Mr. Ball,
I believe it was Wayne Newton who famously said for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. To put it in layman’s terms, if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, so too must there be a tree not falling over and someone is in fact there to hear it.
Which brings me to the concept of the good luck penny. As a scientist of science, you seemed to be the leading authority to turn to on such manners. But first, a little back-story:
The other day someone showed me his good luck penny.
First and foremost, I feel it is necessary to establish if it is within the realm of plausibility for such a thing as a good luck penny to exist. How does one measure the different gradients of luck found in a penny, or is one good luck penny just as lucky as the next good luck penny? If it is conceivable for a good luck penny to exist, is it not also conceivable for bad luck penny(s) to exist? Again, do they have different degrees of bad luck attached to them, or does their bad luck come at a flat rate?
What about an indifferent penny? If superhero movies have taught us anything, it is that nothing is painted in black and white. So perhaps there is such a thing as a gray area penny, a yin and yang penny if you will, that neither affect luck one way or the other.
After showing me the good luck penny, this person proceeded to introduce me to their good luck Go America! dollar, which of course, raised more questions. Is it possible for other denominations of currency to carry with them a specific luck factor—perhaps the pence, the rupee, or peso? What about other objects altogether? Is it possible to have good luck zip cords, love seats, and hot dog buns? Or is the luck a characteristic of only a select few forms of objects, similarly to how Asians are blessed with the ability to do math really well?
It seems like after finding one lucky penny, the chances of finding more lucky objects would increase, lest of course, there are lots of unlucky objects acting against it. I don’t know. You are the scientist. In theory, I am a theoretician that theorizes theories, not a scientist, so aside from proposing these issues, I am useless when it comes to pursuing these issues further than the hypothesis stage. Please let me know what your scientific method finds.
Sincerely,
V.
To read Geneball's beautiful mind, copy and paste the below thing to your internet thing:
http://geneball.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
A Landmark Moment
After a night of carefully crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s on my application for the movie theater, I got up bright and early around 10:30am so I could be at the open interview at noon.
A little about the Landmark Theatre:
It’s quite immaculate. First, it takes up an entire side of the mall, it is three stories tall, the bottom floor being renovated to put in a restaurant, and the second two floors house twelve movie theaters between themselves. It has your typical amenities you find at a any movie theater—box office, concession stand, ticket taker, etc.—but it goes above and beyond in so many ways. When purchasing tickets, you pick out the seat you want at the same time. That seat is then reserved for you and you alone. The concession stand has your standard Raisnets (milk chocolate and dark) and Milk Duds, but also has Hebrew National Hotdogs, pizzas, Toblerone (milk chocolate and dark) and something called a Tim Tam, which later I find out is a delicious Australian chocolate wafer snack. Once you pass the ticket taker, there are employees there to show you to your reserved seat. Before the movie starts, someone presents the movie, it’s title, running time, and MPAA rating, all while trying to pimp some wares available at the concierge desk, such as DVDs, soundtracks, and books based on the movie you are about to see.
The place is nice. However, as I sat waiting in the wine bar (there’s a wine bar) with my neatly composed application, across from a bunch of sixteen and seventeen-year olds, one whose application was folded in half, and a girl, who upon learning that I was from Iowa, asked me, “Oh, where’s that at?”, I felt the most humiliated quite possibly ever in my life. On the other hand, right now I’m jobless, so beggars can’t be choosers. On the other hand, upon asking these kids what their plans were after graduating high school, they stared blankly at me before one of them chirped up and asked, “What do you mean?”
After this display of the merits of the California school system, I went into the interview quite confident. Seeing as how I could enunciate words without drooling and understand the first half of this sentence without getting confused, I should be fine. Even if I don’t get the job, I’ll be fine, all things considered.
The interview went swimmingly. General interview questions were asked. General interview questions were answered. I was asked back for a follow-up interview, which I had to sign up for at the concierge desk. There, I met someone named Xavier and Spencer. Spencer assured me I’d love working here and wished me luck on Monday.
Part II of my day involved driving down to posh Santa Monica for a meet and greet with a bunch of people in the industry. How did I learn about such an event? A large woman living at the hostel who is quite unpleasant to be around and converse with, informed me of it, and since I ignore all of her other attempts to get me to go to things, I thought today I should reciprocate the offer with a quick appearance just so she’d leave me alone.
After driving around for twenty minutes looking for a parking space, I found one in a supermarket’s lot reserved for customers of that supermarket’s lot only. Violators would be towed at owner’s expense. Gotta love California.
The box social itself was on the rooftop of an apartment complex. A quick description of the party would look alarmingly like the pool scene from “Boogie Nights.” The centerpiece of the get together was of course, the rooftop pool. No one was actually swimming in it, but it forced people to huddle closer together and converse. There was a potluck barbecue to the side where I ingested as much free food as I could. Not ironic at all, so too was the large woman that invited me to the party to begin with.
Everyone was wearing a “Hi, My Name Is” nametag on their shirts. People would give their name and their profession. There was Steve, a director/writer, and Brad, an actor/writer, and Rhonda, producer/writer and on and on down the line. It seems as though everyone here is a writer of some sort. To break the mold, on my nametag, I wrote writer/stunt performer. I listened to several of these people rattle on and on about what they did while I shoveled handfuls of free Ruffles into my gullet. For all of the actors/writers, directors/writers, clergymen/writers in attendance, not a single one of them had directed, acted, produced, lighted, mixed a damn thing. You’d imagine all of that time not doing what they said they did would leave them plenty of time to write. But no, no one had actually written anything either. They all had ideas for things they wanted to write—shorts and features and webisodes—but no one had actually written anything down. This blog entry alone probably has more words written than the cumulative of everyone else on that rooftop. This wasn’t a party for people in the industry. It was a party for industry wannabes to get together and sound like they were somebody. To that extent, everyone was quite successful.
After excusing myself from a discussion with one of the caterers/writers, I hightailed it back to my not towed car and cruised down the Ten back to hostel purgatory for the final act.
Having been in Los Angeles for over a month at this point, outside of Venice Beach, I had yet to do any touristy things. That all changed when Ben took me down to the Hollywood Bowl. This is where the Walk of Fame I skimmed previously rests, along with the Kodak Theater, the Scientology Museum, and other Hollywood attractions you’ve always heard about but have never seen reside.
It’s also worth noting that everything you would associate with Hollywood resides within a two block diameter. It’s also not as glitzy and glamorous as you might think. It’s quite dirty, actually. Bums and panderers are everywhere. So is their poo. But you can spend a lot of time in that area, like Ben and I did this particular evening. In traffic alone for those two blocks, Ben and I were there for an hour and a half. We were in a parking garage for another half hour looking for parking, then spent about 15 minutes seeing all the sights to be seen.
Ben and I went to a rock n’ roll concert so Ben could see a friend. Shortly after our ears started to bleed, we left, agreeing the no-name band performing wasn’t worth permanent hearing loss, nor was the friend, who clearly didn’t mind the thumping bass that jiggled your stomach acids. Fortunately, Gramm’s Chinese Theater was close by and we stood in a bunch of living and dead actor’s cemented footprints. It’s worth noting that John Wayne’s feet are beyond tiny. They are maybe one size larger than a newborn baby’s foot. His tough guy persona must be to compensate for something. Will Smith’s feet are about the size of my forearm. Big Willie Style indeed. But Burt Reynolds’s feet were juuuuuust right.
Being close to midnight at this point, Ben and I decided to pack up and head home—Ben because he had to get up early and work the next day, me because I aged 34 years the day I turned 23 and was tired at this point. So ended another glitzy, glamorous, superficial Hollywood day.
A little about the Landmark Theatre:
It’s quite immaculate. First, it takes up an entire side of the mall, it is three stories tall, the bottom floor being renovated to put in a restaurant, and the second two floors house twelve movie theaters between themselves. It has your typical amenities you find at a any movie theater—box office, concession stand, ticket taker, etc.—but it goes above and beyond in so many ways. When purchasing tickets, you pick out the seat you want at the same time. That seat is then reserved for you and you alone. The concession stand has your standard Raisnets (milk chocolate and dark) and Milk Duds, but also has Hebrew National Hotdogs, pizzas, Toblerone (milk chocolate and dark) and something called a Tim Tam, which later I find out is a delicious Australian chocolate wafer snack. Once you pass the ticket taker, there are employees there to show you to your reserved seat. Before the movie starts, someone presents the movie, it’s title, running time, and MPAA rating, all while trying to pimp some wares available at the concierge desk, such as DVDs, soundtracks, and books based on the movie you are about to see.
The place is nice. However, as I sat waiting in the wine bar (there’s a wine bar) with my neatly composed application, across from a bunch of sixteen and seventeen-year olds, one whose application was folded in half, and a girl, who upon learning that I was from Iowa, asked me, “Oh, where’s that at?”, I felt the most humiliated quite possibly ever in my life. On the other hand, right now I’m jobless, so beggars can’t be choosers. On the other hand, upon asking these kids what their plans were after graduating high school, they stared blankly at me before one of them chirped up and asked, “What do you mean?”
After this display of the merits of the California school system, I went into the interview quite confident. Seeing as how I could enunciate words without drooling and understand the first half of this sentence without getting confused, I should be fine. Even if I don’t get the job, I’ll be fine, all things considered.
The interview went swimmingly. General interview questions were asked. General interview questions were answered. I was asked back for a follow-up interview, which I had to sign up for at the concierge desk. There, I met someone named Xavier and Spencer. Spencer assured me I’d love working here and wished me luck on Monday.
Part II of my day involved driving down to posh Santa Monica for a meet and greet with a bunch of people in the industry. How did I learn about such an event? A large woman living at the hostel who is quite unpleasant to be around and converse with, informed me of it, and since I ignore all of her other attempts to get me to go to things, I thought today I should reciprocate the offer with a quick appearance just so she’d leave me alone.
After driving around for twenty minutes looking for a parking space, I found one in a supermarket’s lot reserved for customers of that supermarket’s lot only. Violators would be towed at owner’s expense. Gotta love California.
The box social itself was on the rooftop of an apartment complex. A quick description of the party would look alarmingly like the pool scene from “Boogie Nights.” The centerpiece of the get together was of course, the rooftop pool. No one was actually swimming in it, but it forced people to huddle closer together and converse. There was a potluck barbecue to the side where I ingested as much free food as I could. Not ironic at all, so too was the large woman that invited me to the party to begin with.
Everyone was wearing a “Hi, My Name Is” nametag on their shirts. People would give their name and their profession. There was Steve, a director/writer, and Brad, an actor/writer, and Rhonda, producer/writer and on and on down the line. It seems as though everyone here is a writer of some sort. To break the mold, on my nametag, I wrote writer/stunt performer. I listened to several of these people rattle on and on about what they did while I shoveled handfuls of free Ruffles into my gullet. For all of the actors/writers, directors/writers, clergymen/writers in attendance, not a single one of them had directed, acted, produced, lighted, mixed a damn thing. You’d imagine all of that time not doing what they said they did would leave them plenty of time to write. But no, no one had actually written anything either. They all had ideas for things they wanted to write—shorts and features and webisodes—but no one had actually written anything down. This blog entry alone probably has more words written than the cumulative of everyone else on that rooftop. This wasn’t a party for people in the industry. It was a party for industry wannabes to get together and sound like they were somebody. To that extent, everyone was quite successful.
After excusing myself from a discussion with one of the caterers/writers, I hightailed it back to my not towed car and cruised down the Ten back to hostel purgatory for the final act.
Having been in Los Angeles for over a month at this point, outside of Venice Beach, I had yet to do any touristy things. That all changed when Ben took me down to the Hollywood Bowl. This is where the Walk of Fame I skimmed previously rests, along with the Kodak Theater, the Scientology Museum, and other Hollywood attractions you’ve always heard about but have never seen reside.
It’s also worth noting that everything you would associate with Hollywood resides within a two block diameter. It’s also not as glitzy and glamorous as you might think. It’s quite dirty, actually. Bums and panderers are everywhere. So is their poo. But you can spend a lot of time in that area, like Ben and I did this particular evening. In traffic alone for those two blocks, Ben and I were there for an hour and a half. We were in a parking garage for another half hour looking for parking, then spent about 15 minutes seeing all the sights to be seen.
Ben and I went to a rock n’ roll concert so Ben could see a friend. Shortly after our ears started to bleed, we left, agreeing the no-name band performing wasn’t worth permanent hearing loss, nor was the friend, who clearly didn’t mind the thumping bass that jiggled your stomach acids. Fortunately, Gramm’s Chinese Theater was close by and we stood in a bunch of living and dead actor’s cemented footprints. It’s worth noting that John Wayne’s feet are beyond tiny. They are maybe one size larger than a newborn baby’s foot. His tough guy persona must be to compensate for something. Will Smith’s feet are about the size of my forearm. Big Willie Style indeed. But Burt Reynolds’s feet were juuuuuust right.
Being close to midnight at this point, Ben and I decided to pack up and head home—Ben because he had to get up early and work the next day, me because I aged 34 years the day I turned 23 and was tired at this point. So ended another glitzy, glamorous, superficial Hollywood day.
Monday, November 17, 2008
It Hurts To Swallow
After a wild last week, this week was about as mundane and uneventful as you can possibly imagine. Since the majority of my reader base is from Iowa, you can possibly imagine. The general breakdown is this: I sat at my computer, applying for about five jobs a day, hearing nothing back from any of them, and spending my evenings with Rose and Ruby. I was more than happy to do the latter. Rose and Ruby are great. The hostel and its inhabitants have taken the form of a perverse surrogate family, and Rose and Ruby feel like the siblings I can relate to the most because either, a.) they speak English, b.) are not absolutely bat shit insane, or c.) are closest to me in age and interests. To stick with that analogy, Gweat’s is our older brother that came back from the war…a bit different. I will be sad to see Rose and Ruby leave to go back to Ohio next week. Very sad. But the former, me not being able to land a job, is getting somewhat obnoxious and scary.
As an English major, I am no stranger to feelings of inadequacy. But to have graduated from a respectable college (an oxymoron, and a phrase used maybe more than it should be) at the top of my class, coupled with a strong work ethic and can-do attitude, and still not being able to land a single entry level position job is disheartening. To not even hear anything back from a one of them is simply humiliating.
So be it. I’m in the eleventh hour now. My funds are evaporating. It’s do-or-die time. My options are either to find a job, any job, no matter how below me I think it is in order to stay in California, or trek across the country in the Cougar back home, broke and broken, live with Jay and his current wife until I can land a menial job, save up money to return to California on, and return to California, and start from scratch again. Might as well cut out the middle-man and try to make it out here.
I chewed up my pride and swallowed it. The taste and consistency reminded me of Children’s Tylenol. Then I got out there and pounded the pavement. The Cougar and I strolled up and down Pico Blvd. looking for jobs. I picked up applications for Starbucks, Subway, Barnes & Noble, and any store I saw that might have high turnover rates and low standards for what they hire. I happened across a movie theater that just so happens to be having open interviews tomorrow. I’ve always wanted to work at a movie theater, seeing as how I love movies and they are the reason I left for Los Angeles in the first place, but the opportunity has never been feasible until now. Besides, I’ll need something to do when Rose and Ruby leave.
Returning to the hostel, I banged out a few applications before preparing to meet up with Ben for what is becoming a weekend tradition. Over the past several weeks, we’ve frequented a karaoke bar in Burbank called Dimples. Aside from the Gaza Strip, I think you’ll be hard pressed to find a more unpleasant experience in this world than the one you’ll have at Dimples. But that’s a story for a blog I didn’t write. Tonight, Ben and I met with a fellow Iowan making her way out in California named Christy and her fiancé Wayland.
Through circumstances out of my control, I arrived in Burbank to meet with Ben later than expected. Then, Ben and I got lost on our way to the meeting place roughly three miles away from Ben’s apartment. Christy and Wayland were kind enough to not mind we showed up forty minutes late. Or if they did, they covered it up really well.
It was nice to meet with two people that have a similar background to myself. Even in the global village we all now live in, where everything is homogenized, everyone has access to the same everything, and the world is very much at our fingertips, that common bond goes a long way. We know of the same streets and buildings and things and people, and have similar ideals. That goes a long way when you’re in unfamiliar territory. It gives complete strangers an automatic linking bond.
Christy informed Ben and I that Ashley Tinsdale, a High School Musical alum was eating at the same restaurant as us. Neither Ben nor I knew it was Ashley Tinsdale—we only saw a group of attractive girls sitting at a table outside—one of which happened to be a popular actress. This will be my first run-in with a celebrity to my knowledge in Los Angeles. I could also give a damn less. That’s not to say I don’t find it cool to be eating at the same restaurant as someone famous, but I don’t get too hopped up just because someone has been in a highly popular television movie(s). Now, if Jack Nicholson were to be within a football field’s length from me, chances are I would start to infinitely crap my pants. I respect his work as an actor, I’ve read many an interview with him, and love what he has to say about life and the lessons he’s learned along the way. I would get star-struck for someone like Jack. But it’s based around a respect for what he does and how he does it. It is out of an appreciation for his craft, not just because he is a recognizable face and a marquee name. Oddly enough, I tend to react the same way when I hear an ice cream truck and its driver.
After the celebrity dinner, it was back to the hostel, back to reality.
As an English major, I am no stranger to feelings of inadequacy. But to have graduated from a respectable college (an oxymoron, and a phrase used maybe more than it should be) at the top of my class, coupled with a strong work ethic and can-do attitude, and still not being able to land a single entry level position job is disheartening. To not even hear anything back from a one of them is simply humiliating.
So be it. I’m in the eleventh hour now. My funds are evaporating. It’s do-or-die time. My options are either to find a job, any job, no matter how below me I think it is in order to stay in California, or trek across the country in the Cougar back home, broke and broken, live with Jay and his current wife until I can land a menial job, save up money to return to California on, and return to California, and start from scratch again. Might as well cut out the middle-man and try to make it out here.
I chewed up my pride and swallowed it. The taste and consistency reminded me of Children’s Tylenol. Then I got out there and pounded the pavement. The Cougar and I strolled up and down Pico Blvd. looking for jobs. I picked up applications for Starbucks, Subway, Barnes & Noble, and any store I saw that might have high turnover rates and low standards for what they hire. I happened across a movie theater that just so happens to be having open interviews tomorrow. I’ve always wanted to work at a movie theater, seeing as how I love movies and they are the reason I left for Los Angeles in the first place, but the opportunity has never been feasible until now. Besides, I’ll need something to do when Rose and Ruby leave.
Returning to the hostel, I banged out a few applications before preparing to meet up with Ben for what is becoming a weekend tradition. Over the past several weeks, we’ve frequented a karaoke bar in Burbank called Dimples. Aside from the Gaza Strip, I think you’ll be hard pressed to find a more unpleasant experience in this world than the one you’ll have at Dimples. But that’s a story for a blog I didn’t write. Tonight, Ben and I met with a fellow Iowan making her way out in California named Christy and her fiancé Wayland.
