The street I live on is commonly known for its prostitution activity. I have my own personal homeless guy security guard who sleeps near my car at night. I can’t go to the Circle K without someone begging me for money. On several occasions I’ve had to wait in my car for a drug deal to finish, and the participants to move out, before I could get get out and go to my apartment. The apartment complex itself is flanked by a used tire yard on one side and a vacant lot on the other. According to Zillow.com, the area’s residents are predominantly those of a lower income and higher melanin content variety and foreign-language-speaking urbanites; most with barely a high school education or lower.

I live in a shitty neighborhood. I get it. But does that mean all the grocery stores in the neighborhood have to be shitty too? Do the grungy, low-life inhabitants of our tiny little patch of Phoenix not deserve fresh produce, properly stocked shelves, or dry goods that have yet to expire? Must we be forced to first walk through cigarette-smoking store employees gathered out front before entering the store? Can a brother get a gallon of milk without dirty fingerprints all over the jug? And what the hell is that weird smell in Food City?

My theory is, at a corporate level, grocery stores set aside the B-grade products for the poor people. This may sound cynical, but I might go as far as to say that they transfer the “unpicked” produce nearing the end of its shelf life from the nicer stores to the crappy ones. Either way you look at it, in my mind, that’s discrimination! Why should my bell peppers be wrinkled and soft while others enjoy firm, unblemished ones? Why should my cilantro be limp and brown, while someone only 10 miles away gets to have lush green cilantro that snaps when you bend it? Why?!?! WHY?!?!?

Although in a way, it feels oddly good to finally be part of an oppressed group, I believe this is an injustice that has gone ignored for way too long, and I have chosen to boycott all grocery stores!!! I’m going to plant my own fruits and vegetables in the vacant lot next to the homeless guy! I’m going to open my own Farmer’s Market! I’m going to use my own waste to fertilize my crops (and maybe to throw at my neighbors for disturbing me at night with their domestic violence!) And then we’re going to South Carolina and Oklahoma and Arizona and North Dakota and New Mexico, and we’re going to California and Texas and New York! And we’re going to South Dakota and Oregon and Washington and Michigan, and then we’re going to Washington, D.C., to take back the White House! Yeeeeeeeeeeah!!!

Who’s with me?!?!?

Enjoy!

You DO NOT talk about grocery shopping.

No, wait… wrong rules.

The first rule of grocery shopping is not to shop on an empty stomach. Everybody knows that, but it leads us to the age old question: where are you supposed to buy food when you’re hungry? Fast food? Try to convince yourself that you’re only going to get the salad and only use 1/4 of the dressing that comes with it? Tonight I took my chances at the grocery store.

My total shopping experience lasted about 2 hours. For the first hour and 57 minutes, my basket contained a bag of seedless grapes, a pack of 60 watt light bulbs, two squishy stress balls, and a new paperback off the best sellers rack. Don’t get me wrong, I touched everything in the store: different cheeses, meats, breads, pastries, cakes, fruits, veggies, pre-made sandwiches and salads, and chocolates (Halloween is coming up and they widened the sweets aisle to the size of a 4 lane freeway).

Grapes were the only edible item to make the cut. I was feeling pretty confident and proud of myself that I didn’t succumb to temptation, but grapes weren’t enough to get me through the night. I decided to pick up a bag of sunflower seeds as well. Wasn’t sure how they’d go with the grapes, but it was the best “not so bad for you” snack I could think of.

With the seeds in the basket, I made my way towards the checkout line, down the snack aisle, and past the Doritos display. I passed it three times already. The first time, I took note of the display’s football theme: two football players running into each other with the word “COLLISIONS” sprawled in high-impact lettering across the top. Football season started up again this weekend, so of course, the consumers need to see an image of two football players colliding, because how are we supposed to know what to snack on during a football game if there isn’t a picture of a football player on the display???

I’m not going to pretend that I’m not swayed by marketing. Believe me, I’ve wasted more than my share of money purchasing products simply because they looked cool or yummy on TV. I just hate the fact that I do. It makes me feel so used.

Anyhow, the second time I passed the Doritos display, I realized “Collisions” wasn’t just describing the actions of the football players, it was, in fact, the name of Doritos’ NEW product, touting, not one, but two flavors of Doritos in the same bag. Oooooh… the FLAVORS were “colliding”!!!! Get it? Get it???

