NY Times had a funny little article about books and dating. The way people will judge you based on what you have read or haven’t read. I am the first to admit I haven’t read a lot, which is rare for a “writer.” I am actually a little scared of reading because I worry it will infect my own work or paralyze me with fear. Like why should I even bother writing if this person is so much better and more awesome, I should be ashamed of myself for sucking so hard. Not that I really think that way, but it’s a possibility. Words are really irritating animals, like fruit flies, which I have in my apartment right now and the funny thing is that I have no fruit so it is like they spontaneously appeared out of nowhere. A total mystery. Anyway, this quote struck me:

Judy Heiblum, a literary agent at Sterling Lord Literistic, shudders at the memory of some attempted date-talk about Robert Pirsig’s 1974 cult classic “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” beloved of searching young men. “When a guy tells me it changed his life, I wish he’d saved us both the embarrassment,” Heiblum said, adding that “life-changing experiences” are a “tedious conversational topic at best.”

One word: awesome.

Sterling Lord happens to represent me (hi Doug) but more importantly, I was at a party over the weekend and someone actually brought up Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and quoted from it and I had no idea what he was talking about and then he was all, like dude, it’s from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and I was like how the hell am I supposed to know that I am not a douche and then I vomited in my own mouth, just a little bit. I don’t know if there’s some kind of anniversary edition out or something, but just so you know, if you’ve read this book, don’t tell me because I will be sad. Or angry. I may throw things at you. I’m not saying you have to read Proust or Sebald or Beckett or anyone else for that matter, just don’t read that book. Read anything but that book. I don’t care if you read The Da Vinci Code twice, read the back of the cereal box, or read palms, just don’t read that book. I want you to promise me. If you have read it, I want you to go to your room and think about what you’ve done. OK, fine, just control-z that shit out of your memory and move on. If you feel like quoting it, then you have been warned. Someone might throw something at you. That someone might be me. Just saying.

Also, I am thinking that everyone who likes and quotes from Zen has a beard. I don’t know if Judy Heiblum’s date had a beard, but he probably did. Not that there’s anything wrong with beards, but I just associate beards and that book. Or maybe a goatee. Some kind of facial hair.

Ian received a visitor in San Francisco. The visitor is a Homie. The Homie happens to be an alien. It is clear that the good people over at Homies, Inc. ran out of characters and decided to make an alien just to keep things spicy and flavorful.

Even though this Homie is an alien, or rather, this alien is a Homie, he still enjoys doing the things that Homies like to do. Like skateboarding. While listening to his iPod Mini. Or his WALKMAN. OMG. Homie busts out with all of his mixtapes his ex-girlfriend Sad Girl used to make him. Homie listens and then cries. He misses Sad Girl. He heard she ran away to Portugal and lives with a lesbian couple. He thought they had something special.

This Homie is also an accomplished tagger and knows how to represent his peoples.

He also works out three times a week. It is hard to see in the picture, but trust me, this Homie has a permit to carry the GUNS he calls his biceps. He will squeeze your head like a little grape.

The Homie sees Ian’s extensive VHS collection and realizes that Ian lives in the year 1991. Homie wants to tell Ian everything about the years 1992 through 2008, but decides, hey, let Ian figure it out himself. He’s a smart guy. One piece of advice from the future, Homie says, don’t buy Laserdiscs.

Dude. DISKETTES! WTF!!!! The good news is that there are thirty of them which is how many you’ll need to load up one Word document.

Word up, Ian. You live in a museum.

I got a new bed from Ikea over the weekend. This one has drawers underneath so I can “maximize my living space.” I am not so crazy about Ikea and whenever I go there a little piece of me dies. But it doesn’t die quietly. It is more like screaming and kicking with blood spurting and heads rolling and zombies tearing flesh off small children right on top of the gørtang table in beech veneer. It’s a collision of crying children, college students, arguing couples, Swedish meatballs in mysterious brown sauce, and couples making out in a corner. Dude, wtf is that about? Like the last place I want to make out is at IKEA. Listen, treat your lady right. At least go to Ethan Allan. I hear that is for classy broads.

