Tuesday, January 31, 2006

No Sarcasm Allowed

I’ve always wanted to get kicked out of a bar.

My friends usually don’t get kicked out of bars. Usually, my friends are the reason OTHER people get kicked out of bars. Why is this, you ask? It’s because I have sexy friends. When a big guy picks a fight with my friend Chrissie at her local bar, he’s going to lose, and get kicked out, which you can read about here on my old website.

There was the one time when Amy got kicked out of a bar for forgoing the long line to the ladies’ restroom and going into the men’s restroom, which you can read about here.

Nothing tops the absurdity of what happened on Friday at O’Brien’s Pub on Main Street in Santa Monica. Justine and I had one of our many non-romantic dates at Bossa Nova, after which we made the drive to Santa Monica to go to O’Brien’s Pub on Main Street. Chrissie was meeting a friend there for a going away party, and she invited us to join. Just about the whole group would be there, so naturally, we wanted to go.

We found parking quickly, and then went and stood in line for O’Brien’s Pub on Main Street in Santa Monica. O’Brien’s Pub on Main Street in Santa Monica isn’t normally a venue we would frequent, being gay girls, but we’re always open to experiencing new bars. There was a line of about 10 people, we were in the back. After 15 minutes of standing in the cold, we were finally at the front of the line. Two self-important bouncers stood guard at the gates of O’Brien’s Pub on Main Street in Santa Monica.

A guy a little taller than one of the bouncers came up to said bouncer and said, in his guyspeak, "Hey man, we’re trying to get in to meet some of our friends, can you just let us in?"

The line at this point was only about 5 people long, and we were at the front. The bouncer said, "No," and motioned to the line.

The guy replied with, "Oh, come on, our friends are in there. We don’t want to wait in this stupid line."

The bouncer looked at him with a look of not wanting a fight, so he let him in.

Justine smirked and sarcastically said, "You know, we’ve been waiting in line too, and we’re ALSO meeting a bunch of people in there. You don’t see us making a fuss. I see you let the boys in."

The bouncer looked at her as if he didn’t have to justify his actions, because HELLO, he’s a BOUNCER at O’Brien’s Pub on Main Street in Santa Monica. She might as well be questioning God, or P. Diddy. The bouncer’s reply was: "You know what, I don’t respond to attitude, so I’m not letting you in."

Never one to plead, Justine said, "Fine," and got out of line. I followed her. She made a call and within three minutes, six of our friends, all girls, all beautiful, four of them hovering around the 6’ tall mark, filed out of the bar. Lindsay said loudly, "It’s cool, we can take our business elsewhere." Eight girls total, we probably would have spent between $200 and $250 there, including tips and buying rounds and guys buying drinks for us. And because this guy has a small dick and makes $7.00 an hour at a bar that doesn’t matter to anyone anywhere except for people that live within a mile radius of O’Brien’s Pub on Main Street in Santa Monica, we weren’t allowed to drink there. We stick together… if one of us leaves, we all leave. Not only did he effectively kick out a bunch of beautiful girls, he also kicked out two television producers who have worked or will at some time work on TV shows about bars and nightclubs. He also kicked out two USC students who have a bunch of 20 something friends, and one 30 something who can drink any man or woman under the table in a heartbeat.

And we will never go back there.

Instead, we’ll go to Finn McCool’s, a great Irish pub JUST DOWN THE STREET, on Main Street, in Santa Monica, which is where we ended up Friday. They have Pyramid Hefeweizen ON TAP. And we also met some really cool, funny guys there, and walked away with cool bottle openers for our keychains.

I also got really drunk and was extremely hungover the next day, but whatever.

Friday, January 27, 2006

A Letter to Myself as a Mom

Dear Mama Katie,

First off, allow me to introduce myself. Or rather, re-introduce myself, because I am sure by now you have forgotten me. I’m you at 27 years old.

I’m confused about life about 90 percent of the time. I’m conflicted about so much… about the direction of my life, about the direction of the world. But one thing I know is, the past six years of my life and I imagine the future five or so years have had one consistent goal, and that is to become YOU. I just want to remind you how much you wanted to be a mom at my age, how good you thought you’d be at it, how afraid you were of it, and how much you looked forward to it. Every day.

