country, skrimp, my gut

alright, kids. time for an update!

i was surprised at how many people were perturbed and genuinely angered by 'darlene, popo, and porn'. let me start out by saying that despite my four eyes, i can read perfectly fine. i was just using that as a (not so?) thinly veiled excuse for performing my illegal activity. in response to the concerned emails, the envelope has been safely returned to DARLENE POPS AND PAM. under the cloak of night i put on my darkest hoodie, crept amongst the shadows, and let the brutally ravaged envelope descend from my cold grip; leaving it nestled amongst the palm fronds on their front lawn. now everyone can sleep at night.

next topic: wildfires. i took this picture outside my house at noon that day. just wanted to give you a sense of what the sky looked like for 48 hours.

next topic up to bat - i'm leaving california. permanently. allow me to explain. over the past year, i have slowly developed a festering distaste for everything in the general vicinity lying roughly south of oregon and west of nevada. my list of grievances are as follows...

ITEM 1: WORKING AT A RED LOBSTER 8 MILES AWAY FROM COMPTON

when you turn the corner and see this guy sitting in your section, you know you're in for a whirlwind ride.

he was wearing an XXL T-shirt with an 18 inch portrait of obama proudly splayed across the front. through his three solitary teeth he proudly proclaimed it to be his birthday. as per red lobster policy, we are obligated to sing 'happy birthday' to our guests.

i call a couple of reluctant servers over to assist me in the merriment. i blandly ask the man his name and he lets out a loud chuckle before literally shouting, "call me 'cun-tray'!"

it should be noted that at our location, we rarely sing to a "bill" or a "susan". it's always a "laquisha" or "dantelle" or "niketha". so there's usually a need for clarification before the singing can begin.

i lean in closer. "i'm sorry, what was that?"
this time, for the entire restaurant he bellows, "CUN'TRAY! CALL ME CUN'TRAY!"

the other servers look to me for guidance. was he saying 'country'? i whisper to them, "i don't know, just sing." we knock out a quick rendition of the birthday song to "country" as he tosses his massive head back and roars with laughter; reminding me of an urban, toothless jabba the hut.

the people who frequent our establishment also frequently mispronounce words. the same words. over and over.

"shrimp" is pronounced "skrimp". with no 'H' sound whatsoever. as in, "i'm gunna get me somma' that garlic grilled skrimp." the first time i heard this, i was dumbfounded. maybe they had a speech impediment. just let it go. but the 18th time i heard a customer order 'skrimp' i couldn't help myself.

"i'm sorry, we don't have skrimp. did you mean...SHrimp?" the guy looks at me puzzled. "yeah, that's what i ordered, skrimp."
"skrimp? no, we don't have skrimp on the menu." it quickly turned into a laurel and hardy sketch and i eventually entered his skrimp order into the krunkputer for the kritchen to cook.

i would say upwards of 75% of our customers actually pronounce the L in 'salmon', so that it's mutated into 'sal-min'. not everyone can be a seafood expert and know how to correctly say 'mahi-mahi' or 'barramundi' or one of the other exotic varieties of fish available. but we're talking about salmon here. which makes me wonder if an aneurysm would develop in their brains if they ever tried to pronounce the last name of our 16th president.

ITEM 2: LIVING IN THE GHETTO

it's an everyday occurrence to hear about random shootings on the local freeways, at the mall, on my own street. just yesterday i was driving behind a car and read their license plate frame. i thought to myself, "i must have misread that." i stepped on the gas for a closer view. yep. it did say that.

"I'd Rather Be Shooting Cops"

what a lovely city.

ITEM 3: MY SELF-ESTEEM IS MARINATING IN RAW SEWAGE

once again trying to utilize my health insurance, i decided to find a doctor in town to see if i have any serious ailments i need to know about. after twenty frustrating phone calls, i finally located someone who would accept my top-notch insurance. on the day of the appointment i am finally called into the back room, weighed by a nurse who doesn't say one word to me, and am ushered into a tiny room to once again wait for the doctor. he finally arrives, shakes my hand, briefly introduces himself, and glares at my chart. he glances at me over the rim of his glasses and sharply inhales. "you know..." he starts. "i'm sure you'd have a better time with the ladies if you lost some weight."

how do you respond to that? i scramble to think of something to say but finally give up and simple offer him an "okay". i've just met this man ten seconds ago and he's already come to the conclusion that i'm obese and therefore must be struggling in the love department.

as i walk to my car, i repetedly tug on the bottom of my shirt, wishing i had worn a sweatshirt which could hide all my hideous bulge.

i arrive at home and sit on my bed to watch some (granted, sedentary) TV. my bed jolts and i quickly brace myself, thinking we're having another earthquake. nope. it's my bed. it's broken under my weight. the metal leg supporting my massive girth buckled and snapped in two. maybe the doc was onto something. so this puts me into a state of depression; which i attempt to stave off with a maple bar and some Häagen-Dazs.

