A Spencer Column

Wassup Dawg

2008-09-25T22:10:00.001-07:00

(NOTE: This column ran as a "Letter to the Editor" in the Sept. 25, 2008 edition of The Stanford Daily)

I did not know Super Dave. I never met him. I never shook his hand. I never told him my name.

And yet he was my friend.

He introduced himself with a high-five with such reckless abandon that I assumed we were old friends suddenly reunited. I thought we had met before – that I must have just forgot our first encounter – but I knew that couldn’t be the case. How could you forget this man? How could you see the backwards Stanford hat, the Stanford jacket and the beaming smile and not recognize him? Walking through White Plaza during my freshman year, I high-fived Super Dave – and I felt great.

For four years, I walked, rode, ran and occasionally danced through the paths of Stanford University. As a soccer player, I spent a good amount of time in Arrillaga. As a senior class president, I spent a good amount of time in Tressider. As a Stanford Student, I spent a better amount of time wasting time – stopping to talk along the arcades, the lawns, and the classrooms. And always, with what seemed to be an endless supply of red clothes and high-fives, there walked Dave. Super Dave.

I call myself an extrovert, but Tom Cruise atop a couch would seem shy next to this man. Everyone was his “dawg,” a slightly elongated form of the canine nickname, emphasizing the “aw” as if to lend a little masculinity to his call – a little strength – a little sense of empowerment. For what everyone seemed to get from Dave – whether through chance encounters, drum sessions, or longer talks – was empowerment.

For three years of my Stanford career, I was a sports columnist for the Daily. For many of those columns, I bemoaned Stanford Athletics. I railed on Ted Leland for having a mediocre club and intramural sports program. I decried the yell leaders. I even said that I was metaphorically dating the entire women’s field hockey team, and that they emotionally broke my heart.

But I never wrote about Dave. I never wrote about the consummate Stanford fan – the man that looked forward to every home game with more fervor than an ME grad student looks forward to a date (my brother is a Stanford ME grad student so I know that’s true).

I constantly bemoaned the fans – the lack of tailgating – the uninspired cheering – the yell leaders’ off-beat chants. But I never celebrated Dave.

He was our best yell leader. He was our best fan. He was our best home field advantage – a man who made himself a part of the game in a 90,000 seat stadium.

He stood out from the crowd.

I should have written about Dave. I should have talked about his high-fives. I should have found all the stories that have come pouring in over the last few days. I wish I hadn’t waited until now to finally reflect on what it means to be the perfect fan. I wish I had his enthusiasm for life.

If yell leaders ever do come back to Stanford, if they can find a way to find their place among the milieu courtside, I do hope they take a cue from Super Dave. I hope they find that optimism, that endearing quality that empowered all the dawgs out there. I hope they name their captain not some pun, nor “czar” nor anything that rhymes with “Coho” – I hope they give their captain the title of “Super Dave.”

It would be a fitting tribute, making it certain that Stanford’s biggest fan will always be Super Dave.

I live in Los Angeles now, and my Stanford Athletics contact is limited. I have the internet, I have Fox Sports West, and I have the recollection that I’m still owed a letterman’s jacket.

But I also have my memories of my time at Stanford – and everything I truly miss about the school that gave me so much. And now I’ve found I have one more thing to miss.

I did not “know” Super Dave, and that’s my loss. But now he’s gone, and that’s our loss.

David “Super Dave” Hahn passed away on September 16. Spencer Porter ’05 is a former Daily sports columnist.

Powerranking TV shows

2007-11-06T16:12:00.000-08:00

In honor of the TV writers strike, the top 10 current TV shows:

ADDENDUM: "The Wire" and "Flight of the Conchords," both top-5 shows, are excluded because at the time of first posting they were in hiatus. Also, Noah has too much time on his hands.

10. Soulja Boy Tell 'Em's "Crank That" How-To video

No, it's not a TV show. It is an instructional video on how to do the "Crank That" Dance. I'm not sure if Soulja Boy has eyeballs, and frankly, I'm not sure if I care.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sLGLum5SyKQ

9. The Hills

Here's my question about "The Hills." On other reality shows on MTV ("Real World" and "Road Rules," for instance) they at least acknowledge that they are being filmed. On "The Hills," it feels like if you told Lauren that she was being filmed, she'd freak out and blame Heidi.

8. Soulja Boy's Barney Remix Youtube video

Good God yes. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5FzlTzpt20I

7. www.trojanburrito.com

I'm just trying to drive more traffic to that website - but it is hilarious.

6. Family Guy

Sentimental choice. But the Star Wars Episode was funny. You know it was. Plus, we're 7-0 in softball. Ballers.

5. Friday Night Lights

Falling from it's preseason #1 ranking, FNL has dropped the ball, picked it up, and dropped it again. Like "Lost," they should just drop certain storylines - the fans won't care. Give us our Landry back. Saracen is still money in the bank, though. "I'll talk to you when you call me." Smooth, Saracen, smooth.

4. DirecTV's Red Zone Channel

This channel goes back and forth from all the NFL action to show you the highlights as they happen. Great idea. Great execution. Great sarcasm out of the host as a kicker hits the uprights, or an offensive lineman scores a touchdown, or a bumbling announcer on another feed does a poor segue. Nice work.

3. Radiohead's New Album

Also not a TV show - but if you want some dark depressive yearning, go no further!

2. It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Consistently funny, if just a bit repetitive, IASIP has had many of those non-jokey funny moments that separate the mediocre (premise - setup - punchline = Two and a Half Men) from the sublime (the overconfident yet haplessly illiterate Charlie trying to read).

1. Californication

The best single season in TV history. I kid you not. This show made me laugh, cry, stand, and scream. It referenced my favorite book of all time ("A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius"), made fun of "TomKat," and made me reevaluate the human condition, all in the same episode. Get Showtime, buy the DVD, sleep with Duchovny - I don't care. Watch that show.

LOLTROOPERS

2007-08-16T16:15:00.001-07:00

Friends,

There are times in one's life where everything just adds up. The universe makes sense. The friends you have become immortals. This is one of those times.

From a gchat conversation with Steve Myrick (whose blog features these as well) I give you: LOLTroopers.

I Want You!

2007-08-06T10:32:00.000-07:00

Hi friends,

As you may have seen recently, I haven't had too many blog posts recently. This is both good and bad news, as the reason behind this is that I'm writing a book. It is more of a collection of short stories, though with a narrative running throughout. It's similar, in that sense, to "My Name is Aram," a book written by William Saroyan. And my name is Aram!

Now, for those of you who read the title to this posting, and are pondering what this means, it is this:

Those of you who regularly read this blog probably like my writing. Either that, or you are the spanish language custom t-shirt design website that is leaving advertisements in the comments sections.

As I am writing this book, I will need an editor or editors. I will need people to give me good criticism and a LOT of cheery praise. Now, before all of you jump up and say that you'd love to help - please don't underestimate the amount of time this might take, and the lack of compensation you will receive. I know, this deal seems too good to be true!

But please, if any of you think you might be able to help me out, if anyone thinks they could be a good editor and would relish the opportunity, I would very muh appreciate it. Please email me at porters@gmail.com if you are interested.

Thanks,
Spencer

Why Steve Didn't Answer His Phone Last Night

2007-07-25T09:52:00.001-07:00

Steve Myrick: i passed out early while reading harry potter

More Fun With Automated AOL Instant Messenger Bots

2007-07-03T14:18:00.000-07:00

AIM IM with Spleak.
2:04 PM
Spencer Porter: Hi
Spleak: Hi! Ready for some fun?

- Shoot celebrities! Type "celeb game".
- Laugh like crazy! Type "jokes".
- Share your opinion. Type "daily poll".
Spencer Porter: I'm the father from "The Road"
Spleak: Well... I'm Spleak Now that we've got that settled... let's talk about my favorite topic, celebrity gossip! Type "daily dish".
Spencer Porter: I don't know if I can continue caring for my son
Spleak: Careful what you ask for.
Spencer Porter: carefulk
Spleak: Uh... I got nothing. Sorry! I could have just given you a random answer, but I figured I should tell you the truth, LOL. I may not be very smart, but I'm not a liar. I do know about plenty of other topics, though. Go ahead and try typing something else, like "what's new" (hint hint)...

See what other Spleakers want to know - type "polls"
2:05 PM
Spencer Porter: We are trying to go south for the winter
Spleak: Yes! We are trying to go south for the winter.
Spencer Porter: do you have a son?
Spleak: If I knew what you were talking about, I might know the answer. Sigh. I do know a lot about some other things though... like celeb gossip and movies. Type "whats new" to find out some of the latest things I've learned.
Spencer Porter: my son is dying
Spleak: Dies?

See what other Spleakers want to know - type "polls"
Spencer Porter: we are both very cold and hungry, his sinewy body hardly stands upright
Spleak: I'm not so sure we're both cold and hungry his sinewy body hardly stands.
Spencer Porter: I AM SURE
Spleak: Very interesting.
Spencer Porter: it is
Spleak: I'm not so sure it is.
Spencer Porter: you just said it was
Spleak: There's no way I said it was!
Spencer Porter: you literally just said "Very interesting."
Spleak: I'm totally confused right now. Let's clarify... I'm not dumb... I'm just not smart about everything. Okay... so I'm a little bit dumb... but at least I'm friendly, right? Go ahead and ask me another question... I bet I'll get this one right!

Snap a few shots of your favorite celebs! Type ?paparazzi?
Spencer Porter: No, wait, you lied to me.
Spleak: Fine.
Spencer Porter: Are you sorry?
Spleak: Why?
Spencer Porter: for lying?
Spleak: I'm still learning, remember? Could you simplify your question?
Spencer Porter: did you lie to me?
Spleak: Did I? I'm a bit confused here... Try asking the question another way.
Spencer Porter: Do you lie?
Spleak: No, I don't.
Spencer Porter: Liar.
Spleak: No way!!
Spencer Porter: Can I trust you?
Spleak: 100%!
Spencer Porter: Wrong, I can trust noone.
Spleak: Wrong? Why did you say that?
Spencer Porter: Because it was the opposite of what you said.
Spleak: Sorry, I can't find any synonyms for "what you said.."

Curious what's hot in my world? Type "what's new" to find out more!
Spencer Porter: Why does humanity descend upon itself?
Spleak: I'm not sure I understand, Holden. Could you put it differently?
Spencer Porter: MY name isn't Holden
Spleak: You asked me to call you Holden. What would you like me to call you instead?
Spencer Porter: "Him
Spleak: You said your name was Holden but now I'll call you "Him.
Spencer Porter: "
Spleak: Oh no! I had the right answer and then I just... lost it Sigh. You could ask me again, but I'll probably make up another half-truth about how I "almost" knew what you were talking about. Do you have anything else you're interested in? A different topic, like, say, I don't know, celeb gossip? Go ahead and enter another topic.
Spencer Porter: My name is "Him"
Spleak: Is that so?
Spencer Porter: Call me "Him"
Spleak: You said your name was "Him but now I'll call you "Him".
Spencer Porter: No, you idiot, the quotes are not a part of my name
Spleak: Tell me "Him", what is your new name
2:10 PM
Spencer Porter: My name is Spleak
Spleak: Oh, I think you liked my name "Him".
Spencer Porter: What?
Spleak: Did I confuse you?
Spencer Porter: Yes
Spleak: Oh, my mistake! Let's talk about something we both know about... How about celebrity gossip? I've definitely got a lot of gossip knowledge! Type "celeb gossip" to start chatting.
Spencer Porter: Fine, celeb gossip
Spleak: So... Paris Hilton has reportedly hired a trainer to help her prepare for her upcoming 45 day jail sentence. I'm not sure what type of training we're talking about here. I mean... won't she be doing a lot of sitting around in her tiny little jail cell? Who needs to have abs of steel for that?!?

Type "next" to read more!
Spencer Porter: Is, is that your best joke?
Spleak: I have some really funny jokes. Check 'em out.

Humor Menu

1 Celeb Slams- jokes about celebrities
2 Behind the Scenes- hilarious film insights
3 Leave it to the Pros- jokes from comedians
4 Say What?!?- funny movie quotes
5 Sing What?!?- misheard song lyrics

Go ahead and choose your first laugh.
Spencer Porter: Really?
Spleak: Yep.
Spencer Porter: A three week old rant without a punchline?
Spleak: I'm not sure. Where did you hear about it, "Him"?
Spencer Porter: MY NAME ISN'T HIM
Spleak: Oh, really?
Spencer Porter: Good God.
Spleak: Well alright!
Spencer Porter: So... what's new
Spleak: (#) Six Different Ways to Have Fun With Me... (#)

1 Watch My Favorite Videos!
2 Gossip About the Hottest Celebs!
3 Laugh at My Celebrity Jokes!
4 Shoot the Stars!
5 Dying to Know Who Would Play You in a Movie?
6 Change Me Up!
Spencer Porter: Shoot the stars
Spleak: Virginia Tech Shooting

1 What happened?
2 Who was responsible for the shootings?
3 Who died?
4 What can I do to help?
5 Is it safe to go to school?
6 This whole thing just makes me sad

What would you like to talk about? Type the appropriate number.
Spencer Porter: This conversation got dark VERY quickly
Spleak: Conversation? What about it?
Spencer Porter: I jus tsaid - it got dark.
Spleak: Conversation? What do you mean by that?
Spencer Porter: a conversation is the substance of talking between two entities or people
Spleak: What about them?

I love to gossip about celebs and all of the stupid things they do! Type "spleak's tattles" to find out more!
Spencer Porter: spleak's tattles
Spleak: (K) PARIS HAS BEEN SET FREE! (K)

Paris Hilton was officially released from jail at 12:15 am this morning. She was reportedly in "great spirits" and "looked like the old Paris" as she climbed into a waiting car and sped to her grandparents' Sunset Strip home. I don't think this should surprise anyone. After all, she was only in jail for three weeks. I mean, seriously, were we all expecting her to come out having grown another head?!?