Well, woopdie scoobity doo!!! How ingenious to mix two flavors of Doritos in one bag!

Honestly, who gives a crap, and how stupid must they think we are with their slogan: “With two BOLD flavors in one bag, YOU control the ultimate Doritos flavor combination.”

Wait. What?!? Are you serious?!?! Hold on just a second. You’re not saying what I think you’re saying are you?!?

I control it??? I control the flavor combination???

Holy crap!!! WOW!!! I’m finally in control of my Doritos!!!! Before, I felt so OUT OF CONTROL; like the Doritos were controlling ME!!! In the past, if I ever felt like having two flavors of Doritos, I’d have to buy two bags! But not anymore! Oh no… not anymore!

So the third and final time I passed the display, I gave it one last disapproving glare, and that’s when it hit me. Twice before, I merely looked at the display. All of a sudden, I was actually SEEING it for the very first time. My eyes widened, my lips parted, and the words “No way!” fell out of my mouth and landed right on my shoes. What i was looking at, was NOT, what I had assumed would be, a bag of Cool Ranch and Nacho Cheese Doritos mixed together, but in fact, was a bag of Doritos Brand Hot Wings & Blue Cheese Collisions Tortilla Chips!!!

All of a sudden I was in control of the ultimate Doritos flavor combination!!!

The bag was open before I even left the store.

OMG!!! Did someone order chicken wings? What??? What do you mean I’m not eating real chicken wings?!? Doritos??? Come on!!! Well then how do you explain the blue cheese dressing that I… what??? Doritos too?!? How is this possible??? Waitress!!!

I sat in my car with the engine idling for 20 minutes, widening the hole in the ozone layer, and basking in the flavors of my new favorite snack. Looks like it’s grapes and sunflower seeds for dinner tomorrow.

I want you to close your eyes. I want you to imagine yourself at a Lobster Festival. What do you see? Do you see countless numbers of vendors offering up a cornucopia of delicious lobster recipes? Do you see yourself wanting to try just one more variety of lobster before declaring yourself officially stuffed? Can you feel yourself being overwhelmed by the sights and smells of great food and good music and people enjoying life? Now I want you to picture the opposite of all that. Welcome to the Tempe Lobster Festival.

Tempe Town Lake seems to be in a constant state of construction, so there was no convenient parking nearby. Instead they directed me over to a dirt lot nearly a mile away from the event, and charged me $5 to park. I then had to walk all the way back where they charged me an additional $10 to gain admission to the festival. As I passed through the entrance, I was corralled through a narrow, closed off labyrinth lined with carnival “games of skill” and various vendors where I was accosted by carnies and sales people all goading me step right up to shoot the basketball, knock down the pins, buy the timeshare, and sign up for the credit card.

After being forced to say “no thank you” repeatedly to a dozen or so persistent jackasses, I finally arrived at a wide open fairground, only to find out that there was one, yes ONLY ONE vendor selling lobster. One vendor, serving one lobster per person, one way. Boiled. They charged $18 for a small lobster and $40 for a large. If you didn’t intend on spending that much all at once on a lobster dinner or thought that you might browse around and steal some free samples, guess what? No lobster for you!

Sure I could have had a $6 cheese crisp on an 8″ tortilla, or even an $8 “Colossal” Hot Dog, which I could have garnished over by the condiment table which was completely surrounded by bees, but I wasn’t at the The Tempe Cheese Crisp and Hot Dog Festival. I was at the Lobster Festival, and I was going to eat some lobster God damn it!!!. I had been thinking about lobster all week and my brain and body were fully prepared to experience delicious lobsterrific bliss. No feelings of disappointment nor a $40 price tag was going to stop me from having it!

So, I made my way over to the lobster ticket booth and bought a voucher for the large lobster dinner. While I was waiting on line to get my food, I noticed a crowd of people all gathering around this one area. I left my place in line to check it out, and realized they had set up a lobster prep area, where, after you received your lobster, you could go and have some guys take the shell off for you. I also happened to noticed that there were flies everywhere. They were swarming all over the cutting boards, on the lobsters, around the garbage cans, and on the people waiting in line. Finally, I noticed one of the prep guys sweating heavily while he was working over a plate of lobster. Sweat was dripping off his face and onto the food and the cutting board. Although he was wearing gloves, he used his gloved hands to wipe the sweat from his brow and chin, and then went right back to touching the lobster.

