Hollywood BULL!

What’s worse than going to the most romantic place in the world? Going without your girlfriend. That is the exact sensation the Hollywood Bowl gave me not more than 2 hours ago. Think of it; outdoors, beautiful music, the night sky framed by the mountain tree line… your boss and some drunk girl. Horrible.

The evening wasn’t designed to be horrible, and outside of my pathetic “where’s my girlfriend” mentality, the night was a complete success. My freelance boss/friend supplied me with a birthday-ticket to the evening’s performance drawing my attention with the prospect of the incredibly talented Andrew Bird. Only later did the pre-drunk girl inform me The Decemberists were headlining with the LA Philharmonic.

This information (to anyone familiar with the concept of ‘good music’) should be enough to make anyone happy, and in all honesty, the performances were wonderful. Certainly the opening act Band of Horses should change their name to Band of Boring, but Andrew Bird marveled audiences, yet again, with his interesting mix of folk rock and electrico-esque samplings. The Decemberists too, were all I’d hoped them to be blending their 19th century story telling sound with the grace only the LA Phil can bring, but all of these wonderful things added up to be sitting there without anyone to really share it with.

I suppose I am just being pathetic. Yeah, I would have liked to shimmy through the crowds finger locked with a girl like the droves that moved all about me, and yes I would have enjoyed sharing a drink under the stars with a special lady, but hey, my ticket was free. I got to see Andrew Bird, The Decemberists, and some drunk bird we brought almost fell down a concrete hill. I might not have gotten a kiss tonight, but I did almost get to see a wasted girl ‘kiss it.’ Life has a way of always evening out.

The Secret's Out.

Many people are familiar with the phenomena known as the Victoria’s Secret catalogue. A tantalizing publication featuring a wide array of women’s clothing and undergarments which are almost guaranteed to make the wearer the desire of almost anyone’s heart. As a man, I’ve stumbled upon the VS catalogue, and I’m aware of the wonder which lies within its cover. Though I don’t know where to get said publication nor have I ever owned one myself, through television ads and pop-culture hearsay, I’m more than aware of what I might find within its pages… women. Beautiful women wearing next to nothing.

The Victoria’s Secret catalogue is not of this world. It is perfection. It is pure wonder. It is completely perverted to own one if you’re a guy. There’s no way around it, the VS catalogue is incredibly alluring, but if you’re a man hoping to put off the ‘not creepy’ vibe, the VS cataloged is the first thing to avoid. Though I don’t condone the ownership of pornography, it would be far more attractive to be caught with a Playboy, than to explain to a lady why you’re looking at women’s underpants. Face it guys; its creepy.

The only thing worse than a man with a VS catalogue is a man who needs not explain where he got it. Case in point: my old roommate. Not more than 2 days ago while retrieving the day’s parcels from the mail, I opened the box to discover the VS ‘Semi-annual SALE’ catalogue. As I attempted to understand how such a publication could find its way into my mailbox, I flipped the ‘wonder document’ over to reveal


Granted, before I begin crying wolf and calling Kuhns a perv, let it be known that he has an attractive girlfriend who is, indeed, the owner of VS track pants which were purchased by Mr. Kuhns during the holiday season. It is entirely possible that Kuhns entered his mailing information at the time of the purchase to enable a discount of some sort which then allows VS to mail him publications for future purchases… but it’s much more enjoyable to believe he’s a sick-o.

If you’d like to personally confirm or disconfirm my assumptions, please do so here.

As for the catalogue itself, which is now in my possession… I intend to do the right thing: I’m going to go to an elementary school and try to sell it to some 6th graders.

The Greatest Day of My Life

Not every day is a good day. In fact, unless you wake up watching/thinking about your favorite episodes of Romper Room, most days aren’t that great. These days can be the result of poor luck, poor planning, or sheer exhaustion due to staying out too late for absolutely no reason. Said bad days are only ‘enhanced’ further when one is subjected to a stuffy office performing a task a pigeon could endure if a nutritional pellet system could be implemented. Needless to say, my Saturday fell short of the ‘pursuit of happiness’ (Jefferson’s words, not Will Smith’s resume), until I stumbled upon man’s greatest discovery since Uranium.

While running a menial errand in the Burbank area, my vision became skewed by what appeared to be a fire raging from a building. Smoke bellowed across the open street in a manner that cared not for man, nor the Sabbath. From three blocks away, I became quite alarmed as my mind rushed to the previous week’s scenes of firemen engulfed in Griffith Park fires, but as I approached closer, I discovered I was the only one alarmed. This sensation was only further supported when I saw t-shirt clad people heading toward the mouth of the flames.

