“I can’t believe it,” my coworker messaged me on Instagram late Sunday morning along with the link of the TMZ story of Kobe dying in a helicopter crash.

I was in Vegas with my cousin Gina, a late celebration for her birthday. We were getting ready to head out for the Goldwell Open Air Museum out in the ghost town of Rhyolite just miles from Death Valley National Park late Sunday morning. We were eating our chicken we picked up fron Hattie B’s Nashville Chicken.

I automatically googled Kobe Bryant since I really don’t trust the scumbag Harvey Levin and saw to my dismay that it was true. I didn’t know how to react. I told Gina about it and continued to eat.

Throughout the two-hour ride to the ghost town, I tried to keep the news away. Gina would give me updates as she saw them, but that was about it. I was not inundated with the 24-7 coverage assault which made not thinking about it okay.

But after dinner when we got back to the room, I turned on ESPN on the tv and KCAL9 on my laptop and it hit me. I did start to tear up while watching the moving impromptu tributes Angelenos made.

Why am I affected by this so much?

Kobe was not an easy guy to like throughout his career. Most infamously of course was his sexual assault of a 19-year old woman in Colorado. Despite knowing this, how am I having so much feelz for this man?

I then remembered the statement he made after his criminal case was dismissed but before his civil case was settled. It really was unlike anything we have ever seen.

First, I want to apologize directly to the young woman involved in this incident. I want to apologize to her for my behavior that night and for the consequences she has suffered in the past year. Although this year has been incredibly difficult for me personally, I can only imagine the pain she has had to endure. I also want to apologize to her parents and family members, and to my family and friends and supporters, and to the citizens of Eagle, Colorado. I also want to make it clear that I do not question the motives of this young woman. No money has been paid to this woman. She has agreed that this statement will not be used against me in the civil case. Although I truly believe this encounter between us was consensual, I recognize now that she did not and does not view this incident the same way I did. After months of reviewing discovery, listening to her attorney, and even her testimony in person, I now understand how she feels that she did not consent to this encounter. I issue this statement today fully aware that while one part of this case ends today, another remains. I understand that the civil case against me will go forward. That part of this case will be decided by and between the parties directly involved in the incident and will no longer be a financial or emotional drain on the citizens of the state of Colorado.

Here we have Kobe basically admitting what he did. We get none of this from Harvey Weinstein, from Ben Roethlisberger, from the Steubenville football team. But Kobe realized how wrong he was — that always stuck with me. He was able to see past his ego, his masculinity that taught him a woman’s body is not her own.

I think what LA, and what I, identified with Kobe so much is all of his flaws. That despite that, he did try to be the best person he could be. That is all we can do.

We witnessed this for 20 years while he entertained us on the hardwood, winning championships, enduring losing seasons, saying he’d rather play on Pluto than with the Lakers during those turbulent post-Shaq years. We watched the 81 points, the 60 in his final game, him willing the team through Game 7 of the 2010 Finals against Boston despite having a horrible shooting night.

He made us feel great, feel shitty, feel angry, feel in awe of his majesty, whatever. He made us feel something.

Excuse the horniness of the last post. There is something to be said about the threat of utter annihilation and having your prostate battered within an inch of its life.

It seems that war talk has simmered back down, so we’re back to our regularly scheduled program, whatever that means. After the holidays, we’re back to the five-day work weeks and everything that entails. Well until this weekend with the three-day weekend, and then I’m off to Vegas this weekend for my cousin Gina’s birthday weekend — a four-day weekend.

I don’t feel regular.

So we have an illegitimate president breaking the War Powers Act of 1973 and assassinating folks halfway across the world, and it’s hard not to regress to childhood and the threat of nuclear annihilation. It’s how I grew up, and old habits die hard.

All day Friday at work with the end of the world looming in my mind, there was one thing that I kept thinking of: I need to fuck like crazy.

SOCguy and I had been messaging to one another the last few months on various platforms: Scruff, Recon, Asspig. Since we’re a little far apart as he lives in South Orange County, we’ve kept missing each other. We finally made it work Friday night and he came over around 9 pm.

