IMMORTALIZED STILLICIDE or the frozen spit whose shape induced an epiphany like Kekulé’s.

As one of the most social orthodontists in Valencia, I can say with acuity that this voluble blog, whose dilating domain of discourse reflects the author's uncanny cultivation, will warm--like the vortex of a Brazilian whore against my pulsing member--the hearts of all who shall espy it. My vocation, lest you forget, is to perfect the human smile.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

I wish I were crazy. I am not. I am perfectly sane. Troubled, certainly. Off, maybe. But I'm cogent enough to realize I live in Valencia, 3000 miles away from my muse, and that the soothing hum of Magic Mountain, weed, HBO On Demand, the Sports Section, and pornography is really all I have in my life. It's not a girl I desire. I've got Jenny. As some of you may know, a vicious bacterial infection inundated my gums after my last periodontal procedure, and I think seeing me so unjustly ravaged inspired Jenny to return to me. So yes, it's not a girl I need. Nor a job. I'm completely content with only Jenny working. I guess I'm just disappointed with reality.

As most of you know, I'm the leading Jason Congdon scholar in the world. Not trying to brag or be funny here. Seriously, let's step back here. Very literally, I've dedicated far more of my life to Congdon Studies than any other person who has ever lived. I remember Harold Bloom once said that the most devastating thing about understanding Shakespeare so well is realizing how much can never be known. My old neighbor's friend's boss once attended a benefit where Stephen Hawking spoke. Hawking said, in a vein not unlike Bloom's, that with his theoretical knowledge came a great burden. Yes, he could understand the intricacies of a black hole in his head, but here on Earth, where we are all jailed, as it were, until we die, he was destined to never see, to never truly comprehend that entity to which he'd dedicated his life.

Sure, Dan Berger thinks about Congdon more than most people. And I'm sure Jason is often on the minds of some of his immediate family members. But I wake up at night impaled by the fact that I don't know which tooth in Congdon's mouth, which fucking tooth, gets brushed the most. I spend all afternoon daydreaming about starting an experimental high school with a rigorous academic curriculum whose chief thread is a dedication to a further understanding of Jason Congdon. My History class would focus less on the macro issues of politics and society and more on J.C's personal evolution. Tell me his development doesn't mirror Man's. To study Jason is to meet your inward self. English would be a little more wishy-washy as it always is. But tell me that the great works of our glorious tongue in no way pertain to the dedication, dysfunction, and self-obsession that Congdon exhibits. Tell me this and you admit at once your unseemly naiveté.

Fuck school. I dream a new world. A world where we only eat burritos, where shorts are always worn a little too late into fall, where shirts must be tucked in, businesses are only small, where Vegas only sets odds on events pertaining to the ammount of current being fed into the old ill wired, muted on Headline News, 15 inch TV from Costco, where young girls across the world memorize the provenance of every single hair on Congdon's sack, where the O.J. Simpson killings were notorious because of a former football Congdon killing a blonde Congdon and a Jewish Congdon with a kni-congdon in Brentwood, Congdon Congdon Congdon Congdon Congdon Congdon guac.

I have to stop writing about him. I know. I know. I'm becoming Eric. Congdon is my chess. I must stop. It's eating me alive, every second of my day dedicated to him. To Bulldog Burrito. To a life I'm not a part of. To a world I don't inhabit. But I can't stop, and my writing, my life, my life is suffering because of it. No one understands me anymore. This, this might be my last post. It needs to end here. It must. It's over. God, this meant a lot to me. But Goodbye.

I say this, and I mean it, and then...

And then I picture him...fuck you, fuck you for monopolizing my life, but I do, I picture him, I picture you, Jason...I picture you taking a break, walking out from the exposed postmodern kitchen and into the storage room, where there are tortillas and Mexicans with thin mustaches and...Virtual Boy--your favorite diversion since those days after junior college when you didn't know what the fuck you were going to do with your life. People said Virtual Boy sucked, that it was targeted toward really young kids, that it made people go blind. But for you, Virtual Boy has always been your one true love. The thing you've gone to every time you've felt miserable and alone. The thing you'll still have that gray day you decide you're done with fresh mex. Yes, I know all about it. I and your mother. I know she bought it for you. I found the receipt that time I paid that Serbian guy to break into her minivan. And I know how you feel, how alive you feel when you put your eyes into that machine and escape. Yes, I've read your journals. Yes, I can almost read your thoughts. To envision that 32-bit world of red enveloping you, your paws gripped to the guac covered controller--to see you at one with yourself is to know that in a life at once ceaseless and inadequate, I have refuge. I have you.

