Chapter 12: A Whole Whirl of Trouble

The greatest incentive from doing the Disney College Program (this is the last time I will mention it, I swear) is not meeting people from all over the world. Nor is it taking a semester off to live in Orlando. It is also not being a pasty white dude from Michigan and finally finding yourself with a fine-ass tan. The greatest incentive, by far, is putting Disney on your resume. It pretty much guarantees you an interview, and when you go into one you know exactly what you will be talking about for the next twenty minutes. Disney. (Okay THAT was the last time. I swear.) Even today, despite the fact that the College Program (you know what, fuck it. I'm not done with it yet) is only briefly mentioned in the "Personal" section of my resume, long ago replaced in "Work Experience" with, you know, relevant experience, the question still comes up every time. It practically assured me employment at most places I ever applied to for some time afterwards. But we're not talking about most of those places just yet. We're just talking about Jamba Juice.

Jamba Juice provided me with many "firsts." It was my first post-Disney job. It was my first job while taking classes in school. It was the first place I worked predominately with overweight black women where I became the victim of reverse racism (twenty years of white guilt thrown out the window right there). How I came across the position is a distant memory now. At this point we can only assume that, for whatever reason, I was walking around the financial district in Downtown Chicago and came across a Jamba Juice, and felt so inclined to inquire if they were hiring - or perhaps I saw an "Accepting Applications" sign in the window. Or maybe I just wanted to work at a Jamba Juice because it seemed fun. I wouldn't put it past myself. Sometimes I get these ideas. To this day I think being a waiter at a sit-down Pizza Hut would be the most awesome job in the world and regret that I have never lived in close enough proximity to one to make that dream happen. Either way. Jamba Juice. That happened.

Hours of operation at Jamba Juice? Rifuckulous. Since most patrons were local business people, we opened our doors at 6am. 6am! 6am is for coffee and donuts. Or sleeping in. Or designer drugs necessary to get you through the day. 6 am is NOT for smoothies. Especially in Chicago in the Fall. I indiscriminately hated anyone that entered our store before 9am. I especially hated the ones who got shots of wheat grass. Fuck you for getting up an extra half hour earlier than you needed to just so you could make it to Jamba Juice before work to show a handful of bleary-eyed fellow rat racers how health savvy you are by drinking liquid plant. Wheat grass? Yeah. It tastes like grass. No, I've never straight up taken a handful of grass and eaten it before, because I'm not stupid. Wheat grass cleverly skirts around that issue by being ground up and served at Jamba Juice. Tada! Trendy! Don't get me wrong, I'm not against healthy living. And I'm not against putting whatever the fuck you want into your body, be it heroin, trans fats or immunity boost. I just don't think you need to shove it in people's faces. I HAD to be there at 6am, and here come these douchenuggets at the same time as me, on their own accord. You'd be resentful too. Or...maybe not. Whatever.

As far as coworkers go, I don't remember many names. I remember my manager was Dionne. Okay...so here is where it stands with the Dionne situation. I know I'm good at dancing the fine line between funny observations and flat-out racism, but seeing as how most of what I have to say about Dionne is probably due to nothing more than my self-centeredness and persecution issues, it would behoove me to just state the fact that Dionne hated me, as opposed to my conviction that Dionne hated me because I was white. Because in terms of the former, I have plenty of proof. For instance, there was the buddy system we were meant to follow when taking trash out in the alley after dark. Everybody else was forced to take a buddy, but when I asked why I had to go alone, I was mocked, since apparently walking alone down a dark alley at night in the city is on the same level as walking through Adventureland to get a Dole Whip. (Aaaand there I am with the Disney references again). Also, I was reprimanded for not offering enough bread products to customers. I have a whole little story about the bread fiasco, but really, are you that interested? It's about bread products at Jamba Juice, and it does nothing to prove I was the victim of reverse racism, therefore, why share it?

Matty was the assistant manager, and he was gay gay gay. How gay was Matty? Well, let's do the math. Take how gay it is to have people call you "Matty," add the fact that he was assistant manager at a Jamba Juice, and multiply it by how many days a week I came in and he would be blasting Tom Jones throughout the store. That's how gay he was. But he was pretty nice so I won't mock him. Beyond what I already did.

Twigger (another Disney reference. Sweet Jesus that place ruined me) was indirectly responsible for my departure Jamba Juice. For that, I should say... thank you, Twigger. Speaking of Twig, this was actually somewhat of a landmark event, as it was one of the first moderately ridiculous situations we found ourselves in throughout our long and sordid past four years. One day, she came to the city to visit me. I was supposed to get off work at 2pm, but around 1:30 Dionne said I couldn't leave yet because she hadn't taken her lunch. At 2:45 she returned from lunch, only to claim she had to go to the bank and make a deposit. I finally got relieved from my register at 3:45, but...uh-oh! My drawer was twenty dollars over! Hey! Here's a good spot for a tangent!

Why the FUCK do managers at food and retail establishments blow such a gasket when their drawer is over? I get the problem with being under. Money you should have is not there. It sucks. It must be dealt with. But money being over? So the fuck what? You worried you're gonna get audited or something? Just pocket the money and be done with it. No one has to know. Case closed. Way to press the Easy Button.

Dionne was NOT happy about my drawer being over. I was not happy about being kept almost two hours after my shift when I had a friend who had now been walking the streets alone for over two hours. Lucky for all involved, Twigger is used to street walking. I was fairly certain Dionne was ready to fire me. Maybe with good reason. Maybe my attitude of this being the fucking stupidest waste of time job in the world was being perceived by the Jamba Juice staff as a negative thing and I wasn't hiding my disdain as well as I intended. The next day, I got ready for work and hopped on the train. But I couldn't bring myself to get off at the Washington/Wells stop. Cosmic forces more powerful than you could ever imagine held me back and refused to let me go back to Jamba Juice. So...I never did.

Working in Downtown Chicago did have its perks. And by "perks" I mean "fair share of crazy."

One day, a guy and a girl, not older than sixteen, came into the store. The guy ordered a smoothie and said "How long will that be? 10 minutes?" I thought 10 minutes was an odd assumption to make in regards to the time it takes to prepare a smoothie (although I was the one making it so in reality that was an excellent estimate). I corrected/lied to him and said it would be ready in less than two. The guy quickly grabbed the bathroom key and ran to the bathroom. He came back later for his smoothie, which I realized was sitting on the counter for quite some time. He also left the bathroom key locked inside. Pissed off at what an idiot this "it takes ten minutes to make a smoothie" guy turned out to be, I took the spare key and went into the bathroom to see if I could find the original. Not on the sink. Not on the paper towel dispenser. Not in the door. Maybe he threw it out? I looked in the trash and what do I find? Not the key. A used condom. Is that what kids these days are doing for fun? Sneaking into Jamba Juices in the middle of the financial district, getting the key to the bathroom and trying to fuck while their smoothie gets made? Is it a game? Are they trying to cum before their Razzmattaz is ready, like a race? Or maybe they are simply that turned on by the atmosphere. The smells of citrus wafting through the air as "Dancing Queen" played left them with no control of their own urges, forcing them to rush into the unisex and handicapped-accessible bathroom and just fuck. Yeah. Could be.

Then there was the homeless man who came in to apply for a job. Unsure of how to proceed in this situation, we shrugged and pointed him to where the applications were and he went over there and sat down. About 45 minutes later he got up and came over to us and asked where the applications were. We pointed them out once more. This time he got one and sat down to fill it out.

