The Violation of Section G-10

I was fined $500 for having glass at a pool party at my condominium. This is my response:

To Whom It May Concern:

This letter is regarding the bullshit fine given to Unit #365 for violation of Section G-10. There are three main points in my dispute of this assessment. I have followed all rules to the best of my ability in this instance and in previous instances where I have reserved the pool with no issues, including a complete lack of fecal incidents, though not necessarily a lack of pool sex (an act not at all prohibited in your monthly newsletter “The Center Court Community Digest” that apparently now doubles as the “official rules and regulations”).

1. The douche bag who brought (and broke) the bowl was not an invited guest of mine. Because of a prior pool reservation where other people came to swim, I wanted to know what I was liable for.  I verbally verified when reserving the pool that it was OK for me to let other people use the pool and I would not be responsible for their behavior. As such, I had no interest preventing other people I did not know from swimming or enjoying themselves.  I only know the person who brought the bowl as “Brent”.  I wish I could be of more help to who this inebriated & coked-up man-whore was, but he was no friend of mine.  He was with two other strangers, one with a large tattoo on his chest which I think  was a panther or maybe Garfield the cat (I’ve heard the HOA manager is a former police officer, so perhaps these details can aid in any investigation) .  Eventually, “Brent” seemed to understand that no one was going to eat his leftover slop, and tried to take it back his car or apartment or wherever the fuck he came from. Unfortunately, this clown began doing some retarded dance in an evident effort to entertain us, at which point he dropped it.  From what I understand, this entire situation was explained by one of my friends to the security guard (who promised to “take care of us”…  thanks a lot you miserable old battle-axe). They were all quite aware of the rules because of my insistence on no glass or pool shitting, which I’m afraid makes me come across as a real tight-ass.  Yet, I have done this because I am well aware of the rules.

2. I would like to reiterate I was told that I would only be responsible for my guests, but if this was complete ass-talk from the old man in the office, I would also like to make another point. Perhaps you will regard this as a technicality, but the bowl broken was not glass. It was clearly a ceramic bowl.  I fully understand the spirit of the rule, but as stated in your official rules, this is not a violation as ceramic is not “glass of any type”. Perhaps the regulations should be rewritten to include “breakable items” so it makes it easier for you to be complete assholes in the future.

3. Another thing – the sign posted at the pool clearly states that a fine for glass is $100. I’ve included a picture of it for your reference. I also have 3 witnesses in case you try and write over it with a Sharpie the way you did to the signs at the south pool. As an interesting side note, there was an older lady swimming when I took this picture. After explaining to her what I was doing, she told me a story in a thick Hungarian accent of how she had been bringing her twelve grandkids to the pool for ten years with no problems until the current HOA manager changed the rules limiting guests for no reason other than as an exhibition of his  delusional power trip. I thought she might just be a senile immigrant, but once she used the phrase “sad, washed-up cop with no meaning in his life”, I knew she was onto something.

I hope this resolves the matter. I would also like to note that I expect my deposit check for clean-up to be returned.  The area was as clean or cleaner when we left it than we got there. Despite Brent’s culpability, he did not show much interest in cleaning his mess. We made sure it was completely picked up since we fully understand the danger this could present in a swimming area (bloody feet, which leads to bloody water, which leads to sharks).

There are several of my guests who can verify anything I’ve written if you would like their contact information. In addition, Awesome John from Unit #344 was present for a short time. He was not a guest of mine, and I had not even met this guy before. But by liberally helping himself to our cooler of Bud Light and his use of the phrase “old twat” to describe the residents at the complex, I feel like he may be a future friend.

Thank you so much for your attention in this matter,

Nathan

Sleeping With The Jersey Wives

I recently had to get a sleep test (SPOILER ALERT – it turns out I have severe sleep apnea).  I was worried the entire time leading up to it about my ability to even doze, much less enter the kind of deep slumber I assumed they would need to detect abnormalities in the REM cycle, also known as the mystical… dream sleep. I had no problems dreaming, but they would be better classified as “hallucinations”. I discovered that I tend to go a little crazy strapped in one position for hours on end, especially with the added pressure of having to eventually fall asleep when one is not sleepy at all.

