The Dougbag Blog

2009-01-11T18:28:00.001-08:00

Who Wants to Hightail It to Mexico for Drugs?!

...Perscription drugs...and I'm only kind of serious. The recent realization that my health insurance is almost completely worthless has left me to ponder all sorts of alternative medicine...um...alternatives. The fact that I've even looked into it ("it" being drug smuggling), should tell you how ridiculous our health care system has become. Now everytime I have a cough, or even a sniffle that doesn't quite feel right, I have this flash of me recklessly driving a '60's muscle car through a police barricade on the Mexican border.

"Drug smuggling! D.o.H. style."

I don't know if it's a good thing that every time money gets a little tight, I immediately contemplate canceling my coverage. I, like many people (I'm guessing), am more interested in paying for a whole slew of other things that are more valuable to me than my own well-being. You know, important things, like eating at Quizno's, coppin' tickets to the 4:15 Eagle Eye, or buying drinks for girls so they can give them to their boyfriends - things that matter.

Basically, my health care coverage only helps me if something horrific happens to me; like if my arm gets chopped off, or I come down with avian flu, or if I total my Lambo and crush my ribcage. And since I'm not on Jackass, I'm not a stunt-motorcycle driver and I don't live in the dark recesses of the Congo jungle, I don't see anything like that happening anytime soon (No whammies, no whammies...). My coverage doesn't help me with perscriptions (unless they're over $200) and again, I'm not dying, so what medication would I ever need that costs that much? And it doesn't really help me with doctors visits unless I go a certain amount of times - and as much as I'd like to get a daily physical and slew of prostate exams - who has the time?

People always talk about how they don't want their health care run by the government because the it's inept. They say this while forgetting that privatized health care's #1 priority is to make money, and your well-being will never rank as a higher priority than that. Government may be inept in many ways, but at least they're supposed #1 priority is to help people; and if we don't like the way things are being run we can always vote someone else in. We can't fire the CEO of Aetna; and the only way Aetna's CEO is getting fired is if their profits are down - profits that would go down if they legitimately cared about helping people. So because of all this, I have to ask: What is my health coverage for exactly? The answer is pretty much nothing, except to turn a profit. That's why I'm thinking of heading south of the border. E-mail me any requests en espanol. Adios amigos.

2008-12-15T23:52:00.000-08:00

The Hot Sneak Attack

I am extremely shallow. Sure, I talk a good game, but if it were between a life-long friendship and the chance to sleep with Eva Mendes, I'd drop my friend like an ugly baby. I, like any upstanding American, never underestimate how satisfying it is to judge a book by it's cover. It's GREAT! It is for this reason, that I could look at beautiful people all day (...dudes mainly). I'm drawn to them. All people are. It's just the way it is.

For example: As groundbreaking and insightful as the articles are in US Weekly, it's basically an adult picture book with hot people - it's about 2 1/2 steps away from soft-core and that's why people like it. And as many awesome and irrelevant features as there are on Facebook, the real reason it's membership is hovering around 18 billion is "pics" (by the way - when people over 40 that aren't sexual predators start joining social networking sites - it's time to revaluate things). Most of all, there's a reason why every show on TV (a supposed mirror of our lives) trades in any attempt at realism, so that you can come as close as humanly possibly to feeling like you're watching an Ambercrombie & Fitch catalogue. It's anything but real, but it's what we want. (If you go to any West Texas town the people there will look more like the cast of Roseanne than they will the cast of Friday Night Lights. Trust me.) So much of what we do is based around our desire to look at pretty people. And why? Well, because we like to fantasize about what it would be like to be with them or maybe even be them.

Now, I don't mean that in a stalker-ish, Sliver kind of way. I'm just saying, that while the majority of us lie somewhere between the 6-8 range on the attractiveness scale, we've all probably wondered what it would be like to be a 10 (or at least what it would be like to be gettin' it on with one! [...I just high-fived myself]). A lot of us are probably too hard on ourselves, analyzing every imperfection and thinking that we're way worse off than we actually are; but the fact remains that if you're not an absolute knock-out you have to spend all your time doing stupid stuff like developing your personality, cultivating social skills and learning how to form words with your mouth. And really, what's that about?

Now, if I had one, I could probably tell you that having a personality is good thing. I sometimes imagine that it is. But we're right to also imagine that life could be something different entirely. That your life could be easier. That your life could be free of almost all stress. I'm hear to tell you that beautiful people live in a different world entirely - an alternate reality - and that your intuition was right to tell you that it might make things better.

As a person who lives in the beautiful people capital of the U.S., and possibly of the world (unless there really is that secret town in Scandinavia where all their super models live together in harmony), I can tell you that the beautiful live in a world much different from yours and mine. A world where people help you with your flat tire, strike-up playful conversation with you throughout the day, and even go so far as to show you signs of basic human dignity (things like eye-contact and not spitting on you). LA is the good-looking olympics and the people here expect healthy competition. If you fall on the special olympics side of these world games, then life for you here will be tough.

But why is it like this for them, you ask? Well, I'll lay it out as plainly as possible. They live in a world where everyone wants something from them. That's pretty much all there is to it. And when you live in a world where everyone wants something from you, then everyone is nice to you. You've experienced it too - the way people act when they need something - and if you haven't, just wait until your friend needs a ride to the airport, or desperately requires a kidney transplant, or wants to borrow your Chronicles of Riddick DVD. They will lay on the charm.

So then, it's not the beauty per se, but actually the display of being able to satisfy a need. That's why the concept, while possibly pertaining to very good-looking men (I can only speculate), applies most aptly to beautiful women. With the women the need is obvious, every man needs to sleep with them (or at least thinks he needs to), and that's that. Ever seen a single guy talk to an unattractive girl? It's ugly. He'd just as soon take a dump on her as he would have a conversation with her that lasts over a half-minute.

So what about men? The other side to this idea, of being able to display that you can fill a need, is that this concept also applies most aptly to very, very...very wealthy men (we'll call them "billionaires" for the hell-of-it). There is, it turns out, a reason money makes you more attractive. With billionaires, we have an inherent understanding that they can obtain anything they want, thus by the transitive property of befriending or bedding said billionaire you could then obtain anything you want. And isn't that what we all want? The answer is yes. That's factual. ...It's science. ...The numbers don't lie. Maybe that's the reason why dweeby billionaires always end up with girls that are way too hot for them? I knew there had to be something to explain why they always ended up together: they're on top of the need-filling scale.

Have you ever wondered why some of the most beautiful women are batshit crazy? And have you ever wondered why so many billionaires are eccentric, thus coining the phrase, "eccentric billionaire"? Well, it turns out it's for close to the same reason:

With the girl, her beauty has litterally caused her to slip out of touch with reality and go insane. All her life guys have been telling her that what she says and does is "awesome", "really funny", "...smart", and it has nothing to do with her actions being any of those things. It does, however, have everything to do with guys telling her what she's wanted to hear all her life so they could get with her. "What? ...Yeah, I'll go ride ponies with you. Ponies are the terrific." Ponies aren't terrific. Ponies suck balls and every guy knows it. But for a hot enough girl, ponies become the absolute shit for any guy.

As for the eccentric billionaire, he just doesn't give a shit anymore. He walks around wearing brown Vans tennis shoes, with black dress socks and red cargo shorts. He doesn't wear a dress shirt or even a polo anymore. He just kicks it in a wife-beater with his disgusting gut hanging out and then gets in his Bentley and gives you the finger. And if you don't like it, he buys the house you grew up in and has it demolished just to spite you. That's how he rolls, and he doesn't care what you, or any of us think. He's got too many people that agree with him now. And truly not caring about what other people think is a feeling few of us could ever hope to obtain without slamming a handle of Tito's Vodka in one sitting.

The reason the beautiful girl and the eccentric billionaire act like this is because having something everyone wants/needs is such a powerful thing in this world that it can literally alter your view of where you stand in it. It can change your perception on all sorts of things and even turn you into a different person.

So now are you ready for the most anti-climactic conclusion in the history of writing? Get ready... I wrote all this to tell you that one of life's little pleasures is when you see a girl out somewhere and at first glance she looks ordinary - pretty run-of-the-mill from a far; but then you get a little closer and you take a better look and you realize that she has beautiful eyes, and a perfect smile and nice skin and a good figure hidden under clothes that are anything but revealing. The encounter started out with you just thinking she's just another girl and then 30 seconds-in you're like, "...Holy shit! This girl is BEAUTIFUL!". It's a good moment. And I like this moment because it's nice to see a girl that has something that she knows everybody wants, and yet she doesn't feel the need to flaunt it just to get her somewhere. I call it The Hot Sneak Attack. And it's kinda cool when it happens, is all.

2008-07-21T22:21:00.000-07:00

Bag of Coop - II

Hands-Free Douche

So Los Angeles recently passed the "Hands-Free" cell phone law, which basically means you can't talk on your cell phone in your car unless you have bluetooth. Bluetooth (in case you don't know - which I'm sure you do) let's you talk through a mic in your car and the other person's voice comes through the speakers of your car.

So basically, now all these d-bags are bumpin' their moronic conversations like they're the latest T-Pain track (which I also consider noise pollution). I'm sure that guy I overheard last week had no idea his conversation about how "the girl he just plowed stole his jeans" was being blared across a busy La Brea intersection, but it was. This vital news was being delivered into everyone's ears within a 100 ft. radius (trunk-rattling vocals) - much to the chagrin of myself and anyone else with an I.Q. over 80 and any shred of dignity.

The President?

Why is it that I see President Bush more on Sportscenter than I do on CNN? I get that you're a lame duck President at this point, but should you be? You probably didn't realize it, but things are pretty jacked right now. Is this really the time to invite the Celtics to White House for a celebratory dinner? You're not even from Boston and it seems like there might be more important things to do.

Hey, remember that war you started a while back? I'm pretty sure it's still going on. Do you really need to congratulate the Phoenix Mercury on winning the WNBA title? And hey, you know that once-strong economy that you took a huge dump on? I'm pretty sure we're in a recession. Do you really need to congratulate Padraig Harrington on winning the British Open? It's the BRITISH Open and he isn't even an American.

What in God's name are you doing? Do you just completely not give a shit? Is it a goal of yours to make sure people know how little you care by hosting bullshit events and smirking the whole time like everything's "hunky-dory"? What is happening?

Enjoy your legacy as the worst president in American history, chucker. Although, something tells me you don't care much about that either.

Sleep Injuries

How exactly is it possible that people injure themselves while sleeping? I know it happens, but how does it happen? How does "I slept on it wrong" equal insufferable pain? The other morning I went to bed after a strenuous day of sitting, tv watching and occasionally scratching myself only to wake up the next morning with a SEVERELY sprained ankle. I mean, it was so bad I could barely make it to the couch. What is that about? ...I must have been having soccer dreams again.

Why Blacking Out is Like Hanging Out With Yourself

In the rare occasion that I do travel to the mysterious and fantastical world of Blackout Land, there is a wondrous phenomenon that I have come to enjoy when I return home from my journeys - it's called "Let me tell you a joke, self" and it's quite enjoyable.

Due to the effects that...alcohol...have...on brain...bad, often times one will forget what one has said during the course of a night. A favorite past-time of mine is sitting around the morning after a party recovering and recapping what happened the night before. This is generally done for two reasons: 1) to see if someone else remembered something that you did that you'd forgotten, and 2) to hear any stories that you might not have been privileged enough to take part in. These hangover pow-wows allow for the only time in life that you will actually be able to tell a joke to yourself.

So during this pow-wow when someone tells you that you interrupted a random group of very serious people's Iraq war conversation to tell them about your wedgie by saying, "It feels like there's an insurgency on my butthole," or any other number of stupid, silly things - it comes as news to you. This even though you said it, you've just completely forgotten it ever happened. It's a great experience and I highly recommend it.

It's kind of like that really genuine laughter you get when a joke or something funny you think of genuinely surprises you. Only with blackout jokes you don't have any time to see it coming so it catches you even more off-guard, which typically makes it seem even funnier. Not to mention, who knows your sense of humor better than you? If anyone could really crack you up it should be yourself.

(Side Note: In the even rarer cases that I have forgotten to put in my contacts or I was wearing sunglasses at night (for costume related reasons - not heroin ones) I was amazed at the complete sense of confusion that surrounded what happened that night. It screws up your sense of time, perspective, you remember conversations but not the person who it was with, etc. If you are someone with a very visual memory, it's pretty amazing how little you can recall. It's like the night happened on the radio or in a dream. TRY IT TODAY!)

Calling Out Old People

I get that old people have a lot of time to kill and that you're filling up the space of your day with non-sense, the same way I used to fill up space on my philosophy exams with my own Chicken Soup for the Soul-esque philosophical abstractions ("Hobbes take on human nature reminds me of a story I once heard about a young man who was down on his luck..."), but c'mon. Have some respect for the rest of us. You may find it entertaining to have the person at the deli read the backs of all the turkeys, but to me the difference between honey baked and oven roasted seems pretty self-explanatory. Take your quarter pound of "thinly-sliced" and get the hell out of the line.

And not to be generic, but can you pull over to the side of the street and let me pass if you're going to drive 13 mph through my neighborhood? I realize there's no rush to get to the post office, but these days they bring the mail to you.

As Nick Swardson once said, old people should be peeling out in fast cars, stealing shit and not giving a fuck. That's the way to go out.

"How did your grandmother die? ...Cancer?"

"No, dude...she flipped her 'vette."

Porn vs. Prostitution

Driving by Vivid Video's giant corporate offices everyday has gotten me thinking - why is prostitution illegal and yet porn companies have building's nicer than than most charity organizations? How did this happen?

So you're telling me that if someone pays a woman for sex it's illegal, but if someone else stops, sets up a video camera, films the whole thing and then puts it on the internet, that not only do they not go to jail, they get to have a huge corporate office with a feng shui garden? Right. That makes perfect sense.

Can't we all just stop pretending that this isn't going on and accept it? It's the oldest profession in the world. If a girl from the suburbs marries a guy for money, a nice car and a big house, this is not only accepted, but it's an achievement. But if a poor woman on street corner does it to survive, or it happens one time in a hotel somewhere it's illegal? That's fair.

Let's start letting people be responsible for themselves and make their own decisions. We can't be the moral police for everyone in this country and the world. It doesn't always have to be our place to tell people what's right and what's wrong. We should accept the fact that people are going to make their own decisions no matter what we think or say. As long as these choices aren't to maliciously hurt someone, than we should be able to deal with them, whether we like what we see or not. Maybe if more people came to terms with the way the world really worked and the realities of the things happening people's lives other than their own, it would be harder to dismiss the social realities of this country and would actually force people to do something to solve the problem. You know, like education and laws that promote social and class equality, instead of ones that hide problems away in the slums and world's largest prison system. Fun stuff like that.

Couples

Now that we're all moving into the real world for good and forever (some of my friends actually have SECRETARIES...mind blowing), there are startling revelations that are coming to light. Like mainly the fact that:

Couples...I'm sorry, but you're killing the social life of America. I'm starting to realize that all those stereotypes about people in relationships/married people are stereotypes for a reason. Real world couples aren't the same couples that existed in college.

College couples would actually still go out and party. Real World couples are never down to hang. What is this incessant need to plan everything out and why is the idea of just meeting your friends at a bar to have a beer so incredibly out of the realm of possibility? For couples, there has to be some kind of event going on with some sort of show or else there's absolutely no conceivable reason to leave the house. That would be LUDICROUS! Or, wait, that's unfair, they'll also leave if there's something to go look at. Couples love driving somewhere to go look at things. This is good because it allows them to "make a day of it" and still be back home before 9:30.

Me: "Hey, you wanna go grab some beers and hang out?"

Guy in Relationship: "Why? When? What time and for what purpose?"

Me: "I don't know...Let's just go grab some beers tonight."

Guy in Relationship: "Ooohhh...I don't see that happening. We're going to a bird sanctuary today. We're making a day of it."

Me: "What is a bird sanctuary?"

Guy in Relationship: "Um, I'm not really sure. But [insert girlfriend's name] really wants to go. I think you go and there's a bunch of bird houses and you look at all the different kinds of birds."

Me: "That sounds terrible."

Guy in Relationship: "(Trying to convince himself more than me) No...no. I...um...I think it will be a lot of fun. Birds are...um...they're really interesting."

Me: "Okay, well we're going out tonight, so why don't y'all come out after that?"

Guy in Relationship: "Oooohhh...yeah...no. No, I don't see that happening. We're probably just gonna go home and crash. I'm sure we'll be tired."

Me: "Yeah, you're right. You don't want to over do it. Birds are thrilling, and for that matter, looking at things is exhausting. That's why I can't stay awake for more than 2 and a half hours on any given day."

Guy in Relationship: "But, maybe next week we can [insert planning for something we both know will never happen in a sad attempt to maintain crumbling friendship]."

Me: "Sure. That sounds good."

Maybe it's because women's nesting instincts really start kicking in, but Dear GOD. It is ridiculous. What is this incessant need to settle down? Remember when you were young? If an adult told you to settle down that meant you were having too much fun and bothering the settled-down parents. People are actually aspiring toward this?

Now I'll be the first to admit that I'm not making it rain every time I go out, but I have a great time a lot more often than not. And, at the very least, there's a chance for something funny to happen and a story to tell. I mean how hard is it to have fun when you're out with a group of people you like and getting a little tipsy? Not very.

