You Can't Imagine You Will be Listening to Beautiful Stranger

As today I sat on my lunch break, initially wondering why I had not purchased hardly enough food to last me through five days of the week (and at that, I bought some really shitty stuff...I must have been really out of it on Monday when I went to the store), and secondly wondering how likely it would be that I would be at a Subway, in Los Angeles, on my lunch break, listening to Beautiful Stranger by Madonna...I decided it would have been highly unlikely for me to be in such a position. First of all, when I eat Subway, normally I do not choose the dine in option, as when you do this you typically run into: a)a slew of people trying to lose weight but eating two footlong chicken and bacon ranches and leaving you to wonder why they also got the chips and the cola that would satiate a whole village and b)homeless people being fed the low grade meat. Secondly, the weather in LA, while one of the factors that is freaking me out about this place, as I have decided I love seasonality, is always beautiful, and the outdoor seating areas are lovely outside this particular Subway. Thirdly, the homeless seem to always be getting free sandwiches at Subway, which, while I have no problem with that, tends to hurt my appetite a little. So, yes, a different experience.

While walking to the bathroom the other day at work ( I work in a 24 floor large office building), I noted a grizzly old janitor man. I decided janitors who are in the profession after the age of 50 have three primary jobs, and in this order:

1)Have an awesome mustache.
2)Be grizzled, stare angrily ahead.
3) Leer at women.

The mustache part is by far the most important. Sure you can be angry as you are seemingly a professional janitor, but you know they are spending hours at night at home grooming their mustache, which is most admirable. I would love to have a job where I could steam around angrily, leer at women and be extremely grizzled. I mean, think about it, sure you have to occasionally clean overflown toilets and such, but you have permission to have an awesome stache, seem super angry, and stare at attractive women, it is totally expected.

OJ Simpson was included as a suspect in some sort of Las Vegas sports memorabilia heist today, and it only made me thing one thing: I want to be a suspect. Why only suspect the crazy former NFLer who was suspected of murdering a few people? Do you know what joy it would give me at work or to be watching ESPN and see my name scroll across the bottom line: OJ SIMPSON, SEPERATELY TIM RADWAY SUSPECTED OF HOTEL ROOM BREAK-IN... I would be so proud to round up alibis and know exactly what was up. It would make my life so very exciting.

That is all I have for now. And shut up, what have you done for me lately?

Hopefully No Bipolar People Are Using Hotmail Anymore

Hotmail.com, my longtime personal e-mail provider (man, the structure of that sentence was way off, making it sound as if hotmail.com is a site designed specifically for the intent of use by one Timothy C. Radway ((or as Citibank knows me, Timothy R. Radway…I got into an argument with them about my middle initial…they insisted they were right. Some customer support people are just a little off)), which would be nice for a website to be so dedicated, but it is not really the case) has recently began making changes to their appearance, trying to become more sleek and less like the “even homeless men who round up quarters to use the internet at the library to look at porn can have a hotmail account” that they always have been. One of the interesting new features is that, if you login frequently or have your e-mail address set to be remembered by the site (or as far as I know, there are people in India who remember it and type it in for you),all you have to do is type in your password. BUT, if you are not that e-mail address, rather than something saying “Change e-mail address” there is a small bar you can click on under the remembered address that just says “Forget me”. I, for some reason think this is a tad weird, and for the Wellbutrin taking crowd, I am sure that could not be some sort of upper to see this everytime they check their e-mail…but what do I know?

As I sat in the LAX airport today, waiting to board my plane back to Chicago for my friend Adam’s wedding, I did what I do best: creepily observed people without them knowing…alright, so that one girl noticed my frequent observation, and I am pretty sire she smiled before she walked away really fast, so there is that. But anyways, I love watching people that think and seem to act like they are on a remote island by themselves. (But as John Donne told us “No man is an island…except for people who have to buy two seats on airplanes…they are islands, and typically quite buoyant”) So, here are some of my casual, asinine, non sociological observations.
There are all sorts of different types of eaters and chewers around. This is where it really helps people to think they are alone, as well as evidently invisible, as their eating habits cannot possibly be the same when they are dining with others. Anyways, of the types of chewers I noticed, there are a few, and even one that looks sort of like a dinosaur.
a)The ripper- This person seems to have teeth with the sharpness and chewing ability of a spoon. They have to clamp down on their food (in the case of the ripper I was observing, the food culprit/victim was pizza and an apple…whoa was the apple an intriguing view) then turn their head back and forth several times to rip off a portion to then slowly allow the saliva in their mouth to dissolve for them to swallow. It is very odd to watch and makes me wonder. The only time most people turn to ripping is with a crusty loaf or something like that, not for every food.

3) The big mouth- This person, not to be confused with the small bite/quick chewer, evidently desires to eat their meal in approximately 2…well, to 2 bites. The man I observed using this tasteful tactic was eating a rather large sandwich, and after each bite he had the cheek filled appearance of a squirrel storing nuts for the winter, or a pelican looking all pelican like.

qIV) The dinosaur- This person watches a lot of tapes and animations of brachiosauruses and their eating technique, and imitates it to a T. Modern animals similar in fashion are cows and really old people and monkeys. This person is at the very least deliberate in their eating. Maybe they only have gums, I don’t know.

1712) The talker- I am not entirely sure how this person ever actually consumes any food. I noted three of these people. They had entire servings of meals in front of them and spent an entire 45 minutes to an hour talking either to; an uninterested person next to them, some bored work associate on their cell phone, or to the maintenance staff of the airport (I think this may have just been a maintenance man carrying around a pizza though). All I can say is, weird.

WAXY) The small bite/quick chewer- As I referenced before, this person takes very small bites, masticates thoroughly, and swallows and choking on their food is never a danger. The only downside to this eating style is that it is time consuming and sort of gross to watch…it’s like watching a fat man lotion his back. Just go with me on my analogies.


The other interesting and slightly funny/irritating thing to me is the way people will begin sitting or standing in the boarding area long before it is actually time to board. The comical thing about this is: have these people never been on an airplane? Much less a Southwest flight…what is the rush? Do you know of some ultra secret seating area that is better than all the other tiny rows with all the same chance of sitting next to someone with body odor/ bad stories/ a little “extra” for you in your seat/the armrest hog? Weirdos. I usually end up smugly waiting until everyone else is on the plane…at least I maximize my time spent sitting down…good practice for the unfortunate paralysis that will end up plaguing me unexpectedly (of course it will be psychosomatic…Ricky Bobby style)

WORD UP.

Labor Day is a day off....weird

I really have no clue how Labor Day came about, nor will I spend the time to go read a Wikipedia entry about it (especially as I have had very...let's just call them skeptical opinions of the last few wikipedia entries I have referenced...I have a feeling that Bulgaria has very little to do in actuality with the world of puppetry...) but I can say it is very odd to have Labor Day be a holiday and day off work. Why on all actual days of Labor do we work, and then on the one specificall called Labor Day, no onbe works (except for prostitutes waiting to prey on unsuspecting politicians on their way back from a 3 Smirnoff Ice too many Laboir Day BBQ. Even though I personally think 3 Smirnoff Ice are too many. But yeah, hookers are still out, I've heard at least).

This weekend I have been in the northern California area with Eliot and hanging out with former 742 housemate Derek. It definitely felt like a little slice of 742 on Saturday when we headed over to Derek's in the mid afternoon with a case of beer and a bottle of Jack, began playing Guitar Hero, and then...oops...suddenly it was midnight and so much liquor had been consumed that I am not even sure where it had all gone, nor why we were doing such random things like watching a car chase scene from the 1968 movie Bullitt. So yeah, one of those nights.

On the drive up here, we happened to stop in a very small town called Buttonwillow, (Beware the seedy underbelly of Buttonwillow) which led to me wondering about certain compund words which would sound funny and be memorable no matter what. Here are some rules I thought of:

-Button + Pretty much any other word is going to be a memorable town name. It all really just depends on how friendly you want your town to come across. Buttonwillow...friendly. Buttontail...friendly...Buttonmurder, not so kind, but tell me you are forgetting that pit stop...

-Pairing two words that you would never think to see together: Kindfraud, Eviltickle, Trustworthybelgian . You get the idea. In fact, stay away from Trustworthybelgian this time of year...the weather there is awful.

-Pairing together words that are funny by themselves= double funny. Weinerballs, Schlongtaco. Okay, maybe this is only funny to pubescent teenage boys to men the age of 60. But that is a key demographic group.

