Rob

What? Could you repeat that...again...?

2009-11-10T17:46:14Z

Why is it that people who speak the least amount of English always have the most important things they need to get out?

Although I think it’s a good idea to learn the language of the country you reside in, I don’t think it’s mandatory. People get busy, they don’t care, or they get lazy and don’t want to learn. That’s fine. I don’t care. What I do care about is when people get angry at me because I can’t understand them through their broken English and thick accent.

If I were to travel to France, chances are I wouldn’t get around to learning French. Whatever. But when I approach a Frenchman I’m going to try my best to explain: “Look, I’m lazy, I didn’t learn your language. But I would like to talk to you about something so please be patient with me while I try to explain.”

However, when people come to America their mentality is: “I’m not from around here. I shouldn’t have to learn your language. I’m here, so pay attention and understand me, or else I’ll be offended.”

Psychologically what probably is going on is they are self-conscious of their own inability to comprehend and communicate. They take it as a reflection of their own mental abilities, and thus jump to anger as a projection of the anger they feel towards themselves. Whatever the reason, I don’t care. It’s annoying.

Where does a person get off trying to make someone else feel guilty for not understanding them when THEY were the ones that didn’t do their homework?

And it doesn’t end with just language…

Okay, some customs and practices are just part of different cultures. Some cultures consider burping to be polite. In Japan taking your shoes off when entering a house is just what you do, but in America a lot of people don’t want to smell your shoeless feet. Hell, even in England they call fries “chips” and cigarettes are called “fags.” So there are obviously gonna be some miscommunications. And that’s fine. It’s fun to learn new things about how other cultures work and behave. But then there are people who just get lazy. What culture difference am I missing with the guy who suddenly jaywalks in the middle of a busy street without looking, forcing me to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting him, only to have him glare at me as if I’m bothering HIM.

The problem is not that we have a melting pot or a salad bowl of cultures. The problem is that we allow ourselves to accept stupid people in our lives and just write it off as: “cultural differences.” I know a lot of foreign people that can run circles around any American’s intellect and so “foreign” is by no means an excuse for ineptitude.

In reality, there really aren’t many cultural barriers. There are just those that are open-minded and those that are closed. Once we stop catering to idiots and hold them accountable for being so, then we can actually move forward.

Till then, it’s no wonder other cultures make fun of Americans. They think WE’RE stupid.

Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen...

2009-11-10T02:14:44Z

In the first Transformers, the All Spark was… well… the shit. It could do anything, and had seemingly unlimited power. But it was destroyed when connected to Megatron’s Matrix. The first movies ends. Now onto the second. Sam finds a piece of the All Spark has survived, so now it’s about the All Spark again sorta, but only about half-way through, then we realize no one is after that first piece cause there’s another piece of it. (Why do I get the impression that every sequel of Transformers is just gonna start with: “Oh my god, I just found ANOTHER piece of the All Spark.” I guess that’s what makes it so powerful… it’s a limitless McGuffin). Then the story focuses on another object…also called the Matrix. But it’s still about the first piece of the All Spark too…but only sometimes…. And then it’s also about this other guy, called The Fallen. The plot stays confusing about all this until Sam (who is basically now is ANOTHER piece of the All Spark) is searching for the Matrix along with The Fallen. So… all the plot lines come together to just smash into each other and form a clusterfuck of bad story ideas and awesome robot battles. That pretty much sums up Transformers 2.

The movie plot itself was constructed using an improv game called: “Fresh Choice.” It’s a 3-person game in which two people are doing a scene, while a third person acts as a sort of director, calling out “Fresh Choice” in the scene. When that is called, whatever has just been described must be changed, and then the scene moves on.

For example: Sam’s roommate in college. What does he do?

“He’s a straight A student.”

Fresh Choice…

“…uh… He’s a good cook...”

Fresh Choice…

“He makes kitten calendars.”

Got it.

It just so happens there were three writers for the movie. Coincidence? Probably not. Fresh Choice. Definetly not. Fresh Choice. Not only was it not a coincidence but the shooting draft was penned in crayon on a Kleenex during the premiere party of the first Transformers movie after someone said while drunk… hey, this movie is gonna make bank… let’s write another one...tonight. Got it.

As someone that would like to consider himself a writer, Transformers 2 was insulting. The motivations had no basis in reality. In fact, it was much easier to assume that robots from Cybertron would land on Earth than Sam and Mikaela’s relationship. Really, I want to believe it. I think it’s great when the average guy gets the hot girl, but I think it’s the cutoff shorts so short that you can see the bottom of her ass as she leans over a motorcycle around a bunch of guys when her boyfriend isn’t around that makes me think that maybe, just maybe… she might be looking at other options.

Then there’s Bumblebee crashing (literally) a party to get Sam out so he can have an emergency meeting with Optimus Prime where Prime asks Sam for help. Why Prime would need Sam’s help? No one listens to Sam in school, why would the government listen to him? This is, by the way, BEFORE Prime knows that Sam has the All Spark knowledge inside him. It would have been a more important scene if it had happened AFTER Prime knew of Sam’s knowledge. Otherwise, it’s just odd and probably only there for the trailer.

And then the school? Wow… that was like 20 minutes of useless story. Sure, it was funny. But it was not part of the plot. Even though the other “hot girl” (Alice) turned out to be a robot, it didn’t justify the almost half-hour of “WTF” you feel watching it. Plus, I really think it should be a pretty obvious rule: if a girl that hot suddenly wants to jump your bones within 5 seconds of meeting you, she’s a Decepticon.

Make it simple: Sam finds the sliver of the All Spark, goes to college, freaks out in class, meets up with Prime for help. Done. No BS with roommate, parties, mom freaking out with pot, blah blah blah. It lasted so long I forgot the story… I guess the creators did too. Sure the roommate was around for comic relief, but was it really that much of a relief to have him there? Not really.

Was it horribly written?: Yes. Does that make it a bad movie?: Yes. But does that make it not fun?: No.

Transformers 2 was a lot of fun. It had a great blend of action, comedy, and special effects. It was a sight to see. I had a good time with the first movie too, but it just didn’t have enough robot fighting. This movie has it in swarms. Lots of battles, each exciting till the end.

But it’s sad… cause it’s clear that SOOO much time and effort went into the special effects of this movie. Although I did like the music better in the first movie, it was still great in this one. But why couldn’t they spend as much time on the script as they did with the effects?

Transformers 2 had the potential to really be a great movie that could have added so much depth to a genre that is so lacking of it. Movies based on video games, cartoons, and toys rarely can hit the mark. Look, I’m not expecting a heartfelt movie about the human condition here, but what I am looking for is something that puts a bit more drama in the lives of these characters. C’mon, with the destruction of the All Spark, Cybertron is going to die. Doesn’t that bother anyone? What is life like for robots trapped on Earth? Why does Bumblebee have such an odd need to remain with Sam? I mean seriously that one’s a little weird. Bumblebee is a soldier and he’s hanging out with a college freshman posing as his car.

Most of the time there just isn’t the budget to do justice to a series. But Transformers clearly had that budget. They had the ability to really focus on the characters and make their stories believable. Instead we hardly even see half the autobots, let alone hear from them (except for a couple of foul-mouthed, racist ones), and get 20 minutes of Sam’s mom being stoned, kitten calendars, and Sam at a party being hit on by Alice.

Do I recommend it? If you’re looking for story and depth of character, you’ll just get upset. But if you’re looking for a mindless popcorn flick with big action, explosions, and robot fighting, Transformers 2 has it all.

All in all, Transformers 2 was a fun, exciting movie, but a sad waste of a great opportunity to change the genre for the better.

Solidarity...

2009-10-28T23:54:02Z

Okay, so the other day we had some vendors on set and I bought one of those bracelets designed to help the flow of circulation. You know the ones that have either magnets or metals or some substance inside of them that supposedly interact positively with the minerals in your body. The ones that you sit there and wonder how they work, but no one can really give you a straight answer other than: they totally do.

I never really had cared to try one since I’ve never really thought about my circulation or wondered if it was deficient or not. It’s never really proved to be a serious problem and I’ve never thought that maybe I’m stressed or have a headache because my body was so busy compensating for the lack of bio-electric current in my wrists. So, I stared at the table with all the products on them, more curious in who gave these people permission to set up a table next to our set rather than what they were selling. That, and they had fancy water they were giving free samples of and I was thirsty.

So I asked questions. They told me they sold products that helped you heal.

This is where I need to divulge a little back-story about my weekend.

I went to a party on Saturday. It was a good time but it was one of those times when you really know you’ve stayed there too long. Not that we stayed so long it wasn’t fun, but that we stayed so long that my car got locked up in the parking structure. So I took a cab to the apartment of one of the friends I was with.