several months ago i sent out a slurry of query letters in hopes of snagging a screenwriting agent and last month i got a response! the agent wrote to me and asked if i could send my script because he wanted to read it. very exciting! so i fed-ex the thing overnight at a cost of nearly $30 and sit back to i play the waiting game. finally, after two weeks i leave him a voicemail politely asking if he has had a chance to read my masterpiece. i understand he's extremely busy and was kind to even give me a chance. i painfully wait several more days. finally, he leaves me a voicemail. "you had a lovely premise with a lot of promise."

i get a little giddy in my stomach. someone in hollywood actually likes my writing! he continues, "but...you have extremely lame dialogue and the entire concept didn't pay off. you have such a great premise and you completely killed it. you lost me after 10 pages - it was awful and unreadable. it's...it's not for me." click.

he's probably just biased against fat people.

so. that's it. those are some of my reasons for leaving. i don't feel like i've given up on 'the dream'. i've tried it out for over a year and it's left a sour taste in my mouth. i came down here so as not to not be stuck with a 'what if' in the future. so i'm moving home in january and ready to start another chapter. one that hopefully doesn't involve any skrimp.

wildfires, mansions, and the 4H

it's that time again...WILDFIRES!

all day today the sky has been ominously glowing an apocalyptic orange and the air is stagnant with a lovely aromatic bouquet reminiscent of pine, burning newspapers, and a jar full of water and cigarette butts. it's amazing that the smell and haze are even present, considering i live forty miles south of the action.

i have to say (perhaps unsurprisingly) that i have very little sympathy for the people who have lost their homes. i know in this economic climate it's painful to see millionaire celebrities losing their third vacation mansion to a devastating fire. but i have a problem with any sane person purchasing a house in a state that actually has a regularly scheduled 'fire season', 'flood season', 'tornado season', or 'locust and pestilence season'.

i don't understand why you would purchase a multi-million dollar home in an area where the hills spontaneously combust every year (i'm looking at you, rob lowe).

it's the same mentality as losing your home to a flood and then expecting FEMA to rebuild it for you in it's original location - directly on the banks of the mississippi. dumb.

so here i sit in my room, as the sky sits in perpetual sunset-mode, occasionally glancing into the haze for any signs of four horsemen coming to make a friendly house call.

darlene, popo, and porn

i'm fairly certain i performed a felony this morning - and i feel like a horrible and dirty person for doing it. i was sorting through my mail and noticed an unfamiliar handwriting with the envelope clearly addressed to "darlene, popo, and porn".

here's where i began my slide down the slippery slope. my address is 9227 and upon closer inspection you can see that the handwriting could be interpreted as either 9227 or 9229 (its intended destination). by its shape, it was most likely a run-of-the-mill thank-you note and the postage stamp had been transplanted from a red envelope and glued onto this one.

which told me that:
1. the sender was either a cheap miser or

2. a maverick. not caring if the postal service accepted the postage or not. she had done her part.

taking all this into account before my conscience had a chance to object, my curiosity savagely ripped it open and i read the contents.

"Thank you doesn't begin to describe how grateful I am for all that you did at my party. You all were so hel[p]ful to me and you really got me through one of the most difficult nights of my entire life. I love you guys!"

and it's at this point that my stomach sank and i felt ill. it wasn't just a casual thanks for a toaster or a target gift card - darlene, popo, and porn had changed this woman's life forever.

now as this defiled note sits on my dresser, my neighbors are left wondering if this woman is even grateful for all they did for her.

"would it have killed her to send a thank-you note?" darlene will no doubt bitterly internalize as she pours herself a cup of coffee at 9229 walnut street.

so, now i'm left in an awkward position. do i just throw the whole thing away and leave them thinking this woman is ungrateful and selfish? or do i return it to them? that's the tricky part. if they catch me sneaking up to their front porch and putting the envelope in their mailbox, they'll know for sure what happened. in which case i'll have myself some freshly slashed tires and/or prison jumpsuit.

i'll have to be more covert. wait until nightfall, casually go for a stroll, haphazardly huck the envelope onto their lawn, and sprint back inside my house before anyone notices what's happened.

the next morning they'll see a mangled envelope on their front lawn and spend the next four days puzzling over what possible circumstances could have brought it to them in this condition. was it a wild animal? are those teeth marks? have we done something to upset our mailcarrier? is this some sort of gang-initiation?

as i crouch, nervously peeking through the slats of the venetian blinds in my room, i'll have the satisfaction of knowing i did the right thing.

a drill, a fill, a bill

i was introduced to a new friend today...







NOVOCAINE!






up until this point in my life i have proudly held membership to an elite group of individuals having one thing in common - no cavities. incidentally; no gum disease, gingivitus, plaque, or anything else mentioned in the toothpaste commercials.

(the fact that the other members of my prestigious group are a bunch of 8 year olds who haven't been properly introduced to redbull or altoids is beside the point)

but all of that is behind me now because i got myself a cavity. several, if you want to be exact.

the dentist introduced herself and pried me open to take a look inside. she gently let her latexed fingers glide over my teeth for a slow and uncomfortable sixty seconds.