Well, to my utter dismay, I have nothing to say. Except for the stuff I already said.

I've never been the sort to pat myself on the back, but that was before I had a piece of steak lodged in my windpipe

It seems to me that recently, everything I have read by anyone, both those in the literary world, and those "veterans" who write things on cardboard (typically expressing their desires for food and board, and ability to perform menial tasks for money, and that they should be allowed to do so due to their current homeless and war served experience, and that none of those who would invite such a person into their home should be the least bit concerned about a)the smell b)the threat of crime or b)the army of fleas prepared to get to work as well ((of course that last part is implied, it would be ridiculous to fit it all on one piece of cardboard))) and stand by the side of the road, has been about songs that have shaped their lives. Those who are the literary type list songs and write paragraphs about what those songs mean. The cardboard wielding homeless might scrawl a song title on their cardboard (such as "Penbull (sic) Wizard"...and yes I saw someone who wrote that on their sign...I have no clue why) or simply hum an inspirational tune like "Baby Got Back" as they walk past your car. Either way, it has inspired me to write some song about the music that impacts my life.

Song That I For Some Reason Chose to Let People Equate me With as a Freshmen in College- Ludacris "Southern Hospitality"

I guess since I had moved up to Chicago from Louisville for school, I really wanted to embrace that I was in fact, southern, while at the same time trying to demonstrate that I was not all that southern. Confusing line to walk...yes, I wear shoes, no I am not double related to any family members, yes I am kind and hospitable like a Southern gentlemen. Anywho, anytime I would be partying and this song would come on, I would undoubtedly begin "throwing my bows" about as the song instructed and acting like the song was being played solely for me since I was from the south, and not because the song was popular at the time. I would even at times imagine people were yelling my name at the time, and they may have been, but it was probably more out of fear of my flying elbows.

Song I Can Karaoke no Matter How Much I Have Had to Drink- Bobby Darin "Mack the Knife"

Alright, so if I have had a lot lot to drink, you might notice I sing a tad slower or it takes me a moment longer to get on beat with the words, but still, it is a very passable version of the song that I perform. Once, on a Wednesday night at Doc's I think I even heard clapping coming from someone who I did not know and who was not a drunken old man. That said, I was on top of the world and had drunken thoughts about releasing an album that night, but after speaking to a homeless man decided I should stay in school (I had forgotten I was out of school at that point, and his argument was so convincing, I agreed with it). But, I'm just saying, have a karaoke machine with this song on it, and I will belt it out for you.

Song That for Some Reason Makes me able to Finish Games of Beer Pong- Lil Flip "Game Over"

My personal beer pong abilities have often been maligned and many have said that I often succeeded merely by playing with Trevor (how we doubled up so many times with me being so supposedly awful I will never know). It is true, I had my share of yips, games where I would throw the ball three feet to the left of the table, and games where the main skill I brought was taunting. But for some reason, when the game would come down to one or two cups left, I could turn on this Lil Flip ballad and suddenly make a cup, at the point when the drunkenness and dwindling number of cups makes this game that much more difficult. It was weird. Scientists will later find that the sound waves in this song encourage tiny ping pong balls to go into cups. I will feel stupid.

Other Songs I Can Sing- "Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole and "A Whole New World" by ummmm Aladdin and Jasmin

Just sayin. I can belt out these mofos too. Who knows why.

Of course there are many other songs which have had an impact on my life and which I have tiny stories about, but those tales will have to wait until I too have my own roadside real estate and fine piece of blank cardboard.

Due to my fine time in LA, I have become intensely introspective and I have decided there are a few things that just do not work as well when sitting around by myself:

1)Discussions

They end quickly and I generally avoid arguing with myself. I am always right, which only boosts up my already (according to some girl at a bar the other day) "too high ego" . Yes, I really was told my ego was too high, just for saying hello to a girl at a bar and smiling at her. I had done nothing to demonstrate a "big ego". Weirdo. But anyways, discussions lose that whole extremely underrated second dimension when you are talking to yourself.

2) Witty Barbs

It is really tough to wittily mock those not present based on nothing. Which I think makes it even worse when I am actually around people, like at work, or when hanging out with those I hang out with out here. Which probably makes me seem about as funny as Carrot Top. (Okay still probably funnier than him, but way too focused on the witty barb).

3) Saying the exact same thing a sportscaster will say before they say it

I still do this a lot when alone, but I am far less impressed by my own mad $kill$ since I know what I'm working with. I in fact impressed a man at a local sports bar who was sitting next to me watching the Cubs/Mets game with my ability to precede the talented Joe Morgan in saying the same things he would say. Depending on the color guy, this takes adjustments to the intellect involved (eg Tim McCarver says only dumb shit. John Madden makes it obvious. Bob Brenly seems intent on pointing out that he is dressed weather appropriate that day (("I'm wearing my WGN polo today" or "We've got on the long sleeved polo today")) and the ever brilliant Ron Santo...well, no one can keep up with him) to match up to what they are going to say. But I can do it.

HOLLA

Ahhh... the whimsy of Hollywood

The creative license given to the writers and directors of motion picture is definitely one of the most giving in all of the creative realm that deals somewhat in reality. I'm not talkin Lord of the Rings type stuff which has no basis in reality, or any other sci fi film or anything with a loose idea of reality...I'm talking films with normal people in "normal" situations. For instance I woke up this morning and on my TV a quaint little film roped me in (or I could not find the remote within the reach of my arm and withouot me moving), John Tucker Must Die. Alright, so only Trevor would actually ever watch this movie on purpose, but the basic premise is all these girls feel used by this John Tucker guy and use another girl to try and hurt him...so normal people, semi normal crap going on, and of course the movie ends in a cake fight. I have been around 24 plus years and yet has any situation in my life led to a whimsical cake fight with beautiful women who I once wooed. And as the viewer, we totally accept this as an ending to a movie., especially since we (or at the very least I) do not love ultra snarky realism like that seen in Sideways. So, cake fight, four beautiful women?

The other night I was walking through a parking lot, probably 45 feet behind a car which was desiring to reverse out of its spot and leave. It did eventually back up, then drove behind me, but about 20 feet to my right until the driver of the car determined I was not going to a) suddenly dart 20 feet to my right, and get hit by their car and b)develop Michael Johnson c.1996 speed to do so so that they would have no time to react. First of all, cars are not sneaky. Secondly, I was aware that the car was there and left more than adequate space for it to drive right past me. I can only imagine the conversation going on in the car between husband and wife driver and passenger:

WIFE: Watch out for that very attractive younger man.
HUSBAND: I know honey, man he is good looking. But ever since we got that work done at the body shop to make our Nissan Sentra stealth, I always just wait for pedestrians to be out of sight and safe less I hit them or they develop Michael Johnson c.1996 speed and dart out in front of me such that I cannot control the car in time and strike them.
WIFE: You are half the man he is anyways. You could hit him and he would unflinchingly get up, open your door and pummel you with his fists, not so much out of rage, but out of a correct reaction to the situation. Then I would go home with him.
HUSBAND: Good call, I'll slowly follow behind him for the next 100 yards so we don't hit him. You should go with him anyways.
WIFE: Not this time honey.
HUSBAND: Thanks.

At the beach today, I noted some dudes wearing flippers to swim out in the ocean and my mind, being just as whimsical as a cake fight to end a messy life situation had this hilarious thought:

What if the flipper was not the first piece of equipment early inventors made in an attempt to mimic aquatic creatures? What if it was, say, a dorsal fin? Can you imagine people strapping some sort of fin to themseleves, not in an attempt to look like a shark, but rather to try and help them swim? It would be ridiculous. Then the next invention someone tried was the moving tail. Then flippers finally came along and helped out. YAHTZEE.

As I continue toiling away at work and working on writing some sort of lengthy crap that will have up to 18 haikus within, and search for improv groups out here I can't help but think of how totally dreameriffic this current life is, which is not bad as I am totally getting it out of my system, and hopefully making the rest of my life into non work because I sit around watching you tube videos, eating celery (a negative caloric food) and writing stuff with the signature ending of a cake fight (sorry John Tucker writers, I see a gimmick I like, and I steal it), whether book, screenplay, or haiku:

The cloud floats by her
Wondering where to go now
Signature cake fight

But I also think sometimes, no matter how lame this sounds, that I would like to go back to school and get some letters after my name and learn something cool and then get a cool job. And be awesome like that. And keep writing as an active hobby, both to appease all those killed by the Winchester rifle (bizarre historical reference) and to make people laugh. And the best thing is, I know all along I can do whatever the hell I want.