Anyway, one cannot get a used bed on Craiglist. That is how you get bedbugs and herpes and razor blades in your apples, etc. So I got a new bed. It came in three thousand parts, three baggies of hardware, and a manual that was longer than anything I’ll ever write in my entire life. But hey! It’s only 37 easy steps! It took three hours and two people. (Thanks, JoMo.)

The thing about Ikea that pisses me off, other than the fact that it makes everyone in the world have the same crap made from Burmese rainforest trees, is the showroom situation. They have these “showrooms” that are named “Living in 500 square feet.” Oh the CHALLENGES OF LIVING IN A 500 SQUARE FOOT APARTMENT. Oh I can’t even imagine how awful it must be to live in 500 square feet. They smallest showroom they had was 275 square feet. Which is about 100 square feet more than my place. I was like, shit, maybe I should just move into Ikea. Then I discovered the ‘kitchen’ had no running water and the oven was made out of cardboard, ha ha ha, you lost Annie, once again. Your grand plans of world domination thwarted, once again, by Ikea. Damn you bastards, with your umlats and your A’s with the circle on top of it, like an angel. How fancy of you.

Anyway, the point is, hey, I have a new bed. It is kind of low to the ground though. Everything Ikea makes is kind of low to the ground, it makes them seem more ‘designy’ and “European.’ I need a walker to help me out of bed. However, it makes me look like a giant in my own apartment. That is nice, I guess.

Stephanie received her Homie, named Lil’ Ghost. Lil’ Ghost has always been an East L.A. kind of guy or maybe even a Hawthorne or Echo Park kind of fella. To be honest, he finds the west side a little too laid back with all that sunshine and beachy stuff and all those vegan/raw/macrobiotic restaurants. Why would you eat vegan when you can eat bacon, he asks. He also thinks the west side can use more in the ‘hard’ department since everyone likes to rollerblade with fanny packs. Lil’ Ghost knows that if he wore a fanny pack in Hawthorne he’d get his Lil’ Ghost ass kicked back to Van Nuys.

But Lil’ Ghost goes to Santa Monica. Guess what?

He loves it. The beach isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s kind of OK.

He gets a tan so he can change his name from Lil’ Ghost to Lil’ Tanorexic.

He goes to the pier, to pick up on the hotties. Woo hoo! Hotties! Hey, you know a good vet? Cuz my PYTHONS ARE SICK. Lil’ Ghost wishes he could flex his biceps because that joke only works if you flex your biceps. Otherwise, everyone thinks you are a douche.

He rides the carousel. He does not like it. It makes him nauseous. What a stupid ride, he thinks. It just goes around and around? On the east side, you’d spin around and around and then someone would try to shoot at you because only a non-hard douchebag rides on a stupid horse wearing jewelry. And what is up with that music? Like an organ fell out of a SIX STORY WINDOW WITH ANNIE’S COMPUTER.

Lil’ Ghost is confused because on the west side there are dinosaurs that spit on you. One, he thought dinosaurs were extinct! Two, spitting is unladylike, even for a dinosaur. Three, he thought dinosaurs were extinct!

Lil’ Ghost decides he likes Santa Monica. He likes to be buried in the sand and chillax. He is far away from the hood. He thinks this is a good thing. He thinks he’ll buy one of those metal detector things all the homeless old men use to look for dimes. That’d be fun. He falls asleep.

He wakes up with a sunburn.

THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO OR SAY TO STOP ME. I AM GOING TO THROW THIS PIECE OF CRAP OUT THE WINDOW AND WATCH IT FALL SIX FLOORS FROM MY OFFICE BUILDING. THEN I WILL DOUSE THE CRUMBLED PARTS IN GASOLINE AND LIGHT IT ON FIRE. THEN I WILL GET THE ASS WHO HAS BEEN PISSING IN OUR STAIRWELL TO PISS ON THE FIRE SO I CAN THEN DOUSE IT WITH MORE GASOLINE AND LIGHT IT ON FIRE AGAIN. YOU CANNOT STOP ME. YOU CANNOT HOLD ME BACK. THEN WHILE I’M THERE, I’LL DOUSE THE ASS WHO HAS BEEN PISSING IN OUR STAIRWELL IN GASOLINE AND LIGHT HIM ON FIRE. THEN I WILL ROLL AROUND IN THE ASHES OF MY COMPUTER AND THAT ASS WHO HAS BEEN PISSING IN OUR STAIRWELL. I WILL REVEL IN HAPPINESS. I WILL MAKE LITTLE ASH ANGELS OR USE THE ASHES TO ROLL IT INTO A FATTY AND SMOKE IT.

