28 December 2006



Today, friends, I uncovered something horrifying about my physicality. So damning was this find that I can scarcely remember ever feeling this deflated, this melancholy, this totally moribund. My discovery could cause me to banish myself to the far corners of my apartment, never to speak to anyone again, riddled with pure, unbridled shame.

In the shower, just seven or eight minutes ago, my mind drew (what I assume to be) an elongated blank. I can only guess that I had been distracted for about a minute, but when I snapped to, I found myself looking down at my chest.

I am not a naturally hirsute man. I have what one might consider normal hair growth on my legs, some sparse forearm hair, and some regular-pattern growth on my belly. I have no current back hair. What worries me to no end, however, is my chest hair.

It is, by all accounts, absolute crap. It's wispy, like the fuzz on a frightened puppy, and has a foundation that is completely devoid of any follicular strength. It curls at ungodly angles. Sometimes, for no apparent reason – and with zero provocation – it gets caught in the simplest of cotton t-shirts. It is, in a word, a nuisance. There's not a lot of it, but what's there seems to relish in making a living hell out of my waking life. If I had one physical defect that I would choose to redact, it would be my chest hair. Any of you who have actually seen me in the flesh and personally viewed this haggard, bloated, sad excuse for a corpus are now saying to yourselves, "Wow, he must be serious if THAT'S what he would change." Touché.

Here is what strikes me near to the point of throwing myself off the most proximate bridge:

Peering down at my upper torso I notice, for the very first time, that one side – the left – is abundantly hairier than the other. This in and of itself does not immediately throw me off…until I gaze at my nipples. On the hairy side, the nipple is rather absent of hair growth; a few baby sprouts abound, but nothing to write home about. As if possessed by some unseen force, however, I decide to immediately compare it to the other nipple – the one on the less-hairy side. I am shocked and disgusted to find that it is, by quick and accurate calculations, almost 75% hairier than its twin.

How in the annals of f*ck does this happen, I ask you?

I literally don't know what to do with this unwanted knowledge, but I've spent the past fifteen minutes contemplating the best way to suffocate myself – AFTER shaving my chest. Can you imagine showing up to a funeral home with unsymmetrical chest hair? People would speak of it for years! I'd be castigated post-mortem, laughed at posthumously, derided as an utter fool and a degenerate in children's nursery rhymes!

No, friends, the only thing left for me to do is to take myself and my disjointed nipples and bury the whole package in a 12x14 box of self-loathing otherwise known as my bedroom. I don't feel fit to be a part of society anymore; truly, my heart burns, as though the ties between my soul and the great pool of humanity have already been severed. I am disfigured. I am unnatural. I am a monster.

Fare thee well.




As I sit here on the evening of the Day After Xmas (the date slowly migrating into the Day After the Day After Xmas) in my not-so-comfy chair riddled with the worst allergy attack I've had since setting up shop in Southern California, I feel pressed into service. Before retiring for the rest of my ephemeral Winter Vacation to read several terrible novels – though also one quite good one, I might add, and at the same time I'll advise you to read BORN AGAIN by Kelly Kerney – and to strike out at yet another screenplay, I thought it apropos to lay rise to GooseTown's Quasi-Annual Year-End Superlatives.

Why Quasi, you ask? Well, as many of you have noted, I don't write entries too terribly often and I figure it's better to mark low and aim high. Lest this not become a yearly event, I mean.

I spent a good hour today going over Year in Review lists from several major online and tangible publications, singling out topics that struck me as pertinent. I'm sure I'm going to miss some things here that you would have added, but while I always appreciate the comments and the Messages and other aggregate responses to my writing, please note that, in the end, I don't really give a hopping f*ck what you think.

Onto the GTQAYES Awards!

(EDITOR'S NOTE: This is going to be long. Still, come with me.)


AND THE WINNER IS: The following idiotic saying:

"Shoot for the moon, because even if you fail, you'll be among the stars."