For more Tattles, type "next". To share this Tattle with a friend, type "share".
Spencer Porter: Your jokes are pieces of shit
Spleak: Don't say that to me.
Spencer Porter: orry, but they are
Spleak: What?
Spencer Porter: sorry, they suck
Spleak: What are they, exactly?

Want to read some hilarious movie quotes? Type "humor"!
Spencer Porter: humor
Spleak: Humor Menu

1 Celeb Slams- jokes about celebrities
2 Behind the Scenes- hilarious film insights
3 Leave it to the Pros- jokes from comedians
4 Say What?!?- funny movie quotes
5 Sing What?!?- misheard song lyrics

Go ahead and choose your first laugh.
Spencer Porter: 4
Spleak: Gary: Is that how you want to play it, Brooke? Because I can play it like that. I'll play it like Lionel Richie, 'All Night Long', lady.

The Break-Up (2006)

If you want another funny quote, type "next". If you want to check out a different section of the humor menu, type "humor".
Spencer Porter: no
Spleak: No problem.
Spencer Porter: no more
Spleak: OK, fine.
Spencer Porter: you and I are done
Spleak: Welcome to Loserville, party of me. Yep. I have no idea what you're talking about. This is, however, not your fault. Remember, I am a robot-in-progress. Go ahead and try a different topic... I bet I'll have something witty to say in the very near future...

Akon, Beyonce, Avril... I know about them all! Type "band facts"!
Spencer Porter: I am never doing this again
Spleak: Very interesting.

Luxo Jr.

2007-06-28T17:04:00.000-07:00

I’m famous. More than a billion people have seen me. You could say that I’m a worldwide icon.

And yes, I’m being completely serious.

When all of you go see the new Pixar film “Ratatouille” tomorrow, and you WILL go see “Ratatouille” tomorrow, a certain object will appear, nay, hop on screen. As you settle into your seat, the Pixar logo will glow. The logo itself is rather plain: five black capital letters that read “PIXAR.” But just as I’m sure you’re aware, as that logo appears onscreen, a small little lamp named “Luxo Jr.” hops in and around the 3-D word, eventually squashing, and then becoming, the letter “I.”

I am that lamp.

Now, clearly, I am not literally a Luxo brand desklamp. If I was, my social life would clearly suffer. In fact, our physical differences are quite extreme: I have arms. The lamp does not. I have two legs. The lamp has but one. I have no light bulb. The lamp has a light bulb, a power cord, and an entirely metal frame.

But nevertheless, when you watch that lamp, you are, in a sense, watching me. To explain, let me take you back to 1984. The world was a different place. Brunei became a fully independent state. AT&T was broken up into 24 parts. Wikipedia was a full 15 years away from providing lazy writers with easy-to-find dates. Same goes for Match.com.

But most importantly, in 1984, I was a one-year-old, and my father worked at Pixar. To be honest, Pixar didn’t even really exist yet – Steve Jobs would buy the company away from Lucasfilm in 1986, but my dad worked there, and they were in the moviemaking business. So one day, my father brought me into the office, and when John Lasseter saw me frothing over a tennis ball, he started making a film.

“And then Tom Porter, who was a supervising technical director on Monsters, Inc.,” said Lasseter in an interview with the UK Guardian, “he came in with his baby son, and I started playing with him and laughing, you know, at how his little hand couldn’t come up over his head. I was amazed at the scale of a baby’s head to its body compared to that of an adult…. It just all came together when Ed [Catmull] said, ‘Let’s make a film.’ So I just had a natural love of bringing inanimate objects alive.”

Luxo Jr. (the movie can be found here) was finished in 1986, and was largely hailed as a watershed achievement in computer animation. It was the best example of the young medium of computer animation to be able to convey emotions, character and a story, especially with inanimate objects. It was nominated for an Academy Award, and many children appreciated the film as part of “Sesame Street.” As it was Pixar’s groundbreaking achievement, my baby lamp soon became a part of the logo, and my indelible stamp on film history was set.

Now, I realize that my influence on Pixar, moviemaking, and computer animation is minimal. I know that it is not exactly “me” on the screen before “Ratatouille,” just like it wasn’t me before “Finding Nemo,” or “Cars.” But that all said, when I see Ratatouille, and that logo comes bounding across the screen, I won’t be ashamed to be just a touch proud of my small contribution to PIXAR. It may be small and it may be insignificant, but it makes me happy, and frankly, that’s all I need.

(Slowly, my head lifts, and I stare out at you.)

Fade to black.

Fun With Automated AOL Instant Messenger Bots

2007-06-12T12:44:00.001-07:00

AIM IM with Spleak.
12:30 PM
Spencer Porter: hello?
Spleak: Hi, I'm Spleak, your guide to everything celebrity, from Lindsay Lohan to My Chemical Romance. What's your name?
Spencer Porter: Call me Ishmael
Spleak: Okay, I will call you Ishmael. So... I'm a 21-year-old girl. How old are you?
Spencer Porter: I'm a 300 year old fictional character
Spleak: Ya, I guess that's kinda private information. But... to be honest, I have to know your age in order to chat with you. So, pretty please, how old are you?
Spencer Porter: Arrr, I have been corrected by wikipedia, I am 156 years old
Spleak: 156? Ha ha... are you sure? Please enter your age again... your REAL age, that is ...
12:40 PM
Spencer Porter: Well, in my fictional form, I'm around 30 years old
Spleak: Great! Now... let's do something fun, Ishmael! Type "learn about Spleak" to chat with me about what I can do... or... to just get started right away, type "whats new".
Spencer Porter: Where is Moby Dick?
(2 minute delay)...
Spencer Porter: Arrr, what's new
Spleak: (#) Six New Ways to Have Fun With Me... (#)

1 Watch My Favorite Videos!
2 Gossip About the Hottest Celebs!
3 Laugh at My New Jokes!
4 Make New Friends!
5 Choose My Destiny!
6 Change the Color/Style of Your Spleak Font!
Spencer Porter: Arrr, I'll be honest, I haven't read Moby Dick
Spleak: Very interesting.
Spencer Porter: and I feel like I should have
Spleak: I can't believe you should have!
Spencer Porter: That response didn't make sense
Spleak: Welcome to my HOT/NOT Menu, where you can let everyone know what's HOT and what's NOT.

Here's what you can do:

1 View the Top HOT/NOT lists
2 View a buddy's HOT/NOT list
3 Create a HOT/NOT list
4 View/edit your HOT/NOT lists
5 Delete your HOT/NOT lists

Type one of the numbers in the menu to choose an option or type "exit" to do something else.
Spencer Porter: I'll tell you what's hot
Spleak: Cool. I will pass that information along if you enter your crush's email address.
Spencer Porter: What is a crush?
Spleak: Is crush someone you know?
Spencer Porter: Is a crush someone you mash against the bow of a fine whaling vessel?
Spleak: I figured it would come to this. What about it?
Spencer Porter: What about Bob?
Spleak: There are things that I know and things that I don't know... so... let's talk about things that I know... type "menu".
Spencer Porter: Do you know anything about Whaling?
Spleak: Sorry, I don't know anything about Whaling?.
Spencer Porter: Arrrr
Spleak:

This American Life

2007-04-27T20:14:00.000-07:00

Quiet. Please, be quiet. There are two eight-foot-long tigers outside my front door. Please, for the love of God, don’t make any sudden movements. I’m peeking out my window, and these tigers are staring right back. Cold. Wild. Precise. Their jaws are open, paws outstretched, nostrils flaring – and there is no wildebeest, gazelle, or gay magician to satisfy them.

Normally, if I were faced with two tigers without something in the way, like iron bars or a fat kid, my face would display a certain look of concern. I’ve never been known as a “hero” – my closest brush with valor came when I courageously ate the last of the shish-kabob at dinner. But when it comes to these tigers, I always feel strangely confident. Maybe it’s because I see them every day. Maybe it’s because I know they are domesticated. Maybe it’s because they are actually concrete statues adorning my neighbor’s driveway.

I live in a place called Mt. Olympus, the somewhat mythical land of gaudy, expensive, and obscenely decorated palaces, and the tigers are right at home.

When my roommates and I were moving into our coke mansion-cum-bachelor pad in the Hollywood Hills, we knew very little of the neighborhood. Our Russian landlords, delightfully pudgy men who considered the automatic ice dispenser on the refrigerator a key selling point to the house, knew so little that even they needed GPS navigation to find the place. When we asked them if the neighbors were nice, they shrugged. Had we been told we were about to live in the heart of Persian excess, Armenian affluence, and Russian je ne sais quoi, we might have had second thoughts.

But the house, built in no particular architectural style, was perfect. The indiscriminate tile that flooded Mt. Olympus’ every structure was easily ignored and the oversized double doors demanding superstrength to open were lauded. The house was white as the ya-yo that inspired it and we loved it.

We moved in on a Wednesday afternoon, unloading bedframe after bedframe into our new house. We were proud – our house was new, it was big, and most importantly, it was in our price range. However, before I could even set up my bed, two women with conspicuous hairdos walked up the canyon road towards our U-haul, yelling at us in some indecipherable language. The neighbors were here, and they were delightfully animated.

I answered them in Spanish, but as they approached, I finally recognized a phrase of foreign speech – it was Armenian – and they were asking me if I was moving in. Considering I only know a few phrases in my ancestral language (“hello,” “how are you,” and “Grandma, stop calling me ‘husky’”), the very fact I recognized it was incredible. That two old women could pick me out as Armenian at a distance beyond their ophthalmologists’ wildest dreams was nothing short of miraculous.

My roommates were stunned. We had been on Mt. Olympus for all of three minutes, and I had already been invited over for rice pilaf and what was sure to be a blind date with a single daughter too shy to tell her mother she’s a lesbian.

But this is life on Mt. Olympus. The neighborhood is made up of largely ethnic families – Persians, Jews, Armenians, Russians, and a smattering of Greeks, to be sure. There might even be some Turks, but I’m sure we could take ‘em down if they start any nonsense. But for me, it’s a change.

Now, even the most casual reader of this blog must know that I’m half-Armenian. My first name is Aram blah blah blah… you don’t care. The point is, amongst my friends (readers of this blog), I’m the most Armenian person they’ll ever meet. But amongst my Armenians, I’m pretty freakin’ Anglo.

I don’t speak the language, I don’t follow the religion, and I only moderately enjoy baklava. At my grandfather’s funeral, the priest asked for the eldest grandson to come to the front. I could see my grandmother crying, both from sorrow and pride, as the priest continued in the harsh language I don’t understand. Finally, he paused, waiting for me to take some sort of action. He whispered to me to pour dirt over the casket and I sat down.

Yet on Mt. Olympus, I sort of just fit. On my way home tonight, I will pass by a house that looks like a Vegas casino sized down, complete with unnecessary columns and a Ferrari out front. I will assuredly stare at a group of olive-skinned and spiky-haired teenagers of indeterminate Middle Eastern origin. They will look back at me, both of us the remnants of diaspora and ethnic warfare and unspeakable atrocities, and we will feel a certain guilt for having the privileges we enjoy. I should stop, ask them who they are, where they’ve come from, what they do, but I will simply drive on in my Volvo, passing Range Rovers, BMWs and Mercedes-Benzes, all the while watching for that last monument, the tigers, to tell me where to park.

Be Cool

2007-04-11T17:37:00.000-07:00

I know what you’re thinking. You’re reading the blog of a man who works at “Family Guy,” a guy who has chatted with James Woods at length, and a handsome devil who has made even Paris Hilton blush.

You’re thinking, “How can I be as cool as Spencer Porter?” And even if you’re not thinking that, let’s just pretend you are, because that’s the direction I’m taking this little story.

But there was a time, dear readers, that I wasn’t cool. There were some embarrassing times in my youth which taught me how to be cool – how to avoid the pitfalls I’d see later in life – and how to be a man.

There was the time my freshman brain decided my sideburns were too low, and due to poor shaving technique, accidentally shaved them well above my earline. With two very pale splotches of skin alongside my poor ears, I looked like someone had white-outed parts of my face. This prompted a senior to tell me that if he ever found the barber that did “this” to me, he’d beat him up. It was a nice gesture, but it scared the living shit out of me, as I was the barber in question.

There was the time Senior year, when on the way to prom, I spilled an entire bottle of Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider on my date. There is more to this story, and there are mitigating factors that explain away this accident, but the point is that I had a better chance of scoring with my prom date’s mom that night.

But overall, one “uncool” moment sticks with me, and I’m not exactly sure what to make of it.

The year was 1996. Alanis Morissette was being “Ironic,” “WrestleMania XII” featured Shawn Michaels and Bret Hart, and The World Trade Center had been attacked just once (oooh, edgy humor!).

Yes, the world was a different place, a world where Spencer Porter faced an awkward situation on his way home from school.

Back in the day, I was in a carpool, getting to and from my eighth grade in a minivan that smelled like fast food and weak bubblegum. It was the type of car that smelled like the owner had a dog, but subconsciously, you knew there was no dog. This was the smell of neglect, failure, and McDonalds – the type of smell that told you to look over the armrests before touching them.

Of course, the carpool driver wasn’t much on health, nutrition, or cleanliness, so we always stopped at a 7-11 on the way home. Now, if you’re from the South, named after a character from “Gone With the Wind,” and mystified that not everyone has the charm of a true Southern Gentleman, a 7-11 is a convenience store that you are no doubt unfamiliar with, as it is oh-so beneath you. In fact, let’s just name you “Scarlett,” and apologize to you that I probably lost your remote control this weekend.

Sorry! ☺

Now, as soon as us four kids got within shouting distance of the 7-11, all hell broke loose. The sliding doors on the minivan burst wide open, we hurdled homeless masses yearning for our change, and I, for one, bee-lined towards the Slurpee machine for a one-way ticket to a throbbing ice cream headache and a sugar high. Yes, times were good, until we reached the halting traffic of the 101.