Through circumstances out of my control, I arrived in Burbank to meet with Ben later than expected. Then, Ben and I got lost on our way to the meeting place roughly three miles away from Ben’s apartment. Christy and Wayland were kind enough to not mind we showed up forty minutes late. Or if they did, they covered it up really well.
It was nice to meet with two people that have a similar background to myself. Even in the global village we all now live in, where everything is homogenized, everyone has access to the same everything, and the world is very much at our fingertips, that common bond goes a long way. We know of the same streets and buildings and things and people, and have similar ideals. That goes a long way when you’re in unfamiliar territory. It gives complete strangers an automatic linking bond.
Christy informed Ben and I that Ashley Tinsdale, a High School Musical alum was eating at the same restaurant as us. Neither Ben nor I knew it was Ashley Tinsdale—we only saw a group of attractive girls sitting at a table outside—one of which happened to be a popular actress. This will be my first run-in with a celebrity to my knowledge in Los Angeles. I could also give a damn less. That’s not to say I don’t find it cool to be eating at the same restaurant as someone famous, but I don’t get too hopped up just because someone has been in a highly popular television movie(s). Now, if Jack Nicholson were to be within a football field’s length from me, chances are I would start to infinitely crap my pants. I respect his work as an actor, I’ve read many an interview with him, and love what he has to say about life and the lessons he’s learned along the way. I would get star-struck for someone like Jack. But it’s based around a respect for what he does and how he does it. It is out of an appreciation for his craft, not just because he is a recognizable face and a marquee name. Oddly enough, I tend to react the same way when I hear an ice cream truck and its driver.
After the celebrity dinner, it was back to the hostel, back to reality.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Another Conversation I Had Today
The conversation I had today happens on a different day from the previous conversation I had today. It is a brand new conversation I had today, and a brand new today, so today is not the same today as the before today. Today is its own day, with it’s own conversation, separate from the today and conversation in an older blog, and having had another conversation since that today’s conversation, I have a now taken part in another conversation—this conversation is that conversation. I thought I should clarify, as the title can be slightly misleading.
Reprising his role from “A Conversation I Had Today,” is me, who will be playing the part of I. Her will once again be played by Old French Whore. I, and by I, I mean me, not the character I, who is actually me, still does not know the person that plays Her’s real name.
I exits the kitchen with a peanut butter sandwich sandwiched in his mouth. Her is walking down the hall in his direction.
I: Hello.
Her: Do you know anything about computers?
I: Um, no.
Her: Dammit. I can’t get the Internet to work on my laptop and have homework that has to get done right now.
I: My roommate is pretty good with computers. I could go ask him if he would know what’s wrong. Do you use a PC or Mac?
Her: PC.
I exits to talk to his roommate. While gone, Her does whatever it is that Old French Whore did while I (me) was away. I returns.
I: My roommate really only knows Macs. Do you know Ali?
Her: No.
I: Ali used to be a computer programmer. He lives downstairs, but I don’t know which room number. You could ask in the office to see what room he’s in. Maybe he could help you.
Her: Maybe I’ll do that later. I have to leave now.
Her, not believing in exchanging pleasantries, exits abruptly. I is left wondering how much he dislikes Her. Later, I learns he dislikes Her very much.
Later (approximately ten hours later)…
I sits near a window playing a handheld video game system. Her comes up the stairs and sees I.
Her: Did you get a hold of Ali?
I: Um, no.
Her looks disgusted at I.
I: I thought you were going to go talk to him earlier.
Her: Well, I didn’t want to just go knocking on doors randomly.
I: (thinking) And I did? That’s why I told you to go to the office approximately ten hours ago and ask for his room number, so you wouldn’t have to randomly knock on doors, you old French whore. Besides, this clearly wasn’t a top priority for you, so why should it be a top priority of mine?
(said aloud) I don’t know what to tell you.
Her exits angrily. I flips her off as she leaves, unbeknownst to Her.
For the rest of the night, Her looks angrily at I whenever their paths cross, as if he did her wrong. I just flips Her off for the rest of the night whenever she’s not looking.
End scene.
Reprising his role from “A Conversation I Had Today,” is me, who will be playing the part of I. Her will once again be played by Old French Whore. I, and by I, I mean me, not the character I, who is actually me, still does not know the person that plays Her’s real name.
I exits the kitchen with a peanut butter sandwich sandwiched in his mouth. Her is walking down the hall in his direction.
I: Hello.
Her: Do you know anything about computers?
I: Um, no.
Her: Dammit. I can’t get the Internet to work on my laptop and have homework that has to get done right now.
I: My roommate is pretty good with computers. I could go ask him if he would know what’s wrong. Do you use a PC or Mac?
Her: PC.
I exits to talk to his roommate. While gone, Her does whatever it is that Old French Whore did while I (me) was away. I returns.
I: My roommate really only knows Macs. Do you know Ali?
Her: No.
I: Ali used to be a computer programmer. He lives downstairs, but I don’t know which room number. You could ask in the office to see what room he’s in. Maybe he could help you.
Her: Maybe I’ll do that later. I have to leave now.
Her, not believing in exchanging pleasantries, exits abruptly. I is left wondering how much he dislikes Her. Later, I learns he dislikes Her very much.
Later (approximately ten hours later)…
I sits near a window playing a handheld video game system. Her comes up the stairs and sees I.
Her: Did you get a hold of Ali?
I: Um, no.
Her looks disgusted at I.
I: I thought you were going to go talk to him earlier.
Her: Well, I didn’t want to just go knocking on doors randomly.
I: (thinking) And I did? That’s why I told you to go to the office approximately ten hours ago and ask for his room number, so you wouldn’t have to randomly knock on doors, you old French whore. Besides, this clearly wasn’t a top priority for you, so why should it be a top priority of mine?
(said aloud) I don’t know what to tell you.
Her exits angrily. I flips her off as she leaves, unbeknownst to Her.
For the rest of the night, Her looks angrily at I whenever their paths cross, as if he did her wrong. I just flips Her off for the rest of the night whenever she’s not looking.
End scene.
Friday, November 7, 2008
The Envelope Please...
And the 44th President of the United States of America is Barack Hussein Obama. Shortly after the voting booths closed on the Pacific Coast, it was a decisive victory for the Illinois Senator, coming away with 364 electoral votes to John McCain’s 163. 52% of the popular vote went Obama’s way to 46% for McCain. McCain conceded in a graceful way I expected from the Arizona Senator. Obama took the stage reiterating the change that will take place for the United States under his presidency. It was an historic day for the United States.
Obama winning seemed like a sigh of relief to supporters who had been holding their breath for the past six months, wondering if the Republicans were going to run away with another elections. News stations across the nation, afraid to call the game early after the debacle in 2000, and in an attempt to drum up ratings, billed the race to the White House “too close to call.” Obama’s landslide victory resulted in a simultaneous exhalation of air.
Shortly after Obama was christened President-elect, I got a text from a friend saying, “We did it!”
I replied back, “We’ve done nothing yet. But the wheels have started to turn.”
In no way, shape, or form did I say that to belittle my friend or to distance myself from the Obama camp. Barack Obama has won. That in and of itself is a step forward in progress for our country as a whole. It suggests some of the bigotry so deeply ensconced in our nation’s history has been eviscerated. But he as a President has done nothing yet. Between now and January 20th, 2009, he will be busy building his cabinet and prepping for when he does take office. This is an important first step. A President’s cabinet has huge influence over the President himself. Look no further than the Bush administration as an example (I’m looking at you Vice and Rummy). The important thing to remember though is Obama has done nothing yet. It will be up to us, the United States citizens to keep him correct. Should he slouch or break his promises, it is up to us to criticize and let our voice be heard, just as it was when we elected Obama to the Commander-In-Chief position. We can’t let Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert do all the grunt work.
Later in the evening, I called my father, a McCain supporter. He said to me, “It looks like your guy won.”
It’s true, the guy I was supporting in this election won. But the second he won, he ceased to be my guy. He became our guy. Our democratic voice was heard. I don’t expect people to simply endorse a President simply because he won, so I won’t say something like, “He’s now our President and you have to support him whether you like it or not.” On the contrary—I think it is up to Obama to prove he is the right man for the job and stick to the policies he promised his supporters in the first place. He also needs to convince the other half of the country that did not vote for him that he can handle such a lofty position. Actions speak louder than words and Obama needs to prove his actions are the right ones for the country and its people.
Noticing a lack of bread in my basket and a hankering for a peanut butter sandwich, I took to the streets in search of sliced staff of life. Driving down the road, people were honking at nothing and anything. In the parking lot, I could hear people shouting, “Obama” as they whizzed past. Entering the grocery store, people were doing the same thing—strangers uniting under the Obama banner. It was really a sight to behold. Never have I seen this kind of celebration for a President elect. Had Bob Dole won in 1996, maybe a similar ebullience would have been present, but I doubt. This display might have been exclusive to my area. Living in Los Angeles, one of the most liberal cities in the country, they were probably more vocal about Obama’s win than in other places. Furthermore, the part of Los Angeles I live in is largely a Black and Hispanic area. Given that Obama is the first Black President of the United States, I can see how they would be thrilled with the results of the elections.
This display is part of the appeal of Obama. He is able to unite people under a common cause. No other Democratic or Republican candidate for the 2008 election had that zeal. It is unique in a politician really in any election. His ability to bring people together is key to his term. A lot of his presidential legacy will be determined by if he can bring a country together that has been separated by a schism for roughly eight years, if not longer.
Returning home, I heard on the radio about Obama parties across the country. It’s great that people are celebrating. Like I said, it was a step forward for our country. Take a night to enjoy it, but it’s back to business now. It’s time to make sure those promises of change are not empty. At the same time, the election proved we have a long way to go. In California, Proposition 8, a proposal to ban gay marriage in California, passed. Not once did I think Prop 8 would actually pass, given the general outcry from everyone in Los Angeles and the huge number of people with influence strongly opposing Prop 8. But California is a big state. Apparently, much of the state is largely conservative. In fact, Bakersfield, CA is one of the most conservative cities in the nation. News to me. A black man is President, but same-sex couples cannot marry. One step forward, one step back.
In short, congratulations Obama. Congratulations America. The first step has been taken. But it’s a long road ahead of us. By Obama being elected, our economic crisis isn’t just magically going to fix itself, nor are our healthcare and social security problems. We still do not have a concrete exit strategy for our occupation in the Middle East. Our country still adheres to the adage that, “All men are created equal, but some men are created more equal than others.” The 2008 Presidential race was one for the history books, but I don’t think Obama wants his legacy to be only the “First Black President of the United States.” I think it would serve him well, and the people of the United States, to have his legacy be the change he promises. This is the beginning.
Obama winning seemed like a sigh of relief to supporters who had been holding their breath for the past six months, wondering if the Republicans were going to run away with another elections. News stations across the nation, afraid to call the game early after the debacle in 2000, and in an attempt to drum up ratings, billed the race to the White House “too close to call.” Obama’s landslide victory resulted in a simultaneous exhalation of air.
Shortly after Obama was christened President-elect, I got a text from a friend saying, “We did it!”
I replied back, “We’ve done nothing yet. But the wheels have started to turn.”
In no way, shape, or form did I say that to belittle my friend or to distance myself from the Obama camp. Barack Obama has won. That in and of itself is a step forward in progress for our country as a whole. It suggests some of the bigotry so deeply ensconced in our nation’s history has been eviscerated. But he as a President has done nothing yet. Between now and January 20th, 2009, he will be busy building his cabinet and prepping for when he does take office. This is an important first step. A President’s cabinet has huge influence over the President himself. Look no further than the Bush administration as an example (I’m looking at you Vice and Rummy). The important thing to remember though is Obama has done nothing yet. It will be up to us, the United States citizens to keep him correct. Should he slouch or break his promises, it is up to us to criticize and let our voice be heard, just as it was when we elected Obama to the Commander-In-Chief position. We can’t let Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert do all the grunt work.
Later in the evening, I called my father, a McCain supporter. He said to me, “It looks like your guy won.”
It’s true, the guy I was supporting in this election won. But the second he won, he ceased to be my guy. He became our guy. Our democratic voice was heard. I don’t expect people to simply endorse a President simply because he won, so I won’t say something like, “He’s now our President and you have to support him whether you like it or not.” On the contrary—I think it is up to Obama to prove he is the right man for the job and stick to the policies he promised his supporters in the first place. He also needs to convince the other half of the country that did not vote for him that he can handle such a lofty position. Actions speak louder than words and Obama needs to prove his actions are the right ones for the country and its people.
Noticing a lack of bread in my basket and a hankering for a peanut butter sandwich, I took to the streets in search of sliced staff of life. Driving down the road, people were honking at nothing and anything. In the parking lot, I could hear people shouting, “Obama” as they whizzed past. Entering the grocery store, people were doing the same thing—strangers uniting under the Obama banner. It was really a sight to behold. Never have I seen this kind of celebration for a President elect. Had Bob Dole won in 1996, maybe a similar ebullience would have been present, but I doubt. This display might have been exclusive to my area. Living in Los Angeles, one of the most liberal cities in the country, they were probably more vocal about Obama’s win than in other places. Furthermore, the part of Los Angeles I live in is largely a Black and Hispanic area. Given that Obama is the first Black President of the United States, I can see how they would be thrilled with the results of the elections.
This display is part of the appeal of Obama. He is able to unite people under a common cause. No other Democratic or Republican candidate for the 2008 election had that zeal. It is unique in a politician really in any election. His ability to bring people together is key to his term. A lot of his presidential legacy will be determined by if he can bring a country together that has been separated by a schism for roughly eight years, if not longer.
Returning home, I heard on the radio about Obama parties across the country. It’s great that people are celebrating. Like I said, it was a step forward for our country. Take a night to enjoy it, but it’s back to business now. It’s time to make sure those promises of change are not empty. At the same time, the election proved we have a long way to go. In California, Proposition 8, a proposal to ban gay marriage in California, passed. Not once did I think Prop 8 would actually pass, given the general outcry from everyone in Los Angeles and the huge number of people with influence strongly opposing Prop 8. But California is a big state. Apparently, much of the state is largely conservative. In fact, Bakersfield, CA is one of the most conservative cities in the nation. News to me. A black man is President, but same-sex couples cannot marry. One step forward, one step back.
In short, congratulations Obama. Congratulations America. The first step has been taken. But it’s a long road ahead of us. By Obama being elected, our economic crisis isn’t just magically going to fix itself, nor are our healthcare and social security problems. We still do not have a concrete exit strategy for our occupation in the Middle East. Our country still adheres to the adage that, “All men are created equal, but some men are created more equal than others.” The 2008 Presidential race was one for the history books, but I don’t think Obama wants his legacy to be only the “First Black President of the United States.” I think it would serve him well, and the people of the United States, to have his legacy be the change he promises. This is the beginning.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
The State of the Union
I’m not one to hide my political affiliations, mostly because I don’t have any. To label something either Republican or Democrat or one of the offshoot hippie political parties is to label something by genre. It’s like going to a video store and looking for something under “Drama,” or “Horror,” or “Comedy.” The problems arise when there is overlap. “The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly,” is a “Western,” but it also has a “War” element to it. But through and through, it’s also filled with a lot of “Action.” So what heading do you look for it under? Do you see how defining something by genre can get confusing?
Political parties are the same way. Trying to define an elected official or candidate under a specific banner is limiting and does not do justice to him or her. It takes away their individual beliefs and thrusts them into a category they must adhere to or face scorn from their opposition and the people they represent.
Speaking of the people our elected officials are supposed to represent, I think being affiliated to a party prevents said elected officials from effectively representing their people. The United States is a republic after all. They are elected to represent the people and what the people want. However, in order for a representative of the people to represent the people, he must first squash his own beliefs on an issue, a hurdle in and of itself, and then also fan the flame that comes from other representatives with their own agendas and special interest groups. Oftentimes, this requires a Senator or Congressman to make strange bedfellows, signing documents they might not believe in, but in order for them to get the necessary signatures needed on their own documents, they do it anyway. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. As an outsider looking in on how the system works, it’s easy to see that the system doesn’t work.
The world is organic. Business is organic. Art is organic. Government is organic. Change is an inevitability. Failing to adapt and to change to one’s surroundings results in death. It’s Darwinian. When things fail to adapt, outside forces act on the stagnation and force change, replacing the old with something new. As an inevitability, it is hard to fight change. But if you do fight change, you will lose.
Election Day is coming up in a few days. This is arguably one of the most important elections in recent history. With our economy in the slumps and a global depression practically guaranteed, a healthcare plan damaged beyond repair, as well as no end in sight to our occupation in Iraq, the result of this election will have worldwide ramifications. It is time to adapt or die. That is why I believe Barack Obama is the best fit for the next President of the United States.
Obama is new to the political game (read: inexperienced). It’s been a major point of contention to his candidacy for President, but certainly does not make him unqualified for the job. His lack of experience in the political spectrum is actually a good thing. He’s a fresh face in the crusty, stubborn old system. He’s not been around long enough to feel the influence or pull of the system. He’s still bright eyed and bushy-tailed, not tainted by the politics of politics. He’s a change of pace, something his campaign is not afraid to admit every chance they get. After eight years of living under the banner of “stay the course,” and seeing the result of such thinking, I think taking a scenic route will be a nice change of pace.
Obama is being labeled a socialist. To which, I say, no he’s not a socialist. He has socialist ideas, but that does not make him a socialist, no more than it makes Martin Luther King Jr. a socialist for believing every man to be equal. I can’t speak personally for Obama, but I do not think he’s trying to create New Russia or be buddy-buddy with China. But he does bring with him a change, a change our country greatly needs.
As for John McCain, personally, I thought the Republican Party did good to make him their Presidential candidate. He was the best man for the job in 2000, but due to defamation of character by the Karl Rove Sports Machine, Bush came away with the nomination. But for the 2008 election, McCain was chosen to represent the Republican Party at the beginning of the year. Now, in late October, we are looking at a different John McCain. To say the road to the White House has been hard on McCain is an understatement. He’s not the same John McCain we saw in January, in more ways than one.
First, look at the decisions he’s made over the past year. Sarah Palin being the most eye catching. In what seemed like an act of desperation, McCain called upon the Alaskan governor to run with him, having only met her on two previous occasions. This, merely a day after Obama chose Joe Biden as his running mate. It certainly felt like a move to bring Camp McCain into the spotlight and overshadow Obama’s announcement, rather than a sound thoughtful decision on whom best to serve as second in command. To that effect, the decision worked. Palin is probably the only thing keeping McCain in voter’s minds. But it’s hard to imagine much thought went into this brash decision. He also suspended his campaign to fix the financial crisis our country is facing now (note: McCain is not a member of this Senate committee—he merely took it upon himself to join in the eleventh hour).
