Blackberry Vizion

Whoa whoa whoa. San Francisco was the place to be this past weekend. Block parties and gay parades. The streets were shut down, the tequila on ice, and the sun was shining. We did it big with tattoos, tacos for breakfast, and jaw dropping back-up dancers. These people are in the business of getting buckwild, so start dancing.

Daily Dealbreaker

Dealbreaker #12: "I won't date you if you where shirts with: pick-up lines, self-describing slogans, or sexual innuendo."

Seriously this isn't junior high anymore. I don't need to know that you think you're "rich and good looking" or that you "heart vagina." All it really says is that you thought what some un-clever loser who failed out of FIDM and is now designing for the likes of Hot Topic and
TackyT-shirts.com (or something like that), was dead-on when he came up with the shirt that you are insisting on the rest of the world associate with you. What happens when you run into someone wearing the same shirt? "Whoa, you like tits too?? Shit so do I! Let's go throw back some Jaegar bombs and pick-ups some broads breh." Spare me, seriously spare me.

Blackberry Vizion

After a solid Subway session, extra mustard please, the tummy-monster comes out to play. Unbutton those shorts baby, it's time for crunches. Wait, we don't do that here.

WHO DONE IT?? ONE GIRL, TWO CUPS

About a month back the semester was ending, everyone parting ways for the summer, and an overall sense of one more year of partying and youthful stupidity coming to an end. Believe me, the 5-8 day post-finals partying binge was one of monumetal proportions. Hugging best friends outside of dive bars, as your both sobbing and puking, because you won't see each other for like 3 months. (Well with my friends the same thing happens when someone leaves for a weekend, but we all have isolation issue, so fuck off.)

One of the last nights brought some good material. About 8 of us went out to a karoake bar in the Marina. (Some call the Marina the La Jolla or West Hollywood of San Francisco.) I don't agree, it's really just filled with straight people who LOVE to fucking work out. They order dirty-dirty martinis and Samual Adams beer, only party on the weekends, go out on frozen yogurt dates, dream about yoga positions, rock boot-cut denim like we're still in the 90's, and always make it to brunch on time. Anyway the bar we pounced on was not what we needed that night and after laughing about the guy singing Rascall Flats to his girlfriend for long enough we high-tailed out of there.

On the street we realized we needed two cabs to get to the Castro which was on the other side of town. I spot a white limo parked to the side and say to Elise, "Let's go flash him for a free ride."

We sprint over and the driver gets out. Let me explain to you this driver: truly a beautiful human being. He was a black guy dressed in a pimped out lavender suit, including matching hat and shoes, sprinklings of fake gold jewelry throughout. He quickly told us it would be $4 each and we all hopped in. He explained to us that failing to follow his rules would mean he would cut off our "privileges."

We didn't exactly know what these privileges entailed but we learned soon enough. Stick your head out of the sunroof with a bottle in your hand screaming? NOT ALLOWED. Drink the numerous bottles of bourbon and whiskey that were in the back? NOT ALLOWED. Smoke a cigarette? NOT ALLOWED. Our driver would cut our music off long enough for us all to apologize eight times, tell him we loved him, and kiss him on the cheek. When he stopped at an ATM for us he was standing outside with Daniela watching as "Cindy" leaned into the backseat of the limo. Cindy's got some junk in the trunk and he looked it up and down before saying, "Damn look at that booty." Daniela attempted to veto any ideas in his head by jumping in with, "HEY, that's my girl." With a grin on he replied, "No, that's our girl."

At one point in the ride, I'm sitting in the back of the limo with Isabel and Daniela. I see Elise hand Daniela, who is sitting next to the window a cup full of something. Daniela says, "Beer? Thanks honey." What Elise said next made us all whip our heads around faster than LA folk sprinting to a new Pinkberry story opening. 

"NO DANIELA. THAT'S CINDYS PUKE. SHE JUST THREW UP IN A CUP."

What The Fuck. Are you serious Cindy? A minute ago I look over and she is sneakily tipping the bourbon bottle down her own throat like the baller that she is, the next she's serving up a big ass plate full of NASTY. Daniela tipped the cup out the window, probably spreading steamy throw-up across the side of the limo. Cindy puked again, this time into a champagne flute. Those cups are damn skinny and I have to give her props for not spilling anywhere and taking care of her puking like such a lady. (ha)

The rest of the night was filled with eyes-closed dancing to the sounds of P-P-P-Pokerface. Cindy kept raging long into the night, Isabel acted as the bouncer at this bar called Badlands for a hot minute, and I kissed the bartender for a round of free Patron shots. All in a nights work baby.