Though the odds were slim I would have stopped my car in the event of an actual fire, I began to slow down to look concerned. I craned my neck awkwardly around in my automobile so I might catch a glimpse of whatever pagan ritual was being so openly honored, when I discovered the goat they were sacrificing wasn’t a goat at all, but beef. Sweet, sweet beef. Racks upon racks of beef, but they didn’t stop there. I saw pork, chicken, fish, and basically everything than can/should be cooked and drown in BBQ sauce. Upon a further investigation, I realized I had stumbled upon a Saturday tradition known as the Handy Market BBQ.

This holiday I dubbed ‘Christmas Jr.’ happens every Saturday in Burbank, at the Handy Market on Magnolia Blvd. The BBQ offers a wide selection of delicious meats mixed with an eclectic dialogue and subtle puns involving the word ‘meat.’

I, of course, asked for half a chicken drenched so heavily in BBQ, you’d thought it owed money to the mob, which I completely destroyed upon reaching my apartment. The BBQ was incredibly delicious, but more than that, it allowed me to feel at home in a place so far from anything ‘normal,’ that I couldn’t help but smile. That smile was short lived, however, as I became reminded that one shouldn’t eat an entire ½ chicken by him/herself without bracing for the consequences (Rolaids).

Though I’ve learned my lesson this week, anyone free for lunch on Saturday?

Never-Never Heard From Again

I generally consider myself quite cunning. I’m fairly proficient in evaluating adverse conditions and selecting a plan in which to best achieve my goals. I can take care of myself (all previous points exclude female-related situations), and I’m aware of it. The problem with this over-confidence in my ability, is my tendency to ignore possible scenarios in which I might be in peril, simply because I believe I’m smarter than the situation. In many ways, despite my self-proclaimed genius, I’m an idiot.
A fine example of my skill in ‘blowing it’ came not more than three weeks ago as America was in the height of the Peter Pan peanut butter recall. If you remember correctly, Peter Pan peanut butter was recalled due to a salmonella scare. Well, my life was moving at its normal relentless pace and all was well until I fell quite ill for all but no reason. Not only was I feeling less than frisky, but for the first time since moving out here from the Midwest, my seasonal asthma was taking a serious toll on my breathing. Of course, I thought nothing of it and continued to work feverishly while clinging to never-used nerd-defining inhaler.
As the week progressed and I became more and more irate with my failing immune system and lung capacity, I received a letter in the mail. It was from a beautiful girl who had taken to clipping interesting/humorous articles out of newspapers. Though she more than likely had romantic notions in mind, the newspaper clippings were both a way to indicate her creative merit while giving my busy life an opportunity to receive the newspaper “Cliff’s notes” on the day. On this occasion as I was riffling through her clippings and kind words, I came across an article for the tainted peanut butter. Though I’d heard of the recall, I cared little for the information until this clipping found my fingertips. Not only did the article describe the problem, but it listed a product code which identified the tainted stock as beginning with the numbers “2111”. Without saying anything, I walked to the kitchen, opened my cupboard and removed my container of Peter Pan peanut butter, which I had been eating from at least once a day during that week. I jokingly noted the irony as I peered upon the lid only to find the numbers “2111” staring back at me. Yes, I had been eating tainted peanut butter.

The following moments unfolded much like the plot twist in the Usual Suspects. I recalled how I became ill shortly after purchasing the peanut butter, and how it was strange that my dormant asthma came upon me so suddenly. Though I should have felt relieved, I only felt irritated/silly that a humorous letter from far away could have feasibly saved my life while my ‘brilliance’ was busy taking cat-naps and vitamin pills.
Does this mean I’m going to pay more attention when they announce a recall on a product I currently use? Probably not. I just hope I don’t say something stupid so a pretty girl stops writing letters.

Common Scents: Shower-Free Day 2

This morning began just like any other until my attempt at stepping into the shower was followed by a series of swear words. As the ice cold water struck my skin, my body instantly went into a state of shock. Like a freshman girl at a frat party, I had made an irreversible mistake and began gasping uncontrollably as I sought refuge in my towel. My lack of sleep and lingering sickness caused me to entirely forget that we are still without hot water, and we’ll continue to be in this position for another 5 days. My frustration was only further invigorated when I realized the three eggs I had whipped for the frying pan had only the rubbish bin for a destination instead of my empty stomach. I didn’t like the alternative, but desperate times call for desperate measures and I loaded my shower shoes, and headed off to work.