SOC walked in and immediately started kissing me knocking me onto my couch. I love a man with initiative, and fuck he tasted good, like he sucked down on an Altoid about half an hour ago. Each time his tongue snaked past my lips made me moan.

He shucked his shoes off, and I pulled him by his hoodie towards my bedroom in the back of my apartment, bumping into everything down my narrow hallway as we exchanged saliva. There was a desperation in our intimacy, and it seemed like we were of one organism with no time left in this worlf. Off went his hoodie. Then my tshirt. Then his tank. Then my pants. This his shorts.

We made it to my bedroom and my bed — the centerpiece of the room. He pushed me back onto it all the while continuing to maul me. Next thing I’m acutely aware of is him fucking me hard without abandon. I’m moaning up a storm and realizing that for the first time since I’ve come back from Europe I am sweating.

I cum first — I usually do because my prostate really loves dick. All over my comforter. Fuck, I guess someone is doing laundry tomorrow. It’s at this point I want things to be over, but I’m sure Emily Post would frown upon sending a suitor home without allowing him to cum. I am a gentleman after all.

So I pull him out of me and suck him off. I instantly remember a joke I’ve been telling this holiday season: that gay guys will eat ass but we refuse to touch the bathroom door knob. Here I am putting a dick that had been in my ass into my mouth. I stifle a laugh and get on with it.

He finally pulls out, strokes his dick a couple of times and cums all over my chest.

We kiss slowing getting our heartbeats back to normal. “That was wild,” he said making conversation.

“Indeed it was.”

We showered together, and he took off. I sat on my couch, my asshole buzzing from the pounding and thought about war. Guess it didn’t work.

After the demise of Big Black, Steve Albini decided to mock his friends in Sonic Youth by ripping off the riff of their 1987 song “Schizophrenia” and entitling it “Kim Gordon’s Panties” with his new band Rapeman. I don’t know why I thought of this when I first listened to Kim Gordon’s first solo album No Home Record.

Kim Gordon has always been a hero of mine, so it’s really aspiring that here she is releasing her first solo album at the age of 66.

A meditation of pop, rock and electronics given the expected experimental twist you would expect of someone who was in Sonic Youth for 30-some odd years, it is happy, confusing and forlorn.

My biggest complaint is that it is not longer. Clocking in at just over 39 minutes, it opens with a very Björkish “Sketch Artist.” It’s the complete standout of the record. I expected to hear Bjork’s bluesy wails set against the wall of electronics, but instead there are Kim’s hip breathy attitude which is just as appropriate as Icelandic scatting.

After drinking in the New Year on my couch, I woke up to 2020 by taking Dallas Aunt to the airport. She arrived on Xmas Eve, and it was extraordinarily a non-friction stay. I wouldn’t call it pleasant by any means since my space had, after all, been invaded. But it was about as good as it could be.

At noon it was off to my uncle’s house for food. Since I missed Thanksgiving thanks to my European vacay, it was nice seeing the lot of them. Of course there was the traditional rice dumpling soup (떡국.) But there was also japchae (잡채,) LA galbi (갈비,) dumplings (만두) and other yummy foods.

So I guess it’s a nice start to the year.

Last night in all of my excitement, I took my first nude and published it on Instagram. What a thirst trap.

Happy New Year!

I don’t know quite how to judge a year. Since unlike 2018 I didn’t almost die, I guess it was a successful year.

Here are the places I travelled to this year:

Seoul, South Korea
Singapore
Honolulu, Hawaii
San Francisco, California
Montana and Idaho
Copenhagen, Denmark
Amsterdam, Netherlands
Brussels, Belgium
Paris, France
London, England
I turned 40 this year and wasn’t as traumatized about it as I thought. It was also the year I did hallucinogens for the first time in 20 years. I mean, it is legal in Amsterdam, so why not take advantage while I’m there?