"your teeth are gorgeous. did you know that?" she asks.

"um...thanks."

i figure i'm a new patient and she's just trying to make me feel good about myself before she tells me how i don't floss enough. she continues to stare into my mouth, in a daze.

"they're really beautiful. i'm being serious." she cooed.

"okay. thank you."

then her face slowly dropped and her eyes saddened as she looked into my gaping mouth. by the expression on her face you would have thought she just witnessed someone smearing fecal matter on the mona lisa. behind that surgical mask, there was devestation. the words that followed seemed to cause her physical discomfort...

"you have some cavities."

then the happy fun time began:
novocaine, needles, drills, gagging on my own pool of saliva, and the smell of my burning enamal wafting up past my nose.

yet it was the small talk during the procedure that really killed me. i've got six fingers, three medical instruments, and a couple tubes crammed into my mouth and you decide now's a great time to ask me if i enjoy my job. i managed to grunt, hoping that this would be a sufficient answer to her inane question.

with the drilling and filling finally complete she took a look at her work. the doom and gloom mask was quickly replaced by supreme satisfaction.

"your teeth are absolutely amazing."

seriously lady, do you just want to take my teeth out on a date? just be sure to bring them back by ten, i don't want them to get a reputation.

then she blurted out the non sequitur:
"i really like the crab legs."

was this a dental procedure i wasn't familiar with? oh. she was talking about my job again, this time without the cornucopia of instruments jetting out of my oral cavity.

i wasn't quite sure how to respond to someone revealing their love of crustaceans to me. it was at this point in time that i realized i had now lost the ability to move my tongue and lips - the novocaine had fully kicked in. i tried the grunting approach one more time.

"what's your favorite thing there?" she prodded.

i was tempted to physically grab my tongue to help assist it in formulating words.

"um. i don't know. fish?"

truth is, i hate the food at red lobster. love seafood, hate red lobster. but i didn't have the desire or the ability to continue this conversation with her. three hours had gone by since i arrived and i just wanted to pay my $300 and go home.

"what about the lobster? i LOVE lobster! what about you?"

"you know, i actually don't really like their food that much."

that was not the right thing to say.

"what do you mean?!" her voice quickly rising to erratic.

"i don't know. i guess it's different when you work around it every day."

"no. i don't think so. you just must not like seafood."

"okay."

how do you respond to someone who takes personal offense to those who dislike the food at red lobster? i could maybe understand it if she was a shareholder, or her father was Poseidon or something. otherwise, let it go.

it's a good thing she was so enamured with my incisors, otherwise the conversation could have ended in a fistfight. but i'm sure she couldn't risk damaging the masterpiece that is my grin.

(side note: my molars are going to be doing a booksigning at the local Barnes & Noble this saturday from 9am-2pm if anyone wants to stop by)

beeswax, pomegranate, and my pretty pretty lips

i accidently bought the wrong chapstick.

let's just start off by saying i recently discovered burt's beeswax. the wax and i have created a special bond; very similar to the unique relationship between a soccer mom and meth. normally i just stick to the straight-up no-nonsense variety and that suits my needs just fine. a couple of weeks ago i found myself with the honey-flavored variety. close enough. i muddled my way through it as best i could, nobody needs to know.

then came tonight's little treat. as i looked at it's box, i realized i had accidentally grabbed the pomegranate flavor. same thing, right? hardly.

after it's application, i found myself staring into the mirror. in fact, i couldn't stop. i was mesmerized by the enchanting pomegranate scent wafting into my nose while simultaneously disgusted at my resembling a hybrid of the cat lady next door and a drag queen from west hollywood. my initial reaction was to wipe it off in disgust. however, i decided to let it linger on my lips...just for a moment - before re-masculinizing myself by drizzling scotch over my mouth and lighting the whole mess on fire. with red wax now dripping from my chin, i threw the remnants into the trash and called it a night.

pomegranate is one of those culinary quirks that suddenly appears out of nowhere; like chipotle or ciabatta bread. and once it does, EVERYONE scrambles to carry it on their shelves. it seems like it was about three years ago when pomegranate snuck onto the scene in the U.S. it started out as one of those ultra expensive 'health-nut' juices that nobody cared about. but before long it had infused itself into our apple juice, lotions, green tea, martinis, and my chapstick of choice.

what does pomegranate even taste like? can the average american even identify it? because to me it just seems like a giant marketing ploy. i wanna do a blindfold test. banana flavor? got it. vanilla? child's play. orange? practically my brother.

but, pomegranate? what is it...a strawberry? mixed with lime? i don't get it. all i know is that i don't want it in my chapstick or rubbed on my ciabatta.

county fairs, americana, and the douche

LA has a fair. you know, like the kind with corndogs, barn animals, nascar enthusiasts, and shady titl-o-whirl operators. for the residents of los angeles?

