Special Guest Kvetch

From the crabbily maturing mind of my younger brother, Ryan:


Almost every day I drive past an electronic billboard that displays, in real time, the current wait at the local ER; never have I seen it less than 100 minutes. 


Correct me if I am wrong, but I was under the assumption that if I have a big enough emergency to warrant a visit to an emergency room, I would be seen more immediately than an hour and 40 minutes later. Is the point of this billboard to prepare me for a lengthy wait if, later in the day, I start vomiting uncontrollably, or suffer a compound fracture and have my tibia jutting through my leg? And if, heaven forbid, that did happen, would I really be forced to sit in a waiting room while I coat everything and everyone around me in regurgitation or spill blood for over an hour and a half? 


Maybe the billboard is supposed to be some sort of deterrent so people don't go to the emergency room for something minor. However, I have never heard of someone going to the ER and waiting around that long to be treated for a slight cough or bruised knee, especially when they could just as easily go to an urgent care facility and, most likely, be seen faster and for much cheaper. 


Don't get me wrong, I understand there are waits in emergency rooms sometimes; I've personally experienced it. I also get that a wait may be unavoidable on some less life threatening occasions. But is it really benefitting anyone by wasting space and energy to let citizens know of the length of time they will have to wait? If one has to go to the ER, they're gonna go.

ESPNo!!!

Dear ESPN.com,

When you put loud, abrasive advertisements on EVERY single article you have, that I then have to immediately scramble to shut off - especially if I'm, like, on the phone or something - it makes it less and less likely I will continue to go to your website.

Please discontinue this practice immediately. Don't make me turn away from the thing I love most.

KK

D&B: Epilogue

Forgot to mention: after I got the mug, I was walking out, and I passed by that security guard. I held it up and winked at him. "How'd you get that?" he asked, immediately concerned.

"What do you mean? I took it."

"You TOOK IT???" He started walking over to me.

I laughed. "Come on, man. Of course not. You really think if I stole this, I would come over here and tell you that I stole it?"

He busted up. We hi-fived, and I left.

D&B

Tonight I went to a birthday party at a Dave & Buster's, which for those of you unfamiliar, is a funzone: restaurant, bar, arcade.

I had my meal, went and played some skee-ball, then decided I was ready to go. So I took the prize tickets I had won to the little gift shop, selected a miniature mug I thought was cool, and took it to the counter to pay for it.

Thereupon, I was told I didn't have enough tickets to get the mug. It cost 270 tickets, and I only had 95.

"Okay," I said. "So how much money should I give you to make up the difference?"

I was then informed they didn't take money. Only tickets.

After a bit of a back and forth, I was asked if I'd like to speak to a manager. I said yes, in fact I would.

So a sharply dressed man comes out, shakes my hand, and asks what the problem is. I tell him I'd like to buy this little mug. He says you can't buy it unless you have enough tickets.

"Let me get this straight," I said. "You will not accept American money for this mug? How much could the tickets I don't have possibly be worth? Two dollars? Are you serious?"

"That's correct, sir."

"Well," I said. "I don't have another two hours to go play skee-ball and win tickets. So how about I just hand you $10 right now, and I'll walk out with this mug."

"I can't do that, sir. It's a strict policy."

I looked at him. "Really?" I asked. "It's a strict policy that you'll accept nothing besides worthless tickets, as opposed to actual money, for all the trinkets you have in this store?"

"That's correct sir."

I stared at him. Then I picked up the little mug from the counter. "What if I just walk out with this right now?"

"Then I'll have that security guard tackle you," he said, nodding towards a burly gentlemen.

 I looked over at said security guard. "Well, I don't want that," I admitted. "Tell you what. I'll be back. And I'm going to win those tickets and get this mug."

"All right. Good luck, sir."

I went back and started playing skee-ball again, but eventually just went and found a girl who gave me her tickets. And I got the little mug.

This country astounds me sometimes.

3 Articles

Just read three editorials in The Week, and had profoundly different visceral reactions about each of them in a very short time span. So I'm venting, because it's cathartic. Don't feel obligated to read.

Here are the basic gists:

"Liberals who once accused Bush of "shredding the Constitution" give Barack Obama far more leeway in fighting the war on terrorism..." - NY Times

Oh, really? There's a small difference between getting your but patted down a bit more at the airport, and monitoring everybody's phone calls while you bomb the everloving shit out of a country based on stuff you make up.

"Couldn't these young men (al Qaida members) use their creative energies to start new businesses and help the Arab world's sagging economies? Why don't they emulate the entrepreneurial Israelis...?" - NY Post

Amen, sister.

"Many young people spend much of their time e-mailing, texting, and tweeting online 'friends' about such effluvium as what they ate for lunch or what movie they saw last night...there's the future for you. One in which words are abundant, but exist mainly to express the trivial and the transitory." - LA Times

Wow. Could you sound any more like an Andy Rooney-esqe old crank? Did it ever occur to you that this technology you detest actually brings people closer together? I'm sure you hated those whole phonograph and telephone revolutions too.

Gotta Love the Regis

I just screamed at a guy off my balcony because he was being obscenely loud. He yelled back some very rude things. I asked him if he wanted to fight. He said sure. He gave me his apartment number.

I went down there, ended out hanging out with him and his friends. He's actually pretty cool.

Driving in LA

I was just on my way driving somewhere when some guy pulled out in front of me at a stop sign, cutting me off with clearly no regard for any rules of the road.

Probably related to the issues I've had with poor drivers lately, I looked in my rearview, saw him sitting at the light, and made the regrettable decision to put my car in reverse and go yell at him.

Then someone rounded the corner behind me and hit me as I was backing up.

Not a big deal, small tap. Everything was fine. But I stilled pulled over to sort it out. The car pulled up in front of me and stopped.

Then this big Mexican guy with about 1000 tattoos and a black guy with about 1001 tattoos get out of the car and come over to my window. At this point, I'm prettttty positive I'm going to get murdered.

They start yelling at me about what I did. I said, "Listen, I'm really sorry. This guy cut me off, I was trying to back up and yell at him, and I didn't see you. I apologize."

The Mexican says, "Give me $15-20."

"What?"

He repeated his demand. I just looked at him and said, "I'm not giving you $20. If you want my insurance, we can exchange information. But I'm not giving you $20. I don't even have $20 on me. That's not how things work in this country."

Then the two of them began a bunch of thug talk. "Nigga, we'll fuck you up! You betta pay attention on the street! Fuck you!" Blah blah blah.

I said, "Look, I've already apologized. What else do you you want? You want me to get out of the car and fight you here in the street? What do you want?"

They went back to their car and drove away.

Interesting town.

Kristallnacht

Why is it that when you break a glass, it has to break EVERYWHERE? I swear to god, I just broke a glass in the kitchen, and I stepped on a piece in my fucking bedroom. How come when I drop a cookie, I don't end up finding shards of cookie everywhere for two weeks?

Fuck you, glass.

Happy Thanksgiving, Mom

Ma,

For future reference, understand that Thanksgiving is about three things, in order of importance:

1. Delicious food
2. Exciting football
3. Family

I would expect you would know me well enough by now to realize that I will not take well to you badgering me to get up and change clothes during the final two minutes of a thrilling three point Cowboys-Saints game. I wouldn't assume that you would understand the fantasy football implications I had at stake as well; but just stick to the basic rule of leaving me alone during these precious valuable Thanksgiving moments I choose to spend alone with the television.

I know our family friends told us to be at their house at 5 o'clock, but obviously it's implied that there is a buffer zone. If we're there at 5:10 or even, god forbid, 5:15 or 5:20...no one will care. This point was proven when we in fact did arrive at 5:20, and our hostess was still in the bathroom getting ready.

I'm a little disappointed the Cowboys missed that final field goal and the game didn't go into overtime, because then we would have had a real showdown on our hands. And I assure you, I was not about to get up from that chair, not for you or your goddamn delicious mashed potatoes, before that game was decided.

So we've got exactly one year to get on the same page here, because next Thanksgiving could get real ugly, real fast.

Your beloved son,

KK

Obamanation

I can't understand how Fred Armisen is still impersonating President Obama on Saturday Night Live. It could be the worst impression of anyone I've ever seen anyone do. If he was a friend of mine doing that impression at a party, I would take him aside and advise him to stop doing it if he had any designs on getting laid that night.

