I went to Montana in October because when I was there in 2019, I fell in love with it — Northwestern Montana specifically — and wanted to see if it was an illusion. As I was sitting in the balcony of my Airbnb cabin while looking at the above scene sipping on my morning coffee with my closest neighbor a half-mile away, it was hard not to totally fall in love.

Downtown Missoula
Downtown Missoula
Look at Missoula!

My boss is going on maternity leave in late January, so I decided that I would take a vacation before she leaves — I don’t think I can handle another six months of no vacation even on antidepressants! So I’m headed back to NW Montana then. Yes, this native Californian will be going to fucking Montana in the dead of winter. For vacation.

I do want to see if I can handle the winter there and see how feasible it is for me to move there at some point in my life. Let’s see how it goes.

Sundays are usually the day I go to the Korean market. I drive down Olympic Blvd. or Wilshire Blvd. depending on the store to get the banchan (side dishes) and ingredients I need.

I just couldn’t today. It’s not that I’m scared of encountering looting, or violence, or being stranded. I just couldn’t bear to see my city looking like this.

I’m saddened by all of this. Is this what Trump wants? Are we going to have an election in November? How much longer will choppers be circling overhead until 4 am and flashbangs go off all hours of the night?

A lot of sports fans are busting their nut over this 30 for 30 44253-part series “The Last Dance” about Michael Jordan. “Oooh Michael Jordan is so great, blah blah blah.”

Puke.

Growing up I hated Michael Jordan. Well to be fair, I didn’t even think about him until 1991 when he beat the Lakers in the Finals. I think what pissed me off the most was seeing kids my age wearing Bulls gear all over here in LA. Really? I think that’s also when my cynicism towards people started at the tender age of 12. People are fucking stupid and have no loyalty.

Throughout the 90s there really was no reason to watch basketball. If MJ was playing, then the Bulls were going to win the title. The Lakers were… Well no one really reminisces about the great Nick Van Exel era or Del Harris.

During Jordan’s second comeback with the Washington Wizards from 2001-2003, I got sick and tired of hearing everyone kiss his ass. So I did what any early 20-something would do, write a slanderous story about him.

I just read it, and oh fucking hell is it just a bunch of cringe. But I guess that’s what happens when you read what you wrote almost 20 years ago. So I present to you: I WAS MICHAEL JORDAN’S SEX SLAVE.

It began innocently enough back in my senior year of high school back in 1997. I had been out of the closet for just over a year and was naturally horny. I was ready to stick my dick in any orifice available (and have other dicks in my orifices).

My mom and her boyfriend had an extra ticket to the Lakers game against the Bulls. Of course this was the time the Bulls dominated the NBA. Although basketball bored me to tears (still does), I had nothing better to do that night so I decided to go.

My mom’s boyfriend, though, was a basketball nut. He wanted to get to the Forum early in hopes of meeting some of the players. I decide to separate from the old folks and sit against the wall to write my poetry of angst. As I’m lost in my world of verse and doom, I sense a shadow standing over me. “Does it say ‘circus’ on my fucking forehead,” I yelled, not looking up from my notebook.

“It’s mighty nice to see someone being productive with their time,” a deep voice intoned. I looked up and there he was – the driving force behind the Bulls (and Hanes, and Nike, and Gatorade, and countless other brands). I admit I was a bit starstruck for a moment, but that quickly passed as I realized he broke my concentration.

“You made me lose my train of thought,” I exclaimed. “What are you going to do about it now?”

“Come with me,” he said.

I hesitated. It would be cool to hang out with a superstar, but he interrupted me as I was going to respond.

“Let’s tell your parents that you’re going with me,” he offered, and off we went. He said he wanted to change his clothes and take me out to lunch as a peace offering.

We arrived at his hotel room, and I waited on his bed checking out the room as he went into the bathroom to change. As I was fiddling around with the clock radio (little things interest me so much), he came into the room wearing only a leather jockstrap that was too small for his willie.

“I’m sure you want to have some fun now, don’t you,” he asked.