I had seen enough.

I didn’t even bother getting back in line, and headed straight for the exit. I stopped a middle aged couple on my way out to give them my $40 lobster coupon. It took longer for me to convince them that I wasn’t trying to scam them or have a threesome with them than it did for me to get the ticket in the first place. Eventually, they reluctantly took the ticket. Bunch of ingrates!

The day wasn’t all bad. I ended up having a very nice lunch across the street at Monti’s La Casa Vieja, which, in Spanish, means Fuck the Lobster Festival.

After lunch, I hopped, skipped, and jumped over to Wells Fargo Arena to watch my beautiful Lady Sun Devils kick the uterus out of Missouri. They’re now 2-0 after beating #16 Vanderbilt the night before. Yes, I know!!! I’m very excited too!!!

So childrens… that’s all for me today. I hope you all had fun weekends. Until next time.

Before I left for California, I called my gym and complained about my personal trainer guy, Antonio. Aside from being completely incompetent, he almost killed me the last time I worked out with him. He decided to strike up a conversation with some dude at precisely the exact moment when I couldn’t hold onto the weight anymore. My arms gave out and the bar came crashing down on my chest. That felt pretty good . Then, a few moments later, he spaced out while I was doing cable crossovers, and the cable recoiled backwards and almost ripped my shoulder out of its socket.

Well, I got a call yesterday from the gym and apparently, they fired Antonio. They said it wasn’t my fault, but I’m not buying it. Now I’m all scared that Antonio may be pissed off and come after me. If I go missing anytime soon, look for a black dude named Antonio. There can’t be too many of them.

So now I have a new trainer, and even though he looks like he’s 13 years old, he seems ok. A bit chatty, though. They also credited me for the sessions I had with Antonio. Score one for me! Yay! But they tricked me into buying multi-vitamins and supplements. Boo! But I gave them the finger while I was paying. Boo again… they took my money.

That’s all I have to say about that.

So, I did it again! I couldn’t resist. I was hornswaggled by them there marketing people on that there television set.

Persuaded by a TV advertisement, I joined eHarmony.com; taking another stab at finding love online. eHarmony offers their patented 359 point personality profile which ranks you in 29 dimensions deemed “crucial for relationship success.” THEN they match you with people who, according to their research, are scientifically compatible with you. It sounded pretty simple, and the guy in the commercial seemed very sincere, so I dropped $90 and signed up for 6 months; joining the ranks of thousands of other suckers.

To start out, I logged on and spent over an hour filling out their questionnaire. The problem with the types of questions they ask is, the people who are answering them are so socially retarded when it comes to the opposite sex, they have no clue what they want and can’t think of why anyone would want them. So, by the time I was done, I had successfully built a personality profile of a desperate loser with major insecurities and self-esteem issues. An hour in, and I was ready to put a bullet in my head.

Nevertheless, I still clung to a small shred of optimism! I figured there has to be someone out there for me. I crossed my fingers and clicked on “Get My Results”. Well, it turns out that according to their analysis, I am attracted to the female personality type, which 90 percent of all men are attracted to. Go figure . Unfortunately, only 4 percent of all women are attracted to my personality type. That means out of every 25 women only one would be attracted to my personality alone! Now eHarmony doesn’t seem to think that physical attraction means anything, but you and I know better. And that led me to ask myself, if only 4 out of 100 women would like my personality, how many of those 4 would find me physically attractive too? Mathematically speaking, things did not look too promising.

Even though the odds seemed stacked against me, I still pressed on. I filled out the rest of my profile, posted a few pictures, and before long, I was ready to submit my info to their matchmaking system to see what love had to offer. I clicked “send” and was taken to a page which assured me they were working hard to find my potential mate, and advised me to be patient, as these sorts of things take time and should not be rushed.

After what I think was 2 minutes of fake searching, it spit out only 3 matches. 3 out of the entire state of Arizona. 3! Granted it doesn’t tell you how many people are signed up with them, but 3?!? C’mon! I wondered how many people just throw in the towel and turn gay after going through this process.

