The DMV

“Now serving G-101 at window number eighteen. G-101."

Oh good. I’m G-174. So only 73 people ahead of me. I might make it home in time for Conan tonight.

I approach the enormous black lady at the counter who looks like she’s got a real good attitude about life. She pretends not to see me for a full sixty seconds as she peals an old piece of scotch tape off the base of her monitor for no apparent reason. “You need a little Goo-Gone?” I hilariously ask. She doesn’t respond at all. ”…I always carry some with me….” More loud silence. “Anyway… I’m number G-174, do you have any idea about how long I’ll be here?”

Like I’m the stupidest motherfucker she’s ever met, “Oh, you gone be here for at least two hour. You shoulda made a appointment. This the DMV.”

I don’t know why she felt the need to remind me that I was in the DMV, there were signs all around me. “I tried to make an appointment but the first available time was two months from now.” I hung in there for another fifteen seconds or so until I realized our time together was over and went back to my seat.

I’ve been driving with an expired license for the past 180 days or so. Sometimes drunk, sometimes high, but always worried I’m going to get pulled over and have to wrestle the cop to the ground, steal his gun, shoot him in the face, eat some of his flesh and move down to Tijuana to ‘lay low’ for a bit.

The thing with the DMV is the place is filled to the brim with the absolute dregs of society. There’s not one attractive person at the DMV, a lot of people are missing teeth and there’s a lady standing next to me who smells like a hundred dicks. Arrogant or not, I’m 100% sure that I’m better than everybody in the building and I should be receiving VIP treatment. I don’t know, maybe the Nazis were onto something, ya know?

Oh, the DMV is an excellent place to bring both your baby who is one week old and screaming constantly along with your two year old daughter who can’t sit still and is running all over the place with mud all over her face pulling the forms out of people’s hands. I want to hurt her.

“Now serving number G-102 at window number five.”

Every time that announcement is made I check my ticket as if I’m miraculously going to be next. I know I’m G-174, I just haven’t come to terms with it. I think somewhere deep down inside I actually believe that god is going to change my number to 103 or 104 right before I look down at it. You know, because I’m such a good person and all. “If you do that god I promise I won’t tell anyone that you did it, it’ll be our little secret and also I’ll start believing in you.” And then out of nowhere, to my surprise, it happened. MY NUMBER ACTUALLY CHANGED! Oh wait, no it didn’t, because I’m at the fucking DMV in Los Angeles. At 11:30 am. On a Monday. #myreality

It’s interesting to see who’s driving on the same roads as me and wonder why I’m not dead. Every five minutes or so the same seventy-year old Korean man wearing a FILA windbreaker and a 2001 Lakers championship cap which looks like someone placed it on his head without him knowing it, comes up to me and points to a bunch of different forms in his hand while saying “Form, form, form…” I direct him over to my fat black lady friend who was so helpful to me.

After 2 hours of constantly repeating the phrase, “I can’t fucking believe this,” under my breath, my number is finally, “miraculously” called. “Now serving number G-174 at window number eleven.” Thank you, god.

I get up there, pay my thirty-one dollars and they then move me over to another line, where they explain that I’ll be taking a photo for my new license today. What the hell did you just say? NO! I look like shit right now. I don’t want to be stuck with a busted picture of myself for the next 10 years. My kids will think I was a loser. They’ll take advantage of me and they’ll be disrespectful. Plus, if I’m ever in a fire, and my face is burning off they’ll see my license and be like, “this guy’s really attractive, let’s try harder to save him than we normally would.”

“I really thought I could keep my old picture.”
“No.”
“What if I email you a recent headshot I can forward you something right now off my i-phone? Or is there a Glamour Shots nearby?”

SNAP.

“Wait I wasn’t ready.”
“NEXT!”
“No, I wasn’t ready, Miss, you didn’t say cheese.”
“We don’t say cheese, sir and we don’t retake the pictures, NEXT!
”NO!
“Go take your test.”
“Test? What test?”

THE HARDEST FUCKING TEST EVER.