The first step was wiring me up to several electrodes, the ones on my head having to be applied with a thick glue substance. At some point in the night, a drop began to inch down and across my face like a slow, confused worm.  I was not physically restricted enough that I could not wipe it away with my forehand, but I had become so convinced I was undergoing some sort of torture that I would “lose” if I brushed it off.

Much of that abused mentality was due to the fact I watched the season finale of  reality show “The Housewives of New Jersey” before I turned off the light. It was not readily apparent who these women were, if they were really housewives or really lived in New Jersey – only that one of them saw fit to let her children sit at the table while she “joked” about her husband raping her when she was drugged up after her breast implant operation, but she told the children to leave when a discussion about the destructive power of gossip came up.  I’m not phased by too much on television, but presumably because of the circumstances, I couldn’t stop thinking about these ladies – I began to focus and hate, then focus my hate, then hate my focus – my thoughts began to spin wildly out of control to other subjects as well.  Soon, my legs were shaking with frustration and anger (SPOLER ALERT – i was also diagnosed with “concurrent movement periodic limb disorder”). I have my doubts to the validity of this finding – my kicking was largely voluntary.

The electrodes on my legs actually got pulled off a few times. This led to Brian, the technician, sneaking into the room to reattach them. A large black man sporadically sneaking into the room and pulling down my covers was another big reason I had trouble falling asleep. No, I am not racist, and I was not having flashbacks to prison (I have never been incarcerated)…  It was more about flashbacks to my childhood.

By 4am it was looking like I was not going to fall asleep at all. As the air conditioning came on causing the ceiling fan to start squeaking again (a curious feature for a room designed to facilitate sleep, for sure), I seriously considered ripping off all the wires and running out. This was right after I seriously considered masturbating to achieve some sort of drowsiness, even though I was being monitored by a camera and microphones.  At that point Brian came in again to “adjust” something – foiled again, guy, I was still awake!

I did ask him if I could have taken an Ambien – I had assumed they needed a natural sample of my sleeping and not the stoned version where I vocally marvel at the shadow puppets on the wall before drifting off. He said I could have taken one, but did not recommend doing that now since it was so late. I took one as soon as he left.

He woke me up two hours later and gave me a glass of orange juice. I almost passed out several times on the way home, but I had given them 2 hours of deep sleep and enough evidence for a diagnosis (which you already know if you’ve heard the spoilers). I’m not totally convinced of their competency, though, as there was no mention at all in the report of when I was wide awake, but began to fake-snore for about 10 minutes to see if I could fool them. I guess I did.

I Love This Life

Sure,  I woke up a bit hungover, but I’ll probably be too drunk to read later, much less proofread, so I’m writing this now.  What a day! It started off kind of on a downer by looking at Facebook photos of vacationing “friends” in South Carolina, Portland, and Ecuador… whatever, I’ve got a bowl of cereal and a movie about post-partum depression on Lifetime.  Seriosuly, don’t leave her alone with the baby – she’s already cut off the tip of her finger “accidentally”. Well, it was time to go to Target – I needed to pick up some new swimming shorts.  What better time to eat some thick, greasy corrugated fiberboard? Sadly, the personal pan pizzas at the snack bar had to suffice – hardly on the same level.  I came home, and while in my boxers and listening to L.A. Guns, replaced the LCD screen on a Macbook for a lady at work (I wonder if she’ll pay me?). Then, I realized it is stupid for me to ever have self-esteem issues. I also watched the end of Cocktail and the entirety of Overboard on A&E. An entire bag of pretzels and slices of extra sharp cheese are delicious. In the shower, a song from Twisted Sister came on off the album, Still Hungry. It is a 2004 note-by-note re-recording of their seminal album Stay Hungry. Isn’t that the best thing you’ve ever heard of? If somone will pick me up, I’m supposed to go to Toby Keith’s bar in Mesa called I Love This Bar. I love this life.

