Sometimes, you just need some cheese

Last week, I had just finished a rough Saturday of...well...okay it was not so rough, I had just laid on the beach all day. But, I decided I needed to deviate from my homeless diet of PB&J and I stopped at a local Santa Monica eatery called Norm's. Norm's motto, you might ask: "We are just like Denny's, but called Norm's. Fuck You". (If I own a company, I will also include curse words and other vulgarities in the motto) So I glanced at the voluminous menu (four pages of delicious and gastrointestinal problems waiting to happen) and my decisions of what to order may have caused the waitress who took my order to believe that I knew some secret about cheese, possibly even it's abilities to increase one's life expectancy. Because I knew all along when I went in that I was really feeling a grilled cheese, so I ordered one of those. Then I saw one of my faves on the menu, Mozzarella Cheese Sticks, so I ordered some of those. Let me just say, it may have been a tad much on the cheese front. But hey, sometimes you just need some cheese. And no, I was not successful in eating all the food, much to the happiness of the homeless man sitting uncomfortably close to my left.

As I write this, I have continued my apartment search. After another disappointing turndown from a place with roommates already there, I decided I had tired of the Bachelor type selection, and could no longer wait to see if I had been given a rose that week, plus unlike the other potential roommates, I will not "give it up" just to get a room (and by "it" I mean $200 extra dollars) It took too long, it is far too difficult to meet people for seven minute periods at a time and come across as not a tad overbearing in an effort to convey your personality while at the same time seeming chill, and not to mention everyone seems to want to take two weeks to pick someone. Which, much to my chagrin, the overbearingness seems to be a problem for me when I try and show my personality right off the bat. What can I say? (probably less ethnic slurs...Tim...you idiot) So, no more rose ceremonies for me. I have set out on a search for an ideal one bedroom, which even at a greater cost, will be far better then dealing with this not-so-scrumtrilecent roommate situation.

After my two fun (stress-filled, annoying, stupid, lame, wack, silly, more ridiculous than France in a war) weeks of unemployment, I returned to the work force this week. I am working at a business management firm in Brentwood. Business management evidently means that I pay bills for people, and do pretty much anything else they want me to do. The girl I am training with whose job I will be taking (her name is Gila, and I asked her if it was like that monster, and I believe this perturbed her) has really been doing all the work, but I am getting a hang of things and occasionally being helpful. I am just waiting for the extremely bizzare client phone calls beyond activating DirecTV boxes, like when I will be asked to remove a dead body, kill someone, or walk a dog. I would only do two of those for work, because I think walking a dog is like a whole seperate job and totally not in the job description.

I just finished reading the book I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by self proclaimed dickhead Tucker Max. I had heard of this book as he had been on the NY Times best seller list a couple years back and the other day (after I had gone to a sports bar by myself, for, of all reasons, to watch golf, and gotten pretty drunk) picked it up at Borders during my drunken mid Sunday (I also got a Sublime CD, a Bill Cosby CD, a Newsweek about societies in America and a book on screenplay writing) and proceeded to read it. First of all, this guy has one of the worst writing styles I have ever read, which I fault mainly on the fact that he is educated in the matters of law. Secondly, he thinks he is the most ridiculous person to ever live, and while I appreciate his tales and may have even given a tip of my cap to some, I refuse to do anything to the ground he has walked on. Thirdly, all the quotes from days and nights of extreme drunkenness are stupid, even if he did have a tape recorder. Sure, from time to time there might be a particular quote recalled from a drinking night ("Do it to it."), but entire conversations? I am lucky if I even remember speaking and generally have to piece my night together by looking at random texts I sent. So basically, this Tucker Max guy somehow caught on, but I am nonplussed. Nonplussed.

Until next time.