P.O.D.
as in... "Pick Of Destiny."

as in... "Tenacious D and the..."

Yeah, I saw it. It would be better if seen stoned, which I wasn't. But whatever. It was fun and there were some nifty cameos. Blah blah blah.

In other news, here's what happened to me last night: I attended the book release party for "Japanamerica" by Roland Kelts, about Japanese pop culture's influence on America, etc. My friend Petra's band, Gaijin  Go-Go, was the hired entertainment, and I randomly found myself hanging out with Jonathan Ames, the author of a bunch of really great novels and frequent Moth raconteur. Anyway, it was really nice getting to eat and drink for free, and hit on cute Asian women. But the girl I liked best was one of the cocktail waitresses. Why is it that the best looking girls are usually the ones working the party and not the ones partying at the party? So anyway, toward the end of the night, the waitress I liked (everyone liked) sidled up next to me at the bar while I was ordering a drink and jokingly asked me to buy one for her (the open bar time was over). Naturally, I offered to buy her one for real but she said that she'd order us both drinks so that they'd be free. So, she started giving me more free drinks than I had gotten a chance to drink while the drinks were actually free. Later, after most everyone had left, we were hanging out in the back bar area with some of the other waitstaff, and she and one of her attractive co-workers started comparing breast size. They were cupping their breasts and holding them up and caressing them and talking about them (they both said they were 34C's) and I was like "if they keep doing this I'm gonna be able to shut off lasers the same way Jack Black did in the Tenacious D movie." (In case, despite my glowing recommendation above, you still haven't seen the movie, JB defeats a laser-grid security system with his erection. Yep, high art.) Unfortunately, this does NOT end with me fooling around with the hot waitress who gave me free drinks and basically fondled herself in front of me. After they were done with the whole breast thing, they just started talking about some boring shit and I got bored and left.

Did I do wrong?

I mean, it was clearly a case of the big head overruling the little head. Up to that point, my genitals were fully in charge. The girl was hottt. She gave me free drinks. She was cupping her glorious breasts at me. So was her friend. Well, at each other, but right in front of me. And just when my genitals were about to command my vocal apparatus to say something that might've led to all three of us getting naked somewhere, my accursed brain noticed they had begun chatting about celebrity gossip, calories, and what sounded like an overpriced shoe store. That's when the classic struggle began in earnest. Testicles vs. Cerebrum.

In my younger days, Testicles won out most of the time. Today, unless I'm falling-down-blind-drunk, my brain thinks it's in charge. Like Alexander Haig. (50 points to anyone who gets that reference). Stupid brain! Of course, I was fairly drunk by the time the waitresses were talking about Brittney's baby or whatever-the-fuck, so this particular battle between brain and balls could've gone either way. My brain, being closer to my mouth, wouldn't let me talk to the women. My balls, being closer to my legs, wouldn't let me walk away. I just stood there, paralyzed, for several minutes as the war raged within me. My balls were like: fuck you brain! Stop being so uptight and just LOOK at the two of them, for the love of god! My guts immediately sided with my balls. At first, my heart was like: "don't involve me in this sordid nonsense" but eventually it couldn't stand the bickering and said, "Come on brain... let the balls have this one." But my brain refused to budge. It knew that if it managed to hold me in check for a little while longer, the inane prattling of the waitresses would weaken support from my heart and guts, and eventually my testicles would fall. Gradually, control of my legs returned, and my brain walked me out of the room.

Whatever. Superhot girls are a dime a dozen in NYC.

Well, maybe they're not quite that cheap, but you can't swing a dead cat without hitting like 50 of 'em.