Wandering thoughts from a pondering mind.


January-July 2006

Website Reconstruction - 7/27/06
A little behind-the-scenes revamping is long overdue on the Pond, so for a week or two I'll be doing new posts on my secondary blog,

www.myspace.com/pauljury

Yes, I know. MySpace. I finally gave in. Even though I swore I would never join Myspace, here are my explanations:

- I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.
- Since we're launching a massive web-entertainment site this fall, it couldn't hurt to study/be a part of something related. Maybe MySpace will even inspire us.
- I only like to be a part of cool trends when I can be like a year behind them, and thus, not actually be cool at all.
- I'm the biggest hypocrite ever.

In my defense, I did say my main reason for not doing MySpace was that, being competitive and over-ambitious by nature, I'd have to have the grandest, most thorough profile out there. And although I doubt it's that, it ain't terrible either. I've vowed to post a new picture every day for two month. I've also started posting daily chapters (don't worry - they're short) of the book (read: collection of humor essays) I'm writing about my 48-state roadtrip.

Plus you get to listen to Tenacious D. And that's always good.


Last Day of Security - 7/24/06
Last night was my last night at security. Probably ever. I know - I'm sad too.

The end began a few months ago, when I realized that, as much as I still loved writing all night and getting paid for it, there were a couple things working against my much-prolonged tenure in security:

A) They recently instituted a new policy of graveyard shift security guards having to do a 45-minute floor check each night, involving checking to make sure doors are locked and people aren't passed out in bathrooms. Granted, usually I just go upstairs and take a nap (sometimes in a bathroom, ironically), but this is just one more minor annoyance keeping me from spending all 8 hours writing. Deliver papers for 20 minutes AND do a floor check? I'm not a machine here, people.

B) You know how staying up until sunrise usually signals some kind of an achievement, as in "Man, I was working on that term paper until the sun came up!" or, "Dude, we partied until dawn!" I did a quick estimate the other week and figured I've stayed up until dawn roughly 400 times now. It's lost its novelty. It's safe to say that I am SO over seeing the sun come up.

C) I make as much in one hour of tutoring as I do in an entire night of doing security.

The final stroke came about a month ago when, in a conversation with friends, I spouted off a bit of specific detail about terrorism prevention measures. When the group stopped talking and asked me how I knew something like that, I assured them not to worry - I had almost four years of experience in the security field. I knew then that it was time to quit.

It was a sentimental goodbye. The janitorial supervisor Emilio wouldn't look me in the eye as he supervised my pretending to check his cleaning crew's bags on their way out (I've never actually searched anyone's bag, by the way - that's just demeaning to both them and me). My 6am-7am partner asked me to teach a couple more English SAT words before I left. Even the guy who relieves me showed up early for the first time in history. I couldn't think of anything better to do with my last night of security than start a MySpace profile (on which my profession is listed as "Retired Security Guard,"), and start writing a novel about my 48-state roadtrip. So really a typical last night.

I'll really miss it. Highlights from four years at three different security posts include the time I broke up a fight between three Asian people and a white lady, and the time I was made security guard of the month. And that's it. Because that's what graveyard security is all about, getting paid and not having any stories to tell about it.


Mail Order Camera - 7/22/06
This fall, Sam, Jake (an old college friend with whom I did sketch comedy, and who directed one of our May plays), Dan (another Northwestern friend who now works for Google) and myself are starting a viral video comedy website. You know, short videos and audio and stuff that makes people laugh. More on this later.

To aid in this endeavor, we're buying a new video camera. As you can see here, it's a little nicer than dad's old VHS-C camcorder. It shoots about the highest quality digital video out there. It has a feature to make your video look like film. It also costs about $3,000.

Now, we don't have $3,000. So we did what anybody does who wants a nice piece of equipment for far less that you're supposed to pay for it. No, not steal it. We went to the internet.

With a little searching and cost-comparing, we were able to find several online shops selling the camera we wanted for far less than the normal price. Some of them under $2,000. No tricks. New camera, mint condition, no baby spiders using it for a nest.

Then we found out why. Apparently, all cameras are manufactured in Taiwan. Or in some microscopic country so third-world that Taiwan goes to it for cheap labor. Plus: labor is cheaper, and thus, so is the camera. Minus: it takes 3-4 weeks to get here.

You'd think that if the American store I bought it from sold these cameras regularly, they might keep a couple of them around, but nevermind that. 3-4 weeks? Um, is this the 18th century? Taiwan may be far away, but it's not on Mars. They have airports. Are they putting it on a boat? I'm not an oceanographer, but I'm pretty sure they make ships faster than that these days. I'd assume they already have the camera built, or at least mostly built... is it that hard just to finish one up and throw in in the mail in a couple days? I am still paying $1600.

One place told me it was going to be 5 months. This I completely don't understand. How could it take anything that long to cross the ocean? Are they going to put it in a bottle and float it across. A team of monkeys could randomly type the instruction manual faster than that, purely by coincidence. Even if they hadn't even started building the camera yet, I feel like they could mine the ore, forge the metal, assemble the camera and pack it on the back of a whale, and it would still get here faster than 5 months.

Maybe it has something to do with bird flu.


Caste Party - 7/20/06
This past weekend, I approached the check-out isle at our local Vons with the following three items:

  • Nine 40's
  • Three bags of ice
  • One box of Bruschetta
Why, you ask? What motivate my purchase of possibly the world's most pretentious food item (except maybe caviar), along with possibly the most base, separated only by 15 pounds of frozen water?

Why, our first annual Caste Party, that's what!

Billed as "no, not like a high school theatre party, though there will be plenty of spiked punch and awkward making out in closets. Caste with an 'e', as in social tiers. Like they have in India and such places," it featured the following rooms:

Room 1: Champagne, wine, quiche, bruchetta, classical music, dressed up people.
Room 2: Mixed drinks, chips, veggies, 90's rock, normal dressed people.
Room 3: 40's, kegs, rap, pork rinds (the additive inverse of bruchetta; the additive inverse of caviar would be excrement), thugs.

Twas good party. Here are representatives from the latter two rooms. Note the housewives' perfectly-baked apple pie.

Gabe, Josh, and Reggie Vanessa, and Jesslyn

And here are the rampant housewives, gone wild at the Shell Station near our house.


What fun.


Patriotic Pattern Recognition - 7/19/06
A guy Saul I know said he was looking at the site the other day and noticed something interesting. Here are the pictures of our 4th of July Ultimate Beerpong game, and the mattresses we left outside on the curb to be hauled away a couple days before the 4th.

Notice anything?

Here's a hint: thing colors. Look closer.


Apparently, our mattress-giveaway was more patriotic than we'd intended? The white sidewalk, the red curb and brick, and the red, white and blue mattress/box spring?

I dunno. Saul might have been smoking something. Or perhaps he just thinks on a higher plane than the rest of us.

I do like that the blue tip bucket would be the accidental frosting on the cake. At least until somebody raped America and replaced it with a beige shopping cart.

Now what does THAT say about America?


The Things I Do For My Art - 7/17/06
The May Plays are long since over, but I just dug up this picture...

Yes, that's me putting lipstick onto a clam. I won't even begin to try and explain why this make sense.

Anyone else have a career path where stuff like this seems normal? Anyone?


Secret vs. Feather - 7/13/06
My brother Alex and his girlfriend Diana just completed a week's stay with me in Redondo, for the purpose of finding housing for their August move to LA. I'm very excited to have another Jury in town. And Diana's kind of like a Jury, except that she's tiny and Asian and from New York. Close though.

Alex found a place with a guy named Vikas in Culver City. Kind of an interesting name - sounds strangely Nordic - but he's Indian so it's OK. Diana, on the other hand, must have been searching on ihaveamessedupnameandi'mlookingforaroommate.com, because the two girls she's moving in with in Sherman Oaks have maybe the silliest names ever. Secret, and Feather.

Diana says they're awesome girls, and I'm sure they are, but c'mon. Secret and Feather? Seriously.

The obvious thought is that they're strippers, but Diana assures me that they aren't. The only question left, then, since these two obviously have the two most ridiculous names in the entire world, is which one of them has the more ridiculous name. Some arguments for both sides:

SECRET
FEATHER
- Possibly named after "The Secret Garden", "Victoria's Secret", or "Pop Secret". You've gotta hand it to the person who ties all these together.
- Sort of implies there was something like scandalous about the baby's birth, like that she was born in hiding, or that her father doesn't know that she isn't his.
- At least with Feather, you could have conceivably just misspelled "Heather" (granted you misspelled it pretty terribly). With Secret, on the other hand, there's no way it wasn't on purpose, unless possibly you were going for "Scarlet" and you were mentally retarded.
- Feather? Were her parents obsessed with birds? Or pillows? Or 19th-century ink writing instruments?
- Really, Feather doesn't seem to describe anything characteristic to a child at all. That she was really light? Seems a little inappropriate to name a baby after its unhealthy birth-weight.
- Maybe they just made a list of random nouns and selected one blindfolded from a hat.

The winner? I dunno, it's a tie; both names are equally absurd. It's like asking who was more crazy, Jeffrey Dahmer or Ted Bundy. They were both pretty good at doing what they did. Then again, I can't really talk about names - my first name is about as bland as they come, and my last name sounds like all my relatives aspired to be lawyers, but weren't smart enough to get past the lowliest position in the court.

*Any racial implications in this email are strictly coincidental. Also, I don't care.


Credit Where Credit Is Due - 7/11/06
Responding to two emails about yesterday's Top Ten States Post...

Indeed, although our LA 4th of July discussion on the topic influenced me to actually write about, the subject was first introduced in San Francisco with friend Rachel and company, over three bottles of Reisling. That was where Vermont was first added to the list over Illinois, but in hindsight I think it was because we were all drunk.

Additionally, my friend Greg makes a strong case for Michigan... Although I'm not sure I agree enough to place it in the top 10, it certainly would make a good number 11. Maybe like a reserve state or something. Here is his email:

>>>>>>
Honestly, is there really a better state of all around good people, beautiful scenery, water, mountains (albeit small and up north), everything a person could ask for? I think not. Never-mind the fact that without Michigan and the auto industry of Detroit, in all honesty, we probably would have lost, or at the very least had a much worse time of it, in WWI and WWII because more than 70% of the military hardware came from converted car manufacturing plants in Detroit, MI. So you see, without Michigan, the US would have fallen to Hitler and you’d be in a concentration camp! Well, you probably wouldn’t even be here because your parents would have been put in a concentration camp and you never would have been conceived. You ungrateful bastard.

>>>>>>

Greg also provides a solid joke about Michigan, to further buttress his point. Read it here.

It's true: A) I'm an ungrateful bastard, and B) LA and most of the rest of California wouldn't be the sprawling suburb it is without cars. Although by that reasoning, Greg, we should make Japan a state (state bird: the Prius) over Michigan.


4th of July Follow-up 2 - 10 BEST STATES - 7/10/06
Another question has arisen from our fantastic but not-necessarily-accurate flag of beer cups: How many stars are there, exactly? OK, there are 23, not 50. Who are you, Betsy Ross? There weren't 15 original colonies either (the stripes); give us a break. We're making a beerpong game here, not writing a textbook.

But this does present an interesting argument, one which has actually come up in two other conversations in the past couple weeks: what if there were only 23 states? Which ones would we keep? Or better yet, what if there were only 10 states (it's really time-consuming to think of 23)? Like if there was a giant earthquake that sunk the other 40 states to the bottom of the ocean. Or if the US, like Major League Baseball, decided to have a contraction? Or we had some kind of bizarre high school sports team tryout, where only 10 could make the team, and the other 40 had to be cut... you get the idea.

In any case... which 10 would they be?

From the debates, which sometimes lasted the better part of an hour and considered such factors as population, location, natural splendor, inclusion of good cities, and just general state-awesomeness, we came up with the list of the following 10 states we would keep, and cut all the others.

California
New York
Texas
Florida
Alaska
Hawaii
Colorado
Washington
Minnesota
Illinois

Surprised? Here are the explanations:

The first few are pretty obvious. You have to keep the states that not only provide the U.S.'s two biggest cites, but also two of the most influential American institutions (Wall Street and Hollywood), not to mention like a sixth of our electoral votes. Texas you also have to keep, love it or hate it - it has three of the top ten biggest cities, and a lot of land. Besides, if we kick out Texas, it's just going to start conquering everything around it and we're going to have to go to war with it anyway, so we might as well just save the trouble. And Florida, though continually ravaged by hurricanes, is still pretty huge, pretty warm, and we need some way to channel our drugs into the rest of the country, and our old people out of it.

Keeping Alaska and Hawaii stems partly from the reasons we probably took these last two states in the first place (and no, not just to round up to an even 50). Alaska's frickin' huge, and full of oil, trees, and wildlife... plus we'll need someplace to move when global warming kicks in. Hawaii, well, let's just be honest. Hawaii's a trophy state. But we need one of those.

Colorado squeaks in there because it's just a good solid state all around - lots of people, lots of nature, and it has to mean something that Stephen King made Boulder his "good" city in his book The Stand. Washington gets the nod partly because it has Seattle, and partly because it's beautiful. Plus it was named "Best Overall State" during my roadtrip adventure. Thirdly, Washington makes computers, which at this point is probably more important than either Wall Street or Hollywood. Minnesota makes it in because I'm from there (problem with that? I'm making the goddamn list), and because it has enough lakes for everybody. Also, if we're cutting Wisconsin, we've gotta get our cheese from somewhere. And Illinois... is it enough to make the list just because it has Chicago, even though the rest of the state is kinda bland? In the end, yes - Chicago's pretty awesome, and we need another Midwestern state. Plus, what else are we going to put ahead of it?

And yes, they're mostly blue states. Interpret that as you will.

What will we do with the state we don't take? We never thought this far ahead - I dunno, sink them into the ocean, or sell them to Middle East in exchange for oil or something. Though I kind of like the idea of only these 10 states being there, and everything else being under water... especially because none of the ones on the current list touch each other. Like the Uniting Floating Awesome States of America.

Now, some explanations on states that didn't make the list:

Ohio - Sure, it's got some big cities and a lot of people, but what's interesting about Ohio? Maybe if one of their sports teams won a championship once in a while. And really, dropping the ball in the last election... that just didn't help you, Ohio.
Vermont - Somebody suggested Vermont as a state to keep in our last discussion. Honestly, I'm not sure why. Because they have nice forests and good syrup? Delicious pancake topping is not enough to justify keeping such a tiny state with no notable cities. Just to have another Northeastern representative? C'mon, New York IS the Northeast - that's all you need. Everything else is just a suburb.
Nevada - The only reason Nevada is cool is because everything is legal. I'm sure we could take one of the other 10 states and abolish all laws, and another Las Vegas would pop up in no time.
Washington D.C. - Not really a state. Plus who hasn't longed for the opportunity to sink Washington into the ocean? Zing.

Anybody disagree? Bring on the emails.


4th of July Follow-up - 7/9/06
Answering your questions:

Yes, Ultimate Beerpong was a little more expensive than other drinking games. It cost 80 dollars just for the cups.

Yes, we did actually send the pictures into Maxim. I have a buddy who works there. Will let you know if it gets in.

And no, the garbage men didn't take the free, broken pingpong table we left out on the curb the next morning, in place of the mattress and box spring. Maybe somebody else will take it, if we slap on a "Gratuity" sign.


Our Shot At Maxim - 7/7/06
This weekend was the 4th of July. I... don't even have the energy to describe it. Imagine Mardi Gras on the beach for four straight days.

The highlight of the debauchery was undoubtedly our second-annual game of Ultimate Beerpong. This year we got smart. More people per side, still 50 beers per team... only this year we used colored cups and constructed something truly awesome.

But you know, pictures always speak louder than words. Click on either of the photos below, or the following text, to find your way to the Ultimate Beer Pong 2 picture page.

Oh, and the mattress and box on our curb spring finally got taken. Which was too bad, as I might have passed out there. The items were quickly replaced by a mountain of crushed beer boxes and a destroyed pingpong table.


Sociology Experiment... Results - 7/6/06
Last week I posted this picture, of the mattress and box spring we'd left outside our house for someone to take for free, and possibly leave us a small tip:

Two days later, this was the picture:

Notice anything missing?

That's right. The tip bucket.

Somebody took our tip bucket. Left the mattress, though. And a shopping cart, apparently.

This was supposed to be a sociology experiment. To see how conscientious the people of Los Angeles were, in terms of taking advantage of a good opportunity, following through, and properly appreciating it.

On a scale of 1 to 3, 3 being the highest... they get a -1.

If one of the scores of people who read our post had taken the perfectly good mattress and box spring, and left even a one-dollar tip, they would have gotten a 3. Even if they had left no tip, but took the stuff in a timely manner, I was ready to award a two (honestly expecting a tip in a left-outside bucket is like expecting kids on Halloween to "just take one"). But no. The stuff sat there for like three days, despite all the people who emailed me asking if it was still there (I told them it was). And then they took our goddamn tip bucket.

