Poking The Bear

Don't Play That Song

2008-01-31T18:29:00.001-08:00

I love music, but I’m a truly terrible singer. Think “Murphy Brown” pilot. I can’t even sing ironically and have it sound somewhat decent. Not for lack of trying, though. I’ve attempted many a night of drunk karaoke-ing (in private Koreatown rooms, mind you) and the results were pretty horrific by any standard.

Come to think of it, the way I befriended my suitemate in college was by bonding over the laughingly horrendous nature of my singing voice. A few weeks into the first quarter of our freshman year, she came into my room mid-song and said, “so you’re the one who I keep hearing singing The Cranberries.” Yes, I liked them. And yes, I sang along to them with an Irish inflection like Dolores O'Riordan. And yes, I was, and still am, a huge nerd.

My most recent and probably last attempt at semi-public humiliation was belting out Faith No More’s “Epic” whilst playing Rock Band (!!!) with a few of my closest friends. Now, all you really have to do for that song is shout out some god-awful lyrics and nasally humor yourself through the chorus...but I still gave up three lines into the ordeal out of sheer embarrassment and fear of banishment from the inner circle. Short of being the flopping fish out of water at the end of the video, I say pass the guitar and/or drumsticks. Christ, what a sad predicament.

Nevertheless, the one genre of music (notwithstanding Nina Simone and Patsy Cline) that makes me rightfully despise the suckdome of my voice like no other, is Motown. Some of those songs are just too good to be universally legal. I marvel at Aretha Franklin’s “Don’t Play That Song” on a daily basis while bawling internally because I’ve come to accept that I’ll never be able to express myself in that manner. The Shirelles’ “Baby, It’s You” and James Brown’s “Try Me” have the same effect. Trust me when I tell you the list goes on and on...and on.

Some of those songs will actually move me to tears and sometimes I will actually close my eyes while singing along; Will Freeman would not approve. Still, I’ve come to the realization that in the grand effort of saving the world from my reign of vocal terror, I must officially resign myself to singing strictly in the privacy of my own home. Guess it’s a really good thing I live alone.

The Memory Remains

2006-05-29T12:27:00.000-07:00

What better way to spend this Memorial Day morning than sifting through some old boxes full of randomly craptacular stuff that I haven’t bothered to unpack/throw away since I moved in November?*

Here’s a small itemization (and some crappy phone pictures) of a singular box that spans over two decades:

* Assorted Series 1 and 2 Garbage Pail Kids cards 1985-1987
* Assorted Batman and Batman Returns cards
* 1998 Panini Baseball sticker book (98% completed)

* March 1989 MAD Magazine cover (sans magazine)

* Assorted MAD Magazines (too fucking cool)

* One copy of (MAD Magazine knock-off) Cracked Magazine (sans cover)

* Assorted Becket Baseball Price Guides 1990-1991

* 1/3 of giant fold out Pinhead poster from Fangoria magazine circa 1990-ish

* January 1995 Newsweek - The Last Days of Auschwitz cover
* Brandon Choi Autograph from comic book signing in Santa Barbara 1997
* 1999 Save Ferris article from Daily Trojan
* March 1999 Movieline - Angelina Jolie cover
* 3 Wet Paint signs borrowed from UCLA 2003
* Old apartment lease circa 2004
* Cedars Sinai “Patient Belongings” hospital bag 2004

* Copy of 3 am Interview with Paul Simonon printed from Internet
* Strange and unintentional collection of Joe Strummer pictures
* Sketch of great white shark done at work while bored 2005-ish
* Copy of Fry’s rebate (rebate never received, bitches)
* Undated horrible angsty poem (now rotting away in bottom of garbage)

And for those of you wanting more, inside the big box, there was a shoe box full of random/nonsensical/very important stuff that used to be in my Jeep before I bequeathed it to my brother...

* Earplugs
* Ticket stub from The Like concert circa October 2005
* Duct tape
* Kinko’s copy card
* Matches
* Spoon
* Band-Aids
* Open box of stale Harry Potter Bertie Botts Jelly Beans
* Packets of Equal and Sweet ‘N Low (most likely from Starbucks)
* Hand wipes
* Unopened sample packet of Tums Smooth Dissolve
* 2 Bic Pens (black ink)
* Small bottle of RENU saline solution
* Film container filled with change
* Altoids box filled with change and safety pin

Well, about fifteen minutes after taking the box out and checking out its contents, I remembered why I never unpacked it...closed the box and threw it back in my closet.

* And by the same token, breathing a little life into this blog.

** I just realized that putting matches, spoon and band-aids one right after another might give people the wrong idea...but oh well.

My New Favorite Hobby

2006-05-19T21:42:00.000-07:00

If anyone still even bothers with this one-post-a-month / 98% defunct blog, then this one's for you.

My new favorite hobby has become Febreze-ing the shit out of my house. I've pretty much gone through an entire bottle in six days. Unfortunately, the smell lasts like 10 minutes, then goes away. But it's nice while it lasts.

Edit: For the record, my Febreze scent of choice is "Meadows and Rain." My razzle-dazzle bottle just so happens to quite exquisitely translate this into Espanol as "Praderas y Lluvia."

I Said Goddamn!

2006-03-31T09:00:00.000-08:00

I realize it's only 9:00 a.m. but I've been craving Chinese food since the minute I woke up this morning.

Cool Watermelon

2006-03-10T12:04:00.000-08:00

Cool Watermelon is just a fancy term for minty watermelon, but it's oh so good.

Poking The Bear

2006-02-28T19:12:00.000-08:00

Dear readers and loyal minions, please be advised that leaving harassing comments about updates will not help your cause. This "fast-food, slick-ass Persian bazaar" form of request by demand only pokes the bear.

And we all know what happens when you poke the bear, don't we?!!

Please note that this does not actually constitue a real post, but rather, just another excuse to put up a bear showing its gnarly teeth.

To Live And Buy In L.A. Rocking The Side Ponytail

2006-02-13T21:07:00.000-08:00

Upon closer inspection of the two-thousand some odd dollar property tax bill I received from the county assessor last week, turns out that said bill was just a “supplement” as it clearly “reflects the increase in your (i.e, my) property taxes due to change in ownership occurring. Yummy.

If having “equity” means having a stack of crazy bills to be indebted to so long as I draw breath on this earth, then boy do I have a shitload of equity!

In other news, I’m trying to decide if I really like the Burberry Brit Red (Special Edition; we ain’t fucking around here, kids) enough to keep it or have it sent back to whence it came.

In even other news, I just put my hair in a side ponytail to see if it still looks as ridiculous as it did when I was seven. Sadly, yes. But you know, whatever, because I still rock the side ponytail harder than My Little Pony ever will.

Lastly, say what you will about Oasis, but “Wonderwall” still fucking rocks after all these years. Eleventh grade all over again. It never fails.

Hey Freud, I've Got A Good One For You

2006-02-10T10:22:00.000-08:00

Maybe one of the signs that I’m not as young as I used to be, besides the ongoing battle to hide the gray, is the fact that watching disturbing movies before going to bed seems to be filtering through into my dreams. Well, that, and life.

Take last night for example.

I had a strange and surreal dream of epic proportions. Most of the cameos and places were there for completely understandable subconscious reasons in relation to my life, but some of them were almost as random as the Potpourri category in Jeopardy.