CAKE FIGHT ENSUES.

"If this comedy thing doesn't work out, do you have a plan B?....Hell no...my plans are numbered"

That quote is from my favorite standup comic, Demetri Martin. If you have not heard any of his stuff, google him, or look it up on youtube or something, because you might giggle, guffaw, chuckle, cackle, or make that creepy silent wheezing noise you make when you laugh (you know who you are).

I am not sure if it is an effect of me spending much more time in pensive, humorous thought, or merely the effect of my increasing delusions and insanity (which, let's face it, will only make me seem more and more wacky over time. you thought I was out there before, you should see me now! sounds like a great slogan for an looney house) But, thanks in large part to the nearly full wall of mirrors I have that make up the closet doors in my room I spend a lot of time: making lots of faces into said mirror as well as looking at my face while I say odd things in a British accent. Like I said, I hope this is not a part of some sort of sick and twisted change to my personality, a personality which has been called "okay" , "could have a few less slurs" and "I would not kill him right away if stranded on an island with him...I could wait 17-20 minutes...sort of how I feel about going to a mediocre restaurant" . But the other day I actually found myself saying some odd thing that I am not even sure what it meant about "schnoogers and bonkers" and they evidently needed to get done. Needless to say, this cracked me up. Also needless to say, I had consumed ny new three beer limit which makes me feel a little goofy. The beer makes me feel goofy as well as the amount. Screw you.

As this whole Barry Bonds "Home Run King" (which unless he finds an actual crown to wear on that shiny large dome of his, I think the title should be rescinded and returned to Hank Aaron, assuming of course he wears a crown for the rest of his life and break off and forms his own nation) has gone on recently, the thing that has bothered me most, and I am surprised no one has mentioned this since articles have been written ranging from "Should Bonds Get an Asterisk?" "Barry Bonds: Modern Home Run Hero" "Barry Bonds Likes to Eat Sandwiches" "Bonds Only Drinks Orange Gatorade" and the OJ Simpson op ed "Bonds Did It! (not the home run thing, the killing stuff)" that the main thing of all this is that Barry Bonds is not in any video games. If you are the SF Giants in any game, there is a strangely awesome, often right handed, often white, often named Jon Dowd player who patrols left field and hits 4th for them. There is little to no excitement to being Jon Dowd. Being John Malkovich in a video game would even be more exciting. So Barry, why'd you do it? Why won't you be in a video game? Your squeaky voice is familiar to children, your large head is recognized worldwide, and you are evidently the leader of some sort of monarchy now. I say, be a king to your people and appear in some video games. What would Queen Victoria have done Barry? (I only say Queen Victoria because Barry has the most in common with her: high pitched voice...well, mainly that)

On early Thursday morning, at around 1am, I was awakened by my roommate Jessica, pounding on my door and screaming something about an earthquake. It was at this point that I realized, that in FACT everything WAS shaking in the room, not just the door. Initially though, the first thought in my mind was that Jessica, who had played some sort of musical gig earlier in the evening, was partying with a bunch of people and thought I should join in....but alas no, there was an earthquake. It was odd once I realized that was what it was...and it was pretty wild. No one else anywhere seemed to have any reaction as it was "ONLY a 4.2"...well sorry, I just wanted to jump under a desk and cover my neck, and then potentially get down with a little rioting...and maybe pee down the garbage chute in my building..but alas I will evidently have to wait for some larger earthquake, at which point actual calamity will ensue and I might have to try and stay alive rather than have fun with this. Damnit.

That is all, minions. (Click on those ads...I'll buy you something)

PS David Beckham is a bitch

Vegas, Thank Citibank( and I should too)

Well, it seems yet another year has gone by and with that comes another trip to Vegas, another chance to look back and say, "Wow that was ridiculous," "Where are my pants?" "Whose pants are these?" (no literally, I seem to have packed someone's pants in my bag, although Paul described my packing style as "goblinlike" upon leaving, so I guess it is not a complete shock I ended up with someone's else's crap in my bag). So, with another Vegas trip comes another semi-half-demi-quasi awful recap of the events.

First some admissions on my part:

1)I was drunking most of the time. Drunking you see, is like drinking, except without all those pretenses of later on saying "Wow! How did I get so drunk?" When drunking, you know what's coming to you. And, as I remarked to Paul and Darrell on our epic journey right after my arrival (more on that later), "It's like I want to experience Vegas all at once...I want to be drunk, I want to be gambling, I want to inappropriately dine only on snack wraps...." Then I took in a real deep breath and choked on some gas fumes.

2) Everyone else was drunking too. So, the recounted stories were about as good as the ones you hear in the short term memory loss ward about what happened a few minutes ago. (Zing. Oh yes, zing)

3) Vegas ruins all sense of time. There are always people up and about, always people having fun, and even more strangely I am convinced both by the new skin tone I have and by seeing it at all times, the sun is literally always up.


So, I arrived in Vegas on Thursday evening after one of my more brilliant and lucky acting performances in a while. I had decided before work on Thursday that I would feign sickness early on in the day in an attempt to get sent home early. Also, in prep for calling in sick on Friday, I had done pretty much all of my Friday work, so I was not that bad of an employee. Anyways, upon arrival on Thursday, my boss asks me how I am doing and I reply, "Oh, not so hot...." and she tells me she too has an awful headache...which I then retort, "Oh, me too...it's like there's a vice on my head..." So, throughout the morning, I act lackadaisical, and eventually around one, get sent home. So, I rush home, grab my stuff, jump in my car (which in prep for the suite we had this year, and due to me driving, I had stocked with 96 beers and 4 handles of liquor), and speed off to Vegas.

I arrived, pulled into the parking garage of the MGM and, using the defective part of my brain, which I am sure would have made me an awful caveman, pulled into the furthest parking spot away. Seriously, the thing went up to Row Q, and I parkedin Row Q, applying zero effort to park any closer. I have noticed this other times too, like when going to a store or movie, I leave whatever venue I was in, and realize I have parked really far away. So, I call Brian's phone, which is answered by Darrell, find out where the room is and grab the box of liquor and begin the trek. And yes, it was a trek. Also, everyone staring at my box of liquor all must have been Vegas first timers....come on people, you do some drinking there no matter who you are.

I finally made it up to the room and it was everything I imagined it would be...well, pretty much like you would think a suite would be...two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large living room area, a bar, and even a decorative artifact and some fake plants. Once in the room I saw D, Brian and Paul were awakening from naps and Danny was there too. I enlisted Darrell and Paul to come with me to my car for the 96 beers. And thus it was an epic journey. The about Row Q was it did not seem so bad walking towards it, especially empty handed, but the seemingly half marathon journey back with pounds of beer in coolers was not as fun. I guess I should have thought about it.

Back in the room, everyone else began to roll in, and the drinking began....and before the 12 of us went out that night all 96 beers were gone and a good deal of the liquor gone too. It was like whoa. Or something. Then our large gentlemenly crew headed down to Studio 54, the club in the MGM. And by gentlemenly, I mean we kindly would approach any group of women and say something extremely friendly. It was like watching National Geographic specials at times, but sometimes I was not sure if it was more one of the mating specials or one of the hunting ones, or one of the weird ones about insects.

Personally, I stayed in Studio 54 for about 45 minutes as the whole club scene only works so much for me, and plus when I notice that during my attempts at "dancing" if I am either falling over or pulling someone over with me, it might be time to stop the dancing, and the guys that just stand around at these places not dancing are actually a tad creepy. So I made the incredibly wise decision to go gamble. (and I know many are thinking...NO...you were so drunk you doubted your standing abilities and now you want to go throw around money???) But that's just the odd thing, for some reason I am pretty okay at blackjack...probably all those days of my youth playing with Dad for pretzels...sure I never stop soon enough when I am up, but I always be able to win some money. So I throw down my $100 at the $10 a hand table and began playing. I have no real strategy except to win...and most of the time I just would play the $10 hand, but sometimes I would feel it was time and throw out some random, way too large amount, like $260...and win. It was incredible. At one point I was up $1300 on my $100....but then I kept playing and playing and losing and losing....but by the time the dealer shut down the table, I had made it back up to $500...so I got a fine $500 chip and went back up to the room. That was nice.

