Some Perspective

     Sweet D sent me and her mom an e-mail about the safety in Tunisia. Her Dad was left off the list, which makes me wonder. Maybe she thinks he’s just more junkyard dog than us.  She wanted to clear some things up about what it’s REALLY like living in North Africa. I love the pride in her voice:

     I really don’t want you two to worry. Tunisia is safe, we are going to have an amazing time at a wedding and the beach and my home. Which is in the nicest poshest neighborhood that I have ever lived in. Both of you saw my Savannah apartment. Remember that  a man, his wife, 80 year old mother and dog were all shot in face on the very street corner where I lived.  So please don’t worry, please don’t listen to everything Fox news says about Tunisia. 

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8:02 p.m. on a Saturday night.



It’s hard to tell what’s staged and what’s real nowadays, but these two are totally cute together and should make more videos :) If for anything, to get to know each other better.

(via bunniesbeertittiestattsschlongss)



     One of the regulars at work, a real estate agent from Lebanon in her late 50’s who wears tweed suits and doesn’t drink alcohol because she likes to be in control, found out that I was going to Tunisia so she wrote down a few phrases in Arabic for me to learn:
shukran - Thank You
marhaba - Hello
habibi - term of endearment (like if you see a cute baby)
      I wonder if I can call a cute guy at the club habibi? I wonder what cute guys in Tunisia even look like? So many questions. In the meantime, I put the sign on my fridge, held up by the gator magnet I got from Louisiana, so I can read it every time I reach for a piece of cheese.

     One of the regulars at work, a real estate agent from Lebanon in her late 50’s who wears tweed suits and doesn’t drink alcohol because she likes to be in control, found out that I was going to Tunisia so she wrote down a few phrases in Arabic for me to learn:

  • shukran - Thank You
  • marhaba - Hello
  • habibi - term of endearment (like if you see a cute baby)

      I wonder if I can call a cute guy at the club habibi? I wonder what cute guys in Tunisia even look like? So many questions. In the meantime, I put the sign on my fridge, held up by the gator magnet I got from Louisiana, so I can read it every time I reach for a piece of cheese.


     I’m back in L.A. and already in the routine.
     Last night The Georgian came over to have a drink and catch me up on all that I’ve missed while on vacation. Our conversation started off light, discussing which idiot at work did what. After an hour of bullshitting, he changed the tone and warned me that what he was about to say wasn’t easy.
      Normally my response would be, “Then don’t say it,” and we’d change the subject, but this time I sensed something and kept my mouth shut. In a very professional and calm manner, he told me that last week his older brother Verne killed himself. He checked into a hotel, popped some pills, wrapped a bag around his head and suffocated himself. 
      I was shocked. I’ve heard plenty of stories about Verne and how much The Georgian looked up to him. I sat still and silent. I didn’t tell him I understood because I didn’t. I didn’t say I’m sorry because I wasn’t.  I didn’t hug him because his body language said no. All I did was listen.  I let him tell me how he’s never felt so much blood rush to his head.  How Kurt tried to hide his keys so he wouldn’t leave the apartment. How he walked down Hollywood Blvd clenching his fists in rage. How if at any moment someone confronted him, he’d kill them, especially Cathy.
     ”I swear,” he said. “When he married Cathy, he became a different person. He wanted kids so badly but she said no. She made him sell his drum kit. Drums were his life. Then she made him move to Athens. When he married her, I saw the life sucked right out of him. Fucking women.”
     ”I know you’re angry,” I said softly. “But you can’t blame Cathy. When it comes to suicide, there’s only one person to blame and that’s Verne.”
     ”And it sucks,” he said. “Why’d he’d have to do that?” 
     I let him sleep at my place and drink all the gin he wanted. I went to bed around midnight, but he stayed up pacing until 4. I slept in to noon but he was up at 9, back to pacing and gin. He told me that he was feeling better, thanks partly to the masturbation session he had last night and this morning. Curious, I checked the history.
       ”Man,” I said. “You really are pissed off at women right now. To be searching triple penetration, you must really wanna her suffer.”
      He started laughing.
      “I was curious,” he said. “I’d never seen it before.”
      I didn’t ask him about the other stuff, like “evils of homosexuality” and “is Los Angeles a place of evil,” because I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. Let’s just try and keep it light and airy for a bit.

     I’m back in L.A. and already in the routine.

     Last night The Georgian came over to have a drink and catch me up on all that I’ve missed while on vacation. Our conversation started off light, discussing which idiot at work did what. After an hour of bullshitting, he changed the tone and warned me that what he was about to say wasn’t easy.

      Normally my response would be, “Then don’t say it,” and we’d change the subject, but this time I sensed something and kept my mouth shut. In a very professional and calm manner, he told me that last week his older brother Verne killed himself. He checked into a hotel, popped some pills, wrapped a bag around his head and suffocated himself. 

      I was shocked. I’ve heard plenty of stories about Verne and how much The Georgian looked up to him. I sat still and silent. I didn’t tell him I understood because I didn’t. I didn’t say I’m sorry because I wasn’t.  I didn’t hug him because his body language said no. All I did was listen.  I let him tell me how he’s never felt so much blood rush to his head.  How Kurt tried to hide his keys so he wouldn’t leave the apartment. How he walked down Hollywood Blvd clenching his fists in rage. How if at any moment someone confronted him, he’d kill them, especially Cathy.

     ”I swear,” he said. “When he married Cathy, he became a different person. He wanted kids so badly but she said no. She made him sell his drum kit. Drums were his life. Then she made him move to Athens. When he married her, I saw the life sucked right out of him. Fucking women.”

     ”I know you’re angry,” I said softly. “But you can’t blame Cathy. When it comes to suicide, there’s only one person to blame and that’s Verne.”

     ”And it sucks,” he said. “Why’d he’d have to do that?” 

     I let him sleep at my place and drink all the gin he wanted. I went to bed around midnight, but he stayed up pacing until 4. I slept in to noon but he was up at 9, back to pacing and gin. He told me that he was feeling better, thanks partly to the masturbation session he had last night and this morning. Curious, I checked the history.

       ”Man,” I said. “You really are pissed off at women right now. To be searching triple penetration, you must really wanna her suffer.”

      He started laughing.

      “I was curious,” he said. “I’d never seen it before.”

      I didn’t ask him about the other stuff, like “evils of homosexuality” and “is Los Angeles a place of evil,” because I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. Let’s just try and keep it light and airy for a bit.