Dead Aim

2006-09-09T12:28:00.000-07:00

Elimidate.

2005-06-27T11:58:00.000-07:00

So here’s the thing: Dead Aim is dead.

Over the last few months, my life has been in a constant state of change… All sorts of stuff has been goin’ down, so let’s recap:

1. I’ve been happily dealing with the fact that I’m going to be a father (we’re having a girl in October, by the way). This development hasn’t been without complications and terrifying moments, but it’s been an amazing experience, nonetheless.

2. There’s also been a crazy busy freelance job, which has been a tremendous learning experience (a trailer I worked on is now playing in theaters across the country), but also a lot of hard work.

3. And most recently, I’ve started a job as a producer and writer on a new talk show. It’s going to be great having a full-time gig and all, but the most interesting part is that the host is a supermodel. Should be interesting, to say the least.

Anyway, as you can imagine, these things and a few other projects I’ve been working on haven’t allowed for much cultivation of this little blog ‘o mine. It’s been a great ride, but I think it’s time to go ahead and call it like it is.

So to all of you who have read and checked in here from time to time: Thank you very, very much. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

P.S. Go see My Date With Drew in August. You'll thank me later.

2005-05-16T00:00:00.000-07:00

Three Things (Special Camera Phone Edition):

1. I didn’t even know I needed one of these.

2. I saw this hanging in a production studio the other day.

3. My sister sent me these a while back.

Three More Things (Special Camera Phone Edition):

1. The fine print you probably can’t read says, “Includes a clip-on ketchup cup,” to which I say, “Finally, no more ketchup on the dashboard.”

2. Even Sophia Loren can’t help but stare at Jayne Mansfield’s ample bosom. In fact, I don’t think any of us can.

3. Anyone else have a sister who worked for a company that made custom guitar picks for Johnny Cash? Just me then?

2005-04-29T18:21:00.000-07:00

One of my new favorite blogs:

Postsecret

I love anonymous confessions... There's just something so liberating about telling your deepest, darkest secrets to someone who has no personal stake in them. I wonder what I should confess on my post card? Maybe I'll write about the time I buried the body in the... Wait. Did I just type that out loud?

2005-04-24T13:47:00.000-07:00

I know it was Passover yesterday, but I just didn't expect to see the Dancing Matzahman in the grocery store.

I always thought he was make believe.

2005-04-20T23:02:00.000-07:00

Earlier tonight, my wife and I decided it might be fun to drive by a condo that we knew was for sale and (somewhat) in our price range. When we turned down the street and drove into the neighborhood, we saw a bunch of television news vans waiting to do live remotes.

Me: Hmmm. That can't be good, right?
Wife: But this is a pretty decent neighborhood, right?
Me: Well, the condo looks decent, right?
Wife: Hmmm.
Me: Hmmm.
Wife: Hmmm.
Me: Let's go home.

About 20 minutes later we see a story about this on the news.

2005-04-15T11:43:00.000-07:00

My wife and I were discussing our neighborhood the other day and its relative safety. We must talk about these things now, since we’re going to be parents. I think it’s a Los Angeles city ordinance or something.

I say that even though we may not live in 90210, we do live across the street from Beverly Hills--more officially known as Beverly Hills Adjacent--and that’s pretty good isn’t it?

The mother of my unborn child, however, seems to think we should consider moving.

Wife: A car crashed into our apartment building the night we moved in.
Me: But that was an accident, right?

Wife: Earlier this week, I saw a scrawny, shifty-looking guy standing suspiciously on the corner. He just hangs out, shivering in 80-degree weather until a car drives up, to which sticks his head in and SOMETHING happens.
Me: Exactly what are you suggesting? It could just be old friends reuniting. Have you no faith in humanity?

Wife: On a late-night dog walk, didn’t you see a guy pulled over on the street getting a blowjob?
Me: Yeah... But, can you blame him?

Wife: Remember when you saw the 7-11 clerk punch a customer in the face?
Me: But the guy was asking for batteries. Battery... Batteries. Maybe the clerk got confused.

Wife: What about the time we saw a streetwalker selling her wares about three blocks from our apartment?
Me: C’mon, this is LA. All the ladies dress like that!

Wife: Do you remember when they found that guy murdered in an alley a few blocks from here?
Me: Hey, if you’re lurking in an alley late at night, are you really that innocent?

Wife: How about the major bank robbery up the street where the police gunned down one of the perps?
Me: Honey, he was robbing a bank.

Wife: What about the time that 12-year-old kid made fun of your pants?
Me: ...

Wife: Well?
Me: It’s time to move.

2005-04-14T15:13:00.000-07:00

If you read Surgical Strikes, you already know this, but it looks like Kevin of Life at TJ's Place is back.

Or is he?

2005-04-07T20:49:00.001-07:00

It’s been one of the wettest winters on record here in Southern California, and while this has had many devastating consequences--deadly mudslides, homes slipping off foundations, trophy wives having to drive Mercedes through flooded streets—there have also been a few positives to come out of this.

It’s colorful around here. I’d even go as far to say Technocolor colorful, although not as colorful as Joseph and his amazing dreamcoat, but you get the picture. Normally when you look out onto the hills, it’s brown, “Giraffe Beige,” or whatever Pottery Barn color you want to call it.

Anyway, the reason I’m giving out all of this useless information is that last weekend, my wife and I went to the Antelope Valley California Poppy Reserve. Just an hour north of Los Angeles, somewhere between the ex-gangbangers, meth labs, and biker bars lies this, this and this.

Amazing, isn’t it?

2005-03-17T14:37:00.000-08:00

I know I said I wouldn't turn this into a daddy-n-me blog, but hey, it's St. Patrick's Day and I can do what I damn well please, right? If I want to go and fooster about and get fluthered with a bunch of chancers, I'll go and do it. Or conversely, if I want to spend my morning with my wife getting an ultrasound of our little leprechaun, well I'll go and do that too.

In the first picture, the kidney bean shaped area in the upper right center is the uterus with the baby facing toward you. You can see the head, body, right arm and right leg (don't worry - we saw the left tenticles, I mean limbs, too).

In the second picture, you can see a bit closer up, but at somewhat of a different angle. We think the head is facing to the left. Or to the right. Or maybe it was a gas bubble. Whichever it is, Happy St. Patrick's Day.

2005-03-15T08:50:00.000-08:00

Out of 212, the top three search terms that brought people here are:

1. dead

2. aim

3. deam

Out of 212, my top three favorite search terms that brought people here are:

1. hermaphrodite (#21)

2. yardie (#69)

3. tightie (#203)

My favorite search terms are so far down the list, it's not even funny. I realize DeadAIM is an award-winning, feature-enhancing product for AOL's Instant Messenger, and that many people have stated "they could never use AIM without it," but that's not very interesting, is it?

So, in an attempt to stir things up a bit, please excuse me for the following:

shit, piss, vinegar

2005-03-13T16:44:00.000-08:00

Okay, so this is going to reveal what an idiot non-techno-savvy nerd I am, but I have to ask anyway: Is anyone out there familiar with Movable Type?

2005-03-13T14:22:00.000-08:00

Something else that's awesome: Beck's new album, Guero. I've been listening to it all day. Hell Yes.

2005-03-13T13:03:00.000-08:00

This may not be of interest to anyone other than myself, but I just bought some Trader Joe's Peanut Butter Cups. They must be the devil's food since they're so delicious and chocolatey and peanut buttery.

2005-03-01T17:31:00.000-08:00

It's my birthday. I have a baby on the way. I don't have a regular job. But you know what's nice to hear?

That a show concept I created is going to be presented to a major broadcast network.

Not that this means anything is going to happen, but still nice to hear.

2005-02-23T16:03:00.000-08:00

While walking Bob today, I found a dollar bill and the New York Driver's License of some guy named Yossef.

Yossef, if you're reading this, you'll have to contact me so I can return your license. The change of address sticker on the back is totally worn off. And may I ask why you aren't an organ donor? Just wondering.

I was going to say that if you could correctly identify the dollar bill, I'd return that too, but I already spent it on a pack of gum. Sorry about that.

2005-02-22T00:35:00.000-08:00

I realize my most recent posts have been the blogging equivalent of empty calories or summer re-runs of Will and Grace, and my apathy has whittled down the number of people reading to exactly one, but there’s a reason for my absence.

My wife and I are going to be parents.

While this news has brought about prolonged periods of joy and excitement, there have also been bouts of sheer terror. I’ve needed some space and a bit of selfish reflection. I mean, this is serious, isn’t it? Many, many questions need answering, but I have realized a few things:

1. I’m going to get way more advice than I need.

2. I probably shouldn’t spend money on hookers and blow.

3. I don’t want to, but I’ll probably learn what a mucus plug is.

Rest assured, this blog won’t become a “daddy-n-me” journal, but I suspect you’ll have to indulge me from time to time. Besides, I’ve been thinking of “re-imagining” this whole blog thing into something else anyway. We shall see what happens.

More on this shocking development soon.

2005-02-17T22:58:00.000-08:00

After months of meaning to do so, I finally went to see some Organic Comedy at Karma Coffeehouse.

As advertised, the parking was difficult and the comedy was excellent, but it was not hosted by Dan Tobin. Apparently, he had the night off.

I should ask for my money back.

2005-02-15T23:42:00.000-08:00

Q: How good was my television show pitch today?

A: Pretty damn good.

Q: How good are the chances it will ever go anywhere?

A: Not very good.

2005-02-11T11:49:00.000-08:00

Finally, there's a Condiment Packet Museum.

2005-02-10T08:53:00.000-08:00

My muse hasn't left me, but she's resting a little.

Be back soon.

2005-01-31T23:56:00.000-08:00

Dear Manager of the movie theater I went to this weekend,

I must admit that it’s been quite some time since I’ve seen a film at your particular multiplex. Paying ten dollars to see Dude Where’s My Car? in a theater the size of my living room really isn’t my cup of tea, but since yours was the only one playing the Academy Award nominated Ray, I decided to give you another chance.

You can only imagine how pleasantly surprised I was to have such a wonderful cinema-going experience.

First of all, let me congratulate you on hiring such a crack staff.

The gentleman taking money at the ticket window was a consummate professional. Even though I was the only person in line, he still took his job very seriously. As a matter of fact, his concentration level was so high, that he didn’t once look at me, nor utter an extraneous word. It’s rare to see such a strong work ethic these days.

Also, I would like to give a tip of the hat to the projectionist. Seeing him roll a giant reel of film down the hallway shows me he has great confidence in his abilities. Also, during the last 20 minutes or so of the movie, I particularly enjoyed his interpretation of Ray Charles’ struggle with heroin addiction. The film jittering and jumping around really made the story come alive.