The next day we wake up, we all start drunking before going to the pool then eventually head down. I went to cash out my winnings and told everyone else I would meet them poolside. However, I wanted to win some more....and stopped and played a little more 21 and won $100 more...which I decided was adequate. Then, the pool. Some stuff happened, it was crazy, it was ridiculous, there was beer flowing readily, everyone who walked by was spoken too, and so much of an impact was made that by Saturday at 6am a girl saw Brian and me and said "You were at the pool," here voice dripping of disdain. We were confused, but whatever. I left the pool a little before everyone else to...yes....go gamble. Long story short, I cashed out about an hour later with $1,100 worth of chips, and walked back up to the room beaming, and once there obviously gloated about my $1,000 chip and let see it and stuff. As I had only put down $100 of my money the previous night, I was pretty happy.

This was the night that was actually dedicated to Adam's bachelor party which Brian had setup...and he did a pretty damn good job...a strech Hummer limo was to pick us up, take us to a strip club, then later take us to Rain (or Pure...I am not really sure...some one word named uber-trendy club) where we would get to walk right in, which is tough for any large group of men to do in a Vegas club.

So, in a moment of hindsight being even better than 20/20 for something I should not have done, I went and cashed in my chips before we left on this escapade. I remember being very giving at the strip club for all in the group...and then we went to Rain/Pure/Whatever, I disliked it off the bat, got lost trying to leave The Palms for about 45 minutes, and the next morning, I had $3. I do know for sure I did not go gamble, because even when drunk, you remember doing that because it requires some focus and usually takes up some large periods of time. I made it back up to the room, where security had to let Adam and me in since we did not have keycards and we had to verify some objects in the room before they let us in....here was what I said, "I have a blue adidas bag straight ahead from the door....and ....and a Christopher Walken t-shirt in it! Yeah...Christopher Walken!...." They verified and let us in.

The next morning I went to use my "temporary" ATM card Citibank had furnished me upon opening my account, but for some reason they still had not gotten me the actual one I needed, and I discovered that good old temporary card had expired. So, no big deal. I know those cash advances on credit cards are foolish, so I was done gambling. Drinking was not a problem since we had so much liquor in the room...but then everyone enjoyed a fine laugh at my expense...or some disbelief. How had I spent $1200 in one night....the best theory was that some lucky cab driver got a great tip for resuing me from the Palms. But, at the very least, I only really lost $100...and even paid Brian $200 towards the room costs...

So, Saturday was yet another day down at the pool, although on this day we spent much more time in the party pool then the lazy river. And I must say things got a little out of control. But not for me. I wwas wasted alright, but every girl there was not putting up with me. Maybe because someone got the fun idea to tell some people that I was a Make a Wish recipient and that this was my wish, or maybe the fact that I was being loud and irreverent most of the time.

We left the pool and I was...ummm...decidedly tired. I passed out on the floor, at one point woke up shivering, then later woke up in a blanket, then later woke up in a bed, until finally I was ready for the world again around 3am....and ready to go out. So, Brian, Mike, Todd, Nick, Danny and myself were wandering around just looking for anything fun in the vicinity. The most we did was talk to some girls eating McDonald's in the food court for a while...and once I had another beer I realized I was literally full of beer and done drinking, and actually pretty tired...so by 7:30 we went back up to the room and things were done. And I finally realized I had the pleasure of driving home that day. Ouch.

Obviously many more things happened, but until I get my reality TV show, no one can really be too sure about what they are. But at least too many groups won't picket against me before then.

TIM's RULES OF LIFE 1-17 COMING LATER IN THE WEEK

BYAH

You and the captain make it happen

After the Cubs acquired Jason Kendall yesterday, and I read the many articles regarding this trade, and spoke to all my sports fiending friends, the general consensus was that the Cubs had made a decent upgrade from Rob "I'm Not a Real major League Baseball Player, I Just Play One on TV" Bowen and Koyie "Oh shit, my first name is Koyie and people unwittingly think I am a young catcher prospect when I am really 32" Hill, they were decidedly right. How unfortunate is it that when a team acquires a guy currently hitting .224 with no real pop left in his bat in a decidedly popless career, that there is some excitement? But, Kendall has been hitting a lot better since a dismal April, he was ranked #1 in catcher's ERA in baseball, and the National League has always been an easier league to hit in then the American. So, I am excited, especially to have a player who, in video games with old Pittsburgh Pirates teams I used to switch to #1 in the batting order.

As I continue to work on my first screenplay, I continue to, even as a person who speaks on numerous occasions everyday, struggle with writing dialogue in a more natural way. For some reason, I become like Kramer of Seinfeld fame when he is attempting to act and become decidedly unnatural and proper. None of my other writing comes out in proper English with good grammar and punctuation, yet when I shift to writing dialogue it is like my writing has had the Henry Higgins treatment. Here, look at this dialogue:

TIM: Oh no Logan! It seems we might be late for work! What are we going to do if we missed the entire meeting?

LOGAN: I am not quite sure, Tim. Maybe we can try using a different entrance entirely to the building!

This dialogue would work great if I were writing a "Choose Your Own Adventure" book, which I think were secretly written to force grammatical correctness and quick changing life dynamics on children (as well as the effects of consequences...how I always ended up getting caught by the police in the neighbor's basement no matter what Choose Your Own Adventure I ever read, I will never know). But I am trying to write one of those movies that on the surface sucks, is not critically acclaimed, but people love to watch and own, and eventually drinking games are invented to correspond with it. So, when I get out of the writing zone and have to go back and edit all the dialogue because it has a lame factor of approximately 12 on a 10 point scale, the process is quite arduous. I guess I should try speaking it out loud before I write it instead of afterwards.

This past weekend I took a rapid trip to Chicago to surprise some of my homies and to see as many as I could. It was a great time and I have already realized that Chicago and all its boasting about being such a great place is not really that far off. (It also might have something to do with the great number of friends I have there, but hey, many are FROM there....) That being said, I have begun more and more to think of this LA experience as just that, a grand experience, sort of like a study abroad trip within the country, where I am going to try and do as much as I can and accomplish what I feel like I need to accomplish, but at the end of the day being close to a multitude of friends and a quick drive away from my family might seem like a better place to be. And I know what you are thinking: "Isn't this some sort of harshly formed opinion when you have not even been in LA tha long?" "Have you been poisoned?" "Why was Ghostbusters 3 not as celebrated of a Nintendo game?"

-I am a man constantly engaged in thought about many things and there are not too many times I just chill out and stop thinking, and I think that this experience will be great and lend me many new perspectives, but at the same time this is not a crazily formed idea. But, I'm gonna ride it out and see what happens. Just like I don't want to choose at this moment what I do for my 30th birthday, that would not even make sense (as I am only 24).

-Nope, no poison that I know of.

-The world had already moved on to Super Nintendo and Sega and therefore even though Ghostbusters 3 really could have taken off on the Nintendo as it had so much more then its predecessor Ghostbuster Nintendo games, Sonic and NBA Jam had taken over in a significant way. (And no, I have no idea if there even was a video game for Ghostbusters 3, I'm just saying)

Leave some comments, and I'll leave you some comments, and then you can leave me some more, and then next thing you know we are married with a third child on the way. It's science.

Live every week like it's shark week

As Tracy Jordan of 30 Rock tells Kenneth the page, "Live every week like it's shark week." For those of you not familiar with shrak week, which I assume is no one, I will let you in on what shark week is: a week long worth of prime time programming on the Discovery channel devoted entirely to sharks. So, if you are into sharks, shark week is a big deal, I guess, and you live life all exictedly or something. My sister Eileen was really always the shark-o-matic lady in the fam, so I never really got fired up about them but still sometimes spout off her wisdom like, "Oh no, this water is far too cold for sharks." (Note: If you ever hear me say this, I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT. We might be about to venture into Tiger Shark infested waters in the Indian Ocean and I would say this to ease your mind. I always just looked at the pictures of sharks in her books, never really paid attention to the facts.)

As nbc.com offers pretty much all of their shows for viewing on your at home or local library terminal computer, they also have recognized the need for advertising during these programs. The thing is, it seems that the advertising techinique employed is that of brainwashing. Each 30 Rock episode, for instance, is split into 3 or 4 parts, and before each part loads, the same ad will air for that episode. By the 4th time I see the exact same Cingular commercial within a 20 minute period, I do feel semi-brainwashed and think to myself, "Man, Cingular really HAS been raising the bar." A few seconds later I find myself in a trance like state looking at Cingular cell phone plans, before I snap back to Earth and realize why I am with t-mobile, and it has very little to do with the 2 year contract extension I just got to get a phone for cheap (after losing my other one in a puddle while I was "napping" in my backyard), and much more to do with the fact that all contractholders get to, ya know, do as they please with company spokeswoman Catherine Zeta Jones (and it does take a moment to get over the whole Michael Douglas thing, this is true, but then you remember your cell phone bill and the lovely lady in front of you). All I can say is thank goodness nbc.com does not play cult propoganda during their shows.