Blackberry Vizion: Delores

Delores Park: when the weather is friendly and the friends are plenty. There is just nothing better than that, well other than those all you can eat pancakes over at IHOP. It's not a big deal, except it kind of is.

WHO DONE IT??

Two tastefully tipsy friends decided to wear their new high-top Converse out to the bars last Saturday night. Reasons for this new found love for the lace-ups: nothing. After running around Q-Bar long enough to step-on at least 86 pairs of feet, piss off the guy working the coat check, and scream "DEEEEALBREAKER" at the fucking Ed-Hardy Mafia that was waiting to get inside: we ended up at a bar called "The Mix." The bouncer could have doubled as Santa Claus at Macy's during the holidays and he never took his eyes off my face when I handed him my ID. PERFECT. A dimly lite room, with a smoking section in the back, filled with dark squinting men making eyes at each other. There was billiards, beer, and free bjs in each bathroom stall. (Well there was an unofficial "bartering exchange" system of STD's and such.) I'll pee on the sidewalk, thanks though.

Rolling with a group of about 8-14 people, we were all running around this place like fucking bats with our heads cut-off. At one point Ashley knocked over four half full drinks off the bar (belonging to other people) and didn't even notice she did it. Between hick-ups she insisted she was fine. For no particular reason my favorite part of the night was when "Fiona" and I were walking into the smoking section and interrupted a really intimate conversation between two guys. One was leaning against the wall while the other stood in front of him with his arm pressed against the wall, as he leaned in for support. We look down and see the bigger one is wearing an old beat up pair of Converse and the two of us, without consulting each other or thinking twice immediately, start blurting out the following types of things:

"CONVERSE! Look we have them too!"
"Oh my goddddd. We just got them. Look at our feet."
"Aren't they fun!?"

"Ours are high tops though, woooow."

"Fun. SO fun."

As if the three of us are the only people in the fucking world that have Converse. Being annoying is kind of fun I guess. I mean, we were truly excited in that moment and any excuse to rant about something is fine with me, but he was NOT having it. He gave us one disgusted look and rolled his eyes, before we turned around, laughed like 7th grade girls, and lite two Parliament Light.

Summer Love

You've seen The Notebook. Yea this love story is something like that. There is no alcohol induced flirting or late night booty calls. My summer love is black, metal, and about five inches tall. I've spent so many hours at work scanning and stapling files that the connection I've formed with the old Swingline stapler is on another level. Leaving him at five o'clock is much harder than it should be and some co-workers are becoming suspicious of this frowned upon office romance. I mean at first we were just friends, because the stapler knew that the fax machine had a crush on me, and since they were friends, he tried to suppress his feelings. But then there was a change. Swingline kept getting short and annoyed with me, he'd jam every other staple, making me poke and prod his insides to unjam the pieces. Fortunately the honeymoon stage was smooth sailing. I would plug my ipod in, give each of us one headphone, and I'd scan and staple for hours on end as we both belted out Taylor Swift lyrics on repeat. But then we realized our bond was only at work. His social awkwardness and lack of legs meant we could never both leave during my lunch break and on weekends I would shamelessly forget about my office affair and leave the promise ring made out of two intertwined staples he gave me at home...

Wait...which insane asylum shall I choose?

Blackberry Vizion

Walking down the sidewalk in the heart of San Francisco's Castro District, Elise and I came across this naked guy. Was there a reason for his nudity, we didn't wait around to find out. But Elise never misses a good photo-op and posed for a few pictures for the creepy photographer that was standing nearby. Since LoveFest already happened this year and Pride Week isn't for another couple weeks, Elise turned to him, with an inquisiting finger pointing at his crotch and half-heartedly asked, "Um is this legal?" She later told me what she wanted to say was, "Boy put some pants on! Iz cold out here!"

No love in VICELAND

I'm sure a lot of you have read and saved your copies of VICE magazine like I do: in plastic sleeves, chronologically filed in order, and stacked in storage for safe keeping. A second copy of each issue is used for highlighting, putting tabs on important articles, and cutting out awe-evoking pictures. Wait, none of that's true and it's hardly how my relationship with VICE has ever been. Never the less it's a great publication which is blunt, international, dirty, glamorous, exclusive, usually naked, always unapologetic, and straight up bitchy. Big respect for VICE. That being said: let's get down to business.

A few months before SuckitbySina got underway a few friends were starting a "zine," (if you don't know what that is, don't worry. I had to act like I was knowledgeable when I heard it too, until I could rush to a computer and google the fuck out of that word.) and they asked me to write my top-five "Dealbreakers" with explanations. At the time I had a list of about 60, without any background explanations. So I wrote the 5 which have since been featured here, one of them being "Dealbreaker: I won't date you if you sweat when not active, specifically on the chest, back, blah blah blah."

