Monthly Archives: November 2006

Mr. Hookup!

This is for the male readers out there, a new feature just for you!

Is there a girl you really like? Maybe she is a goth chick, and she’ll never look twice at your abercrombie wearing punkass. Maybe shes got gucci frames, and your idea of high fashion are torn up chuck taylors. Maybe she is an orthodox jew and you are a palestinian refugee!

Whatever the case may be, sometimes it can be difficult to tell the person you have a crush on, or care about exactly how you feel. But you sure want to, don’t you? Well, now you can!

Introducing the brand new Cyrano service! Basically, you email me your story, tell me who you like, what you feel, and I’ll re-interpret your words into beautiful flowery goodness!

I suppose I could do this for girls too, so, whoever out there is too scared to speak up about their feelings, let Tobas do it for you!

send all queries to:

All posts will be going into the newly created “Cyrano” section, so send your tale of romantic woe, and let me be your cyber “hitch”. I will reply to your email first, and then tell you when your proclamation will be published, all thats left is pointing your honey in the right direction!

Lets make some love happen! Or at least a sexy time or two…

Hello operator? Get me Dave Matthews at once!

True Hollywood Story time!


Tobas circa 1997.


Once again, this story deals with my days at the Professional Bicycle League.  Most of my celebrity conversations or encounters come from this period in my life, for now, hopefully I will have some new and better ones soon.


Shortly before my fateful sunday with Iggy Pop, I had been working with a nice gentleman over at Wind-up! records named Jeff Aber.  He discovered several big bands, Godsmack, Creed (which I never forgave him for), and several others that I cannot fully recall at the moment.  At any rate, he gave me phone numbers, and I called people.  Most of the time I would get managers, secretaries and the like, but several times I actually got to speak to a bandmember, which usually left me flustered, but it was mostly fun.  One of those times was a bit more memorable than some of the others.

On a typical day, I would sit around discussing possible musical acts, usually the criteria boiled down to availability, and fee.  So, on a conference call one day Jeff says to us, hey, what about the Dave Matthews Band?  We look at each other, the commish and I, and both ask at once, “you can get us Dave Matthews?”  He tells us no, but he can get us in touch with them, he then goes on to add that having some proceeds go to a worthy charity would help our cause much, and that boys club was a good charity to pledge to (wink, nudge).  He explains that he has the number where they are at.  I write the number down, hang up, and breathe deep.

Commish turns to me, and says, “ok kiddo, you’re on”.

I dial, doing my best to keep the contents of my colon inside my “ah-nus”.  Now as the phone is ringing, I am quickly thinking of ways to get someone who has access to them on the line.  For the most part, connections or not, you are going to have to go through several “layers” before you can speak to anyone of significance.  Of course, I was going to have to drop Jeffs name, and the label of course.  Not that it always helped so much, Wind up! was hardly the same label then as it is now.  Anyway, the standard line was, “Hey, I’m looking to book the guys for a fall show in Manhattan for a sportingcharity event”.  I decided this was the tact I was going to take.

A man finally picks up, and I start talking.  He asks me which charity would be involved, I of course tell him the boys and girls club, he asks me what type of sport it is.  This is where things get a bit tricky.  It was cycling, on an oval, on cement, but the riders wore full body gear, and it was full contact on hybrid mountain bikes.  In short, it was lunacy.  I did my best to try and explain the concept as best as I could.  The man seemed confused, but then tried to sum up what I was saying like this, “Ok, so guys fly around on fast bicycles in full body gear and beat the shit out of each other?”  I answered, “well yeah, something like that”.  All of the sudden I notice that I am on speakerphone there, and the man says, “hey man, explain that again ok?”.  In between asking me to try and explain the concept again, I hear him say, “guys, listen to this”.

I explain it again, but this time different people are interjecting with questions, “Do they check each other?”, “Are there cheerleaders?”, “Who the hell would ever do something like this?”  I do my best to answer all of the questions, and also mention that we would be staging a NYPD vs FDNY preliminary race before the show (it didnt happen, but that is also another story).  The guys seem genuinely curious, and say something to the effect of, “cool dude”. And then I am on the phone with the man again.