Secondly, I must admit the idea of having one person run the snack counter is genius. To quote one of Lord Alfred Tennyson’s poems, “The many fail, the one succeeds.” Even though it might take five minutes longer, it gives each and every customer a chance to get up close and personal with one employee. The chance to cultivate this kind of relationship is something you just don’t get anywhere else.

Lastly, your commitment to environmental causes is a noble endeavor. By not stocking the paper towels in the restroom, you are keeping our landfills empty and saving many trees. Who would have thought that drying my hands on my pants would work just as well? Oh, and your decision to not run the vacuum cleaner during business hours must conserve countless megawatts of electricity. As I always say, “What’s a little popcorn on the floor between friends?”

In summary, I would just like to say thank you for making this the best movie experience I’ve had in quite some time. I wish you and your team all the best.

Sincerely,

A satisfied customer

P.S.

If I may, there is one employee I would like to single out for excellence: Jose. (Although I think his name might have been Joel, since he had taken a sharpie and crossed out the “S” and added an “L” to the end. It looked something like this: J O S E L)

At any rate, his commitment to customer service ran so deep that when he finished wheeling a trash can across the lobby, he came straight to the snack bar to relieve his fellow co-worker. To my pleasant surprise, he was so eager to help that he decided to forgo washing his hands so that we could get our popcorn more quickly. If it is within your power, please give this man a raise.

2005-01-24T13:10:00.000-08:00

Three things…

1. Overheard from a smartly-dressed woman: “I’ve never in my life owned sweatpants."

2. A funny name I made up: Magnus Haggis.

3. Something someone actually said to me: “The only difference between work and play is your attitude.”

2005-01-14T22:39:00.000-08:00

Day Ten:

Finished. I'm sorry to say that my last day at this gig did not produce any celebrity beans worthy of spilling.

However, this evening was a different story.

1. While walking through The Grove on our way to the movie theater, my wife saw at a middle-aged blonde woman and thought to herself, "Gosh, I sure hope I don't age like that." Then we realized it was Dyan Cannon.

2. Later, coming out of the movies we saw Andy Dick slap some girl on the ass. We're still not sure if he actually knew her.

2005-01-13T21:22:00.000-08:00

Day Nine:

I have become extremely exhausted and delusional from working two jobs. Any and all attempts of escape have been thwarted by pangs of greed. I can only hope these words will reach someone who might take pity on me and arrange for my rescue.

After almost two weeks of trite celebrity verbiage, my supply of cheesy clichés is running dangerously low. I fear alliteration and "clever" writing will eventually lead to my demise.

If anyone finds these words after I'm gone, please know that even though I may have written things like "Kirstie Alley is thinking big... The 'Fat Actress' talks about her outrageous new show," I never enjoyed it.

2005-01-10T16:46:00.000-08:00

Day Six:

Ah, yes... It's raining cats and dogs here in Los Angeles and I can only speculate that it's God shedding tears over the end of Brad and Jen. I'm thinking of curling up with a bottle of merlot and Along Came Polly myself, but that's not really news to anyone, is it?

Something we aren't reporting on though: The wife of a certain late-night talk show host (current/former/future... Take your pick... I need to be vague here) is calling for the end of their matrimony. Apparently, she describes their co-habitation as living with Mr. Magoo. Ouch.

Allegedly, of course.

2005-01-06T19:19:00.000-08:00

Day Four:

I had this information yesterday, but withheld it because... Well, working two jobs at once keeps you pretty busy. I offer it up regardless, just in case not everyone is informed of this extremely important and earth-shattering news.

Anyway, a certain twice-married southern songstress is ready to hang up the crown of pop diva and become a forensic scientist.

Allegedly, of course.

If only she had been around during the OJ trial. I’m thinking an interpretive dance number just might have tipped the jury in the other direction.

2005-01-04T18:23:00.000-08:00

Day Two:

Nothing too juicy to report. However, I did learn that when you're asked to come up with a celebrity angle to the Tsunami disaster, it makes you feel kinda icky.

2005-01-03T19:21:00.000-08:00

Day One:

Rumor has it that a certain girlfriend of an ex-boyfriend of someone who claims to still be “from the block” has not shown up for work on the set of her hit television show, further fueling speculation of a bastard child in the making.

Allegedly, or course.

P.S. If you're confused as to the nature--not content--of this post, please refer to this this.

P.P.S. The nature--not content--of this post makes me feel yucky inside.

2005-01-02T21:53:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows my wife and I, knows that we like to frequent neighborhood yard sales on Saturday mornings. It's great, we take the dog out for a walk, get some exercise and come home with half a lawn bowling set.

Thinking that most of the world would be nursing a New Year's Eve hangover this last Saturday, we didn't expect to see any yard sales. Much to our surprise, we saw this down the block from our apartment. As we came closer, we were even more surprised to see this.

We didn't buy anything.

2004-12-31T01:23:00.000-08:00

Yep, I’ve been enjoying the holiday season and taking some time off from the ol’ blog. You know… Eating fudge, singing Christmas carols, mending socks and relaxing and stuff.

Actually, that’s not true. Even though I have been spending valuable time watching the extended versions of The Lord of the Rings trilogy, I’ve been very busy working. There was much writing and writing and rewriting. Then there were notes and notes and even more notes. Finally the writing was done. Then it wasn’t. Now they say I’m finished, but I don’t believe them.

Due to a self-inflicted scheduling error, it’s only going to get worse. Starting Monday, I’ll have two fun-filled weeks of working two jobs simultaneously. One would think I wouldn’t have much time to write here, and one would be right… Except that one of the jobs will be writing for an unnamed entertainment news magazine show. I'm guessing that if I get a bit of juicy scoop, there may be an odd compulsion to post thinly veiled accusations and bombshells.

But I ain’t promising anything.

2004-12-23T18:46:00.000-08:00

Did anyone else just see Marlon Wayans or Tyra Banks looking frantic and frazzled while doing a bit of last minute Christmas shopping?

2004-12-22T10:59:00.000-08:00

So, I'm viewing a tape of a show I'm writing for and notice that there's a giant painting of a vagina in the background.

I guessing I won't be able to use this.

2004-12-20T08:06:00.000-08:00

Warm wishes and Happy Holidays from Bob .

2004-12-15T01:01:00.000-08:00

‘TWAS RIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
(or A TRUE STORY)

‘Twas right before Christmas, and down by the mall,
Not a creature was stirring, except for them all.
The traffic was bad, we were told to prepare,
But the shopping wasn’t finished, so we didn’t care.

The cars were all nestled on road up ahead,
While visions of Sig-Alerts danced in my head.
The Mrs. was my passenger, so I gave her a smile,
Who knew it would take two hours to go half a mile?

When out on the road there arose such a clatter,
I looked over the dash to see what was the matter.
Down came the window, just like a flash,
I saw a taxi driver who just got whiplash.

The sun on his taxi made his blood boil red,
So he gave a long honk to the car just ahead.
When what to my wondering eyes would I see?
An old run-down mini van with a brand new Christmas tree.

With a little old driver, so lively and mad,
I knew in a moment, this was going to get bad.
More rapid than eagles, to the taxi he came,
And he whistled and shouted and called out these names:

You prick! You asshole!
You big piece of shit!
You cunt! You fucker!
You old saggy tit!
From the top of your head!
To the tips of your toes!
I’ll kick your ass! I’ll kick your ass!
I’ll punch you in your nose!

The cabbie yelled back; he couldn’t be shy.
And from under her breath, my wife said, “Oh my!”
So right in front of us, the obscenities flew,
in the presence of everyone, and a Christmas tree too.

And then in a twinkling, I watched as he stood,
the prancing and pawing of his fist on the hood.
As for why this was happening, I was at a loss.
Then he reached through the window with a forceful right cross.

The cabdriver ducked and he bobbed and he weaved,
And the man with the Christmas tree just got more peeved.
He flung open the door and jumped into the cab.
Let the fighting begin; who threw that right jab?

The taxi—how it trembled! The suspension, how scary!
They fought with ferocity, and their forearms were hairy.
Their droll little fight was drawing up like a bow,
but then they continued, like wrestlers gone pro.
I got out of my car, and another man, too.
We just looked at each other… Well, what should we do?
You might think me a coward, or a real yellow-belly,
but the car shook and it shook, like bowl full of jelly.

As quick as it started, it ended, this brawl.
The cabbie was okay, in spite of it all.
The man with the Christmas tree climbed out of the cab,
But then remembered something else that he wanted to grab.

He spoke not a word, but went back to his work,
And reached through the window with a smug little smirk.
Straight from the ignition, he snatched up the keys,
And then threw them away, right into the trees.

He sprang to his mini van with his fresh Christmas tree,
And full of holiday cheer, it was easy to see.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fight!”

2004-12-13T20:24:00.000-08:00

I have a nice little holiday post brewing, but in the meantime, please enjoy this.

2004-12-10T11:16:00.000-08:00

The previous post reminded me of something.

My wife once told me that an ex-boyfriend of hers liked to go by the name DJ Toasty T. He would wear a big chain with a piece of toast hanging from it whenever they went out dancing.

How am I supposed to compete with that?

2004-12-09T14:33:00.000-08:00

In case you were wondering, Bob recieved a high-tech toaster in the mail today.

2004-12-03T11:02:00.000-08:00

Ten things you probably don't know about me:

1. I used to fight forest fires.

2. I ate an entire fish head while in Canton, China.

3. I took piano lessons from my mother when I was a child, but quit as an adolescent because I didn't think it was cool.

4. I have stood among the dogs at the starting line of the Tustumina 200.

5. I once hooked and caught a 63 lb King Salmon.

6. I have a shamrock with my name written on it hanging from the walls of Tom Bergin's Tavern.

7. I lost 25+ lbs over a year ago and haven't gained it back.

8. I met my wife at a Persian restaurant where we both worked.

9. I once was accused of having an Irish accent on a flight from London to Los Angeles.

10. I was crowned prom king my senior year of high school.

2004-12-02T19:00:00.000-08:00

I just got back from doing a bit of shopping at my friendly neighborhood 7-11. While I was there, I saw a clerk reach across the counter and punch a patron in the face.

Now, THAT'S what I call customer service.

2004-12-01T13:37:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm about to head off to a very important meeting which could result in some good work. I'm a little nervous, but surprisingly calm. I'm not really sure why; usually I'm a quivering ball of nervous energy right about now.

I can't believe I'm blogging about this when I should be practicing my "confident smile" in the mirror.

Wish me luck.

2004-11-29T00:13:00.000-08:00

The Mrs. + a slang dictionary I bought at a yard sale = comedic hijinks.

Seen in my kitchen recently.

2004-11-23T15:32:00.000-08:00

Recently my wife said to me, "People who park on the front lawn are the same people who pee in the shower. They must just think, 'Oh, this seems convenient.'"