No one likes to shower at work, but even more so, no one likes to be ‘the guy’ who showers at work. This was my exact thought as I sauntered into the NBC Universal elevator. I wanted to hide the fact I hadn’t showered in nearly 2 days, and thought if I played it cool maybe I could fly under the radar. The only problem with my plan was the three ‘firsts’ my office coworkers would have to overlook if I was to harbor any pride as I walked into the office: 1) I was wearing a hat over horribly weaselie hair 2) my Burberry Touch wasn’t masking my unkempt odor, but it was breeding with it to create one invincible stench 3) I was carrying a huge gym bag.

The hair went unnoticed, the smell was blamed on lunch remnants in the rubbish bin, but the gym bag led quips from traveling, to trying out with Beckham. We all had a good laugh at my unfortunate misfortunes and after several hours of ‘work,’ I mustered up my courage, waved good-bye to all I knew, and braved the stairwell two flights to the 3rd floor locker room.

There’s no way to hide that you’re going to use the shower. They’re always tucked away in the back of the locker room forcing you to walk past clads of judging eyes. Half way through the endless mile as I waited to hear “Dead man walking,” I made it to the shower only to discover it wasn’t nearly as bad as I assumed. In fact, aside from the fear that the stainless steel door and curtain were the only things keeping me from possibly getting raped, the work-shower was a fairly positive experience. Granted, I’d much rather shower in my apartment where my feet can touch the floor sans a quarter inch of rubber and I’m free from the fear of having to call another man ‘daddy,’ but in my current situation the work shower was more than sufficient. I don’t think I’ll have to use the work shower again but if I do, like a three-legged dog sniffing a lawnmower… I’ll know what to expect.

Common Scents: Shower-Free Day 1

I smell. I’m not stating that I have the capability to sense an aroma; I’m stating that there is a certain aroma about me. Its not the smell of success, nor is it a subtle hint of Drakkar Noir common about me in the 5th grade. It’s the smell of sweat, the smell of man… a lot of it. It’s the smell that is the direct product of not showering. Its not that I’m against bathing, or boycotting cleanliness in the name of a cause, it’s the fact that my gas has been unexpectedly turned off and I have no hot water.

This discovery was made earlier this morning as I stared at my shower like a dog learning physics. After nearly 15 minutes of waiting for the water to change from ice cold to anything bearable, I realized the pilot light must have gone out and I turned off the water to investigate the water heater. Warning: If you don’t deal well with stress, or you still have a desire to remain on earth, don’t attempt to relight a pilot light. It could possibly be the scariest thing done in the home outside of living in matrimony.

Relighting the pilot light is not a difficult job in theory, but the warnings manufacturers place on the water heaters are enough to question mortality. The instructions for relighting the pilot are there, but they’re sprinkled with warnings about how improper procedure can result in an explosion. This thought of melted flesh left me with a hard decision; call for help and remain filthy or risk it all and get that shower. As I whipped the sweat from my brow and caught a hint of my under-arm, the choice was clear and moments later I was re-reading instructions.

After several failed attempts, and nerves like a bomb technician cranking a jack in the box, my roommate Jeff rediscovered an invoice he found taped to our front door. Sure enough it was a bill from the gas company claiming that our service had been terminated due to insufficient funds (ironically remembered AFTER I had already ‘risked my life’). A phone call to our gas provider resulted in a less than favorable explanation: our former roommate who had been paying the bill online, neglected to mention they only sent notices to him via email, leaving Jeff and I completely unaware of any sort of fee. Without sufficient payment, the gas company had no choice but to terminate our service leaving Jeff and I without hot water or a working oven.

The real thrill came when I made an appointment to have our service turned back on. Of course I was making the call on Friday, the day before the weekend, so I painfully assumed they might not make it over until Monday. As if I was Dominique Wilkins, and the operator a brash Michael Jordan, she picked up the ball and took it to a new level. “Sir, the soonest we can return your service is going to be Thursday afternoon.” Thursday afternoon, literally 6 days away. Like selling Manhattan for a trunk full of treasures, I had gotten screwed. 6 days without a personal shower. 6 days without a working oven. 6 days with little to no dignity. 6 days of awesome stories.

“Who will survive, and what will be left of them?”