Michael Estrin's Blog, page 30

Bad sex in fiction

I suppose there’s an award for just about everything these days. There are even tongue-in-cheek awards for the worst of something. The Razzies come to mind. Add to that list the Literary Review of London, which named eight finalist for its Bad Sex in Fiction Award.

According to the LA Times, some people are a little surprised that J.K. Rowling didn’t make the list. Tom Wolfe did make the list. LitStack has a nice post with some blue details.

Personally, I find most sex scenes to be pretty awful. For some reason (perhaps reader expectations) authors tend to ratchet up the flowery language when the clothes come off. But beyond the flowers, I find most sex scenes to be somewhat dishonest. I’m not talking about realism (that’s not for everyone), but about truth. Often when I read a sex scene I find myself saying, yeah right. 

I reread one of the sex scenes I wrote for Murder and Other Distractions. I’ll let you judge the truthiness of the scene. But I will say that I regret using the word manhood. Nobody uses that word when referring to a dick.

Hate Fuck

The door to my apartment is slightly ajar, and in my neighborhood that’s a sure sign that you’ll need to go to Best Buy and get a new television. But then I remember that I probably left the door open in my mad dash the previous night.

When I cross the threshold into my place, my relief to see all of my things is instantly dashed by the sight of Inside Girl.

“Why didn’t you return my texts?” she asks.

“It’s not Friday; what are you doing here?”

“Your door was open.”

This is actually the way we talk. We exchange words so that it sounds like we’re having a conversation. But the words never really make any sense. We just lob them back and forth like some sort of insane tennis match until one of us—usually me—gets bored. That’s when we fuck. It’s a peculiar façade that we engage in, and I’ve never been able to understand why we do it. We never go anywhere. We never exist in the presence of outsiders. It’s just Inside Girl and me, and yet we persist with the ruse; it means nothing, though I suspect that it matters to her.

“Were you with another girl Friday?”

“I’m wanted for murder. Two counts.”

“I’m seeing someone else, too.”

“My lawyer may be calling you; I need an alibi.”

“What’s that smell? Is that you? You should take a shower.”

“Who knows, I’ll probably get the death penalty—life in prison if I’m lucky.”

With that, Inside Girl takes me by the wrist and leads me into the bathroom.

She lets the water run as I peel off my clothes.

We shower together without touching. We’ve done this dance before.

I wash my penis and an erection follows in short order.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Inside Girl says. “I came here to tell you that it’s over.”

“Ok.”

Ten minutes later, her hands are pressed up against the foot of my bed and she’s yelling at me to fuck her harder.

Doggie-style is our best position because we don’t have to look at each other. If relationships were just faceless sex, we’d be a stellar couple.

“Harder! Harder! Give it to me!”

I groan as I accelerate my pace.

“Not yet!”

I think about the Dodgers and why they suck so much. We need pitching, hitting and defense, I tell myself. And luck, we need luck, too. Then I realize that’s pretty much everything, which means that I’ll probably be the oldest man in San Quentin when the boys in blue finally get their shit together. Do they let you watch baseball in prison, I wonder? Boyd would know, I think. Maybe prison won’t be so bad, at least when it’s baseball season. But what if I’m stuck in the pen with a bunch of Giants fans?

Inside Girl grinds her ass back against me, and I reciprocate by slowing down and letting her feel my manhood fill her up.

I’m trying to calculate the total Dodgers payroll to determine if we can pick up a few free agents at the trading deadline, when it occurs to me that sex is the one selfless act Inside Girl and I engage in.

We’re each entirely selfish when it comes to our relationship—each of us sees the other person as existing only as a fuck. But I’ve never left her unfulfilled, and she’s always delivered the goods for me as well. Yet, by every other measure, we’re two perfect strangers. Fucking Inside Girl is like watching a relationship through a keyhole. It’s easy to be myopic and confuse the sex for something of meaning. But the truth is, even though the sex is meaningless, it matters a lot, at least while you’re doing it.

“I need to be on top,” she advises.

I oblige, gently slapping her backside as a signal that I’m going to shift my position.

She climbs on top of me without a smile. I can feel her hot, little pussy against my groin. Her wetness drips onto my lap. She’s close, so I decide to rest my back against the headboard so that I can suck on her tiny nipples.

Maybe the Dodgers are cursed, I wonder. Has anyone looked into this? Los Angeles is too superficial to dwell on weird curses that plague hapless sports teams in other cities. That’s a Boston or Chicago thing. But there’s got to be some weird shit afoot here. I don’t have any real proof, but I’d like it if some sports reporter looked into the 2006 playoff fiasco when two Dodgers runners were tagged out back-to-back at home on the same play. That kind of thing never happens. In Boston or Chicago, they’d write dozens of books about that one play, but in Los Angeles, the sports reporters forgot about that colossal fuck-up even before the series ended and the Dodgers went home for good.

“Almost there!”

They’ve only won one playoff series since 1988. This is troubling. Someone should really look into this.

“I’m coming!”

Inside Girl shakes wildly, and I roll forward, shifting into a missionary position. It feels natural to kiss her, but I balk at the idea of pressing my tongue against hers. Instead, I just stare at her face, watching the orgasm run its course.