2004-11-22T13:12:00.000-08:00

The Mrs. and I recently went to hear the LA Philharmonic at the Walt Disney Concert Hall.

If you've never heard of it, the Walt Disney Concert Hall is a modern architectural wonder. As if out of the future, it’s a monument of twisted steel that gleams in the Southern California sunshine.

It’s beautiful actually. A friend of mind deemed it so sexy that he claims to have been physically aroused the first time he laid eyes on it.

While the sculpted exterior is breathtaking in a visual sense, the auditorium is just as awe-inspiring aurally. It’s supposedly one of the premiere acoustic venues in the entire world and creates an intimate connection between the orchestra and audience.

I must concur.

The music was amazing. Every note floated up to our nosebleed seats with absolute clarity. I swear you could hear the sound of the first violinist’s fingers sliding up and down the strings as he played. It would be difficult not to be impressed.

But a concert hall of near-perfect acoustics also has its disadvantages. As a matter of fact, the acoustics were so good that you could hear someone cough clear across the auditorium. So there I was, dressed in my Sunday’s best ready for a bit of high culture and completely distracted by the sounds around me.

How am I supposed to concentrate on listening to the nuances of great musical pieces in an environment like this? Every time there was a bit of silence you could hear the rustling of programs, a whisper or a wheeze.

That, and I swear I heard someone fart.

2004-11-17T14:24:00.000-08:00

Is anyone else writing a television script on two subjects I know nothing about (home design and black collectibles)?

Oh, just me then?

2004-11-17T09:38:00.000-08:00

Say what you want about Los Angeles (and I'll probably agree with you), but the winter weather here totally rules.

The view from my rooftop last night.

2004-11-15T21:30:00.000-08:00

Three things:

1. Saw this near the Rose Bowl swap meet in Pasadena.

2. "I'm sorry ma'am, but this tag doesn't prove to me that this poodle is a service dog."
-Overheard told to a woman holding a miniature pink poodle by a security guard at the Rose Bowl swap meet.

3. I used to own this with a friend.

2004-11-12T11:01:00.000-08:00

I would assume most people have “Googled” themselves by now, haven’t they?

I’ll admit I’ve dropped my line in the Google pond a few times, but to be honest, it’s not very satisfying. Oh sure, my name comes up. As a matter of fact, it comes up a lot. And by the way, I’m not a John Smith or anything like that. When you type in my name, you’re getting pretty specific results. The last time I checked, my name came up approximately 9,980 times.

Only it’s not me. It’s my evil twin… My alter ego… My doppelganger.

See, there’s another person out there with my name. The exact same name. And we once lived in the same town in the Pacific Northwest.

As a 20-year-old college student, I would get messages on my answering machine like, “Hey _____! I just wanted to call and congratulate you and your wife on the new baby!” You can only imagine how this went over with occasional co-ed I would bring home.

Later, I would get voicemails like, “Hey, _____. This is Mr. Jones over at Blankity-Blank Financial services. I need you to give me a call about what to do with your portfolio.” This was right before the dot-com bubble burst, so it’s probably best I didn’t return the call and give explicit instructions on how to handle financial affairs.

Now that we no longer live in the same town, I don’t get his phone calls anymore, but he still haunts me over the internet.

And I hate him for it. And by hate I mean pure, unmitigated jealousy.

This twin of mine is an often-published author with many books to his credit. He’s written countless articles for numerous periodicals. He’s a contributing editor for a major magazine. He’s an expert and authority on the subject he writes about and he’s readily found on Amazon.com. You can see how he takes up most of the internet real estate when it comes to our name.

I don’t think it’s the phone calls or even the Google bit that actually bothers me. It’s just that he’s always taking the glory of our shared name.

I shouldn’t be resentful. Even though we both make our living with the written word, he probably doesn’t even know I exist. Even though we once lived in the same town, we’ve never met. I’m sure he’s a nice guy with a nice family, and he’s probably had the name longer than I have.

That being said, I’ve decided to take back some of the market share of our name. I’m going to write more bad television than anyone’s ever seen. I’m going to hire a publicist. I’m considering robbing a bank, or at least committing securities fraud. I might even reveal my real name here so that when you type “my name + blog” I’ll get a few more hits on Google.

Wait a minute. If he writes a blog, I’m going to kill myself.

2004-11-08T16:40:00.000-08:00

Three things:

1. A friend of mine recently broke up with a woman he was dating.

2. Said woman is an FBI agent.

3. I predict high-tech surveillance in the near future.

2004-11-03T13:45:00.000-08:00

With all the talk of bringing this nation together, I would like to suggest this.

We should all participate. It has potential to be the great equalizer. I mean, when you look like that, who can tell if you're a Republican or a Democrat?

2004-11-02T09:10:00.000-08:00

Well, I voted. I went down just minutes after the polls opened and had to wait in line for over a half an hour. I didn't mind though; having that many people vote can only be a good thing.

In other news, I bought a very large pomegranate and I intend to eat it.

2004-11-01T10:09:00.000-08:00

Among other things, I have been spending too much time playing Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. However, the point of this post isn't that I am sick, twisted and juvenile, but rather that I learned something valuable from this video game. Okay, other than how to pop caps in someone's ass with my AK, I didn't learn something from the video game itself, but I did learn something indirectly.

The other morning I was watching The Today Show and Katie Couric was doing one of those opposing viewpoint interviews about Grand Theft Auto. Did I ever mention that Katie and I once shared a moment? I think she was flirting with me, but I suppose that's a story for another time.

Anyway, one of the guests was an editor for Maxim magazine or some other sort of this-is-a-male-fantasy-magazine-but-we-don't-do-nudes publication. He was proposing that this game was for adults, not for kids, parents should be paying attention to what their kids are doing, and blah, blah, blah.

True, but boring as relates to this story.

The other guest was a lawyer in the vein of a I'm-going-to-sue-you-because-Ozzy-made-my-kid-bite-the-head-off-our-pet-bat litigator. He proposed that this game was awful, it sets a bad example, that kids were able to buy it even though it has a rating for "Mature Audiences" only, blah, blah, blah.

Also true, but boring as relates to this story.

What really struck me was when the lawyer started citing a case example of where some teenagers went out and ran over someone with their car and blamed it on being inspired by a video game. The magazine editor shot back his predictable response and THEN...

The lawyer said, "Oh yeah? Tell that to the families of the dead people."

This is pure genius.

I mean, what can you say after something like that? This is the perfectly crafted retort. No one can deny that the families of the dead people are suffering, and why would you want to cause them any more pain? You really can't go against families of dead people. You wouldn't want to look like a total ass would you?

I've decided that I'm going to use this phrase in everyday life. It could be helpful in any situation. Think of the possibilities...

Snotty parking attendant: Sir, you can't park here.
Me: Oh yeah? Tell that to the families of the dead people!

Potential employer: I'm sorry, but we've decided to go with someone else.
Me: Oh yeah? Tell that to the families of the dead people!

Office manager at my doctor's office: Let's see... The next available appointment is in three months.
Me: Oh yeah? Tell that to the families of the dead people!

Girl behind the counter at McDonald's: I'm sorry, but we're out of Filet-O-Fish.
Me: Oh yeah? Tell that to the families of the dead people!
Girl behind the counter at McDonald's: Sir, if you really want a Filet-O-Fish, you could try the McDonald's down the street.
Me: Well, give me a McRib then.

ATM Machine: Insufficient Funds.
Me: Oh yeah? Tell that to the families of the dead people!

Upon further review, it doesn't work in every instance, but it could help you out of a jam. At any rate, I offer you this newfound knowledge. Please use it wisely.

2004-10-29T13:24:00.000-07:00

Still here, just been busy.

More posts soon, but in the meantime I'd like to relay a completely unrelated and inane observation: Over the past three days I have seen two bags of dry cement broken open in the middle of the road in completely different neighborhoods.

As the cars continually drove over them, the plume of cement dust grew to proportions that can only be described in terms of the 1980 Mt. St. Helens eruption.

How can this be? I thought we were in the midst of a cement shortage. Shouldn't we be rationing concrete, our most precious of the conglomerate construction materials?

And what are the odds I'd see two different, yet similar examples cement misuse in three days? Any statisticians out there?

2004-10-19T17:41:00.000-07:00

I had a reaction similar as those who commented on the previous post, which is what made me park and get out of my car. It just looked so surreal. As I walked up, I thought, “Is it some sort of guerilla street art? What could have possibly done this?” So, I snapped a picture with my handy camera phone.

When I started to look around, I began to realize it probably wasn’t the aftermath of some fiery accident. The bent over streetlight was still flashing and, much to my dismay, there wasn’t change pouring out of the damaged parking meter.

Then I noticed there was a man sitting behind me on a stool. I said to him, “Do you know what this is all about?”

He looked at me like he had answered that question about a million times already, but still gave me the stock reply. “They’re going to shoot a commercial here. A car is going to come screeching to a halt and everything will look as if it’s melted and burned. I’m just watching the props until later tonight.”

You can imagine my disappointment.

I took a closer look at the sign (Emily almost pegged it) and realized that it said “Hot Maxima.”

So there you go. Coming soon to a television near you: The new Nissan commercial.

2004-10-18T18:13:00.000-07:00

I noticed something strange on my way to a freelance gig the other day and although my camera phone doesn't really do it justice, I thought I would share a picture of what I saw.

The mass next to the twisted and melted streetlight is a charred bicycle.

2004-10-15T15:43:00.000-07:00

At the risk of being labeled a follower, hanger-on or Johnny-come-lately (especially in the wake of Zach Braff’s Garden State), I must say I’m really enjoying The Shins.

Especially their album Chutes Too Narrow.

Specifically, and because I just learned to play it, I love the song Young Pilgrims.

2004-10-13T12:36:00.000-07:00

The last few days I've been working on a script for a African-American lifestyle/home improvement show.

Tomorrow I'll be working on a children's cartoon based off the marketing of some card game I don't understand.

Ahhh... The joys of freelance.

2004-10-12T12:19:00.000-07:00

I just saw Trishelle of The Real World: Las Vegas and The Surreal Life at the 7-11 down the street from where I live. She had some serious bags under her eyes and was driving a trashed and dirty Volkswagen Jetta.

No entourage.

No Mercedes-Benz.

And she was buying a bag of Doritos at 7-11.

I guess being on reality TV ain't all it’s cracked up to be.

2004-10-10T10:02:00.000-07:00

Is it just me, or is it weird to hear a snooty men's restroom attendant say, "I hope everything was okay in there," to someone who just came out of a stall?

It's just me, isn't it?

2004-10-06T01:40:00.000-07:00

So, as I was saying…

When I walked through the front door, I begin to wonder what was going on since there seemed to be lights on throughout the house. In the entryway above me, a light was on. In the hallway in front of me, a light was on. In the living room to my right, a light was on.