Soon after I got back to my apartment, stoned, and was in one of those bizarre moods that a life time supply of Cheetos, reality tv, and cigarettes can't cure. (Yes, usually that's all I need.)  I found myself on the VICE magazine website and came across a list of about 25 e-mail addresses of their editors, advertising people, photographers, and coffee-fetchin' bitches. I didn't care who they were, but I sent a separate e-mail with the 5 Dealbreakers I had already written to just about all of them.

Now hold up. I am in no way saying I should or could be writing for VICE, but I am saying that I think I have some funny moments. But when I opened my e-mail a few days later and got the following one line response, I thought it was too ironically amusing to be true:

"Some of us sweat from anxiety caused by the pressure of having to meet the standards of shallow girls."

Touche Mr. Vice, TOUCHE! I mean the name Sina could be mistaken for a girl, but I responded in a two sentence quip saying that I was a boy and it was all in good serious fun, but that he should already have known that. Mercy and morality lessons preached by VICE is a little bit "the kettle calling the pot black" considering their brilliantly ruthless writers.

It was all very appropriate, I would say.

These Girls, These Girls, These Girls

A quick follow-up to the Blackberry Vizion I posted earlier about the beaded beauty. Kate Greenspan's eye (and fabulous camera) can do it much more justice than my punch-drunk Blackberry ever will.

Real Legit: Jayson Musson

Philadelphia based artist Jayson Musson likes to stick his nose in every possible right place, with every possible right person. (Pun most likely intended.) A Jack of all trades, Musson spends his minutes writing, drawing, rapping in the group Plastic Little, and painting. Born in the Bronx and "trained" at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia, Musson's work has been featured in over a dozen exhibits in the States, along with the UK. One of his works, Too Black for B.E.T. is a collection of 34 word-based posters that covers topics like sex, drugs, Harry Potters, more drugs, and terrorism. He ruthlessly unleashed whatever was on his mind in 29 columns for the Philadelphia Weekly where he took full advantage of the free range given to him covering topics like Star Wars, being poor, a letter to Al Qaeda, and the stupidity of love. A cynical magician with words, Musson's pieces make you cringe in awkward encouragement, worse than watching the scene with Paul and his mother at dinner in the movie Rules of Attraction. Real Legit.

Here is an exert from an interview "Vulture Droppings" did with him last August. (Shout outs to Chris Moore.) Musson's views on:

Black Hipsters, Tight Pants, Indieclash and The Blowfish Look

V: What are your feelings on race and hipsterdom?

J: Hmmm... I'd like to see more black hipsters.

V: Why are there so few?

J: I don't know. Maybe they don't like the tight pants.

V: What's your experience of being a black hipster? Do you feel stigma? Or has it given you a kind of edge or advantage? Or both?

J: Going out in Philadelphia, I've been in what I'd call an "indieclash" scene. It's like this amalgam of a post electroclash, post indie-rock scene. People don't really go to shows anymore, they'll just go out to some electro night at some bar.

V: Whatever's on the flyer, pretty much.

J: Yeah, whatever's on the flyer. It's just a mishmash. I see indieclash prevailing for a few years until something else comes along. My indie rock friends find the word indieclash insulting.

V: What people find insulting is that you're grouping them into a group. When they're the most singular, individualist individuals who spend all day trying to elude every possible genre or categorical description.

J: The modicum of dressing for indie rock kids is very austere, which is supposed to indicate some kind of emotional or intellectual honesty, as if my thoughts are pure and untainted by any kind of cultural force.

V: Like "it's just me."

J: Yeah, these t-shirts, these pants, it's just me. That certainly isn't true of the hip-hop style of dressing, which I call the blowfish style. You just want to add mass onto yourself. It's machismo, looking like you're a virile threat. A lot of kids who listen to rap are just as skinny as indie rock kids, but they blow themselves up with clothing to make them seem as if they might eat you or something. It's the blowfish look. It's just ridiculous.

For full interview jump over to:

http://www.vulturedroppings.com/droppings/interview_with_jayson_musson_artist_rapper_folk_singer/

Jayson Musson's other works can be found at:

http://www.jaysonmusson.com/Menu.html

Blackberry Vizion

It's much funnier going to themed parties when everyone decides to ditch theme and no one tells one person. The "Anything But Clothes" party started with a cerran-wrap mini-dress, but Mardi Gras beads and one scotch-tape X over each nipple was much more appropriate. She was the belle of the ball and when someone asked her if her nipples were getting hard, she triumphantly replied, "My nipples don't get hard because I wear a fur coat made out of fourteen rabbits."

