74 Things I Learned Peeing in Bottles

Recently a man in Connecticut was found with 300 gallons of his own pee in his house.

Big deal.

When I made this picture of me pretending to pay my taxes in pure “California Gold” I actually did my due diligence and collected my own pee for an entire month.

For art.

Here are 74 things I learned.

9. Drink a Coke, pee a Coke, volume barely changes at all.
20. Pee gets darker with age.
3. Peeing in bottles is pragmatic and therefore kinda addictive.
9. It’s not that weird. What’s weird is how much water we use to flush such small amounts of pee.
44. Many bottles of pee can be rather mesmerizing both aesthetically and existentially.
46. I sorta get why Howard Hughes kept doing it.
16. 300 gallons would take maybe a year tops for a motivated urinator.
76. Emptying 60 bottles of pee is less fun than filling them.
11. I am able to break a habit quickly even if it’s practical and sorta fun.

http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/sideshow/300-gallons-urine-found-inside-man-home-224127138.html

Wispy Westerly Winds, Lingering Loitering Lovers & Modish Melancholic Musicians.

The waves were tall and thin when I visited the beach yesterday. A Strong wind blowing west and another blowing east, they climbed up between, 100 feet in the air, only to crash down as transparent neutered wisps.

I’d been visited by a few ex girlfriends earlier on. One left me with nostalgic feelings, another left me feeling lonely and another left me appreciating my freedom like never before.

Quite a salad, that.

But the one who left me with the feeling that lingers was the early one I never pursued. Of course we long for that which we can’t have or haven’t had, but it’s true what they say about regrets not being about things we’ve done but rather things we haven’t.

Or people we haven’t.

It’s probably too late now, she’s married with two kids and lives in a city far away.

Not that far, but allow me my dramatics.

A lot of musicians have been coming back into my life lately too. It’s a melancholic sort of feeling that I can’t say I hate. They dress better than most, but ultimately the song and dance of humanity just reminds me how quickly it all ends.

I don’t like thinking about the end.

Point is: When home starts hurting, go on tour.

That’s all for now.
Don’t get caught rushing out to sea.
Your Curse,
Celebrity

That Bacon is NOT The Kind You Eat.

Ok, so, you have gun at your head and a potluck dinner table set for 6 that must be filled with celebrities or someone you love dies.

You get the 12 o’clock seat, going clockwise who get’s the other 5 and why?

Mine:
Dog the Bounty Hunter
Beth the Bounty Hunter
Ozzy Osbourne
Joan Rivers
Tim Gunn

All my guests are invited because of their commitment to a fastidious personal aesthetic. Tim Gunn & Dog for their enormously contrasting but genuine approaches to finding and nurturing potential in others, Beth because I need to learn to accept the fact that some couples are in fact OK. Ozzy because, duh, he is Ozzy, but specifically because he made the theme song for The Bounty Hunter show and his daughter Kelly does that Fashion Police show with Joan Rivers, who, as an opinionated fashion commentator, will keep conversation moving and will kevínbacón the gap to Tim Gunn.

Yes, I used Kevin Bacon as a french verb.

I have seated Tim Gunn and Dog at my sides because, should they not immediately notice, I will be there to point out their numerous inspirational commonalities, massage the exchange and midwife the birth of what is sure to be the worlds most fabulous “bromance”.

I believe I get a pass for that word here.

Even if Beth and Ozzy don’t have much to discuss, she has the biggest boobs in the world, so I put her next to him, across from Joan (who LOVES talking about boobs) and between Ozzy and Dog forcing any Ozzy/Dog chit chat to straddle her vast undulating booblastic expanse.

I’m good at this.

Tim Gunn sits next to Joan because, come on.

You may have noticed that all the guests get to sit next to at least one member of the opposite sex except for me. BUT, although I’m not yet actually “gay”, the creation of this fantasy celebrity dinner scenario should over-qualify me as such, allowing Tim Gunn to satisfy any required under the table footsie potentialities.

btw, I HATE seating assignments.