I followed my new friend to the left, however, and into a dark room. It was quiet, but I could make out that there was something in the room, or at least some sort of presence.

Without a word, he pointed to a light switch on the wall to my left. I noticed it wasn’t an ordinary flip-it-up-and-down kind of light switch, but more of a push button kind of device. As I stared at the switch, it occurred to me that a complete stranger had invited me into his home to perform the lightest of all physical activity. In fact, I had spent more energy climbing the steps than I was about to by turning on this light.

But I was glad to do it. This family’s cultural and religious tradition seemed to be a perfect bedfellow for my ignorance. By being exposed to something I had not much knowledge of, it would be illuminating for me in a much different way than it would be for them.

Extending my index finger, I reached out and ever so lightly touched the switch.

When the lights came up I realized I was standing at the edge of the dining room and that there were people seated around the table. There was a meal already laid out, ready to be eaten. Almost immediately someone came out of the kitchen with a platter full of more food. I considered asking, “What’s for dinner?” but remembered why I was out walking through the neighborhood in the first place.

When I got back down to the sidewalk, my wife and Bob were patiently waiting for me. I recounted the story in great detail as we walked on down to pick up our Chinese takeout… Which was Kosher, of course.

2004-10-02T14:42:00.000-07:00

Today my wife said to me, "Quit doing the robot and drive."

2004-10-01T01:00:00.000-07:00

As the High Holidays have now concluded, I thought I might share a tale of something that happened to me recently.

I am a Gentile living in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood. Being so, I’ve learned the difference between Kosher and Glatt Kosher and I think a little old lady once cussed me out in Yiddish for parking in front of her house. Every few blocks, there are temples and private Jewish schools. I even heard that Rosanne Barr once taught a class at a nearby Kabbalah center,

Where I grew up, religious diversity was hard to come by. Sure, we had our Catholics, Protestants, Latter-day Saints, Presbyterians, Baptists, Episcopalians, Lutherans and even a few whacky non-denominational Christians, but the spiritual makeup of my little town was homogenous. I point all this out to say that moving to Los Angeles and this neighborhood has been a real learning experience for me.

A few Friday nights ago, my wife and I decided Chinese takeout was a swell idea, so we called and placed an order. We thought we might as well walk down and pick it up ourselves because a) it’s only a few blocks away, and b) Bob the dog could always use a good walk.

Not many people were out as we walked, but you could still sense the life in our neighborhood from the sweet smell of dinner being prepared every few houses. Eventually, we crossed over a four-way intersection and waited for Bob to do his obligatory sniffing on the corner.

All of a sudden, a teenage boy comes walking up to us. I’m a bit concerned at first as he has come out of nowhere, but he seems harmless. He’s dressed in a classic black suit and dark hat, obviously orthodox.

“Har oum douish?” He says to me.

I wondered if I had heard him correctly, so I reply, “Excuse me?”

“Har oum douish?” He asks again.

I couldn’t figure it out. Was he speaking another language? Did he have a developmental disability and not very good language skills? I was about to reply with a “What?’ when I finally realized what he was asking.

“No, I’m not Jewish,” I said.

He flashed a smile full of relief and I looked back at him wondering what was coming next. Finally he says, “Lights nerned off nand gern berny dinner.”

Now I’m starting to think he definitely has a developmental disability and is just being friendly. I’m about to say, “Oh… Okay,” and flash a smile as I walk away when he speaks again.

“Can you come to my house? The lights got turned out and we can’t eat dinner until the they’re turned back on,” He says.

Finally, I can understand the words coming out of his mouth. I realize that he’s just been mumbling, and really I should be one to understand as my wife accuses me of doing this all the time.

Then I wonder what he’s talking about. Come over to his house? Is he inviting me over to dinner, a complete stranger? What about my wife? She’s standing right here and she’s not getting an invitation? And what’s the deal about the lights?

Then it dawns on me. It’s Friday night, the night before the Sabbath. I remember something about being forbidden to do work after sundown.

“You want me to come and turn on the lights in your house?” I ask.

“Yes,” he mumbles.

I consider his request for a brief moment, and then make a rash decision.

“Sure, why not?” I say.

I follow him across the street and down a couple of houses to a two-story duplex typical of my neighborhood. As we approach the driveway, I can see that there are family members waiting for dinner. A man who I assume is his father is at the bottom of a staircase. He says “Thank you,” as I pass him going up the steps.

At the top of the landing are a couple of middle-aged women sitting in wicker chairs; they also say “Thank you,” as I pass. I can’t help but notice there is a light shining right above their heads.

--TO BE CONTINUED--

2004-09-22T23:01:00.000-07:00

As one of my favorite bloggers once said, "I am not feeling particularly bloggerish lately."

You would think that being unemployed would make me feel a bit more bloggerly, but it has been quite the opposite. I just haven't felt like writing or being creative. I suppose it's a combination of spending a lot of my time networking, "doing lunch," job hunting, going to movies and being a bit anxious about not working. It's funny how we often put our self-worth on superficial things like what we do for a living, when really it should come from inside.

I'm feeling better these days though. I just did some spec work for one possible employer and got a call today about some freelance work that I'll start tomorrow. I'll be writing more here soon. I've had some interesting experiences lately and am feeling the need to share.

If I haven't said it before, thanks for checking in.

2004-09-16T20:52:00.000-07:00

Overheard from a woman on a payphone near my apartment:

"The man you're talking about is the man who hurt my children. He tried to run me over with a car... This is a scary time for me right now... Okay... I'll talk to you later."

She hung up the phone and then yelled out to the driver of the car she had gotten out of.

"Okay! Let's go!"

I wonder where she was off to.

2004-09-14T01:17:00.000-07:00

Just got home from the Beastie Boys show and... It was awesome.

They played a good mix of old songs from a variety of albums, plus some brand new stuff. I especially loved it when they came out and played a bunch of instrumental stuff wearing tuxedos.

I suppose it goes with out saying, but I'm the illest motherfucker from here to Gardena.

2004-09-09T21:45:00.000-07:00

Three things:

1. I just won ten dollars in the lottery. This means I don’t have to worry about getting a job for another, like, two minutes.

2. My wife is not a lesbian. She sang a cappella when she was five. Apparently, she sang with a group which included a close family member who was a lesbian.

3. Bob and I just checked out a candlelight vigil for peace on a street corner near our apartment. We even met a nice lady who said she once owned an Australian Shepherd. Bob enjoyed the scratches behind the ear and the pats on the head.

It was all nice and warm and fuzzy until she noticed Bob’s tail. “That’s weird,” she said. “Our Aussie didn’t have a tail.”

“Well, we didn’t have Bob’s tail docked when he was a puppy.” I informed her.

“Hmmm,” she said and thought for a moment. “Australian Shepherds aren’t born with tails.”

“Uh, some kinds are born with naturally bobbed tails and some kinds are born with tails… And we decided not to have his chopped off,” I replied.

“Maybe he’s a Border Collie,” she informed me.

I looked down at Bob and could tell he was offended, so not wanting to risk violence at a candlelight vigil for peace, we decided to head home.

Goddamn peaceniks.

2004-09-08T23:01:00.000-07:00

My wife recently informed me that she was once a member of a lesbian a cappella singing group.

This poses a few questions.

2004-09-07T10:56:00.000-07:00

It felt weird celebrating Labor Day because, well... You know.

Oh, and I'm selling two tickets to the Beastie Boys show at the Universal Amphitheatre on September 13th. You'll get to sit next to me and my lovely wife. Any takers?

2004-09-03T12:45:00.000-07:00

It’s my last day of working here.

I had to come in early this morning since a couple of projects were dumped in my lap at the last minute. Can you believe I’m actually having to do some work on my last day?

I’ve been considering a great many things the last few weeks and asking myself some of life’s great questions, but I’ve also been thinking about this blog.

-Do I reveal the name of the show I’ve been working on? I don’t know. Maybe I should keep it as one of the world’s last great mysteries.

-Do I discontinue the blog and float away into obscurity? I don’t know. Maybe I should post an unflattering picture of myself, thus solving one of the world’s last great mysteries.

I don’t know. My life is unsettled and very much up in the air. I’m leaning toward keeping it going as a creative outlet. I suppose I didn’t write that much about my job here anyway.

What I do know is: I need to find a job. I need to reinvent myself.

Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.”

I suppose this means I better get to dreaming… Or at least start believing.

-John

P.S. Someone reached this site via a Google search for “fat dragon”, gorging. My blog was the only thing that came up. I can’t help but think they were probably disappointed.

P.S.S. Oh, and there’s supposed to be some sort of drinking celebration tonight after work. You’re all invited.

2004-08-27T15:14:00.000-07:00

As part of my job, I occasionally watch the raw footage before everything is edited together and in doing so, I get to see everything that ends up on the cutting room floor. Sometimes—most of the time—the material is extremely boring, but other times, a precious nugget appears. This is one of those, only it’s not from anyone who was actually on the show.

Overheard conversation from a cameraman and some crewperson while shooting b-roll:

Caution: There are a few words prohibited by the FCC, so be careful when listening to this.

2004-08-27T00:08:00.000-07:00

Ten most recently played songs by the shuffle feature on my iPod:

1. Pass the Dutchie - Musical Youth
2. East of the Sun (And West of the Moon) - The Modernaires
3. Nuthin' but a "G" Thang - Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg
4. Chariots of Fire - Vangelis
5. Hey Joe (Version) - Patty Smith
6. Southern Anthem - Iron and Wine
7. Cracklin' Rosie - Neil Diamond
8. Herido De Sombras - Ibrahim Ferrer
9. Superstition - Stevie Wonder
10. Stukas Over Disneyland - The Dickies

Cold-hearted, thoughtless randomness. Technology rules.

2004-08-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

It has come to my attention that I am getting older. Not old, mind you, but no longer a spring chicken. Years, months and days are quickly passing me by. I can still live fast, but I won't die young.

You know what this means don't you? I'm never going to be a child prodigy. Genius is probably forever out of my reach. In theory, my IQ will never change. My cognitive functioning level is probably redlining as I write this.

As I watch the Olympics I realize I'll never be atop the podium with gold, silver or bronze. There will be no victory lap and the heavy hardware won't hang from my neck as the national anthem plays throughout the stadium.

Youthful indiscretion is not an option. Waking up cuffed in the county jail will no longer elicit a "boys will be boys" from my mother. I must now be an upstanding, law-abiding adult. There are social conventions to be obeyed.

I still play my guitar, but realize I'll never become a rock star. Trashing hotel rooms and entertaining groupies will result in penalties too high for me to pay. Rock and Roll is a young man's game.