He was there for at least an hour, and he didn't even finish half of the application. Most of the time he didn't write in the correct spaces, and he rarely (if ever) actually answered a question. In fact, most of it was just him writing craziness stuff on the edges.

For "When are you available to start work?" He wrote "I am from Mississippy. I want an easy job. I don't want a girls job."

For availability he wrote that he can only work "for the white man" 4 hours a week, and that "he doesn't have cancer. Just a touch of it."

When it asked if he had a criminal record, he assured us that "There is no record because it doesn't have a record when you kill somebody"

He also wrote in the margin that he does "not smoke mariyajne"

When asked what position he was applying for, he put "get groceries"

For address he put "The corner of Broadway"

When he turned in the application, he asked if he could start working right away. We told him he had to wait and the manager had to see his application first, and that she wasn't in yet. He said he needed a job right quick so he could buy drugs.

Sadly, unpremeditated teen sex and homeless people seeking employment was not enough of a reason for me to continue going in to work. Jamba Juice...I don't miss you. Frankly, I'm surprised I remembered enough to write a whole chapter about you.

My Super Sweet 16 Presents: Exiled

I’ve been duped. I’ve been had. You got me, MTV. I fell for your smooth trickery.

For weeks, I had seen the previews for My Super Sweet 16 Presents: Exiled. While the rest of the population saw it for what it was – a shrewd combination that exploits both spoiled rich bitches and poverty-stricken third world countries in order to bring us even more just-like-watching-a-bus-crash-you’re-a-worse-person-for-watching-this entertainment – I, for some reason, continued to believe that this program would have redeeming qualities of some sort. I mean, think about it, what a perfect opportunity for MTV to do something culturally worthwhile. They could have taken a News/Documentary approach and…oh…I dunno…TAUGHT US SOMETHING ABOUT FOREIGN CULTURES.

Instead, MTV takes a half hour (shocking, isn’t it, that it takes the same amount of time to show us the preparations of the ultimate birthday blowout as it does for one of these American princesses to acclimate to a completely different culture and lifestyle) to give us more formulaic dribble no more inspiring than an end-of-season clip show on the Real World. It goes something like this. Forgive me, I don’t remember the name of the girl featured in tonight’s episode, so I will just refer to her with pronouns such as “her” and “she.” Here is a rundown of tonight’s premiere.

- About five minutes of the family telling “her” that she is going to be sent to Africa.
- What feels like an eternity of “her” spouting off “oh my god” and “no!” and “are you serious?” with statements meant to highlight her narrow-mindedness like “Will they have air conditioning there?” thrown in for good measure.
- “She” prepares to go. “I’m bringing my jewelry just in case. And my hair dryer.” Yeah…I know…we get it…she’s dumb and selfish and doesn’t know anything about the world. But seriously. I’m supposed to believe she’d honestly think to bring a hair dryer to the desert? Has she never seen what Africa looks like? At least one of those “dollar a day” save-a-child ads that they play all the time on late-night cable in between Cash 4 Gold commercials?
- “She” leaves for Africa. Parents are sad to see her go. Tears are shed. Dad hurries out to buy a new Porsche to surprise her with when she gets back.
- “She” gets to Africa. Hates it. Things are gross and different. “I have to walk four miles to get water?!” “I’m not touching cow poop!” “Agh! Ticks!”
- “She” finally realizes, with about five minutes left in the show and a hasty denouement imminent, how to cope and find connections with the locals. Obviously, this means dancing and showing them her iPod and body spray, as opposed to any actual labor or work or cow poop.

What stood out here was Josephine, the eighteen year old African girl who served as “her” host and friend. I especially loved when the girl was griping about carrying a jug of water and saying that it “sucked” and was the “hardest thing she ever had to do,” and Josephine responded with a deadpan “Okay,” which I believe may be Maasi for “I’m gonna knock this white bitch out.”

At the end, Sweet 16 girl is treated to some sort of ceremony meant to celebrate her time spent there and the many lessons she undoubtedly learned. I was half hoping that it would turn out that unbeknownst to her it was actually wedding, and that she would forced to become bride of a warrior, live in a poop house, and stay in Africa forever. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.

Sure, it sounds like a relatively satisfying show…watch these spoiled rich bitches get their come-uppance when shipped off to foreign lands to learn a thing or two about what it’s like to work and suffer. I’d be a lot more satisfied if they never came back. Instead, MTV has just given these girls exactly what they don’t need. More television exposure and completely unwarranted and inauthentic redemption. Like I said. I was duped. Then again…it’s my own fauly. Why would I expect anything of substance from the network that brought us Tila Tequila, Room Raiders, Date My Mom, Next, Ex Effect, Dance Life, The Real World/Road Rules Challenge, From G’s to Gents, Cribs, 8th & Ocean, Fast Inc, Rob & Big, Run’s House, Twenty-Four Seven, Laguna Beach, The Hills, That’s Amore, Newlyweds, The Ashlee Simpson Show, Celebrity Rap Superstar, Cheyenne, Maui Fever, My Own, Newport Harbor, Pimp My Ride, Pageant Place, Taquita & Kaui, Tiara Girls, There & Back: Ashley Angel Parker, and Yo Mamma?

Chapter 11: Part 3. Jenette - A Tribute.

I recently read "And Then There Were None" by Agatha Christie. Relax, I did it as research because I want to write a murder mystery. As the characters are killed off one by one, I couldn't help but feel a parallel between that novel and my Rescue Ranger experience. Now, we clearly weren't a bunch of strangers mysteriously invited to an island where were are ultimately punished for sins committed, so to speak. We were, however, a group of unsuspecting travelers watching each other drop like flies, one by one, and living with an extreme paranoia that we may be next. Also, like the characters in the book, none of us were that innocent.

40 Rescue Rangers came down to Orlando at the same time as me. While some of them were only signed up to stay until May, a majority of us were in the "Spring Advantage" program, which ended in August. "Spring Advantage" is a little bit misleading, as there was little benefit to staying that extra three months. I think a more accurate term would have been the "Spring, Then-Get-Taken-Advantage-Of" program. Disney is smooth like that. Spin something a little bit, give it a positive-sounding name, and there you go. People will eat it up. They could probably get all of their cast members to contract the AIDS virus if they called it "Enchantment Sharing."

Anyway, most of us were Spring Advantage. Yet, of the 40 people I went to Orlando with, I'd say I graduated with less than a dozen. Not an exaggeration. It was hard to stay employed there. It's not like a normal job where you just show up, work, don't fuck up or act like an idiot, and go home. You had to put such an extreme amount of effort into not getting fired that you were constantly living in a state of fear that something you were doing was against the rules and you were unknowingly signing your own termination letter, licking the envelope, and sending it to HR. Because of this, a Disney cast member can never truly "give 100%." They can only give 50%, because the other half goes to actively and vigilantly browsing in your head through the thousands of pages worth or employee manuals to make sure you aren't inadvertently breaking some obscure rule like counting back change the wrong way or forgetting to point with two fingers instead of one and will therefore be packing for home by the end of the week. That pointing with two fingers thing, by the way? It's real. It's called the "Disney Point." Pointing with one finger can look like you are pointing at some one. Now, one can logically come to the conclusion that the mere addition of another finger to this gesture will help to ensure that someone doesn't think that they are being pointed at, therefore giving them a moment of confusion, therefore ruining their. Entire. Freaking. Vacation.