Prime example: Why the fuck was Gary Coleman in flippers on a slip and slide laid over the San Francisco Bay? Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

Here, I lay all my subconscious psychological neuroses bare for all to see...

The dream begins with me hanging out at this small bar and Jenny Lewis is there. I’m not sure if she performed or not, but afterwards, she comes over to my table and we start making small talk. We make friends. As I’m driving home the next day, she gives me a call and we’re talking for a bit. She mentions that one of her roommates just moved out and there’s a room opening up. But, I already own a place in Sherman Oaks, so why would I want to move to Silver Lake and rent, I wonder? At that point the phone craps out.

Then I’m with my mom who asks me, “When are you going to lose some weight?” “Am I really that fat” I ask her. And she says, “Yes, you’re thick.” Thanks, Mom.

Next thing I know, I’m on the shores of the San Francisco Bay with about twenty other people my age and we’re all about to swim to Alcatraz and back. Did I mention that we had to do this in our clothes and that we were being timed?

The following thoughts pop into my head:

Am I on some sort of shitty MTV Road Rules/Real World challenge show?

Maybe I should change my shoes.

I probably shouldn’t swim with my iPod because it’ll get wet and die.

What am I supposed to think about while I’m swimming?

What if I don’t have the stamina to swim that much and I drown?

What happens to people who are deathly afraid of sharks?

A bit later, I overcome all these thoughts and run back into my place to change shoes. For some reason, I changed into my light green Converse One Stars that I haven’t had since 10th grade. As I’m walking down the stairs in my building, I find a one dollar bill, just as I see these two guys I knew from high school walking by me.

Once outside my building, I run into Harry Potter. We’re both sort of in a hurry to get back to the shore to start the swim. Then Harry goes on his merry way while I stop at this little coffee house to hand my grandmother my other pair of shoes. I kiss her on the cheek and then I’m back on the shore.

I’m on the sand and there’s this drill sergeant sending people out in groups of ten and splitting them up into Army vs. Marines. Oh, so this is a race? The sergeant marks my forehead with a piece of chalk as a Marine and sends me into the water. By this time, the sun is beginning to set and I’m wondering if this still such a good idea.

I run into the water and start swimming. Surprisingly, the water’s not that cold and I’m not that tired. That’s when I look over and see Gary Coleman in flippers “swimming” on a slip and slide laid over the water. I think to myself, “that’s cheating!” but then I realize, the dude can’t swim, so no big deal.

Eventually, I get to the Statue of Liberty. Why is there a Statue of Liberty in the San Francisco Bay? I have no idea. I get back into the water and continue my swim. I make it to Alcatraz in good time and start walking around the island. Unfortunately, Steven Spielberg is shooting a movie there and I have to walk all the way around the island just to get back into the water to start my trek back. This is definitely going to cut into my time.

As I get back into the water, it’s pitch black. There are no rescue boats around and I’m wondering if this is still such a great idea.

The End.

Daze Off

2006-01-16T11:38:00.000-08:00

Ahhh, the joys of working on a Federal holiday. Not to sound insensitive and politically incorrect and all that bullshit, but I really don’t care what day it is today. I just wanted the day off. It could’ve been Celebrate Ingrown Toenails Day for all I care if that meant that I didn’t have to be at work right now.

And since we’re at it, let’s add personal insult to employment injury; none of my friends are working and I have no one to e-mail or IM with.

But being here today did lead me to a realization of sorts...

As I struggled to bring myself to actually do something work related about an hour ago, I found that I’m a lot more productive when I have my iTunes on, a few e-mails going, a couple of IM windows blinking and handful of “side projects” to tend to, such as posting, reading trashy blogs and lurking on spoiler boards, all the while trying not to get caught.

Seriously! What the hell did people do at work before the joys of modern technology?

And more importantly...how the fuck am I supposed to actually get any work done today?

Auf Wiedersehen

2006-01-12T21:23:00.000-08:00

For those of you getting tired of seeing pictures of my bloody finger and reading about my adventures in near caterpillar eating, today is your lucky day.

After 25 months and 1 day of working my ass off for bubkus peanuts at my place of employment, I finally gave them the hypothetical boot on Monday with my two weeks notice stuck to the very bottom.

Of all the ways to say “fuck yeah, get me out of this place!” I chose “this isn’t going to work;” otherwise knows as the “I need the reference” goodbye. On the bright side, everyone I know gave me their blessing. Of course, they come back the next day and offer part time work from home for more money. Meh.

No solid plans yet. Just to work on my drinking, devote more time to having fun and possibly vacationing for the first time in over four years. Or I can just have fun and vacation while drunk.

By the way, sometimes I believe in signs. Like when I was out with friends this weekend and torn whether to quit my job or not...this is what the register at Mani's Bakery told me:

It was tres "Blood" from the second season of "The X-Files."

My Bloody Fingertine

2005-12-27T20:51:00.000-08:00

I feel that it is only proper to follow up my near caterpillar mastication post with some lovely pictures of my bloody finger. But it’s okay, because my blog jumped the shark a long time ago.

Once upon a Tuesday afternoon, I went down to get the mail...and of course, sliced the shit out of my finger with the lid of the United States Postal Service mailbox. I wonder if a little blood and a band aid is covered under workman's comp?

Let's go to the tapes...

The camera phone TOTALLY adds 10 pounds!

Crapperpillar Salad

2005-12-26T22:58:00.000-08:00

This post is a sad attempt at optimism.

So I actually made myself dinner tonight. Amongst other things, this dinner included a salad made with organic baby greens in one of those containers from Trader Joe’s.

As I’m finishing my salad, to my horror, I spot the stiff carcass of a dead Cluster Caterpillar. And after spitting out everything that I possibly could out of my mouth and then gargling with water and a hardcore mouthful of Listerene, I spent the next half hour seriously resisting the urge to puke, all the while contemplating if this was the universe’s sick attempt at a vegetarian joke.

On the bright side, at least the caterpillar was whole.

Love At First "Are You 18?"

2005-12-07T11:43:00.000-08:00

Is it possible to love someone you just met?

Because I definitely love the girl at Petco last night who thought I was eighteen.

Cosct-Oh No You Di’int

2005-12-06T11:26:00.000-08:00

I love Costco. I really do. I mean, where else can you buy a tree house, a flat screen tv and a 20 pack of Cup O Noodles in one visit?

That’s great and all, but last night, Costco really pissed me off...not that that’s necessarily hard to do these days.

Anyway, after a long day of work, I schlepped to Costco to purchase two simple items: A cordless phone and a container of Folgers. Fighting off the urge to buy a piano, I grabbed my items, made my way towards the front of the store and parked myself in a lovely line that was sure to be at least fifteen minutes long.

When I finally got to the front, I said, “I need to put the phone on my American Express and I need to pay for the coffee with cash.” The cashier pointed to a little note by the cash register that read “One receipt per customer” and said, “I can’t do that, but I can give you a subtotal.” Then he babbled something about Coscto not wanting to have too many receipts.

When did having too many transactions become a bad thing? Hey, I’ll tell you what’s a bad thing, Coscto; not having a fucking express lane!

Anyway, I told the guy that I didn’t want the coffee because I wasn’t in the mood for subtotals; i.e. “take your subtotals and shove them up your ass.” And then in a real smart ass sort of way said, “So, basically you’re saying you can’t give me two receipts, but I can theoretically get right back in line and make another purchase?!”