Emmanuel: First Contact

The stripper wasn’t on my list. I was just supposed to pick up helium balloons and maybe a birthday card. The goal was to buy as many balloons as it would take to fill a bedroom so they would spill out when the door was opened – surprise! It turned out balloons, especially three hundred of them, cost a lot more than I was willing to spend. Still, I got everything on my list and made it Abbey’s surprise party just in time (stuffing two dozen balloons into the cab of a truck takes some work… another reason why three hundred would not have gone smoothly). Some other people had some lists, too, and they were just as successful – chips, streamers, beer, and as you may have inferred, a bronzed hard-body named Emmanuel.

The birthday girl, Abbey, was a friend of mine from work. She has a roommate named Val, who organized the whole thing… and yes, by “thing”, I do mean penis. The “thing” did not arrive till later in the night. The reason for it for even being there had more to do with Val’s love for good times than Abbey’s love for man junk. Earlier in the day Val had ripped the entire back of her dress open but continued to run errands (sans underwear), often proclaims to pee herself when excited (I know from my mommy friends this not unusual if you’ve given birth, but she was childless and I think she was kind of serious), only stops drinking to take vomit time-outs, and tried her hardest to order the midget version of Emmanuel (he was already booked) – that’s just who she is.  She does what she wants.

Around ten o’clock, Abbey was informed a cop was at the door and there was a noise complaint. This had the ring of authenticity because they had gotten several of these before. Not so authentic was this policeman’s overpowering cologne and boom-box. Abbey was too drunk to notice, though, so it seemed to come as a shock to her when the young patrolman took off his shirt and backed her onto a stool. He quickly disrobed down to his thong, and while he was quite muscular, he was not as endowed as I expected. Never having seen a (male) stripper before, I just assumed this was a job requirement and he would make us all call him by his nickname the “Hispanic Horse”.

His dance started off with a gentle waltz of tease and insinuation, but that did not last for long. He then spanked, humped, face-crotched, straddled, and did a bunch of other things to her whose names can only be found somewhere in the dark corners of the internet (Melon Dive, anyone?). While I cannot say I found this appealing, someone sure did. Val. After Abbey, she took her turn that involved even more positions and an even more alarming proximity between the buttocks and face. She also did some flashing. Did I mention that her parents were in attendance? They seemed pretty nonplussed by the whole affair. Once the performance was over, Val’s dad shook Emmanuel’s hand and expressed his respect for the fact he could perform and chew gum at the same time.

Overall, my first experience with erotic male ballet was… eye-opening. And I’ll be having another birthday of my own someday. I’d put Emmanuel on my own list… but I think I want the midget.

College Film Festival

This is one of the first videos I made in college. It introduced me to the joy of long hours spent alone in a dark room huddling over a VHS to VHS editing bay. While the bays have been replaced by computer systems, luckily, the long dark hours have remained the same.

I shot this video of my roommate and her friend while spending the day in their leasng office. I mostly only remember Misty (the friend) offering to do a "private shoot" in one of the apartments after work, and I also remember me laughing it off. They did not call me The Lady Killer in college for nothing (it was, instead, for irony).

I drove two hours south of Tucson to capture this video from one of the state’s most popular tourist attractions. I had been there 6 six times prior so it went very smoothly.

Welcome to the Cat Show

At first, the Cat Fanciers’ Association cat show appeared as odd and peculiar as I’d expected. I walked through the temple-like archway of the El Zaribah Shriner Auditorium in Phoenix, Arizona, and every stereotype one might have about a cat show and its participants came to pass… plus a few more. The first thing I saw was a girl who’d wedged herself into a cage with a large, sleeping Tabby. After walking through the gallery of Shriner Imperial Moolahs looking as serious as one can wearing a fez, I entered a crowded theatre of cat ladies in pumpkin sweatshirts and kitty ear headbands, men in feline themed T-shirts, and venders selling cat plates, cat clothing, cat jewelry, cat mats… and romance paperbacks (three for five dollars).

