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.

christmas cheer, unholy night, and denny's

my christmas eve had no crackling fire, no cocoa, no nat king cole, no ribbon and bow. it was spent asking people if they'd like to add a half pound of snow crab legs to their meal for an additional $6.99. these were bitter people who had spent the last three hours in the mall purchasing last minute gifts for their ungrateful spawn - and now they're plopped down in my section; exhausted, grumpy, and broke. the christmas spirit was certainly not residing in their wallets on this particular holy night. that evening my alcohol sales were at an all time high, while my tips were at an all time low.

people were overly rude, ultra demanding, and extra cheap. everything in me just wanted to get out of there and go home. my holiday cheer rapidly shifted from "bye! have a nice christmas!" at the beginning of the night to simply "bye." towards the end.

i clocked out and realized i was starving. knowing full well that my kitchen is devoid of any real food, i drove to the grocery store. closed. jack in the box? closed. mcDonalds? closed. fine! i'll just go home and order pizza. dominoes? closed. pizza hut? closed.

after a lengthy, primal scream into my pillow i collected myself, threw on a hoodie, and drove to denny's. while en route i had set my mind to the fact that if this particular restaurant was closed, there was going to be an arson investigation the next morning.

luckily for all parties involved, they were open. i enjoyed my stack of pancakes and over-cooked eggs alongside the other orphans and degenerates of my fair city. i left a 25% tip to carlito, wished him a genuine merry christmas, and called it a night.

then this christmas morning i woke up to a 70 degree sun, palm trees, a barking dog, and what distinctly sounded like shots being fired in the distance. this is the first christmas since my birth that wasn't spent with my family and while it would have been nice to have the smell of coffee cake and evergreen needles wafting into my bedroom as i awoke - i'm an adult. this isn't candyland and i'm nearly 30 years old. plus i got to see all of my family last month and never one for sappy sentiment i convinced myself, "it's just another tuesday. get over it."

yet after hearing "the christmas song" play on the radio i was overcome with a intense wave of emotion. i missed home and i missed my family even more. i wasn't in the mood to actually break down and cry at this point; so i walked into the kitchen, chugged the egg nog directly from the carton, popped some vitamin C pills, and watched the discovery channel for the rest of the afternoon.

viruses, warning lamps, and man vs machine

it's the end of an era. it shames me to admit it...but i'm sick. for those of you who don't have an extensive knowledge of my medical history; i haven't been sick in ten years. my immune system is mystical and ancient in its powers. i don't do anything to enhance it, i don't questions it's strength; i just know that it's there...and it kicks ass.

over the years, upon discovering my little secret, those around me began to grow suspicious of my claim. every winter while everyone is miserably gulping theraflu and munching on cough drops, i'm cheerfully whistling christmas carols through my phlegm-free windpipe. inevitably suspicion would brew into hatred as co-workers began blatantly lowering their hand when coughing into my airspace in a savage attempt to take me down. which to me is comparable to a person with AIDS purposefully cutting their finger and smearing the infected blood on everyone's lips in order to 'even things out'. and so, this went on for years as no one was able to attack my impenetrable hoard of white blood cells.

to further the mystique i would occasionally act as a circus barker; having everyone gather around as i dramatically took a swig from some sickie's water bottle. there would be a single gasp in the crowd followed by manic whispering.

"how does he do it?"
"i heard he has cybernetic lung implants."
"i heard he's from the future."

my illness-free streak soon grew into legend. that is...until i moved to lovely california. as far as i'm concerned, whatever God forsaken virus that has penetrated my system has to be on par with the Bubonic Plague.

put another tally mark under "reasons why i love california".

my 'check engine' light decided to make an appearance last week. that's the one light on the dashboard that causes a knot to immediately form in the pit of my stomach. it induces the same biological response as red and blue lights in your rear view mirror - a queasy dropping feeling followed by a rushing surge of adrenaline.

i think the fear lies in the lack of certainty. all the other warning lights use friendly nudges and reminders.

the oil change light comes on?
okay thanks! i'll get it done next week.
low fuel light? it's cool! there's a gas station down the street. wiper fluid low? not a problem! i've got some windex at home.