At the top of the page in big bold letters it says, “3 OR FEWER ERRORS ALLOWED” (or you don’t get your license). There’s a total of 18 questions! And none of them are ‘what do you do at a red light?’ This is an actual question taken from the test:

#17. You must make a written Report of a Traffic Accident Occurring in California (SR 1) to DMV if you:
A. Fail to pay your registration fees within 90 days of receiving your renewal notice
B. Are involved in a collision and there is more than $750 in damages
C. Allow a licensed driver from another state to drive your vehicle.

I mean, ‘A’ makes the most sense to me right off the bat because they might not have your information on file if you forgot to renew it, but then ‘C’ could work too. I’ve been in a few accidents and I’ve never made one of these reports before. I should probably keep that to myself. But then again, what the fuck is an SR 1? Am I the only guy in California who doesn’t know that? And as far as ‘B’ goes, what accident DOESN’T cost more than $750? Hmmm. For ‘C’ I figure it’s gotta be THAT person’s responsibility to file a report, right? God, I wish I had my TI-82 with me, it had all the answers. I guess ‘A’ makes the most sense then. I’ll go with ‘A’

Wrong. Guess I’ll just have to come back tomorrow.

“Now serving G-175….”

Dictures

I almost got into a huge car accident the other day.

I was flying down the 405 texting on my phone and I floated into the next lane, cutting off this huge bus to next to me who swerved at the last minute and spared my life.

I pulled over and sat in my car for a minute – frozen, my heart pounding away in my chest. Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. There was one thing on my mind. The only thing I could think about: What the hell happens to my cell phone when I die?

Because I have sixty pictures of my cock on there right now.

Pictures of my boner in the bathroom, in my living room on my couch, at Epcott with Nana Ruthie….

They’re from text sex. Sextual Intercourse. (Well, the one with Nana isn't).

The only way I can get a girl to send me a naked picture of herself is if I send one of me first. As collateral.

Okay. Here you go. Here’s my dick. Don’t care.

Then she makes me promise – swear -- I won’t show anyone the dirty pics she's about to send me. So I swear to God. Swear to Jesus, Mohammad, on everyone's life that I will not show a single soul a single nipple. She sends. And then the first chance I get -- I break out my phone at the bar and show everyone the pics. “How cool am I?! I have a naked girl on my phone! Look, Bartender! Look!”

And then it gets awkward when she becomes your girlfriend. Because half the city knows what her pussy looks like. (I’m talking about my last girlfriend, Kim. Not you.)

It’s really tough to get a good shot of your penis, isn’t it? You have to figure out the right angle to make it look bigger than it really is. I find shooting down the side, not head on, so to speak, works better. I also purchased a “Miniature Lighter” which I hold next to it for scale. And then when I send the picture I say in my text, “By the way, that’s not one of those miniature lighters.” Even though it is.

I don’t really consider myself a dick photographer. It’s more like a hobby. But I’ve gotten pretty good at it. I'm thinking about offering classes. Maybe some online stuff for seniors, I don’t know. My real dream is to one day open up my own dick studio. The Academy of Fine Dick.

So where were we? Oh, yeah. Talking about getting caught with pictures of my penis on my phone when I die.

“Mrs. Schneider, we’re terribly sorry about your son. All that we could salvage from the burning rubble was his cell phone. This is all you’ll have to remember him by. This and whatever’s on it. Which is ironic, considering he got into the accident while he was texting on his phone. Would you like to see the last text he sent?”

“Sure….”

“It seems to be a picture of some kind….”

“Oh God. Are you sure that’s my son? That’s bigger than I --”

“-- It’s the angle ma’am. He shot it down the side, not head on. That's a miniature lighter. He says in the text that it's not one, but it definitely is. Look, here’s some of the other pics he took where it doesn’t look as big, see?”

“You’re right. That is my son! So gorgeous!”

I need to get a contingency plan in place. If I go down, who’s got my back? Or my front, rather. Who’s gonna erase my fucking pictures? Can we all just agree right now, right here that no matter what happens or how little we know one another or how much we hate each other, that we all promise to do each other this one final favor?

Wait a second. Nevermind. I just found out there’s an app for that.

Gotta go get an iPhone.

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Birthdays

I never talk about my birthday ever. But I do, however, enjoy when people remind me about their upcoming birthdays -- months in advance.

“I can’t believe I’m gonna be 27 in less than six months. Yep. December 17th. Can you believe it? It falls on a Friday.”