These decisions feed into the persona McCain has made for himself for being a maverick. He’s a loner; a sheep strayed from the herd. Like an out of control teen on Maury, he does what he wants. Or so it seems. He’s changed sides on plenty of key issues. Once he opposed waterboarding, citing it as a definite form of torture. Now, he sees it as sound and just. This coming from a man that spent more than two years in a POW camp. At one time he did not oppose gay marriage, and now he condemns it.
I’m not going to badmouth a man for changing his opinion. I didn’t blast John Kerry in 2004 for flip-flopping on issues such as the war in Iraq. It is understandable to vote on something that seems like a good idea at the time only to realize that once it is put into action, it does not work, or additional information comes through that makes one realize the wrong course has been taken. McCain once was for allowing more immigrants to come into our country and look for work. Now in our nation’s current financial state, he has changed his opinion on that. But going back to the previous examples of waterboarding and gay marriage, really, what could have changed his opinion on those?
John McCain is not a maverick. He’s an opportunist. His vote is swung in whatever direction will get him what he wants. George W. Bush was a maverick. He did what he wanted no matter what the opinions were from the opposition, his own party member, or the people of his country. Maybe Obama is an opportunist too, telling the American people one thing, but in practice, he’ll do another. As far as I can tell though, he seems adamant to fix social security and not privatize it and cut healthcare costs to make it more affordable for all. But him not being in the game as long as McCain, we just have to take his word that he will follow through on what he preaches. With McCain, there are enough examples to fall back on that he will not, beyond the scant examples I just gave.
My opinion doesn’t really matter. It’s the opinion of our nation as a whole. This election is important. Really important. Before voting, please research both candidates and their stance on issues that will affect you and your country. Do what’s right for the country. Ignore political affiliations and look at the issues present. Don’t go in blindly, because for once, your vote counts.
Political parties are the same way. Trying to define an elected official or candidate under a specific banner is limiting and does not do justice to him or her. It takes away their individual beliefs and thrusts them into a category they must adhere to or face scorn from their opposition and the people they represent.
Speaking of the people our elected officials are supposed to represent, I think being affiliated to a party prevents said elected officials from effectively representing their people. The United States is a republic after all. They are elected to represent the people and what the people want. However, in order for a representative of the people to represent the people, he must first squash his own beliefs on an issue, a hurdle in and of itself, and then also fan the flame that comes from other representatives with their own agendas and special interest groups. Oftentimes, this requires a Senator or Congressman to make strange bedfellows, signing documents they might not believe in, but in order for them to get the necessary signatures needed on their own documents, they do it anyway. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. As an outsider looking in on how the system works, it’s easy to see that the system doesn’t work.
The world is organic. Business is organic. Art is organic. Government is organic. Change is an inevitability. Failing to adapt and to change to one’s surroundings results in death. It’s Darwinian. When things fail to adapt, outside forces act on the stagnation and force change, replacing the old with something new. As an inevitability, it is hard to fight change. But if you do fight change, you will lose.
Election Day is coming up in a few days. This is arguably one of the most important elections in recent history. With our economy in the slumps and a global depression practically guaranteed, a healthcare plan damaged beyond repair, as well as no end in sight to our occupation in Iraq, the result of this election will have worldwide ramifications. It is time to adapt or die. That is why I believe Barack Obama is the best fit for the next President of the United States.
Obama is new to the political game (read: inexperienced). It’s been a major point of contention to his candidacy for President, but certainly does not make him unqualified for the job. His lack of experience in the political spectrum is actually a good thing. He’s a fresh face in the crusty, stubborn old system. He’s not been around long enough to feel the influence or pull of the system. He’s still bright eyed and bushy-tailed, not tainted by the politics of politics. He’s a change of pace, something his campaign is not afraid to admit every chance they get. After eight years of living under the banner of “stay the course,” and seeing the result of such thinking, I think taking a scenic route will be a nice change of pace.
Obama is being labeled a socialist. To which, I say, no he’s not a socialist. He has socialist ideas, but that does not make him a socialist, no more than it makes Martin Luther King Jr. a socialist for believing every man to be equal. I can’t speak personally for Obama, but I do not think he’s trying to create New Russia or be buddy-buddy with China. But he does bring with him a change, a change our country greatly needs.
As for John McCain, personally, I thought the Republican Party did good to make him their Presidential candidate. He was the best man for the job in 2000, but due to defamation of character by the Karl Rove Sports Machine, Bush came away with the nomination. But for the 2008 election, McCain was chosen to represent the Republican Party at the beginning of the year. Now, in late October, we are looking at a different John McCain. To say the road to the White House has been hard on McCain is an understatement. He’s not the same John McCain we saw in January, in more ways than one.
First, look at the decisions he’s made over the past year. Sarah Palin being the most eye catching. In what seemed like an act of desperation, McCain called upon the Alaskan governor to run with him, having only met her on two previous occasions. This, merely a day after Obama chose Joe Biden as his running mate. It certainly felt like a move to bring Camp McCain into the spotlight and overshadow Obama’s announcement, rather than a sound thoughtful decision on whom best to serve as second in command. To that effect, the decision worked. Palin is probably the only thing keeping McCain in voter’s minds. But it’s hard to imagine much thought went into this brash decision. He also suspended his campaign to fix the financial crisis our country is facing now (note: McCain is not a member of this Senate committee—he merely took it upon himself to join in the eleventh hour).
These decisions feed into the persona McCain has made for himself for being a maverick. He’s a loner; a sheep strayed from the herd. Like an out of control teen on Maury, he does what he wants. Or so it seems. He’s changed sides on plenty of key issues. Once he opposed waterboarding, citing it as a definite form of torture. Now, he sees it as sound and just. This coming from a man that spent more than two years in a POW camp. At one time he did not oppose gay marriage, and now he condemns it.
I’m not going to badmouth a man for changing his opinion. I didn’t blast John Kerry in 2004 for flip-flopping on issues such as the war in Iraq. It is understandable to vote on something that seems like a good idea at the time only to realize that once it is put into action, it does not work, or additional information comes through that makes one realize the wrong course has been taken. McCain once was for allowing more immigrants to come into our country and look for work. Now in our nation’s current financial state, he has changed his opinion on that. But going back to the previous examples of waterboarding and gay marriage, really, what could have changed his opinion on those?
John McCain is not a maverick. He’s an opportunist. His vote is swung in whatever direction will get him what he wants. George W. Bush was a maverick. He did what he wanted no matter what the opinions were from the opposition, his own party member, or the people of his country. Maybe Obama is an opportunist too, telling the American people one thing, but in practice, he’ll do another. As far as I can tell though, he seems adamant to fix social security and not privatize it and cut healthcare costs to make it more affordable for all. But him not being in the game as long as McCain, we just have to take his word that he will follow through on what he preaches. With McCain, there are enough examples to fall back on that he will not, beyond the scant examples I just gave.
My opinion doesn’t really matter. It’s the opinion of our nation as a whole. This election is important. Really important. Before voting, please research both candidates and their stance on issues that will affect you and your country. Do what’s right for the country. Ignore political affiliations and look at the issues present. Don’t go in blindly, because for once, your vote counts.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
It's Pas'Ta Anytime
It was discovered that my roommate, Gweat’s, has a video of some of his standup on YouTube. Here you go:
Hey, I recognize that interior. It’s the tool shed at the hostel.
Also, here’s his music video for the single, “Kandy Store.”
Fun Fact: “Kandy Store” is Gweat’s’s ringtone on his cell phone.
Hey, I recognize that interior. It’s the tool shed at the hostel.
Also, here’s his music video for the single, “Kandy Store.”
Fun Fact: “Kandy Store” is Gweat’s’s ringtone on his cell phone.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Life's a Beeyotch
On this particular morning I’m writing about (due to the Janet Jackson incident at the Super Bowl, this blog is delivered with a slight delay), I woke up early, and for a change, it wasn’t Gweat’s related. Instead, Ruby and Rose, who as you know are two awesome gals from Ohio, and I were going to Venice Beach.
Before we arrive, I should imbibe some knowledge of Venice Beach on you. First, it’s the number one tourist attraction in California. Two, Arnold Schwarzenegger* used to pump iron there. Three, some of White Men Can’t Jump takes place there. And that’s all I knew about Venice Beach before I got there. Really, that’s all I know about anything. I made it through four years of college writing those three statements down as answers to every test question.
We got to Venice Beach early because it doesn’t take long for parking spaces to fill up, and those that have remained committed to this blog already know finding a parking space in California is about as easy as finding a sober Gweat’s. And those that have remained committed to this blog already know finding a sober Gweat’s is about as easy as finding a new post over at www.bullschmitz.blogspot.com.
So what is there to do on Venice Beach? Well, Arnold Schwarzenegger used to pump iron there. Also, it’s the number one tourist attraction in California. Finally, some of White Men Can’t Jump takes place there.
Upon entering Venice Beach, the first thing you see is a pharmacy that has a giant ballerina with the head of a vaudevillian tramp above the entryway. This would be the most normal thing I’d see the rest of the day. Rose, Ruby, and I walked around the boardwalk for a while, perusing the shops and vendors for arts and knickknacks. You can buy all sorts of stuff at Venice Beach. The shops are mostly souvenir shacks, with tee shirts and shot glasses that say Venice Beach on them. But they also have those delightful shirts that say things like, “I hear voices, and they don’t like me”—a fashion statement that makes a statement. Commonly found at monster truck rallies and the Blue Collar Comedy Tour. Other trappings include surf shops, wig shops, and worthless crap made out of wood shops. I shouldn’t say that. In one worthless crap made out of wood shop, I found a wall devoted to some large phallic carvings made out of wood (Ha!). I told Ruby and a 40-some year old man within earshot’s eyes lit up like he’d just heard his lottery numbers called. The second Ruby and I stepped away from the display, the man was right there, gawking the wares. Really, how worthless the worthless crap made out of wood shop is, is all relative to your level of homoeroticism (Dallas, I made note of where this shop is, so we can go back if you like. Man, two zingers on Dallas already. Can we make it three?)
In one store I bought a pair of sunglasses, a necessity in sunny California I have gone two weeks without, and then Rose and Ruby bought two pairs of the same kind of glasses I did because not so secretly they wish they were me.
Walking down the boardwalk with our identical glasses, more vendors were coming out to pimp their miracle crystal necklaces and hemp bracelets and Barack Obamas.** Rose and Ruby both picked up some neat paintings for their love interests back home. Since I have so many love interests, and since I’m on a limited budget, and since I don’t pick favorites, and since I don’t need material possessions anymore, due mostly to my limited budget and lack of storage space in the hostel, I did not purchase anything. I’m kind of like Gandhi in that manner. My, how far the mighty have fallen. I’ve got to get a job.
Really, Venice Beach is quite interesting. There are burnouts and Vietnam vets in wheelchairs everywhere. Oftentimes, the two are interchangeable with the other there. After seeing this, I can’t endorse the legalization of marijuana or any other drug. All you stoner college kids whose dad owns a dealership out there go on and have your fun with it, but seeing the long term effects of drugs on people that don’t have a trust fund to fall back on makes me just want to steer clear of all substances altogether. I imagine Kurt Russell had the same experience when he decided to abstain from drug use, knowing it would hinder his ability to escape from New York in 1997 back in 1981 and coach the 1980 U.S. Hockey team to a gold medal in 2004.
Other attractions included a wino wearing a dirty San Diego Chargers jersey and a signboard that told us he wanted spare change to get drunk, which freed his mouth to sing, “Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Get me drunk,” over and over again. Near the beach, there were guys with oversized hula-hoops spinning around and around inside them. How anyone determined they could do this sort of acrobatic thing in the first place baffles me. Probably French.
In the middle of it all the pandemonium, there was a man outside promoting the Venice Beach freak show. He had a two-headed turtle sitting in a plastic container with water. He told us that inside we could see all sorts of animals with two heads. It was only three dollars. But why would I spend three dollars on something I could get for free just by walking down the boardwalk? There’s a guy not three feet away with a foot growing out of his cheek selling authentic dodo meat necklaces. I’ll save my three U.S. dollars for next week’s issue of Amazing Spider-Man, thank you.
Around noontime, Rose, Ruby, and I went to a café for lunch called the Sidewalk Café. Things on the menu were named after famous authors or titles. I settled on the Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., since I didn’t see the R.L. Stine on the menu, and wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep down the Ernest Hemingway. Its prose just doesn’t sit well with me. While eating my sandwich, Ruby spotted a man wearing a giant black sock over his entire body. He would stand perfectly still until a passerby got too close, then he’d touch the back of their head. Turning around to inquire who just did that, the victim would only find a man-size sock, look baffled, and continue on. Eventually, the street performer got rid of the Tanooki suit (Super Mario Bros. 3 reference) and ran around tickling people with feathers or imitating their walk mannerisms. At one point, he spotted a man and woman, most likely brother and sister, walking down the boardwalk holding hands. He dislodged the woman’s hand from her brothers, and walked hand in hand with the guy a good fifty feet. Eventually, the man realized it, let out an angry, “What the fuck?” and broke the bond which had united the two. After realizing everyone was staring at him, the man pretended not to be bothered by sharing hands with another man and feigned a smile. The crowd clapped for the street performer. No one has done a bit better since Buster Keaton. Come to think of it, no one has done any of this stuff since Buster Keaton. Eventually, the performer moved on, as a crowd had formed to watch his act. His act, requiring people to be unaware of his presence, was shut down.
Having finished our meals and no longer having anything entertaining to watch, we moved on to the beach, where we would sun and I would run into the Pacific Ocean. Along the way, I spotted Seventeen Days Into the Future Dallas.
That’s three!
Shortly thereafter, we all left Venice Beach. But we took with us memories, sunglasses, artwork, and some sun. With nothing else to report, I’ll let you all go. Enjoy the footnotes.
*Spell Check recognizes “Schwarzenegger” as a word. No red squiggly lines here.
**Spell Check does not recognize “Barack Obamas” as a word. Good luck trying to win an election outside of Venice Beach, you schmuck.
Before we arrive, I should imbibe some knowledge of Venice Beach on you. First, it’s the number one tourist attraction in California. Two, Arnold Schwarzenegger* used to pump iron there. Three, some of White Men Can’t Jump takes place there. And that’s all I knew about Venice Beach before I got there. Really, that’s all I know about anything. I made it through four years of college writing those three statements down as answers to every test question.
We got to Venice Beach early because it doesn’t take long for parking spaces to fill up, and those that have remained committed to this blog already know finding a parking space in California is about as easy as finding a sober Gweat’s. And those that have remained committed to this blog already know finding a sober Gweat’s is about as easy as finding a new post over at www.bullschmitz.blogspot.com.
So what is there to do on Venice Beach? Well, Arnold Schwarzenegger used to pump iron there. Also, it’s the number one tourist attraction in California. Finally, some of White Men Can’t Jump takes place there.
Upon entering Venice Beach, the first thing you see is a pharmacy that has a giant ballerina with the head of a vaudevillian tramp above the entryway. This would be the most normal thing I’d see the rest of the day. Rose, Ruby, and I walked around the boardwalk for a while, perusing the shops and vendors for arts and knickknacks. You can buy all sorts of stuff at Venice Beach. The shops are mostly souvenir shacks, with tee shirts and shot glasses that say Venice Beach on them. But they also have those delightful shirts that say things like, “I hear voices, and they don’t like me”—a fashion statement that makes a statement. Commonly found at monster truck rallies and the Blue Collar Comedy Tour. Other trappings include surf shops, wig shops, and worthless crap made out of wood shops. I shouldn’t say that. In one worthless crap made out of wood shop, I found a wall devoted to some large phallic carvings made out of wood (Ha!). I told Ruby and a 40-some year old man within earshot’s eyes lit up like he’d just heard his lottery numbers called. The second Ruby and I stepped away from the display, the man was right there, gawking the wares. Really, how worthless the worthless crap made out of wood shop is, is all relative to your level of homoeroticism (Dallas, I made note of where this shop is, so we can go back if you like. Man, two zingers on Dallas already. Can we make it three?)
In one store I bought a pair of sunglasses, a necessity in sunny California I have gone two weeks without, and then Rose and Ruby bought two pairs of the same kind of glasses I did because not so secretly they wish they were me.
Walking down the boardwalk with our identical glasses, more vendors were coming out to pimp their miracle crystal necklaces and hemp bracelets and Barack Obamas.** Rose and Ruby both picked up some neat paintings for their love interests back home. Since I have so many love interests, and since I’m on a limited budget, and since I don’t pick favorites, and since I don’t need material possessions anymore, due mostly to my limited budget and lack of storage space in the hostel, I did not purchase anything. I’m kind of like Gandhi in that manner. My, how far the mighty have fallen. I’ve got to get a job.
Really, Venice Beach is quite interesting. There are burnouts and Vietnam vets in wheelchairs everywhere. Oftentimes, the two are interchangeable with the other there. After seeing this, I can’t endorse the legalization of marijuana or any other drug. All you stoner college kids whose dad owns a dealership out there go on and have your fun with it, but seeing the long term effects of drugs on people that don’t have a trust fund to fall back on makes me just want to steer clear of all substances altogether. I imagine Kurt Russell had the same experience when he decided to abstain from drug use, knowing it would hinder his ability to escape from New York in 1997 back in 1981 and coach the 1980 U.S. Hockey team to a gold medal in 2004.
Other attractions included a wino wearing a dirty San Diego Chargers jersey and a signboard that told us he wanted spare change to get drunk, which freed his mouth to sing, “Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Get me drunk,” over and over again. Near the beach, there were guys with oversized hula-hoops spinning around and around inside them. How anyone determined they could do this sort of acrobatic thing in the first place baffles me. Probably French.
In the middle of it all the pandemonium, there was a man outside promoting the Venice Beach freak show. He had a two-headed turtle sitting in a plastic container with water. He told us that inside we could see all sorts of animals with two heads. It was only three dollars. But why would I spend three dollars on something I could get for free just by walking down the boardwalk? There’s a guy not three feet away with a foot growing out of his cheek selling authentic dodo meat necklaces. I’ll save my three U.S. dollars for next week’s issue of Amazing Spider-Man, thank you.
