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.