Cool, I’ll be sure to leave town that weekend. Because birthdays are annoying. Everything about them. For one, what are you talking about? This isn’t the thirteenth century. There’s really no need to celebrate surviving another year. The only people who should be excited by birthdays are old people. And when you’re old, you know what you get for your birthday? You get a fucking phone call. That’s what you get, and you’re grateful. It’s what old people live for. “Can’t wait for my birthday so I can find out if my grandchildren are still alive.”

And then there’s always the burning question of what are we going to do for your birthday. I mean, seriously, what the hell are we gonna do? We gotta figure something out. It’s your birthday for chrissakes. You are having a birthday! We can’t just do what we normally do with you when it’s not your birthday – you know, ignore you, treat you like you don’t matter and talk shit behind your back. We should go roller-skating or something!

If anyone should be celebrated on your birthday, it should be your mother. Think about your mother’s pussy right now. Do it. Think about that horrible day when her vagina ripped down the seem and her pussy and asshole united and became one so you could make your way into this disgusting world. And then take her roller-skating.

Great. Now I can’t stop thinking about my mother’s pussy. Poor thing.

Sometimes having a birthday party is unavoidable – like when your friends throw you a party. Which is the worst thing ever, because birthdays are really just contests to see how many friends you have. That’s a game I’m not very good at.

My best friends made this huge party for me and my only responsibility was to be liked enough for people to show up. Not an easy task since I’m extremely unlikeable. As soon as those invites went out, I started sweating. What if nobody came? I had to do something to make sure people attended. So I began doing charity work for everyone I know. “Hey Morgan, need a car wash? Or a dick suck? You know my birthday’s this weekend….(gulp)”

The Big Day arrives.

I get there a little late, giving everyone some extra time to get there. I can’t show up before everyone else. I’ll let a little crowd build and then they’ll applaud me when I arrive. “Yay, Steve! We love you on your birthday!” It’s gonna be great. I’ve played this scene out in my head all week long. When I arrive, my friends’ backyard is decorated beautifully. Lights everywhere, tons of alcohol laid out on long tables sprinkled with “Happy Birthday!” confetti. There are bowls of chips and salsa and Margaritas as far as the eye can see. And to top it all off, they hired a Mexican Taco Vendor who’s on standby – tortilla in hand, ready to make 500 tacos for me and all my friends.

Wait. Are my friends allergic to tacos?

Because there’s no one there. No one except the one random guy I invited three days ago after accidentally running into him at Starbucks. I can’t fuckin believe this guy came. I barely fuckin know this douche bag and here he is – gift in hand. What a fucking loser.

Me, I mean.

And then my friends who threw the party come running out shouting, “Hey, Birthday Boy!” And I want to vomit, but I hold it together. “Hey! This is so awesome! I can’t believe you got a Taco Vendor!” (Why the fuck did you do this to me?) “Do you have a phonebook?” Because I want to hire a bunch of extras right now. I’m willing to pay them scale if they’ll pretend to be my friends for the night.

Oh my god. I can’t believe my birthday’s only ten and a half months away. August 9th.

It falls on a Monday.

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dating

All of my friends have girlfriends. It’s so gay.

Alright I’m only saying that because I’m jealous. I feel like such a loser when I go on a double date and I show up with a puppet and my friends are like, “Hey Steve, nice puppet!” And I’m like, “Shut the fuck up! This isn’t a puppet. She’s a real person and you better start treating her with a little respect.” And they’re like, “That’s definitely a puppet. You’re moving her mouth with your hand and her hair is made of yarn.” And I’m like, “Dude you’re wrong – just drop it.”

I’m sick of lying. I want a real girlfriend. And not just some crappy one either. I want a good one that can do cool things like cartwheels and back handsprings and the balance beam. Or one that will suck my dick.

But it’s impossible to meet girls nowadays.

I try approaching them at bars but I’m really bad at small talk. Other than micro-machines and mini-bananas I don’t know what else to say that's small.

It’s tough. After you’ve slept with everyone you know in your social circle and recognize that they’re not “right for you” because they have some sort of physical defect like backne or Spina Bifida, (which they never seem to be up front about), where are you supposed to turn to next?

If you said, Online Dating Services ask the person next to you to give you a high five. You missed – I saw that.