Midvale School for the Gifted anyone?

Updating The Status

2005-12-02T14:33:00.000-08:00

(This post is for The Sparkler...who lives in hope of updates.)

For no real reason, I decided to check my Friendster account this afternoon. Back in 2003, Friendster was more addicting than crack. Nowadays, it's the site I check once in a blue moon and have to constantly remind to stop sending me stupid e-mail reminders about birthdays for people who I'm no longer friends with.

Upon perusing Friendster, which apparently has made itself a lot less anonymously stalkable since my last log-in (boooo), I realized that it was high time to update my profile. And as of 2:32 this afternoon, I was freshly single in Friendster Land. Although technically, my status changed in July.

A few years ago, Robert and Reena decided that they were officially an item when they simultaneously updated their Friendster profiles to indicate "In A Relationship." Conversely, I updated mine to put the final nail in the coffin and electronically beat the dead horse that was my relationship.

Then it hit me. Modern technology has made it a lot easier to distinguish where you stand in today's world. It's practically evolved into a grandiose and high tech high school; lame drama and all. Only a lot more passive-aggressive.

Hey, wait...is that even possible?

Lost In Transit-lation

2005-11-07T19:54:00.000-08:00

If you’re a really cool, nice, super-smart person and have been following this blog with blind loyalty despite a painful drought of posts over the past few weeks, you may recall the September diatribe about my ongoing battle with a certain printer at work.

It was not unlike the Evander Holyfield/Mike Tyson fight. Me being Evander Holyfield, of course, because as crazy as I am, I’m nowhere near the Mike Tyson level of crazy. And, if you’re an old fart like me, you probably remember how the original fight was called "Holyfield-Tyson: Finally!” because the two fighters were supposed to spar many times during the five years prior to the actual fight.

Well, the printer and I had it out in September, and like Holyfield, I prevailed through the eleventh round and got the TKO since I made the printer my little bitch through the end of the month and all of October.

We didn’t fight again until this past Wednesday, when the printer demanded an impromptu (albeit hugely anticipated) rematch for the title of Office Kung Fu Tech Master.

Unable to kick my ass in the first round, like Tyson, the printer tried to pull some fancy shit by not only jamming a sheet mid-print, but also not letting me pull out the cartridge to clear the jam. Tired and frustrated, I was having none of it. I realized that it was time to bust out the screwdriver and take the fucker apart. Literally. The end result was something out of T2. (Please humor my phone pics.)

It was the final straw. It was as if the bitch bit off a piece of my ear and Mills Lane had to start docking points. Yeah, so what if I head butted the little fucker without a gum-shield?

A half hour and about five left-over screws and a springy thing (but in the words of my crazy high school chemistry professor, “good enough for government work”) later, the printer was jew- rigged back in one piece and technologically reconnected.

But clearly, the warning wasn’t enough and the plastic little bastard had the chutzpah to go for my other ear by dying on me mid-print. All the buttons went red and the turning stopped. Like Tyson, the printer disqualified itself and crapped out on me. Mills called the fight and I wasted no time washing my hands of it and ordering a new printer five minutes later.

Of course, nothing is ever that easy...so when Friday rolled I around and I was still forced to print to the copier at the other end of the office, I called our supplier and was all like, “WTF is my new printer?!!!” After putting me on hold (as they always do) and checking the computer, the lady tells me that it looked as though my printer was “lost in transit.” Super.

I told her that I needed my printer ASAP because it was already a day overdue and she very calmly (I hate when they do that) explained to me that they could have a new printer re-shipped to me by Monday, but she couldn't guarantee what time UPS will deliver it.

However, she generously threw in a free box of cookies to coincide with my new delivery date, because as everybody knows, if you don’t have a functioning printer, a fatty box of Mrs. Fields are the next best thing. I think I read somewhere that the oatmeal raisin cookies have a special no-smudge patent. And the chocolate chip ones make you horny. And the sugar cookies give you cancer. And, yeah.

And so, this morning, UPS delivered my new printer; the Brother HL-5140 (a huge bump up from the now-dead HL-5040...only not really, because it’s the exact same printer with a new model number.) If memory serves me correctly, I think Shakespeare once wrote that “a Pinto by any other name still blows the fuck up when rear ended.”

Suffice to say that I got my free box of Mrs. Fields.

Oh, the irony.

But wait! It gets better.

So at like three-thirty this afternoon, guess what shows up? That’s right, the “lost in transit” printer itself. If I didn’t have to sign for the damn thing, I would’ve totally taken it home. But I guess we’ll see what happens with the billing. For now, I figure I’ll play lost and found: wait a month, see what happens...

In Touch At Target

2005-10-24T08:05:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure how or why, but on Saturday I found myself shopping at Target with Reena and Nick. Okay, that’s a lie. I know how and why, but I figured it would sound a lot cooler if I pretended that going to Target on a Saturday with my friends was an anomaly. Which, really, it is, because we had some time to kill before a movie, but still.

If you’ve ever shopped at Target, you’ve probably realized that the store has casino-like capabilities of drawing you in and then phantasmally forcing you to drop anywhere from $50-$100 on fairly sensible stuff you think you need, or will come in handy, but not actual stuff that you’re in dire need for. Case in point: did I really need another double pack of Oral B 40 Soft toothbrushes when I still have an unopened pack at home?

Someday I’ll need them, sure!

After paying and walking out, I found a copy of In Touch magazine right outside the front door that somebody must’ve dropped. (Poetic justice, anyone?) I picked it up and pointed it out to Reena and Nick. They were like, “Dude, just leave it there. There are cameras everywhere!”

Now, I’m usually the paranoid one, but I reasoned that if there are cameras everywhere, then the cameras would obviously see me leaving with only my bags and not the magazine. But my friends made a good point: did I really want to be pulled back into the store by loss prevention only to be questioned over a copy of a crappy three dollar gossip rag?

Without hesitation, I threw the magazine into a renegade shopping cart right near where I’d found it and took off.

I tell you, it’s crazy fun times like these that keep me from my blogging and make my life just too fucking exciting.

Pine Sol and Coffee

2005-10-20T08:11:00.000-07:00

There's really no way to sugar coat this with words or cleverness. So I'll just cut to the chase.

Lemon yogurt flavored Zone Perfect bars taste like fucking Pine Sol. Seriously. This is not an exaggeration.

I'm sure there are friendlier ways to commit suicide.

Killing Baby Squirrels

2005-10-19T08:32:00.000-07:00

Last night, as if life wasn’t weird enough, I went to see a preview of “Trust the Man” (and may I just say, Worst. Title. Ever) with the ex. (Sorry kids, no links or pictures. We’re trying to keep it on the staying friends tip.)

The movie (which not-so-coincidentally stars David “my object of lust for the past ten years” Duchovny), began normally enough, except for the fact that within the first fifteen minutes we realized that it was just like watching our failed relationship during its formidable unraveling depicted on the big screen with wittier lines and better make-up.

Anyway, without getting too much into it, at one point, Duchovny busts out with something along the lines of “it’s not like I’m killing baby squirrels.” That’s when I had some serious Zoe flashbacks.

