Nerd Prom + PQ Inferno 2005.

Got back from Nerd Prom early yesterday evening. I’d planned on leaving the con Sunday afternoon and being back in LA sometime later that night, but the Ladies’ Inferno turned out to be considerably more fun than I expected. Which is to say, some amount of fun at all. As part of one relay event, I had to smoke an entire cigarette as quickly as I could, put on a skirt, cover my face in acne cream, eat a small bag of Cheetos® and reach into a dirty toilet in the middle of a field and pull out condoms. All of those acts were on the list of things I felt were least likely to occur when I woke up that morning (except maybe the condom bit), but I’m the sort of person who enjoys it when my day turns out like that. 

The rest of the afternoon was similarly deranged. Some insolent child stole my handle of Absolut®, forcing L. Clyne and myself to take a trip to Vons for new supplies. Lauren talked incessantly for the duration of our mission, and I can only infer from this that she is so attracted to me that our being alone made her nervous, or she thinks I am so attracted to her that she needs to talk so as to preclude any opportunities for me to ask her out, or that she’s just a huge tweaker. But I suppose each possibility has been true at one time or another.

And speaking of huge tweakers, [info]6satanic6ninja6 created this elaborate contest that necessitated her getting on my shoulders just so she could have my hands on her bare thighs. It was very cute.

There was also a math contest that I apparently would have come very close to winning if only I’d realized there was a second page. I still would have lost to Mairead because she is some measurable amount of genius when it comes to maths (and handjobs), but because my name isn’t “Mairead,” I’d still win, really.

After the games concluded (my team lost — pathetic, bitches), the party went to Lauren Behrle’s house and everybody got funky in the hot tub, and by everybody I mean me and Alana Massey, and by getting funky I mean her totally striking out with me. 

I woke up Monday morning in North Park with this psychic e-mail from the Devil telling me that I had to call [info]nicklocking and[info]plug_in_babe to see if they needed a ride back to LA. They said no, but the Devil also told me to see if [info]6satanic6ninja6 wanted to get breakfast. She agreed, and three seconds later the Brits called back and said they did need that ride after all. I met Sunny and [info]call_me_stepho back in the PQ and we went somewhere awful called Poway where we had awful food and awful service. I totally undertipped our whore waitress. Take that, peasant! 

I got back to LA in time to read a bunch of hate mail I received from fanboys unsatisfied with my convention coverage at CBR.. In all honesty, I tend to agree. I found it very difficult to write about the panels I was assigned. Basically, the publishers and/or talent have these panels which are ostensibly for discussion but are usually just slideshows to promote upcoming books. This is not to say they aren’t any fun, but my job was to absorb the information and present it to the awaiting public in the most timely fashion I could. Well, as anyone who knows me knows, I do things very, very slowly, especially when it is very simple like regurgitating a press release. The more complicated a task is, the easier a time I seem to have performing it. The Grant Morrison article, for example. I’m not saying it’s any good, mind you, but it obviously reads better than any of the Con coverage I did, and I clearly had more fun doing it. 

[info]benjamintrotter and I worked [info]chadmichaelward’s Artist Alley table while he was off being a rock star at the NBMbooth. She was a very excellent smut peddler, engaging just about every single person who walked by. Also she was really cold, so I loaned her my shirt which pushed her huge… nevermind. Anyway, depending on the hotness of the girl, I claimed to actually be Chad and signed boobs and stuff. One lady came up and scolded Stacy and I for leaving the portfolio open to a supposedly explicit image that children could see. I hope they did see it. Maybe they’ll be scarred by it to such a degree that they’ll be completely asexual and stop filling this planet with raging assholes like the Con employee who insinuated that I was a “squatter,” as in someone who sets up unauthorized shop somewhere on the con floor. This sniveling, bespectacled weasel of a man leaned in really close to read my name tag and check it against his Clipboard Of Crime, but before he could get his dick out I explained to him that I was Chad’s assistant and that if he has a problem with me, he can take it up with my friend Jeremy Love

As if ruining my brief comics journalism career wasn’t enough, I’m fairly certain that I won’t get very far in the industry in a creative capacity either, as quite a few major players witnessed me hanging halfway out a taxi’s window, drunk and screaming at Dan Evans to “GET THE FUCK IN THE CAB RIGHT NOW!!” 

It was after that incident that [info]samhumphries, [info]nicklocking, Brendan McFeely and I went to downtown San Diego’s Tequila Bar and ordered an obscene number of shots and cocktails which we had to drink in just about half an hour. It was a glorious thirty minutes of true male-bonding, and is really the highlight of the entire convention weekend as far as I’m concerned. Naturally, I fell in love with our waitress and we totally did it, I don’t care what any of those guys tells you. After the bar we tried to catch a cab back downtown, but it was very difficult because of all the “drunk ass bitches” in the street. I personally rescued at least one poor woman from what would certainly have been a near-lethal ankle-twisting.