Around noontime, Rose, Ruby, and I went to a café for lunch called the Sidewalk Café. Things on the menu were named after famous authors or titles. I settled on the Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., since I didn’t see the R.L. Stine on the menu, and wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep down the Ernest Hemingway. Its prose just doesn’t sit well with me. While eating my sandwich, Ruby spotted a man wearing a giant black sock over his entire body. He would stand perfectly still until a passerby got too close, then he’d touch the back of their head. Turning around to inquire who just did that, the victim would only find a man-size sock, look baffled, and continue on. Eventually, the street performer got rid of the Tanooki suit (Super Mario Bros. 3 reference) and ran around tickling people with feathers or imitating their walk mannerisms. At one point, he spotted a man and woman, most likely brother and sister, walking down the boardwalk holding hands. He dislodged the woman’s hand from her brothers, and walked hand in hand with the guy a good fifty feet. Eventually, the man realized it, let out an angry, “What the fuck?” and broke the bond which had united the two. After realizing everyone was staring at him, the man pretended not to be bothered by sharing hands with another man and feigned a smile. The crowd clapped for the street performer. No one has done a bit better since Buster Keaton. Come to think of it, no one has done any of this stuff since Buster Keaton. Eventually, the performer moved on, as a crowd had formed to watch his act. His act, requiring people to be unaware of his presence, was shut down.
Having finished our meals and no longer having anything entertaining to watch, we moved on to the beach, where we would sun and I would run into the Pacific Ocean. Along the way, I spotted Seventeen Days Into the Future Dallas.
That’s three!
Shortly thereafter, we all left Venice Beach. But we took with us memories, sunglasses, artwork, and some sun. With nothing else to report, I’ll let you all go. Enjoy the footnotes.
*Spell Check recognizes “Schwarzenegger” as a word. No red squiggly lines here.
**Spell Check does not recognize “Barack Obamas” as a word. Good luck trying to win an election outside of Venice Beach, you schmuck.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
A Bender and a Bender
After a harrowing day making a Weezer music video, I claimed today as a day of rest. Not so much because I wanted to or can afford to, but because I’m really sore. My whole body aches. It’s probably from showing a bunch of scrawny, sickly Weezer fans how we play no mercy dodgeball back in some parts of the country.
But that didn’t stop today from having a few highlights here and there. During the day, Marko, Sait, Hiro, others, and myself were messing around with someone’s pellet gun on the back porch. Whose pellet gun? Good question. Each person would eyeball it once over then pass it on, with the exception of Sait. Sait, being Muslim, can’t help but point the pellet gun at a police helicopter flying overhead. We all rushed in to stop Sait from doing this since we didn’t want the helicopter’s sniper to get the wrong impression and end Sait’s life then and there. What a waste that would be—I don’t even think he’d qualify for the 40 virgins he’s entitled to in Heaven if he goes out like that.
Tonight, while some of us at the hostel were huddled around out laptops typing blogs, and others were rolling joints, we heard a car peel out along Pico Blvd. (major street close to the hostel) and smash into another vehicle. Everyone looked at each other, and without orally suggesting it, as a group, we collectively decided to check out the wreck.
Dressed in our nightgowns and formal eveningwear, we all walked down the street to see the fender bender. Apparently everyone else along Pico had the same idea. People from apartment buildings and the healthcare center along Pico came out in droves. The hostel group crossed the street to observe the situation. Gweat’s told us jaywalking in California, if caught, was a $100 fine. They’ll get you for anything here.
The accident itself was nothing major. The wreck consisted of a parked car and a stolen one. I know it was stolen because there was no driver to account for the accident. Gweat’s told us the steering wheel on cars that have been hijacked have a tendency to lock up. This is probably what caused the driver to lose control.
As minor as the accident was, the damage was pretty significant to both cars. The parked ones entire driver’s side was taken out, as was the stolen vehicles, whose wheel well now stretched from the front bumper to the middle of the driver’s side door. It had also spun about 540 degrees Fahrenheit after the impact.
With nothing more to see, we all headed back to our hostel to continue writing/getting baked. Along the way, an old woman started cussing at us, yelling, “I’m tired of all you fuckers! I’ve had it! We don’t fucking need you here!” I’m not sure whom she was slings and arrows towards, because she kept saying it long after we’d walked past her.
Once we got back, Gweat’s started talking at us for about fifteen or twenty minutes. Ruby was kind enough to record this conversation, which I will share with you now in its abridged form. Nice work, Ruby. If ever you need to, there is a career waiting for you as a courtroom stenographer.
This is what Gweat’s sat down and talked about for 15 or 20 minutes... just rambling. Literally what I'm writing is what he was saying—in order. So if it doesn't make any sense to you, it obviously made no sense to me.
Gweat's is talking about a dream house he wants to build:
-There will be a 40 fence with pit bulls and alligators and poodles and cockatoos for security guards
-Drive out of the bedroom with a go-kart
-Have two space towers in the front each 5 stories tall
-Glass wall opens up in bedroom and drive go-kart to the go-kart track
-A big marble dinner table worth 100,000 grand
-An intimate mate to cook with. He wouldn’t marry his brother or sister he said.
Which segued into what kind of car he would drive:
-Would own a Rolls Royce: a Phantom to be exact. If I was going to wear pants every day to school, I wouldn’t wear my $200 Cartier pants? (Referring to driving a Jaguar and how it's only to drive once in a while).
-Mercedes inside dashboards look like soccer balls.
-He said he couldn't wear a leopard shirt. "Casually, he's not a tiger or leopard," but he can wear pastel colors.
Referring to the movie, “Apocalypto”:
-"Run for your life, the Mayans are here! Read the good book!" (Referring to the Bible)
Another natural transition:
- When he was 2 and a half, he bit an extension cord and got rushed to the hospital because he got electrocuted.
Um…
- Rich men built space ships just to cruise around in, and would go for trips on the weekends. They would throw their 6 packs out the window of the spaceship because they drank a lot.
- "No one should give a homeless person a day pass to ride the bus. They haven't wiped their ass since Jesus was born."
- "RUN FORREST RUN!"
And that's pretty much all I have for you right now. Gweat’s is off staring at his bottle of 7-Up.
Thanks, Ruby.
But that didn’t stop today from having a few highlights here and there. During the day, Marko, Sait, Hiro, others, and myself were messing around with someone’s pellet gun on the back porch. Whose pellet gun? Good question. Each person would eyeball it once over then pass it on, with the exception of Sait. Sait, being Muslim, can’t help but point the pellet gun at a police helicopter flying overhead. We all rushed in to stop Sait from doing this since we didn’t want the helicopter’s sniper to get the wrong impression and end Sait’s life then and there. What a waste that would be—I don’t even think he’d qualify for the 40 virgins he’s entitled to in Heaven if he goes out like that.
Tonight, while some of us at the hostel were huddled around out laptops typing blogs, and others were rolling joints, we heard a car peel out along Pico Blvd. (major street close to the hostel) and smash into another vehicle. Everyone looked at each other, and without orally suggesting it, as a group, we collectively decided to check out the wreck.
Dressed in our nightgowns and formal eveningwear, we all walked down the street to see the fender bender. Apparently everyone else along Pico had the same idea. People from apartment buildings and the healthcare center along Pico came out in droves. The hostel group crossed the street to observe the situation. Gweat’s told us jaywalking in California, if caught, was a $100 fine. They’ll get you for anything here.
The accident itself was nothing major. The wreck consisted of a parked car and a stolen one. I know it was stolen because there was no driver to account for the accident. Gweat’s told us the steering wheel on cars that have been hijacked have a tendency to lock up. This is probably what caused the driver to lose control.
As minor as the accident was, the damage was pretty significant to both cars. The parked ones entire driver’s side was taken out, as was the stolen vehicles, whose wheel well now stretched from the front bumper to the middle of the driver’s side door. It had also spun about 540 degrees Fahrenheit after the impact.
With nothing more to see, we all headed back to our hostel to continue writing/getting baked. Along the way, an old woman started cussing at us, yelling, “I’m tired of all you fuckers! I’ve had it! We don’t fucking need you here!” I’m not sure whom she was slings and arrows towards, because she kept saying it long after we’d walked past her.
Once we got back, Gweat’s started talking at us for about fifteen or twenty minutes. Ruby was kind enough to record this conversation, which I will share with you now in its abridged form. Nice work, Ruby. If ever you need to, there is a career waiting for you as a courtroom stenographer.
This is what Gweat’s sat down and talked about for 15 or 20 minutes... just rambling. Literally what I'm writing is what he was saying—in order. So if it doesn't make any sense to you, it obviously made no sense to me.
Gweat's is talking about a dream house he wants to build:
-There will be a 40 fence with pit bulls and alligators and poodles and cockatoos for security guards
-Drive out of the bedroom with a go-kart
-Have two space towers in the front each 5 stories tall
-Glass wall opens up in bedroom and drive go-kart to the go-kart track
-A big marble dinner table worth 100,000 grand
-An intimate mate to cook with. He wouldn’t marry his brother or sister he said.
Which segued into what kind of car he would drive:
-Would own a Rolls Royce: a Phantom to be exact. If I was going to wear pants every day to school, I wouldn’t wear my $200 Cartier pants? (Referring to driving a Jaguar and how it's only to drive once in a while).
-Mercedes inside dashboards look like soccer balls.
-He said he couldn't wear a leopard shirt. "Casually, he's not a tiger or leopard," but he can wear pastel colors.
Referring to the movie, “Apocalypto”:
-"Run for your life, the Mayans are here! Read the good book!" (Referring to the Bible)
Another natural transition:
- When he was 2 and a half, he bit an extension cord and got rushed to the hospital because he got electrocuted.
Um…
- Rich men built space ships just to cruise around in, and would go for trips on the weekends. They would throw their 6 packs out the window of the spaceship because they drank a lot.
- "No one should give a homeless person a day pass to ride the bus. They haven't wiped their ass since Jesus was born."
- "RUN FORREST RUN!"
And that's pretty much all I have for you right now. Gweat’s is off staring at his bottle of 7-Up.
Thanks, Ruby.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
=w=2
Let’s leave this blog’s timeline for a moment and jump forward to the present. Yesterday I posted a blog about the day on the set of Weezer’s “Troublemaker” video shoot. The video itself was shot at the end of August, I wrote the blog the first of September, and posted it in the middle of October. It worked out in my favor, because the video was released earlier this week. If you have not had a chance to view it, here is a link:
http://www.weezer.com/player/default.aspx/mid/4549
It is interesting to see how much got left on the cutting room floor for this video. At the shoot, it looked like they had a story they were going to tell, about how a bunch of world records were going to fall in this music video. There was a faux news reporter interviewing the Guinness World Records representative, the Guitar Hero players, and others throughout the day, along with pickup shots of the news reporter involved with events throughout the day, such as the game of dodgeball. That was left behind. As were most of the signboards explaining which record was being broken (this signboard can be seen in the crane shot where everyone is standing around the Flying W made of nachos).
Other things I mentioned in the previous blog were completely omitted or barely touched on, such as Pat Wilson playing the World’s Smallest Drum Kit or everyone crowding around the World’s Largest Skateboard. Or even the fact that a representative from Guinness was there to make sure everything was legitimate. If you did not have any previous context to what was going on in the video, would any of these shots make any sense? No, you would think it was just a weird video from the 80s when the music video genre was learning its way or a lost Batman comic book from the 1950s.
The fact the video was shot at the Forum in Inglewood is lost as well. This downplays Rivers getup for the video as well. Come to think of it, it’s almost funnier seeing Rivers dressed like that without any context to back it up with.
Don’t take this as a complaint or dissatisfaction. I had nothing but a great time on the shoot that day. Maybe the filmmakers had every intention of telling a story too, and due to the lack of time a music video allows, had to pare it down, lay down the key elements, and leave viewers of the video to fill in the blanks. Rather, I’m just doing this as a retrospective of how I thought the video would turn out in comparison to how it did turn out. It was great to see myself in a Weezer music video. As I was watching it, I saw some other people I met that day, and found myself thinking, “Hey, I know that kid.”
Also, here are some videos of what we did between takes. The kid that filmed this just walked around our tent with his MacBook in hand and captured everything with his computer’s camera. You might even recognize some of these people from the video.
This video is a slideshow of the various events throughout the day. Rivers son makes a cameo appearance (he’s the one carrying the dodgeball about the same size as him).
There are more of such videos on YouTube. Just search, “Weezer Troublemaker Music Video” and a whole slew of them will come up.
Hope you enjoyed reading about the Weezer “Troublemaker” music video shoot. Feel free to shoot me any questions you might have about the video, and I’ll do my best to try and answer them.
http://www.weezer.com/player/default.aspx/mid/4549
It is interesting to see how much got left on the cutting room floor for this video. At the shoot, it looked like they had a story they were going to tell, about how a bunch of world records were going to fall in this music video. There was a faux news reporter interviewing the Guinness World Records representative, the Guitar Hero players, and others throughout the day, along with pickup shots of the news reporter involved with events throughout the day, such as the game of dodgeball. That was left behind. As were most of the signboards explaining which record was being broken (this signboard can be seen in the crane shot where everyone is standing around the Flying W made of nachos).
Other things I mentioned in the previous blog were completely omitted or barely touched on, such as Pat Wilson playing the World’s Smallest Drum Kit or everyone crowding around the World’s Largest Skateboard. Or even the fact that a representative from Guinness was there to make sure everything was legitimate. If you did not have any previous context to what was going on in the video, would any of these shots make any sense? No, you would think it was just a weird video from the 80s when the music video genre was learning its way or a lost Batman comic book from the 1950s.
The fact the video was shot at the Forum in Inglewood is lost as well. This downplays Rivers getup for the video as well. Come to think of it, it’s almost funnier seeing Rivers dressed like that without any context to back it up with.
Don’t take this as a complaint or dissatisfaction. I had nothing but a great time on the shoot that day. Maybe the filmmakers had every intention of telling a story too, and due to the lack of time a music video allows, had to pare it down, lay down the key elements, and leave viewers of the video to fill in the blanks. Rather, I’m just doing this as a retrospective of how I thought the video would turn out in comparison to how it did turn out. It was great to see myself in a Weezer music video. As I was watching it, I saw some other people I met that day, and found myself thinking, “Hey, I know that kid.”
Also, here are some videos of what we did between takes. The kid that filmed this just walked around our tent with his MacBook in hand and captured everything with his computer’s camera. You might even recognize some of these people from the video.
This video is a slideshow of the various events throughout the day. Rivers son makes a cameo appearance (he’s the one carrying the dodgeball about the same size as him).
There are more of such videos on YouTube. Just search, “Weezer Troublemaker Music Video” and a whole slew of them will come up.
Hope you enjoyed reading about the Weezer “Troublemaker” music video shoot. Feel free to shoot me any questions you might have about the video, and I’ll do my best to try and answer them.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
=w=
I should’ve been a rock star. It’s in my genetic make up. I don’t trust anyone over the age of thirty, I can’t drive 55, and any chance I get to paint it, I paint it black. I should’ve been a rock star and probably would’ve been if school band hadn’t turned me off of music for so long. Then, during my formative teen years when I was removed enough from associating music with that awful thing my class did on days we didn’t have P.E., I picked up the guitar and got to play music I actually liked. However, by this time, I was in high school, and much too busy sexing up exotic women (not sitting in my room playing Castlevania, as is popular belief) to be able to devote the necessary time it takes to master the instrument.
I should’ve been a rock star. I could’ve been a rock star, and today, I proved it.
Waking up at 6:15am Pacific Time (use your Midwest work ethic to convert it to Central Time on your own), I got ready to drive down to Inglewood for my 8:00am call time.
I arrived at 7:50, allowing plenty of time to sign in and wait, but whatever—that’s just the life of a rock star. So I, along with about 49 other people, waited under the shade tent for our call.
Before going on, let’s review the theme of this video shoot: the goal was to set a bunch of world records that would be documented by officials from Guinness, the official source for all things world recordy since 1955. There was even a representative from Guinness there to oversee the whole thing. Some records to set were World’s Largest Hootenanny, World’s Largest Custard Pie Fight, and so on. Others I would find out about as the day wore on.
The first world record to get underway involved a group of guys that looked like rock stars who would play Guitar Hero: World Tour (on the Xbox 360—the game will be released on all major consoles and handhelds, though) for 12 hours straight. The game doesn’t have a release date yet (scheduled for the fourth quarter of 2008), so this was kind of cool to see a working version of it this early on, however I have my doubts the game is completed being so far away from a launch date. My job during this portion of the video was to be in the background and cheer on the Guitar Hero players, which was hard to do because they only got about four notes into each song before failing. A representative from Activision had to keep interrupting to show them how to play. Finally, the faux rockers got the hang of it and filming began, along with their twelve-hour timer.
So myself and about seventy other Weezer fans at this point crowded around their tent, shouting, cheering on, looking like we were having a good time, while the director kept telling the Guitar Hero guys to, “Get more into it,” and, “Pretend like you’re rock stars.” I had a notion to show them how it’s done. I don’t need to pretend. Rocking out is as natural to me as breathing. Most of the principle shots were taken care of right then and there, but pickup shots were done throughout the day.
Next, more extras joined the ranks and we were all ushered to another area of the Forum parking lot, where we were to partake in the World’s Largest Dodgeball Game. The teams were split evenly by a long line of red dodgeballs in the center of the court. The rules were explained, the cameras started rolling, and the whistle blew—trumpeting pandemonium.
To brag is to use boastful language; boast. For example, “He bragged endlessly about his high score.”
What I am about to do is brag: I am one helluva dodgeball player (what can I say: the Olympic spirit fills me). It’s been my forte since I was in elementary school. And today, on the biggest dodgeball-playing arena of my life, I did not disappoint. I was merciless. Chumps were dropping right and left from my superior dodgeball skills. My kill count was close to that in Rambo III. When the dust settled, my team stood victorious. Sure, there were a few casualties, but so is the name of the game. The opposing team recovered their fallen, and reassembled for round 2. Again, my team would come out victorious. Although, I have to admit, I got out in this game. But it was a matter of sheer luck on the other team’s part. I threw a ball so hard at someone it bounced off of her backside and into the air, and just happened to get caught. That’s okay. Ichiro says he wishes he could have a perfect batting average, but it’s just not possible due to forces out of his control—a similar situation here. Not that it mattered—I’d already paved the way for Team Fizzlebottom to come up with the win. The third game was for the record. With all the world watching, and somewhat miffed at the dumb luck from the last game, I came out of the gates guns a blazing. In no time at all, I’d dropped half a dozen fools. When the game concluded, I remained standing, Team Fizzlebottom went undefeated with a 3-0 record, and we’d set a Guinness World Record. Go me. Go America.
Back at the shade tent, we all refueled with water. Shortly thereafter, the director came around and gathered the weird looking kids and hurried them over to stand around a giant flying W (Weezer signature trademark. It shows up in most of their music videos and concerts) made out of nachos. This was both cool and hilarious. Not being a weird looking kid, I did not get picked, so I sat back and took pictures on my camera phone. While waiting for our next assignment, a few people came up to me and complimented me on my dodgeball playing ability (no lie—if I’d had a Sharpie on me, they’d of probably had me sign their face).