What kind of d*ckheaded, sh*t-for-brains parent, teacher, friend or loved one would EVER tell this to someone else? For those of you without even a hint of a working knowledge of the universe beyond your toaster oven, the moon is 238,857 miles from the Earth. So if you're shooting for the moon, you're already at a sizeable disadvantage. But even the closest star in the Sun, which is a mind-blowing 93,000,000 f*cking miles from the Earth. And the closest star after that is Proxima Centauri, a mere eleventy-kajillion (exact scientific terminology) miles from Earth. And those are the two closest stars in our galaxy…out of 100,000,000,000 f*cking stars. So when you say the above to someone, you're actually telling them, "Shoot for the moon, because even if you fail, you'll float dumbly and helplessly into an airless void that will suffocate you in less than 60 seconds way, way f*cking far away from anything resembling a star."

RUNNER UP: "Dance like no one's watching, sing like no one's listening, and love like it's the last f*cking guy who will ever talk to you."

Or however that one goes. This is actually the most annoying quote of the Young Century, because everyone with a vagina – especially if it's a sorority vagina – has driven this ditty into the ground and made it toxically intolerable. New Rule – you're only allowed to use this quote if you amend it in the following ways: "Dance like you're not perceived as a troglodyte, f*ck like there ain't no AIDS, and eat like you don't care about how fat you're getting."


ATWIS: Anyone who overuses any portion of online slang, specifically anyone who has ever used, is currently using, or has ever thought remotely about the possibility of using the term "pwning" in response to another's misfortune. Don't know what "pwning" is, though you're pretty sure you've seen it somewhere? That's what I thought about six months ago, so I read this to understand the fuss. Go ahead, check it out on your own. I'll grant a reprieve just for this.

You back? Good. Now…here we go…ARE YOU KIDDING ME? God, you Internet Assh*les are unreal in your nerditry. Your Loser Readings are off the f*cking charts, man. And don't even get me started about the whole "First" phenomenon, something else I had to look up to make it make sense, and even then it made less sense: on popular Internet Message Boards, certain fat, stupid, worthless trolls will sit at their console hitting Refresh until a new topic pops up, and then, without responding to what the post is actually about, simply type "FIRST!" and "claim" that #1 response as theirs. It's a badge of honor for anti-social geeks. Seriously, no one could make this stuff up. It's the equivalent of showing up at McDonald's every day at 4AM, waiting until they open at six, then running in and running out without buying anything – and still being a fat virgin.

RUNNERS-UP: All pedophiles. And just below them are all the Pittsburgh Steelers/Baltimore Ravens fans. But not far below.


ATWIS: Every Mayan group who protested the opening of Mel Gibson's APOCALYPTO. In case you hadn't heard, at least two Mayan Advocacy Groups (try to diffuse your shock in finding out that modern Mayans have not just one but at least TWO advocacy groups) publicly, vocally expressed their displeasure with Mel Gibson. Not because he's a drunk. Not because he called a cop "sugar-t*ts". Not because he hates the Jews. No no, my friends. The Mayans hate Mel Gibson because – drumroll – he dared to depict the Mayans, at the tail-end of their aboriginal culture, as a group that might have once been capable of savagery.

Good Yum Cimil, say it ain't so! How dare that Aussie b*stard portray your people as bloodthirsty killers who participated in ritual human sacrifice and feuded with neighboring clans in gangland-style turfwars that so weakened your people as a whole that the Conquistadores bowled over you like Rockbiters. Blasphemer! In a related story, a group of modern, Anti-Reconstructionist Southern Rednecks have called for a ban on all DVD and VHS copies of ROOTS, claiming that it makes them appear to have once been slave owners.

RUNNER-UP: Any Christian who's still, for some indeterminate illogical reason, opposed to gay people getting hitched. Yeah, because two dudes wearing rings and f*cking in Martha's Vineyard are the reason your Emo son is addicted to cutting himself on Tuesdays.