Here we going again

It's the morning after a night that makes Elise say things like, "My poop smells like straight up tequila." I'm DJ to her cleaning the madness which is her kitchen. Motivating, up-lifting tunes as she vigoriously takes her anger about lazy roommates, world hunger, and the state of both our bank accounts, out on scrubbing crusty food of a months worth of dishes. Ironically Phoenix's "If I Ever Feel Better," is a really happy song. Like I'm willing to be someone else's dealbreaker seeing as I'll be that guy with headphones in, straight up "dancing," really just lots of bobbing and awkward pelvic thrusts, down the sidewalk with a snarly grin and sunglasses on. Good morning San Francisco.

Let's Get Laid!

Two girls just trying to get by, I can definitely respect that. Here is the trailer: 

Let's Get Laid - Trailer from Unattached Productions on Vimeo.

Check out their site for more: www.letsgetlaid.tv

Blackberry Vizion

ONE LINE! ONE LINE! Only one fucking line means no baby! Close call averted, hooray. Whew let's go to happy hour honey.

Top of the Food Chain

Show me someone that's more badass than this guy. Come on, I'm waiting. He could go toe-to-toe with any beer-bellied Raider fan and he's like four. The face paint, the finger, and that "fuck you" expression are definitely on point. This is the gonna be the guy you want on your beer pong team. You want him to throw your birthday party and you don't to go against him in a "your mommas so fat" contest. This pitbull trapped in the body of wee-man's body is straight posted up at the top of the food chain.

Textual Seduction

"Textual Seductions" is back and this time we get a lonely boy who loves using smiley faces (nose included) and exclamation points, as if they make what he's saying cuter or something. "Phil" has been shamelessly hitting on about 8 of my girlfriends since the early 80's to no avail. But it's how the world work: they see him at parties, talk to him long enough so that he can roll a blunt and smoke them out, then they grab their nearest girlfriend and run for the hills. A good friend, who we'll call Tori, gave him her number at a party and the result was this comedic-gem of a conversation:

Phil: Hey "Tori" its "Phil" :-). R u in the city for spring break?!

Tori: Hey. Yeah, I'm here.

Phil: Dope! Just got some beer and gonna play some pong at 6th and anza for a little. I'm trying to see if u wanted to hang out! We might be heading to a few bars later. What are you up to?

Tori: I have to work early so I'm going to stay in tonight.

Phil: Oh ok that's commendable :-). Maybe we can get together later this week? I've been feinding to see a movie! Interested? (Strike 2 with the happy faces. JESUS.)

Tori: Well, I'm kind of seeing someone right now...

Phil: Oh. And who might that be?

Tori: Actually, the girl that had her arm around me when you asked for my number.

Phil: Hmmm. I still think we could have fun together!!

[No response from Tori.]

The next day-

Phil: BEsides I think you need to be reminded why men and women are perfect for each other! Do you still work on weeknights?

Tori: Yeah, I work every night this week.

Phil: Damn on that grind huh? I have a pretty open schedule so let me know a night when you still have energy after work so we can get to know each other better :-)!

(STRIKE 3 with god damn happy faces.)

[Again, no response from Tori.]

The next week-

Phil: Hey what you up to?

[AGAIN, no response from Tori.]

EVERYONE wants a piece

Riding the bus yesterday I came across this fabulous, teddy-bear purse lady. EVERYONE is obsessed with John and Kate. I took the picture and when she gave me a dirty stare, I had to strike up conversation about the drama. She said that John was wrong for cheating and I quote, "will pay in his afterlife." She was such a pistol I was completely in awe of her. I played devils advocate, arguing that Kate was sufficating John in the marriage, before I realized I had missed my stop by eight blocks. Pretty sure John and Kate are consuming far too much of my life.

Battle of Puebla '09

[Only surviving photo from the night. It truly was a battle.]

Drinking holidays are gifts from above in every single way. They are holidays like the Fourth of July, Cinco de Mayo, Halloween, Easter, fuck it, even Earth Day. Sure these days may have significant meaning and history, but really it's just an excuse to get properly shit-housed and scream "Oleeeeeeeeeee! Ole! Ole! Ole!" on a crowded bus. Everyday is a good day to get buckwild, but drinking holidays let you justify your addiction! Score!