The movie wasn’t too bad. Nothing great, but cute. Strangely enough, it was sort of well-cast and dare I say, well-acted. Duchovny actually did some acting, Julianne Moore was toned down, Billy Crudup was on par and even Maggie Gyllenhaal, who usually annoys me with her quirky/freaky schtick, was fairly likeable.

I would say that if it comes out in the next couple of months...and you’ve already seen the Harry Potter movie like five times...and have nothing better to go see...and you’re a fan of typical Hollywood endings, it’s worth a matinee showing.

The Saddest Sight

2005-10-16T17:34:00.000-07:00

There are many visual images that make me sad. Road kill, white chocolate, starving children. (Yeah, yeah, I’ve already painted racing stripes on my handbasket.). But why does the sight of an empty e-mail box hurt so much?

Fewer things in the world scream “too cool for you on a Sunday evening” louder than this:

Too Old For This Shit?

2005-10-16T09:44:00.000-07:00

So a few nights ago I’m rocking out to some Motley Crue and I’m really rocking out. I’m talking air guitar-ing, head banging, furniture jumping. And then I throw my neck out.

How come this never happened in the eighties?

I bet somewhere in America, Axl Rose, Sebastian Bach and Vince Neil are asking themselves the same thing.

As Jew Like It

2005-10-13T22:24:00.000-07:00

For some reason, the twenty-five hour no-food or water Yom Kippur fast seems to get easier with each year that passes.

For those of you not of the Jewish persuasion, Yom Kippur is the Day of Atonement where you’re supposed to fast and feel like shit and demonstrate your repentance for the year’s sins. It is basically identical to the Sabbath, only a lot scarier because if you’re so inclined, Yom Kippur is also the day of judgment where God either inks your name in the Book of Life or the Book of Death. Religiously chilling mind fuck anyone?

Now, I want to be a good Jew and I want to be a good person, but I don’t think I really have twenty-five hours worth of sins to repent for and even if I did, I don’t think I’d be able to meditate on them for that long without contemplating suicide. If you can imagine, the hardcore Orthodox Jews spend all day in synagogue. Since I’m nowhere near that level of commitment and have some serious issues concerning organized religion, I pick and choose and tell myself that religion comes from within and not from public displays.

After fifteen years of fasting experience, my religiously incorrect method of getting through Yom Kippur is simply targeted at killing the boredom; fairly similar to the “About A Boy” way of breaking the day into units of time. My rules are pretty simple too: no phones, no e-mails, no IMs and no music. I would give up television, but DVDs are an integral necessity in the art of time killing.

For example, last night, I killed two hours with America’s Next Top Model and Veronica Mars. Then this morning I contemplated my sins for a bit and then spent most of the remaining hours of the depressing day with an equally depressing book that my mom asked me to pick up for her a few weeks ago but never read.

(Side note: I have nothing against the book itself, but I keep reminding myself that it is an Oprah Book Club book and I worry about reading anything that is associated with such because I know it’s a slippery slope and that I’m never more than a stone’s throw away from “Tuesdays With Morrie.” It’s also no surprise that the first thing I did before even cracking open the book is peeled off the Oprah sticker. Thus, in a preemptive strike against Mitch Albom’s opus, I gave Nick full authorization to freely shoot me in the head if he ever saw me so much as near a copy of said book.)

Eventually, six rolled around and I lightheadedly threw on some clothes, tried to make myself as presentable as anyone who’s just spent an entire day in a small room reading about drug addiction and rehab and started the slow half mile schlep to temple.

Personally, I find that a large part of religion is about testing out the weak spots and discovering loopholes. The ingenuity this year was that my mom and I strategically parked her car down the street from the synagogue yesterday afternoon. Thus, after the shofar was blown and the fast officially ended tonight, we were able to briskly walk to the car and drive our tired and lightheaded asses home to eat, drink and be food-comatose. Hence, we did nothing wrong and stayed well within the confines of the religious rules.

I think if I can find the cup of coffee escape clause for next year, I’ll be all set.

Math, Michael Myers & Madness

2005-10-10T19:08:00.000-07:00

For me, the world pretty much breaks up into three basic categories: words, numbers and everything else. And out of all the subcategories that fall under the basic ones, there are very few things that can conceptually scare me as much as math.

Math was always the one subject I could never excel at. I couldn’t even come close to being decent at it. Remember the kid in math class who was asking to copy your homework ten minutes before class and always had that panicked “oh fuck” look on their face during tests? That was me. I always took the road less numerically traveled and that made all the difference; i.e., permitted me to scrape by, thus dragging down my otherwise impressive (honk, honk) GPA.

The logic required to grasp mathematical concepts ran away from my brain sometime during eighth grade and has never been seen since. I never bothered looking for it.

Avoiding math at all costs became my mode of survival and directly/indirectly contributed to my choosing English as a major in college. The thought that I’ll never have to take another math class as long as I live and breathe, allows me to sleep at night with a soundness unlike any other.

However, you know how some people have nightmares about falling to their deaths or being trapped in a room with a limited supply of oxygen? Sadly, I have those about math.

Not surprisingly, last night I was plagued by a nightmare about getting a “D” on a math test that I had no recollection of ever taking. I kept looking at it, thinking, how could I get a “D” if I only got ten out of one-hundred questions wrong? In what alternate universe did 90% become a “D!”

I was even more frustrated when some kid tried to explain the teacher’s perplexingly intricate grading system. And the fact that I couldn’t quite understand this system of curves, slopes and numbers, angered me even more because math was now fucking me harder than ever before.

Frustratingly enough, my dream sort of faded right before I approached the teacher about my grade, so I never really understood why I got the unjust grade that I did. But regardless, it made me feel like shit.

Then my dream sort of switched over to me sitting in the back of a moving car and Michael Myers chasing me with a large knife. (Think “Jurassic Park” when Jeff Goldblum is sitting backwards in backseat of the Jeep and the T-Rex is chasing dangerously close behind.). Only I kept kicking the crap out of Mike Myers and he just wouldn’t stop. That went on for a few minutes and I eventually woke up in a dry-mouthed sweaty panic.

The ironically sad part? I’ll take the Mike Myers dream over the math one any day of the week and twice on Sunday.

Eye Can See

2005-10-07T08:36:00.000-07:00

Had my long-overdue eye exam yesterday. As expected, I’m getting blinder as the years pass and its only a matter of time before I subject myself to the cornea cutting joys of the laser. Maybe.

Other than all the new technology, the eye exam was pretty standard. The best part, however, (besides the ever-so-delightful two poofs of air shot into your eyes that make you flinch and hit your forehead against the forehead rest and look like an idiot glaucoma test thing) was the digital photo shoot.

It was a bit strange because the flash goes off directly into your eyeballs. Remember in “Rear Window” when Jimmy Stewart is blinding Raymond Burr with the flashbulbs and the screen is rendered different shades of red and orange? Well, it was kind of like that, only with greens and purples. So in it’s own mock sixties acid trip sort of way, it was pretty cool...and I didn’t even have to worry about making sure my hair looked okay.

After a few strokes of the keyboard, my eyeballs magically popped up on the computer screen. At that moment, I had a mini-fantasy of me in front of the judging panel and Tyra saying, “Okay, Eti, you had an eye exam. The Doctor said your optical nerve was very strong and healthy and that you were fierce. Here is your best shot.” Damn, that would’ve been awesome.