Monday, October 24, 2005

I just returned from a brief bivouac in Ojai, CA. I was there for my sister's wedding. Overall, the wedding went as smoothly as the voluble speech of a dashing suitor. But there were hitches. For instance, I got assigned to a table with Ben Greenberg, this smug "Two and a Half Men" sitcom writer fuck who thinks he's the shit just because he's 22 and making 98 grand a year doing what he "fucking loves." Oh,Benny boy, I have a question? Growing up, did you always know that aiding half-baked vehicles for Charlie Sheen to get more coke money was what you "fucking loved?"

I would have let this slide if Ben hadn't completely cock-blocked me. All night, he impressed girls by talking about his new office and his new Jag and his new opportunities. It's hard being a blogger. Especially one like me. I didn't start on top of the world like Dan fucking Berger. I started as a commenter. Sure, my comments might be funny, but you think that impresses Nicole Green, the mesmerizingly hot 14 year old Jappy slut who was sitting at the table with Ben and me? I look at this girl and I imagine what it's like to prop a 14 year old ass against the trunk of an automobile in the parking lot of Magic Mountain and then just go at it headlong insatiable, looking out at the Western Sun, listening to the hum of the rollercoasters as you pull that hair, stare at that skin, and realize that if your eyes
could look closer, they would see an elastic integrity to those young cells before them too tragically pure for words.

You know the Jap actually flashed me a smile. Had me thinking I could score. She was impressed both Ben and I were writers. But then she asked where she could see our work. Ben said "Monday night on CBS!" I, being a lowly commenter, was forced to reply, " I know a guy in New York named Dan who's got a twin brother. Dan has a blog and sometimes he lets one of his friends, Eric, guest post. Eric only writes about chess. Once, four months ago, I commented on one of Eric's posts on Dan's blog. But my comment was like a post itself. So that's kind of how I'm unique. My comments are like entire posts. So yeah,, August 2005, post 11, comment 8, that's me."

She laughed at me and walked away. Fucking bitch. I could kill you.

I was reading "Rich Berger's" new post where I saw that some commenter had the audacity to suggest I'm not really black. This infuriated me. I won't even dispute the allegation as it's entirely beneath me. But what I will do is present one of the biggest blogging exposés ever. Dan is not really Dan. He's a character created by someone else.

Dan is actually: Miranda Divac, a 47 year old Serbian woman who, in her heyday 30 years ago, was an infamous upper east side slut with a caustic sense of humor. But after having a horrible gangbang and cocaine-induced nervous breakdown in 1974, Miranda became homeless and stayed holed up in the basement of a Frito Lay factory for 3 decades. Between 1975 and 2004, she made 1 new friend, a mouse who lived in the floorboards.
But with the advent of the internet, Miranda often snuck into the overseer's office and met black men online whom she arranged to service whenever the factory workers left the basement. Living on literally nothing but Cheetos, water, and semen, Miranda would have died an anonymous death were it not for the overseer's son's penchant for Legos. One night, she snuck into the overseer's office, hoping that he had become a heroin addict who left heroin in his desk at work. He had not. But what had been left in the drawer was a defective Lego Man. The way this Lego man looked, with its smashed head and fucked up holes on the bottom of its feet, represented the horror of the human condition to Miranda. So she contacted Lego, and they eventually traced the piece back to a certain Jason Congdon. She asked to speak with him, but she was informed that he no longer worked at Lego but at a Mexican joint near Yale. Inspired, she left the building for the first time in 30 years and traveled all the way to New Haven, to Bulldog Burrito itself . Staring into the sea blue pools that are Jason Congdon's eyes, she realized she had found some truly great comic material. What should she do? Write a pilot? Too draining? Do standup? Too revealing. A blog? Yes. But knowing that no one takes a bitch seriously, she created the whole Dan persona. She even got the overseer's son, Rich Mehlman, all grown-up and now an alcoholic ex-con, to pretend to be Rich, Dan's fictional brother. So the next time you read one of Dan's posts, enjoy its humor, savor its wit, and remember that, at its very core, it is part of a treacherous lie.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Jesus, this is fucking surreal. Rich Berger was just on "Maury." Here's how it went:

Jenevieve: He said he was gonna be a big shot at Sports Illustrated. That he'd take care of everything.


Maury: Well, let's bring him out!


Rich: This is astonishing that I'm actually on this show. Amazing! Maury, it's incredible that your conception of entertainment has devolved into this.

Maury: Act black.

Rich: Oh right. I think Martin Lawrence is a legitamately soild comedian. Additionally, a dispropotionate amount of people I've met in my life procure items using food stamps.

Maury: Blacker.

Rich: Let's see. I play squash. I'm thinking about trying polo.

Maury: Oh, Connie and I love polo. Just got a new gold-plated mallet.


Maury: I mean, "Did yo ass just say polo? No you di-int! Mah sistas, is this a primadonna mofo on our hands or what?!!!!"