So now I decide to get to the nitty gritty, and I ask who could I speak to regarding the availability of the band for the date in late september.  He replies, “well, you could speak to me about that if you want”.  He then goes on to ask, “hey, how did you get this number anyway?”  Of course, I drop Jeffs name and Wind up! records, he says “ok”, but sounds absolutely bewildered.  I ask politely if I could get his name, and I introduce myself and try to sound as impressive as I can, the “general manager” of the New York Tribe cycling club!

He replies, “I’m dave”. 

I say, “wait, you mean…like, DAVE, dave?”  He says, “yup”. 

Now I am back to crapping my pants, and I start to stutter like an idiot.  “Um, uh, wow, nice to talk to you, uh, is it possible, um, you know, because we are looking for a band, and em, you know if you could play, its an outdoor venue, er, charity, um…”

He says its ok, and says that he believes that they will be somewhere in the south in september, but that I could call his manager who could tell me for certain.

I tell him, “hey thanks for talking to me man!”  He replies, “sure, good luck with that show, it sounds crazy.”

I hang up and immediately uncap a corona and drink most of it in one shot.

“Who the hell was that Johnny?”


I belch and reply, “Dave fucking Matthews man, Dave, Fucking, Matthews.”


There was no reply, just a laugh and the sound of loud snorting.

New feature!

New feature! New feature!

I will now be conducting celebrity interviews! How will you get to celebrities to ask them anything Tobas? Are you insane? Are you maaad?


Regardless, celebrity interviews coming soon.

Don’t be expecting Brad Pitt anytime soon, but I’ll have some fun folk blabbing away in no time.

Anyway, I seem to have caught a rash of foot eating-itis. Lets see, a few days ago, a former friend asked if I could track down a random girl from a nearby town. Of course, I say I will ask around and see what comes up. Naturally, since I seem to know every single person on the planet these days, I get several responses. Both of them being from girls, both of them saying that they don’t know much about her, but she is reputedly very loose and nasty, I shrug, and relay this information verbatim. And this is the response.

“well, i am glad i opened this by myself – she is my boyfriends niece. and he is trying to get in touch with her. and cut her some slack, that’s not a nice thing to say, we’ve all done plenty of things we aren’t proud of. that girl has been through a lot. Just to make sure we are talking about the same girl, she is from Wantagh, very pretty, 27 or 28 yrs old, and had a younger brother who was killed when he got hit by a car yrs ago right?

Thanks though, i appreciate it alot. let me know asap he would like to get in touch with her b4 thanksgiving. If at all possible.”

Oh lordy. Now I feel like a great big heel. Well sure, how was I supposed to know? Still, not good.

Then, there is my conversation with an old high school crush of mine who I had not spoken to in almost a decade. It started out well, and it was rather fun to re-live old times for about a week, then last night, after a bottle of cavit, my tongue is feeling waggy and uselessly offensive. We are discussing pen names, and I inform her that mine is Tobas and I enjoy it, she asks me if I have any ideas what her pen name would be. Now, bear in mind reader, knowing virtually nothing about what criteria would suit her needs as a writer, I jokingly suggested “D.D.”, why? Because I remember she had enormous breasts, and I felt the need to be momentarily crude, and way less than clever.

She responds, “I was waiting to see if you would say something like that!” Then proceeds to rant about how they are merely things on her chest and she is sick of references to them. Apparently, this has been an ongoing issue for her, and I fell right into that mess of sticky resentment.

Then again, I have never been famous for my sensitivity, or tact, so anyone who is the former, and feels that the latter is always necessary probably shouldn’t be talking to me anyway. Eh, I have come to terms with that fact that I am frequently stupid and offensive, it was very liberating actually to do so.

Désirent ardemment de phase le perverti blessant !

Sundays with Iggy.

So, before I begin this tale, I will have to provide a little background on how it came about.

Tobas, circa 1997.