Jenette was the first victim in all of this. Not because of the pointing. She was good with the Disney point. Most likely because any time she wasn't on stage (working in a place where you are visible to "guests" of the park) she had a cigarette in her hand, so her index and middle finger were in, in a sense, already conditioned to the Disney Point. Poor Jenette didn't understand CDS.

CDS - The Cast Deployment System. It's actually pretty neat. Before every shift you clock in on a computer and it prints up a little receipt and tells you what your duty is. Say I am working at Mouse Gear, a gift shop. I clock in, and the paper says "Take over register 2 from Sheila. Shelia clocks out for the day." So I go over to register 2 and give Sheila the best news since finding out that mole was not malignant. Sometimes CDS would give you completely senseless and ultimately frustrating things to do. For instance, you could be told to play at the Build-A-Mr-Potato-Head station for fifteen minutes, then check back in with CDS. After coming back, CDS could tell you to go "Make Magical Moments" for another fifteen and come back. Then maybe "Organize bobbleheads" for fifteen minutes. This great big cycle of "fuck-me-why-did-I-come-in-to-work-today" was referred to ask "tasking." Essentially, there are more than enough employees working right now and they just don't have anything for you to do at the moment. The main thing I will always remember about CDS is how whenever I would see a person walking towards, or even just near, me with a piece of receipt paper, I would pray to God that it was either my lunch break, my fifteen minute break, or time for me to clock out. To this day, I still have some sort of weird complex about receipt paper. Now you know why.

Another nice thing about CDS was that if you wanted to go home early, you needn't ask a manager (they were nearly impossible to track down anyway). You could just log in and request an ER (Early Release). Remember about seven tangents ago when I mentioned Jenette? This is where she comes in. You see training/orientation at Disney World is a lot of information for someone to handle. And that's just someone with a normal position, at say...a gift shop or a ride or something. For us Rangers, it was 3-4 times worse. We had to attend eight-hour training sessions in every line of business, then complete on-the-job training at locations all over the park. It took not less than a month to "earn our ears" and finally be considered a full fledged Rescue Ranger. For other people, it took less than a week before they could remove the "Earning My Ears!" badge from their name tag. But not us Rangers. We got to be treated like newbies for weeks. Which, incidentally, wasn't so bad because it was a catch-all excuse for getting out of anything. "Sorry, I don't know how to do that," was the motto of our squad. Clean up puke? Sorry. I'm a Rescue Ranger, I've never done it before. Stay late to close the store and organize the stock room? Would if I could, but I'm just a Rescue Ranger, oh I simply wouldn't know where to begin!

So yeah, a lot of information. Hard to handle. Nobody suffered from that worse than Jenette. On her first day of work at a merch location (merch is "merchandise." Ergo, a merch location is a store), Jenette wasn't feeling well (Note: I don't know how Jenette was feeling that afternoon, but my story packs more of an emotional punch if I say she was under the weather) and logged into CDS to leave a little bit early. For all of the intense training and immersions into every possible scenario that could possibly happen on the job (we spent about an hour learning ergonomic exercises during custodial training), we were never really taught how to use CDS. Jenette thought that requesting to leave early meant you could leave early. Dumb thing to think? Yes. But grounds for termination on a brand new employee who hasn't even finished unpacking her bags yet? Really? I know some Disney freak somewhere is reading this right now and is saying "She broke the rule! It's that simple! The rules are there for a reason! She had to leave!" To any person like that, I'd like to say this:

You pin-collecting, embroidered Mouse Ear wearing loser. Did working for Disney take away your ability to show normal human compassion and recognize that not everything is that simple and innocent people who make simple mistakes deserve a second chance, or have you always had a stick up your ass?

Leaving work, or not showing up to work, without notifying your boss is heavy stuff. I'll admit it. But firing a brand new employee for not feeling well and misunderstanding a somewhat complex computer system that you never bothered to train her on to begin with? After Jenette left, I thought of her often. Mostly on the shitty days when I was cleaning ash trays or standing in the blistering sun trying to sell squeeze-breezes or getting written up for wearing black shoes with khaki shorts. I would wonder to myself if maybe messing up and getting fired was a blessing in disguise for her. She didn't have to suffer through this. Like one of those old snapping mouse-traps. Jenette's neck got crushed and she died before she knew what happened. The rest of us were stuck in the glue motels just waiting for death. I remember taking a walk with her on one of our first days. She told me how she was really exciting for this opportunity, and really scared that she would do something stupid and get fired. Self-fulfilling prophecy, or bureaucratic bullshit?

Sorry, Jenette. I still think about you from time to time.

Honestly. I talk a lot of shit about Disney. But it wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to me. It changed my life. That's for sure. It made my resume look amazing, which helped me get jobs. It introduced me to friends from all over the country whom I still keep in touch with today. It gives me a permanent excuse for openly admitting that I love Disney Parks ("What? I used to work here!") There were good moments, but as it so often goes with life, those aren't always the most interesting points of discussion. Lest I seem like a Disney-hating, bitter CP alumni, I will leave you with some of my favorite memories.

Days when they had nowhere to deploy us, so they sent us out to the park to play with kids, armed with Mickey stickers, bubbles, Magical Moment certificates, and a jump rope for "Chip N' Dale's Jump Rope Challenge."

Meeting a guy who had just come back from Iraq and his girlfriend. They were having a hard time getting around because he had injured his leg overseas, and they barely had enough money to afford admission, let alone a wheelchair. I ran to the front, explained the situation, and came back with a complimentary one for them

Stories from other Rangers...

Dustin:
Opening the wrong door and accidentally causing an attraction to get shut down for an hour.

Emily A:
The times we LEFT property to eat DURING our shift and Deployment Managers walked in.

Emily R:
Hooking up in the showers at Mickey's Retreat.

Twigger:
Ingesting chemicals on purpose so that I could get sick. Hospital is still better than Custodial work.

true stories

So I just watched (shamefully, might I add) the Real World Awards show. Basically it is two hours of paying tribute to the TV show that not only represents everything wrong with television, but with society in general.

As gut-wrenchingly awful as they were, I couldn't help but feel nostalgic. First and foremost, we sometimes forget that The Real World started as not only valid television, but a valid social experiment. It was quite awkward the way MTV tried to play that card in addition to glorifying the later seasons for their threesomes, arrests, and all around bad taste. The same show that contains a a 5 minute tribute to Pedro, who went on the The Real World San Franciscoto spread AIDS awareness, also awards Colie from Real World Denver for being the "Biggest Playa," AKA having the most sex with the most amount of partners. I kept thinking of Newton Minow saying that "television is a vast wasteland" as MTV honors Brynn, Trishelle, and Steven from Las Vegas for having sex in a bath tub. My personal favorite moment was when Coral from New York won "Person We Love To Hate" and threw the award in the pool, saying that it is nothing to be proud of.

And yet...I watched the whole thing. From beginning to end. And more than feeling disgusted...I felt strangely nostalgic. For as ridiculous as the show has gotten, for as pathetic as the new castmembers may appear to be, we've grown up with this show. Mock me all you want, but I can attribute any season of the The Real World to a specific time in my life.

I remember watching the Real World Boston in 7th grade, being in love with Elka, and enthralled by Genesis, partly because she was a lesbian, and partly because her name was Genesis.

I remember watching Stephen slap Irene in Seattle. When it originally aired.

I remember watching Hawaii the summer after Freshman year religiously because I quit band and had no friends. Colin and Amaya got together before it was standard for all roommates to hook up. Ruthie almost died on the first night.