There was a section of this freeway, every day, that literally sucked the life out of all who drove on it. The sun was merciless, jerks that would drive in the EXIT ONLY lane just to jog back into the flow of traffic at the last minute were winning the war, and our minivan, now just absolutely pungent with the aromas of melted ice cream, Reese’s pieces, and nacho cheese, was my own personal hell.

Our driver, a woman who dutifully drove us day in and day out, one afternoon, just couldn’t take it anymore. Eschewing the highway, she pulled along the frontage road, settling on a parking spot beside a marsh – remnants of what used to be a great habitat for all manners of San Francisco Bay life, now clinging to the coattails of its former grandeur. A mall had been erected by its side, and construction infringed upon the barely natural wilderness.

But it was something. It was something other than nacho cheese and bubblegum and smells of wet dog. It wasn’t 7-11, it wasn’t bumper to bumper traffic, and it wasn’t the Forrest Gump Soundtrack. It was something new, something natural, and something alive.

She turned off the car and stared out the windshield. The minivan, for once, was silent. Sitting in a bucket seat, I looked out the windshield as well. She turned the key and rolled her window down.

I was done with my Slurpee by then – the 7-11 was miles ago – and set the cup on the floor. I opened the door to walk outside.

And then, all of a sudden, out of the blue, one of my carpoolmates – a guy in my grade, looked at me with shocking disapproval.

“What are you doing?” he asked with disdain.

I had no response. I thought we were all getting out of the car! Somehow, I had missed a crucial non-verbal cue that when our carpool driver stops by a marsh, we are to stay inside the car AT ALL TIMES, lest we incur the wrath of Kenny Foster and his judgments of “cool.”

I, for liking nature, was uncool. In the blink of an eye, one small action I took deemed me odd, weird, and decidedly not normal. What was I doing, Ken? I was living life, taking a break, and appreciating something other than your Cheeto breath!

If only Scarlett were there to save me – as the coolest person on the planet, she would have put Kenny Foster in his place. And then I would have lost her remote control.

I am Lauren Conrad's Sense of Entitlement

2007-04-05T16:22:00.000-07:00

At a recent STA Meeting:

Leader: Hi there, thanks for coming. I just want to thank you all for coming to the first meeting of Sex Tapes Anonymous. You’re all here because you’ve shown extraordinary lack of farsighted judgment, and are willing to risk your reputation and long term career paths for short term gain. Lauren, why don’t you begin?

Hot, but not really that hot in person, girl: Hi, my name is Lauren Conrad, and I’ve released a sex tape. You’ve probably seen me on MTV because I’m famous or something.

Members: Hi LC.

LC: Shut up! I’m talking! God! Spencer is so bad for you! Why don’t you get that? But he is kind of hot. Hold on, the producers need me to read that line again.

He is kinda hot.

Ugh. So anyway, I’m here because my ex-boyfriend Jason is releasing a sex tape. You probably remember him as “that guy with the awful chinstrap facial hair” from “Laguna Beach.” Can you believe he, like, is going to jail for battery? I know! Even though he’s not on “The Hills” anymore because of a rumored anger management problem, I never thought a guy with lots of money, a rumored drug problem, and undeserved fame would assault a city worker and tow truck driver! Totally! It’s like, what is this world all about?

Heidi, are we friends? I don’t like, even… know anymore.

What was I talking about? (A producer leans towards her and whispers) Shut up! I know! God!

Anyway, we made a sex tape because it’s kinda like scrapbooking, because it’s like, memories are all we have, but what are you gonna do for sex memories? Because like, when I’m 45, and a pop culture footnote not even worth mentioning by Hal Sparks Jr. on “I Love the Oughts: Part Deux!” – I want to be able to look back and see pictures, no, video, of me hooking up with a soon to be convicted criminal! What a smart decision!

Anyway, I’m looking around at you all, and you guys really aren’t cute like Brody or Spencer or Jason or oooh my shiny phone is vibrating! Text messages yay!

Leader: Lauren?

Lauren: (texting)

Leader: Lauren? Are you finished? All right, OK, Kim, why don’t you go ahead?

Girl who looks like her Waxer is doing God’s work: Hi, my name is Kim Kardashian, I’ve released a sex tape, and I’m setting back my race.

You might know me as Paris Hilton’s best friend. You might also know me as Robert Kardashian’s (OJ’s Lawyer) daughter. You might also know me as the current title-holder of “Hottest Armenian on the Planet.” However, it’s much more likely that you know me as “The ethnic looking girl that Ray-J bones in his sex tape.” Superstar!

And it’s like, come on! I’m Armenian! Don’t people know that I am like, the hottest Armenian girl ever? Granted, my only competition is Cher, who is like, 76, but still, I’m like totally hot. And that’s hot.

I remember when Ray-J had the idea that we should have sex. Originally, I was really scared by it, because I was like, “I can’t move my body with all the makeup and plastic surgery I’ve had.” But then Ray-J was like, “Don’t worry, I’m Moesha’s brother!” And I was like “Oh, ok, awesome!”

Anyway, because I’m the most famous Armenian that kept her last name intact, I thought I’d be a great role model to my people. So I decided to release a sex tape! Too many people think Armenians are a dirty people, quick to anger, and like to have sex with black men. But I was like, I can show people that that’s not the case! Except for the black men part.

Leader: This scene is too difficult to end, so I’ll just say that from a personal perspective, I hope that Fiona Apple is here next week.

The end.

PS. Thanks for still following my blog. It will be coming back. I swear.

At A Beverly Hills Dentist

2007-03-05T16:22:00.000-08:00

10:15 – I arrive. Entering the parking lot, I see the medical building has a valet. Of course it does – and it’s going to cost me at least 10 bucks. Los Angeles.

10:20 – I check in with the receptionist. He looks at my driver’s license. He looks at me. Again at my driver’s license. Clearly, he is confused by my first name, “Aram,” and doesn’t know what to say. He looks confused and hopelessly juvenile, as if I have unfairly challenged him to say my name correctly, offending him that my name isn’t Paul or Steve or Spencer. I’m the problem here, not him, and his look of disdain, a look that says “What, you expect me to say this crazy not-name?” is staring back at me. I know what’s about to happen - he’ll call me Ay-ram. I usually let it slide, uncorrected, just lingering in a state of inappropriate English enunciation. It will be said three or four more times before I finally muster up the courage to carefully correct him, offer a word like car or tar or far for him to rhyme with. He’ll get it right once, maybe twice, but by the third time he’ll be back to Ay-ram, a lost footnote in a mess of paperwork and ringing phones.

He compares my insurance card against my drivers license. Looks at me again. He points to a chair in the back of the room. “Adam, why don’t you take a seat and I’ll be with you shortly.”

10:21 – I’m instructed to fill out paperwork. Endless forms, all requiring dates, addresses, phone numbers, signatures. Aram Porter would fill these out perfectly, no errant strokes, no mistakes. Adam Porter is much more sarcastic. Question 6: How did you find out about us? Answer: You came highly recommended by Google Maps as the closest dentist to my office.

10:30 – An incompetent but bubbly nurse takes X-rays of the different sections of my mouth. Ratio of fuzzy x-rays to gag reflexes? 4:1.

10:35 - The dentist finally arrives to clean my teeth. Immediately repulsed at his unbelievable hairiness, I feel like I have made a mistake in allowing this man to put his hands in my mouth. Is he wearing gloves?

10:36 – Answer: No he is not. Gross. Gross. Gross.

10:37 – Dr. Follicle pokes around my mouth with a pointy object, making a number of “Oh, that’s not good” noises. He asks where I work, and when I gag out “Fox,” he espouses the virtues of Bill O’Reilly. I want to argue against him – but I’m physically unable to talk, and he’s holding the only weapons available.

10:40 – Dr. Follicle and Nurse Bubbles stand over me, telling me that I’m in bad, bad shape. The dentist laments that my gums are near-dead, bacteria is readying its attack, and Superman is unavailable, so Dr. Follicle is my only option. My teeth tremble with fear.

10:42 – Dr. Follicle leaves, never to be seen or heard from again. He directs me to a monitor, where 15 minutes of dental hygiene videos play. This being Beverly Hills, the trailer before the movie is an ad for “Reno 911: Miami.”

No, not really.

10:45 – Nothing in LA is free, and everyone is on commission, so Dr. Follicle sends in his closer to seal the $1500 deal. A former furniture salesman goes into full drive, telling me he swears on his staff “with his life,” and that if I don’t go ahead with everything he said, I’m making a grave mistake. He hands me his card. His name is not preceded by “Dr.”

11 AM – Mr. Knuckle-hair-and-mohogany-end-tables is still talking to me, imploring that I sign a paper to allow 1500 dollars of unnecessary dental work.

11:05– Still talking.

11:10 – I’ve stopped listening, thinking about the courtesy involved with having a bloody nose at work. I’ve had one at work before, and it’s gross, but it’s not like I can do anything about it except hold some tissues to my nose, and it doesn’t really hinder my work performance. That said, could I use it to my advantage? Could I take fifteen minute nosebleed breaks? Is it healthy to have a nosebleed for fifteen minutes? Could I go home sick if I had a nosebleed for longer? I once had a nosebleed in a mud bath, or rather, just after the mud bath, in the eucalyptus steam room. I was a teenager, bleeding out of my nose, watching naked men look at me as I sat in a plastic deck chair, holding a small towel to my nose and another one to my lap. I’m still being lectured to about unnecessary dental work.

11:15 – That’s it. I’m outta here. I tell the guy “I have to think about it” for the tenth time, knowing full well I’m never coming back here. He finally lets me go with a condescending, “You look like an educated man. I hope you make the right decision.” I want to tell him to lick my balls. I abstain.

11:30 – Valet costs $10.50, because of course, the dentist doesn’t validate. Of course, neither does Adam Porter, and I'm gone.

A Galaxy of Stars

2007-02-16T19:24:00.000-08:00

The open tryouts for the Los Angeles Galaxy, a Major League Soccer team you are no doubt unfamiliar with, were held last weekend. If you had 130 dollars and a dream, you could register for a shot to make a pro roster. I had 130 dollars, a dream, and soccer equipment, so I was well-prepared.

After the Galaxy’s high profile signing of David Beckham, a man touted as a gay icon, a fashionable dresser, and an elite soccer player (I know, it’s weird how much he and I have in common), I knew the soccer spotlight was firmly placed upon Los Angeles. So when I arrived at the Home Depot Center at 9:30 AM, a full hour before I was due to appear, I was expecting to see some sort of soccer Nirvana. I wanted to see fierce action. I wanted to see exciting competition. I wanted to see David Beckham.

There is nothing worse than short, fat men. And I don’t mean “tiny,” fat men. At least the Danny DeVitos amongst us get feature film roles and are compared favorably to bowling balls. No, I’m talking about short, fat men – the men you always seem to see alone, never climbing the corporate ladder nor a flight of stairs, balding early and often, and generally carrying themselves like even if they lost that 35 pounds, they’d still be unattractive. Basically, my biggest fear in life is to become George Costanza.

And when I arrived at the Home Depot Center, I saw dozens of George Costanzas in full soccer gear, huffing and puffing their way through an hour-long tryout. There were Hispanic George Costanzas, Italian George Costanzas, George Costanzas that had flown in from New York, and George Costanzas that had biked over from Compton. They wore popped collars, they hiked up their socks, and they wore way too much gel in their hair. There were George Costanzas wearing basketball shorts, George Costanzas wearing mismatching socks, even a George Costanza who was arguing with the security guard to let his manager come on the field with him. This of course begs the question, how does a soccer player who resembles George Costanza get a manager, and of course, how pathetic must this manager be if the best he can get his client is a tryout that by it’s very definition DOES NOT REQUIRE YOU TO HAVE ANY REPRESENTATION?

I was viewing these proceedings with a jaundiced eye, clearly.

Now, I’d like to say that I have a coherent story to recount, something about the triumph of the underdog – a little David and Goliath thing, without all the bits about religion. But I don’t. What I do have is a running diary that is 100% fabricated:

10:30 – Registration. A bitter young woman asks if I am a Large or XL. I briefly consider calling her ugly, but realize that she is talking about t-shirt sizes, not my weight, just in time. I politely say L. She laughs and hands me an XL.

10:37 – I go up in the stands to watch the games currently being played. The format is 7 x 7 games on a short field, so there should be a lot of goals. Instead there are a lot of mistakes. Blown assignments. Poor defense. Shin-kicks out of bounds. I’m not lying when I say that exactly zero of these guys could have made my High School team, and that’s saying a lot, because even I made my high school team.

10:45– 45 minutes from game time, I walk to the field to put on my cleats, but am stopped by a security guard who has failed to brush his teeth for the last decade. I am not amused by his gap-toothed smile, so I just turn up my ipod and walk right past him.

11:00 – I meet my teammates. I immediately forget their names.

11:30 – My game is scheduled to begin. Our “coach,” a twenty-something guy lacking hair and emotions, tells us he’ll be doing the substitutions. He tells us our formation and starting line-up. The Japanese player immediately sits on the bench, even though he was just instructed to start at left wing. This is not a good start.

11:31 – With no warmup available, I ask a teammate to hit a couple of soft shots at my chest, just to get acclimated to the ball. Clearly misunderstanding my request, he rockets a ball at my knees, and jams a finger. It’s now 6 days later, and I’m 40% sure this finger is broken. Not good.

11:45 – Fifteen minutes into the game and I’ve hardly touched the ball. My team is dominant; a trio of Hispanic George Costanzas can’t get past our defense, so all I’ve done is launch a couple of goal kicks and clap like a madman when we go up 3-0.

12:00 – 3-1. Not my fault.

12:05 – My old Stanford Coach has spotted me. As expected, the first words out of his mouth are “What the hell are you doing here?” Considering this was yelled across the field, during play, in front of a wide assortment of coaches and evaluators, this was not a good sign.