Here are the main problems with Armisen's impression, as I see it, in order of importance:

1. He sounds nothing like Obama
2. His mannerisms and facial expressions are nothing like Obama's
3. He's white

What I really don't get is that SNL brought in a new black guy this season, Jay Pharoah, who does absolutely spot on impressions. His Denzel Washington is perfect, and he does a pretty good Chris Rock, Will Smith and Kanye West, too. What, is Obama the only famous black guy this guy can't do? He was seemingly hired purely for his impersonation skills. Why Lorne Michaels doesn't make the switch and end my suffering is beyond me.

What, No Kumquats?

I was in a bar in Seattle the other night. I went to use the restroom, and this is the urinal that greeted me:

I found this to be somewhat disturbing. I mean, I've pissed on ice in urinals before, which I've never really understood the point of. But fruit?

This is the exact reason other countries take issue with America. The contents of this urinal would be salivated over by an entire third world village, and here we are, pissing all over it for no other reason than novelty. I have no doubt that there are starving people in the world who would wait in line to eat this fruit even after it's been urinated on by an entire night's worth of beer-swilling Seattlites.

This sort of decadence disgusts me.

Shut Up, Tim McCarver!

As promised, I have to put aside my excitement about my Giants' astounding success so far this postseason to rant about how much I can't stand listening to the oratorical drivel of Fox baseball commentator Tim McCarver. After all, it's my God-given nature to find the blemishes in what are otherwise lifelong dreams coming true.

I find it difficult to put into words how excruciating it is to continuously listen to this man talk about baseball. He has an astounding knack for saying the most nonsensical things in such a condescending manner that suggests he thinks he is imparting some sort of great baseball wisdom to the masses. I have to believe that when George W. Bush threw out the first pitch last night, McCarver felt like he was watching his spiritual father.

You can hear the frustration in his vastly superior partner Joe Buck's voice, as well as see it on his face. Last night when Buck tried to set him up with a Halloween reference about how scary Giants pitcher Madison Bumgarner's pitching has been, McCarver's mental choo-choo train came up with this gem: "Well, he's been, uh, throwing up bad dreams all night."

What, Tim McCarver? He's been throwing up bad dreams all night? Did you just say that? What does that even mean? And Fox pays you to broadcast professional baseball games, let alone the most important ones?

When Buck was promoting a virtual reality game on Fox's website that lets you pit baseball players from any era against each other, he said something like "You can have a team with Babe Ruth, Willie Mays, and even Tim McCarver!" (who is a former catcher). "No," McCarver said with easily detectable false modesty, "that would never happen." "No?" Buck sighed with irritation at his idiot sidekick. "Well you can. That's the whole point."

Or how about two games ago, when McCarver spent ten minutes trying to explain that catchers often give their pitchers the wrong signs, to encourage them to shake them off, in order to make them think that they're confusing...someone...huh? What the fuck are you talking about? Shut up, Tim McCarver!!!

And we'll all remember the legendary final call of Game 2 of the 2010 World Series, referring to an important message Texas outfielder Jeff Francouer wanted McCarver to impart, as he flied out to end the game...

"His beard is real."

There is in fact an entire website dedicated to how bad a sportscaster Tim McCarver is. It's called www.shutuptimmccarver.com. There you can find many more hilarious ramblings of this peabrain. I even have a t-shirt I ordered from it. The people over at that site are doing God's work.

Please Make Baseball Better

Last night in the World Series game, there was a close play at first base and the runner was called out. The announcer, professional buffoon Tim McCarver, insisted the umpire got the call right...until a slow-motion replay showed that the first baseman's foot had been off the base, and the runner should have been safe. "Still sure he was out?" asked the other announcer, Joe Buck. "Noooo..." McCarver moaned limply.

I am a massive baseball fan. I love the game about as much as I love anything, and that includes bacon. But in this day and age, to not utilize instant replay to get important calls right is nothing short of absurd. It isn't as if these types of blown calls are a rarity. In the ALCS, a Yankee hitter was hit by a pitch, but the umpire ruled it was a wild pitch, allowing a run to score when the play should have been dead. Towards the end of the season, a Giant hit a ball down the line that hit the chalk and should have gone for a double, but was called foul. I could go on and on. This happens all the time.

These are big calls in big games. Potentially game-changing calls. Series-changing calls. Season-changing calls. Life-changing calls. How about the pitcher who lost a perfect game earlier this year because of an umpire's stupidity? That's life-changing right there. Why should everyone in the world be able to see, through the magic of replay, what the correct call should be, except for the person actually in charge of making the call?

The arguments against replay are, for lack of a better word, dumb. It will slow the game down? Not really. We're not talking about reviewing every ball and strike. Just allow a couple possible reviews for each team on crucial calls, like they do in football. Has anyone complained about the advent of instant replay in the NFL de-proving that sport? Besides, I have news for you: people don't exactly watch baseball because it moves at light speed. It's already pretty slow.

Another argument is that replay will diminish the sentimental, human element charm of the game that makes baseball so unique. To that I say: fuck off. There is nothing nostalgic or charming about getting important calls blatantly wrong. Besides, it's not like other improvements haven't been made over the evolution of the sport. In the 1800's, a player on the bench jumped out of the dugout to catch a popup, so they made a rule that only players on the field, in the game, can catch a ball. Makes sense, right? Later, in 1951, they made a rule outlawing midgets after the St. Louis Browns put one in the lineup, and he walked on four pitches, because he was so small he had virtually no strike zone. Where were the purists hollering about the sanctity of the game when these rules were introduced? (Although I'm not sure I wouldn't like seeing that last one overturned.)

I know it's a lengthy kvetch, and one that has been written about endlessly, especially this past season, as umpires appear to be developing more and more cataracts. But as a baseball expert and enthusiast, I had to say my piece on it. Come on, Bud Selig: give my baseball-mocking friends one less round of ammunition in their arsenals. Give us instant replay.

PS - separate kvetch on how much I hate Tim McCarver coming soon.

Siriusly?

So there I am, in my rental car, listening to my favorite Sirius satellite radio channel, 90's on 9, which features exclusively music from the 1990's (which musicologists* commonly reference as the best decade of music ever) - and in between hearing Van Halen's "Right Now" ('92) and Lou Bega's "Mambo #5" ('99), they play the B-52's "Roam" ('89).

'89??? What the fuck?!?

I'm no historian, but since when the fuck is 1989 a year in the 1990's? I know it's close, but if I wanted to hear a goddamn song from 1989, I would listen to 80's on 8! Which I often do! But in this particular instance, I was listening to 90's on 9!!!

This is like when I order angel hair pasta, and a piece of fusilli gets mixed in there. I didn't order this!

You have a whole decade's worth of music to pick from, Sirius. You have 6000 channels. If I choose to listen exclusively to 90's music, then don't kick me in the balls with a song from 1980-fucking-9!

And while we're at it, why does "Roam" not have the gay guy from the B-52's on it who everyone knows and loves? Why is it just the chicks? Without wings, without wheels indeed. Harumph.

*Me

That's Enough, Brett Favre

You know who cries all the time and says things like "I need you to carry me"? Little spoiled three year-olds, to their mommies, when they don't feel like walking back from the grocery store to the car.

I'm sure your teammates are super excited to "carry you" in the game tonight. Even though you're their unquestioned leader, of course. It's the least they can do for you, after you jerked them around all preseason by pretending you might not be coming back. Again.

After all, it's not your fault you sent inappropriate text messages to a woman who wasn't your wife, and now the NFL is investigating you. How dare they hold you, an American hero and the inventor of football, to the ethical standards of a mere mortal!

Please do us all a favor and just go away already.

And while we're on the subject of spoiled football players: Really, Terrell Owens? You said your $2 million contract is like you're "playing for free this season"? Do you sit around trying to think of the most alienating comments possible? I've always been a big fan of yours, but give me a break. You know how many people get multiple millions of dollars to play a sport they love? Not too many. But I'm sure you'll learn that next season, when there are zero teams who will pay you for your services - or exactly one less than there was this year.

Nerd Herd

My friend James made a comment on my last kvetch, saying he went to a Belle & Sebastian concert where they didn't play an encore. Coincidentally enough, I was invited to go see Belle & Sebastian last night, again at the Hollywood Palladium.

With all due respect to James, this was by far the biggest collection of nerds I have ever seen. I thought I was at Comic-Con. It was like an army of black horn-rimmed glasses. The guys either had massive Jew-fros or their hair was plastered down to the sides of their heads in an awkward Justin Bieber imitation. The girls all looked like Peggy from Mad Men. The guy standing next to me was reading a book while waiting for the band to come on.

That's right. Reading a book. At a rock concert.

At one point during the show, I tried communicating with a nerdette standing next to me. I don't know anything about the band, so I pointed to the singer and asked, "Is that Sebastian?"