I remember flying to Australia after junior year, being terrified of the flight, and reading an issue of TV Guide where the cover story was The Real World New Orleans about five times, just to keep myself distracted.

I remember the 9/11 episode of Real World Chicago, thinking the producers handled it quite well, then felt sick to my stomach when the next episode went right back to them bitching at each other for talking on the phone too long and hooking up in the hot tub.

I remember going to Alicia and Jared's apartment freshman year, for the first episode of Las Vegas. I remember saying "Palms spelled backwards is SMLAP!" and laughing hysterically because none of us were of sound mind. I remember all of us coming to the unanimous conclusion that this show was really starting to suck. Still...Tuesday nights at 10 was appointment television as everyone in the Garneau/Harvey dorm at WMU would watch it. Oh yes. The fork throw.

I remember living in a house in Kalamazoo, having digital cable, and reading the description of one Real World Paris episode as "Ace has a friend visit. Christena gets drunk" and thinking "Wow...this show isn't gonna last much longer." Note: That was 8 seasons ago.

Also, I remember auditioning for Real World Paris.

I remember living in Florida and watching a marathon of The Real World San Diego when I had gotten second degree burns all over my face and couldn't work. I also remember that the last episode of the season coincided with the time I was leaving Florida. I remember being strangely affected by the finale...and being embarrassed.

I remember living in the frat house at University of Chicago, flipping through channels, and thinking "What the fuck? They're in Austin now? Since when?" Also, discovered they were in Philadelphia before that.

Most recently...I remember watching The Real World Hollywood and being thoroughly entertained by the way MTV portrayed Hollywood. Just so you know, Hollywood is nowhere near the beach. And it is twenty minutes from Downtown....yet they always use Downtown for establishing shots. Also, none of the places they go are walking distance from the house, yet we always see them walking home.

Annnyway, you can make fun of me all you want. Yes. I know way too much about these people. Yes. I know why they call her Paula Walnuts. Yes. I remember Tonya's blood clot in a cup. Yes. I have a man-crush on Cohutta. But I'm not ashamed of any of it. While it may not be the socially relevant, dinner-table-discussion invoking program it once was, it's nice to know that whenever I'm bored on a Saturday, there will probably be a marathon of the latest season, and I can get caught up in the inconsequential, downright laughable hijinx of seven ridiculously good looking, morally bankrupt, soon-to-be has-beens.

Holiday Weekend

Thursday - Went to a Groundlings show with Jason. Seth Green performed. It was fun. Went to Cat & Fiddle. Parked my car at work. Later when I returned to my car, it was locked up, as the lot had closed early for the holiday weekend. Jason offered to take me home, but on the way we decided to stop at a dive bar and get drunk instead.

Friday - Happy 4th. Drank whiskey and Kool-Aid at the pool. Fireworks. Grill. Hung out with Jason, Megan, the neighbors, and some new LA friends. Passed out, living up to the promise I made to people to get really drunk for the first time since Marathon training.

Saturday - I was in a girl from works digital short. Actually, I was just in the background of two scenes but it still required being at the bar for 4 hours. It wasn't bad, but 4th of July wrecked me so I slept on a table for most of the shoot. Saw Wall-E. Love it a lot. GOT MY CAR BACK. Met people for drinks. Mike had a friend staying over. Jason stayed over. Jason's friend, this awful awful shrew of a bitch who I hope to never see again, also stayed over.

Sunday - Beach. Watched I Love Money. After my run Mike and I decided to go to Mexicali for margaritas. It was a Sunday night so we figured it would stay relatively calm. Well, on the way back from Margaritas we got win. Then we drank leftover long island iced tea out of plastic bowls. Then we ate taquitos and played basketball with them. Then we watched music videos. Then we drank more. Then we threw lots of stuff off the balcony. Fruit, bottles, syrup, Sidney Poitier movies...you name it. Went to bed completely trashed. It was very, very fun.

And all this sort of business...

Grandpa Ochoa taught me how to shoot a straw wrapper at unsuspecting victims.

When we would go out to dinner, he would tell me to get the attention of our waitress by snapping my finger and shouting “YO BETTY!”

He would tell my sister things like “You’re pretty. Pretty ugly.” And whenever I did something dumb he would ask “Yeesh! They got any more like you at home?”

Because of him, every time I am near an impressionable young child my first instinct is to encourage harmless yet inappropriate mischief.

50% of my smart-assery was inherited from him. The other 50% was from my other Grandpa. I had some damn funny grandpas.

One year ago today, my aunt called me to tell me that Grandpa Ochoa passed away. It was unexpected, so none of us got to say goodbye.

While most people are celebrating a three-day weekend and “our nation’s independence,” I am celebrating the life of one of the most charming, influential, and loving people in my life.

S’okay? S’aright.

I believe the buzz term is "microblogging"

I have a tumblr now too. For your convenience, you can access and view it on that orange iPod-looking piece to the left.

You probably know her as the dumb one in Mean Girls.
Or (but probably not) Lily Kane.
Or Bill Paxton's daughter in Big Love.
Or maybe you'll see her in Mamma Mia.
Whichever.

I like her.

Jess Dangles, Brokedown Palace, Double Feature, and Roadside Assistance

It's funny. I know of nobody else in the world who complains more than Jess Dangles and me. Nobody. "It's too hot. It's too cold. This food is too salty. I don't want to hang out with people. I don't want to eat there. That's too expensive. It's going to be boring. It's going to be loud."

Yet, for being so hyper-critical of absolutely EVERYTHING, we always find a way to take the most mundane, some might even say boring, situations and have a blast with them. Case in point, we never went out when she was here last weekend. We stayed in both nights and still had a wonderful time playing games and drinking by the pool. Sure, there was the small mishap of everyone going to see Demon Baby and me neglecting to inform them that the theatre had no air conditioning, but all was forgiven once Jess got back into down to normal body temperature. We also had good times at the beach despite the nightmare of parking, and even on Sunday night all it took was a cheap restaurant with decent beer and pizza (and a bug on the plate [according to the bus boy it was a piece of bread. Shut the fuck up, bus boy]) for Zach, Jess and me to have an amazing, hilarious, LOLing good time. The reason for this is simple, I think. We hate complications and inconvenience. We love easy and accessible. We like being loud and saying inappropriate things and relishing in the fact that we have absolutely horrible social demeanor. If it's ridiculous...say it. If it's offensive...say it louder. If it makes absolutely no sense even to you and you are the one forming the words...(i.e. "Bay you see that ChitownBurbank native at Vawns by way of LAX go get some Starbucks and a frapp because he's by way of LAX and needs a soft serve even though its totes brr?")...perfect.

In other news -oh, and I apologize now. This is a long post- I am going to China in April of 2009. I am very, very close to being able to afford a ticket, and then I have 9 more months to save up spending money. I've always wanted to go to Shanghai and if I don't do it while one of my best friends is living there, I doubt I ever will. This has been in the works for a while, but a combination of my desire to expand my horizons for the sake of my writing and that Where The Hell is Matt video that everyone is posting (but I won't post it here in a transparent and blatant but ultimately inconsequential attempt to appear non-conformist) made me think that now is the time in my life where I need to be exploring and learning and creating and having fun and making memories. (See: I'm just nervous that my desk job and 40+ hour work weeks are going to suck the soul out of me). What's funny about the impending China trip is how AGAINST the entire idea my mother is. She isn't just frowning upon it. She is hopping mad. She does NOT want me going to China. Why? Brokedown Palace. The movie with Claire Danes. She saw it on Lifetime. Nevermind the fact that Claire and Kate get busted in THAILAND. Nevermind that it's a MOVIE. Nevermind she saw it on LIFETIME. If I go to China I will be set up by foreign druglords and doomed to spend the rest of my life in an unruly third world prison. It's inevitable.

