Terribly Sorry...

but I haven't had time to urinate in the past week, much less post. Will post this weekend. Sorry for the delay (in LA).

Heading West

I have to get up at 6 AM tomorrow and begin the incredible journey to Los Angeles. I relocated my housing, so now I actually live RIGHT on the border of Beverly Hills, which is pretty cool. Tomorrow night I'm stopping in Denver to see some family, then to St. George, UT to spend the night the next day, then things really heat up Monday when I make my entrance into LA.

Work starts Tuesday. Please pray for me. 

Anyway, for whomever reads this blog, I have a solid 23 hours jailed in a car listening to books on tape and retro 80's music over the next three days, so if you want to soak up some of that time by giving me a call, I'd be very happy.

Let the games begin.

The Day a Rock Star Went Housing Hunting For Me

I know what you might be thinking. The title to this post is probably a play on words or something.  Like, maybe someone with the same name as a rock star is helping me out, like when we told everyone that Gentz was dating Julia Roberts because, well, he went out with a girl with the same name as the Pretty Woman star. 

But I wouldn't tease you like that. OK, I would, but I'm not now. So, I have my places to stay in LA pretty much firmed up, but my mom still insists she can find me somewhere to house sit over the summer rather than pay a fortune for housing. She enlisted a friend of hers who has a heart of gold. So, this friend of my mother's goes to LA to visit her children who live there and tells my mother that she'll network me into somewhere to stay. 

Anyway, this woman and her children are friends with Tonic lead singer Jeff Russo (don't ask me how), and I guess got him tangled in this complex web of trying to find somewhere for me to crash this summer. Apparently he's on the lookout. So, yes readers, a famous rock star is helping me potentially find somewhere to live. 

You can't write this stuff, you really can't.

In other news, I got my car tuned up today, hit golf balls at a driving range (wrenched my extra sensitive back in the process), worked out for 3 hours ('Ms., which way to the weight room?'), and drank milk straight from the carton for the first time in years (and it felt damn good).

Tomorrow morning, I get up and play golf with Bob Mann for the first time since the 10th grade, when I enforced a lifetime ban on playing golf with him (a la, Pete Rose being banned from the Baseball Hall of Fame). He's re-applied for reinstatement many times and since he seems genuine in his attempts to not be a complete douche on the course, I allowed him a chance to get back in my good graces on the green. 

Please pray I don't hit a car with a ball or accidently throw a club in a lake, both of which, regrettably, have happened. 

Right now, I'm drinking my nightly port and watching the best show on TV, Throwdown with Bobby Flay (which was also the topic one of my A papers!) Oh Food Network, how I've missed thee.

[Edit] I have been told that the use of the term "elderly" in this post might ruffle some feathers. I regret the error. Sorry, everyone. haha

 

Found Another Great Website.

For a great laugh, do visit www.passiveaggressivenotes.com. It is kind of like Postsecret, except instead of posting deep dark confessions, it showcases written notes people have given each other, expressing passive aggressive, um, aggression. While I have to say that I like 'Things White People Like' and 'Hot Girls With Douche Bags,' this is the best of the bunch. 

I like the one where the girl friend finds a picture of her man's ex on his cell phone while he is in the shower, then proceeds to call her fat, him a 'douche' and tells him to get the fuck out. Enjoy!

Car Lessons and the Day I Felt Like LeBron

Today was pretty uneventful. Because I'm scared to death of parking in LA (much less the actual driving) I enrolled in driving school today...The Bob Mann School of Parallel Parking. So, I shimmied in my Burgundy Buick Century, saw the big man set up our other car and a garbage can in our driveway to simulate a parallel parking spot, and tried a million times to get in. Still not parallel parking proficient...just, um, kinda competent. 

I got up this morning and went to the health club to shoot some baskets and lift weights (which I never got to, surprise!!) I was asked to play 21 against FOUR other, clearly more athletic gentlemen. It was early for me, I felt terrible, but you know what? I put my head down and plaaaaayed. Felt like LeBron. Crossovers, threes, floaters, pump fakes, it was a thing of beauty. I'm sure the Cavs would have preferred to have me on their team...I am, after all, probably a better shooter...and a worse everything else. Not my fault God didn't make me 6'9", 230.

Ate at Cheesecake Factory, visited the step grandparents, bummed around Target, and talked to Adam for a few. 

