To the couple above me, enough already

I appreciate your burning desire to keep the world populated, but to practice your re-population techniques at 3 in the morning? For an hour? Are you going for a record? Because if you are, I don't want to hear it!

For the love of all things sacred, my bedroom is right below yours. Yes, that means I can hear her moan. I can can hear the bed squeek. Please people, enough already, I'm trying to sleep!

But if you really are going to break the sanctuary of my slumber with your raucaus love-making, at least help each other out. Dude, women do not like SLAM SLAM SLAM SLAM. 2 minute break. SLAM SLAM SLAM SLAM. Get into a rythm, for God's sake. And if you think your todger might fall off if you don't keep up that slamming for hours on end, you're wrong. Trust me on this one.

And to which ever one of you feels the rather rude urge to make tracks for the bathroom AS SOON AS YOU'RE DONE, your toilet flushes really loudly. Please get 'those' pipes cleaned.

Thank you,

The guy who lives below you.

With Sanjaya gone, I don’t think life can go on.

My therapist advised me to take it just one day at a time, and as a precaution, to double my dose of anti-depressants, at least until such time as I can once again see the light and find a reason for living.

With his masterful performances, his spine-tingling voice, and constantly changing hair-dos, he truly ranks as one of the world’s most prolific artistes and it is surely our loss that this rising star was dimmed at such an early stage by the unappreciative ears of this uncultured society.

From his overbearing toothy smile to Simon’s outright hatred for the little Indian starlet, Sanjaya warmed (or wormed) his way into the hearts of Americans. Until last week, when they decided to boot his skinny ass off 'American Idol'.

Along with Hiroshimo, Mugabe, and apartheid, this must rank as one of history’s worst atrocities. I try and comprehend the reasons and the fallout, but cannot fathom how life can remain the same. No amount of therapy or anti-depressants can begin to repair the psychological damage caused by this inhumane act.

I need to sign off. I need a Kleenex. I feel overly emotional.

WE LOVE YOU SANJAYA *sic*

Goodbye San Francisco

Dear San Francisco,

It’s taken me a while to muster up the courage to sit down and write this letter to you. We’ve been through so much together in such a short time.

I was eager and excited and you opened your arms to me. I fell in love with you the moment I laid eyes on you. You were beautiful, mysterious, cultured.

I adored the beauty of your Bay, the unfolding drama of your endlessly foggy days, the bustle of the FiDi with its canyons of commerce. How I tripped the light fantastic in the Mission, the very gay Castro, SOMA and even snooty Nob Hill. I smoked it up in the Haight and did something illegal in Golden Gate Park, but we’ll keep that to ourselves.

Paying in monthly rent what the U.S. government shells out annually in foreign aid to Africa was expected. Living on cured beef and Folgers to save a few bucks was ‘artsy’. I traveled on MUNI to save the masses, to save the environment, to ‘spare the air’.

I helped the homeless, befriended the trannies, and was constantly shelling out spare change that I didn’t have to your numerous poor. Together, we rocked. We fought against ‘the machine’, the Man, the materialistic, middle America.

And then everything started to change.

Smelling urine on the streets and in the MUNI station wasn’t cool anymore. The hordes of tourists on Fisherman’s Wharf was getting annoying. Sleeping on an air mattress because I couldn’t afford more furniture bothered me and stiffened my back.

I realized that paying $1840 a month in rent should include more than just one bedroom, no garden, and a bathroom you can’t turn around in; that paying $300 for a PG&E gas bill when I live alone - and don’t even have electrical appliances - is outrageous.

I’m sorry. I cheated on you. I started flirting with someone in Vegas.

They offered me stability, a monthly wage, a promotion, and a chance to live in a decent sized house with a fence and a garden, and at a decent, honest rent.

My beloved ‘Frisco. I’m all packed and ready to go. Yet, I felt you should know why I chose to go. Things aren’t what they were in your glory dot com days. Instead, now, in your dot gone days, working as a freelance copywriter is dangerous. Eviction looms. The credit card company smiles. It’s difficult. Your job market has all but dried up and employment opportunities in your ad industry were few and far between.

So I have accepted an Associate CD position with an agency in Vegas. Sin City has nothing on you babe. But she has a job for me. I stuck around and tried. For three months I tried, you must know that. I called agencies and emailed Creative Directors and recruiters to the point where restraining orders were issued. I did it so we could try stay together.

My true love, I’ll miss you ‘Frisco. But you’ll meet another. You’ll make new friends.

Until then, wish me luck in Vegas. I’ll need it.

Love always,

Ethan

Absolutely NO nutritional value whatsoever

So this is what I pigged out on this past weekend. Boston Crème Rolls. Delicious. And I’m sure not very good for you. About a thousand grams of fat, four million grams of cholesterol and a gazillion grams of carbs. But who cares?!

