If You're Bored

Hey if you're bored or just exceptionally curious about rock stars' cocks, you can watch the recently hijacked home video of Limp Bizkit frontman Fred Durst humping some girl here.

Best email ever

So in response to my recent MESH column regarding dicks being the new tits and how television ads for Cialis, Viagra, etc. al are making guys feel like their average fuck capacity is lacking, I received this e-mail:


mr. taylor,
i want you to know 3 things: 1. that its people like you that keep women neurotic (with words like "middle-aged misfit" and "tits"). 2. that there are two "unspoken" truths about sex: " size does matter", and "women masturbate." every woman i've ever been with has fully appreciated my fat cock. and yes, in the early days i didn't last very long, but at least they got off. most women don't want to be fucked all night (women eventually get sore), that's a male attitude. one time a girl i was seeing told me that "if a girl makes noise while she is getting fucked its for one of two reasons: she either wants it to be over quickly (making the guy come faster with loud noises), or the dick is so right that she can't help her self and is doing it unconsciously and pleasurably." i've known few women that only want "baby arm" dicks. mostly they just want to feel SOMETHING in there, and get off on it. and women overwhelmingly prefer girth to length. you can be rest assured that NO woman will ever say "i prefer small dicks." and given a choice, a woman will always take the bigger dick. always. 3. and you should not be complaining about ANYTHING. you are a young white male (like myself) with society in general at your feet. so stop whining. word.

Fear and Loathing Somewhere

Amateur: I know most of you were probably rooting for my untimely death, but unfortunately I somehow survived the war hell ride Las Vegas gave me and returned to my humble home relatively unscathed, save for a few hundred dollars accidentally left on the blackjack table and the few million brain cells I tipped the cocktail waitress. Besides, it would have sucked to have died last week anyway, as anyone who cares about vulgar, narcissistic writers was already wrapped up in the whole Hunter S. Thompson shooting himself in the face thing. In a way I guess that’s the difference between shithead beat writers like myself and literary giants like Thompson and Hemingway: while I’ll probably die and old man from stress-induced ass cancer sitting in my office chair, he was man enough to take control of the situation and eat a bullet as soon as he was sick enough of life. According to his wife, he even made sure not to mess his face up too bad, so as to spare his family the trouble of having to deal with too much grisliness. And unlike Hemingway, Bukowski, and the litany of other drunkard writers throughout history who seemed to be consumed with angst and pursued by inner demons, Thompson ate angst for breakfast and smoked, snorted and drank as many demons as he could lay his hands on. He truly lived life to it’s fullest and when it was done, it was done. RIP.

Public Service Announcement: Don’t be mistaken, my respect for a man like Hunter S. Thompson is not an endorsement of rampant drug use, handgun ownership or any of the other, many semi-lawless antics Thompson was fond of. Most people are neither smart enough now responsible enough to handle that sort of shit. Besides it takes a special sort of mental and intestinal fortitude to live life like that. That’s why we have people like Hunter S. Thompson, who do it for us. Likewise, my personal tales of more innocent forms of debauchery—overdosing on coffee, hollering at women and children, acting like a damned fool in various establishments around Chico—are not meant to be primers for a successful life, or a how-to guide for being a big fish in a small pond. Just as taking a but load of acid, shooting up wolf-adrenaline or blowing holes through copies of the Synthesis with a .45 wouldn’t magically turn me into Hunter S. Thompson, jocking shitty emo bands, barfing up whiskey and coffee and eating like a fat-ass won’t necessarily turn you into Daniel Taylor. And trust me, you wouldn’t want to be me anyway. Behind the curtain is a sad, depraved individual. Enjoy your lives of quiet desperation as much as you can. Enjoy your TV dinners and Seinfeld reruns and Costco. I’m not saying my life is any better.