Unfortunately, Demon Baby was not voted on last week. I am not sad, nor do I dwell on it because I know that the audience enjoyed it and we did really well, so I will conclude that I am proud of myself and leave it at that. Plus, I was asked to come back and be in someone else's piece. It wasn't a big part, but it's cool to get noticed and meet new people and perform in something that someone else has created...as opposed to improv which you make up as you go, and a piece that you write and direct yourself. On top of that, my Improv class has our graduation show on Saturday...so I got to be on stage twice. Good thing Jess wasn't here this weekend because I wouldn't have seen her at all on that day. She would have murdered me. That's not even hyperbole. She would have. Triple digit temperatures get her acting all shades of crazy.

I got twenty bucks last Thursday. When I was getting off the 101 in Studio City, the car in front of me came to a stop and put on their hazards. Out hopped a tiny little red-haired lady, waving her hands and shouting out "No gas! Go around!" So I obliged and pulled into the next lane. My windows were down and she asked for a ride to the gas station. Now...yes. I know. Picking up a stranger on the side of the freeway is a terrible, terrible thing to do. It is also EXACTLY the sort of thing I would do with no hesitation or consideration. In my defense, she was petite, well-dressed, and drove a nice car. She wasn't a crazy. She could have been a high-powered Hollywood executive! Well, she wasn't...but she did work in casting and she was very nice and appreciative. I took her to the Chevron, let her fill up one of those red plastic things, then took her back to her car. She gave me twenty bucks, which I politely refused, but only because that is what is customary when offered money, even when you know you the person offering will not except your refusal and you still want said money very badly. It was my good deed for the day. And a good story to tell. Too bad she didn't rape me. That would have been an even better story.

Family Planning

I was at CVS yesterday...this is neither here nor there...but I always laugh when I see the "Family Planning" section. Condoms are kind of the opposite of family planning, aren't they? I don't think college kids run into CVS at 3am on a Friday after too many margaritas so they can "plan a family" in the backseat of their LaBaron. I don't think that call girls always keep contraceptives in their purses at all times because they know that they have a family to plan that night when some John shows up to meet her at the Days Inn on Ventura. It should be called "NOT Family Planning." Or even better..."Planning NO Family." Family Planning is registering at Babys-R-Us and having your cousins throw a shower for you. Not picking up Trojans on your way home from work because your ex is visiting. No product associated with family planning should bear the words "for her pleasure."

Driving along the freeway, a plastic Home Depot bag hit my mirror. It stated there for 7 miles.

I never knew...

top chef chicago

My new baseless fear

I keep my cell phone turned off all day and on the far side of my desk. And only keep it in my pocket or near my body when necessary. I also try not to talk on it as frequently, and use speaker phone when at all possible. No radiation here!

It's Monday

I don't feel like being clever.
I don't feel like being deep.
I don't feel like much of anything.

Instead, here are some pictures of funny looking goats.

Going back to work was a little harder than usual this week. First, I had a great time at home and didn't want to leave my family. Then, I had a great time in Chicago and didn't want to leave my friends. Jeff and I spent most of the afternoon in the South Loop. We went around Columbia's campus, we ate at the Panera at the UCC (And by the way...Epic Burger? WTF. And I'm not even going to touch the fact that the US Army has opened a recruitment center at the base of a college residence hall that is 99% lazy art students), then we walked around Millennium Park, which is nicer than I remember. I haven't seen the bean since it first opened. Met with Twigger, Baggy, Maggie, Annie, and Marisol and had Noodles in the Pot (Those who suggest that I cared more about where I ate then which friends I saw in Chicago...may be right).

Tuesday I got up at 6am, Maggie drove me to the airport. I flew to LA. Got back home, changed my clothes, and went right to work. It was a rough day. Not only was I exhausted, but my company hired a new SVP of Development and I assist him now too. Don't get me wrong, he's a great guy and really knows what he's doing and is incredibly nice, but it's just awkward to spend six months answering to one person, then have a brand new guy come in and tell you what to do as well. I'm just not wired for subordinance. He seems cool, though. I like him. However, I am going to have a little chat at work tomorrow about my job. I'm getting paid the same was when I was a PA. I haven't been a PA for six months. I am now not only an assistant, but an assistant to two. I should be compensated appropriately. I'm not being an ungrateful bitch about it, I just want to get what I deserve.

Lastly, here is a picture of the newest roommate, Greg.

I got him on Amazon with a gift card.

Instamatic Fun

Effectively destroying my desire to return to Chicago.

Thus far

Let's go back to a week ago.

Saturday, May 31st - Los Angeles, CA. Pick up Ashley from the airport. Drive to San Diego with Mike.

Sunday, June 1st- San Diego, CA. Run 26.2 miles after raising $5,275 to fight blood cancers.

Monday, June 2nd- Anaheim, CA. Disneyland.

Tuesday, June 3rd- Chicago, IL. Dinner with Bay. Fall asleep before midnight.

Wednesday, June 4th- Novi, MI. Miss my bus to Detroit, take the train. Meet my aunt's new puppy and go out for Chinese. Watch the Red Wings win the Stanley Cup. Smile because they win it my first day back to Michigan. Jet lag finally sets in. Can't fall asleep before 3am.

Thursday, June 5th- Novi, MI. Speak to my aunt's fifth grade class about writing and working in television. Struggle to figure out what is appropriate to talk to young children about. Sense of relief when they tell me their favorite TV shows include Bones, CSI, and one about America's most violent serial killers. Most questions start with either "Have you met..." or contain the words "How much money does _____ make?" Try to instill in the youth of America that writing is not boring, but important and fun, and can take you places. Meet Millie for lunch. She brings her baby cousin Jacob. I am awkward at first around the youngster, but warm up quickly. Go to Novi High School to see a few old teachers. Reminisce. Out to dinner at Sizzling Sticks, one of my favorite places to go when I am home.

Friday, June 6th- Novi/Detroit, MI. Speak to my old high school teacher Ms McKaig's Dramatic Literature class. High school students are more attentive than fifth graders. I breath a sigh of relief. Answer more questions that begin with "Have you met..." or contain the words "How much money does ______ make?" Worry more about making the students laugh than giving good advice or information, but, by luck, manage to inadvertently slip out advice and information along the way. Say goodbye to McKaig, remember high school fondly and note to myself that I would enjoy speaking to students next time I return as well. Seeing old pictures of me in school plays renews my passion to perform, and gets me excited for the (at least) two opportunities that I have to be on stage this month for improv and sketch, my two favorites. Take a long nap. Jet lag still has me in its throngs. Play on my computer. Lie to family and say I am doing stuff for work when I am not at all. I have stuff to do for work, but that is what Tuesday's flight is for. Try to go in the pool. Too cold. Realize it is my only opportunity to go in the pool while I am home. Get in anyway. Go to Tigers game with my brother, sister, and brother's fiance. We lose. I have fun regardless. There are fireworks. We stay. On the way to the car, I pull out my camera to take a picture of the Hockeytown Cafe. Before I turn my camera on, I feel a drop of rain. Before I am able to take a picture of the Hockeytown Cafe, a torrential down poor. Before we make it to the car, we are soaking wet. I secretly smile as rain whips at my face and every person around me runs and screams in chaos. We don't get enough storms in LA and I am happy to be caught in one. Come home, put a french bread pizza in the oven. Fall asleep before it is done.