It was also around this time I first encountered two guys that thought they were 2 Cool 4 Skool. One was wearing an Incubus shirt and the other a Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt. Their presence solidified my hate for the band Incubus and might have soiled my love of the Chili Peppers forever. Any time they talked, it sounded as if they did not want to be at the video shoot. In no way were they forced to be there and could have left at any time. While everyone else was having fun, they’d have to say something to completely kill the mood, which got obnoxious really fast. Therefore, any time I have to reference them, I will lovingly refer to them individually as Incubus Fag and Red Hot Chili Fucker.
Around 9:30, we extras were beckoned to line up around a beat-up station wagon with a raised hood. The sun was beating down, and it gave the parking lot that watery oasis look. Through the mirage, entered all four members of the band: Brian, Pat, Rivers, and Scott. You could tell just by the way they carried themselves—they were rock stars. As they got closer, we all broke down laughing, everyone except Incubus Fag and Red Hot Chili Fucker. The reason the rest of us were laughing was because Rivers, who is about 5’ 7” and 135 lbs. had his hair slicked back underneath a hairnet, wearing a wife beater, baggy shorts that stopped a few inches above his ankles, socks pulled up the rest of the way, and vintage black Nike shoes. Even better, Rivers had temporary tattoos all over his body. There was a design crawling up his neck, a spider web on his elbow, and two hands praying on the inside of his left forearm. I talked with a fellow fan of Weezer about how nice it was to see Rivers having fun with things again (the same Rivers, who at one point isolated himself in a room for two years after the release of their sophomore album didn’t perform as well as expected). Then Incubus Fag tried to correct me, saying, “Yeah, if dressing up like a gangster is your idea of fun.”
As a matter of fact, Incubus Fag, that is my idea of fun. Now shut the fuck up, grab a wide ruled notebook, and write some fucking poetry. Better yet, save a tree, grab a knife, and write that poem down your jugular vein. Fucking bitch.
But back to the subject at hand, Rivers was there to pull this supped up station wagon with his teeth and set a World Record. Again, we were there to cheer him on. Someone forgot to take the station wagon out of park, and the first attempt almost pulled Rivers’ teeth out of his head. Rivers, in all his ghetto glory, finally got to pull the car a few meters before the bit in his mouth broke. But I think it had already gone far enough to issue him the world record. What a productive day so far, and it’s not even 10:00am yet.
They began setting up for the token footage of the band playing that is in every music video. Before going over to cheer them on as they play, first we had to get some shots of the words biggest skateboard. It was a really big skateboard. They packed well over thirty people on that thing. Then one of the grips pushed it into frame, causing about twenty-five people to lose their balance and almost fall off. The rest of us cheered.
With that business out of the way, and the band plugged in, we all huddled around the Flying Nacho, people desperately trying to get positioned where they thought the camera would pick them up. I noticed some people eating the nachos and cheese, forgetting that this thing had been sitting out for over three hours in the California sun. (Un)fortunately, some Production Assistants saw that and immediately asked people to stop. Some did.
With the band ready and the extras fighting off salmonella, we were ready to shoot. Our instructions were to look like we were having a good time rocking out to Weezer. No problem. The cameras rolled, the band lip-synched to the song, “Troublemaker,” and we rocked out. The “we” being myself and Weezer—everybody else was just faking. It’s not their fault. They weren’t born rock stars like us. After more jumping around and looking like we were having a good time, the song ended and we got ready to do it again, and again, and again. During the interim, people were voicing their complaints that the band wasn’t playing live. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it pretty common knowledge that bands don’t actually play when shooting music videos? It’s not like every band that shoots a video is trying to pull the wool over the eyes of their fans—that’s just how it’s done so it doesn’t look goofy when you overlay the song in post-production.
During this segment, other members of the band set some records of their own. Pat Wilson, the drummer, played the world’s smallest drum kit. Yes, it was a fully functional drum kit, and Pat had two tiny drumsticks for which to play with. The man from Guinness came onto the set with an official Guinness measuring stick to measure every aspect of the kit to make sure it was a world record. While he was busy doing that, guitarist Brian Bell played his instrument using the world’s longest electric guitar amp cord. The thing ran from the set, which was at one end of the Forum’s parking lot, all the way to the other. It’ll be hard to grasp just how long this cord was until you see the music video, as I doubt any of my four loyal readers will have been to the Forum’s parking lot to know just how big that is. After running through the song a few more times with the band, it was lunchtime.
The Guitar Hero guys were still at it, looking bored out of their mind. The singer’s voice sounded shot. He was barely able to whisper into the microphone now. I keep hearing the same songs over and over again, and I’ve been busy doing things involving not playing Guitar Hero. Persevere guys—you’ve only got about seven more hours to go.
Lunch was served. It was Pizza Hut pizza. Maybe the greasiest Pizza Hut pizza ever served for lunch. The grease from my two slices of pizza soaked through my multi-layered paper plates and actually dripped like a leaky faucet onto the asphalt. But the lemonade was just right.
Once us extras had finished eating their bottle of Crisco, people started pulling out their instruments brought along for the hootenanny and played along together to Weezer songs. We ran the gamut, playing things like “Buddy Holly,” from the Blue Album all the way up to “Pork and Beans,” the most recent single, and even some B-side stuff, like “Suzanne.” Everyone had a good time playing along and singing a song—everyone except Incubus Fag and the Red Hot Chili Fucker. I think they were busy uploading sad photos of each other on myspace or something.
Going to grab more lemonade to neutralize the grease base ripping apart my small intestine, I bumped into Guinness World Record holder for playing the World’s Smallest Drum Kit and Weezer drummer, Pat Wilson. We chatted briefly—he was respectful enough to know that I was really busy with the shoot today, but I did let him take a picture with me on my cell phone. He thanked me for the opportunity, I told him it was my pleasure, and we parted ways. The first thing I did was sent the picture to my way hetero life mate Dallas and his cell phone. He texts me back the following message:
“I don’t know who that is. Is it Pat? It looks like Pat.”
I text Dallas back, informing him that it indeed was Pat. His response:
“I hate you.”
Ha ha. Today just paid for its self. But it gets better. Next, I run into Guinness World Record holder for playing guitar with the World’s Longest Electric Guitar Cord and Weezer guitarist Brian Bell. Once again, I was more than happy to let him take a picture with me on my phone. We too exchanged pleasantries and went our separate ways—Brian to do something important, me to do something even more important—I had to send this picture to Dallas.
Dallas text messaged me again:
“Where is it that you got to meet them?”
I told him I was on the set of the “Troublemaker” music video. After a moment’s delay, I receive a text back saying:
“I’m not talking to you for two weeks.”
The director came around asking for all extras to return to the set. It was now time to take part in the World’s Largest Air Guitar Session. We all once again huddled around the Flying Congealed Cheese and Stale Nacho while we went over what we were going to do for this part of the shoot. Someone is eating a damn nacho. No wonder Weezer fans look so sickly. California school system, loyal reader. California school system. Once again, my inner rock star shone through. I played the air guitar better than the Devil can play the fiddle. I had the look, the stance, the windmill strum, the stage presence. Pete Townshend would have been proud.
But it was during the hootenanny that I really shined. Did I say hootenanny? Yes, I said hootenanny. I said it earlier too. Our next record to break was for World’s Raddest Hootenanny. Those of us participating in the hootenanny picked up our guitars (I picked up Rose’s guitar—thanks again, Rose!), our snare drums, our accordions, and our spoons, and went to playing with the band. The song, “Troublemaker” is really easy to play. Aside from a bridge in the middle of the song, you only have to strum an A major chord and an A7 chord, over and over again. That’s all the song is for the verse and chorus. Writing a rock song is easy. Being a rock star is tough. That’s why so many bands never make it—they just don’t have what it takes to be a rock star. Weezer is both good at music and they have the chops to be rock stars. I’m bad at music, knocking me out of the running. But the potential is there. The hootenanny sounded just like a hootenanny would—a little outdoorsy. It didn’t sound great, but considering the eclectic mishmash of instruments in attendance, it turned out better than anyone could have expected. Weezer looked pleased, and we all had a lot of fun.
We did another round of pickup shots, which entailed more jumping around and looking like we were enjoying ourselves. After twelve hours of doing this, it started to wear on everyone.
Another record fell during this portion of the shoot. Weezer set the record for number of guitars smashed in a music video. Once again, the director came around and hand picked a bunch of people to go on stage and smash them while the band lip-synched. I was pretty bummed when I didn’t get picked. The director looked right at me and then past me. It egged me for a few minutes, and then I looked at the group of people that got picked. Again, it was just a bunch of weird looking, sickly kids. Then, I felt better about not getting picked. Not a single normal looking person got pulled from the crowd to smashy smashy. These kids will probably go on to be graphic design majors in college (or already are), and do quite well for themselves, sure, and I’ll probably live in a hostel with Gweat’s for the next five years with no future prospects, but at least I look normal. If ever I accidentally got in a line for a hipster concentration camp, someone would see that I didn’t fit in and pull me out of there before I got on the train.
I heard Incubus Fag and Red Hot Chili Fucker pipe up again, saying something impish. Apparently, everyone else has had it with them too today. Some other extra harangued them for being little fuck tarts and a couple other people jumped in to attack too. Looking back, it seems a little harsh and excessive, but when Mom comes to pick them up, she’ll probably take RHCF and his friend to McDonald’s to cheer them up. They’ll be fine.
After that, most people got to leave and prizes were handed out at the end of the day. These consisted of forty-fives, who probably more people there had a player that could spin them than should, to Weezer tote bags, to a guitar signed by the band. But I was out of the running for these prizes, as I had one more record to be a part of.
With the sun going down, we had to get this taken care of quickly before we lost all of our natural light. The groups were split again 50/50, and we all lined up on each side of a folding table lined with custard pies. The final record to go down was…you guess it, the World’s Largest Custard Pie Fight. The Guinness representative informed us for it to count as a world record, it had to last at least a minute. However, there weren’t enough pies to go around, so we had to drag the fight on by doing it in waves, the same way our founding fathers fought the English. The whistle blew, and the first wave got creamed (pun intended). Then the second wave went, then the third. I launched my pie at my opponent, and in turn, I got nailed big time. My entire head was covered in delicious custard. I couldn’t see through all of the creamy goodness. Wiping my eyes, I saw the next waves go. Everyone was a mess. We got it to last longer than a minute, though. Even with pies gone, people started picking up shells off the ground and chucking them. The pie fight continued on. It was a blast. People were slipping on residue left and right—a few even wiped out. By the end of it, there was more pie on people than on the ground. My entire head was caked in it, there was a good portion of custard resting on my shoulders and some going down the front of my shirt. My right pant leg had a healthy amount covering the span of hip to ankle, and my shoes were more crust than Converse.
The director yelled, “That’s a wrap,” we all cheered, and began wiping off custard. Apparently, no one thought a pie fight would get messy, and we were left to ration about two paper towel rolls amongst ourselves. Fortunately, a Production Assistant found a hose we could spray down with. Within a matter of minutes, I knew what it was like to be at Woodstock and the Civil Rights protests all in one.
Now, soaking wet and still pied, I hunted down the Cougar and called it a day. On my way, I crossed paths with Karl, fifth member of Weezer and their online site manager. We talked for a bit—he got some pictures of me in my baked goods glory, and went about our separate ways. On my way to the car, I spotted two of the Guitar Hero guys. I asked them how it was to play Guitar Hero for twelve hours. They said it was one of the worst things they’ve had to do in their life. I can’t even imagine. I get about three songs into Guitar Hero and get bored. Just like I assumed, they didn’t even have a full build of the game. In fact, Activision only gave them nine songs to play the entire day. Nine songs! Average each song to be about three minutes, that’s less than a half hour of material. Since this blog has run long, and you already had to convert Pacific Standard Time into Central, I’ll do the math for you on this one. That means they played each of the nine songs roughly twenty-four times. The toy guitarist told me, “If I hear another Bon Jovi song in my entire life, I’m going to fucking kill myself.”
Then the plastic drummer chimed in, “The only song I would listen to again is ‘Heartbreaker,’ by Pat Benatar, because she’s hot.” I hope Bon Jovi wasn’t in earshot to hear that.
I drove back through Inglewood and Los Angeles without my shirt on, and my seatbelt still got custard on it. That’s going to smell so bad. Of course, the nearest open parking space to the hostel was three blocks away, so I lugged my dirty clothes in one hand, and Rose’s guitar in the other (my hands were clean, at least), walked past Sait, Marko, and Ruby, who were all busy doing work on their computers. I hear running water in the bathroom. Gweat’s is in there singing. Who knows if he was actually showering. I hoped he’d be out of the bathroom by the time I dropped my clothes in the laundry.
On my way down the hall again, I still hear water running, then I hear the toilet flush, followed by Gweat’s saying, “Holy shit, that’s hot.” There are so many things wrong with this picture. One, the shower is too far away from the toilet for Gweat’s to even reach the handle to flush it. Two, why would he flush the toilet in the first place if he were in the shower? A paradox.
Upon returning upstairs after starting my load of laundry, Gweat’s emerged from the shower, so I hopped in. When I was finished, the bathroom smelled like a bakery, and it wasn’t because the Dutch Letters Gweat’s was making in there were finished cooking, either.
All in all, it was an excellent day. I’m really starting to dig California. There’s just so much stuff to do and see. Even though I haven’t done much of anything yet. I’d never have seen or done the things I have done here back at home.
Lastly, I’ve got to thank Weezer and their crew. They were great to work with today, and it was a lot of fun. I’ll remember today now and forever. Should I somehow forget, I’ll simply be able to watch the music video as a quick reminder.
=w=
I should’ve been a rock star. I could’ve been a rock star, and today, I proved it.
Waking up at 6:15am Pacific Time (use your Midwest work ethic to convert it to Central Time on your own), I got ready to drive down to Inglewood for my 8:00am call time.
I arrived at 7:50, allowing plenty of time to sign in and wait, but whatever—that’s just the life of a rock star. So I, along with about 49 other people, waited under the shade tent for our call.
Before going on, let’s review the theme of this video shoot: the goal was to set a bunch of world records that would be documented by officials from Guinness, the official source for all things world recordy since 1955. There was even a representative from Guinness there to oversee the whole thing. Some records to set were World’s Largest Hootenanny, World’s Largest Custard Pie Fight, and so on. Others I would find out about as the day wore on.
The first world record to get underway involved a group of guys that looked like rock stars who would play Guitar Hero: World Tour (on the Xbox 360—the game will be released on all major consoles and handhelds, though) for 12 hours straight. The game doesn’t have a release date yet (scheduled for the fourth quarter of 2008), so this was kind of cool to see a working version of it this early on, however I have my doubts the game is completed being so far away from a launch date. My job during this portion of the video was to be in the background and cheer on the Guitar Hero players, which was hard to do because they only got about four notes into each song before failing. A representative from Activision had to keep interrupting to show them how to play. Finally, the faux rockers got the hang of it and filming began, along with their twelve-hour timer.
So myself and about seventy other Weezer fans at this point crowded around their tent, shouting, cheering on, looking like we were having a good time, while the director kept telling the Guitar Hero guys to, “Get more into it,” and, “Pretend like you’re rock stars.” I had a notion to show them how it’s done. I don’t need to pretend. Rocking out is as natural to me as breathing. Most of the principle shots were taken care of right then and there, but pickup shots were done throughout the day.
Next, more extras joined the ranks and we were all ushered to another area of the Forum parking lot, where we were to partake in the World’s Largest Dodgeball Game. The teams were split evenly by a long line of red dodgeballs in the center of the court. The rules were explained, the cameras started rolling, and the whistle blew—trumpeting pandemonium.
To brag is to use boastful language; boast. For example, “He bragged endlessly about his high score.”
What I am about to do is brag: I am one helluva dodgeball player (what can I say: the Olympic spirit fills me). It’s been my forte since I was in elementary school. And today, on the biggest dodgeball-playing arena of my life, I did not disappoint. I was merciless. Chumps were dropping right and left from my superior dodgeball skills. My kill count was close to that in Rambo III. When the dust settled, my team stood victorious. Sure, there were a few casualties, but so is the name of the game. The opposing team recovered their fallen, and reassembled for round 2. Again, my team would come out victorious. Although, I have to admit, I got out in this game. But it was a matter of sheer luck on the other team’s part. I threw a ball so hard at someone it bounced off of her backside and into the air, and just happened to get caught. That’s okay. Ichiro says he wishes he could have a perfect batting average, but it’s just not possible due to forces out of his control—a similar situation here. Not that it mattered—I’d already paved the way for Team Fizzlebottom to come up with the win. The third game was for the record. With all the world watching, and somewhat miffed at the dumb luck from the last game, I came out of the gates guns a blazing. In no time at all, I’d dropped half a dozen fools. When the game concluded, I remained standing, Team Fizzlebottom went undefeated with a 3-0 record, and we’d set a Guinness World Record. Go me. Go America.
Back at the shade tent, we all refueled with water. Shortly thereafter, the director came around and gathered the weird looking kids and hurried them over to stand around a giant flying W (Weezer signature trademark. It shows up in most of their music videos and concerts) made out of nachos. This was both cool and hilarious. Not being a weird looking kid, I did not get picked, so I sat back and took pictures on my camera phone. While waiting for our next assignment, a few people came up to me and complimented me on my dodgeball playing ability (no lie—if I’d had a Sharpie on me, they’d of probably had me sign their face).
It was also around this time I first encountered two guys that thought they were 2 Cool 4 Skool. One was wearing an Incubus shirt and the other a Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt. Their presence solidified my hate for the band Incubus and might have soiled my love of the Chili Peppers forever. Any time they talked, it sounded as if they did not want to be at the video shoot. In no way were they forced to be there and could have left at any time. While everyone else was having fun, they’d have to say something to completely kill the mood, which got obnoxious really fast. Therefore, any time I have to reference them, I will lovingly refer to them individually as Incubus Fag and Red Hot Chili Fucker.
Around 9:30, we extras were beckoned to line up around a beat-up station wagon with a raised hood. The sun was beating down, and it gave the parking lot that watery oasis look. Through the mirage, entered all four members of the band: Brian, Pat, Rivers, and Scott. You could tell just by the way they carried themselves—they were rock stars. As they got closer, we all broke down laughing, everyone except Incubus Fag and Red Hot Chili Fucker. The reason the rest of us were laughing was because Rivers, who is about 5’ 7” and 135 lbs. had his hair slicked back underneath a hairnet, wearing a wife beater, baggy shorts that stopped a few inches above his ankles, socks pulled up the rest of the way, and vintage black Nike shoes. Even better, Rivers had temporary tattoos all over his body. There was a design crawling up his neck, a spider web on his elbow, and two hands praying on the inside of his left forearm. I talked with a fellow fan of Weezer about how nice it was to see Rivers having fun with things again (the same Rivers, who at one point isolated himself in a room for two years after the release of their sophomore album didn’t perform as well as expected). Then Incubus Fag tried to correct me, saying, “Yeah, if dressing up like a gangster is your idea of fun.”