The minutes and seconds are slipping away, but I'm okay with this. There's a lot of life left in me. I can still read books about quantum physics and pretend I understand. Lapping the old lady at the jogging track will still feel like a victory. Committing an act of civil disobedience is a forgivable offense and there's always the arena of my living room to demonstrate musical prowess.

Besides, I still might have a shot at that Nobel Peace prize. They sometimes give that to old guys, right?

2004-08-24T12:09:00.000-07:00

Our resident rock star drives an Cadillac Escalade.

I wish I were as rich, famous, good-looking AND ORIGINAL.

2004-08-23T10:15:00.000-07:00

My replacement starts today and I've been asked to "show him the ropes." I can only assume this means the ropes people use to fashion nooses with which to hang themselves.

If he's nice, maybe I'll hand over the blog keys.

Oh, and I saw this at the Farmer's Market on Sunday.

2004-08-20T15:12:00.000-07:00

Three more things:

1. I was startled by this as I went out the back door of the building I work in.

2. As I was slogging my way through traffic earlier today, I had to wonder: Whatever happened to the flying cars science fiction promised me as a kid?

3. A rock star is going to be the co-host of one of the shows my company produces. He is a complete tool. The fact that he has a job and I soon won't is a tough pill to swallow.

*Addendum to #1: Note the pack of cigarettes in her left hand.

*Addendum to #2: Yes, I was a geeky kid. In fact, I'm still geeky.

*Addendum to #3: I just checked out his new office. Bad artwork hangs on the walls.

2004-08-18T18:47:00.000-07:00

Three things:

1. Please don't say to me, "That's a cute outfit." This offends my masculinity.

2. This blog is #5 in the Yahoo search for "garbage bins sitting on sidewalk" and #2 in the Google search for "hugh hefner sex harem." At least it was this afternoon... I'm sure these things change quickly.

3. If you ever have to run a mandatory sexual harassment seminar, showing clips from The Drew Carey Show and Friends probably isn't the best way to illustrate the gravity of the subject. I appreciate the attempt to lighten things up, though.

2004-08-17T23:44:00.000-07:00

**JOB HUNTING UPDATE**

The "newsy/entertainment gig" that sent me a polite, if impersonal, form letter actually called me.

Again.

The man I talked to told me that an overzealous underling “who didn’t actually make any of the hiring decisions” had sent out the letter. I was told that they had heard “great things” about me. I was told that before I take a staff gig anywhere else, I should consider coming and freelancing for them.

Freelancing…. Sounds interesting.

However, I should remember that this same man, the one who called me, actually threw a VCR at a friend of mine a few years ago. He also once held up a page of someone’s writing and exclaimed, “Now, I could take a pencil and make notes all over this piece of paper, but I could also take the same pencil and stick it up my ass. And to be honest, sticking a pencil up my ass seems more productive.”

VCRs. Pencils… Sounds interesting.

I told him I’d think about it.

2004-08-13T14:30:00.000-07:00

I feel like an untalented hack that no one wants to hire. There, I said it.

I apologize for the profanity-laced nature of the previous post, but it was something I was feeling at the time and needed to be said. I’ve had a couple of blows to my over-inflated ego this week, as there were two jobs that I interviewed for and didn’t get.

Oh yeah, and I didn’t want those jobs anyway.

Sure, it sounds like sour grapes, but it’s true. If I look at things objectively, it’s a blessing in disguise. One of the potential employers would have had something a lot to do with soap operas, which I couldn’t care about less about. The other, sort of a newsy/entertainment gig. Again, I’m not really that interested. The latter was described as follows:

*Tense, demanding, heart-pounding…

*Participate in daily 5am creative meetings…

*Ability to be de-railed for late-breaking news stories, and still keep it all together…

*Must be on call 24/7…

*Willing to forfeit family, friends, sleep…

*Stress filled position is awarded with commensurate salary…

Were these things I left my current situation to do? No. Would I have taken one of these positions if they were offered? Hmmm... I would've liked to think I would have held out for something better, but since I’m still in need of a job, I applied anyway. I interviewed. I got a voicemail message and a nice form letter informing me they were each going with someone else.

What? Who wouldn’t want to hire me? I cannot believe this. I thought I was bulletproof.

So, I’ve been knocked down a few notches and that’s okay. I know things will work out; I still have a few other irons in the fire. The jobs I’m actually excited about are still up in the air. There are other places I’ve interviewed that haven’t said no… Yet.

It’s just that it would have been nice to been offered one of those other jobs, even if I were going to decline the opportunity. I just would have been nice to feel wanted.

2004-08-11T00:12:00.000-07:00

Fuck.

More on this later.

2004-08-06T00:42:00.000-07:00

Tonight we were watching the first few episodes of Freaks and Geeks on DVD and it reminded me of something from my childhood.

Before I go poetically waxing about years gone by, let me take a moment to ask myself a question: How is it that I missed this show the first time around?

Anyway, in the third episode these kids are out on Halloween night trick-or-treating when they come upon the house of some longhaired hippie dude. Instead of handing out candy, he’s giving away carob. “It’s nature’s chocolate,” he says.

Oh, the memories.

When I was a kid, my parents made me eat all sorts of things that the other kids didn’t have in their houses. We had sorghum instead of maple syrup on our pancakes. Everyone else had Twinkies while I ate brown bread that my father baked in an old coffee can. When I spent the night at someone’s house, I was always excited to have Froot Loops for breakfast instead of granola or some healthy multigrain cereal.

I wouldn’t call my parents hippies or anything, but they… Well, they were into a healthy lifestyle back then and we did live in the hippie capital of the Pacific Northwest, so I suppose it was inevitable.

The worst thing though, was carob. It was among other things my mother would try to pass off to me as delicious. “It’s just like chocolate,” she’d say with a smile. “C’mon, it’s tastes just like chocolate,” my dad would say as he ate a carob chip cookie.

But I knew better.

I can only assume my parents came to their senses at some point, because I haven’t seen them eat carob in years. But for a while they did. And so did I. So let me put this rumor to rest once and for all…

Carob is not just like chocolate.

Carob does not taste just like chocolate.

CAROB IS NOT NATURE’S CHOCOLATE.

2004-08-04T16:18:00.000-07:00

So, I’m still slugging away at my old job for about another month, and during the whole looking-for-a-job process, I’ve learned two things:

1. You can never have enough interviews.

2. I always feel like an idiot after an interview.

On another note, a friend of mine had a lunch meeting today with Pauly Shore about some upcoming straight-to-video movie.

I can’t wait to hear how that went.

2004-07-30T12:56:00.000-07:00

A work colleague of mine died the other day.

The details are sketchy. Apparently, he didn’t show up for work one morning and police found him in his apartment dead. There are rumors, of course, that it was from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, or from a drug overdose. No one really knows for sure.

When a friend told me about this, I wasn’t even sure whom she was talking about. She tried to describe what he looked like, but I couldn’t quite place him. She told me if I were to see him, I would definitely know who he was. I thought about this all day. Someone who was here yesterday isn’t here today and won't be coming back tomorrow. And I didn’t know who it was.

It was a strange day. The mood was somber and everyone spoke in hushed tones, avoiding the reality of it. We were pretending it hadn’t happened, but it was so obvious that it had.

Later in the day, I was talking with another friend and he was able to describe our colleague to where I could connect the name with a face. To be honest, I didn’t really know the guy at all. We had an acknowledged smile here, a nod there, but I don’t even think I had even spoken a word to him… Until the day before he died.

I was walking down a hallway and he was standing there, mid-conversation with someone else. I said, “Excuse me,” and he moved aside to let me by. As I slipped past him, he joked, “Well, not today, maybe tomorrow,” as in he would excuse me tomorrow.

We shared a small laugh and I continued on my way, down the hallway and into tomorrow.

But for him, there won’t be a tomorrow.

2004-07-27T17:28:00.000-07:00

It happened again. (For some history on this, please see my post from May 14)

My penchant for laziness and general apathy has thwarted me out of millions of dollars yet one more time. Either that, or someone is stealing my ideas.

Just a few years ago, I invented an amazing contraption while at the grocery store. It was going to revolutionize the way you shopped, or at least the way I shopped.

There was a supermarket nearby where I lived, and we went there once a week for groceries. Their prices were reasonable, they offered double coupons and even had valet parking. Like most people, I’m a creature of habit and when I buy my groceries, I usually get a lot of the same things. One of the nice little perks about going back to the same place every week is that you get to know where your particular items are. This allows you to make a calculated run through the store with incredible efficiency.

You’re in. You’re out. You’ve got a bag full of groceries.

My only complaint about this store was that every freakin’ time I went there, they moved items around so that you couldn’t find them. One week, the Cheez-Its would be on the top of aisle eight and next week they would be buried somewhere on aisle two. This happened with alarming regularity until one week the entire store was switched around.

Needless to say, this was extremely frustrating. I don’t frequent this establishment anymore, but it did spark a brilliant idea: The Shopping Cart Computer.

The Shopping Cart Computer would make grocery shopping a breeze. There would be a small computer-like device that would be attached to the handle of your cart. You could find out about the weekly specials. You could program in your shopping list and it would keep a running tab of the contents of your cart. This ingenious device would give you price comparisons and suggestions to help save you money. It would even guide you directly to your items via a small map. It was brilliant. Looking for that jar of Paul Newman’s Medium Salsa? It’s on sale today for $2.99. Please proceed to aisle three, right in the middle.

Just think of the minutes that could be shaved off your shopping experience. Think of all the charity work you could do with your free time. Think of the inventions I could conceive with all that extra time. Sounds great, right? Fast forward to last week and me watching the Today Show.

Damn them.

Damn the Cart Companion, or Shopping Buddy, or whatever you want to call it.

Damn them all.

How can this be? How could this happen to me again? Am I making this up? Do I want to have the IQ of a genius so badly that I periodically convince myself I’ve invented things? I don’t think so. I’ve come to suspect that someone is on to me. Now that I think of it, I might have once seen a shifty-eyed Matt Lauer in the produce department.

I vow this will never happen again. I have one more great idea, but I won’t mention it to anyone. I’ll swear a blood oath to myself to see the idea through to completion. I will make millions.

Oh wait, someone already invented the Chillow®.

2004-07-21T00:36:00.000-07:00

Last night I went with my wife and some friends to the Magic Castle. No, this isn't some sort of double-speak for dropping in on a rave and doing six tabs of acid with an ecstasy chaser; this is a real place.

The Magic Castle is a members-only clubhouse for illusionists, showmen and practitioners of the dark arts. I have long wanted to enter the doors of this restored Victorian mansion which sits on a hill just above Hollywood Boulevard, but until recently, it wasn't in the cards. Non-members may only enter on the good word of a member, or someone who knows someone who knows a resident magician. Not being anyone important, we knew someone who knew someone who could get us on the guest list.