Cinco de Mayo never fails to disappoint, really just because the main ingredient in everything is tequila. Shirts come off, punches get thrown, and families divided as the bottles of Cuervo get finished. (Oh you'd like to think we're throwing back Patron on ice all night, but this is a recession so just be glad we didn't add hot sauce to a bottle of Listerine and call it the next big thing.)

The Cinco de Mayo '09 shitshow award definitely has to go to our favorite latina who we'll lovingly call Lola. (Elise, stop crying, it's ok. You can try to win it next year.) It may have been the personal connection Lola felt with her homeland of Mexico on this special holiday or it could have been the 6 pitchers of margaritas, but she was on ANOTHER level.

About 10 of us (stay tuned, we drop like flies) went out to Velvet Cantina in the heart of the Mission. Normally Velvet Cantina doesn't have a bouncer, so when they did, we were thrown off and the two people without fake ID's were freaking out. Saint-Lola to the rescue! I'm inside trying to figure out something else we could do, when Lola comes up to me and says, "I got this." I then see her walk up the bouncer, caress his arm and talk for about 4 minutes. Then to my disbelief all 7 of our friends begin to file into the sweaty bar.

Their conversation went something like this:
Lola: "Hi buddy, do you see that ATM over there?"
Bouncer: "Yes."
Lola: "How about I walk over to that ATM and get you some cash to let my two friends who aren't 21 in?"

Bouncer: "You don't need to do that, just bring them over."

Ask nicely and you can have whatever you like. Everyone hails Lola for rescuing the night and we get a big booth in the backroom. Posted up with a pitcher of margarita each, things get nice and wild.

Brittany, disgusted with American ignorance, begins to walk around the crowded bar asking people if they even know what Cinco de Mayo means. Failing to answer her quickly or accurately strangers were subjected to a rant about the "Battle of Puebla." Thanks for the history lesson babe, now let's do a body shot! She was a charging bull and people were running to save their lives.

Lola, eager to one up her, gets it in her head to give me a lap dance. Beautiful girl, I have no complaints, but it should be said that unlike myself and most my friends, Lola is a girl of dignity and class. I think I spoke too soon because the next second, Lola is straddling me, rocking up and down. She rips her shirt off, swinging it over her head like a rodeo-princess. Her black velvet bra is not even kidding and the rest of the bar has turned to admire the free show.

Next Elise and Morgan walk up to the bar to get two more pitchers.(Someone cut us off.) The bartender admires Morgan's boobs and says she'll get the margaritas for free if she flashes him. Yes, we only go to the most respectable establishments. But to be fair, they are very nice boobs indeed and it's not like he doesn't have reason to believe he's got a shot. (Angelica, sorry babe, made out with him last time we were there.) But Morgan turned his proposition down. (I know, I know. I was dissapointed in her too.)

I walk outside to smoke a cigarette, only to find Lola has now decided to kiss one of our mutual good friends. Lola was in a short kiss with a boy, which hugely concerned and confused me. See the thing is Lola is a lesbian and the idea of her not picking me if she was to kiss a boy was very disheartening. Whatever, we then watched a crackhead do the same magic trick 8 times in a row. Each time more and more impressed he finally confessed that his deck of cards was a trick deck that only had twos and eights. Entranced by the card trick, I fail to notice that Lola has now retreated behind a telephone pole (not a great hiding spot) and is puking her brains out.

Being the nurture, care-taker that I am, I held her hair and whispered sweet nothings into her ear. She was a trooper and continued partying after leaving her tequila stew on the pavement. Oh Lola you've never been more rock 'n roll!

Blackberry Vizion

Strike a fuckin pose! Marson and Chess accurately give us "passion of christ." Either that or a freeze frame from Tila Tequila: A Shot At Love, episodes 4 to 11. Where Nob Hill meets the Tenderloin, a place of ten dollar whiskey and blue boogers. Said come on babe, take a walk on the wild side.

Embrace the Martian

It may be summer, but a Monday is a Monday...is a Monday. Sitting at the 9 to 5 (well this is a place of honesty so really like 10:45 to ~3) job behind an out of date Dell, scanning documents like it was going out style. TRUST, the day I forgot my headphones and was forced to listen to the sounds of stapling, telephones ringing, and clients complaining, I was stone-cold pissed. The beat can be a best friend sometimes and here is one track that keeps coming back. You've jammed to "Day N' Night," but Kid Cudi has a few more tricks and treats to share. Just a kid from Cleveland, asking you to please "Embrace the Martian," so we don't have bury another one-hit-wonder's career in a few months.

[The video is top-shelf YouTube crap but you can close your eyes.]

Blackberry Vizion

Some just can't risk leaving a text unread until the morning. Might be time for blackberry rehab.