Once the exam was over, I attempted to discreetly take a picture of the screen with my camera phone, but alas, I was not to be left alone in the room and was too apprehensive to ask for permission. I kind of regret doing that now because I could’ve had the best holiday cards...ever!

But, you know, bygones, hindsight, etc..

Sevens in Triplicate / Assholes in Spades

2005-10-06T14:33:00.000-07:00

I seem to have fallen back into my lovely (read: psychotic) routine of triple sevens. Get to work at seven, go home at seven, back to work at seven. Actually, it’s more like the Bermuda Triangle of the fourth dimension where everything just gets sucked up into this infinite void of stress, yelling and paperwork. Which wouldn’t be so bad really, if it weren’t for stupid people. But then again, what wouldn’t?

If my life were a movie, this is the scene where I’d pick up a drug habit to get me through the days. And I haven’t really, unless you consider Advil a drug habit. So kudos to me. But not kudos to my fledgling bleeding ulcer.

At any rate, I think this blog’s been getting a little too cutesy and inner-monologue-ish for my taste, so it’s time for a proper bitching. Thus, in honor of what I like to officially declare Asshole Week (believe me, there’ll be plenty more), here is a short list of five (of many) asshole-ish things that really irk me:

1.) Assholes who think they’re hotter than hot shit even though they’re not; and even if they were it doesn’t excuse them from assholedom.

2.) Assholes who feel the need to press the elevator call button after seeing you press it or notice the light is already on. Ditto for crosswalks.

3.) Assholes who feel the need to get into the elevator before letting you get out.

4.) Assholes who see/notice you right behind them, yet fail to hold the door.

5.) Asshole traffic cops who cite people for crossing a street at a crosswalk one second after the red hand started flashing because they were cut off by an off duty ambulance. And as they’re ticketing you for a one hundred and fourteen fucking dollar fine, thirty other people are carrying out much worse offenses punishable by law every which way you turn and then have the audacity to tell you, through their 35 year-old retainer-wearing teeth, that their job isn’t to “protect and serve,” like it says on their insignia, but rather, make sure traffic is moving swiftly. Fuck you, Officer Dipshit. You know who you are, you stupid hapless motherfucker.

Ahhh, ain’t Asshole Week grand?

Unemployment: Proper

2005-10-05T07:55:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay, so it was just one day off. But look how much I actually did without really doing anything.

8:00 a.m. Wake up.

8:30 a.m. Bowl of cereal over computer / blogging.

9:00 a.m. IMs and e-mails.

10:00 a.m. Read “Rats Saw God.”

11:00 a.m. Finish “Rats Saw God.”

11:01 a.m. Shower and get ready.

12:00 p.m. Eat leftovers while leafing through magazines and contemplating brilliance of “Harold and Maude.” Make mental note to watch “Harold and Maude” again.

12:20 p.m. Enjoy coffee over Photoshop.

12:40 p.m. Surf net, research digital cameras, ponder incestuous nature of blog.

1:00 p.m. Leave house. Run errands. Drop off film from Nick’s chocolate party in August at Target one hour photo. Go to Costco. Schedule long overdue eye exam appointment. Browse. Consider buying “Lipstick Jungle.” Remember that “4 Blondes” sucked ass. Reconsider “Lipstick Jungle.” Decide to think about it. Leave Costco. Go back to Target. Pick up photos. Flip through photos. Grow increasingly disappointed at lack of incriminating photos. Internally giggle at others. Leave Target to continue on quest to find perfect boot. Go to DSW. Mentally distinguish myself from middle aged women buying shoes on Tuesday afternoon in store. Decide all boots at DSW suck. Leave DSW. Make bee line for Tower Records. Browse. Make mental note to activate Netflix account. Drive around. Get iced coffee at Starbucks. Give up boot search. Go home.

3:45 p.m. Get home, turn on computer.

4:00 p.m. More IMs, e-mails, sarcasm. Comment on blogs, research DVDs to Netflix.

4:30 p.m. Get hungry. Eat sandwich with Muenster cheese, humous and out of season tomatoes.

4:45 p.m. Finish sandwich. Beg spiritual forgiveness for said out of season tomatoes.

5:10 p.m. Crank up iTunes, step away from computer.

6:06 p.m. Nick comes over. Discuss America’s Next Top Model and cover songs. Make in-jokes.

7:00 p.m. Hop into car, hop on freeway. Road rage check: mild.

7:30 p.m. Arrive at Silver Lake compound.

7:40 p.m. Don apron. Successfully de-seed pomegranate without staining self as loud Yiddish music plays in background.

7:48 p.m. Consider how cute I look in apron. Make mental note to try to be more domestic.

8:30 p.m. Eat, discuss wacky tales of synagogue, Zionism, vodka and eat more.

9:00 p.m. The mastication continues.

9:30 p.m. Revel in alcoholic stylings of Russian booze cake.

9:55 p.m. Discuss philosphy and absolutes.

10:00 p.m. Realize I'm too sober for this particular discussion.

10:20 p.m Crash book club next door.

10:22 p.m. Clear out book club next door.

12:00 a.m. Overstay welcome. Decide to leave.

12:02 a.m. Hop into car.

12:07 a.m. Get on relatively empty freeway. Road rage check: Nonexistent.

12:15 a.m. Note how lovely L.A. is without traffic.

12:20 a.m. Get home.

12:45 a.m. Make phone call.

12:50 a.m. Get ready for bed.

1:00 a.m. Spoon self and go to sleep.

Growing Down

2005-10-04T09:07:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, I used to think that by the time I reached twenty-five, I’d be a marine biologist living in Sydney with my husband and two kids in a cutely quaint seaside home studying the great white sharks off the coast.

When I actually arrived at twenty-five (miles off target), I swore that I would dedicate my life to becoming the Bride in Kill Bill (both volumes). Now at twenty-seven, I’m no more closer to being a kick-ass leather-jacket-wearing Uma Thurman than I am to being the second coming of Jacques Cousteau.

Too busy for any quality blog/instant messenger/e-mail time during my fun-filled eleven hour Monday at work, I came home and started writing this really sarcastic (surprise, surprise) and bitter post about how much fun work is. But I quickly scratched that because a.) for the most part, I like my job and b.) being a bitter asshole was more my forte when I was thirteen. Although I’m sure I still have some latent asshole shrapnel buried somewhere deep in my squalid heart.

So on the evening of Rosh Hashana, I started contemplating whether I was just a big fucking flake who’s never followed through or whether I was just as normal as the next kid who never found the cure for cancer or became the astronaut they swore they would be when they were ten. (In all fairness, you gotta give me the Bride/Uma Thurman thing, because, you know, awesome!)

But before I could think too much or get all depressed from my brooding, my sister came over with gifts fresh out of her unpacked suitcases. Somewhere in the bag amidst the Elite chocolate bars, evil eye paraphernalia and weird stuffed goat thing sewed for me by my paternal grandmother in the senior community she lives in, there he was; my monkey.

When I was one, my aunt bought me this stuffed monkey thing that I used to carry around everywhere. It moved with me to California when I was six and back to Israel when I was thirteen. And when I was fourteen, I left it in Israel when I moved back to the states again because I decided that it was an eyesore and I no longer cared for it. (See asshole shrapnel.)