i can't think of a more inappropriate location for a county fair. what was once a summertime celebration of agriculture, blue collar jobs, consumption of cheap american beer, hyperactive fat kids, and the social acceptability of overalls and flannel shirts will now be tainted by the attendence of 'the douche' (pictured below).

arriving in a mercedes, blackberry in hand, rolex on wrist, scoping out the food stands for a killer tofu smoothie.




apparently i'm not the only one who finds the idea of a fair in LA county amusing. here are some local ads running on TV right now:

call girls, little caesars, and a pain in the neck

my neck has been killing me all week. i usually like to think i have a high tolerance for pain; but when i have to grab my hair in order to physically lift my head off the pillow in the morning - there's a problem.

so i took a little trip to yellowpages.com and typed in 'massage'. here's what i got:



escort services. apparently you can't get a decent massage around here without first taking a call girl out for a "night on the town" before she'll perform said massage.

(since my grandmothers are frequent readers of my blog it should be noted: my neck still hurts)


this evening i decided mask my pain with some crazy bread® from little caesars®. as i sat and waited for the 'hot and ready...in about ten minutes' bread i found myself staring at their logo.



besides the fact that the emperor's chest hair is in all likelihood a health-code violation, my eyes were drawn to his left hand. why on earth does he have wolverine claws coming out of his knuckles?

perhaps he's about to perform an eponymous 'caesarian section' (in which case i am no longer in the mood for anything covered in red sauce).

and why does he need the spear, when he could have just conveniently hooked the entire pizza on the metal rods jetting out of his fist?

his right hand is one-quarter the size of his left and his nose has roughly the same shape/diameter of a large pepperoni pizza. which leads me to believe that the artist may have accidentally confused the great julius caesar with the elephant man.

wheel of fortune, retards, and flipper

i was watching wheel of fortune today before work (while knitting a cardigan for my grandson Kenny). it was a celebrity edition from the late 80's/early 90's featuring richard karn and two other celebrities i didn't recognize. pat sajak asked one of the female celebrities what her charity was. she looked like a deer in headlights; she had forgotten the name of her charity. she awkwardly chuckled until sajak looked at his card and read the name of her charity. as soon as he said it, she excitedly blurted out, "oh yeah! it's a housing project for retards!"

silence. the other two celebrities awkwardly stare at the ground while sajak stumbles to say, "okay...well that's...great."

i wonder why she's not famous anymore? we need to get that woman a reality TV show STAT.

i have the theme song to 'flipper' stuck in my head. i've never seen an episode of that show in my life and yet the song keeps carouselling around in my brain. it doesn't help that i only know two lines:

They call him flipper, flipper, faster than lighting!
No one you see, is smarter than he!

then something about him being the king of the ocean in a world full of wonder or some nonsense. i just want it to stop. it's like getting a christmas song stuck in your head mid-july. it's out of place, annoying, and creates an unhealthy craving for eggnog.

escape scenarios, natural disasters, and my toothbrush

my sister (her name is michelle) and i recently discovered we both have some things in common.

1. if we were on board an airplane that was hurtling to the ground, we are 100% certain we would survive the impact.

2. if we were to be involved in some sort of disaster scenario (fire, flood, random sniper rampage, terrorist explosion, etc.) we are 100% certain we would survive.

3. all day every day we create escape scenarios in our heads.

how can i be 100% positive i'll survive? i don't know, it's just an overwhelming feeling of certainty. over-confidence? perhaps. does my body contain adamantium? perhaps. is it logical? absolutely not. but in our minds it's an indisputable and absolute truth.

as for the escape scenarios; it's not as if we're obsessing and living in a constant state of paranoia. let's say a red light happens to place my car under an overpass or bridge. while i wait for the light to change, my mind wanders to what i would do if there was an earthquake at that moment.

"okay. these cars have me blocked in, so i should lay flat across the seats so that when the falling debris lands on my roof i won't be crushed to death."

when i'm in the drive through at starbucks my mind wanders to:

"what if the guy behind me were to leap out of his truck with a gun and approach my car? normally i could easily swerve over that median and speed away; but since there's a streetlight blocking my path - i'll swing open my door, throw the car in reverse, and bash him into the ground. while he's stunned/unconscious, i'll get out of the car and run across the street."

jihadist bomb in the movie theater? not a problem. armed robbery at the bank? no worries. gang motivated drive-by shooting on my block? well, i'm working on that one.

i usually remain calm during emergencies, but have never really been put to the test in a real-world situation. i've always wondered if i would buckle under the pressure or would my über-confidence kick in and save my life as i've come to expect?

i found out last week when we had a 5.4 earthquake. here's how it went down:

i'm in the bathroom brushing my teeth, getting ready for work. i hear a loud rumbling and at first think it's a garbage truck outside. it wasn't garbage day. as i felt the ground slip underneath my feet i casually opened the bathroom door, held onto the door frame with one hand and continued to brush my teeth with the other - and watched as the entire living room violently swayed back and forth. items were now falling onto the ground and for the full 30 seconds i just continued to brush my teeth and observe. my main concern was not staying alive, it was getting ready so i wouldn't be late for work. i'm not going to let some earthquake put a kink in my schedule. the rumbling stops, i spit in the sink, and go iron my shirt.

