- Chuck, you and me both man...

- What?  My gorgeous prostate?  Don't make fun of me, or I'll hurt your feelings. 

*

Oh, wait till my songs come on the jukebox, everyone at this bar, surely will hoist me above their shoulders, mainly Persians, they'll all kiss each other like Netochka Nezanova—those best friends kissed each other a lot, I was like, Mom, yo, these girls just kiss each other the whole time, like on every page—hoisting me, they will, their beards trimmed, like my cousin Arin, whom I love, and Matt, from college—him, not so much.  He didn't invite me to his wedding.  Are you kidding?  He doesn't know about playtime—center of the room, I would be.  He's gelus—and what's the drink of choice for those types?  Oh, you know the type, they'll say Ara, until someone retorts, Ara che, Ara...and they'll say, Che, Aper, yes Parskahav em...cause he's drunk, god bless his heart, fuckin Matt—he was about to get his ass kicked till Armen stepped in and hit 'em with some colloquial shit, to which they nodded and acknowledged.  My friend Armen is a great writer, who I always envied and criticized for his ego.  He would respond, "I'm not egotistical; I'm just better than you."  I wouldn't say anything, cause I realized he could have meant it.   One time we had a class together, and I ended up having to walk out of the class laughing the first day cause we couldn't stop throwing things at each other, it was small, but he had to have the last word, such is Armen's wrath.  He was really into House of Leaves, and Thomas Pychon, shit like that.  But he knew where I stood—if it's not Dostoevsky, I don't read it.  I wore my trenchcoat and Real Madrid Jersey freshman year; he liked the Lakers, and I would always quiz him on Biggie and Tupac, feuds 50 cent was in—just so he could snap and ask me how the hell was he supposed to know on the drive to school, I wasn't allowed to drive throughout the years.  During our final paper, I was strung out, and Armen wouldn't let me copy—we got into an ego war, and Matt was upstairs giving this white chick a massage—his move would take half an hour, the Persian seduction, and I said fuck this, I'm horny, and I dropped the class.  Now, Armen's a lawyer, but I think I'm in a better spot.  He'll get the money, but I'll get the glory like Elvis in the 70s—sweet Catherine Edwards.  He could do so much better, in my view.  He largely ignores my texts, because I look up to him and try to fuck with him; I saw him in front of a hip bar on Ventura last week, the Woodman, looking like Cristiano Ronaldo—some haircut CR7 had that Armenians have now, so I pulled up and asked if him and his friends if they were the valet.  I  definately won that one!

...but, you know, go, Johnny Walker Black, and Matt and the Persians,  I spit my nose on them.  And the barkeep— I tolds her, I'm going to sit here and look intellectual...then they'll say, them who hoist me up,  What next?  And I'll say to the chess machine, drop me off here, gently, you Persian haves, cause I have flat feet—and that's not baller.  Some hot girl will say, Oh, are you a chessmaster?  And I'll say, Sure, you're hot, but I wonder how you look in a picture.   And she'll say What?  And I'll say, Nevermind—but I memorized the moves on this machine.  I have the top score in all the bars across the city.  Look for me, I tell her.

Not without my daughter, she says.

AndreaSucksCo, I tell her.  That's the bitch that won't serve me.  We went to elementary.

One time, me and Armen were driving to school through Beverly Hill, and smoking our Parliament Lights—we should be sponsored by them we would joke—and he asked real quickly while joking if he died, would I cry?  And I thought that was brilliant, cause you can't respond.

*Night Out