The structure would open at 8am the following morning. My friend offered to drive me to my car the next day, but it was 4am at the time and I knew he wouldn’t be getting up early, and I had to be home early for another appointment. So I slept four hours, and then left his apartment to call a cab. But I decided I didn’t want to wait for a cab and I was kinda in a hurry so I just decided to run. I love to run but it’s been so long. It felt really great having the cold wind blow through my hair in the morning. It woke me up. Then after a mile I realized I probably should have taken a cab. But I kept going anyway. Three miles later I made it to my car, gasping for water. Sure, not really that far for a former runner… but did I mention I was wearing a suit? Probably not the best idea.

The point is I now know what shin splints are. So when the lady asked if I would like a free sample of something to put over my shin to promote healing, I was very excited. I don’t know if it worked, because the first thought I had was… I have a lot of leg hair and she just put four 8-inch stickers on my legs. But it was free and it was nice to do something to make me feel I was doing something for my shins.

Once that was done, I inquired about the water and tried that. Refreshing. However, the fact that their products were titanium based made me concerned that although I might be doing something for my circulation, I was trying to remember from my mother’s teachings of things I shouldn’t swallow, if transition metals were among them.

After I was quenched and patched, I was curious about the bracelets. I don’t really believe in all that stuff about minerals and whatnot, but my right wrist has been hurting me for months now and it’s been affecting my ability to work out as well as write. I’ve gotten x-rays, tried stress balls, seen a chiropractor, and bought supports for my mouse, and nothing has proved anything to be wrong or explained why I have pain, or really helped much. So, at this point, I was willing to look into the idea of mythological rocks on a stylish bracelet.

When asked how it all worked, I got only vague answers about how the titanium reacts to the minerals in my body in relation to my astrological sign and the orbit of Saturn’s largest moon, coincidently called “Titan.” Forgoing the headache of going out and getting a magazine for my horoscope to figure out whether or not my wrist was going to hurt that day, I decided to just skip to the chase and ask: “how much?”

At $15 I figured: “Who cares?”

And so I bought it. And I’ve been wearing it. I have no idea if it works. My wrist was slowly getting better before without the bracelet so I don’t know if it’s been getting better FASTER with it or if it’s just my body finally realizing that I’m not going to stop typing and it just needs to get over itself and heal.

One of my coworkers said that all of us suckers would probably end up getting cancer from this thing. He’s probably right. The only scientific proof I have of this thing working is a picture on the brochure. It has two pictures of two bodies. One body is without the product and there is nothing going on. The other body has the titanium enhancement and there is a red blob in the area where it was applied. Supposedly it shows that there is more “heat” in that area. But there is no proof that the heat was caused by the titanium or if the blob is really heat at all. Perhaps it really shows an increase in cancer? Maybe the redness is where the user got really sore… or got a rash? Or perhaps it just makes someone’s temperature higher.

But there is solidarity in wearing one of these circulation bracelets. Now I can walk down the street and talk to others who have them. Hey, you got suckered in too! So did I! We’re scam brothers! It’s like we’re part of a new club: Swindled Solidarity. Just like getting a wrist band that says you can drink alcohol in a club, I have one that says that I am an easy mark.

Maybe one day I’ll trade this bracelet in for a hospital one with a rare blood cancer. But today it doesn’t matter. Cause when you wear the bracelet you BELIEVE it is working. And positive thinking is often a cure in itself. It’s the placebo effect. And that does work. So if I can spend $15 to fix a problem that has cost me over $100 in co-pays, doctor visits, and wrist braces, just to find out that they have no idea what’s wrong, then maybe it’s not such a bad deal. Only time will tell. Time may heal all wounds, but sometimes it allows others to grow. So, we’ll see.

What I learned today...

2009-09-20T03:44:05Z

Between work and the endless activities I do outside of it, I’ve gotten just a few hours of sleep in the past few days. So naturally, despite having things to do, I chose to not set my alarm last night. And after a myriad of odd dreams revolving around being a detective (thanks, work), 10 hours later I woke up feeling both refreshed and like I had been run over by a truck.

I stumbled out of bed and found our new roommate, Vivian, watching “A Lot Like Love” on Oxygen.

After criticizing to my self the lighting, the shots, framing, the product placement, and the acting of the movie (thanks, work) I started paying more attention to the Oxygen channel itself.

Doesn’t the symbol for Oxygen (the “O”) kinda look like a wedding ring? It’s round, gold, and has a thin band kind of 3-D look going on. In the commercial breaks, many versions of the logo rain down. And guess what…we’re watching a movie about people getting married or wanting to get married or are about to get married.

All the sudden I started getting this horrible feeling like I was being brainwashed. Or rather not me, but the women who this channel is being marketed for are being brainwashed. It left me rather unsettled, wondering if this kind of message is what is being driven in women or if this kind of message is being put on the screen because this is the message that is pleasing to women.

Then I noticed all the commercials. Beautifully gorgeous, scantily clad, women dancing around the screen with a voice over saying: “and this could be you, with THIS vitamin supplement” or “I had a baby, but after this expensive exercise program I had more energy to help my children.”

Then I started thinking about men’s channels, and realized that mens’ channels are pretty much the same, they both feature hot, practically naked women dancing around.

The only difference between Oxygen and Spike is that on Spike TV, the scantily clad women don’t talk so much.

I'm guessing the marketing departments on both those channels do very well for themselves.

The Scariest Thing EVER...

2009-05-06T07:13:52Z

Today I conquered one of my biggest fears. It’s something that has been haunting me for years.

I’ve been working on it off and on over the last few years. Trying to write more, compile more information, and go out and see others doing it. I’ve practiced in my room, in front of the mirror, but don’t usually don’t take it too seriously.

I rarely even talk about it. It’s sort of a pipe-dream, and something I’m even a bit embarrassed about. People will laugh. I mean…I guess that’s part of the point… but not in the way I would have wanted.

Anyway… today I just did it. I wasn’t ready, but when will I ever be, right? So I just went up and did it.

Today, I did my first stand-up comedy set.

It’s something that I’ve been scared shitless about. I mean I have a bit of a performance background but never anything like this. I’ve done theatre, even was a lead once. I’ve even done improv. But never just alone on the stage telling stories that aren’t scripted or suggested by the audience.

But I needed to do it. It was a horrible fear of mine. But for a person seeking to be a more confident and more complete individual, to grow as a person, and to not let anxiety pull me back, I had to do it. I didn’t even matter if I was funny. I just had to get up there and bring it.

For years I’ve toyed with the idea of doing it. I get headaches and my palms start sweating every time just thinking about it. I always would plan to do it “someday… when I’m ready.” But that day kept passing by year after year.

So a couple weeks ago I just made a decision… I would at least look into theatres that do open mics and see where I could possibly go. I found this place in North Hollywood called the HaHa Comedy Club. Never heard of it, but they do open mic 5 days a week.

So I made my bold move: I sent them an e-mail asking for more information.

I took a deep sigh. Just doing that was scary. It was like it was really happening.

But it wasn’t. They never e-mailed me back. After a couple weeks I just figured… oh well, I’ll just go down there and watch a show, and then talk to the manager or something.

So I went today.

I talked to the guy at the counter and asked him about the open mic. He said: “You just show up and put your name on the list. You wanna put your name down?”

“No, no” I said, “I’m just here to watch.”

So I went in. There were like 7 people in the whole theatre. What I soon realized was that each person there was another comic waiting for their turn to perform. After I saw almost everyone perform, I realized that I really had nothing to lose. They were all there, they were all doing it, and I was probably gonna look more stupid just watching than making a fool out of myself on stage.

My palms were sweating so badly. And I’m not a sweaty-palm guy. It was that bad. It was so bad, that I was freaking out that if I didn’t calm-down I would electrocute myself when I held the mic.

I waited till the last guy performed and walked right back to the front of the theatre.

“I think I’m ready to put my name down on the list”

“Okay… there’s one guy going up before you and then it’s all you. Five minute sets. When you see the red light… you’ve got about a minute left.”

Five minutes is a very short time. Most open-mics I had seen in the past were all 10 minute sets. So when I had practiced, I had practiced fearing a 10 minute set. I felt a little better about the five, but even five minutes could be a millennium if I forget my shit up there.

Everyone before me used notes when they went up there. To me, as a performer in theatre, that’s a big “no, no.”

But I was scared. And clearly it was okay in this theatre, right?

I had been working on some jokes the night before and had e-mailed them all to myself. This is where the iphone is nice. I was able to pull up the word document and think about what I wanted to do. I wrote some quick notes into the iphone’s notepad and took a deep breath.