I’m pumping lightly, not thinking about her or the Dodgers. My head is clear for the first time in ages and I lose track of time. The rhythm is automatic like a metronome.

Inside Girl pats my ass as if to say, You can cum now.

Instinctively, I pull out and tear off my condom. I jerk and then she jerks a little, and we both wait for me to explode on her chest, but nothing happens. I’m hard and harmless when she says: “What’s the deal?”

“You were serious about this being the last time?” I ask as she strokes my penis with the enthusiasm of a retail worker at the end of a double shift.

“Yeah. Do you want to cum on my face one last time?”

“No.”

“Are you going to finish?”

“No.”

Inside Girl stops stroking my cock. Holding it in her hand, she asks if I’m sure.

“Yeah.”

“Is this the end of this?” she asks, removing her hand from my cock.

“I’m not sure this was anything.”

“So, you don’t even want to cum?”

“If it’s all right with you, I’ll take care of it myself.”

“Fuck you,” she snaps.

“What do you care?”

She doesn’t care and she knows it.

“I hate you,” she says.

“No you don’t. We don’t have enough between us for hate.”

Inside Girl doesn’t quite know what to say, and neither do I.

“Maybe a blowjob,” I suggest, hoping that will placate her.

As it turns out, sucking my cock is a lot easier than confronting the fact that we’ve shared so many countless nothings.

I think about The Girl Who Got Away, as Inside Girl flicks the tip of my penis with her tongue. I miss The Girl Who Got Away, but it’s not the sex that makes me wish we hadn’t split up. I liked myself better when I was with her. I wasn’t so dispassionate. I gave a shit. I meant something, I think; I mattered, I hope.

But thinking about The Girl Who Got Away is more of a wood-killer than the Dodgers’ inability to win, so I concentrate on Fuckable Coworker’s perfect bottom.

I match Fuckable Coworker’s ass with Inside Girl’s mouth and search for a pair of tits from my spank bank. I remember a girl who used to work at my neighborhood Starbucks and I graft her luscious boobs onto the Franken-fuck monster I’ve created for the occasion. For some reason, the idea of a Fox News correspondent talking dirty sends me over the edge, and I blow my load when I recall the smug gusto with which that network’s hotties cheered victory in Iraq.

“Mission accomplished,” I sigh.

Inside Girl cleans my cum off her face and stomps out of my apartment for the last time.

 

Smurf porn (then and now)

I went to college in the 1990s. We had the Internet back then, but it wasn’t a big deal.

There weren’t that many websites.
Most of us didn’t have computers.
Many of us wrote our papers on word processors and our exams in blue books.
I had AOL (which was uncool because the Internet was uncool, not because it was        AOL).

One thing all of us had access to was email, which was often written with a hyphen back then. Mostly, we used email to write to friends at other schools because it was cheaper than buying stamps, which were a lot cheaper than they are now.

Forwards were the shit

Seriously. Forwards were actually cool back then. You wanted to get them. If there was a must-read forward making the rounds, you actually wanted to get it before your friends so that you could be the one to forward it to them. This was before Kenyan spammers. This was before Google. I’m not sure where people found forwards, they just arrived in our inboxes, like magic.

Smurf porn (then)

It was either 1995 or 1996 when I first saw the Smurf Porn forward. It was a crass, but hilarious, story about a Smurf gangbang. This was before Todd “I’m here for the gangbang” Phillips introduced that porn niche into the pop culture lexicon.

I don’t remember many of the details of the Smurf Porn forward. But I do recall that we thought it was so funny that we printed it out, which meant it was funny enough to walk to the computer lab, because that’s where the printer was.

Smurf porn (now)

Recently, I got a message from a college friend who told me that my use of the Smurf Porn forward in my novel really brought back memories. I had used that forward to illustrate just how basic the Internet was back then. But to be honest, I hadn’t thought much about the content of the forward while writing the book. In fact, I hadn’t even bothered to search for the original forward, until now…

Unfortunately, I can’t seem to find that Smurf Porn forward. I Googled it. I refined my search query several times. I even searched the “deep Google,” which is where you go when you’re definitely not feeling lucky.

The problem isn’t that the original forward isn’t on the Internet — I’m sure it’s there somewhere. The problem is that there’s just too much damn Smurf Porn these days.

What’s odd about this — aside from the fact that there are entire websites dedicated to smutty Smurf pics and videos — is that this is the first time in years that Google has failed me.

Which brings me to the purpose behind this blog post. I want to read that forward, but as far as I can tell, the only way that I’m actually going to get it is through the power of social media. Which is how I originally found the forward in the first place. Which means that in a way, the Internet has come full circle jerk.

Questions for your book club

I neglected to include discussion questions for book clubs at the end of Murder and Other Distractions. My friend Stacey recently brought this oversight to my attention before suggesting that I write a blog post rectifying that screw-up. Well Stacey, this is that blog post.