If this is the way it HAS to be with couples then I'm going to have to demand that everyone stay single. I mean c'mon, what reason is there to enter into a life long relationship at such a young age? To have kids? Does any guy really want kids? We have way to many people on this planet already. Are we all so vain that we feel it's absolutely necessary to reproduce? Seems like half the couples do it, because they're bored as hell and it gives them something new to do.

If everyone stayed single, then we could all reverse the stigma about dating into your thirty's. We could enjoy different types of relationships, constantly be meeting and learning about new people - it would be great. Definitely preferable to feeling you have to get married because all your friends are doing it and you don't want to be left alone (couples induce these feelings by excluding single people and making them feel guilty for trying to live on their own terms). Single into your thirty's works - I've seen it. It's much, much better and a lot more fun for everyone.

Look - at least half of the couples in America get divorced. Shouldn't this tell us something? And I'm gonna take a guess here, but I bet at least half of the guys in couples that stay together have a mid-life crisis. You know, the, "Where did my youth go?" kind. You're only young once - can't we all just enjoy it?

Of course, I'm speaking in generalities. Not all couples are like this, but a ton of them are. So until the majority of them get more fun: take your day trips, your couple-only dinners, your needing reasons to actually go out and have a good time and your sight-seeing and go jump in the lake. Make a day of it.

It's time for all of us to stand-up and regulate. The status quo is exhausting me.

2008-06-11T16:39:00.000-07:00

Bag of Coop

Truck Testing

What the hell is going on with Ford and Toyota's engineers elaborately testing trucks to see how tough they are? In everyone there like, "We dropped a Ford F-150 from outer-space...then we set it on fire and shot it out of a cannon...all to see if it was tough enough for a Texan! ...Did this test prove anything quantifiable? ....Well, no. But it cost 11.6 billion dollars and it was incredibly badass! Badass like Texas! ...Please, for the love of God, buy our trucks...please!"

As for the Toyota Tundra commercials, I feel bad for the guy who has to drive the truck. And for the engineer that had to break the news to him...

Engineer: Um...okay...basically, what we want you to do is park the car here....and, um, then we're going to drop a 5 ton steal beam at you. Um...hopefully, the car will perform like we think it will and you'll be able to get out of the way, because if it doesn't...well, it won't be great. Then we want you to floor it and drive as fast as you possibly can toward the edge of that cliff. Make sure you don't stop until the last possible second because we really want to test the breaks. We're pretty sure they'll stop you before you go off the edge and plummet to the bottom of that 10,000 ft chasm and your inevitable death.

Driver: Well, is there any sort of safety line?

Engineer: Oooh...yeah...about that...we forgot one. ...And, you know, now we're all the way out here in the desert, so...

Driver: ...Oh.

Either Toyota is paying millions and millions of dollars to stage ridiculously dangerous commercials for a truck that no one wants to buy, or there are just a group of incredibly hardcore engineers who are out in the desert doing these tests for absolutely no reason and Toyota decided to go there and film a session. Neither choice is acceptable, and frankly, they both seem like they should be illegal.

Baby T-shirts

Would it be weird if I started a line of t-shirts for babies? Something about the idea of taking a small person who is unable to speak for himself/herself and putting them in a very offensive shirt, makes me laugh.
Possible Ideas include:

I Smoke Rocks
Babies Are D-bags
Kiss My Ass and Make It Feel Better
I'm a Turd Machine
Hey Add Wizard, I'm 1 and a 1/2
Peek-a-boo. I'm Gonna Kill You.

And so on...

The Interweb

I recently realized that YouTube and blogs aren't the things making people dumber (mine excluded); instead, they're just the things showing everyone how dumb most people are (mine included). Because they can be anonymous and because you can post anything on a message board, people feel free to say what they really think...usually inane, hateful bullshit.

Is this depressing? Yes. But it's also the reality of the situation. The internet is forcing us to look at things that we would prefer to ignore so that we don't get to down on humanity; or if we are looking, things we would never look at in front of other people because we're ashamed we actually want to look at them. But basically, there's a reason that 98% of webspace is used for porn (Oh, and by the way...a lot of it is really weird, too).

The one thing I am concerned about is the effect that technology could have on morality over the long haul. As technology makes things in life progressively easier, people will become more and more accustomed to a lifestyle of cutting corners. I only worry about this because as people more and more frequently avoid challenges because they are difficult, they will be less and less likely to do the right thing if it is difficult. I say this because, it seems like often times the right thing to do is the hardest thing to do. ...Okay. I'll never be serious again.

Ed McMahon's House Forecloser

The irony here is simply off the charts. Seriously...it's incalculable. Please tell me a guy showed up in a van and got out with a super-sized cardboard version of the foreclosure notice and ballons. "Congratulations, Ed! Your house is being seized due to late payments!" Cutaway to Ed giving a testimonial, "I used to think that real people didn't win...But, if it happened to me, it can happen to you!" ...Wait, what? No one remembers Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes?

The Collective Wiener Punch That Has Been Given to Me by Dallas Sports

So let's review:

The Rangers have sucked for 20+ years. That's about all there is to say about that.
The Stars (if I actually cared) have lost to lower seeds in the playoffs in 2 out of the last 3 years, and this year lost in the Western Conference Finals to the hated Redwings (I'm assuming that people who actually watch Stars hockey would consider the Redwings a rival...). So, um, that sucks?
But the real kickers are the Cowboys - who have lost in the first round three times, two of which were in the last two years. This after basically completely sucking ass since '98. They lost the Seattle game, which wasn't necessarily a crushing defeat, but the way we lost it was an embarrassment. And last year losing to the Giants - who, based on recent discussions, seem to be the most hated Cowboys rival at the moment - and then having them go on to the Superbowl and actually win... Plus, they ruined the Superbowl by basically giving us no option of someone to root for. The Giants? No thanks. The Patriots? I'll pass.
And, most importantly the Mavs, who we all know have completely collapsed during the last two years, and in some ways, completely because of something that was out of their control - aka Game 5 of the Finals. Has a referee ever been the driving force behind the total collapse of a franchise? It's hard to say, but in light of all the things being said about officiating these days, there is not doubt in my mind that something fishy was going on in Game 5 - I mean 49 free throws for one team in a single game?! And 25 for Dwayne Wade?! All capped off by the infamous phantom Dirk hack on Dwayne Wade whistled by Bennett Salvatore that sealed the game. If the Mavs win that game - which they absolutely should have - a 2-1 free throw ratio (25-49) is unacceptable to call against a disciplined and good defensive team (which the Mavs were) - then there's no way the Mavs lose 2 straight at home. They win the finals. They don't burn out the following year by trying to win every game because they felt they had something to prove. They don't lose to Golden State (because they probably don't meet them - and are free of choking issues). And they have a good chance to compete for the title that year - their only competition being a good Spurs team that they were built to beat. Thanks Bennett.
The thing that makes it worse, is that there has never been a sports team that I liked as much as this Mavs group. All the guys were great and extremely likeable both as players and as people. They were all good guys. So it makes it worse when some prick like Kobe, who only truly cares about himself, gets everything he wants and seems poised to possibly win a title (if not this year, then probably next year). You always hate to see the spoiled brats continue to get what they want, while good and decent people continue to fail. Kobe's success is the stomach pain that comes after any huge shot to the groin.

Why Fighting is Hilarious

I was making a late In-and-Out Burger run the other night and something truly amazing happened...

No matter when you go to an In-and-Out, day or night, there's always a line, and they're always packed inside. Just a fact. So I was waiting, finally making it up to the intercom and had just finished making my order, when two guys ran up to the door and started screaming, "You messin' with my girl?! You messin' with my girl, man?!"

Instantaneously, I mean, within less than 2 seconds, everyone in the In-and-Out started fighting. Even customers who looked like they didn't even know the people that started the fight, started fighting. It was like everyone just dropped what they were doing and yelled, "It's on!" "Shit's goin' down!" and just started trying to punch the nearest person next to them in the face. I don't know if they were all in rival gangs or what (a few of them were dressed like they had just gotten done swing dancing - does that count?), but it was truly amazing.

So naturally, it quickly spills out in to the parking lot, where people are flying all over the place, girls are screaming and everyone is just throwing haymakers at any person they don't know. People are getting thrown over the hoods of cars and slammed onto the pavement. These two guys came over by my car and started screaming at each other and within a few seconds it became pretty clear that 1) they had no idea who the other one was, and 2) they were not entirely sure why they were about to fight each other. Translation of their yelling match:

Guy #1 (Asian guy): "You got beef?!"

Guy #2 (One of the swing dancers): "I don't got beef! You got beef?!"

Guy #1: "I don't got beef!"

Guy #2: "Then why are we yelling?!"

Guy #1: "I'm not sure!"

Guy #2: "I'm gonna try to punch you in the face now!"

Guy #1: "Oh, now I got beef!!!"

Then they started fighting.

The whole scene was awesome and hilarious. My only reaction was to simply point at different people and laugh uncontrollably at them. I mean, I guess I could have gotten out of my car and actually tried to help someone, but, in my defense, I was paralyzed by laughter.

Things only got better when the shopping center's security guard came over and yes...wait for it...started macing people left and right! Truly amazing. He maced this one girl who was just standing there for absolutely no reason. And it got even better because her screaming sounded like, what I can only imagine it would sound like if someone maced a wounded animal...or maybe an opera singer. Let's go with opera singer. She was this really pale fat girl and after he maced her, her face turned bright red. So she's running around with this neon red face, covering her face with these pale fat arms and making this whaling noise that was continuously changing pitch. It was like, "OOOOOOOHHH-AHHHHHHHH-EEEEEEEHHHH-OOOOOHHHHH!!!!". I couldn't duplicate it for you in a million years, especially in text, but trust me it was amazing.

Anyway, at this point, not unlike all the people who had gotten maced ("Why'd you mace me, bra?! You shouldn't have maced me!"), I was crying, but they were tears of laughter. And to top it all off, I finally made it around in line to pay for my food and they told me I couldn't have it because, "There had been an incident." (No shit) and they slammed the window on me and I had to go home. ...It was still worth it. To quote Anchorman, "Boy, that really escalated quickly...I mean, that really got out of hand fast". I imagine some form of this conversation probably happened a lot that night.

Accessories That Make You Appear Wise

The other day I was at a bar when I looked outside and saw this dude smoking a pipe. He was probably about my age, looked like he hadn't showered in days and was wearing a wife beater, and yet...I wanted him to teach me how to live. I felt like he knew something that I didn't, a secret about life perhaps. Bottom line, I was pretty sure he had information that I needed to know.

Other Wiseness Inducing Accessories Include:

White Beards - if you have one of these you are automatically considered to be smarter than people with regular beards and much smarter than the non-bearded. The key fact being, that if you are stroking a beard while speaking, you gain instant credibility - even if your ideas are incoherent and derivative.
Rocking Chairs - if you are lucky enough to be at a party with a rocking chair, sit in it immediately. You will be the focus of the circle, as any time you open your mouth the person currently talking will be shushed while everyone leans toward you in eager expectation. (For bonus points - start to say something then lean back in the chair, looking up toward the ceiling and slowly tapping your fingers together. Then let out a sigh, lean back toward the group and continue talking.)
An Old Black Man - if know or hang out with an old black man, people will constantly ask you things. Not necessarily because they want to hear what you have to say, but because they secretly hope that you will ask him and then relay the information back.

The Bar "Big Wang's"

Okay, grow up. It's a sports bar. ...C'mon, I swear! Anyway, it's impossible to start your story off with, "I was at Big Wang's" and not have the rest of your story sound completely gay.

Perfect example - the pipe story above:

"The other day I was at a bar called Big Wang's and I looked outside and saw this dude smoking a pipe (See? It's happening already...). He was probably about my age, looked like he hadn't showered in days and was wearing a wife beater, and yet...I wanted him to teach me how to live (Everyone starting to feel weird?). I felt like he knew something that I didn't, a secret about life perhaps (Dear Lord). Bottom line, I was pretty sure he had information that I needed to know (Point proven)."

2008-06-06T10:28:00.000-07:00

Numero Dos

(Note: Hopefully it wasn't my fault entirely, but SuperDeluxe went under shortly after this one got produced. No more job.)

2008-04-25T12:40:00.000-07:00

My First Gig

Just thought I'd share what I've been working on with you guys...

Make sure and go to SuperDeluxe.com and watch Position of the Day, I'm writing/going to write about 25 episodes over the course of the year.

2008-04-08T19:23:00.000-07:00

Just a Nice Little Vegas Trip...

Due to the absurd amount of crazy people that live in downtown Santa Monica, there are always people that are running somewhere. Literally, people just running all over the place...for no reason...all the time. So it occurred to me when I was playing my new favorite game, "How Fast Are They?" (this is where I slow down and drive right next to a crazy running person - then use my speedometer to clock them) that if you spend more time thinking up games to play with mentally unstable people than you actually spend time thinking about work, it might be time for a vacation.

Luckily, my buddy Dan was coming out to LA that weekend and we had to decided to go to Vegas, because that is the way these things are done. For whatever reason, I was determined to take a bus there. I'm not really sure (maybe I was missing the Texas-OU days) but I was very adamant about getting drunk on a bus that was going somewhere. The location wasn't particularly important - the bus is what mattered in my book. Dan was a bit hesitant about this idea at first, mainly because the last time he took a bus somewhere he had a less than pleasant experience...

When Dan was living in D.C. for a summer he decided to take a bus to see his friend that lives in New York. He picked the cheapest bus line he could find, because he was on a budget and thought that the difference between two bus trips was negligible. Well, he changed his mind when he got on the bus and found out that the person he was sitting next to was a chicken. No joke. The guy next to him had a chicken that may, or may not, have bought a bus ticket. Long story short, he got dropped off 4+ hours later in Chinatown with no idea where the hell he was.

So, yeah...Dan was not exactly enthused about the bus at first. He finally came around, after we decided to book a charter bus liner that would pick us up at 7:15 am then floor it directly to the Luxor. This sounded appealing. As did the idea of drinking beer and yelling at each other on a bus that had a 99% chance of being filled with senior citizens.

The trip started off with a few speed bumps. The biggest one being that for a few hours Dan thought he might not actually make into Los Angeles. It turned out that his flight was delayed because, you know, it was snowing in Dallas...in the middle of March...in Dallas. Luckily, the tundra of North Texas warmed up in time for Dan to get a midnight flight. First thing he mentioned when he got in the car, "I've slept for 3 hours in the last two days." Not a great start for Danno.

So he was especially excited when we got to the hotel (where the bus was supposed to pick us up) and a mini-van pulled in front of us and an overly-enthusiastic guy popped his head out and said, "Hey! You guys going to Vegas?!". Dan just stared at me like, "What the fuck?" and I was so embarrassed I had to avoid making eye contact. This was the bus trip I had orchestrated. A mini-van with Dan, myself and 4 strange British people...at 7 in the morning.

Luckily, half-way to Anaheim, we were informed that this was merely a satellite bus and that the real charter bus would be waiting for us there. So to great relief we sat back and enjoyed the rest of the ride as we watched British people excitedly take pictures of exotic things like Highway 5, the Howard Johnson Inn and Mexican people.

My excitement for the bus carried over when I actually saw the charter bus and became 100% sure I wouldn't be going to Vegas in a Ford Windstar. As usual, abundant excitement led to heavy drinking, Young Jeezy bumpin' and the perplexed looks of old people. Needless to say, that Friday, I got the drunkest I've been in quite some time. And several old folks and uncomfortable families got to witness the genesis of this occasion.

The last time I got bombed in Vegas I got kicked off of several blackjack tables for either excessive profanity, concern for financial well-being, or my insistence on attempting to food there ("Sir you can't eat at the gaming tables." Me drunk, "I thought that was what tables were for. You don't understand tables."). Things came to a head when I was getting wiped out late in the night by a dealer named Phanny. After she got 21 for what seemed to be the 800th consecutive time I yelled, "Get your Phanny out my face!" and between "threatening one of the dealers" and the fact that I was apparently speaking "ebonics", I was immediately removed.

This time things went a little smoother, instead of threatening a blackjack dealer, I sexually harassed one. It was the opposite situation, I was up about $300 and going on a pretty silly run. I was still cursing a lot, but this time out of excitement. It turns out though, even if the curses are good curses, they're still not allowed. As I was told several times thoughout the night, "...this is a family casino" (even though no one under 21 is allowed inside? ...My bad.) So when the dealer Tonya, instructed me to say "fudge" instead of the alternative, I took her advice not wanting to end my hot streak. So when I hit 21 for what seemed to be my 800th consecutive time, I couldn't help but yell, "Tonya, I wanna fudge you!" at the top of my lungs. She did not approve of this usage. This time I removed myself.

So when you're out in Vegas, it's 3a.m., and you just won a bunch of money, I guess the rule is that you have to go to a strip club. Danny and I didn't know this, but his friends from law school informed us this was the case and I was in no condition to argue. I also really wanted to eat a steak for some reason and the cab driver told us that "Treasures" was the only place that could make this happen. I think I said something like, "Mmphylttypuf...steak..." and we were on our way.

I remember Danny's boys being into the whole thing. There were some girls that came over and talked to us. Well, not to us...to them. No one could talk to me. Somewhere between ordering my 15th Budweiser that night and watching a huge stripper sit on Danny's lap and force feed him calamari, I pretty much blacked out. All I remember is finishing my $50 steak and then walking directly outside of Treasure's to ralph it back up. I really got my money's worth. I had eaten a steak for over 2 minutes.