I walked back into the theatre. The MC called my name. I held onto my phone tightly as I walked on stage. I set the phone down on the chair. It was there if I needed it… but I hoped I wouldn’t.

I grabbed the mic and pulled it out of the stand.

“Hello… Hello microphone. Sorry…I’m talking to the mic. It’s important that I make my peace with the microphone. I had a bad experience in high school. You see… I come from a theatre background, and in theatre we are taught to project our voices. Anyway… my first experience on stage with a mic… well… I projected.”

Someone in the audience said: “Ewww.”

“Exactly. That’s exactly what they said. Only it was about 1,000 people, they were screaming, and there was pain involved.”

After that little story I felt a bit better. My head started to clear a bit, and I was able to look at the audience without losing my train of thought. Don’t get me wrong, I was still scared and I know I forgot stuff and probably talked faster that I would have liked to.

But I did it, and before too long… I saw the light. The red light I mean. I finished up my set with a joke. It wasn’t the joke I wanted to end on, but it was short, and it was the first thing that popped in my head.

“My computer crashed a while ago. I was all freaked out about it cause I lost everything on my hard drive. And I started worrying that it might have to do with porn. I have got to be careful which websites I visit since I have a lot of important documents. Then I thought about this statement for a bit and realized… I have to stop putting important documents on my computer.”

I had completely avoided anything remotely dirty the entire act, and so it wasn’t the way I wanted to end it… but it was what happens when you get the red light scare.

I almost forgot my phone as I left the stage. I was glad… I never had to look back at my notes. After the show, though, I did look back at them. I hadn’t even covered half of them. This made me feel good, because that means that I could go back and do a completely new set, or if later I ever to a full 10 minute set, I have enough material to do that as well.

How did it go? Well… when I was performing there were like 5 people in the audience… all other comedians. A few chuckles here and there, but I didn’t exactly get a standing ovation. But I didn’t get booed either. Tough crowd.

But I didn’t care. I wasn’t there to be the best. I was there so I could prove to myself that I could get up on a stage, tell jokes, and mean it. I don’t intend to do this as a career. I don’t even expect to even ever get paid to do anything like this. For me, I just do it for me. I do it cause every once in a while it’s important to get out there and find out who I am, to do something I’m afraid of, and to show myself that I’m nothing short of what I aim for.

I plan to go back to do the other half.

Not for Profit Healthcare Stare!

2009-03-26T07:11:24Z

This might be a bit dated now, but who knows...

Have you seen the billboards all over LA with Blair Underwood promoting AHF Not for Profit Healthcare? Probably. They are EVERYWHERE.

http://mms.businesswire.com/bwapps/mediaserver/ViewMedia?mgid=156372&vid=5&download=1

It’s funny cause the only reason I know who Blair Underwood is is because of those ads. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve almost gotten into an accident starring at him thinking: “Who is that charismatic black man? He should be famous.”

Take a good look at that poster. He’s got this sadness in his eyes. But it’s not just sadness. There’s more. He looks like he judging you, as if you’re the reason he’s sad. He’s sad because you haven’t been to an AHF pharmacy. He knows better because he’s better than you, and he knows you should go, and you should feel bad for not going.

I mean you look at that face and all you can think of is: “I’ve lived a horribly guilty life. I want to do what he says. I believe in him.”

I don’t even have any prescriptions, but now I want to get one.

It’s just such an amazing stare. How could you resist someone with a stare like that? Imagine if he were your roommate.

“Hey Blair, could you do your dishes?”

And he’d look back at you with those eyes that glimmer from tears and judgment. How could you possibly resist?

“I’m so sorry, Blair… I didn’t realize that I should do your dishes. It’s my fault they aren’t done.”

I’ve been working on that Not for Profit Heathcare stare. I figure that if I can do the Blair Stare, I can get anything I want. Jobs, women, money… miracles. They can all be mine. Hell, you can rob a bank with a stare like that. You don’t even need a gun. Just look them in the eye and guilt them.

This is my big plan for the future. This is my fall back plan. If all else fails… stare. If tragedy or death looks me in the eye… I’ll Blair Stare it back.

I’ve got to perfect it before my EDD thing runs out.

When in doubt, always buy two...

2009-03-13T18:51:25Z

I don’t normally like going to McDonald’s. It’s not healthy. But every once in a while I just feel like going. So I do.

This morning I woke up with three hours of sleep, having gone to a bar the night before and was heading to my Chiropractic appointment at 8:30am. I woke up starving and decided I really wanted an Egg-McMuffin. So I found a place next to my Chiropractor and went.

They didn’t have a drive through there so I just went in. I starred at the menu for a while, wondering.

I’ve got water in my car, so I don’t really need a drink, but I kinda also want hash browns and it’s cheaper to get it with the orange juice that comes with the meal. Then another thought came to me… maybe I should get two Egg-McMuffins.

Two? What do I need two for?

Then another thought came: What don’t I need two for?

It made sense at the time and I found myself stressed again. How can I get two Egg-McMuffins, hash browns, and an orange juice without paying for everything separate?

Well, someone else must have had this problem, because the solution is Meal # 11. Exactly what I wanted: Two Egg-McMuffins, hash browns, and an orange juice. Perfect.

I finished the hash browns (it’s more like a hash brown though isn’t it, not really a plural at all) on my way to the car, got in the car, started my journey to the Chiropractor and unwrapped my first Egg-McMuffin.

On the last leg of the trip, I needed to make a right turn. The light was green and I was good to go, but there was traffic to the right, so I couldn’t make the turn. So with my signal on, I pulled as far to the right as possible so that anyone in my lane could still go forward. I stopped, and waited for things to clear.

Then suddenly: BOOOM!

A car, only watching the green light and not the stopped traffic at it, slammed into the back of my car.

The Egg-McMuffin didn’t just fly out of my hand, it exploded. Egg on the windshield, sausage on the passenger door, bread on the floor.

First thought: I was eating that.
Second thought: I wonder if it’s still okay to eat it?
Third thought: Hope my car’s okay.

I pulled over to the side and watched the woman who hit me drive away. Her license plate said “MARGOT7.” I made sure to check it out as she passed just in case she didn’t stop. Which she didn’t.

I pulled over to the side. My car was a mess. Everything has been rocked around. My glasses and blue tooth were hanging off my face, my CDs in my lap, and orange juice was all over the console. Some parts of the Egg-McMuffin was smeared on my jeans.

I got out of my car and looked for damage. Based on how hard she hit me, I expected to have lost half the trunk. But all the damage I got was just a small smudge of her paint job on my bumper. Nothing else. I guess my bumper must have absorbed the shock, and popped back out after she left. Crazy. Good Corolla.

I got back into my car, put the Egg-McMuffin back together and looked at it. I couldn’t bring myself to eat it. It was gone. I wrapped it back up, and was going to toss it in the bag when I saw it: THE SECOND EGG-MCMUFFIN!

Hallelujah! I could still have the one Egg-McMuffin that I had been craving all morning. It was like it was meant to be. Somehow… I knew and wanted to get two.

I learned a valuable lesson today: when in doubt, always buy two Egg-McMuffin sandwiches in case you get into an accident and one explodes out of your hand.

MARGOT7, however, still owes me an Egg-McMuffin though.

Doppelganger...

2009-02-24T06:58:40Z

This entry is a little dated now, but bear with me…I’ve been brooding anger.

Hugh Jackman was voted sexiest man alive. Hugh Jackman voted to be the number one man a woman would do. I just don’t see it. I just don’t. Don’t get me wrong, Hugh is a good looking guy. I would even go so far as to say that he is great looking. But SEXIEST MAN ALIVE? C’mon, world. There are other sexier men. There HAVE to be. Please?

Alright, I’ll admit it… I’m a little bitter. I’m a little jealous. Cause here’s the thing: my roommate, Michael Arkof, apparently looks like Hugh Jackman. So Michael looks just like the sexiest man alive. So, if Michael looks just like the number 1 sexiest man, than that means that Michael Arkof, by comparison, must be sexier than the number 2 man and so on. Therefore, Michael Arkof is sexier than Brad Pitt, Blair Underwood, and Matthew McConaughey and any other hot man. Thanks world for providing my roommate with a limitless false ego.

I apparently look like Noah Wyle. Noah Wyle, I might add, is a great looking chap himself. But he’s nowhere on that list and has no hope of ever being on that list. But he deserves it. WE deserve it. But Noah’s just not the sexy man. He’s endearing, but not in the charming way… more like in the lost puppy sort of way. That’s not sexy. That’s pity.

It just isn’t fair. Michael’s doppelganger is the sexiest man alive and is hosting the Oscars, while mine was in The Librarian 3. I’m a leading man on a made for TV movie, while Michael is leading ALL MEN at the biggest movie event of the year.

