smut, cigarette butts, and a haircut

I was out running errands and needed a haircut.  I didn't want to go to Great Clips even though they were shamelessly advertising a $5 haircut.  I could give the homeless guy standing by the freeway five bucks and a pair of garden shears and he'd end up doing a better job than those beauty school flunks down the street. 

My requirements for the task were simple:
1.  Find a non-corporate barber in order to support a local business.
2.  Find a barber whose primary language was English in order to support local linguistics.

In terms of local haircutting venues Vancouver, WA is far from Beverly Hills, leaning more towards The Hills Have Eyes end of the spectrum.  I pulled into an antiquated strip mall that consisted of; a boutique that exclusively sold children's clothing made of "denim and frills", a dog-cleaning shoppe, the office of a highly questionable CPA by the name of Milton, a payday loan company, a smoke shop with enough bars on the windows to give me flashbacks of Compton, and the crown jewel of the strip mall...and my destination: Hair Habitat.

The moment I crossed the threshold of the establishment, a synapse fired in the primitive "fight or flight" portion of my brain.  But it was too late; I had already made eye contact with the owner, and being the only other person in the room I was now forced to commit to this.  The owner was walrus-shaped and wore a faded Hawaiian shirt that had certainly been to Margaritaville on more than one occasion.  He had sloppy salt-and-pepper hair with a jet black mustache that could only be found in certain gentleman’s clubs on the outskirts of Trenton, NJ.  He was seated in the closest barber chair ironically reading an issue of Mens Health.  As I stood transfixed in his lobby, he slowly lowered his magazine and sighed just loud enough, as if his internal monologue was murmuring, "Can't I get one minute to myself without some asshole coming through the door?" even though we both knew I was the only customer he'd seen in at least two days.  While not caring about how my day was going, he strolled over to me and asked how my day was going.

As we engaged mindless chit-chat I allowed my eyes to fully take in my surroundings.  I made my way across heavily stained, olive colored carpet that had been infused with heavy doses of indoor cigarette smoke for at least two decades until it was rendered illegal.  The carpet led to matching olive hued linoleum upon which sat a row of barber chairs that looked like they had originally been intended for use in waterboarding, but had later been modified to accommodate a haircut.  The chairs were large, in terms of girth, and were covered in brown vinyl which over the years had been patched up with roughly the same color of brown duct tape.   Unlike modern barber chairs which have some sort of foot-bar to raise/lower the chair, these had comically large slot-machine style handles on the side.  I took a seat and he jerked on that handle with such gusto, I thought I might be ejected into the ceiling.

He opened a creaky drawer and pulled out a mustard colored cape, slung it over my torso, and velcroed it around my neck.  The cape was so severely tattered and worn it looked like it had met the business end of an uptight wolverine.  Thankfully small talk was not his strong suit, so I delightfully continued to soak up the ambiance.

The walls were alternately covered in either orange and yellow wallpaper exactly like you'd see on the set of Three's Company, or the same cheap wood paneling that is abundantly found in most trailer parks.  The wall directly across from me contained his prized autograph collection.  There were various signed headshots of celebrities such as: Chevy Chase on the set of Fletch, Vanna White before plastic surgery, Tim "The Toolman" Taylor, Chuck Norris as Walker Texas Ranger, one of the adults from Sesame Street, Harry Anderson in his Night Court robe, and the guy who played the son on Married With Children.  I would not be surprised if those, one day, fetched a high price on Antiques Roadshow.

To my right was a short wall which contained three full-sized calenders, each interchanged with varying degrees of farm equipment, hot rods, and chicks in bikinis.  Why anyone would need tractor calenders AND roadster calenders side by side is beyond me.  As I was pondering this, I was suddenly startled and jolted in my seat.  He had turned on the electronic hair clippers right by my earlobe and they happened to have same intensity and decibel level as a Sikorsky helicopter upon take-off.

I continued to satiate my visual appetite.  Near the entrance was an old Pepsi machine which sold Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Wild Cherry Pepsi, and Pepsi Free; all with logos that had not been seen on store shelves since the Reagan administration.  It had buttons on it the size of masonry and was constructed with reinforced steel that could handily withstand a two-megaton bomb blast.  Next to this contraption on the floor was a discolored square patch of carpet where I'm certain a cigarette vending machine once stood.