i'm ready for the next disaster. living near LA, i know it's just a matter of time. come on, mother nature. bring it.

batman, rick moranis, and a murder on walnut street

last week i went to the opening midnight preview of 'the dark knight'. we arrived two hours early to ensure we wouldn't be in the chiropractic first row. since it was my brilliant idea to arrive so early, i was chosen to hold our place in the snaking line while the rest of my party went next door to grab some beers and enjoy a nice sit-down dinner; leaving me surrounded by a sea of Kevin Smith clones. so i plopped down on the cold cement, muttered under my breath, and waited for my "friends" to return.

an hour goes by. encompassed by sixty minutes worth of mind-numbing references to Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and various obscure comic-book characters; my attention was abruptly diverted by a man who strongly resembled Rick Moranis.

he came bursting out of the theater using a hysteric tone normally reserved for emergency situations. "MOTHER!" "MOTHER!" he frantically screamed as he rushed towards the parking area.

everyone looks. do i call 9-1-1? what's happening here? he runs up to a car and rips the passenger door open. "GET OUT OF THE CAR!" he hurriedly yanks his mother out; revealing a woman who can't be less than 85 years old. she is obviously struggling to get out of the vehicle as he shoves a walker into her crypt-keeper claws. "WE HAVE EXACTLY TWO MINUTES! IF WE MISS THE PREVIEWS WE MIGHT AS WELL GO HOME RIGHT NOW! DO YOU HEAR ME?!"

whoa. the blank expression on her face suggested she didn't hear a word coming out of his mouth, let alone where she was at the current moment. she had glossy eyes, her face was porcelain white, she had bright red lipstick randomly smeared on her ancient lips, and her hair was flame orange. if i didn't know any better, i'd have thought it was an homage to heath ledger's character.

she begins to take one incoherent step after another. you can see the son just fuming next to her. finally, he snaps and snatches her arm to assist/drag her and the walker toward the front entrance.
"why can't you hurry up! you do this to me every time! you know how much I enjoy Hellboy and still you insist on ruining it for me!"

wow.

once my friends finally decide to join me, we enter the theater and take a seat. the friend next to me gets a text message from her brother. without saying a word, she shows me the text on her cell phone.


SOMEONE WAS JUST MURDERED ON MY STREET. COPS ARE EVERYWHERE.


weird. i mean that's not uncommon news, living so close to LA. just to be polite and show that i care, i ask her where he lives. she stares at me for a moment before answering, "he lives three doors down from you on Walnut Street."

okay wait. what are we talking here? gang war on walnut street? serial killer? stabbing? shooting? lovers quarrel? is there someone still on the prowl? my mind begins a deep decent into freak-out mode. i immediately text my roommates. no response. great. they're the victims. i'm certain of it now.

and the lights go out...the movie starts. awesome. this is just awesome. as the audience excitedly cheers, a knot the size of wayne manor begins to twist in my stomach. i have to go home to a crime scene and explain to the cops where i've been the last four hours.

the movie ends and i drive home at 3:45am. as i get in the turn lane to make a left on walnut street, i see that the road is blocked by fifteen cop cars and unmarked SUVs. i take an alternate route, but find that it is also blocked by another half-dozen cop cars. i try to covertly scan the sidewalks for white outlines or blood spatter. it's too dark.

i detour around another set of police blockades and finally arrive at my house. i grab a butcher knife from the kitchen before locking myself in my bedroom to check the internet for an explanation.

it turns out a robbery suspect was walking on walnut street and a sheriff happened to notice him as he drove past. the sheriff pulled over to arrest him and the suspect ended up firing off a shot at the cop; who in turn fired back a non-lethal shot. no murder. no gang massacre. just some moron trying to shoot a Los Angeles county sheriff. (article can be read here)

and yet all week, every time a neighborhood kid lights off a leftover firecracker, i dive to the floor - determined not to be a participant in any ghetto shenanigans.

socks, locks, and smocks

i need new socks.

i feel like a filthy hobo. these are my work socks and i have four more pairs identical to this one. it's not that i'm too cheap to buy new socks, it's just that i have procrastination issues. months ago what started out as a tiny hole, has now manifested itself into a full-on mummy shroud.

my reasoning is, as long as they continue to be all-business from the ankle up, i'm good to go.

i'm totally obsessed with "how do they do that?" shows. to my glee, the discovery channel is swarming with this type of programming. i'll stop everything i'm doing just to watch how an oreo is created. i could spend endless hours (i do in fact) watching how they make golf balls, water towers, surf boards, zippers, baseball bats, and padlocks.

i was thinking about this today and realized that as a child my favorite episodes of Mr. Rogers were the ones where he went to the twinkie or play-doh factory to give us a sneak peek behind the scenes. the mysterious curtain hiding the origins of my favorite things would finally be revealed!