Or, I can ask the tech guy to help me out. He is on his way.

BUT IF HE DOESN’T COME NOW I’M GOING TO THROW THIS OUT THE WINDOW. OR MAYBE I WILL THROW IT AT THE FIRST PERSON I SEE, WHO HAPPENS TO BE A VERY NICE PERSON BUT IN EVERY WAR THERE ARE INNOCENT VICTIMS.

Erin got a new pet. It is a Homies Hood Houndz. It’s name is Fluffy Nutbutter. Fluffy Nutbutter is a raging, vicious, frothing-at-the-mouth pitbull that was recently saved from Michael Vick’s dogfighting ring. Fluffy Nutbutter use to chew off other dogs’ nuts and turn them into butter. That is where he gets his name. Also because he is fluffy and very adorable, save the nut-chewing part.

Fluffy Nutbutter is now a guard dog for Clarabella, Erin’s boutique on the Lower East Side. You will often find me here on Sundays harassing customers.

On his down time, Fluffy Nutbutter likes to try on the jewelry. Here are some rings.

Here is some bling.

He also likes to try on women’s shoes but this does not make him gay. And even if he were gay, that’d be OK too. He wishes these gold Vicenza heels came in his size. And also came in sets of four.

What a nice bag, he thinks. All this thinking is tiring. Time for a nap. If you buy this bag I highly recommend checking the pockets so you don’t take Fluffy Nutbutter home with you because he will terrorize the crap out of you. Also, protect your nuts (if you have them).

Today I am at the office, making the Internets. Because that is what I do. I make the Internets for a living. A series of tubes I help create just for children. Anyway, what I’ve noticed the last few weeks is that our stairway smells like pee. As in urine. It’s overwhelming and disgusting. I do not like the smell of pee. I think in general, people do not like the smell of pee. If people did, then they’d make pee incense, air freshener, potpurri, and scratch n’ sniff stickers, and that is just not the case.

Anyway, I just found the source. It is indeed urine. Someone peed in our stairway, sixth floor. Guess what? It was not me.

If you are reading this, and you have peed in our stairway, please clean it up. It will be challenging since it is dried, but the stain and stench is unmistakable. You have peed in our stairway and people are cross. Please refrain from peeing in our stairway in the future. I’d like to recommend peeing in a toilet. Toilets are nice because you can pee in them and then your pee goes away (only if you flush). I’d like to recommend flushing too.

Thanks.

Some of you may remember Stephen, the first Homie to kick off the Annietown Special Daft Punk Edition: Homies Around the World. He ended up traveling to the fiftieth state, I believe it’s called Hawaii, to my friend Mike and his lovely family.

Well, guess what?

His family isn’t so lovely. THEY ARE EVIL. PURE HAWAIIAN EVIL, WHICH IS THE WORST FORM OF EVIL KNOWN TO MAN AFTER ALL THOSE POISONOUS SNAKES AND STUFF IN AUSTRALIA. Damn those Hawaiians with their pineapples and their grass skirts. You think, oh they are so nice and relaxed with their baritone ukuleles, but NO. PURE EVIL. Do not let them fool you.

From what I understand, Mike has been exposing poor Stephen to hours and hours of a capella music. It is torture far worse than waterboarding or the rack or the wheel or the iron maiden (sweet) or even…the pear or the Spanish spider (you can look up the last two if you want, but you have been warned.)

Apparently in Hawaii, Homies are a delicacy, just like Spam. Mike decided to cook poor Stephen into a pasta sauce. PASTA SAUCE. Clearly breaking his low-carb diet and in addition, KILLING STEPHEN. Below a recipe to make Homie pasta sauce.