Outside, I vaguely recall holding on to the top of two bushes for support. They were a few feet apart and about knee high, so while blindly grasping onto to the top of each one, my body just swung wildly back and forth between them like a drunken pendulum. All while I continued to vomit into the grass. Then a valet guy came up and told me I couldn't do that - but I argued with him for probably 2-3 minutes because I didn't realize that he wasn't Danny. Eventually, I made it back inside and had to do very little to convince everyone that I needed to go back to the hotel.

The second day and the trip home were far more civilized. A lot of chill moments and pretty much an all around great time. Some sports book (where - and this should tell you how bad it's gotten - I actually bet against the Mavs; partly out of bitterness and partly because I just honestly thought it was the right move), a crazy Russian at the blackjack table (who annoyed the hell out of me by legitimately asking me over 15 times, "Do you think that girl's a prostitute?" and then screwed me out of $200 by taking a ridiculous hit), a hilarious woman who's daughter was trying out for the WNBA, an economics professor who snapped on me when I blamed high oil prices on the Bush administration (turned out his dad owned a few gas stations), and a number of other surprisingly typical moments that can happen in Vegas. All in all, pretty standard stuff.

On the trip back we were privileged to view what I can honestly say, is the worst movie I have ever seen..."Mr. Bean's Holiday". I can't begin to explain to you how bad this movie is, but I can tell you it spawned some of the funniest jokes I have ever heard...

So just a little background on Mr. Bean:

1) He thinks making faces at people like you have diarrhea classifies as comedy.

2) He thinks it's a good idea to have Mr. Bean be the main character in movies - even though his character NEVER TALKS. I can't stress enough, how incredibly creepy it is to have a main character in a movie that never talks. This spawned hundred's of new titles for future Bean movies: "Mr. Bean Commits Arson", "Mr. Bean Kills a Drifter and Leaves the Body in an Abandoned Ravine" "Mr. Bean Rapes a Baby", etc.

There is one scene in the movie where this pretty girl (played by some poor actress) decides it's a good idea to pick up Mr. Bean (a.k.a. the creepiest guy ever) as a hitchhiker. She starts to ask him questions, but he doesn't answer ANY of them; he just keeps making faces at her like he just shit himself and giggling. It is incredibly weird. Of course, in the movie she finds it absolutely adorable. But can you imagine how scared you'd be in real life? It would be absolutely terrifying. "Hey what's your name?" [Long pause...followed by giggling, then Bean staring at you cross-eyed and fart noises]. You would immediately pull to the side of the road and mace him.

3) The screenplay of this movie was written by 5! people. We tried to imagine how they put this comedic masterwork down on paper. Did they type things like: "And then Bean walks around in a tool shed for some reason," or "Bean goes to a farm and looks at things [Insert 5 minutes of hilarious Bean improv]"? Or what about the inexplicable scene where Bean takes over behind the wheel of the girl's car? There's a scene where Bean is falling asleep at the wheel, so he starts coming up with all sorts of ZANY ways to stay awake. This coming to a head when Bean uses a cigarette lighter to burn himself and wake up, then runs the car off the road - causing Dan to yell, "Just buy a cup of coffee Bean, you crazy fuck!"

So as we watched Mr. Bean single-handedly dismantle an entire city carnival, I realized it might be impossible to escape weird things. Whether it's Santa Monica, Las Vegas or a bus filled with old people, it seems like you'll find a little weird everywhere. Or maybe I just need to make better decisions about how I use my time. After all, I just wrote 41/2 paragraphs on "Mr. Bean's Holiday". So like I said, it was just a nice little Vegas trip.

2008-03-27T11:02:00.000-07:00

Some Videos That I 've Watched Way Too Many Times

I found this one while doing research on Wilford Brimley. ..I'm not going to tell you why I was doing research on Wilford Brimley, that's between me, myself and anyone who happened to look over my shoulder at work.

Anyway, it really can't be explained, except that combines two of my favorite things ever: angry old men and remixes.

...Oh, and despite it's effect on people, diabetes is one of the all time funniest words.

Speaking of which, when we were developing the show "Shaq's Big Challenge" (the one where Shaq makes kids lose weight), they asked to brainstorm names for the show. My submissions were "Kazaam! The Kids are Skinny" and my other was "Shaq Keeps Kids from Getting Diabetes and Hypertension"...they did not get chosen...

Anyway, check out this clip of the big man in high school. The highlight coming at about the midway point when the Diesel blocks some poor kids shot, then takes it coast-to-coast and yams it on his even more unfortunate teammate.

This next one, I just thought was amazing; if nothing else just purely for the production value alone. And with the release of "There Will Be Blood" this week it seemed appropriate.

Check out the trailer before you watch the vid below: http://www.therewillbeblood.com/

This one, well, this is just probably the coolest music video I've ever seen. Warning: If you like 1980's graphics then maybe you shouldn't watch...your head might explode.

2008-03-11T19:44:00.000-07:00

I'm on that Paperchase

The idea of asking your boss for a raise has to be one of the most uncomfortable ideas in the history of ever*. It sucks because you're basically telling the guy who is responsible for you eating something this week, that you don't like what you're eating. The reality of the situation is that he'll probably just say "No," or "Not right now," and then forget about it 30 minutes later. But in your head your thinking, "Well, then he's gonna think I'm ungrateful, and then he's gonna think I only care about the money, and then he's going to spear me in the middle of the office or as I'm leaving he's just going to suddenly appear behind me and snap my neck like Steven Segal...that would be very embarrassing... ".

I was 98% sure that my boss wasn't going to murder me. But, he could murder my career by basically forcing me to start over somewhere else - and that is truly horrifying idea. So, I wasn't exactly happy to tell him that he needed to fork it over.

What happened in the meeting is still not entirely clear to me, but from what I can remember I think I handled it pretty smoothly...

I do remember that I was sweating like Lou Dobbs in Tijuana; I was getting the full blown adrenalin rush - clammy palms, increased heart-beat, and the unusual sensation that my ass was no longer attached to my body (I'm not sure what sort of evolutionary purpose this has).

I decided to lead with a visual, so I removed my presentation tool from my pocket. Taking advice from the best employee I know (the fictional worker, Dwight Schrute) I had written out an anagram of my name that highlighted my best attributes. It was written in crayon on a cocktail napkin and read as such:

D.oug
O.ut of Money
U.ncomforatble
G.onna need money
douG.

The fact that this did not impress him, scared me, so I made an innapropriate comment about his wife. Then, well, this is where it starts to get really fuzzy.

I then tried explaining to him that I was a hustler and told him, "Break yo' self" a few times. This had little effect. Once I realized he didn't know what the words that I was saying meant, I just started shouting arbitrary numbers at him as fast as I could. "4! 2008! 87! -12!" Then I blacked-out.

I came to sometime later and I was sitting at my desk, staring blankly at my computer screen. Despite having no recollection of the past 15 minutes, I was overwhelmed by the inexplicable knowledge that I would now be getting paid significantly less than I used to. It's been three weeks and I still have no greater understanding of happened in that corner office.

Long story short, can anyone loan me a few bucks? I am willing to discuss an exact figure.

*History of Uncomfortableness*

10,237 B.C. - The first fart. Dogs had yet to be domesticated, so there were no excuses.

Nothing happened for awhile...

750 B.C. - The dinner table is created. Families feel obligated to eat with one another despite having nothing in common. Thousands of years of uncomfortable silence and fork scraping ensue.

1517 A.D. - Martin Luther posts his reformation letter on the door of the Roman Catholic Church, totally owning them. Protestants are formed. ...Aaawkwaaard!

1533 A.D. - Henry VII gets the first divorce. The kids don't like any of his next seven wives and it becomes weird when they are dropped off for the weekend.

1816 A.D. - The elevator is invented. People are forced to make small talk about the Bombardment of Algiers, and how Buffalo just became a city.

1921 A.D. - Increased city foot traffic causes two people to simultaneously move in the same direction as they try to get past one another. Pedestrians are forced to make eye-contact and pretend like it's not irritating.

1980 A.D. - Cinemax is created. Young kids everywhere caught masturbating by parents. Parents instinctively shudder whenever the words, "Red Shoe" or "Diaries" are uttered.

1991 A.D. - Kenny G reaches height of popularity.

2006 A.D. - YouTube is invented. People soon realize that things on the site can be viewed by everyone. Some come to the realization too late...

For All I know,
I did this during the meeting.

2008-03-02T23:30:00.000-08:00

My Name is Doug Cooper...
and I'm Addicted to Young Jeezy

I'm not going to pretend that this is a good thing. I'm not going to make an argument for the substance or artistic relevance of someone who calls himself the "Snowman" to suggest that he's made of coke; but I'll be damned if it's not the catchiest shit around. Maybe it's the gutteral, marching-style flow against that bubbly production; or maybe it's the incessant self-congratulations for his own incredibly mediocre lyrics ("Daaaaaamnnnnn!"). Whatever it is, it's my musical addiction.

I know it's not good for me, but I just can't kick the habit. I know that I look absolutely ridiculous when I'm driving around blaring "Bury Me a G" (my car's AC is broken so I have to roll the windows down and share it with the, soon to be very confused, world); and I know I induce blatant laughter when the beat over takes me and I am powerless to keep from performing my illest, hip-hop hand movements. But what can I say? Tha Jeez has a hold on me that's as strong as the crack he so prominently once sold.

Don't believe me? Watch this video.
...But be warned, you might black-out only to come
to three weeks later and realize that there's
no reason to own 47 copies of "Let's Get It".

I fear the inevitable downward spiral that is to come. Eventually, I will alienate my friends and family - "I can't be seen with Doug anymore - he looks absolutely ridiculous in a black hoodie and skull cap". And it's only a matter of time before I murder someone for Thug Motivation 103 money. So, in order to avoid my own Jeezy-induced, self-destruction, I have devised a 12 Step Program to kick the habit.

[Note: I may have borrowed a few these from AA]

Step 1: I admit that I am powerless over Young Jeezy - and that my life has become unmanageable.

Step 2: I have come to believe that a Power greater than myself can restore my sanity (Jay-Z?).

Step 3: I have made a decision to turn over my will and my life to the care of God as I understand him (I assume that God means U-God from Wu-Tang Clan).

Step 4: I have made a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself - "I will never be good at selling drugs, nor will I ever be hard or have any form of "street cred"."

Step 5: I am entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character - "Why can't I like the Eagles like a normal white person?"

Step 6: I have humbly asked him to remove all shortcomings - "God please make me a better dancer."

Step 7: I have humbly asked Him to remove my shortcomings - "Young Jeezy, for the love of God, please don't release another album. ...I won't make it."

Step 8: I have made a list of all the persons I have harmed, and I am willing to make amends to them all - "I am returning my "Young Dougy" chain and Frank Mueller watch first thing in the morning."

Step 9: I made direct amends to suck people whenever possible, except when to do so would injure others - "I will hold on to the crack that I purchased."

Step 10: I will continue to take personal inventory and when I am wrong I will promptly admit it - "I'm not even going to start listening to Slim Thug."

Step 11: Sought through prayer and meditation, I will improve my conscious by praying for God's will for me and the power to carry it out - "God, in the name of all that is holy, don't let Young Jeezy release another album. ...I won't make it."

Step 12: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, I will try to carry this message to other Jeezy-holics and to practice these principles in all our affairs. - "I can hold on to those Young Jeezy albums for you..."

Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. I just wanted to let you guys know, because...well...I need you support. Please help me. Together we can get through this.

2008-02-18T19:37:00.000-08:00

Stay Out of the Library, Roger

I do not use do steroids. This is true. Despite what you may infer from my unbelievable physique or my undisputed athletic prowess, I have managed to steer clear of steroids and any alternative form of performance enhancing drugs.

Roger Clemens, on the other hand, has not navigated these waters so cleanly. I can't remember this level of blatant lying from an athlete since OJ vowed to find his wife's killers or any of the times that Barry Bonds has opened his mouth. Considering certain factors - for instance, when you have a sudden resurgence on the down swing of your career, your hat size triples; when your wife, best friend and trainer implicate you; and that one time you snapped in the middle of a game and threw a bat at Mike Piazza for absolutely no reason - you would think one would be hard pressed to deny it, but that's exactly what he did. And he did so with a rock solid defense - 'They must have misremembered it". What can I say? That is absolutely bulletproof. Clemens' complete disregard of integrity has made me realize some things. The most important being the sweeping generalization that steroid users...brace yourself...might not be that smart.

Roger Clemens is a huge tool.

Considering user's intelligence quotient and considering every person I've ever seen on spring break, the last place I might expect to find one these testosterone riddled madmen is at the library. I mean, that makes sense, right? This isn't to say that everyone at a library is smart, but some thirst for knowledge would seem to imply that they're not idiots. I would also think a library would mostly contain a group of people who are not as completely oblivious as our boy Roger here. ...Well, I guess I was wrong on both counts. Mainly, because there's no other way to explain what happened to me this week - oblivious idiot is the only option.

I went to the library last week to get some peace and quiet and try to finish up a few things that I had been putting off. So I sat down at a corner table of the library, got out my computer, put my head phones in and started working. Pretty standard. Only problem was, little did I know, that I was sitting about 10 feet away from just such a roided out maniac. He was hiding in the last place I would have ever expected.

A few minutes later, I hear...

Roids: Hey. Hey dude! Do you fuckin' mind?!

Completely shocked and not sure what was going on, I took out my headphones to get a better understanding of why this random guy at the next table just yelled at me for absolutely no reason.

Me: What?

Roids: Can you turn down the fuckin' music man? I'm trying to work here.

At this point, I am completely disoriented. Mainly, because I had my headphones in - so what music? It wasn't like I was trying to deafen the shit out of my self by blasting them, I was listening to them at about 30% probably.

So, I had no idea what the hell this guy was talking about. I was so confused, I double checked just to make sure music wasn't coming out of my computer speakers. My mind was boggled.

Me: Are you serious?

Roids: Yeah, I'm serious. I can't think with that shit playing.

Me: Ummm....well...I don't know what to tell you.

Keep in mind this guy is 10 feet away from me. I took my earphones out and let them hang by my chest. I could barely hear them from there! I relayed this information.

Me: Hey man, I can barely hear them from here. Just relax.

Roids: Well I can hear that shit from here. Either turn it down or fuckin' go sit somewhere else.

Speechless for a moment...

Me: Well...now I can't turn them down because you're being a huge dick about it.

It was a pride thing at this point.

This is not what he wanted to hear. The guy just sat there, staring at me with a look on his face like one of the characters in the movie Scanners, right before their head explodes. ...Then he turned around and went back to work.

It was...strange...

At first, I thought maybe he was just on edge. Maybe this guy had a term paper on deadline or a big test that he hadn't prepared for. I was willing to shrug it off and not worry about it. As a matter of fact, I even turned down my music a click just to avoid agitating him any more.

A few minutes go by and everything's cool. But what happened next could only lead me to believe that this guy had a chemical imbalance. It was either an imbalance caused by roids or he was the angriest person in the history of time. One of the two.

He walks over to the table and stands over me. I look up at him and at this point I realized this was no longer going to be civilized - as much as I may have preferred it to be.

Roids: I'm not going to tell you again...turn the music off.

Me: Sorry man. Can't do it.

Roids: Turn the fucking music down!

Me: No. I'm can't turn it down now because you're being a ridiculous asshole about it! Just let it go.

Roids: Fuck you! I'm trying to get shit done over here and you're playing you're shitty music!

Me: Ask me nicely and I'll turn it down. Ask me nicely.

Roids: No.

Me: C'mon, just ask me nicely and I'll turn it down. Don't be an asshole and I'll turn it off.

Roids: No. Fuck you. I am an asshole and you're gonna be sorry!

Me: Why? What are you going to do? Are you going to tattle on me?! Are you going to tell the librarians?

By now we're both standing over my table yelling at each other. Other people are looking at us like they have no idea what's going on. I didn't really want to make a scene but this guy was such an absurd human being that I was getting pissed off too.

Roids: Oh, all right. You wanna get fucked up, huh?

Me: Not really.

Roids: You wanna get fucked up.

As much as I didn't want to fight the guy, it wasn't seeming like he was going to leave me a lot of options at this point. He, at least, wasn't so huge that I was afraid of him. He was a lot shorter than me, so if worst came to worst I probably would have survived.

Roids: Yeah, you're asking for it.

Me: Are you being serious right now? ...Are you being serious?

Roids: Just wait. Just wait till you leave. You're gonna be sorry.

Me: You want to fight? Is that what you're saying? If you wanna fight then let's just go get it over with.

Roids: You're fucking ugly.

Yeah. That's what he said next. At this point, I just started laughing and I couldn't stop. It was something about the look on his face when he said it. He was SO serious and he had this smirk on his face as if to say, "Yeah...I went there." Oh, and I also started laughing because it was SO COMPLETELY LUDICROUS THAT THIS WAS HAPPENING. We are in a library and this ridiculous douche is calling me ugly?! What?!

So...the laughing didn't help with the whole rage thing. He was about to sit down after the he threw out that little ace in the hole, but I guess the fact that I didn't start crying just made things worse. Now he was back at my table with a second wind.

Roids: You are! You're so fucking ugly! Just look at your face!

(Laughing uncontrollably)

Roids: You should get some Pro-Activ for your fucking face. It's disgusting!

(Trying not to urinate in my pants).

Roids: Send off for some fucking Pro-Activ 'cuz you're disgusting!