Tainted Innocence

My eyes begun to peruse the magazine selection.  The only reading material on the magazine rack was a Readers Digest (they still make that?), something with Dale Earnhart on the cover, the latest edition of Field and Stream, and a Playboy.  I did a double take.  Immediately I was reverted back to being eight years old (as seen in the photo).  I remember being horrified as a child when I went with my Grandfather to get his haircut and as I was playing with some cheap knock-off Legos, saw several Playboys strewn across the table.  I had never seen so many nipples before in my life.


The Walrus had finished my haircut and we were now at the point where most barbers use a blow-dryer to get rid of all the stray hairs that have accumulated on you.  He opened hidden cabinet in the wall and pulled out a giant white tube and attached it to a hole in the wall.  He flipped a switch and I heard the familiar hum of a Shop-Vac.  Like...from Sears.  He proceeded to let the industrial hose roam all over my body, properly ensuring no stray clippings remained.  Once the probing was complete, I quickly hopped up from the rape chair and handed him my debit card.  He stared at me like I was from the future.  Cash only.  He waited as I went to the neighboring fortified smoke shop, since they had an ATM inside.  Conveniently enough it tacked on a surcharge of $4, which turned out to be 1/4 the cost of my actual haircut.


Here's to local businesses.

d as in dawn, c as in comcast, i as in i'm back!

wait, i have a blog? i feel like i just found a crumpled $20 bill in the pocket of my winter coat!

hello, friends! i'm not quite sure how to fill you in on my goings-on for the past year, but for those of you tracking my every move (i'm looking at you, Parole Officer Jenkins) i'll attempt to give you the rundown.

let's start off with my "new" girlfriend. new to you at least. i shy away from using the terms soul mate, love at first sight, or hot piece of ass - even though all apply. our anniversary falls on cinco de mayo which allows us to celebrate our immortal love in between shots of top shelf tequila and a bottomless supply of romantic chips and salsa. there is a 99.42% chance that i will ask for her hand in marriage (don't tell her parents). since dating is in essence a probationary period, i'm waiting to see if any unsavory chunks of her past float to the surface; like a moderate fecal fetish or revealing that she's a post-op with a good heart. her name is dawn. she's a jew.

after working 10+ years in the restaurant industry i thought it might be a blast to try something new. with a callous heart and deep loathing for the general public, i thought it might be somehow less vexing if i didn't actually have to see people's faces when dealing with their barrage of moronicisms. naturally this led me to a unique enclave known as The Call Center.

an affliction that runs rampant with radio stations, wizards of Oz, and other occupations that don't require you to be actually seen, the call center "people" had long ago lost their desire to care for their personal appearance. i would generously describe the woman as lumpy; waddling atop a daily cornucopia of crocs® with tapered jeans and souvenir sweatshirts from disneyland. on the opposite end of spectrum, the men have facial hair that can only be found in the biker bars of rural kentucky. and you know that guy you pass on the [opposite side of the] street who has a flaming demon tattoo on his throat, sky blue hair, steel spikes lodged in his eyebrows, and leather pants tight enough to ensure he'll never have children? he sat next to me every day.

as for the customers. i don't really know where to begin.

everyone has their own way of saying "A as in ____" "B as in _____" when spelling complicated roads or stupid last names. myself, i prefer the standardization that the International Civil Aviation Organization's phonetic alphabet brings to the table in these types of situations.

i loved when i could hear the pause in between each letter as they literally scanned the room they were in. "C as in couch. A as in...afghan. wait. you know, like the blanket? R as in...remote control. T as in...tequila. E as in...ecstasy. R as in rohypnol. you know what i'll...i'll call you right back."

the best one was when this man literally couldn't think of a word that started with the letter G. i let the agony play out as he struggled for about 20 solid seconds. "G as in...um...G. G as in like...uh...you know like..." i didn't say a word, just letting it run its course. finally his brain pistons fired and he excitedly blurted out, "G as in Gunther!" now this tells me that he actually knew someone with that name. i fantasized gunther's relation to this man as being his momma's third husband's roommate who was in-between jobs at the moment. also he could hog-tie a grown man in 8 seconds flat without spilling a drop of his budweiser in the process.

then you get the disgruntled people who continually refer to me as "you people" as if i'm a member of a leper colony.

or the stay-at-home moms who intend on unleashing the full might of hell upon me because today's general hospital didn't record properly.

or the man who calls saying that he has a brand-new HD tv and the picture isn't very clear and after twenty painstaking minutes of troubleshooting he decides to reveal that he's legally blind and it's probably just his macular degeneration and not the cable service.

or the people who refer to a remote control as a changer, clicker, zapper, pointer, stick or wand.

