Saturday, April 30, 2011

Who Ruined My Life??? (part 1)

            I had a terrible realization that my entire adult life regarding women has been influenced by one creature, the charming and slightly pathological Looney Toon character named Pepe Le Pew (see below).

            Now for anyone who is not familiar with this wonderful character, Pepe Le Pew is a highly passionate French skunk who only wants love. And not just any love will do. He wants the love of a particular black cat that, in each episode, somehow accidentally paints a white streak down her back, confusing the amorous Pepe into thinking she is the female skunk that Cupid has made for him. Of course, with all the charming words at his disposal, he pursues the cat (named in later episodes as Penelope Pussycat, see below) with the ferocity of a freight train at full speed.  

            Somehow, most often times, Penelope Pussycat also consumes some sort of intoxicant that renders her delirious. Pepe thinks it is his charm that causes this temporary intoxication, and being French, he firmly believes this.
            Of course, in the end of each episode, Penelope Pussycat awakens from her temporary slumber to the indulgent face of Pepe Le Pew. She promptly kicks the living shit out of the non-violent skunk, leaving him ragged, torn, and utterly dejected.

            How Pepe Le Pew continues on, broken-hearted, is beyond me, a strength that only exists in the pictorial universe, because, just the next week, the poor kitty spills some more white paint yet again along her backside and Pepe is at it again (as seen in this clip):           

            Thanks a lot, Pepe. There I was, a young impressionable boy sitting on some shag carpeting in a Rhode Island cellar watching this tawdry affection, learning that, one day, my amorous nature towards the charmingly intoxicated kitties that fall deeply and madly in love with me will, once they realize the truth about my nature (I’m a skunk, i.e., they sober up), will leave me torn and ragged by the steely claws of their truest nature.
            I appreciate the lesson, Mel Blanc. I can’t help but wonder who I might have been without the influence of a certain arrogant, pathological French skunk.  

           More to come next week in the new installment of "Who Ruined My Life??? (part 2)". 
           That's all folks!

Thursday, April 7, 2011


 Bitter Drinks by D’Abate

            So I just returned from California. What was that quote Woody Allen had said about the Golden State?
            “Why would I want to move to a place where the only cultural advantage is being able to make a right turn at a red light?”
            Very apropos.
            There’s a couple immediate differences I noticed wandering back to where I spent my high school years. First, the women are friendly as all hell. Seriously, after years of getting spat on by New York women, when one of these buxom beauties says “Haya doin?” I look over my shoulder, thinking they must be speaking to someone else. Yes. And they all have large robust breasts. What the hell are they putting in the water out there? Seriously, every woman is at least a C cup. The swell curvature of a well-formed ass is to follow as they walk by. Maybe it’s the Latino heritage. Maybe they are all the children of overpaid actresses from the seventies and burned out porn producers from the San Fernando Valley. Undoubtedly, when it comes to beauties, New York City takes the cake. But if you’re looking for hourglass comfort food, the 31st State is the place for you.
            And ladies, plenty of men are up for the running as well. Surf Gods and Ski Bums liter the place. An eternal youthful vibe permeates everyone’s lifestyle. And most of the guys are rich. And if they’re not, they’re Mexican gangsters. And they do drive some tricked out rides.      
            Note: Everyone is high on California Weed. Yes. Medical Marijuana is everywhere. Indica, Sativa, Ruderalis. Pot brownies. Weed cakes. THC droplets. Joints everywhere. Everyone out there has got that happy orange cylinder container stamped with the Bear and the flag of the Republic. No wonder the State is bankrupt. They’re high as fuck.   
            This was not what I remember about high school, trapped in endless maze of beige suburbs and stale mini-malls. If only this was what was going on then, I would have skipped this self- masochistic lifestyle and shot straight for the bungalow in Venice Beach with a severe case of glaucoma.
             But I digress.
            This week’s topic comes from a very curious young lady who calls herself ‘lovesfreedrinks333’. The question:
            What is the deal with bartenders? Are they all whores?
            Good question lovesfreedrinks333 (I’m already falling in love with you as we speak).
            This is the breakdown, gender wise, about the whole ‘sleeping with bartenders’ question, and let this be the definitive answer so everyone knows what they are getting into before they wait until 4am to fuck that mixologist of genitalia.