I want to tell you that taking your children to Disneyland isn’t a bad idea. Me personally, I hate all of the marketing to children Disney as a whole forces on America. I hate the consumerism of it all. I hate how much money they can make because of one little character and all the spin-offs thereof. But I still remember being a kid, I still remember the magic Disney World afforded me, I still remember the joy I experienced being there with my family. Living in California, I still visit Disneyland once a year. And I still have a Sorcerer Mickey antenna ball and a Sorcerer Mickey trinket inside my car. No matter how much evil Disney might represent, it’s up to you as a mother to teach your kids what’s important…and if they want to go to Disney once a year, take them. Let them be kids.

Create a loving environment for your children. Don’t create unrealistic goals for them. Respect them, and encourage them to respect you. Don’t make any plans for their futures other than socking some money away. Encourage them to make the right choices. Don’t give in to temper tantrums (or at least TRY not to). Make sure they eat a lot of fruit. Volunteer with them when they’re old enough. Teach them to recycle. Don’t shelter them too much. Don’t transfer YOUR constant worrying onto them. Watch what you say around them. Don’t make any promises you can’t keep. Write letters to them that they can read when they're adults. Do NOT disappoint them. Teach them to make their bed every morning. Teach them to put away their toys. Give them an allowance in exchange for some light, easy chores: it will give them a sense of work ethic and responsibility. Stay involved in their lives, from infancy to toddlerhood to the elementary years, through adolescence and into adulthood. Insist on this involvement. Be their disciplinarian before you’re their friend, but make sure they’re not afraid of you. Kids need rules, guidelines, and boundaries. Foster your relationship with them in a way that they will always feel comfortable coming to you with any problems. Hug them a million times a day and kiss them twice as much. Love them with every fiber of your being. Tell them you love them all the time.

And when you’re frustrated, angry, sad, heartbroken, and ready to throw your children into a fiery pit, just remember me, a girl who wants so badly to make everything work, a girl who is overwhelmed by how difficult it will be to even conceive, let alone bring children into this a world, a world in which I have wavering faith…a girl racked with unfounded jealousy, a need to be in control, and a preference to be ignorant as opposed to hurt. Remember me, and be thankful.


Thursday, January 26, 2006

A Million Little Paychecks

Has anybody read this book A Million Little Pieces by some guy called James Frey? Well, apparently, Mr. Frey wasn't so honest in his little memoir, an account of the author... well, falling into A Million Little Pieces. Clever title, James.

I haven't read the book, but I will, eventually. I'll read it because I hear it's interesting and well written. But all of the Oprah followers are getting their collective panties in a bunch because James Frey embellished a little bit, and now they're all out to get him. He's returning to Oprah today, apparently, for a public stoning.

I want to ask all of you: who cares? Who cares if he embellished? Does it change your life, the fact that he added/changed a few details here and there? Because you know, sometimes, when people add or a few details here and there, it DOES change lives. Can you think of any examples of this? Any?

How about embellishing details that lead to war? About some weapons or something? I mean, just as a for-instance, let's just SAY there was someone in charge who fudged some intelligence, or used outdated information... let's just SAY this happened. And let's just SAY that embellishment led America into an war we can't win, a war where thousands of Americans die. Would there be as big of a backlash as there has been on this poor crazy fellow James Frey?

It's not a rhetorical question. The answer is no. What you would do, the majority of you Americans who live in the middle of the country, is you would re-elect the guy in charge for another four years. That's what you would do.

You would also take The DaVinci Code as the truth.

Monday, January 23, 2006

What did they ever do to me?

In the years since I moved to Los Angeles, I have realized something very unappealing about myself. That is that I'm easily startled. When I was younger, I loved scary movies, haunted houses, and all things spooky. The older I get, the less I enjoy these things, and if someone ever manages to drag me to a haunted house, I will walk through it with my eyes closed and my ears plugged, hoping that the friend I'm with cares about me enough to guide me through it. I also can't handle many scary movies anymore. I liked The Ring, but if Naomi Watts hadn't been it, I would've skipped it. The "Saw" movies are films you couldn't pay me to see. Maybe that's an exaggeration, but the point is, I no longer find it necessary to go to the movies to become scared.