Online dating services make finding your soul mate cheap and easy. For less than $12/mo. you can join a network of thousands of people who share your inability to make human connections in the real world. I mean -- that’s exactly what I’m looking for. Someone who no one else is interested in but also likes tennis.

I’m tired of dating people in real life anyways. All those intimate conversations where we connect on a deep level while making exciting discoveries about one another over a couple mojitos on the perfect sunny day at an awesome restaurant that serves the best spinach & artichoke dip in the world.

Who the hell wants that? I’d much rather make an instantaneous decision about whether or not I would date someone based on a one inch picture of their face and a list of 8-10 generic things they like. It's way easier. Meeting people in real life and getting to know them is so 1990. Who am I MC Hammer? Plus it’s expensive! (2 mojitos + Spinach Dip at Macaroni Grill is $29.95).

Also, it’s nice that online dating is segregated. That way we can all keep to our own like God intended. Although I am a little skeptical about J-Date. It does scare me a little bit. I mean, how do I know that J-Date isn’t just one big global oven? And I’m not speaking metaphorically. Is it possible that your computer can start cooking you?

If so, I can think of a few jews that would be delicious.

But I know what you're thinking. That’s not the only thing that's sketchy about online dating. You’re about to say…”The problem with online dating is that no one ever looks like the pictures they post.” First of all, don’t ever fucking interrupt me again while I'm in the middle of something. Second, you’re right - it's a good point. Sometimes people will get their profile picture done at Glamour Shots and they look totally extravagant with one of those pink feather scarfs wrapped around their neck. But Glamour Shots can be deceiving.

I met up with this girl once after going back and forth with her a million times over email until my fingertips disappeared and I was typing with my wrists. I spent a lot of time trying to trick her into thinking we had a lot in common. I told her I thought Dane Cook was funny. I’ll never forgive myself for that.

Anyway, when she finally agreed that I wasn’t going to have sex with her cat like the last guy, we decided to meet up. When I saw her, I almost fainted! Because she didn't look anything like her picture. Attached to her head was something I was not expecting at all. Something that wasn't in any of her pictures.

She had a body.

Here I was just expecting a head and she has the audacity to show up with a body too? Sorry but I'm not into three ways. Where the hell was just the head I had been emailing for weeks - it was the head I was in love with. How could she do this to me? She didn’t think to mention the fact that she had a fucking body?!

I went right up to that cunt and I spit in her face. I called her “a lying piece of dog shit” and I told her that “I don’t really like Dane Cook. I hate him. I lied to you about that, head. I lied. You’re a piece of shit, head, you hear me? A piece of shit!

She had no idea what I was talking about. I’m not even sure that she was the same girl I had been emailing from the dating service - it was dark. But whoever it was, she got the message.

Meeting your date always complicates things. That is why I have come up with a better online dating service (one that let’s you avoid all those awkward encounters) by never meeting up.

You never meet each other. But you do get married. The company assigns you a wife or husband based on a questionnaire you fill out. But not one of those annoying ones – this one will only have like three or four questions in it so it doesn’t take all day. And after they give you someone you just email them your sperm (you will be able to do this very soon) and you start a family. And you instant message the kids and stuff on their birthdays or send them e-cards. And you can pay for their college through PayPal.

And when you get tired of it all, you just get a new computer that’s younger and not fat. So who wants to marry me?

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names

"Say my name, say my name..." - Destiny's Child

"I don't know it." - Me

I can’t remember people’s names and it makes me feel like an asshole. And it’s not because I’m worried people will think I don’t care about them -- because I don’t. That’s no secret. It’s for practical reasons -- like when I’m sitting next to someone and I need them to ‘pass me that thing over there.’ If I knew their name I wouldn’t have to stare at them for four straight minutes like a psychopath until they finally look up at me. "Can I borrow a pen?”

When I run into someone on the street whose name I can’t remember, I don’t listen to a goddamn word they say. I just stare at their heads for the entire conversation and run through the alphabet. Fuck the alphabet.

What I really love is when I’m talking to one person whose name I don’t know and another person whose name I don’t know comes over to say hi. So happy to see you! And now I’m like fuckin Friendster and I'm supposed to introduce these idiots.

I usually just say, “HEY! You know…” and then HOPE TO GOD one of them will cut me off before I finish speaking and fill in the blank with their name. Then I act surprised, apologize and pretend that I thought they knew each other even though we all know I'm completely full of shit.