but when that 'check engine' light flicks on, you're immediately thrown into a code red situation. it could be anything - engine is currently engulfed in flames, gasoline is spewing onto roadway, radiator has just exploded. am i in imminent danger? should i pull over? will i make it home tonight? it induces such intense anxiety because it's so vague.

yet, once the initial panic subsides, it eventually dawns on you that anything needing repair within the enigmatic "engine" will likely cost anywhere from $800-$8000. perhaps it would be more honest and less jarring if a large green dollar sign was shown on the display instead.

so i decided on a bold course of action; to stand firm and call it's bluff. each day when i turned the key it would illuminate and icily stare me down. "i will not be intimidated by you, red warning lamp! quit looking at me!"

this charade continued for days; until this morning when i turned the ignition. apparently my will was stronger than the Jetta's - the check engine light didn't come on. victory! in man VS machine, the machine blinked. then it occurred to me that it's probably just lying dormant until i'm stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on the 405; at which time it will re-illuminate a millisecond before smoke comes billowing out from under my hood.

drizzle, downpour, and the Live Mega Doppler 7000 HD

it's raining right now. actually, i believe the technical term is 'drizzle'. coming from Seattle, there are a dozen different terms for the varying degrees of precipitation in the air at any given time; rain, sprinkle, showers, downpour, fog, flurries, and drizzle - to name a few. so, considering it rains once every six months here, it's always amusing to watch the local news when there's rain in the forecast.

once the leathery-skinned meteorologist suggests a hint of rain, every news promo 48 hours prior to the big event go something like this:

"a dramatic change in the weather! your family's life could be at risk. tune in at 11!"

the entire city is thrown into red-alert mode as if were an impending tsunami headed right for us! high wave warnings are immediately put into effect (which incidentally only affect the stoner-surfer demographic) and reporters are put on location wearing rain slickers and bright yellow ponchos that are normally reserved for crab fisherman in the north atlantic.

i look out my window, see a light drizzle, and yawn. but when i turn on the news, it's a completely different picture. they are in complete lockdown mode. STORMTRACKER '07! we are shown minute by minute updates on the Live Mega Doppler 7000 HD; which sounds like some cheesy futuristic device from a classic episode of Star Trek.

what a joke. give me a call when there's enough rain to actually wash the bird crap off my car (pictured on right). until then, simmer down LA and enjoy your trace amounts of acid rain.

but to my astonishment, it's actually been a little chilly lately. this evening i exhaled and actually saw my breath, although that just as well could have been a mini smog cloud hovering perilously close to my lips. that would explain the burning sensation when i inhaled.

i was pleasantly surprised to find that it actually does dip below 96 degrees in the wintertime.

i can't wait for christmas eve and palm trees. stupid california.

coffee, the WGA strike, and Carl Ellsworth

i've had lots of people asking me if i'm on strike. the answer is no. everytime i'm asked this question i sheepishly lower my head and mumble that i have not sold any of my work and am therefore not worthy of the mighty guild. but thanks for asking.

but...the first day of the strike happened to coincide with one of my days off. as i was sipping my morning cup, it occurred to me that the creators of my favorite shows, the authors of my favorite movies, the people i have looked up to for years were waiting at the other end of the 405; standing on the sidewalks, all exposed and shivering as the mysterious and impenetrable iron curtain of hollywood was ripped off of them.

would it be tacky to try to network and schmooze with my out-of-work idols? i decided to hop in my car and find out.

i decided that once i came in contact with them, i'd have to have my A-game primed and ready to go. and by 'A-game' i mean liquid personality in the form of eight shots of espresso in two americanos. after my quick detour i hopped on the freeway and sped towards destiny.

heavy traffic and an inaccurate google map meant that i was in the car for an hour and a half. which meant that my bladder had ample time to collect and pool over 40 oz of starbuck's finest and the dam was about to burst. i begin to squirm wildly in my seat, switch to a lamaze breathing style, and frantically search for a camode. nothing. there are no fast food restaurants, there are no gas stations. i drive for several more miles. no grocery stores, no restaurants. i'm getting desperate. i glance at the empty twin starbucks cups as they mockingly sit in my center console. i was desperate. i glance around to see if there are any cars next to me; i mean i did have tinted windows. wait! have some dignity! i zip up my pants and angrily speed through the next intersection.