I have ALWAYS, for as long as I can remember, had a strong aversion to bugs. All bugs. I HATE THEM SO MUCH. Living in Ohio, the bugs aren't too bad there. They're rarely anything more than an annoyance. Mosquitoes, flies, ants. All okay bugs as far as bugs go, but annoying nonetheless. As I've gotten older, the only bug I can really tolerate is the ant. Flies have even become to gross me out. But the ant - the normal sized ant, not one of those huge queen ones - is a cute little bug. And I've always been a fan of the phrase, You're as cute as an ant's eyebrow, because come on... an eyebrow that little? CUTE.

We used to visit Florida every summer, where they have fire ants (ew) and bugs the size of miniature ponies. This was what I hated about Florida. I was never able to get over the bugs, and I was never able to shake the feeling that at any moment, one was going to land on me. These large bugs that I'm thinking of (palmetto bugs, roaches) are very harmless. I know this. And I have never had any horrible experiences with bugs... but as a friend of mine once said, there's something to be said for something so little and quiet that it can sneak up on you and startle you. This is what I hate about bugs. That, and they're really ugly.

Naturally, as in any big city with a warm climate, Los Angeles sees its fair share of bugs. I am so incredibly grossed out/afraid of said bugs that I usually walk with my eyes toward the ground so I don't step on any, and if I can see one from a few feet away, I will cross the street to avoid it. I understand this is extreme, but this is my life, people. I'm just telling it like it is. I'm bringing you honesty, and all you can do is judge me. Thanks, really. It's helping my bug phobia.

My old apartment building, the one I just moved out of this weekend, is not in the cleanest of neighborhoods, and as convenient as it is that we have a trash chute, it really just welcomes bugs into the building. My old roommate has a similar aversion to bugs (even though she grew up in Florida). I realized just how strong this is when they were painting our building, inside and out. They taped around our doorbell so they didn't paint over it. One day, on the exposed adhesive of the masking tape, I saw a little bug, trapped. A textbook cockroach. Tiny, ugly, gross. I had to look at this little cockroach every day for about three weeks until the lazy managers FINALLY removed the tape. My roommate also had to look at this little bug, every time she came home or left. We were both equally grossed out and freaked out, so much so that we would not go near enough to the bug to remove the tape which in turn would remove the DEAD bug. We'd rather it stare back at us than go near it.

The other day, when I was packing my stuff up from that apartment, I opened the door to listen for the washing machine, to see if it might be free. When I opened the door, a little brown bug (species still undetermined) came flying for me. In a very hurried move, I slammed the door shut, but the little bastard managed to squeeze in and land on the wall. Now here's where I wish I would have installed that hidden camera, because in the same move as slamming the door shut, I jumped away from the entrance to the apartment and turned my body 180 degrees (in the air), landing in an en garde position, facing the door and wall with offending bug, with my feet spread apart and my fists in the air.

That's right. My fists were literally in the air. I was ready to go to blows with this bug.

I couldn't even turn on the light to get a better look at the bug. The less I saw, the better. I raced into my bedroom, grabbed a shoe, swallowed my fear (I don't even like to KILL bugs), and slammed the shoe onto the wall, right on top of the bug. I held it there for a second, making sure the little creep was really dead. In my head, I pretended it was a small moth, because had it been anything else, I probably wouldn't have been able to kill it. Of course, had it been a moth, I wouldn't have killed it in the first place, but the risk was too great to not kill it.

It would be one thing if this was the only thing that really startled me. But it's not. Today, I was filling up a cup with water from the water cooler in my quiet office. I jumped about two feet in the air when the air inside the water forced its way to the surface, causing a loud "plop" sound. I realized then that I either need to stop drinking so much caffeine or I need to CHILL THE FUCK OUT.

Maybe a little of both.

Friday, January 20, 2006


It was about 17 years ago when I was first introduced to Tetris on Nintendo. The brilliant game of fit-the-piece-here-or-there fascinated me. The colors, the shapes, the music - it was all addicting. I played it for hours on end, so much so that when I went to sleep at night, I could still see the shapes floating through blackness, and my mind would try to arrange them to make rows disappear.

I kicked the addiction when I lost the game cartridge. Actually, come to think of it, it wasn't even my game to begin with. Oops.

A few months ago, I walked up on my friend Elizabeth during her lunch break at work, and she was at her desk, hunched over a piece of paper with a pencil.