Anyway, everyone will leave this dinner better people than when they arrived.

Wait, not better, fatter.

I meant fatter.

Now you go.

A Story About Christmas That Involves A Woman Named Carol

When I was 8, my mother and the four kids she birthed lived way up the hill on 17th avenue. My huge bedroom window looked out over the entire Salt Lake City valley. My mom was a divorcee for the second time and when she wasn’t out being a disco mom she was selling Shaklee cosmetics / vitamin supplements and teaching ladies how to be pretty.

The home we were in was WAY out of our price range. Even as kids we knew that. Her best friend, our next door neighbor, Carol, worked out some deal with the rent. The rest of our neighbors were all very rich.

We were not.

Christmas morning we woke up to a few fisher price toys and a bunch of crayons. I enjoyed the crayons and spent some time drawing a picture for my dad who lived across town with his second wife and my other three siblings at the time.

I can’t remember If I saw him that day.

We went outside to slide down our steep snowy driveway, but it was strangely dry, as if some elves had shoveled the snow during the night, so we went next door to Carol’s house and slid down her driveway.

A month or so later I found my mom in the kitchen crying because she’d received a power bill for $700 which in today’s money would be exactly $3,238,544.02. Apparently our driveway was heated but nobody knew it so it just stayed on the whole time, warming the driveway and bankrupting the family.

I think Carol tried to loan her money to pay it but my mom, like most Mormons, hated charity.

A month later we moved back to a lower middle class neighborhood where we belonged.

In that house, where we also lived for only a year, my mom received an anonymous letter accusing her of child neglect. The four of us kids found it appalling and we comforted her as she cried because we never felt neglected.

…until we were adults.

Point is: Bad news comes in the mail.

Merry Christmas!

Now, Let The Unfriending Commence!

In his recent press conference, Obama cited four new shootings since Connecticut to illustrate the need for more “sensible gun control on assault rifles”. He left out some details that a few quick google searches of each shooting revealed.

I’m sharing them with you because I apparently like being unfriended on Facebook.

O: “A police officer was gunned down in Memphis, leaving 4 children without their mother”

He might have mentioned that she was serving a search warrant for narcotics, you know, to criminal drug dealers. No assault rifle was used.

O: “Two officers were killed outside a grocery store in Topeka.”

He might have mentioned they were shot from the back seat by a criminal with a history of theft and weapons convictions when they came to investigate reported drug activity. No assault rifle.

O: “A woman was shot and killed inside a Las Vegas casino”

He might have mentioned that she was shot in the face by her obsessive ex boyfriend who then killed himself. No assault rifle.

O: “Three people were shot inside an Alabama hospital.”

He might have mentioned that the shooters wife was a patient and he was distraught over the poor care she had been receiving. No life threatening injuries to others, he was the only one who died. Cops shot him. No assault rifle.

O: “A 4 year old was caught in a drive by in Missouri”.

He might have mentioned it was gang related and that they used a shot gun. No assault rifle.

Maybe he didn’t mention those things because, with the details, people understand that gun laws banning assault rifles would have had zero impact on any of these cases, criminals don’t obey laws, drug laws create mayhem and obsessive lovers will always kill exes even if they have to strangle them to death.

http://youtu.be/jNid71pvxfI

“Winning” is Relative.

Butterface is a slow licker, she is the boss.

Snortzle is a fast licker, he is a runt.

After every meal, I put one bowl down on one side of the counter for Butterface and another on the other side for Snortzle.

Butterface wants both bowls, or at the very least, the OTHER bowl.

She takes a few slow licks then runs around the counter growling to seize Snortzle’s bowl. Having speed licked it nearly clean, he immediately surrenders and trots around to her barely licked bowl.

This merry-go-round war of lickery lasts until both bowls are licked clean.

This is how nature has a laugh.

Stuff is more fair than we like to think.