ATWIS: This one was a close race, and God knows I have eclectic tastes in this realm. I vacillated heavily, I'll have you know, and plenty of chicks who didn't make the cut got serious consideration, Keeley Hazell (NSFW), Sarah Shahi and Elin Grindemyr being high on that list. But ultimately it came down to just three ladies…with Sophia Bush (she's the one in the middle, in case you're a moron) edging out Rachel Bilson (a little too skinny) and Marla Sokoloff (too many bad memories of THE PRACTICE). Adorable little Marla made it neck-and-neck down the stretch when she decided to grow out her hair and become full-on bangable, but Ms. Bush A) got rid of her loser husband via annulment and B) might as well be an exact, to-scale embodiment of My Type. So congratulations, Sophia – you've just won yourself the affection of a fat writer wannabe who never leaves his room!

RUNNERS-UP: Most Asians
SECOND RUNNERS-UP: Most half-Asians.


ATWIS: I don't care if you're a music elitist and you think I don't know what I'm talking about. The album I enjoyed the most this year was WHATEVER PEOPLE SAY I AM, THAT'S WHAT I'M NOT by the Arctic Monkeys. Not only are they great to listen to, but that's one of the Top Five Album Titles ever.

RUNNER-UP: Not f*cking Panic! At the Disco, I can tell you that f*cking much. My hatred and loathing for them are well documented and I could go on at length about just how much, but I found a way to circumvent such a repetitive diatribe so that all of you might understand, concisely, how deep my anathema for these cretins flows:

I hate them so much more then I ever dared to hate LFO.

Take it, print it, run with it, attribute it to me.


ATWIS: I dug the sh*t out of THE FOUNTAIN. I would love to talk more about it and dissect it down to its last celluloid nub, but it's absolutely pointless if you haven't seen it. Judging by the box office receipts none of you did, making you all total and irrevocable fools.



ATWIS: Just happened two days ago, and, Christ on a Cracker, was it annoying. If you did it you know who you are. I'm not going to call anyone out by name because the list would be long and damning, but I think you can all hang your heads in shame if you sent out a mass-"Merry Xmas" message to all your friends on the morning of 25 December. And not by email.

No, no. You, sirs and madams, are far bigger pr*cks than that: you sent out a motherf*cking mass-cell phone text.

I've never seen anything like it. Christmas morning, as I lay in sweet and uncompromised repose, my mobile starts going off like R2-D2 in a robotic brothel…and every time for a 100% forced, impersonal, two-word acknowledgment. Sure, I could have turned off my phone (as someone was dense enough to bring to my attention), but that's not the f*cking point, is it? Some of you I love dearly and I still want to strangle you until your windpipe buckles in my clenched palms. Don't f*cking do it again. That's a warning. That's a threat. That's a promise.

RUNNER-UP: Anyone under the age of 20 on MySpace. Please stop ruining this for me.


ATWIS: DajLeon (Male) and Tschelinda (Female)

RUNNERS-UP: The names I've hand-picked in advance for my two children: Cuisinartimus (Male) and La'DishwallaTron (Gender Non-Specific).

(EDITOR'S NOTE: The Benadryl I've loaded up on has really kicked in at this point, so the likelihood that this already mediocre entry is headed downhill is…strong to quite strong. If you want to leave right now I understand, but I'm committed to this and I'm going to press on. A bad sign: I had to backspace and retype this paragraph nine times in total to bring it to just-barely-average grammatical standard. God Help Us.)


ATWIS: Of course, Ted Haggard.
RUNNER-UP: Mark Foley
SECOND RUNNER-UP: Kevin Federline


ATWIS: R. Kelly.

What? Alright, so he didn't pee on anyone this year – and it's not that we know he didn't, because he very well could have, it's just that we don't have video evidence of the act – but I still have to give out this award, don't I? Look, if you're unhappy about it I see where you're coming from, but until Gnarls Barkley or Nelly takes occasion to crap violently on a hermaphroditic midget, he's on the hook.

RUNNER-UP: Thankfully there's only one Mr. R. Kelly.


ATWIS: If we had held these awards last year Screech would have run with this in a landslide, but he had to go and f*ck that all up. Not only am I retroactively damaged psychologically, the last pieces of my fragile and ambiguous innocence stripped away, but it's always bad news when you watch porn and think, "Dude…I have a bigger d*ck than you." Especially when Screech was bold enough to claim on Howard Stern's show that it was a monster…and you know, honestly, that your zipper is not holding back a monster.