What does this say about my future? Michael’s better-looking twin has limitless potential. Mine can’t even get into a theatre. Michael’s a triple-threat. I’m a triple-flop. And if Noah can’t do it, how am I supposed to do it? This is why I can’t be an actor. The Librarian 3 is the best my kind can do. I mean maybe if Noah got an Oscar for his performance than that might change things… but… I SHOULD HAVE NEVER LEFT ER. That was a mistake. I’m pulling for you Noah! Cause your success is my future potential!

Perhaps it’s time I set an example and showed Noah how it’s done. I must save myself from becoming just like my future self and thus help my future self be more like me in the future!

I will fight for you Noah! And together we will become the sexiest man alive! Or at least get really drunk and cry about it.

How we got our band name on Rockband...

2009-01-09T22:22:36Z

For Christmas, my roommate wanted to write a song for his girlfriend. Yes, very sweet, but mainly because he didn't have any money to buy her anything. Anyway, he wrote out the lyrics and then showed them to me, asking my opinion.

He did a very good job but there was one part that puzzled me. The lyric was something about how every time she walked on by he couldn't stop feeling the magic. Nice, but he added honey to the end of it, as in: "I love you, honey." But that wasn't what confused me. Cause what happened was he forgot to add the ever important comma before "honey."

So the lyric read something like: "Every time you walk on by, I can't stop the magic honey."

I looked at my roommate and asked him: "Are you sure you want to mention this problem in your song?" Too much laughter ensued, followed by a quick comma addition.

And that's how our band name became Magic Honey Bus* on Rockband.

*means penis

Mother, Final Fantasy Music, and USPS...

2009-01-09T20:19:54Z

My mother loves piano music. At church once the pianist played something that moved her so much she had to know what it was. Turns out it was from Final Fantasy, a video game. Apparently Final Fantasy has some amazing music, and somewhere out there there are discs of the soundtrack that have been adapted to Piano.

My mom heard about this and freaked out. She had to have it. So this year for Christmas she asked for only one thing: "All I want from you, is love." Then quickly added: but if you can find the Final Fantasy piano music that would be good too.

So, I decided to search for the music on Amazon. Mom had forgotten, however, which song she liked so I didn't exactly know what to get her. But, there were only 8 CDs total, so I figured... why not? This will be my gift to her for Christmas. Besides the love.

I ordered it early, and waited for it to arrive.

And waited.

Still not there...

About a week before I was going to leave for Nor Cal for Christmas I started to get worried. I e-mailed the seller and he said he shipped it out right away, but there seems to have been something wrong with the shipment. He would look into it at his post office. I decided to get the tracking number from him as well and look into it at my post office to see where the problem was.

This was about how that went:

Me: Hi, I want to find out what happened to my package. (I gave the tracking number)

USPS: According to our records a shipping label has been created for this package. But no delivery information is available yet.

Me: Yes, it's been saying that on the website for 3 weeks. Why is that?

USPS: Whoever made the label has yet to ship the package.

Me: Is there someone I can call to tell them to do so?

USPS: No. There's no way to find out who made the label.

Me: So the package is lost?

USPS: No.

Me: Then where is it?

USPS: We don't know.

Me: Then it is lost.

USPS: No, it's still there, we just can't track it.

Me: So, you don't know where it is and you can't track it? Isn't that the definition of "lost"?

USPS: Hmmm... well... the only thing you can do at this point is file a complaint to collect on the insurance.

Me: Okay. I'll do that then.

USPS: Unfortunately, our computers are down at this time.

Me: So I can't even complain?

USPS: Nope. If you call back later, when our computers are up, you can file an investigative report.

Me: Thanks.

USPS: Is there anything else I can help you with?

Me: Not if you can't find my package and I can't complain about it, no.

USPS: Well, thanks for calling.

Me: Sure.

So, needless to say, it was not found in time and I had to go home with nothing but love. So, I made this poem for my mother instead:

A Poem About Final Fantasy (Piano) Selections

Roses are red

Old chips are stale

I bought you Final Fantasy

But it got lost in the mail.

I told you I couldn't find it

But that was a lie.

I found it in 15 seconds

Without even a try.

I didn't know which you wanted.

You got back to me kinda late.

So I couldn't get just one disc.

So I got you all eight.

USPS says they didn't lose it

But they don't know where it has gone.

I told them that's what "losing" means

So they're gonna investigate this one.

Every year you always tell me

"I just want love from you"

Well this year I got nothing

So we get to find out if this is true ;)

Thank God for our family and friends.

Thank God for shipping insurance first-class.

Your package will be fine.

But USPS can kiss my USP ass.

Merry Christmas, Mom.

Love,

~Rob

I think my mom loved the poem more than the actual gift. About a week later, though I got a message from the seller telling me that USPS found the package and had resent it. Soon after I got all 8 CDs and will be delivering them myself to my mother.

How the Drunk Saved Christams...

2009-01-01T21:36:39Z

My mom really wanted to go to Midnight mass. Everyone else really couldn't care less. Midnight mass is long, and it starts at Midnight. And if it’s also in Latin, it’s twice as long! Anyway, it's a tradition and we decided to uphold the tradition.

Earlier that day, my cousin Ryan came over and invited all of us to go down to a local bar and have a few drinks. My mom didn't want to go and although a bar would have been nice for my Step Dad Jack’s nerves of the impending Christmas doom of credit card bills, he didn't want go drinking before Church. My sister and I, however, didn't have this problem as we felt it was just like taking communion (eating the bread and drinking the wine) like 20 times before mass. Or maybe we're just sacrilegious bastards looking for a good time. Besides… one drink… no problem, right?

When we got to the bar Ryan immediately bought my sister and me a drink. He got me a white Russian, my sister a beer, and soon came back with a shot of Jack Daniels. Of course this wasn't a shot; it was actually more like a small cup. Even Ryan (who was wearing a shirt that said in Chinese: "No beer, no happiness." Which I later commented on…. Do you really know it says that or is it some Chinese joke that says: "This man has no penis.") thought it was a bit excessive.

Anyway, Ryan introduced us to the people at the table, a few guys and a couple girls. I do what I always do when I see guys and girls at tables: try to figure out where the couples are. Well soon I saw the guys leave to have a smoke or whatever, which would leave the two girls. I guess they were available. At least for now. Now was my chance to flirt with them. But when I turned back around to them, they were making out with each other.

Solved that mystery.

Anyway, I downed my drinks fast because my sister and I had to get to Midnight mass to meet Mom and Jack. I can't hold my liquor very well and I knew I shouldn’t have finished both drinks, but I didn’t want to be rude so down they went, and so did I.

A little woozy, I got my sister to leave because we were about to be late. She drove, since she holds her liquor much better than me. We actually made it on time, but by that time, I was pretty far gone. I started singing, walking towards walls, and had a stupid smile on my face. I was drunk and a very small part of me felt guilty being drunk in church. But there was a much bigger part of me that felt it was too funny not to be drunk during church.

So my sister and I sat down and mom was a little mad at me, but mostly laughing at me in my drunken state... or rather, she wanted to be mad, but it was just too damn funny.

But then something AMAZING happened…something that I would never believe.

Someone said over the mic at the mass. "We're short one altar-server… is there anyone out there with any experience as an altar-server?"

I haven't served a mass since I was 12. Nor have I ever event attempted to do anything coordinated under the influence. But I couldn't resist. I shot up my hand.

"I CAN SERVE!!"

And they chose me to serve mass. I followed the lady to the back of the church where I got into my ceremonial robes. It took every ounce of power I had just to put one foot in front of the other, let alone hold a coherent conversation. Also, my breath reeked of Jack Daniels so I tried to say as little as possible. The lady was explaining to me my duties and I had no clue what she was talking about. I didn’t even know which one of her to focus on.

My job was to carry the cross, perhaps one of the most sacred objects in mass.

I grabbed the cross and carried it to the back of the church trying to remember to keep putting one foot directly in front of the other and not start walking sideways, which is what my body wanted to do.

At the back of the church were 3 other altar servers…about 10 years old each. I was about a foot or 18 inches taller the tallest of them. Thank God the blonde kid knew EVERYTHING about serving mass and he gave me step by step instructions on what to do next.

I had to walk down the isle, leading the processing carrying the cross of Jesus. All I was thinking about was: "walk the line… just imagine it's a police test… one foot in front of the other…"

As I passed, my face had such a stoic look since it took so much concentration just to keep walking. I knew I passed my family, because a camera flash caught my eye. My mom was disappointed I was doing this, but she was also so proud I was serving mass again; she couldn't help but document the moment. I smiled as I passed and I wondered if my smile was more of a devious grin.