She looked at me like I was from another planet. "Uhhhhhhhhh...NO."

"Which one is Sebastian?" I asked.

"There is no Sebastian," she said, seemingly offended.

"There's no Sebastian? What about Belle?"

"No."

"No one in this band is named Belle or Sebastian?"

"No."

"Why are they called that then?" I thought it was a fair question.

"I don't know. That's just their name."

That was clearly the end of what was obviously a very fruitful conversation. Clearly, I wasn't fitting in here. It's not often that I think of myself as a "cool guy," but it was pretty hard not to relative to that bunch.

And oh by the way - they did play an encore, but at least they got it right. They left the stage, waited for the audience to start chanting for them, came back and played one final song, then took a collective bow. Kudos, whatever your names are.

Encore Values

I went to a concert last night - Spoon, at the Hollywood Palladium. The show was good and all that, but then, after a little over an hour, the lead singer said "This is our last song." The band played a song, the singer said "Thank you Los Angeles," and the band left the stage to raucous applause.

Then, predictably, Spoon returned not more than two minutes later and started playing again.

Does anyone else think this charade is a little played out? We all get it: every band plays an encore. But nobody even tries to make you believe the show is over anymore. The art of the encore has deteriorated into nothing more than a very brief intermission, accompanied by this half-hearted lie that "this is our last song." No it isn't. Everyone in the building knows it isn't. Why even say that it is? Just say "We'll be right back."

The purpose of an encore is that you, the band, were so good, the audience simply has to hear one more song. They should be cheering, begging, praying you come back out, the deafening noise of the crowd refusing to let the band leave. Let it build for a few minutes. Don't just walk offstage, then stroll back on immediately, practically uninvited. Hell, if I had gone to take a piss, I wouldn't even have known you were gone.

And one other thing: an encore shouldn't consist of another seven songs. It's a sendoff, not a sequel. The longer you go on and on when I thought you were close to being finished, the more I wish the show would just end already. Kind of like the third LORD OF THE RINGS movie.

Jesus Christ, I should've been a rock star. I'd be so perfect at it.

From the Internet that Brought You Kaptain Kvetch

Advertisements for the new movie The Town boast that the film is "From the studio that brought you The Departed."

Really, Hollywood?

I mean, I know you think Americans are brainless idiots. Why shouldn't you, after the box office numbers for Transformers 2? But do you really think for one second that anyone will go see a movie based on it being made by the same studio as another movie?

That's like saying you think we'll watch Mike & Molly because the same network put Cheers on the air 20 years ago. Or that we'll eat lasagna because it's from the same country that brought you spaghetti bolognese.

Actually, Italy does have a pretty good culinary track record. That's a poor example. But you see my point: you can't cast too wide a net when it comes to taking credit. Black people shouldn't say "From the race that brought you LeBron," plants shouldn't claim "From the flora that brought you roses," and Earth shouldn't boast "From the planet that brought you air."

Give your audience a shtickle credit to understand that just because you sell M&M's doesn't make you Willy Wonka.

It's Getting Old

I find it annoying that we, as a society, find it inappropriate to ask a woman her age.

What kind of insecurity is that? It's going to come out eventually, isn't it? What difference does it make if it's within the first five minutes of meeting someone, or on your seventh date? Do you really think you're going to keep up this ageless facade forever?

Look, I'm a stats guy. I value information. When I watch baseball, I like to know how many RBIs the batter has. And when I meet someone, it's not long before I start wondering how old they are. To have to censor myself from asking, then go through the whole song and dance of guessing (with the obligatory lowball) before finally getting to the truth is just a silly timesuck.

When you stop and pet a complete stranger's dog on the street, you immediately ask three questions: what's his or her name, what kind of dog is it, and how old is he or she. Don't tell me we're all more interested in the ages of the dogs we meet than the people.

Time waits for no man. That being said, since men don't generally get offended when asked their age, let me make it clear that the same axiom also applies to women. We're all getting older. If you're really that uncomfortable fessing up to your age, then just lie.

Sorry, We're Gonna Have to Do This Kvetch Next Thursday

It must be unofficial Los Angeles dogma that whatever you schedule with somebody must then be rescheduled. Multiple times, in many cases. Drinks with friends, dates, business meetings, religious holidays - it doesn't really matter. If you make arrangements to see another human being on any given day in any given capacity, you can usually figure on being home watching TV at that time, because you're going to be rescheduled.

This week alone, I've had separate friends cancel plans on consecutive nights because they had to "work late." I had a meeting set for Friday, then rescheduled for Wednesday, then asked to be rescheduled for two weeks from Tuesday. When I asked if there was a time we could possibly do it sooner, they asked about doing it two weeks from Thursday.

Maybe it's me. Maybe I should lower my expectations of people. Or maybe I just need to switch deodorants.

KFC: Epilogue

I couldn't resist. After passing by the art-deco KFC twice a week for the past month, I finally had to stop and check it out. The fact that I had a hankering for some delicious chicken only made it all the more impossible to pass up.

So here's the upstairs from the interior, as well as me and the Colonel. The two of us, along with the sad Asian woman in the foreground, made three people in the entire restaurant (two real). Where have all the architectural enthusiasts gone?

PS - The potato wedges were especially crispy today.

I Am Now an Official Twit

Well, I did something else I thought I would never do...joined Twitter. I've always viewed Twitter as kind of a pansyish cousin to Facebook status updates, serving little purpose other than a way for junior high girls to instantly learn what kind of coffee their favorite Twilight stars are drinking.

But, in my defense, I have not joined as myself, but as my alias, yours truly, Kaptain Kvetch. I figure this way I can blast my more minor irritations out to the universe, the ones undeserving of a full blog post, and maybe scoop up some more readers in the process.

So, I just twatted my first tweet, or whatever the lingo is in the Twitterverse, in which I pose the question: what do I call these? Kveets? Twetches? Suggestions, anyone?

Anyway, if you're a fellow twit, go ahead and start following me @KaptainKvetch.

Bad Samaritan

Dear Asshole who Rear-ended Me,

The next time you decide to pilot your automobile like Stevie Wonder, careening down the 405 and smashing into the back of someone's car who is sitting at a standstill in traffic backed up off an exit ramp, causing this sort of damage...

...to not only the car you hit, but the car that that car is knocked into - and inflicting someone with a bit of injury, psychological trauma, and an all around shitty day - the least you could do is get out of your car to see if everyone is okay.

I mean, I understand you're not supposed to admit fault in an accident (even though a retarded baby monkey could plainly see it was your fault). But it's just common courtesy to step outside, check on the well-being of your common human being who you just plowed your SUV into, and maybe take it upon yourself to call the police, instead of letting one of the people you gave whiplash to handle it for you.

That's all. Just a suggestion. Have fun with that insurance rate hike, which will no doubt be augmented by my choosing the most expensive rental car Enterprise had.

K. Kvetch

Howard Roark, Meet Colonel Sanders

I was driving down Western Ave today, near Koreatown, when I noticed this KFC:

Check out that building. The picture may not do it justice, but it is a stunningly unique architectural feat. The unconventional angels, the giant gills perforating the rounded exterior, the elevated patio, the blocklike components stacked on the roof like Legos...some serious creativity went into the design of this building.

Is this what our culture has come to? I can imagine that a respected architect was commissioned to design this building. Maybe it was originally intended to be a museum, or a gallery, or some sort of cultural center.

And then, when whatever it used to be didn't make enough money, it was quickly reformatted to sell something Americans really want: bacon and cheese sandwiches with fried chicken patties for buns.

Ratatouille

I was just down at Ralphs, in mid-order on a turkey sandwich at the deli counter, when I looked down to my right and saw this.

That's right. A dead fucking rat, just laying on the floor. Of a grocery store. The place where you buy food that you put in your mouth.

It's hard to say if I've ever been more grossed out than I was when I saw this. Maybe if I had vomited on the rat, that would have been grosser. But as it was, my gut reaction was just to start laughing hysterically at the absurdity of the grossness of what I was looking at. Which was followed shortly by the instinct to take a picture of it with my BlackBerry.

Come on, Ralphs. This is America. It's 2010. The Plague was centuries ago in Europe. I shouldn't have to tap dance around dead vermin while ordering food. Let's set the bar a little higher, huh?

Epilogue: Yes, I did still get that sandwich, and yes, it was delicious.

Non-Baseball Fans, Please Disregard

If I may take a moment to indulge my frustrations with my long-suffering baseball team...