The cats waited in a miniature tent city lining rows of tables – their enclosures were decorated with orange ribbons, black ribbons, cutout pumpkins (this was the Official Halloween show!) and bumper stickers that read Friends Don’t Let Friends Get A Dog or Cats Never Lie About Love. Next to the tents, some of them intricately designed with multiple, carpeted levels for feline lounging, were stations cluttered with tweezers, combs, and freeze dried chicken treats. One owner hunched over a kitten with an iron grip on its head, pulling back its jowls as he squeezed drops into its wide eyes. Another proud exhibitor brushed her kitten while eating a makeshift sloppy joe made with loose meat and two Danishes, ingredients she’d bought from the snack stand that also featured a full bar.

Looking into their tents, I was surprised by what peered back at me. I couldn’t imagine a regal Abyssinian setting its sharp, antelope-like head on my lap as I watch television. I no longer think of Persians as simply a hairier version of normal cats. With their large, round eyes where their cheeks should be, the Persians managed to look both dormant and distressed. These were not your normal house cats. As if there were any doubt, house cats were here, but for a competition that lumped all of them together to be judged, “without regard to sex, age, coat length or color.” One cat is chosen for its “uniqueness,” but as long as they seem healthy, every household cat receives a merit award.

The stately show cats, however, are judged multiple times according to breed standards and are awarded a variety of points, plaques, and colored ribbons. The elaborate scoring system is often confusing for spectators. Judges present their awards independently of each other, and are peculiar in their own right. One pink-tied and bespectacled gentleman sported a muffin-top hairpiece as impressive as any feline mane in the show. He was one of the many judges who evaluate every cat, from testing out its ability to follow the path of a flittering cat toy to lifting up its tail and examining the anus. In order to judge at a CFA show one must participate in a training program and pass a breed standard exam, as well as have ten years of breeding experience. I suppose they should also like cats.

Throughout the day, participants listened for their cat to be called to one of six judging rings. This takes hours, as the cats must circulate through every one of the rings; so many conversations stopped mid-sentence as people froze and tilted their heads to hear the announcer who called numbers monotonously from his seat on stage. He sat above a table of raffle cups with prizes like cat bibs, scratching ramps, and a ten minute consultation with a cat behaviorist, the “infamous” author of My Litter Box was Dirty so I Left a Present in Your Shoe, (whose name, of course, you must already know).

Cat shows, like badminton tournaments or even baseball, aren’t likely to garner a large television audience. “I know the argument is that there’s more action at a dog show,” says Pam DelaBar, vice president of the Cat Fanciers’ Association. “Well, they call it action. All you’re really seeing are dogs running in a circle around a ring. I know people would watch [a cat show]; these cats are living art, works of beauty that purr.”

I did see some pretty cats, but I never even heard a meow. I had read about an agility competition but didn’t see any sign of an obstacle course. The cats were not the liveliest crowd anyway. In fact, they were all very docile, which was a bit anti-climactic. One unmet expectation was that there would be a lot of scratching and cats who’d squirmed free of their owners scampering about the showroom, perhaps even criss-crossing in the rafters above. The only act of insubordination seemed to be sleeping in their own litter, as opposed to just sleeping, which the majority of these pets were doing. They sleep until the judge pulls them out of their cage and puts them into another cage along the show ring, where they fall asleep again.

“The moment every cat breeder lives for is that moment of exhilaration when your cat is held aloft and proclaimed “Best Cat in Show!” according to the CFA website. I wondered, were ribbons and points really motivation enough to justify buying a thousand dollar cat, driving from state to state, and paying entrance, grooming, and cage fees for a long day at a show like this one? I wanted to talk to the man wearing shorts that revealed legs covered in scratches (how far up did they go?!), but he was too focused on herding from one ring to the next, so I spoke with the owner of an Abyssinian contestant named Jazzpur.