 Did you read the book? If you didn’t, that’s fine. But you should probably leave the book club now. Thanks for bringing the Cranberry Chèvre Log from Trader Joe’s, it looks delicious.
Assuming he’s unavailable for the film adaptation, who do you think should play Brad Pitt for his cameo. Follow-up: Assuming the producers of the film have trouble getting the rights to use Alf, which 80s pop culture icon would you suggest as a substitute. Note: it need not be a puppet.
How would you describe the sex scenes? Admit it, the only reason you joined this book club was to talk about weird sex stuff with your friends.
Did reading this book change your opinion of Tito’s Tacos? Follow-up: are you hungry, and would you like to get a taco? If so, where?
Why do think the author used so many fucking curse words?

 

Explicit Descriptions of Sex

Bad reviews come with the territory, but I wasn’t expecting this kind of bad review.

After giving Murder and Other Distractions one star, Matt Goff wrote:

I bought this book based on the description and great reviews. What the description and reviews left out was the EXPLICIT SEX WARNING. I flipped the ‘next page’ > button several times and the sex description did not stop. When I bought this book I did not realize it was a porno in print. My only consolation is I bought it during its promotional free period, so nothing lost. I doubt I will ever finish the book if all it contains is sex.

Hmm. While I’m not sure I’d describe my novel as “porno in print,” I’m a little surprised that Mr. Goff was shocked to see so much sex in my book. Did he not see the fornicating stick figures on the cover?

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I also used the word “f-buddy” in the description. I would have said “fuck-buddy,” but that phrase violates Amazon’s terms of service.

Still, Mr. Goff is correct. I didn’t explicitly warn readers that there would be sex in the book.

I’m just glad Mr. Goff didn’t spend $2.99 for his porn. That would have been really offensive.

I’m also encouraged by the final line of the review: “I doubt I will ever finish the book if all it contains is sex.”

Keep reading, Mr. Goff. There’s more than just sex. There’s violence. And drug use. And there’s a lot of bad language. There’s also a story somewhere in there.

Feel free to check out Murder and Other Distractions, if you haven’t already. And by all means, if you’ve read the book, review it!

Thank you, Internet

Last night I got the best news of my career.

My publisher emailed to tell me that Murder and Other Distractions had been downloaded 4,000 times over the course of about 20 hours.

Yesterday was my first free day.

Today is my second free day. (There is a school of thought that says consecutive free days tend to be more successful than stand alone free days because you can build on your  momentum).

ANYWAY, after I got off the phone with my publisher, my wife and I called my parents.

My mom had read the book, and hated it. My father had not read the book, mostly because he doesn’t read anything longer than a magazine article. But both of them had told everyone they knew to buy the book, mostly because they’re incredibly supportive people.

When I told them that we had 4,000 downloads (and counting!), they were both shocked (in a good way).

“That’s more people than your mom told,” my father said.

And then my mom got right down to it: “What does this mean?”

To be honest, I’m not sure just yet.

I’ve been a professional writer since 2003. That’s how I make my living. But for the most part, it means writing for other people. The dream has always been to write for myself.

Yesterday was a big leap forward in that direction.

But before I go back to the business of promoting my first book and the challenge of writing my second one, I want to take a moment to thank everyone who helped spread the word.

I wrote a book that I am proud of. My friends and family lent support along the way. And Abby, my publisher, created a kickass cover, navigated the confusing wild west that is ebook publishing, and devised a strategy that rocked. But the lynchpin of that strategy was always a great group of friends and family that one might call my social network.

Friends on Facebook, Twitter, and even Pinterest spread the word. And for that I owe them 4,000 thank yous, and a whole lot more.

Thank you, Internet!

Murder and Other Distractions is free until midnight tonight!

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55,000 words, no money down!

Today is my first free day on Amazon.

That means Murder and Other Distractions won’t cost you a thing.

All 55,000 words are free. Even the four references to butt-fucking. Free.

It’s all free.

For two days. Wednesday and Thursday.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. This is the kind of business model that was only viable in  the bubble years.

Well, here’s the thing. While you get the book for free, Amazon still pays me and my publisher. It’s kind of like giving out free meals, but the restaurant pays the staff and the suppliers.

OK. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You want to sell your Amazon stock. They must be fools, right?

I don’t know. Maybe.

Or maybe they’re just trying to dominate the market for ebooks. Maybe they’re offering all you early adopters with readers a deal that’s too good to last forever.

Or maybe the team that founded Pets.com is advising Amazon on the ebook business.

I don’t actually know. It’s the Internet. People give stuff away and sometimes that works. Other times, they charge people and everyone says, don’t they know you’re supposed to give stuff away for FREE on the Internet?

People often write the word free in ALL CAPS online. It’s tacky.

The point is, you get a free ebook.

Murder and Other Distractions

Free Oct. 24-25!

 

Tone Loc and the Mississippi connection

The other day I got what you might call my first real piece of fan mail. Maybe fan email is more accurate, but you get the idea.

I put an email address at the back of Murder and Other Distractions so that readers who wanted to contact me could do so. Originally, I had planned use my personal email, but at the last minute, my wife reminded me of my gift for attracting people who aren’t always the most mentally balanced.