“I have no idea what you mean,” I coquettishly. I could feel my ass clinching and a hardon starting to form.

Right then he tackled me onto the bed ripped my clothes off and tied me to the bed. After whippings and multiple orgasms, it was game time for him. When he came back, he continued his complete usurping of me into the wee hours of dawn.

From then, we started a bizarre relationship. Whenever he would come into town, we would “hook up”. The sex we had was way too perverse to go into details here (I’ll save that for Penthouse Forum). Let’s just say that I still have some scars from those days.

There of course was a monetary benefit for being a sex slave. I didn’t use any blackmailing schemes or anything; this was something implicit in our relationship. He was more than willing to give me money, and I was more than happy to accept. I won’t divulge dollar figures, but there was enough money to keep my CD collection flowing and build up my wardrobe.

There was a time when he escorted me on a shopping binge. After a day of scouring Melrose Ave. he decided to get me a nice bondage outfit from a store on Santa Monica Blvd. He chose one out for me and had me try it on. As I was undressing in the fitting room, he came in holding onto his dick. As the dutiful slave, I got down on my knees and nursed that baby to completion.

As with all good things, it had to come to an end. I had just graduated high school and was ready to go off to Santa Barbara for college. After nine months that we were together, he told me he was getting bored. He wanted to get into fisting and I absolutely refused. There was another boy who was “more open to things”. Like all men, he wanted the newer model with more features.

Whatever. I told him respectfully to fuck off, and that was that. I’ve gotten over it in the five years since, though it was hard as first (as with all break ups). The only thing that surprises me is that his wife was willing to take him back after they filed for divorce. Perhaps he IS a changed man and will control his urges, that we won’t “just do it”.

I moved to Los Angeles from Louisiana when I was eight years old when my mom separated from my dad. My dad stayed, and I went back to visit him a couple of years later. During that visit he made some boiled peanuts, and I remember I used to love them when I lived in Louisiana, but we did not have that out here in California.

I still don’t understand why more people don’t eat boiled peanuts out here. I get that it takes a while since you have to boil the peanuts for hours. But then seeing all of these assholes decide, “Oh I’m going to be a fucking baker during this pandemic,” and go through flour, salt, sugar, butter, sifting, vanilla, mixing, folding, eggs, stiff peaks, preheating ovens, clean toothpicks for five fucking hours only to get some shitty looking second-rate bread or cake or muffin or what not that can serve as an alternative to a hockey puck.

Yes, I’m still pissed off that I couldn’t get eggs for a month because of you assholes. I hope you can’t see your toes.

Oh yeah, peanuts. There is one place I would actually buy boiled peanuts: a dumpling stand at a Korean market in Koreatown. But because of the Rona, this stand is closed until further notice. I swear, Rona is a fucking cunt.

I’ve been craving boiled peanuts lately, so I’ve decided to make some. I bought 2 pounds of raw peanuts from the Korean market this weekend and soaked them overnight in water with 1/3 cup of salt, 3 tablespoons of creole seasoning and a teaspoon (or two) of chili pepper flakes.

Since I’m using raw peanuts as opposed to green peanuts (raw peanuts that were just dug up — they are not actually green) that’s why I soaked them overnight and cooked them for a longer amount of time. If I used green peanuts, I probably would have just soaked them for an hour then boiled them for two hours. But with raw peanuts, I soaked them overnight and cooked them for eight hours until they, shells and all, were soft and moist.

Man, they are good. That’s it.

Today is day 60 since we received work-from-home orders. And right now I’m loopy, bloated and horny. Very very horny.

With all of the moving I did at the beginning of this so-called quarantine, I admit I cheated a little out of necessity. But since then it’s been this apartment or the market. Day after mind-numbing day, everyday is exactly the same.

Monday to Friday, wake up at 7, wash up, start work at 8, have lunch at noon, log off at 4, take a nap, eat dinner, then watch YouTube and then sleep.