This time around

No pictures of the run yet. Unlike the Disney half, I did not take a camera with me. That turned out to be a good thing since by mile 22 even my chapstick felt like it was waying me down, so ditching the digicam was a wise decision. Ashley took polaroids, and my sister got a picture, so those in addition to the official race photos should be fine. No Donald Duck this time.

The run itself? Wow. Wowowowow. For about two days prior I had pretty much no opinion on the matter. I just wanted it all to be over and done with. The apathy stayed with me until early sunday morning (4 am to be exact, and with no sleep at all because my randomly assigned roommate snored so loud I thought he was running a lawnmower while playing the trumpet and giving birth to a hyena) when it changed to nervousness. Not even nervousness about finishing the marathon. Nervous that I wouldn't get to pee before it started because the bathroom lines were so long. Good advice for future runners, if you don't pee before the race wait until mile 7 or later, the first rest stops always have awful long lines. In fact, fuck the lines. that's what I did. Pee in the bushes. Girls, this applies to you too. I've seen it.

After nervousness, it was (finally) pride. A great deal of it. Swelling. I though I was going to cry at the starting line. I then thought I was going to cry crossing the finish line. I DID start to cry (kind of. Barely, but for more of an emotional draw I will exaggerate slightly) when I got my medal. I thought of all the training, the fundraising, the hard work, losing my social life for four months, the people affected by blood cancers that I was running this for, the friends and family that came to see me, and my two grandfathers that had passed away but no doubt saw me finish the race, and I couldn't help it. It was emotional. Plus I had just run a marathon so I was borderline inane at that point. On a more cheerful note, there were a lot of Elvis impersonaters running.

Went to Disneyland with my family and Ashley yesterday, now I am heading to chicago for a day before spending a week in Michigan. My body would prefer more rest the three days following an endurance event, but can't nothing hold me down.

I walk like an old man and it takes me about seven minutes to get down a flight of stairs. Totally worth it.

Serial Killers

"Each week, three continuing stories face off against two new tales.

At the end of the show, you vote for the three stories that you would like to see continue on to next Saturday night, where their subsequent episodes will then be pitted against two completely new stories.

Each week's serials could live on for weeks... or be quietly smothered in their sleep – it’s up to you. But whichever pieces you vote for, one thing is for certain - by the end of the evening, you will be a Serial killer."






I just got an email. A short sketch I submitted a few weeks ago, entitled Demon Baby's Dirty Diaper, was just selected to be a part of Serial Killers. The first (and maybe last?) episode, which I have written and will direct and star in, will be performed on Saturday, June 21st.

And Dangles will be in town that weekend to see it. And vote for it, as it were.

I'm 24 now.

But not depressed. People let birthdays depress them. Even people my age. Like...you're 25. So what? Oh, it's close to thirty? Your point being??? Ever since I was little I've had plans for my life. Big, big plans. And while I don't like the whole concept of one year closer to death, or wondering where all the time is flying, or worrying that I am not losing my ability to hear high-pitched noises such as the TV when it is on VCR/AUX, I think what's more important to concentrate on is that I'm moving right along. I couldn't be living on my own in LA assisting the head of development for a production company and writing a script that's been optioned if I were 18.

Plus. I still act like a kid anyway.

Saturday was my Birthday Bar Crawl. We started Downtown and ended up enjoying ourselves so much we skipped half of our route to stay at a bar for longer.

It started on a train like this...
















and ended in a cab like this.
















Despite the fact that I look like I'm having no fun whatsoever in either of these photos, I had a blast. Here's proof:

These people loved me. Don't know who they are.

















A formal shot:
















Whatever, they'll all be on Facebook soon enough. But...see how much fun I had?!?! It was pretty much the 3rd time I've gone out and had fun on a weekend (see: drank lots of alcohol) since early February, due to all of the training. It was my birthday weekend so I just said "fuck it" to getting up for training...and running in general. That's right. I didn't do the 8 mile taper. Fuck it.

The video clip above tracks all flights over the United States over a few days in March 2005.

Workin' It

So I work in an office now. A legitimate, talk-by-the-water-cooler, "who forgot to put toner in the copier?" office. It gets even better. I'm in a cubicle. I have a cup with pencils and pens in it (I prefer pencils, by the way. I am currently enjoying the neon green Zebra Fresha Automatic, a pencil that you do not click, but shake, in order to expel lead). I have pictures on my desk. I have trinkets. We have office gossip. It's the real deal. And...I kind of love it. Obviously it's not your every day boring "Corporate Accounts Payable, Nina speaking" type of office. I sit in on meetings and tell jokes with people nominated for Emmy's and who have won Peabody awards. I click links that say "NSFW" without even the slightest regard for what obscenities may lie beneath (after all, I did participate in a conversation recently with my superiors about whether I'd like to be shat on or vomited on). I have Nerf Gun fights.



















My trinkets. A calendar, red robin riding a stegosaurus, and tequila.



Other things at my desk include a hole-puncher the size of an inkjet printer, Visine, folder rack, picture of me and my roommates, a poem about me that a former employee wrote, a bumper sticker that says "Free The West Memphis 3," and Mr Potato Head. I'm really trying not to be the guy that has a million toys at his desk, but people keep giving me stuff. I just relocated to a less-cubicle-more-desk desk, which is nice because I am now in a location where strangers do not walk in and assume I am reception. I don't know why it frustrates me so much. Maybe because we pay a nice girl good money to sit at reception and smile and be nice to people, so I have absolutely no obligation to do anything but avoid eye contact, frown, and be utterly rude to any dumbass who bypasses our main entrance WITH A SIGN, only to walk into an unmarked door at the end of the hallway.

In news that people won't care about:
I starting taking Improv classes at Upright Citizens Brigade instead of Groundlings.
I ran 20 miles on Saturday.
I wasn't sore after.
The marathon is in less than three weeks.
I never go back and proofread my blogs. Fuck it.



...I actually did go back to proofread this time.

The Weirdest Thing Ever. And I Am Completely Enthralled.

Green Porno

I love vanity plates

Lessons

So far I've raised $5,100 for Leukemia & Lymphoma. I've passed my goal. I put on the comedy show and it was a success. I've finished the screenplay and have nothing more to do with it until I get notes for the first rewrite. This is the least stressed I've been since...January? Which is odd, because, I don't know if my body is not used to relaxing and is trying to compensate or what, but I find myself having strange panic/anxiety attacks. Smell that? Smells like comedic irony. Okay, maybe not comedic...but irony nonetheless. And since laughter is a great way to reduce anxiety and panic...well, it stand to reason that finding the situation funny can only help.

Lesson 1: If you can't laugh at your own mental deterioration, whose mental issues can you laugh at?

I just watched Juno. I figured I'd hate it for the same reason I returned Borat after watching 20 minutes and not laughing once. Too much hype. Too many people told me how great it was. Too may parodies and impersonations. But actually...I still liked it. I guess what I really hated about Borat was that I couldn't listen to him talk without being reminded of EVERY terrible impersonation I was inundated with. I applaud Sacha Baron Cohen for retiring the character. It takes a true comedic artist to walk away from a character instead of milking it for all its worth with more sequels/tv shows/breakfast cereals.

Lesson 2: NOBODY does a funny Borat impression. Nobody.