“Murder is in the title, honey… so maybe it’s not the best idea to share your personal email with strangers.”

Fair enough.

The thing is, I never really imagined getting an email at that account. I knew that strangers would find the book, and I knew that some of them would like it, but I just couldn’t imagine anyone taking the time to say so. It just seemed unlikely, if only because I had seen other authors do the same thing, and it had never occurred to me to email them, even when I loved their books.

Then some dude from Mississippi proved me wrong. He wrote me a nice email telling me how much he enjoyed the book and how the Russian guy sitting next him on the plane kept giving him strange looks every time he laughed out loud.

That would have been good enough to bring a smile to my face, but Ole Miss went the extra mile, telling me how much he loved the Tone Loc passage.

Well, I really like it too.

We listen to Tone Loc’s Funky Cold Medina played with a sitar—Angelo’s latest experiment in a list that includes Warren Zevon funneled through a digery do (an utter waste) and a rescoring of Star Wars to The Chronic album (one million views on YouTube before Lucas’ lawyers demanded that it be taken down).

 

I sink back into Angelo’s couch and come to two different, but related conclusions: 1) Tone Loc is unique insofar as he has to be one of the world’s few self-deprecating rappers, 2) the sitar sucks, even when you’re high. 

Dear Penthouse Forum, I never thought the apocalypse would happen to me

I love the apocalypse. Well, really I love the idea of the post-apocalyptic future (PAF, for short). I’ve had a (moderately) unhealthy obsession with the PAF since I was a kid. I blame the Mad Max series.

But two years ago, I got serious about the PAF. Sort of serious. After watching a cheesy — but totally gripping — History Channel docu-drama about a family fighting its way through a PAF wasteland, I realized something: there was no way in hell that a guy like me would last a day in the PAF.

Me: Honey, I can assure you that we’re not grid-down material. I’ve never shot a gun, and you’re kind of a klutz. Seriously, did you hear anyone say “Whoopsie-doodle” in The Road Warrior?

Christina: What are you talking about? I’m Scotch-Irish. We can survive anything.

Me: Well, I’m a neurotic Jew, and we do our best work in a civil society.

Christina: Yeah, but you’ll be with me, if the shit gets real.

Me: Honey, look at my glasses!

Christina: Ok.

Me: What if they break? Where will I find an optometrist in the PAF? I’m totally blind without them!

Christina: Ok. Well, do you have a spare?

Me: Of course I do! But two is one, and one is none.

Christina: Babe, I think you’ve had too much coffee.

The thing that bugged me about the History Channel special (aside from the fact that a fictional future is pretty far from the idea of history) was that the male lead was pretty much ready for the PAF. He was an EMT. He knew how to shoot a gun, start a fire, hot-wire a car, and do a dozen other manly things that I haven’t even read about in books.

So after a few days of wondering what a dude like me was supposed to do in the PAF, I got to pitching. Which is where Penthouse comes in. See, every year they do a Badass issue, and one of their editors thought it would be a good idea for me to write an article explaining how a typical guy — think modern city dweller / cubicle jockey — could survive the PAF, or at least a temporary grid-down situation.

Now, I wouldn’t exactly call what I wrote for Penthouse journalism. It’s more like entertainment that draws on some journalistic skills. I talked to survivalists, security experts, and even a doctor who specializes in disaster relief.

I tried to talk to some really hardcore survivalists (basically a few people who had written some of the bestselling books on the topic) but they said their morals precluded them from sharing their advice with Penthouse readers. I asked them if they could live with knowing that some Penthouse readers might die because they refused to share their knowledge. They said they were ok with that.

So that brings me to the warning section of this blog post. All the information you’ll find in the Penthouse article is solid. But if your survival plan is based solely on reading Penthouse, you will die in the PAF, most likely at the hands of a hardcore survivalist who runs his PR opportunities by Jesus.

ANYWAY, it’s still a fun read. And for reasons that aren’t totally clear to me, Penthouse has decided to drop its paywall for some articles. My friend, and former colleague, Steve Javors pointed that out to me recently. So after two years, everyone has access to some really Badass advice.

Here’s that link.

 

 

 

Taking back the ‘stache

Two years ago, I pitched a humor magazine with an idea about taking back the ‘stache…

Adolf motherfucking Hitler’s mustache!

The plan was for me to shave my beard and report on my week living and working in Los Angeles while sporting a Hitler mustache. My editor didn’t want me to tell anyone that this was for a story because that might ruin the joke. But he did say that if I was in imminent danger of getting my ass kicked, that I could spill the beans on this rather odd experiment. Although onestly, I’m not sure that the guy who would kick someone’s ass for wearing a Hitler mustache would refrain from kicking said ass upon learning that it was all in the name of stunt journalism and comedy.

Nevertheless, I went for it because:

It seemed funny
It’s a living
It was my idea

Unfortunately, the story never came to be. The magazine discontinued their print product before I could file the story. At that point, my editor asked if I wanted to “throw the article up on the Web… for free.”

“Screw that,” I said. “I can throw it up on my own damn blog for free… just you wait [two years] and see!”