"my wand's not working."
"honestly sir, i have no idea what you're talking about, but I might suggest medical attention."

or people in the south who use the phrase cut on. as in, "i tried to cut on my TV with the zapper and i can't see no picture." this caused my left eye to involuntarily twitch. i never took a redneck linguistics course in school, so i placed them on hold and asked a co-worker what in the hell that sentence meant. apparently cut on means the same thing as turn on in the rest of the english speaking world.

or the guy who professed how grateful he was that comcast was still a local community company that hadn't become "all corporate" like those other cable giants. i assume he also thinks that walmart is a local ma and pa shop struggling just to stay in business against those "other guys". i didn't want to shatter his tiny universe by telling him that comcast had recently purchased NBC/Universal due to the fact that they're the LARGEST CABLE COMPANY IN THE NATION. for further insight into the inner-workings of this man's brain, he went on to casually tell me that the government was listening into his phone calls. i feigned sympathy over the situation, but he assured me he was okay with since they've done so much for him over the years - such as providing him with mail service for as long as he can remember. so he's cool with the united states government converting his house into a military base as long as they keep the readers digest coming. quid pro quo.

so i quit, moved to the portland area with dawn, and now have a whole new batch of adventures to share with you! eventually.

hot dishwashing, flat tires, and german engineering

as i sit here in my unders - dripping in front of an industrial sized steel fan, creating a wind tunnel only rivaled by those at NASA, i realized that the hottest afternoon of the year was perhaps not the wisest time to do a load of dishes. the hot steam hissing from my ancient appliance raises the ambient temperature 12 degrees. and the consecutive decision that now would be the perfect time to make a scalding shot of espresso because of my caffeine addiction adoration? i'm now beginning to loathe myself on an unhealthy level. i feel like at this point i might as well put on my fur coat and take a quick jog around the neighborhood to really push my lightheadedness to it's maximum threshold.

the icing on this weeks cake was a few days ago. i was driving home after work, having not eaten anything in nine hours besides two saltine crackers and a dixie cup of lemonade - i was not in the most chipper mood. scratch that, i was seeing red. then my gas light flicks on to remind me that i'm STILL below empty, just like it was when i left for work. i was one mile from my exit on the freeway so i stomped on the pedal, just wanting to petrol up and get home.

it was around this time that i began to hear a steady pulsating noise. maybe it was possible to hear the sound of ones own rising blood pressure? i turn the music down to determine the source. having just spend $800 to fix my engine, i was mentally willing the car to get me to my destination hassle-free. it was around this time that the putrid aroma of burned rubber came wafting into my nose. excellent! i have a flat tire!

i crank the wheel hard right and punish the break pedal till it jerks to a resting position on the side of the road. i step out of the car and notice amongst the various road debris lies a crumpled, filthy styrofoam Red Lobster cup. was this the universe's way of telling me it's time for a life change? not in the mood for any philosophical thoughts about my future, i decide to stick with a tire change for now.

i flip open the trunk and wrestle the spare tire out, hurling it through the air and onto the side of the road like i picture Andre the Giant doing. this is my first tire change with a german vehicle and i find everything neatly packed into a perfectly engineered case. cursing myself for forgetting to replace my flashlight's battery years ago, i'm forced to use the screen of my cell phone as my primary light source.

i use the tiny light to illuminate my inventory; tire iron, tow-rope, a jack, and several metal tools that i've never seen before in my life. i grab the recognizable tools and begin the task at hand. i've changed many tires over the years, it's such a simple task and i just wanted to get it over with and be on my way. yet, as i place the car jack on the ground i realize i have absolutely no idea how it works. these über-geniuses took it upon themselves to design a car jack that defies all american laws of physics. teetering on the border of blackout-rage, i squint my eyes and shine my cell phone beam onto the instruction sticker on the side of this monstrosity. worthless. look guys - there are a couple things that are standard in this world. you aren't supposed to go making up kooky designs for fire-extinguishers, life preservers, or heart defibrillators. i'm fairly certain there is a charter in the geneva convention addressing these very issues.