Dear Bruce Bochy,

If you haven't noticed, your team is in the middle of a pennant race. You're one game out of first place. You're playing against a very good team on the road, trying to salvage a split of a four game series. Might I make the outrageous suggestion of PUTTING YOUR BEST PLAYER IN THE LINEUP.

Especially because your team has ZERO OFFENSE WITHOUT HIM.

And also because his backup SUCKS WORSE THAN A WHORE WITHOUT A MOUTH.

In case you don't know who I'm referring to: BUSTER "FUCKING" POSEY.

I know I don't have a degree in baseball managing from the University of Sitting on Your Stupid Fat Ass, but it just seems like common sense to start the guys who are good at the sport that you're supposedly knowledgable enough of to run an entire team. As opposed to, you know, the guys who are bad at it. But what do I know.

Go Giants,

KK

This One's For You, Blobby

As it goes with the cyclical nature of my profession, lately I've been pretty down on the whole screenwriting thing. You go long stretches without success, you get frustrated and start to doubt your talents and life choices.

So naturally, I've had conversations with some of those close to me about these frustrations. And I've found that the number one consolation people offer is to tell me that "There are plenty of writers out there who haven't even sold a script."

I'm not sure why, but this never makes me feel better at all. Comparing myself to losers is not a real pick-me-up. Because of the half-empty way in which my defective mind works, I tend to compare myself to those more successful than me, which, admittedly, isn't the best strategy.

You might as well tell me, "Hey, there are plenty of people with no talent at all." Or, "There are people who don't have hands who can't even type." It gives me the same empty feeling I get when an ugly girl tells me I'm cute, or a retard tells me I'm smart (the latter of which has never happened; the former has happened quite a bit).

So I guess what I'm saying is, thanks everyone for your continued support!

Hey Hector

Hi, this is Hector. Leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

Hey Hector, this is Ethan again at the Hollywood Regis. We had scheduled an appointment for you to come to my place at 1PM today to do some electrical work. Specifically, I needed you to create an electrical outlet in the room where my toilet is, so that I can install my Swash Super Toilet, which washes and blow dries my ass.

Because you not only didn't show up, but also didn't return the message I left you around 1:30, I'm sure you'll understand my moving on and hiring someone else. But I just wanted to tell you how happy I am for you that things are going so well that you can afford to blow off your prospective customers so brazenly. Business must really be booming.

I'll now make the mature choice to refrain from making whatever latent racist remark that may or may not be forming in my mind about whatever I perceive your heritage to be. Good day, sir.

CLICK.

An Open Letter to Begging Vagrants

Dear Begging Vagrants,

Let me just say, first of all, that it's fine for you to ask me if I have any spare change. Most of the time I don't, because I usually pay for things with credit and debit cards (an invention you obviously know nothing about). But if I do, I'm happy to toss it in your general direction.

What I do not appreciate, however, is your asking me if I have spare change twice within ten minutes, when I walk past you again in the other direction. Have a little awareness, you know what I mean? Don't treat me like a faceless benefactor. Make me believe that when you're asking me for my money, you're actually looking at me and seeing me and will remember me.

When you just monotonously request my spare coinage like a robot, you are devaluing my overall impression of all begging vagrants everywhere, and I will be less inclined to give my trinkets to any of you. You're ruining it for everyone.

Then again, maybe your lack of decorum is the reason you're asking normal people for money in the first place.

Best,

KK

Retarded Song Lyrics

"I wanna be on the cover of Forbes magazine
Smiling next to Oprah and the Queen."
-"Billionaire," Travie McCoy

Why would the Queen be on the cover of Forbes magazine? Does she own or run a business? Is she a self-made media mogul, like Oprah? Has she ever even worked a day in her life?

Don't just stop on the first rhyme you come up with, Travie.

Literally

Last night I was driving home from the Dodgers game, listening to the post-game report on the radio. The host was talking about one of the Dodger pitchers who's been having a rough year, and said, "He's literally been fighting for his life out there."

This is such a huge pet peeve of mine. The comedian David Cross does a bit on this, so I don't want to rip him off too badly. But it just drives me nuts how people so often not only misuse the word "literally," but use it in the exact opposite way that it's intended to be used.

When something happens literally, that means what you are saying actually happens. Word for word. If what you are saying doesn't actually happen, and you're just saying that to exaggerate a point, then it happens figuratively. NOT LITERALLY. Saying that it "literally" happens does not stress your point any better. It just makes you sound like an idiot.

For example, if you say "That movie made me so confused, my head literally exploded," then your head had better actually blown the fuck up.

And if you're on the radio, getting paid to say things I listen to, then that pitcher had better be fending off rabid tigers out there on the mound. Otherwise, he is in fact not literally fighting for his life. He is figuratively fighting for his life, literally fighting for his job, and I am quite literally changing the station.

Hats Off

I was just watching the ESPYs, which featured appearances by country music singers Clint Black and Kenny Chesney. Is it some sort of law within the music industry that every country music singer must wear a cowboy hat at all times? It occurred to me just now that I have never once seen a male country singer not donning one.

Johnny Cash doesn't count. I'm talking about the modern day, twangy-voiced country-western star. The Garth Brookses, the Alan Jacksons, the Toby Keiths. Everywhere they go, every concert, every awards show appearance, you can bet the farm on it - these guys will be wearing cowboy hats. Christ, even when Clint Black was on Celebrity Apprentice, he never took off that ten gallon.




It is the cliche of all cliches. Come on you huckleberries, one of you step up and be original. Try not wearing the cowboy hat, just one time, just to see how it feels. Not every rapper wears a sideways Raiders cap. Not every rock star rocks a Bret Michaels bandana. I'll bet Pavarotti takes off the tux before he pops into IHOP for some Sunday pancakes.

We get it. Y'all are cowboys. None of that will change. But hell, even John Wayne showed his locks off every once in awhile.

Parking Garage Etiquette

Some of you may have never parked in a parking garage before. Apparently I have a lot of Asian readers; maybe they don't have parking garages over there. I don't really know. Let me explain to you how it works.

In my car, I enter the parking garage. Almost immediately, I get stuck in a long line of other cars, which are all stopped, because the car at the front of the line is waiting for someone to exit their space, so that they can take it. The person in the car in said space, however, has decided, upon getting into their car, that now is the best time to do anything other than leave their space.

I don't exactly know what this person is doing while not pulling their car out. Maybe they're texting. Maybe they're masturbating. Maybe they're sitting and staring straight ahead, contemplating how meaningless their life is. It doesn't really matter, because whatever it is, this person is oblivious to the fact that there are ten people sitting and waiting and having their time wasted behind them, their collective patience rapidly running low.

At this point, it's only a matter of mere moments before I slam my forehead against my steering wheel, causing my horn to blare unendingly, until this time-burglar realizes they are nothing more than a nuisance to the human race, puts their car in reverse, backs out of the space, and exits the parking garage. Now, at long last, the car at the front of the line can replace them, the line can proceed, and the cycle repeats when the new space occupier returns to their car later.

You are now prepared to park in a parking garage.

I Probably Should Stay in Bed Today

I just woke up, went to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and found a dead fly stuck to my face.

I'm not talking about a tiny, smushed little gnat you might swat against your skin in a humid climate. I'm talking about a full-on, wing-rubbing, shit-sucking FLY stuck to my FUCKING FACE.

It was right in the crook between the top of my nose and my right eye socket. Horrified, I leaned in closer to the mirror to make sure of what I was looking at. Then, with trembling hands, I peeled the insect off my face, dropped it into the sink, and rinsed it down the drain.

This really freaks me out. I feel like Naomi Watts in THE RING. It's like it's some sort of omen. I already worry about enough neurotic shit; I really don't need biblical plagues being assigned to me. Please, God - next time just put your message in my horoscope or something.

Dear Time-Warner: Part 2

Dear Time-Warner,

Please, please, please figure out a way for me to pause a live sporting event, go to the bathroom, come back, and be able fast forward to the point in time I want to get to.

This means DO NOT ignore me when I press the play button, instead continuing to fast-forward to the stuff I don't want to watch yet.

This means DO NOT make an inexplicable jump to the end of the game, and thus ruining the entire experience of watching said sporting event in the first place.

DVR/TiVo has been around for several years now. If you could possibly be bothered to come up with a way to make it work for the very reason it exists, I would greatly appreciate it.

KK

Attention New Parents

Please figure out a way to shut your baby the fuck up. Just because you made the poor decision to procreate doesn't mean I should have to suffer through your child screaming its stupid head off throughout my plane flight.

On a related note, I don't need to see multiple pictures of your baby on Facebook, your phone, or via email. I'm sure you're very proud, but honestly, it just looks like a fucking baby.