I made it to the altar with the cross and then turned right to put it in its holder. Found that prospect rather difficult cause it's a small hole it has to fit into and coordination with alcohol is one of the first things to go. But I got it, and sat down.

I was able to hide my drunkenness by an intense amount of focus. Sometimes when you're drunk, the world is spinning, and you wanna puke. Closing your eyes and keeping still and holding yourself steady with your head slightly bowed is a way to prevent that. Luckily that pose looked like I was praying and this worked out very well for me as I spent much of the mass "praying."

The blonde kid continued to give me a heads up with my duties and I found that I did things pretty well for the most part. I didn't make too many mistakes, however I did remove a large jar from the altar too early (hey, I was following orders from the blonde kid), although no one at the mass other than the priest noticed.

Taking communion was rather difficult. I wasn't sure if I should be allowed to drink the wine. I did. However, I tried to keep my "amens" a bit quiet as to not breathe Jack Daniels in the priest's face.

I managed to get through mass without too much visible fuss, although it really took a lot of concentration to keep focused on taking care of things and walking straight. At the end of the mass the lady that selected me was very impressed and asked if I would be willing to do this more often. I told her that I lived in So Cal and that I was just visiting. She told me that anytime I wanted to serve in the future, they would love to have me.

Maybe I should have told them I'm a Eucharistic Minister too. (When I was in high school I was blessed by our priest so I can pass out the bread and the wine at mass. That's what a Eucharistic Minister is) But somehow I figured that passing out wine while drunk, and saying "The Blood of Christ" (that's what you say when you offer the cup) to each individual while breathing Jack Daniels on their face is probably not a good idea. Then again, I could just not be drunk for that. But where's the fun in that?

When I returned my robes, I found my family in line to kiss the baby Jesus's knee. (it's a statue of the baby Jesus the priest carries around). Why the knee? Probably cause it was the most jutting out part of the statue and because it didn't have a lot of ornate carvings on it. Either way, I found this to be ridiculous. I've never seen this before, people standing in line to kiss a statue.

I wanted to just leave or wait in the car, but in my quest to find the family I had inadvertently put myself at the front of the line right in front of the baby Jesus. People were watching me. The priest held the knee of Jesus to my face. I wanted to say: "I'm sorry, I'm not into kissing statues and I find no spiritual satisfaction in doing so." But I had just narrowly escaped humiliation and I didn’t need to press my luck or hurt my karma anymore. So I kissed the knee and when no one was looking, wiped my lips. Seriously, how many people have put their lips on that knee? And it's not like the baby Jesus goes through the wash cycle every day. I don't know where he's been.

Anyway, when that was finished, Mom took pictures of us. Combinations of course.

In the end, Mom was proud of my serving. Patricia was proud of my acting. Jack just smiled at the irony of it all.

Part of me felt a little guilty for doing all this. But then I quickly rationalized: "Drunk as I may have been, they NEEDED me. And I served with… maybe not distinction… but with service. For without me, no one would have carried the cross of Jesus. I, a drunk, saved Christmas mass.

Once the pictures were done, my sister and I were free and we raced back to the bar to tell our cousin Ryan of our accomplishments over a beer.

Then I came home and passed out while my sister puked her brains out (she had continued drinking when she came home).

Merry Christmas.

DMV

2008-08-26T10:34:35Z

After like 8 years, the government has finally realized that I no longer live in Salida, California.

Every so often my mother gets a call about me having to serve Jury Duty. She tells them a horrible sob story about how I don’t live there, I don’t visit, and she has no idea where I am. They realize I’m more trouble than it is worth, and I don’t have to worry about Jury Duty for another year.

A few days ago someone must have been bored for they decided that I was indeed worth the effort this time.

I have to either report to Jury Duty next week or prove that I no longer live in Stanislaus County. If I do nothing, a warrant will be issued for my arrest.

Proving I live in LA County is easy; I just have to take a trip to the DMV.

Well thank goodness for that, because I was worried I would have to wait in some long ass line.

The DMV has many unlikable qualities, but the first of which happens even before I enter the parking lot. I have this horrible fear of getting into an accident at the DMV. It is far too ironic for me and because of that reason, I will happen to me. I love my little Corolla and would be devastated if its smooth surface had to suffer a dent due to a hilarious quirk of fate. So, whenever I even get close to a DMV office, I grip my steering wheel a little tighter, hunch over it, and widen my eyes.

I rush to find parking. I hurry not because I have somewhere to be, but because I know that every time I lap around the lot, it’s a risk. I circle carefully and unnaturally slow and annoyingly. And while I avoided getting into an accident this time, based on my old man posture and driving attitude to match, I did manage to communicate a certain amount of incompetence at the wheel, effectively achieve just enough irony to satisfy the universe. Perhaps if I continually encourage myself to drive like an inept old man every time I enter the DMV parking lot, I will fit right in, and not be succumbed to a horrible amount of irony that will deface my car and cost me money.

I’m sure all DMV office layouts are different. And by different I mean “special.” And by “special” I mean retarded. The Winnetka DMV office was not different. And by not different I mean retarded like all DMV offices.

Whereas most buildings would contain about 4 sides, this office was more octahedron in shape, offering an assortment of possibilities in terms of entrances and confusion. My first objective was to find the door. Luckily there were 8. Unfortunately only 1 of them was actually the entrance. With my 12.5% chance I found the wrong door and was greeted with an automatic double door that didn’t open automatically and a sign reading: “Entrance on South Side of Building.”

Usually a compass direction is followed by a helpful arrow giving the reader a hint as to which way the south side actually is. Having forgotten my compass I was forced to either stare at the sun and take an educated guess based on the time of day and the sun’s position on the horizon, or continue walking around the building.

I continued walking till I found another door. This one opened, but not by me. A security guard came out of the building to let me know that I needed to enter on the opposite side of the building.

Considering this building was an oddly shaped and proportioned octahedron, I realized that “opposite” was a relative term based on where I actually was. I asked the man to point and he did. I’m glad we can hire people to do the job of a sign.

I reached the south side of the building to find a considerably long line. Long lines are to be expected at the DMV office but never have I heard of a line outside the office. An employee spoke to us and explained. I found out that there were long lines inside. In fact, they were so long that some people had to wait outside. So, I was waiting in a line in order to get inside the building so I could wait in line.

I also found out that because the entrance is located on the South side of the building, I got to stare at the sun and watch it slowly creep across the sky.

We were informed that The DMV office was understaffed and that was why we were waiting.

Understaffed? But that never happens.

Sometimes a restaurant will be understaffed because on a particularly slow Tuesday, when there is only 2 servers available, a series of large groups may show up and create a completely hectic day. Government agencies like the DMV and the Post Office, have always boggled my mind. There’s always a line. There’s no slow time. It’s not like you ever go there, get right to the front, and start talking to the clerk about how slow business is. There is always a demand for the service, yet there seems to never be enough supply.

It just doesn’t make sense. There are so many people without jobs, there’s no reason for the DMV to be understaffed. It’s not like you need a college degree to hand out a driver’s test applications or to file change of address paperwork.

Understaffed is a term I have a real hard time grasping. It makes sense in a mom and pop organization where they can’t afford to hire anyone else or in a small business where there are usual slow days and this one day in particular is different. That makes sense.

What doesn’t make sense is big business and chains running into this problem. It is your job to make sure that services are rendered. Telling me you are understaffed means nothing to me. It isn’t my fault your company is cheap. I just want my paperwork taken care of. It just upsets me to see a company claim to be making good profits when they don’t even provide enough employees to properly service the job they are commissioned for.

But, unfortunately, it all comes down to economics. Imagine the idea of working at 100% efficiency. You work 8 hours. You work well, constantly, and use enough brain power to keep you occupied all day without over stressing or worrying. It would be the equivalent of a brisk jog for an athlete. Something you can do for a long time without getting tired, but still get a good workout. Your job is satisfying and challenging, but you don’t get a headache over it.

Most good jobs don’t allow you to work at 100% efficiency. They want you to work at 150% efficiency. Working at this rate is stressful. You are busy and you start to make compromises in the quality of your work. You get irritable, and you start to forget things. This is a “burn-out” pace. It is a pace a lot of people work at all the time.

But why would people make you do that? Simple enough: if the one job requires 150% efficiency than two people occupying that same job would only be working at 75% efficiency. An employer would be losing 25% of each person’s potential. It is just not a cost-effective way to do business.

You can’t go to the DMV in your hour lunch-break because they are understaffed and they can’t afford to spare anyone to fix your problem. It will take you 2-4 hours to wait your turn. And you cannot wait 2-4 hours because your office is understaffed and they can’t spare to lose you because it would be inefficient to hire someone else in addition.