a solid six minutes later i figure out which end goes up and i crank the car into the air so fast it looks like i'm churning butter on the side of the road. two wheels into the air and i'm ready to get these bolts off and call it a night. tire iron is in place. cue muscles. and...the bolt doesn't move an inch. this was quickly followed by a burst of raw masculinity as i kick the tire iron with all my might to push the bolt into submission. and yet...no movement. it was at this point that a dusty memory comes floating into the forefront of my mind about needing some sort of "key" to "unlock" the "tires".

i madly tear through the entire vehicle in search of this mysterious "key" and come up with absolutely nothing. now on the verge of tears (masculinity long deceased), i attempt to thumb through the 800 page owners manual in the pitch black, in search of some clue to the mystery key's location.

after 20 minutes of agonizing squinting i find the key tucked away in my center console. let the games begin! my arms move in a blur of motion as i change the tire so fast i momentarily consider calling NASCAR in the morning for an interview. as the changeover occurs i notice something out of the corner of my eye. out of nowhere, a man approaches me.

there is not another car in sight. no police cruiser to speak of. alarms immediately go off in my head. great! my car breaks down right next the ONE serial killer who happens to hide in the bushes next to my exit on the freeway. as we're taught to do with bear encounters, i stand to my full height and puff myself out, tire iron ready for action. i was flirting with the idea that he was german and i could exact my carefree revenge through the cold steel in my fist.

in a stern voice i shout to his rapidly approaching figure, "hey! can i help you?"

he just kept advancing towards me, without saying a word - michael myers style. my fist clenched tighter. when he's finally within arm's reach he decides that's the time to speak. he tells me that his car broke down and he's been walking for about four miles. having apparently exhausting all his words, he simply continues walking past me. so now i'm attempting to change the tire in the pitch black while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on charles manson, who eerily stops about 50 feet from me and stares through the shadows of the 525.

hastily, i cram the bum tire along with the bogus tools into my trunk and speed off before this creeper can $skin me alive and store my body next to my own german engineered tool kit.

mutts, butts, and a triple lutz

i hate pets. i'll just put it out there.

i could try to soften the words by saying that i'm not really a 'pet person', but that would be distorting the truth. either way, it never fails to elicit a frown from the person who just asked me if i'm a 'dog person' or 'cat person'. as if these were the only two pets to choose from. just one time, i want to see their reaction when i tell them with a straight face that i'm a 'cobra person'.

there's a certain assumption that human beings as a whole love some things unconditionally. babies, sex, ice cream, sunshine, and pets. but these assumptions fail to take into account the infertile, the eunuchs, the lactose intolerant, the albinos, and the mail-carriers.

the confused face that contorts in response to my lack of dog/cat devotion, is the same response i frequently receive when asked what position i play in football. "i don't play football" is always promptly followed by a literal jaw drop and amazement that someone with 'my frame' didn't play. "what a shame. such a waste." they'd mutter as they walk away. i imagine it to be the same issue that black men over 6' 5" struggle with when they're asked what NBA team they play on. people don't fit into a tiny convenient box.

as for pets, i just don't like the idea of sitting on someone's couch where i know for a fact their cat regularly rests its anus on the exact spot i'm about to sit. it's not socially acceptable for me to rest my naked genitalia upon on a friend's furniture, but their beloved family mutt can rub it's junk wherever it pleases - no questions asked.

most people are weird about sharing chapstick with another human, but have no problem placing their lips to a labrador tongue (which incidentally has come into contact with toilet water, it's own excrement, and the dead sparrow it just left you on the back porch).

my hands are in a constant state of being prepped and ready for surgery at all times - due to my debilitating addiction to purell. so i find it disconcerting that i'm forced to manhandle a filthy animal as it grinds it's hips into my shin because it's in heat; while their dunderheaded owner laugh at pooksie's use of my appendage as a sexual outlet. the owner reaches for a spray water bottle to deter the illicit behavior, while i make a mental note trying to remember to place 'pocket taser' on my christmas wish list.

knowing that i eventually want to have children, i thought i'd try being responsible for another life and purchased a beta fish as the litmus test for future fatherhood. showering my new life form with lavish gifts to show how serious i was in this endeavor, i bought the expensive food (which smelled like the sawdust at the bottom of an outhouse), a humongous bowl, and some polished stones which would surely become the showcase item on our little version of MTV Beta Fish Cribs.