"Whatcha doing?"


"Sue what who?"

I was thus introduced to Sudoku. For those of you who don't know what it is, it's this crazy crossword game with all numbers. It's fun and MADDENING. I have never been the smartest gal when it came to logic and numbers, but I hate admitting that... therefore, my plan is to become a Sudoku Kick Ass Master. (Not really.) (Okay, maybe a little.) Patrick got a couple of Sudoku books for Christmas and yesterday brought some copies of some puzzles in for me. I'm on the first puzzle in the easy section. The EASY section.

I've had to erase the whole fucking thing twice already.

Coincidentally, I had a dream about my friend from high school Kris last night. Why did she pop up in a dream? Because she's always been the smartest person I know, ever since we were in fourth grade, and all day yesterday I kept thinking of the fact that this game would be cake for her.

I guess I'd rather have Kris pop up in a dream than for my sleep to be plagued with visions of numbers dancing through my head.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

It's Something! Now with more This!

Again, in an effort to update this daily to keep my readers happy, I'm just going to touch on a few things.

1. Sister Gets Fired - Whenever I call my sister Jessie, she usually answers her cell phone with a very groggy but happy, "Heeey..." as if she's always thrilled to hear from me but barely awake to be conscious of it. She's 19 years old and a sophomore in college, so her life consists of work, class and partying, and sleeping every second in between. She's at that magical age where her life elicits both pity and envy. She's going through every rite of passage 19-year-olds endure, and she's having a hell of a fun time doing it. Today, she informed me that she got fired from her job as a Video Store Chick. She has expressed to me a number of times how much she loves this job, and as I talked to her today about the circumstances of her termination (she called in sick from a high fever and was late the following day - apparently at jobs where you make $7.00 an hour, that's grounds for firing...??), all I could think of was this little girl born on a Wednesday in the summer of 1986, the answer to my pleas to my parents to give me a little sister; the little girl whose curly hair was always kept up in a little fountain-like ponytail on the top of her head, her face always covered in thick freckles, and her blanket dragging on the floor behind her like a shadow.

2. Jeremy’s Endless Array of Useless Knowledge - My friend Jeremy is an interesting guy – nerd turned sexy boy, an asshole that would do anything for you. I gotta say though, he constantly outdoes himself with his geekiness. Starting with his football talk, seen in full force here, onto his obsession with Laguna Beach and Jessica Smith’s breasts, onto the latest installment of Jeremy Abramson is a Total Geek and Also Pop Culture’s Dream Come True. You’re seeing this right, folks. He is beginning his Ultimate Hump List of all of the previous SIXTEEN SEASONS of Real World cast mates. Two things here: how does he remember everyone and to which season they belong? And, how in the hell can it be possible that Real World is entering it’s SEVENTEENTH SEASON? I’m a hundred years old, apparently.

3. Celebrity Sighting - Doogie Howser, MD, or, as he prefers to be called now, "Neil Patrick Harris" (whatever) at Subway on the corner of Riverside and Laurel Canyon.

4. Movies That Are Not Comedies - Munich. We saw it last night. Great movie – not a comedy.

5. Favorite Movies of the Year - Walk the Line, King Kong, Brokeback Mountain, Capote, Munich, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Look for more later about these movies – I’m sure I’ll write a pre-Oscar post.

6. Moving - I’m moving in with Gina. I have 32 issues of the New Yorker I can’t seem to throw away, even though I’ll most likely never, ever get around to reading them. Sigh.

7. Best Coffee Available Within Walking Distance of My Job - A little place called "It’s Coffee Time." Ask me how many times the following conversation is had during a week:

Person A: Hey, guess what time it is?
Person B: What time?

Estimated date this joke will get old: the 15th of NEVER.

Monday, January 16, 2006

"Twenty" questions...

Everyone's familiar with the game 20 questions, right? Someone thinks of something, it can be a person, place, thing, or whatever, and the other person can ask 20 questions to guess what it is. The questions have to have yes or no answers. With people like my friend Patrick, you only get a certain amount of guesses: that is, you can ask questions like, Is it living? Is it a certain color? until you get to 20 questions, but you can't ask, Is it a duck? Is it a handbag? Is it a waterfall? more than maybe five times. Ideally, if after 20 yes or no descriptive questions, the guesser hasn't guessed the correct answer, the game is over and a new "thing" is thought of, and the game starts over.