i couldn't care less about henrietta pusscat or king friday VIII. stop wasting my time with this make-believe fluff and get me into that crayon factory. why does Roger's postal worker have to be so long-winded? he was always the one who stood between me and the soon-to-be-revealed secret world of lego manufacturing. as a child, i could easily envision the apex of my adulthood career within the four walls of the hershey complex.

complete contentment; eating chocolate bars till my stomach burst, getting to operate all those fun machines, wearing a hard-hat for no apparent reason, putting on those awesome looking white smocks with my name stitched on the chest. and when nobody was looking, i would swim in the giant vat of M&Ms. my co-workers would knowingly smile and look the other way; disregarding all health and contamination concerns - because they wanted to go next.

as an adult, my childhood dreams were effectively put in the garbage disposal when it was pointed out that mind-numbing/soul sucking factory work might not be in my best interest.

it was as true then as it is now; they never show the employees in the background of these TV programs. that's because nobody wants to see an octogenarian in a hair-net struggling to keep up with the conveyor belt. or the hungarian immigrant with a cigarette dangling from her crooked mouth as she inspects the quality of the Q-tips.

all social stigmas aside, there is a part of me that still secretly wants to work in a birdseed manufacturing plant. at least for a week.

new cars, new homes, new phones

why don't we get excited for people when they get new things?

you got a new $400 cell phone with GPS and a direct link to the space station? yeah for you. i can barely afford to pay rent.

you got a new baby? thank you for sending me three dozen identical pictures of your newborn sleeping. i just found out that the plastic water bottle i've been using the last five years is carcinogenic and has virtually eliminated all chances of me reproducing. but...congratulations. i'm happy for you.

you got a new car? awesome. i just paid $1200 to have my engine repaired last week. but i'm sure yours is fine.

you just got a dramatic new hairstyle? neat. i got a haircut last week and you didn't say a word. but really, it looks great on you.

you just won $400 on a scratch ticket? wow. lucky you. i've never won anything in my life.

sure, i'd love to look at a slide-show of your vacation pictures; even though i haven't had a day of vacation since i hit puberty. i'll just pretend i'm there in cancun alongside you and the dolphins. looks like you had an awesome time.

why don't we care? when we get something new we want to shout to the whole world! yet the instant we have to walk through someone's new home and hear them drone on about the wood grain of the cabinets and the top-of-the-line faucets in the bathroom - we shut down.

are we just selfish by nature or is there a hint of jealousy involved?

seeing others brag about their promotion only reminds us that we're not quite as far along as we'd like to be.

seeing others brag about their newborn only reminds us of our own ticking biological clock. and if we do have kids, we internally scoff - because they don't have a clue what they're in for.

why can't we just be happy for them? we politely smile and act amused when a friend shows off a new gadget or tells us they're engaged. yet the second it becomes us in the lime-light we completely forget how this appears to others and expect everyone to instantly become as excited as we are.

the facts are: the only people who care about your new baby are your parents and grandparents. not your office co-workers. not your mailman. not your casual myspace friends who you haven't spoken to in five years.

the only person who cares about your new car is the guy who sold it to you.

and the only person who cares about your vacation is you.

having said that, i just bought a new pair of jeans. a detailed description and corresponding photos are now in your email inbox.

white balls, worthless hands, and the letter G

since we saw temperatures in the upper nineties last week i decided it was time to put away the down-comforter and pull out the thin, white, $10 blanket i bought at Target last summer.

i put it in the washing machine - mainly to kill any spiders that may have been lurking inside. i threw it in the dryer and thirty minutes later i opened the dryer door only to have my face collide with a hot burst of air filled with thousands of tiny white balls. a myriad of perfectly formed cotton puffs spilled onto the floor and statically clung to every inch of my body.

in the course of a few hours all of my clothes, my entire bed, the television, the walls - all covered in endless drifts of white. it didn't help that i sleep with a 600 horsepower fan next to me. all night long i have cyclones of cotton particles swirling around my room. each morning i shake my head to get them out of my hair, which only creates more static charge, thus causing the puffs on the floor to come zooming through the air and cling to my eyebrows.

i open my laptop? hello white balls!

take a drink from my water bottle? hello white balls!

lodged between my incisors? hello white balls!

this week i've spent countless man-hours hunched over every article of clothing with duct tape wound around my hand, doing the little tap-tap-tap in a fruitless effort to eliminate them. and yet, the next morning they re-align and re-cover every piece of fabric i own. i've even attempted attacking the source of the problem. endlessly dabbing the hell out of the blanket; yet everyday it prosperously sprouts new balls. at some point shouldn't the blanket begin losing mass and falling apart?

the vacuum is worthless, it just blows everything around and creates more static charge; so i decided to do it manually. yesterday i spent my free time kneeling on the floor with a lint roller going back and forth back and forth. forty-five minutes later i had used up all the sticky on the roller...and only a third of the carpet was ball-free. that night, i came home from work and in blatant defiance the balls had all migrated to the swatch of carpet i had just toiled over all afternoon.