i went to the kitchen to set up his upgraded home. i meticulously cleaned every inch of the bowl and gently placed the stones in the bottom; blue ones on top, to accentuate his smoky blue eyes. i slowly filled it up with bottled water from the swiss alps, and sprinkled a dusting of food flakes on the surface to excite his palate.

now for the big moment: the move. i placed the mansion-bowl in the kitchen sink and reached for him to make the transfer. quivering with excitement, i tilt his tiny cup so that he can make a clean slide into his new abode. to my amazement, he erratically performs a triple lutz and flops directly into the dark abyss of the garbage disposal. i panic and attempt to grope in the hole to grab a fin. after five minutes of trying to cram my huge hand into the depths of the disposal i give up and flip the switch, turning my little gymnast into sashimi.

frustrated at my lack of responsibility, i go straight back to the pet store and purchase another fish. i'm determined to make this one live.

and he does. for many weeks. one afternoon i decide it's time to change his water since it's becoming a little cloudy. with the mastery of an ichthyologist, i flawlessly make the change-over and transfer my little buddy to his clean room. thirty minutes later, i walk past his bowl and let out a tired sigh. i've killed another one - he's belly-up. i grab a spoon to scoop his tiny, lifeless body from the water. it's at this point i realize that the cause of death was the boiling hot water i accidentally re-filled his bowl with from the tap.

i hop in the car and drive to the pet store to purchase beta III. if this one didn't work, i promised myself that i wouldn't procreate until i could handle the delicate intricacies of fish ownership. as goes with youngest children; there were less pictures of him in the photo albums, i gave him all the hand-me-down polished rocks, and i was more lax when he misbehaved. but i still loved him just as much as the others.

our many months of fun adventures soon came to a head one dark september morning. i came downstairs and noticed his bowl was getting pretty cloudy. i crouched over and peered inside to find him, in order to temporarily transfer him for the cleaning. way too murky. i shook the bowl a little, scanning near the rocks to find him, in case he was hiding. nothing.

did he go for a walk and forget to leave me a note again? we had argued over this topic many times in the past and i had to drill it into his head that i wasn't trying to be domineering, i simply cared about his safety. i tried to explain it to him, but he never understood that the neighbor's cat was only being friendly to him because she had ulterior motives.

i took a step back to consider my next move when i saw it. a dried up apple slice? a curled up potato peel? no. i only wish it had been. beta III's stiff, inanimate form was twisted on the ground below the bowl. he had committed suicide by jumping out of the bowl in the middle of the night.

okay. so maybe this one wasn't my fault. at least that's what my therapist keeps trying to convince me.

groundhog day, murderous children, and fake fish

here is my life.

wake up. drive 30 minutes to work. work thirteen hours without taking a break. drive 30 minutes home. drop into my bed with faint fumes of seafood rising from my pores. crash.

wake up the next morning: rinse and repeat.

i'm living my own personal groundhog day the past couple of months with 0-1 days off per week. hence the lack of blog posts.

at work have a giant hundred-gallon water tank in the front lobby filled with live lobsters. whenever someone orders one, we snatch it out of the tank and walk it back to the kitchen for it's ultimate demise. yesterday, a lovely little girl slowly approached the tank and gingerly placed her grimy hands on the glass. she was in her own world, looking each individual lobster in the eye.

with the hustle and bustle of the front lobby, nobody was paying much attention to the harmless little cherub (let alone her mother). but i was. she leaned in closer, her lips nearly touching the glass, and whispered with the sinister tone and cadence of a practiced serial killer, "you're about to be dead, because we're about to eat you and everyone you know."

my jaw literally dropped.

then her mom grabbed her hand, "come on honey, our table's ready." "okay mommy!" she chirped; skipping to the table in excited anticipation at taking an innocent life and eating it's flesh with zero remorse.

then, last week i was in the process of explaining our fresh fish menu (as required by red lobster corporate) to a customer. rainbow trout, atlantic salmon, tilapia, et cetera. you get the idea. he then points behind me and says with a straight face, which one is that? is it on the menu? i turn around and see that he is referring to this hanging on the wall.

funny joke, buddy. yet he continues to stare at me, awaiting my response.