Anyway, I said “F that!”, and I decided to cancel my membership. It took me a while to find the cancel link, and when I clicked it, it took me to to a FAQ page. I guess they want to make sure you completely understand how everything works before you decide to cancel. The one question on the FAQ page that caught my eye was “Why do I have so few matches?” The way they explain it, it’s because their system is soooooo advanced, they don’t give you just any long list of potential mates like other sites do. They supply fewer, but much more qualified and compatible matches. They even go so far as to guarantee 7 – 12 matches for the whole year! Then they remind you that it could take several years to find the right match, but you shouldn’t give up! Oh no… never give up, and don’t stop sending them money.

Since I didn’t need to pay them to help me stay single for a few more years, I proceeded with the cancellation. All I had to do now was click here… then click there to be sure… then another click to verify… then click again to approve, and voila! WHAT THE FUCK!?! In order to complete the cancellation, I had to call them on the phone!!! Of course it was already too late to call at that time, so I had to wait until the next day. The next morning, when I dialed the number, I got a message saying, “We’re sorry, our system is currently down for routine maintenance. Please call back again. Thank you!” I got the same message the next day, and the day after that. The following day, I had to go to California and didn’t try to call while I was there.

To make a long story short, I passed my free trial period, and I’m stuck with 6 months of reminders of how not compatible I am with women. So, I’d like to take this time to send out a heart felt “Go fuck yourself!” to eHarmony.com

Thank you very much, and have a good night.

Oh, if there happens to be an eHarmony.com ad below this post, don’t click on it!

It’s 8:40PM now, and I’m sitting here in the same clothes as yesterday, coincidentally sipping on a dirty martini (shaken not stirred)…

I feel like such a big boy living all by myself, although I have to admit it’s kinda lonely. There’s something to be said about having your own space though. I find that I’m like 100x cleaner than I was living with roommates. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I REALLY know no one else is going to clean up my mess. I think I vacuumed the rug 3 times in two years at my last place, but now I do it 2-3 times a week. Same thing goes with cleaning the bathroom. You don’t even want to know what the old bathroom looked like.

I shop a lot more now too. I actually bought furniture from a store! I think I’m addicted to IKEA. Last week I bought a milk frother thingy to make your milk foamy for cappuccino. I don’t have a cappuccino machine, but who cares? Foamy milk is cool!

I definitely buy more groceries now too, because I actually cook for myself! I made the sausage and peppers last night. They came out great. Had the leftovers for lunch today. I made BBQ ribs last week. Thank god for the Food Network.

Since getting my own place, I’ve been doing a lot of “firsts”. For example, for the first time in my life, I hung blinds, put up curtains, put up a wine rack, and installed a magnetic knife holder thingy above the counter. I have to hang everything on the walls because I have only one kitchen drawer and virtually no cabinet space. I can’t wait until winter so I can use my fireplace for the first time. I want to see how fast the fire department responds in my neighborhood.

The grand allure of living alone, of course, is being able to walk around naked. I have to tell you, I never really understood why that is so great, but now I do. Not so much for the naked prancing (although I do my share of prancing), but more for the sheer convenience of it. I don’t have to get dressed before I get dressed to iron my clothes in the morning. Also, if I’m taking a dump, and the phone rings, I can just pull a Peter Cottontail and hop over to the phone. No muss, no fuss! Not only that, I don’t have to sweat up an entire outfit if I want to do one of my Tae-Bo tapes. Tae-Bo in the nude… it’s all the rage!

So all in all, living in the bachelor pad isn’t that bad. The cat seems to like it. Maybe one day one of you lucky ladies will have the honor of spending the night, and can experience all the pleasures of my humble, yet comfy abode. On second thought, maybe it’s best if you just lurk outside my window.

For those of you who are still wondering what a Peter Cottontail is… it’s when you need to leave the bathroom in the middle of a poop, so you ball up a bunch of toilet paper, cram it in your butt, and clench tight to keep it secure (like a tail). Then, you hop like a bunny to your destination and back.

Don’t even try to pretend you’ve never done it.

TIMES UP!

Back to work.

Now I’m not directing my aggression at people who occasionally mention where they’re from as it pertains to a conversation or a story.  I’m talking about people who base their entire existence on being “from New York”.  As if it makes them special some how.  I guarantee almost everybody knows at least one New Yorker who never lets anyone forget where they’re from.

Yeah I get it!  You’re from New York!  Let’s move on with life!