Lyrical Killspree

"What's the difference between me and you?

About five bank accounts, three ounces, and two vehicles."

-Dr. Dre

And she'll cry if she wants to!

[The girl never has been able to handle both

liquor and clothing simultaneously.]

Give a hoot and a holla! Evathediva gets one year older today and is landing in San Francisco in 1 hour. Let the weekend of forgotten morals, whiskey and cokes, public nudity, and blog worthy stories BEGIN! Should be interesting to each write our own versions of the things that happen in the next 72 hours cause you KNOW things are getting hazardously hazy. Cheers to you diva.

Daily Dealbreaker

Dealbreaker #11: I won't date you if you use one of these multiple bag carrier thingys:

Standing in line to sell my soul (aka get a job application from Urban Outfitters) I noticed that the person ahead of me was using this contraption to hold a few of their bags. If you have one of these and use it: you have a shopping problem. Why would you spend money for something that will "aid" you in spending more fucking money? It also only has slots for three shopping bags. Three shopping bags filled with polyester cable-knit sweaters and Ugg boots are not going to be that god damn heavy. And don't even for a second pretend like since it's reusable your being environmentally friendly, cause you fucking not: YOU'RE MAKING A NON-ISSUE INTO AN ISSUE. You were just the ONE fucking person that fell for the stupid infomercial at 4 in the morning and ordered one. Ugh, this is 2009: hire an assistant or adopt a toddler to carry your shit.

Welcome to the jungle

The school cafeteria at a small private school is really just a x-large serving of crazy. Peak lunch hours the place is packed with everyone you've ever met, played tonsil hockey with over a keg, crushed on, secretly hated, openly hated, whatever. Much like the layout of the high school cliques in the Mean Girl's cafeteria, there is an unofficial, unorganized sense of order at the dining hall.

The soccer team sits at the tables closest to the check out line. Forming a barricade, taking up three tables, these boys are hungry and unapologetic. Mixed into them are the team's hoe train or groupies. Elite spots are reserved for the girls who score a "coveted" seat at one of the designated boys tables. The rest are forced to fight over the surrounding area tables, close enough to have some contact with the Adidas clad toolbags. The groupies are made up of: the girls who followed their high school boyfriends to college soon to find out he fucked half the freshman class before she got there, girls who triple barrel their hair just to go to class, the vodka sluts, and the prude "i only give handjobs" wanna-be-sluts. Considering the practically 70 to 30, female to male ratio, girls get very territorial, which really just gives the boys all the control to screw 5 girls per weekend and keep them all coming back for more. Maybe your faux "hippie" headbands are tied a little too tight girls, take them off and think!

Strategies come into play during peak lunch hours when there are people you don't want to say hi to and the ones you plan on "accidentaly" bumping into.

Things that make a successful cafeteria session:

-Seating: getting a seat facing the check-out lines, so when your friends are all gushing about how hot their Professor looks today, you don't have to do an obvious neck turn to look.

-Sunglasses: on entering the jungle shades are a good idea to let you stare at whoever you want without them knowing and averting eye contact from those sloppy drunken make out people you'd rather forget about.

-Discretion: Code names for people are important for not getting caught talking about people. Names like: HB (Huntington Beach Boy), Fergie Girl, Big Poppa, Curly-Bob, are all code-names that are not necessary used with malicious intent, rather a lack of knowing what a person's real name is. Also a good idea is to master the clock directing system, so when your best friend says, "Arch-enemy at 12 o'clock." You can throw your dirty look in the right direction.

-Truth or Dare: a packed cafeteria is really just one big distracted audience. You can get away with murder. A few more harmless dares are just to stand on top of a tall chair and act like your looking for someone for about 15 seconds. People begin to stare in confused disgust. Another is to go up to palm trees in the center of the hall, shake them vigorously while yelling "Where are all the apples, the apples are gone!" Really you can do whatever you want.

The cafeteria staff itself is on a whole other level of insane. There's the regulation laid back chef, who thinks he's so much better than his job and makes sure you know that. Josh walks around with his pluggs in his ears, complaining about his life, when in reality I just want him to make my grilled cheese extra cheesy. He's the guy who has slept with 10 percent of every incoming class since 1990 and will continue to do so until he dies. (I'm not kidding.) Please wash your hands before returning to work.

There the Caf-Nazis, who love calling Public Safety when they catch you stealing a bagel. Elise and I have been told numerous times that we are "at the top of her shit list." Being brats, we replied "t least we're on a list."