I don't care if it was a homeless person, or a neighborhood kid. I even would have been OK with it if they had taken the mattress AND the tip bucket, like they got carried away in their frenzy of taking. But no. They left the free mattress, which we really wanted to give away, and took the bucket, which we were planning on using again.

Whoever you are, out there, I hate you. If you're reading this, I'm going to plant more, un-advertised, non-free items laying around Los Angeles, just waiting for you to take them. And I'll be watching, ready to jump out and beat you down with a tire iron.

And I'm not going to let you keep the tire iron.

Stay tuned for 4th of July Beer Pong!


Sociology Experiment... involving a mattress - 7/2/06
We finally decided to give away Brian's old mattress and box spring, which had been sitting in our garage for, oh, about half a year now.

We'd attempted to sell it, but hadn't had any luck, partly because people in South Bay are wary of buying used mattresses, lest they be water stained or smelly or something. And partly because this particular mattress was a little water-stained, and smelly. But I digress.

We wanted the stuff gone, and we didn't mind not getting any money for it. The only thing we didn't want was to have to exert any effort. So we dragged the good out to curb, went onto Craigslist, and published the following post:

>>>>>>>>
Double Mattress + Box Spring + Frame - FREE plus gratuity

So we have this perfectly good double-sized mattress, box spring, and frame that have been sitting in our garage for 6 months, and you can have them for nothing – all you have to do is come and pick them up.

Too good to be true? Well, we are leaving a tip bucket outside, in case you feel like paying us something. But it really is free. And it really is true.

Don’t let the price fool you – the stuff’s actually in pretty good shape. We just really want to get rid of it, and are too lazy to actually be here to transact with you when you arrive. When you get here you can see for yourself that the bed and box spring are undamaged... and thank us by leaving a tip. We’re serious about that, too.

702 N. Paulina Ave, Redondo Beach. See? There’s the address and everything. The goods are out on our curb, starting now.

First one here gets it. Ready go.
>>>>>>>>

I'm hoping this goes better than last time. If you'll recall, last time I tried to give stuff away on Craigslist it took the good people of Los Angeles about five days to get their shit together and come get it, even though like 60 of them emailed me.

There's the tip bucket and everything. If you can't read it, it says "Gratuity (tip) appreciated. Thanks!"

We'll call it an sociology experiment. Will the people believe the post and take advantage of a great deal on an only slightly-smelly mattress and box spring? Will they assume someone had already come and got it, and not bother? Will the presence of the tip bucket affect anything? I guess we can only wait and see. Alright, people of Los Angeles, show us what you got.

Ready go.


Worst Pickup Line Ever - 6/30/06
I've found a new candidate for the worst pickup line ever:

"Hey baby, you're like a coffin: I would die to be inside you."

I thought of it while driving. I'm not sure what that means, exactly.

I think it's a pretty good candidate, because it does well to meet three of the key qualities for a bad pickup line:

1) It's cheesy. Any humor comes only from laughing at how awful the line is.

2) It draws a metaphor between the girl and something that's not at all sexy. Namely, death.

3) It implies the possibility of one-sided, meaningless sex, possibly in a public place (like the bar you're standing in), which in my experience is never really a good angle for a pickup line.

I suppose if you combined these last two, the line also implies the possibility of necrophilia… which wasn't really intended, but just adds another nice touch and really speaks to the layered depth of this versatile, terrible line.


Security Nap - 6/28/06
It's been a while since I wrote about my security guarding job, and next week is my last week, so here goes.

I think I mentioned once that at the building I now work, it's much harder to sleep than it was at my previous post, where I just drove a Ford Escape around through a parking lot looking for dark places to pass out. This new post, although it pays more, requires me to sit in the brightly lit lobby of an office building, behind a desk, letting tenants into their suites if they lock themselves out in the middle of the night. Which only happens like once a night… and the rest of the time I just sit there and write, which is what I have the job for anyway, so it's a good post.

But it's very hard to sleep. And some nights, I just need a nap. Sunday night was one of those nights.

At 12:30 am when the janitors leave, I'm relieved by another guard for a while so that I can perform a Floor Check. My building has 22 floors, each of which is supposed to be checked to make sure the all doors are locked and all the hallway lights are functioning. This task typically takes at least half an hour, and is completely stupid because the janitors are supposed to lock all the doors when the leave 15 minutes prior to this, or face losing their jobs, so there's never anything to check. Usually I just mark OK for all the floors, then go find a quiet place upstairs to read or work on my laptop.

Sunday night, however, I was tired. Real tired. It had been a hard day traveling, an early morning, and I'd already been dozing off in my chair as the cleaning crew mopped my shoes cleaning the lobby floor. So this time, I took nothing with me upstairs, other than an urge to snooze.

The only problem was, all the offices were locked. I mean I assume they were locked - as I mentioned, I'm too lazy to actually check. Just laying down right in the middle of the hallway seemed a little strange, so my only other option was the bathroom.

Yup, the bathroom. Now, I couldn't just lay in the main area near the door, in case a tenant was still in the building and found an unconscious security guard lying underneath the sink. I wouldn't want to have to write up the paperwork explaining that one. I could only think of one place I could be out of sight enough not to scare anybody. So I locked myself in a toilet stall, laid down next to the head, and went to sleep.

Sometimes I think I lead a fairly normal life. Other times, I wake up at 1:30 in the morning on the tile floor of a bathroom stall, in a suit, curled up around a toilet with a buzzing walkie-talkie lying nearby. As I always do in this situation, I checked myself for vomit, and, finding none, realized where I was and that I had done a really good thing by successfully passing out for an hour. I brushed myself off, patted myself on the back, and went back downstairs to turn in my successfully completed Floor Check.

I slept for 2 more hours that night, in my little chair in my brightly lit lobby, but that bathroom nap really took the edge off. You know, it's funny - there really aren't many easier jobs in the world than being a security guard. Your one lone duty - your one sole thing that defines whether or not you're doing a good job - is simply to stay awake for eight hours. And I have so much trouble doing it, I think I'm going to quit.


One More Reason For LA To Grow a Mass-Transit System - 6/27/06
Last week I left my credit card at a restaurant in Orange County after a lunch with my friend Sarah. It ended up costing me about 8 bucks… but not because there was any additional charge to my credit card. Just because it cost that much in gas to drive down there and back to get it.

Now that gas is about $3.40 a gallon in LA, you've gotta be careful about driving errors. Even with my gas-efficient Civic, I'm only getting about 10 miles to the dollar these days… and mistakes can be costly. Miss a freeway exit and have to backtrack? That's a 40 cent blunder. Forget something on your way to work and have to go back? That's a two-dollar gaffe. Drive 40 miles down to OC and back to pick up a stupidly-forgotten credit card? I could've bought a whole extra lunch entrée for that.

I'd have to look into this, but I think it actually would have been cheaper for me to just cancel my credit card and have them send me a new one.


YOU'VE GOT TO BE HERE TO ENJOY THIS! - 6/26/06
In my never-ending fascination with my cell phone, I made a new discovery the other day: within the text-messaging function my cell phone has a number of pre-programmed responses you can quickly access and insert into your text message. Most phones have something like this; some phones seem to be more business, with quick-texts like "In a meeting," and "Did you get the memo?" Other phones have a more personal touch, like "Lunch later?" and "I love you." And then, of course, there are the universally useful "What are you doing?" and "Running late - will be there in ___ minutes."

My phone has its own take on things. It includes a few of the basics, like "Thanks" and "What's up?" but then strays into a whole new world of things I'm pretty sure I'd never text anybody. Things like "You've got to be here to enjoy this!" "You're the best!" and "Would you like to join me for a date tonight?"

Does anybody actually text like that? It's like they hacked into a pocket guide to conversational English, except they then ruin it by including "Watcha doing?" I think my personal favorite is the somewhat steamy "If you told me to come over, I would."

Sadly, this is the one quick-text I think I've actually used.

You're the best, phone. Would you like to join me for a date tonight?


Beef Jerky - 6/23/06
Did anybody know that beef jerky costs 8 bucks for a quarter of a pound? I just found that out as I was looking for a snack on my way out of town this weekend. Figured "chips, nah, donuts, nah... it's the end of the school year. I'll celebrate." Then I found out that my meat-based choice of celebration costs 2 dollars an ounce.

I could buy that much meat at McDonalds for a dollar! Of course, beef jerky is supposedly actually beef (unless it's turkey jerkey), as opposed to big snout and horse testicle.

And it sure tastes delicious. Maybe that's why it costs 8 bucks for a quarter of a pound.


Hershey Travel: Not So Sweet - 6/21/06
Last post on Hershey. Yes, it takes me 2+ weeks to catch up on an eventful trip. Give me a break, it's summer.

The only think not flawless about Samantha's wedding weekend was the way I barely got there, and the way I barely got back. The trip there basically consisted of three delayed flights, a mad side-street traffic-beating rush out of Philadelphia in a rental car, then walking into the hotel in shorts and a T-shirt nine minutes before the wedding started, then somehow making it down, dressed and ready, before the service started.

The trip back went even less smoothly. After getting a bit carried away in Amish country, I dropped Rachel off for her flight from Harrisburg and realized I only had about 2 hours to drive 100 miles across Pennsylvania, return a rental car, check in, and then make it to my gate for my flight back to LA. In order to accomplish this feat, several things would have had to go perfect: no wrong turns, no traffic to keep me from speeding, and somehow my Ford Focus making it all the way back to Philly on the couple gallons of gas it had left.

Obviously, nothing went perfect. The first was the wrong turn - somehow I confused east from west (c'mon, there's only a 1-letter difference) and ended up going 10 miles out of my way before righting myself and realizing I was going to have to drive 90 all the way back to have a shot at not missing my flight. 90 went well for a while, until I cruised right past a cop in a speed trap, held my breath as I watched him in the rearview… then breathed a sigh of relief when somehow, he didn't come after me. And that's when I ran out of gas.

Yes, apparently Ford Focuses (Ford Foci?) can't make it 100 miles on 2.5 gallons of gas. But the bigger problem is that their gas lights don't go on until they're about to die, and I didn't realize this until I'd coasted to a stop on the side of Tollroad 76 in the middle of Pennsylvania. I called AAA, but when they told me it'd probably be an hour, I did what I always stupidly do when I push things too far: try to get myself out of it by pushing ever further.

STUPID JURY: You know, that sign back there said there's a town a mile ahead. Maybe there's a gas station. We should run for it.
RATIONAL JURY: But what if there isn't? Or maybe the town's another mile off the road. No, the smartest thing to do is just to wait for AAA and give up on the flight.
STUPID JURY: Or we could run for it.
RATIONAL JURY: Damnit. It's times like these I wish you didn't control the legs.

So I ran for it. Though clearly at this point there was about a .0005% chance of my making my plane. About a quarter-mile down the road I was picked up by a woman named Maria V. who drove me part way to down but then had to drop me off to get to a church meeting… at which point I ran the rest of the way down the highway leading to the gas station (which turned out to be back under the freeway)… got gas, climbed a steep embankment and crossed the four-lane freeway to avoid having to backtrack all that way… yes, clearly Stupid Jury was in control at this point. Perhaps it's best if I describe my journey the only way that can fully capture the adventure… Family Circus cartoon-map style!

(Click to enlarge)

And… after all that…

I missed my flight by like two hours.

Yes, Stupid Jury is great at getting into wacky adventures… not so good at actually accomplishing anything. There was also traffic on the way back into town, so even if everything else had gone right, I still probably wouldn't have made it. But hey, if you're going to miss a flight, miss the hell out of it.

Of course, if my flight home had been anywhere near as late as my flight to PA in the first place, I would have been fine. But you know. Hershey's Law.


Soldier Homecoming - 6/19/06
One last thing about my Indianapolis trip before I put it aside; also, this post is a tiny bit political, so a warning before I put that aside as well.

On the flight back from Indy to LA (which, for some reason, put my layover through Atlanta - go figure), the pilot announced over the loudspeaker the presence of several Iraq vets who were finally returning home from service. It was just a few moments before applause echoed through the cabin. It was a warming sound: a reminder that, despite all the political tumult surrounding the war in Iraq, people coach and first class alike really did support the troops.

I started the clapping. It could have been anybody, of course, but I'm proud to say I was the first. Now, I'm not for what's going on in Iraq. In fact my favorite comment about the whole situation is a sarcastic "Hey, it's cool that we're spending millions getting American soldiers killed in a country that doesn't have weapons of mass destruction and hasn't flown any planes into our buildings, because at least gasoline is really cheap."

But I realize there's a lot I don't understand about the various Middle East crises. And one thing I DO understand, is that there are thousands of our people over there, fighting for our country and its ideals, for better or for worse. Whether they should be there or not, they're risking their lives for me, and for this country that's given me life, happiness and a right to write about all this.

Hell yeah I'm going to start the clapping.


Random Acts of Kindness... Random Acts of Creepiness - 6/18/06
In day filled with batting cages, waffle ball, and general sports-related guy-hanging-out, Sam, Gabe, Noah and I stopped both at Target and Toys R Us this afternoon in an attempt to find a waffle bat. Leaving Target, I helped a woman whose cart had spilled some items into the trafficky parking lot, fulfilling my "Random Good Deed" quota for the day.

Perhaps spurred by my altruism, Sam felt the need to follow at Toys R Us. Upon seeing a kid desperately trying to ride the mechanical airplane outside the store but lacking the money to make it work, Sam approached and gave the kid fifty cents so that he could ride the ride. The kid looked amazed and thankful that anybody could be so generous.

And then we quickly left for the parking lot. Because the only thing that could offset the kind act of giving a small boy money to operate an airplane ride would be for four mid-20's guys to then stand around creepily watching him ride it.


The Skymall Game: Giftshop Version - 6/15/06
My favorite game to play on airplanes is "Pick the Most Ridiculous Item from the Skymall Catalogue," as you may have guessed from my famous Skymall post, which led to the rise to internet infamy of Mombasa, the Garden Giraffe. In Hershey, there was no Skymall store, but there was a pretty ridiculous gift shop at the Hershey Lodge, where Rachel and I decided to launch a revised version of the game.

Apparently, there are only so many items you can put in a gift shop that involve chocolate, and in a town known only for chocolate, after that you have to get a little desperate. The following were our final four contestents (and us posing, obnoxiously) in our game of "Who Can Find the Stupidest Item at a Chocolate Giftshop in Hershey."

Fancy Paws Doggy Sweater
Except it's not really a sweater, just sort of a cover that straps underneath a really tiny dog. More like a saddle, really. This doesn't come across that well on camera, but we found it sort of unlikely that someone would be in Hershey, PA, and be like "Oo! My freakishly tiny dog needs a chocolate-colored fabric wrap that won't really keep him warm and looks stupid as hell!"
Sassy Sally My Style Fashion Doll
Here's Rachel modeling the latest in "ruin my daughter's self-esteem" slutty child action figures. Comes with anatomically impossible waist, street-walking stiletto heels, and apparently some kind of a large clown-horn, up there at the top.
"Hang Ten" Book of Surfer Wisdom
In Pennsylvania!?
Statue of Astronaut Cow, Landing on Moon, With Texas Flag
This actually was our winner, despite our not finding it until the end. Although the cow sort of distantly relates to Hershey (you know, milk --> chocolate and all that), the fact that he's landing on the moon in a headless spacesuit kind of undoes all of that. But it's the Texas flag that really does it for me. I mean... what?

And yes, I'm wearing a shirt that says "Evolution Doesn't Exist". It's from our play. Long story. It actually got a lot of supportive looks from the people of Smalltown, Pennsylvia. As opposed to the wrathful death-glares it gets in LA.

Oh, and here's a terrible picture of us with Rich, the 40-year-old guy we met and befriended at the Hershey Lodge bar one night.

We love Rich.


Hard Plastic Product Coating: I Hate You So Much - 6/13/06
A moment away from travelogueing for a rant.

Who came up with the idea of coating everything you buy these days in a hard layer of plastic? If I ever meet this person, I will drop whatever I'm doing, even it it's holding a small child, and punch them in the spleen.

You can't open the plastic with your bare hands. Trust me: I've tried. I've tried to bend/rip/twist/yank/bite my way through that obnoxious fucking layer of plastic at least a hundred times, and never succeeded in releasing my ink cartridge/CD player/power cable/pack of T-shirts without the aid of a scissors, box cutters or a fucking butchers knife I've grabbed from the kitchen in sheer desperation. What I HAVE succeeded in doing is cutting the shit out of my hands, because that plastic is like plexiglass or something, and tears (when it tears at all) in jagged little strips perfect for slicing the webbing between your fingers and/or slashing your face when you resort to biting through it like a wild animal.

The shit is also apparently also without weak point or openings, and is impervious to human strength. How the fuck did they get it on there without there being an opening? It's like they shrink-wrapped cement. Here's a picture of my brother Mark struggling in vain with a Brita water filter.

