Hangin' with Bradley Cooper

Last night I was watching last week's The Office, and they did something that kind of chaps my lips. There was a running bit about how the gang was watching the movie Limitless, and talking about the film's star, Bradley Cooper.

The problem with this is that Ed Helms, one of the actors on The Office, famously starred in the movie The Hangover with Bradley Cooper. So for Helms, as his character, Andy Bernard, to be discussing Bradley Cooper on The Office, it calls attention to this whole paradox. Namely: does The Hangover exist in the world of The Office? Certainly it must, because without the success of The Hangover, Bradley Cooper would never have been catapulted to the stardom that made it possible for him to be in Limitless. But if The Hangover does exist in this fictional world, then who played the part of Ed Helms's character, Stu?

I've often wondered about this subtle phenomenon in the past. For instance, in a Tom Cruise movie, you can create a perfectly realistic fictional world, except for the fact that the actor Tom Cruise doesn't exist. There can be no Tom Cruise in that world, because then your protagonist would look exactly like Tom Cruise. And we buy into that, because we know we're watching a Tom Cruise movie. That's all well and good, but then you can't exactly have people in that movie start talking about how great Top Gun is.

I've always thought that would actually be a funny thing to do in a movie - reference other movies that the star has been in, to intentionally draw attention to this paradox. But on The Office, they didn't really do that. They just kind of annoyingly skirted that line, making me think about this glitch in their matrix for the rest of the episode. Which, by the way, wasn't that good. The whole show has predictably gone downhill since Steve Carrell left.

Kvarma

Last night I went to dinner with two of my compatriots, Bobby B and Lance Ford, who was in town visiting from LA. We went to a restaurant down in Gramercy Park called Rolf's, which is a bizarre German place decorated so extensively with lights, ornaments and creepy dolls, it's like you're eating inside a Christmas tree (so you know I loved that).

Our table wasn't ready yet, so we decided to get a drink at the bar up the street, which was very crowded, filled with financial-looking people. As we were waiting for our drinks, Lance turned to me. "I hate these Wall Street types," he said. "What do you think of them?"

I looked around. "Eh," I replied. "It's not my scene. But they don't bother me."

Ten minutes later, we're back at Rolf's, which is such a shitshow, Lance and I wait outside the entrance while Bobby B goes to check if our table's ready yet. I'm still struggling to comprehend what happened next.

Three guys walked by us, into the restaurant. The first was the epitome of a "Wall Street type": tall, pinstripe suit, slicked back hair. He looked like Luke Wilson playing Patrick Bateman. Behind him was a preppy guy in a sweater and a hipster Asian guy wearing sunglasses. As they walked by us, in rapid succession, all three made snide, sarcastic comments to us. I don't remember exactly what they said, because it all happened so fast, but it was something akin to this:

Wall St. Guy: "What, are you guys just gonna fucking stand here? That's great."

Preppy Guy: "Early bird catches the worm, guys."

Asian Hipster: "Don't hurt yourself out here."

I swear to god, this happened. Lance and I looked at each other, completely flabbergasted. The whole thing seemed totally rehearsed, like we were the dorky extras getting picked on in the scene introducing the bully antagonist and his cronies in an 80's movie. Even if there had been time to respond, I don't know that I could have come up with anything in the next fifteen minutes.

Fast-forward to after dinner. I get up to use the restroom. I go in, pee, wash my hands, and come out. There are a couple people waiting outside the door to use the bathroom - which, by the way, is not a single bathroom; it has a urinal and a toilet. One of them is a different Wall Street type, and as I walk by him, he says: "Hey, that was really quick in there."

I stopped and looked at him. "What?" I asked.

"I said thanks for being so quick."

Again, I was totally stunned. "What are you talking about?" I asked, becoming confrontational.

"Nothing," he said, getting defensive. "I'm just saying, you took a really quick piss." And with that, he walked into the bathroom.

I came back to the table and relayed what had just happened to my friends. "Maybe he was being sincere," Bobby B said. I explained that that was impossible, because I had not been exceptionally quick in the bathroom; I had taken a totally normal amount of time. And even if I had been fast, who would say that sincerely? That's even weirder than being insulting. "I think he was just paying you a compliment," Bobby B insisted.