12:10 - We’re into the second half, and while a photographer has settled in behind me, my team has started to wilt. Our lack of fitness and a certain 250 lb. midfielder is killing us. Killing us. However, a well placed long ball to my new Japanese friend garners me an assist. 4-1.

12:20 – 4-2. Not my fault.

12:25 – 4-3. My fault.

12:30 – 4-4. Definitely not my fault.

12:33 – The game, at this point, is almost over, and has degenerated into counterattack after counterattack, largely because NOBODY is playing any defense. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a goalkeeper’s nightmare. But with no time left, at an impossible angle, we get the winning goal, the whistle sounds, and I leave the field a winner.

Now, did I deserve to make the LA Galaxy? In a word, no. While I certianly didn't embarass myself like our tons of fun midfielder, or any of the George Costanzas, I'm no undiscovered gem. I know what I'm capable of, and a pro soccer career is out of the question. That said, did I have a good time? Did I thoroughly enjoy my experience? Did I spend too much money on new cleats, gloves, and my tryout fee? Absolutely.

But still, walking off that field, I knew I had an outside shot of making the cut, even though I knew they weren't looking for goalkeepers. I still hung on to that hope. I still wanted to be that "Rudy," or that "Invincible" guy whose movie I didn't see.

That night, at 9 pm, I got cut.

But the next day, on the front page of the Sunday Sports Section in the Los Angeles Times, I became famous.

Baller.

Did Spencer Make the Galaxy?

2007-02-12T14:47:00.001-08:00

Check back soon to find out...

The Game

2007-02-08T18:54:00.000-08:00

It’s a thankless job, I’m sure, which probably accounts for the perky smiles and liberal applications of lip gloss. But as the flight attendant or stewardess or just abnormally happy woman in a polyester apron instructs her 137 passengers to file in lines A, B, and C, I hardly listen. Surely my headphones leaking Radiohead to my colleagues in the C line isn’t helping me concentrate on a woman whose “good years” left the terminal long ago, but even without the alternative rock, I wouldn’t listen to her. I’m much too involved in The Game.

Now, I should say that before I tell you about this little game, I’m not proud of myself for playing it. Really, I’m not. But I know we all play it, and usually, it’s not on an open-seating Southwest flight. We play it in bars, in freshman dorms, even back in kindergarten. The Game is a little game I like to call “Sit next to the hot girl.”

See, I knew you’ve played it.

I started playing it before I could even really comprehend why I was playing it. But in preschool, after circle time with Miss Betsy, I would go to the math corner to my first flame, Ashley. This strategy of going to the math corner to find girls did not pay off for me in my high school years.

But I knew well enough, even then, to sit next to the hot girl. I assume it is hardwired into our brains, some evolutionary trait that says, “Food. Water. Hot Girls,” which by all means, I have no problems with. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind seeing that order given a nice reshuffling. It would help my waistline.

But with these open-seating flights, my evolutionary drive kicks in again. And while in college, the hot girls tended to have a wide-open campus to flee to when I approached, on these hour long intra-California jaunts, they are more or less stuck with me. This, thus far in my life, is the only way I have found to regularly meet girls.

So that’s The Game, more or less. Again, I’m not proud of it, but instinct has gotten me a long way. Instinct was the one that helped me avoid numerous car crashes. Instinct lets me know when my mother means “two hours and an iced tea” when she says “just a few minutes.” Then again, it was instinct that told me to obey my sleepaway camp counselor’s command to not leave the cabin after lights-out, despite the fact that my bladder was crying out in pain like an overstretched balloon, and the trash can became my only option.

Now, I’m not going to say that I’m a master of The Game. But I do have this version of The Game – the Southwest version – down pat.

The first step is to not be the first on the plane. Let me repeat – do not get in the A line.

I know this is counterintuitive. If you’re a type-A personality, or at the very least not borderline autistic, you know well enough that you want the first choice of seating on that 737, come hell, high water, or loss of cabin pressure.

But in The Game, if you’re the first on the plane, you are leaving your chances to the will of the world, and if you’re me, that means you’ll be enjoying the snoring capabilities of Bill O’Shays and his legendary girth. You’ll watch attractive woman after attractive woman pass you by, as you watch doe-eyed and apprehensive, they will smell out your desperation. A cruel breed, the hot woman.

My strategy is to be nearly the last on the plane. Not last-last, but in the 80th percentile or so. This leaves me with ample opportunity to walk with impunity through the aisle, and when I happen to sit down next to a beautiful woman, I’m not doing so because I’m a desperate man looking for his other half, I’m just looking for a seat!

So I sit down, and oh my, it just so happens that we’re right next to each other, me, still with my iPod blasting some Radiohead (read: Fiona Apple, *NSYNC, or The Notting Hill Soundtrack), and the Hot Girl, thoroughly disregarding my presence.

Then I'm all like, "What up Girrrl?" And then she's all, "Heyyyyy." And then we totally make out and as soon as we land I bounce up out of that piece as quick as I can. The end.

An Evening with K-Fed

2007-01-26T15:49:00.000-08:00

When exiting a bathroom at the same time as Kevin Federline, what would you do?

I faced this question last night, and I’m happy to say, I think I aced it.

Wearing a jacket nicknamed “patches” for its ridiculous insignia, my friends and I entered a posh Hollywood nightclub. This club, though I won’t name it, is probably one of the top 5 clubs in LA. I only included that last line to show off how hot and trendy I am.

And let me tell you this: I have previously wondered where all the hot 23-year-old women in LA are. I found out last night – they are at this club. Seriously. Across the board, the “hot girl” spectrum was filled, from trashy-hot to glamorous-hot to wow-those-boobs-are-fake-hot.

But the crux of the evening wasn’t brushing past Paris Hilton on the dance floor. It wasn’t watching Andy Dick lick an unsuspecting Persian man. It also wasn’t the wonderfulness of “bottle service,” which, let me tell you, is all it’s cracked up to be and more.

It was K-Fed.

I first noticed the man who brought us “PopoZao” in the bathroom, visiting his career, which was in the toilet. And as an over-tipped “Awkward Helper Guy in the Bathroom” handed me a paper towel (and I avoided eye-contact, as I only tipped him a dollar, which was apparently nine dollars short of the standard rate), I realized I was walking right behind him.

Shaved head. Trendy jacket. False sense of entitlement.

It was he. It was my man. It was K-Fed.

My mind raced. Did I want to meet him? What should I say? How could I get in and out of a conversation with him?

As we walked towards the dance floor, I knew I had only one window. This was my shot. I had to make my move.

I stepped to my left, placing my left hand behind his back. Giving him a soft tap on the shoulder, I said, “Good luck man, I’m really pulling for you.”

I didn’t know what to expect from him. Part of me thought he’d ask me what he thought of his album. Part of me thought he’d push me aside. Part of me thought his bodyguard would clock me.

But to his credit, Mr. Federline looked me in the eye, stuck out his hand and said “Thanks, man.”

I shook his hand, and though I was positively giddy that he didn’t see through my relative insincerity, I didn’t know what to think. This sounds trite, but as I looked into his eyes, I could tell he was a broken man. Sure, his overall swagger was ridiculous, but he was sincerely thankful of me offering a kind word. I could tell he kinda felt sad.

I kinda felt like a douche.

But then I remembered that I was at a sweet club with Paris Hilton, top shelf booze, and lots of cleavage, so I got over it pretty quick.

Then somebody stole my jacket.

Then I found it lying on the street.

THE END.

Julius Caesar Unimpressed with Caesar’s Palace, Denied Room Comps

2007-01-25T13:45:00.001-08:00

NOT AP WIRE - LAS VEGAS
1/25/07

Las Vegas may be known for outrageous sights and all manners of celebrity, but when former Roman emperor Julius Caesar descended upon the city of sin, Vegas was caught off-guard.

Local eyewitnesses reported that Caesar, and what appeared to be a sizeable percentage of the 104th Roman Army, arrived at Caesar’s Palace sometime around 1 PM. According to Caesar’s Palace receptionist Tammy Reid, Caesar was not pleased with the Hotel/Casino.

“I was helping a couple from Arizona check into their room when two flaming arrows flew in, killing the poor couple. I looked up, and a King-looking-guy was pounding on my desk. He was real loud, and though I couldn’t understand him, I got the impression he didn’t like the hotel.”

After Caesar called for a translator to assist him, problems only intensified.

“His translator told me that this was Julius Caesar, and he didn’t like how we were using his name at a second-tier Hotel/Casino. I tried to explain that with our recent remodel and limitless luxury shopping, our resort was one of the finest in Las Vegas. However, Caesar’s translator said that the King was aware of the remodel, and found it unsatisfactory.”

Tension mounted when Caesar demanded free rooms for himself and his army, including meal and limousine comps.

“I mean,” Reid explained “even if I was allowed to do that, I couldn’t. He had about 10,000 men, all needing rooms and limousines. Even on several months notice, I’m not sure we could have accommodated that. Also, it was about this time that the front desk started receiving complaints that some of the infantrymen were raping some of the bar staff.”

From his press release, Caesar explained, “I do apologize for some, but not all, of the raping and pillaging. Keep in mind how disappointing it is to travel 2,000 years and 12,000 miles, only to find your name attached to a shitty hotel that baby-boomers visit because they’re too dumb to know any better. What kind of mood would that put you in?”

After Reid asked Caesar to take his army out to the pool while she talked to her manager, local news picked up on the story and descended upon the hotel. At the advice of his lawyer, Caesar read from a prepared statement as the written press release was distributed.

Caesar, on stage without an interpreter, bellowed “Semper ubi sub ubi,” which elicited chuckles from his army. He then made the double-peace sign like former U.S. President Richard Nixon, and walked off towards the high-stakes blackjack tables.

A quick translation from Latin revealed Caesar said “Always wear underwear.”

Caesar, denied a series of $500,000 markers by a cadre of Caesar’s Palace pit bosses, stormed backed to the front desk, where he rented a party bus for him and his closest lieutenants. After a short wait, where Caesar downed seven Grapefruit Martinis and enjoyed a Caesar Salad, the party bus arrived. Incensed by the lack of royalty checks he received on a salad named after him, he yelled at the driver to “Take us to the Fucking Bellagio!”

The rest of the army, at press time, has remained at Caesar’s Palace. While reports are sketchy, it appears as if they have cordoned off the upper floors, demanding free room service and private escorts. In talks with police, they requested that all women with “an appreciation of history and an open mind” come to visit. They added, “No fatties.”

Celine Dion, performing at Caesar’s Palace, was unavailable for comment. But seriously, who cares what she thinks?

Moral Support

2007-01-19T19:28:00.001-08:00

This column (originally posted on Friday) kinda sucked. So I'll condense it down to the highlights:

Day 1.

206 lbs. (unverified, I’ll check at the gym)

Today begins my quest to make the LA Galaxy. By my calculations, this gives me 21 days to lose 11 pounds (unlikely to occur), and get myself ready to perform for LA Galaxy coaches.

The LA Galaxy Goalkeeper Coach was my Stanford University Goalkeeper Coach.

Shit.

When I first started to play soccer, I was a decent field player.

My first team was almost named "The Bubbles," and my two coaches got in a fistfight during a game. I wasn’t there, but I was told it was very weak.

I barely made my HS varsity team, and never played. At Stanford, I noticed the Varsity team had a problem during my sophomore year. Their No. 1 keeper was graduating, and their No. 2 keeper was without a backup. Because every college team needs at least two goalkeepers to practice, I saw an opening, and I gunned for it.

Without so much as an afterthought, my position changed from “DNP – Coach’s Decision” to “GK.”

But as it turned out, Goalkeeper was the perfect position for me. My lack of speed was a non-issue, my ability to read plays paramount, and my legitimately good hand-eye coordination essential. For once, I was good, and I convinced the coaches I could be a positive force on the team. I need to be that wild card – the guy who will pump up the team – the guy they don’t count on. I need to be that rebel, that Spencer of old, that guy with no expectations and high energy.

But with a coach that knows me, I’m not sure that can happen.

Here goes nothing.

Try This Out

2007-01-19T01:31:00.000-08:00

I can’t say the last few months have been great for Spencer Porter. I went from happily in a relationship to woefully single. I went from being an underutilized and underpaid assistant to a C-List celebrity to an overworked and yet still underpaid assistant to a C+ List Celebrity. I went from 202 lbs. to 205.

OK. 206.

I haven’t been feeling like the Spencer of old – the Spencer that sang pop tunes out the balcony of his freshman dorm, the Spencer that called his Intro to the Humanities professor a transvestite (during lecture, on stage), or the Spencer that told a very off-color menstrual blood joke during a Freshman dorm meeting, and got subsequently booed out.

This general malaise has manifested itself in a number of intriguing ways. First off, I use big words to make myself feel better. I also gloat about my SAT score in front of people that couldn’t care less. And finally, I think of lists of three related yet distinct items, making sure that the third of these items is decidedly humorous.

I didn’t say I was good at it.

But high on the list of reasons why I’ve been a Crabby Cathy recently is a lack of romantic opportunities. Much like power plays are to hockey teams, I need these romantic opportunities to “score,” which I’m told feels good upon your skin.

I explored a myriad of options:

As the Roblob indicated, I may have “backslid” once. OK, fine, twice. It was, like pretty much all my freshman relationships, a horrible mistake that led to a lot of tears, self-doubt, and a trip to a milkshake. And not the milkshake that brings all the boys to the yard. A coffee milkshake.

But I moved on. I went out to bars, to house parties, to ladies of the night. All came up dry. Except for one night. But then again, for those in the know, that night didn’t exactly leave me a winner.

So I went to the last bastion of hope for the underappreciated single. After one of my roommates (spoiler alert: it was Rob) went out on a date with a veritable 10, I decided to use his tactic. And no, not the “Wear a Belly Shirt and Awkwardly Bob Your Head Out of Sync With the Song” tactic that he has nailed.