It was only back at the Hyatt that darkness descended across my buzz. Travis Johnson obliterated my state of hyphocity so utterly, I don’t think I can ever completely forgive him. You see, Travis had this swank Hyatt suite all to himself for the con and, after a prompting from Da’Har Master Jason Cornett, agreed to have a Saturday night afterparty. I get a text message from McFeely saying “Travis is going to buy a whole mess of alcohol.” I think, “station.” But what do I find when I arrive? Indeed, all my friends are chillaxin’ in Travis’ party pad, but all there is to drink is ONE SIX-PACK! OF NEWCASTLE! I’m not saying that’s all that was left, I’m saying that’s all that was bought!

I wasn’t really disappointed, though, because I was already so drizzzz, and the company was really good. I got to see Han Q. Duong all faded, which is kind of like seeing Han Q. Duong asleep with his eyes open. I went to the bathroom and used those bottle openers they have attached to the sinks and took a quick tour of the suite and discovered a laptop with the iTunes® player displayed. I distinctly remember saying “Oooh shit, time to get hyphy!” just before Travis yelled “Andy, no!” 

Long story short, Travis was very tired and not really pleased that anyone was there at all. He was concerned about complaints from other guests and was no doubt consumed with a nameless dread when drunx0rz McFeely and I showed up banging on his door yelling “POLICE HERE!” Travis kicked out all our drunk asses pretty quickly. 

My disappointment was profound. I just don’t understand getting a great suite, having all your buddies from around the world whom you never get to see hanging out and just talking, and not getting anything more than six pack of beer and not playing any tunes and constantly telling everyone to keep it down and then leave. What is the hotel going to do? Tell you to shut up! It’s the last night! The bedroom was partitioned, too, so he could go to bed if he wanted. The Party is bigger than just one man, I say. It is a living, beautiful thing and Travis aborted it with a wire hanger the way I wish to god my mother had.

I took what was left of the beer down to a lounge elsewhere in the hotel, but was promptly descended upon by a fat concierge type who proclaimed this ultimatum: hand him the bottle or chug it all right now. So, here’s a guy who knows how to party. I chugged the rest of my Newcastle and went outside but oh wait, the Hyatt staff was ready for us. [info]samhumphries and I had no choice but to go home and finish the booze off with some Tokyopop guys we met in the elevator. Station.

Last night we said goodbye to [info]nicklocking, [info]plug_in_babe, Jamie McKelvie and girlfriend Flur (Fluour? Flehr?). They’re all lovely people and I really loved showing Los Angeles to them and hanging out and getting up to all the mischief and just having a lot of great laughs in general. But I also got drunk every night in a row for something like ten nights, so good riddance to those bastards. It’s not like I could understand a fucking word they said all week anyway, shit.


Life with George: Lapdances and murder.

Per contractual agreement, I took Dad to a belated Father’s Day lunch at Bossa Nova on Sunset today. Being such a lovely day (read: too fucking hot in that unairconditioned Brazillian shithole), we opted to dine on the patio. As most Hollywooders know, Bossa Nova is situated directly across the street from infamously sketchy and Arabian themed strip club, the Seventh Veil. What most Hollywooders also know is that in the 80s, the Veil used to be a popular nightlcub and restaurant, owned and operated by notorious crime lord, Eddie Nash.

Nash was one of if not the biggest drug dealer in Hollywood. As such, he found himself in constant contact with the city’s most wretched and depraved citizens, including the one and only John Holmes. In the twilight of his legendary porn career, Holmes had become the quintessential junkie. Pathetic and broke, Holmes and his useless drugged-up cock owed money all over town. Nash was the only dealer who would even give Holmes the time of day, and only because he enjoyed teasing and tormenting the fallen star. Nash was amused by seeing how much Holmes was willing to humiliate himself in exchange for a few precious hits.

One foggy night, Holmes found himself up in the Hollywood Hills with some of Nash’s rivals, a ragtag group of young dealers and thugs looking to make their mark and score big. Somehow, Holmes was persuaded to betray Nash and personally aid that motley crew in breaking into Nash’s home, beating up Nash’s bodyguards, and stealing his money and drugs.

Being a wily criminal mastermind, Nash realized the nature of the robbery was too sophisticated and precise to be the work of anybody but an insider, and he immediately suspected Holmes’ involvement. Enraged, Nash had Holmes brought before him. Pudding under the lights, the weak and unscrupulous Holmes divulged the identities of Nash’s enemies, and was forced to personally escort Nash’s goons to their Hollywood Hills headquarters. The substandard state of home security technology in the 1980s made it impossible for Holmes’ accomplices to know that he wasn’t alone when he buzzed in, and they were quickly ambushed by Nash’s goons.