(whispering to Rich) But the sport, can't get enough of it. I think it has crossover potential. Pretty soon, the kids of all these single darky cunts in the audience will be playing polo instead of hoops.

Rich: Yeah. That makes sense, because there's a great tradition of the impoverished being enticed by stable fees.

Maury: Okay, And the results---Rich, You are NOT the father!

Crowd: boo. boo. women. minorities! Overweight! Discount clothing stores! TV! Lack of education! Bitterness! Inarticulate anger! AHHHHH!!!!

My restaurant guide was just published in the New Haven Advocate! Here it is:

thai taste: gross, all other thai places: gross. Zaroka: Good Indian, not such a good vibe. Miso: Decent Japanese, but oddly pretentious. Samurai: mediocre Japanese. Pacifico: Started great, but going downhill fast. Central: Good steak. Bentara: Good, but I'm over it. Famous pizza places: good though overrated. Louis Lunch: good though overrated. Ivy Noodle: kind of okay and kind of disgusting. All the places like Basta that front like they're good: not good. Bulldog Burrito: Housed in a divinely intimate neo-industrial space at the beautiful Park/Elm corridor is this hidden gem which many in-the-know aficionados consider the finest Mexican restaurant in the country. Owner/Chef/culinary magician Jason Congdon performs miracles every day in his exposed postmodern kitchen, infusing rare meats like chicken and beef with offbeat sides like cheese and tortillas to create concoctions that simply stir the soul. A little advice to those lucky enough to snag a table at the Bulldog: Try the Pepsi. And ask for it from the fountain. Jason first made a name for himself in the culinary world at the Lego Inc. cafeteria by insisting that the catering company always be on top of refilling carbon dioxide cartridges. To say that there is the perfect amount of bubbles in Jason's Pepsi would be the understatement of the season. Oh, and if you're in a rush: Jason says he's pioneered a revolutionary cooking technique that employs electromagnetic waves in the micro range of the spectrum. He says this new method cooks food almost three times as fast. Bulldog Burrito, 320 Elm Street, 495-8600. 4/4 stars.

That really gross Ivy Noodle waiter with not enough testosterone cornered me and delivered the following soliloquy yesterday:

"Jee soo mo bai! Jee Soo! You sih at counta! No taba! Oh, well excuse me and greetings. It's me, the tiny petulant Ivy noddle waiter with disgusting scraggly whiskers hanging from my chin. I ran into our dear Jason this morning when I was unloading tapioca pearls off a dilapidated truck. You should have seen him. He jumps off the CT Limo van. He's coming straight from the airport mind you. And then he just explodes into his store, kissing the tables, throwing the chip baskets into the air like caps at a commencement, rough-housing the 15 inch non-flat screen, ill-wired, poorly placed TV. It was like all of Bulldog Burrito became an actual live bulldog, a pet Jason had missed so despondently during his travels in the motherland. Sorry if I seem standoffish in person, by the way, but I just find my command of this delightful language to be much more voluble in prose."


The other night, a sexy blonde girl was brutally murdered in a porta-potty at Comic-con.

I may not be David Caruso, but I'm also no slouch when it comes to analyzing evidence and being obsessed with myself. With that in mind, I think this picture of O.J. is more suggestive than some might think.

When I first looked at the picture, I noticed a small stain of a greenish hue toward the bottom of O.J.'s polo. Using Photoshop, I zoomed in so closely that I could see the green substance penetrating individual cotton fibers.

I then took my computer to Albertus Magnus' biology lab and connected it to a state of the art electron-beam microscope. I saw that there was a family of unicellular organisms of the macroanociphalae variety living in the greenish substance. Dr. Wong, a venerable Albertus Magnus biologist, explained that macroanociphalae can only live in environments containing exactly 39.6 % water and trace amounts of lycopene.

I racked my brain for some connection between it all. I drank and drank and treated every woman I met like the fucking shit that they are and then...just as the muses of epiphany visited Kekule's mind that dreamy evening, so revelation enraptured me. What, other than paint, is green? Snot? Maybe, but everyone knows O.J. was not phlegmatic at Comic-Con. Paint? No lycopene. Guacamole?

Wait a minute. I remembered that last night, while dining at the Bulldog, Jason Congdon told me that the key to his beef is that he cuts it with the tiniest fragments of catsup packets to make the meat seem more substantive than it actually is. The meat could easily contaminate the guacamole. This would explain the lycopene.

I went to Bulldog with Dr. Wong the second I woke up this morning and surreptitiously ordered a side of guac. Guac, Dr. Wong explained, is like the fingerprint of a Mexican restaurant. No two guacamoles in the world have the exact same water content. Even a Taco Bell in West Hollywood is going to have a slightly different water/avocado ratio than a Taco Bell in Santa Monica.