Of course there are the fabulous little old ladies like May who refills the cream cheese and mutters to herself in another language when I say hi. There is also Julia at the Mexican Bar who has one droopy eye and may just be the love of my life. There are the Asian ladies that always tell the girls how pretty they are, which has resulted in questioning of their sexuality.

My personal favorite is the black lady that works the vegan bar. She likes to do everything real slow and don't you rush her! Her gold framed sunglasses never leave her head and the thorny rose tattoo on her wrist is so clutch. When a source told me the tattoo was there to cover a bullet wound, I immediately went and got some vegetarian chili, although I was full, so I could see it for myself before telling all of you. It's true, it's so beautifully true.

Watch & Learn

Throw back: Miss Moss and Marky Mark shamelessly use "sex sells" without any apologies. And why should they? "Now that, could definately come between me and my Calvins."

Baby Blues!

[Gehry Draws]

The charmingly aggravating Matt Yoka gives us poems! Handing out printed poetry booklets, he surely stapled together himself, at the Big Umbrellas farewell art show, how much more San Francisco can you get?

Most memorable exchange we've had is when I dryly told him, "Matt it's so annoying that you have a girlfriend." (Subtlety clearly isn't my strong point.)

He paused for a cruelly misleading second, before replying, "You know what the worst part is? I love her."

Ah a dagger to my drunken heart, but as Mother Theresa or someone once said, don't hate the player, hate the game:

Baby Blues

Oh baby, don't blue ball my love,

I'm telling you baby,

Don't blue ball my love,

You are a fire fleeing the scene,

Oh baby, don't blue ball my love,

Between my hope filled pies,

And you plastic lies,

You're desensitized,

Oh baby, don't blue ball my love,

Between those luscious lips,

And tangerine hips,

My brain and heart are sent on trips,

Oh baby, don't blue ball my love,

Because a rattling rat won't give back a tale already told,

Like your mother's lover trying to buy a heart long since been sold

Don't shutter, don't stutter, don't even you mutter,

Have strength to be bold,

Stay in the trance as you dance,

And I bet that love will hold,

Oh baby, don't blue ball my love!

Matt Yoka

Real Legit: Banksy

"I originally set out to try and save the world, but now I'm not sure I like it enough."

The graffiti artist known to the world for long time only as Banksy takes legendary artistic mystique to another level. As the art-world's Deep-Throat, he does all his work at night, concealing his identity from the public (and the police). There is only one suspected picture identifying him that has ever been taken and not much is definite about his background.

So you could say he really is only here for his art, his statements. He's made it clear that he wants nothing to do with the media and attention the rest of us are actively obsessed with.

Although the man behind this art is in the dark, his messages are aimed and direct. Anti-war, anti-capitalism, anti-establishment, almost anti-fucking-everything. Subjects like rats, children, soldiers are put in honest, yet awkwardly humours scenarios to say what needs to be said. Using the streets, buildings, the world as his canvas, Banksy's works are not only hugely sought after and highly relevant to our time, they're also real legit.

For more Banksy works check out: http://www.banksy.co.uk/

Blackberry Vizion

I don't know how we got to this point. And I don't really know what to do now.

How do you spell douchbag? F-I-J-I F-R-A-T

[You mothers were lying when they told you weren't dense toolbags.]

I'm not sure when shit hit the fan but just get comfortable. You will be shocked. You will be disgusted. Fuck it here goes:

Sometimes the fun goes bad, real bad, real fast. A few months ago we set off to Berkeley to visit friends and get out of the city for a hot minute. Big mistake: we should never have left. We're always down for experiencing a good story to tell others about later and we promised our friend we'd come back with one. Oh, we had no idea what was coming our way.

Elise, Madeleine, Mary and I get to Berkeley around nine or ten. Mary goes to hangout with a friend of hers who is in a sorority at Berkeley. The three of us go to Elise's friends house and are hanging out and drinking a little. In no way were we drunk enough for level 10 awkwardness we were going to be put in.

So Mary's friend, Lacy, invites us to a frat house, which we think is a frat party or some shit. Whatever, when in Rome right? So we head over to a frat named FIJI. Seriously talk about walking into a situation completely blind, this is it. We walk up and the guy who answers the door is wearing, I KID YOU NOT, a shirt that says "I Heart Vagina." RED FLAG NUMBER ONE. We should have left right then and there.

Getting inside of this frat mansion we realize this is NO regular party. Apparently it is something called a "social" were it is the members of one sorority come hangout with the members of one fraternity. So put yourself in our shoes. Elise, Madeleine, and I were the biggest fish out of water in the world, and we're not anti-social people. Mary fit in a little better because she'd triple barrelled her hair and her so-cal up-bringing gave her some shelter.