ANYWAY, I’ve decided to do just that because:

I still think it’s funny
I’m promoting my new novel… so I’m not above co-opting an asshole like Hitler to spur sales for my favorite Jewish author

Taking back the ‘stache (unpublished)
Michael Estrin
May, 2010 

 

It’s almost impossible to count the casualties from World War Two. Tens of millions of lives lost, cities decimated, families destroyed, and one mustache all but outlawed. Until now…

Adolf Hitler has been dead for more than half a century, and yet his mustache (technically known as a toothbrush) remains a potent symbol of evil. Somehow, a tight crop of hair directly under the nose links the wearer to the world’s worst villain. Right-wingers do it to pictures of Obama, children do it to pictures of teachers they dislike, prankster do it movie posters, the list goes on.

We grasp the imagery immediately.

Mustache = Hitler.

Period. End of story.

Of course, it’s a ridiculous association. It should go without saying that facial hair doesn’t make you a genocidal mad man. In fact, appearance has nothing to do with it. If it did, we might just as well focus on other aspects of Hitler’s appearance, directing our continued outrage for the Holocaust at short white guys who wave their arms and raise their voice when they get excited. But nobody thinks the ShamWow! guy is the next Hitler. So why do we hate on the mustache?

Maybe we shouldn’t blame the mustache. Maybe… we should take back the stache!

Tuesday

“People are going to look at you funny,” Tyler, my barber, tells me as she readies her straight razor.

I’ve decided to reclaim the toothbrush mustache by wearing it for a week. But even before I can ditch my beard, language fails me.

“Do you know what a toothbrush mustache is?” I asked when I first sat down in Tyler’s chair.

Tyler’s blue eyes looked back at me blankly. I had stumped her.

“Charlie Chaplin wore it,” I said.

Nothing.

“Oliver Hardy?”

Nope.

“Hitler,” I whispered the way old Jews say cancer. “Hitler’s mustache.”

Immediately, Tyler got it. Well, she didn’t get it, but she did understand. Sort of.

Fortunately, I chose a hipster barbershop on Melrose. It’s the kind of place that has a pool table and a DJ. While they don’t do a lot of toothbrush mustaches—actually none—they do have a pretty liberal policy when it comes to grooming choices. I guess it’s tough to judge people when you’ve got bone piercings through your nose.

The shave went off without a hitch. Tyler giggled every time she looked at me, which made me wonder if maybe Chaplin knew something about the ‘stache’s comedic potential that we have forgotten.

When Tyler finished, I look in the mirror. It was a toothbrush mustache, a dark patch of hair on an otherwise clean face. But for some reason, I couldn’t stop smirking. It is a funny mustache. Not exactly haha funny. But still funny.

I paid the cashier and braced myself for a comment, but none came. She didn’t laugh, or scowl, or react in any way. The cashier was like one of those soldiers in a ‘Nam movie with a thousand-yard stare, only her’s came from seeing one too many fauxhawks.

When I stopped for a soda at a nearby 7/11, I got the same treatment. If anyone noticed the ‘stache, they didn’t let on. An hour into my quest and I was beginning to wonder if the ‘stache had returned, only to be blow over like the parachute pants fad of the 1980s.

***

My mom was the first person to voice her displeasure with the ‘stache. My girlfriend and I recently moved, and mom had dropped by our apartment to help Christina unpack before ordering Chinese takeout for us. But when I entered, they were taking a break to watch Say Yes To The Dress, a show that’s basically wedding porn. The ‘stache, I quickly learned, is a total mood killer.

“What have you done to your face?” my mom screamed. “You look like an idiot!”

My mom looked at Christina, wondering if the daughter-in-law of her dreams was about to walk out the door. It didn’t help that Christina turned her cheek when I tried and kiss her. In theory, she supported the idea of taking back the ‘stache, but when confronted with the real thing, she balked.

“I can’t kiss you,” Christina said.

***

As we got ready for bed, Christina told me that my face looked like a Brazilian wax. But apparently that wasn’t a compliment, because unlike a Brazilian, the ‘stache has zero sex appeal.

“You weren’t serious about the kissing?” I asked, trying to put the moves on my girlfriend.

But after three or four attempts, it was clear the ‘stache is a total turnoff.

No wonder Adolf never knocked up Eva.

Wednesday

I posted a new Facebook profile picture with text that read: “Taking back the ‘Stache.”

Usually, I get two or three comments per Facebook update. The ‘stache brought in a dozen almost immediately. Hitler may not have known it, but his mustache is viral.

Most comments were positive.

“LMAO,” my friend Daryl wrote.

Andrea told me that I look like Chaplin and Hitler had a love child.

But the most interesting response came from Zach, my girlfriend’s brother, who wrote, “Are trying to make my sister not marry you… is this like a marriage test?”

At sixteen, Zach has some pretty weird ideas about marriage, and I don’t exactly know what he meant by marriage test. But he told Christina that she should test my love for her by getting a Mohawk. Christina joked about doing this, but when I said, “go for it” she replied, “Please shave.”