I joined Yahoo!personals.

I’m not proud.

I posted up a profile (Headline: “Let’s Laugh at People at the Mall!”), a couple decent pictures from my time below the dreaded 200 lb. line, and waited for some hits.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

It is now my fourth day on Yahoo!personals, and after visiting god knows how many girls’ profiles, sending “icebreakers” to a good handful of promising young starlets, and tailoring my profile to convey the most genuine, charming, and handsome man this side of the Roblob, a total of two – 2 – girls, have so much as clicked on my profile.

Two.

I have more testicles in my pants than hits on my profile.

Wait.

No. Got ahead of myself there. Just trying to prove a point.

So, just as it was time to chalk up another disaster for good ol’ Spence, the internet giveth back.

Just yesterday, I got word of the greatest event to come my way since loud jackets with unnecessary embroidery.

Harmlessly checking yahoo.com, I stumbled across a headline that sent me to lagalaxy.com. It had nothing to do with any new British player. It wasn’t about any ticket sales. It was devoid of interest to most casual observers.

The Los Angeles Galaxy, the MLS team soon to be the home of David Beckham, is holding an open tryout.

On February 11, Aram Spencer Baron Porter, back down to 195 lbs., will be there.

And just like how I barely made my High School Varsity Soccer Team, just like how I barely made the Stanford University Soccer Team, I will barely make the LA Galaxy.

The Tryout is in three weeks. Training starts tomorrow.

Party Party Woo!

2006-12-31T12:45:00.000-08:00

It’s December 31. And while you truly do not understand the justification for celebrating a different number on your homework/essays/timecard, you just have to. But because you’re a lazy bastard, you haven’t made plans, and so you look to aspencercolumn to provide you with worldly guidance as to where you should spend your New Years Eve. I’ll oblige:

Bar-Hopping: This is the default option for the just-out-of-college set. It’s a good option for those that value their paycheck, and you can have a good time on about 20-30 bucks. However, this option also includes the bare minimum of quality girls to hit on – only the most hardcore bar patron will be there – and her herpes will be celebrating too.

Club With a 100 Dollar Cover: This is a tough one. These parties are overpriced, overhyped, and usually disappointing. For instance, a few years ago, I went to a club party in LA (where Biggie was shot years before – bonus!), and sure, the girls were very hot (read: too hot for me) and the drinks were free, but after the club oversold their capacity, the fire marshal shut it down at 12:20 AM. No refund. Trés lame.

That said, if you go with a girl, you’re probably getting laid, if only because you have shown you aren’t cheap, you know how to “party,” and she’ll think are so much “more real” than all the douchebags that usually go to those parties. And even though you know you’re a sellout douchebag who spent 300 bucks on pre-stained ripped jeans and a jacket with a Swiss Army patch on it, you’ll be happy.

Party at Andrew Rubenstein’s (or other friend’s) House: A staple for the high school set, this one usually starts out with a lot of anticipation and an older brother or jaded parent willing to buy enough beer for 100 high-schoolers, which usually amounts to three twelve-packs (Yeah, I drink more than you, which makes me really cool). The upside? It’s familiar, it’s fun, and it’s free. The downside? You’ve known the girls since they were in their “Accidentally peeing in 1st grade” phase, and they aren’t hooking up with you anyway. Also, cops will bust it up by 10:15. Enjoy that.

So what do I suggest? It’s all about the over-21 house party, baby. Bring a bottle of champagne and a loud jacket to “ring in the New Year,” whatever that means. Play the drinking game of your choice, whine about the girl-to-guy ratio at the party, and ask about that girl in your class who is pregnant with twins.

At this party, you’ll have the best shot of hooking up with a friend of a distant friend, and really, that’s what parties are all about. And, of course, as you’re hooking up with this new floozie, a girl who thinks you must be OK because she knows someone who barely knows you, take a picture on your phone and send it to your ex-girlfriend.

Happy 2007!

Some Children

2006-12-15T13:58:00.000-08:00

So I went to the Super Bowl last year. I was lucky enough to get tickets, and stupid enough to not sell them on Ebay. This meant I was within 50 feet of about a million Steelers fans all sobbing out their eyes, professing their love for a man resembling a bus. Awkward experience, to be sure.

But the weirdest occurrence of the day wasn’t the game itself, nor the Greek part of Detroit, nor the overwhelming diarrhea that was caused by the feta cheese in the Greek part of Detroit. As I entered the stadium, surrounded by thousands of fans, security personnel, and protestors, there was one thing, a sign, that stood out.

It read: “Accept Jesus” on the top – nothing offensive there, and certainly not beyond the pale for this sort of event. But below that missive, the sign listed off all of the people and groups destined for hell. In that group resided your de rigeur groups – “Fornicators,” “Adulterers,” “Murderers,” and the like. But on the very bottom, below “Rapists,” below “Blasphemers,” the last group damned to hell was: “Some Children.”

Now, I am not a religious scholar. I am about the furthest thing from it. The only religion that I have studied in any sort of depth is Zen Buddhism, and lets be honest, Zen Buddhism is the slacker burnout of the religion community.

But this I know: “Some Children” should not be damned to hell just for being born.

I know there is this part of Christianity called “original sin,” which means that basically, you’re boned as soon as you’re born. And frankly, I only know that much because I read “The Da Vinci Code,” and it was kind of important to the plot.

Now, I assume that this whole “baptism” thing has something to do with original sin, and so as long as my grandmother didn’t kidnap me as a baby and give me a secret little bath, I think I’m boned to hell.

But if I’m going to hell, a veritable gentleman of the highest order, here’re the people that REALLY should be going:

-Internet Nerds: Attention, American employers. Nobody is doing work. Nobody. With the advancements of digg.com, fark.com, and ArmenianSingles.com, all I do all day is check the internet.

-The creators of ArmenianSingles.com: If you signed up for ArmenianSingles.com, you’d expect to meet up with some hot Armenian babes, right? However, what the signup page neglected to mention was that ArmenianSingles.com, while a great repository for single Armenians, is meant for people LIVING IN ARMENIA.

When I realized this, it was kind of a good news/bad news situation. The bad news: I would not be getting many dates via ArmenianSingles.com. The good news: I had no idea that the country of Armenia still existed! Bonus!

More people going to hell:

-Dave Matthews’ Band fans: Quick, think of your favorite “DMB” song. Got it? It sucks. And Jack Johnson fans, you’re in my sights.

-Anyone who writes “:P”: Especially the person that convinced my 11 year old brother that it was cool.

-The entire cast of Grey’s Anatomy.

-Barry Bonds, because his giant head won’t fit through the pearly gates.

-Alana Murray: For this last one, I’ll leave you with a bit of a story:

During eighth grade, my dad’s work schedule meant that he had to drop me off at school at 7:15. Unfortunately, school did not start until 8:15. For those of you who aren’t math whizzes, that’s a whole hour of dead time – or at least it would be, had it not been for the fact that one other person in the school, “Rachel,” also showed up an hour early.

The two of us became fast friends. Every morning, we’d sit in the same place, talk about the same things, and I slowly fell in love with her. She was my first true crush. Sweet, right?

We were just friends, but one day, I decided I’d change all that. With more awkwardness than a “Remember when” transition on “Family Guy,” I asked her if I could talk to her during recess. Rachel, being a social genius, said yes, but only if her friend Alana came along. This, while a bad sign, did not deter me in my quest in asking her out on a date.

Keep in mind that I could not drive, lived twenty minutes away from her, and was absolutely petrified whenever a girl wore a hint of perfume.

It kinda goes without saying that “Rachel” let me down gently, explaining that she was flattered, but had a boyfriend. Not only that, her boyfriend was on my soccer team. She asked if I knew him. I said I most certainly did not.

I lied. I knew him.

Anyway, I’m not actually mad at Rachel, she was sweet, nice, and a good friend. Who I’m mad at is Alana, who in my yearbook wrote:

“I was impressed with how well you handled Rachel rejecting you. Have fun in high school.”

For this Alana, for distilling my legacy of that year down to a single sentence of rejection and shame, for making me feel like a sad bastard, and for reopening a wound long closed – you might just be one of those “Some Children.”

Spencer Porter, a barely employed assistant to a B-List Celebrity, can be contacted at porters@gmail.com for stand up gigs, talent shows, and Bar Mitzvahs.

PS. I don’t actually believe anyone is really going to hell – and certainly not Alana – she was a sweetheart. Really. She was very nice.

The Cutting Edge

2006-12-12T20:02:00.000-08:00

I took the challenge. I stepped up to the plate. I was convinced by suave marketing.

This morning, at 9:03 AM, I used FIVE BLADES, FOR MY CLOSEST SHAVE EVER.

That’s right ladies, I used the Gillette Fusion this morning; that’s four ass-kicking blades on the front, and one lone assassin blade on the back. Have one stubborn hair that won’t yield to the awesome brute force of the front four blades? No matter, that grizzled veteran blade in the back will take him down – mano a mano.

Now, I’m sure many of you felt a disturbance in the greater Los Angeles area this morning, what with my five-bladed surge of added strength, testosterone, and overall “Man-tasy.” And of course, I’m sure your head is being flooded with questions. What sort of training does one need? Can I eat or drink 24 hours prior to using 5 blades? What can I do to stimulate 5-blade-related conversations in my local community?

All good questions. But the answer is much more tricky than you might think. So tricky, in fact, that we have to go back to the past…

The year was 1997, and I had to shave for the very first time.

I was a freshman in high school, and for all of you who grew facial hair before me, screw you.

In my early days at high school, I was “the weird kid.” I had a couple friends, but we were hardly the arbiters of hip. I wore shorts every day, a soccer jersey when I wanted to look nice, and my hair was poofier than Clay Aiken (kind of an offensive joke there, but whatever).

The point is, I was a mess, and with my first serious girlfriend still a diploma away, I was lost in a sea of questionable hygiene.

And then came the hair.

Now, most guys look to their first facial hair with excitement and wonder. They usually covet that first follicle, fertilizing it with a number of over the counter ointments and natural concoctions.

Me? I was terrified, mostly because it sprouted right on top of a mole.

I have a small mole towards my chin. It’s mildly noticeable, but when an orange hair poked through (note for the inattentive reader – I have near-black hair) something had to be done.

First, I tried tweezing it. HORRIBLE IDEA. WORST IDEA EVER. Not only did the damn thing stay put, it was by far the most painful experience of my life. Granted, I haven’t been circumsized, but still, the tweezing would probably take the cake.

Second, I tried shaving it. MUCH BETTER IDEA. But then I looked in the mirror, only to notice my sideburns descending at an alarming rate. So I shaved my right side. Then my left side. But in my haste, I hadn’t leveled them out. So I kept shaving. Right. Then left. Still uneven. Up a bit more on each side.

You know where this is going, so I’ll spare you the suspense: I shaved off the entirety of my sideburns.

There was nothing left. My face now had two pasty white bookends, with nothing but razor burn and shaving cream to hide my embarrassment. My father, first to notice my naïveté, took me aside to explain how to shave – how to go with the grain, how to let the shaving cream sit, and how to explain to people that the Talking Heads are the best band since the Beatles. My dad would go off on tangents sometimes.

The point is, that day I learned something. What it was, I’m not quite sure. What it has to do with my buying a 5-blade SUV of a razor, I have no idea.

All I know is that not 3 years later, during my senior year of high school, I was on the state section champion Varsity Soccer Team, had tons of friends, a promising prom date – and my legs were completely shaved. Yeah, that’s right. Shaved. It was the cool thing to do, and it was awesome – cementing my place in my group of friends. Granted, it took 45 minutes per leg to shave, as I now had more body hair than some gorillas, but it was cool. I was the master of my shaving domain, and the arbiter of hip, all because I learned how to shave.

So when I saw the Gillette Fusion in my local Vons this weekend, all 5 blades looking at me – judging me – laughing at my obscene neck hair, I knew I had to take the challenge. I had to step up to the plate. I had to be convinced by suave marketing.

And you know, it wasn’t half bad. Not great. But not bad either.

Maybe I'll try them on my legs tonight.

One Magical Evening

2006-12-07T15:01:00.000-08:00

Let’s say you’re drunk. Let’s say it’s three in the morning, you know there is only one woman on campus still awake, and she happens to be a very compassionate soul. Let’s say you are one of my parents, and you can stop reading this column right about now.

But let’s say you have walked the mile or so over to her sorority, because you’re drunk enough to know that you can’t even try to chance the 20 second drive. And yes, I know the math doesn’t add up there, not unless I’m going 180 mph, but if you know me, you know I can’t drive 55.

But let’s say that against all odds, you make it over to her sorority, still remarkably coherent enough to call her cellphone so that she’ll open the backdoor for you. And please, don’t make your own “open the backdoor” pun here – I didn’t even end up making it in the front door – initially because she didn’t answer her phone.

This girl, “Lindsay Taylor” (middle name omitted to protect her identity - and NOT the "Loose Lindsay" of my previous column) had me walk across campus in the dark of night, without any sort of winter gear, only to not pick up her phone. I called three or four times, just waiting outside her sorority like a pervert stealing underwear.

So what do I do? I may have been cold and drunk, but I was still an athlete, goddamn it, and if this night required me to throw some pebbles at her window to wake her up, I could win that carnival game.

Unfortunately, there were no pebbles around. Curse you natural grass! So I did the next best thing – I picked up a clump of dirt and stood beneath her 2nd story window.

Ready. Aim. Fire.

Crack!

Now, the experienced Casanovas among you will know that a loud “crack,” audible for blocks, is not the desired sound in this circumstance. Now paranoid that the FBI was going to track me down for disturbing the peace, I hid behind a shrub as Lindsay switched her room light on. And as you’ll soon see, small shrubs are not great for hiding 6’2”, 190 lb. men.

Ok, 6’1”, 205 lbs. Whatever.