Gina and I used to play this game ALL THE TIME. Looking back, I think it's how we got to know each other as adults. Our rules are a little different. You don't have a limit as to how many questions you can ask. We have played this game so much that exchanges like the following sometimes occur:

Is it a person?


Is it a place?


Is it language?

Um... no.

...wherein the guesser begins guessing what it is right away, trying to come up with the most obscure thing the other person could possibly be thinking of. How did this happen? It all started about 2 years ago at The Sidewalk Cafe in Venice over tuna salads when I came up with the ultimate game of 20 questions. It took Gina damn near 45 minutes and several clues to realize that thing I was thinking of was The Letter K. Unbeknownst to me, this particular round of this game has haunted Gina since then, and it is her lifelong quest to think of something that beats The Letter K.

Here is a list of some of the answers from last night:

Stripes (probably the best one of the night)
The Spirit of Christmas (which I guessed in an surprisingly short amout of time)
Orion (the constellation)
Oil Change
Tooth Decay

You might be thinking, well those are all fine and dandy, but still not better than The Letter K. And you know what?

You're right.

Friday, January 13, 2006

Rushing out the door.

I'm trying to update this every day. I'm not sure why, because there are maybe 3 people that read this every day (thanks Gina, Kim, and Chrissy). But for those three readers, who are three of the closest people to me in my life, I want to update, dammit. I also need to write.

I don't have anything interesting to say today. I do not mean to imply that I ever have anything interesting to say, but at least I only write about stuff that slightly interests me. So instead of writing about one thing in particular, I'm just going to mention a few things. I'm already trying to guess what kind of mean comment Jeremy will leave me.

1. After going to Molloy's last night to see Lindsay shake her ass Coyote Ugly style, I was really tired this morning when I woke up and was able to justify a trip to Starbucks. I drove slighlty out of the way to go to the Starbucks near my work. I pulled in the parking lot, fished in my bag for my wallet. Suddenly, the world slowed down. I could hear birds chirping in a slow motion garble. Cars slowed. Clouds gathered in front of the sun. I didn't have my wallet. I didn't have a credit card, a dollar, a quarter. So... no Starbucks.

2. I went to Gelson's with my producer for lunch, and I saw this beautiful woman, obviously a lesbian, walking towards us. My producer is a lesbian who knows pretty much everyone, and when I saw this woman, I knew my producer would know her. She did. It was a semi-famous woman, who is about to become a bit more famous among us queer girls. Strikingly attractive.

3. It's 6:00PM on a Friday and I'm still at work, but I have ONE LAST THING to mention...

4. My friend Lisa read my blog today and asked why I never mention her. So, here's a shoutout to Lisa. Hi Lisa! Thanks for reading!

Thursday, January 12, 2006

You have to TELL me these things!

I have a friend named Amy. I adore Amy, everything Amy. We became fast friends when we realized we have pretty much everything in common. We view the world around us very similarly... we have the same sense of humor, and we want similar things out of life.

Having received this backstory, you will understand my shock and horror that came from the following conversation:

K: I can't believe how long this entry [on Jeremy's website] is!
A: I know! And it was longer. He cut it down. It was six pages in Word.
K: Oh, he writes his entries in Word first?
A: Yeah.
K: I don't do that.
A: Me neither.

*Here's the turning point in the conversation. Amy tends to be distracted while we're on the phone, so I figured this was another instance of that. So I said:

K: You don't have a blog, Amy.
A: (silence) Oh. Um, I do actually. Have one.

Amy and I spend maybe 60 percent of our time together talking about how we both need to write more, we both need to share our comic genius with the world. And she fails to tell me she has a blog??

So naturally, I go to her "blog," which I cannot link here because her excuse for not telling me is that she doesn't "want anyone to read it" (whatever), and I realize why she failed to tell me about it.

It's funnier than mine. It's better written, with a more defined voice. She has better stories, as evidenced by this blurb in the "about me" section of her myspace.com page:

"My family consists of Jews, Catholics, drug addicts, hookers, homos, blacks, whites, and retards. So basically, I'm a really good catch."

(All true.)

