From Astrolabe

Moon is in 29 Degrees Pisces.
You have strong feelings and are extremely sensitive. It would help if you had a thicker skin — you tend to react emotionally to every situation you come across. Kind, gentle and considerate of the feelings of others, you are good at taking care of the sick, wounded and helpless. But you tend to absorb the energy of others — so avoid those who are always negative. You have a rich, creative and lively imagination, but you should be careful not to spend all your time daydreaming. Very intuitive, you have good ESP and may be quite clairvoyant or psychic. Remember that you too have the right to get what you want from life. If you are always defensive and kowtowing to others, people will take advantage of you and exploit you.

I’m still laughing. Hold on.

I don’t know what’s funnier: the Glee-inspired gay men’s chorus in skinny ties; the white boy rappers who constant have to remind themselves where they put their penises; that USC would release this to try and get people to go to their miserable school.

I documented before just how rigid and stodgy USC can be even on game days during college football season. This attempt to show how “hip” they are is just sad. Really?

Besides, the title “Trojans for Life” really sounds like a bad case of herpes you can’t get rid of.

(via Deadspin and With Leather.)

Yup. This is about how Lomita looks. Using filters I made it look halfway palatable. But this is about it, a land of strip malls, NRA chapters, hick white trash folk, gay Mexicans and Salvadoreans who try their best to stay in the closet, hookers, cheap motels, cult subdivisions and really shitty drivers.

I talked to NY last week. She accused me of being a complete hermit and a depressed mess. She was right, but in an attempt to disprove her there I was at Burger City Grill. It’s amazing that in such a city they have a place that can make a good burger. Shitty fries but really good burgers.

I’m sure the appearance did nothing to reassure NY of my mental stability. We’ve known each other upwards of two decades, so we both know better. But we did make plans for tennis on Sunday. So perhaps it’s progress.

Driving around in this postcard snapshot of suburban hell makes me fully understand why meth and oxy and heroin are such problems. If I had purchased my part of the American Dream (c) I too would want to numb my pain or go into such a manic state I forget exactly where I am.

Fortunately I’m too broke for all of that shit. I just huddle in a corner weeping, using my tears as lube to masturbate. Not really.

I was really considering italicizing this entire post. Ha!

Saturday night Sara and I tagged along with Angel to a party he was invited to at a warehouse near Theater Row. From what I could understand it was a birthday party for a certain gay porn star, but I really wasn’t paying attention since all I cared about was getting fucked up.

Sara, Angel and I were all in no state to drive. Angel, being the least inebriated one of us, drove us to Dennys more for his sake of trying to sober up. The fluorescent cage of depression at 4 a.m. that only a late-night diner can provide drove me to silence as I just idly picked at my omelet with my fork. There is nothing glorious about the end of a Saturday night as I was then driven home, shucked my clothes off and collapsed on top of my bed. Good night.

Anyone who knows me or reads this futile attempt at a blog knows that I’m anti-marriage. I’m not only against gay marriage, I’m also against straight marriage. If you read even deeper you could infer that I am not the romantic type.

In fact over the weekend while messaging online with a prospective suitor-of-sorts, we were talking about Joshua Tree and the desert. He said, “at some point i would like to fist you in a setting like that.”

My response: “You’re so romantic.” I still don’t know if my response was genuine or sarcastic.

Anyhow, a couple of weeks ago, the foxy Christina (@xina) and I had a Twitter exchange while watching the US Open. We were talking about Roger Federer, and I told my story about how I ran into him in the players/media cafeteria salad bar when I covered the 2011 BNP Paribas Open in Indian Wells. He politely asked me if he could jump ahead of me at the salad bar, and I in my typical head-in-the-sand way just said go right ahead before looking up and seeing one of the greatest of all times.

For some reason my mind started to think how tennis players are perhaps the only athletes I could ever really date because there’s an urbane worldly sophistication about them. Then I started thinking that all steadfast rules have an exception including my personal opposition to marriage.

And voila! That’s how we’ve come to my list of people I could waive my no-marriage clause for.

There are a couple of assumptions involved in this list.

1. If they’re not gay, they will have no problem going gay. Some might be married with kids in reality, but in this thought experiment they will have no problems in going the other way.

2. No domestic violence. As much as we think we know the famous, there are deep dirty secrets they tend to keep. I’m going to assume these guys don’t beat up their partners, haven’t murdered anyone or when enraged don’t tend to beat up on people.

I might have missed some people, but oh well.

Here’s the Listicle in no particular order:

The last Dodger homestand was very hot that featured tons of titty sweat and ornery writers. This week has been a lot cooler. Although it’s nice not to be wiping my brow every 5 seconds drenching a napkin with my sweat, it’s nice not to be overly self-conscious about sweating through my shirts, it’s nice to wear long sleeves, I do miss the hot weather a little.

I got used to sleep buck nekkid on top of my bed with the fan pointed right at my balls. I got used the all the pheromones swirling in the air giving us a true butt-sniffing season.

But this is good, too.

Astonishingly enough it’s been 12 years. But I won’t go into a bunch of remembrances or self-indulgent where-was-I-when-I-heard-the-news type of bullshit.

I’ll just present the above photograph. It’s a beam from the World Trade Center that sits as a memorial at the LA Fire Department training center right below Dodger Stadium. I drive past it every time I cover a Dodger game.

That’s all I’m going to say. I’m not going to repeat the tired mantra “Never Forget” which sounds more of a command given to a dog who has gone in the middle of the kitchen. Those alive in the United States won’t ever forget it.

As Mark Twain said, the reports of my Lappy’s demise has been greatly exaggerated. Turns out it’s a stupid battery issue which is strange. When I turned Lappy on this morning it was plugged in.

Lappy is working. It has been resurrected, and there was no need to put it on a cross, nail the wrists and the feet, stab it in the side, wait until fluid fills its lungs before it died, put it into a tomb and wait a couple of days before it magically came out all shiny and new.

So it lives. Now to study up for my fantasy football draft. Any tips?

That is the boot screen of my laptop. It stays frozen like that. It won’t allow me to boot up in safe mode. It won’t let be go into the BIOS setup screen. It just shows me the stupid HP logo.

It could be a shitty hard drive. It could be a fried motherboard. I’m thinking it’s the latter since I’ve dealt with a fried hard drive before, and it’s not acting like that.

So it looks like I’m in the market for a new computer. For reals. Ugh. Because I can really afford a new lappy. Thankfully my cousin Aaron us saving me with a temporary replacement albeit a Mac. *shudder* But it should suffice in the short term.

So what should I get?

To steal from Busblog, this weekend was Joe’s birthday. He turned 24.

For anyone who has listened to the radio here in LA over the last couple of decades, you know who Joe is. You know what a big WWE fan he is. So I caught one of the few pictures ever to show “The Big Nasty” smiling in pure joy after receiving the old spinny WWE champions belt for his birthday.

The party was held in his apartment building he just moved into in Downtown. Outside some kids were holding a pool party. One guy looked like Andre Ethier. I kept staring, but when I looked at the clock I realized he couldn’t be Andre. Andre had to be at the Ravine to play a game that night.

When the guy came out of the pool, dried off and put on a shirt, I realized he looked nothing like Andre. He was half Asian and half white. I guess my Happa-dar is off.