Me: Who are you? (more laughing) Fucking Jessica Simpson?

Roids: You're so fucking ugly. Get some help.

Me: Hey P-Diddy, you really know how to hit me where it hurts.

This went on for about 2-3 more minutes.

I feel like this is a good time to tell you that the guy was dressed like this:

Only he was Asian.

Luckily for me, he just let me have it with a barrage of "you're ugly" or "you're disgusting" comments, so during fits of laughter, I had time to come up with slightly better material. I finally inquired about his incredibly sweet hat by asking him, "Is this a scene from Newsies? I can't believe that you're a real person."

I don't think he really got it, so he made fun of my looks some more and then finally sat back down. The weirdest part of this was that after all his deep-seeded anger, so much so, that I thought he was going to leap over the table and we'd just start battling in the middle of the library - he just picked up his stuff and left. Not even a parting shot. He didn't even make eye contact.

After the adrenalin wore off and I got a little bit of work done, I packed up and left about an hour later. Part of me thought that he left so quickly because he wanted to go home and change out his diesel t-shirt and twill blazer before the fight. Maybe he'd be waiting for me outside the library wearing head-to-toe Under Armour and weight lifting gloves - just fuckin' ready to get into it. ...But he wasn't. ...And that was the extent of our skirmish.

I guess my point is this: no matter how over-the-top it may seem that Congress is investigating Roger Clemens this week; maybe it's for the best. Maybe it's a good thing that people everywhere get to see what an idiot you look like if you use this stuff. If books can't reach these young people then maybe a televised trial can. Because, honestly, no one should have to put up with this stuff. ...Especially at the library.

2008-01-30T19:27:00.000-08:00

Coolio and The Gang

Many years ago, I lived in Garland. This is true. Back then, I was excited that we got this thing called cable tv. It was new and definitely one of the most amazing things that had happened in my young life. When we first got this cable thing I discovered a channel called MTV , which I watched religiously. Everyday, all day, I watched MTV and because of it I developed a love of music that still lives today. Later, I would also learn that it destroyed what could have been a functional brain; plummeting my standards for common decency and shredding my attention span to -18 seconds.

I tell you this, because for whatever reason, I remember a specific spurt of MTV watching very vividly. I was sitting in my bedroom, waiting for my grandpa to pick me up - when Coolio's video for "Too Hot" came on (for those of you who don't know - Too Hot is basically an after school special rapped by Coolio on the dangers of promiscuous sex - so, needless to say, it's a really, really good song).

See for yourself: http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-3053459474683068597

Anyway, maybe it was the odd juxtaposition of the situation (waiting for my grandpa to pick me up) or maybei was because the song was just that bad, but for whatever reason I've never forgotten this. I can still remember sitting there on my bed, staring curiously, with my head cocked to one side - like when you tell a dog a word it doesn't understand. I was only 12, but even at such a young age, I remember instantly not liking it. Not only that, but I remember thinking several times, "This guy's hair is ridiculous."

I tell you all this, because back then I had no idea that many years later Coolio would come back into my life. Not only once, but twice.

Flash forward 8 years later, and Coolio is scheduled to play at a party for our fraternity. It's amazing how time flies. One moment he's on MTV, the next moment he's turning the backyard of our house into a gangster's paradise for 5 g's. Talk about livin' the dream!

The first time he came into my life wasn't a very important moment. I had no interaction with this event at all - and unfortunately, no stories. Don't get me wrong, the second time we crossed paths wasn't important either, but it is a funny story.

Recently, our company got the genius idea to do a show with this Coolio in order to capitalize on how blazing hot his career is right now - not to mention we just wanted to be associated with this radiant beacon of human talent. So, we let the light shine and it showed us the way to a show called "Coolio and the Gang". This is a show about Coolio raising his multitude of children and handing Too Hot-esque life lessons. "Son, listen to your father , 'Fools be rushin around without that protection...for the erection'." "...Wow...Thanks dad." So I know what you're thinking - when do I tune in? Well, getting there was part of the problem.

These days, for every TV show that is given a name, it is also given a website. Now, for those of you who have never tried to buy a website name - it's nearly impossible. Tons and tons of stuff has been bought already, but the closer to the website's name to show's name, the better. Makes sense. So because so many names have already been bought, you order what is called a "Title Source Report" - which is a fancy form basically telling you who owns what website names and how much it's going to cost you.

The following is what happened after the title source report came into the office...

Playing the Role of Mike (works in show development): A reasonable human being.

Playing the Role of Coolio: Drunk Coolio.

Mike got the title source report and started going through the websites - checking them on the computer to see what was what. No sooner did he start, than he stopped and staggered out of his office with a look of pure horror on his face.

All he said was, "Oh...My...God."

He pulled up the website for us to look at and there sandwiched between two GIGANTIC women's asses was Coolio's face - with an expression very similar to mine the first time I saw "Too Hot". CoolioandtheGang.com was a gang-bang website. ...yep.

Not only was it a website filled with incredibly graphic pornography, but it also turns out that Coolio was in every picture. Every picture! I can't stress that enough - he was in every picture. He wasn't participating, thank god, but he was standing in the background of all of them, nodding in approval or sometimes even giving an enthusiastic thumbs up. Why did this exist? What was he doing there? Was he giving pointers? Was he taking mental notes? I can't say for sure, but I kept expecting to click on one of the photos and see him standing there holding a wearing coaches socks and holding a clipboard or maybe wearing a referee shirt about to blow a whistle. I guess, Coolio just wanted to make sure things were getting done right.

Well this posed a huge problem for us - mainly because the show was going to air on Oxygen - and when the majority of your audience is going to be 40-50 year old women - I don't think they want to click on the "show's website" and accidentally stumble across super-explicit gang-banging. I mean, who does really? So this wasn't good and Mike had to fix it.

He called:

Coolio: Hello?

Mike: Hey Coolio, it's Mike. I need to talk to you about somehting.

Coolio: Whaddup?

Mike: Why didn't you think it would be a good idea to tell us that you were running a porn site
under the exact same name of the show?

Coolio: Site? What site?

Mike: CoolioandtheGang.com.

Coolio: What?

Mike: CoolioandtheGang.com.

[Extremely long and awkward pause]

Coolio: Hold up...

I'll have to paraphrase the rest - mainly because I blacked-out for a little bit due to the surreal nature of the situation. Basically, Coolio tried very hard to convince everyone that he had no idea the site existed. He said this many times...it didn't work.

Finally, he came to this conclusion:

Coolio: You know what it is? ...Oh yeah... ...I went to this strip club awhile back and they took my picture and all that kinda stuff. They must've photoshopped me in or somethin.

Mike: Coolio...you're in every picture.

[Long pause]

Coolio: Hold up...

Seeing as how this excuse was getting him nowhere, Coolio convinced everyone that he would, "take care of it." So we waited for a little bit.

To our surprise, the site was down in literally 10 minutes. Unless you're the one flipping the switch - there is no way you can get a website down in 10 minutes. It's just not physically possible. So if the hundreds of pictures didn't give it away, this move pretty much assured everyone that he was behind the site.

When Mike called him back and asked him how he got the site down so fast; you know, without lawyers, or knowing who made the site, or any technical expertise whatsoever... He responded with this:

Coolio: Aww man. you know what? ...I got these hackers, see? I got this team of hackers...and I got them to hack the site. They hacked the site good, and took it offline.

Mike: Really Coolio?

Coolio: They work quick, man. What can I say?

That was it. He didn't find it necessary to offer any more explanation. That was sufficient in his book.

Mike: ...Okay Coolio. ...Whatever you say.

Coolio has hackers on his payroll...this is information we all need. Not even just one hacker, he has a team of hackers. They just sit around, 24 hours a day, waiting for him to be photoshopped into other porn sites, and then they go to work with a ferocity and quickness the likes of which you've never seen! They...are...RUTHLESS!

I have to say that in posting this story I'm a little worried. ...Actually, I'm scared. I'm won't lie. I fear for the safety of my online persona. My e-mails, my facebook, this blog - they are all now susceptible to the wrath of Coolio and his unstoppable army of hackers. What should I do? ...Luckily, I know that I need protection...and I'm going to make absolutely sure that I get it. Coolio taught me that a long time ago...in a little song called "Too Hot".

2008-01-14T19:46:00.000-08:00

It's On.

So, after recently getting my 800,000th parking ticket, I have decided that I'm going to snuff out a large handful of Meter Maids and Tow-Truck Drivers. As a runner (the delivery kind - not olympic kind) they have become my arch enemies and the deep hatred I harbor inside grows daily.

My plan is simple and goes as follows: First, I get them all in one place - kind of like a convention. I'm going to lure them in with an ad in the paper that promises the chance to fuck people over, be generally disagreeable to everyone for absolutely no reason and free cake. They'll all show up. After getting them all in the same building I will simply lock them in for about a week. To pass the time there will be seminars on topics such as, "How to Ruin Someone's Day in Less Than Two Minutes" and "Coming Up With Your Own Nazi-esque Excuses" - like, "I'm just doing my job," or "I don't have a choice". This will last a few days, but eventually they're all going to turn on each other when the Meter Maids start telling people where they can and can't sit and the Tow-Truck Drivers start moving other people's shit around without asking. By the end of the week they will have all died from irritation and I don't have to physically commit murder. Everybody wins!

2008-01-07T10:38:00.000-08:00

The Dirty No, No - Part Deux

We all get a little rundown at work. And when your job involves a heavy amount of grocery shopping - well you getting rundown basically means that your head might explode if you don't take a vacation soon. We all need a few days off for some much needed relief. And nothing spells relief like a trip to post-Katrina New Orleans for Mardi Gras! Who's excited?!

Combine the fact that myself and all my friends were feeling the same way about work, with the fact this was would probably be one of the seediest Mardi Gras ever, and I knew going in that nothing positive could happen. And, my liver knew going in, that it hated me.

So, to get me really fired up and ready to drink, I had a 4 hour+ flight from LA to New Orleans at 6am. I'm not sure why I decided to fly in this early, but my thinking was that I sleep on the plane and get there well rested and ready to roll for the entire day. Well, I was wrong because it was possibly the most unpleasant flight of my life. First of all, my middle seat logically landed between the two fattest, sweatiest dudes on the plane. It was like I was playing center for Wisconsin Badgers O-line for 4 1/2 hours. And second, they've got to do something about the seats they're throwing down on planes. I felt like I was sitting in a baby car seat. Basically, I was more uncomfortable on my trip to Louisiana than Nate Newton was trafficking 400+ pounds of marijuana across the same border.

Let me preface the rest of this complaint by saying, that before we had even gotten there, Neal (my buddy that we would be staying with) had issued several complaints in the previous weeks that a mysterious man had been pooping on his doorstep. Notice I said weeks, plural...meaning multiple poops...on his doorstep...at different times. Point being, it wasn't like conditions were going to get more comfortable once I got there.

The bottom line (possibly literally) is, that when you wake up mid-flight and for a split-second think that you've become paralyzed from the waist down because your entire ass and legs have fallen asleep, it's time for the airline to address seat comfort. They need to do it before someone becomes permanently crippled after being on a 5-hour economy flight from LA to Jersey. Dear Lord. I arrived in a pleasant mood is all I'm saying.

Of course, we contemplated driving, but after my last road trip through New Orleans, this didn't seem like a much better option. Outside of an ever-present feeling of dread about the inevitable murking that would take place on the backwoods of I-20, I had to deal with 6 consecutive hours of Chris Schedler discussing the inner-workings of his own anus. And if it wasn't that, it was him constantly referring to Louisiana as Lil-Weezy-anna. Since that drive was the closest thing to experiencing Agent Orange gas since Veitnam, I definitely didn't want any Schedler fart-related flashbacks. Probably better to fly.

So I got off the plane and I swear to God I thought I was in a fucking Zatarain's commercial. It was out of control. Mardi Gras decorations everywhere, ragtime music was blaring and I'm pretty sure someone in the airport was making jambalaya. I had never been in the New Orleans airport before, but I don't know why it surprised me to find out it was just as crazy as the rest of the city. Bad mood subsiding.

The thing that stood out about this Mardi Gras was that there was music playing everywhere. The difference about this year versus years past was that you could actually hear it. With fewer people around the street noise wasn't deafening and with room to maneuver you could stop into a lot of different places to check it out. And let me just say, strange things happen when the people of New Orleans hear music.

On the first night we were staying late in the casino. I was down money and still kind of pissed off. All the sudden a small marching band comes through the middle of the casino jamming out to "The Saints go Marching In". I just sat back and watched as they made their way through the middle of the casino while 15+ drunk people joined in the proceedings to make their best attempt at marching and to sing a version of the song's lyrics that only they knew. Bad mood over.

The other music related incident is one that cheered me up and will also forever prove in my mind that black people are cooler than white people. On another night, we were going to stop into the casino for a few minutes before going out. Outside the casino Harrah's had set up two bars that flanked the main entrance. They were just large booths and in between them a DJ booth with large speakers in between all three. There were a handful of people drinking from the bars and the space in between them was relatively empty. As we're walking up the steps and about to go in, the opening beats and blip of synthesizers from DJ Unk's "Walk It Out" began to play. Soon followed by screams and a lot of commotion from the bar area. We turn around to see that the dance space had been instantly filled by about 100+ black people, all of them dancing and "Walking it Out". We we just stood for 3 minutes in total awe. Have you ever just started laughing uncontrollably because something is so cool you just can't think of any other way to respond? Well, that's what were doing...for the entire song. How could you ever have a bad time when there are people dancing in the streets? Trust me it's impossible.

This is the vibe of New Orleans. It puts you in a kind of mood where it's hard to get mad about anything...unless it's FEMA related, of course.

For instance, we all stayed out late one night, but Neal, feeling a bit under the weather, went home early. Earlier in the day we had gone to eat BBQ...for breakfast. The place was amazing and they still served us even though we rolled in having just woke up and wearing some of the most ridiculous ensembles of all time (I personally was rocking a pink polo, blue Nike basketball shorts, argyle socks pulled up my knees and sandles - pretty standard). Anyway, we got all this BBQ, but the plate I got had huge portions, so I boxed it up and took it home - clearly with the intention of saving it for drunk food to eat later. Anyway, that night I get home - very excited about the eating it...but it wasn't in the fridge. Then I looked over and saw that on the coffee table lay the remnants of a devoured rib. There was not even an attempt at clean-up. The bones were just sitting there in a sauce covered napkin.

My buddy Danny and I just look at each other. Neal's bed was in a loft just above this coffee table, so I asked him.

"Hey Neal?"

Neal from his bed, "...Yeah?"

"Did you eat my ribs?"

[long pause]

"...No."

Danny and I just started laughing hysterically. Mainly because he was dead serious and trying to pull off the lie. The only problem was that he was drunk and forgot that he had left some very damning evidence out in the middle of the living room. Ordinarily, such crimes might have irritated me, but it was Mardi Gras so who cares. I'll just dress like an idiot again in the morning and go get some other delicious food.

What else did I learn in New Orleans? ...From now on, whenever I think about giving up...I will forever remember the ferocious tenacity displayed on the steps of a New Orleans bar by Mr. Danny Cox. What I saw that night was like the modern-day equivalent to the our childhood story "The Little Engine That Could". Only in this case the conductor was a completely belligerent drunk guy and instead of trying to scale a mountain he was trying to drunk-dial his friend at 4 in the morning.

Like I said, it was quiet enough on the streets to hear music, but it was not nearly quiet enough to make a phone call. Throw in the fact that by the time you hit the French Quarter you're usually six deep on beverages and you knew you'd be incommunicado as soon as you hit Bourbon Street. So for whatever reason (its seems to have escaped me - almost as if we had been drinking till 4 a.m.), Danny decided that he needed to make a phone call to one of his buddies and was quite determined to do so. Well, it just so happened that the bar he was trying to take cover in (to get some quiet) was one that was trying to close for the night. Obviously, they didn't want a drunk Danny in their bar. And let me just say, Danny might be one of the most passive people ever. He legitimately does not give a fuck about most things. But, for whatever reason, these people trying to close their bar did not sit well with him. He was going to make this phone call whether they wanted him to or night.

So after a good 5-6 minutes of this:

Danny: Just let me make this phone call!

Bouncer: I told you we're closing! Get out of the bar dumbass!

Danny: I have to make this call!

Bouncer: Get the fuck out of the bar asshole!

Danny: Let me make one fucking phone call!

After I watched that go on for 5-6 minutes (I mean seriously, it lasted that long - they kept going back and forth like it was a legitimate argument. Couldn't you see this in a real debate? "Yes, my opponent makes an interesting point...but, did I mention, 'Get the fuck out of the bar asshole?'"). Well, it finally dawned on the bouncer, "Wait, I'm a lot bigger than this guy"...and, "Oh, and I'm also a bouncer" and he just decided to throw Danny out the door.

You'd think at this point he might have given up on his drunk-dial dreams, but Oh No. He would not go quietly. Oh, and did I mention the bouncer threw Danny into a pile of garbage? Well that's important. It took Danny a solid 2 minutes to awkwardly roll himself out the pile of trash that was stacked up on Bourbon St. I have to get him credit though, because once he got out, he immediately came back for more. ...Of course, it took so long for him to actually come back for more that by the time he got to the door the bouncer had already locked it and walked away.

