So you may have noticed the Formspring link on the bottom of this blog.
I figured that even though I'm still totally anonymous, it might be fun for you guys to pry into my private life and ask me some stuff, much like how I snoop through the medicine cabinets of new guys that I'm dating (hey, no one likes nasty surprises from the vadge doctor).
I got some pretty imaginative questions, so here are the ones I chose to address (someone actually asked what my astrological sign was. Are you serious? We're all writers here; that's really the best you could come up with? I'm ashamed for you. I'm a Capricorn, BTW). Nothing was held back; I don't get embarrassed or grossed out, obviously.
Here are some of my favorites, based on the creativity of the question or how funny of an answer I can pull out of my ass:
So how many brothers do you actually have? It sometimes seems like you only have one, but then sometimes you talk about having more than one.
My brother is a schizo with multiple personalities.
No, seriously, I have two. They're both younger than I am, and when we were kids we used to constantly kick each other's ass. Now we all get along and we're really close.
Do you have any tattoos/piercings/visible scars?
I wish. My parents had my ears pierced when I was a baby, but I stopped wearing earrings a while ago so the holes closed up (haha... "holes"). As for tattoos, I'm dying to get at least one, but I have debilitating panic attacks even thinking about needles, so there's a 99.9999% chance that that's never going to happen. I know exactly what I would get, and where: It would be on my wrist, and it would be the Hebrew symbol for strength, which would be ironic because Jews aren't allowed to be buried in a Jewish cemetery if they "desecrate" their body. Oh well.
As for scars, I have a really stupid story to go with mine. About eight years ago my mom asked me to get her a plate from the kitchen and the door to one of her cabinets fell off when I opened it, slicing my finger in the process. It was bleeding all over the place and took off about three layers of skin. So there's my retarded scar story. Most scars are cool but mine is really, really lame. I probably should have made something up.
How about this: I was in a bayonet fight with seventeen ninjas and twelve pirates. While I was defending myself and simultaneously guarding a barrelful of orphaned puppies I got distracted by a truck full of diamonds and one of the ninjas cut my finger with his sword.
There. Much cooler.
Which of your friends/family is the farthest away from you right now? How many of them are actually still in New York?
This is a good one. Thanks to blogging I have friends all over the country. I actually went to Google Maps to find out exactly which one of them is the farthest distance away, in miles, and that would be Ginntastic, in Boston.
How many are actually in New York? At last count, at least half.
Now I'm depressed. Thanks a lot, asshole.
Do you really love doing laundry that much?
Why don't you come over and see for yourself? Wait- are you hot?
What exactly do you in the music business?
Let's see if I can do this without giving anything away:
I work in management and promotions. I'm the manager/booking agent for unsigned bands back on the East Coast, and I handle their touring, merchandise, booking, etc. My hours are erratic and I get to drink on the job. Some of the people I deal with are total douchebags, but most of them are incredibly awesome. Also, I work with mostly dudes, which sometimes sucks but also means that no one starts shifting uncomfortably when I mention sports or comics, or pack away eleven pounds of fries in one sitting. I usually deal with New York City but I also cover a lot of the big cities on the East Coast. It's my passion, but unfortunately the pay isn't that great, hence my location switch and forceful shove into the employment hunt.
At my old job, I worked the A&R circuit for an indie record label, and ran the youth marketing division. I loved that too, but the label exploded faster than the Bob-Ombs from Mario Bros.
Do you really swear as much IRL as you do in your blog?
Where did you go to school?
Yeah, right; like I'm giving that away. I will tell you, however, that I studied Marketing with an Economics minor.
You probably have a hilarious sex story.
A) that's not in the form of a question, and B) yes, I do. A few years ago I was at work and I cut my foot open on a metal rack. It was really disgusting, I had to get a tetanus shot and I got to call out for two weeks. Awesome. Plus I was prescribed Vicodin, which left me higher than Lindsay Lohan in a hot-air balloon after a three-day bender. Sweet.
After being bedridden for weeks, my friends decided to take me to this bar where this dude worked that I was obsessed with. Everyone there knew it was only a matter of time before we were making sweet monkey love by candlelight on 4,000-thread count sheets. Or porking up against a dumpster in an alley. Whatever. He was totally hot so I didn't give a shit.
Anyway, I "ran into" him (read: circled the bar) and he told me he was going outside for a smoke. Of course he practically threw me against the wall outside where we groped each other like seventh graders for the next twenty minutes until he got off (no, actually got off- as in, it was time for him to clock out and go home). We wound up in a cab back to his place where we commenced with the groping while I ignored the "where the hell ARE you???" texts from my friends (like they didn't know).
Once the clothes came off I realized that this was, potentially, the best In-N-Out I had ever received IN MY LIFE. This guy was a total slut so I didn't expect anything really terrible, but nothing as earth-shattering as what was going on below the pelv. We were on what seemed like the eighth position switch when he did this move that required my leg to be up against the wall and BAM!- that's when my foot knocked against the plaster. Yup, THAT foot.
Dude- there was blood EVERYWHERE. It looked like a kindergartener's art project. It was on the wall. The ceiling. The dresser. The bed. It was like Jason Voorhees had come in and gotten slice-happy. It was fucking NASTY.
The worst part was is that this charming intellectual kept going. When I screamed out "OH SHIT!!!!" he thought it was for the reason most women yell that out in the middle of sexy times. I was in so much pain I thought I was going to pass out. When he was finally done, like nine years later, he looks at me and goes, "I didn't know you were on the rag. That's fucking gross." I got up, hobbled to the bathroom, wrapped my foot up in paper towel, and called a cab.
The invite to our wedding is in the mail.
What's your favorite website that's not a blog?
I'm not going to say 20SB again, because I've whored that out more than enough. So besides that, I'm going to have to go with Pajiba.com.
I LOVE your blog- you're an amazing writer. If you could have any writing job, what would it be?
First of all, thanks; anyone that compliments me is automatically in the club. Second, whenever I read anything I always mock people's poor grammar and atrocious spelling, so if I could be an editor, I would take that. By the way, Y-O-U(apostrophe)R-E is you are, as in the descriptive, and Y-O-U-R is your, as in the possessive. It's not that fucking tough!
Also, if Chelsea Handler is reading this, and she needs a writer for her round table, I'm available. I love her.
However, my DREAM dream writing job would have to be in music journalism, like the William Miller character in Almost Famous. If I ever got an opportunity like that I would probably cream myself.
So there were my ten favorite questions. If there's anything I left out, feel free to click the link, and I'll cover them in my next round.
Also, my 69th post is coming up, so to celebrate, I'll be featuring a guest blogger. I'll keep you posted on that.