After the freshly completed third week of work at my new job, I have decided, I am simply do not enjoy working. While some people might counter, "Tim, you need to find something you like," or "Tim, you have always been a good worker," or even, "Tim, eating raw bacon is not a good call." I hear you. But, I really would much rather be unemployed. And it is not a matter of motivation or a hatred of working, I really do not mind doing so, I would just rather not be doing it and instead sit around working on "screenplays" (reading Far Side cartoons). So, here are some Pro's and Con's of unemployment"

Pro:
Seldom set an alarm clock to wake up in the morning.

Con:
Lose sense of time on a day-to-day basis.

Pro:
Basketball shorts and a sleeveless shirt are acceptable attire.

Con:
Basketball shorts and a sleeveless shirt are acceptable attire. (I don't see many non basketball players wearing these clothes and getting a lot accomplished)

Pro:
Everyday, your own agenda.

Con:
No regular paycheck. Suddenly that daily agenda is a lot more limited.

So, as you can see, there are the plusses and negatives, and I only hope to either a) steal all of the gold from Scrooge Mc Duck's room of gold or b)marry a really rich older woman on the threshold of death. Or I guess invent Jell-O or something. Although I guess since I wrote that sentence that someone beat me to the punch with that invention.

Oh well, it is what it is. The first screenplay is finally in progress. That being said, if I could focus more of my time to this writing craft, and until I get better at it, living in California works just about as well as living in Chicago, Canada, or Madagascar...it's all about devoting the time. (just kidding about that Canada part...that would suck balls). I am glad I have come to that realization, and maybe if I can have some discipline, I can move somewhere cheaper and with less consistent weather (really this day after day sameness is freaking me out).

HOLLA

Even the milk turns chocolatey.....fuck yeah

As I spend another delightful night sitting around doing such fun activities as: eating baby carrots, watching episodes of 30 Rock, reading every word on espn.com, researching Peru while on the phone with Melissa (don't ask), trying to make my back forget I have been sleeping on couches for the last month, drinking water, pondering life in the Arctic circle, and researching how hair grafts work, I constantly have to remind myself of my mantra. "You chose this life. You chose this life. You chose this life. You chose this life." And even I must admit after the sixth time of saying it or so, it makes me laugh, because hey, when you repeat any word or phrase it just starts to sound like made up. E.T. style alient talk.

I have been doing some writing, and reading about writing, and watching youtube videos about writing, and learning Braille so that I can feel about writing, and listening to written works as read by former Cheers castmembers (if you get a chance, pick up The Stand as read by George Wendt((you know him as Norm!)) so that I can try and find my muse so that I might too write something other than a blog read by somewhere in the ballpark of 12.7 people (Actually I have no science to apply to knowing how many) and wonder why no one has offered me some cash up front to write a pilot or something. Then I figured it out: while I am in fact, pretty goddamned funny, I need a lot of people based humor...witty, sarcastic verbal barbs tossed into conversation, jabs about other people that are around, commentary on commentaries...that kind of stuff. That being said, I am not saying the fountain has run dry and I have nothing to write about. The fountain is actually needing of a larger bucket and some sort of disinfectant for the ladle everyone uses to get the water out of said bucket, since I have 24 years of life experiences and characters.

Today at work, for the first time ever in my life, I had a thought of a joke that could be used in some sort of standup act. And, since I do not foresee a standup act ever being my sort of thing, I thought I could go ahead and share my "bit" with you:

(while dressed semi-normal, yet with something ridiculous on, like some denim chaps)
"You know one of the things I always most looked forward to about being a standup? Dressing like a hobo who lived near an outlet mall that discarded haute fashions....You know what I'm talking about...remember that multi-colored number Sinbad always used to wear? And heaven forbid you get a special on HBO...think Chris Rock....ultra-shiny suit. When is ANY...and I mean ANY other occasion when you would glance in your closet and say, 'Man, I should totally pull out those denim chaps.'.......(points down) Ooooohhh yeahhhhh. I guess everyone says this (points down again, disgustedly) is how stadups seperate themselves. Grand. A guy with crappy jokes and a feather boa hookup is going to take over."

Reading it, pretty okay. But that is why I am not forcing my hand and trying out standup. Especially with a one lame joke routine.

Alright, I will bless everyone in the next couple days with some actual humor.

"Great Mint Taste" (Check)

Sometimes I wonder about these brilliant large corporations and their packaging genius. Logically, I have an example. (Although it would be funnier if I wrote a blog with a bunch of broad open-ended statements that offered no explanation, citations, or anything related to the thought.) I was looking at a tube of Colgate toothpaste and there was a checkbox on the back next to the extremely fucking excited words "GREAT MINT TASTE!", and the box was checked. Why a checkbox? Would they want to admit the mint taste was less then stellar and leave this box unchecked? I just do not understand this one.

Some other examples of packaging I do not understand:

1)The current "no trans fat" rage. I don't even know what the fuck a trans fat is. But I know when I see it on things like potato chips and wheels of cheese, and see it on a KFC commercial, I do not suddenly think "Wow, self, this food must be fuckin HEALTHY now. This will be all I eat. That and toothpaste, but as long as the mint box is checked."

2) Unrelated foods with recipes on them for something else. The other day I bought a loaf of bread, obviously for the bread purposes (sandwiches, toast, sexual deviancy, etc.) but did not even realize until I got home that I also had grilling recipes for various types of chicken, and an APPLE PIE RECIPE!!! Did either of these mention use of the bread? Of course not. The kind bread benefactors just wanted to make sure I enjoy chicken and apple pie.

3)Laundry detergents talking about their "BOLD NEW MOUNTAIN FRESH AROMA!" What the fuck does that mean? Am I going to smell like I live at the timber line in the Rockies? Or will my shit just smell clean? Brawny paper towel man or not homeless? As long as my clean clothes do not smell somewhere in between Pine-Sol and death that works for me.

So in this last week of homelessness, I have been living with new friends Zed (yeah, that's right...the letter Z in French....a pretty badass name if you ask me. I personally think while his endeavors into the philosophical world are to be admired, he could totally be a spy...or a ninja or something) and Meredith in their Venice bungalow. It is a sweet little place, complete with a tiny little garden area, some rooms and whatnot, and canadian people across the way. Unfortunately, they are moving out and already promised the place to someone else, but if not it would have been the nest home search ever to just move in here....hell, they are even selling the moajority of their furniture. But the fact that I have been staying here just totally holds the power of networking in perfect place. Follow this diagram if you might:

TIM--->DEREK (roommate at 742 met on craigslist)--->ELIOT(Derek's friend)----->ZED+MEREDITH(Eliot's Homes)---->JESSICA (new roommate, friend of Meredith)

So, just by creepily finding a roommate for 742 on craigslist, I fell into my new housing situation, made some friends and learned how to make chicken from a loaf of bread.

On the movie/TV/haiku writing front, I am pregnant with ideas. But unlike writing this crap, I am not really sure that you just sit down for a few minutes let your mind vomit onto the screen, don't edit, spell check, or do anything else and let it be done. You have to follow a story, develop characters, avoid actual vomit on the computer (from all the drinking you do to be creative), and steer clear of ethnic slurs for an entire script. Tough burdens, right? I will let you in on my first attempt at a movie script:

THE AWAKENING

(camera pans out ((is that where it like pulls out?)) on two ((or three? would three be better?)) skeletons fighting over a bucket of chicken and a slim jim)

That was it. Then I tired of the creative process. Or I was not writing a movie about skeletons fighting over chicken or slim jims. I don't foresee myself getting into the horror genre, seeing as every scary movie (including spoofs Scary Movie 1,2, and 3) that I have seen in the last 24 years has made me pee in my pants. Once I just had to go to the bathroom more than I knew at the time, but the other times I had urine frightened out of me. I guess I will just have to stick to what I know when I am writing: sportscenter cliches, the movie Blue Streak, and slang terms for sex acts. (Blue Streak II totally needs to be written. I know the greatest film ever needs a sequel)

BYAH!

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.