When my wife and I arrived, we walked through the front doors into a lobby that didn't appear to go anywhere. Lucky for us, the woman at the front desk found our names in a leather-bound ledger and gave us a secret password. She then instructed us to walk up to a jewel-eyed owl statue and whisper the magic words. As my wife did this, a bookcase on the wall slid open and we walked through.

We emerged in a small, dimly lit bar with a distinct British feel. There our friends were waiting, decked out in firmly pressed suits and cocktail dresses. Having been there long enough to have downed a few gin and tonics, they informed us of some the rather interesting curiosities about the room. There was a Scooby Doo-ish portrait hanging on the wall with eyes that seemed to be looking at you, and ghostly grand player piano that played songs upon request, no matter what you requested. They had heard it play Welcome to the Jungle and my wife and I would hear Oops, I Did It Again followed by Stairway to Heaven later in the evening.

After a bit, we shuffled upstairs for an evening of fine dining. I won't bore you with the details of our meal, but I will say that the kitchen must not have been bovine-friendly.

Upon paying the check, we were presented tickets to a show in the Palace of Mystery. This was very exciting. Apparently, there were magicians afoot and we were going to see them in action. We wandered through the restaurant and out into another lobby, which was full of pictures of old magicians, dioramas and magic memorabilia. Incidentally, this lobby also contained a small bar. I suppose the more intoxicated you are, the better the magic is.

After having another drink, it was time for the show. We presented our tickets and entered into a small theater to see grand illusion in all its glory. It was quite a performance: Two magicians and more magic tricks that I could count. There were card tricks, volunteers from the audience and making a blonde assistant appear out of nowhere followed by the old audience favorite locking-her-into-a-box-in-which-sharp-objects-are-inserted trick. Don't worry, she came out fine; not even a scratch.

After the big show was over, we decided to see if the masters of illusion in the Close-Up Gallery could fool us with their parlor tricks. The gallery is small—a fire hazard even—holding only about 22 people. This can only mean you're about to be truly amazed by sleight of hand. I saw no wires or mirrors. Objects seemed to appear out of thin air and words uttered by audience members somehow ended up on slips of paper in sealed envelopes. If these powers were in the wrong hands, one could make a dishonest living swindling tourists down on Hollywood Boulevard. For my own protection, I decided I must never obtain these skills.

After an evening of mystery, supernatural and the unexplained, I leaned over to one of my friends and said, "Some of those tricks were amazing! I still can't figure out how they did them."

She just looked at me and whispered, "It's magic."

2004-07-15T23:59:00.000-07:00

I’m quitting.

Tomorrow I tell my boss that I don’t want to work here anymore. I could give the take-this-job-and-shove-it speech, or even yell out a simple, “This place blows!” But I won’t, because it’s not really true and I wouldn’t want to burn any bridges.

They want me to stay and have offered me a sizeable raise and a shiny new three-year contract… Only I don’t want to work here for three more years.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s been a great run. I’ve learned a lot. I’ve worked on many different projects and some of them I’m even proud of. It’s just that staying where I am makes me feel complacent. There’s more out there for me, I just know it.

Did I mention that I don’t have another job lined up yet? Half my brain is telling me to be completely terrified and the other half is encouraging me to feel extremely liberated. I suppose that might be some sort of fight-or-flight mechanism kicking in, but it could also be that I’m hearing multiple voices in my head, which could mean schizophrenia. Luckily, I have over a month left on my current contract to sort this all out.

I do have some job prospects with people who seem interested in my services. They sound promising, but I don’t want to get too keyed up for fear of invoking some sort of Hollywood jinx. People promise all sorts of things in this town that never materialize, so you can’t go getting yourself worked up each time. If you do, you’re in for a world of disappointment.

That being said, there is one opportunity I’m extremely excited about. It would be working for… I can’t say for whom exactly, but it would be a biggie, at least in my mind. I would get to learn some new skills, take on different challenges and broaden my horizons. Of course all this wishful thinking just raises the odds that my heart will be broken and my dreams will be trampled upon.

Wish me luck, or curse me for turning down a fistful of dollars and a pretty darn good job. I’m still quitting tomorrow.

2004-07-12T09:10:00.000-07:00

I saw Inez at Trader Joe’s.

Normally I don’t get too worked up when I see an actor or some other form of celebrity, but when I saw Lumi Cavazos at the supermarket yesterday, I got very excited. Sure, she was in Like Water for Chocolate, but she was also in one of my very favorite films, Bottle Rocket.

I saw Inez at Trader Joe’s. Awesome.

2004-07-09T01:11:00.000-07:00

Being that it’s a slow time of year, I’m actually working on launching a new show instead of the dating show I usually write for.

My company is producing a new talk show with a moderately known personality, and while it’s nothing groundbreaking, it at least has the surface appearance of trying to help people rather than exploit and humiliate them.

We were working on a few ideas where the host would be talking about personal responsibility, about realizing your potential and about dealing with internal issues as a path to improving your life. More specifically, the thought was how things like plastic surgery can often be just another excuse for not dealing with real problems, problems on the inside. Sure, maybe it’s a bit contrived, but food for thought, nonetheless.

Then we had a meeting with THE MAN. THE HEAD HONCHO. THE BIG BOSS.

He wasn’t buying it. He told us that people—or more specifically, women who would be watching this show—did want all those things, and who were we to be telling them that these things might be bad?

We had written about nose jobs, boob jobs, tummy tucks, chin lifts, liposuction and Botox.

He was telling me all these things are part of Middle America’s dream.

I thought about the great responsibility that comes—or at least should be considered—when writing for a mass audience.

He was saying that people eat what they’re fed.

This may be true. People often do eat what they’re fed and believe what they hear, but I had to wonder: Why can’t we put out a positive message?

If I had asked this out loud, he’d tell me that good ratings pay my salary, but positive messages don’t equal good ratings.

And then I’d wonder: When will I become that cynical?

2004-07-03T14:10:00.000-07:00

This afternoon, the wife and I are going to a party somewhere deep in Hollywood. Like the two of us, it will be an odd mixture of psychologists and people working in the entertainment business, and that always has the promise of crisis and spectacle. We’re supposed to dress as if we’re going to a country club, so I can only assume this means there will be lots of croquet playing, little sandwich eating and Bloody Mary drinking. My attire will have the I-am-going-yachting-or-to-the-private-tennis-club look.

While all of this sounds interesting, pretentious and fun, I’m really looking forward to where everyone will be going after the party. A couple of weekends a month a group called Cinespia projects old movies on the side of a mausoleum at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. It should be interesting to watch Kiss Me Deadly only a few steps away from Valentino and Cecil B. DeMille.

2004-06-28T13:59:00.000-07:00

As of late, I’ve come to realize that my recent postings have been negative in nature. I was thinking I should write something positive, something as proof that my life is generally pretty good: a bed of roses, if you will.

Then I saw this less than a block from my house.

Great. I suppose this takes care of the swarms and plagues, and one can only suspect that the Four Horsemen will soon be riding through the streets as they turn to rivers of blood.

I always knew Judgment Day would come to Los Angeles first.

2004-06-25T09:06:00.000-07:00

**Confidential**

To: My boss
From: Me

In light of recent events, I think few words of gratitude are in order:

1. Thanks for being available to accept the award for the project I conceived, wrote and produced. It probably wouldn’t have been appropriate for me to do it.

2. I am truly grateful that you were willing to travel all the way to New York to accept the award for the project I conceived, wrote and produced. Not asking if I wanted to go was probably the best thing anyway.

3. You have my deepest appreciation for calling me from the post-awards party in New York to let me know “we” actually won the award for the project I conceived, wrote and produced. I’m not much for events like that, so it’s better you were able to go.

4. Most importantly, I really want to express my thankfulness for something you said. Immediately after letting me know that “we” actually won the award for the project I conceived, wrote and produced, somehow you were able to crap all over the new project I am working on. For the 1.5 seconds I was allowed to enjoy the thrill of winning an award, I owe you my deepest gratitude.

2004-06-24T15:33:00.001-07:00

**REFUSE REDUX**

For those of you not familiar with my trash receptacle saga, please read the entry from Friday, June 18.

Yesterday, I come home to find this. Mind you, this was Wednesday afternoon and trash pickup day is Friday.

He is mocking me.

As a self-righteous and self-justifying aside, please note the three black bins on the far right are partially blocking the driveway of the apartment building next door (the bins belong to the apartment on the left). Since I was accused of this egregious behavior, I find it only fair (and childish) to point out that he is doing the same thing.

One can only surmise that the intention of this action is to take up a perfectly good parking space for more than two days, and dare me into action.

I am not about to fall into his passive-aggressive trap, however.

No, I have my own plans. Under the cover of darkness, I will covertly engage in my own brand of passive-aggressive, yet legal, behavior. I won't park in the space. I won't move them in front of his driveway. I will however, move them up onto the curb and off the street, leaving a free and clear parking space for all freedom-loving citizens.

He will hate that.

2004-06-20T15:11:00.000-07:00

Dogs aren’t allowed on the beach in Los Angeles County (at least near where I live), so yesterday we took a little trip up to Ventura County to hit the surf and sand.

Cigarettes, incidentally, aren’t allowed on a growing number of beaches here. I’m not a smoker, but still, that seems a little bit of overkill. If anything, I think we should focus on getting people not to leave trash all over the place. During a recent adventure on a Santa Monica beach, my wife saw condoms, used diapers and various forms of feminine hygiene products. Gross.

Anyway, the beach up north was very, very nice. And clean. And quiet. And Bob was able to have a good time.

2004-06-18T15:31:00.000-07:00

I am sitting here listening to a very old Metallica album, just seething. I suppose “seething” might not be the correct word since I’m also smiling and laughing. For some reason Metallica’s music has always been strangely calming to me.

Last night I came home from work a bit late. Since my apartment building only has one parking space, my wife gets to use it so she’s not wandering the streets after sundown. The street parking in my part of Los Angeles can be a nightmare as it’s very congested. If I find a spot, I take it.

Friday morning is trash collection day in my neighborhood, so last night every apartment building and house put out their garbage cans to be picked up. Around the corner from my place there’s this parking space—just enough room for one vehicle—that is always occupied by garbage cans late Thursday night. More than once, I’ve moved the trash bins to make way for my car. Last night was no exception.

I get out of my car and move a couple of bins on the sidewalk, and a couple in front of the driveway to the building they belong to. Viola! I have a parking space that doesn’t require me to walk five blocks to get home.

Things are good.

This morning, I take Bob the Dog out for a walk and out of the corner of my eye I see what looks to be a parking ticket on the windshield of my car. “Crap!” I think, “Is this street cleaning day?”

I walk over to find not a parking ticket, but this.