Danny didn't stop though. He huddled himself up on the bar's doorstep and tried to make his call again. ...Here's where the story gets really absurd. For some reason, the idea of Danny even standing on the bar's doorstep enraged the bouncer. He turned around saw Danny outside the door with his phone and got extremely pissed. He headed straight to the door, warned Danny to move, then unlocked all the dead bolts - there were 3 - just so he could push Danny into garbage again...which he did.

From here on out, it just turned into some sort of drunken Abbot & Costello routine. Danny was just feeding into it at this point. The bouncer kept throwing Danny in trash and Danny kept eventually climbing out of it. As soon as he climbed out, he'd go right back to the doorstep, make sure the bouncer could see him and his phone and then start dialing. The bouncer would walk back to the door, undo all the deadbolts again and it just kept happening. I can't stress enough that this happened many, many...many times. And I just stood there in amazement, watching it as it just kept going. Neither one of them were going to back down. Of course, there were variations on the showdown itself - Danny doing a little soft-shoe tap dancing on the doorstep; the bouncer yelling the occasional, "Get off my fucking porch you dick!" - but the general concept was the same. Danny tries to use phone, bouncer opens door, Danny falls into garbage, Danny gets out of garbage, Danny feels like calling friend again.

Finally, this whole thing came to an end when a legitimately insane woman came down from the upstairs part of the bar and told us that she was gonna mace us if we didn't leave. Of course, Danny thought she was going to pull a gun on us and kept yelling, "What are you gonna do shoot me?! C'mon shoot me! I dare you!" After I convinced him that this was a very, very bad idea, we decided it'd be a good time to run into the night, giggling hysterically. They probably thought we were on PCP or something. I can just see them - they look at each other, watching Danny and I run into the distance, laughing uncontrollably, turn to each other..."What in God's name just happened?". Well, what happened is New Orleans happened...and a bottle of liquor between us.

The moral of all this is that the trip really did turn out to be a relief - a relief in the truest sense of the word. Being in New Orleans is a relief because you can absolutely, positively be yourself and nobody will say a thing. You can go to breakfast in a pink polo, argyle socks and sandles and no one will look at you funny; you can act like a drunk idiot outside a bar and the worst that will happen is you'll get pushed into garbage. And as weird as it sounds that's all I needed. When you're coming from a place where people are always keeping up appearances, where appearances are everything...that's the best relief a person can get. It's a relief to realize there are still places where it's about what's under the horribly mismatched clothes that counts. It's that part of you that secretly wants to get thrown in garbage, just because you think it's funny.

2008-01-07T10:21:00.000-08:00

Home, Sweet Home

There is a very understated level of stress that comes along with some things. I say understated because it's not entirely palpable at any given moment. It builds up in very small increments only to reach a subconscious boiling point that can make you snap for no reason. One moment your looking down at the gum you've just stepped in, the next thing you know, you turn into Michael Douglas in Falling Down, hosing random people with a sawed off shotgun and buying snow globes for a daughter you don't even have.

I'm not saying that I'm going to go on a killing spree, but it's nice to know that someone made a sub-par action-drama about what I've been going through. Apparently, two of the most stressful things that happen in the everyday life of an average person are moving and starting a new job (an average life meaning, you're not holed up in a train station bathroom crying like Will Smith in that Pursuit of Happyness movie. ...By the way, Will Smith is a very believable homeless person. Was anyone else wondering why he didn't just get his own TV show or release a multiple Grammy winning album?).

Unfortunately for me, for the last 8 months I haven't had any place that I would consider my own. To make matters worse, after that little streak of homelessness I moved to a new city, started a new job and spent the next four months in limbo while I tried get the living situation figured out. It doesn't sound like a big deal, especially considering the places I got to stay (all very nice), but I'm telling you, it secretly adds up. I was definitely struggling with why I was getting so angry about stuff that was so stupid and once someone suggested this information I was somewhat relieved...after all, it was better than the alternative: that I was just a huge A-hole.

So I was homeless, angry and just wanted to get my shit in order. That's what I'm trying to say, I guess. But it sounds easier than it actually is sometimes.

Rick (my future roommate) flew in within the first month that I was here. We were ready to find a place and get said shit in order. We were excited about it. Gung-ho even. We were gonna get ourselves a shit-box apartment! Yes! All the enthusiasm was great, there was just one problem: ...we didn't know where anything was. Important things like roads and buildings. We had no idea what we were doing and therefore no way to use all this energy and determination.

There were a lot of questions that went into each place we looked at. What area should we live in? Why doesn't this one have windows? Are we going to be killed in this apartment? Is this even an apartment, because it looks like an abandoned sandwich shop...yeah, I'm pretty sure this was a sandwich shop. All were valid questions that came up during the course of our little adventure.

Finally, not knowing anything about the greater Los Angeles area, Ric and I decided on West Hollywood as the best area to get an apartment. This was purely a geographical decision - this was the area that was in the middle of the two areas we were going to be working at/going to school at. It made sense.

After looking at what apparently can most optimistically be described as "cozy" apartments, we found one that we actually liked. It was a good location, good building and unlike the other ones, we could actually move inside the rooms. By the way - key element to this story - due to financial issues Rick and I were going to have to split a one bedroom, mainly because rent out here costs a lot of money and niether one of had any. Bottom line is, we found one we liked, it did have a pink stove which we thought was a little weird but we were going to overlook this one odd detail.

We left feeling pretty good about the weeks work. We had found a place and we decided to take a look around the area, to get a better grip on our surroundings. Here's a summary of the our exchange as we walked back to the car.

Ric: This is a nice area. I could see living here.
Me: Yeah. I'm feeling it, I guess.

[Walk past a well-groomed guy wearing trendy clothes]

Ric: Lot of dudes here...
Me: ...Yeah. Lot of dudes...a lot of dudes...

[Walk past a guy walking a toy poodle]

Me: And they're all really dressed up...
Ric: And walking small dogs...

[Walk past a guy wearing a cowboy hat, with a bandanna around his neck, walking a chihuahua in elaborately decorated cowboy boots]

Cowboy: Helllllooooo!

[Long, awkward silence]

[Ric and I slowly turn and look at each - realization dawning on both us]

What can I equate the expression on our faces to? Has anyone seen the clip of Chris Mathews interviewing Senator Larry Craig (the one who just got busted soliciting sex in an airport bathroom) about the Clinton scandal a few years ago...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0lvMYgIAAkk&mode=related&search=

Well, that expression on Chris Mathews face, the one after Craig has just finished calling Bill Clinton a naughty, nasty boy for 30 straight seconds, that's how Rick and I looked at each other; realizing that we were about to rent an apartment in the gayest neighborhood in the free world.

And that's no exaggeration. Whatever the exact opposite of no-man's land is (tons of gay dudes area?) is where we were about to rent a one bedroom with a pink stove..you know, just for the two of us. ...Dear God.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not anti-gay, nor do I have a problem with it. The fact of the matter is that this was not an ideal living situation. And the fact that we simultaneously realized this, with the exact same reaction was extremely humorous...to say the least.

So flash forward to a few months later, and a few more months of displacement and we've finally found an apartment. Strangely enough, as far as apartment tours go, it was one of the worst I've ever been on. While it doesn't quite equate to that one house that my friend Jeff and I toured in Austin - at that house when we walked in we accidentally woke up a guy who was sleeping in a bed that was made entirely out of garbage and dirty clothes, who rolled over, still drunk as fuck and said, "Hey...what's up? [Figured out why there were strange people in his room] ...You guys should totally live here." Also, keep in mind that it was like two o' clock in the afternoon when we took the tour. It was unbelievable; we walk in and the door is about to fall off the hinges and the living room consisted of a few lawn chairs, more garbage (the highlight being a half-eaten 3+ week old sandwich in the middle of the living room), a couch that was broken in half and then a $3000 60 inch plasma screen.

While nothing will ever top the absolute astonishment I felt while touring the house (I could honestly not believe people chose to live like that). This tour was of the sadder variety, in the sense that it consisted of a back-story that involved two (and probably soon to be three) generations of strippers living under the same roof. To be exact, a woman (the current stripper), her grandmother with one eye (a former stripper), a daughter (future stripper) and three ratty-ass dogs that clearly had been urinating their little hearts-out on the carpet. So it smelled great and on top of that there was ripped woman's clothing everywhere (were they practicing the stripping at home?). Oh, and the icing on the cake, a fresh turd just hanging out in the toilet waiting to greet us and say hello. Needless to say, we signed the lease immediately (and the strange part was, we actually did - to our credit though, they promised a thorough steam cleaning and new carpet). But what can I say, when you feel at home, you feel at home.

The fact was that we really liked the building and the people there were friendly and our age, it all felt very comfortable. For whatever reason, and despite the phantom deuce, it just felt right.

A few weeks and a lot of Clorox bleach later, we were living in our new place. And as silly as it might sound, there's a weight off my shoulders. There's something to be said for going into your house, and sleeping in your bed and having a place for your things. It's just makes life easier.

Don't get me wrong, it's not perfect by any means. I mean, I'm sharing a room. I feel like I'm a college freshman again. But maybe that can be my go-to pick-up line. If any girl wants to re-create their first freshman sexual experience then I'm your guy. We can get really drunk, you can come over, we can pray my roommate doesn't come home and I will be completely inadequate sexually. It's a win-win situation. How could any girl resist? But as far as home goes, it's a better situation than a lot of people have (see: aforementioned stripper family). We brought a third roommate into the mix and got a little more space for all of us. And maybe another year of slight discomfort might only help me in the long run. I might learn a little humility. I mean it's hard to be a big shot when your sleeping in what can best be described as a roomy twin every night. And it's hard to act cool when Rick and I still have to go through those "getting ready for bed" moments. When just by chance we decide to go to sleep at the same time and then were both standing in the bathroom, brushing our teeth, like some strange Twilight Zone married couple. It's even weirder when our third roommate isn't there.

But it's all good, because in the long run all of this is only gonna make me appreciate my own home more. It's the bad times that make good times worth while. It's sharing a bedroom in a small apartment that's gonna make the my own bedroom in my own apartment that much more enjoyable. And that means something, because I've finally realized that home matters more than we sometimes give it credit for.

2006-12-06T16:43:00.000-08:00

Stand By Me...And Move That Chair

Let me preface this post by saying that I am not as shocked by things as I once was. In the short time that I have been here I feel that I have already seen so many random and crazy things that I am quickly becoming desensitized. Whether it's a guy walking down the street with no pants on, holding a chihuahua over his head and giggling uncontrollably, or some chick giving a guy a hummer in his car while it's parked in the middle of a major street, I no longer freak out like I once would. Nowadays when I see a 300 pound man covered from head-to-toe in silver spray paint, break dancing and wearing a top hat I only go, "Eh..." and walk on. Sadly, I no longer have the energy to give things the proper response they deserve; which in this case would be something along the lines of ..."HOLY FUCK!!! That guy thinks he's a robot! And he's making C3po noises with his mouth! And wait, why would anyone build an overweight robot?! OH MY GOD, WHAT'S HAPPENING?!". I just can't do it.

This lack of energy is not, in itself, necessarily a bad thing. It does, however, carry with it a more detremental side-effect; that being, a wall that goes up with all things seemingly crazy. The amount of stimulation that goes through my eyes and into my brain on a daily basis is so high, that with every person I meet or see, I immediately go on the defensive because I'm worried that they might, in fact, be insane. I have to worry about this because if I'm not ready for it, it becomes very possible that I will go into shock whenever I unexpectedly witness a grown man crap his pants. Because I'm always on the defensive, the end result can be that I act very odd at times as well. Let me give you a delightful example.

I get harassed by bums so often that I don't even make eye-contact with them anymore. Instead of dealing with them individually, I now simply choose to throw out some rehearsed lines and then start running in the opposite direction. Because of the amount of bums, and the lack of eye-contact that I just mentioned, it's gotten to the point where I sometimes don't even know what's happening around me. The other day, a lady came up to me (probably just to ask for directions or something) and immediately my instincts kicked in and I blurted out, "I don't have any change!" at her. Of course, once I actually looked at her, I realized that she was, in fact, not a homeless person. We both just stood there looking at each other, completely frozen with shock. Her, because she actually thought that I thought she looked like a homeless person; and me, because I just, accidentally, insulted the shit out of someone I didn't know for absolutely no reason. The worst part was I didn't even explain myself, I just stood there, for like 20 seconds, staring at her with this idiot look on my face. 20 whole seconds of me just standing there like that, unable to say or do anything. If it had been a commercial, that would have been the point where my face goes to freeze frame, the bell dings and the southwest airlines guy goes, "Want to get away?". After a line like that I couldn't explain the situation to her; nothing I could say would make sense. So instead, I just gave her this goofy-ass, "I'm sorry smile" and walked off. It was wonderful.

So yes, the point is, that for my own sanity I'm am trying to zone out as much as I can around me. ...But then...but then, there are those things that just can't be zoned out. That no matter how much craziness you've seen, you cannot be prepared for what is about to happen to you.

For me, this happened just the other day. It happened when I walked back to my desk, looked down at my computer and there sitting on the top of my keyboard was a note that said, "Go to Chatsworth and help Corey Feldman look for his baby's birth certificate." Yes...yes, that is what it said.

...I didn't move for a very long time. Mainly, because I was afraid that if I actually picked up the note that Ashton Kutcher would run out out and everyone in the office would start laughing at me. So many questions were swirling through my head. Where did this come from? What does this mean? Someone actually had sex with Corey Feldman? I needed answers.

Eventually, I decided I needed to make a move, otherwise, people around me might start thinking that I had rigomortis, or that I maybe I was doing some kind of wierd performance art. After the initial shock wore off, I learned what this note meant. Apparently, we are producing a sitcom with Corey Feldman that is about to start shooting in Canada.

Next, I learned why this note mattered... In order to take a child out of the country you need to have their birth certificate so that you can prove that you are its parent and that you're not stealing a random baby. Basically, airport security wanted to make sure that Corey Feldman wasn't smuggling an infant out of the country. Pretty standard stuff.

Finally, I learned just what in the hell Chatsworth was... It turns out that Chatsworth is a town that is, "just over the mountains." Oh...okay. This is true, Chatsworth is a town located on the other side of the Valley. ...Basically, what this means is that it is far as balls. The drive I had to make was about 25 miles...in L.A. traffic...during rush hour...over a mountain...oh, and I didn't have power steering. Needless to say, it was one of the most horrific drives of my life.

The main problem with the drive was that I had to avoid all highways; mostly because, well, I had to be there that night. The next problem with the drive was, that in order to do this, I had to take the road that goes through the hills. The last problem was, that my car's power steering out...I mentioned that, right?. I will just say right now that I felt like a stunt driver.

(Side note: I just got done reading Less Than Zero, which is this great book about a kid that goes home to Los Angeles during college [...I highly recommend it]. Anyway, there's this scene in the book where the main character and his friend go to look at all the cars that have driven off the edge of a cliff on the Pacific Coast Highway. They talk about how many there are and that every once in a while at night you can hear a car lose control and then finally crash as it hits the canyon floor. Well, I just so happened to be on the Pacific Coast Highway...and I also just so happened to have recently read that book. A special thanks to Bret Easton Ellis.)

You know that test they do measure a car's handling? The one where they weave in and out of the cones? Well, the drive was exactly like that...only the cones were giant rocks...and it was pitch black outside...oh, and I also didn't have POWER STEERING! ...Add all of this up and you've got one of the most unstable driving experiences of all time. I was sweating profusely, my arms were going numb and I almost died over 8000 times.

So, when finally I made it into Chatsworth, the first thing that I saw was a burning car (a warm welcome). Ordinarily, I would have thought that I was entering through the gates of hell, but, oddly enough, I wasn't that surprise because this made for about the fourth or fifth burning car I've seen since I've been here. Seriously, they're everywhere. I even saw one explode. I was sitting on the on ramp to the 405, so I had a bird's eye view...This car was just sitting there, minding it's own business, on fire, and then..."boom!" with a mushroom cloud effect and everything. Strangely enough, my reaction was, "OOoooooohhhhh," like I was some redneck watching 4th of July fireworks (...and I'm not sure if that's an appropriate response to an exploding car, but what can you do).

So at this point, when I arrived at the address, I did't know what to expect. Of course, what I should have expected was that it would be a storage facility (I know it's a really cool setting for another story, but what can I say other than I lead an exciting life). By now, not only do I not know what to expect, but I will forever be very hesitant when it comes to being in storage unit late at night. Couple that, with the fact that being trapped somewhere with Corey Feldman all night seems like the beginning of some weird 8O's horror movie...and this was not something I was looking forward to.

I called him.

(So, by the way, I have Corey Feldman's cell phone number. ...too...[getting weak]...many...[getting weaker]...possibilities...[me blacking out].)

He answered. "Hello?!"

Me, "Um, Corey?" (in my head, "Oh my god, oh my god, what's happening, what's happening?").

"Yeah, who is this?!"

Me, "It's Doug from RDF..."

Corey, "...Oh, I'll open the gate."

All right, so that wasn't a great start. By the way he sounded on the phone I expected him to be sitting on some overly cushioned chair, just screaming at me while I threw out my back moving boxes for him. My feeling of dread was only compounded when I pulled in and actually saw the storage unit. This thing was the size of a football field. I get there and he meets me at the gate, we shake hands and he tells me his name (which I found kind of odd). He explained to me that the birth certificate was in one of the unmarked boxes and this was unfortunate for me because this thing was filled with stacks of unmarked boxes about 10 feet high, each. All I could say was, "...Oh." At this point, I felt like curling up into the fetal position and sucking my thumb at the thought of doing this all night. And doing it by myself? ...Dear God.