I’m Looking The Most Jewish I Have Ever Looked

So, one week is on the books of this “Cal-eye-forn-eye-a” grand experiment. And unlike when I last wrote about how I had a “job”, I now actually have a job. Like, a real one, where you show up for 40 hours a week and are appropriately compensated for doing so. Not one where you show up on occasion, work for a smelly lady who makes shitty, healthy, cookies (oxymoron anyone?) and then are promptly terminated for not looking at an entertainment center. But, I am still watching myself, like a angry vigilante watches over whomever he might be busy vigilante-izing, to assure I avoid being a total flake, which was thankfully pointed out for me by a smelly organic cookie woman (why does roughly 78% of my life sound fictional? Is character development really just a matter of getting these people on paper accurately?).

Some observations thus far:

z) According to two separate receptionists, I must be Jewish. I can only assume that they were Jewish themselves and inquiring to make sure they were keeping it in the faith. Because aside from the cheerios which are now beginning to abundantly sprout atop my head, I don’t think I have any other typical stereotypical Jewish appearance or mannerisms (normal sized nose, I did nothing stingy, I gratuitously ate pork products in their presence while mixing dairy and meat, etc.)(I’m just playing friends). I had to let them down softly and inform them that I was in fact part of a cult that worships the Kool-Aid man.

7) Some of these L.A. people are fruity as they come. There is no way around it. They are like a freshly stocked produce department at Whole Foods.
LMCXVIII) Having the beach nearby is about as awesome as finding two rare albino pandas getting it on your backyard, you know, since they are all endangered and never want to make babies, and the albino thing would make them even rarer. Which means cash money. Don’t mind the fact that they are bears, just get them some more bamboo, scented candles, and get the fuck out of the way, you inglorious prick.

11011100) Wearing the t-shirt I am currently wearing, which features a picture of Christopher Walken atop skull and crossbones and says “Fear the Walken”, may in fact be the best single way to meet people. I went down to the promenade in Santa Monica this evening and no less 15 people commented on either my shirt, Christopher Walken himself, some combo thereof, or the political consequences of having a lady president. It only could have been better if the Walken man himself would have seen me. Now that would have been a tale. Because I do not really fear him, so much as think he is awesome.

405) The 405 freeway should be eradicated, or merely recognized for what it is, which is the world’s first North/South parking lot. Also, people make fun of you for calling those roads of fast travel “expressways”. They also make fun of you for not doing yoga, getting massages, or eating organically. Then I in turn make fun of them for some general fact about their appearance (like their hunchback..alright so I have yet to ever get made fun of by someone with a hunchback, but if I do…look out hunchbacky), or their deaf cousin. When they say they don’t have a deaf cousin, I usually resort to a tale about myself and the person’s Mother. That’ll show them to make fun of me.

iii) Everyone here seems to be in the “business”. That is why I eagerly avoid mention of the fact that I have up to seven times made people laugh before, and once even achieved this with something I wrote, or that I have plans of aiming for a second or third time while I am out here. That way the only business I get caught up in is when I accidentally realize I am a major kingpin in a prostitution ring, when the whole time I thought I was just setting people up and due to the success of the relationships people were then paying me money.

AAA) People in Los Angeles are evidently quite into living beyond their means. A movie is $10.75 (so if you are a lady and I take you to a movie and pay for you, you are doing okay for yourself. Actually, that holds true anywhere, but here movies are evidently gold. Which makes very little sense, as it is not like they have to ship them anywhere), single bedroom apartments on the Westside are crazy expensive, everyone loves shopping at Whole Foods, and I went up to someone to ask them a question the other day, and they automatically (and correctly I guess) assumed I was homeless and gave me $5. So, naturally I did not ask them anything.

Well, Now I am Just Homeless

So, as one the luckier people around, I did fall into a part time accounting job in my first full day in the Los Angeles area. At least someone called it luck, I call it more or less that four years of accounting firm experience that looks extremely desirable to someone looking for a semi mentally disabled bookkeeper. I can definitely play that role, and with great ease I might add.

But yesterday was not all (umm…flowers and candy? I cannot think of two things to pair here…) escargot and garlic butter…ewww…ummm Fun Dip and candy stick…(eureka!). After finding out about my employ, I began more intensely looking for a place to live. At first I had this glossy eyed dream of getting my own place, but then I realized “Hey! That costs a lot of money, you dirty hobo!”. Soon after I began looking on craigslist for people looking for roommates…so I found a guy, and with the chiding of my new found friends I made at Starbucks, I was encouraged to contact this man since he lived in an excellent neighborhood. I did so, and within an hour I was over at his place.
As I walked in I immediately knew that this was not the “BEDROOM AVAILABLE IN AWESOME TWO LEVEL APARTMENT WITH GREAT AMENITIES!!!”. It was a crappy little place with dirty carpet, odd furniture and fixtures, and an odd 35 year old man from Wisconsin who looked and acted far too much like a creepy Gary Busey (yes…a creepy one…not even normal Gary Busey). This guy had shifty eyes, no sense of humor, his 1985 Nordic Track (my kind natured ribbing about it being 2007 nearly drove him to kill me), and the ability to probably have killed me without anyone knowing where I was. At the end of my “tour” (awkward glances around the rooms, me looking for places to escape) he said he just had three questions to ask me before I left.
GB: So, you don’t smoke right?
TCR: Nope, I don’t.
GB: It’s fine if you do (motions at ceiling for no reason), you just have to do it outside. Question two, do you do drugs?
TCR: Again, that’s a…
GB: (interrupts) I mean if you want to smoke dope and come back here, that’s fine, just don’t do it on my property…well, my landlord’s property. Thirdly…no gay hot sex anywhere on the premises
TCR: (picking up jaw off floor) Really I don’t plan on having gay hot sex anywhere
GB: (extending hand for handshake) Well, I think you are looking like a prime candidate (for what???)
TCR: (shifting nervously, eyeing door) Ummm…thanks. (Things I should have said: I think I might give up this dream and move home. I was thinking about suicide too…so umm yeah, talk to you never)

After that I was not entirely sure I wanted to live with anyone, but by the end of the night I had checked out an awesome place in Brentwood with some cool guys who lived there…they have many people to choose from…I just hope I stuck out enough in their minds with my witty banter/racial slurs/magic tricks/ omelette making.

So, my job is a QuickBooks job I do out of someone’s house. And as if L.A. people were not centrally driven toward the fruity mean in the first place, this woman’s business is making organic cookies and selling them to fru fru stores like Whole Foods…she had awful body odor and a desire to pay me $18/hour for 20 hours a week and thought I was great…and hilarious…which is always a start. If I can meet everyone here, maybe the same impact will be felt throughout. Actually though I am pretty sure that most of the time she did not realize my humor was actually mocking her, but whatever works.
This weekend the main goals are finding a place to leave and showing off my muscle less, pale body down at the beach. The real daytime drama everyone has been waiting for. Also everyone here keeps calling me a writer, but until that is what I get paid to do I would just like to get called a “liver” (not like the organ…I do far less filtering) or “survivor” (not like the TV show, I am way more awesome). Don’t paint me with your brushes.

Oh man Oh man

To ruin all excitement, yes, I have arrived in Los Angeles. “The City of Angels”, “Where the Angels Used to Play Before they Moved Nowhere but Somehow became ‘of Anaheim’”, “The Place Where that Rodney King Shit Went Down”. As the Tupac song title said, “To Love and Die in LA”, well I aspire to do pretty much 100% living, and 0% dying, but even the best laid plans fail from time to time I guess. More on this LA shizzle in a bit.

-There was a city I encountered by way of road sign on my recent journey, I believe in Nebraska, called “Waukee”. I half thought I should stop there and let the city council know of their new tourist program and slogan (all the while charging them some grand, grand fee, either money or a large number of hamsters). “Come to Waukee…less Mila, more Waukee”. Alright, so that sucks. Give me a break. The only human to human contact I have had the last few days have been with people at gas stations, Subways, and hotel desk front counters. Had I bounced this idea off an actual person I knew, they would have told me how stupid I sounded for sure. Enough of your lip.
- I heard the Stevie Wonder song, “Isn’t She Lovely?” Ummm, Stevie, you are blind. Should the song not have been “Is She Lovely???” The lyrics could have been appropriately changed to “Is she lovely? Because I think she’s wonderful.” If he wanted to keep it with “Isn’t she lovely”, he should have lyrically worked into the song how long he spent feeling her face, and how compared to the countless others he had felt, she was definitely lovely.