First you chop onions. Then you add a Homie.

Don’t forget the garlic.

Then you PUT THEM IN HOT BURNING OLIVE OIL. Extra virgin. Extra evil. Poor Stephen. When he moved to Hawaii he thought, cool! Rainbows and coconut bras! Never did he think HOMIE PASTA SAUCE.

Add some herb. No not that kind of herb. Something like tarragon. It doesn’t get you high, but it goes better with HOMIE.

Add some shrooms. No not that kind of shroom. Seriously, what is wrong with you? These are just regular non-high-making mushrooms. Dude. Come on. Stephen thinks that if they were the regular high-making shrooms, he’d probably be a lot happier and maybe even OK with being EATEN ALIVE.

Add tomatoes, Homie.

Now you have delicious Homie pasta sauce which will most likely give you horrible indigestion and acid reflux.

Thanks, Mike. I hope Stephen tasted good. You know what else will taste good? MY FIST IN YOUR MOUTH. COME HERE SO I CAN KICK YOUR ASS. YOU HOMIE-EATER.

The big news today is, of course, Eliot Spitzer and his love for whores. Listen, people love sex, that’s why people have it. People love whores, that’s why we have them. So it is not unreasonable to think that some people love sex with whores. It’s the transitive property. See? Math is useful it teaches you about Eliot Spitzer. Either way, what sucks here is that he cheated on his wife and screwed over his family in public. Like if you are a politician and/or married, you just have to not love whores. At the very least be a little more secretive about your love for whores because people are watching you. That’s what I don’t get. How many sex scandals has our government seen? And yet…there are more scandals. Like dudes, don’t you watch the news? Are you an idiot? Also, paying four grand for a whore? I am clearly in the wrong profession. I think in France every politician sleeps with every whore in Europe and no one seems to care because maybe politicians are not held to the same moral standards, which may or may not be a good thing. Maybe they are just more transparent, like yeah, man, I love whores and you elected me, so what? It is kind of refreshing, but still, if you have a family then you have made a commitment to not be an asshole, you know what I mean? I don’t have a problem with the whores. I have a problem with people being assholes. Either way, our government needs a bouncer.

Invention Deathmatch is coming soon, Aaron B (THE LOSER) and I are working out the details. It will be amazing, especially when Aaron B. dies from losing. He’s going to get Spitzered big time.

ROACHES ARE IN MY BATHTUB. They get in, but they can’t get out. Just like the mafia.

Current mood: disturbed

OH GOD.

They are coming out of the faucet. OUT OF THE FAUCET! The only thing that should come out of a faucet is water. Or beer. But definitely NOT ROACHES. I imagine turning on the water, and then just a string of roaches gushing out. I feel nauseous.

Current mood: nauseous

They are big. Like New York City-sized. We’re talking airplane carriers. When you cut them open more roaches come out THAT IS HOW BIG THEY ARE. So I am sitting here wondering what to do. I do not like to kill them. No wait, I want to kill them, but I do not want to touch them. I do not want to squash them and see their roachy bits all over my bathtub. Also when you smash a roach it has this distinct smell. It smells like vomit and darkness and hopelessness. Like you kill this one but there are MILLIONS MORE COMING DOWN THE FAUCET RIGHT NOW. AT THIS VERY SECOND. It’s really the hard candy shell that gets me. Like they have this hard shell but inside they are all juicy, so they squirt when you kill them. Some of them come out OF THE FAUCET dead, which is a mystery. Others are peppy and ready to rage and party in your apartment and drink all your beer eat all your scooby snacks and take all yoru wimmin, if they could just get out of the damn tub. I tried turning on the hot water to boil one to death, but guess what? My urine is hotter than the hot water that comes out of the faucet. Yes that is disgusting, but IT IS TRUE. I had to sit there while it took this nice bath, it was like ah, this is it, right here. Can you give me some bubbles? Maybe a little antenna massage? Meanwhile I am like DIE MOTHERFUCKER WHY WON’T YOU DIE?