Happy Fathers Day!

Just a little suggestion for all you Facebookers: instead of wasting your time updating your status with generic Happy Fathers Day messages, why don't you actually go express your gratitude directly to the fathers in your lives. There are no actual fathers out there who are genuinely touched by your thoughtless, semi-sincere Hallmark tripe.

I mean really, you're just clogging up my news feed.

Kvetchup

I went to dinner with my friend Jonas last night to Ketchup, a meat haven on the Sunset Strip that looks like the set of a Stanley Kubrick movie. They couldn't seat us right away, so we had a drink at the bar first.

When we got our table, the bartender asked us to close out at the bar. The complication was this: we had a $100 voucher Jonas had gotten from Groupon.com that we wanted to pay with. But after the bartender went and asked the manager, he informed us that we could only use the voucher to pay for dinner, and not at the bar.

This was annoying. The bar was in the restaurant, but we had to pay separately for the two bills? There was no possible way to merge them together? Give me a break. The manager probably asked the bartender, "Are these customers a couple of pussy-looking Jews? They are? Okay, you handle it however you want. Whatever's easiest. They're not gonna make a fuss."

So we paid for the drinks separately. But the bartender, swell guy that he was, could sense our aggravation, and eased our frustration by saying he was only going to charge us for one drink. "Hey, thanks man, really appreciate it," we gushed gratefully. "No problem guys," he said, waving his hand modestly, as we went and sat down at our table.

Later on in the meal I ordered another drink, but Jonas didn't want one. But then our waitress informed us it was Twofer Tuesday: all drinks are buy one, get one free. "Okay," Jonas said, "I'll get another one."

Then we looked at each other, realizing. That asshole bartender had made himself out to be such a great guy by only charging us for one drink, like he was doing us a favor, when that was just the standard promotion for the evening. We got fooled by the old "For you, special price" line fancied by used car salesmen and third world souvenir hockers. He had stood there and basked in our gratitude, using our appreciation to feel good about himself, when in reality he had pulled nary a string for us.

I feel so dirty.

I, Philanthropist

Lately I've been feeling a vague yearning for more responsibility in my life, so I went down to the library and signed up to be an adult illiteracy tutor. The program requires you to attend an all day seminar to learn how to be a tutor, then commit to meeting with your student for an hour and a half, twice a week, for six months. Kind of a big commitment, but hey, that's what I was looking for, right? Plus, I wanted to be able to say to girls on dates, "In my free time, I teach illiterate adults how to read."

So I attended the excruciatingly boring seminar, forfeiting an entire Saturday, at the end of which I was assigned my student: Kyung Jin Yon, a 23-year-old Korean girl. Right off the bat this struck me as a bit odd. A young foreign woman didn't fit the demographic of what I was expecting of an illiterate adult.

So I called Kyung Jin, who spoke in broken English, and managed to arrange a time for us to meet - on a Sunday afternoon, because she said she was working full time. This was contradictory to the information I had been given about her, which said she was available from 2PM-7PM on Mondays and Wednesdays. I didn't really want this to become a weekend thing.

The night before our meeting, Kyung Jin cancelled, sending me the following text message: "Teacher, really thank u for understanding* finally, I went to the hospital by emergency on last sat. i have been taking some of medicion plus i feel better (i am still sick a little bit) But I could see you this sun at noon, i will promiss! how about you? the main thing is the work! and no time for studying but i need. i know it is late taking msg..i just remember u now/think..good night..sorry, i don't speak english well. Loveable Angel :)"

Obviously, this was a red flag. Sure, there are some grammatical shortcomings and spelling mistakes, but really, not much worse than the text messages I get from most literate American adults I know. It's also one of the longest texts I've ever received.

Clearly, this girl was not illiterate in English. And even if she was, it's her second language! She's just trying to brush up on being bilingual! As I would learn, "Loveable Angel" was how she signed all her texts. She's got a full time job and is sending me text messages in fluent English, signing them with a signature nickname?! Illiterate people don't have signature nicknames on text messages!

I was being robbed of my philanthropic experience.

After she cancelled our meeting a second time - this one scheduled for 7PM on a Thursday, because she was working overtime - I texted her asking if she was going to have time to meet twice a week. She never responded.

Then I emailed the program director at the library, explaining the problems I was having getting Kyung Jin to meet me, and my reticence to tutor her based on my strong suspicion that she wasn't a legitimate adult illiteracy candidate. She never got back to me, either.

This is what I get for trying to improve my own life by giving back to society. I should just go work on my tan.

Nuttier

If you had told me when I woke up this morning that I would be writing two separate nut-related kvetches on the same day, I would have said "You're NUTS!!!!" Then, after you had stopped groaning, this would have happened...

I was just down at Ralph's again, picking up a few sundries. Because I was running low thanks to the exploits described earlier today, a fresh can of nuts was on my list. Last on my list, to be exact. So after I had gotten everything I needed, I went over to the nut aisle.

There I happened upon kind of a strange scene: a rotund man with a mustache was speaking to two homely women, one of whom was filming him with a video camera. I couldn't quite understand what they were doing. The man was holding up different products and seemed to be describing them, trying to be humorous, but I wasn't really paying attention, because the three of them were standing right in front of all the nuts.

I didn't want to be the guy who interrupted whatever inane folly they were filming, especially because it wasn't going to be a quick in-n-out type of deal. I wasn't quite sure what kind of nuts I wanted. I needed to peruse the nut selection, and there was no way I could do that given this stupid scenario.

I waited for a couple moments, trying to be inconspicuous. Then I walked down another aisle, killing thirty seconds looking at products I didn't need, before wandering back to the nut section. These yahoos were still doing their schtick, not budging from where they were hogging the nuttery. There was no telling how long they would be there.

So in the end, I gave up. I went to the check out line, glancing back one last time while cursing my unfortunate timing to go get my precious nuts at the exact time something so random and unexplained would prevent me from acquiring them.

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww, nuts.

Nutty

I was just snacking on a tin of onion & garlic flavored almonds, when I looked at the side of the can and noticed a little tidbit bubble that said: "One serving per day may be healthy for your heart."

I find this information vaguely unsettling. One serving per day may be healthy for my heart? Maybe I'm just a glass half empty kind of guy, but what I infer from that statement is that one serving per day also may not be healthy for my heart.

Hasn't there been enough research done on nuts to determine if they're good for you or not? And in what quantities? I'll tell you what, if the makers of the almonds can't even definitively say that their product is healthy, it probably isn't. It's kind of like a drug dealer saying "Come on man, one line of cocaine a day might actually be good for you. You never know. Just buy the shit."

I don't know about you, but if I went to a doctor and he prescribed me pills and said "This might be beneficial to your health," I'm finding a new doctor.

Lunch Woes

I absolutely cannot stand when something that should be a routine, everyday order of business turns into a needlessly aggravating hassle. I just popped down the street to get a sandwich from the deli counter at Ralph's, and by the time I got home I was a ball of world-resenting hostility.

They've recently adopted the "take a number" system at the deli counter, so I took my number, which was 73. At the time, they were on 67. So I went and stood all the way at the end of the counter, where they make the sandwiches. The problem was, the five or so Hispanic deli ladies were all clustered down at the other end of the counter, by where they have the giant loaves of cheese and the pre-made salads and stuff. So I waited.

And waited. And waited. None of these deli workers acknowledged me. Finally I looked up and noticed that 73 was lit up on the screen, so I walked down to where they were working, but they were all busy doing things. So I stood around for a moment, continuing to get ignored, before shuffling back to where I had been standing.

Then one of them called out "74," and a guy stepped up to place his order. I darted back down to that side of the counter, waving my ticket. "I have 73!" I called out. "I call out 73 already," one Hispanic deli worker said. "I was down there waiting for a sandwich," I said, pointing. "You guys need to keep an eye on the sandwich counter."

"I call out 73," this lady said to me again. This highly annoyed me. "You called it out from 50 feet away!" I said. "I couldn't hear you. I've been waiting here for like ten minutes."

To her credit, she apologized. Then she made my sandwich with the wrong bread and forgot to slice it in half. And now I'm back home, stewing with frustration over what I had no reason to believe wouldn't be a perfectly lovely little lunch.

The Man in the Mirror

It's come to my attention over the years that I have a personal problem, one that has become too large to continue to ignore. I can no longer pretend it doesn't exist. I realize now that I probably will need some help in order to correct this issue. So I am reaching out to you, the Kvetch Kommunity, for any suggestions you may have.