Here are the grades for all the states I drove through:
Illinois(D) - I was basically familiar with the area I drove through in Illinois, but the weather was AWFUL. The rain was so bad at one point that I could see barely five or so feet in front of my car. And the terrain is fairly boring.
Iowa (C+)- Yet another state which offers very little to look at in terms of terrain, BUT as I mentioned previously, there were about seven cute girls at my gas station stop in Des Moines, which must count for something. Also, slight kudos to Iowa for offering wireless internet…but at rest stops. We all know what goes on at rest stops, or the stereotype…and it is something besides bathroom breaks (at least according to There’s Something About Mary). Had I been further from home and thinking someone needed to contact me by way of the internet, I for sure would have tried to access this internet from my car.
Nebraska (C-)- Someone in Nebraska should start a hooker farm alongside the road or something. It would be a welcome sight after looking at all that corn and livestock, not to even mention the putrid odor. The one redeeming quality was the surprisingly cool downtown Lincoln, which moved around crazier then that Bacardi mojito commercial. Luckily for me, I am not cool, and sat in my hotel room watching TV and fiddling around online. Plus I remembered all that unemployed stuff. Every dollar I spend is a dollar less that I have. No, no, no…I guess that is how it always is, what I meant is that the money supply is not going back up yet.
Colorado (A-)- Wow. Now I understand why my parents moved to this state for a little while to make a couple awesome children (me and my big sissuh). Actually, no I am not sure they ever really explained what they were doing out there…I might have to ask. But after all the flat terrain of Iowa and Nebraska, Colorado was definitely like whoa. The Rockies were crazy, the driving was actually interesting- large mountainous, curvy climbs followed by down grades of up to 7% where truck drivers would freak out because they were all of a sudden going way too fast…then I would glance at my speed and realize I was going way too fast as well.
Utah (D-)- The scenery is nice, but there is nothing here. Is this really where God wanted the Mormons to settle, Joseph Smith? Well then maybe you should have actually settled it.
California (C-) – It was all windy and shit and boring until I hit LA (no, I am not bored of writing about driving, why would that seem like a boring topic. Silly.)

My first night here come and gone, it was okay. Naturally I felt a little anxious seeing as I had actually arrived and had very little clue as to where to go or who to turn to, but then I remembered it was 2007 and Eileen was able to come through with some internet aid and Paul’s friend who he knows out here, I was able to find an okay hotel in a safe neighborhood. Now I sit in a Starbucks in Culver City, CA, right across the street from Sony Pictures Studios, basking in the mid 70’s sunlight, looking at the people walking by, applying for jobs and looking for potential places to live (dumpsters, old refrigerator boxes, clown cars). If anything I am the homeless person around here with some of the nicest possessions.

Homeless and Unemployed

Strangely my google search of "homeless and unemployed college graduates" returned very few results, BUT I am going to go out on a limb and say that from this time last week, when I had a job and a roof over my head, to my current status of having no job and no home, I have jumped into a very small percentile. A bracket so small, it is like the empty set.

This past weekend was my last in Chicago for a while, and while it was a great time, the end was so bittersweet. Although I know it is not the actual "end", since I am not going on a Kevorkionic journey, but rather moving away. It did not really hit me until I was saying goodbye to all my close friends how sad it makes me to leave them...it would really have been much kinder of all of them to simply come with me. No big deal for anyone, right?

As today was the first day of this cross country drive, I got to drive through some exciting places...Iowa "We've Got Corn....eh, Fuck You" and Nebraska "We're Boring so You Don't Have to Be". Some of the highlights of my Iowa drive:

- I accidentally listened to a Christian Rock station for like 20 minutes
-I got a full tank of gas for $34
- The gas stations were mainly called "Kum and Go" (what would be a dirty joke with that as the punchline? answer at the end)
- Des Moines, Iowa is full of cute girls, stopping at convenience stores to peruse Starburst

The only place I stopped in Iowa was to get gas at the Kum and Go in Des Moines. Here I experienced the ugly underbelly of Des Moines- a fairly plain looking man going around from garbage can to garbage can collecting cans. Someone even walked over to him and offered him cans from their car. I avoided eye contact with him and gave him my full can of Red Bull to avoid confrontation, since I knew he would want the valuable aluminum.

On the road I passed many of those trucks marked "Oversized Load" or "Wide Load". 90% of these have these tiny houses on them- just as long as a semi truck and a tad wider. I really do not understand who is moving these houses around. Do people really think, "Our house is so nice, we better throw it on a truck and move it wherever we live next? There definitely will not be any fine rectangular , one story homes the next place we live." I understand I am a huge idiot and this is not the real reason these fine "mansion like" homes are on the move, but do not let me know the real reason (at least not publicly, just fire me an e-mail at tradway@hotmail.com)

I am currently sitting in my ballin ass 11th floor room in dowtown Lincoln, Nebraska enjoying the internet access, fine view, and thinking about finding some food to eat soon. When I arrived here, a positive, hopeful about the future traveler, I thought about wandering to grab a beer at one of the nearby "hotspots" (Read: a bar that may or may not have over three types of beer and A LOT of corn based products), now I am unsure about this plan. I just remembered I am homeless and unemployed and therefore public is awkward, I have to ask for change, wear tattered clothes, smell odd (since I have yet to shower form my day in the car, I actually have this one handled), and dig through garbage cans for food.

Answer (to dirty joke punchlined above): What do you call it when a man goes to a woman's house for sex and then leaves directly afterwards?

Talk to you again soon, home slices.

Satan Laughing Spreads His Wings

Everyone loves a little Ozzy Osbourne. Except radical fundamentalist Christians, people who inexplicably listen to only country music, people who do not speak English, animal rights groups, people who have been pooed or peed on by the Ozzman himself (unless they are into that), people who earn their livelihood working for another death metal/rock artist, and people who are not fans of Satan or cursing. Like I said, everyone.

The reason I bring this up is that if a man who has bitten the head off a dove, has a nickname like "The Prince of Darkness", has been to rehab umpteen times, and speaks in a incomprehendable voice, can become popular by way of MTV reality programming, I only imagine what such an opportunity could do for myself and my friends.

-None of us have been to rehab (yet)
-None of us have eaten any living creatures (I did swallow a tiny plastic ninja once)
-None of us have Satanic nicknames
-Aside from the occasional drunken slurred speech, we speak audibly and clearly.

Our antics are most certainly reality TV worthy, and I could assure MTV execs would only become better if being entertaining and having fun were our sole foci. For instance, I will mention some of the things that happened last Saturday to Paul and me:

-Went to a party where we knew no one
-Got into a pushup contest in front of the Cubby Bear with a man who played semi-pro basketball in Turkey, thus infuriating him
-Were asked later at the party "if we knew, like, everyone" (the power of nicknames, high fives, and good communication skills with strangers)
-Got kicked out of Taco Bell

All of these things happened sans camera crew, and without the additional push of being paid to be entertaining. Make it happen MTV.

The other day I happened to be on a channel that was showing the weather forecast for this upcoming weekend and as they showed angry, menacing dark clouds with jagged yellow lightning bolts coming out of them, I was immediately filled with distaste for this prediction and changed the channel, acting as if changing the channel would, in fact, affect the outcome of the weather this weekend.

I only wish that this were possible. Imagine the effects: Your favorite team loses a game? Change the channel before the highlight clip is over. The result is bound to be different. So, everyone can thank me for the sunny beauty we are sure to see this weekend.

The other day when I was riding downtown, I was sitting next to a particularly chatty child who was talking to his Mom about his evident prowess in well, everything. The child had to be no more than four years old, and sometimes I wish that word and number understanding, even for adults, would never surpass the logic of a four year old child. Allow me to explain:

-At one point he turned to his Mom, sighing, and said, "We have been riding this train for ten thousand billion minutes. I can run like 700 times faster than this train."

Thus proving that the fictional number of "ten thousand billion" is probably less than "700".

I magine being at work and your boss asks you how long you have been there already that day and you could respond "eight hundred trillion fafillion days"...there's no way he is then not sending you home early.

Another helpful facet of this would be that my accounting job would be totally moot. Jibberish numbers=Very little reason to try and analyze said numbers. Especially when guesstimation and approximation came into play.

Kids are funny, and one could be on our reality show.

Blah Blah Blah....