But this time that didn’t happen. Instead, after about three beats of intense awkward silence, I had to finish my sentence. So I just made up a name. I went with “An-ge-la.”

She goes, “Who the FUCK is Angela? I'm Michelle. And why the fuck are you introducing me to the guy I live with? He’s my boyfriend, you idiot.”

I wish people wore name tags. Would that be so bad? The janitors do it and they’re the dumbest people on the planet. People are more responsive when you know their names. Instead of saying, “Hey, YOU, get on your goddamn hands and knees and clean up that puke right now.” The principal can say, “Carl, get on your goddamn hands and knees...etc.” What do you think Carl is more likely to respond to? If you said both, you’re right because Carl’s not gonna risk violating his parole again with another one of his angry outbursts. He knows if he does he’s going right back to the hole.

I like the people who have the balls to call you on it:

“Whatup, Steve? You remember me?”
“Yeah. (lie) Of I course I do!”
“What’s my name?”

Motherfucker. I have no idea. I had no other choice but to use my secret weapon - ‘reverse psychology’ – people used to use it on me all the time when I was one.

“Hey everyone, this guy doesn’t know his own name!”
“Haha, funny - what's my name?”

Seriously? Why are you doing this to me? Please stop. But at the same time, why can’t I just get myself to admit that I don’t know it? If I could do that this would all be over. BUT I CAN’T! Finally he told me. So I go, "I know, dude." Another lie.

The best feeling in the world though is KNOWING someone’s name. When I know someone’s name I use the shit out of it. “Hey JAY! How’s it going JAY? This is Jay everybody! Oh, JAY that’s a funny story. Do you know Jay? Jay, Jay, Jay!”

But that doesn’t happen very often. There are so many places I go to on a regular basis where I should know people’s names but definitely don’t. I’ve been going to the same gym for years and - even though I've talked to tons of people - I don’t know anyone. Now I wear headphones from the moment I get out of my car to the moment I get back in it. I’m constantly wearing headphones. Even when my ipod’s dead. I listen to nothing. And if somebody starts walking towards me I bob my head like I'm jamming out. Jamming out to nothing. Sometimes people come up to me to tell that my headphones aren’t connected to anything – and then they show me the cord. I usually have no response to that.

I go to the same Starbucks everyday. The girl who works at the counter always remembers my name (which makes me feel good – like I’m the president of my own company) but I have no clue what her name is (which makes her feel bad – like she works at Starbucks). I’ve never even bothered to ask her. I guess it’s because she’s just a stupid machine to me.

There's a woman that’s been living above me for over two years who’s super loud. It sounds like she has hooves. She’s like a Minotaur or something. She loves to dance and blow on that wood flute thing while she weaves wild tales about Dionysus or whatever. Anyway about once a week when she gets too loud I bang my broomstick against the ceiling and shout, “SHUT THE FUCK UP MINOTAUR!” And she does. The following morning we'll say ‘hello’ to each other as if nothing ever happened. I wish I knew her name. Minotaur is such a long word to shout.

Does anybody know who my mailman is? How about my dry cleaner whose been scrubbing the cum stains off my pants for the last 5 years?

So what do we do, other than study Facebook everyday before you leave the house? I'm glad you asked. I’ve developed a foolproof way to figure out someone’s name no matter where you are.

As the person you don't remember approaches you call your best friend. Once the person gets there just hand them your phone. Chances are your best friend on the phone will be like, “Who the hell is this?” and the person standing in front of you will answer, “Naaaame…who’s this?” They won’t know each other so at that point 'Name' will just hand you back your phone. NOTE: If you forget 'Name's' name from the time 'Name' says it to the time 'Name' hands you back the phone just call somebody else.

DISCLAIMER: Due to the nature of this story all characters in it will remain nameless at the present time.

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couch time

When I was a kid I always used to say if I could suck my own dick, I’d never leave the house. But now that I’m older and I’ve come to terms with how disgusting that would actually be, I can honestly say, if I could suck my own dick, I’d never leave the house.

Ever since I was little, I was always a horny kid.

I remember being like twelve years old and masturbating every 15 minutes. That’s how my family kept time. We didn’t have any clocks. “What time’s dinner?”