But, luckily for me, it couldn't have been more of the opposite. Corey Feldman was actually a really nice guy and it turned out that he did almost all of the work. Most of the time I just stood there watching Feldman scream as he tried to dead-lift 150 lbs boxes of his own memorabilia. It was quite enjoyable.

To make matters better, along with me, there were two other guys there and his wife. Not only did this lessen the awkwardness that would have been me and Feldman being forced to spend quality one-on-one time together, but, again, they did most of the work.

The first guy in the group, I was pretty sure was his brother...mainly, because they looked alike. And if that guy was his brother, then the second guy was probably the wierd cousin. He was this really large, balding man that kind of reminded me of Lenny from Of Mice and Men. Every time Feldman would say something he would just giggle and then lift a pool table over his head. It was strange. ...As for his wife, she was the only entity that produced any wierd moments from the night.

As I said, Feldman was quite hands on with this project. If he wasn't giving orders to his posse, he was moving every box in sight and climbing through this storage unit like a spider monkey (it was truly amazing). The only time we ran in to any problems was when his wife (who was also hands on) got in his way. They both were so determined to do everything themselves, that it produced some, "Let's see whose is bigger," moments throughout the night. Fortunately for me, most of these moments ended with Feldman yelling, "Just get out of the way!" and then his wife storming out, pacing around the outside of the storage unit and chain smoking for 10-15 minutes.

Because of the sheer will and determination of the Feldman family it actually didn't take that long to find this baby named Zen's birth certificate. Of course, it turned out that it wasn't even a birth certificate, but instead a hand written note from the doctor that delivered their little miracle. This might have seemed to defeat the whole purpose, but Feldman got on the horn to his lawyers and found out that this note, along with all the article's he Googled on the internet about his own baby (that's right, along with the "birth certificate" there were also about 50 printed computer pages topped with a Google search page that had "Feldman Baby" typed as the subject of interest...pure greatness), that this would be sufficient evidence to get Zen into Canada where he belongs. Hooray!

When it was all said and done, the night ended up with me being pretty much a zero factor in the insanity. The only thing that I brought to the table was a very pre-meditated move that I had come up with on the long drive over.

You know that look that people get on their face when you break something of theirs? You know, after your elbow hits the vase and you both watch it as it falls and shatters into a thousand pieces. Well, that's the look that I got out of Corey Feldman...but not in the way you might think (...although, it would have been great if I had deliberately started breaking some of Feldman's stuff and then tried to play it off as an accident).

Anyway, toward the very end of the night I got that look from him after I pulled out this: I walked up to Corey and said, "Corey?...[dramatic pause]...I just wanted to say that...[looking off into the distance, as if gathering up years of emotion]...

(It was special. The look on Corey Feldman's face as the fear built. I could see it in his eyes; Corey Feldman thinking, "Please, don't tell me how much you look up to me. Please don't tell me how much you loved The Goonies. For the love of God, not here, not now. Just don't say you loved Stand By Me, man. Just don't do it.")

(My quote continued) "...[I just wanted to say that]... if we don't get out of here by 10 they're gonna lock us in this fucking thing."

All followed by a collective sigh of relief...Lenny Feldman and all.

So, you're welcome, my friend ...my acquaintance, Corey Feldman. I don't much care for those movies.

2006-11-22T22:57:00.001-08:00

Things I Am Not Thankful For

Considering the spirit of the weekend it would be appropriate to make a list of things I'm happy about...you know, things I'm thankful for? But, considering that a list like that would suck to read and the fact that I'm just generally an asshole, I decided to do the exact opposite.

The Following Are Things That Have Been Irritating Me:

Wedding Ceremonies - After being to several this year, I have just one question: Can we just skip the whole vows thing? I know it's kind of the point, but still. The whole procedure has reached answering machine status. Everyone knows what they're about to hear. You don't need to tell them for the 400th time, so can't we just do something else and assume everyone knows the drill? How about the bride and groom just rip on each other for a while? Or maybe they could perform an interpretive dance of their vows? Anything, just as long as it's something different. When I get married me and my wife are just gonna go American Gladiators on everyone and joust on podiums for a half-hour. Whoever's left standing gets to decide what to do with the toilet seat (...or some other generic husband wife squabble...you know, so that we can save everyone the trouble of hearing that crap for the 400th time, too).

Guys That Wear Sunglasses Inside - What are you some kind of man-bat? Are you using sonar? You know that we're inside the same place, right? It's not bright in here. Oh, and I saw it when you bumped into that trash can because it was in a dimly lit area. I promise I did. ...I know that sunglasses have become a fashion statement as opposed to a needed accessory, but it's just impractical. It's like wearing a parka in the Sudan and then justifying by saying you're only wearing it to be fashionable. No, you're having a heat stroke. Take it off. Same with the glasses, I see people wearing them while driving at night. I don't think that, "but they complete the outfit" is a viable excuse after you t-bone the shit out of someone just because they were driving a dark colored car.

People Who Ask Me About My Order - "Wait, you just want meat and cheese?" "Yes." "Are you sure?" "...Yes." Is this Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Give me my fucking sandwich. Can't I give myself high cholesterol in peace?

People With Personalized Licence Plates - The other day I saw a guy with a licence plate that said, "SARCASM". This is how our conversation went: "Hey, your license plate it really cool." "Oh, thanks." "No, but I'm serious...I really like it." "Thank you." "You're awesome." "Okay...thanks." ...Actually, that conversation never happened. Instead, I just made fun of it in my head, avoided eye-contact and then wrote about it in my blog. I'm cool.

Food Costing Too Much - Why does a meal of tacos cost $10? That's absolutely ridiculous. $10 could feed a whole family for a week in some countries; and what do I do? I spend it on food that I immediately regret eating. It just doesn't seem fair.

People Who Dress Like Their Children - You know how there are laws that are in place, not necessarily because the act is wrong, but instead, it's there for the person's safety? Like the seat-belt law, or the fact that it's illegal to commit suicide? Well, there should be one of those for dress code. For starters, how about this: You can't wear a beanie if you're over 40. It's not because you're necessarily hurting anyone, it's because we're worried that you might hurt yourself. It's just like we don't allow children to vote or smoke cigarettes, because we know that they are too young to understand the consequences of what it is they are doing. Well, you're too old to understand what wearing a beanie will do to you. Take it off, please. Once you've been alive longer than the article of clothing you're wearing has existed, you can no longer wear a ski cap when it's 85 degrees outside. Thank you.

Transvestites That Are Still Men - I'm sorry, but you're scaring the shit out of me. At least make it a question mark, that's all I'm saying. If that's your thing, then at the very least try and be good at it. There's this guy outside my friend's building that looks like Ricky Williams. The only difference between the two is that instead of dreadlocks he's got this flowing mane of long hair. It's horrifying. Raise your hand if you want to walk outside and see Ricky Williams in daisy dukes throwing his hair from side-to-side like he's in a Pantene Pro-V commercial? Anyone? I didn't think so. A little more effort, please. Otherwise, I might freak out.

Too Many Street Festivals - Someone needs to tell Santa Monica that if you have a street festival more than twice a week, it's no longer a festival, it's just a bunch of crap in the road.

The "You Wish" Guy - This actually doesn't bug me, but instead, entertains me to no end...and yet deep down I think maybe it should bug me. The first time it happened I had to try really hard not to laugh on the street (I try to avoid blatantly laughing at people I don't know). I don't know if you any of you have seen this guy, but he's great. Let me paint the picture. It's always one of those guys that is attached at the hip to his girlfriend. You know, the one who's got the arm around her, maybe a reach-around on the belt-loop, just basically hoping that if they stay like this long enough that maybe their skin will eventually become grafted together and then they'll really never be able to leave each other's sides? Well, needless to say, this guy is really protective of his woman. I have always noticed this guy, but it was the first time that my observation elicited this particular response. Couple the guy, with the fact that his girlfriend was extremely unattractive, and it knocked the whole scenario out of the park. The guy and his girlfriend walk by and I'm minding my own business. I look at them, but merely to admire the clinginess of this particular guy; I wasn't even looking at his girlfriend. Then as we walked past we made eye contact and he gave me this, "you wish you were hittin' this" look (I assume this guy would use the phrase "hittin' it") and I was truly shocked. ...Really? ...Do I? The look he gave with the eyebrows raised was priceless. It was a great moment. Look for this guy, he's out there.

Really General Advertising - There's this huge billboard that I drive by everyday to work and all it says is, "Pistachios! They're Nuts!" ...What is this? Is it actually boosting sales in the pistachio market? There's no way that someone sees this sign and then heads to the nearest grocery store to buy a shit load of pistachios. That sign will never have an effect on my nut consumption.

Michael Richards ruining Seinfeld for me - It's official. Kramer's legacy is forever tainted. From now on he'll just be remembered as the crazy guy from that TV show...which actually doesn't change that much... Regardless, there's an aura about him now and it will never be the same. ...You know, Seinfeld used to get criticized for not having any black people on the show and maybe now we know why. Maybe Larry David was afraid that if any of the black actors stepped on Michael Richards' lines that he would blast them into oblivion with a never-ending hail of N' bombs.

People Who Try To Turn Their Cars Into Other Cars - I first noticed this in Austin when a guy clearly had a Ford Explorer, but he had bought Lincoln wheels and a Lincoln hood ornament. I guess he was trying to pull a fast one on those suckers who actually paid for a Navigator. What a bunch of chumps! ...What is the logic behind this move? I saw a guy the other day who was trying to turn a Nissan Altima into a Mercedes-Benz...the only problem was that the Benz logo was taped on...oh, and it was made of paper. What?! Does he think this is going to actually work? Like people are gonna go, "Wow, I've never seen that kind of Mercedes before. Just look at that custom made paper hood ornament. This guy must be really important?" Just drive a fucking Altima. I promise it will be far less embarrassing that shit you have on your car right now.

USC Fans - I just think that...um...I wish that...uh...I just... My head hurts.

That T9 Won't Let You Text "Bad" Words - Let's face it, there's nothing better than typing an enraged text message. Sometimes you just have to let people have it in .0005 font. It's quick, easy and very effective. But, there's nothing that will throw you out of your rhythm more than having to switch it over to manual so that you can call someone a bitch. We have to do something about this. We're all adults. We can handle cursing. Can someone at least create some sort of dictionary for this, so that when I call someone "a dublini citag" they actually know what I'm talking about? ill b ur frend 4 ever.

People Telling Me Things I Already Know - Hey guess what? I know that I look like I'm 18. ...I can't tell you how old this gets. Don't give me this information like you're doing me some sort of favor. I hate to break it to you, but you're not any more insightful than all the other shit heads that have told me the exact same thing. Are people not aware that when you point out something about a person that is completely obvious it makes them self-conscience and/or annoyed? Sean told me about his friend who played in the NBA and how he would always get pissed off because people would come up to him and tell him he was tall. The guy was 7'! What are you, a fucking moron? Why would you ever say that? How is it even socially acceptable to do this? "Hey, how long have you been bald?" "Hey, when did you get that goiter? It's huge!" It's weird that people think I'm being an asshole when I tell them to go fuck themselves after they ask to see my i.d. in a bar (and by the way, these people aren't bouncers). Maybe you should be little more aware that shit like that isn't a good/cute way to start a conversation with someone you've never met. That is all.

The Crappy Celebrities I've Seen - Not there isn't great enjoyment in seeing random "Surreal Life" caliber people, but I thought along with that I'd also get to see some cool people, too. Outside of the ones I've already mentioned, the list also includes: One of the guys from Jackass (I don't even know his name), Kid (from House Party 1 & 2), Bill Plaschke (that idiot from Around the Horn), Paris Hilton and Carleton (from Fresh Prince), among others. I just wish I could see someone who I'd actually want to meet. I don't even know what I'd say to any of these people. Do I tell Paris Hilton, "Hey it's great to meet you. I saw you get railed in night-vision." Do I tell Bill Plachke that I could take a dump that would know more about sports than him? Do I even talk to the guy from Jackass, or should I just hit him in the face with a pie? I just don't know.

So that's it. That's my first annual, "Things I Am Not Thankful For." I know that's a lot of things to be irritated by, but it's nice to get them off my chest. As for the list format, don't worry, I'm not becoming embittered. I'm not going to turn into some kind weird, angry hermit person; constantly writing down all of things that piss me off. The reality of the situation is that I'm just waiting for everyone to figure out that I wish I were Bill Simmons. Consider the format a tribute to inspiration...and I'll always be thankful I have that.

2006-11-17T12:55:00.000-08:00

Permanent Storage

So due to the high level of responsibility that I hold at our company, I, personally, was sent to a very important storage unit last week. For those of you that know nothing about the complexities inherent with having an important job, I won't boggle your minds by attempting to explain what 'taking inventory' is. All I can say is that it requires a clipboard WITH a checklist, a car WITH a trunk, as well as a key to said storage unit and a brilliant analytical mind that can dissect the various nuances presented in deciding what a company needs and no longer needs...oh, and a sharpie. You also need a sharpie.

So, after I walked past the guy who was moving out of his van and into one of the units...to live (I couldn't help it, but as soon as I walked past him, 'The Jeffersons' theme song started playing in my head), I headed up to our very own, 40x40 unit. Of course, inside there were upwards of three billion boxes and at this point I was contemplating just running off into the sunset, never to return. Just the idea of how late I was going to be there scared me. But, seeing as how I really never wanted to go back to that place ever again (I don't like being really depressed) I decided not to leave until I was done.

Cut to: about 5 hours later. Happy to have it all done, I left knowing my only consolation was that I could get in my car, get something to eat and go directly to sleep. Little did I know that it was not in the cards.

First off, the entire place was completely deserted. No lights, no homeless, nothing. You know that scene in 28 Days Later, where the dude wakes up in the hospital, only to find out that everyone's gone/dead? Well, it was exactly like that...only I wasn't naked in an oxygen tent.

I seriously had no idea what was going on. It was one of those situations, where I kept checking the time, going, "How long was I in there? ...Wait, what year is it?". If you had told me that I had traveled through time in that thing I might have believed you.

I surveyed the scene, did a lap around the facility and quickly realized that not only could I not get my car out of the gate (the code no longer worked), but every door inside of the place was locked. ...I was trapped inside.

At this point I looked over at the gate and noticed that they closed at 7:30 pm. I felt so much better knowing it was my mistake. I should have seen that 2 size print that clearly failed to explain that at 7:30 sharp they lock this bitch down like Alcatraz. What was I thinking? I should have guessed that they would have completely ignored the car parked right in front of their office, lock me in from the outside and leave me to fend for myself in the Santa Monica wilderness. How did I not see this one coming?

At this point, I'm a few notches below panic-mode. ...That's all right, I'll just sleep in my car. ...Wait, what? What happens when you show up to work tomorrow wearing the same clothes you had on yesterday and looking like you were on all night bender? What then? And that's if I even make it through the night. Since I couldn't think of any viable options I decided it would be best to Hulk out on one of the storage unit doors for 4-6 minutes. It didn't change anything.

You know in retrospect, the thing that made me angriest about the situation, wasn't that I was trapped in a potentially life-threatening hell-hole, it was that I wasn't going to get out in time to go to Wahoo's for dinner. For those of you who don't know, Wahoo's is this Mexican food chain (they have one in Austin) that might be the greatest thing ever. I'm completely addicted. Every month, Wahoo's does customer of the month and let's just say that I've got November on lock. Point being: I was going ape-shit on a steel door because I wasn't going to be able to eat a spicy-chicken quesadilla. I'm having a hard time deciding if I overreacted.

(Side note: for some reason, Mexican people don't understand my name. For the past three weeks the Wahoo's guy has been calling me "Duck". That's weird enough, but this isn't the first time it's happened. Every week in high school, the friends and I would go to The Feed Bag (God rest it's soul) and eat/drink heavily before the football games. At The Feed Bag there was a running bet as to how many times the guy at the counter would write the name on my order as "Dough". It was one of those situations where it was so improbable that he would actually think my name was "Dough" that you wanted to bet against it, and yet it happened so often that it could go either way. Fun times. ...Oh, and the dry cleaner lady spells my name with 2 G's (Dougg). Don't ask me what that's about.

All I'm saying is that I can see the trophy now..."Customer of the Month - Duck" and a picture of me smiling and giving a big thumbs up. Duck loves his Wahoo's.)

So back to Prison Break. Trapped inside, I started walking around trying to find out who I could call, maybe a manager's number for this God-forsaken place. Naturally, there was no such number. And, because it was the only logical thing that could happened, I very soon-after tripped a burglar alarm for the entire facility. Lights came on, there was a siren, the whole nine yards.

After I got done sharting myself, I realized that it might actually be good that I tripped the alarm. My logic was that when the police get here they'll be able to get me out (although, considering my recent history with police, they could've just as easily mowed me down in a hail of gun fire). This was good because I wasn't crazy about the idea of leaving my car there all night with all my stuff inside. It was just asking for it to get broken into. I had just recently bought about $200 worth of CD's at Tower Records and had no idea on how to take them with me over a 12 foot fence.

(Side note: has anyone noticed how blatantly racist Tower Records is? I was walking through the the store, perusing both rock and rap, and I quickly noticed something very shocking...Only rap CD's have anti-theft covers on them. It was unbelievable. Well, it wasn't even that, it was every CD that had a black person on it, actually. I was going through the Rock/R&B section and out of nowhere there was a Monica CD. And no, I wasn't looking to buy. The only reason I even saw it was because it was the only CD on the entire wall with an anti-theft device on it. Who in the hell would steal a Monica CD?