Some reasons why you should not:

1) Be a sportswriter/caster and give in to using the same stupid cliches as everyone else.
For example, the phrase "drink the kool-aid" that is being used in sports that has been mentioned in this space many times for its sheer oddity/stupidity/general all around weirdness, I have discovered a new phrase that baseball writers have been using to describe pitchers..."bulldogs", as in, "I love Roy Oswalt, he is a real bulldog on the mound."

Let's see what wikipedia says about bulldogs:

"The temperament of the English Bulldog is generally docile, friendly and gregarious..."

"The bulldog is a relatively small but stocky breed, with a compact body and short, sturdy limbs. Its shape results in a waddle-like gait..."

So, what exactly are they saying about these pitchers? Why not just call them "poodles on the mound"?

So, why should you not stick to using these phrases if you are in sports?

a) You begin to sound just like every other idiot using the same phrase. If something like comparing basketball players to classic ballet acts became popular, would everyone do it?
b) At the very least, find a fierce dog to compare your MLB pitchers to, say, a rottweiler. Also find a non cult related non mass suicide to indicate uncertainty about a players future.
c)You just sound dumb. Seriously, I get mad when I read these silly analogies.

2) Tell your Chicago area friends who are Cubs fans you are going to a Sox game/Sit in the same sun exposure within four days:

a)In Chicago people seem to think that the Cubs and Sox are bitter rivals. Funny, because I always thought that the Cubs rivals were the Cardinals and the Sox had their own rivals in the...ummm...someone. The Cubs and Sox began playing 6 (out of 162) games a year 11 years ago...that is not a rivalry. If someone were to call you up and offer the following options:

"Stay at work, indoors, and sober" OR "Sit outside in beautiful weather, drinking beer, watching sports" what is the choice 100% of the time?

My slightly dumb friend Mike said going to a Sox game as a Cubs fan would be akin to a Bears fan cheering for the Packers...once again...they are actual rivals who hate each other and are in the same division.

b)Bryce has recently aquired centerfield season tix for the Sox and due to the exposure it gets during day games, the left side of my neck and face look as if I have been in a tropical locale. So you should try and vary this kind of stuff up to end up with far less of an odd look.

3) Tell people you are moving away: (I mean obviously you should tell people about this, but I have some reasons why not too)

a) People will invariably question your sanity when you tell them of your lack of future planning. Having your sanity questioned gets a little lame after a while.

b) People will invariably then whine about you leaving. While touching, I have to continually explain I am not dying, merely moving away for a little while. I am not going to abandon you like your Dad did when you were three.

c) Everyone then wants to hang out with you a lot more. Not like you have been around for the last six years and had nothing to do plenty of times.

4) Ever eat a burrito place where the name translates to "Good Day Burritos":

a)The next day will not be a good day....for your digestive system.

Dear Ed

For this week's reading pleasure (and by pleasure I mean, you might not want to read this unless you are in some way mentally altered, whether by drug, drink, or eating a bunch of frozen hot dogs the past few minutes) I am writing a letter to a family "friend", Ed K, or E. Kithcart (for anonymity purposes) six months from now. Let me give you some Ed 411.

Ed is a man I have known my entire life by virtue of the fact that my Mom has been friends with Ed's wife since they were in grade school. These two women forged a strong bond in their youth by way of various underage illegal activities (drinking, driving, drinking and driving, petty theft, vargrancy, extortion...etc.) and remain friends to this day. Where Ed was found, or in what backwards society he was raised, I really have no answer.

The reason I wish to write Ed this letter, at an imagined six months in the future, is that he is one of the more loathsome people you might get stuck to having a conversation with at a party-ever.

At this past weekends Derby party, he asked me about my upcoming move to LA, then when bidding me farewell, threw out in his gravelly, hick voice "See ya Tim, watch our for them homos."

I heard of another conversation where someone was speaking of having done some sort of acting work in the Louisville area of Shelbyville, and all Ed had to add was, "Do you speak Mexican? Ain't nothin but Mexicans out there."

So this and many other reasons are the reasons for this letter (plus it will be balls out funny...and one other time when I was like 9 we went to their house for dinner, and he made stupid trick hamburgers that actually had cheese, onions, and mushrooms in the middle of them...I hate you for that Ed).


11-10-07

Dear Ed,

How have things been going? Things have been going okay for me out here in L.A., although I wish I would have heeded your warning about the homos out here...they are more numerous than all those goddamn beaners in Shelbyville (don't they know no one understands them???), and more than a couple of times, I have been heterosexually chatting to a lady only for her to try and introduce me to her "male friends". Don't worry, I knew they were homos and not just friendly men. Thanks for your warning again.

That's another thing about L.A., all these people going around speaking Mexican. What did George Washington talk? NOT MEXICAN!!!

Luckily as a hetero male, I have achieved some level of success out here (you might say with all these homos out here, I was guaranteed success...just like a new burrito stand would be in Shelbyville!) and hope to continue this line of success.

That being said, what do you think of Indians (dot or feather, I am open to discussion)?

I am glad to find a like minded individual with whom I can share this open rapport.

Tim

PS: What do you call a little Mexican?

A paragraph, because he's not quite an essay!


Well, hopefully that lends some idea of Ed to the world. My Uncle Chris actually declared that the winner of the May 26th UFC battle between Brian and I gets to beat up Ed next year. Even though, beyond beating up, I have dreams of a locked in a room together convo between Proctor and Ed....a man can dream.

WORD UP

"You just said I live a squishy, soft, Nerf life"

As I mentioned in yesterday's post, I spent a great deal of time at the airport last Friday. And I had the "honor" of watching people, and then making casual asinine observations about them and trying to use whatever ability it is that is used to let them know what I am thinking. (Also, yes, work has been a little slow. Who cares? Everyone is the beneficiary the way I see it.)

Here are some of the highlights of my airport waiting experience:

1)Woman, who generally looked bitchy, wearing a black sweatshirt with the simple scrawl on it reading "vegan.". Ok, thanks for letting me know about that you angry, meatless, poultryless woman. If I had should happen to run into some tofu oddly shaped into meat form (think McRib), I'll be sure to toss it your direction. And previously I had thought Vegans were friendly people. And also, I should have asked her where she got her sweatshirt so I could have gotten my "omnivore." sweatshirt. Did you ever notice how people react when they are told that someone is a vegetarian or vegan? Why don't those of us that readily enjoy eating some dead cow get such a reaction? Where is this land? Awww shit, it might be L.A.

2)A man sitting next to me pulled out his laptop, plunked on his glasses, and I was almost sure he was going to be reading something. Instead what does he do? Throws Waterboy in the DVD player and starts laughing away. Don't mistake me, I think Waterboy is a good movie, but I do not think I have ever watched it on purpose with the exception of the very first time I ever saw it. I just would never (first of all, never put on glasses to watch a movie) pull out Waterboy as my DVD of choice to pass time.

3)An old man sitting near me, during the seven hours of waiting, ate not one, but TWO double quarter pounder with cheese meals pre-flight. I said several prayer like incantations (curse words) and luckily this man was not seated anywhere near me in flight. Because I have noticed old people have no regard, or very little, for holding in any explosions of flatulence. And, like babies, it makes them coo and giggle a little bit, but more because it smells like death then due to the fact that they feel relieved.

4)Our gate was directly next to the "Fox Sports Zone". Normally, had I had further money then the meager amount on my person, I would have been there having fun and not at all concerned about time. Instead I sat at the gate. When I walked past the bar at 10:30 am, it was empty. When I walked past at noon, there was a full fledged euro dance party going on. It was pure lunacy. Unfortunately I did not wear my trendy club clothes (all velvet, all the time) to hang out at this bar in the airport. I am such an idiot.

In an earlier e-mail conversation with my friend Mike, he mentioned how his eight month pregnant boss had said some comment about how the doctor had told her to spread her legs, and he had (not so) wittily then thrown out, "Isn't that what got you in this mess in the first place?" So, without further ado, I bring you the Top 5 things to say to a very pregnant woman (if you want to get slapped, or should she be armed, shot)

5) "Maybe if you drink during pregnancy, the baby will actually have a chin, unlike you."

4) "While you're up, wanna grab me something to drink? And maybe move your fatass out of the way of the TV?"

3) "So do you think the baby will represent all of the 60 pounds you have put on? That would be a huge baby."

2) Print out the "babies are stupid" article here. Hand it to her.

http://www.physics.mcgill.ca/~arobic/funny/babies.html

1) "How many episodes of Maury do you think it will take to find the father?"

Thank you, thank you very much. By the way, I noticed my commenter has stopped commenting. Please come back.