But, I Digress: The moral of the story, I guess, is that I’m glad to be home. Las Vegas is a shithole. It’s like someone took a third-world country and dropped a few billion dollars on it. Rising out of the desert like a wart on the earth, Las Vegas is nothing but a big fat fishing lure, shiny, spinning, drawing in the old people like largemouth bass, hooking them to a slot machine seat and gutting their bank accounts. As soon as you step off the plane, there are literally slot machines dinging in your face. And that dinging never, ever stops. Everywhere you go, there is the dinging. And the smoking. Never take for granted the fact that California disallowed smoking indoors sometime back, because in Las Vegas you can’t so much eat a meal or take a dump without breathing about a half-pack worth of menthols. The same standard applies to drinking; no matter where you go in Las Vegas—walking down the sidewalk, riding in a taxi, shopping in the Paul Frank Store—you can have a drink in your hand. Thus, you would think that one would be able to get drunk pretty easily. But that’s not necessarily the case. You see, unless you’re playing the tables (or at least the $1 slots) the cocktail waitresses won’t even look at your face, so you’re forced to buy your own drinks. At the Venetian, a Seven & Seven, and a small one at that, ran about $14. Add to that the fact that most of the real casinos pump oxygen through their vents to help you keep on your feet till all hours, and you can find yourself sober at 5 AM despite spending you future children’s college money on booze. Luckily for me, I had a friend getting married, who hosted the obligatory open bar for his reception. I will admit, being blacked out in Vegas was pretty scary. Especially when I woke up in bathtub filled with ice and a big scar where my kidney used to be. But you know what they say, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Just don’t ever get married there because I promise that I won’t go. In fact, don’t get married anywhere else except Chico or Willows if you expect me to show up. I’m never going anywhere ever again.

I Can't Write Worth a Fucking Shit

I just noticed in one of my previous posts i said something was "ubiquitous in all things."

If you got an English degree and want to feel even dumber (get it, get it??? LOL ZZZZZZ) just ruminate on the thought that someday I, or some reasonable fascimilie of me, will probably be your editor/boss and I haven't taken an English class since Willows High School which ain't exactly MIT. And in fact, during my illustrious high school career I flunked sophomore English, and my Junior English teacher wanted to put me in Special Ed.

EDITORS OF THE WORLD UNTIE!!!

Oh yeah and if you're are from WIllows and want to see pictures from the wedding that aren't from my phone go here

I Lived

So I went to Vegas and didn't die. One of my buddies won $2000, then broke his leg. We called some whores just to see what they would say. They wanted $4000 dollars. Then they wanted $100 just to leave which we didn't give them. Thankfully they thought we were cops so big ass bikers didn't come slit our throats in the night. Overall Las Vegas is a shithole; I don't think I'll ever go back. In fact, I don't think I'll ever go anywhere else ever again thats farther then SF, or maybe even Willows.