in fact, just now i had a white ball stuck between two letters on my keyboard. angrily, i flicked it so hard that the letter G on my keyboard went flying into the air. i went across the room, snatched the tiny black G square off the ground, and mashed it back into it's proper place. it was in this mashing process that i managed to break something.


the G key now sits all wonky and doesn't respond to touch. it's especially frustrating because i typically type around 90 WPM, and now i'm forced to type like a senior citizen. with my giant slab-of-meat hands I delicately try to reconstruct the tiny pieces of plastic; which is loosely equivalent to having a silver-back mountain gorilla attempt needlework. my useless bratwurst fingers were unable to correctly re-align the necessary components. there are several intricate pieces involved and now i'm flirting with the idea of just dripping crazy glue all over everything and calling it a day.



so for now i'm left with a rubber nub of a G as a thousand tiny white balls make a laughingstock out of me.

procrastination, gas stations, and chance encounters

i was late for work and hopped in my car. a lovely chime reminded me that i was low on gas. i was on empty yesterday as well, figuring i'll do it tomorrow. well tomorrow was here and i was late for work. mental note: tomorrow you need to stop procrastinating.

i pull into the gas station, jump out, and clasp the pump with white knuckles. can't this thing go any faster? it was then that i heard obnoxious shouting four pumps over. "hey! you! excuse me!" it's probably just a scuffle. just ignore it. it'll go away. we're almost done here.

"sir! excuse me, sir! hello?" will somebody please just answer this nutjob.

"excuse me! you with the jetta!" oh. i guess that would be me. wonderful.

i slowly turn my head around and see a disheveled woman hobbling towards me. i immediately begin concocting escape scenarios. if i spray her in the face with the gasoline, that will spare me a few seconds to hop in my car and speed away before she has a chance to draw a gun on me. mental note: start carrying a lighter with you at all times.

"excuse me! i only have $3 and have to get to cerritos to [meet my meet drug dealer]. can you help me out?" behind the safety of my sunglasses i roll my eyes and scream internally.

i respond, "i don't have any cash. sorry."
she retorts, "oh that's okay. i'll just pull my car up behind yours and you can use your card."

oh. can i?

i explain to her that i'm in a hurry and late for work and apologized for not being able to help her out. not to mention the fact that this particular pump was $3.87/gallon.

she walks away. my feelings of guilt are overridden by the sense that she's trying to pull a fast one on me. i continue to pump my gas. i casually turn my head to make sure she's not sneaking up on me and see that she has now positioned her car directly behind mine. she rolls down the window and her gravel voice tells me that anything would help. she thanks me and rolls up the window.

did we just have two different conversations? and she wants me to pump the gas for her? looks like i won't be filling up my tank today. i release the pump and make my way to her car. she flashes a toothless grin and waves. cute.

i unscrew her filthy gas-cap and begin filling her tank. now what? is $5 too cheap? is $20 too much? as the numerals scroll past five bucks i see that it's like 1/18th of a gallon. too cheap. i keep rolling.

finally at $12.82 i release the pump. i'm late for work and she's sheisted enough out of me. i slam the pump back into it's holster and offer a weak smile. she hoarsely shouts "thank you, sir!" and i head to red lobster; determined to make an extra $12.82 in tips that night.

mexicans, australians, and spaniards

a group of australian guys came into my section yesterday. why they chose our lovely eatery and not the Outback Steakhouse two blocks down escapes me. they were very charming, drunk, and stereotypically used the word 'mate' in excess.

it turns out their presence confused many of the black girls i work with.

me: "can you run this sprite to section nine for me?"
her: "which table?"
me: "twenty-six."
her: "which table is that again?"
me: "the one...with the white guys"

ten seconds later she finds me, sprite still in her hand, confused.

her: "there weren't any white guys at table 26."
me: "what are you talking about?"
her: "well they had a weird accent."
me: "that's because they're australian."
her: "australians aren't white!"

at this point my brain stopped functioning for several moments while i processed what she had just said. before i could respond, another black co-worker chimed in.

other girl: "yeah! i heard them talking and thought they were from spain or something. definitely not white."

now you know: if you see a 'white person' with a 'funny accent', odds are they're from madrid.

speaking of cultural differences, i've made an interesting discovery while living in LA. that ambiance music that plays in the background of your local mexican restaurant? i always thought it's sole purpose was to set the mood for Americans while they chow down on their 'authentic' burritos and enchiladas. as it turns out, 'authentic' mexicans actually listen to that music...and enjoy it! i always considered it cheesy background music to placate the americans, never realizing that they actually own the CD.

i'll pull up to a red light, look over and see a hispanic thug with tats running up his neck, and he has mariachi music blasting on his 18 inch subwoofers. not hardcore gangsta rap. not techno. mariachi.

i fully understand that it's a cultural thing and i understand they're proud of their heritage. it's just that i don't envision german-americans having their friends over and listening to polka music. and i don't picture french-americans having cocktail parties and listening to...well, mimes don't play music.