So everyone there knew each other and knew we weren't suppose to be there. One guy comes up to me in the hallway and barks, "HEY! How did you get in here." I'm like, "I climbed through a window."

He, of course, believes me and thinks it's badass. (Whew) He invited the three of us into his room, where in order to handle this situation we get properly shit housed. We're taking vodka shots out of plastic jugs like were back in high school. Throwing one back every thirty second and doing hail-marys in between that we make it out of this god forsaken house alive. Elise goes to the bathroom and actually over sees a girl look her up and down and say to a friend, "I guess they're letting anyone in tonight."

LET ME BE CLEAR: My girls are gorgeous. Like knock-outs. Sure they're not always the classiest but I'd take them over these Forever 21 clad sorority sluts, who will end the night with one herpes infected fraternity dick getting pounded in each ear, while they puke their brains out in their Coach bags.

So this entire time, I have been ducking in and out of rooms trying to sneak shots in and seem invisible. I mean think about it, atleast Madeleine and Elise are girls, but I thought I'd be throw out by the collar at any second. (Wait, remind me again why were still at this house? I'm confused. Maybe it was the free alcohol.)

All of a sudden it all goes down, like a scene straight out of "Toolbag Academy" or something. Elise, Madeleine, Mary, and I are walking through a well lite hallway that had maybe 10 other people in it. There are 3 frat guys standing there and one of them just starts talking shit to Madeleine. About what she's wearing, asking her who let her in, telling her she should go back to Telegraph Street (implying she looks homeless.) I immediately get the scene from the OC season 1 in my head where Ryan gets beat up on the beach and told to go back to Chino. Seriously are we back here??

Thinking that I'm the guy that they'll go after and pounce on like a pack of fucking wolves, I leave down the stairs mid-fight. (I know, I know, what a knight in shining armour.) When you hear what happened next you'll be glad I saved my own life by leaving when I did. I get to the bottom of the stairs and find a huge empty living room with big leather couches. In my head revenge came out in the form of me peeing all over every couch in the room. To this day I am thankfully that no frat guys walked into the room while I was doing that, because I would probably be paralyzed from the waist down.

Meanwhile, upstairs Madeleine isn't taking any of this guys shit. She goes "Jersey" so fast on him, he had no idea what this blond chick had in store for him. Let's note that he was wearing white shorts, with a purple mesh jersey and trying to call other people out on their attire. Bitch, please. Then the guy has to go and call her a bitch, why do you have to go and do that stupid frat boy? He exits into a room and Madeleine goes right after him, taps him on the shoulder, and when he turns around, she drenches him with a big glass of tequila, orange juice, and Sprite. Sticky shit son.

He is fumming, that a woman would dare stand up to him. His first reaction? He grab Madeleine and puts her in a head-lock and holds it for about five seconds. Wait, is this really happening? Real tough putting a girl in a head lock you fucking dumbass. At this point I'm outside frantically smoking a cigarette until the girls get outside and explain what happened.

At this point we're wasted and PISSED. Elise, bless her soul, takes it upon herself to take a shit on this frat house's front steps. And no, she didn't just squat and drop real quick. Home girl posted up for a solid fifteen minutes before she could unleash her steamy goop all over their steps. HAHAHA, excuse me but these are the moments that convince me if I ever had a reality show it would be the best one out there.

Just as Elise is finishing up, I go over to grab the girls' purses which are laying on the sidewalk next to a cup of tequila and Sprite. By the time I turn around with the purses in hand, a very serious female police officer is about 4 inches away from my face. Uh oh, the conversation went something like this:

Lady Cop: What's in you cup over there?

Me: I don't know that's not my cup. (Deny, deny, deny)

Lady Cop: Don't lie to me. You were just holding that cup.

Me: No I was just grabbing their purses for them.

Lady Cop: How old are you?

Me: 19 babe.

[Mistake: Never, ever call a female officer "babe." No matter how cute you think it is. Fastest way to question their authority.]

Lady Cop: Don't call me BABE.

Me: I'm sorry MA'AM. It's a term of endearment coming from me, OFFICER.

The girls seeing how I'm digging myself into a hole and falling fast, cut in and start ranting about how Madeleine just got assaulted in the frat house that we are STILL standing outside of. The Officer with an air of disbelief and disgust tells us to just get home. One trip to the drunk tank averted.

The rest of the night was filled with ranting about the events to every Cop we saw on the way home and a solemn vow to never return to Berkeley's frats: land of 2 inch dicks and egos bigger than Kanye West.

Thanks for sitting through it. I feel about 5 years older just writing this and will probably find 3 new gray hairs on my head.