Does this plastic coating actually protect anything? I sure as hell can't see how it does. Johnny's new action figure isn't going to break if it drops off the shelf onto the floor, but it's still going do break if I jump up and down on it, stupid plastic coating or not. Also, whatever happened to reducing packaging? Um, if you haven't noticed, we haven't exactly stopped polluting the hell out of the Earth recently. I don't think all the Styrofoam and plastic we already have in the landfills just decided to hurry up and biodegrade all quick. And now we're adding three pounds of invincible plastic to every box of Sharpies somebody buys? Honestly, the ink cartridges I buy come in about a cubic foot of plastic and boxes, and when I finally get through tunneling through all that shit, there's like 2 ounces of actual ink, and my wastebasket is full. Can you not give me my mini-DV tape in a zip-lock baggy, or god forbid just hand them to me over the counter? I mean, each one is already individually wrapped, for Christ's sake. And in a case. They're fucking video tapes; each one doesn't need a security escort. Seriously, I'm not a hippie, but when did we decide to turn around and be like "Fuck you, Earth; I hope you die"?

I'd boycott every product that come in a hard plastic fucking turtle shell, but all the competing brands have them too. I'm not going to go live in the woods because somebody decided the U.S. wasn't moving enough of its apparently endless supply of bullet-proof plastic. Can we not armor our Iraqi Humvees with this stuff, instead of forcing me to use twenty minutes and a blow-torch to get access to my new headphones? But no, apparently we're going to keep building the calluses of the nation, and I'm going to continue going spleen-hunting in case I ever find that evil, evil bastard who cursed us all with his diabolical goddamn invention.


10th Plane Flight in 15 Days - 6/12/06
Taking a quick break from Hershey (since it was a week ago now) to recap what's happened since then… Not much, except getting back, tutoring my brains out for 24 hours, then climbing back on another plane to attend my college roommate John's wedding in Indianapolis. Not as many wacky adventures this time, except that I got to be a groomsman, a prestigious job that involves such duties as umbrella detail and grandma-wrangling. Also, having an open bar at a reception with the guys who got you started drinking in the first place is generally a bad idea - at last call, my buddy Greg decided it would be a good call to each go up and get 4 more drinks, which we then sat around trying to drink before they kicked us out of the hotel.

Perhaps the best story from the weekend was the after-party (and after 15 drinks per groomsman) across the street from the reception, at a bar called Ike and Jonesy's, which I apparently insisted on calling Mike and Ike's. Inside, amidst the 9 Bachelorette parties that were going on, was a suspiciously buff guy dressed as a cop. One of the bridesmaids insisted he was a stripper, but I didn't believe it... until she asked him and he responded by taking off his shirt and flexing his pecs. That's when the groom's grandmother approached me with what seemed like a proposition (how many ways can you read: "Hey, you ushered me! Are you single?... though it later turned she just wanted to help me find religion.

I guess that's what they're calling it these days.


More Hershey - 6/11/06
Somebody emailed me claiming that there isn't actually a town called Crackville, Missouri. Sure there is. It's right across the border from Huffing Paint, Indiana.

That being said, we did decide there should be other Midwestern towns named after the different candy moguls that own them (because if there's one thing I can say about Hershey, it's that nobody has ever owned a town more than Milton Hershey owns that town. Like two-thirds of the streets are named after him). Some suggestions, based on a few other of our favorite foods:

- Gummi, Nebraska (both of us)
- Animal Cracker, Kentucky (Rachel)
- Two-and-a-Half Racks of Ribs, Wisconsin (obviously me)

I don't care of cow meat isn't candy. It is to me.

But I'm getting off topic of the wedding. It was a superbly executed Jewish wedding, and also suberbly Jewish - as one of three six-foot-+ people at the wedding, I was a pivotal part of the chair-hoisting tradition. Which is kind of an awesome tradition, by the way, except when we almost dropped the groom's mother on her face.

Also, every wedding has its highlights, and one of Samantha's was definitely the desert. As you might expect, weddings in Hershey do not just have wedding cake - they have chocolate fudge wedding cake, but before that they have like three courses of other deserts. The desert on the reception menu was known only as "The Trilogy", meaning it was basically three awesome, chocolate deserts, any of which would have easily sufficed to carry the whole meal. But no, The Trilogy dared you to push your diabetes to the edge not once, not twice, but thrice… and then have a huge piece of the sweetest chocolate cake I've ever tasted. The whole thing was just so epic - how could I not eat myself into a near sugar coma?


Hershey - 6/9/06
People at Samantha's wedding found it a little odd that Rachel had come to the wedding with me, since she lives in San Francisco and doesn't really have any direct connection to Samantha other than that we all went to the same college way back when. Although most people were too polite to just come out and ask, I think many were wondering along the lines of the question "Are you dating/married/why is Rachel attending a Pennsylvania wedding where she doesn't know a single person?"

The actual answer? Well, Rachel and I hadn't hung out in a while, and a wedding in Chocolateville where I also probably wouldn't know anybody besides the bride seemed like a perfect opportunity to bring a fun and adventurous date.

Of course, that answer is boring. So we came up with several others, which we were going to tell different people until they got conflicting stories and became confused:

- Despite the foot height-difference and looking nothing alike, we're actually brother and sister.
- We're reporters from the Mennonite Press doing a diversity piece on Jewish weddings in Amish country.
- We're actually here attending the Chocoholics Anonymous convention also in the hotel and went AWOL to crash the reception for the three-part desert.
- This is actually OUR wedding - we both work for the FBI and are trying to keep a low profile. Samantha and Michael are stunt-doubles.
- We're just sleeping together.

Unfortunately, only one person actually asked us what was going on, and I think in our drunkenness we unfortunately gave the real story. Very disappointing, even though I'm not sure if anybody would have believed our yarns. I mean, who schedules a Chocoholics Anonymous convention in Hershey, Pennsylvania? That's like scheduling a Drug Rehab seminar in Crackville, Missouri.


Epic Weekend part 2 - 6/8/06
So apparently technology is a little lagging and anybody who tried to download music from Flaming House of Cards yesterday just got errors. It'll be fixed soon - in the meantime, you can hear music from Sean's and my latest musical here:

Flying Free - Opal
Philosophy of Two - Peak, Opal
Long Road Ahead - Peak, Company
Twisted Roots - Rosa, Opal, Thompson
Ignoring the Fire - Thompson, Company
Under Trees - Uno

As mentioned, this weekend had two parts; the second was the Pennsylvania wedding of my great friend Samantha from college, for which I flew my friend Rachel out from San Francisco to attend with me. Since Samantha is an awesome human being, she decided to have her wedding in Hershey, where exactly none of her family nor her groom's family are from. She just did it because "Hershey sounded like a cool place to have a wedding". Is that awesome or what?

OK, it's mostly awesome because I clearly love chocolate. Especially when it flows like water in the town. Actually it's probably cheaper than water - Arrowhead was like a dollar a bottle in the vending machines, whereas Hershey kisses were just sitting around as rocks in the planters. When Rachel and I checked into our hotel one of the nights, the front desk guy opened a drawer full of Hershey bars and handed me a stack of like 7 of them, just to "give our addiction a jump-start". Way ahead of you, buddy - I had a life-threatening blood-cocoa level the second I drove into town.

Hershey actually smells like chocolate. The whole town does, especially near Hershey Park, the chocolate-epicenter of the city. I swear they must vaporize the stuff and pump it into the air, like other towns do with flouride in the water. Except that it has the opposite effect on your teeth. The only problem with the chocolate smell is near the edge of town, where the tourism turns back into Pennsylvania farmland, and in certain places the smell of candy mingles perfectly with the smell of manure, and you can't tell exactly whether you're smelling one or the other. It's as if you're sitting squarely in the middle of the Shit-Chocolate-Spectrum. And frankly, I'm uncomfortable with the idea that there could be a spectrum that contains both "shit" and "chocolate"

I'm realizing now that it's going to take me several days to do justice to Hershey, the wedding, and our trip - mostly because the whole thing was just so epicly choco-tastic. It's also late at night and I have to fly to another wedding tomorrow morning, this time in Indiana.

I'm also on a bit of brain-rush from the three-and-a-half Hershey bars I just ate.


Epic Weekend part 1 - 6/7/06
Being a writer/SAT tutor has its downsides, such as not having health insurance or knowing where your next month's rent is coming from. But it also has its upsides... like being able to take a 6-day weekend in the middle of the busiest season of the year.

This past weekend was actually two of the greatest weekends I've had in a while. I'll go into part 2 tomorrow, but part 1 involved Play Number 2 of the past month, in Minneapolis. Or actually Play Number 3, since Barely a Bear and The Evolution of Professor Monkey were actually two different plays. Any I'm getting off the point, and these numbers are getting confusing.

In 2002 when friend/musical genius Sean and I graduated college, we decided that I should exploit his talents and write a musical with him. Four years and five drafts later, the show was ready for production, at our old high school, produced and directed by some other alumni in a sort of "look where we are now" production.

"The Stars So High" is a story about idealism meeting the real world, in which a quixotic college grad sets out to conquer the world... and ends up instead with a job filing papers at an employment agency, learning to face love and life in ways he hadn't expected. Kind of like us, graduating college and trying to write a musical.

Writing the show was an amazing learning experience for both Sean and I, both about our respective crafts, and about keeping one's head up when things don't come easily. And the production at our old high school was kind of a full circle reward for us - after all, South High Theatre was the place that got us both started on the delusion that we could live our lives writing and making music. And now we are. Optimism prevails.

How was the production? Honestly, not that great. Even a high school alumni production is still in many ways a high school production, especially when all the actors are under 18. Let's just say there were a few holes, a few forgotten lines, a few etc.

But we wrote the show to see it produced, and produced it was. And even a rough performance was enough to give us an idea of the potential that was there. Parts of it were brilliant. Other parts... you couldn't hear because a 15-year-old had tripped over a mic cord backstage. But our idealistic vision of the project... if not ideal, was at least finally more than a vision.

We also recorded a kick-ass professional CD of the music, in which you CAN hear the lyrics, and CAN realize the full vision. You can hear a few samples at http://www.flaminghouseofcards.com.


Black Guy & White Guy (Response) - 6/3/06
It's kind of cheap to borrow somebody else's blog material, but I felt Sam's recent post demanded some additional comment. Besides, Sam and I have basically shared everything else in the past two play-producing month (practically including a checking account), so we might as well share this.

Apparently, somebody broke into Sam's apartment's garage recently, and stole a couple things from one of the cars. The owner of the car left this note:

Sam responded with some questions he and JD had come up with, but I have a few other thoughts:

- How could they determine the black guy's height but not the white guy's? At least give us a reference, like 6' Blackguy w/ < Blackguyheight Whiteguy. Maybe the white guy was much further away, and they were worried about perspective effect.
- How could they have been standing there long enough to see the two guys cut the back window out, determine both of their races (though not both heights), and yet not be able to catch them/call anybody? Maybe they just didn't have a suitably-sized 6' Blackguy w/ Whiteguy around with which to catch them.
- Finally, I like that the "while it was parked" part is crossed out, as if they wrote a first draft and then decided that this part wasn't needed/already clearly implied. It's like one of those SAT questions where one of the questions is OMIT THE UNDERLINED PORTION.

Ya, I know, I've been tutoring too much.


Alex vs. Peter Griffin - 6/1/06
In continuing honor of Alex's graduation, this is something Noah sent me a while back, claiming that Alex looks a lot like Peter Griffin from The Family Guy.

I'm not sure I buy it.

Sure, they both like beer. Sure, they're both... large (though Alex's bulk is more the strong, college football variety). Sure, they're both cartoon characters starring in popular sitcoms on Fox. But Peter Griffin has that annoying voice. Alex just likes to break things.

Besides, I like this guy better.


Alex: Released Into The Wild - 5/26/06
My youngest brother Alex graduated college Sunday, and is henceforth released upon the world. I pity you, world.

He graduated from Brown, which was the third $35,000+ college my poor parents have had to pour money into, but at least this marks the end of their having to write checks. Alex was also a pretty decent football player, so although the Ivy League doesn't give athletic scholarships, the financial aid found some mysterious ways to make grant money appear.

But all that's over now. The ceremonies were good, except that there were like eight of them and half of the speeches were in Latin, which made everything twice as long for a dead language nobody understands, not even the person speaking them. The family and I all flew/drove out and helped Alex celebrate/pack all his stuff into boxes.

Rumor has it Alex is moving out here to LA. I pity you, LA. Perhaps the Pond will soon have a new, regular, monstrous character.

Oh and the only personal story to add is that the awesomeness of my getting bumped up to first class for the first half of my trip back was negated by getting stuck in a middle seat in coach for the second half, in front of a screaming baby. Seriously, is there anything more annoying than a baby who screams for the entire four-hour duration of a plane flight? How does it even do that? Doesn't it dry up or something? I really wanted to turn around in the middle of the flight, something like:

ME: (holding a pill in my fingers) For the love of... Here, just give him one of these.
SCREAMING BABY'S MOTHER: Oh. What is it?
ME: Poison.

Maybe that's not in the travel-safely guidebook, but damnit, a lot of people would have thanked me for it.


Uhaul - 5/26/06
No doubt Sam will do a better job accounting this incident in a day or two, but I figured give two different takes on it. Our play production was, of course, not without incident from time to time, from an actor dropping out a month before the show, to socially-inadequate theatre managers messing up our tech week by playing a gigantic terrible set right in the middle of our space, to Sam doing nearly $800 worth of damage to the roof of our Uhaul truck by driving it into a low-ceiling parking garage.

They found out - but thankfully, because Sam had accidentally bought the insurance to go with the truck, we only had to pay the $150 deductible instead of the likely $750 repair bill. What I found most interesting about the whole fiasco was two things:

One, within two minutes of Sam driving the truck into a roof-scraping pickle, Uhaul actually called his cell phone and told him someone had called them, reporting his trying to drive the truck into the garage. WHO DOES THIS? Especially since they didn't see the scraping part - just a Uhaul going into a parking garage, where apparently Uhauls are not supposed to go. Who has nothing better to do that sit across the street from a parking structure and call in cars that aren't supposed to enter? How do they even know? How do they even have Uhaul's number? Even if it was written clearly on the side of the trucks, as were instructions to call in the instant a Uhaul tries to enter a garage, WHAT COULD SOMEONE POSSIBLY HAVE TO GAIN FROM TATTLING ON A UHAUL? Uhaul must have their spies everywhere.

Two, the sad part about all of this was that it wasn't really Sam's fault. You know those Clearance: 6'8" bars that hang down near the entrances to ramps? Well the Uhaul had actually cleared that bar... and then somehow was still too tall not to scrape the ceiling like ten feet further on. My question: Um... what exactly was the point of the Clearance Bar? Isn't keeping cars from scraping ceilings the Clearance Bar's SOLE PURPOSE? It's like a parachute with a huge hole in it, or a soundless smoke detector: kind of defeats the whole purpose of the thing even existing. Maybe somebody measured it wrong, but isn't that kind of the thing you double-check when installing a Clearance Bar? Maybe you should like, I dunno, bring a tape measure or something, and not just eyeball it? Kind of makes you lose faith in the reliability of Clearance Bars everywhere. Because that's all Clearance Bars have to go on, really, is faith.

Anyway enough ranting - it ended up fine, even though apparently Uhaul employees ARE trained to check the roofs of the cars you returned. Yeah, apparently somebody clued them in on the quality of the Clearance Bars around town.


Play Pics - 5/25/06
Like Sam, I'll probably continue to post random play-related things over the next little bit, since I'm still in withdrawl... For now, here are some pictures from "Barely a Bear", the musical half of our theatrical double feature. Sam has a good display of "The Evolution of Professor Monkey" Pics, so I won't duplicate.

Dad (Nick Eyster) warns the Cub (Beau Hirshfield) of the dangers of the woods... ...while Mother Bear (Shannon Evans) warns the Little Girl (Tracy Mullholland) or the dangers of the... suburbs.
Cub and Girl lament their inability to fit in their mis-matched environments in "Barely a Bear" The parents and the Ranger (Orion Simprini) lay the finishing touches on their woods/suburbs ghost stories in "Over There"
Dad and Cub take shelter from the fearsome-toothed, horrible-clawed, furry-eared bears... somehow unaware that Cub is one. Heroic Ranger contains the beast.
Cub and Girl learn about their new worlds in "Used To Be Used To" The final showdown between bears and humans... unless Cub and Girl can convince to two sides to get along.

Working on the cast recording now, which should be available at the play's website soon!


Show's Down - 5/22/06
Wow, 7 ways without a post. I must have been producing a play or something.

Saturday night was closing night of our plays, followed by one hell of a cast party at the local English pub. We sold out out four out of the five performances, although there were always people who didn't show, so my parents always had a place to sit.

In short, the shows went great, everybody loved them, I'm now working on a cast recording for the musical and figuring out the futures of the shows, etc. Not much to say on all that - it seems silly to write about the behind-the-scenes details of a performance you probably didn't see - I'll save this space for the funny stuff. And I'll post pictures later in the week. But basically I'm sad the shows are over, but happy that last night I slept for more that five hours for the first time in a month.