"As soon as Stephen's finished jerking off."

I masturbated everyday, everywhere -- in every room -- even in the attic and on the roof. If you held a black light over my house chances are you’d be able to see it from outer space. “Hey, look it's New York!”

“No. That’s Steve Schneider’s house. It’s covered in cum.”

I think the most exciting part of my adolescence was when I began exploring other ways to get off. (Have an orgasm). At some point plain masturbation became sort of boring. I wanted to feel what it really felt like to have sex with a woman. So I began taking on sexual partners that were known around my house for being inanimate objects.

Things started to disappearing. “Stephen! Where’s that Cantaloupe I just bought? I was gonna cut it up for dessert.”

“I have no idea, Mom.” Meanwhile, my balls are covered with seeds and I'm walking through my front yard, sprinkling them out through the cuffs of my pants like I'm in Shawshank.

I wasn’t the only weirdo, though. My friends would brag to me all about the red-hot affairs they were having with their remote control or lunch meat. We were total players. One friend once told me he fucked a birdhouse. I don't even understand that. What did the neighbors think? "Honey, what the hell is Jimmy doing over there? Those poor birds."

I would NEVER stick my penis in a birdhouse. I'd be afraid the bird would take off with it and feed it to it’s young. But I did have sex with other stuff. Once (when I was really desperate) I screwed a pair of flip-flops.

But the weirdest thing I ever had sex with by far was my brother. I’m kidding. It was my couch. Like that’s any better. Well, actually it is.

My parents had this couch in the living room that was fucking gorgeous. Italian leather with soft buttery skin. The back of the couch had these two supple cushions that met to form a small crack that you could stick you penis into. I know what you're thinking- awesome, right?

The only problem (other than it being a couch) was that it was right up against a mirrored wall so you had to watch yourself face to face as you performed this heinous act. "Squeal couchy! Squeal!"

But other than that, it was pure beauty, man. Some of the best sex I’ve ever had.

I even went down on it once. But I quickly realized this was a terrible idea when I came up with a mouth full of coins and popcorn kernels stuck to my face. Made like three bucks though.

One time right as I was climaxing, I heard my mom’s bedroom door open. I must’ve been too loud. Because the couch never made any noise. I pulled out -- but it was too late. I already came. There was a mess everywhere – all over the couch, all over me and my mom was already on her way down the stairs. I quickly pulled boxer shorts up and stuck my back against the crack, which was...gross.

My mom came down in her nightgown and was like, “What’re ya doin, honey?”

“I'm just fucking the shit out of this couch, ma. You wanna get in on this action?"

Yeah right. I wish I said that. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her. She would never accept me for who I was. I had to keep it a secret. I played it off, “Nothing. Just watching TV.” She came over to me and my heart dropped. I thought ‘what are you doing?’ ‘Stay back.’ But she kept approaching. I was sure she was gonna notice and then tell my father and then my father would punish me by sending the couch away.

But what happened was way worse. While I was sitting there – covered in my own semen, cum dripping down my back -- she leaned down and gave me a kiss – ON THE MOUTH and she told me SHE LOVES ME…and I told her I LOVE HER TOO! Ahhhhhhhh! Incest. I basically had sex with my mother. My Dad was gonna kill me. I needed to go to jail. I wanted help. But instead, she just walked back off to bed and I sat there staring into the endless abyss of my dismal future and thought to myself, 'I think I'm ready to go again.'

Eventually, I went away to college and started having sex with humans which was different. I still think about the couch every now and then. Whenever there's a furniture commercial on or a Pottery Barn magazine gets delivered, I'll get hard. What? It's a good magazine.

Through all the awkwardness and after everything is said and done, I have my couch to thank for helping me understand the true meaning of what it is to “sit down and take a load off.”

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Yo, Your Breath Stinks

I keep making up excuses for why I haven't been returning this girl's calls. But the truth is her breath stinks – always. It’s so bad that my breath has begun stinking just from kissing her. When we’re alone out at dinner, I prefer texting her instead of talking to her. I told her I have unlimited texts. I don't even think that exists.

How can she not know? It’s right under her nose. Literally – every time she speaks. Does she think that’s just the way the world smells? Well, wake up (brush your teeth) and smell the roses, girlfriend.