You can’t go after work, because the DMV isn’t open after work. The only people that can go during non-lunch hours are people who don’t have jobs. But because the DMV office is understaffed and are not hiring due to economic inefficiencies, there are a lot of people who don’t have jobs, and so the lines are long even when everyone who has a job is working.

So if you need to fix something on your license in order to keep your job, the only way to do it is to lose your job so you have time to wait in line. However, once you lose your job and take care of the license to get your job, you won’t be able to get it back, because it will then be too inefficient to hire you.

After I finished waiting in line I found out I could fill out my forms online.

Gotta love the DMV.

This entry is all about masturbation...

2008-06-17T07:16:34Z

It's been a long time Live Journal. So I decided to write about something we can all relate to.

Masturbation. We’ve all done it, we all do it, and we all will do it again soon. But have you ever done it for any other reason than just to pass the time from one sexual encounter to another? Have you ever used it as an important tool in your life?

Well I didn’t. But recently, I realized that I could be taking care of business while I was taking care of business.

Ever had a hard decision to make? Well how can you tell if you’ve made the right decision? Was it based on carefully laid out facts or was it based on a feeling you had? How can you assume that you are in your most rational state?

This is why I’ve been working on a new decision making theory:

“Never make any important decision without masturbating first.”

The way I see it…why have one clear head when you can have two?

There was this girl I wanted to call. It was one of those situations where I was thinking: “No, she’s not right for me…I know this…but… but… it’s been a long time, I miss her, and I’m sure things will be different.”

I applied my little theory, and soon after I thought: “Fuck that. That girl’s a flaky bitch, I don’t need to see her ever again.” And I had a fantastic day after that. No drama, no hassle. I made a good decision.

I’ve found that a lot of bad decisions have been made based on a cluster-fuck of emotions screaming priority over all my daily tasks. At some point you just have to check yourself…is this what I REALLY want? So…I would check myself, and find out.

Imagine if masturbation could be more acceptable in the workplace? Imagine how many bad decisions are made in board rooms and by CEOs that are just hyped up on too many conflicting hormones? Wouldn’t be great if before anyone made a decision they excused themselves to collect their thoughts? Maybe that’s what they’re doing during final Jeopardy when the camera moves away?

Masturbation removes all those extra emotions that make you follow your needs as a hormonal being and lets you follow your needs as a successful human being. It allows you to be in the best, most rational, logical state. Go to the club and meet chicks or work hard on your career? Throw in some masturbation and you’re good to go on that career.

This doesn’t mean you should always masturbate instead of going out, however. All good things are in moderation. You don’t want to become a Monkey Junkie. Too much masturbation and you’re lethargic, depressed, and well… you’ll be putting yourself at a bit of a handicap in the experience department with the opposite sex.

But if there’s a debate…masturbate. It will seriously solve a lot of dilemmas.

Fingernails...

2008-01-20T03:25:44Z

I went to a strip club a long while ago. After a half hour, seeing the girls nude really didn’t impress me. Maybe I just went to a bad club, but it just wasn’t that sexy. But I did realize that there is something I find very attractive in a woman…fingernails.

Sounds kinda odd. But I have to admit, after a few minutes I cared more about her nails than any of the fake mammaries.

It’s a known fact that a lot of men love a woman to run her fingers through his hair. And when a girl glides her hand through his hair while gently massaging the scalp with her nice nails she can find herself in complete control. I’m not kidding. I can almost literally pass out.

I think my case comes from childhood. When I was about 5 or so, I had horrible problems with anger. I used to get so mad, I’d run around screaming, trying to escape my daycare center. They had these doors with the bars that you push in to open them; you know, the ones that open when you just lean on them. Well I’d run towards it, in a full fit, and couldn’t open it cause I wasn’t strong enough. This would make me even madder. Anyway, there was a teacher there, known as Ms. Mary. She was the only one in the entire building that could calm me down. She had long, natural, beautifully painted fingernails. I know now, writing this, it sounds kinda creepy. But really, I was a problem child, and a back scratch or a head rub was really the only thing that would work.

It’s something I forgot about myself until the strip club. Oddly enough it took a strip club to bring up an old childhood memory. But nonetheless, since then, I’ve notice how effected I am by fingernails. I love the sound of their subtle tap on a desk, and I love the way they look in simple colors. (and really, please…simple colors are more attractive than those curly cues, swirls, ladybugs or all that other crap girls put on their nails).

I am aware that fingernails are completely impractical in modern society. Can’t type well, can often scratch people painfully, can’t do much labor, they break easy, they get dirty and nasty, and look really gross when a fake one falls off and you find it a week later.

But there’s something about them. I think it has to do with a motherly presence. Since Ms. Mary was like my mother when I was not at home, I associated the nails to a nurturing ability for tranquility, so that every time I see them, it’s like a Pavlovian response to be calm and at peace. One time, in one of my sprints around (I ran a lot when I was younger) I accidentally broke one of Ms. Mary’s natural fingernails. It was like shattering my world. Not only did I feel bad because I was aware that natural fingernails take a long time to grow that long, but also, my “drug” would be less effective.

It sounds crazy. But I think I will end up marrying a girl with nice fingernails.

The deadliest form of small-talk...

2008-01-17T00:13:50Z

I try to be friendly on my route delivering the WB mail. Try to say hi to whoever I can. It's nice, but you also never know who you are going to meet. And sometimes it is even nice to engage in a little conversation. I don't usually prefer it, but even stupid small-talk is okay every once in a while. But there is one aspect of small-talk I hate...

I was small-talking this woman and she asked me "Where's the guy that was here yesterday?" I told her he was doing another route today. And her response was that horrid sentence of annoying responsibility:

"Well, tell him I say hi, okay?"

Ruins the day, I tell you. Ruins the day.

Cause now I have to remember to go back, find this guy, and let him know that this woman he may or may not care about wanted him to know she said "Hi." The worst is the fact that now that I have accepted the duty of passing this message, he will now be impossible to find. I may have seen him every hour of every day, but once I accept, he will be abducted and won't be returned until I have forgotten my mission. Then I will go home, remember it, and he will be abducted again. This will continue on until it has been several days and by the time I deliver it, he will have alreay exchanged Hellos, Hi's, as well as phrases and small talk with this woman.

Now, I could have just said no, and not accepted the task, but I thought that would be even more awkward than just doing it.

"Well, tell him I say hi, okay?"

"No, I don't think I will, thanks."

You have to reply with "Okay" or "Alright." There's no other response that wouldn't create an immensely awkward occasion. Once the question has been asked, you must accept the request.

But I could lie. Yes, I could have said I'd do it and then never get around to it. Chances are, whoever pulls the small talk responsibility sentence is probably not thinking too much about it. Probably not a big deal if it never gets done. And, in fact, from her view, it's probably awkward to not to pass on a Hi when you find out that the other person is going to see someone you usually say Hi to. But chances are, if I purposefully don't pass the message, it will be the one time it will come back at me. The next time the two friends run into each other they'll wonder why a Hi wasn't passed through me to the other. "You deliver the mail, you can't deliver a greeting?" I would just hate to be responsible for letting a vicarious Hi be forgotten. I wouldn't want to fail and disappoint someone like that.

And it's also annoying to struggle to remember it all the way back to where you see this person, find them, deliver the message, and they don't care. I remembered this useless information for you, the least you could do is be satisfied.

So perhaps it's best to just not let anyone know who you know. And deny anything they ever ask you about those you associate to. Claim ignorance on all accounts and you will never have to remember to say Hi to anyone for someone else.

Otherwise, you will be doomed like me, having a Hi on his conscience, withering me away until I finally remember to deliver it. I can just see it now:

"Tom, Janice says Hi...."

"Ohhh, really? Tell her I say hi."

The Golden Years...

2008-01-14T21:57:11Z

I was in the doctor's office a few weeks ago for my annual checkup. Although everything turned out fine, my doctor asked me if I had been checking myself for testicular cancer.

I told her: "No. I thought that was something I didn't have to worry about until I was 40."

She said: "No, that's prostate cancer. Prostate cancer is most common after the age of 40. Testicle cancer is most common between the ages of 20 and 35."

So then I realized... a new milestone. I thought after 25, there was nothing to really look forward to until I got my AARP card. But as it turns out the ages between 35 and 40 are the golden grace period where I can cease to check my balls, and no doctor has to put their fingers up my ass. That's five years of safety, a time when I can hang up my worries about any sort of ball related disease or abnormality. It is a time of peace.

Freedom!