My problem is this: I have a substantially exaggerated "mirror face." You probably know what a mirror face is. Almost everyone has some version of one: it's the face you make when you check yourself out in a mirror. I suppose it's the face that you think makes you look your best, when in actuality it most likely makes you look kind of absurd.

Recently I was at a friend's house, and she caught me looking in her mirror. After laughing at me, she told me it was the worst mirror face she had ever seen. Alas, this is not news to me. Anyone who has spent any considerable time with me has noticed this face I make - pursed lips, arched eyebrows, squinty eyes - and teased me mercilessly for it.

The problem is, I literally cannot stop myself. I don't even think about doing it; my face just contorts into this Blue Steel expression involuntarily any time I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I've tried to test myself, to make myself stare at my own face in a mirror normally, but I simply can't stop these sick instincts. It's gotten so bad that I have to turn away from mirrors like a vampire when I'm in the company of others.

This can't be normal. I need some sort of electroshock therapy, like the chips that dogs have in their collars that zap them when they bark, only this one will zap me when I make my mirror face. Any suggestions to help me overcome this handicap are welcomed.

Dear Time-Warner: Part 1

*Note: This is the first in what is sure to be a series of kvetches aimed at my cable provider, Time-Warner. I have chosen not to address all my complaints with this company at once, as it would be unreadably lengthy, and the sheer frustration of such a massive rant could conceivably cause one of my more important organs to burst through my flesh.

Dear Time-Warner,

Why, when I program you to record a show, do you automatically choose to record the non-high definition version of the broadcast? Why do you not even offer me a choice between the hi-def and the non-hi-def versions? Why are your non-hi-def channels even available to me for viewing/recording purposes? What viewer, given the option of watching hi-def channels, would ever, ever watch the same channel in non-hi-def? Why, in this day and age, do I have to teeth-grittingly sit through the dozen network shows I've programmed you to record a season pass of, knowing that there is a crisper, more watchable version of them available that I'm not seeing? Why do you do this to your loyal subscribers?

That's all for now,

KK

Another Celebrity Look-alike

Doesn't the guy from BIG BANG THEORY look kinda like Dave Matthews?

The Day the Music Died

Well, it finally happened. I have reached a critical milestone in life, a turning point that marks my transition from a young person to an old person.

I was mildly shocked and off put by the lyrics of a pop song I heard on the radio.

The song was "Rude Boy" by Rihanna. The lyrics are as follows:

"Come on rude boy, boy, can you get it up?
Come here rude boy, boy, is you big enough?"

I know, I know - grammatical shortcomings aside, it's not that horrible. It's just a 22 year-old diva attempting to be provocative by inquiring as to if her freakmate's penis is large and virile enough for her to have a proper time with. Clearly there have been worse things sung about and broadcast on the airwaves.

My kvetch has more to do with my reaction to it. I started thinking about the adolescent girls who must love this song and dance inappropriately to it at high school dances, forming all sorts of inaccurate opinions about what's important to look for in a guy. I found myself chiding Rihanna for being unladylike. Were these the types of questions she was asking Chris Brown before he snapped? Not to excuse his behavior, but certain levels of lippiness can make insecure men do regrettable things.

Then I heard this little gem by Ke$ha in her single "Blah Blah Blah":

"Don't be a little bitch with your chit chat
Just show me where your dick's at."

That's when I realized that pop music may in fact be passing me by. At 31, I will now officially start longing for the wholesome tunes of yesteryear...like Nirvana's "Rape Me" and Snoop's "Ain't No Fun."

;

If anyone knows who is in charge of naming punctuation marks, please put me in touch with him. I have a suggestion to make. I would like to change the name of the semicolon to the "supercomma."

I use semicolons all the time; they're a very cool, but shamelessly underutilized, punctuation mark. They let you take two related sentences and turn them into one double sentence. Throw a semicolon in there, and bang! No need for a period. No need to capitalize that next word. You've just mashed those two sentences together like a girl-on-girl fantasy...and it's all 100% grammatically correct.

And yet I feel like I only see semicolons in novels or legal documents. No one uses them in casual correspondence, like emails. Forget about song lyrics. And to this day, no one has ever used a semicolon in a text message.

I think the problem is the crappy name. Semicolons have terrible PR. "Semicolon"? Half of a colon? Who wants half a colon? It's not even fair, if you think about it: a semicolon, with that comma at the bottom of it, probably takes up more space than a regular colon, with the second dot. It's a bad rap.

"Supercomma" makes much more sense. It's a comma with a reverse exclamation point. How awesome is that? Who wouldn't want to use a supercomma every chance they got? You'd be seeing triple and quadruple and sextuple sentence combinations, riddled with supercommas!

Also, I think the "?!" question mark-exclamation point combo that has come into vogue to express shock and confusion should be named an "exclametion mark."

I'm going to go try and find a girl now.

Let's Hear it for New York

Just got back from a little weekend jaunt in New York City. I love going to New York. Unbelievable city. No place else like it. Always have an amazing time there.

That being said, there is no other city on this planet that sucks its own dick quite as much as New York. It is impossible to have a conversation with a New Yorker any longer than four minutes without them telling you how much they love New York. I lost count of how many people tried to convince me to move to New York over the last few days.

Oh, and it's always accompanied by telling me how terrible Los Angeles is. Can't get enough of that. If New Yorkers were writing the history books (or geography books, or whatever), LA would be the toxic post-apocalyptic wasteland we're all familiar with from the fine film Demolition Man.

Hey, I get it. New York is great. Everyone is so cultured and modest. Occasionally you have nice weather and subsequently freak out with a spree of self-congratulation on what a fantastic city you've all chosen to live in. Pity the poor billions and billions of humans who live anywhere else, especially us vapid Angelenos. Carrie Bradshaw and Donald Trump and Derek Jeter and 9/11 and pizza and yay yay yay for us!!!

Also, you really don't have to play that Jay-Z/Alicia Keyes New York song EVERY FUCKING PLACE I GO. I mean really, what other city has its own theme song?! Point made, New York City. You're the best. I'm gonna go lay on the beach now and try to withstand another horrible Los Angeles 75 degree day.

B-ball Licks B-balls

I just finished watching the Lakers playoff game, and it reminded me why I like basketball the least of all the major sports. Something happened in the 4th quarter that just amazed and disgusted me as a sports fan. Kobe Bryant hit a three-point shot. Several minutes later, there was a pause in the game, and they went to commercial with the Lakers up by a point. When they came back, the game was tied; apparently the officials had reviewed Kobe's shot and determined his foot was inside the line, so it was only worth two.

Are you kidding me? I just watched several minutes of basketball, and the score was wrong? How long would this have gone on barring a break in the game? It's not like they stopped the game specifically to review the call - like they do in, say, football, or hockey, or even baseball now on controversial home runs. If this had been near the end of the game, and it ended with the Lakers thinking they had won by a point, would they then have gone off to commercial, come back, changed it to a tie and initiated overtime, when half the fans in attendance were already out in the parking lot? How can players play the game believing the score on the scoreboard is correct when it isn't?! Mind-boggling.

And while we're at it, basketball is weak for some other reasons, too. There are so many goddamn points scored, by nature it's simply less exciting when anyone scores. That's why nobody seemed to care when they took that Laker point away. They probably didn't even notice. And the last few minutes of a basketball game can be excruciatingly boring. Intentional fouls, endless free throws...what other sport encourages players to break the rules of the game as a strategy? And why, when someone commits a foul, does everyone have to stand around and watch one guy shoot uncontested shots? That's the most exciting thing you could come up with? Non-competition? In hockey, someone breaks a rule, he goes and sits in a box. His team is shorthanded. It creates a huge scoring advantage for the other team. It even has a cool name: power play. Free throw? Boring. Power play? Exciting.

And one more thing: why does a basketball game only last 48 minutes? Hockey, football - they're playing a full hour, and those sports are infinitely more physical than basketball. What, these guys can only play twelve minutes a quarter instead of fifteen? Their fans don't want to see as much basketball as hockey and football fans do of their sports?

In closing, let me just ask you this: which is the lamest name of a championship/series?

1) The World Series
2) The Super Bowl
3) The Stanley Cup
4) The NBA Finals

Way to spend five seconds coming up with a catchy moniker, fellas.

Man I'm Gay

I've had a relatively crappy week. Plans being cancelled, meetings getting rescheduled, health scares, people being disrespectful, the routine legal trouble...and of course, worst of all, I haven't kvetched in over a week. So now on Friday, I figured I'd take my morning and passive-aggressively unload on everyone and everything that's pissed me off over the past few days. Just really express my overall disappointment in the human race.