New Celebrity crush: Blake Lively....grrroooowwwwl

Currently drinking a glass of port.  It may not have been an eventful day, but it sure did end well...(sips)

Commercials These Days!

So, I'm down in my parents basement (yes, I know I sound like a loser, but I swear to God, women of the world, this is only temporary. Like, as in 6 more days temporary) and I'm watching TV on my 100 inch HD projection television (JEALOUS!? Ok, you're right, I'm in my parents basement) and just saw arguably the most offensive TV commercial I have seen in quite a while:

It is a Dairy Queen commercial in which a little 7 or 8 year-old girl and her mom enter a DQ and order two hot fudge sundaes as the girl abruptly tells the mom to just make it one upon catching a ripe 8 year old male checking her out. The mom and the girl sit down at their table as the mom tells the girl she was surprised she wanted to share the sundae to which the girl responds that she didn't as a waitress delivers two sundaes and gestures to the pre-pubescent young man indicating that he purchased the ice cream for her, ala a guy buying a chick a drink at a bar. The mom shoots her little girl a quizzical look to which the little girl replies wearing an evil, evil smile (and this is the central offense of the commercial):

"It's like shooting fish in a barrel."

I'm boycotting Dairy Queens. 

OK, seriously, I thought the commercial was funny. So there. But I can't believe the ad geniuses of the world would make the dating terrain harder for man(and I do mean MAN)kind. Great, even ice cream commercials enforce a sense of entitlement for females. It's gonna be a whole new generation of ego-driven, crazy ladies who think that men are only here to be toyed with. As if Sex and The City (which I hold in the highest regard) and ABC programming (Desperate Housewives, Grey's) weren't enough. I can't believe America encourages things getting harder for guys!

Which brings me to another point, and if you have female anatomy (which most of the readers of this blog do), beware, this might be unpopular. 

Certain female friends (and my mother and aunt and any female related to me) like to argue with me on the point that it is harder to be a girl vying for a boy than it is visa versa. NOT TRUE! It is so much harder being a boy. This is the classic reasoning behind why it's harder being a girl:

"We have to sit around and wait to be asked!"

Point taken. Tom Petty did once say that the waiting is the hardest part. And while I love Mr. Petty, do remember that he is a heartbreaker. Thus, he is not to be trusted. Listen women of the world, it's so much harder being a boy for this reason alone:

You never have to hear "no!"

Asking is soooo hard! All you guys (gals, actually) have to do is sit around and wait. And while I'm sure it sucks, you don't have to do ANYTHING. All you have to do is WAIT! Go read a book. Learn an instrument. Put on makeup then take some off because much of your gender practices NO restraint and looks like they should be patrolling Hollywood Boulevard. I don't care what you do, but it doesn't take thought. 

For guys? Well, it takes sense of humor, confidence, preparedness, and a thick skin. It takes a keen sense of knowing when the time is right. Being a girl is easy. The worst thing that can happen is, well, nothing happens. And even then, should you have taken my advice, you turn out to be a smarter (the books, instruments), better looking (a better feel for makeup, an underrated quality), and more well rounded woman. Heck, with all the time we've generated for you by making you wait, we should be thanked, whether you've been asked out or not.

What's the worst that can happen in the boy's situation? Only the world's most awkward moment (usually total silence) and the worst word in the English language- "No." I kid you not ladies, it sucks. Try it some time.

Like shooting fish in a barrel? Yeah, we'll see.   

The Morning I Was a Little Dutch Boy

Jeanette and I took a bike ride through surprisingly hilly suburban Omaha today. Of course, she gave me the bike that had a leak in the back tire...typical female. It also doesn't help that I've forgotten how to ride a bike. Yes, I know what you're thinking. How do you forgot how to ride a bike? It's the action everyone refers to when referencing things that you can't forget how to do, like kissing or buying coffee (see last post). But I have truly forgotten how to ride a bike. I realized it last year when I had to ride a bike in Italy, and much to my horror, I could not. Scary. I was able to sort of do it today, but was so unconfident in my abilities that I opted to walk my bike across the street and across a bridge. Yeah, I'm a little girl, so sue me. 

I went out into the community (by car this time, not bike) in search for lunch and found a Noodles&Co which made me think of my first "surprise" birthday dinner in which Amy (and kind of Liza) fumbled the proverbial snap and gave away the surprise. Oh well, 'twas fun all the same.

Reading, Drinking, and Snooting.