The Great Sock Holocaust of 2007

2008-01-03T22:12:59Z

The Christmas season provided me with a wealth of white socks from Costco, and thus no longer did I need to hold onto the oh so many ones that had "only small holes."

So, on December 31^st I passed a harsh regime in my room. I lined them all up and prepared them for judgment. I put my dozens of mismatched socks, separated from their matching pairs and families of plain white and grey toed, into an orderly line with only two destinations. If the sock was damaged, too small, thin, or was holey, it was disposed of. Otherwise, I deemed it fit for work.

One by one I quickly examined each sock to determine its worth, then gave its fate by leading it to the left or the right. Dozens of socks, separated from their colored families will never see them again. I, the Fuhrer of footwear, shall now have a master-race of Costco stockings.

Sock-Heil!

You deserve someone very special

2007-12-24T08:01:12Z

"I think you're a really great person. You deserve better than me. You deserve someone really special."

We've all seen that phrase, or phrases like it, before in movies or TV or have probably said it to somebody or have had it said to you. I was thinking about that phrase the other day. Why would anyone ever say that? What the hell does that mean? It doesn't make any real sense.

I had a friend once that told me just that. He liked this girl but said he couldn't be with her because he felt she was too good for him. She deserved better he told me. This made no sense to me. "If she likes you... go for it. What do you mean you're not good enough? Obviously you are or she wouldn't be interested." It wasn't until recently that I realized what was going on with him. He wasn't confident enough to accept that she could possibly see something in him that he didn't and he didn't want to deal with the stress of being criticized or the feeling that other people might criticize him. He was too much of a pussy to man up and take the opportunity that he's been given. And... by his non-action, he proved his point to be correct and she moved on. Which is good that she did cause who really wants to put value on someone who won't put value on themselves?

But not everybody is like that. There are many perfectly confident people that will tell a girl or a guy that they can totally do better than them and that they deserve someone very special. Now why would a perfectly confident and worthy person tell someone something like that?

Cause it's a bullshit line.

It's just like the "it's not you, it's me" line.

What this line really means is:

"I do indeed think you've got a great personality, BUT there is something about you (most likely your appearance, but could also be baggage in your past or something about your personality or other issue) I cannot stand. I would be down to hook up with you, even sleep with you, but I'm not interested in a commitment. As soon as you say "relationship," I'm gonna say "friends." You do indeed deserve someone better than me. And by better, I'm not talking about someone who is funnier, better looking, or more interesting. By better I mean someone that can over look your problems and not see them as an unattractive attribute. And that's gonna take someone "very special" to get over that. You probably need someone less shallow than me, probably someone dumber or very simple minded. I do hope you find that lame person that would be interested in being with you cause you've got a lot of other things going for you, I just think that I'm too good for you to take on the whole package. Anyway, let's still be friends. And by friends I mean have sex and/or never speak again. You'll know which one that is when I answer/don't answer your calls."

Just something that popped in my head when I was out shopping. Thought I'd spead that holiday cheer.

Happy Holidays!

Our house lived up to its name...

2007-11-05T10:32:58Z

We were without dishwasher detergent for far too long and I had been far too lazy to go get it. Finally, while I was out anyway, I stopped by the store and picked some up, loaded the dishwasher with all our desperately needed spoons and bowls and started it up.

About an hour later I returned and saw a bit of smoke coming from the dishwasher. I didn’t think much of it at first. Every once in a while, if a plastic spatula or wooden spoon falls from the top rack into the coils, it burns a bit. It gets a little smokey and smells bad for a bit, but nothing serious ever happens.

But this time seemed a bit different, there seemed to be a bit more smoke coming from it than I had ever seen. I turned off the dishwasher and opened it up.

A cloud of the thickest smoke I had ever seen exploded out from the dishwasher. It was so massive, I had to duck under it to prevent myself from inhaling the soot. That’s when I noticed it: fire!

It was a rather small flame and my first concern wasn’t the fire at all, it was: “Man I sure hope the fire alarm doesn’t go off, that’d be embarrassing.”

As the entire house filled with smoke, the alarm didn’t go off and I rushed around the house opening every window and door I could. I decided at that point that fire, especially an electrical one, was not something I was ready to handle alone if I didn’t need to. But how do you react to a little flame?

“Uh… guys… there’s a fire in the kitchen.”

Brian ran up the stairs from the garage followed by Mike Sharr. “It’s an electrical fire, we can’t put it out with water,” said Brian. The flames were about a half-foot high at this point as we all stared at it still wondering if it was really a danger.

“Should I call 911?” a confused Mike said.

Brian and I, both unsure said, “Yeah, sure.”

“How do you know it’s an electrical fire?!” I said.

“Can’t you smell it?” Brian stated.

“I’m sorry my electronics usually don’t burn!”

Brian started clearing the cupboards of all flammable bags and chemicals and tossing them on the other side of the kitchen as we thought about what to douse the fire with. At this point we had to be almost prone on the ground to avoid the smoke. “Do we have a fire extinguisher?” Brian said.

“I don’t think so. I can get lots of dirt, though” I said.

We briefly pondered the idea of throwing buckets of dirt into our then clean kitchen until finally Brian went to his own cupboard and pulled out a can of baking soda. He poured it over the fire, but the fire burned on, hardly flinching at the powder. Brian and I were amazed…but in a not so happy way.

Brian and I both turned to Mike who was talking to the 911 operator. “Ask them how to put out an electrical fire!” I said.

The fire had reached 2 feet.

“County? I’m not sure what County” Mike said. “I gave you our address… can’t you look it up? Don’t you have Google?”

“Don’t they have some sort of knowledge on how to put out fires?!!” Two and-a-half foot fire now.

“Oh, wait… nope… I’m on hold. She’s transferring me” said Mike.

“I’m going to go check to see if the neighbors have a fire extinguisher,” said Brian. He ran off. As he exited, I noticed two things: the fire was now about 3 feet high, and… someone had left a plastic bottle of chemicals on the counter right in front of the fire. I quickly knocked the bottle away from the flame and removed the paper towels and some plates to clear as much space as possible.

At this point the fire had reached a good 3 and-a-half feet and was now burning the wood cabinets to the right. Now a new thought was coming to mind: “Are we going to be able to put out this fire?” Then suddenly: the fire alarm goes off. Thanks fire alarm. Way to be there for us. Wow.

So naturally, I ran upstairs and started shutting down my computer. I was ready to evacuate. I ran back down the stairs, still trying to stay under the smoke. You could barely even see into the kitchen, it was so thick.

I ran back outside to take a deep breath and to hear something from Mike. “I just got ahold of the fire department. They’re on their way.”

But they weren’t going to be here fast enough. By the time they would have arrived, it might be too late. I sprinted down the stairs attempting to go house to house looking for the possibility of a fire extinguisher. Then, suddenly Brian yells “I got one! I got one!!” As Brian runs through the street, he pulls the pin and tosses it onto the concrete as he rushes back into the house. Brian bursts in and starts laying down fire. I joined him. “Hey, I’ve always wanted to try one of these,” I said. Brian hands me the extinguisher. “AHHHHHHHHHH” I said as I felt like I was firing a fully automatic rifle gunning down enemies. I guess I got too excited cause it was then I learned a little something about putting out fires. “NO! Aim for the base of the fire!” Apparently, since Brian spends a lot of time being bored in elevators at his job, he has read multiple times the correct procedure for operating a fire extinguisher. I however, was still fresh from playing Call of Duty that afternoon. I apparently was going for a headshot.

Two fire extinguishers later and the fire was out. Soon after we had about 6 fire extinguisher offers from neighbors, and about 10 people we got a chance to meet by banging on their doors. It was then that the fire department showed up.

It turns out there was no plastic ware of any kind on the coils and the seemingly apparent cause of the fire was an electrical problem most likely caused by a faulty dishwasher unit.

While the fire department seemed concerned about bad wires, I let out a sign of relief. “Well thank God we live in a badly wired house. As long as it isn’t my plastic bowls that caused it. At least now, it wasn’t my fault.”

The firemen came, removed our dishwasher unit and placed it outside. About a half-hour later we got our first look at the unit. It was burned horribly on all sides and warped from the heat. Inside our dishes were either melted, seared, covered in ash, or broken (the broken part, of course, was caused by the firemen dropping the dishwasher).

Unfortunately almost all our spoons and bowls were destroyed in the fire. But luckily, aside from the right cabinet getting burnt marks, there was no other damage. However, you would be amazed at how much soot can get everywhere. That was a fun 4 hour cleaning job.

Because our house is almost completely red, we nicknamed the house: “The Firehouse.” Today, it got to live up to its name.

Pretty nice

2007-11-03T07:14:25Z

Have you ever noticed when girls describe their ugly friend, they always seem to refer to her as “pretty?”