"God, I have to have that, but I can't swing the $15!...Have you heard 'The Boy is Mine'?! Have you actually listened to that song?!...What am I going to do?!...Fuck it!!!...."

...Wait, actually that makes sense. I didn't even know Monica was still alive. I think if I ever saw a Monica CD in one of my friend's collections, I would have to automatically assume they had stolen it. It's the only way they could actually own one.)

Anyway, I felt good about the fact that the cops were coming. That was until this guy came running over, determined to change my mind.

You know that look that little kids get when you ask them to play a game with you? Well, this guy was running over with that look on his face. He was VERY excited. Just giggling.

"Did I get you?" "...What?," I asked. "Did I bust you?......You shouldn't break in here."

He was serious. He thought I had broken into the storage unit.

"I just called the cops." "Oh...Okay, great."

It took me a while to explain to him what had happened. You know, that I wasn't a cat burglar-extraordinaire. And then he decided to tell me what happened in his entire life.

So, I listened to him talk for a little while. One of the first things he said was, "The guy who broke in last week got 8 years." And after that I almost immediately zoned out. Partly because that is a ludicrous statement ("You mean he broke in last week and he's already in prison for 8 years?" I'm sure) and partly because I kept wondering, "What exactly is a McRib?" Did you guys know this? The McRib is back, baby!

Behind him, there was a McDonald's and it had a sign up that said (in BBQ sauce) that, "The McRib is back!" So, while this guy was rambling on about the valuables in his storage unit (a weird thing to tell a potential burglar) I was trying to figure out exactly what the McRib is? Does anyone know? Has anyone actually eaten one of these things? I was looking at the picture of it and it does look like ribs...but, how can that be? I know McDonald's wouldn't serve actual ribs, they're too expensive. And a rib sandwich is just illogical. How would you eat it? The bones would shatter your teeth. So that means that McDonald's is actually pouring meat into some kind of waffle maker-type thing, and using it to make fake meat ribs. Mmmmm, mmmm. Sounds good! Why don't they just call it the "McButt Explosion" and get it over with.

(Final Side Note: Another bit of corporate racism. Has anyone noticed the blatant racism in McDonald's ad campaigns? All commercials with white people have the slogan "We love to see you smile." Where as all of the "urban" commercials have the slogan, "I'm lovin' it". These ads not only suggest that black people do not pronounce their g's, but also reaffirms the stereotype that black people never smile. Unacceptable.)

Anyway, this guy was trying to convince me that everything in my life was about to go wrong (car will be stolen, will go to prison for the night and possibly life, etc.), but was also trying to simultaneously befriend me. A strange approach. Luckily, the cops showed up and spared me from most of the attempt.

The cops asked a couple of questions (4 squad cars showed up) and then they left. That was it. The only problem was...I was still inside.

"Oh, I've got a key." And just like that the guy walked over and let me out (remember, he had a unit there). "...Thanks?". ...Wait, so you just kept me trapped in there for 20+ minutes and told me that I wasn't going to be able to get out, so we could chit-chat? That's super. Call me sometime.

So basically, I was really embarrassed about the situation. Mainly, because someone from work had to come pick me up and take me home (I didn't get my car out until the next morning) and I knew that everyone at work would find out. They would know that I trapped myself inside a Public Storage and almost got arrested. Fortunately, I was saved from my shame very soon after.

The next day, one of our accountant's boyfriend's sent him an "I'm Sorry" telegram, by a guy pretending to be Austin Powers. The guy randomly showed up in our office wearing the suit, the wig and carrying a boom-box that played the theme music...oh, and did I mention he was completely hammered? The guy wreaked of booze. I was in the back, so I didn't know what was happening. All I heard was this guy yelling "Yeah!", but since he was so drunk you couldn't tell that he was doing the Austin Powers' voice. I thought a homeless guy had wandered into our office, mainly because he just sounded like some drunk guy screaming "Mojo" a lot. Needless to say I was old news.

So what is the moral of this story? Never spend more than 5 hours in a storage unit. If you do, you'll almost be arrested, make friends with a crazy person, completely embarrass yourself in front of your co-workers and then eventually be bailed out by a shit-faced Austin Powers. I'm just warning you.

2006-11-05T19:17:00.000-08:00

Halloween Is For Normal People

So, what happens when you take a bunch of crazy people and give them an entire weekend that promotes insanity, involves massive partying and the excuse to dress like an asshole? Halloween, Hollywood-style, is what happens. And my God, is it ever sweet.

First off, I went to my very first party where I was actually on the guest list. That's right, I've finally made it my friends. Of course, I quickly found out that this is absolutely meaningless, but at least I felt special for a few seconds. When you are on said-guest list, it's pretty much worthless because you still have to stand outside and wait in line like an idiot; you don't have to wait as long as everyone else (what losers), but you're still waiting to get into a party. I have to say, there is nothing that makes you feel like more like a complete bitch than waiting in line to get in somewhere so that you can pay $10 for drinks. To be honest, I was actually a little upset with myself that I even went through with it. Am I really this desperate to get into this place? The answer, you'll be glad to know, was "no". The only excuse I have is that we didn't have to wait that long, and once you get close, the "well, we've made it this far" mentality kicks in.

But enough about lines, let's talk about costumes...that have to do with lines.

So, because of recent events, Danny and I both went as coked-out douchebags. I was more of a retro-douche, whereas Danny was a more contemporary one. As for the coked out part, I think some people didn't even think that was part of the costume, but we enjoyed it. Let me be clear, I'm not judging people who do drugs or coke; but, it has to be, without a doubt, the funniest drug of all-time. When you combine the way people act when they're on it, with the fact that I think a lot of people just do it because it's "cool", it makes for one hilarious habit. So naturally, the necessary level of schtick that is mandatory with any good Halloween costume was very high (see above).

Case-in-point about coke; you see that vile that I'm holding in the picture? Fortunately (or possibly, unfortunately) I did not have to go to a paraphernalia store to purchase that. I didn't have to because one of my cuz's friends, already had one. Now this particular fellow is a cool guy, he does it every once in a while and it doesn't affect his life (as far as I can tell). If that's how you want to roll, that's fine; go for it. I won't stand in your way. But, the girl he's dating, well, that's where the funny part comes in.

So, before I leave for this particular party, I am their house getting all my gear on and the two of them come in to do the same. As I'm walking out of my room, she stops me. She grabs the vile from my front pocket and asked what it was. Keeping in character, I scoffed at her for even asking and told her it was coke. Of course, I was kidding, it was flour, but silly me I thought she'd get that. So I go into the bathroom to make sure my hair was in order and come out only minutes later to find her with the vile in hand and flour all over her face. She goes, "What kind is this? It smells funny." And at that moment, I was standing in one of the most uncomfortable situations I had ever been in, in my entire life. I was uncomfortable because I was extremely embarassed for her while also trying to hold in one of the loudest laughs in the history of time. Now that's how you start off a night.

So anyway, back to the party.

I think Danny said it best, "it feels like we're partying in an Ambercrombie and Fitch." Sadly he was kind of right, only the shirtless guys were real, and the music was slightly less annoying. Needless to say, there was craziness abound and I was experiencing a slight bit of sytem overload.

By the way, has anyone actually figured out how that Abercrombie and Fitch is successful? If you would have pitched the Ambercrombie business model to me, I would have guessed it would have gone bankrupt in a week.

"Okay, so we want to open this store... For starters, we're going play 'Cotton-Eye Joe' on repeat at deafening levels...Then we'll wrinkle the shit out of everything in our entire store, so you have no idea what it will look like when you actually wear it...Then we're going to send out a catalog of a bunch of people not wearing clothes...And then to finish it all off, we're going to blow up every single one of those pictures and cover the entire store in them, that way, everywhere you turn there is a 40 foot picture of some guys junk in your face...oh and our t-shirt's will cost $30." Now, that's brilliant!

As for the party, a couple of things.

One. I'm not one to write off an entire genre of music, but house music blows ass. It has little or no redeeming qualities. Danny and I were discussing what it takes to make a hit techno song and we discovered, very little. All you need is some pounding bass that people can zone out to, the occasional siren and some guy with a low voice, chanting wierd or vaguely familiar, out-of-context bullshit. So look out for (cue the pounding bass), "There's a Place in France, Where the Naked Ladies Dance." We're dropping it this spring.

Two. There is something that is really troubling me and it is this...where can girl's costumes go from here? Honestly, it's getting ridiculous. Doesn't there have to be some sort of ceiling to how slutty costumes can get? I don't see where they can go. The way some of them looked, you might as well just stand in the corner and have some guy rail you for the entire party. It's getting that transparent. And the wierd paradox of that (which also shows how bad everything's getting) is when you see a girl and you're not sure if she's even wearing a Halloween costume. Let me explain.

Unfortunately, I am guilty by association when it comes to all the latest celebrity gossip. During work I often find myself in the cross-fire of a, "Who treated Jen worse, Brad or Vince?" converstation. Ordinarily this would be a problem, but since I can throw up inside my mouth, no one is the wiser. Let's just say, I could definitely tell you why Ryan Phillipe is a "total asshole". So, my point is, that I was being shown some pictures of Paris Hilton's Halloween costume, and she's the perfect example of this woman. I looked at her and found myself thinking 'what's next?', but simultaneously, found myself debating whether or not she was even wearing a halloween costume. She's basically, out-hoed herself, mainly because it doesn't seem out of the question that her outfit might be something she's wearing because it's Tuesday, not Halloween. It's a very sad state of affairs.

Number one, of my two favorite costumes was...drumroll please...the chick wearing a thong and pasties...and that's it. I'm not sure if that even is a costume, but she was wearing it and it was Halloween, so I put two-and-two together (side note: I tried very hard to decipher what her costume was. This, of course, took hours of constant observation. ...I probably could of just asked, but the thought never occurred to me for some reason). My second favorite costume had to be the twins that were 'island sluts' (that's the only way I can describe them). Long story-short, through the course of the night, it became very questionable as to whether or not they were wearing underwear.

So what can I say about Halloween, other than the fact that it's like looking into the future to some degree. If we can all agree that the value and meaning behind sex has been declining steadily for the past 10 years, then Halloween might be what we have to look forward to in the near future. I'm not saying that in five years every girl will be dressing like a french maid, I'm just saying as the bar keeps getting raised (or lowered, depending on how you look at it) I don't see where else we can go from here.

All in all, I have to say that I had forgotten how much I loved Halloween. I think college took away from it a little bit, seeing as how we dressed up every other week, incuding some extremely weak costume parties that almost killed the whole concept for me (keep up the toga parties guys, those are fantastic). But now, I remember why it's one of the greatest holidays of all-time. I think, deep down, everyone likes to pretend to be someone else for a while. It's just a nice change of pace. Plus, there's something about seeing Jaleel White (yes, Urkel) at a random house party that makes me so giddy inside that I can't even put it into words. And the fact that he was dressed as Lenny Kravitz, I just wanted to run around the party screaming, "Count it!" all night.

Halloween...it's good.

2006-10-28T13:52:00.000-07:00

LA Fitness: Where Fitness is a Way of Life

Whenever I play basketball out here I don't enjoy it. I have to play on these outdoor courts where most of the people there just come for the fights. It's not pleasant. Apparently, whenever I play with these crazy assholes, I lie about every call and have also never been fouled...ever. Often times I don't even bother making the call because I'd rather save my breath.

"I did what? Bitch, that's not a foul. Give me the ball." "But my face...I think I'm bleeding..." "That was there when you got here, check it up."

So, I've been trying to find a better game, one where I genuinely don't fear for my life. I went with a friend to the LA Fitness gym that he just joined thinking that maybe he knew something that I didn't.

When I walked in, because I'm not a member, I had to use a guest pass. All I wanted to do was play basketball, but of course, I first had to be subjected to the complete ass-whip that is the gym tour. You know, so they could show me all of it's groundbreaking facilities (what was the last innovation in gym technology? The steam room?).

"Look, we have weights" "...Aaaahhh, wow." "And behold, the awe-inspiring treadmill. We're the only people that have that."

So the guy was showing me all this cutting edge technology and every time he'd point something out, he'd look over at me and wait for my reaction ("Yeah, that's cool. I've never seen a pool inside before"). But unfortunately, that wasn't even the biggest beat down of this particular gym tour.

I know, I know...I have this effect on people...but the guy giving me the tour was desperately trying me to show off how cool/hard, he was. This included him and his friend telling me about PENTHOUSE PARTIES IN STUDIO CITY!!!!!!!!!!!!! and blatantly talking about hot girls. Not to say that it's a problem to talk about girls that are hot, but it doesn't work as well when they're only standing about three feet away from you. And then, of course, the girl would look over and I would just be standing there. Then I'd have to give the point to say, "It's this guy, not me...I'm really uncomfortable with what's happening right now."

So as the tour progressed, I noticed that he kept giving me this look, like he knows something. Finally, after we get done "peeping the jacuzzi" he turns and actually asked me if I had, "that good stuff". Honestly, I didn't really know what he was talking about, so I asked..."What are you talking about?". He told me that I was sniffing a lot and wanted to know if I had "that good stuff"? "What, allergies?" I said. ...Yeah, that's how out of it I am. But, I soon realized that he wanted to hook me up with coke if I joined the gym. He actually used coke as a selling point. ...Wow.

So long story short, I am now a lifetime member at LA Fitness. ...Actually, by the time he took me back to the desk and started offering me free gym bags I was so beat down that I didn't even feel like playing basketball anymore, let alone becoming a member. Come to think of it, I don't think I will ever play basketball. I now know that only bad things can come of it.

So, thank you, LA Fitness in Hollywood, the Mecca of health that you are, for helping put an end to a habit that was so self-destructive.

2006-10-25T22:40:00.000-07:00

The Highway to Hell

I know it's not terribly original to talk about L.A. traffic and how bad it is, but seeing as how I spend about 4-5 hours in it per day, let's just say, it's a subject that has been on my mind.

Up front, I just want to say it's not really the city's fault. There are just too many people here. Strangely enough, I heard one of these people say that you can get anywhere in LA in twenty minutes. I don't know who the person was, but clearly he was either a time traveler or he was on mushrooms. Anyway, this could be true in theory only; that theory being, "What if the entire city of LA wasn't a complete cluster fuck?"

The truth of the matter is that the city's pretty well designed; the problem is that US Weekly is just too popular. There are too many people out here that want to be famous or just want to brush shoulders with someone famous...and hopefully pile them (I'm pretty sure there's an enormous groupie faction out here...I can dream). So what I'm saying is, that if People magazine got discontinued, this might actually be a good place to live.

This whole issue of traffic ties into the bigger issues of LA in a couple of different ways. One, a LOT of people have nice cars, and I don't blame them. You live out here long enough and there is a good chance you'll spend half your life in your car (I wish that was a joke). But, it's not the niceness of the cars that bothers me, it's the effort people put into making their car stand out and be way nicer/better/cooler than everyone elses. There's a reason everyone out here drives suped-up Maserati's and it's not a good one. The insane amount of Maserati drivers (a car I''d never even heard of) actually sums it up perfectly.

There are a couple of problems with having a Maserati in LA. The biggest one being, you never get to use it. I can't possibly think of a car that could be less practical/worthless in LA than a that. There are no roads where you can open it up. Actually, the only time you could ever drive it fast is at about 3 in the morning, and my guess is that if you have enough money to buy a Maserati, you probably have a job and aren't out a 3 a.m. very often. So the driving fast is out (and last time I checked that was kind of the point). So what are you left with? A $200k standard shift sports car, with no trunk space that you get to drive around in stop-and-go traffic all day. Just kill me now (I've done the stick shift in LA, it's worse than Chinese water torture). And if you're one of the lucky few whose Maserati has an automatic transmission, well, you're just silly.

Either way, people are missing the point of the car. So why do they buy them? To say they "drive" a porsche is why. It's exotic, expensive, most importantly, it's a status symbol and because it is, everyone will give their right arm (or mortgage their house) just to drive one. Oh and if you are one of those many, MANY people who drive a Porsche Boxster, you sir, are the ultimate dousche. Not only because you're driving a car that you wish was something else, but because it's even more useless than a real Porsche...in the sense, that is has nothing of value to offer anyone.

You know the kid, who would stand outside of the group of people that were talking, and because he wasn't really a part of the conversation, he would just overcompensate by laughing way harder than everyone else did when someone told a joke? And then there'd always be that super awkward point where the kid laughs really hard at something that's not a joke? Well, when you buy a Boxster, that's the part after the really big laugh where everyone turns to look at you and it becomes very clear you have no idea what's going on.

I also think that the extreme cases of road rage I've seen (and been a part of) on LA highways says something interesting about the city. Just like a lot of things out here, a lot of people have it and it's easy to get swept up in it.

It would be easy to say that the road rage is because of the traffic, but I definitely think it's more than that. A lot of people after their first visit to LA (myself included), will say something along the lines of, "the people there can be such assholes" and I agree with that, but only to a certain extent. I think the real reason people experience "the assholes" has more to do with where they choose to visit within LA.

When people first go to a city they tend to navigate toward the touristy areas and in LA everything touristy has to do with everything "star". In this sense it speaks to the type of LA people that actually live everyday in these "star" places. It is safe to say that a lot of people move to LA to become famous, and it is these people who generally tend to live in those "star" areas and it's these people who generally tend to be the angry ones (and the ones with road rage, I'm guessing). It's really all about location.