I put down six off the little suckers during my lazy weekend. I sat at home, surfing the net, reading a book, drinking no-brand coffee and polishing off bad-for-your-health Boston Crème Rolls. Ah, the good life.

And they don’t taste half bad either.

Surprise, surprise

It's raining in San Francisco!

We have had a few weeks of great weather. You know the kind, go out walking in shorts & a tee-shirt kind. Sunny but not kind. And then Friday night the skies opened. And right when I had to walk home from the Ferry Building. Sans umbrella! What's with all the rain. Enough already.

Yes, I know, people are saying we need it because it's been so dry here. Blah blah blah. I can't wear flip flops in the rain. So quit it!

The best thing about the rain is dodging the spokes that stick out of umbrellas. And passers-by don't really seem to give a flying (cuss word here) about anyone else on the sidewalk. Oh no. It's every man (and woman) for him/herself. They don't tilt their 'brollies so as to avoid poking you. Oh no. You have to duck and dodge or else you might end up with just one eye while the other remains firmly stuck bobbing on the end of some oblivious umbrella-toting beast.

I love the smell after the rain - note I said AFTER the rain. During the rain is something totally different though. But afterwards, there's this clean, fresh scent. Someone should bottle that and make it a fabric softener scent. Oh, wait ...

Look what arrived in the mail

Ring ring.

"Hello"

"Hi. I'm from UPS. I have a package downstairs for you."

"Great thanks, I'll be right down."

And this was in the box! Okay, so I ordered it close to two months ago, but at least it arrived - my duplicate New York Festivals Finalist certificate. Okay, so it's only a Finalist, but cut me some slack. I was so chuffed. I've won a few other awards but this is the first time I actually received a duplicate award for MYSELF. And I am so proud.

Perhaps I should go shopping for a hammer & nails. You know, to knock big holes in the wall while I try and make a nail stay so I can hang up the framed award. Yes. Super idea. I think I will run out now and go shopping.

Low self-esteem?

This wonderfully WTF? invention is useful for providing a self-administered pat-on-the-back or a congratulatory gesture providing, in the words of the inventor ‘ a needed psychological lift.’

He suggests, ‘ . . . the device of the present invention may also be utilized to impart significant psychological benefits to the user. In this connection, it is well known in the art and practice of self-administered positive reinforcement activity that various techniques can be successfully employed to extol the virtues of one's actions and thoughts. For example, it has been reported that many wealthy and successful individuals engage in conversations with themselves, that is, they talk to themselves. Such an activity is understandable in view of the often small populace of self-motivated individuals and in view of the large volume of self-defeatist conversation known to emanate from those of low self esteem’.

So, go on, you owe it to yourself – buy one and give yourself a pat on the back for doing so. *snicker*

Sacramento ... who woulda known?

So yesterday I hopped onto Amtrak – yes, it’s still operational – and headed out on the 2-hour journey to Sacramento, state capital of California. “Why?” you ask. Good question. For an informal job interview. Decent little agency, but not for me.

Anyway, the city is not at all what I would have thought it to be. First off, it’s actually quite beautiful. It’s got this big town feel to it, it’s located right on the Sacramento River and after Paris, it has the highest number of trees in a city anywhere in the world.

The Swiss can be attributed to many things: watches, chocolate, the Alps. And Sacramento. Yes, this little city was started up by a Swiss immigrant by the name of Johannes Augustus Sutter – who claimed Mexican citizenship in order to be awarded a land title.

Although famous throughout California for his association with the Gold Rush, the poor bloke ironically died practically penniless, having seen his business ventures fail. And when gold was discovered in 1848, the rush of people to Sacramento and its surrounding areas was recorded as the largest human migration in history.

An interesting piece of trivia for you.

Missiles & other odd things that get dropped into the Bay

So, a few weeks ago, I took a trot across the spectacular Golden Gate Bridge with my film camera - yes, I have not yet stepped boldly forward into the world of digital. Anyway, I saw this sign on said Bridge. So I read it. Then rubbed my eyes. Read it again. Then whipped out my bulky film camera and took this pic.

Missiles? I thought they were 'sposed to be launched into the air, not the bottom of the San Francisco Bay. And besides, who walks around with a missile in one's back-pack anyway?

Homeless get creative

So I was walking down Market Street today on my way back from a job interview and I happened across this homeless guy. Now, not to confuse anyone - San Francisco has a lot of homeless people, I mean LOADS! Personally, I think it's because of the ridiculous rents people charge here, but that's just me. Anyway, back to THIS homeless guy. He was carrying a sign - like many of them do - but this time, I happened to glance at it.