oh. he wasn't joking. he asks if that particular fish is tilapia. i then politely inform him that he is not looking at an actual fish, but a piece of artwork that in no way is meant to be a representation of our menu selections. he sincerely looks disappointed and orders some calamari instead.

another day, i dropped off the customer's check. the man hits me with a rapid-fire "wait! wait! wait! wait! wait!" as he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. then i get to stand there while he files through his four inch thick wallet filled with 32 credit cards. finally he pulls one out, but only half-way. he cocks his head and looks up at me, "do you guys take visa?".

do you know who DOESN'T take visa? the tribesman in the jungles of Vanuatu.
do you know who DOES take visa? everyone else.

moron.

bernie madoff, thomas jefferson, and andrew jackson

is it just me, or does bernie madoff bear an uncanny resemblance to some sort of weird thomas jefferson/andrew jackson hybrid? his hair is so majestic with just a hint of that authentic elitist colonial landowner vibe.

bernie madoff: reminding america that a ponzi scheme has nothing to do with that guy from 'happy days'.

tax evasion, california, and the driving vest

my california state tax refund is now nearly one month late. the reason? after some online research i learned that california has no money.

i'll let that marinate for a moment.

they literally don't have the money to pay anyone their refunds. the fact is, if california were a country it would be the tenth largest economy in the WORLD. i'll do the math for you; that's more than ireland, tennessee, and the entire russian empire...combined. and they can't scratch together my $257. they're like that deadbeat friend who owes you money and ignores all your phone calls. until that one day you finally bump into them on the cereal aisle at the supermarket and they awkwardly avoid eye contact while mumbling, "i'll catch you next week because i'm kinda going through a rough patch in my life". i feel like i'm living in communist cuba where they'll cut me with a check for the half the amount owed, and the remainder will be repaid in tobacco leaves and a loaf of bread.
______

allow me to switch gears and introduce you to a ridiculous invention called the 'driving vest'.

allow me to explain. you purchase this handsome vest for $17.95 and before you enter your vehicle, you are to place it on your torso (with ultra high-fashion velcro strips!) in order to protect your critical chestal area from any potential spills that may occur while in the car. the website claims that the fabric is made of "fashionable twill". i'm pretty sure twill hasn't been popular since looms were a common household object.

look, i understand accidents happen. but. how many people out there would place themselves into the 'habitual spillers' category? and if it's really that much of a problem, why don't they save some money and just place a large blue tarp and cover all critical areas of their wardrobe while driving to and from work?

applying make-up, eating a toasted bagel with peanut butter, crossing three lanes, and enjoying your grande skinny white chocolate mocha at the same? not a problem! let the crumbs/scorching liquid fall where it may! our vest will protect your valuable fabric/flesh!

unless people are off-roading in a monster truck on their commute to work each morning, this article of clothing is totally unnecessary. i'm sure it was developed by the same people who make their children wear helmets and leashes when out in public. get a bib.

mexico, cornnuts, and the norovirus

i'm home! i made it! now it's time to pull out the galoshes* from the closet and spray some febreeze on my stale wool jackets and embrace temperatures that my body hasn't seen in nearly two years. turns out that flip-flops and cargo shorts aren't exactly 'ideal' in sub-freezing temperatures. the last time i saw frost was on the outside of the margarita i was drinking during one of california's winter heat spells.

before the long drive home (1,191 miles/18.43 hours) i went on a cruise to mexico with my family. being my first cruise i didn't quite know what to expect other than the obvious gorging on buffet food and the gaining of the requisite ten pounds.

what caught me off-guard were the warnings about a mysterious 'norovirus'. not having wikipedia at my fingertips, i panicked and assumed it was some flesh eating disease (which would definitely be a downer). due to the risk norovirus spreading, they had hand sanitizer stations posted every 20 feet. it's like our cruise director was howard hughes; shuffling down the corridors with tissue boxes on his feet obsessing over germs while mumbling incoherently about some shuffleboard tournament at noon.

after scrubbing in, we made our way to the cabin. i'll start out by saying our cabin hallway smelled like a septic tank had exploded in the walls. afraid of inhaling free-roaming fecal particles or contracting the deadly norovirus, i smeared hand sanitizer around the rims of my nostrils just to be on the safe side.