The LAPD detective in charge of the investigation — known internationally as the infamous Wonderland Murders — described the aftermath as the most gruesome he’d seen in his forty years of police work. That and Holmes and Nash’s subsequent trials formed the basis of the Wonderland film starring Val Kilmer, which I’d never even heard of before Dad told me the story. 

But what most Hollywooders may not know is that Eddie Nash is really Adel Nasrallah, a Christian Palestinian immigrant, and that his cousin is the wife of a man called Victor Dabbah… my great-uncle. 

“Oh, yeah, it says Gentlemen’s Club!” Dad chuckled. “That’s the clever way of saying strip club, you know? Because they can’t just put ‘strip club’ on the front.” 

I sighed. My kibé and lamb skewers tasted like shit.


Andy Khouri in Casino of Conspiracy!

Per our agreement, I drove down to my father’s home in Anaheim on Monday afternoon. Unlike my father, I am of the belief that just because you possess the keys to someone’s house, you don’t necessarily have the right to use them, even when you’re expected. I suppose everyone would agree that my biggest faults are my manners…. Anyway, I only used the keys after the appropriate amount of wait-time had elapsed. My father is not a young man, and any number of things could have happened to his body that would preclude his answering the doorbell, including severe constipation and severe death.

Fortunately (whew), nobody was home, not even Missy, my father’s black lab. I’d almost forgotten that he’d given her to another family after just a couple of months because he was fed up with dog hair “everywhere.” It should be noted that my father pays not one but two maids to clean his home on a weekly basis, and each appointment lasts nearly eight hours. What I’m getting at is that in order for Missy to be a problem in such an environment, she’d have to be one seriously hairy motherfucking dog. She wasn’t. Dad’s just nuts. And I miss the puppy.

“HELLO!?” Dad bellowed into his cellular phone, wherever he was.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, calmly. “I thought you wanted me to come over today.”


I could hear bustling humans behind my father’s screams, and I imagined anyone in his immediate vicinity was probably really annoyed right then. “I’m at your house!” I cried.


“Why don’t I just meet you wherever you are?”




“Where is it?”



This went on for some minutes, but I eventually found myself parking in front of a casino in Buena Park that was not actually a building, but more of a massive bubble-tent-thing. On the way in I walked passed a sign that read IF YOU LOOK 30 YEARS OLD OR YOUNGER YOU MUST SHOW IDENTIFICATION. Nobody carded me, so I guess I’m fucked.

The place really was a giant tent. The walls were something like vinyl, with some sections covered with cheesy Hawaiian backdrops. I can’t decide if having one backdrop here and there is better than covering all the walls with backdrops. I suppose it’s pathetic either way you look at it. The dozens of Chinese lanterns hanging around the ceiling were a nice touch, though.

I negotiated the sea of sad bastard gamblers and old Asian waitresses with their trays-on-wheels and found my father at one of the Texas Hold ‘Em tables. Right away, he announced to his opponents that i was his son, and they quite rightly didn’t give a shit. “You know,” Dad began in his whispered I’m-About-To-Say-Something-Fucked-Up voice. “This casino is owned by a Jewish doctor—”

“Oh, God…”

“This Jewish doctor takes all his profits and sends them to organizations in Israel that buy up Palestinian land in Jerusalem!”

“Oh, really? That is pretty fucked up, I guess…” I sighed.

“Pretty fucked up, huh? You’re damn right it’s fucked up!”

“Then why are you fucking gambling here, then?”

“Well, I don’t like to… but your godfather heard they have a special $100,000 jackpot on Monday afternoons—”

“OH, GOD!!”

Dad insisted the food at Hawaiian gardens was delicious and that I order some. It wasn’t until after I’d already started eating my BBQ bacon cheese burger on a little tray-on-wheels right there at the poker table that Dad told me I wouldn’t be going with him and Jeannie to Israel.

“Uh, what?” I asked. “I thought the whole point of me coming down here today was to plan the trip?”

“What plan the trip?” my father shrieked. His voice always gets really cracky when he’s trying to push blame away. “I’ve been talking about it for weeks. Your sister told you about it. You never said anything!”


“Sorry! We have the itineraries and everything.”


“It’s not like it will be the only time I’m going over there.”

“But Israel AND Jordan?” I whined.

“Yes! I’ll be going back to both, don’t worry, habibi.”

“I wanted to see Petra, too…” I sighed. “They shot Indiana Jones there.”

“Oh, I KNOW!”


Andy Khouri at Earth's End!

Last Sunday saw Sam Humphries and I ascend to the roof the Hotel Standard in beautiful downtown Los Angeles. Because we are young urban warriors of considerable standing, we were on a number of guest lists and quite naturally passed through all seven security checkpoints unmolested. 