So when I pulled it out of the bag last night, I was pretty sure my sister found it in a box at my maternal’s grandmother’s house, along with my stacks of old Mad magazines circa 1987 and stamp albums, because my grandmother would never let me throw anything like that away. My grandmother passed away this summer, so to have anything that smells even remotely of her house or remind me of her is just the greatest thing in the world.

And suddenly, the fact that I wasn’t hurtling myself into shark infested waters or whipping around Japanese steel against an army of Crazy 88s didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

A Whole Lot of Nothing

2005-10-02T13:54:00.000-07:00

Thanks in large part to the revoltingly offensive oral mist Zicam and generic (but oh so rhinally miraculous) Sav-On brand Afrin that I chugalugged and snorted respectively since the end of last week, I spent most of my Sunday morning expelling a technicolor rainbow of mucous too beautiful to be seen by the human eye. And despite sparing you any tangible images, knock wood, I’ve still got my health.

Whilst waiting for my just-back-in-town sister and company to arrive for a homely Sunday brunch, I picked up a deck of Osho Zen Tarot cards (purchased many a year ago in the Holy Land) for some facetiously-credible perceptivity. Running short on time, I opted for the one-card “super quickie,” where you randomly select a card for insight into a situation or to meditate on for the rest of the day.

I shuffled the deck, closed my eyes and split the deck in two, to see that I had picked out the No-Thingness card. Which is basically a black card with (gasp) nothing on it.

Enigmatic indeed.

Accordingly, after a lengthy spiritual meditation spanning some five minutes on the notion that “nothingness to nothingness is the whole journey,” I was so enlightened that my outgoing message will now impart: “Hey, it’s Eti. I can’t answer the phone because I’m too busy meditating on nothing and your call is fucking up my whole journey.”

LAXadaisical

2005-10-02T00:55:00.000-07:00

Unless you’re one of those guys whose job it is to hold up little printed signs and pick up strangers in black Lincoln Towncars, trips to LAX (which don’t directly involve you in the travel plans) are often emotionally split right down the middle with little gray area in which to frolic.

Arrivals: happy. Departures: sad.

And after about twenty years of ping-ponging between LAX and the Valley, you tend to learn a thing or two.

For example, you know that traffic always gets shitty around Wilshire and again at the 405/10 interchange, so you have to leave early, unless it's three in the morning. You know that you need to stay in the left lane of Century Boulevard for arrivals and in the middle lane for departures. (Try not to get blinded by the Live Nude Girls XXX bar on the right or the giant Celine Dion Caesar’s Palace billboard on the left.)

Once officially on airport grounds, you know that the Tom Bradley International Terminal is terminal number four (right after the turn) and how it’s the one terminal that actually serves food, sells magazines and has actual chairs (which are actually quite comfortable by airport standards) to sit in. You know that LAX tends to reek of car horns, plane fuel and the ever so nauseating aroma of travel (i.e., clashing perfumes, recycled air and bad fluorescent lighting.)

It also no longer surprises you that parking prices are through the roof or that the guy in the suit who utterly rams your foot with his luggage cart will never actually mumble a quick apology under his breath in passing, much less stop to do so formally.

Oh, and remember the button that reads “Push Button: Wait for Walk Signal?” Yeah, to that I’m going to have a shirt made that reads: “I already pressed the button you stupid moron! You just saw me do it because you were standing right next to me! Do you think that you have magical powers? I wish you would’ve told me that you’d push it again so I could’ve been spared from touching that yellow hued playground of disease and infestation altogether!”

Nevertheless, as complacent and cynical as I am about LAX, I never forget how lucky I am to have it so close to home. There are people who actually have to drive a couple hundred miles out of their way just to get to some small airport, where they’ll inevitably get on a plane only to get forked out to a bigger airport and so forth. That’s just a great big bowl of suck if I ever ate one.

Granted, entering the diabolical arena of L.A. traffic is quite capable of making you burn through a half tank of gas in a single trip and suck the soul right out of your road raged body; but hey, at least you don’t have to catch a connecting flight. And to that, I say amen.

Huntress

2005-10-01T23:33:00.000-07:00

A Lizard In the Tub Is Better Than Two In the...Mom Stop Screaming!

2005-09-30T19:35:00.000-07:00

People talk about foreshadowing and about cosmic consciousness and controlling the universe. And thus, tonight, it came to pass, that I officially classified myself as a reptilian prognosticator...or something like that.

If you recall my posts from earlier this week about a certain cat,
I wrote:

“Because you know if Kiiiiithy had brought home a lizard, that lizard would have been taken out to the neighbor’s yard and released to fend for itself.”

True to form, the not-so-evil-but-ever-so-certifiable Kiiiithy decided that baby squirrels were no longer her thing and opted to bring home a lizard this lovely Friday evening. Perhaps to pâté and spread on challah for Kiddush? Did I mention that she also decided that the best place to store said lizard was in the bathtub?

I never realized how outbackish the suburbs were until this cat started bringing home just about any and every specie of animal she can get her bell jarish paws on. I imagine it's only a matter of time before the good people of Sherman Oaks put their homes on four foot stilts so that the deadly Komodo Kiiiiithy doesn’t run off with their children in the dead of night.

Errrs of Endearment

2005-09-30T08:56:00.000-07:00

Terms of endearment have always felt very foreign to me. Trying to incorporate them into a personal conversation with a straight face is almost as effusively demanding as attempting left-handed calligraphy...with a quill...while riding a unicycle..on a tightrope...over a tank of hungry piranhas.

Sure, I can mutter the ever-sarcastic, “yes, dear” or sap a few ghetto “babaaaaays” into an off-handed comment here and there, but even that took me about 25 years to master and I still feel odd sometimes. Why is that?

Both my parents use terms of endearment pretty freely. I once hypothesized that it might be because they only use them in Hebrew and that’s how I’ve grown accustomed to hearing them. But after playing out some sentences in my head and having it still feel as apish as ever, I quickly dismissed the whole foreign language excuse.

Then I thought, maybe it’s because I’ve grown up around one too many plastic Los Angeles girls who so robotically and manipulatively spew out “sweetie,” that it makes cringe every time I even think of that word.

Then again, maybe terms of endearment are just not my thing. But that’s not say I don’t love people. Really, I do. They taste like chicken.

In other news, I’m sick and I feel like crap. Who wants a hug?

Calvin, Ralph. Ralph, Calvin.

2005-09-29T12:31:00.000-07:00

Not much going on today. No stories of the squirrel or elevator variety. Just a lot of tv last night and work this morning. I guess I could talk about the weather again, but I’m afraid that this blog cannot withstand jumping the shark twice. It’s like that age old saying: Jump the shark once, shame on Eti. Jump the shark twice, Eti’s blog sucks.

So, the only real news of interest, if anyone actually gives a rhino’s nad (shout out), is that I purchased Romance by Ralph Lauren on Tuesday.

I’ve been a Calvin Klein kind of girl for some time now. I mean, I’ve worn my fair share of perfumes over the years, but CK One is the one that’s stuck and endured the test of time. It’s been the one scent that I haven’t gotten sick of after a quarter bottle’s use.

So this week I decided to venture into Ralph Lauren territory. I actually wanted to get Romance last year (yeah, didn't we all), but for some reason, never quite got around to it.

I’m happy to say that I’m quite pleased with my purchase. The perfume itself is sweet, but with a little bit of a spicy kick, thus making it the good kind of sweet, as opposed to the pukey kind of sweet that old ladies wear.