it turns out my obsessive wikipedia addiction, along with excessive viewing of 'cash cab' came in handy when i learned of a little on-board treat called the DAILY TRIVIA COMPETITION. while everyone on board was on the main deck getting a nice tan, i met with a small group of pale white nerds in a poorly lit irish pub to get our trivia on. let's just say the fact that i know what catgut is made of AND what color a vulcan's blood is would make me ripe for mockery in the real world. but in our tiny cabal...i was a god among geeks.**

a quick breakdown of other ship events:

there was a chinese acrobat show that defied all known laws of physics. a health seminar on how coffee was toxic for your system (as i sipped my piping hot ninth cup of the day). the chocoholic midnight buffet (after which my pancreas threw in the towel and decided to take the night off). the asian man we sat next to at dinner who looked exactly like voldemort. the hairy chest contest that all the gentleman (and two ladies) were apparently competing in on the main deck. and of course the highlight of the trip being the giant walmart located directly off port in puerto vallarta. way to stay classy, puerto vallarta.

after the mexican festivities, it was time for the long trek home in the jetta. coffee and ranch flavored CornNuts silently waiting in the wings, ipod loaded and ready, GPS awaiting my orders, i throw my foot to the floor - anxious to get the hell out of this state once and for all.

about an hour into my trip i notice a white SUV on my tail, following my every lane change; and it's not a cop. this goes on for an hour or so. normally this wouldn't be all too alarming, were it not for the fact that i was traveling at 118 MPH the entire time. several more hours pass and i realize i'm low on petrol and snack food. i take the next exit and glance in my rear-view mirror. yep. white SUV.

i pull into the gas station; fairly certain that something is about to go down. i position my keys between my knuckles, ready to gouge some eyes out at a moment's notice. i begin to pump my gas, keeping them in my sights the entire time. the driver casually leans around the pump to make eye contact with me. she smiles and says, "you were going pretty fast back there."

i just nod my head once and continue pumping. "we've been following you the past few hundred miles."

"i noticed." was my curt reply.

then a man slowly rises out of her passenger side. he's about seven feet tall and looks like he just got paroled/escaped from prison. i of course assume he has a homemade weapon on him (shoddily made from a laminated road map and lighter), so i grip my knuckles even tighter around my car keys. he glares at me with a look in his eye that said "i'll see you in the shower" before continuing past me and into the convenience store.

"where you headed?" she inquires.

nice try, lady. "north" I reply.

"oh! us too! we're headed to seattle. we're from tennessee and headed there to pick up my boys."

do i tell her i'm also headed to seattle? better not. next thing i know she'll be asking what hotel i'm staying at so her convict boyfriend can break into my room at 3am to murder me and steal what's left of my CornNuts.

"have a safe trip" i blandly reply.

yet she continued, "hey! since you're headed north like us, is it cool if we follow each other? in case one of us gets a flat or something like that? maybe you can follow us until the next gas stop."

i hesitate before responding, "that's fine."

and so it went. we both continued our journey together, each swapping the lead every hundred miles or so. i progressively lowered my guard a little more at each gas stop and discovered that she was also a screenwriter and part of a little production company in memphis. this finally ended with us swapping email addresses and parting ways just north of the california border where i decided to call it a night and find a hotel with a strong dead-bolt. just in case.

the next morning - still in california mode - i proceed upward through oregon pushing triple digit speeds. speed traps being practically non-existent in california, i cheerfully whizzed northward without any worry of getting pulled over. i was sharply reminded that this was not the case in the great state of oregon. as soon as i came around the corner i saw him crouched in the bushes, waiting to pounce on me. i hit the breaks, but not soon enough. a member of my 'welcome back to the northwest' committee flashed some red and blue in my rear-view mirror.

"do you know how fast you were going?"

"yep."

"license and registration."

i see his pen rapidly moving over the clipboard. all business. he returns my license along with a yellow carbon copy telling me that i now owe the state of oregon $430. he bids me a safe trip and i roll up the window muttering some choice words about swine.

once the bubbling anger subsided within me, it hit home that $430 was a large chunk of change. which caused me to openly weep the remainder of the trip though the beaver state; while grudgingly traveling at precisely 59 MPH the remainder of the way home.

____________________________________

*okay fine. i don't actually own galashes. yet.
** catgut is made out of sheep intestine and vulcans have green blood

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.