But then a funny thing happened. I decided to do my daily P90X DVD workout first, which today happened to be yoga. And interestingly enough, now, 90 minutes of sweat-induced stretches later, my pent-up frustration is gone. I feel light and peaceful. It's amazing what a little twisting crescent pose can do for a man's perspective.

So I guess you poor saps have all been cheated out of what was sure to be a deliciously zing-filled rant. Sucks to be you. Ahhh, there it is: my previously estranged air of superiority! Good to have you back. Don't worry everybody, I'm sure I'll be back to being and angry, petty man just as soon as the next fuckwad takes too long to pay for something in front of me at Ralph's.

Namaste.

The Coolest Shit of All Time: Reprise

It's been over two years since I went to southeast Asia. Strolling down memory lane, I recently re-read the email I sent everyone I know from Vietnam detailing the most awesome experience of my life. I figured I'd reprint it here, if only to shamelessly glorify myself and continue living in the past. Here it is, dated February 19, 2008:

Ladies & Gentlemen:

Last night, in a matter of moments, I instantly became the coolest person I know. The following story is not for the faint of heart. If you are at all squeamish, please delete this email immediately. If you read on, do not claim I didn't warn you.

At the behest of rumors I had heard, the Vietnamese guy at the hotel I was staying at accompanied me at 6 PM to "O Sin," a snake house on the outskirts of Hanoi. A 65-year-old man with half an index finger (a cobra victim) greeted us and took us upstairs. He removed an enormous, hissing cobra from a bag and put it in another one. We went into a dining room. The man removed the cobra from the bag, held it up briefly for me to take a picture of, then smashed its head on the floor before taking a straight razor and slicing its chest open and removing its heart. A few minutes earlier, the man had poured some vodka into a carafe. As I was hyperventilating at this point, my memory is a bit fuzzy, but I remember the man draining blood from the snake into the carafe, then putting the cobra's heart into a shot glass on a dining table. I noted with horror that it was still beating as he poured vodka/snake blood over it, then poured a shot for himself, and indicated for me to drink.

With little hesitation, I FUCKING DRANK THE BEATING SNAKE'S HEART COATED IN ITS OWN BLOOD AND VODKA. Now that's a shot.

I, my hotel guy and the old man went on to finish the carafe of vodka and blood, and then killed another bottle of snake wine (some sort of strong booze sitting in a bottle with a dead snake) while a boy kept bringing out various dishes prepared from the cobra I had just seen murdered, cooked to perfection. As we devoured the snake, I looked up and noted a photograph on the wall of Vladimir Putin. The old man confirmed that the Russian leader had indeed preceded me, and signed an autograph I was shown. Upon finishing my meal, we took a taxi back to my hotel, drunk on vodka, wine and snake blood. It was about 8:30 PM. This experience cost me 1.1 million Vietnamese dong - about $66 (negotiated down from $80). It was the best $66 I have ever spent.

E

Get Me the President of Television!

Watching the latest episode of VH1's Sober House, I suddenly became aware of an annoying trend that's exploded within the world of trashy reality television: an egregious overabundance of previews and recaps. That's right friends and family, you heard me: previews and recaps are cutting dangerously into the precious, limited number of minutes we're allotted each week to watch people destroy their own lives publicly.

Just to use this week's Sober House as an example: I saw last week, on the preview for this week's episode, that Tom Sizemore is going to freak out on Mike Starr, the bassist for Alice in Chains, and try to fight him. So for a week I've known this was coming, and have been very eager to see this development. This is an instance of the preview doing its job: luring me, a loyal viewer of the show, into watching the next episode.

So then naturally, at the beginning of this week's episode, VH1 shows the same titillating footage. Fine. Get me hyped up again. It's all good.

Here's what I don't need, though. I don't need you to go to every commercial break throughout the show saying "Coming up!" and then playing the exact same footage of Tom Sizemore freaking out on Mike Starr. I know that's coming up. I've gotten the previews for it multiple times before the episode even started. Stop bragging about your amazing show, and instead show your amazing show.

And while we're on the subject, when you come back from the commercials? I absolutely do not need you to replay the exact same 20 seconds of footage that led into the commercial. Give my advanced humanoid brain just a little bit of credit to remember what it just processed moments ago. I am not on the same hardcore drugs as the people on Sober House. I remember what happened before the commercial. Especially now - meaning, like, in the last seven years - with TiVo, I'm not even watching the commercials. I zip over them in seconds. So now you're just making me watch the exact same footage back to back, with only a seconds-long buffer of mindless button pushing in between. It's redundant. It's unnecessary. In short, it's unacceptable.

Keep in mind, this is only a big deal because I enjoy the show. I kvetch because I care. I know you have endless hours of entertaining reality footage of these disgusting people I despise. I also know you only have less than an hour to show me all the best moments of these human trainwrecks. So please, don't double up. Trust me enough to not need the refresher course of an easily distracted three year-old, and I shall reward you by destroying my own life, contentedly rotting away on my couch in the same spot, every week, for the rest of time.

Scottsdale, Je T'aime

Dearest Scottsdale,

You've got me all twisted up inside. I don't know what to think. We used to have such a simple, straightforward relationship: you sucked and I hated you, and that was that. Now, coming off my most recent four day stint in your bountiful bosom, in which I actually found you pleasant and enjoyable, I'm having a difficult time putting you back in my box of hatred.

In past visits, it was easy to find fault with you. Your oppressive 115 degree heat made it impossible to spend any time at all outside, unless I was running from an air conditioned car to an air conditioned building. Your stripmall storefronts offered little originality beyond the endless franchises of P.F. Chang's, Banana Republic and the like. I found your southwestern motif to be tacky and unsightly, exemplified perfectly by the stupid pebble mosaics decorating your freeway onramps. Your residents have rocks for lawns, instead of grass; cacti instead of trees.

And speaking of the residents, nary have I ever encountered a larger, more unified collective of douchebags in all my travels. Between the endless bedazzled Ed Hardy and Affliction t-shirts and my brother's friends bragging about peeing on his dog and getting DUI's, it seemed as if God had scooped up the dumbest, tannest assholes in Los Angeles and dumped them in the middle of the Arizona desert to create a new population. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the founders of the city were two morons named Scott and Dale, who stayed up for two days straight trying to decide what the name of their new town should be. I don't know where the siren songstress Ke$ha is from, with her white trash glitter makeup and contemplative lyrics about kicking dudes to the curb who don't look like Mick Jagger...but in my heart of hearts, I have to believe it's Scottsdale.

And yet, something about this latest fling...I don't know. The weather was beautiful. The women were attractive and roamed in packs like schools of fish. I departed feeling somewhat upbeat, refreshed and renewed.

Maybe it was the right time of year. Maybe you're putting a bit too much fluoride in your drinking water. Whatever it is, keep doing what you're doing. I just might be back, if for nothing else than to give this whole dog-peeing thing a whirl.

Yours truly,

Kappy K

A Nickel for My Thoughts

I just went to get my mail and realized that almost every single day, I receive an envelope that contains either a nickel or a packet of dozens of mailing labels with my name and address on them. I'm not sure why I receive these, or if other people also do with such alarming frequency. I think I must have donated money to some organization at some point, The Lymphoma Society or something, because the envelopes always seem to have some epidemic-related cause on them. And now, naturally, I am being eternally punished for my good deed.

Underneath my mailbox in the lobby of my building, there is a trash can for recycling paper. I always glance at these envelopes for no more than a fraction of a second before dropping them in this can. I simply cannot be bothered to tear open a letter for the sole purpose of retrieving a nickel. That strikes me as both immoral and miserly; there's more dignity in simply throwing it away. And honestly, how many return address labels do you think I need? I mail like one letter a month. I kept a packet of these labels from one such envelope about three years ago; I'm still making my way through it. I'm all set with the labels.

Without having read the content of any of these envelopes, I can only assume the senders of them are soliciting more donations. Just a thought, guys: maybe your money would be better spent on the disease you're trying to cure, rather than printing up millions of personalized mailing labels for people. Or than on actually sending cold, hard cash out to random people. Call me old fashioned, but giving money away doesn't seem like the best way to raise cash. Then again, I guess you gotta spend money to make money.

Anyway, if anybody wants a donation for their cause, there's about fifteen cents in the trash can in my lobby. Help yourself.

Taxicab Kvetchfessions

I needed a cab last night. Some friends and I were going to a concert at the Henry Fonda Theater, about a six minute drive from my place. So everybody came over, and I called for the cab. I use them all the time, so they have my info. The operator told me it would be five to fifteen minutes, like they always do.