            Okay, fellahs. Are you listening? I’m going to give you the secret of how to get that sexy, slinking, buxom, raven haired beauty behind the bar to come home with you.
            Fuck you.
            YOU WILL NEVER FUCK YOUR FEMALE BARTENDER. It just does not happen. This is why they put only hot girls behind 91% of bars in New York City. They want the men’s money. Because they know (the male owners) that these sad saps will sit there day in and day out for literally decades on the same bar stool staring at the ass of the new twenty years old traipsing up and down the bar mats at their favorite watering hole. Sure, some guys want to shoot the shit about sports or life with a male bartender. But there’s not a drunk in town that wouldn’t trade five ‘dude’ bartenders for a nice pair of tits and some revealing steep cleavage. It’s just the way it is.
            Women bartenders are the most jaded women to ever exist on this fair planet. This is not their fault. Usually, newer lady bartenders are the toast of the town. All that attention. All those shots of whiskey. ALL THAT FUCKING TAX FREE MONEY. It’s a hard deal to pass up and it’s better than stripping (we’ll get into the bartender/stripper relationship in later blogs).  
            But after years of drinking a fifth of Jameson a night and an army of losers trying to fuck you every night, things slowly start to change. There is a relentless barrage of men who think they get more charming the more they drink (never true), and they mistake a bartenders kindness (duh, that’s her fucking job, you pathetic loser) for true, and potentially actualizing attention.
            She doesn’t think you’re sexy. She doesn’t think you’re that funny. She wants you to come back, day after day, and leave them dollar bills on the counter.
            All of my bartender lady friends (colleagues, I like to call them) have boyfriends, sometimes kids, and are very, very, rarely single.  
            There are only three exceptions that may allow you to fuck your lady bartender:

            1. You are a bartender. This is a fact. For some reason, once you show that Church Key in your pocket, you are no longer a civilian. You are a man who understands the pain. A confidant. Working Class. A trusted partner in drinking crime. Translations: Up on the pussy roster.

            2. You are a musician. I don’t know. These guys have powers. They have genital herpes and shitty tattoos, but they have powers.

            3. She is depressed. A Lady Bartender's life is hard. All that money. All those options. Once in a very great while, you just might land one of these gals as they are spiraling down into the depths of nihilistic depression and rampant drug abuse. It’s happened. She’ll hate herself for it, and things will be awkward at the local dive after wards, but you just may slip into that elevator door as it plummets fast towards rehab. Wait for full moons and talk of breakups with tattooed  bartenders and  musicians.                         


            Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore.         
            Much like musicians (see above), these classy Gentlemen have access continuously everyday to women. And not just women, DRUNK WOMEN.
            Every night.
            I’m serious.
            ALL THE TIME.
            Think about every male bartender you know. Whore, right? And if they’re married or they have a girlfriend, they whored their way into those situations and had their pick of the litter.
            Do not think you are special at all if you have somehow slept with a male bartender. They always have options. They are very similar to attractive women in that sense, and are able to turn that ugly tide to their favor. Like beautiful women, they have choices, and they can pass on contenders.
            This leveling of the playing field must be the attraction women feel toward their bartender. Either that, it’s the free drinks. Or the charm. We have to be funny because we don’t have the cleavage (see above). And, in turn, become masters of the moment, able to turn a phrase, a political event, or a B Movie narrative into an amusing antidote that entertains highly intoxicated individuals.
             In truth, sadly, most bartenders are just losers who somehow lucked their way into the profession by being losers who refuse to join the real world.
            But the allure of easy sex, tons of drinks, and the admiration of others keep them in a holding pattern for sometimes too many embarrassing years.
            There is no sadder fate then the aging bartender.
            A fate worse than death.
            But a Fate riddled with young women, free whiskey, and an endless supply of theories and stories about the world of bartending and at large.

            Hence this blog.