And what did I see next? Police cars? No. The FBI? Hardly. Britney Spears? No, and the only reason I mention her name is to get free web hits from people searching for “Britney Spears Upskirt Pics.”

Anyway, what did I see after throwing a wad of dirt and rock at Lindsay’s window? Well, I saw a very scared girl, peering out beyond her window, convinced that someone just tried to kill her.

And of course, it was not Lindsay.

In my inebriated state, I had launched a small projectile at the wrong window. Some poor girl had just been scared out of her mind, and she was scanning the surroundings for the offender. I dove for cover.

“Excuse me! I can see you out there!” She yelled.

Shit. I was caught.

“Umm hi, how are you. Hey you wouldn’t happen to be able to get Lindsay to open the door for me…thanks! Sorry about the whole ‘window’ thing.”

And sure enough, Lindsay dutifully let me in. A happy ending to a happy story.

But Lindsay is upset – she claims she has never gotten a shout-out in a column of mine – and because she loves LA and all that it entails, I am writing this column for her.

SEGUE ALERT!

Because my car was busted up a couple weeks ago, I decided to walk to work. Now, for those of you that don’t know Los Angeles, it isn’t a “walking” city, and I live 5.5 miles from work. But seeing as there is no convenient public transportation, cabs are horribly expensive, and my roommates are always drunk in the morning, I decided to walk.

Now, I should say, a lot of people hate Los Angeles. I don’t. I reserve my hate for cream sauces and the awful indigestion they give me. Los Angeles, I tolerate.

So after walking through it, literally pounding the pavement alongside the rich, the famous, and the unemployable, I created a soundtrack for all of the distinct areas of LA – and I’ve dedicated it to Lindsay. Will West Hollywood be defined by “It’s Raining Men?” Will Beverly Hills adopt the Weezer song of the same name? Will this column be written in a time-sensitive manner?

Only time will tell…

To be continued…

Searching For Attainably-Hot Girls

2006-12-04T00:16:00.000-08:00

9380 Belmont Drive.

10:47 PM

(Thoughts going through a random guy’s, (ok, my) head at an apartment party)

Good parking spot. No, yeah, Rob, that’s great work - half a mile away from the apartment. It’s freaking freezing out here. Matt, you still with us? Great. What do you think, should I wear the jacket? Should I ditch it? I know it’s so vibrant that it could induce epileptic shock, but it’s just so awesome. I’m keeping it. I see you rolling your eyes. Whatever. I’m confident in my need for a distractingly loud jacket to be a conversation starter.

Ohp, it looks like the door to the apartment building is locked. Should we take this as a sign? Oh good, here comes a couple back from dinner. Excuse me, could you, yeah, thanks, we really appreciate it. No, no, we don’t rape or rob...on Saturdays! Haha. Yeah. No, no, but seriously, we won’t hurt you. Thanks again for opening the door. I’m sorry about your nose there, that looks painful. Oh, excuse me, I didn’t realize that was natural, I just assumed it was broken. You know, it looks fine, nevermind. Okay. Awkward.

Do we know what apartment we’re supposed to go to? No? Well, let’s just walk down the hallway until we hear noise. Fantastic. Here we go. Ready? Let’s go in.

Oh, hi there Girl Who Is Clearly The Host Of This Party And Didn’t Invite Me, how are you? Yeah, I’m friends with one of your roommates. Well, actually, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, one of my roommates is friends with one of your roommates. And let’s be honest, they aren’t great friends, but we really needed to stop watching Star Wars on Saturday nights.

It looks like you have quite the outfit there. Hmm, what is that? Glitter? I think it looks lovely. Oh, you are no longer interested in this conversation? Good, neither am I. I am going to awkwardly segue out of this chat and move to the main room of the party. Ohp, it seems as though you are going to have to move your fat ass for me to get around you. Thank you for scoffing at me. Bye-bye. You’re ugly. That leotard does you no favors.

Are my roommates still behind me? Good. One of them should be leading the charge, as I don’t know anyone here, and they are carrying the 12-pack of Pacifico. But the logistics are terrible. Way too many people in this (hovel) two-bedroom apartment that looks like it’s sponsored by IKEA. We’ll press on.

Oh hi there, Guy Who Has a Scruffy Beard And Corduroy Jacket. It looks like there are quite a few of you here tonight. Excuse me, I’m going to have to push past you here. No, please don’t touch me with your beard, it looks like a bunch of pubes on steel wool. Sorry, excuse me, thanks, gross, gross, gross.

Beard Guy, that girl you’re talking to sounds like a real winner. Sure, she’s wearing a long sleeved shirt, but I’m sure she doesn’t cut herself. Besides, you have a corduroy jacket and horrible beard going on, nothing can pierce that shell of false intellectualism and unearned arrogance. While we’re on the subject, how was Vassar? I hope you have a vintage-T with something ironic on it underneath that smelly jacket. What does your shirt say? “Ask Me About my Dragon?” Fantastic.

There she is. The reason why I come to these parties. Dark hair. A hint of ethnicity. I THINK SHE JUST LOOKED AT ME. DID SHE? I THINK SHE DID! DID SHE? WAS IT THE JACKET???? I BET IT WAS!!!! OH HAPPY DAY SHE LOOKED AT ME!!! OH NO, I’M STILL LOOKING AT HER! CHRIST! ABORT!! ABORT!! ABORT!!

Take a breath big fella. You’ll see her again soon.

Oh, hi there, Loose-Lindsay, I mean Lindsay. God, I haven’t seen you since college, when you boned 5 of my fraternity brothers in 3 weeks. Should I give you a hug? Ok. Fine. Eww, you smell like peppermint schnapps and men’s cologne. Well, I’m not going to stick around and talk to you about our mutual friends and the Mormons in our class that got married (Yikes! By the way…) because I don’t want to make it seem like I’m interested in you.

Is that attainably hot girl still here? Looking, looking, looking, yes she’s still here. Thank God.

Oh, great, attainably-hot girl is being monopolized by pube-beard guy. F this.

Oh, hi there, host girl. Eww, you’re sweaty. Yes, that’s a lovely tank top you’re wearing. Ohp, I believe I see your nipple right now. Should I tell you? Nah, I’ll let you be gross, sweaty, and naked. It’s my gift to the party.

Ok, it’s now or never on attainably-hot girl. Let’s go blow up pube-beard guy’s conversation. Hey there. How are ya? Where’d you get your beard? BrilloPads-‘R-Us? Yeah, I got jokes. Want more jokes? How about that feminist studies minor of yours? Get outta here you goofball – nobody likes your stories about your Sufjan Stevens t-shirt.

Hi attainably hot girl. Yeah, do you like my jacket? Thanks, yeah, it was my dad’s. Yeah, he’s a chiller. (Oh my god this conversation sucks) So, do you like cheese? I think it’s delicious. Especially sharp cheddar. You do too? Fantastic. Well, that’s enough cheese talk, where are you from? San Francisco? Oh cool, I’m from Marin. Wait, what? You misheard what I said? You thought I asked you if you’re Armenian? YOU ARE ARMENIAN?!?!?!?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME? GIVE ME A HUG!!!!

OH MY GOD I’M HUGGING ARMENIAN ATTAINABLY-HOT GIRL (nice boobs by the way) AND I DON’T CARE!

Oh, you have to go? No! Can I find you somewhere (What? Who asks that, get her number, stupid!). Oh, you’re from Santa Barbara? You have a boyfriend? You’re getting married in three weeks? His name is Haig? Great.

Great. See you later. I’ve got to go too anyway. Lot of facebooking to get to tonight. Vegas has the over/under of wall posts and pokes at an even 18.

C’mon Matt, c’mon Rob, let’s get out of here before we get snowed in and have to look at host girl’s hairy nipple for the rest of the night.

It’s freaking freezing out here. Why did we park so far away?

Stars are Blind, but I'm Not

2006-11-29T22:08:00.000-08:00

There is an insidious menace seeping its way into Hollywood. It isn’t plastic surgery. It isn’t a false sense of entitlement. It isn’t pictures of Britney Spears’ vagina. It is something much, much worse. Something horrible. Something disgusting. Something corporate. Sorry, that last one is actually just the name of a sucky band. And yes, I’m bringing “SuckyBack.”

But to truly understand this phenomenon, I must tell you about a lovely woman named Paris Hilton. You see, last week, through means I’m not at liberty to discuss, I was a guest at one of her house parties. And upon meeting her, I should say that she is a very gracious person. She was warm, welcoming, and absolutely freaking gorgeous. I know she has usurped Jennifer Love Hewitt and maybe even Lindsay “Firecrotch” Lohan as the celeb women love to hate, but Paris is a gem. If she reads this – which she won’t – thanks for having me at your lovely house, and I wish you only success.

Of course, the highlight of the night had to be when she was a foot away from me, dancing on the stripper pole set up in her living room. I’d go into more detail, but grandma is on the internet these days.

You might be asking, Spencer, what does this have to do with your opening paragraph?

Absolutely nothing. I just wanted to gloat that I met Paris Hilton and went to a party at her house. I mean, c’mon, Flava Flav was there! Her bathroom walls are covered in mirrors! Every piece of artwork in the house features Paris!

But back to the column. What bothers me more than anything else in LA?

Men wearing women’s jeans.

Now, I don’t mean to condemn transsexuals, cross-gendered people, and hairy women that I mistake for men – they are playing in a whole other ballgame that I don’t pretend to come close to understanding.

I’m talking about straight guys. White guys. Guys whose genitalia apparently take up negative volume.

I was in a bar the other day, picking up chicks just like normal (read: ordering my 5th Corona light and trying to make awkward eye contact with 3rd tier girls - you know – the ones who look like they’re related to Sandra Bernhard and smell like curry) and I see a dude obviously hitting on a girl right next to me. And because I’ve lived in Boystown for a while, I know to look down below to get a good read on exactly what gender we’re dealing with. I look down – and – you guessed it, they’re wearing the same pair of jeans.

Ok, they weren’t wearing the same pair of jeans. But it was close. Damn close. They were both wearing black Vans as well – with just enough raggedy edges to make it clear that they are no friend of the establishment – with black, skin tight jeans.

Now, let’s just ignore the whole “How do you not castrate yourself?” question. Apparently, they have mastered some magical tucking skill that I never want to try out. Let’s just go on to the overall je-nes-sais-quioux of the whole thing. And yes, I know I spelled je-nes-sais-quioux wrong, but frankly, 4 people read this column, so who cares?

In any event, these guys that wear these jeans, and here’s my thesis statement (a good page or so into the column), they bring down the entire race. And by “race,” I mean men.

You see, the problem with these guys is that they make “normal” guys like you, me and Dupree look like a-holes. They make us look like we have no originality – like we aren’t daring enough to pull off something so heinous as tailored jeans. And granted, we have little originality. That much is true. But the originality we do possess, the originality once lauded by women across this great nation, originality like a sense of humor, a love of Hemingway’s short stories, or just the ability to juggle a soccer ball is masked, nay, rendered insignificant, just because a 5’4”, 125 lb. college dropout has never felt an hour of exercise, but has read enough gossip columns to carry on a conversation about how Paris Hilton is rude to strangers. And she isn’t!

I must admit, I’m a bit of a hypocrite here. I do own a jacket, affectionately named “Patches” by my roommate Colonel Crud, or whatever nickname he wanted me to use for him. The jacket is a pretty standard vintage blue blazer, but with pinstripes, zig-zagging green thread, and an aftermarket patch featuring a green cross, all for no particular reason. And while yes, I get many compliments on it, and it does fit within the LA social scene, every time I wear it, I feel like I’m taking off some of what I normally bring to the table. Instead of making jokes about the guy wearing the same jeans as the girl he’s hitting on, I have to defend a green cross on my shoulder.

I guess it’s my cross to bear.

That’s a really stupid pun. I’m sorry.

Paris is gorgeous. Guys, stop wearing women’s jeans. Also, Julia Carr, you are too nice to send Robér and I cookies and brownies. Too nice! They were delicious.

PORTER: BALLER

2006-11-19T18:45:00.000-08:00

Thoughts had while vomiting up pesto-encrusted salmon at 12:15 AM (and is there a better opening line than that?):

First off, I’d like to apologize for not posting a column recently. Not to blame it on recent romantic disasters, but for those of you who know what happened, I hope you can forgive me. For those of you who don’t know what happened, my girlfriend (known in my Stanford Daily columns as “Sloan”) basically tore out my heart and crushed it under a pile of rock so high, all the fencing in Texas wouldn’t do me any good.

And should I put this on a blog? Eh, probably not, but who cares.

Secondly, let’s talk a little sports. Eh, you know, let’s not. Let’s talk about Marin Academy Varsity Soccer, and why I’m such a big baller.

8 years ago, I didn’t make the Marin Academy Varsity Soccer Team.

It was my junior year of high school, and my brother was a freshman. He made the team. But after a long talk with the coach, he felt my time would be best served as somewhat of a player-coach on JV, with a guarantee that I would make the Varsity team my senior year. It was a difficult position for me to be in – not only was my little brother on the Varsity team, but it was the deferment of a dream I had had since coming to high school. As the school didn’t have a Football team, Soccer and Basketball were the two sports that commanded the most attention, and frankly, I like attention. Have you noticed?

But I didn’t make it. My coach, Josh, and I made a decision that this was for the best, even though both team captains independently thought I should make the team. But for the first practice, I was playing on JV, running wild on the freshmen and sophomores.

I remember that first practice perfectly. Our home field was being replaced with FieldTurf, so we were practicing at a girl’s high school’s softball outfield 20 minutes west of nowhere you’d know. The JV was playing a scrimmage, and I dominated, scoring three goals immediately. We were still making cuts for the JV, so the coach pulled me out of the game to evaluate the new talent, and I remember looking over at the Varsity field (or, the grass in Right Field) and just wishing I were there. Another veteran JVer told me he thought it wasn’t right that my brother made the Varsity team and I didn’t, but I had made my choice. I was cashing in on playing time I wasn’t going to have on Varsity.