I mean you can’t even order a fucking pizza without every New Yorker within a five mile radius declaring there is no such thing as good pizza outside of New York.   “Pizza?!?  You call that pizza?!?  That ain’t pizza!  You ain’t neva had pizza till you had New York pizza.”  Then they’ll go into some deep discussion about how the big difference is the sauce, or the cheese, or the dough, or your ass, or whatever. Honestly, no one cares! Let me enjoy my shitty Domino’s Pizza in peace.

And it’s not just pizza, it’s the same for any type of ethnic food.  All of it is better in New York.  I actually know a guy who said, “I love German food, but I went to Germany, and you know what?  The food isn’t that good.  It’s much better in New York.”

Soooo if you were planning on going to Germany, don’t bother.  New York beats the entire country of Germany when it comes to German cuisine.

Sometimes, New Yorkers won’t actually come right out and say where they’re from, but instead they’ll talk extra loud and over exaggerate their New York accent in order to draw attention to themselves.  Then they’ll just wait for someone to ask them, “Are you from New York?” Then, they can really pour it on: “Oh, yeah, I’m from New Yawk.  I’m suh-prized you can tell! Ya know I don’ even hee’a da accent anymoor.  When I go back East, dey tell me I sound like I’m from Arizona!”

Another thing that bothers me is how people sometimes use being from New York as an excuse to be an asshole.  “So I told that waitress to take that food and  stick it up her ass.  Hey, I wasn’t trying to be rude, but I’m from New York, and I just tell it like it is.”

I hate to break it to a lot of east coast transplants, but being “from New York” and being a New Yorker are two completely different things.  First of all, real New Yorkers don’t live in Arizona, or Montana or even in New Jersey.  They actually LIVE in New York.  Real New Yorkers somehow make it through their days without giving dissertations on pizza or discussing the authenticity of the Olive Garden’s menu.  They also don’t sit around and marvel at their own accents.  Oh, and believe it or not, not every New Yorker is rude.  I should know… I’m from New York!

First, my boss instructed me to strong arm a client who hadn’t paid his earnest money.  When I called the client, he insisted he gave us a check.  My boss claimed we never received, so she conference called him and berated the client (and his mother, by the way) and told him there wasn’t a chance in a monkey’s ass she could be mistaken.   A few hours later, I ended up finding the check on my boss’ desk under a stack of papers.

Now, I’m sure there are other ways to feel like a complete retard, but being wrong after arrogantly insisting you’re right ranks right up near the top.  Feel free to comment and share one of your most retarded moments.

On my lunch hour today, I stopped off at the bank to deposit a check, then hopped over to Quiznos for a sandwich.  When I placed my order, I was extra pushy about how I wanted them to make my sandwich.  Normally, I’m not one to be a pain in the ass patron.  I usually just bottle up my complaints because I always think, “What’s the use?  What can I possibly get out of complaining?”  But last time I went to Quiznos, they didn’t wrap my sandwich up tight and I ended up with a ball of bread and warm meat at the bottom of a paper bag.  Today was my day to take a stand and speak up!

Unfortunately I chose the wrong day to stand on my soap box, because when it was time to pay for my lunch, I realized I forgot my wallet.  I started retracing my steps trying to remember where I left it:  “Let’s see… I know I had my wallet earlier today.  I remember fiddling around with the magnet money clip while my hands were in my pockets.  I’m pretty sure I had it when I went to the bank… THE BANK!!! I left it at the bank!!!”

So, I told the cashier to hold my sandwich while I drive back to the bank to get the wallet which I surely left on the counter when I was endorsing my check.  Long story short… no wallet at the bank, no wallet at the office, and no lunch.

So guess what I found on the kitchen counter when I got home from work today?  My wallet!  So much for my memory and retracing my steps.  Needless to say I was starving when I got home, and needed to eat.  I ran straight across the street to Sonic and ordered way too much food, because not eating all day will do that to you.  The rollerblade kid came out with my food, and when I tried to pay for it, he told me my debit card was declined.  I tried explaining that there was no way that could be possible because there’s plenty of money in my account, but clearly the kid’s expression screamed, “Bullshit!”

Dinner tonight was pasta with no sauce and a piece of rubbery chicken cooked on the Foreman Grill.

I’m glad this day is over.