Dont Worry Im Probably Dead By Now

Yeah, so I know most everybody snoozed through last entrywondering whether or not I was gonna drown myself and put myself out of my misery, or just pout like a little girl some more. But don’t worry. This is probably my last entry ever. You see, at this very moment I’m hurtling through the substratosphere at hundreds of miles on an airplane hellride to Las Vegas, counting the seconds until my body disintegrates on impact or until some terrorist slashes my fucking throat with a coat hanger or blows up his shoebomb or whatever bullshit those dudes will come up with next. I don’t know why people are always saying it’s “fun” or “cool” to climb into some shoddily manufactured vehicle hardly fit to roll and take it thousands of feet into the air. What happened to “half the fun is getting there?” How is looking out of some foot-thick smudged class peep-hole at the all the ways we’ve raped God’s green earth an edifying experience? I’d personally much rather take the train, but that’s not really even an option anymore, because people would rather just hurry up and get there even if it costs them their lives. And before you send me all the same bullshit statistics about how air travel is actually safer than driving let me tell you: I know the numbers. And I don’t care. I still firmly believe that in the event of an automobile accident I will be safely thrown from the car, landing gently in the roadside shrubbery and coming through unscathed. But in a plane wreck, there is no such comforting fantasy to be upheld. If shit goes south there’s nothing you can do but just sit back and suck on the oxygen until death greets you. And the worst part of all of this is that even if, by some miraculous chance, my plane does make the trip without exploding, I’ll probably die of a heart attack en route, or just say fuck it and jump out of the emergency exit.
I’m not shitting you about this heart attack thing. Some years ago, the fallout from my misspent youth, coupled with extreme mental instability, led me to fall victim to what is a seemingly common problem among youths these days: chronic and debilitating anxiety. At first I thought I really was having heart attacks. But after a few hospital visits and enough X-rays and exams to kill a horse, it was determined that I was just really worried about life. A healthy diet of various zombie pills cured me of the physical symptoms of this worrying, and eventually, I was able to rejoin society as a fully-functioning member. I even eventually weaned myself from these helpful pharmaceuticals, in part by doing my best to avoid situations such as riding in planes to places like Las Vegas. Knowing this, I decided it would be better to be safe than sorry, so I hung out with a doctor and got a prescription for some of my old anti-freakout pills, which I haven’t taken in probably five or six years. You would think that this sort of proactive, cautionary behavior would be rewarded by a sense of calm and tranquility. But life is a cruel beast. You would think that a pharmacy, the dispensary of often life-saving medicines, would be a punctual kind of place, not the kind of place that would jerk you around and toy with your emotions. But I guess Costco doesn’t give a shit if you die waiting for your goddamn medicine. Even better, they like to make you think it’s done, make you wait in a long-ass line with gross old people, then tell you come back after awhile. Costco is the kind of place that makes me sick anyway: people buying their boxes of 200 Bagel Dogs and giant bottles of Trimspa; old people saving their pennies for their shithead sponge children by buying the bulk oatmeal instead of just going out in style; college kids making sure their freshman 15 isn’t going anywhere. But the pharmacy is probably the most sickening part of all. I found myself, after five years of free of panic attacks, having an honest to god panic attack waiting in line for the fucking medicine meant to keep me from having them. At one point I was actually yelling at the lady behind the counter to just give me my fucking medicine, because I was seriously about three minutes away from rolling around on the floor like a big pink pig. Needless to say, they did not see the irony in the situation, nor did they expedite my order. Only thing that saved my life was free sample of meatballs in the next aisle. Otherwise I would’ve been fucked.
This all leads me to the conclusion that as of now I’m probably dead as fuck, or in some insane asylum in Nevada after overdosing on zombie pills somewhere deep inside the Bellagio Hotel. Because, if Costco can make me freak out, what is Las Vegas going to do? It’s like a whole town worth of Costco, where if some is good, then a lot fucking more is way better. Where old people try to win money they’ll never be around to spend. Where they don’t care if you’re going to freak out because “these people were in line ahead of you” and “can you just wait your turn, sir?” No way I’m making it out alive.

Great Expectations

The unfortunate thing about being funny, as opposed to being other things such as serious, truthful, boring, etc., is that it takes effort. And not just a little; sometimes making someone laugh takes real work. Especially now that humor is so ubiquitous in all things. Once upon a time, humor was relegated to relatively few aspects of life; most things were done with stoicism and seriousness. Life was hard and people didn’t want to hear any bullshit. But nowadays life is easy, for the most part. People don’t have to worry about starving to death. In fact, they have to endeavor to starve themselves at least a little, counting carbs and calories and whatever. In these easy times, humor has pervaded all things: books, movies, church, the dinner table, even casual conversation. No longer is humor taboo, save the most severe of times. But I recall even sharing a few laughs at a recent funeral, as humor can even be found in death these days. This being said, it remains true that some folk are funnier than others, much like some people can bake better cakes or run faster than others. But the fact that nowadays everyone is an amateur comedian means that those who do it on some semblance of a professional level have to attain a superior grasp of cleverness and strive for absolute, crystalline funniness. And sometimes that happens. Sometimes, all the stupid conversations during the day and meaningless phone calls and IM conversations incubate an egg of an idea, that hatches into full-blown hilarity when rendered into print. But sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the funniest shit gets puked out of your mouth at 2 AM on Wednesday outside of Duffy’s and you’re left with nothing to give to those who have come to expect from you a little laughter, above and beyond what the guy sitting next to them in class or their roommate can offer. And unlike regular people, who can escape the need for humorous anecdotes by playing it straight, saying “How are you?” “Sure is cold today,” or “How about those Kings?!” the humorist is left in something of a bind. There are always things that can be said, always old ideas that can be rehashed, new ideas not yet ready to hatch but that can be birthed prematurely, or things that have been previously thrown out that can be collected from the sundry mental wastebaskets at his disposal. But like the superstar athlete, or former top model, the humorist does not want to sully the memory of his former greatness, the moments where timing and subject matter and delivery and all the countless other unforeseeable aspects inherent in things came together to form something truly funny. Instead he chooses to protest, to put himself on the injured reserve, hoping that those who have become accustomed to the laughter he provides will understand the extreme toll the extraction of humor can take on a brain. Sure, the humorist makes it look painless, out till all hours, strolling casually about the town, always exuding an air of confident flippancy, never ill at ease, always seemingly sure that his word will be golden. But behind closed doors, the humorist wrestles with unseen torments, demons of doubt to perform his prescribed task. He tortures himself, not just for the sake of those who enjoy his humor, for he is no martyr. He doesn’t even do it for the sake of himself, because he above all others knows that he is merely a cog in the machinery of comedy. He does it to honor the spirit of laughter, the holiest and most pure of human expressions. Though it can certainly be faked, or at least charitably given at time when it is not necessarily earned, true, honest-to-god laughter is as powerful as any screaming, hollering, balling, weeping or any one of the other external emotional reflexes humans have. That is why, when the humorist has nothing funny to say, he’d almost rather say nothing at all. But unfortunately, in most cases the humorist is no comedic Socrates, dispensing humor on the steps of public buildings and engaging in hijinx with passersby on a whim. Rather, he is a paid employee of some humor mill, compensated for his pains, however humbly. So he is forced to bite his lip, swallow his pride and spew forth some shameful excuse of a performance. And though it may pain those who, depending on the medium, see, hear, read or otherwise experience it, their momentary discomfort is nothing compared to the agony suffered by the humorist. For him, the wound will become a scar, a permanent blight on the skin that can not be repaired, nor redeemed by future accolades. He is inconsolable in his grief. He will forever be shamed. That’s why it’s a good thing I’m not one of those guys, that would suck major ass, having to be funny or whatever. Who needs that kind of responsibility? Life’s too short for that kind of shit.