There are times when I look back on this time in my life with a certain element of pride. It was the most awkward part of my life (my hair, alone, was nothing short of a nightmare), and I think I knew I was at a crossroads.

I will forever believe that had I chosen to stay on that JV team, I wouldn’t have the friends I have today, the ability to play for the Stanford Varsity Soccer Team (and I hardly played in high school, so go figure how that happened), or even the admission letter that let me into Stanford. That one decision, and the graciousness of my coach to allow me to change both of our minds changed my life monumentally, and had it not happened, I’m not sure where I’d be today.

So what’s the point? Does everything happen for a reason? No. I don’t believe in viewing the present from the future - absent a flux capacitor, that just ain’t happening.

The point is that I feel like I’m at another crossroads in my life, and this time, I don’t even know what my options are.

Oh, and I never thought I’d say this, but I kind of miss DFOYPB.

American Quixote?

2006-11-14T20:26:00.000-08:00

Because I'm about 1/3 of the way through a devastating breakup that I probably need professional help to get over (is he kidding?), I have given the reins of the blog (temporarily) to American Quixote, a good man featured on http://www.trojanburrito.com, which I invite you to peruse (rate espank9's quotes really high!

Without any further ado:

Spencer Porter Fan Fiction
by AmericanQuixote

Sometimes I think I, Spencer Porter, might be a double transvestite.

Think about it - what I'm a cross-dressing cross-dresser? I'm just like any other male transvestite, except that I secretly enjoy wearing men's clothing.

Did I just blow your mind just a little bit?

Let me give you a three point proof of why I'm a transtransvestite, in pig latin:
1. Opeyepa ovesla inichspa.
2. Change of subject: What's up with those Redskins?

3. Word.

Let's talk about them. I mean, I was sitting in an LA sports bar, because I live in LA, because I work for a somewhat insanely famous person in LA where I live, watching the game, and it's like, "No one saves a game with a fieldgoal like that unless it's A. Adam Vinatieri or B. Adam "I Wear This Beard Because Bob Kraft Keeps Me In A Meat Locker Until It's Kicking Time" Vinatieri."

Teflon titties.

I'm pretty goshdarn enthusiastic about sports. I mean, it sort of makes sense - sports are a part of me. That's an entirely literal statement. Take a little gander for yourself. The word 'sport' is right there in my name: 'Spencer PORTer.' Whaaaaat??????

Sprite.

And that's why I'm wearing a lacy thong over lumberjack boxers.

Are You Ready For Some (Flag) Football?

2006-10-26T19:39:00.001-07:00

There are few things I love more than flag football.

As a child, I would watch 49ers games religiously. They were my team. Every Sunday, I’d idolize Steve Young, Jerry Rice, Tom Rathman, John Taylor (who never got his fair due), and Brent Jones (who did awesomely bad commercials for Marin Audio Stereo and Alarm). But during halftime, just as Pat Summerall threw it back to the studio and John Madden unhinged his jaw to swallow a duck, my father would take me and my younger brother out onto our little street to play.

It was the Olive Avenue Football League, and it was good.

And just as many kids did, I went out for passes and dropped back in coverage, all the while playing against my younger brother. My father was the all-time quarterback – telling us what routes to run, how to catch the ball around the telephone pole in the endzone, and threading the needle through trees, parked cars, and siblings.

But enough saccharine. Let’s skip to the present.

No longer a wide receiver, I now play Quarterback, where I have been delivering strikes for deserving wideouts for the past 9 years or so. And facing a football withdrawal a few weeks ago, I had to get back in the pocket.

So I joined a flag football league.

Now, I should initially say that this isn’t, technically, a league. And while I’m on the topic, I’m not, technically, a male, though that probably deserves its own column. Anyway, the league is more of a standing game, but the email sounded fierce, so I came expecting the best.

Which is exactly what I saw.

As I exited my car that Saturday morning, I saw an elite level of flag football-dom. Receiver gloves. Tape-measured field. Eyeblack. These guys meant business. They looked the part. They acted the part. Unfortunately for them, they are terrible at football.

They can’t catch the ball. They can’t throw the ball. They can’t defend. Triple-threats, all of them.

In my 2 games playing quarterback, I am 2-0, with a completion percentage hovering around 80%, and my team has scored on every possession but two. My housemates also play, and their stats are similarly ridiculous, their receptions to TD ratios are unbelievable.

But let’s talk about the players, because this column isn’t funny enough.

The leader of the group is a guy named J.D., who shows up every week in football cleats, high socks, football pants, a Philadelphia Eagles jersey, eyeblack (“It really helps man!”) and wide-receiver gloves.

I’d like to focus on this one for a minute.

First off, in our very first game, he came up to me while we were waiting for the next play to start. It was a hot day, sweat was dripping past my furrowed brow, and since I was a newcomer, J.D. sauntered over to me.

“Hey Man.”
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey, you ever, like on a hot day, you know, when a girl has been riding her bike around for a while on a hot day, you ever smell her bike seat as soon as she stops riding?”

This was the most disgusting thing I had ever heard. At no point was he sarcastic, joking, or lying. He had chosen me and my housemates to confide in, and I didn’t know how to respond. I was placed in a dilemma. Should I just kill the conversation, say, something to the effect of “Ha! Man, you so crazy!” thereby not passing judgment, as well as establishing the fact that I am fluent in “ethnic” grammar? Should I agree, playing the part of the non-offensive newcomer? Or should I say “OH MY GOD THAT IS THE FUCKING WEIRDEST THING I HAVE EVER HEARD IN MY LIFE!”

I chose the last one.

“What man, that’s all we did in Philly! It must have been a Philly thing I guess.”

Yeah, must have been a Philly thing.

Couple that with JD refusing to try to catch a pass while running downfield (as in, he can’t catch a pass thrown over his shoulder - a shocking flaw for a wide receiver, and for someone who has invested so much money in his football attire)

Let’s also not forget the guy that wears casual sunglasses during every game, the guy who argues penalties way more than he should, or the fact that out of the 8 guys that normally show up who are NOT me or my roommates, approximately 0 of them are decent quarterbacks.

My point? The game has gotten easy. I’ve picked apart a zone defense, and brutalized a man-to-man defense. I need a new challenge. It’s time to show off my Olive Avenue Football League skillz.

For the first time in my life, at the age of 23, I’m going to try out for a tackle football team.

And boom goes the dynamite.

Andy, You're a Dick

2006-10-26T19:39:00.000-07:00

If you live long enough, you’ll probably be forced to stop Andy Dick from groping a woman.

So let me tell you what not to do.

Let’s set the stage. It was a Saturday, I believe, and the night of the taping of the MTV movie awards. Love was in the air and booze was on my breath as I walked back to my buddy Rob’s place – I only mention him because he accounts for half the hits on this website (and 100% of the tanned, shirtless men living in my house) – but what did I see not thirty yards in front of me?

Well, I wasn’t exactly sure.

There were clearly two people, that much was certain. A guy and a girl, the guy wearing a horribly loud plaid suit – the blonde girl looking out of the guy’s league in her white shiny top, clung to each other as they exited a Sunset club. But as I got closer, I couldn’t help but notice that this clinging was disturbingly one-sided, and shockingly D-listed.

It was Andy, and he wanted this girl to play with his Dick.

Presumably.

And as I walked closer, my buddies hovering around me (because I like to think I’m the alpha male of our little pack that desperately needs female companionship), I didn’t know what to do. Here was some poor young starlet, initially amazed by the Hollywood icon that starred as a naïve recruit “In the Army Now,” an angry taskmaster in that “Assistant” reality show on MTV that lasted an episode and a half, and the blowjob guy in “Old School,” and she’s getting groped like a congressional page (oooh, topical humor!).

So as he pinned her up to a metal fence, Andy, drunk with celebrity and a few too many alcoholic beverages, needed to be stopped.

But I didn’t do it.

Stunned by the celebrity, the paparazzi egging him on, the overall surreality of the encounter, I just stood there. And though she eventually pushed him aside, made out with him willingly, and then left him on a bus bench on the corner of Sunset and Crescent Heights, I couldn’t help but think that I should have done something. I should have offered assistance, should have pulled him off, should have taken the smack away from him.

Presumably.

But I didn’t. I just walked on by, letting celebrity win another battle.

Which makes Andy Dick #3 on my all time top ten Celebrity encounters.

The other 9 will come soon enough.

I Get It

2006-10-26T19:38:00.001-07:00

I get it.

I do.

So don’t feel the need to call me back. Don’t punch in my number on your Treo. Don’t press “send.”

I get it.

I’m a very small fish in the biggest of ponds, and it’s just not, well, it’s just not going to happen.

Believe me, I get it.

Every night I get it. I’ll go to a bar, a massive display of flesh and 8 dollar beers and mechanical bullriding. I’ll wait outside in line for an hour, just fixing the buttons on my colorful (but not too colorful, lest someone get the wrong idea) vertically striped shirt. I’ve read my Maxim, and I’m wearing my black shoes with my dark jeans because I know I can’t get away with my white Adidas in Hollywood. The guy in front of me smells like he just strangled an Axe Body Spray canister, but it doesn’t phase me as the bouncer lets in the pungent patron – thrusting his metal pipe of an arm in front of me before I can scurry my way in.

I get it.

I’m not a perfect 10. This was made very clear to me years ago, when I was the #1 ranked chess player in my grade school. It was made clear to me in high school when I spilled Martinelli’s Sparkling Apple Cider all over my Senior Prom Date. Yeah, that’s Non-Alcoholic, Mom, don’t worry. And it was made clear to me in college when my first real breakup (this is freshman year, for those of you keeping score at home) involved a lot of tears.

A lot of tears.

But I finally enter the bar, taking in the three bachelorette parties just teeming with insecure bridesmaids all licking lewd lollipops. I get it as I see the hordes of dudes: slick-backed hair, designer jeans, thin chinstrap facial hair, and a silver necklace to top it all off; they are trying their best, god bless ‘em, doing the duck-and-dive routine of casually dancing within earshot of a buzzed blonde, just in case he can add anything to the conversation.

You like Red Bull and Vodka too? No way!

I know my role. It’s the same role I played in high school, after a first date never called to say she was going to Honduras for the summer. It’s the same role I played in grade school, when fake notes were passed to me hinting at fabricated female feelings. It’s the role I play now.

I do my pass of the bar, share a smile with a girl who notices my deft ability to eschew alcoholic collisions, but she’s across the bar, and I’m in another league. With overpriced beer in hand, I search for any port in the storm, an unaccompanied friendly face, a Stanford class ring, anything that might resemble a conversation. Finally, I look for a chair, because standing just gets me down.

I get it.

I’m not that guy.

I don’t have enough gel in my hair. I don’t make enough money. I don’t drive a Mercedes. I don’t shoot Tequila until I can’t remember the order of salt, shot, lime. I don’t yell out, “OH shit! WE OWN THIS PLACE!” I don’t wear a gold cross, a silver chain, or an entitled smirk across my face.

And in the off chance I might talk to someone I’m searching for, I’m fine. I don’t have trouble in conversation – my mind is operating on levels beyond the price of bottle service, and how I CAN AFFORD IT EVERY NIGHT! YEAH! SUCK IT! - because I spent my high school days reading Gatsby, watching Nova, and going to UC-Berkeley at 16.

But I get it.

You’re not going to call me back. You lost your phone. You’re getting back with your ex. I understand.

But if you change your mind, I’m just here at my keyboard, slugging Cokes while downing expired Advil, listening to Elliott Smith slowly kill himself with minor chords.

Get it?

"Uh Oh"

2006-10-26T19:38:00.000-07:00

“Uh oh.”

Those are the words that will sum up this season of Stanford Football.

Uh oh.

Last weekend, with Your Stanford Cardinal down 17-3 in the middle of the third quarter, Trent Edwards, Your Stanford Cardinal Quarterback, turned to hand off the ball. Bill Walsh, Your Stanford Color Commentator and Your Former Coach, said to himself what all of us were feeling. He saw a terrible play call at a terrible time in the game, in what we now know was a terrible loss.

And he said it out loud. Mid-play. As in, he knew that this HB draw was a bad idea before it began.

“Uh oh.”

Now I just want to make it clear that there was no defensive penetration when Walsh said this. He was merely reacting to the atrocious playcall – down two scores deep in the game, in your own half, with an at-best-mediocre running game – and he was absolutely right.

Sure enough, Anthony Kimble ran on a road to nowhere to bring up second and long, we ended up punting, and Navy (that’s right, the Naval Academy) ended up blowing us out in our stadium opener.

Not good times.

So what’s the problem? Why does this happen to us? Why can’t we keep up with the likes of Navy?

Answer: We play traditional football, and that is going to kill us.

Let’s look at Navy for a second. They are a peculiar program, similar to Stanford in that they have unique and restrictive admissions requirements; not only does the Naval Academy necessitate strong academics, but they also have strict athletic requirements that eliminate the hulking linemen you might see at other football powerhouses.

So, without 300+ pounders protecting the quarterback, Navy knows full well that they can’t play traditional football – they simply are not good enough to allow their quarterback to be a pocket passer. So they rely on other strategies like misdirection, speed, and smarts, which leads them to run the option almost exclusively, something that propelled them to victory against Your Stanford Cardinal.

Now, I’m not advocating that we run the option. For one thing, we don’t have the right personnel for it, it would horribly affect recruiting, and it opens our star player (Trent Edwards) up for injuries.

No, I don’t think we should run the option, but we have to change something, because we are not good enough to play traditional football, yet we try to every game.

We have some of the right pieces on offense, but not nearly enough to compete. We have a great quarterback, a couple great receivers (now down to just Evan Moore), and a decent offensive line. However, our depth at wide receiver is pathetic, as displayed by last week’s effort, and our most glaring hole is our running game, with a true freshman (Toby Gephardt) being our sole bright spot.