Reading: Suze Orman's The Money Book for the Young, Fabulous & Broke as recommended by Liza (notice how I credited her...people, beware. Liza's amazing, but she steals ideas/jokes/other stuff without giving credit where credit is due. It's like amicable plagarism that's not so, um, amicable). I've only read the first few chapters, but its a solid read. I mean, I guess my approval shouldn't mean much since I know so little about finance that I could just watch an episode of the Apprentice and feel fiscally enlightened. But its good, describing FICO scores, career moves, and investing. Now someone needs to hand her a book on makeovers, Suze's looking kind of boyish in her older, wealthy, and, dare I say, haggard years.

Drinking: Port. J-Mann bought a bottle of the sweet stuff and poured myself a glass that would make David Hasselhoff's chest hair stand on end. For those of you who know me, you know that alcho isn't exactly my thing; but port is the stuff of champions. Snooty champions that is. If the CEO of General Mills suddenly had a stroke and decided to make a Wheaties port, then I'd hope to be on the box...errr, bottle.

Snooting: You know what I've come to hate? People who are Starbucks illiterate. I mean, seriously, if you've spent just ten minutes in this country, then you should know how to order something at Starbucks. In fact, "What size is a grande?" should be on the oral part of the Immigration and Naturalization Citizenship exam, up there with "Who was the first American President?" and "What is the Capitol of Texas?" Look, it's simple, they're gonna ask you for cold/hot, size (tall, grande, venti not small, medium, large, you friggin' old relic), and flavor. It's coffee, not rocket science. 

An old woman (in line RIGHT in front of me, of course) took literally 10 minutes to order because she was oblivious to the ordering game. When I am ruler of the universe, if you cannot spit out your coffee order in less than 1 minute, you have to go to Amer's or something. I wouldn't even care if you had some sort of flesh eating illness only curable with a good but slightly overly roasted cup of fair trade joe. I don't care if the cure for genital herpes was found to be drinking a grande americano. If you haven't ordered by the time I've decided what I want then you'd have to leave. NOW!

Lastly, I found out today that my Italian friend Alberto has posted a link to my blog on his blog, which I have reciprocated by posting a link to his blog to the right. Since my blog has now gone world wide, I'd like to say 'buongiorno' to my international readers. And if you can (ie, se puoi leggere italiano), do give Alby's blog a read. I'm sure it's great...(yeah, I can't read it myself)

 

My Stepmother is Great at Burning Things...

But in a good way. She officially makes the best macaroni and cheese I've ever taste, consisting of whole-wheat penne pasta, cheese, bread crumbs and lots of butter. The penne is firm and stands up nicely against the plush texture of the cheese and she burns the heck out of the bread crumbs. I know I sound like a fat kid, but it's deeeeelish. I had 60% of the big dish she made of it last night by myself, and finished off the left overs not more than 10 delightful minutes ago. She also makes the world's only orgasmic potato latkas, which are always best well done (meaning they're both good and, um, good and crispy). Yum. I think I just found a new pre-req for marrying Alex (listen up, Amy). You have to be good at burning food. I'm talkin' hot dogs, mac and cheese (don't worry, I'm sure Jeanette will provide you with the recipe), the little marshmallows on top of sweet potatoes at Thanksgiving. You gotta be hot enough to burn, that's my motto. 

In other news, I lost my car keys for a solid 20 minutes at the gym today before finding them on a couch I forgot I sat on, got yelled at by mom my because she doesn't want me driving by myself to LA, and found out my dad's childhood friend that we never thought would EVER get married is, well, getting married.  I knew I saw a pig fly today...

Right now I'm watching the Spurs-Hornets playoff game (Spurs are losing, thank the lord) and am reminded of how unbelievably jealous of NBA players I am. You live your life always knowing what your career will be because you're tall, you'll always be rich (provided you don't waste it all on marajuana), you get ladies hand over fist (just ask them for an STD test, ask Magic Johnson how that can turn out...), the "office" will always be kinda fun (if you're winning, which I always would because I'd demand a trade to the Mavericks), and you get preferential treatment EVERYWHERE you go (except in opposing team arenas), even while in college (see OJ Mayo). I think I'm just going to declare myself the for the NBA Draft just in case. Who knows, maybe I'll grow a foot in the next few months. 

...or maybe I'll just go be a film intern.  