Here are the top 15 bands and musicians I listened to this year:

Nine Inch Nails
Mr. Kitty
Ministry
Skinny Puppy
Front Line Assembly
Depeche Mode
Kanga
Unwound
Bjork
Hante.
Nirvana
Tool
Aesthetic Perfection
Boy Harsher
PJ Harvey
I kept promising to revive The B&J Podcast but didn’t. I do think it will happen in 2020.

I do have half the mind to delete Facebook. But only half. The other half? Don’t know where that is.

This is exactly what I posted on Facebook on Thursday: “I see a lot of people talking about Hole’s “Live Through This” today on its 25th anniversary. But I really love this b-side [“Old Age”, a b-side on the “Violet” single.] Actually it’s my favorite Hole song that brings tears to my eyes.”

Holy shit I am really fucking inarticulate!

That last sentence should have read, “Actually it’s my favorite Hole song, and it always brings tears to by eyes.”

Moral of the story: I need to write more. Fuck. I’m sorry folks for being so fucking inarticulate. I’ll get my head out of my own ass soon. I hope.

Last weekend was a strange weekend for one reason: I was out of the house. I rented the Wow! room at the Standard Hotel in DTLA. I think part of it was to relive my birthday from 2011 when things were a lot sloppier thanks to some Fernet and a coworker having sex with a random on the couch.

Friday after work and getting settled in, I went to see Mr.Kitty over at Catch One for his album release party. His new album Ephemeral really touched me. A tribute to his friend who killed himself last year, it’s depressing and suicidal with dancey beats.

Mr. Kitty mid-jump.
It was great to see him perform, jumping around, moshing in the crowd, screaming into the mic and pressing buttons and keys. I wanted to cry and dance all at once.

Saturday was running around the city taking in everything. I decided to take the train to Hollywood to see Harmony Korine’s new film The Beach Bum at the Arclight which did not disappoint at all. Then it was off to Skylight Books where I bought too many books.

Saturday night was my little soiree where people came to the room armed with food and drinks. There was homemade chocolate chip cookies and carrot cake! Korean-style fried chicken! Pizza! Smoked salmon bites! Donut Friend! Black Balloons!

Black Balloons
Balloons in my room after the soiree.
The thing that distinguishes this party from a 30-year old’s party is that everyone was gone early enough that I was in bed by 1 a.m. And I’m totally okay with that.

Sunday was more books and just lazing around. I checked out Monday morning and went straight to work. It was a strange weekend compared to my usual hiding from the world that I do. I know this weekend won’t compare.

For someone who doesn’t take the concept of aging very well, this one was a doozy. I’ve been dreading this ever since I was throwing up from food poisoning the day after my 30th birthday.

My 30s were a roller coaster of unpredictability, regret, depression, death, loneliness and resignation. I abruptly quit one job to go into another that I was mediocre (at best) at, watched my grandmother die slowly over the course of several years, being flung back into the real world not knowing if I had coping skills to operate within its barbaric structures. It was a decade of poverty while being yelled at consistently for not having any money. I thought about ending these twice while things almost did (unwillingly) end for me this past year.

What really got me in this milestone birthday was the regret of a pretty wasted decade.

To be honest, I don’t really know where I expected to be at this point in life. I guess I expected to feel more at ease in life instead of this quivering mess of depression and anxiety who’s barely keeping it together and by Friday is done with the world.

Now that 40 has hit, I’m remarkably okay with it. I’m not thrilled by it by any means, but I guess it’s not so bad. Mentally I still feel like I’m in my 20s, but my body makes sure to let me know I am most definitely 40. Everything is bit achy. Instead of being able to party into the wee hours, by 1 am I looking to hibernate. And now the first thought that goes through my head when thinking about doing the drugs I did in my 20s is, “Will it adversely affect the Metformin and Carvedilol,” instead of, “Sure, the more the merrier!”

But that’s okay. Now I’m determined to travel the world more while still trying to be young mentally. I guess it could be worse: I could be normal.

I want new shoes. I want new clothes. I want new furniture. I want a new apartment. I want new trips. I want I want I want.