Sigh. This girl from Ohio has nothing on that.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Resolutions 2006

1. Patience
2. Tolerance
3. Forgiveness
4. Acceptance
5. Communication
6. Creativity
7. Presence
8. Awareness
9. Appreciation
10. Perspective
11. Courage
12. Love
13. Understanding
14. Passion
15. Compassion

Tuesday, January 10, 2006


My mom has always been... different from other moms. She talks openly about many parts of her life, including (but certainly not limited to) her drug use during her first pregnancy (yeah, that's me). She had moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career of fame and money-making... she had no real plan beyond that. Once she was here in LA, she found out she was pregnant. This is how she describes her six week stay here in LA:

Mom: It rained the whole time, and we all just sat around smoking pot...
Me: You were pregnant with me!!
Mom: Katie, I did a lot worse when I was pregnant with you... you're lucky you weren't born with a horn coming out of your head.

(Direct quote)

I've become accustomed to having a relationship with my mom where I'm usually the more adult one. This isn't to say my mom is irresponsible... it's just that she's a lot more reckless than I have ever been or ever will be.

My mom has gone through a lot over the course of her life, especially in the last few years. However, this past holiday, I noticed a change in her I didn't like... one I can't describe exactly. People keep asking me how my holiday was, and my response is always, "It was fine, it's just that my family is so...dysfunctional right now." Everyone's response is the same: "Everyone's family is fucked up."

I was talking about this with Gina, and she said it perfectly: "Yeah, everyone's family is weird, that's true. But when you go home and everything is completely different than it was the last time you were there, that's hard." And that's just it. My family has changed without me, and they have left no place for me. I should be more specific... my parents have changed, and that in turn has affected the way my sisters deal with their own lives.

Admittedly, it's not their responsibility to make sure I always "fit in" when I go back home. And I still love them just as much as I did before. But it's like watching a close friend drift away from you... you see them changing, maybe not in a way you like, and you realize you have less and less in common with them, where before, you felt at home. And there's nothing you can do.

The good things:
1. I will not be going back home often without Gina, since we're both from the same hometown.
2. My sisters and I are still as close as ever, and I don't see that changing. I don't think any of us would let that happen.
3. My mom still shows some shadows of the mom I remember, as evidenced in this photograph, taken with my phone (since I don't have a digital camera), where she has reacted to Gina paying the bill at Steak-n-Shake by giving her a very lipstick-y kiss on the cheek:


Monday, January 09, 2006


Last April, I was in the delivery room when my friend Kim gave birth to her firstborn, Kyle. This is what he looked like, about two days after he was born:


Kim lives a good 35 minutes away from me with no traffic, which means it usually takes me about an hour to get to her place. Needless to say, I don't get out to see her and Kyle nearly as much as I'd like. But the past six weeks have been a record, I think. They left for CT for the holidays right around Thanksgiving, and just came back to town this past week. I was booked as Kyle's babysitter for last night, and having not seen him since mid-November, I was especially excited. He's doing all sorts of fun things now, like sitting up on his own (and crawling!)...


...grinning a little boy grin...


...and, my most favorite thing, whining and giving me a look that says, "All I want to do is lay still and cuddle!! Can we do that? Please?"...


This is what we did for the rest of the night. He just lay there, on top of me, staring into the distance. I swear he was thinking about something, although what I can't begin to imagine. I set him down a couple times to crawl around and be a little boy-kid, but he wasn't into it. He just wanted to snuggle with me. Little does he know, that's what I wanted to do too.

Friday, January 06, 2006

$11 nap and the state of Hollywood

With entertainment technology advancing as rapidly as it has over the past 10 years, people are not going to the theater to see movies anymore. Why pay between 7 and 14 dollars to see a movie you can rent three months later and play on your HD surround sound plasma TV?

For me, I will always love going to the movies. I love the idea of a room full of strangers in the dark experiencing the same thing and leaving with completely different thoughts. I love that I can be in a room with hundreds of strangers and forget that they're all there, and be engrossed in the movie. Living in Los Angeles, I'm lucky enough to experience some of the best movie theaters in the world, with the best sound and the best picture quality.