As a matter of fact, Incubus Fag, that is my idea of fun. Now shut the fuck up, grab a wide ruled notebook, and write some fucking poetry. Better yet, save a tree, grab a knife, and write that poem down your jugular vein. Fucking bitch.
But back to the subject at hand, Rivers was there to pull this supped up station wagon with his teeth and set a World Record. Again, we were there to cheer him on. Someone forgot to take the station wagon out of park, and the first attempt almost pulled Rivers’ teeth out of his head. Rivers, in all his ghetto glory, finally got to pull the car a few meters before the bit in his mouth broke. But I think it had already gone far enough to issue him the world record. What a productive day so far, and it’s not even 10:00am yet.
They began setting up for the token footage of the band playing that is in every music video. Before going over to cheer them on as they play, first we had to get some shots of the words biggest skateboard. It was a really big skateboard. They packed well over thirty people on that thing. Then one of the grips pushed it into frame, causing about twenty-five people to lose their balance and almost fall off. The rest of us cheered.
With that business out of the way, and the band plugged in, we all huddled around the Flying Nacho, people desperately trying to get positioned where they thought the camera would pick them up. I noticed some people eating the nachos and cheese, forgetting that this thing had been sitting out for over three hours in the California sun. (Un)fortunately, some Production Assistants saw that and immediately asked people to stop. Some did.
With the band ready and the extras fighting off salmonella, we were ready to shoot. Our instructions were to look like we were having a good time rocking out to Weezer. No problem. The cameras rolled, the band lip-synched to the song, “Troublemaker,” and we rocked out. The “we” being myself and Weezer—everybody else was just faking. It’s not their fault. They weren’t born rock stars like us. After more jumping around and looking like we were having a good time, the song ended and we got ready to do it again, and again, and again. During the interim, people were voicing their complaints that the band wasn’t playing live. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it pretty common knowledge that bands don’t actually play when shooting music videos? It’s not like every band that shoots a video is trying to pull the wool over the eyes of their fans—that’s just how it’s done so it doesn’t look goofy when you overlay the song in post-production.
During this segment, other members of the band set some records of their own. Pat Wilson, the drummer, played the world’s smallest drum kit. Yes, it was a fully functional drum kit, and Pat had two tiny drumsticks for which to play with. The man from Guinness came onto the set with an official Guinness measuring stick to measure every aspect of the kit to make sure it was a world record. While he was busy doing that, guitarist Brian Bell played his instrument using the world’s longest electric guitar amp cord. The thing ran from the set, which was at one end of the Forum’s parking lot, all the way to the other. It’ll be hard to grasp just how long this cord was until you see the music video, as I doubt any of my four loyal readers will have been to the Forum’s parking lot to know just how big that is. After running through the song a few more times with the band, it was lunchtime.
The Guitar Hero guys were still at it, looking bored out of their mind. The singer’s voice sounded shot. He was barely able to whisper into the microphone now. I keep hearing the same songs over and over again, and I’ve been busy doing things involving not playing Guitar Hero. Persevere guys—you’ve only got about seven more hours to go.
Lunch was served. It was Pizza Hut pizza. Maybe the greasiest Pizza Hut pizza ever served for lunch. The grease from my two slices of pizza soaked through my multi-layered paper plates and actually dripped like a leaky faucet onto the asphalt. But the lemonade was just right.
Once us extras had finished eating their bottle of Crisco, people started pulling out their instruments brought along for the hootenanny and played along together to Weezer songs. We ran the gamut, playing things like “Buddy Holly,” from the Blue Album all the way up to “Pork and Beans,” the most recent single, and even some B-side stuff, like “Suzanne.” Everyone had a good time playing along and singing a song—everyone except Incubus Fag and the Red Hot Chili Fucker. I think they were busy uploading sad photos of each other on myspace or something.
Going to grab more lemonade to neutralize the grease base ripping apart my small intestine, I bumped into Guinness World Record holder for playing the World’s Smallest Drum Kit and Weezer drummer, Pat Wilson. We chatted briefly—he was respectful enough to know that I was really busy with the shoot today, but I did let him take a picture with me on my cell phone. He thanked me for the opportunity, I told him it was my pleasure, and we parted ways. The first thing I did was sent the picture to my way hetero life mate Dallas and his cell phone. He texts me back the following message:
“I don’t know who that is. Is it Pat? It looks like Pat.”
I text Dallas back, informing him that it indeed was Pat. His response:
“I hate you.”
Ha ha. Today just paid for its self. But it gets better. Next, I run into Guinness World Record holder for playing guitar with the World’s Longest Electric Guitar Cord and Weezer guitarist Brian Bell. Once again, I was more than happy to let him take a picture with me on my phone. We too exchanged pleasantries and went our separate ways—Brian to do something important, me to do something even more important—I had to send this picture to Dallas.
Dallas text messaged me again:
“Where is it that you got to meet them?”
I told him I was on the set of the “Troublemaker” music video. After a moment’s delay, I receive a text back saying:
“I’m not talking to you for two weeks.”
The director came around asking for all extras to return to the set. It was now time to take part in the World’s Largest Air Guitar Session. We all once again huddled around the Flying Congealed Cheese and Stale Nacho while we went over what we were going to do for this part of the shoot. Someone is eating a damn nacho. No wonder Weezer fans look so sickly. California school system, loyal reader. California school system. Once again, my inner rock star shone through. I played the air guitar better than the Devil can play the fiddle. I had the look, the stance, the windmill strum, the stage presence. Pete Townshend would have been proud.
But it was during the hootenanny that I really shined. Did I say hootenanny? Yes, I said hootenanny. I said it earlier too. Our next record to break was for World’s Raddest Hootenanny. Those of us participating in the hootenanny picked up our guitars (I picked up Rose’s guitar—thanks again, Rose!), our snare drums, our accordions, and our spoons, and went to playing with the band. The song, “Troublemaker” is really easy to play. Aside from a bridge in the middle of the song, you only have to strum an A major chord and an A7 chord, over and over again. That’s all the song is for the verse and chorus. Writing a rock song is easy. Being a rock star is tough. That’s why so many bands never make it—they just don’t have what it takes to be a rock star. Weezer is both good at music and they have the chops to be rock stars. I’m bad at music, knocking me out of the running. But the potential is there. The hootenanny sounded just like a hootenanny would—a little outdoorsy. It didn’t sound great, but considering the eclectic mishmash of instruments in attendance, it turned out better than anyone could have expected. Weezer looked pleased, and we all had a lot of fun.
We did another round of pickup shots, which entailed more jumping around and looking like we were enjoying ourselves. After twelve hours of doing this, it started to wear on everyone.
Another record fell during this portion of the shoot. Weezer set the record for number of guitars smashed in a music video. Once again, the director came around and hand picked a bunch of people to go on stage and smash them while the band lip-synched. I was pretty bummed when I didn’t get picked. The director looked right at me and then past me. It egged me for a few minutes, and then I looked at the group of people that got picked. Again, it was just a bunch of weird looking, sickly kids. Then, I felt better about not getting picked. Not a single normal looking person got pulled from the crowd to smashy smashy. These kids will probably go on to be graphic design majors in college (or already are), and do quite well for themselves, sure, and I’ll probably live in a hostel with Gweat’s for the next five years with no future prospects, but at least I look normal. If ever I accidentally got in a line for a hipster concentration camp, someone would see that I didn’t fit in and pull me out of there before I got on the train.
I heard Incubus Fag and Red Hot Chili Fucker pipe up again, saying something impish. Apparently, everyone else has had it with them too today. Some other extra harangued them for being little fuck tarts and a couple other people jumped in to attack too. Looking back, it seems a little harsh and excessive, but when Mom comes to pick them up, she’ll probably take RHCF and his friend to McDonald’s to cheer them up. They’ll be fine.
After that, most people got to leave and prizes were handed out at the end of the day. These consisted of forty-fives, who probably more people there had a player that could spin them than should, to Weezer tote bags, to a guitar signed by the band. But I was out of the running for these prizes, as I had one more record to be a part of.
With the sun going down, we had to get this taken care of quickly before we lost all of our natural light. The groups were split again 50/50, and we all lined up on each side of a folding table lined with custard pies. The final record to go down was…you guess it, the World’s Largest Custard Pie Fight. The Guinness representative informed us for it to count as a world record, it had to last at least a minute. However, there weren’t enough pies to go around, so we had to drag the fight on by doing it in waves, the same way our founding fathers fought the English. The whistle blew, and the first wave got creamed (pun intended). Then the second wave went, then the third. I launched my pie at my opponent, and in turn, I got nailed big time. My entire head was covered in delicious custard. I couldn’t see through all of the creamy goodness. Wiping my eyes, I saw the next waves go. Everyone was a mess. We got it to last longer than a minute, though. Even with pies gone, people started picking up shells off the ground and chucking them. The pie fight continued on. It was a blast. People were slipping on residue left and right—a few even wiped out. By the end of it, there was more pie on people than on the ground. My entire head was caked in it, there was a good portion of custard resting on my shoulders and some going down the front of my shirt. My right pant leg had a healthy amount covering the span of hip to ankle, and my shoes were more crust than Converse.
The director yelled, “That’s a wrap,” we all cheered, and began wiping off custard. Apparently, no one thought a pie fight would get messy, and we were left to ration about two paper towel rolls amongst ourselves. Fortunately, a Production Assistant found a hose we could spray down with. Within a matter of minutes, I knew what it was like to be at Woodstock and the Civil Rights protests all in one.
Now, soaking wet and still pied, I hunted down the Cougar and called it a day. On my way, I crossed paths with Karl, fifth member of Weezer and their online site manager. We talked for a bit—he got some pictures of me in my baked goods glory, and went about our separate ways. On my way to the car, I spotted two of the Guitar Hero guys. I asked them how it was to play Guitar Hero for twelve hours. They said it was one of the worst things they’ve had to do in their life. I can’t even imagine. I get about three songs into Guitar Hero and get bored. Just like I assumed, they didn’t even have a full build of the game. In fact, Activision only gave them nine songs to play the entire day. Nine songs! Average each song to be about three minutes, that’s less than a half hour of material. Since this blog has run long, and you already had to convert Pacific Standard Time into Central, I’ll do the math for you on this one. That means they played each of the nine songs roughly twenty-four times. The toy guitarist told me, “If I hear another Bon Jovi song in my entire life, I’m going to fucking kill myself.”
Then the plastic drummer chimed in, “The only song I would listen to again is ‘Heartbreaker,’ by Pat Benatar, because she’s hot.” I hope Bon Jovi wasn’t in earshot to hear that.
I drove back through Inglewood and Los Angeles without my shirt on, and my seatbelt still got custard on it. That’s going to smell so bad. Of course, the nearest open parking space to the hostel was three blocks away, so I lugged my dirty clothes in one hand, and Rose’s guitar in the other (my hands were clean, at least), walked past Sait, Marko, and Ruby, who were all busy doing work on their computers. I hear running water in the bathroom. Gweat’s is in there singing. Who knows if he was actually showering. I hoped he’d be out of the bathroom by the time I dropped my clothes in the laundry.
On my way down the hall again, I still hear water running, then I hear the toilet flush, followed by Gweat’s saying, “Holy shit, that’s hot.” There are so many things wrong with this picture. One, the shower is too far away from the toilet for Gweat’s to even reach the handle to flush it. Two, why would he flush the toilet in the first place if he were in the shower? A paradox.
Upon returning upstairs after starting my load of laundry, Gweat’s emerged from the shower, so I hopped in. When I was finished, the bathroom smelled like a bakery, and it wasn’t because the Dutch Letters Gweat’s was making in there were finished cooking, either.
All in all, it was an excellent day. I’m really starting to dig California. There’s just so much stuff to do and see. Even though I haven’t done much of anything yet. I’d never have seen or done the things I have done here back at home.
Lastly, I’ve got to thank Weezer and their crew. They were great to work with today, and it was a lot of fun. I’ll remember today now and forever. Should I somehow forget, I’ll simply be able to watch the music video as a quick reminder.
=w=
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Tactical Espionage Action
CONFIRMED! I will be appearing in the Weezer music video. I have to be at the Forum in Inglewood at 7am tomorrow morning. Wait, Inglewood? From what I’ve gathered, Inglewood is Compton Lite. Why would Weezer, a band consisting of scrawny white boys be shooting a video featuring their scrawny white fans in Inglewood? And at 7am no less. Is that still a time of day?
But this is no time to question the Weezer authorities. If I’m going to be in the hootenanny, I need to bone up on my guitar strumming. Rose was kind enough to let me borrow her six-string so I could practice my scales. But instead of doing that, I drove to Hollywood to drop off my screenplay at a production company. It’s Wednesday street cleaning anyway, so I might as well do it now, lest I want a parking ticket.
Upon arriving at the production company in Hollywood, rather than pay to use a parking garage or fill the meter, I pulled the Cougar into a CVS Pharmacy lot, hoping and praying the “Reserved for CVS customers. Violators will be towed at owners expense,” signs littering the place didn’t pertain to me. While briskly walking to my destination, I came across the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I passed the star of Roy Rogers, who is right on the corner of I believe Cahuenga and Hollywood Boulevard, but that might not be accurate—I should’ve taken better notes. I’ve always wanted to see this attraction, but there was no time to waste sightseeing now. In my hands was Hollywood’s next rejected screenplay. I was on a mission to deliver this to a production company who would take it from me, throw it in the recycling bin, and move on to the next one in the pile.
I’d made it to the security building. I stated my name and purpose. They asked if I had an appointment. I said that I did not, and that I was just going to drop off my screenplay because the production company was open to taking unsolicited submissions. After a little sweet-talking and a bit of luck, I was sent up to the office.
When I reached the top floor, the elevator opened up to what you would expect a production company’s waiting room to look like. Everything was sleek and streamlined. It looked fast paced and cutting edge, even though the receptionist was clearly bored. It didn’t look like she had too many projects to work on. She kindly asked me to have a seat and someone would be with me right away. I walked over to one of the couches—the back support was taller than I am standing up. When I sat down, I felt like I was about to get my picture taken in one of the oversize novelty couches they have at the State Fair (golly shucks). This was clearly a subliminal attempt at intimidation. Just because my feet couldn’t touch the ground right now didn’t mean I was going to let these Hollywood big wigs walk all over me. If they wanted to play by prison rules, we could play by prison rules. So the first thing I did was take out my hunting knife and carve up all of their throw pillows. That was phase one. In phase two, I knocked over their magazine rack. Finally, I threw myself through their glass coffee table. The receptionist looked at me like I was crazy. Feeling bad, I cleaned everything up and sat down again.
From there, the receptionist and I watched Divorce Court together. It concluded when the paternity results showed the defendant was the baby’s daddy, and decided to be a part in his son’s life from then on out. While watching the next show about a hard-boiled judge that had an erection for justice, I began running the numbers in my head for how much money it would take to get my car back from the towing company.
After a 45-minute moment, the head of the production company came out to greet me. After which, he said:
“Um, have we met before?”
“No sir, we have not.”
“So, how did you get up here?”
I explained the situation to him and how I thought it would be best if I delivered my screenplay manually rather than an electronic submission because I wanted to be sure he got it personally. He told me that was not how it’s usually done, and I tried my best to play it cool like Jack Nicholson in Chinatown, and act like this is how I always do these kinds of things. He took my story, we said our goodbyes, and I assured him we would be in touch in the future. I said goodbye to the receptionist whom I had bonded with over daytime courtroom television, and took the elevator back to the first floor. As soon as I left, the executive probably took my screenplay, peed on it, let it fester for a few minutes, and then went about his busy executive day. But that’s not the point. The point is, I infiltrated a production company’s office in the heart of Hollywood, hand-delivered my screenplay to the head of the company, and then hopped back in my not towed ’93 Cougar to drive back to the hostel I’d been living in for two weeks now. This left me feeling pretty badass, even if nothing comes of it.
To celebrate my victory, I went to Ralphs where they are having a sale on eight pieces of chicken for five bucks. That was too much chicken to eat, but it was cheaper to buy eight pieces than it was to buy three, so I went with it.
With four pieces down to nothing but the bone, I realized I couldn’t handle this all on my own. Fortunately, I heard a familiar voice coming from outside. Running to the window, I saw Gweat’s yelling at a dumpster. I shouted out to him, “Hey Gweat’s—,” he looked up. “I’ve got some chicken up here. You wanna help me eat it?”
Gweat’s paused, looked at the dumpster again, then back at me. “Yeah, hang on. I’ll be up in a minute.” Walking back over to the chicken table, I heard Gweat’s finish up his poignant argument. By the end of his roe, I saw his point.
Cut to:
Gweat’s and I sitting at a table eating chicken together.
After that, it was time to practice guitar so as to not let Weezer down. They also pushed back the start time to 8am, giving me another hour to become the guitar savant I always knew I was. As it turns out, I suck. Not consistently playing guitar for a couple of years has rendered me terrible. Not that I was good before, but I was failing at playing things I used to be get through with the greatest of ease. Giving up, I went outside where Marko, Sait, and a few others were sitting around smoking not whacky-tobaccee. Then Jeff, a first floor resident, asked if anyone wanted to play Guitar Hero. We all reluctantly went to the TV room, hooked up the Wii, and took turns passing the plastic toy guitar around like it were some peace pipe. After a couple of rounds, I can honestly say I also suck at Guitar Hero, too.
Whatever. It’s all about the image anyway, which I won’t have if I don’t get some sleep tonight. I crawled into bed, with images of Weezer and that dancing baby from Ally McBeal dancing in my head.
But this is no time to question the Weezer authorities. If I’m going to be in the hootenanny, I need to bone up on my guitar strumming. Rose was kind enough to let me borrow her six-string so I could practice my scales. But instead of doing that, I drove to Hollywood to drop off my screenplay at a production company. It’s Wednesday street cleaning anyway, so I might as well do it now, lest I want a parking ticket.
Upon arriving at the production company in Hollywood, rather than pay to use a parking garage or fill the meter, I pulled the Cougar into a CVS Pharmacy lot, hoping and praying the “Reserved for CVS customers. Violators will be towed at owners expense,” signs littering the place didn’t pertain to me. While briskly walking to my destination, I came across the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I passed the star of Roy Rogers, who is right on the corner of I believe Cahuenga and Hollywood Boulevard, but that might not be accurate—I should’ve taken better notes. I’ve always wanted to see this attraction, but there was no time to waste sightseeing now. In my hands was Hollywood’s next rejected screenplay. I was on a mission to deliver this to a production company who would take it from me, throw it in the recycling bin, and move on to the next one in the pile.
I’d made it to the security building. I stated my name and purpose. They asked if I had an appointment. I said that I did not, and that I was just going to drop off my screenplay because the production company was open to taking unsolicited submissions. After a little sweet-talking and a bit of luck, I was sent up to the office.