I'm going to write something and put it on the internets. Jess FINALLY coming around and watching my P&E II final from two years ago inspired me, I suppose. I want to write and I want to act, and I have plenty of people who would help me get something made, so there's really no reason for me not to. And hey, I don't have that much else going on right now! It probably won't be funny.

Lesson 3: 99% of what's on the internet and supposed to be funny...isn't. Which is why I am hesitant.

I don't think I have much else to talk about.

Lesson 4: The Anna Nicole doctor thing is the only interesting story I have to tell from the past several months because I am now boring.

Doctor Doctor

So, I need to go see a doctor. I've been feeling weird and out of it for a few days and my guess is that it has something to do with all of the running. Lack of nutrition or something. So I go to my insurance's website and I find a doctor. I call the number and was very pleased to discover he could fit me in tomorrow morning, despite the fact that it is already 6pm. So excited, in fact, that I decided to overlook the fact that the doctor himself answered the phone and made the appointment. And that the doctor himself informed me that this week was "very light" for him. Ever the smart consumer, I decided to google this guy, just to see what other people had to say. When I was searching for the opinions of others, I meant like-minded patients looking to either praise this guy or warn other potential clients. I was not anticipating the opinions of TMZ, and The Hollywood Gossip. Here are headlines from the first four websites that turn up when you google the name of the man I was supposed to see tomorrow morning for medical assistance:

The Doctor Who Scored Methadone for Anna Nicole - TMZ.com

Dr. Kapoor: "Pregnant Anna Not on Drugs"

Dr. Sandeep Kapoor: The Anna Nicole Smith Drug Lord

Anna Nicole Smith's shady, evil doctor. We simply do not trust Dr. Sandeep Kapoor.

So if you ever come across a doctor who acts as his own receptionist and can get you in first thing in the morning despite you calling at closing time the day before...be wary. He probably killed a D-List celebrity.

recapitated

The show went well. I wasn't blown away by the amount of people who showed up but given it was Passover, I was satisfied. More importantly, the performers had a blast, the audience enjoyed the show, and I didn't do too bad myself. A lot of people want to do it again, which would be great. We had a lot of fun.

I said it last time and I'll say it again. If you ever wonder who your real friends are, or which relationships deserve more energy and time than others, do something like this. As I train for a marathon, try to raise 5000 dollars for cancer, and put on a benefit show to raise said dollars...in terms of reliable and genuine people, this is definitely a "cream rises to the top" situation. Lucky for me, I have a lot of cream.

wait...ew

if you're in Los Angeles, you should come to my show!

yep. I work in that.

the other side of the building is an ad for Battlestar Galactica.

- I can't stop showing up late for work. I try (usually) but I always fail. My boss doesn't seem to care and that right there pretty much guarantees I won't be in on time. All I need is for him to yell at me and I'll feel like an ass and never be tardy again. I should just come out and ask him to get mad.

- I don't have to move until December now.

- Yesterday I was sitting in terrible traffic and I made up a song about it. I had that song in my head all day.

- We thought about moving, looked at an apartment, liked it, could have had it, but changed our minds. I went to a party on Sunday and randomly ran into the guys that moved in there instead. They go to Columbia.

I'm Kidding. She's Not Dead. Wanna Make Out?

I'm never going to get a girlfriend because I am incapable of differentiating what is appropriate to say to people who know me well, and people who don't know me at all. I'm weird, offbeat, and sarcastic, and unfortunately there's no switch for that, nor is there a pill I can take to hide it temporarily. Because of that, meeting potential girlfriends is essentially impossible. Don't get me wrong...I make no apologies.

For instance, the other night we were at the bar for my friend Sam's birthday and this girl overheard me talking about Chicago. She tapped me on the shoulder and said "I'm from Chicago too!" I asked if she knew Sam and if she was there for her birthday. The girl told me she didn't know Sam. Now...a normal person with any ounce of restraint or even the slightest sense of normalcy would seize this opportunity to meet a new member of the opposite sex and explore various routes to pursue a courtship, whatever they may be. But no. Not me. I responded with a quick "Yeah. She's dead." The girl gave me a horrified look and quickly walked away. Why would I do that? Why would any sane person do that?

Another potential conversation was destroyed when a girl asked if I saw her purse and I told her I stole it. She was not amused. You see what I'm saying? I do not possess the skills necessary to show restraint to present a NORMAL first impression. Maybe it's a subconscious mechanism I employ in order to be remembered. Maybe it's self-sabotage. Maybe I am missing the some sort of chromosome that tells a human what is acceptable behavior when making introductions. Who knows.

Don't get me wrong. I'm perfectly happy with who I am and have no intentions of giving up my quirky demeanor, and I'm well aware that I have plenty of good friends who are just as crazy as me. The difference is, those friends know how to turn it off long enough to meet new people and convince them that they are not a sociopath.

In other news, I'm starting to get a handle on the many tasks I have taken on over the past few months. My comedy writing class is coming to an end. I'll be glad to have my Thursday nights back, and glad to get back into classes for acting and improv, but I really enjoyed it. I wrote a few sketches and monologues that I'm really proud of. I'm not sure I really learned how to write any better or funnier, but this class did force me to sit down and create stuff, so it was well worth it. In fact, I'm going to perform one of my sketches, "Demon Baby's Dirty Diaper," at...

...the comedy show I am putting together! The kegger for cancer never quite took off because there aren't a lot of people in my life right now who are that eager to attend a keg party, so I cancelled it when my RSVP list consisted of six confirmed attendees and about two dozen "maybes." I don't spend money on beer for "maybe." So, with all of this improv and writing I've been doing, I had an even better idea than a keg party. I know plenty of people in the same boat as me who want to perform but don't have that many opportunities, so I'm renting out a theatre for the night, and putting on a benefit. Details are still being worked out, but it will be the evening of Sunday, April 20th (yes, that's Passover. Gentile's only!) and I've gotten a lot of positive responses, so it will be exciting. The show is tentatively titled "Cancer's Not Funny...and Neither Are We: An (Almost) Amateur Night of Comedy." The big concern is actually filling seats, but I'm confident that friends, family, and coworkers of not only myself, but of the other performers, should be a relatively decent size for an audience. Plus, it's for charity so you never know who might see a flyer and show up. I'm just excited to get on stage in front of people. It's been a long, long time. Hopefully this is successful, because if people respond to it I'd LOVE to put on a show every few months. There just aren't a lot of places for people who are just starting out to get up and perform, so I may be on to something here.

So, fundraising and running are going well. Class is almost over. By the end of this week I'll be done with my script, and even though I'm sure there will be a need for major rewrites, the hard parts will be over. Everything is under control, it seems.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still in way over my head, but thankfully I'm a good swimmer.

That was a terrible, terrible turn of phrase. I apologize.

... and no play?

You can't tell but their license plate says "Work."

Free!

I like getting mail.

And I like getting free stuff.

Ergo, free stuff in the mail is a glorious marriage of the two.

Dangles told me a while ago about the free samples you can get sent to your house from the Wal-Mart website, and it's a funny thing. The samples they offer are never anything I need, or anything I could ever find a practical reason for ordering. Regardless, I continue to request single-use packages of South Beach Diet granola and Dove hair care. I mean, why the hell not? And since it takes up to four weeks for the sample to get delivered, you inevitably forget about it...so there's an element of surprise in there too.

My parents were here last week. It was good to see them. I think my mom had a much easier time leaving me here...considering the last time she was out here was when they brought me a year ago. When they left I wasn't done with school, had no job, no money, and no place to stay. Needless to say, I was quite proud to show them my accomplishments over the last year. Of course they saw the apartment and met my roommates, and I also brought them by the office. I don't know why, but I was really excited for them to see my work.