finally, an oasis in the cement desert. i see a grocery store several blocks down; i crank the steering wheel hard right, cross three lanes of traffic without using a mirror, and slam my car into a parking spot. i hurriedly hobble into the store, find the nearest nametag and with wild desperation i blurt, "bathroom!". with a disgusted look on her face, she merely points to the far corner of the store and i shuffle in that direction.

salvation. i rush up to the door...it's locked. it requires a deposit of $0.50 to use the facility. was i suddenly in a third world country?! i thrust my hands into my pockets - lint. i can feel tears welling up in my eyes. i rush out to my car, snatch up two quarters, and run stiff-legged back to the far corner of the store. after the caffeine was evacuated from my system, i make my way to the front. i pass a stock-boy on aisle 4 and mention that he may want to grab a wet floor sign near the restrooms.

back to business! i hop in my car and locate Paramount Studios. a tingle of excitement runs down my spine when i come around the corner and see the picket signs. i'm really here. i park on a nearby street and give myself a little pep-talk in my head. "Be cool. Just blend in. Be personable without being persistent. Ask them about their work. Don't be overzealous. Show your support for the union. Don't piss your pants."

i take a few deep breaths and with faux confidence stride up to the closest picketer. i introduce myself and explain i'm not a member of the union, i'm an aspiring screenwriter, and would it be alright if i joined them. he (on the left) answered with a smile and a resounding 'yes'; shaking my hand and introducing himself as "Carl Ellsworth, the writer of Disturbia and Red Eye."

since most people don't recognize writers in the same way you would recognize George Clooney, I found that most of the writers introduced themselves with their full name along with a recognizable sample of their work.

i imagined people doing this in other industries.
"Hi. My name is Pete Smith. I changed an oil filter on a 1982 Honda Civic this afternoon."

i had a picket sign thrust into my hand. now what? i couldn't have felt more out of my place. i look to carl ellsworth for some help. his cell phone rings and he says it's his agent on the line. great. i look around and see about twenty writers milling around like bored zombies weakly chanting, "We are the union...the mighty mighty union" over and over and over. I could immediately see this was not going to be a social affair. several articles have since been written about the lack of creativity in the writer's chants.

the same people who bring you the snappy dialogue on Ugly Betty and the clever witticisms on Desperate Housewives are merely chanting, "What do we want? Fair contracts! When do we want it? Now!" for hours on end. but i don't blame them. the creative juices aren't exactly flowing then they're spending four hours a day pacing the same twenty feet of sidewalk, bored, cold, and wanting a latte.

plus, it was surprisingly loud on the street corner. with the heavy traffic, the chanting, and the car horns constantly being honked in support of the WGA, it wasn't easy to spark up casual dialogue without constantly having to say, "what was that? huh?". so everyone just stuck to chanting or checking their text messages every 15 seconds.

on chad gervich's blog is a very accurate description of the five types of writer's on the picket line:

http://www.writersdigest.com/scriptnotes/A+Guest+Perspective+Notes+From+The+Picket+Line.aspx

sporadically, we would all have to bunch up on one of the corners in order to let the occasional mercedes or lexus though the Paramount gate before resuming our pacing back and forth. i looked to my right recognized the woman next to me. the fact that i even recognized her face probably meant that she was an A-list writer and was most likely the creator of a major network show or written several huge blockbuster movies. my mind was racing trying to remember her name when we began to cross the street again when i heard a strange sound. she was now staring directly at me.

the sound came from her dog. i was so preoccupied trying to recall who this woman was, that i inadvertently kicked her dog in the face as it was smelling my feet. i was petrified. i said i was so sorry and didn't see the dog and began sputtering apologies as she walked away without saying a word. to make matters worse, the dog looked exactly like Lassie. i kicked Lassie right in the face.

i got home at the end of the night and scoured the internet for photos or video of myself, since all the news-crews and photographers were on site all afternoon. i found several photographs where i was always just outside of the frame. after an hour i finally found this brief clip where i can be seen in the background.

