I have taken a handfull of Alleve, numerous hot showers, marathon sessions with the Hitachi Magic Wand, one of those Icy Hot patches that Shaq shills on TV and all the massages my lady's poor little hands could stand...and it still kills.

I woke up this morning like a fucking stiff again, walking around like a pretzel (if a pretzel winced in pain from the slightest movement) and then the cleaning lady came. As is the case every time the cleaning lady is doing her thing, my bowels get the Bat signal and start doing me wrong. For some God awful reason I have to drop a massive deuce whenever the cleaning lady comes. I would never dream of blowing up my own toilet and getting made for the mad bomber, so I'm forced to do one of my least favorite things in the world every other Tuesday morning: shit somewhere other than my apartment.

Fortunately, my building has a toilet next to the laundry room in the basement. Unfortunately, it's either always occupied or locked. So now I'm in the street like a vagabond and decide that a massage at the Qi Gong place on 29th (which is totally legit as per my blog about the Undercover Rub n' Tugger) would be just the ticket for my back, because Asians understand energy or something--that was my thinking at the time. I figured I could hold it in until after the massage and use the bathroom at my bank. If I could walk around the Met for 2 hours stomach a-churnin' while wifey is looking at costumes and I'm thinking about toilets, I could survive a 20 minute massage.

On my way there I have to pass through the Skel minefield that is Second avenue in the 20's. I walk by the usual Methadonians, project dwellers and Bellevue outpatients and something so outrageous was going on that it stood out in this sea of human refuse. An older retarded guy was bullying a younger one. I hate bullies, but I didn't know how to address this particular case and walked on by. Of course the massage place is closed and I'm forced to run the gauntlet of suck on my way back home. The Special Olympics of bullying is still going on and I have to do something. Right?

Stupid me gets in the middle of this debacle thinking these 2 tards are just going to go their seperate ways. That wasn't the case. The bully tard directs his anger towards me. I now realize something awful: My back pain is making physically incapable of defending myself, my right leg is still in recovery and there is a very real possibility that an angry dude full of tard strength is going to kick my ass in front of a bunch of bums and I might have an accident to put a cherry on top of this shit sundae. I'm in a cold sweat now. This can't be happening.

Luckily, I was able to outsmart the bully and defuse his anger to the point that he started bothering me, trying to explain that "Mistah, Mistah, he started it." I vow that from now on the possibility of me having my worst day ever will never hinge on the whim of a mentally handicapable man ever again. If being a Good Samaritan entails a silly looking fight and pant shitting, it isn't for me.

Look here's the skinny: I don't want any musicians, Joe Pro's, Ugly people or jerkoffs involved in this project. I only want hopeless dudes who can only get puss because of the instrument they play (as long as that instrument isn't bass) and attention whoring chicks with theatrical flair.

I'm not even concerned with your level of talent as long as you can do as you are told. I had to bury the brilliant idea of the Motley Kruizers because everyone in NY is boring except me, so for this I'll have no preconceived notions. If you want to do gypsy punk and call ourselves The Knacker Born Killers....fantastic, whatever I'm drinking a Colt 45 and having a panic attack so this isn't making much sense.

Just be in Manhattan. I'm not traveling to the ass end of Brooklyn to practice. The Manhattan part is of the utmost importance, 10 steps ahead of ability. I've been in every type of band imaginable except for jazz, because nobody really likes that shit and I'm not good enough...so your awful taste in music shouldn't stop you from hollering at me.

Download a song called "Baltimore Whores" from Gavin Friday and if you like it email me, if you don't like it, reconsider, listen again, like it and then email me.