***

I was a little nervous about going to the doctor for a physical. For one thing, I hate needles. But for this visit, I worried that a negative reaction to the ‘stache might prompt the nurse to miss a few times just for shits and giggles. I imagined her laughing and drinking with the other nurses after work, whooping it up over the time she repeatedly jabbed a guy with a Hitler mustache.

I also worried that since this is the first time I’ve gone to this particular doctor the ‘stache will somehow end up in my chart, and possibly lead to a psych referral.

Waiting for the elevator at the doctor’s office, I got my first stranger comment.

“Hitler or Chaplin?” a 20-something guy with a limp asked.

I thought about it for a minute. Mr. Limp nailed it right out of the gate. Who owns this mustache?

“Chaplin,” I said. “Hitler just borrowed it, but I’m taking it back.”

This made Mr. Limp smile.

“Keep it up,” he told me.

***

Inside the doctor’s office, I realized that my fears were entirely baseless.

Medical professionals take great care to refrain from making personal comments to patients, a friend later pointed out. That seemed entirely reasonable to me, and if the ‘stache tested them at all, I couldn’t tell.

***

I hate IKEA. For Christina, it’s a wonderland of elegant design possibilities. For me, it’s a hellish labyrinth made tolerable only by a cafeteria with decent meatballs. But the ‘stache made this trip to IKEA is different because Christina wanted to get through it as quickly as possible.

The ‘stache has its benefits, I suppose.

We tested one couch—even though we weren’t actually looking for a couch—and when a guy stared at the ‘stache, Christina hustled me along to the next department.

We buzzed through the store at record speed. In the kitchen section, I tried to hold Christina’s hand, but she pulled it away from me, pretending to admire a sink fixture, even though we rent and, therefore, don’t have the right to replace our sink.

We weren’t fighting exactly, but since taking back the ‘stache our relationship had gotten a little bumpy. It’s kind of like that mild annoyance your girlfriend shows when you don’t wear a tie to a wedding, except that in this case the annoyance lasts all week and people actually say things to your girlfriend like, “Where’s your boyfriend’s tie? He looks like shit.”

As we jockeyed for position near the checkout, a little girl gave me the stink eye.

“Your mustache is frightening that child,” Christina said.

“I don’t think she’s scarred.”

“Well, she doesn’t like what she sees.”

***

As we loaded the car in the parking lot, a few people pointed and laughed as they drove away. I shook my fist at their car, but that just made me feel like a fool.

When Christina returned the cart and came back with some soft serve ice cream for the drive home, I learned that the ‘stache is not food-friendly. The ice cream collects on the ‘stache, painting it white. Christina laughed a little before handing me a napkin.

You never think about Hitler eating ice cream, but he probably did. And I’m betting he got it on his ‘stache, too.

Thursday

I’ve been on call for jury duty all week. This was my last time to call in, and for once I was really looking forward to serving. Civic duty aside, I’ve been looking forward to using the forum of a courtroom to make an impassioned argument that it’s time we stop persecuting the ‘stache for Hitler’s crimes. It’ll be my Atticus Finch moment. I haven’t written a speech or anything, but I’ve worked it out in my head well enough to know that I should probably refrain from wild arm movements while talking. Too Hitler, I think.

But when I call in and find out that I’ve been excused, my heart sinks a little. I wanted to make that speech. On the record, too. And then I wanted to be excused with what I consider to be one of the greatest jury duty dodges ever. I figured that if I got a chance to go—and then was dismissed—I’d be the inspiration for one of those urban legends that actually turns out to be true.

***

With my morning free, I can picked up my sister, Allison, from the airport. She casts movies, and splits her time between New York and LA.

Allison knew about my plan to take back the ‘stache, and she wrote on my Facebook page, “Oh no. It has begun. Damn.” But when she saw me curbside at LAX, she buckled over in a heap of laughter.

“It’s not Hitler,” she says. “More Chaplin.”

That’s a common remark, I told her. And as we drove, it seemed like the ‘stache was just a   joke. But as Allison and I searched for a place to eat lunch before I dropped her off at the office, she started to get nervous.

“I’m going to be seen with you,” she said.

“Well, yeah,” I answered.

“So separate tables are out?”

We found a place in Venice, one of the few parts of LA where hippies are still cool. As we walked to the restaurant, I got dirty looks from pedestrians. A group of teenagers let their hacky sack drop to shoot me dirty looks.

“Oh god,” Allison said. “They don’t like you.”

I didn’t think they would do anything. But I didn’t think it was worth waiting around to find out, so I sacrificed a potential quote in the name of personal safety.

Inside, seated across from me, Allison had a hard time looking me in the eye.

“It’s just so weird,” she said.

“Would you prefer if we didn’t sit across from each other?”

“Yes.”

When I dropped Allison off at work, I stopped in to say hi to her intern, my buddy Mark. But Allison asked if the director was there yet.

“He’s on his way,” Mark said. “Five minutes or so.”

Allison looks at me and said, “Please leave. Hurry!”

***

I rent a little office in Silver Lake, which is LA’s answer to Williamsburg, only with better weather, weed dispensaries, and taco stands every 100 yards. It truly is a hipster paradise, and here the ‘stache makes me a golden god.