One memorable note was that I quadrupled my old record of tab rung up at a bar at the cast party. To thank our cast and crew, Sam and I picked up the check for the celebratory dinner and drinks for about 40 people who joined us at the English pub after the final show. I won't quote exact numbers, but I've never seen a bar tab with that many digits on it. Thankfully I was pretty well lubricated by the time the 18-inch receipt came, so it softened the blow. I also did the classic drunk-guy thing of signing the total line, on the customer copy. Also, in my belligerent haze, on the "Additional Tip?" line of the check (mind you, my half of the 15% automatic gratuity was already over $100) I wrote "No, that's enough."

I don't think the waitress thought it was funny, but whatever, she already got a $200+ tip. I guess there really is money in serving. Certainly more than there is in play production.


Show's Up - 5/15/06
I have now officially produced a play.

Sam's and my show went up this weekend, to a sold-out crown Saturday night and a 2/3 crowd (which actually contained some people we didn't know personally) Sunday afternoon. Both shows went fantastically... both times.

Don't want to give too many details/pictures away, because we have more shows this weekend (Sam particularly doesn't want me to reveal any pictures of him in his ridiculous monkey get-up), but here's one for a teaser. It's the casts of both shows, together in our grand finale.

That teddy bear's totally going to get discovered.


Sharkeez Burned Down! - 5/11/06
Our favorite bar in Hermosa Beach burned down! See www.nbc4.tv/news/9181968/detail.html.

This is a huge bummer. I've never had a favorite bar before, and now that I do, it burns down.

Likely causes: faulty wiring, or arson. Arson seems unlikely, because Sharkeez was hugely popular around here... unless somebody desperately needed a way to end their Bloody Mary special fixation.

And summer is almost upon us! I'm going to have to find somewhere else that serves three-dollar breakfasts with unlimited Momosas, in a hurry.


4 days... 60 bucks... - 5/9/06
Sam's and my plays open in four days... which explains the freakish amount of work I've been doing that's kept me from posting. Last Monday I stayed up for 28 consecutive hours working on stuff related to play-production or paying for the plays (aka tutoring). The only reason I didn't do the same this Monday is because I stole an hour-and-a-half nap sometime around hour 19.

But it all become worth it on Saturday.

Friday, Production Designer Amanda and I drove all around Los Angeles and Burbank loading huge monkey cages and lab tables into the back of Brian's pickup truck, which he kindly lent to us for the weekend. By the time we were done I'd emptied his gas tank, which started the morning full. It cost $60 to fill up.

We aren't able to pay our actors for the show (low-budget theatre, you know), but we promised to give them all gas stipends. Sam made this observation last week, but why is it that the first time in my life I've ever promised fifteen people gas stipends is when gas jumps up to $3.50 a gallon?


Broken Parking Meters - 5/3/06
I have this idea; lemme know if you think it'll work.

Ever parked at a parking meter, only to find out that it's broken? What are you supposed to do, get back in your car and go find another spot? That's hard to muster the will to do sometimes, especially if the street's crowded, it's a nice spot, and/or you've already lost a quarter discovering the meter was broken.

Until recently, I was under the impression that finding a broken meter was a free ride. Like parking in a ramp and finding the gate open when you come down. I hunted free parking meters - any excuse not to have to pay 25 cents for fifteen minutes was worth another trip around the block.

Which lead me to the idea - what if every meter you parked at was broken? I'm not saying break them - that would be vandalism and vandalism sucks - or at least sucks when you get caught and arrested for it. What I'm proposing is something simpler - just carry around a sign that says broken meter wherever you go. When you park, just wait until nobody's watching, then stick it on the parking meter and go about your merry way, and never waste a quarter again.

Now I'm sure meter maids keep track of which meters are broken, but they don't get around to every meter every half a day, or even every day. Unless you live in Westwood, of course, where they come by every two-and-a-half minutes. Moted! So ninety times out of a hundred, they won't even see your car. And five of those other ten times, they'll just see that the meter's broken, report it, then keep moving. Maybe another four times, they'll realize it actually isn't broken, but figure you must have the hapless victim of somebody else's mistake, remove the sign, but not give you a ticket.

And that other one out of hundred times? They'll never be able to prove it was you. That's gotta be about the hardest case to make in court - that a meter WASN'T broken AND you knew about it AND you put a sign there AND they caught you. What meter maid is going to show up if you're willing to fight it?

In the meantime, you've saved about 1200 quarters.

Then recently a guy at a bar (while I was drafting up this elaborate scheme) told me this wouldn't work - it's illegal to park at broken meters.

But the twenty times I've parked at a broken meter, I've never got a ticket.

I kinda want to try it anyway.


Cat Lipstick - 04/29/06
This is how Sam and I spend our Friday night:

How did you spend yours?

One of the plays we're producing (opening in two weeks from today!) requires us to make several large, ridiculous posters of cats, wearing lipstick. Why? It's really better not to ask. Just come see the show and it will all make sense.

This needed to be done, and since Sam and I A) Love Photoshop, B) Think cats wearing lipstick is hilarious, and C) are too busy to do this during a normal time like normal human beings (because obviously normal human beings Photoshop lipstick onto cats), we decided to designate our Friday night to this activity. Hell, Sam's got a girlfriend and all the Hermosa bars are getting old - what else were we going to do?

Actually, it turned out to be a pretty memorable night. I don't think I've ever put lipstick on anything before, to say nothing of cats in a computer program, but I must say by the end, I think we really got the hang of it. If cats even have lips, which we're pretty sure they don't.

Also, we were drinking.

In order to choose the perfect cats for the job, we scanned through literally hundreds of cute (and otherwise) cat pictures online. I have to say, there are way too many website out there designated to cats. Finally we chose about 20 semi-finalists, narrowed it down to eight, then had Noah and Angelina come in to help us pick the final four (the cats you see on the screen above did not necessarily make the cut). After a grueling vote, we had our cats, and set to work applying digital feline cosmetics.

I can't show you the final products (they're a surprise for the play), but I can show you some of the cats we DIDN'T pick. Not because they weren't cute, necessarily, although some of them were downright heinous. Some of them just didn't have the proper "look", or the pictures weren't big enough, or you couldn't really see their lips. Not that cats have lips. You can pick YOUR favorite.

I'm not sure what's up with people putting little animal heads on their kittens and photographing them, but I kinda think it's awesome.

There was also this picture of a baby gorilla we found at www.babyanimalz.com, which is possibly the cutest website ever.

Seriously. What has happened to my life?


Speak-and-Type - 04/28/06
Old roommate Kolleen and I were recently hired to give a three-part presentation on College Reading and Writing at the nearby high school. Yes, I know, I throw cell phones against brick walls and run around at night taking pictures of sprinklers, and somebody wants to hire me to teach kids how to read. I blame the American educational system.

Anyway, as part of our presentation, we wanted to make copies of an essay Kolleen pulled out of one of her "we're so post-modern that we're not even post-modern anymore" grad school books. Rather than photocopy the article, I decided it would be better to transcribe the article into my computer in order to make faster copies and have the article on hard disk for future printers.

The only problem is, I absolutely loath transcribing articles. That crap in middle school, you know, how many words of this article about oak tress can you type in 100 seconds? So I decided to try out the fancy new voice recognition feature my computer has. You know, the one where you speak into your crappy "came-with-the-computer" microphone and the computer translates what you said into text.

Not very well, apparently. The following is, word for word, what ended up on my computer screen after I read out loud two paragraphs about legal rights for animals:

Indication when of the loss of jurors have proffered many criteria as sufficient including sand dunes a sense of justice that possession of language are morality and having a rational plan of one's life stages of when the loss of jurors and have a 32 points and have them when they're in the man whoat the end of the enemy that the "new court court but you wait till it's where it's the stupid, does leave and are keeping our attitude actually the button that writing that are all but just as you are thinking aluminum receiving gifts and paragraph break
Way to the Those are the
Notice that I said that it on me is sufficient for basic legal rights it obviously isn't necessary we don't eat or vivisection and babies born without brains were selecting incentives that they are operated on without anesthesia. 38% who is against better than we do this but this is so many ways it is that of a press all loss of the Roman jurist her margin in the dns a shooter of our board and the kaleidoscope butter churned tofu oath T. where scope eat a bowl of the ex and market that's blocking funny, your honor its original plan might go a long

I don't know what the word 'whoat' means or how it got italicized, but I do like the voice programs strong fondness for the words "jurors" and "jurist" (neither of which were actually in the passage. In the program's defense the part about vivisecting babies born without brains was actually in the passage. Apparently the computer can understand that.

We ended up just photocopying the article. Then I threw my crappy microphone against a brick wall.


Not Normal - 04/25/06
This is not normal:

This is even less normal:

And yet this is what the sprinklers outside my house do, every morning, from about 1:34 to about 1:53am.

Somebody must have kicked off the regulating device that spreads the water into a fine, irrigating mist, or a kid rode his skateboard over it, or we somehow broke it during our various drunken larks. But whatever the cause, the result is these Yellowstone-worthy geysers that waste about 80 gallons of water every night, and is slowly eroding away the middle of our yard.

I suppose I should do something about it, like call the city or something, but it's not really my responsibility. Then again, I'm probably the only one regularly awake in my neighborhood from 1:34 to 1:53am.

I'll probably get to it eventually - nobody likes to see 80 gallons of water wasted a night, especially from a geyser than nobody's awake to appreciate. But right now it's like 500th on my priority list.


Airplane Proposal - 04/22/06
On the return trip from New York, my mid-flight nap was interrupted by the sound of applause mid-way up the plane. A stewardess informed us that someone had proposed in the middle of coach, that the offer had been accepted, and that the people in the surrounding rows were now toasting the newly-engaged couple with $4 mini-bottles of wine.

The stewardesses seemed especially proud, as apparently they'd had some hand in the scheme. I never did learn the details, but it seems it was quite the complicated ruse - although, I don't really know how complicated a ruse you can pull off within the crowded confines of an airplane cabin, short of having an oxygen mask drop down with a ring attached to it.

Perhaps the ring had been inserted into the piping hot beef casserole served with the in-flight meal. Nothing garnishes a spork like a 12-carot diamond. Worst case, the highly-trained flight crew could have used their expert Heimlich maneuver skills to dislodge the ring from the woman's gullet.

Perhaps the ring had been hidden in air-sickness bag - or the "comfort bag", as I think they're calling it these days. Nothing relieves turbulence-induced nausea like the promise of true love-forever. Then again, I'm not sure what kind of guy wants his proposal dependent on motion sickness, and your beautiful bride-to-be probably isn't at her loveliest when she's pale and sweating. Besides, if the moment doesn't go just right, there's always that chance your expensive ring gets a little "comforting" of its own.

Or perhaps the ring had been planted in the Skymall catalogue, right between the Hot Dog Bun Maker and Mombasa, the $900 Garden Giraffe.

Now that I think of it, maybe the oxygen mask thing would have been the best idea. The resulting mass-panic surely would have provided quite a lovely contrast to the romantic moment.


Easter in New York - 04/19/06
This weekend I spent Easter in Brooklyn with my brothers. I was the last to arrive at Mark's apartment from the airport, and it took about 45 seconds after walking in the door for malt liquor to touch my lips. Which was also how long it took the brothers and I to complete our ritual "40 challenge", which involves the three of us relaying a bottle of Olde English to see how fast we can down it. Everyone watching was very impressed - I don't think you can pour out a faster much faster that 45 seconds.

The rest of the weekend went pretty much as expected - games of basketball, Risk and karaoke, intermingled with, of course, more malt liquor. We also counter-balanced the low-culture nature of our beverage choices with a high-culture trip to the Darwin exhibit at the Natural History museum - which was terrific - followed by a plunge right back again with a viewing of "Scary Movie 4" - which was terrible.

But certainly the most memorable moment of the trip was our first-ever Easter Morning Jury Brothers Easter Beer Can Hunt. When we were little, Mama and Papa Jury would help us celebrate the rising of Jesus by hiding chocolate treats all over the house for us to search for and fill our baskets and then our tummies. What this had to do with the rising of Jesus, we were never quite sure, but we sure liked all the chocolate. The best part was that, somewhere around the house, we each had an Easter basket hidden, containing a veritable feast of treats and sometimes other presents, as if we weren't hopped up on sugar enough already.

Those days have past, but we decide to bring the spirit of Easter this year with a new kind of hunt, this time featuring our new favorite treat, beer! Unfortunately we were all too hungover from the previous night to actually want to drink more beer, so mostly we used empty cans (of which there were a lot). But I also hid a few candy bars around for my little brothers, as well as one full beer, for the finder to quench his appetite with after a good hunt. After that, we painted the cans like Easter Eggs.

Words can't really do it justice, so how about a picture gallery? Oh boy! Click on either of the picture below to get there.



You're An All-Star - 04/16/06
Recap of my weekend in NYC with the brothers Jury as soon as I get the pictures together, but first this...

The other day I got a packet from my security company with several of these business cards enclosed:

Apparently this is their new recruiting campaign to find new security guards. After all, it's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it. I've removed the company's name from the card, but I think you get the general idea. I, of course, have a few comments.

First of all, the cartoon guy they have is a little wacky-looking - kind of a disproportionate combination of Captain America and a blonde Elvis. I guess they needed some logo for the otherwise blank card, but this gives the impression that being a security guard is kind of like being a superhero, which it's not. No job is LESS like being a superhero than being a security guard. Trust me, I am one. Unless maybe a it's a superhero who sleeps a lot and drives to all-night coffee shops while he's on shift. That superhero would certainly be MY hero.

Second, "Seeking Terrific All-Star Referrals" seems a little redundant. If someone is an All-Star, aren't they already, by definition, terrific? It's even more redundant because it's printed twice. Maybe they mean especially good All-Stars, like just the top 2 or 3 players off the NBA All-star team. The only problem is that I don't know why someone with those kind of credentials would want to be a security guard. Or maybe they just wrote it that way because they were worried some potential security guards might not know the definition of either "All-star" or "terrific", and so they printed both. Which is possibly true - being a sleeping, coffee-shopping superhero does not have "advanced vocabulary" as one of its key job requirements.

And third and most importantly, what are we seeking, retards? Did no one, as this promotion was being designed, stop everybody and say "Wait a minute. Doesn't this whole thing look a little... um retarded? Like... the kind of business card you'd give to a kid with Down's Syndrome who's trying to sell candy bars?" I feel like the referral card should come with an "I'm Special" pencil or a pudding pack or something.

My name is _____? Just in case you forget? Is the card supposed to install a warm fuzzy feeling every time you open your wallet? In that case, any self-confidence boost you might get from seeing this card would immediately be mitigated by the realization that somebody thinks you should be a security guard.

But maybe the cards are a good thing. After all, I've just spent the last four paragraphs talking about them... now I kind of WANT to give them to people. Personally, I think they could have done better with the "Hey, wanna get paid 9 bucks an hour for sleeping?" campaign, but to either their own. Maybe I could even get a nice bonus if one of my friends or readers ends up becoming a security superhero. Or at least I could get 27 dollars and a plaque.


Goddamn Eyelashes - 04/12/06
The other day I got an eyelash stuck in my eye. Not just in the corner, either - the goddamn thing was wedged all the way back in my optical nerve or something. Everything I rolled my eye around or rubbed it or splashed water on it, the eyelash just got deeper. I couldn't even see the goddamn thing, looking in a magnifying mirror.

It was driving me crazy. Not just "my eye itches a little and it's bugging me" crazy, more like "this is so irritating I can't even function and about to drill a whole in my head like the guy from 'Pi'" crazy. It actually hurt, the way the eyelash was scratching up my retina. It must have been made of steel wool or something.

After about 15 minutes of rubbing frantically and punching my desk, I dunked my head in a sink full of water and rolled my eye around like the Exoricist. But even that didn't help.

What's the point of eyelashes, anyway? Aren't they supposed to keep shit out of your eye? Isn't that their sole function? And here this one was, abandoning post and plunging kamakaze-style right into the deepest part of my eyeball. Bullshit rebel eyelash. I hope the other eyelashes burned all photographs of him and speak of him only in shamed whispers.

Finally I got Noah, gave him a wet Q-tip, and told him "Just jab my eyeball as much as you have to, I don't fucking care." It's a request I never thought I'd make, but it was better than the agony I was in. He did, and after several thrusts he caught something and the eyelash came out enough that I could wash it out with more water. But I swear I heard it cursing and swearing as I washed it down the drain.

Moral of the story? I hate goddamn rogue eyelashes.

In New York with the Implement this weekend, so posts may be slim, but we're trying to get the dunk contest up on line soon. Tech issues, ya know.


Video of Me Hurling a Cell Phone Against a Brick Wall - 04/10/06
Big web news this week. First, tickets for the two plays I'm producing (and co-wrote) went on sale this morning. Check out www.flaminghouseofcards.com. If you're thinking of coming, definitely get your tickets early - the theater is small and I'm serious when I say we're going to sell out every show.