Tastes a little gamey

Garfield Without Garfield

http://garfieldminusgarfield.tumblr.com/

the parking lot attendant must love me

there were no girl scout cookies in my car when i left it this morning...but when I got in my car at night...there they were.

Cross My Heart, Hope To Die..Metal Shavings In My Eye

Phase 8) I park at the Emergency room and get out of the car. I take the paper away from my eye. By some miracle it feels better. Much better. I must have finally flushed the metal out. It's still red and puffy and tender, but at least the iron shavings came out. Since I'm no longer in that much pain, I change my mind and don't go inside the hospital.

Phase 7) I leave early. Holding a cold wet paper towel over my left eye, I try my best to drive (1. In traffic. 2. With no depth perception. 3. In the rain. 4. In MAJOR pain.) to the emergency room. Because it's rush hour, it takes about a half hour to get there, even though it's barely ten miles, if that.

Phase 6) Throughout the day my eye gets redder and redder, more and more painful, and even starts to look swollen. People tell me I should go to the doctor. At this point I'm well aware that I have gotten metal shavings in my eye. It hurts like a bitch.

Phase 5) My eye quickly because red again, and rather painful this time. I take the contact out.

Phase 4) Apparently didn't wash my hands good enough.

Phase 3) I'm ready to put my contact back in, so I wash my hands thoroughly (I've been playing with metal dust, so I feel it most necessary to proceed into my eyeball with caution).

Phase 2) In the meantime, I have been working on a project for my boss that involves magnets and those little metal shavings that you can get from the science store.

Phase 1) On Thursday morning, people at work point out that my left eye is very red. It doesn't hurt or bother me, and this happens on occasion to my left eye, so I don't think much of it. I take out my contact, put in some drops, and a few hours later my eye is back to normal.

Bonus points if it happened on genitals!

KIIS FM is having people call in to share embarrassing and funny puke stories. If you live in Southern California and want to pseudo-anonymously share yours with the world, now is your chance!

when they come... will you be ready?

Try To Catch Me Ridin' Dirty.

I take the 101 on my way back from work every day. I wouldn't so much say it's a "commute" as I'd say it's a bunch of people sitting in a linear parking lot with their cars facing home. Because of my inability to drive slower than five miles per hour for more than a mile (that's twelve minutes, for those playing along at home), I often get off at Ventura, and take that home. The exit ramp, for some reason, has a sidewalk. My guess is it's for the people who abandon their cars forever when the god-forsaken traffic finally gets the best of them. Anyway, there is also a large interstate sign that comes off of the wall of the exit and hangs onto the freeway.

...confession time. I wrote that about four days ago and I can't for the life of me remember where I was going with that. Regardless, I might as well keep it at this point.

I got sidetracked from finishing this post, and from writing on this thing altogether, because there's a lot going on. I hate that I only come on here to talk about what I'm doing with my life. I find that boring. I want to tell funny stories, brimming with irreverence and sardonic wit. Unfortunately, that can't happen anymore. I'm afraid that while my sardonic wit is still intact, everything I do is completely relevant to everything going on in the world, and therefore I can no longer tell lighthearted anecdotes. I'm far too serious and important.

No. I'm serious.

Annnnnnyway, I feel I should do something educational for Presidents Day. I have the day off (by the way, the absolute best part about jobs in the "real world" are having a three day weekend every month for these bullshit holidays), and I think that it is my civil and social responsibility to take time out of my day to learn a little something about our great nation's history. I could sit here and speak ambitiously of going to a museum, or buying a hardcover book, or watching History Channel all day, but a big enough part of me is plenty aware than I'll google Abraham Lincoln, get distracted by Scrabulous, and call it a day.

I have to get up at 6 am tomorrow for training. I'm running in the San Diego Rock N' Roll Marathon with Team In Training, and raising $5,000 for Leukemia and Lymphoma Research. That is 1,001 more dollars and 13.1 more miles than I did for Disney. See, the great thing about this is since I know for a fact I'm doing something really really good, not only for my body but for society as a whole, I feel that it is the end-all-be-all of excuses. I'll eat five Snicker's bars for lunch. Doesn't matter...I ran four miles that day. I can be late for work. I'm training for a marathon. I can say whatever I want no matter how offensive it is, because karma has my back since I'm raising all this money. In my mind, every dollar I raise provides me with a free pass to make fun of AIDS, the holocaust, rape, incest, domestic abuse, and most of all...incestuous rape of AIDS victims during the holocaust and beating them after. What, is that distasteful? Fuck off, I'm running a marathon for cancer.

Feel free to donate to the cause...this is my website.

http://www.active.com/donate/tntgla/SSzlaga

It's pretty stellar that I'm past $500 and haven't even started my letter writing campaign yet. My boss actually donated $100, which is brilliant.

Wait...did I didn't mention dead babies in things I'm allowed to make fun of. I'm still entitled to a SIDS joke.

So yes, fundraising and training is going to be taking up a lot of my time, but it's definitely worth it. Even if it does mean getting up to run at 7am on a Saturday with that is 90% women who say "you go girl!" after someone walks one mile. Last year I didn't run with the team at all, and I really don't want to do this all alone when I paid a good $50 registration fee to have trained athletes yell at me to keep running. They don't really yell, though. Kind of a bummer. I think I'd be good at boot camp. I respond to negativity and insults surprisingly well. People think that I'd be terrible because I have such a bad attitude I'd get pissed and leave, but I believe that it would be the opposite. I'd work extra hard to prove myself as the best person there, and even though my drill sergeant and I get off to a bumpy start through a series of comical mishaps and false impressions, I'd melt his heart in the end with my thick skin and sticktoitivness. I forgot what I was talking about.

Besides the running, I'm also keeping busy with writing (especially right now. How the fuck am I still talking?!). I've completed a rough treatment of my script and I have to admit, I never expected to get as attached to this project as I am. It honestly started off as a throw-away joke, then for some reason struck me as a funny idea to do a school assignment on, and now almost three years later I am legitimately writing it for a legitimate reason involving legitimate people. Crazy. I'm also doing a lot of stuff for my comedy writing class at Groundlings. Sometimes I think my teacher is more than a little out there, but she is hilarious and fantastic and nice and worked on some pretty funny sitcoms, so the flightiness just makes the whole experience even brighter. Especially when she sang a little ditty to me about how my friends are going to need treatment for alcohol abuse when I told a rather tawdry story about some of my less savory college days. And no, Twigger. It wasn't you. But yeah. She broke out into song. That just doesn't happen enough these days.

I want a girlfriend. I'm only now realizing how much I really blew it in that department in Chicago. I knew tons and tons and tons of people and can't say I was exactly oblivious to several missed opportunities, but I think I was just too driven to even think about relationships. I knew that my time in Chicago was going to come to an end eventually, and I had severe tunnel vision in terms of graduating, moving to LA, and getting a job. I've done all three of those things, and now I'm ready, but the issue now is that I know a total of about seven people in Los Angeles. There is one chick that I kind of dig ("chick that I dig..." yeah, that's the best I could come up with) and she IS single, so I should probably grow the balls, ignore the voice that lives in the back of my mind that tells me I'd make a terrible boyfriend and that no girls like me or ever will, and just go for it.

This was a pretty long post I shat out. I'll send a postcard to anyone who made it all the way to the end. Just post a comment with the words "Chevy Corsica" and I'll know you made it through.