if you don't want to watch the entire clip, i'm at 2:28 on the counter wearing a blue shirt, on my cell phone, crossing the street:
http://video.knbc.com/player/?id=179604

regarding the actual reason the writer's are on strike; the studio executives have said told the writers it's too early to know how much money is available for them to share from internet broadcasts and downloads. which is a lie. check out this video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8a37uqd5vTw

in conclusion, everyone thinks that all these millionaire writer's are whining about a few more cents per DVD sale or whatever. here are some really cool facts about how many writers are actually with the guild (only about 4000!), how much money they're making, etc. check it:


http://www.latimes.com/media/acrobat/2007-11/33660605.pdf


http://www.wga.org/uploadedFiles/who_we_are/annual_reports/market06.pdf

chelan county, my blog, and charles manson

this week i found out that i have an unlikely group of individuals who are regular readers of my blog - the inmates at the Chelan County Jail! apparently i'm quite popular within the criminal demographic. who knew! welcome aboard!

i have a relative who was recently enjoying a stay at their lovely facility and upon her release called to inform me that every new blog entry (unbeknownst to me) was faithfully printed off and mailed to the jail by my grandmother.

from what i've been told, the inmates began looking forward to my perspective on the outside world and would actively seek out my kin to ask when the next one was coming. i envisioned her bargaining with hardcore inmates with names like Bertha and Madge for a chance to peek at my text; bartering for a carton of cigarettes in exchange for some insight on the latest goings-on at Red Lobster.

with any luck my blog will quietly slip through the US prison system like contraband; perhaps even reaching the eyes of luminaries such as Charlie Manson or Ted Kaczynski (amateur writers, just like me!).

so thank you for reading, loyal prisoners! keep on keepin' on! until next time...

dead batteries, azaleas, and costco muffins

let me start out by saying that my roommate is a douche bag. perhaps a little back story first. he's flamboyantly homosexual and coupled with a chemical imbalance known as bipolar disorder, he's a charm to have around the house.

i usually do my best to avoid all contact with him (mainly for fear of being raped), but on a recent evening i discovered i had a dead battery in my car and was forced to engage him in conversation. he was in the kitchen and i crept from the safety of my room to approach him.

"hey, listen. my batteries dead, could you give me a jump?"
(immediately regretting my double entendre)

"i'm busy." was his curt reply.

"um...it'll literally take 20 seconds. so...if you don't mind."

"i don't have jumper cables."

"well...i do. so again...if you don't mind..."

"i can't. i'm leaving for work right now. maybe tomorrow if i have time."

and with that, he walked past me and went to work.

left with no alternative, i was forced to call dominoes pizza and have the delivery driver jump my car. which wasn't an easy task considering she spoke no english and i had to convey what i needed through a series of ridiculous hand motions and sound effects.

so. he recently went on a two week vacation and left me a pleading voicemail. he literally begged me to water his plants while he was gone because he would be devastated to come home to dead flowers. God forbid our front yard be reduced to anything less than fabulous. memories of my dead battery fiasco came flickering back into my mind and i flirted with the idea of letting his precious azaleas wilt into dust under the blistering california sun.

however, my morality circuit kicked in and i decided to be the better person and water the damn plants. plus, he offered to pay me. while no dollar amount was specifically mentioned, there was enough carrot at the end of the stick to pressure me into get the hose out each day.

two weeks later he's back home. no money. no thanks.

two more weeks go by. still no mention of my saintly deed.

which brings us to today. he was sitting on the couch watching television and i decided to have a little chat with him.

"hey. i noticed you just bought some costco muffins."
(the giant hubcab-sized multi pack variety that was sitting unopened on the counter)

"yeah?"

"considering you haven't paid me for watering your plants i'd like the muffins as payment."

he doesn't know how to react.

"what? you can have one if you want, i guess? here, i can pay you right now."

he reaches for his wallet.

"the muffins will be sufficient payment."

his head tilts to one side and his face scrunches up like a confused puppy.

"but i was going to give you cash. i've got it right here."

"i don't want cash. i want the muffins."

"but...i just bought those. i mean, i can pay you right now."

"no thank you."

defeated, he's forced to relinquish his claim on the pastries. i pop one in the microwave and cheefully make my way back to my room as he suspiciously glares at me from the corner of his eye.

douche bag.