Second, the second-annual dunk contest goes online this week (or early next week - haven't decided yet). Rumor has it I make even more of a huge asshole of myself than last year. Stay tuned.

Perhaps as a prelude to the dunk contest (or because I've been meaning to post this for like a month), a little video action for you.

I've been known to have a slight temper when it comes to mechanical objects not functioning properly - I've punched my share of computers and screamed at my share of automobiles. That's how the spacemobile got it famous Tourrette's-Horn problem, in fact - I was mad about the damn van breaking down for the fourth time in a year and I punched the steering column.

And when objects push me to a certain level, really bad things happen to them. Once in college, my printer malfunctioned for the 100th time, and something inside me snapped. I calmly unplugged it, removed the ink cartraiges (even in my rage, I was still cheap), and unceremoniously hurled the printer out my third-story window onto the sidewalk below. It shattered into like 8 pieces, but never pissed me off again.

So last month, when my crappy Cingular cell phone dropped its record-breaking 1,000th call, I decided I'd had enough. This time I was a little more ceremonious; I got dressed up in my old baseball uniform and had Noah film me hurling the offending phone as hard as I could against the brick chimney of our house. Because honestly - who hasn't wanted to do this?

I used to pitch in college, and though I'm sure I've lost something off my fastball, I can still throw hard enough to break the holy living shit out of a cell phone. It was kind of the greatest gadget-rage catharsis ever - I think I might have had a tiny orgasm when the stupid phone exploded, although neither explosion comes across that well on the film. Click on any of the images below to see the video.

13 pieces. That's a new record. I also broke a piece off one of the bricks on the chimney. Of course, I removed the SIM card from the phone first; even in my rage, I'm still cheap.


Flip Cup Tournament - 04/08/06
Turns out organizing a flip-cup tournament fundraiser at a crowded bar is a difficult task. I didn't even get to drink. Until after it was over, that is. Then I drank lots.

Flaming House of Cards
Plays Fundraiser Flip Cup Tournament
Manhattan Beach Sharkeez - 4/7/06


Too Much Time On My Hands - 04/05/06
I'd tell the story behind this ridiculous picture from Sam's and my play before you look at it, but you'd probably just scroll down and look first anyway. You probably already have.


The Creation of Professor Monkey

And now that I think about it, the picture probably still wouldn't make sense without a really long explanation of the play's plot, its characters, and what the hell is the matter with us. So you're just going to have to see it when it comes out. We've got a new website, by the way. Tickets go on sale next Monday.

The important thing is I spent about an hour in Photoshop at security yesterday, and that always makes me happy.


Almost 4/5/06 - 4/4/06
Did you know that tonight, just after 1am, it will be 01:02:03 04/05/06?. I haven't been this excited since 9/9/99.

I've heard some fortune tellers are making big plans for the occasion. I've also heard fortune tellers are stupid.


Casting Call (part 2) - 4/3/06
Sam already wrote about this, but I figure I'd recap it now that we're totally cast.

So yeah, we're producing a play in Santa Monica in May. Two plays actually - both of which I got to have a hand in writing - and we just had our first rehearsal Friday. It went fantastically. I'm super excited.

We're cast now (you can see the actors at the website, www.flaminghouseofcards.com - don't ask where the name came from), so now I can say a little more about the audition process.

It was certainly a fun, tiring, and learning experience, about which we knew almost nothing going into the process. In fact, there was only one thing we were sure of:

- There are a butt-load of actresses in LA.

As I mentioned before, we had about 250 girls express interest in trying out for the one part in the non-singing play, The Evolution of Professor Monkey. And at least 30 people responded for each of the other 7 parts. The problem was, we had no idea how many of these actors would actually show up at the auditions, and thus how many we should invite.

We asked to one of the directors, Casey, who presented two compelling arguments. One, it's easier to click a box on a website than to drive to an audition. And two, people in LA are flaky. Actors are flaky. So… actors in LA? Super flaky. But maybe so flaky that the flakiness cancels itself out? Probably not. He predicted 25% of the people we invited would show up.

On the other hand, people DID respond to the website. And according to our advising producer Liz, the website we used was a pretty reputable one. Why would you bother to respond if you had no intention of showing up? That doesn't seem to be a good way to run an acting career, responding to auditions and then just not showing up. Liz predicted 75% would show up.

So we decided to split the difference. 50% would show up. Thus, we invited twice as many people as he hoped would show up (about 20 people per role, plus more for the one female role because we had so many candidates). That way, if only a quarter showed, we wouldn't be screwed. But if three-quarters showed, we wouldn't have so many people that we couldn't handle it.

So what happened? People started confirming. LOTS of people. Our prediction crept back higher than 75%. We were worried.

Then what happened? People started canceling. LOTS of people. Out of town shoots, sicknesses, other shows, you name the excuse. Our prediction crept back below to 25%. We were worried.

And then what happened? Some people showed up anyway. Other people flaked. For some parts, we had almost 100% attendance (like the one female role). For others, it was more like 10%.

We ended in the vicinity of our original prediction, 50%. And after a little creativity, selected a fantastic cast. We definitely had no idea what we were doing most of the way, but it definitely worked out fine.

So what did we learn? Well, there's definitely one thing we can say for certain:

- There are a butt-load of actresses in LA.


I'll Start Posting More. Promise. - 3/30/06
Tomorrow's the SAT, tonight's our first play rehearsal, and this morning I'm printing a 4,000 sheets of paper for things having to do with both. So yeah, I'll start posting more soon... and next week, DUNK CONTEST 2006 goes up. Aw, yeah. Stay tuned.

In the meantime, here's an enjoyable pic from friend April... apparently she took this photo on the streets of New York.

But how do we know it's not just advertising the hip 90's techno group? I suggest we all call the number and find out.


Are You Smarter Than Vince Young? - 3/27/06
This is old news, but old roomy Brian insisted I print it anyway. Also, it's quite consistent with my generally running about 2-3 weeks behind current events.

Every year, the NFL administers an intelligence test called the Wonderlic to test the mental adaptability of potential draftees and new players. It's a 12-minute multiple choice exam whose questions rate anywhere from insultingly easy to somewhat challenging. The trick is that you have to answer 50 questions in 12 minutes.

Now, nobody accuses NFL players of being exceptionally bright, and occasionally the questions are actually kind of tough, but some of the reported scores are just downright sad. Texas Longhorn and Heisman candidate Vince Young was rumored to have scored a 6 out of 50 when he took the test. He actually scored a 16, but that still doesn't take him much past short-bus level. Especially when some of the questions are like "If rope costs $.10 a foot, how many feet can you buy for sixty cents?"

Here is the link to a short version of the test (despite my test-prep connections, I couldn't get a full version). They say give yourself 5 minutes, but by my calculations you should only get 3.6 minutes (3 minutes, 36 seconds) in proportion to how many questions you're doing.

In either case, I've reprinted below the scores of several famous (and not so famous) NFL players and draftees, mostly quarterbacks, so you can see who you're smarter than. Just take your score out of 15 and multiply it by 10/3 to get your estimated Wonderlic score. Then email me your score and I'll put you on the list (you get to choose your position/profession). I'll also see if I can get you a meeting with a sports agent. If you're not smart enough to multiply by 10/3 or use email, just put yourself at Vince Young level.

Wonderlic Scores of NFL Players/Draftees
Pat McInally, punter — 50
Mike Mamula, defensive end — 49
Kevin Curtis, wide receiver — 48
Alex Smith, quarterback — 40
Brian Griese, quarterback — 39
Eli Manning, quarterback — 39
Ryan Fitzpatrick, quarterback — 38
Akili Smith, quarterback — 37 (suspected of cheating; scored 15 on first attempt)
Matt Leinart, quarterback — 35
Tom Brady, quarterback — 33
Steve Young, quarterback — 33
John Elway, quarterback — 30
Troy Aikman, quarterback — 29
Peyton Manning, quarterback — 28
Ryan Leaf, quarterback — 27
Major Applewhite, quarterback — 26
Ben Roethlisberger, quarterback — 25
Hugh Millen, quarterback — 24
David Carr, quarterback — 24
Brett Favre, quarterback — 22
Chris Simms, quarterback — 22
Michael Vick, quarterback — 20
Vinny Testaverde, quarterback — 18
Antwaan Randle El, wide receiver (former college quarterback) — 17
Aaron Brooks, quarterback — 16
Dan Marino, quarterback — 16
Vince Young, quarterback — 16 (erroneously reported to have scored a 6 at first)
Randall Cunningham, quarterback — 15
Donovan McNabb, quarterback — 12
Marcus Vick, quarterback — 11
Jeff George, quarterback — 10
Sebastian Janikowski, placekicker — 9


Nine Stages - 3/25/06
I don't know if I've ever posted this, but I've always liked it:

The Nine Stages of Life
not old enough to know better
old enough to know better
not old enough to know
old enough to know
not old enough
old enough
not old
old
not

Wow. Deep.


My Brother Alex's Response to my Percentile Post - 3/23/06
Dear Paul,

First off I am hurt at your comment that I hardly ever read your website. I am, I'm sure, one of your many faithful readers. If this were not the case, how would I have noticed that you had not updated in a while. Second, I feel you did yourself a disservice in your rankings of things your good at. Just off the top of my head you missed:

Being a huge donkey 89%
Receiving "man love" 96%
Deep Throating 79%
Hooking up with 35 year olds 82%
Smelling like armpits and old bus sets 99%

I know you wanted to make it a pretty balanced list so you omitted some of the things you're the best at, but I feel you don't give yourself enough credit.

Your faithful reader and supportive brother,

Alex


Now I'm the one who's hurt - she was only 34. And there have got to be more than 4 out of 100 people that are better than me at receiving "man love".


This Feels a Little Like Leno's Headlines, but... - 3/20/06
Friend Vanessa and I found this advertisement the other day:

What!?

Income-earning, tax-deductible pets?

First of all, income-earning? How? What are you supposed to do with an alpaca that earns you income? Sell alpaca rides? Aren't alpacas like llamas? If so, I wouldn't pay more than fifty cents for an alpaca ride, no matter how much it loved me. The only thing I can think of to do with an alpaca is either eat it or sheer it for wool. And I don't think alpacas yield very good wool. Or meat, for that matter. Plus I think eating an alpaca kind of violates the whole "pet" thing. Maybe you're supposed to milk it, though I'm pretty sure I've never seen the "alpaca milk" department at Vons.

Second of all, tax-deductible? I don't know what kind of crazy tax laws they have down in Costa Mesa, but I'm pretty sure you can't get a tax deduction just for buying an alpaca. Unless you wrote it off as a business expense, in which case I can't imagine what kind of work you're in.

"Johnson, I have to ask you about your expense account records for the O'Reilly Account. Dinner at P.F. Chang's, three nights at the Ramada, and nine alpacas?"
"It's alright sir, we needed them for the presentation."

Maybe alpacas are like a new form of transportation, even more gas-efficient than the Toyota Prius. I suppose everyone switching to alpaca-back would be good for the environment, but this is NOT going to help traffic on the 405.

And finally, "the investment that loves you back?" Assuming you don't sheer it or eat it... I'm not even going to touch this one.

I blurred out the phone number, but I probably didn't need to: I'm sure Laurie and Eric would have appreciated the free advertising.


Subway vs. McDonalds - 3/18/06
I heard somewhere that there are actually more Subway restaurants in the U.S. than there are McDonalds. I was in Subway the other day and I asked the manager about this, but he didn't seem to know. Actually, he didn't seem to know much about anything pertaining to the grander scope of his job, but maybe that's because he works at Subway.

I supposed five minutes on Google could answer this question with certainty, but I'd much rather speculated wildly.

On the one hand, I can believe it. Have you ever had trouble finding a Subway (assuming that you wanted to eat there)? Sure, McDonalds is more famous, because they advertise so much and those showy golden arches are impossible to miss, but that doesn't mean there aren't just as many Subways. Subways are tiny - they can be tucked away into strip malls and rest stops and other Subways. McDonalds require their own structure, or at least a super huge travel station. So although Subway is an easy restaurant to miss if you're not looking for it, it's impossible to miss if you are.

Subways are also cheap as hell to run. The only foods they have there are buns, and the crap you see out on the counter. What else is there? I don't think they make anything from scratch - Subways barely even need an oven. They don't even need any storage room - they just put the chips and drinks out there where you can steal them. And have you ever seen more than three people working at a Subway? That's got to save on overhead. In contrast, have you ever seen less than ten people working at a McDonald's? It takes a whole team of people even to operate the late-night window.

On the other hand, have you ever seen more than three people eating at Subway? Sure, subs cost more than the dollar menu, but when you only sell seven sandwiches a day, there can't be much less in the budget to pay Jarrod the sub guy. In contrast, I've stood in line at McDonalds behind like 40 people, and somehow everybody gets there double cheeseburger in less than ten minutes. Sure, it only costs a dollar, but those dollars add up. I guess Subways are a little busier during rush hour, but I can't imagine they rake in the dough the way McDonalds. And I don't care how friendly their tip jars are; moving two dozen meatball marinaras probably doesn't cover much more than the three people it took to make them.

In conclusion, I don't really care if there are more McDonald's or more Subways. Any restaurant that has more than 100,000 stores, it's kind of all the same after that. All I care is that anytime I'm a roadtrip and am hungry for either of the two of these mass produced cuisineries, I never have to wait more than three exits.


Things I'm Good At (by percentile rank) - 3/14/06
The other night over a game of beer pong, Sam, Jeremy, Noah and I got in a discussion over exactly how good we were at playing Dr. Mario, our latest passing productivity-killer in South Bay. Now, I'm a pretty good Dr. Mario player - it was one of my favorite Nintendo games growing up. And yet Sam and Jeremy, who've been playing more, are both able to beat me pretty much every time. Even though the games are ridiculously competitive - anyone who stepped in off the street would be completely smoked by any of the three of us - I'm clearly the bronze medalist of the group.

Which begged the question; exactly how good are we at this game, compared to the general population? Sam made the bold claim on his website that he was in the 99th-percentile of Dr. Mario playing ability in the world, a claim that was later challenged by several of his readers. But think about it: what percentage of the world has even ever played Dr. Mario for Nintendo? I mean, at least 15% of the world's population has never even seen a Nintendo. And of those who have, probably many have never played it, are too old for Dr. Mario, or prefer Tetris, Bubble Bros, or another of my personal favorites, Arkanoid. Honestly, probably only 10% of the world's population - at the most - has ever played Dr. Mario, and most of those probably aren't very good at it.

So it it really so audacious to suggest that Sam would be in the top 1-percentile? That's like saying I'm in the 99th percentile of living in Redondo Beach. Hell, even Noah, who sucks at Dr. Mario, is probably in the 99th percentile. Sam's probably in the 99.9th percentile, being the best of three players who firmly rule ass at Dr. Mario.

Of course, this isn't very fair. If I just picked a random person out of the population to play Dr. Mario against me, it'd probably be a tribesman from rural Zimbabwe who attacks the screen. In order to truly consider percentile rankings, it's better to take a smattering of all kinds of skills. I might not rank quite so well in, for example, navigating a rain forest, as I do in popping pills into bottles in esoteric video games.

Thus, the following list of important skills, and what percentile I think I would probably rank, compared to the world's general population.

My skill level at arbitrary tasks, by percentile rank:
Untying a knot 17%
Building a fire 65%
Milking a cow or goat 22%
Throwing a curve ball 99%
Building a shed 54%
Singing a folk song 31%
Rocking a baby to sleep 22%
Finding the integral of 4x3ex97%
Digging a well 46%
Fixing a carburetor 50%
Menstruating 10%
Speaking French 60%
Speaking Portuguese 1%
Sailing a boat 29%
Training a wild animal 8%
Analyzing stock market trends 90%
Growing corn 14%
Owning a computer 98%
Knitting a sweater 12%
Playing soccer 72%
Playing Dr. Mario for the original NES 99%
Kicking a field goal 86%
Applying eye shadow 7%
Firing a gun 52%
Dancing a waltz 13%
Cooking a chicken 21%
Eating cereal 99%
Playing beerpong 99%

There you have it. Ladies, test your compatibility here.


Casting Call - 3/13/06
So apologies I haven't been posting as much recently; I've been terribly busy trying to be a play producer and teaching rich kids how to take the SAT. No excuse though - I'm going to get back on the ball. I mean, even my brother Alex yelled at me for not posting (and leaving a non-funny post up for like 6 days), and he barely ever reads the site.

So speaking of play productions, my and Sam's big project recently has been the production of two plays I co-wrote, going up in Santa Monica in May. Check them out at www.flaminghouseofcards.com.

As one of my duties as Play Producer, I have been forced to play the role of Casting Director for our auditions next Saturday. Given our minimal budget, this means posting intriguing calls on casting websites for (albeit fun) parts that don't pay much besides gas money and free booze at the after party.