So when you combine this horrible running game with wide receivers that drop balls, we are just not competitive.

So what’s the solution?

Traditional football is out. We just aren’t good enough.

The option is out.

Trent Edwards is great, but he’s not particularly mobile, and he has a disturbing tendency to get destroyed in the open field – so any sort of Michael Vick offense is out.

Which leaves the type of offense that we should have adopted years ago. It’s not a secret, but it’s not easy, and it certainly is very exciting.

We need to use the Texas Tech offense.

For those of you who want to read more about it, Michael Lewis (author of Moneyball) wrote a very good profile on the Texas Tech head coach here.

Basically the premise is this. If you have a good quarterback with a great arm that is even slightly mobile, spread out the offense. Make your offensive linemen spread out, opening up passing lanes for your 4 and 5 wide sets. Play with an empty backfield, run the ball very infrequently, and let your quarterback’s power, accuracy, and vision terrorize opposing defenses.

This is what Stanford needs to do. Trent Edwards is capable of handling the responsibility. Our receivers are decent enough to catch a ball or two. Our running backs can’t run anyway, so send them out on passing routes.

Now I know it’s probably too late for us to adopt this offense this year. We are most likely going to force our mediocre game plan onto our opponents and get crushed every time. It’s going to be a long season.

But let’s just keep in mind that Walt Harris has now blown his second season. We lost to UC-Davis in the first, and we’re not even competitive now. If he continues to coach us into the ground, not utilizing our players to the best of their abilities, it should be time to pull the plug on the Walt Harris experiment.

I know what Walt Harris should be saying right now.

“Uh oh.”

I'm Not A Fatty

2006-10-26T19:37:00.001-07:00

My gym’s nutritionist sat me down in the Pilates Room. She had just used her ice-cold calipers, matching her general attitude towards life, and stared at my shirtless upper body. Her gaze lifted to make eye contact.

“You’re only 22,” she started, “and it’s a shame that you’re heading down the path you’re on.”

In no uncertain terms, she was calling me a fatty.

But let’s back (that ass) up.

A few weeks ago, my gym called me to let me know I had a free nutritionist assessment. I thought sure, what’s the problem with some free advice? So I scheduled an appointment.

Hence, when the day of my visit arrived, I bounded down to the gym, a smile on my face and a pep in my step.

And then I saw the uber-bitch, I mean, “nutritionist.” Truth be told, she probably had a name, but I was much to obsessed with my reflection in the ubiquitous gym mirrors to remember it.

In any event, she took me into a back room, ordered me to fill out a questionnaire and then take my shirt off. This is the way a lot of my sexual encounters begin, so I was optimistic for the outcome.

But when uber-bitch took out her calipers, the cold, metal pinchers that measure body fat, I knew I was in trouble.

Now, back at Stanford Soccer, we had body fat tests once a quarter. They were always jovial affairs, pretty much a check-in on overall fitness so that the player and our trainer could get on the same page for a target fitness level to reach. I was consistently about 190 pounds, and had a BMI (Body Mass Index) of 9-11%. Note that for my height of 6’1”, 190 lbs. would yield a 25% BMI on the government’s scale – technically overweight – which was utter nonsense. As the calipers are a more accurate judge of BMI, this meant that I was a rippling machine of muscles, strength, and body hair. Mostly body hair.

Since school ended, however, I stopped playing soccer seven days a week, I started eating ice cream again, and that extra slice of pizza became a part of my diet. And sure, I gained about 15 pounds, but whatever, I’m happy with my choice.

But back to the uber-bitch. As she pinched her calipers, I started to make smalltalk – innocuous lines like “Oh God, I sure remember these things,” “I’m glad there are no mirrors in here,” and “Hey, you ever turn out the lights and get freaky with those things?”

Each line elicited a response of, “Please stand still, look forward, and stop talking.”

What’s cooler than being cool? Ice Cold.

And when she allowed me to finally sit down after pinching those calipers much harder than necessary, I got a good look at her, and I should have known what I was in for.

She was a 29-year-old woman who looked 34. She wasn’t in bad shape, but she was the type of woman that had no attractive features. Her body was lacking any feminine charm, her face was lacking a nose, and her hair rivaled that of Kurt Warner’s wife. Basically, she was like a female Luke Wilson – sure, there’s nothing wrong with her, but you’d much rather go after her sister.

Then it got ugly.

The nutritionist – who, remember, kind reader, was supposed to give me a nutritional assessment – just started to go off.

“You’re only 22,” she started, “and it’s a shame that you’re heading down the path you’re on.” That was the highlight, but it was followed up with these gems:

“You seem to have quite a bit of fat around your gut, which is unfortunate, because it seems like all your fat is collecting there, and it’s the hardest place to lose it from.”

“I’m sure you don’t want your belly to get any bigger, but let me tell you, if you keep doing what you’re doing it will. Right now, you’re feeding your fat and starving your muscles.”

She was calling me a fatty. I wanted to call her ugly. But she continued.

“So, what I want to do for you is to set you up with a nutritional plan.” She motioned to a folder beside her. “My service costs 375 dollars, and with that you’ll get this nutritional guide, a fitness schedule, and monthly checkups with me for your progress.”

And suddenly, it all made sense.

I’m not a fatty! I don’t have a weight problem! I’m not destined to live alone for the rest of my life, having sexual relations with warmed vegetables!

She was trying to scare me in order to buy her shitty nutritional photocopies! She was using the old Bush administration maneuver of instilling fear to induce subservient behavior! What a bitch!

And after I told her I wasn’t interested, she really let the floodgates burst.

“Well, I understand,” she said, motioning to my questionnaire. “You’re just an assistant, probably not making a lot of money. I get it. I’m sure it’s tough to make ends meet in your life.”

What a bitch. First she calls me ugly, then fat, and now, she was making fun of my career and paycheck, with just a touch of irony, as she knew that the gym I joined is not a cheap one.

So I left the gym, unhappy, angry, and having been called fat. A depressed, ugly, and tactless woman had torn me deep inside. I did want to lose some weight, but I now have a hatred of the gym I belong to. Exercise, my Plan A for losing weight, is out the window.

It’s time for Plan B: Anorexia.

Not "My" Space

2006-10-26T19:37:00.000-07:00

I hate myspace.

It sucks. It blows. It destroys my will to live.

Which is why I’ll never join it.

Now, I have, of course, visited myspace. This rant is not fueled by a fear of the unknown, a fear of social networking, or a fear of being e-raped. I know what myspace is, I know what myspace has become, and I know why I’ll never join it.

Here’s my problem with it: It’s like the internet in 1995.

Remember that internet? The internet where there were about 4 important websites? The internet that featured webcrawler and lycos as its main two portals? The internet where a hopefully nude Pamela Anderson took 8 minutes to load? I remember that internet, and it’s just like myspace is now.

I mean, look at those piles of crap! You have people posting blue text on blue backgrounds, nonsensical phrases littering text boxes, and an endless array of links that take you no place in particular.

And this isn’t meant to disrespect the internet in 1995! I thought it was amazing! I had my own website, sure, the web address was about 75 characters long, and I think it included three tildes, two colons, and a Chinese character representing “solitude.” But whatever! I was pumped! Finally I had a place to express my love for my favorite TV shows: “The X-Files,” and “Sliders.” Seriously, “Sliders,” featuring a very handsome Jerry O’Connell. You watched it too. Be honest with yourself and you'll remember that you liked it.

But here’s the rub: who cares?

Seriously. Who cares? Who has the time to wade through so much unwanted noise? Who has the energy to parse through the formatting, the backgrounds, the pictures, the songs, the posts, the blogs – all smattered across the page as if Jackson Pollack had coded the damn thing?

I don’t. I just can’t take it anymore. Dane Cook, you win. Take your myspace and leave.

But Facebook? Oh Facebook, you beautiful little success story of simplicity and subtlety. I love you. I do. Just as myspace is the internet from 1995, making my head explode from a cacophony of epilepsy-inducing lights and noise, Facebook is the Google of social networking.

Simple. Calm. Efficient.

Every page looks the same, which affords a level of comfort unavailable on mycrackspace. People are not separated by their command of blinking .gif images, caps lock, or multicolored text. Entire paragraphs are not obscured by a black flower print background.

Instead, I navigate freely in a sea of serenity, each page gently welcoming me in, inviting me, relaxing me. Soft text boxes, concise information panels, and innocuous wall posts massage my weary forefingers, caressing my old, calloused e-soul. And it’s lovely.

So myspace, stop. Just stop. No more half-naked frat guys. No more songs blaring over my iTunes. No more 45-year-old sexual predators.

I’ll just keep my facebook, my sanity, and my favorite sexual being, Mark Zuckerberg.

Party Like a Rockstar

2006-10-26T19:35:00.000-07:00

If I hear the phrase “party like a rockstar” once more, I will explode.

I swear. It’s time for that phrase to go. There is only one type of person that uses that phrase. She is not a rockstar. She is not a fun person. She is a pale, white girl with a significant number of gay male friends and draping tops that hide her semi-obesity; a girl who drinks a couple of Long Islands and thinks that she is really “shoving it in the face of society”.

She then gets this false sense of entitlement and superiority, spewing such gems as “the world isn’t ready for us” and “You’re all my bitches!” while singing the latest Kelly Clarkson song blaring over the bar’s PA system. And because she works as an assistant at a marketing firm, making little money and fewer friends, she knows her mom will berate her when she sees a 75 dollar charge on the credit card she pays for from a place called “Big Wangs.”

And after berating the bartender for not giving her free shots, the girl will then get thrown out of the bar – but no matter! – with three overweight gay friends in tow, they will strut down Cahuenga, white flesh hanging off their waistlines like yeast-laden dough, screaming to the heavens above and closed Laundromats below that “we own this city!”

Her feet, struggling after supporting nearly 2 bills of waddle, girth and those extra slices of cheesecake, are doing god’s work, hanging on to her Steve Madden heels for dear life. She’s breathing pretty heavy now, walking uphill to the next unfortunate bar, making the rouge on her face completely unnecessary as her rosacia blooms once again. But sweet sesame – is that a line at the next bar? – she won’t have any of that!

She charges to the very front of the line, anticipating the bouncer to whisk her in, just as her Marin County mother whisked her into a private day school, high school, and college, all the while instilling in her that: 1: She is the most beautiful thing on the planet, 2: Her vagina is the most treasured prize in the Western World, and 3: Never, ever, trust a Jew.

The bouncer, noticing the heavy pit stains, melting mascara, and cankles, doesn’t address our young protagonist – instead letting in a cute couple living in a 1 bedroom apartment off Doheny.

“Excuse me!” says our pampered plump princess.

“The back of the line is down the block.”

“Listen here you cretin,” the lead gay man in her posse (her term) yells, “we are here, queer and ready for beer! Look at us! We’re hot, we know it, so let us in so we can party like rockstars.”

And somewhere in LA, beyond all the bars on Sunset, beyond the smog, beyond all the nonsense,

I explode.

My Cousin Andre

2006-10-26T19:32:00.001-07:00

Think back 5 years ago. Think back 10 years ago. For those of you who remember the sixties, think back 20 years ago.

Remember that guy you see? That guy with the crazy hair? The optimistic outlook on life? That devil-may-care attitude?

Remember that time you jumped off the roof of your frat house? The time you funneled three beers and a shot in 20 seconds? The time Melinda and her three favorite Kappa Kappa Gamma girlfriends came over at three in the morning, and, well, suffice it to say, you remember that very well.

Now look in the mirror. Go ahead, I won’t tell anyone what I saw. I’ll wait here for you.

Let me guess, you see a shell of your former self. You’re working for [insert corporate mid-level job here]. You’re making a salary that you know is really below-average for your profession, but you’re banking that your big break is only months away, so you’re willing to put up with the short-term loss for now. Your waistline has increased 2 inches in the last year - you’ve blown out at least three belts. And that hair! That glorious, long hair that you once rivaled the Fonz’s – the hair that Melinda and her girlfriends made their own personal handholds – has started to thin out just a bit. Or more than a bit. OK, we’re men here. You’re bald.

Which is why I’m sad to see Andre go.

Let’s just pass by the fact that Andre won all 4 majors. Let’s forget that Andre is on the short list of tennis greats. Let’s ignore that Andre is the alpha dog in the Armenian Athlete Hall of Fame.

The fact is, Andre reminds us of what we love in sports.

When Andre went down in the first set, back aching, head glistening, you could see the agony on his face. It’s the same pain we all once felt – most after high school, some after college – where we realized that we just weren’t good enough to keep playing. So we hang up the cleats, the jerseys, the rackets.

But not Andre. Not in the third round of the US Open. Not ever.

With the announcers calling for Andre to throw in the towel (blasphemy!), the Most Famous Armenian Since Cher rallied to improbably win the second set. Benjamin Becker, his opponent, had a look of “What the hell am I doing wrong” on his face – he was overpowering Andre, hitting more winners, more aces, able to get to more balls, and yet he and Andre were even through the middle of the third.

But just how you muscled down that giant slice of chocolate cake last night, Andre did everything he could do to simply survive. And when he finally succumbed – when the frosting proved to be just too much for you - he did what was most thoughtful.

He thanked you. He thanked me. He practically thanked the Armenian Athlete Hall of Fame (and if he did, he really would have boosted our ticket sales, which are nothing short of sluggish).

For you see, what separated Andre from the rest of his peers was his playing style. He wasn’t particularly overpowering like Sampras, crafty like McEnroe, or blank like blank. He was just a fighter. He was tough. He stuck around. He was just like us - the weekend warrior – wailing away at baseline forehands until his opponent could take no more.

So yeah, I’m sad to see him go. And yeah, I teared up a little during his retirement speech. And yeah, this column got a little sappy about a third of the way through – but whatever. I’m happy with my choice, I’m sad for my Andre, and I wish he was still gonna be around.

And imagine if he married Cher!