I'm willing to pay $11 regularly to see a movie, because I love seeing movies. I'm also willing to drop $60 in a night at a bar, because I love hanging out with friends and drinking and talking and laughing. What I won't do is combine the two. I will not pay $11 to sit in a theater while a movie is playing and chat with my friends. I assumed most people would agree with me on this. Apparently not.

I know it's trite to talk about people talking during a movie, but last night, Gina and I went to see King Kong. It was a beautiful, exciting movie... however, I was incredibly distracted by the three drunk MIDDLE AGED WOMEN sitting two rows behind me. They talked from the moment they sat down (half way through the previews) until the movie was over. What on EARTH were they talking about for 3 hours straight? And WHY DID THEY COME TO THE MOVIES TO DISCUSS??

I should mention that I'm kind of psycho about anything disturbing me during a movie. I've been known to call off a movie-going night if I know I won't get there in time for the previews. I like to be sitting in my seat a good two to three minutes before the previews start. I don't like anyone around me to talk... at all. Not during the commercials, not during the previews, and CERTAINLY NOT DURING THE MOVIE.

The Cineramadome has been in Hollywood for a long time, but about five years ago, they shut it down and remodeled, adding (I think) 14 theaters. They upped the ticket prices to a whopping $14 on weekends and $11 on weekdays. Why would people pay this much for a movie? Arclight (the new theater complex name) boasted the best sound, the best picture, assigned seating, and ushers that would get rid of anyone who caused annoyance during the movie. This is why I have no problem paying this much money for a movie.

But last night, there were no ushers to tell these women to SHUT UP. And even though throughout the movie, the seven seats in front of them emptied with annoyed patrons finding other seats, these women could NOT TAKE THE HINT.

Also, the woman next to Gina paid $11 to take a nap and snore through half the movie. Awesome.

Thursday, January 05, 2006

Rose Bowl

I love college football. I'm not like your average guy who likes college football, who can tell you who rushed for how many yards, or who even knows the names of all of the different positions. I can rarely tell you any team's record on the season. But none of this changes the fact that I love it. It's an incredibly fun game to watch, and it reminds me of being in college.

What also reminds me of being in college is the fact that I have a friend, Becky, who is IN college right now. This is the first college friend I've had in 6 years, since I graduated from college. (That's right. Six years ago.) She makes me feel old most of the time, even though she's only three years younger than me, but she often also makes me nostalgic for my days in undergrad. And it's because of her that I've watched so much college football this season.

She goes to USC, and Chrissie lives right down the street from Sharkeez, a known USC bar in Manhattan Beach. So the lot of us have hauled our asses down to Sharkeez to watch USC games through the course of the season. I've maybe seen four games this season, which is really a record for me.

Naturally, Becky roots for USC. I have nothing solid against USC, but I'm always a fan of the underdog. I think this comes from growing up around a continuous feeling of immense disappointment when it comes to sports. When you come from Northeastern Ohio and your family roots for Cleveland teams, you get really used to losing... or even worse, coming close to winning, and losing anyway.

I discovered last night there's a very good reason I don't follow sports. I like watching almost any sport, but if I'm at all emotionally invested in the game or who's playing, it's simply too much for me. I've rooted against USC all season because, COME ON, they needed to lose a game. They haven't lost a game in 2 years. Also, they cheated during the Notre Dame game, ADMITTEDLY. Every team that has played USC this year has been the underdog.

All day yesterday, I told everyone I was rooting for Texas in the Rose Bowl. I added that I thought USC would win, and I would be happy for the home team, but I was rooting for Texas. Six minutes from the end of the game last night, after two missed field goal attempts on Texas's part (one for an extra point, one for 3 points), I was ready to leave the bar. I was annoyed. I told Chrissie, Texas doesn't even deserve to win this game! USC is playing better! I decided to stay, despite the fact that Texas was, at this point, two touchdowns behind.

Keep in mind, I don't REALLY care about either team. I have no emotional attachment to Texas... on the contrary, I HATE Texas for producing George W. Bush and continuing to vote him into office. I hate everything Texas stands for. But dammit, I was going to pissed if USC won this game.