And yet, if there is one thing you should never underestimate in Los Angeles, it's the prolific presence of actors looking for parts. 8 days ago, I posted the plays on a popular casting website. 7.5 days ago, I had received 200 headshots and resumes. Particularly popular, in our play "The Evolution of Professor Monkey", which is about an absent-minded Scientist who DEvolves into a Monkey, was the part of the Scientist's bright but cynical assistant, meant for an 18-30 year old female with some comedic ability who doesn't have to sing or be a model. Maybe it's something about "18-30 year old female", or "doesn't have to be a model", but we've had 240 actresses inquire so far... just for this ONE part.

Now, I'm just a humble midwestern boy who's never produced a play before. And suddenly my Inbox is flooded with headshots of hot actresses, some of whom ARE models. I don't even know what to do. And before I get any inappropriate suggestions from you readers out there, I AM going to try and keep things on the up-and-up.

I just feel like somebody upstairs is toying with me.


Why Are Streets Named "Crescent" and "Lane" and Stuff? - 3/7/06
It was another one of those trivial questions. How come some streets are named "Street", whereas others are "Road" or "Avenue", or even "Court" or "Terrace". I was kinda hoping a little Googling would lead me to a logical and fascinating answer, like that "Streets" are always made of concrete, or that anything narrowing than 13.5 feet is always considered an "Alley". Or at least an interesting historical journey like my quandary about the origins of month names.

The answer was disappointing. Of the explanations I found, most were not that interesting, and I guess some things are just named that way for random reasons. Nevertheless, it's my duty to pass on the 411. And to bring back the term "411". So here you go:

MAJOR ROADS:

  • Road
  • Street (typically used in urban contexts)
  • Avenue
  • Boulevard (often wide, multi-lane and directionally divided, with above average appearance in terms of landscaping and scenery)
MINOR ROADS:
  • Bay
  • Drive
  • Gardens
  • Gate
  • Grove
  • Heights
  • Lane
  • Mews (what!?)
  • Pathway
  • Terrace
  • Trail
  • Way
CUL-DE-SACS:
  • Close
  • Court
  • Place
NAMED FOR THEIR SHAPE (at least this is sort of interesting):
  • Circle
  • Crescent
  • Square
OTHER
  • Alley
  • Esplanade
  • Parade (what?)
  • Promenada
I'm so disappointed.


The Coolest Club in Hollywood - 3/6/06
Saturday night, several of us went to the ultra-chic Hollywood club LAX for a friend's birthday party. According to those who know such things, LAX is the club in LA right now, partly due to its recent popularity among celebrity socialites, including a scene that occurred there a couple weeks ago involving Paris Hilton getting thrown out in response to her growing feud with Nicole Ritchie, a regular there.

Now I'm not really much of a Hollywood clubber - those who know me will attest that I would much rather drink a forty of Colt 45 Double-Malt while watching Army of Darkness in somebody's basement - but it was a friend's birthday, and I was oddly curious to see what it was like to be at the "coolest" club in Hollywood.

People afterwards have asked me (with an tinge of awe that I actually went there, mind you) what it was like, and my response has been the same each time: Terrible. Absolutely terrible. Two thumbs down.

Does this mean I didn't have a good time? Not at all. And I'm going to try not to turn into a rant about LAX, or about Hollywood clubs in general. I'm just going to lay out the events of the night, and a couple observations, and perhaps we'll all learn something together.

First, popular logic has it that if you're a non-celebrity hoping to get in to a trendy club (in LA or anywhere), you need to do one of three things:

1) Get there really early
2) Have a reservation
3) Have a high "hot-girl to guy ratio" in your group

You may still have to wait in line for a little while, but you've followed one of these rules, you generally should have no trouble eventually getting in.

Well on Saturday night at LAX, apparently you needed to follow all three of these rules. When we arrived at about 10pm (early, but Hwood club standards), there were five cute girls accompanying three guys, with three more girls following shortly. The girl whose party it was had made reservations in January for 20 people - guys and girls, and everyone's name was on a guest list. And voila - the eleven of us were able to get in, without having to wait very long at all. Once we were inside, the door people tried to reneg on the cheaper cover than had been negotiated six weeks ago (it was still going to be $20 for guys, $10 for girls), but after we argued with the bouncer and waited 10 minutes for the promoter to come straighten things out, we were cleared. But things did not go so well for our friends, which I'll get to in a minute.

One thing I noticed straight-away - although there were about 200 people in line outside, there were only maybe 30 people in the club when we first got inside. A classic strategy, of course - make people wait outside for a while, so once they get in they won't want to leave - but couldn't they have let like 50 of those people in and let them start buying ridiculously expensive drinks? There'd still be a big line outside to impress everybody. I bought my first drink - a $12 Jaeger-blaster (which is like 2 ounces of Jaeger in about 5 ounces of Red Bull) - and shrugged it off, deciding to walk around the club while it was still empty and see what all the fuss was about.

The club was OK-looking. Not any more impressive than any of the other clubs I've been to, but not terrible. There were a couple of unfinished parts, and I didn't understand what any of it had to do with the name LAX (also the name of LA's main airport), but there were a few interesting features. One strange thing is that the DJ, apparently one of the "hottest" DJs in LA at the moment, refused to play any song for longer than a minute; he'd play like the first verse or two, and then switch abruptly to something else, just when you were starting to get into it. It was kind of weird to dance for like 10 minutes and have listened to 12 different songs, but at least you got to be impressed with yourself that you'd danced through a dozen different artists and hadn't broken a sweat.

It occurred to me that what makes a club has nothing to do with decor, or even the music. It's all about the people, just like everything else in life. It's what celebrities might show up, or how many hot girls are there, or how much money the guys have that make a club "cool". The long lines and longer bar tabs are just frosting on this glamorous cake.

Sadly, quality of people is what LAX was lacking Saturday night. Not rich guys or beautiful women - there were plenty of both of those - but quality of anything remotely related to the people working there. Things quickly started going down hill when the other 9 people in our group (there were 20 on the guest list) were forced to wait outside for an hour when the promoter "forgot" about them. Eventually, THEY WERE NEVER LET IN AT ALL. Noah, who talked me into going in the first place, had to wait in line for over an hour and then go someplace else, despite his name having been on the guest list for six weeks. Management and the owner were too busy dealing with trying to get stars to come over to deal with petty folks like us, and the poor birthday girl spent nearly the entire night arguing with bouncers about trying to get her friends in.

Compared to this unfortunate situation, everything else was just details. Sure I spent $106 on cover plus three drinks for myself and four drinks for other people, but you have to expect that at a Hollywood Club. Plus the $3.55 gas station muffin and tallboy of Mickey's I polished off in my car before I went in tided me over pretty well. Another sad service aspect was having to wait at the bar for 20 minute before the bartender would pay attention to me - finally I just threw $100 on the counter and yelled that I was ready to order whenever she was. Finally she came over and responded to my request for Jaeger bombs by first rolling her eyes and asking what they were, and then responding that she couldn't make them because "they didn't have any glasses". Then after I compromised to something else (which still totalled $46 for four drinks), she just let my money sit there for another 15 minutes, without any effort to bring change. Tempted just to take my money back and walk off, I eventually just rooted around until I found ones, and left exactly $46 on the counter. Where I was raised, that isn't the kind of service you tip for.

And yet, I still had a really good time on the evening. I got to talk to all my friends, danced, drank some (albeit expensive) drinks. And amused myself making fun of the "coolest" club in Hollywood. Oh, and the 3:30am Del Taco stop on the way home with friends Adrienne and Lissa was one of the funniest on record.

Which made me realize, my earlier observation had been correct all along. It IS all about the people. Decor, lines, money don't matter. It's the people who provide the service (or lack thereof) at the club, but more importantly, it's the people you bring with you, that determine how much fun you have.

And where was raised, we bring our own fun.


Imaginary Numbers - 2/28/06 - addendum
It just occurred to me that in an otherwise sane post about imaginary numbers, that part about Pascal and Pythagoras doing coke and butt-fucking each other was completely out of nowhere.

Sorry, Pyth and Pasc. I like you guys' triangles.


Imaginary Numbers - 2/28/06
OK, so my main reason for publishing yesterday's Imaginary Number post was... yes, as an excuse to make fun of imaginary numbers.

Seriously, it's not enough that we have a literally infinite amount of real numbers? (btw, I think that's the most correct way I've used the word infinite.) We had to invent more? Like Pythagoras and Pascal were sitting back in ancient Rome smoking a J, (btw2 nothing about the previous statement is historically correct), and Pascal was like "You know, Pyth, there just aren't enough numbers out there. I'm so over pi and zero. Let's make up some more, ones you can't even quantify or graph on a number line. Then we'll force high school kids to learn about them, right after Home Ec." And Pythagoras was like "Fuck yeah, let's do that shit." And then they did some cocaine and had gay sex.

Back in high school, the day my Algebra 2 teacher announced that we would be working with imaginary numbers was probably one of his least happy days, at least in terms of keeping the class in line. I'm not sure who started it, but by the end of class such challenges had been thrown out as:

"Oh good, then we'll be getting an imaginary grade for this section."
'Does this mean there'll be an imaginary test?"
'How about I just go to Burger King and imagine that I'm here, listening to your imaginary number lecture."

It was almost as bad as the loud day he introduced factorials.

"Oh, so the formula to figure out how many ways to pick five donuts from a dozen is TWELVE!!! divided by FIVE!!! times TWELVE MINUS FIVE!!!? Why do I always get so hoarse on math days?"

I think imaginary number day was the day I realized math no longer had any relevance to my life...

How ironic, then, that I now make a substantial portion of my living off of it.


Genius of the MonthTM Award - February - 2/27/06
Alright, math wizzes, here're your latest change to attain the coveted "Genius of the MonthTM" award. Those of you who love it when I post math challenges, enjoy. Those of you who hate it when I write about math, too goddamn bad.

A while ago I came across the following imaginary number problem in an Algebra 2 textbook:

The trouble is, there seem to be two different answers, depending on how you do the problem.

Which is correct? Are they same answer? Does this have anything to do with "complex conjugates"?

First one to email me with a correct (and good) explanation wins. Anybody who hates me right now for bringing up "complex conjugates", feel free to scroll down to funnier and non-math-based posts. I hear there are some good, vaguely racist ones about 5Ks and copy machines and such.


What Happens When Your Car Gets Eaten By A 20-Foot-Tall Snowplow? - 2/23/06
Just ask my friend Tiff.


There’s a story behind this, but honestly, I think the pictures tell it well enough.

And yes, she was in the car at the time. She described the experience as "like being in a carwash... except with blades."


Muy Bueno Copier - 2/21/06
Note: No, not all of my recent post are vaguely racist, stereotype-indulging (especially Mexican ones) larks. If you'll notice, the wackiness of the following has nothing to do with the fact that the subjects are Mexican, and everything to do with the fact that they're crazy. I mean c'mon, half of Mexico already hates me, and it's not so far away that I could feel content poking fun.

I may have mentioned that my friend Sarah has been helping me with my tutoring business, and one thing she did recently was help me procure a new $500 printer, capable of printing two-sided books of 420 pages each, cranking them out in about ten minutes a book, and doing a little dance for me while I wait. We ended up buying the copier the boring way (at Staples), but the fact that Sarah is bilingual helped with some of the wacky price-shopping along the way.

One of the venders Sarah called turned out to be some kind of Mexican chop-shop of used copy machines, and the contact person there, Maria, informed Sarah that she had the perfect copier for us.
“It’s muy bueno copier!” exclaimed Maria. “Perfect for you business.”
“Well that’s fine, but we’re actually looking for a printer,”
replied Sarah. “If it makes copies, too, that’s fine, but it needs to print.”
“Si, si, it’s muy bueno! It copies 30,000 copies per month. The outside is from 2001. But the inside parts all new. Muy bueno!”
“What? Well… how many pages can it hold? We’ll need to make a lot of books.”
“Si, it holds 50 pages, but it prints 35 pages per minute. It’s muy bueno! You tell us you address, and we come set it up for you.”
“No no, we’re not looking to buy anything just yet, I’m just pricing. Does it print in color?”
“No, but it’s muy bueno! Just tell us where your office is. We have it there this afternoon.”
“I don’t think you understand… we don’t even really have an office…”
“Will you be paying check or cash?”
“I’m hanging up on you now, Maria.”

I watched most of this conversation at Office Depot, where Sarah’s expression on her cell phone swung alternately from hilarity to horror. I’m glad I wasn’t on the phone, or I might have been suckered into a dangerous purchase:

“But it’s muy bueno copier!”
“I know it’s muy bueno copier. But it doesn’t print in color like I wanted, it doesn’t hold lots of sheets like I wanted, it doesn’t scan like I wanted, you won’t give me a price, and you want to assemble it in an office we don’t have.”
“But it’s muy bueno!”
“You make a compelling rebuttal. I’ll buy it.”

It’s kind of an impenetrable argument, actually; saying repeatedly that something is muy bueno is kind of the “Infinity-Plus-One” of copy machine quality statements. I mean… there’s just no comeback. Who am I to argue that the copier is not, in fact, muy bueno? I can picture this strategy applied to other situations in the business world:

"Johnson, this proposal is too expensive, addresses none of the clients’ needs, and goes off on a nine-page tangent about a whaling adventure!"
"But sir, it’s muy bueno."
"Well, alright then, as long as it’s muy bueno."

"So I understand that this car is the cheapest in its class, the safest, and gets the best gas mileage. But is it muy bueno?"
"Well I’m not really sure about that."
"Then sorry, I’m walking."

"Captain, we can’t navigate this route! There’s an iceberg there!"
"No no, it’s fine. It’s muy bueno route."

So as much as this copier was, as mentioned, muy bueno, I must admit I had my doubts. For one thing, what did Maria mean the outside was from 2001, but the inside was all new? Is this some kind of stolen copier with the VIN number scratched off, that somebody pilfered from a copy machine factory while the security guard was asleep? Or did they take copy machine parts and put them back together inside a snowblower or something, where you feed papers in through the augur and get finished copies shot out through the snow-chute? Maybe they just hand you a paper bag full of copier parts and assembly is required.

Second, 30,000 copies per month. PER MONTH? Don’t people usually describe copy speed in terms of per minute, or at least per hour? Does this mean the copier prints faster in February than it does in March? Related to this is the fact that the machine reportedly printed 35 pages per minute, but only held 50 pages. So what, you have to reload it like every 1.43 minutes? And even considering the copious loading time, at this rate, you could theoretically still crank out those 30,000 copies, printing continuously, in about ten hours. Do you then have to wait until the end of the month before the copier resets itself and keeps going?

Finally, “let us come to your office and we’ll set it up!”? And maybe give us a timeshare pitch while they’re at it? Um, we don’t really have an office – I work out of my house. I can picture Noah coming home and finding Sarah and I watching a team of Mexicans setting up a copy machine inside a snowblower in our living room. Also, I feel like a pickup truck must be involved at some point… possibly parked in Noah’s driveway spot.

But it’s cool. After all, it’s muy bueno copier.


Zzyzx - 2/18/06

This, from friend Treem, regarding some reference to an obscure highway between Vegas and L.A. called Zyzzyx Road that we always write about:

Apparently there is a movie called Zyzzyx Rd.

The tag line is "What happens in Vegas, gets buried on Zyzzyx."

Apparently that thing is the use of vowels.

I believe it is a moral imperative that we Netflix this movie.


Car Themed Post #4 - Driveway Cops - 2/15/06
This morning, I was pulled over by a cop in my own driveway.

IN MY OWN DRIVEWAY.

Perhaps I should rephrase: I had already pulled into my driveway on my own accord and was about to go inside when a cop on a motorcycle pulled in behind me and flashed his lights. I thought for a minute that maybe it was just a coincidence; somehow a party had broken out at our house at 7:30am on a Wednesday, and the cop was just coming to break it up. But when he shined his flashlight at me (none too effective a signal in broad daylight) and motioned for me to get back in the car, I figured it probably had more to do with my terrible driving.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" he asked, with as stern a look as a tired Monday-morning traffic cop can muster.

Since I run stop signs all the time, my first thought was "Gee, I hope it wasn’t that stop sign I ran right in front of you just now." But fortunately I didn't say this out loud, and apparently that wasn't the problem.

"I have no idea" I said, with my most innocent face.

"Do you know what the speed limit is on this street?

Digging back into my 16-year-old Minnesota Driver's Test memory, I blindly stabbed at something that seemed reasonable. "35?" I guessed.

The cop was not pleased. "35!? It's 25! How long have you lived here?"

Apparently not long enough to care what the speed limit was, but that wasn't my first thought. 25? It's not like it's an alley. I used to ride the Scootskate faster than that down the street, back before Scooter broke it off with her hoo-ha.