I rolled my eyes. "Bobby B, I know when someone is making a sarcastic quip. I do it all the time." We left the restaurant, and I have been contemplating this bizarre phenomena of Wall Street jerks insulting me, unprovoked, ever since. I can come up with no plausible explanation for why...

Oh, wait. Now I get it. I would like to take this moment to apologize to begging vagrants everywhere.

Another Open Letter to Begging Vagrants

Dear Begging Vagrants,

Just a couple tips for you riff-raffians begging for money on the streets of New York:

1. Come up with something a little more original than just standing there and shaking a crumpled coffee cup at people. I get that you're inherently lazy, or brain-dead, etc., and that you're just trying to do the minimum to garner whatever coinage you can from the thousands of people walking past you on Fifth Avenue during this busy holiday season. But you have to understand that you have a lot of competition. There are a lot of you characters out there, and that's in addition to the Salvation Army people who are asking for money for a real charity. You can't expect people to be walking around with enough goodwill and spare change for all of you.

Try standing out a little bit. Make a funny sign, learn a magic trick, do some sort of a jig. Offer something in return for people's money. This sort of entrepreneurial spirit is what normal people do to get ahead in society. It can work for you too.

2. You gotta meet me halfway. Just this morning, I passed by a begging vagrant limply holding out a cup. As I walked by her, I looked down and noticed no less than four pennies on the ground within ten feet of her. Are you kidding me, vagrant? You're asking me for money, and you're too lazy to pick up the coins laying on the street right next to you? You're just insulting the world at that point. Incensed, I myself picked up the four cents, walked over to her and held out my palm. "These were laying right here on the ground," I said. "And now they're mine." I put the money in my pocket and walked away. I hope my point was well received.

Anyway, that's all for now. I'll deliver more pointers as I see fit. Merry Christmas.

Love,

KK

Things Change

Never in my life did I think I would rejoice about it being over 50 degrees outside.

Christmas Jeer

As much as I enjoy living here in New York City, the fact that it is the absolute uber-mega-epicenter of Christmas is really starting to fray my nerves. I mean, it is everywhere, all the time. Even now, sitting here in my living room, I have to stare at this goddamn triangle tree my gentile roommate insisted on defiling our apartment with. I can practically hear each individual pine needle in my sleep as they fall off and hit the floor.

I've always hated Christmas, as I have the misfortune of being a Jew born on December 25. I won the Powerball lottery of shitty birthdays. Imagine if, on your birthday as a child, every other little kid also got presents! Still feel special? Too bad, because also you can't have a birthday party because everyone has plans, and oh yeah, most establishments are closed, in case you wanted to have fun. Hope you like Chinese food and Narnia movies.

So yeah, I'm a Grinch. But back in LA, Christmas was easier to ignore. Here, it is an absolute nonstop fucking bombardment. Fifth Avenue is like a colorful, upscale war zone, culminating at Rockefeller Center, where millions of idiots from around the world push and shove each other to gaze up with wonder at a tree with lights on it. Every 20 seconds there's a Salvation Army guy shouting and ringing his little bell incessantly, sometimes while he dances. And the music...oh god...the music...

Christmas music is on my short list of most reviled things ever. I probably rank it in between genital warts and sit-ups. It's not that it's unapologetically cheerful, or corny, or just all-around bad for my ears. It's that, from Thanksgiving until Christmas, it is playing everywhere you go. There is simply no escaping it. It's even in the lobby of my building. And just because it's upbeat and gleeful doesn't mean that it isn't brainwashing us. The whole thing is an Orwellian nightmare. I fill with shame every time I find myself humming "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer."

Eleven more days. Jesus Christ...why did you have to be so damn worshippable?

Kvindle

All I ever heard about was these tablets. The Kindle, the iPad, they're so great, I love mine, we're getting married in the spring, on and on and on. So when Amazon announced they were releasing their new Kindle Fire at the hard-to-beat price of $199, I finally relented and ordered one.

I have to admit, I was into it. I could download books in seconds, read magazines, get the newspaper on it every day. I could stream movies, surf the web, and play Scrabble with my Facebook friends. It really was a pretty sweet little gadget.