During the last minute of the game, when Vince Young failed to complete two passes, and found himself in a 4th down with five yards to go, my heart was racing. I was on my feet. The score was 38 33, with USC winning. The bar, full of USC fans and maybe six Texas fans total, was filled with screams and hoots. Vince Young scored the winning touchdown with maybe 26 seconds on the clock. After the two point conversion, the score was 41 38, Texas, and with only 19 seconds left, not even Reggie Bush could carry the ball back into the end zone. And for the first time this season, in what I have to say was a moment of silent revenge on a team I had rooted against all season, Sharkeez was full of dark red and yellow, and was... quiet. USC's fans sat, stunned, staring at the 40 televisions in the bar, hoping to find one that produced a different outcome. USC has won every single game for the past 2 years... and this, arguably the most important game of the season... they lost. THEY LOST!

Needless to say, Chrissie and I, for fear of our lives, waited until we were outside to celebrate. Chrissie walked down Highland screaming, I HATE USC! And then whispering to me, I can't believe USC lost.

After realizing how emotional I can get during a football game I don't even care about, I kept saying, THIS IS WHY I DON'T WATCH SPORTS! It was too much. But this morning, I woke up sad to realize that college football is over for another year, and am wondering maybe if last night is why I DO watch sports when I can... picking a side is fun, screaming and drinking beer is fun, the adrenaline rush is amazing. Also... it feels SO GOOD to have your team win, especially if it rarely happens.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Thank you, Starbucks!

For your support of the gays and for your newest offering, the CINNAMON DOLCE LATTE!

It's cinnamon-y, coffee-y, with a hint of brown sugar.

Oh, Starbucks, you never disappoint. Except your gingerbread lattes sorta sucked ass this holiday season.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006


My friend Chrissie is probably my closest friend in Los Angeles. I met her a couple of years ago and since then it's been nothing but bitches and barbecues. Okay, maybe not "bitches," necessarily, but I was going for the alliteration.

Chrissie lives in this rockin' apartment in Manhattan Beach, about a block from the water. She has a back yard with a BBQ, and when I met her, she had two cats and a dog. Cats: Sauce and Toonie. Dog: Riggs.

Riggs was this beast of a Rottweiler. His steps were lumbering, and we was too big for the back yard when it was full of Chrissie's friends. He was constantly knocking over dips and salsas accidentally, and he was always on standby for any fallen meat. He loved everyone, and followed Chrissie around loyally. He always seemed to be "in the way," but we all loved him so much we didn't care. We laughed about how big he was, and how he had no clue of his size.

He fell a couple of months ago, and when Chrissie took him to the vet, they realized he had diabetes. He lost a lot of weight and ate like a king for a few months. The doctor put him on a diet of pasta, ground beef, and chicken, with regular shots of insulin. He wasn't walking well, but his spirits were good.

When Chrissie texted me the day before Christmas Eve, I knew it would be a rough day. Her text said, "I think it's time for Riggs." He had been up all night, sick. He couldn't get up to go to the bathroom. He had stopped eating. He was refusing water. She planned to drop him off at the vet and see what they could do. I told her to call me when she knew more. She called me in the afternoon and said she decided it was time.

Gina and I met her at the animal hospital. Her eyes were red, but she was her normal self, joking and laughing about everything. She assured me she cried all night long and snuggled with her dog. She led us into Riggs' room, where he was hooked up to an IV. He looked miserable. He was panting heavily and his tongue was a splotchy red, not the normal healthy pink. He was congested and his eyes were watery. He didn't raise his head or even wag his tail when he saw us. He just lay there, helpless, miserable... ready.

The three of us gave him lots of love, scratched his ears, and told him we loved him. Chrissie's girlfriend Lindsay arrived, and about 15 minutes later, the doctor came in with two syringes. Because of Riggs' size, the doctor figured it'd take a lot to do the job. I was worried it would be traumatic to him, to us, to Chrissie. I was worried we'd see death rip him from us. Instead, the doctor, who loved this dog almost as much as we did, gently rubbed Riggs' head, assured Chrissie she was making the right decision, and administered the shot. Not a quarter of the way through the first syringe, Riggs, this 110 pound Rottie, left peacefully. His breathing slowed, and he was gone, with an audible sigh of relief. We cried, but all of us, Chrissie included, knew we did Riggs a favor. He was done... he wasn't the same dog. And we sent him off with love and heavy hearts.

We miss you, Riggie. Big Rig. Rigatoni. Riggles. Gettin' Riggy with it. Multiple Riggs.