I was working in Manhattan, in a little office on the corner of 11th and Broadway.  The company was called The Professional Bicycle League, and I was the acting general manager of one of the teams, The New York Tribe.  It was not much of a professional sport, but it was one nonetheless.  At 18, that made me the youngest general manager in pro sports history, by a longshot.   Hell, I even made the Post, but then again, thats not saying a whole lot, is it?

It was still the summer, and that year was by far one of the stickiest I can ever remember.  It seemed like every morning I would wake up in my little place on 15th between 2nd and 3rd ave, take a shower, and then be immediately sweaty again.  In short, it was awful, I hated sleeping there.  The only saving grace was sleeping in the same room as a very cute lesbian couple fresh from oklahoma.  A large tin constantly filled to the brim with the finest sticky-icky didn’t hurt things either.  At any rate, I had a show to put on, and a race to arrange, and that meant getting riders together, getting a television crew, and getting a musical act capable of drawing some type of crowd.  I flipped open the yellow pages, and figured, eh, no problem!  My boss (the commisioner) laughed at me, snorted several fat lines of cocaine, and smoked a 777 cigarette.  As usual, I ignored this.

Two weeks later, I had several conversations with some large bands (future TTHS), and was left enlightened, but still empty-handed.  I had to make this work somehow, I needed a miracle.  Then one sunday morning, after a night playing a priest in a corner of the VIP area in Twilo, I found what I needed.

My boss and I would regularly brunch at a place on  10th and avenue B called Life cafe.  It was trendy, and of course expensive, but thats what company credit was for.  That sunday, we are sitting at the counter, as we normally do, when I notice a man reading a book, sitting at a table alone behind me.  My boss is oblivious, but I immediately recognize the craggy, weathered features of punk/rock legend, Iggy Pop.  The place is practically empty, so I nudge my boss lightly, and whisper to inform him who is behind us.  He looks at me, and says, “hey, you got balls man, go and talk to him, ask him if he’ll play.”

Now, I am shitting myself, not only is this Iggy Pop, but he is clearly engrossed in a book of poetry, and even if he wasn’t Iggy, I would still be loathe to bother him.  So I turn to my boss and inform him that I am currently excreting my oatmeal and fruit mix with yogurt topping.  He pulls me into the bathroom and pulls out a small baggie filled with white powder.

Now reader, bear in mind, that at this point in my life I was quite ignorant about drugs, particularly the powdery kind.  All I knew, was that I had never tried cocaine, and I had no desire to do so, so I immediately declined his snowy offer.  Again, I assumed everything that looked like white powder was cocaine.  I was wrong.

He assured me that it was not cocaine, and that it was just crushed up relaxer pills, and that it would help quite a bit.  I relented, and sniffed a small bump off of the side of my hand.  Three minutes later, I felt as if I had drank a six pack of schlitz, shot-gunned.  In other words, it helped quite a bit.  I turned to my boss and asked him, “hey man, what the hell was that anyway?”

He sipped his juice and calmly replied, “heroin”.

Bear in mind reader, as far as I knew, you could only take that one way, and that was by a needle, and needles might as well be butcher knives to me.  So I freaked out, sat down again, and then found myself unable to get agitated at all, I figured this would be a good time to try and get Iggy’s attention.

His face is buried in his book, so I have to clear my throat to get his attention.  He shifts his face over and I look him square in the eye.  “Uh, hello, I need some help with something if you have the time.”  I don’t think he quite expected that, so he paused a moment, set the book down slowly, and responded in his gravely voice, “Sure, what do you need?”

I explained to Iggy my dilemma as best I could, fighting the urge to stick my finger down my throat, and/or fall face down onto the wood table in front of us, holding up a plate of eggs and veggies that Iggy was apparently snacking on.  He thought for a moment, and then informed me that he would be happy to play at my show.

I was ecstatic, Iggy Pop for christs sake, that was huger than huge.  He called his manager, a very polite gentleman by the name of Art, and inquired about his schedule.  As it was, he would still be overseas when our date hit, and my dreams of a Stooges reunion at East River Park were crushed.  But, he said not to worry, he would find something for me.  He then proceeded to give me his managers phone number.  Now, you could think, of course he was not available, he wasn’t going to play at your shitty little show!  I agree, but at least he went to the trouble of calling his manager to confirm that he really was not available.  How do I know that it was really his manager?  Simple, I worked with him.