It read: WILL TAKE VERBAL ABUSE AND INSULTS FOR SPARE CHANGE

Funny in a sad way. But it showed me that this guy had actually thought about what he was doing. Most homeless people carry those generic, "No home, no job, no food. Please help" boards. Not this guy. he figured out that when you live in a creative melting pot like SF, you had better get in there and do something different. He did. And for that, I gave him my spare change.

Me, myself & I

I've always been very good looking. Even as a child, passers by would often exclaim what a good looking child I was. As a teenager I was blessed with near perfect skin and very seldom, if ever, had a pimple. My eyes are a glorious green blue with a hint of hazel. My hair, when it's natural, is a soft golden blonde. My physique, while not statuesque, is slim yet toned – much like a Calvin Klein model.

At school, I was never one much for study. But my potential for greatness was omnipresent. I was wildly popular. Everyone wanted to be my friend and sit with me at break times. Quite often, I would have to turn people away in fear that the crowds would revolt. My devilishly good looks and boyish charm worked wonders with my teachers who would always give me good grades. I remember once my Math teacher, despite being a total bitch, passed me in a test I had taken. "It's okay you didn't know to carry the two. I know you tried."

I would spend weekends at the beach and try squeeze in some surfing between signing autographs and handing out my phone number. The girls were all over me. In fact, my sister would get horribly jealous because when she had friends over, they would sit and fawn over me instead of pay attention to her.

I grew up poor in an upper middle-class neighbourhood. But I still had my good looks. The school bus driver, bless him, would deviate from his prescribed route to wait on the corner of my street, just so I wouldn't be late for school. None of the other kids ever got upset. They would cheer when I arrived and insist I sit next to them. Our neighbors would often cook elaborate dinners and drop them off. My mom would send me over to thank them, and they would insist on giving me a kiss. Husbands grew weary.

But money was never an issue. If I needed money for the tuck shop, my many friends were always more than generous, some even being quite adamant in my acceptance of their total tuck shop allowance. Not one to upset others, I would graciously accept.

Later in life, I realized that self tan is to a man what silicon is to a woman. I was blessed with a fair complexion, meaning that I would remain ageless into my mid 40s. But I have learned that a healthy glow brings out my green blue eyes. So, on occasion, I have been known to stand my lithe body in a tanning booth and endure a light spray for the sake of a little bronze. It also looks really good against my blond locks.

In my chosen career of advertising, I have won over clients during presentations with just a single wink. There's a legend that I once sold an entire campaign to a client by simply smiling at her. This legend is true.

I turned down several lucrative modeling assignments to pursue my dream of selling credit cards to John and Jane. Fortunately, with my ageless skin and flawless complexion, I could still pursue a career in modeling (or acting) if I so wished. But many of my friends work in that field and I don't think it would be fair for me to steal their thunder. I'm not a greedy person.

I have beautiful feet. Not many people look good in flip flops. I do. Very often I may be seen sporting open-toed shoes. I do that because I can. My toes are long and slender and I have good nails. I have no need for pedicures. My hands are supple yet strong. They have evoked orgasmic bliss in many instances. I have no need for manicures either.

My natural 6-pack is the envy of most of my friends. But I do not rub it in their faces by wearing short vests. This is cruel punishment and totally unnecessary. Many of them have learned that too many beers can expand the waist area. I don't have that problem. I have a very fast metabolism which keeps me slim. I could eat a 3-course meal and put back several desserts. But I choose not to. People often comment on how wonderful I look. Age will never catch me.

I have a naturally small-but-pert posterior. Very often, while walking in public, my posterior gets pinched. I seldom know who has pinched it, but that doesn't matter. I look great in jeans. I also fill out a Speedo more than sufficiently.

I don't have a driver's license. But then again, I have never needed one. Once, while driving my friend's Z4, I was pulled over by a policeman. He asked to see my license. When I replied that I didn't have one, he smiled and told me to be careful. There are many bad drivers on the roads these days and while I may not be one of them, not all were as good as I was. I am fortunate enough in that I am never left needful of transportation. I have a plethora of friends waiting to drive me wherever I need to go. They are just grateful to be seen with me in their passenger seat.

Very often, I get mistaken for famous actors. Perhaps this is why I very seldom pay for movie tickets. I think the last time I paid for a movie was back in primary school when we each had to bring in R1 to watch a nature documentary. It was to aid the SPCA. So I gave them R10. A friend gave it to me.

I'm a very generous person. I give more than I should. I'm a generous tipper. Often, waiters and waitresses will insist that I take back my tip. But I couldn't do that. I know they work hard. Besides, someone has to pay to get into movies, right?

Photo credit: Getty Images

Self-doubt & skepticism

Am I doing the right thing? Yes, I know I need to work but I'm about to pack up my few belonginings into two small boxes and head out to Vegas. VEGAS!!! To join an agency no-one has ever heard of. And why am I even considering it? Because I need to work.