That in mind, I'm taking Jaleel White.

RUNNER-UP: Raven Symone. And not by much.


ATWIS: Tony Sirico, AKA Paulie Walnuts of THE SOPRANOS. Yeah, The Donald has an incredible coiffure, but I challenge you take a look at this picture closely and tell me how the f*ck Mr. Sirico gets his hair to stay like that. Seriously, look closely. YOU CAN SEE CLEAN THROUGH TO HIS SCALP! What kind of atomic f*cking hairspray is this guy on? He's taking, literally, the last 100 strands of hair on his head and turning them into a pompadour that would make Elvis soil his sequined bellbottoms. I can't be the only one to be totally enraptured with this phenomenon much less the only one who's noticed it. To be fair, it's less of a hairstyle and more a gravity-defying singularity that should be explored and studied during the next NASA mission. Preferably when the astronauts are shooting for the moon and realizing their wisecracking grandfathers lied to them about failing in the f*cking non-existent stars.

RUNNER-UP: THE Donald Trump. C'mon, obviously.


ATWIS: Diet Sunkist. For those of you who are diabetic (or damn close, like myself), the battle to reconcile not only your sugar intake but internal sugar balance is a daily struggle. Plus…everything that has the sugar removed generally tastes like a cardboard facsimile of the genuine article. Diet Coke? B*tch, please. Pepsi One? Surely you jest, motherf*cker. And don't get me started on Tab, a failed 80's fluke that's somehow still alive and well. Don't believe me? Keep an eye peeled for six packs in your local Walgreen's. Oh yeah. They show up.

Fortunately, if you like orange soda, Diet Sunkist tastes almost exactly like the real thing. It's summarily wonderful in every way. Go out. Try it. You'll not only be surprised, you'll be pretty excited. However, soon after, depression will set in when you realize that A) you're excited to be drinking Diet Sunkist and B) that I got you excited about drinking Diet Sunkist.

What can I tell you? It's a dark, hollow world in which we live.

RUNNER-UP: Maybe I should kill myself.

And the Granddaddy of them all…


ATWIS: The Tigersuit Dancer at Amagi.

Though my year was filled with some pretty ominous low moments, I have to say that, as usual, all the good stuff ended up quelling the bad. At the top of the Good Stuff List is something that occurred one balmy April night at my favorite bar, Amagi.

A young man is called to the stage. He's pudgy. Casually dressed. Unassuming. However, he wins my attention immediately as I hear WALK THE DINOSAUR by Was (Not Was) begin to play – it's a song that takes me back in the day to when it was a closet favorite; I'd request that it be played during all skating parties at the local roller-rink. And just as all those fourth-grade memories start to flow back in…BAM!, the dude rips off his shirt and the tear-away windpants he's wearing.

This reveals a skintight, low-cut, Spandex tiger suit. Think Tigger without the Bill Cowher head – and with "GRRRRRR" written across the ass. Before we even have time to process what's happening, he's pelvic thrusting in the face of a girl in the front row, seeming to dare to hit her in the face with his undulating man-package. The laughter finally starts to spew out of us as he accosts more females, but somehow the best is yet to come.

During a four-count, solo drumbeat portion of the song, The Tigersuit Dancer smacks his crotch one…two…three times…and then, on the fourth and penultimate flog, perfectly in rhythm…a small red light begins to flash rapidly Right on his penis. Right on it. When the song ends, he gathers his clothes and runs for the door.

No one ever sees him again. It was over before it began, so fast that no one was able to react to the sight with any true clarity until about a week later, when we'd all convinced ourselves that, yes, it had actually happened. I wonder if he knows he succeeded in his mission, because here we are, still talking about him. Well, Tigersuit Dancer, if you're out there, take pride.

You're the Best of 2006. I don't know if someone or something will top you in 2007, but I'm betting that it's going to be a hell of a year if they do.