The only downside is that its potency kind of wears off after a few hours. But I have only my body chemistry to blame. Regardless, this one’s definitely a keeper.

A Heartbreaking Work of Squirrely Genius

2005-09-28T12:34:00.000-07:00

Update: Happy.

I spoke to my mom who had good news. The baby squirrel will be okay.

Turns out (not-quite-so-evil) Kiiiithy didn’t really hurt it and that it was mostly asleep; not half-dead, as earlier reported. The nice people at the shelter told my mom that they would hand it over to the wild animal rescue, where I imagine it will be bottle fed and grow into one kick-ass squirrel.

I sort of (read: really, really, really) wanted to keep it. I think Zoe and I really connected and were destined to become great friends. (Cue montage: Eti and Zoe playing in a tree. Eti and Zoe making snow angels. Eti and Zoe eating peanuts together. Eti and Zoe asleep together in a field of poppies on a sunny day.) Ahhh, but such is life.

At least the story had a happy ending.

With that said, I must now revert to my snarky, sarcastic self.

Cute and Evil

2005-09-28T08:10:00.000-07:00

Warning: Sad.

I was ever-so satisfyingly awakened at five this morning to the lovely sounds of what could only be described as my mother’s lovely rendition of my name being screamed in an Israeli accent. (Actually, that’s the proper way for it to be screamed, so nevermind.)

I managed a groggy, “huh? whaaaaat?” (Because when I’m half-asleep I can only respond in lower case letters.) To which she tells me through the door that I have to get up to help her because her (seriously evil and nameless) cat (I call it Kiiiiithy, as in “Hello,” with a lisp) brought home some sort of animal. So I get up to find that Kiiiiithy brought home the most adorable baby squirrel, now laying semi-lifeless and curled up on the dining room floor.

I wish I could tell you that I rolled up my sleeves and rushed into action by administering some sort of Macgyver style CPR with a straw and a Ziploc bag, but such wasn’t the case. All I could do was tell my mom to get a shoe box, fill it up with some toilet paper and bring it to me. Then I grabbed some newspaper, scooped up the squirrel and put it in the box.

We put the box in the bathroom far away from the evilness of Kiiiiithy. And just like little kids who get a new pet, I kept getting up every ten minutes to check on it. It was still alive when I left the house this morning and my mom plans on taking it to the shelter when they open.

It’s weird to think how people respond to the cute and cuddlies. Because you know if Kiiiiithy had brought home a lizard, that lizard would have been taken out to the neighbor’s yard and released to fend for itself. (At least it wasn’t a termite.)

I think I’ll stop here because I don’t want to go into some ill-advised rant about how I don’t like this new cat and how my other cat was really an angel and how it’s not fair that the awesome cats have to be put to sleep while the stupid ones without personality get to run around and maim cute squirrels.

At any rate, hopefully good news to come.

OK Computer, (Not-So OK Printer)

2005-09-27T09:56:00.000-07:00

I’ve been engaged in an ongoing war with my printer, Brother HL-5040, for quite some time now. And the situation has come to a head. Or rather, a drum.

Seems the drum is finally giving out (I know this because the drum light blinks a lot; either that or it’s winking at me, which is also a possibility) and thus papers are getting jammed left and right. Based on my meticulous mathematical calculations (i.e, half-assed estimating) I would say that one out of every eight sheets of paper gets jammed.

Last Thursday, I was so heavily ensconced in a battle with Brother, trying to methodically, albeit not-so-subtly, un-jam a sheet using a letter opener, scissors and a paper clip, that my boss actually walked by and quipped, “I think the printer is winning.”

You know, everyone rants and raves about road rage, and yet I find printer rage to be all but taboo. (Except in the ever-brilliant “Office Space,” to which I tip my hat.)

And even though I love Brother and we’ve been through the shit together (16 hour days, ex-parte motions, threatening letters, et al.), I just don’t like him very much right now.

Postcards From the Bleeeeeecccccccch

2005-09-26T16:17:00.000-07:00

Every morning, I get to work at seven, have my coffee around nine-thirty and normally find that the urge to expel said coffee kicks in about a half hour later. This morning, running a little behind, I found myself in the bathroom around eleven. After washing my hands, I went to grab some paper towels and noticed something quite disturbing.

There wasn’t a single paper towel discarded in the garbage!

Now, I know for a fact that on any given day there are roughly fifteen women who work on my floor.

Understandably I was rather fermished because this either meant that by some miracle or force of nature, all the women on my floor disappeared for 4 hours and their bowels suspended, or that every single woman who used the bathroom in the morning failed to wash her hands.

To that I say: ew and gross!

This is the reason I:

1.) avoid public bathrooms as much as possible
2.) never, ever, ever touch anything in there unless absolutely necessary
3.) If I do touch something, wash the crap out of my hands (no pun intended)

and lastly, and most importantly:

4.) always use about 5 paper towels to open the door to get out

To quickly recap: Cleanliness is godliness you nasty bitches! WASH YOUR FUCKING HANDS!

Stop the Wagon!

2005-09-26T11:10:00.000-07:00

I don’t have a token, but I have a blog.

After my pukey birthday extravaganza last month, I promised to lay off the bottle for a while. Well, it wasn’t really that bad, but I did drink a lot over the summer. And today is the one month anniversary of my “sobriety.”

In all fairness, I’m not a big drinker, but I am a social drinker. I’ll admit that if/when I drink, I drink to get drunk, but I can “totally stop whenever I want.” No, really, I can. The last time I stopped drinking, I gave up beer and I didn’t touch alcohol for eight months. I haven’t touched beer since...that’s mostly because I realized that shots of hard alcohol can do the same job as beer in a quicker and more efficient manner sans ten trips to the bathroom.

Yeah, I think it’s time to start drinking again.

Trouble Sleeping: Gossamer Angels

2005-09-26T07:57:00.000-07:00

Here’s what you do when it’s two in the morning and you’ve been laying in bed since eleven but can’t actually fall asleep:

a.) Lay there some more, toss, turn, repeat.
b.) Replay “Mystic Pizza” in your head.
c.) Watch “Killer Jellyfish” on the Discovery Channel

Last night I opted for d.) All of the above.

The Box Jellyfish, more commonly knows as the Irukandji, was referred to as “Nature’s Most Elusive Killer.” The show was pretty cool, because any show that can use the following phrases, can’t be that bad:

“twenty minutes to enter the bloodstream”
“the worst pain you’ll ever know”
“doctors can’t do anything but monitor and treat your symptoms”
“suffer from two days to two weeks”
“20 irukandji can wipe out a beach of swimmers”

Actually, my favorite part of the entire show was when the narrator referred to them as “gossamer angels.”

Of course, no nature show would be complete without a couple of wild and crazy Aussie scientists. And true to form, they showed these two Aussie marine biologists jump right into irukandji infested waters and (shocker) get stung! And for the next ten minutes (time lapse), the show focused on nothing but their pain. Seriously, they were writhing in their hospital beds for several days. I'm talking fists clenched, teeth gnashing, waxen.

And what do these guys do as soon as they’re released from the hospital? They get right back INTO THE WATER with the fucking jellyfish in the dead of night. Um, guys, I want to introduce you to Ryan "I never learn" Atwood.

At any rate, I think I finally knocked out around three.