But the elevator made us suspicious immediately. The walls were covered with workmen’s cloth drops, like the kind used to protect furniture during a move. A quick inspection revealed elegant wood paneling behind the cloths. Why The Standard wished to conceal such perfectly serviceable walls behind a curtain is something I may never know, but I’m certain the reasons are sinister.

Sam and I emerged from the lift and found ourselves at the poolside, a luxurious scene featuring every species of hipster imaginable: Faux-hawked grrls, pretty boyz, frat bros & hoes, punks, indies, trendies, hip-hoppers, globe-trotters, mall goths, freaks, mutants, ‘70s, ‘80s, ‘00s, all copiously tattooed and bikini’d, dancing and drinking $12 cocktails around a heated swimming pool on the roof of an opulent hotel while Peaches of all fucking people spun Bauhaus’ “Bella Legosi’s Dead” of all fucking records. Basically, it’s what I imagined every day living in Hollywood would be like.

Right away, we were joined by molliemg, who wasted no time in betraying her intense desire for me by saying seemingly cruel and unkind things about my outfit, character and complexion. Mollie’s “insults” became more and more pronounced throughout the afternoon, and because I am always embarrassed when someone obviously wants to make love to me so badly, I had to keep excusing myself to get more drinks.

Despite the shameless artifice of the event, I had a good time up there on that roof. Pretty scenery, nice weather, good drinks, good friends, good music, plenty of cute girls to strike out with… but something about it just made you imagine a hydrogen bomb exploding somewhere in the distance.  


Andy Khouri and the temple of the pervert Buddha!

I could from my car see a fat man in a Hawaiin shirt with tickets in his hand, standing at the corner near House Of Blues. I pulled up and he waved before asking me if I was there for the Get Up Kids show.

“No. Private party,” I said.

“Oh, well, I’m scalping,” he replied.

“Ooooh,” I said, trying to make it look like I in no way thought he was the valet and that I just stopped because he seemed a friendly fellow.

“You gotta go down there, they’ll really ticket your ASS if you park up here!” he warned, pointing down the hill to the House Of Blues parking lot.

I dropped off my car, was fitted with a wristband and directed to an elevator that took me to the building’s private party level and quickly found my group in the House Of Blues’ extravagant Buddha Room.

Right away, [info]chadmichaelward introduced me to his wife, [info]daniwhiterabbit. This was very significant because in all the time Chad and I have known each other and in spite of the numerous occasions I’d been to their home, I’d never met Danielle. Constantly “missing each other” had become a conspicuous pattern to both Dani and myself, and we’d independently suspected that the other was an elaborate fiction existing only in Chad’s mind, a la Fight Club.

“I know this… because Andy knows this.”

The room was populated only with society’s best. It’s not often that you find yourself at a party where you really like EVERYBODY. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, challenge-drinking Adios Motherfuckers and talking comics and Star Wars®. Quite surprisingly, it turned out that one guest, David, was like myself a Boston refugee and had shopped at the same comic store I did and around the same time. It didn’t take long for either of us to observe what a relentless miser that store’s proprietor was, lovable and even heroic as he was otherwise.

“Two fucking years and not ONE discount!!”

The only downside to the evening was the slow realization that this whole bathroom-attendant industry is a total racket. Most nights, I don’t need to use the bathroom at all until I return to my underground lair, but for some reason (poison, I suspect) I had to go three or four times at House Of Blues. I didn’t mind tipping the gentlemen the first time, as he was alarmingly quick with the paper towels. Questionable as this specific job may be, I am usually happy to reward exceptional vigilance in almost any circumstance.

But when I returned a second time, not only was I forced to endure the drunken ravings of the club’s less sophisticated occupants (“Duuuuude, why are you making out with the FAT CHICK???” God, I hate sexism), but the attendant went totally limp on me! I was standing there at the sink with dripping wet hands for, like, three or four seconds before he finally got up off his lazy ass and pulled a few towels out of the dispenser to my immediate right and handed them to me. Fucking hell, right? The man’s performance became even less enthusiastic as the night progressed and I refused to continue my tipping. Take that, peasant!

The ladies in attendance were all what I like to call FIIIIIIIIINE but, alas, all spoken for. You’d think that people in Chad and Dani’s positions — that is, being glamour photographers and thusly acquainted with a number of MODELS— could find ONE single girl in ALL of Los Angeles and invite her to their party, if only to see me strike out royally. Sigh.

No matter, though, because I had my Mentos® on me and was able to secure secret rendezvous appointments with each lady hahaha as well as this dude Chris who just said such sweet things about fucking me until my pelvis was completely obliterated, I couldn’t help but go home with him at the end of the night.