I'll be honest, I'm scared shitless. Yes, I get itchy feet, and I move around too much. Americans view that in a not-so-nice light. They regard it as being 'disloyal'. Whatever, that's like blowing smoke up my ass. But back to the issue at hand. I could take the plunge and leave beautiful San Francisco. And land in semi-arid desert with affordable housing.

Decisions decisions.

The offer is a good one. So at least I'd be able to save. But I need to remember that from that position, I would have to move to another agency as a CD. Would they value my time with XXX in Vegas?

Okay, let's weigh up the pros & cons. San Francisco is a lot more beautiful, a lot more cultural and has more possibilities (you wouldn't think so though - no-one here is hiring at the moment). Vegas is dry, small, and there are fewer agencies. SF has world-class agencies. Vegas has one (sort of). Vegas would give me a chance to showcase my work and ability. Mind you, so would San Fran. There's a job offer in Vegas. There isn't one in SF.

Shit! I don't know. Any suggestions?

Photo credit: Getty Images (just so I don't get sued)

Why can't I perform miracles?

We see them every day. People get knocked over by cars. Get up. And walk away. Miracle? Or luck? Moses parts water to allow people to cross an ocean to escape persecution. Miracle? Or just a really hot day in which the sun managed to evaporate water REALLY quickly?

I want to perform a miracle. Like maybe paying my rent without scrounging for pennies in my kitchen drawer. Or sleeping a solid eight hours a night. Or maybe just looking into a mirror, wishing I looked more like Brad Pitt and it happens. KAZAM! Like that. Or going to the local market, buying a few avocados and they don't go vrot by the next day. Yoiu know, simple miracles like that.

How I would love to be able to perform the 'money-increasing miracle'. The one where you open your wallet, see $1, close it, and open it again to find that that $1 has miraculously grown and multiplied so now you have $1000. I'd love to be able to do that.

Or my personal favourite: the miracle where while you're walking along the side of the street, the 3 foot 2 inch Asian woman who is walking directly in front of you actually steps aside inside of glares up at you as if to say, "Hey, white guy, move or else I commit a Hiroshima on your ass."

Just one miracle would be nice. Okay, so i don't even have to be the one performing it. Let it happen to ME! Just once, I'm not greedy.

But none of this Moses miracle stuff. I don't need parting seas. I need growing $$$s.

They upgraded me

So I was booked into the Suncoast Casino & Hotel here in Las Vegas. Regular room. Until I checked in. They upgraded me to a deluxe suite. Now THIS is how I was meant to live!

Vegas, baby!

So now with the memory of Albuquerque far behind - okay, so maybe not soooo far behind, it was only a few days ago - I prepare to saddle up my pont for yet another adventure. This time to America's Dubai. Yes, only in America (and the U.A.E.) would they plonk glass buildings and fountains and replicas of the Eiffel Tower and the Pyramids of Giza smack-bang in the middle of a desert. Yup, I'm off to Vegas baby!

Yet another freelance stint but this one may lead to a job offer (I'm hoping.) Never been to Vegas before but my friend C in London has and she LOVED it. As the Las Vegas Convention Bureau TV commercial goes, What happens here, stays here." Ooh, I like the sound of that *evil wink*

Will try make a post from there and let y'all know how it is.

Until then, I gotta get all my quarters together to win next month's rent on one of those one-arm bandits pull machine things.

Pampered with a pedicure

I don’t care what anyone says. I’ll have a damn pedicure if I want one.

I see eyebrows (and questions) being raised. I mean, come on, how many of you have had one? Okay, so it was not quite as relaxing as say, a massage, but it was good – if not a little ticklish. I almost kicked the poor woman in the face with a reflex heel to the chin. She ran her nail under my foot! Of course I’m going to boost out my foot with force.

Anyway, so after clipping and rubbing and massaging and pouring of oils, I was done. I admit, I felt a little self-conscious sitting in this chair with my jeans rolled up to my knees, flanked by two women having their pedicures as well. People walked past the pedicure/nail salon and took a double take when they saw me sitting there.

But the highlight of the pampering came when the woman asks, “you like dining?” I didn’t know what she was going on about (she’s foreign with an odd accent) so I just agreed. A few minutes later she says, ‘Okay, me finish. You wait. Relax.’ I was like, mmmmm, this IS the life. After about 10 minutes, I slipped into my flip flops, paid my $20 and left, beaming from ear to ear because I have just had my transporters pampered. Then I looked down at my lilly white transporters and my eyes nearly popped out of my head. She hadn’t asked if I like dining. She had asked, “YOU LIKE SHINY?”

My toe nails now reflect the sun with a blinding brilliant translucent shine!