The Face of Rock

So I went the other night and shot photos of Straylight Run, some band with some dude who used to be in Taking Back Sunday and his hella hot skinny ass sister. And they were actually pretty crunk. I even enjoyed the other band on the bill, perennial college tang killers Something Corporate, despite the hundreds of dorm girls in jean skirts and Uggs howling out the lyrics and the fact that the singer dude ditched his nerd look, got some contacts, a haircut and tattoos, and went totally Simple Plan. HEY MAN, JORDAN FROM NEW KIDS CALLED AND HE WANTS HIS STYLE BACK BRO

Fuck You Assholes

The thing that sucks about funny shit in general, and in particular when it comes to movies and TV, is that people can’t just leave it alone. I mean, I’m all for people thinking shit is funny, and wanting to watch it over and over. I’m even cool with people wanting to recount their favorite moments afterwards, to share a few laughs with those who were present for the initial funniness. But when people start taking lines from funny ass movies and just saying them whenever they see fit in an attempt to make themselves seem funny, I have to draw the line. Just about the time people finally fucking stopped saying “I’m Rick James, Bitch!” or, even worse, “WHHHATTT” and “OOOOKKKAYYY” or whatever other Dave Chappelle line, those bereft of any originality or wit found a new source from which to mine hijacked humor: Napoleon Dynamite. Now every dude in flip-flops and sunglasses is talking about ligers and saying “Tina, eat your ham,” which is particularly sad, since the movie itself is about a kid who gets bullied and mocked by the same type of dudes who are now wearing “Vote for Pedro” shirts. What sucks about this is that Napoleon Dynamite is actually a pretty damn good movie; beyond all the catchy one-liners and meathead-friendly humor, Napoleon Dynamite is a fairly decent piece of cinema. But it might as well be Wayne’s World since all anybody will ever remember it for now is that movie that fools can’t stop quoting incessantly. I know it’s pretty impressive that you’ve seen the movie and that you memorized the funny parts but guess what, I saw that shit too, and it was a lot funnier the first 100 times. Thanks. It’s like being at a show and having to stand next to that guy who’s been singing along to the CD in his bedroom for the last year, waiting for his moment in the sun, when he can show the world that he knows every lyric to every song by hollering them out at the top of his fucking lungs. Granted, in my misspent youth, I was known to fall prey to such temptations. But now I know better. Now I know that people made up shit like movies and rock shows because some people are funny, or good singers, and some people aren’t. Chances are you’re the latter, so shut the fuck up.

Groundhog Day

Eddie K and the Undergroundhogs of rap brought some shit. That's about it.