Wild and Crazy Summer

Back in Nebraska. It feels good to finally relax. In the past two and a half weeks I've been in Ann Arbor, West Bloomfield, London, Paris, Omaha, and LA (and back to Omaha). I think the minute and hour hands on my internal clock have snapped off. I get up around 6 in the morning and go back to sleep everyday.

I had two interviews in LA. I got one job and got turned down for the other. Oh well, one for two isn't horrible. I think I'm going to go do it. Other than interview, we looked furiously for housing, hung out on the beach, and went to a baseball game at Dodgers Stadium (pictured above) in which the famed LA Dodgers lost to the Houston Astros. The stadium was really cool. The view of palm trees and green Hollywood sign-like hills (actually, theres a fake Hollywood sign on them that says Think Blue) over center field is soooo neat and makes for an ultra-relaxing game viewing experience (non-sexual erection, anyone?)

For now, I'm just trying to calm down and make a decision as to whether or not to go. I've slept in, played video games, worked out, visited with my stepmoms family, and read Amy's screenplay while also trying to develop some of my own ideas.  

I think I've found my favorite youtube video. Its a mock of the My New Haircut video in which instead of ripping on Guidos, they substitute in a Jewish person. 

"I'm going to get so much tuchus my schmeckel's gonna fall off!" 

Wonderful.

My parents have an amazing knack for making 8:30 at night feel like 2 o'clock in the morning.

Coming Home!

I'm coming home tomorrow morning, but not after the travel day from Hell. First of all, my flight leaves just before 8AM at Heathrow Airport! Meaning I have to get up at like 4:45 to catch a train that takes me there. Then I have an 8 hour plane right followed by a 4 hour layover in Chicago then another flight. Yuck!

This trip really hasn't been so bad. I've needed some boring time to clear my head, think about the near future, and eat rich European food.

 At least a week from tonight I'll be chillin' at Dodger Stadium eating a Dodger dog. mmm...Paradise.  (the game/the stadium/ the real vacation, not the hot dog). 

Letter from a Reader

Rarely do I get mail regarding my blog. I got my first one today and am excited to share it with you. This one is from a man in the Midwest responding to my last post.

Bob from Omaha, NE writes:

'Alex: thanks for associating me with saying stupid things...how can you criticize such classics as "you have quite a bit of pussy up there" and "you have one of the most inactive pussies I've ever seen!" I suppose you don't like the Rolling Stones either...another American classic. (OK, they're not American, but you get the idea.) What brought this column on....did you say something stupid in London that got you in trouble with mumsy?

Love Dad, your loyal (and only...other than Liza) reader.'

Two things:

1) If you have something to share, please leave a post. 'Cause otherwise I'll post it for you.

2) No, I did not say something stupid to get in trouble with mumsy. I just went out to dinner the other night and felt the filter break...as I said in my last post, should I feel that a stupid comment coming out of my lips is imminent, I will just be quite.

*sigh* Oh, parents.

My Stupid Mouth

A big problem seems to have been surfacing lately. Actually, its been with me my whole life, only now I recognize it. There seem to be times in which I know I'm about to say something stupid, but cannot do anything about it. In the old days I'd just let whatever fly and take the embarrassment (which was embarrassing), but now I can feel my mental filter break and just do not speak. I think it runs in the family. 

Take my father, for instance. Hi, Dad. Anyway, my father likes to play a joke with people by calling felines "pussies." Of course, we all remember the famous tale when my dad and stepmother were at a party in Atlanta and my dad asked the good-natured hostess of the party where she put her cats for the evening. She said she put them away upstairs, to which he replied something to the tune of, "My, you've got a lot of pussy up there." Yeah, I know, pretty witty and he got a good laugh (and a sneer from Jeanette). Needless to say he rehashes the joke in various venues wherever cats are involved but doesn't seem to understand that a joke that works for a giggly 40 year-old lady doesn't when presented to, say, a 93 year-old great grandmother. His filter was broken and he apparently paid the price.

I'd say my filter totally breaks once a month and can sense it when things I say come out awkwardly and the person I'm talking to looks nervous and gives me pitty laughter. It's like watching a basketball game in which a player keeps taking fall-away threes despite being guarded by two people. This is to say, I can become the Devan George of social interaction. At this point I've learned to affix myself next to a chatty person and shut up. This is my way of sitting my ass (or, in this case, mouth) on the proverbial bench. 

As my father (how ironic, right?) likes to tell me: "It is better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt." So true. So so true.