It’s even worse when you get that pause right before.

“Oh, she’s… pretty.” That’s when you know she’s probably a horse. The longer the pause the bigger the animal.

Short or no pause and she probably isn’t so bad except for “One LITTLE thing.” Maybe she has a decent body but a Picasso face.

No pause and a head nod and she might have crooked teeth, a lisp, or a lazy eye: things you might be able to deal with provided you’re not completely neurotic.

Either way, “Pretty” is no good. I mean seriously, what does it even mean? If a girl is hot, people say she’s hot. Cute, she’s cute. Beautiful or gorgeous, they say beautiful or gorgeous. Why would anyone refer to a person that is attractive as pretty? It’s totally an ass-covering word for: “I think you’re ugly but I don’t want to be responsible for shattering your dwindling self-esteem.”

The only way “Pretty” sounds good is if you say it slow with emphasis and often with a slow nod of the head. Ex: “PREEEETTTY good.” That usually communicates a positive feeling. But the time wasted on such an ambiguous word and lengthy necessary emphases and head motions can be spent with much shorter, specific, less vague words that require less energy to communicate. Ex: awesome, excellent, and amazing.

Without the extra effort, a plain “Pretty good” is not so good at all. So… how could you expect “Pretty girl” to be any different?

I looked it up.

Pretty means: “nice to look at” and “with a pleasant face.” Pretty also means: “unsatisfactory” and “weak and superficial.” So basically pretty is a loaded word with built in sarcasm for anything you say with it, just in case that’s what you really mean. How could you ever accept a compliment from a word that is both flattering and insulting?

Us men, we have a “pretty” word too.

“NICE”

Ewww.

As much as the ladies say they want to find a “nice” guy, “nice” is often the word they use to describe lame guys. “Oh, he’s nice.” If a bunch of girls are trying to set their friend up for a date and all they can find is one of the other girls’ less attractive geeky brother, they’ll tell her: “He’s really nice.” A lot of times “I think you’re a really nice guy” is followed by “…but…” and then a reason (other than him being nice) why he is undesirable. Usually her reason has everything to do with “her” and “complications in her life.” But that is rarely the truth. What she means to say is: “I think you’re a really nice guy, but you seem to have no intrigue at all, you seem clingy to me, and I know I can do better, but since you aren’t being completely violent, rude, or cruel I want to spare you embarrassment so you can go back to being boring and never know.”

Now there are actual pretty girls and really great nice guys out there. But, generally speaking, both words are very polite ways of saying that there is something needy, unattractive, or bothersome about the other.

Unfortunately, honesty is a very subjective thing.

Update about eyes...

2007-11-03T01:26:27Z

My roommate did mention that apparently there are fetishes out there in which couples lick each other's eyeballs. As much as I like eyes there are just some things I am not so into. It doesn’t mean I’m any less interested in eyes, it just means that I have limits.

For example: I like women, but I’m not into shitting on their face. Works for some people, but it’s just not my thing.

What can I say, I love eyes.

2007-10-26T19:18:57Z

I love eyes. It is perhaps one of my favorite parts of a woman. When I stare at a woman with beautiful eyes I am stunned, I am taken aback more so than any other part of her body.

I once was at Whole Foods and I saw this girl with the most amazing eyes I had ever seen. I don't know if she was attractive in any other way, but those eyes were so tantalizingly pure blue that I couldn't stop myself from staring. She stared back at me. Probably not for the same reason. Probably was a little more curious why I had dropped my jaw, had a look of surprise, and was walking sideways like a tourist as I passed her by. Oh well.

Being attracted to a woman's eyes is not a very uncommon thing among men. But the problem with liking eyes is the fact that there's not a lot you can do with it. The most common "attractive" qualities that most men will probably mention are: breasts, face, butt. That's what we're looking at, and usually in that order.

That's where it sucks to be interested in eyes. You can't touch an eye. You can't kiss or make out with an eye, you can't stick your tongue down a person's cornea. You can't hug or massage an eye. And you certainly can't grope an eye. It's a common attractive physical attribute and it's probably the only one you can't be physical with.

Now I know there are people that would disagree with me say: "But you can totally kiss someone on the eye." That's bullshit. When you go for the kiss the eye lid closes and you get a cheek of lid, not eye. No one is interested in the eye lid. Who's attracted to the eye lid? The eye lid is like the bra of the eye. It's no good until it's off. You can't claim you got action with the bra lid on. That's like saying she had a hockey mask on, but we still totally made out.

The closest you can really get to full eye action is the butterfly kiss. Once again, eye lids and eye lashes doing the work here, so it's not perfect. But I'm not interested in standard butterfly kisses, fluttering your eye lashes upon someone elses eye lashes. I want a full blown passionate butterfly make-out session full of tilted heads and maybe some noises if possible as we desperately lash at each other. That's hot.

I also think more people would be attracted to eyes if we weren't so desensitized to them. We see them everyday, completely unlidded, revealing all, leaving nothing to the imagination. Maybe they should have Eye Strip Clubs. A woman would come out with her eyes closed and slowly open her eyes, tilting her head from side to side, rolling her eyes around. Maybe she would wink at the audience, showing them a full frontal of one eye, while keeping the other one clothed. Then she quickly squints both eyes, teasing you. This would bring a whole new meaning to the phrase: "The Naked Eye."

Maybe then there would be Eye Porn. Eyelids opening and shutting incedibly fast, tearing up, and crying all over while the couple passionately butterfly kisses. Excellent.

Hmmm. Who wants to make a film?

The Black Cat

2007-10-16T20:22:07Z

I was headed to lunch at Togos, when I saw a black cat in front of the main entrance. Although I don't usually think of myself as being superstitious, I decided I didn’t need to temp fate. I’ve never been a fan of walking under ladders or swallowing gum. If I do it, I try not to worry, but if I can go around why chance anything? There was another entrance to Togos, so I decided not to risk the potential for bad luck by letting the black cat cross my path.

Then I started thinking. Fuck the black cat. Fuck him.

I walked right up to that cat, and I crossed HIS path.

Who’s unlucky now?

For a brief moment, I felt like Snow White

2007-10-08T22:32:31Z

Every so often, when a squirrel gets close I do the usual: either pet him or scare the shit out of him.

I want to pet him. That's the goal, but if the squirrel is a little bitch about it, I scare the shit out of him. That's the deal.

So today I was walking through the little park heading to lunch, when I saw this squirrel look at me. We locked eyes. I patted my leg for him to come closer, and like a little puppy he came. I put out my hand and he came right up to me and sniffed it.

It was like I had command of the animals. Apparently, I found, the squirrels of Warner Bros. are very docile and very friendly, and will sometimes come right up to you when you call them.

Then he realized I had no food, and left in a huff.

Scars

2007-09-06T05:42:18Z

I once met a woman who had a very large scar on her chest that ran from the bottom of her neck to almost her breasts. Tracheotomy? Immediately the question popped in my head: why is she wearing a low cut top?

That’s when I got to thinking about scars…

If a person has a curious scar, should you ask about it?

I would imagine that if I had a large hideous scar I would be embarrassed. I would keep it covered up and wouldn’t want to keep talking about it.

But if someone didn’t cover it up and say, wore a tank top that accented the scar, does that mean they want to talk about it? Maybe it’s a conversation piece, like a good coffee table book or centerpiece. Maybe they wear it as a badge of honor, hoping to get the chance to talk about old war hero stories.

But you can’t assume anything cause they might have not covered it up because they don’t want to seem like they are hiding anything. Perhaps by exposing it to the world, they can hope people can accept them for who they are. No surprises. But, probably wouldn’t want everyone staring at it and drawing attention to it. They are probably quite tired of telling the story.

So when should you ask? When is it okay for you to ask a person about their grotesque skin condition?

You can’t stare at it because you’ll either make them uncomfortable or make yourself uncomfortable when they get overly excited to tell you “The Tale” before you’re ready. And for that same reason, you can’t avoid staring either.

“Keep your distance, Chewie. But don't look like you're trying to keeping your distance. I don’t know. Fly casual.”

It frustrates me. How dare a person wear a taboo so openly. And I can’t do anything about it except pretend like it’s nothing. If I'm being shown something I want to know about it and I don't want to pretend to not care! I know it sounds horrible but I wish people (if they can) would just hide their scars so I don’t have to be put in a position where I have to think about whether I should look, not look, ask, or don’t ask. I think that’s rude of them. And if they want to tell me about it or show it off to the world, we can have that discussion after a good round of “Hello” and not before. We can compare insecurities or get excited about how misshapen we look. But let’s do it over dinner. Or better yet… away from dinner.