When I reached the top floor, the elevator opened up to what you would expect a production company’s waiting room to look like. Everything was sleek and streamlined. It looked fast paced and cutting edge, even though the receptionist was clearly bored. It didn’t look like she had too many projects to work on. She kindly asked me to have a seat and someone would be with me right away. I walked over to one of the couches—the back support was taller than I am standing up. When I sat down, I felt like I was about to get my picture taken in one of the oversize novelty couches they have at the State Fair (golly shucks). This was clearly a subliminal attempt at intimidation. Just because my feet couldn’t touch the ground right now didn’t mean I was going to let these Hollywood big wigs walk all over me. If they wanted to play by prison rules, we could play by prison rules. So the first thing I did was take out my hunting knife and carve up all of their throw pillows. That was phase one. In phase two, I knocked over their magazine rack. Finally, I threw myself through their glass coffee table. The receptionist looked at me like I was crazy. Feeling bad, I cleaned everything up and sat down again.
From there, the receptionist and I watched Divorce Court together. It concluded when the paternity results showed the defendant was the baby’s daddy, and decided to be a part in his son’s life from then on out. While watching the next show about a hard-boiled judge that had an erection for justice, I began running the numbers in my head for how much money it would take to get my car back from the towing company.
After a 45-minute moment, the head of the production company came out to greet me. After which, he said:
“Um, have we met before?”
“No sir, we have not.”
“So, how did you get up here?”
I explained the situation to him and how I thought it would be best if I delivered my screenplay manually rather than an electronic submission because I wanted to be sure he got it personally. He told me that was not how it’s usually done, and I tried my best to play it cool like Jack Nicholson in Chinatown, and act like this is how I always do these kinds of things. He took my story, we said our goodbyes, and I assured him we would be in touch in the future. I said goodbye to the receptionist whom I had bonded with over daytime courtroom television, and took the elevator back to the first floor. As soon as I left, the executive probably took my screenplay, peed on it, let it fester for a few minutes, and then went about his busy executive day. But that’s not the point. The point is, I infiltrated a production company’s office in the heart of Hollywood, hand-delivered my screenplay to the head of the company, and then hopped back in my not towed ’93 Cougar to drive back to the hostel I’d been living in for two weeks now. This left me feeling pretty badass, even if nothing comes of it.
To celebrate my victory, I went to Ralphs where they are having a sale on eight pieces of chicken for five bucks. That was too much chicken to eat, but it was cheaper to buy eight pieces than it was to buy three, so I went with it.
With four pieces down to nothing but the bone, I realized I couldn’t handle this all on my own. Fortunately, I heard a familiar voice coming from outside. Running to the window, I saw Gweat’s yelling at a dumpster. I shouted out to him, “Hey Gweat’s—,” he looked up. “I’ve got some chicken up here. You wanna help me eat it?”
Gweat’s paused, looked at the dumpster again, then back at me. “Yeah, hang on. I’ll be up in a minute.” Walking back over to the chicken table, I heard Gweat’s finish up his poignant argument. By the end of his roe, I saw his point.
Cut to:
Gweat’s and I sitting at a table eating chicken together.
After that, it was time to practice guitar so as to not let Weezer down. They also pushed back the start time to 8am, giving me another hour to become the guitar savant I always knew I was. As it turns out, I suck. Not consistently playing guitar for a couple of years has rendered me terrible. Not that I was good before, but I was failing at playing things I used to be get through with the greatest of ease. Giving up, I went outside where Marko, Sait, and a few others were sitting around smoking not whacky-tobaccee. Then Jeff, a first floor resident, asked if anyone wanted to play Guitar Hero. We all reluctantly went to the TV room, hooked up the Wii, and took turns passing the plastic toy guitar around like it were some peace pipe. After a couple of rounds, I can honestly say I also suck at Guitar Hero, too.
Whatever. It’s all about the image anyway, which I won’t have if I don’t get some sleep tonight. I crawled into bed, with images of Weezer and that dancing baby from Ally McBeal dancing in my head.
Monday, September 29, 2008
A Trip To the ATM (Mom, Please Don’t Read)
“Man, today was so fucked up.”
I glance to my right to see that the stoner with the long black hair tied in a ponytail is talking to me. He’s wearing a shirt listing about two-dozen different types of cannabis. I don’t know this guy. We’re staying at the same hostel. I live on the second floor; he lives on the first. Our only contact we’ve had with each other is in passing.
“Oh, yeah?” I think to myself—because my day has been pretty erratic, too. It started when I went to the ATM this morning to withdraw money out of my dwindling bank account so I could pay for another week’s hospitality at the hostel. While I was there, punching in my PIN number with one hand and covering the keypad with my other hand (as is suggested by a sign on the machine), a man walked down the sidewalk.
No, walked isn’t the right past tense verb. Limped is more like it. This man limped down the sidewalk. But that wasn’t what caught my eye. It was the man’s hair. It was very blonde, sticking straight up off his head in all directions, and it looked as though the front half had been shaved. To get a better idea of this image, look at yourself in the mirror. Now, imagine all of your hair missing from the front of your left ear all the way over to the front of your right ear in a clean-cut line. That was what was going on with the limping man. But it didn’t stop there. The man was also wearing a pink and black nylon jump suit—the kind Susanne Somers would wear in a Thigh Master commercial. But clearly, this man had made some alterations to his workout ensemble, as his number also sported pink frills like you would find on a traditional ballerina costume.
I watched as this hybrid fashionista clomped past me and into the bank. Having dealt with people like that in the past at previous jobs, I wished the good people at the bank the best of luck in dealing with this character and scampered off to my hostel.
After paying my rent, it was time to get ready for the second round of the interview that I’m dangerously under-qualified for. Another trip to Santa Monica later, and I was back in the Internet savvy, hipster bordello. I snuck a quick peak at Paul’s super cool office and then took a crash course on how to load information onto a website. It had something to do with modules and string theory and table making—all things I’m either a little rusty on or know nothing about. Eventually, they set me loose to try doing it on my own. It took a long time, but I think I finished doing what they told me to do. I’m left to assume if I did finish I did it wrong, because as of this writing, it’s been over a week and they have yet to call me back. But I was pretty confident I wasn’t going to get the job as I left the parking garage, so I’d already decided to hop back on Craigslist and apply for more jobs as soon as I got back to the hostel for the second time today.
Even the best laid out plans go awry. The first thing I did when I got back to the hostel was check out my email. In my inbox there was a message from the good people at Weezer HQ with more info on the music video I’m trying to get involved with. This one was asking for people to specify what they wanted to take part in. I could be in either Weezer’s World Record Hootenanny, Weezer’s World Record Dodgeball Game, Weezer’s World Record Custard Pie Fight, Weezer’s World Record Air Guitar Performance, or ALL EVENTS. Seeing as how I don’t have anything better to do, and because I’m a whore, I signed up for ALL EVENTS. Hopefully, they get the details all ironed out soon—the shoot is in two days.
Another sweltering hot California day was complimented by an easy, breezy California night. I went outside to enjoy the cool calm. For whatever reason, I walked past Sait, Marko, and Hiro, and sat down at a picnic table next to Gweat’s who was smoking a blunt. Baked out of his mind, he started telling me about raccoons or something. Not being able to follow his train of thought, I just listened and occasionally did a head nod.
Our one sided conversation was interrupted by the stoner with the long black ponytail. This pot dumpster’s radar must’ve been set off by the Grape Ape smoke wafting through the air. He approached Gweat’s and I, asking, “Would either of you happen to be California Medical Card carrying members?”
This is slang for, “Do you have any weed?” Gweat’s knew where this was going. The stoner wanted a hookup. Gweats, being an actual California Medical Card carrying member, is always asked to share his stash by everyone that gets a whiff of him. Understandably, Gweat’s hates being the go-to guy, so he headed for the hills. Not the Hollywood Hills, mind you. Rather, back upstairs to our room.
Everyone knows a stoner’s vision is based on movement, so I decided to sit perfectly still and silent, waiting for him to go away. After all, I don’t know this guy, and I don’t have weed, so there’s no reason he’ll wait around. He’s got pot to find, dammit!
“Man, today was so fucked up.”
Shit. It didn’t work. “Oh, yeah?” I thought to myself.
“Yeah, man. Oh, man. I can’t believe what I did today.”
Wait, what? Did this stoner just read my mind? Are they evolving? How can I avoid them if they can pick up my brain patterns? This is not good. My paranoia eventually subsided and I realized I said, “Oh yeah?” out loud. The stoner continued:
“Dude, I was in a porno today.”
Had I of been drinking a Gatorade the way I am recollecting this encounter in my memory, I would have done a spit take. As it were, I was not.
“What?” I asked to make sure I heard clearly, even though I very much knew that I had, because porno doesn’t sound like too many other words. “Dude, I was in a borno today,” or “Dude, I was in a norno,” are rarely uttered sentences and even if they were, they would mean nothing.
The stoner with the black ponytail put his porno face in his porno hands and muttered, “Oh man, I can’t believe I did a porno today.”
Without asking, he started telling me all about how it happened. Apparently, this ugly, greasy, overweight stoner with long black hair’s old girlfriend is an up-and-coming porn star, and she got him the gig. Before he could do the shoot, he had to get checked to make sure he had a clean bill of health. This process involves going to a special porno clinic where they check for STDs, which I’ve heard is a painful process to go through. If you are clean, you state your name to someone on the set of the shoot. That person calls in your name and gets confirmation the talent has been given the go-ahead. With everything in the clear, the talent halts their conversation on how Dostoevsky resonates in a postmodern society, shake hands, and get to fucking!
From what I gathered from the stoner, it didn’t sound as though this were a high profile shoot. It was probably done on a Circuit City-bought DV camera, and outside of the talent, consisting of the stoner, his ex-girlfriend, and some other girl, and possibly a director, the only other crew on hand were probably unpaid interns getting college credit for their time. Chances are, if it shows up anywhere, it’ll probably be on some obscure South Korean website. One thing’s for certain, though—wherever it ends up, Dallas will find it.
Continuing on, he told me he got paid $450 to do it. Not a bad haul for a day’s work. Personally, I charge twice that, but this was his first day. You’ve gotta start somewhere, right?
I could tell something was nagging him. Maybe it was a new strain of the herpes simplex virus that went undetected at the clinic. I egged him on, and eventually he admitted he went ATM.
ATM? Not knowing what ATM was, I inquired further. The stoner dropped his face back into his hands, obviously embarrassed of going ATM. Come on, man. Earlier today you were in a porno—you’re a little long in the tooth now to be getting bashful.
“It’s Ass To Mouth.”
Then time stopped. I tried to hold back a laugh. I don’t know if I was successful. This asshole had eaten out of someone else’s asshole. And it’s on film. Do you think he’s brushed his teeth since?
From a distance, I tried to console him in his time of grief, reminding him that he got paid $450 to wear a shit-eating grin around for the rest of the day, and that sometimes, in order to get money, you’ve got to hit up an ATM. He didn’t get the joke. That’s okay. It wasn’t funny.
Then the guy insisted I could do porn. “Dude, you could totally do it, you could totally do it,” he said. “If you want, I could hook you up.”
I tossed the idea around in my head. This might be my only chance in life to have intercourse with someone that is conscious or of age of consent (that’s a joke. I just wanted to go there before Jay did). Then I thought of my heroes—John Holmes, Ron Jeremy, and Dustin “Dirty Sanchez” Diamond—and how I would be carrying on their legacy. Then it occurred to me those three porn stars aren’t my heroes at all—my heroes are Martin Van Buren, the FDNY, and Batman. Then I reviewed my lifelong dreams, which are to fly into outer space, coach a little league team to a championship, and to not be in a porno. I could never accomplish the last one on the list if ever I appeared in a porno. Trying to be polite, I told the stoner I’d have to get back to him on that one.
It was time to put the kibosh on this conversation, so I bid the stoner adieu, and wished him the best of luck on finding pot and a guiltless conscious. He’ll probably find one of them, but not the other. This is California after all.
I glance to my right to see that the stoner with the long black hair tied in a ponytail is talking to me. He’s wearing a shirt listing about two-dozen different types of cannabis. I don’t know this guy. We’re staying at the same hostel. I live on the second floor; he lives on the first. Our only contact we’ve had with each other is in passing.
“Oh, yeah?” I think to myself—because my day has been pretty erratic, too. It started when I went to the ATM this morning to withdraw money out of my dwindling bank account so I could pay for another week’s hospitality at the hostel. While I was there, punching in my PIN number with one hand and covering the keypad with my other hand (as is suggested by a sign on the machine), a man walked down the sidewalk.
No, walked isn’t the right past tense verb. Limped is more like it. This man limped down the sidewalk. But that wasn’t what caught my eye. It was the man’s hair. It was very blonde, sticking straight up off his head in all directions, and it looked as though the front half had been shaved. To get a better idea of this image, look at yourself in the mirror. Now, imagine all of your hair missing from the front of your left ear all the way over to the front of your right ear in a clean-cut line. That was what was going on with the limping man. But it didn’t stop there. The man was also wearing a pink and black nylon jump suit—the kind Susanne Somers would wear in a Thigh Master commercial. But clearly, this man had made some alterations to his workout ensemble, as his number also sported pink frills like you would find on a traditional ballerina costume.
I watched as this hybrid fashionista clomped past me and into the bank. Having dealt with people like that in the past at previous jobs, I wished the good people at the bank the best of luck in dealing with this character and scampered off to my hostel.
After paying my rent, it was time to get ready for the second round of the interview that I’m dangerously under-qualified for. Another trip to Santa Monica later, and I was back in the Internet savvy, hipster bordello. I snuck a quick peak at Paul’s super cool office and then took a crash course on how to load information onto a website. It had something to do with modules and string theory and table making—all things I’m either a little rusty on or know nothing about. Eventually, they set me loose to try doing it on my own. It took a long time, but I think I finished doing what they told me to do. I’m left to assume if I did finish I did it wrong, because as of this writing, it’s been over a week and they have yet to call me back. But I was pretty confident I wasn’t going to get the job as I left the parking garage, so I’d already decided to hop back on Craigslist and apply for more jobs as soon as I got back to the hostel for the second time today.
Even the best laid out plans go awry. The first thing I did when I got back to the hostel was check out my email. In my inbox there was a message from the good people at Weezer HQ with more info on the music video I’m trying to get involved with. This one was asking for people to specify what they wanted to take part in. I could be in either Weezer’s World Record Hootenanny, Weezer’s World Record Dodgeball Game, Weezer’s World Record Custard Pie Fight, Weezer’s World Record Air Guitar Performance, or ALL EVENTS. Seeing as how I don’t have anything better to do, and because I’m a whore, I signed up for ALL EVENTS. Hopefully, they get the details all ironed out soon—the shoot is in two days.
Another sweltering hot California day was complimented by an easy, breezy California night. I went outside to enjoy the cool calm. For whatever reason, I walked past Sait, Marko, and Hiro, and sat down at a picnic table next to Gweat’s who was smoking a blunt. Baked out of his mind, he started telling me about raccoons or something. Not being able to follow his train of thought, I just listened and occasionally did a head nod.
Our one sided conversation was interrupted by the stoner with the long black ponytail. This pot dumpster’s radar must’ve been set off by the Grape Ape smoke wafting through the air. He approached Gweat’s and I, asking, “Would either of you happen to be California Medical Card carrying members?”
This is slang for, “Do you have any weed?” Gweat’s knew where this was going. The stoner wanted a hookup. Gweats, being an actual California Medical Card carrying member, is always asked to share his stash by everyone that gets a whiff of him. Understandably, Gweat’s hates being the go-to guy, so he headed for the hills. Not the Hollywood Hills, mind you. Rather, back upstairs to our room.
Everyone knows a stoner’s vision is based on movement, so I decided to sit perfectly still and silent, waiting for him to go away. After all, I don’t know this guy, and I don’t have weed, so there’s no reason he’ll wait around. He’s got pot to find, dammit!
“Man, today was so fucked up.”
Shit. It didn’t work. “Oh, yeah?” I thought to myself.
“Yeah, man. Oh, man. I can’t believe what I did today.”
Wait, what? Did this stoner just read my mind? Are they evolving? How can I avoid them if they can pick up my brain patterns? This is not good. My paranoia eventually subsided and I realized I said, “Oh yeah?” out loud. The stoner continued:
“Dude, I was in a porno today.”
Had I of been drinking a Gatorade the way I am recollecting this encounter in my memory, I would have done a spit take. As it were, I was not.
“What?” I asked to make sure I heard clearly, even though I very much knew that I had, because porno doesn’t sound like too many other words. “Dude, I was in a borno today,” or “Dude, I was in a norno,” are rarely uttered sentences and even if they were, they would mean nothing.
The stoner with the black ponytail put his porno face in his porno hands and muttered, “Oh man, I can’t believe I did a porno today.”
Without asking, he started telling me all about how it happened. Apparently, this ugly, greasy, overweight stoner with long black hair’s old girlfriend is an up-and-coming porn star, and she got him the gig. Before he could do the shoot, he had to get checked to make sure he had a clean bill of health. This process involves going to a special porno clinic where they check for STDs, which I’ve heard is a painful process to go through. If you are clean, you state your name to someone on the set of the shoot. That person calls in your name and gets confirmation the talent has been given the go-ahead. With everything in the clear, the talent halts their conversation on how Dostoevsky resonates in a postmodern society, shake hands, and get to fucking!
From what I gathered from the stoner, it didn’t sound as though this were a high profile shoot. It was probably done on a Circuit City-bought DV camera, and outside of the talent, consisting of the stoner, his ex-girlfriend, and some other girl, and possibly a director, the only other crew on hand were probably unpaid interns getting college credit for their time. Chances are, if it shows up anywhere, it’ll probably be on some obscure South Korean website. One thing’s for certain, though—wherever it ends up, Dallas will find it.
Continuing on, he told me he got paid $450 to do it. Not a bad haul for a day’s work. Personally, I charge twice that, but this was his first day. You’ve gotta start somewhere, right?
I could tell something was nagging him. Maybe it was a new strain of the herpes simplex virus that went undetected at the clinic. I egged him on, and eventually he admitted he went ATM.
ATM? Not knowing what ATM was, I inquired further. The stoner dropped his face back into his hands, obviously embarrassed of going ATM. Come on, man. Earlier today you were in a porno—you’re a little long in the tooth now to be getting bashful.
“It’s Ass To Mouth.”
Then time stopped. I tried to hold back a laugh. I don’t know if I was successful. This asshole had eaten out of someone else’s asshole. And it’s on film. Do you think he’s brushed his teeth since?
From a distance, I tried to console him in his time of grief, reminding him that he got paid $450 to wear a shit-eating grin around for the rest of the day, and that sometimes, in order to get money, you’ve got to hit up an ATM. He didn’t get the joke. That’s okay. It wasn’t funny.
Then the guy insisted I could do porn. “Dude, you could totally do it, you could totally do it,” he said. “If you want, I could hook you up.”
