Shhhhhh. My toilet is sleeping. This is what happens when rot upon rot upon rot is detected beneath your linoleum. It happens, and it is getting fixed.

The grandmother has been in more pain the last couple of days, her left leg right above her ankle making her life damn near impossible (and by extension, mine also). All I can do is watch helplessly — it’s not going to get any better and nothing I can do will make her feel better.

So I’m rereading Infinite Jest, because, why not? It’s great against the soundtrack of a drill going off in my bathroom.

I’m going through this list of the 1,000 greatest films of all time which has been going slowly and steadily. I got to no. 33, Carl Theodor Dreyer’s Ordet last night.

It’s gorgeously shot in the Danish countryside with minimal cuts. It’s also said that Dreyer didn’t like light meters instead opting to adjust the lightning of a scene by eye.

But the story is what got me. Three sons: the eldest who has become agnostic; the middle who think he’s Jesus Christ; the youngest who wants to marry the neighbor’s daughter. The death of the eldest son’s wife during childbirth is perhaps the saddest thing I have ever watched. And of course how that affects the family’s religion and the belief of miracles.

Although this is listed at 33, this is definitely top 10 for me. Better than The Passion of Joan of Arc for me.

Today, the death knell of the gay community has started to toll. The Supreme Court legalized same-sex marriage today, and millions of my queer brothers, sisters and everything in between are celebrating. I’m not exactly jumping up and down with them.

Same-sex marriage has nothing to do with equality. It’s about enforcing the white male morality within the queer community and sanitizing everything with their antiseptic imitation of heterosexual respectability.

The Human Rights Campaign has been fighting for gay marriage for the better part of the last decade. In an internal report leaked to Buzzfeed earlier this month, the HRC has been compared to a “White Man’s Club”. An organization that is rife with sexism, a glaring lack of diversity and repeated belittling of transgendered staff is supposed to be leading the fight for this so-called equality?

As Yasmin Nair explains, same-sex marriage is a conservative cause. Marriage should not guarantee rights, yet rather than fight for that issue groups like the HRC were complacent enough to join the hetero privilege party rather than fight for real equality.

These people are not interested in equal access to health care. They aren’t interested in dealing with homeless queer youth. They aren’t interested in real immigration reform. They don’t believe racism exists since they don’t realize that they are racists themselves. The list goes on. All they care about is extending the white heterosexual patriarchy into the queer world.

And that is the danger of saying that same-sex marriage is only the first step in gaining equality. For a good many people the fight is over. Fuck the trannies. Fuck the poor black folk who can’t afford healthcare. If you can’t help our bottom lines then just stay the hell out. That’s the way the world works, right?

So as people crowd the streets of gay ghettos all across the country, just know that we are witnessing the end of gay culture as we knew it. The vibrant tapestry of black and white and boy and girl and poor and rich and everything will now be replaced by the same ugly condo, same ugly dogs, same ugly lawns, same ugly clothes.

Sure, now us gay people can make the same mistakes as the heteros. Hooray equality! And now we can die like the rest of the straight world.

I was in the waiting room for my therapist this morning while idly thumbing through a bunch of Aleister Crowley’s writings. I mean, what else are you going to do as you’re getting ready to get your head shrunk? (I know, I know, I know. Crowley wasn’t a Satanist. But he was dubbed “the wickedest man in the world”, and he was a racist anti-semite cunt.)

I was reading through a bunch of stuff he wrote for Vanity Fair from 1915 to 1917 when “A Hindu at the Polo Grounds” jumped out at me.

Crowley is writing a letter to a friend describing a Yankees-Red Sox game at the Polo Grounds in perhaps only the way he could. To quote:

Now the priests take their stations in the temple, and the ritual begins. One high-priest throws the white balls; this represents the sun traveling throughout he heavens. Another high-priest strikes it with the Mahalingam club, meaning that even the sun is tossed about by the will of God. Many priests representing other gods are stationed according to the places of the planets, as I understand, for my friend says: “It is an all-star team.”

As he continues, he seems not to appreciate the game.

The worshippers are full of religion; sometimes the sacred cry changes to a roar as if they wanted something killed. Then, my friend says: “See! He sacrifices himself,” but I do not see him sacrifice himself. He only throws himself down at the feet of a god. But there is no blood; it is not good religion.

See? Even 100 years ago people could see that these Yankees-Red Sox games were bullshit.