Dr. Wong proceeded to measure the water in the guac sample using a tin-plated graduated aqua-scope. The reading? 39.6% !

I'll never forget the look on Congdon's face when I asked him if he could help us with our case. He smiled, and then stared at me like a fucking werewolf before running out of the place. What he probably hoped is that I didn't see the black shoe-polish like substance on the back of his arm.

Dr. Wong and I entered the kitchen. We found a can of Black Face and six small hairs that could only have fallen from the head of a black person. Dr. Wong also noticed that the hair's DNA was very heterosexual. This is when it all clicked. Have you ever seen a black kid in Bulldog? No. Better yet, have you ever seen a black kid eating anywhere that isn't a dining hall? No, and if you do, it's usually a gay black kid who doesn't act all blacky and poor, right? Hence, the hair had to have been from Simpson. Simpson must have eaten at Bulldog, met Congdon, and agreed to swap identities. Congdon put on the blackface, went to Comic-Con, signed some autographs, and savagely murdered that young blonde girl. O.J., seeking the solace of anonymity, has been living as Congdon for days.

Wait a minute. Phone's ringing. It's the chief. He says the blonde's last words, as recorded on an iPod accidentally left in the bathroom, were "Oh, my assumption that you were the proprietor of a fresh mex establishment was wrongheaded, as the size of your penis clearly indicates that you are O.J. Simpson."

It was then we knew it. We knew it all too well. There is no Jason Congdon. Never has been. The man working at Bulldog all this time? O.J. The contents of the Black Face can? White Face. The charade that has been fooling us all? Barbarous. There has only been O.J. always and O.J. forevermore. Lego is a codeword for Hertz. Congdon is a codeword for free at last.

"Dr Wong, Dr Wong. I think we should run after him. The black stuff on his arm, the black stuff was his actual skin. It was the white stuff that was fake. He's killed again! He'll kill again!"

So we're running and we're running, Dr Wong and I, and the day turns to night and the night to midnight, and we are blanketed by a universe of blackness.

Sunday, October 02, 2005

Dear Diary,

I got to pitch some ideas at CBS today thanks to
Roger Lodge, who is, by the way, a punk ass motherfucker. As some of you know, my pregnant wife, Jenny, got a new vocation a few weeks ago as Roger Lodge's personal assistant. Roger's the guy who hosts Blind Date. Obviously it's great that we're going to maybe be able to move out from Jenny's parents' place now, but I think her whole "jobs are these essential things you must have in your late 30s" attitude is part of a larger pattern of superficiality that has overcome her.

It's all her high school friend Marisa's fault. Marisa is this JAP who had the gall to insinuate that my recent post periodontal surgery depression was a ploy to guilt trip Jenny into staying with me a little longer. She's been telling Jenny all this shit about living up the one life she has, and she's been dragging her to these pretentious Hollywood parties. That's where Jenny met Lodge. Long story short, I was supposed to pick Jenny up from Lodge's home in Malibu last week, but I arrived thirty minutes early. I rang the doorbell, but no one answered. So I walked inside. I heard some moaning coming from the basement. I go down, and who do I find but Roger and his best friend David Burke (the host of "Shout About the Movies") intermittently inserting a champagne bottle into Jenny's anus while force feeding her pregnant mouth cigarettes. Lodge said, and I quote, "Suck down the smoke with the same affinity you displayed toward our penises, you pregnant slut." As I walked into the room, I realized this was technically a foursome. Looming over Jenny's reddening ass was a cardboard cutout of Ray Combs, the former host of Family Feud, former mentor of both Lodge and Burke, and former guy who had never hanged himself. Some excess semen, perhaps Lodge or Burke's, dripped from Combs' cardboard crotch, cascading and pooling into Jenny's left nostril.

After removing the bottle, I told those two diminutive assholes that if they didn't get me a job in the industry and quick, I'd kill them. Literally the next day, I got a call from Dave Schwartz, a VP of Development at CBS.
Next thing I know, I'm at my first job interview since I got a job at Lego at the end of the decade before last. I realized halfway through the pitch meeting that my sense of humor is somewhat confined. Specifically, I'm only attracted to ideas pertaining to Jason Congdon's stewardship of Bulldog Burrito and Daniel Munz' penchant for both politics and food. The execs said they found my sensibility completely antithetical to their own. At one point in the interview, I came up with an amazing new drama about the Dept. of Homeland Security. The execs said it was genius and "CSI meets Law and Order", but when I added the corollary that the show be framed by Congdon day-dreaming the whole thing while bemoaning the fact that his decision to add alcoholic beverages to his menu hasn't been nearly as lucrative as he'd hoped, they asked me to leave at once. I should have known that my wife getting facialized by a man who killed himself several years ago lest he see his third-tier celebrity diminish would never lead to anything good.