Saturdays and Sundays are glorious breaks of the monotony! I get to wake up later than 7, make breakfast, go to market, then nap, eat dinner, watch YouTube and then sleep.

Every now and again I’ll have a video chat or a phone call that really is my only socialization. And as someone whose social skills can sometimes be lacking, once societal reintegration happens things should be interesting. In other words, let’s see how fast I get fired.

And the horniness. I’m like a teenager right now. Just a mere look and I’m ready to disrobe and hump. The toys are no longer cutting it. I need a touch, a slap, a choke, an anything. If I don’t feel someone grabbing me while inserting their turgid penis into my asshole soon, I fear all my gonads will shrivel up into an aged impotence.

I guess it could be worse. I could have the damn Rona. But anyway, on to living with the monotony.

I am going to fucking kill my mom.

A few weeks ago as the seriousness of this pandemic started to elevate here in Los Angeles, I decided to call by 68-year old mother to make sure she is all right. It went straight to voice mail. Hmph. Knowing the nature of my relationship with my mom, I automatically wondered if I did anything to piss her off? Or maybe she just couldn’t take the call.

So I called again when I got home from work. Again, straight to voicemail. Strange. Even though we get mad at each other from time to time, she always picks up the phone. But whatever.

Then was my big moving day. I gave her a call again that night after the movers were gone. Voicemail. I then sent a text saying that I moved and wondering how she was doing.

Nothing. Days and days of nothing as everything here in Los Angeles County was shutting down, as the number of cases exponentially increased, as my anxiety over my mom grew and grew.

Finally a couple of weeks ago in the early morning, my mom first sends me a text message then a message on Kakao Talk (a Korean SMS app.) She texts me in Korean, I text her in English. It also doesn’t help that she misspells a lot of things in Korean.

Basically, she was stuck in Peru. I was relieved and pissed. She had left for Peru on March 11 to go see Cusco and Machu Picchu, the pandemic got real, Peru shut everything down and she got stuck.

On my birthday on Friday, she managed to get a flight to the States and got home on Saturday. She’s fine, although with the dust and pollen that built up in her house her allergies are on fire.

I’m going to kill my mother.

I imagined friends and family being able to drop by my new place to check it out and give me suggestions about how to decorate, which furniture goes better where and all that other stuff you rely on your friends for.

But as we are all stuck indoors, I just have to be satisfied with myself. And trust me, that I have no problems doing.

It is weird to be in the middle of a move while we are all being told to stay home. Last Saturday before life shut down, I had a moving crew move my big furniture to the new place. I scheduled junk guys to clean out the rest of the apartment today, and fortunately they made it.

But it was strange driving from Downtown LA to San Pedro with no traffic. Well, there were cars on the freeway, but I got to cruise a nice 80 the whole way down. What would usually take about an hour took me only 30 minutes.

So now here is my old bedroom that I grew up in which became my guest room:

Here is my new place:

I can’t wait until this is over so I can get more furniture. But wishes, dreams and wonder: I guess that is life during pandemic.

Since Wednesday I’ve seen a bunch of different apartments and lofts in eight different buildings. I’ve been in the South Park area by Staples Center, the Historic Core, the Jewelry District, the Toy District, the Fashion District.

Of course since I hate driving, I’ve been hoofing it and using the Metro system to get around which has been wonderful. It’s been enlightening to walk around the prospective neighborhoods I want to live in.

I’ve pretty much found the place I want to live in — I just have one more appointment tomorrow night that will need to knock my socks off. Actually at this point, I’m regretting that I have that appointment on the books. I want to put in my application and get this part of the move over.

I’m only going to post one picture because in all of the excitement about the place I forgot to take photos. But here is this:

The One?
Some of you who are observant would say, “Hey, Jimmy. That island was installed backwards. The drawers should be on the other side.”

I respond, “The island moves!”

I can theoretically be getting fucked on top of the island and be rolled around the entire apartment!

This is a 824 square-foot place at $2,095 per month. Rooftop swimming pool and hot tub. Nice fitness room. A library area. Mentally I’m already moved in.