So, when someone says that LA is full of assholes, they actually mean that LA is full of people who want to be famous. And, since there are a lot of people here and very few famous ones, it doesn't take a calculator to figure out that it equals up to more than just a couple of people who aren't exactly thrilled with their lives up to this point . ...Let's just say that soul crushing, unfulfilled dreams don't exactly make for the cheeriest of environments.

But like I was saying about road rage, anybody can and will get swept into it. It's inevitable and it's also a perfect example of the periodic and unavoidable madness that is this city. The truth is that, you get enough dirty looks in the course of one day, and anyone will snap.

For example, the other day, after a few hours of driving, I had a snapping moment. I was coming down an alley way where an old asian man was crossing the street and I came to a stop just in front of his path. Of course, he probably thought I was going to mow him down. So, just like 20 other people before him that day, he turned and gave me a look like I was some crazy idiot...and I lost it. Out of nowhere I yelled, "I'll fucking kill you old man!" and punched the windshield. ...Yeah, I actually screamed, "I'll fucking kill you old man" and nearly broke my hand. It's at that moment, where you step back and say, "What in the hell am I doing?" Why was I threatening to kill an old asian man? From there, you realize just how ridiculous the whole situation is and how funny everything out here can get.

So yes, it is a cluster fuck...and yes, everyone who lives here isn't actually from here, so it causes all sorts of fitting in issues and makes people act crazy; but, if it weren't for all this nonsense LA wouldn't nearly be as much fun.

2006-10-25T00:33:00.000-07:00

My J.O.B.

So, yes, I am not completely worthless. I have finally gotten a job. After hours of e-mails and submitted applications I have found one that I am quite happy with. All in all, I think that I was extremely lucky. Mainly, because the job I am doing takes no tangible skills whatsoever (which is good because I have none) and pretty much anyone could do it. With that said, it is a position that is viewed as a stepping stone, so I'm sure that down the line (if I don't blow it) they will be expecting me to do something productive...maybe.

The company is a good fit for me, they're young, they seem to be growing fast and the people that I work with are very chill. However, there is one thing about the job that bothers me (and it actually has nothing to do with the job, really)...and that is the location...downtown Santa Monica.

I would like to welcome all of you to the most disgusting city in the world. It is truly amazing. The first thing you will notice about Santa Monica is how unbelievably dirty everything is. The entire city is covered in a thick layer of black grime. It's incredible. If I drop something on the ground out here, it's done. I don't care if it a $100 bill, it isn't worth gettting hepatitis over. If I ever fell down on the sidewalk out here, it would be like that scene in Ace Ventura after he finds out that Einhorn's a man. I would have to quit my job and take an 9 hour shower and cry myself to sleep. The other thing you immediately notice about Santa Monica is the awe-inspiring smell. My god the smell. I can't describe it in words, really. The only thing that I can up with is that it must be a mixture of bums, ocean water, urine and...wait, what's that? Yeah, it's more bums. Sweaty bums, I might add. You wouldn't believe how many there are out here.

Don't get me wrong, Santa Monica is plenty weird on it's own, but you throw in a large sub-culture of homeless and now you're really talking. Because my job involves a lot of walking, I've recently gotten to spend quite a bit of time with this sub-culture and I now believe myself to be somewhat of an expert in any and everything bum related. But, I'm not just guessing. I do research people.

For example, my new favorite game is called, "How Long Before It Gets Eaten". This game can be played with anything, but it's best with food. This is how it works: now, whenever I have to throw something away, instead of throwing it into the dumpsters in the alley I throw it away in the municipal trash cans as an up for grabs type of thing. Then, after a while, I will check in periodically to see if it has been eaten yet. Fun! Then after each day, I record this information in a journal. The hope is that it will be published in a scientific journal of some kind (It's my understanding that if you keep a log of anything for a long enough period of time, that it eventually becomes scientific. ...It's like that chick who lived for a really long time with gorillas. If she had only done that for 2 weeks, she just would have just been that, "weird ape lady", but since she did it for years she got a movie made about her. I think this could be very similar to that).

Other than experiments such as the one above, I've spent my most extensive time trying to decipher the variety of bum clicks. ...As far as I can tell there are three. The homeless don't divide themselves based on normal social standards, like popularity (although there might be some very popular bums), but instead stick together based on the level of craziness with which they view the world.

The first group is "The Ultra Hippy Bum" - these bums are the made up the people that are so extremely liberal that their political/social views simply do not allow them to participate in the society that we have set up at this point (also, they love George Bush...). Got to hand it to these guys, they stick to their guns. They hate the government so much that they actually prefer being homeless. It seems like they should be setting up rallies, picketing injustices and running for office, but instead they settle for getting super-baked, drinking coffee and soiling the magazines at the local Barnes and Noble. So basically, they are a content, anti-societal society? I don't know, it's weird.

The second group is the, "Ken Kasey Bum" - these guys are the one's that I feel sorry for. These are the One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Danny Devito, large Indian that can play hoops, homeless. Unfortunately, these people have no where else to go and no one to help them.

The last group is, "The Surly Bum" - these are ultra-lazy and ultra-dickhead and with these guys it's quite all right to tell them to fuck off...mainly, because if you don't give them any change they will do the exact same. This group is made up of the people, who, for whatever reason, could never get a handle on their drinking and/or drug use. Honestly, I can't tell if these guys are super-pathetic or super-awesome...either way, they love to party. ...If you want to call drinking vodka until you throw up on yourself and pass out on the sidewalk, a party. Seriously, how hard is it to just not get plowed everyday? What makes you think that drinking is so sweet that you would rather do it for the rest of your life than anything else even remotely productive? I love a beer as much as the next guy, but c'mon.

So that's it...what you've just read is what I've taken from Santa Monica.

Here's a perfect example of what an Average day is like here: The other day I walked outside and saw a 250+ lbs. African-American woman bathing herself with a hose. What, that's not that unusual, you say? Well, did I mention that she was completely naked? What?! How is that happening? Now for the rest of my life I will have that image seared into my brain and it's possible that at any moment I could have a flashback. It's like walking down the street to work, taking a wrong turn and suddenly being in Vietnam (What is the large naked woman equivalent of screaming, "Charlies! They're everywhere!"?). Turning around and seeing a totally unexpected, gigantic nude lady...that kind of stuff stays with you. Shit like this happens every day.

So whether it's a vietnam vet running trying to run me over with his wheelchair, or a guy banging his skateboard against a pole and cursing at a plastic grocery bag...for good or bad, Santa Monica is never dull. Sometimes, I just wish I could be the Kindergarten teacher for this entire city..."Hey! Hey! Everyone! Everyone just settle down! ...Please."

2006-10-25T00:25:00.000-07:00

I've Become the Person I Hate the Most...

My Father! ...No, don't worry it's not going to be that kind of post. Actually, the person I've become is a bicyclist. I am a bitch-made hypocrite.

In Manhattan Beach, like I mentioned before, there is a small-town feel, and the reason for that is because it's...a small town (how enlightening). Everything in Manhattan is laid out in grids and it's all really close together. In a lot of ways, it's a lot like the real Manhattan (anyone from New York probably wants to shit on my face for saying that), but they're alike in the sense that you don't need a car and that there's absolutely no parking...anywhere. So anyway, I've had to find new ways to get around. I tried walking everywhere, but let's face it, walking is for suckers and there are some places along the beach that are just too far to walk to, unless you have an hour to spare (Speaking of the beach, did anyone know that you can still get sun-burnt when it's cloudy? Well, I didn't and now I'm scaring small children because I look like I have full-body psoriasis).

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I have been FORCED to ride a bike (that the justification I've made, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to live with myself).

For years, in Austin, I had a huge problem with bicyclists. I hated their smug sense of entitlement (I assume they all have this) and the way they demanded respect on the road, yet chose not to obey any of the laws that cars have to follow. It drove me insane that when it was a red light a bicyclist would just peddle on through, like it's no big deal, and then if you accidentally hit one at an intersection they get out and give you some big speech about how they share the road too (or something like that, I wasn't really paying attention, to be honest). Anyway, I hated them and recently...I have become them...or one of them, whichever works.

So my first bike riding experience was a pleasant one. First, I had to ride a girl's bike. This makes you look bad enough as it is. It wasn't pink with a basket, but it did have tassels and a bell (not kidding), so it wasn't exactly manly. Couple the fact that this was a female's mode of transportation with the fact that I haven't touched, let alone ridden, a bike in fifteen years and it all comes together to paint one very pretty picture. And I do mean pretty. The saying, "Once you learn how to ride a bike, you never forget," is only partly true, because it's very hard to remember things when your embarrassed as shit and almost getting into head-on collisions with on-coming traffic.

Altogether, this by far was one of the most emasculating experiences of my life. Not only was I doing something that went against everything I stood for (and doing it on a girl's bike, no less), but midway through the ride the handlebars gave way and I fell forward and racked the shit out of myself. Very emasculating indeed.

2006-10-25T00:06:00.000-07:00

I Might Be Living the Life of a Minor Celebrity

I have recently begun to worry that my life might only go down hill from here. I am currently living in Manhattan Beach with my cuz and I really hope that I'm not peaking right now. Not because it's not great living out here, it is, but because I don't have a job, I'm squatting at someone else's house and I feel generally clueless.

I am currently staying in two different places in Manhattan Beach, it's my, "Who's The Least Tired of Me" rotation. Despite the fact that I'm mooching ridiculous, I can't go wrong with either place. My cousin's house is right on the beach and I get to say hi to Kevin Nealon every morning (he's their neighbor...no, really).

It's very strange to come outside everyday and see Kevin Nealon just standing there staring at you blankly while he waters his bushes, but he's there. He's always there. I have to be honest, every time, I half expect to hear the Weekend Update music come on and for him to start telling mediocre Monica Lewinsky jokes. As weird as that is, It's even weirder that Nealon in real life seems nothing like his on-screen persona. In real life he actually seems pretty hardcore.

The other day I waved and said, "Hey Kevin" and he just looked at me and then brushed me off. As if to say, "I already bought your house a kegerator. Leave me the fuck alone." The next time I said hey to him he just stared at me. Since then, I've been mulling over our encounters and I actually think Kevin Nealon might want to beat my ass...and I'll be honest, I think he could. I can see it now, Nealon standing over me, just pummeling the crap out me while he does a mediocre rendition of "Subliminal Guy". Or maybe he would be that character "No Depth-Perception Guy" and after he was done kicking the ever-living shit out of me he would apologize and say that he thought I was some other guy that was standing really far away. ...Yeah...so that's one house.

The other house is more in the middle of the town. It's a large, very nice duplex. And while the house is nice, the landlord/neighbor is not. Well, it's not that he's not nice, it's just that he's a absolute freak.

This guy is the most O.C.D. dude I've ever met in my life. Coming home everyday is like suddenly being thrown into an episode of "Monk" or something. This guy's made me buy like twenty pounds of kitty litter because he's convinced my car has a horrendous oil-leak and that it's, "destroying his drive way." I tried to tell him, "You know that you can buy this stuff called Oil-Eater and it will take that off almost instantly." And he just screamed at me, "Buy the Kitty LITTER!" ...Okay.

Needless to say, the guy is a hands-on landlord. He's constantly improving on the house and doing repairs to both sides of the duplex. One time I was sitting in the living room, just watching TV and out of nowhere he came downstairs and said, "Hey" and then left. He had been inside the house for 2+ hours and I didn't even know it! What?! Get the hell out of here with that. I woke up one morning at like 8 in the morning, I walk outside and to find him sand-blasting the patio deck in cut-off jean shorts. What is going on with this guy? That's something you need to be prepared to see, you can't just have stuff like that thrown at you, randomly in the morning when your still groggy and disoriented. I literally had no idea what was happening on that deck for like 30 seconds.

But, you know what? None of that matters. Having a crazy landlord is all good when that crappy Brady Bunch guy and his Top Model wife live down the street. Count it! ...Yeah...so that's the second house.

All in all though, it's pretty great out here. The beach is amazing and it's got a cool small-town vibe. Actually, the closest thing I can equate it to is a college for thirty year old people. It's a bunch of people who were like, "You know what? I like college, I like the beach and I have way too much money, what should I do?," and Manhattan Beach was born. I'm fitting right in...well, except for the money part.

2006-10-24T23:58:00.000-07:00

I'll Be Brief

Albuquerque is America's sandy butthole...that is all.

2006-10-24T23:07:00.000-07:00

THE Drive

So, did anyone know that when you start to fall asleep you go cross eyed? I'm learning new things already. Sadly, I picked up this one because the last thing I saw were the median lines blurring together as I almost drove my car off the side of the road for the 15+ time. My driving skills are mind-blowing.

I was 6 hours in and I had already gone through most of the new CD's that I had burned (I'm not going to listen to DaVinci Code on tape again, I'm not!). At one point, I was getting so bored that I honestly thought falling asleep and seeing what happened seemed like a better option than driving awake any longer.

So in order to stay on my toes, I was listening to my fair share of gangsta rap, and, I don't know who all is familiar with Cam'ron's work, but I am extremely fascinated with my relationship with him. Let me just say this, he is by far one of the most horrible, violent and misogynistic people in rap...which is saying a lot...because, well, it's rap. So basically, he's is one of the worst people on the planet. I agree morally with almost nothing he says or does...and yet, I am completely fascinated with him. No matter what he's talking about, I'm interested in it. For example, on his new record, he actually has a song about his irritable bowel syndrome...and I've listened to it...several times. That's how compelling he is. My interest level is so abnormal that I have come to the conclusion that I might secretly wish I was him...except for the I.B.S.

Anyway, the only way I could stay awake was by consuming a huge amount of Mountain Dew. I wasn't even doing the dew, I was raping the dew and there were a couple of Red Bulls thrown in there for good measure.

Another side note, drinking more than two Red Bulls within the span of three hours is deadly. As Mac from "It's Always Sunny..." would say, "That's just the vitamins ripping through your insides." However I will say this for Red Bull, it seems to me that the stomach ache only happens to you if you're sober. I know there's been a time when I've probably drank 5 or 6 in the course of a night before, and yet, because it was mixed with liquor, I was somehow un-phased for the entire night. But...the morning after was a different story. I don't know if you've ever woke up hung over with your whole body shaking and your heart beating a steady 120 clip, but if you haven't you should check it out. It's amazing. Apparently, Red Bull gives you wings, but it also gives you blurred vision, an irregular heartbeat and the uncanny ability to make you wish that you were dead. Enough Red Bull talk.

So anyway, by the time I got to the hotel, I had enough caffeine and beef jerky in me to kill a small child. Needless to say I was wide awake. ...And that's when I heard it...one of the most disturbing noise I've ever experienced. It was like a low moan, but there were some inexplicable high notes mixed in.

At first I though that it was two people in the hotel having sex and it sent shivers down my spine to picture what these people might actually look like. But then I decided it was animals having sex, more specifically pigs (I decided this because of the occasional squeal). All of this made me genuinely question the location of the hotel I had chosen, but it was too late to go anywhere else and I was forced to sit there and take it (for lack of a better term).

Because, I had originally thought that these pigs were humans, I began to get a weird mental image in my head. That these were human-esque pigs, you know, like ones that walked upright, spoke English and wore bow-ties. Don't ask me why I was thinking about this, because I don't have a good answer, but, I will admit that I have always been interested/terrified by animals doing human things (and no, not sex).

I can honestly say that I find any sort of animal doing human-type things, like talking, hilarious; but, I can also honestly say that if I ever saw this in real life it would terrify me and I would probably respond with a noise similar to the one Ben Stiller made in "Something About Mary" when he zipped his nuts into his tuxedo.

The fear all stems (especially of pigs) from a childhood trauma that involves a Primus music video...and if any of you have seen a Primus video you can back me up on this. One night when I was about 8 or 9 (it was one of the first nights I had spent the night at a friends house) I was having trouble sleeping. So, restless and wide awake, I walked into the living room where my friend was sleeping and it was there on the TV that I saw one of the most terrifying things of my young life. First of all, the volume was up...high, and Primus music played and fire blazed in the background. And then on the screen (and I'll never forget it) there was (and I only pray it wasn't real) an animatronic pig doing some sort of "Lord of the Dance" jig, all the while, laughing like I imagine Satan would laugh and absolutely going to town on the fiddle. ....

If that doesn't scare you, it should, and I still nearly shart myself when I think about it. It would be safe to say that it's haunted me ever since.

So, is any of this important? Not really, I just thought everyone should know how I spent the first night of my aspiring professional/adult life...thinking about animals doing people things and scared to death that a Primus video might come on TV.

2006-10-24T22:45:00.000-07:00

Intro

Despite every instinct that I've ever had, this is the beginning of my blog. It started out as a few things that I was writing about the trip out here, but I decided to go ahead and make this thing official.

So, if anyone's interested in the ridiculousness that is my life, I hope that you'll check this thing out and see what I've been up to. I won't be dropping any emotional bombs, writing about what I had for breakfast or divulging my inner-most thoughts; all this will be is a couple of stories every now and then that might elicit a funny post or a "Hey, what's up?" e-mail from one of you, because what I hope for most out of this thing is that it's another way to keep in touch.

Other than that, I hope you all enjoy reading it, seeing as how that was kind of the point for the whole move in the first place.

Without further ado...