I launched into a pathetic explanation of how I was sorry I didn't know, and I was just a little tired from working all night as a security guard upholding law and order (and sleeping), and was just trying to get home. The cop then gave me a lecture about "going too fast on the street I live on", climbed back on his bike, and drove out of my driveway. Remarkably, he never even noticed the stolen Vons shopping cart parked in front of my car. I looked to make sure he was really gone, shrugged, and went inside. I was nearly disappointed; part of me had wanted to invite him inside for some coffee or a quick game of beer pong.

That's the second time I've gotten out of a traffic ticket by saying I'm a security guard. Do they have any idea how much I sleep there?


Juxtapositions of the Weekend - 2/12/06
JUXTAPOSITION - Function: Noun - Definition: Two or more opposing elements positioned near each other, for a contrasting effect.

EXAMPLE 1: Friday night, as Sam stands in line at the grocery store, behind an adorable nine-year old boy, clutching a single Valentine's rose for his homeroom sweet heart.
"Mommy, will this flower still be OK on Tuesday?"
And Mommy, standing nearby, holding two tallboys of Miller Lite, thus completing their three-item purchase.
"Yeah yeah, it'll be fine."

EXAMPLE 2: Twelve college-educated adults, well-dressed at a fancy wine-party, screaming at the tops of their lungs over a game of flip-cup on a beat-up ping-pong table in a rougish garage. In some cups: Coors light. On others: wine... from a box. After a particularly close match, a victory grind-dance-party breaks out, to Mozart, playing in the background.


Superbowl 5K - A Hilarious Exercise in Race-ism - 2/8/06

**CAUTION: This post contains humor which some might consider "racist"… perhaps because we are, as it turns out, what some might consider "racist". **

PART 3 - Origin of the Sign
A conversation between Kolleen and me, as we started to make the sign for our American Border costume the day before the race... also, a final indication that we are, in fact, a couple of racists living in LA.

ME: OK, so one side will say "Welcome to USA", and the other side will say "Welcome to Mexico"? Except in Mexican.
KOLLEEN: You mean Spanish?
ME: Whatever. What's the Mexican word for "Welcome"?
KOLLEEN: "Bienvenido"?
ME: Aw, yeah, like "Bienvenido a Miami!"
KOLLEEN: Sad that our comprehension of Spanish is limited to lyrics from Will Smith songs.
ME: How do you spell that?
KOLLEEN: I don't know. I just know the dance.
ME: I don't know either. Do we know anyone who speaks Mexican?
KOLLEEN: We live in LA. I'm sure we can find SOMEONE who speaks Mexican. Er, Spanish.
ME: Well we're going to T-Bell, why don't we just ask them.
KOLLEEN: Isn't that a little racist?
ME: I suppose so. And I guess we want REAL Mexican, anyway. Not cheap, bastardized, Americanized Mexican.


Superbowl 5K - A Hilarious Exercise in Race-ism - 2/7/06

**CAUTION: This post contains humor which some might consider "racist"… perhaps because we are, as it turns out, what some might consider "racist". **

PART 2 - The Beer Garden
I forgot to mention the seemingly unending string of inappropriate comments that spewed from our mouths as we ran the race, dressed as The American Border. You can use your imagination, but perhaps the worst was "Look out! Kolleen the Mexican is making a break for it!" "That's OK, let her go. The glass ceiling will take care of her."

This was, sadly, only the second-most offensive thing I've yelled during a Redondo 5K race. The first came last year, when a spectator yelled something in Swedish at me as I jogged past, dressed at a plundering Viking. Summoning the only Western European reply I could think of, I shouted back "Zeig Heil!" at nearly the top of my lungs. Quickly realizing my faux-pas, I rapidly followed with "Um, just kidding! Sorry, kids," to the roughly 50 school children I was running the midst of.

***

After the race came the Asahi Beer Garden, which, as I've mentioned, is about as close to heaven as one can get on this secular sphere. To the left is a picture of the madness from last year -- essentially, imagine a big grass area next to a lagoon, where every 5K bib can be exchanged for 4 Asahi beers (yup, that's about .8 Asahis per K)... plus any you're able to scalp from young children who don't want theirs. Like I said, heaven.

And let me tell you, boy-o-boy, having an unlimited supply of Japanese beer didn't help the racism.

Taking you back a moment, in our house every beer gets its own voice, which kindly (or demandingly) requests that you drink it, and often takes on the un-PC ethnic stereotypes of whatever country the beer comes from. Well, you can imagine what Asahi's voice sounds like. I took the opportunity early on to remind everyone.

ME: (in a submissive and terrible Japanese accent, using an Asahi can as a puppet) A-ha, it be my a-preasure for you a-drink me. A-sank you.

That was strike one for my burning in hell after all.

After several consecutive trips through the beer line (the line gets really long if you wait until the 10Kers come in), we had amassed a pretty impressive tower of yet-full beer cans. Eric commented that Asahi had really over-sponsored the event; giving each person 4 free beers was probably overkill as far as getting their name and popularity out there.

"I know," I responded. "I didn't need four beers to love Asahi - one would have done just fine. They had me at "Herro".

Strike two.

An empty-can tower soon replaced the full-can tower, as we joined forces with a neighboring group. We had a pretty impressive pyramid going…

…until it collapsed, which I believe I described as "A Nagasaki-level tragedy". Strike three, I'm out.

We headed off to Sharkeez and the Pier (where Gabe and I finally DID drink beer out of a Viking helmet)...

Kolleen, doing what she does best: drinking, smoking, and eating a Hooha bar. (By the way, in the refreshment line, I loudly asked Gabe if "I don't want to sound gross, but can you grab me a Hooha?" which the two older women in front of me found to be the funniest thing on the planet.

...but not before Gabe stole a flower and a second 5K shirt from beer garden (despite the fact that he was obviously already wearing one), about which Kolleen commented that he "was really showing his Jew-stripes on that one." Strike one for Kolleen.

At last, a day of fun, beer and racism had come to an end (it was now about noon), and I, like so many rejected Mexican costume ideas, went home to chase a nap.


Superbowl 5K - A Hilarious Exercise in Race-ism - 2/6/06

**CAUTION: This post contains humor which some might consider "racist"… perhaps because we are, as it turns out, what some might consider "racist". **

I'm also going to do this in three parts, since there's just so much material here.

PART 1 - The Race
Sunday was the annual Redondo Beach Superbowl 5K, an event which is quickly becoming one of my favorite things to do in LA. On this joyous occasion, people run, walk and inline-skate their way along a scenic 3-mile course and then proceed to the Asahi Beer Garden and consume eight times as many calories as they just burned.

Certain wacky groups, such as the Smurf Team (1st place) and the Super Hero Team (2nd place) run in themed costumes, and it was this feat we were determined to pull off in our second (of hopefully many more) race.

We found our concept after scrapping other ideas such as a bunch of a tuna caught in a net, a tug of war, a shish-kebob, (turns out giant foam piece-of-meat costumes are pretty hard to find), and an electron transport chain during photosynthesis (yet another sign I've been doing too much tutoring). Our costume was "The American Border", which consisted of the Mexican-American border, an immigrant trying to sneak across it, and a border patrol officer chasing the immigrant. Offensive? Probably. Hilarious? Most definitely.

From left: Revan, Kolleen, me, Vanessa, Eric, Gabe. Oh, that wiley Kolleen, always trying to sneak into America and steal our jobs. I like that I look like I'm about to punch her in the face.

I believe it was Kolleen's idea originally (or a friend of Kolleen's - either way, it was obviously thought up when we were all drunk), and her stipulation was that "I want to do it, as long as I don't have to be the Mexican." So of course she ended up being the Mexican. Revan was the (border patrol) security guard, and the rest of us were some variation of red, white and blue people who were supposed to carry the border or run along side it. In bizarre manifestations of this theme, Eric was wearing a blue Dodgers wig, Vanessa had some kind of 80's hair-band do, and I was draped in an American flag. I was also wearing a Viking helmet, which no one really understood.

So we ran, finishing somewhere between the time it takes to bake a turkey and the time it takes Pluto to orbit the Sun. Here's us pausing to celebrate the completion of our 2nd mile, and a random action shot.

The costume actually did not piss off as many people as we expected, mostly because nobody could really understand it. They got the border part, but the fact that it was ostensibly being pulled by a Mall Security Guard and a Patriotic Viking failed to drive the racism properly home. Kolleen was generally nowhere near the border (as the current administration would prefer it), and her gaudy sombrero/poncho combination made her look less like an actual immigrant and more like a cheap trinket at a Tijuana gift shop. The most we offended anybody off was when I ran off into some houses to pee, and Gabe announced to everyone within 100 yards (so like 300 people) what I was doing.

Of course, the executed rendition of the costume was merely a watered-down version of some of the ideas that had been flying around that first night when we thought it up (as I mentioned, very drunk). In another much more offensive interpretation of the concept, a Mexican was to be chasing the following things:

1) The American Border
2) A Burrito
3) A Nap
4) A Bottle of Tequila
5) A Home Depot Store

They were to be confused, unsure which of these things to chase first. They were also to be carrying either

1) Several baby bundles
2) A weed-wacker

We eventually decided against this version, determining finally that we'd rather not burn in hell.



Car-Themed Post #3 - 2/4/06
A while back I did a couple of car-themed posts, and alluded with #1 and #2 that there would be more... Not really sure what happened to them, guess I got distracted by other stuff. Anyway, here you go.

On the golf trip, we got stuck behind a car in a traffic jam bearing the following license plate:

It's a little hard to read (even with my Photoshop-enhanced rendition), but in traffic, the plate clearly read "(Heart)4MYSNZ".

I suppose this could be interpreted as "Love for my Snooze," which I guess would be the vanity plate of someone who really likes their snooze button, and is prone to oversleeping. It could also be read as "Love for my Shnoz" (I don't really know how to spell that), as in a vain person who's really proud of their nose. Maybe due to countless surgeries, or to its Cyrano-de-Bergerac epic size. Or perhaps the plate is trying to say "Love for my Snazz", as in someone who's very confident in their elegant sense of style.

I, however, can only interpret this license plate as reading "Love for my Snizz", which I find both hilariously funny and rather audacious for a publicly-displayed license plate. If you don't know what Snizz means, you're probably better off that way... I'll only say that the person driving this car must have a very strong sense of feminine pride.


Drive Through - 2/2/06
A conversation I had with the Carl's Jr. drive-through order box at about 3:20am Wednesday:

BOX: Welcome to Carl's Jr., are you ready to order?
ME: Yeah, can I get a Number One? The $6.29 one.
BOX: Yes, but unfortunately we're all out of soft drinks. Would you like Rasberry Tea?
ME: Wait, you're all out of soft drinks?
BOX: Yes sir.
ME: All of them?
BOX: Yes sir.
ME: All kinds of soft drinks.
BOX: Yes sir.
ME: How-- Nevermind. Um, what do you have to drink then?
BOX: Just Rasberry Tea. In a bottle.
ME: I didn't know Carl's Jr had Rasberry Tea in a bottle.
BOX: Yes sir, we do.
ME: OK. Um, yuck. Well, then can I get a discount if I just get water?
BOX: Yes sir.
ME: How much of a discount?
BOX: Uh… $6.12.

A pause, as I did the math.
ME: So… a seventeen cent discount.
A long pause from the order box. Apparently I was the first person to call him on this all night.
BOX: OK, I'll give you the fries for free.
ME: Thanks, I appreciate that.


Yes, I Still Live in L.A. - 1/31/06
Somebody recently commented that it seems like I don't live in LA anymore; all my posts recently are about golf trips or ski trips or Asian bird flu. Yes, I still live here, and yes, I'm still doing the same old thing of making money teaching rich kids how to take the SAT and tyring to make money doing entertainment writing (we have three plays coming out this spring/summer). But it's true I haven't been writing about any of that - frankly I have been out of LA like every weekend, and frankly I've been too busy and tired - and boring - to make much shenanigans in between.

While I was away apparently there was a big sewage spill in the ocean near our place, which kept me from trying out the new surf board I just bought once I returned. People on the radio were calling our city "Redondoodoo Beach" for a while, partly because radio people like to be funny, and partly because it really did smell like rancid ass for a couple of days until they got it cleaned up. The water seems to be back to normal though, so I'm free to bring my new snowboarding skills back to the waves with only the usual 40% chance of contracting syphilis from the water.

My life has come full-circle. When I first moved to LA, one of my jobs was to drive a security car around a copy machine factory parking lot late at night. As you probably know, I mostly just slept; I always said that if anyone was able to successfully smuggle a copy machine out under their coat, I'd just get them when they came back for toner. Now, though I still do security on a recreational basis, my tutoring business has grown to the point where I'm actually considering getting a copy machine. But I don't want to pay for one… perhaps I'll pay a little visit to my old security stomping grounds after all. I'll just have to make sure to wear a big coat. And not go back for toner.

Oh, and the legendary Superbowl 5K race is this weekend, the one where we drink and run dressed as five testicles and a penis or something. We're still trying to decide which offensive costume combination to wear, but so far the leading candidates are five people dressed as the U.S. Border, with Gabe dressed as a Mexican chasing them, or Kolleen dressed as Abraham Lincoln running with five slaves. Nothing like a 5'2", 105 lb girl posing as old Honest Abe.


Skiing vs. Snowboarding - 1/30/06
Last weekend on Ski Trip, I tried snowboarding. Now, I've been skiing a fair number of times and consider myself moderately capable, but I'd never been snowboarding before. And I was terrible, just terrible. At least at first; my over-under of 25 times falling down the first day was pretty much blown out by my first trip down the hill. Which took me 25 minutes, by the way, and left every limb and my head and ass bruised.

But by the third day I was halfway decent, and now consider myself a fair judge for the below comparison. I even went down a black diamond at the end of the last day - and I was terrible, just terrible… but hey, it was a black diamond.

SKIING VS. SNOWBOARDING
It's a classic argument. One piece of equipment or two? Forwards or sideways? Yuppie or MTV? And now, since I'm vaguely competent at both these down-hill activities, I hope to help resolve the timeless debate.

ISSUE: Speed.
Certainly, how fast you can go is a big factor in how much fun zipping down a slippery hill on a piece of wood is. And while in theory hill slope and refusal to break have the most to do with snowy velocity, you just can't tuck and dive down a hill on a snowboard the way you can on skis. Maybe it's the added surface area of the board that leads to more friction, or those zany hats snowboarders often wear that slows them down.
ADVANTAGE: Skiing.

ISSUE: Hurting Yourself.
I was pretty terrible when I first started skiing, too, but I swear I didn't fall down nearly as many times as I did snowboarding. I think it's just easier to stay up when you can move both legs independently, and can use your hands (poles). I would also argue it hurts more to fall down while snowboarding: facing downhill it's easy to fall flat on your face, unless you catch yourself, which them hurts your arms. Or worse, when facing uphill you can catch an edge and tumble backwards, experiencing the lovely combination of snapping your head back and hitting your head on the snow. That being said, however, with skiing there's a lot more risk of serious injury, like twisting your knee 180 degrees around when landing a jump with one ski facing wrong. Then there's that classic move of wrapping both legs around a tree. And let's face it; with snowboarding, there's just very little chance that you're going to somehow impale yourself with a ski pole. Speaking of which…
ADVANTAGE: Tie.

ISSUE: Poles.
One thing for snowboarding, it's really nice to have to carry those clunky-ass poles around. Don't they teach you at first to ski without them, anyway? Once you get them, however, there's this never-ending temptation to overuse them, or misuse them by jabbing your friends or hitting them on chairlift poles as you pass.
ADVANTAGE: Snowboarding.

ISSUE: Flat areas.
But… they do give you those poles for a reason. And that reason is flat areas. This is actually a biggie: one of the biggest pains in the ass with snowboarding is having to unbuckle partway and propel yourself across big flat sections with one clunky boot. Especially if you're not good at it, like I wasn't; I don't know how many times I just gave up and took off my board and walked. Isn't the chair lift supposed to take the work out snowboarding? If I wanted to walk across snow toting a big chunk of wood I would have become a sled dog.
ADVANTAGE: Skiiing.

ISSUE: Jumps.
Although Snowboarding has the advantage of being able to borrow from skateboarding a whole variety of already-sweet moves, ski jumpers have been able to come up with a whole array of moves. And the fact that pretty much anything you can do on a snowboard you can do on skis. And then there are those insane extreme ski jump dudes.
ADVANTAGE: Skiiing.

ISSUE: Expert Opinion.
Of course, I'm just a tyro in the eyes of real skiers and snowboarders, so I asked my friend Greg his opinion on the matter. Greg's a pretty capable boarder and a near Olympic-level skier, and added to the debate that slashing bumps is a bit more fun on skis, while cutting fresh powder can be more enjoyable on a board. Having only a dim grasp on his terminology, I decided to take his word for it.
ADVANTAGE: Tie.