Three days later, I called Art, and his pleasant british accent flowed through a phone line.  He said right away, “oh, john right?  Iggy told me about you, I have some phone numbers to give you.”  Before I even address this, let me just say, Iggy was one of the nicest human beings I have ever met, we spoke for almost a half-hour about putting on shows, and he answered all of my questions patiently, never once acting the least bit pretentious.  I was speaking to the folks at Elton John’s new label (at the time), in minutes. 

After our talk, I thanked Iggy profusely, and my boss congratulated me, and we walked out of the cafe, feeling triumphant.  On avenue A, I collapsed.

My boss dragged me over to a group of squatters and slapped me awake.  I vaguely remember being thrown in a cab, and then into my cot. 

In short, I got my act, and managed to have a job that lasted years, pretty much based on that moment. 

 Thank you Iggy.




Once again, I had the opportunity to re-read the wonderment and joy that is I love tucker max.

So, in the spirit of Tucker Max, I have decided to pull a story from the ex-files.
Once upon a time, I was dating. Yes dear reader, I wasn’t always a bitter divorcee, or a bitter married person.  I dated a very pretty girl by the name of amanda lee  (last name left out).  She had beautiful green eyes, red hair, and a nose that twitched when she talked, which I found incredibly cute.  She also enjoyed ecstasy, and several other club chemicals that were/are very popular.  I can recall one of our first kisses, she said my tongue felt like velvet.  At the time, I was so flattered by her attention, not realizing she was tripping face.  Long story short, she ended up fucking the ever living shit out of me, and I loved  every single dirty minute.  Not long after, she was my “girlfriend”.  I had a lot to learn at this point, but I was getting laid, and I was happy, she was also the second girl I ever slept with.  Yes, I was a dumb fuck.

So one night, I am horny as hell in her little maroon geo, which had a faulty alternator, which my friend andre fixed.  She is not in the mood, (little did I know she had just gotten done fucking the holy hell out of her “ex”) and I decide on a whim, to start playing with my willie anyway.  She asks me what I am doing, and I tell her the truth.

“I’m fucking jerking off”

She gets annoyed, and then I see her watching me, and then I see her hand disappear down her pants, and then I am ready to blow.   Should I have asked for a tissue?  Maybe.  Did I?  No.

I squirted all over her dash.  Leaving stains that armorall would have to re-formulate for.  She came too, but then she looked at my aftermath.  Lets just say, I had a long sticky walk home.


I laughed for weeks about that.


Addressing my public.

  1. concerned Says:
    have you ever considered that your “till *death* do you part”/”how dare she not want me anymore” rants are hypocritical?
    i mean, you dedicate blogs about how grateful you are for the one you are currently with.. and in the same day dedicate ones about the evils of divorce and the unfairness of it all.
    yea yess.. the children. i know.
    but still. youre better off. all of you.
    “people forced to stay together for the children” vs. “a *healthy* divorce, and then still taking care of their children because THAT is what matters.” … you really dont see which is the better choice there? are currently coming off as bitter, and sorta.. well, ungrateful and obsessive about the past.not trying to be hurtful.. just concerned, truly.

Now, I am grateful for this comment, so much so, that I felt the need to openly address it.

funny, these comments don’t seem to be landing where they belong.

eh, no matter, I gladly allowed this comment, because this is a concern of mine too, so this is a fine opportunity to address this.

lets address the most important thing first, and bear in mind, I am being objective here, outside of a relationship, and marriage.

“but still, you’re better off, all of you.”

Perhaps we, as adults are better off, and perhaps we have both found ways to genuinely be happy with others, which can be a wonderful thing. But, all of us? You may as well finish that statement with, “and besides, you aren’t that good of a father to them anyhow.” No, see, those two boys are far from better off, and again, this is being completely objective, I would say that about any boy who loved and needed his father, he is never better off with his daddy far away. Ask them in ten years if they would have rather had their father if they could have, and see what their answer is.