I don’t want to be trivial. And I understand that we all have our things – our defaults. Like I know I have a huge dick and that must be annoying for her, always having to cum and stuff all the time. But I recognize that -- I’ve warned her about my dick. She never mentioned her breath.

I don’t think she knows. And here’s why…

When we we’re face to face she would talk directly to my nose. I would always turn my head, offering my ear. Talk to my ear -- it can't smell you. But she would always turn me back forcing me to face the winds head on. I would have to block my nose which caused me to sound like Droopy Dog, which she thought was funny. But it wasn't really, it was dangerous. I wasn’t breathing and I narrowly escaped death by asphyxiation several times. Shitty way to go, huh?

The best was when I tried to give her a mint.

Altoid?
“No thanks.”
TicTac?
“Nah. Too much sugar.”
Sugar-Free Listerine Breath Strip?
“No thanks. You have so many different kinds of mints.”

I know. I love mints.

I had to be smooth about it. So I slipped a lifesaver in my mouth, kissed her and forced it in her mouth. Suck it. But that only made her breath smell like peppermint shit. And last time I checked, they stopped making Candy Canes in that flavor. Because people thought they smelled like shit.

I had to do some research – I was curious. Why does her mouth smell like someone went to the bathroom in it? What causes bad breath? Did they make a urinal cake that would fit in her mouth? I made an appointment with my online doctor – WebMD.

What I found out was not awesome:
“Bad breath is caused by odor-producing bacteria that grow in the mouth. When you don't brush and floss regularly, bacteria accumulate on the bits of food left in your mouth and between your teeth. The sulfur compounds released by these bacteria make your breath smell.”

I learned a few things. I learned that I was smelling the Lunchables she ate in 1994 and that those bits of rotten turkey and cracker may have contain information regarding the O.J. Simpson trial. I learned that there was nothing I could do. Ojay was already a free man.

I also didn't think I could just tell her.

Mainly because it would have involved her responding and therefore - me smelling more of her breath which is what I wanted to avoid in the first place.

And secondly, you’re not allowed to tell someone that. Because you’re not. It would hurt their feelings too much. You just have to not talk to them again and put it in a blog.

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Manager/Mother

People outside of LA have no clue how things work in the entertainment business. And by people, I mean my mother.

This is the phone call I get – every day -- from my manager/mother, Wendy.

(When reading this, give her a wicked hahd Boston accent.)

Wendy: Hiiiiii!

Me: Hi ma.

What are you doing?

Nothing. How you doing?

Good. Did you get my message? I called you before.

Yup. I listened to your voicemail telling me to call you. And I got your text about checking my voicemail. That’s why I’m calling you back.

What’s the attitude for?

No attitude.

Guess who I saw today…Janet Picheny. You’re never gonna believe who her daughter’s working for – Steven Spielberg.

Do I know who that is?

Yeah. Very funny, Stephen. The director, shmiz. He made the Schindlers list.

No. The girl, Ma. Do I know who the girl is?

I don’t think so. But what's the difference? You should call her – she might be able to do something for you. Do you want her number?

“Hey. How you doing? Guess who ran into your mother today at the nail salon. Do you give up? My mother! No, you’ve never met or heard of either of us -- but still, my mom said you might be able to do me a favor and tell Steven Spielberg to put me in a movie. Also, I won’t work for less than a million. Hello? Hello?"

I got a dial tone, Ma--

Don’t be a wise guy, Stephen. You never know. Tell her you’re Jewish.

Are you in-fucking-sane? That’s not how it works.

Then don’t call her.

I won’t.

(long pause)

What about writing a letter to Oprah. Asking her to help. She helps people.

Dear Oprah, I’m a rich Jew living in LA doing everything in my power to become famous. But I just can’t seem to get anywhere L. Would you stop wasting your time building schools for poor Africans for a second and help me?

Sincerely,
Stephen

P.S. - I used be friends with a black guy. (Hope it helps).

Stephen, be serious. I was looking through the magazine – People Magazine you know – and I saw pictures of Mandy Moore hanging out at the Ivy. You should go there. Maybe she’ll think you’re gorgeous and you’ll fall in love.

Right. I’m on my way….

How‘bout being the bachelor? It’s an easy way to become famous. Meet all those girls and all of a sudden you’re a superstar overnight.