The picture may be a bit fuzzy, so I’ll translate: WARNING. If you move our containers again I’ll pour the garbage all over your Jeep!

This is an excellent way to start your day. I’m at first shocked. Who would write such a thing? Then, I feel angry. Who would care that their garbage cans had been moved, especially if they were still emptied? Once the garbage men are done with them they’re practically left out in the middle of the street anyway. Then I feel vengeful. I want to dump trash all over the street. Fortunately, the garbage trucks have already come.

I want to know who wrote this, and I have my suspicions.

I come back home all fired up trying do decide what to do. “No one messes with me!” I say to myself. This note is so passive-aggressive, that I decide I have to be the opposite.

First, I call the City of Los Angeles to clarify a few things. After pressing a few buttons, I get a live person on the phone. “Los Angeles Department of Public Works and Sanitation, how may I help you?” a nice lady says with a cheerful voice.

“Uh, yeah. I have a few questions about those trash bins people leave out on the street—You know, the ones people put out by the curb to be picked up?“ I mutter.

“Sure, what about them?”

“Well, I was wondering: Are those are considered city property?”

“Yes.”

“Now, if someone were to set them not on the curb, but actually in the street where someone might park their car, can they be moved so someone may actually park?”

“Sure.”

“So, there’s no legal issue with me moving them?”

“Not as long as you’re not blocking them from being picked up by our trucks,” she informs me. “What’s the problem?”

“Oh, I’ve got this guy threatening to dump trash on my car since I moved his garbage cans,” I explain.

“Oh. He just doesn’t get it, does he?” she says. I have her on my side.

Armed with this knowledge, I go to the closet and put on a stocking cap, the kind a longshoreman might wear down on the docks. I’ve been told that I look a certain kind of thuggish when I’m unshaven and wear the cap, but I think my wife was just trying to make me feel manly. Despite that it’s already 75 degrees outside, I put it on and furrow my brow; I have no idea what kind of character I’m going to run into.

I grab the note and summon up a small amount of courage as I walk over to what I think is the offending apartment building. From behind a metal gate, I ring the doorbell. A man of about mid-50 comes answers the door scowling. I think he might already know what this is about.

“Hi, are you the manager of this building?” I say.

“Yes,” he replies. In my twisted mind, I’m thinking that he’s already being short with me. Using one-word answers, how dare he?

“Do you know anything about this note?” I ask as I hold up the scrap of paper.

“Yes.”

“Do you know who wrote it?”

“Yes.”

“Was it you?”

“Yes.”

At this point, I realize I should stop asking yes/no questions and get down to it. “What’s the problem here?” I ask.

“The problem is that you’re moving my garbage cans! And you’re blocking my driveway, so we can’t get out!”

“But…”

“You have no right to move those garbage cans! Those are my property! You cannot touch my things!” he says to me. It occurs to me that this is beginning to sound like an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, but I don’t know which one of us is Larry David.

“Look, pal. I just called the sanitation department and learned two things. One: Those containers are city property, not yours. Two: I’m within my legal right to move those containers as long as I’m not blocking them from being picked up,” I smugly respond.

“How do you know? Are you a lawyer?” he counters.

“No,” I truthfully answer. I figure telling him what I really do for a living wouldn’t help the situation any. “Are you?”

At this point he puts his hands on his hips and looks at me right in the eye. “Yes,” he says.

Going out on a limb, I say, “No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not. You’re lying.”

“I’m not going to stand here and argue with you, especially with you threatening me!” he bellows.

“What are you talking about? You’re the one threatening to pour garbage on my car. And if you do, there will be legal consequences,” I advise.

“I have 60 lawyers to go after your one lawyer!” he threatens.

“I thought you were a lawyer,” I say.

As he closes the door, I shout, “There better not be garbage on my car… Punk!” Now, I realize I probably shouldn’t have called him a punk, especially since he’s probably a good 20 years my senior, but my playground sensibility had already kicked in.

And I keeping thinking of all the childish things I could do.

1. Design fake law firm letterhead and draft a note from an attorney named Clarence Caswell. He will demand on my behalf a cease and desist of all garbage-dumping threats.

2. I could do a pre-emptive strike and dump the garbage in his driveway before he gets to me. I might spread out the coffee grounds to spell, “Garbage This!”

3. Writing words with sidewalk chalk in front of his building could be a viable option. “Punk” might be the first word I would choose.

Of course, I won’t do any of these things, but it sure is fun to think of them.

I think I’m going to listen to the Afro Cuban All Stars now.

2004-06-18T01:59:00.000-07:00

I dropped my nephew off at the airport tonight. He’s a fresh-faced U.S. Marine currently on his way to his first duty station: Okinawa. For purely selfish reasons, I’m glad he’s going there instead of other dryer and warmer climates.

As I watched him step inside the terminal, I was reminded that a lot of the troops my government has spread over the globe are just kids. 18. 19. And given the weight of the world on their shoulders. I’m thankful most of them take their responsibilities seriously. I can only hope that the persons in charge of sending them into action take their responsibilities as seriously as the troops who often have to bear the consequences.

Enough on that subject. I think that’s about as political as I want to get on this blog.

2004-06-15T00:39:00.000-07:00

Three strange things I’ve seen recently driving to and from work:

1. A guy dressed as Homer Simpson. Not your run-of-the-mill costume, either. This person had a huge Homer head and was wearing either body paint or a bright yellow unitard. To top it all off, he was sporting a wife beater and a giant pair of tightie whities. As much as I love The Simpsons, this was disturbing.

2. A clown standing at a bus stop smoking a cigarette. As I wondered if he was coming to or from a child’s birthday party, I got a case of the shivers. As weird as that is though, it was even stranger that the 10 other people at the bus stop didn’t seem to notice a creepy looking clown taking long drags off a Virginia Slim.

3. A guy playing drums under a tree. No, it wasn’t a bongo and he wasn’t part of a drum circle. This guy had a full-size drum set strategically placed under a lonely oak tree on the backside of Griffith Park. Just him, the tree and the drum set. Since AC/DC was blaring from my stereo (yes, I sometimes listen to AC/DC, but don’t make any assumptions about my musical tastes), I couldn’t tell if he was any good.

I really must start carrying the camera in the car at all times.

2004-06-12T01:57:00.000-07:00

Let’s see, where were we? Oh, yes… So, my friend Joe goes into the room and who is there? Sylvester Stallone. Only he’s dressed in his Rambo outfit, all sweaty and dirty, complete with headband. As he stands up to extend his hand for a warm handshake, a rocket-propelled grenade crashes through the window and the whole room explodes. Miraculously, everyone survives… And they caught it all on tape.

Sorry, I couldn’t resist.

I’m hoping people aren’t expecting something too fantastic with this story. I’m only a simple man telling a simple second-hand story. For the most part, I stopped writing at that point because my wrist was getting sore. So really, it was only a half-hearted attempt at a cliffhanger, mainly due to my low tolerance for pain.

Anyway, Joe is up next and goes into the room. There are producers, assistants, assistants to assistants, camera operators, guys turning on and off very hot lights and The Girl.

Before Joe goes on any further with his story, he leans across the table and says to me, “Look, I’m a nice guy and all, but this wasn’t a woman I could go out with. I don’t mean to be shallow, but there’s a certain look and type I’m attracted to. I mean, she wasn’t hideous or anything, but there are guys in this diner I would go out with before her.”

Joe is immediately ushered into a seat directly across from this woman. Bless her heart, he says, “It looked as if she was having a bad day. She looked like a nervous fawn stuck in the path of oncoming traffic. And if they had given her a makeover, it wasn’t apparent to me.”

The producers immediately start prodding her to ask Joe questions. She stumbles and stutters a few words, but nothing much coherent. Finally, one of the producers says, “Ask him how long he’s ever been in a relationship!”

Meekly, she asks him this, to which Joe replies, “My longest relationship has only been three months.”

This goes on for a little while longer. The producers tell her what questions to ask and she asks them. Joe gives honest answers until his time is up and is then led out of the room. While the third bachelor is being subjected to awkward questions, Joe sits in the waiting area with Guy #1. “I don’t think I can do this,” Guy #1 says.

“I’m really not into this either,” Joe replies. At this point, one of the producers comes out with a cameraman in tow. “Can we go ahead and film you guys? We need you to act nervous and anxious as you await the decision.”

This is where it starts to really go downhill for Joe. “You can film me, but I’m not nervous,” he says.

The guys let them film, but mostly they just joke around and B.S. with each other. After a while Guy #3 comes out and joins them.

Eventually, one of the producers comes out and says to Guy #3, “Okay, you can go.” She then turns to Guy #1 and says, can you come in here? And you,” pointing to Joe, “Can you hang around for just a little bit longer?”

Joe sees right through this. “Wait a second. I see what’s going on here. She picked him, but you want me to stay around just in case he doesn’t want to do it. I’m sloppy seconds!” Joe exclaims.

“No, no. It’s not like that. Please don’t leave. Just hang out for a minute.” The producer says.

Being the nice guy Joe is, he decides to stay. After a few minutes, Guy #1 comes back out. He says to Joe, “I’m sorry, man. I just couldn’t do it,” and then gets to leave.

“Okay, can we get you to come in here now?” a producer beckons.

“Are you telling me I’m sloppy seconds?”

“I know, I know. You’ve been such a trooper for hanging out; she’s had a really long day. She wrecked her car on the way in here, she’s not happy with the makeover and it just hasn’t been a good day.”

“I was her second choice?”

“I’m really sorry. Do you think you could just come in and we’ll re-shoot a few lines and we’ll be finshed. You don’t even have to go on the date. We’ll just shoot some shots of you guys getting in and out of the limo. Please?”

Joe thinks about this, and then decides that he’s still a nice guy. Hey, he can get along and have fun with anybody. What the hell… He’ll do it.

He goes back in the room and sits down across from the girl. “Okay, we’re going to need you to say your last relationship was something like, three years,” a producer says.

Joe contemplates this for a nanosecond. “I’m not going to lie,” he states with conviction.

“Yeah, but it’ll just sound better.”

“It might, but I’m not going to lie.”

“It’s just for TV. It’s no big deal.”

“Sorry, I’m not going to lie.”

Finally, our bachelorette has had enough of this back-and-forth and leans over to Joe. “JUST ACT! I DIDN’T CHOOSE YOU BECAUSE I DIDN’T WANT TO LOOK LIKE A FLOOZY,” she says in a loud voice.

“But this is reality television, I’m not going to act,” Joe counters.

“LISTEN! IF I CAN PRETEND I PICKED YOU, YOU CAN PRETEND YOU’RE NOT A COMMITMENT-PHOBE AND SAY YOUR LONGEST RELATIONSHIP WAS MORE THAN THREE MONTHS,” she practically yells.