Joni recently joined the cat show circuit because she felt something was missing in her life, and I got the feeling from several of her tangents, because she has grown tired of her husband. Growing up, she would accompany her mother to dog shows from California to the Midwest, so she was already familiar with showing animals. She says it’s the people she meets at the CFA shows that keep her coming back. “I really liked the community. The people are really cool,” Joni said. By the end of our conversation, I had to cross out the phrase “Everyone’s Crazy ”, which I had scribbled into my notes earlier. Our discussion was cut short when Jazzpur’s number was announced.

After talking to Joni, I realized that as foreign as the cat show had seemed to me at first, it was just another community built on shared interests, no more eccentric than the fraternity of Shriners sharing their auditorium today. No different, in essence, from any other like-minded hobbyist gathering, from Trekkie conventions to poetry readings to Civil War Reenactments. But when I got home and went over my notes and photographs, I realized I was right the first time. These people are freaks.

Written by Sara & Nathan

The Grand Fuji Buffet

I recently went to the grand opening of an all-you-can-eat sushi and Chinese buffet named Fuji. My definition of a good buffet is one where you can make it all the way home without stopping at a bathroom somewhere. I still have not found a good buffet in this town.

The Zombies and Godzilla

A piece of paper I found at school…

The ferocious Godzilla lives in a haunted house. Zombies found him watching TV and eating people for dinner. The zombies were wearing torn up black shirts and red shoes.

Godzilla looked through the backyard where the zombies were. First, Godzilla is fighting the zombies to death and Godzilla is looking where the zombies are in the backyard. The zombies and Godzilla are using punching skills to fight. They’re in the backyard to see who takes over the mansion.

They are using knives to fight each other in the backyard. Godzilla has won the fight against the zombies. Godzilla is laughing saying, “Ha-ha!”

The zombies are looking where Godzilla is in the backyard. Next, Godzilla is eating all the tiny people for dinner. The zombies are thinking about the plan they’re going to get Godzilla.

Godzilla is looking for where the zombies are. Godzilla has changed his mind that he can tell the zombies something. Godzilla tells the zombies about the friendship they agreed on.

They sit down in the mansion for dinner. They had a delicious steak together. They should get back together in the mansion and call the house a big happy family.

Is That Blood?

This is the first in a series, I hope, to ask the above question… so anyway, I woke up in the middle of the night a few weeks ago, and typically, could not fall asleep again. So I took the opportunity to heat up a foot-long, chicken-parm from Subway. Then I ate it while looking at pictures of baby animals. I was probably too tired to think about napkins so I wiped my hands on my underwear. The next morning I stopped in my tracks as I walked through the bathroom and thought to myself, “Is that blood?” Of course, it was only smears of marinara sauce all over my shorts. It took me a few moments to realize this, during which time I also said to myself, “Yes, it’s blood – it finally happened.” This is the most disturbing part to me because I don’t know what “it” refers to, but I am apparently expecting “it” to happen someday which will leave me with no memory and blood all over my boxer briefs.

Blogging for Photos Erotiqué

I have no problem with stuffed animals. In fact, I have purchased a karate outfit for one stuffed bear and some knickers for another, neither of them mine. Once, I went into Build-a-Bear and a girl asked me if I needed some help. I replied, “Just shopping for a friend.” I had meant a human acquaintence of mine who owned a stuffed animal, but by the look on her face then and later when I was buying the pint-sized boxer briefs, she obviously thought I was talking about my “best friend in the world” – like maybe a stuffed monkey named Pepsi sitting on my couch waiting for me to get home with his present. It didn’t even bother me that much. What does bother me is the teddy bear sitting on a bookshelf in the classroom full of children at the school I work. She needs some underwear.