“Dude, if I had a stamp that said approved…” one of the guys in my office said when he saw the ‘stache. “Right here, bro… approved. You. Done.”

Another guy just applauded. And a third guy tells me that I’m his hero.

***

With Allison in town, my parents wanted to do a family dinner. They swung by to pick us up, and it’s the first time my dad has seen the ‘stache.

I’m a little nervous when I open the door. My dad and I are close, but he’s told me many times that he thinks I’m a “weirdo.”

When I answered the door, my dad smiled.

“I love it,” he said. “Don’t listen to your mother.”

***

Dinner was at an upscale place in West Hollywood, and my mom worried that they wouldn’t seat us because of the ‘stache.

“That’s ridiculous,” my father told her.

“Larry, would you look at his face—that’s ridiculous!”

Of course, they did seat us, but it’s in a quiet room and my sister pointed out that we were the only party in our section. So maybe mom did have a point.

Friday

Our friends Adam and Stacey came over to see our new place and go out to dinner. All Stacey could say when she saw the ‘stache was “oh no.”

Christina asked if they want to order in instead. She was only half-kidding.

Adam smiled and tried to figure out the ‘stache. I’ve known him for almost ten years, and this was the first time I’ve done something that has him truly puzzled.

“Why?” Adam asked.

“Hitler ruined a perfectly good mustache,” I said. “I’m taking it back.”

“But it’s not a perfectly good mustache,” Adam answered.

Here, I think Adam had a point. The toothbrush is a silly mustache. It’s great if you’re a slapstick comedian, but otherwise not so much. I’m not sure why that’s the case, but after shaving regularly to keep up the ‘stache, I have a theory.

Shaving 95 percent of your face is a fundamentally absurd thing to do. You’re basically shaving your whole face, but missing one small spot. It’s kind of like when a Zamboni driver misses a spot at center ice. Like the Zamboni driver who misses a spot, a man with a toothbrush mustache will be taunted and made fun of. But unlike the Zamboni driver, the owner of the mustache has acted deliberately, intentionally subjecting himself to ridicule… and that’s the secret sauce of slapstick comedy.

Dinner passed without incident. But when Adam suggested frozen yogurt at a place nearby, Stacey, who teaches math at a Jewish high school, declined.

“My students hang out there,” she said. “I can’t be seen with you.”

Saturday

So far, friends and family have been my harshest critics. Dirty looks aside, strangers have been rather polite, adhering to that old adage… if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it at all.

But to be honest, I’m a little disappointed. I had predicted explosive confrontations. When I pitched this idea, my editor told me he kind of hoped someone would beat the shit out of me.

“Actually,” he corrected himself, “I don’t want you to get hurt, but I hope you get close to getting hurt.”

That would make a good story, and before the ‘stache, I would’ve thought confrontation would would be a sure thing. For weeks mobs with pitchforks dominated my dreams. I imagined being yelled at by little old ladies, lectured by school children, and cursed out by every Jew in LA.

But by Saturday, I began to believe the ‘stache wasn’t as provocative as I thought. To test this belief, I needed to go some place really Jewish. So I called my friend Todd and asked if he wanted to go to Brent’s deli.

There are a lot of deli’s in Los Angeles, but I think Brent’s is the best place to test the ‘stache because Brent’s is located in a part of the city that is officially known as bum-fuck. Ok, it’s actually Northridge. But it might as well be the moon.

Or, maybe the sun. When we leave my apartment, it’s 77 degrees. When we arrive at Brent’s 30 minutes later, the temperature is somewhere between a concentration camp oven and hell. But who cares, Brent’s brisket is amazing. And it’s also located deep in LA’s San Fernando Valley, which is about as close as you can get to middle America without leaving the city limits.

Sitting in a booth, Todd occupied himself by counting the dirty looks. It wasn’t quite like that scene in the movies when two guys walk into a bar and the music stops, but that’s only because patrons and staff notice me one at a time, not all at once.

Still, nobody said anything. The worst thing that came my way is a look of outright disgust from two older Jews at the table next to us. I eavesdrop on their conversation, but they can’t even be bothered to complain about me.

Oy. Talk about no big deal.

Sunday

Christina invited two girlfriends over for brunch.

Tara didn’t say much about the ‘stache when she arrived, but she gave Christina a look like she had her doubts about me all along.

But Marcy didn’t mince words.

“What are you doing?” she asked when I opened the door.

“I’m taking back the ‘stache.”

“No you’re not,” she said. It was a firm, authoritative no, as if Marcy was the head of the U.N.’s commission on facial hair and my ‘stache was in clear violation of some treaty.

Of course, like the U.N., Marcy was easy to defy.

Monday

I spent the morning writing at a local coffee house. The woman behind the counter had a thick German accent, but she didn’t bring up the ‘stache. I guess that’s kind of an extension of the unwritten rule the Germans have not to mention the war (or the ‘stache).

I was making good progress on an article for another publication when a middle-aged man sporting a UCLA sweatshirt sat down across from me. I checked out his iPad. He checked out my ‘stache, shook his head with disgust, then got up and find another seat.