Now, on to the next important statement.
“have you ever considered that your “till *death* do you part”/”how dare she not want me anymore” rants are hypocritical?”

No, not at all actually, because I would say, “how dare she not want me”, if she were some ex-girlfriend, or even ex-fiance. But the fact is, despite my state now, I was rejected, and after a statement like ’til death do us part’, well, that is a bit fucking unacceptable, and happy or no, I am not going to get over that, I will remember that as long as I live, because apparently, thats what I promised to do. So yes, am I happy? Sure. Am I going to forget that I mortgaged my future on a person who threw me away like a rotten banana peel, especially after putting myself aside to not only take care of her, but her extended family? No, never, that isn’t a slap in the face, that’s a stomp on my skull.

Ok, moving on.

” are currently coming off as bitter, and sorta.. well, ungrateful and obsessive about the past.”

**I am? Good. Because I am bitter, very. And you would be too if you were me. And ungrateful? I’m wracking my brain, really, to try and think about the things I should be grateful for. Lets see, I could be grateful that in almost six years of marriage, we actually lived alone, as a married couple for maybe, maybe, three or four months, that might be overshooting it though. I could be grateful that instead of finishing my college career, and getting a better job, I took work that was below my potential in order to drive around wives, sons, mothers and brothers, the latter two not being my own. I could be grateful that when I was told that we should be divorced by her, a few years in, with no bad behavior on my part as of yet (oh, I’m sorry, it was only “research”), I did not go and run out to find someone new to fall in love with and be with, I was angry, and I felt betrayed, and upset, but I stood my ground, because thats what a marriage is all about. But when I do the same, bye, bye me, hello disposable income (Im not saying he is “rich” per say, at all, but there is obviously much more disposable income for things). So yes, should I be grateful for that level of loyalty? Oh, maybe I should be grateful that when it was painfully obvious that I was giving her everything because that is what I always did, give her everything I was, she turned around, took it, and never looked back. And even when I cried, and she saw me suffer, so soon after we were no longer together, she still turned her back, and watched me suffer. Of course, you could say, “well John, you weren’t together anymore, it wasn’t her problem” And you would be right, but I ask, should I be grateful for that level of indifference? And finally, those boys. I only ever wanted to tuck those kids into bed everynight, and be their dad everyday, do you think that factored in when I would have done anything to make things right? No, not when trips to the tropics were on cue. Oh, but what about before, when I would come home past eleven from work, and the kids would already be sleeping? Do you think I really wanted to work like that? I had no choice, in order to provide a ride to work, take the boy to school, and be with him all day, I had to. If I knew I was going to be ditched as I was, do you really think I would have done things like that? Fuck no, I would have worked how I liked, and told her, find your own way, I’m gonna be home for dinner, and then I’m going to read a bedtime story.

**Reader, bear in mind that I replied to that quote as if the implication were that I was ungrateful about my past, and not about what I currently have. In response to that I say, bollocks, I am plenty grateful, and I do not even feel the need to address that aspect, I think I have done plenty to show how grateful I am**

Whew, ok. I need a breather, one last point here.

“people forced to stay together for the children” vs. “a *healthy* divorce, and then still taking care of their children because THAT is what matters.” … you really dont see which is the better choice there?

Good point my anonymous friend, but lets delve into that a bit, shall we? First things first. Divorce is never healthy, that is like saying, “well jimmy, you could have some chemo, but wouldn’t you rather have a healthy tumor lodged in your cranium?” As far as I can see, when children don’t have a mommy and daddy there everyday, to provide love, and role models, they become emotionally stunted, and will end up miserable divorced fucks like yourselves. Don’t believe me? Check the numbers on it. And as far as being “forced” to stay together, well, isn’t that kinda the fucking point? I don’t know how many weddings you have been to, but last time I checked it equaled some kind of lifetime commitment. I suppose if people started exchanging cracker jack rings instead you might have a point there. So yeah, better choice, lets see, honor your commitments, be a full time parent, or show your children that mistrust and disappointment begin at home, and that love and marriage only go as far as you can tolerate. So is setting that kind of example really a better choice? Do I even have to answer that question?