ISSUE: Coolness
Of course, anybody who's a badass at either skiing or snowboarding is inherently pretty cool. But to differentiate here, we need to compare the standard archetypes of skier versus snowboarder. On one hand you have the older, rich, white, Northface-wearing ski yuppie, with matching ski pants and jacket and hat and goggles. On the other hand, you have the younger, less-rich, also white, whatever-hell-they-want-to-wear (and probably under-dressed), grungy, pot-smoking alterna-boarder, who doesn't really care that his board doesn't match his jacket doesn't match his frozen uncovered ears. Who's cooler? Undeniably, years of rock and roll and MTV have shown us that youth and non-conformity and frozen ears are always cooler than SUVs. Sorry skiers, this isn't a contest to see who has more money.
ADVANTAGE: Snowboarding.

FINAL DECISION:
In the end, skiing wins out, if only because having to walk from the chairlift across a plateau to the top of the hill seemed like a royal pain in the ass. But both definitely have their place, and now that I'm through bruising my tailbone fifty times per run, I'd be more than pumped to try either again.


FLIRT - 1/28/06
Oh yeah, one thing I forgot to mention about the Denver airport when I arrived, I saw girl in the terminal wearing a shirt that said "FLIRT" in big bold letters across the chest.

THE GIRL WAS FOUR.

What's the world coming too? I don't mean to be a prude or anything, but do we really need to be dressing our four-year-olds in sexually suggestive apparel? I'm pretty sure that little girl couldn't even spell FLIRT, much less be one.

At least it wasn't as bad as the baby nearby wearing a sweater reading SLUT, left all alone on an airport bench.


Ski Trip - 1/26/06
"$30 per day to park? Fuck that, I'll try my luck with the curb drop-off thing."

"$85 for a snowboard lesson? Fuck that, I'll teach myself. I did it surfing, and only ALMOST killed myself."

"$15 for a cheeseburger and fries? Fuck that, I'll take it. I'm too weak from teaching myself to snowboard to argue."

Thus the summary of our post-Northwestern ski weekend: cheap but fun. We had quite a crowd this year - I think there were 16 of us at one point converging from points as far as LA (me), and Chicago (everybody else). Oh, and I think Heather flew in from New Hampshire or someplace like that.

Anyway, these things are always best done in pictures, so here goes:

Our own pretty picture... ...and our own personal hot tub.
That's actually John on the snowboard, but I spent a lot of time on my knees that weekend. Yeah you heard me. The 900 foot cliff that Treem and Goof tumbled down. I can't do the story justice, so I'm not even going to try.
I'm actually in this one. The "cool thing" this weekend was taking pictures on chair lifts. That and Chuck Norris facts. Chuck Norris never misses a cap. Ever.
Sadly, my Growler of Steamboat cost ten dollars, while Kolb's pitcher of Natty Light only cost four. Proof that college friendships last forever. Also proof that I'm completely incapable of taking a normal picture.

And then I got on a plane and stole Terrell Davis' overhead bin.


Car Themed Post #2 - Airport Self-Drop/Ski Trip Prologue - 1/24/06
ME: Hey, this where I go for long-term airport parking, right?
GUY: Yup yup.
ME: How much is it?
GUY: Yup yup, it's $3 per hour, or $30 per day.
ME: What! So I park here until Sunday, it's going to be like $120!?
GUY: Yup yup, yup yup.
ME: Well fuck that! I'm not parking here!
(And I proceeded to gun it in reverse back out onto the departures look, nearly smashing into a shuttle van.)

It's interesting this happened Friday, because an idea had occurred to me earlier as I drove to the airport to embark for Ski Trip:

What would happen if, in a life or death plane-catching situation, you simply drove your car up to the departures area, jumped out, and left it there?

I didn't do this, of course, but what if someone did? I suppose at first the traffic guys would be very confused. Doesn't the owner of that car know that when a traffic cop stares and shuffles his papers menacingly, you're supposed to move? Then I suppose you'd get a ticket - the traffic cops have to use those papers occasionally. After a while, I guess you'd get another, then another, and then eventually somebody would be fed up and tow your car. It would be impounded, and rack up that obnoxious daily fee, until you got back and picked it up.

But what would it be, like a few hundred bucks? If you were only gone for a few days, it's not like the tow fee is going to be thousands of dollars or anything. Especially since it costs a fortune a day to park at the airport anyway… I never thought I'd say this, but suddenly getting impounded doesn't seem so horrible.


I Stole Terrell Davis' Overhead Compartment - 1/23/06
This weekend was our annual "Old College Friends Ski-Trip" in Colorado. I'll get to more on that tomorrow, but I mention it now because it put me in the Denver airport a couple hours after the Broncos' playoff loss last night... and on the same plane as former Broncos star Terrell Davis.

There were a lot of dejected faces in the Denver airport (some of them still painted blue and orange) that evening, flying home to wherever after the Broncos were spanked badly by the Steelers. But one not-so-dejected face belonged to recently retired running back and hometown favorite Terrell Davis, who I found surrounded by admirers near gate 34A, where I awaited my return trip to LAX. It was no coincidence; Terrell was also flying back to LA where he lives, probably in a much nicer house than mine. Thus the non-dejection.

Interestingly, Terrell Davis was flying coach. Possibly because Frontier Airlines has no first-class section (the price you pay for getting to fly with a large goat on your tail-fin), but I wonder if Terrell got as good a deal on Travelocity as I did. Anyway, he was sitting not five rows in front of me, and given the fullness of the flight, I had stowed my backpack in the one open overhead bin I could find - the one right over TD's seat. And when he arrived as one of the last passengers to board the plane (from signing autographs for the pilot's kids, I think), Terrell was displeased to find no room for him to store his bag. I remember him glaring menacingly around the cabin for the owner of the bulbous blue bag that had taken his spot, and imagining that Terrell Davis could probably kick my ass pretty good. But all's fair in love and overhead compartments, and eventually the stewardesses found his bag a home in the special overflow bin reserved for former NFL stars.

But it turns out Terrell Davis is a pretty cool guy - all during the flight I heard him chatting amiably with other passengers and signing boarding passes and sick bags, with no mention at all of the lanky whiteboy backpack owner he was going to maim once the flight landed. And when I finally did file past him upon my deplaning, grinning sheepishly as I pulled down the offending bag, Terrell Davis just smirked and nodded. All's fair in coach and war, and I guess he figured enough people coming from Denver had gotten their asses kicked already that night.



Car Themed Post #1 - Car vs. Pizza Hut - 1/20/06
I was driving home from tutoring the other day when I saw a car that had crashed into a Pizza Hut. Correction - had crashed THROUGH a Pizza Hut. You know that famous picture of a train in France or somewhere that has gone through the wall of a second-story station and has crashed down into the street below? It was kinda like that, except replace "France" with "Artesia and Hawthorne" and "second story station" with "second-rate pizza restaurant".

There was glass everywhere, and I saw some tables knocked over inside (the car had gone about halfway through the wall, with half still left outside). It's a good thing they didn't hit the salad bar, or it would have been a Ranch-dressing catastrophe. An ambulance was helping a guy out of the car, so I guess no one was hurt, but the question that kept knocking on my brain was HOW? HOW DOES SOMEBODY HIT A PIZZA HUT? It's not like it was right in the middle of the street or anything. I guess the guy lost control of a car, but to hit a building that's like 20 feet from the curb, you really need a motive. And since they phased out the Big Foot pizza like ten years ago, I can't think of anything that would make somebody want to go to Pizza Hut that bad.


Outburst Birth Control - 1/20/06
First, OFFENSIVE! DON'T READ IF YOU DON'T LIKE ABORTION JOKES

OK, now that that's out of the way...

During the golf trip this weekend, an inevitable part of any Jury get-together eventually broke out: competitive board games. Actually, this bout wasn't as competitive as usual, as there were small children present. Nonetheless, board games broke out.

One such game was a rousing match of Outburst. For anyone not familiar with the game, it basically like home Family Feud - you get a category (like "Famous NBA Centers") and you have to name as many of the ten listed items (like "Bill Walton, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Shaqille O'neal, etc) as possible in a minute. And this time is wasn't the competition that was memorable - it was one particular card and the resulting conversation.

A card we pulled was labeled the following:

Methods of Birth Control

And the answers were the following:

1. Condom
2. Sponge
3. IUD
4. The pill
5. Vasectomy
6. Sterilization
7. Abstinence
8. Diaphragm
9. Rhythm Method
10. Homosexuality

One thing to know about Outburst - it can be a little subjective. The rhythm method? Haven't they ever heard the one about what do you call a couple who uses the rhythm method: Parents? And number 10? I mean, necrophilia doesn't produce children either, but I wouldn't call it a kind of birth control.

Anyway, this is where it got a little offensive. Mostly between me and Alex, whispering to each other between rounds and giggling like school boys, as we came up with our OWN top 10 list of birth control measures, ranging from things that discourage pregnany to methods to counteract one once it's begun. Did I say it was a little offensive? You've been warned.

Methods of Birth Control

1. Squeezing out some knuckle children
2. Being ugly
3. Turd burgling
4. Fatties
5. Farm animals
6. A swift kick to the stomach
7. Facial
8. A shaken-up bottle of Coke
9. Coat hanger
10. A firm push down a flight of stairs

So much for the small children around.


Golf Trip - 1/18/06
What was originally intended to be a family Vegas trip this weekend turned into me, my dad and my brother going on a golf trip into the San Bernadino Mountains. As expected, there was a lot of golf.

Dad and Alex pose in front of the mountains. Spirits are high... probably because it's only our second hole.

Alex shoots for the pin. And apparently misses to the right.

The back nine. We needed beer to get through it.

Check out this action shot. Caught all nine inches of the ball's flight.

Alex belts one. No, that's an undershirt under there, not his hairy belly.

A break in the golf for some cards with the family - from left, Dad, Alex, Grandma, Nan, Daryl. About to play Sheephead, a game which only my family and five other German people have ever heard of. Also, Grandma looks like she's about to break my dad's neck.

Day 2. Rain. Crappy golf.

A hole that my cousin Paul put in somebody's porch wall.

The moon rises on our game. That's what happens when it takes you 4.5 hours to play 18 holes.

Where we stayed - Mountain Lake. Not sure where they get the name.


WHO Cites WHAT, NOBODY, BIRDFLU as Possible Contributors to Birdflu

In an uproar-inciting press release released today, the World Health Organization, or WHO, made bold strides to explain the recent spike in deaths related to the much-feared bird flu that is sweeping Turkey and Central Asia… by placing blame squarely on the shoulders of several other acronym-riddled organizations.

WHO responded to evidence that bird flu is only contagious to humans after long exposure to infected birds in non-ventilated areas by directing blame toward a previously unimagined source: the stuffed birds many Turkish families have mounted on their walls as part of the Turkish festival of Wullmontaburd, or “Wall Mounted Birds”. Even dead birds can transmit the virus, said WHO, who urged Turks to stop buying the stuffed ornaments.

But the Western Hemisphere Association of Taxidermists, or WHAT, a major world provider of stuffed birds, claims the wall-mounted poultry are not nearly as serious a risk for bird flu as other factors, for example, the Turkish practice of blowing their noses on birds passing in the street. WHAT was blamed last time there was a bird flu, and it turned out to be WHO’s fault. But WHO knows WHAT is the real cause.

Another step in the outbreak chain, says WHO, is the handling of infected stuffed birds by Turkish minors, who may not have the advanced immune systems of their adult counterparts. But the Northern Ontario Big Old Department of Youth, or NOBODY, claims that blaming the immune systems of Turkish youths is jumping to conclusions, not to mention being bad for the kids’ self-esteem. NOBODY values children, after all, and NOBODY is sure WHO can come up with a better explanation.

But the question of where birds, stuffed or not, handled by children or not, are getting the disease in the first place still remains a mystery. WHO has suggested that birds may be getting bitten by infected rats, who develop the disease by eating garbage, a claim that NOBODY has flatly rejected. Besides, the Bosnian International Rodent Disease Fighting Labor Union, or BIRDFLU, professes it has done an adequate job of getting the jump on this very problem. BIRDFLU has been fighting disease for years, they say, and regardless of how many rodent-versus-bird biting matches occur, this is simply not a viable means for an outbreak. NOBODY supports these claims; however, WHO continues to insist that BIRDFLU is indeed at least a partial cause of birdflu.


I think We All Know Where This Is Going... - 1/12/06
I saw the following headline on Google News today:

WHO says Asia must prepare to control a bird flu pandemic
12/01/2006 - 08:19:02

WHO? Mysterious acroynm, or Abbott/Costello-type joke article? It only took a click and a few seconds of reading to determine that, boringly, WHO refers to the World Health Organization. But the fact that my first thought was "Wait, who's WHO?" attests to this article's ripeness for parody. Especially when my second-through-fourth thoughts were: "WHO's in charge!? WHO gets to decide whether Asia should prepare for bird flu? On the other hand, WHO knows what do to when it comes to this kind of thing."

Unfortunately, I'm too sleepy right now to give this the full lambasting it deserves. Perhaps tomorrow. Or this weekend. Really, WHO knows?


It's Called a "Decanter" - 1/10/06
Thanks to Seann, Scott, Pat and Brian for quickly solving our drinking bottle problem. All are hereby awarded my patented "Genius of the Month (TM)" award. Or else the patented "Knows Suspiciously Much About Drinking Paraphenelia" award.

Scooter and Erin were both very close with CANTER, although this term better applies to either a horse-walk similar to a trot, or a religious singer (or as Brian put it “the Jewish guy who leads the singing portions of the services at my Grandma’s temple. Not so easy on the eyes, but he has a nice voice.”).

It's actually a DECANTER, a bottle meant for storing and oxidizing wine and other distilled beverages. The one I have is supposedly a “whiskey decanter,” although how a glass bottle might be specifically designed to hold whiskey as opposed to other kinds of liquor, I'm not quite sure.

Next up, we discover the name for those funny bumps on plaster ceilings!


What the Heck is This Thing Called? - 1/9/06

Oh, and sorry the picture's sideways. My computer's down and I'm borrowing Erin's, which lacks photoshop.

I've had this glass bottle thing for about five years, since I received it as a party favor from a fraternity formal. I guess liquor or something is supposed to go inside, but I've never had a use for it until now (most liquor I buy comes in its own bottle, as opposed to paying a dollar for a cupped-hands-worth). However, today I decided to write said glass bottle thing into a script I was working on... until I realized I had no idea what the dang thing was called.

"Well, it's definitely a BOTTLE," suggested Noah. "But more specifically? A GOBLET? No, that's not it. A FLASK?"

"A CHALICE?" I posited. "A BEAKER?"

"It's definitely not a beaker," said Noah. "A SNIFTER?"

This went for some time. Scooter thought it might be called a CANTER, and I think somebody might have suggested it was a HUMIDOR.

You know how sometimes you have a word on the tip of your tongue, but you can't quite think of it? Tonight FIVE of us had this on the tips of our tongues, to no avail.

I'm pretty sure it's not a humidor. But I'll be goddamned if I know what it is.


Top 5 Cartoon Characters Who Look Like Pedophiles - 1/4/06
5)
4)
3)
2)
1)

That's all I have to say about that.


Drunk Shuttles and Hijacked Limos - 1/1/06
Back in LA now… just in time for another raging New Year’s Eve party. Nothing unorthodox… just your typical 50-person-pre-party/hotel-party/post-party nine-hour rampage of debauchery. College friends Adam, Adam and Nathan were in town, so we had to show them a good South Bay time.

Many events of the evening were either not remembered or not public-website worthy, but one thing worth mentioning was the evening’s transportation trouble. When planning an otherwise successful pre-party at our house, we failed to considered one very important detail… namely, how to get fifty drunk people from our house to the hotel. Cabs are rare commodities on New Year’s eve, and nobody wanted to walk. It was only about a mile, but between girls wearing heels, the fact that it was raining, and general party laziness, the old biped transit system didn’t seem a very appealing option. The only group who did walk – Adam, Adam and Nathan – were given terrible directions by Sam and ended up tripling their distance and then eventually taking a cab anyway.

And so the only two people sober enough to drive – my friend Craig and myself – ended up making the gametime decision to simply shuttle everyone back and forth in our cars. So in alternating convoys of cars crammed with people, we in about 15 minutes transported everybody the eighty-second drive over to the drop spot. It was kind of like the WWII Allied evacuation of France, where rescuers picked up civilians and soldiers in motor boats and yachts to help them get away from the Germans and to freedom. Except replace “motor boats and yachts” with “a Honda Civic and an old Dodge”, and “to freedom” with “to more alcohol”. But leave “away from the Germans” as it is.

Getting home for the after-party was another story; Craig and I had obliterated our chance of a repeat evacuation by sharing a bottle of champagne within ten minutes of getting to the hotel. Cabs were again impossible, and in the end Adam, Adam and Nathan actually hijacked somebody’s limo to take them home. Actually, replaced “hijacked” with “paid 40 dollars for”, but it was still a pretty good deal, especially given the gigantic Brandy and Coke that Adam #1 mixed himself from the backseat bar to help make up for it. One might say they were in the lap of luxury… for the eighty-two seconds it took the limo to get them home.


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