This is a tale of horror, incompetence and comedy.

I was getting ready to take my grandmother to her acupuncture appointment and went to get my car. I was looking and looking and couldn’t find my car. Fuck. Either my car was stolen or it was impounded.

Now I couldn’t think for the life of me why my car would be impounded. The registration is current. It was parked legally. There were no temporary construction no parking signs anywhere. So it must have been stolen. But if it were stolen, shouldn’t there be shards of broken glass littering the sidewalk and street?

I went to my apartment’s management office to see if they heard anything — nothing. The LAPD Harbor Division gave me the number of their tow yard. Nothing. My double checked with the LAPD Harbor Division. Nothing.

All signs pointed to my car being stolen. What other explanation is there?

Before calling the insurance company, I decided to walk around the neighborhood to look for it one last time. Perhaps the people stole it, realized what a piece of shit 2002 Toyota Camry it is and just dumped it. Perhaps someone pranked me and moved it elsewhere. I mean, that did happen to me once in high school.

So I walked. I walked down a block. I walked up to Ralphs. And there it was. Right in the middle of the parking lot was my car. My stupid fucking car. It dawned on me what happened.

One thing that gnawed on me throughout this episode was I couldn’t remember exactly where I parked my car. I park on the same block everyday, and I usually remember exactly where it is. But I couldn’t remember this morning. I just knew it must have been parked there because I always park there.

What happened yesterday was I needed to move my car from the parking garage to the street and decided since I needed to go to Ralphs I would just be lazy and drive there. I parked, went to market and walked home leaving my car in the lot. That’s why it wasn’t on the street this morning, and that’s why I couldn’t remember exactly where I parked.

So there is the incompetence and comedy. The horror?

I am 36, and senility has already hit me. I am so beyond fucked.

Yesterday I had five-hour lunch with a couple of sportswriters in Long Beach. Yeah, it took that long to catch up on things. We are a chatty bunch, and I’m sure we would have felt bad if the restaurant were busier. There were tales of being on the road, drunkenness and former players still living up their glory days. Tales of former glories and current frustrations.

Usually the only real conversation I have is with Brendan when we record our podcast every Saturday. I’m not a good telephone person, so that’s about it aside from small talk here and there with neighbors and family. So that’s why it was nice to be in real conversation yesterday.

It was nice to be away from the news of the day, the “hot takes”, the outrage. Most of you people are obnoxious.

For years I heard our national anthem. I’ve heard great renditions of it. I’ve heard mediocre renditions of it. I’ve heard it butchered so badly I wanted to throw canned hams at the singer. I’ve heard it vamped beyond recognition by a bunch of talentless nobodies who thought they were Whitney Houston. A few times when a Canadian team was in town, I have heard “O Canada”.

It needs to stop. If we need to be reminded at sporting events what country we live in, we’re in worse trouble than previously imagined.

Oh. Above is this week’s Handjob, Blowjob and Anal.

Firstly I forgot to post this bit here, so here it goes. One of these days, “Handjob, Blowjob and Anal” will be semi-good.

Secondly, I saw my therapist for the second time yesterday. There I was crying like a little baby. I don’t know if it’s normal to be crying like that on meeting number 2, but there I was.

Thirdly, I’m on a new water pill for my blood pressure, so I’m pissing a lot more than normal.

Fourthly, my eyes have improved. From -5.50 in both eyes, now my left eye is -4.50 and my right eye is -5.00. So yay me?

Okay, I’m not the best in the selfie game. I’m trying to look nonplussed here. I end up looking like I had just sucked off a gargantuan elephantitis cock and gotten my jaw unhinged and dislocated. Or tried to eat a very big slice of pie.

This morning I got my obese fucking ass out for a jog. Halfway through the run, it feels like there’s an eyelash in my left eye. Part of my vision in my left eye goes blurry. So I drag my fat ass back home, take the contact lens out and see that there was a rip down the middle. Great.

The modus operandi is to throw both lenses out and open up a new pair. Except I was on my last pair. And being the lazy asshole I am, I totally overextended these lenses trying to delay going to an optometrist and getting an eye exam. Naturally the earliest available appointment is next Thursday. So it will be a week of glasses for me!

On the upside, I shaved my balls yesterday so at least I have that going for me.

Last week’s handjob, blowjob and anal. Fun fact: I’m not wearing pants in this video.