maybe it's just that i'm territorial and patriotic when it comes to american music. why are they listening to that garbage when they could be listening to our beloved britney spears? maybe if mariah had a trumpet?

as i write this, my mexican neighbors are having a little jam session. a relentless barrage of tuba, accordion, tiny guitar, and trumpet - pulsating through my neighborhood at 11pm. and of course this cacophony is accompanied by some dude singing passionately about a corazon. and in an odd Pavlovian twist, i suddenly have a craving for some chile rellano.

jack daniels, oligarchies, and mustard

i was at the grocery store and threw some veggie burgers in my cart; which naturally led me to the mustard aisle. my first instinct was to buy the 99¢ plain-jane variety when something caught my eye; jack daniels brand mustard. always a sucker for food items infused with booze; i bought two.

although incredibly tasty, it didn't quite deliver the buzz i had initially expected; so i began experimenting. frosted flakes with a couple squirts of jack? surprisingly scrumptious! eggos with a little jack drizzled on top? who knew!

it has now gotten to the point where i am waking up in the middle of the night and methodically rubbing it on my gums for the numbing effect.

bottom line? go to the store. load it up.

the day before the oscars, local AMC theaters were doing a special promotion; all five 'best picture' nominees played back to back for $30. i was indifferent towards the whole affair, until they said these magical words: free popcorn and drinks...all day.

within mere seconds, a credit card was whipped out and a ticket was purchased online.

having only a vague memory from my world religion class regarding the concept of nirvana; complete peace, transcendence, and utter bliss would now be re-defined as endless bags of popcorn, bottomless sprite, and twelve hours of incredible filmmaking.

at the door, i was issued an 'official' laminated collectors pass which was to be worn around the neck; like the back-stage passes at a rock concert. with the introduction of the official pass, a caste system was immediately formed within the building - a social hierarchy. those with passes? the elite. an oligarchy of film fanatics.

commoners had to actually wait in line to have their flimsy 'paper' tickets torn and clumsily told which theater their movie was located in. i would stride past, refuse them eye-contact, nod crisply to the guard, and proceed to my room.

when it was break time, long lines at the concession stand were of no concern to me. straight to the front. some jerk would eventually mouth off.

"hey pal! there's a line here!"

i don't even dignify his existence. locking eyes with the employee, i knowingly tap the laminated pass twice with my index finger and place my order.

"you have to wait in line, asshole!"

the employee looks to me apologetically, then turns to the scum behind me.

"sir, do you have a pass?" the clerk loftily inquires.

"what the hell are you talking about? we all have 'passes'"

the employee and i have a private chuckle to ourselves.

"sir, clearly you don't understand what you're talking about. this will all be over in a minute."

the employee silently mouths 'sorry' to me and slides a large popcorn across the counter.

"carry on" i reply.

once seated in my plush chair, i casually glance at those around me. everyone in the room is punching in around 270 lbs. all of the men have tiny-rimmed glasses, T-shirts referencing computer programming, and are sporting some form of pony-tail.

and women to match.

i tried to engage my seatmate in conversation, but couldn't understand her through the thick klingon accent.

twelve hours, five movies, excruciating butter-induced stomach cramps. i did it. and i'd do it again.

wikaddiction, millard fillmore, and the naga jolokia

some people find themselves addicted to methamphetamine, while others select speed balls as their addiction of choice. my deepest, darkest, nerdiest secret is that i'm addicted to wikipedia.

a healthy "oh, i wonder who our 13th president was?" quickly transforms into reading Millard Fillmore's entire biography (along with those of his two wives) - eventually ushering me into a glossy-eyed, six hour marathon of pond-jumping from topic to topic.

Millard Fillmore leads me to the Bathtub Hoax,
which leads me to H.L. Mencken,
which leads me to the Bolsheviks,
which leads me to Tuberculosis,
which leads me to Lacto Vegetarianism...

...and on into perpetuity. anytime i hear or see something i know nothing about, it's time for a wiki fix.

founder of Carl's Jr.?
medical uses of the zebrafish?
recipients of the medal of honor?
largest freshwater lake?
1962 world's fair?
scoville units and the naga jolokia?

i drink it all up like sweet nectar.

for instance, my dear dear friend Tyler Rhoades mentioned Muammar al-Gaddafi in his blog. within four seconds i had Gaddafi's face up on my screen and was pouring over every aspect of his childhood and eventual overthrow of the Lybian goverment (singlehandedly done at the age of 9 with a rusty switchblade and a camel named Jack).

thanks to wikipedia's icy grip on my life i haven't written a new blog in awhile. truth be told; i haven't been to work in eight weeks, my fingernails are Howard Hughesian, and i've taken to peeing into mason jars so as not to venture too far from my computer screen.

a nice pair of gloves, a little beard trim, and i'll be ready for my debut on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire.

ps. for those of you wondering, Regis' middle name is Francis Xavier.