Ma!

I know. I know. (mocking me) That’s not how I want to do it, Ma. I want to make it on my own. I don’t need anybody’s help, Ma.

That was a pretty good impersonation of me, Mom.

Oy, Stephen. It’s very hard what you’re doing. But you’re gonna do it. It just takes time. Have faith.

Are you trying to convince me or are you trying to convince yourself there, Ma?

I’m not convincing anyone. You'll be fine.

Yeah, I know…. Alright, what else?

What else? Did you watch American Idol last night?

Yes.

It was great wasn’t it?

Yeah.

What about trying to get on a show like that?

Ma, what the fuck are you talking about? I don’t sing. I gotta go. I love you.

Alright. I love you too. Call that girl.

Alright I will. I gotta go – I just pulled up to the Ivy.

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Voices

I’m really good at finding what's wrong with people and telling them about it. It’s not that I’m good at telling them, I’m just really good ABOUT telling them. I try to do what normal people do and ignore other people's flaws [because I have plenty of my own (this being one of them)] but eventually it ends up eating away at my patience -- making me angrier and angrier – I start looking for it, anticipating it -- actually wanting them to do it -- the thing I hate -- just so I can be right and hate them more. Until I can't take it anymore and I explode.

My ex-girlfriend does ‘voices.’ I don’t mean she works for Disney or she’s a puppeteer (because that would be cool). What I mean is she does voices -- like Robin Williams. All the time.

Me: “Hey, how are you?”
Her: (British accent) “Very Good Sir! Ow’ are you?”

I was good until you did that. Why are you doing that? You’ve never been to England. And I didn’t say anything that remotely relates to anything British.

She is an actress so I understand her inclination to “play” but still -- when you do a voice, it needs some kind of context. Here’s what I mean:

Me: “Do you want a bagel and cream cheese?”
Her: (Jamaican accent) “No mon, I don’t tink I be eaten a bagel today. Do you have any rum, mon?”
Me: (no accent) “Nope. No rum, mon.”

Now if she did a Jewish accent – I’d get it – bagel and cream cheese – not funny – but contextually, sure it makes sense. But she didn’t. She pretended to be Beanie Man.

After months of dealing with this internally. And focusing my energy on never giving her anything to play off of, I realized that it was killing me and I needed to say something. I hid all the harmful liquids in my house to prevent myself from poisoning her and invited her over to for an intervention.

Right before I spoke, I realized how weird this was gonna be. I mean who tells someone their 'voices' are a major problem? I do.

Me: “Listen…what’s with the voices.”
Her: “What do dou mean?”
Me: (slightly aggravated) “You don’t know what I’m talking about?”
Her: “I really don’t.”
Me: (mocking her in a baby voice) “Hi! Wanna come over and pway?”
Beat.
Me: (continuing as a baby) “I wove you! (for effect) Fuck me! Fuck me!”
Her: “I do that with everybody. You’re the first person that seems to mind.”
Me: “I doubt it. I’m just the first person that’s ever said anything. Look, I understand why you do it -- I just want to ask you to please not do that with me. It bothers me.”
Her: “You want me to not be myself?”
Me: “Um...no. I want you to be you. That’s not you. That’s a collection of voices. I feel like I’m sleeping with Sybil.”
Her: “I don’t know what to tell you, I’ve been doing that since I was a child.”
Me: “Well you’re not a child anymore. And I think I know why you do it. I think you’re afraid of being you so you hide behind these characters that aren’t you. And that’s okay. But it comes across as an insecurity – you’re scared to be yourself. But I want to be with you – not the characters... ”
Her: “I don’t really think that’s the case. I just do it because its part of my personality.”
Me: “Maybe you have multiple personalities? If you do, put the nympho on.”
Her: “How long has this been bothering you? Why didn’t you say something earlier.”
Me: “It started bothering me about the third of fourth time you did it. And every time since, which is something around a million, and I never said anything because I thought it would go away on its own but now I feel like we need to put some Tabasco sauce on it.”
Her: “What do you mean?”
Me: “Like you know when people bite their fingernails?”
Her: (sad silence)

Me: “So…what do you hate about me?”
Her: “Nothing.”
Me: (in my head with a British accent) Yes! I rule.

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