Entries in Khouri Stories (22)


Dress like your mother.

Attended a St. Patrick’s Day party last thursday (yeah, I know) at U.A.S. HQ in the LBC. It was pretty fun and good to hang with the whole squad together again, although I was a little surprised by the considerable fratguy contingent among the guests. Even the gay dude was a bro. There were also a bunch of pretty girls who wouldn’t talk to me.

Everyone was pretty drunk, but none more than this guy, Zack. When I pulled up around 10:30, I could see Zack stumbling around outside near the U.A.S. vehicle bay. It wasn’t long before I had to help him out of the bushes in which he’d prepared a small resting place for the night. I hate being that drunk, so drunk you’re compelled to run around outside and lay in the grass and fashion little habitats for yourself to curl up and die in. Poor fool. But I was still drunk enough to puke bright green rum & coke and fall asleep on the bathroom floor. God, it was so wonderful there. The regenerative properties of a nice, cool bathroom floor are unparalleled, but that treacherous bitch Becca kept waking me up each time I went back to puke. I fell asleep on the living room carpet while Becca watched Pirates of the Caribbean, and when I woke up, she’d finally passed out (she was more than a little wrecked, at one point exclaiming “I don’t know where my face is!”) Having determined for myself that my sobriety levels were within 30% or so of nominal, I quietly escaped from the estrogenical gulag in remarkable batman/ninja-like fashion and successfully negotiated my way back to Hollywood.

I spent the next day feeling like my stomach was a huge rusty bucket filled with green poison with a tiny pin-hole in the bottom and that I’d never feel well again until all of it dripped out. Tylenol® usually does it for my hangovers, but I suspect this one was compounded karmic interest for my having made it home safely and possibly worrying my friends. I did manage to get out for about an hour to celebrate my friend Blake’s birthday at 4100 in Silverlake. I’m not sure if I like that place or not, but I had to go, since I expected Blake to come to my party, and I can’t if I don’t go to his. That would just be rude. I ran into some old friends there and invited them, too. I’ve been inviting people like it’s my fucking job. This thing might get out of hand.

Speaking of my fucking job, it looks like there might be some significant developments in that area in the near future. I’ve several new prospects, all of which are things I would enjoy, but I don’t want to jinx any of them by putting them down in print. Whenever I do something like that, whether it be about a job or a plan or a promise, whatever it is I’ve discussed never comes to pass. I’d like to do everything at once if I can. I’d have so much more to talk about at parties.

Went clubbing last night with Sexfro & $unny, who will be at my party, and Aaron & Nicole, those fucking Judases. Apparently Nicole’s favourite tattoo artist from NYC will be in a San Diego the weekend of my party, and Nicole just has to get inked by this one guy. Presumably, she’s already got a design ready that just about any of the innumerable tattoo artists in our neighborhood could reproduce faithfully, but she is a fickle witch of a girl and is dragging Aaron down there with her. I’m starting to feel like there may not be enough guys at this party, believe it or not.

Anyway, the club was good but S&$ left pretty early, apparently because they’d assumed I’d left when I disappeared for a while. I was actually talking to some cool girlz in a band, so it’s completely understandable that S&$ thought I must have just gone home alone or something. Once again I was quick with the party invitations, writing my e-mail address on a napkin, using the back of the friend-of-the-girl-I-was-interested-in as a makeshift desk. For those of you gasping in horror at the unchivalrousness of this act, you’d do well to remember that chivalry is an inherently sexist concept that serves to perpetuate the wholly inequitable position of women in our society, and really, by using that chick’s back as a writing surface, I stepped up to the plate for change.

And by that point I was pretty sure the girl I liked wasn’t into me anyway, so I didn’t give a fuck.

I think I might have missed the Pink-Dot® guy while I was writing this. Shit.

EDIT: I didn’t! Ha ha.


Home again, home again, jiggity jig.

On Thursday I left my old house for the second-to-last time. I will return only once more, on the occasion of its sale and abandonment by my mother and her pets.

Characterizing it as “my old house” is not really accurate at all. I don’t keep records of this sort of thing, but I would guess that I lived here for just four or five months when I was a kid, and that all the visits might push my combined duration of occupancy to just over a year. Maybe a year and a half.

Being there is the most cruel reminder of how much time has passed since I moved to the States, now almost ten years ago. Ten years without sleep.

I saw things I put down on tables or nailed into the walls exactly as they were when I escaped in 1996. Leaving when I had the chance was the best decision I ever made. What makes it cruel is how I’ve squandered so much time since then. I know I crammed two years of college level work into my last two years of high school, followed by two years of actual college, and I’m proud of that, too. But god, what happened after that?

I’m almost done unpacking all the things I looted from Grandma and Mom’s houses. Mom doesn’t think Grandma would mind my having them, and Mom’s happy to let me take all the Asian and Middle Eastern things I want to make me feel more at home in my place here.

I didn’t have much of a connection with my Grandmother, and I’m not even sure she liked me. She was always my favourite grandmother, though, because she left me alone. She was old and raised eight children, so she didn’t need or really desire the affections of her eleven grandchildren. She just wanted to see us every now and then and not have get bothered too much, and I respected that.

Mom drove to Los Angeles with me and the cat but she’s flying back tomorrow. She says she’ll meet my new friends and visit with old ones on her next visit. To be honest, my mother’s never been that social a person, kind of like Grandma, and I think my telling her of Larry David’s discovery that the death of a family member can get you out of any favours or social obligations has given her new inspiration in this area. She doesn’t act at all sad or depressed that her mother is dead, but she will quite matter-of-factly remind me of it whenever she wants me to change the channel or go to the kitchen to get her a Coke®.

I might be joking about some of that.


I'm Batman.

As some of you may know, my Disc 2 of LAW & ORDER: CRIMINAL INTENT Season 3 tragically went missing around the time I was painting my living room. It was my assumption that in the chaos I’d accidentally chucked it. It took me months to come to grips with my carelessness. I even questioned whether I was fit to own DVDs at all.

But I lost another DVD tonight! No, not even I could be so thoughtless and irresponsible.

Chin in hand, I stared at the DVD player from across the room. I allowed my mind to free itself of its Earthly confinement and consider all possibilities. Could I have thrown both discs away? Could a childhood enemy have climbed into the window and stolen them? Could I have fallen asleep and woken up in a different persona and stolen them from myself?

Then it hit me.

I leapt out of my seat, ripped all the cords out of the back of the player, pulled it from the entertainment center and set it down on the coffee table. A few moments and some loosened screws later, I had solved the Mystery of the Missing DVDs.

This piece of shit DVD player is designed in such a way that the discs will sort of fall into the spaces between the mechanisms if not placed EXACTLY where they need to be, or if the player is moved when the discs are still inside. The LAW & ORDER DVD got lost in the machine when I had finished painting and moved the player into the entertainment center, where it has remained all these months. Secret and hidden. My precious….

Most gloriously, Eric Prydz’s shamelessly optimistic “Call On Me” (of which the video has brought me great strength and inspiration during this difficult time) underscored the entire affair, and I can’t imagine a better victory anthem.




So tired...