A similar thing happened later at the gym. I was running on the treadmill when a woman got on the treadmill next to mine. I turned and offered a friendly smile, and without evening punching in her routine, she jumped off and found another treadmill.

On my way home from the gym I stopped at a 7/11. As I walked out to my car, a man walking his dog and talking on a Bluetooth locked on my ‘stache. Without stopping or breaking his conversation, he flipped me the bird.

Tuesday

I woke up and I almost forgot the ‘stache. It has been a week.

When I look in the bathroom mirror, the ‘stache jumped right out at me. I almost don’t recognize myself. And for a second, I wondered if this is what happens to the first guy to fall asleep at a Hitler Youth sleepover.

The last day passed without incident. Or, maybe I became immune to the dirty looks.

It’s been exactly one week.

I removed the ‘stache without any ceremony. It took all of ten seconds.

***

After seven days of taking back the ‘stache, I discovered a few things.

First, hipster Los Angeles is ready for the ‘stache to come back. On Melrose, I got the kind of indifference everyone gets. In Silver Lake, I got genuine praise. As these areas tend to be a decade ahead of the rest of the country in terms of fashion, I’m going to go out on a limb and predict that we’ll see a celebrity rocking the ‘stache in 2020. Probably a reality TV star.

Second, I discovered that I don’t really like the ‘stache. Mostly (and this is very hard to write) I agree with my mom—I looked like an idiot. Originally, I thought the so-called Hitler mustache would make me uncomfortable because of the man most associated with it. But Hitler really has nothing to do with it. It’s a silly, some would say stupid, mustache. Chaplin wore a silly mustache. So did Hitler. And so did I. If you want to tell a joke with your face, and you don’t have the time or skill to get a proper handle bar mustache going, the toothbrush is for you. If you want to run a country, Hitler is a terrible role model, even in the facial hair department.

These days, anyone can wear the toothbrush mustache; I’m just not sure why they’d want to.

Post script: One happy ending to this story. When the ‘stache disappeared, my sex life returned. Thank god. 

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What’s the deal with the tacos, and why so much butt-fucking?

There’s this idea out there that no matter what a writer writes, his mom will love it. Or at least, she’ll say she loves it.

Guess what? That’s total crap.

I’ve been getting feedback (mostly good, some bad) about my first novel, Murder and Other Distractions.

A few days ago, my mom called to make dinner plans to see me and my wife.

“… and I’ll tell you what I think about your book,” she said before hanging up.

Seriously, that’s how she ended our phone conversation, leaving me to meditate for three days on whether or not she liked the book.

I’ll spare you the wait, she didn’t like it.

Her objections were as follows:

Her child (me, even though I’m 35) shouldn’t know all this adult stuff.
The symbolism of the taco didn’t make any sense to her.
She wanted it to be more of a procedural.
There wasn’t enough character development because the cop was too busy talking about “butt-fucking in prison.”

She actually said “butt-fucking in prison.”

ANYWAY… my rebuttal

I didn’t know you knew that 

I get it. I’ll always be my mom’s little boy, and in her eyes I’ll probably always be 11.

But here’s the thing: the cover of the book has an icon of a stick figure blowing his brains out and two other stick figures having sex (doggie style). Those signs should have been… well, SIGNS!

And as my sister pointed out, I worked in porn.

Well, technically, I was a trade journalist who covered the porn industry for a a little over a year; it’s not like I produced or appeared in a porn film. But you get the idea. My mom knew that I wrote about porn, and yet somehow the adult language and sex scenes really surprised her.

But hey, I didn’t like hearing her say “butt-fuck” so it’s probably fair to say she didn’t like me writing “butt-fuck.”

Tit for tat.

For the record: “butt-fuck” appears exactly four times in the book.

The tacos (and the search for deeper meaning)

Here’s how that part of the conversation went down:

Mom: What was with the tacos? Was that supposed to be some kind of symbol of your generation, or something?

Me: No. They were just tacos.

Mom: So why was he so obsessed with tacos? I wanted to say to him, enough with the tacos already! 

Me: Ok.

Mom: So?

Me: Here’s the thing. Ethan [the main character] is a stoner, so tacos are really important to him.

Mom: Oh…?

Me: Because he’s a stoner and he has the munchies.

Mom: Uh-huh.

Me: Because marijuana can make you hungry.

Mom: Ok…?

Me: When I think about it, the tacos are a symbol… On one level they’re about fulfilling a hedonistic craving. But they’re also symbolic of Ethan’s relationship to Los Angeles and how the city is changing, in his opinion, for the worse. He views his city through the prism of food, specifically tacos, and so the quest for a good taco is his way of holding on to a city that is vanishing.

Mom: Oh well… that is really interesting.

Now, I’m not sure if those tacos really are symbolic of anything. I don’t consciously try for symbolism. But it’s easier to pull some literary mumbo-jumbo out of my ass than explain pot to my mom, I can tell you that.

More procedural!

She wanted more Law & Order.

I want sales that rival 50 Shades of Grey.

The butt-fucking