I tossed the idea around in my head. This might be my only chance in life to have intercourse with someone that is conscious or of age of consent (that’s a joke. I just wanted to go there before Jay did). Then I thought of my heroes—John Holmes, Ron Jeremy, and Dustin “Dirty Sanchez” Diamond—and how I would be carrying on their legacy. Then it occurred to me those three porn stars aren’t my heroes at all—my heroes are Martin Van Buren, the FDNY, and Batman. Then I reviewed my lifelong dreams, which are to fly into outer space, coach a little league team to a championship, and to not be in a porno. I could never accomplish the last one on the list if ever I appeared in a porno. Trying to be polite, I told the stoner I’d have to get back to him on that one.
It was time to put the kibosh on this conversation, so I bid the stoner adieu, and wished him the best of luck on finding pot and a guiltless conscious. He’ll probably find one of them, but not the other. This is California after all.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Do the Mario!
Today started out like any other day—I woke up. Today is going to be fairly busy. I have a job interview for a proofreading position for some company I’ve never heard of. So I have to find a Target Shop and buy a striped polo shirt to compliment my brown corduroy long pants—the perfect attire for a business casual interview, and I have to shower. If I accomplish even one of these, it will be more than I have done the past few days.
I threw on some clothes and left my room. Passing the bathroom, I heard Gweat’s on the other side, singing/yelling. I could smell the blunt he was rolling halfway down the hallway. California medical marijuana is potent stuff.
At Target, I had to ask one of the workers which polo shirt to buy because I was worried I would pick the wrong color of brown that went with my brown pants and brown shoes. It’s a good thing I did, because she told me the one I picked out wouldn’t work.
Newly clothed, I returned to the hostel. With the bathroom now open, I took my trademark forty-five minute shower, dried off, and waited for the interview.
The office building I was to be interviewed at was in Santa Monica, less than ten miles away, so I left forty minutes early, and arrived with ten minutes to spare.
The office was on the top floor of a building with many other companies inside it. As I walked past one office, I saw a table with about a dozen Emmys lined up. I wonder what company that was?
The office I was to be interviewed in wasn’t nearly as nice as that one. That’s not to say it was run down or dilapidated—it was just that it was a new company that had yet to move in. The office decor was still images with quotes from movies like Office Space and Anchorman. The receptionist had me sit down on a posh couch to wait for the person that was to be interviewing me. While I sat, I watched a muted flat screen TV that looped the different shows this company had a hand in. One was, “Lil’ Bush,” a web series turned Comedy Central show. Another one was a Flash based animated show starring Iggy Pop. Probably my favorite was a show called, “Meet the Cruises.” The cast, as you can imagine, was Tom Cruise, indentured servant Katie Holmes, L. Ron Hubbard reincarnate Suri, and some woman called Oprah. Yeah, I could work here.
Eventually, my interviewer, Paul, came to greet me. We walked to his office, because they were waxing the moving sidewalks and the Segways were in the shop for repairs. Going past the rows of desks and the people behind them, I realized I was overdressed in my collared brown polo shirt. Even dressed down, the employees looked like their clothes cost more than mine. Not only must they work in Santa Monica, they must shop there also.
We sat down in Paul’s office, and right away I had trouble concentrating. He had Super Mario Bros. wall decals. There was Mario, a Goomba, and a Piranha Plant coming out of a warp pipe. Awesome. Then I spotted some framed Street Fighter II drawings. This guy speaks my language. Maybe when the interview is over we can talk about guard cancels or the underappreciated parry system.
Paul looked over my resume and informed me I wasn’t qualified for this job at all. Wait, what? I majored in English. The one thing outside of working at a bookstore that I can do is proofread. As it turns out, this job was a little more involved than that. What the job description on Craigslist didn’t tell me was that the majority of the work would be in web design, as opposed to “a background in web design recommended,” but Paul wanted me to try and give it a shot anyway, in part because he really liked my sample writing I gave him and requested I do another. We scheduled for me to come back the next day to see if I had what it takes to handle the job. I already know I don’t, but what the hell? They already wasted my time having me come in for a job I’m not going to be able to do. I might as well waste their time training me for a job I’m not going to get. Who knows, maybe all my inadequacies with computers and as a human being will dissipate overnight? Maybe I’ll wake up and discover I didn’t really waste four years of my life in college and instead took that time to learn a viable skill. I won’t.
I threw on some clothes and left my room. Passing the bathroom, I heard Gweat’s on the other side, singing/yelling. I could smell the blunt he was rolling halfway down the hallway. California medical marijuana is potent stuff.
At Target, I had to ask one of the workers which polo shirt to buy because I was worried I would pick the wrong color of brown that went with my brown pants and brown shoes. It’s a good thing I did, because she told me the one I picked out wouldn’t work.
Newly clothed, I returned to the hostel. With the bathroom now open, I took my trademark forty-five minute shower, dried off, and waited for the interview.
The office building I was to be interviewed at was in Santa Monica, less than ten miles away, so I left forty minutes early, and arrived with ten minutes to spare.
The office was on the top floor of a building with many other companies inside it. As I walked past one office, I saw a table with about a dozen Emmys lined up. I wonder what company that was?
The office I was to be interviewed in wasn’t nearly as nice as that one. That’s not to say it was run down or dilapidated—it was just that it was a new company that had yet to move in. The office decor was still images with quotes from movies like Office Space and Anchorman. The receptionist had me sit down on a posh couch to wait for the person that was to be interviewing me. While I sat, I watched a muted flat screen TV that looped the different shows this company had a hand in. One was, “Lil’ Bush,” a web series turned Comedy Central show. Another one was a Flash based animated show starring Iggy Pop. Probably my favorite was a show called, “Meet the Cruises.” The cast, as you can imagine, was Tom Cruise, indentured servant Katie Holmes, L. Ron Hubbard reincarnate Suri, and some woman called Oprah. Yeah, I could work here.
Eventually, my interviewer, Paul, came to greet me. We walked to his office, because they were waxing the moving sidewalks and the Segways were in the shop for repairs. Going past the rows of desks and the people behind them, I realized I was overdressed in my collared brown polo shirt. Even dressed down, the employees looked like their clothes cost more than mine. Not only must they work in Santa Monica, they must shop there also.
We sat down in Paul’s office, and right away I had trouble concentrating. He had Super Mario Bros. wall decals. There was Mario, a Goomba, and a Piranha Plant coming out of a warp pipe. Awesome. Then I spotted some framed Street Fighter II drawings. This guy speaks my language. Maybe when the interview is over we can talk about guard cancels or the underappreciated parry system.
Paul looked over my resume and informed me I wasn’t qualified for this job at all. Wait, what? I majored in English. The one thing outside of working at a bookstore that I can do is proofread. As it turns out, this job was a little more involved than that. What the job description on Craigslist didn’t tell me was that the majority of the work would be in web design, as opposed to “a background in web design recommended,” but Paul wanted me to try and give it a shot anyway, in part because he really liked my sample writing I gave him and requested I do another. We scheduled for me to come back the next day to see if I had what it takes to handle the job. I already know I don’t, but what the hell? They already wasted my time having me come in for a job I’m not going to be able to do. I might as well waste their time training me for a job I’m not going to get. Who knows, maybe all my inadequacies with computers and as a human being will dissipate overnight? Maybe I’ll wake up and discover I didn’t really waste four years of my life in college and instead took that time to learn a viable skill. I won’t.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
A Conversation I Had Today
The part of I will be played by me, and the part of Her will be played by Old French Whore. I, and by I, I mean me, am not sure what Her real name is, but the name I gave her suits Her.
To set up the scene, I sits at a table, looking and dressing exactly like me, listening to music and writing a blog. Her, a tall girl with frizzy black hair, freckles and a tattoo on her hand, sits down across from I.
I: My music isn’t bothering you, is it?
Her: Oh, no not at all. What are you listening to?
I: David Bowie.
Her: (looking at I quizzically) Isn’t he old?
I: Yeah, but I’m listening to his earlier work.
Her: (still perplexed) Have you heard the new Coldplay?
I: I’m not really a fan of Coldplay. I hate to admit it, but their album, “A Rush of Blood to the Head” is legitimately good, but—
Her: (interrupting) What’s that?
I: “A Rush of Blood to the Head?” It was their really big album from two thou—
Her: (interrupting) I don’t know anything about that. But you need to hear their song, “Viva La Vida.”
I: Is that their newest single?
Her: Huh? Oh, I don’t know. Just listen to “Viva La Vida.” If you don’t like that song then there is something wrong with you.
I: (thinking) Noted, girl I just met at the start of this conversation. Is there any other music you can recommend to me since taking an interest in music this morning on your way to work?
(says aloud) I’ll have to check it out.
I exits the scene as if he is actually going to listen to faggy Coldplay music, when really, he goes to look for an out of life, because anything would be more desirable than listening to a Coldplay song. Yes, even a rattlesnake colonic. End scene.
To set up the scene, I sits at a table, looking and dressing exactly like me, listening to music and writing a blog. Her, a tall girl with frizzy black hair, freckles and a tattoo on her hand, sits down across from I.
I: My music isn’t bothering you, is it?
Her: Oh, no not at all. What are you listening to?
I: David Bowie.
Her: (looking at I quizzically) Isn’t he old?
I: Yeah, but I’m listening to his earlier work.
Her: (still perplexed) Have you heard the new Coldplay?
I: I’m not really a fan of Coldplay. I hate to admit it, but their album, “A Rush of Blood to the Head” is legitimately good, but—
Her: (interrupting) What’s that?
I: “A Rush of Blood to the Head?” It was their really big album from two thou—
Her: (interrupting) I don’t know anything about that. But you need to hear their song, “Viva La Vida.”
I: Is that their newest single?
Her: Huh? Oh, I don’t know. Just listen to “Viva La Vida.” If you don’t like that song then there is something wrong with you.
I: (thinking) Noted, girl I just met at the start of this conversation. Is there any other music you can recommend to me since taking an interest in music this morning on your way to work?
(says aloud) I’ll have to check it out.
I exits the scene as if he is actually going to listen to faggy Coldplay music, when really, he goes to look for an out of life, because anything would be more desirable than listening to a Coldplay song. Yes, even a rattlesnake colonic. End scene.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Let's Have a Beach Party
While Ruby was busy at school today, Rose and I decided to take a trip to Santa Monica for reasons of shopping, beaching, and to get out of the hostel. Previously, our days have consisted of sitting on our respective computers—Rose watching YouTube videos and I applying for jobs on Craigslist.
We took a guest with us. Andre, Ruby’s boyfriend, came to visit for a week. Since I did not mention him in the last blog, a little rundown of the one they call Andre:
1. Andre is of Russian descent. Meaning, he can’t be trusted.
2. He not so-secretly is in love with me. I can’t blame him.
3. He’s a smart kid. He scored some 5’s on his advanced placement exams.
4. He’s a stupid kid. Andre blew up a toilet in high school, got suspended, and was forced to do 70-some hours of community service. I commend blowing up the toilet, but not at the expense of doing voluntary work. That’s for losers.
5. He has a fear of falling. Not heights, mind you, but of falling. How ridiculous is that?
6. Activities and events Andre cannot comfortably partake in: skydiving, tripping and falling, jumping off a diving board, autumn.
I’ve just spent more time on Andre than anyone ever has in his life. Go me.
But hey, weren’t we going somewhere? Oh yeah, Santa Monica. Come on gang. Let’s go!
For those unfamiliar with California’s geography, Santa Monica is west of Los Angeles and sits on the waterfront. South of Santa Monica is Venice Beach, which will be discussed in greater detail at a later time in another blog. To paint a better picture of Santa Monica, let me use this analogy: if the Los Angeles County area were a high school, Venice Beach would be the hippie burnout clique, and Santa Monica would be the preppy kids with letter jackets. For the record, Korea Town would be Math Club.
Everything in Santa Monica looks new and expensive looking. We walked into a few stores that sold $80 t-shirts. My entire wardrobe costs less than one Santa Monica shirt. Even the farmer’s market set up there on our visit had too-expensive potatoes and psychedelic mushrooms for sale. At a newsstand, there was a $15 magazine.
While passing all the pretty people in their $500 casual wear, as they went into their boutique shops to buy more stuff I do not know how they can afford, I took pictures of bush sculptures that looked like dinosaurs on my cell phone. It would sure be great to share these with you fine people, unfortunately, my pain in the ass sister wouldn’t let me bring my digital camera to California, because there are so many wonderful things to take pictures of in Iowa that she simply had to keep it with her. I still don’t know how to upload pictures from my phone onto the world-wide-web, so no one gets to enjoy.
Besides shops and running backs, Santa Monica also has a pier with a ton of restaurants, attractions, and an amusement park. Andre talked big about riding the Farris Wheel, but since he’s Russian and can’t be trusted to do anything he says, he never did.
For lunch, we went to Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. This was exciting for me as much as something can be exciting for a cynical bastard that’s not impressed by anything, because I love the movie, Forrest Gump. If you and I are sitting around, flipping through channels on the television set, and we happen to stumble on Forrest Gump, no matter how far into the movie it is, we will sit and watch it until the credits roll. No exceptions.
Inside, Bubba Gump is just a glorified Applebee’s. Instead of a bunch of random crap on the walls, Bubba Gump just has Forrest Gump-themed crap on the walls. I’ve always wondered where these stores find their decorations. Is there a Chile’s catalog where they can choose which ornaments to hang on their walls or what? They usually represent the local color, so in Des Moines, you’ll have a Hawkeyes or Cyclones football jersey on display and then pictures of Sammy Davis Jr. and Marilyn Monroe on either side of them, but still, what about the Nicaraguan license plate and English Beefeater hat? Those have to come from a catalog.
Lunch was lunch. Andre dropped a piece of shrimp and peed his self, our waitress came around and gave us Forrest Gump trivia (I got 4 out of 5—later that night, I cut my inner thigh repeatedly with a dinner knife), and we left.
On our way out of the restaurant, I saw tourists taking their pictures in front of Bubba Gump as if they had reached their Mecca or Medina on some great pilgrimage. People, it’s a chain restaurant. There are over thirty locations around the world. Granted, that’s pretty sparse, all things considered, but you wouldn’t take a picture of yourself in front of the McDonald’s in Toluca, would you? No you wouldn’t. Your local Mom & Pop burger joint is more rare than Bubba Gump. Take pictures of that.
I really wanted to go swimming. The Pacific Ocean is right there, teasing me, but no one had swimming suits, so the Pacific Ocean escapes my scissor kick this day, but not for long.
Returning to the hostel, Rose and I continued our daily routine. Andre did something no one cares about, and thus ends another underwhelming blog entry. Stay tuned for more.
We took a guest with us. Andre, Ruby’s boyfriend, came to visit for a week. Since I did not mention him in the last blog, a little rundown of the one they call Andre:
1. Andre is of Russian descent. Meaning, he can’t be trusted.
2. He not so-secretly is in love with me. I can’t blame him.
3. He’s a smart kid. He scored some 5’s on his advanced placement exams.
4. He’s a stupid kid. Andre blew up a toilet in high school, got suspended, and was forced to do 70-some hours of community service. I commend blowing up the toilet, but not at the expense of doing voluntary work. That’s for losers.
5. He has a fear of falling. Not heights, mind you, but of falling. How ridiculous is that?
6. Activities and events Andre cannot comfortably partake in: skydiving, tripping and falling, jumping off a diving board, autumn.
I’ve just spent more time on Andre than anyone ever has in his life. Go me.
But hey, weren’t we going somewhere? Oh yeah, Santa Monica. Come on gang. Let’s go!
For those unfamiliar with California’s geography, Santa Monica is west of Los Angeles and sits on the waterfront. South of Santa Monica is Venice Beach, which will be discussed in greater detail at a later time in another blog. To paint a better picture of Santa Monica, let me use this analogy: if the Los Angeles County area were a high school, Venice Beach would be the hippie burnout clique, and Santa Monica would be the preppy kids with letter jackets. For the record, Korea Town would be Math Club.
Everything in Santa Monica looks new and expensive looking. We walked into a few stores that sold $80 t-shirts. My entire wardrobe costs less than one Santa Monica shirt. Even the farmer’s market set up there on our visit had too-expensive potatoes and psychedelic mushrooms for sale. At a newsstand, there was a $15 magazine.
While passing all the pretty people in their $500 casual wear, as they went into their boutique shops to buy more stuff I do not know how they can afford, I took pictures of bush sculptures that looked like dinosaurs on my cell phone. It would sure be great to share these with you fine people, unfortunately, my pain in the ass sister wouldn’t let me bring my digital camera to California, because there are so many wonderful things to take pictures of in Iowa that she simply had to keep it with her. I still don’t know how to upload pictures from my phone onto the world-wide-web, so no one gets to enjoy.
Besides shops and running backs, Santa Monica also has a pier with a ton of restaurants, attractions, and an amusement park. Andre talked big about riding the Farris Wheel, but since he’s Russian and can’t be trusted to do anything he says, he never did.
For lunch, we went to Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. This was exciting for me as much as something can be exciting for a cynical bastard that’s not impressed by anything, because I love the movie, Forrest Gump. If you and I are sitting around, flipping through channels on the television set, and we happen to stumble on Forrest Gump, no matter how far into the movie it is, we will sit and watch it until the credits roll. No exceptions.
Inside, Bubba Gump is just a glorified Applebee’s. Instead of a bunch of random crap on the walls, Bubba Gump just has Forrest Gump-themed crap on the walls. I’ve always wondered where these stores find their decorations. Is there a Chile’s catalog where they can choose which ornaments to hang on their walls or what? They usually represent the local color, so in Des Moines, you’ll have a Hawkeyes or Cyclones football jersey on display and then pictures of Sammy Davis Jr. and Marilyn Monroe on either side of them, but still, what about the Nicaraguan license plate and English Beefeater hat? Those have to come from a catalog.
Lunch was lunch. Andre dropped a piece of shrimp and peed his self, our waitress came around and gave us Forrest Gump trivia (I got 4 out of 5—later that night, I cut my inner thigh repeatedly with a dinner knife), and we left.
On our way out of the restaurant, I saw tourists taking their pictures in front of Bubba Gump as if they had reached their Mecca or Medina on some great pilgrimage. People, it’s a chain restaurant. There are over thirty locations around the world. Granted, that’s pretty sparse, all things considered, but you wouldn’t take a picture of yourself in front of the McDonald’s in Toluca, would you? No you wouldn’t. Your local Mom & Pop burger joint is more rare than Bubba Gump. Take pictures of that.
I really wanted to go swimming. The Pacific Ocean is right there, teasing me, but no one had swimming suits, so the Pacific Ocean escapes my scissor kick this day, but not for long.
Returning to the hostel, Rose and I continued our daily routine. Andre did something no one cares about, and thus ends another underwhelming blog entry. Stay tuned for more.
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