Look, please understand, I am being completely objective, about my own situation, which is incredibly hard to do, I know. But I cannot help feeling in certain ways about things, and I know that time will heal things properly, but for now, I have these things shoved in my face, and it is still hard to grasp just how much of me was trashed, for nothing. So, every now and then, I have to spit out this terrible venom that builds up inside of me. If I were truly “obsessive”, there would be many more options available to me, as it is, I just need to vent.

Thank you for your concern.


Exs vs Severed.

Ah, I am a bit better, it is amazing what a quiet night and good food will do to revive ones spirits. Good food that one has made themselves of course, which is always the best kind. Anyway, back to the topic.

The ever confounding, and sometimes elusive ex. It is a strange thing, and maybe it is only me, but is it odd to be in a relationship, and imagine not being in it? In other words, you think to yourself, what if I were the ex of this person? I think everyone should try this, imagine the person you are with, then imagine not being with them anymore. You are their ex, they are trying to avoid you, and if you go within five hundred feet of them, they might call the police. If you didn’t appreciate them before, you will after a few minutes of imagining that. These are the things that people do not do enough, use their imaginations. We are so bombarded by simpleton sitcoms, and “reality” television, we don’t have to imagine what things would be like anymore, we can just glean them from watching a half-hour of some little primped bitch on laguna beach crying because she kissed Jesse in the hot-tub, when she really “likes” Andy.

Sure, maybe your relationship is like what you see on the television (read: kill yourself, now), but there lacks a level of attachment to it, that is very misleading. If you really use that imagination, and you can construct a realisitic enough scenario, then you might even be able to simulate those feelings.

Now that I’ve tried to explain this, I feel it is my duty to help others envision properly.

Remember that time you and Joey went to the Kenny Chesney concert and he caught you giving a handy to the guy with the coat over his lap in the seat behind you? Oh boy, Joey was sure steamed that night, and he said things like, “you little whore-mouth cumsponge, don’t ever call me again!” That sure hurt didn’t it?

Now, the preceding scenario may, or may not have happened to you. But think of your beloved’s voice, and then imagine something as nasty as that coming out of it, directed at you.

Thats right, look at that ex of hers, or his. You are always one hidden coat handy away from being in those shoes. So next time you see your sweetie, give them a big hug, put your tongue in their mouth, and if you are a guy, make sure you give those boobies a nice hard squeeze and extended caress, because you never know when she is going to turn around and give you what I like to call, the verbal murder,

“Don’t, touch me.”

You might as well twist my nuts into a mess of silly putty you uppity bitch.

And girls, don’t worry so much, you can do everything short of killing our parents and feeding them to us and chances are, we’ll throw you one for old times sake.

Disparity, gotta love it.

Technical Difficulty.

Ah, the ex-boyfriend. 

What a fascinating creature this is.  This is the male, that used to occupy the position you are now in.  Has anyone in a relationship ever stopped to contemplate that?  Of course you have you jealous fucks.  But lets look at this objectively for a moment.

Now, personally, I have thought about this many times.  And I am sure, there are times when every man wonders if what he is doing, or what he thinks, or how he does just about anything, is the same as her ex.  Then, if it is, you must wonder, does she like that, or does it repulse her?  And if she does like it, does that mean she misses him?  There was a connection there, and now there is not.  It is almost like life and death, you always wonder where the separation occurs.

I had so much to say on this topic, but the fact is, my mouth is killing me and I feel like I got run over by a steamroller, and I have no idea why.  And, my hand is twitching uncontrollably.

But I will re-visit this soon.



At last I see the light so bright,
Ahead of me, behind the night,
I think I see where is the end,
Freedom comes around the bend,

It looks like my days are done,
And I was having so much fun,
Lived to give, left to die,
Home is now the open sky,

I am finished here,
So glad to have had my stay,
Pack my bags to go nowhere,
Time for me to go away,

Toothpaste squeezed,
Glue spread,
Finally dead,

All these things cannot reverse,
You have made my life a curse,
Even when these days are through,
I will always, always, hate you.