He was dumbfounded. The room was dumbfounded. Not only was this mean-spirited and rude but it was potentially embarrassing. Hadn’t anyone considered that maybe he’s gone out with a few psychos? That maybe he’s been burned a couple of times by love and that might be the reason things have never worked out? Anyone? Anyone?

“I’m leaving,” Joe says and gets up and walks out of the room. The main producer comes out and walks with Joe as he heads toward the exit. “I’m really sorry about all of this. Thanks for sticking in there. She’s just had a bad day.”

“Yeah? Well, she didn’t have to be so rude,” Joe says.

Just then, the bachelorette comes running out the door. “I’m sorry!” She says. “I’ve had the worst day and I didn’t want to look like the kind of girl who just goes out with anyone. I just want to get this day over with.”

For one last time, Joe thinks about the situation and comes to a decision.

“It is over,” he says.

And with that, Joe walks out the door, gets into his car and drives away. I don’t even think he looked in the rear view mirror. I can’t wait to hear what happens when he talks to his friend who put him up to all of this.

I guess the moral of this story is, "Don’t believe most or all of what those ‘reality’ shows are spoon feeding you."

That, and "Never settle for sloppy seconds."

2004-06-10T00:33:00.000-07:00

I realize I haven’t been writing much about my job lately, but it’s a slow time of year right now. The most excitement around here has been hearing my office neighbor screaming, “You’re a goddamn alcoholic and I don’t want to talk to you! Don’t ever call me again!” and then slamming down the phone. I don’t think that warrants any comments from the peanut gallery. And no, I wasn’t eavesdropping. Well, maybe just a little.

Since my life seems to be a bit boring right now, I thought maybe you’d like to hear a second or third-hand story, as told by me.

There’s the story of the “industry” assistant, who got herself so drunk at a recent party thrown by a major television network that she passed out on a couch, but since that was told to me third-hand, I won’t repeat it. That, and the ensuing humiliation from losing control of her bowels guarantees she’ll never work in this industry again. And neither will the couch, by the way.

Instead, I’ll relay a story told to me over breakfast this morning by a friend of mine because it has to do with reality television. For purposes of this story we’ll call my friend Joe.

Joe is a working voiceover talent. He also does some acting here and there, but makes a good living doing commercial voiceover. This means he’s the one you hear saying things like, “Have you driven a Ford lately?” or “For better relief, advance to Advil.” No, these aren’t any of his actual commercials, but if you watch TV or listen to the radio, you’ve probably heard Joe pitching cars, beer and amusement parks.

Joe got a call from a friend last week asking him if he’d like to be on some reality dating show—not mine—and of course, Joe says, “There’s no way in hell I’m doing that.” He knows better.

The friend begged and pleaded and said it would be a big favor and that it was a new show where up-and-coming actresses and/or over-the-hill actresses go out on dates with everyday kind of guys. The implication was that my friend Joe might have a shot at going out with Flo from the old TV show Alice, or someone similar. Joe thought, “If I get to go out with Weezy from the Jeffersons, that would be hilarious!” and agrees to do it.

On Sunday he shows up at the appointed place only to see 6-8 other young, single guys there for the same thing. After waiting for about 30 minutes, this woman breezes into the room proclaiming herself the “Queen of Reality Show Casting” and proceeds to give vague and sketchy details as to what this new show is all about. Of course, no one has ever heard of this woman.

Eventually, one of the young men decides it’s not his cup of tea and walks on out the door. After he leaves, the self-proclaimed “Queen of Reality Show Casting” coldly says something to the effect of, “Can you believe he just walked out like that?” and proceeds to tear his headshot into little pieces. “He’ll never work in this town again,” she says.

Not surprisingly, Joe and the other guys are getting more and more skeptical as to what’s going on. They begin to ask questions about the show, only to be given nonsensical answers that would make any politician proud.

After about an hour, they get around to interviewing each guy individually in front of a camera. They each tell things about themselves, revealing what they like in women and other sorts of tidbits that might attract a member of the opposite sex.

Then they wait for another hour and by this time, the guys are getting antsy because the Laker game is starting soon, and everyone in this town watches the Lakers. Eventually, one of the producers comes out and says, “Okay, I’ll need you,” gesturing to Guy #1, “And I’ll need you and you,” as he points to Guy #2 and Joe. Everyone else is dismissed. They all say things like, “Congratulations,” but really, they’re glad to leave.

Finally, they tell the three remaining bachelors what the show is actually all about. They take a normal and average girl, give her a makeover, etc and present her with a “Bachelor-type” experience, where she gets to chose a guy for a fancy date.

There’s no Flo. There’s no Weezy. This is truly ground-breaking television.

Guy #1 gets called into a private interview room first and after a good 15-20 minutes, he comes back out. As he passes by my friend Joe, he gives him an eyebrow-raised look, seeming to say, “What the hell?”

To be continued…

2004-06-06T23:25:00.000-07:00

I thought I might post a story I wrote sometime ago, and by some time ago, I mean when I was about seven or eight. For some reason, I had my mother type up the story for posterity and today, I thank her.

To put this story in context, you might want to think of a young snot-nosed kid with a bowl haircut living in a very liberal, hippie infested town in the Pacific Northwest back in the mid-to-late 1970s.

THE FIERCE DRAGON

There was this dragon about 300 years ago who would devour about anything. I might as well tell you he loved to eat, but man would he joyously eat a pig.

He was a big, giant, fat dragon. He had people bring a tribute every day. If they didn't, he would devour them, so people brought a tribute very day. The tribute was one pig, two sheep, three chickens, and he was always gorging on pigs. Like on Thanksgiving you see people gorging on turkey and cranberry sauce and other stuff that you eat on Thanksgiving. Well, when there was no more stuff to tribute, the dragon lost his patience and went to villages and went wringing people's necks and eating them.

There was this man that lived around there. He was a disheartened man. One day he decided to get rid of the dragon once and for all. He went out and got some bast and made a rope. He went out in the brush and caught the dragon. He was seizing the dragon and finally seized the dragon. The dragon was scared half to death and the dragon started wailing, "Let me go!"

The man said, "Okay, on one condition, but let me throw a spear at you," and the dragon said, "Well, okay."

He let the dragon go and he did not really throw it, he held on to it and acted like he threw it and kept it in his hand. The dragon was so scared he ran into a pond and the pond was deep and the dragon drowned.

The people that lived in the village had to boast because the man that killed the dragon lived in their village. Some villagers had disbelief in that.

The end.

2004-06-03T01:10:00.000-07:00

If you ever get the chance to see Michael Jackson up close, I highly recommend it. You probably won’t have much of a chance in the future.

A few moons ago, my wife and I tried to start a tradition where on Valentine’s Day we would go to any number of strange and weird museums here in Los Angeles. We thought it might be fun, and hell, it’s a lot easier to get into the Museum of Jurassic Technology on Valentine’s Day than it is to get a reservation at T.G.I. Friday’s.

During one bright and cheery Valentine’s Day we decided to visit the Museum of Miniatures. The possibility of seeing the world’s smallest record player, the bible written on the head of a pin, or my name on a grain of rice was hard to resist.

When we got there though, all we saw were a bunch of elaborate dollhouses. I’m not kidding. There were miniature versions of a French Empire Salon and Fontainebleau. Weird? Yes. Boring? Kind of, but we figured it’s Valentine’s Day, so why the hell not?

We may have been romantics, but we were also cheap and broke. We decided to forgo the extra $5 personalized tour, and sneak along a few paces behind the tour group.

As we wandered around looking at a scale model of Buckingham Palace, I noticed another group in the museum. The leader of the entourage seemed to be a Michael Jackson impersonator. He had the MJ look goin’ on: Black loafers, white socks, black pants, a red long-sleeved button-down shirt, a black surgical facemask, and sunglasses. The only thing that gave him away as an impersonator was a black baseball cap that had the words “POO POO” emblazoned on the front in bright red.

That couldn’t really be Michael Jackson, right? He doesn’t really go out in public like that, right? He must be an impersonator.

We continued to shadow our tour group. Eventually, we were herded into a special locked room where we got to view an exhibit in the process of being completed. Since we were following the tour group, and not really a part of it, my wife and I sort of got left behind for a few moments. As we were looking at how someone so faithfully recreated the Louvre, a security guard came in and shooed us out of the room. Apparently, this Michael Jackson impersonator and his entourage had some pull with the museum curators. They were going to get their own private viewing.

What nerve. We weren’t about to cause a ruckus in the Museum of Miniatures though, so we left without a word.

Then we got to thinking. What if that was really Michael Jackson? This could be one of the biggest star sightings of all time! Just wait until we told our friends, our families, even strangers on the street. We saw Michael Jackson, The King of Pop, Peter Pan or whatever you want to call him. People could say to us, “Guess who I saw today?” and we would always be able to trump them.

Then again, he wouldn’t dress like that for real, would he? That’s just for show, star persona, stage façade, right? He must be an impersonator.

Hmm… But he did have an entourage. And there were a few children included among them. And he did have some clout – at least in the Museum of Minatures.

When he came out, we decided to get a better look, so we ditched our tour group and started to tail this Whacko Jacko like a couple of private eyes.

Our stealthy maneuvers eventually paid off. I got a close look somewhere near the Brighton Summer Pavilion, and damn if it wasn’t Michael Jackson dressed like a Michael Jackson impersonator.

And really, isn’t that the perfect disguise?

2004-05-28T15:53:00.000-07:00

I just returned from a meeting at a large studio. As I drove up, I had a small wave of excitement rush through me, but not because of the meeting.

It just so happens that this studio is where I had my first job when I moved to LA a few years ago. A behemoth media company owns this studio, one of the big ones. They shoot many, many movies here. They tape lots of television shows here. I’ve seen way more than my share of celebrities here. I got to walk on the set of my favorite TV show here and poke around.

When you drive past the guard shack you can see an outside set which looks like a New York or Chicago neighborhood. They’re all facades, but it looks amazingly real. Many times I would take my sack lunch and sit on the stoop of some fake apartment building as if I was hanging out in Brooklyn.

All this made me thing of that first job. It wasn’t anything fancy or glamorous – I was someone’s assistant – but it was Hollywood, baby. I had arrived. I remember doing assistant-like things: faxing, taking phone calls, sorting mail and spending a large amount of time at the copy machine.

Not long after I started, I was at the copy machine, making 1000 duplicates of some letter that needed to be sent out that very night. I just stood there watching the machine copy, collate and staple. Copy, collate and staple. Normally, this would be a mind-numbing experience, but at that very moment, I was giddy. Giddy as a schoolgirl. I was working in Hollywood and it didn’t matter that I was making copies. This kid from a small town in the Pacific Northwest was working at a large studio where they made movies.

Youthful optimism. Here’s to hoping I never forget what it feels like.