(Family) Whistle Blower

2005-09-24T20:50:00.000-07:00

The family whistle is a pretty universal thing that most people have and use but rarely pay any conscious attention to. I hadn’t really thought about it much myself until I went to pick my mom up from LAX last month. She was walking about fifteen feet ahead of me and instead of calling her name, I opted for the family whistle.

Appropriately enough, about five Israeli people all turned their heads to face me, my mom included. (The Israeli family whistle is more of a universal country whistle than anything else. Its sound is reminiscent of a high pitched/extended version of a cuckoo clock.).

I realize now that the family whistle was a forerunner to the cell phone, especially in store settings. Seriously, no trip to the supermarket or department store in the eighties through the late nineties was complete without the beautiful calls of the family whistle.

It really is genius if you think about it. Back in the days before you were able to speed dial your fellow shopper to pinpoint their location, using nothing more than the family whistle, you were able to communicate an entire conversation without saying anything from opposite ends of any given store.

Whistle: “Where are you?”
Whistle: “I’m here”
Whistle: “Okay, keep whistling because I’m trying to find you.”
Whistle: “I’m over here!”
Whistle: “Yeah, I see you.”
Whistle: “I see you too.”

Every once in a while there would be another shopper at the store with the same whistle as you. And you’d go towards the sound thinking you’d find your mom or your sister, and it ended up being some fat guy or something. But I guess that’s the modern day equivalent of someone having the same cell phone ring as you. At least with the whistle you can never go over your minutes.

Rage In An Elevator

2005-09-23T08:41:00.000-07:00

It seemed like people were really on edge in my building yesterday, myself included. Or maybe it’s just that when you’re stressed out, everyone else seems stressed out too. Kind of like when you want a new car and then all you see is that kind of car on the road. You know how it works.

On any given workday, I ride the elevator a minimum of five times. So what are the odds that yesterday two people started telling me/showing me their problems on our shared ride down?

One (clearly) disturbed lady in a power suit started telling me about how she was sure one of her clients in being battered by her husband and how the client canceled her appointment with the husband listening on the other line. It was all too creepy and “Sleeping With the Enemy” for a Thursday.

Then, a few hours later, I walk into the elevator just as this guy decides throw a punch into the elevator wall. As luck and Murphy's Law would have it, the ride down lasted an extra two floors because we were both going down to G2. UN-comfortable!

It’s always nice when other people’s shitty problems put your seemingly shitty problems in perspective. However forced and awkward as it may be.

Stupid When Wet

2005-09-20T21:34:00.000-07:00

Rain in Los Angeles.

Watch as the already challenged driving IQs of all L.A. residents plummet to new depths.

I imagine the thought process to go a little something like this: Huh? What? Oh no! Water! Falling from the sky! Brain...must...stop...working! Ahhhhhhhh!

Bend It Like Nestle

2005-09-19T20:52:00.000-07:00

On Sunday morning, Randy, Robert, Reena, Brian, Nick and I went to the VNSO Park for a little soccer scrimmage, but it ended up being more of a hypothetical battle of the blogs since the actual soccer bit was trés pathétique.

We found ourselves on the little AYSO kids’ practice field, experienced an injury and played to seven for only an hour with a handful of water/sarcasm breaks in between. On the bright side, we actually broke a sweat and I’m glad to say that I’m surprisingly not sore today. Who would’ve thought that soccer is that much less of an impact sport than kickball?

On the not-so-bright side, my hormones were totally fucking with me all weekend, thus impelling me to compulsively devour any and all chocolate I could get my hands on...totally against my will.

Okay, fine...maybe not so much against my will, but more so against my will-power. It doesn’t help that my mom has a giant Costco sized bag of Nestle semi-sweet baking chips in the Lazy Suzan. That’s almost as bad as the time my dad bought a 10 lb. Ghirardelli chocolate bar for a friend last year and ended up giving them a gift card instead, thus leaving said chocolate bar at home. Suffice it to say the chocolate bar didn’t last 10 lbs. for very long. Can you say “osmosis?”

I'll admit, I’ve toyed with the idea of going to a hypnotist to try to wean myself off chocolate. But after some deep thinking (i.e., massive consumption of dark chocolate), I came to the realization that if I didn’t love chocolate, I’d have no soul; but my ass would look really good in jeans. Oooh, dilemma.

Gone Fishing

2005-09-17T14:51:00.000-07:00

Woke up early, grabbed my stuff, bought some worms and headed to the lake. I left The Rebel at home and grabbed the digital instead.

Hi, My Name Is...

2005-09-15T21:08:00.000-07:00

Growing up in America with a foreign name meant a constant stream of teasing and name butchering. Yeah, calling me E.T. is SO 1984! By now, I’ve pretty much heard it all. However, having a foreign name in America also means you can Google the shit out of it with awesome results.

Here are some of my self-indulgent, yet witty findings:

1. Hello, Eti

“We even look ahead to the day when humans and ETI will cooperate in joint projects in science, exploration, philanthropy, philosophy, spirituality, myths, art, or music. Perhaps, for instance, we could develop an inspiring symphony or a magnificent piece of visual art that harmoniously combines our efforts and yours.”

Questions For ETI

"Have any other forms of ETI visited our solar system in recent years? Does any dangerous or hostile form of ETI pose any threat to us?"

Oh, if they only knew!

2. Start Eti Up

“We offer a 3-month, no-charge, evaluation edition for ETI. If you want to use ETI after the expiration, you can download a new version of ETI.”

How to start ETI

Start & Quit

1. Run the command prompt.
2. Type ETI.
Type q to quit ETI.

Load Rules
Type
Load "filename" to load rules. For example, load "test.eti"

3. Eti In the Red

“With a proud past and a secure place in explosives history, the ETI focus is fixed firmly on the future.”

Feel free to watch ETI set off a blast...

4. The ETI Band?

I bet there are plenty of groupies out there.

5. Why NOT Choose Eti?!

“ETI is a global leader in the field of geometric dimensioning and tolerancing.”

6. ETI Goes To Washington

“ The Senate today missed another opportunity to pass FSC/ETI legislation to reform the tax code and remove the underlying reason for the sanctions that have been imposed by the European Union on U.S. manufacturers, farmers, and other job creators....The sooner Congress acts to address this issue, the sooner these burdensome sanctions will be lifted. We urge immediate action.”

7. ETI Can Self-Clean

“With its small footprint, the ETI is ideal for wash water recovery in cramped plant floor environments”

8. Higher Education Eti

I’m like Einstein in Turkey.

9. Eti Does Dubai, Epoxy and Rabbits

Is it wrong that I’m kind of aroused by the fact that “ETI has also found success with its new 10 inch diameter...”

However, I’m kind of more aroused by the fact that “ETI is available in two viscosities: ETI-LV (low viscosity) and ETI-GV (gel viscosity) to handle a wide range of crack widths.

And yet, even more so by the fact that “ETI is currently designing the Rabbit 2000 into their flagship ADH-2A COM...”

HOT!

10. Miss Manners Eti

Take the test to find out your Eti-Q?

That's all I've got for now. But there are 83 pages of Google results, so I'm sure I'll have a sequel post...or ten. And, as Nick so poignantly pointed out: you can't spell "FACETIOUS" without ETI!

A Blog Is Born

2005-08-25T08:49:00.000-07:00

It's not how much I write. It's how much I don't write.