About seventeen minutes later, the cab still hadn't come. This struck me as unusual, because they rarely even take the minimum five minutes to get a cab to my place. So I called back. The operator asked for my info, looked up my order, and told me it would be another five minutes. Fine. Whatever.

After almost another ten minutes, still no cab. At this point I was starting to get pret-ty kvetchy, as you can imagine. I called back, and the guy answering the phone identified himself as Operator 17. "Hello Operator 17. I called for a cab almost a half an hour ago. I want to make sure it's still coming."

Again, he took my info, then gave me this bit of nonsensical information: "Oh, no driver has picked up the order yet."

"What?"

Operator 17 started explaining to me the elaborately complex system his company used, whereby orders placed for cabs are subsequently claimed by drivers, or contracted out to bidding drivers, or some such stupidiocy I had no interest in learning about.

"I don't understand what you're saying," I said. "Is there a cab on the way to my house or not?"

Unfortunately there was not, he said. Somehow, somewhere along the line, this foolproof system had broken down. Additionally, he had no idea when a cab could get to me. "But...but the last guy I talked to told me a cab would be here in five minutes," I protested.

"I don't know why he would have told you that," Operator 17 said. Awesome. I hung up.

It never ceases to appall me how little some companies have their shit together. Your whole business is sending cabs to people who call for them. How can you be 1) so incompetent at doing that, and 2) so matter-of-factly unapologetic when you screw it up, angering and inconveniencing a loyal customer?

So I ended up driving us to the show. As I pulled into the $20 parking lot, I got a call from the cab company, saying my taxi had arrived. Very good, I thought, as I clicked "ignore." Hopefully he'll sit outside my house for awhile before he realizes we're not coming down.

The Power of Imagination: Epilogue

The other night I had a dream that I was standing on the sidewalk outside my house on Sunset Blvd, when Ted Danson came screeching down the street driving some sort of motorized sofa. Then he took the sofa up on two wheels (on the side), drove past me, and parked. He got out and threw me a football. I dropped it.

Brain, just when I think you couldn't possibly be any dumber, you go and do something like this...and totally redeem yourself!!!

The Power of Imagination

I went to a wedding in Santa Monica the other night. Being that I live in Hollywood and there was an open bar, I had arranged to crash at my friend's house near the hotel, so as not to have to drive home after the party. So, at the end of what turned out to be a long night, I walked the six blocks or so to my buddy's house, drunk, and passed out on his air mattress in the living room.

The next morning, predictably, I did not feel too hot. My head hurt, my friend's roommate (whom I had never met) was wandering around the living room, and I was immediately overcome with a powerful desire to go home. This was going to be a painful process to go through, however, and I began to wonder how long it would be before my friend awoke and could drive me back to the hotel to get my car.

Eventually, when I could wait no longer, I decided to suck it up. I put my suit back on, the only clothes I had, then walked the fifteen minutes back to the Sheraton in the blinding morning sunlight, averting judgmental stares from people out jogging or walking their dogs. I waited around uncomfortably for the valet to retrieve my car, then slogged through the half hour drive to get home. Of course, on the way, I had to stop for gas, an extra errand at a time I least wanted to do it. The whole thing sucked.

And then...I woke up.

I was still in my friend's house, on the air mattress, on the floor, in my underwear, with a powerful hangover. I had actually just dreamed my way through the entire logistical nightmare of getting home, with amazingly monotonous realism. So then, when I actually arose in real life, put on my suit, walked back to the hotel, got my car, stopped to pump gas, and eventually drove home, mentally I was doing it for the second time.

Thanks a lot, brain. You're a real delight sometimes.

Whole Foods Bugs Me

Whole Foods is annoying. I just stopped at the one in West Hollywood for lunch. I entered in a decent mood, and I left pissed off. I can't quite put my finger on what it is...I think it's just the pure pretentiousness that its environment seethes with. Everything is so healthy and chill and mellow; it fills me with disgust.

Whole Foods is the irritating hippie chick who sat in front of me in high school chemistry who refused to listen to any band that was on the radio. It's the NPR of grocery stores. Everything about it is so goddamn liberal, from the vegan cookies to the hemp clothing to the "Legalize Gay Marriage" people soliciting donations out front. Could you see Glenn Beck shopping at Whole Foods? No way.

I'm not knocking liberals; in many ways I am one. But I hate liberalism that goes to the point of snobbery. I feel like people who shop at Whole Foods look down upon people who shop at Ralph's. Well guess what, assholes? I shop at Ralph's. Sometimes I enjoy food with sugar and additives and preservatives and carbohydrates. Excuse the fuck outta me. I just came in here to get a fucking sandwich. Is that all right with you? I'll be out of your way in five minutes, and then you can unplug your nose and go back to your conversation about the merits of socialism.

That's right. I'm talking to you, Raymond, my snotty little holier-than-thou cashier, with your alternative-hip blue hair and your "my parents don't get me" nose ring. I see the way you're eyeing me, like I've got "Bush-Cheney" tattooed on my forehead. Just ring me up, okay? Oh, I'm so sorry my sandwich has meat in it. We can't all be macrobiotic yoga enthusiasts, buddy. Why don't you take your recyclable grocery bag, fill it with soy beans, and go into the wild like that other ungrateful, grubby outcast you probably worship. Douchebag.

But, at the end of the day, they do have a really great salad bar.

Special Guest Kvetch

My good friend Adam had this to say on Facebook regarding the incident yesterday in which a killer whale at Sea World in Orlando killed its trainer:

From an article i just read on the incident: "While this incident remains the subject of an ongoing death investigation, there are no signs of foul play," the sheriff's statement said.

What does this even mean? What even qualifies as "foul play" with a KILLER WHALE? Do whales sometimes murder their trainers for insurance money or something? Did the trainer's husband catch her cheating, and stage and elaborate "accident"...in cahoots with the whale?!

From the same article: "This is the first time in 46 years that we've ever had an incident like this with a trainer," he said. Although Tillikum (the whale) is large and has to be handled carefully, "to mark him as a killer is unfair."

Yes. Unfair to call this whale a killer. Even though he has killed two other people (prior to the trainer). And is literally CALLED A KILLER WHALE.

Crazy Rock 'N Kvetch

This kvetch definitely falls under the Seinfeldian ""What's the deal with...?" observational category.

I just had dinner at a sushi place in West Hollywood called Crazy Rock 'N Sushi. I feel like there are a lot of sushi places around LA that have similar names. There's the chain Rock 'N Fish...maybe I'm just seeing that restaurant all over the place. I have no factual evidence to back this up, but I'm just sensing an awareness of sushi joints popping up everywhere that are trying to be ultra hip by dubbing themselves "crazy" or "rock" affiliated.

It comes across in their menus too...they have all these "crazy" kinds of rolls: dragon rolls, monkey rolls, spider rolls, crazy boy rolls, crazy girl rolls...look guys, it's just sushi. People eat it because it's delicious. You don't have to hype it up by telling me how radically extreme I am by eating it just because it's got some cream cheese it there. Let's everyone just calm down.

That is all.

My God

I just read an article in the LA Times sports section about Grant Desme, a 23 year-old prospect in the Oakland A's organization who retired from baseball to enter the priesthood. This is a kid who was ranked among the top potential major leaguers out there; it was basically guaranteed that he was going to play in the big leagues and enjoy whatever niceties come along with that: fame, enormous amounts of money, the joy of playing baseball every day as your vocation...and he willfully chose to say no to that life, shutting that door in favor of another one that allows him to speak to and about God every day.

It's truly astounding to me how little in common I can have with a fellow human being. I am more similar to almost any member of the animal kingdom than I am to Grant Desme. If aliens exist and they land on Earth and are murderous, power-hungry, conquering destroyers, I would easily relate to them more than this guy.

Clearly, the line dividing us is faith. He has all of it; I have basically none. I don't really believe in God, and Desme has chosen to devote his life to serving Him. This is what he told the Times: "If I hit a home run, the excitement would subside by the time I touched home plate. But the joy of talking with people about God never ended."

I don't even know what to say about that. Had I been wearing socks when I read that, they would have been blown right off my feet (by science, not God). All I know is, if there is a god, it's pretty cruel of him to have given Grant Desme the talent and ability to play professional baseball, knowing that he's going to squander it in favor of becoming a poor, brainwashed simpleton, when someone like me grew up daydreaming of hitting a homer in a major league stadium.

And if there isn't a god...well...let's hope for his sake that this kid never finds out. I guess the world needs dreamers. At least he didn't play for the Giants.