And then yesterday, two weeks after it came in the mail, I tried to turn it on, and nothing happened. Figuring it was out of juice, I plugged it into its charger, but the charging light didn't come on.

As far as fixing electronics, that's pretty much all I've got.

So now what? Go online, figure out the return policy, take it to the post office, ship it back, and wait for it to return, weeks from now? I'd almost rather just buy a new one than go through all that. And I'd rather French kiss a dude than give Amazon more money after purchasing this aggravation from them.

I can feel myself turning into an elderly person when I complain about the pitfalls of these newfangled gizmos, but it has to be said: never, ever have I been halfway through a real book, only to pick it up and have it be "broken," unable to read it anymore. I've never played an actual game of Scrabble with someone, only to have the board suddenly disappear. What an age we live in, where you can spend 200 bucks on a futuristic coaster. Because that's what I have now.

얼마나 세계

A couple weeks ago, I was bored, and I ended up on North Korea's official website (http://www.korea-dpr.com/). It's kind of interesting, as far as propaganda goes. There's an in-depth biography of the "Great Leader," photo galleries of organized vacation groups - you can even register to go on one of these highly regulated 8 day trips, for just 2,350 euros (no cell phones or credit cards allowed).

But what intrigued me most was the Gift Shop section of the site. In it are any number of North Korean souvenirs. T-shirts, hats, laptop bags, beer steins, iPhone cases, greeting cards...you name it. It's all there, available for purchase. And the artwork is actually pretty cool. Propagandistic, colorful images invoking prosperity and strength. Like this one:

I actually purchased a baseball t-shirt, magnet and water bottle for myself. I'm sure I'm on some sort of government watchlist now, but whatever.

What struck me as most interesting, however, was that the gift shop is operated by CafePress. CafePress is an online retailer that sells all this junk - if you want t-shirts or ball caps with your company's logo on it, CafePress will print 'em up and sell 'em online, just like they've done for the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. CafePress is an American company headquartered in San Mateo, CA.

And when I received my gift shop trinkets in the mail the other day, I looked at the bottom of the water bottle. Guess where it's made?

America.

I'm not really sure what to make of this strangely transparent commercial relationship that exists between the U.S. and the DPRK, considering all you hear in the media is that North Korea is our sworn enemy, ruled by a megalomaniacal madman. But I do know this: if I can buy a water bottle from North Korea, I should be able to buy a cigar from Cuba. I mean, come on already.

Guest Kvetch

As always, I'm honored to have people send me Guest Kvetches. This one comes from my good friend Jessie.


I love NY. Just as the t-shirt says. I love its long city blocks lined with pre-war deco-esque buildings. I love its ceaseless swelling sea of yellow cabs, mouthy citizens, killer shopping and the-best-meal-I-ever-ate eateries. I love that I saw a tranny Hasid once. New York is awesome.

But on a very recent trip to my favorite mecca of much, I found myself stupefied by a so-called “guest room” in a 4 star establishment. Now, when you’re traveling on business you can’t complain. Your airfare and stay are paid for. You get spending money for meals (or really cute fitted blazers with gold sailor buttons from really cute little hipster shops on Bleeker).

But there are limits.

Upon checking in, I was given the key to room 835. Eager to get inside after a long work and travel day, I slid my key into the slot, waited for the light to flash green and tried to push open the door. But something was obstructing its path. It wouldn’t open more than 7 inches. Strange. So I hoisted my luggage ONTO and OVER MY HEAD, pushed it through the door, sucked in and squeezed myself into the pitch darkness. It was the BED that hindered the door from opening. I therefore stepped ON the bed just to get to the other side of it, and therefore, into the room. I felt around for the “light”. A dim, Ikea desk lamp bolted to one of the four tiny walls. But never mind its low voltage. I had the brightest room in the hotel! Because every few seconds the 5-story, neon Billy Elliot sign would buzz and flash manically into my tiny window and light up the night. Wowee. 


I swallowed hard and opened the door to the airplane bathroom provided. The cold, stained, metal fixtures were ripped out of an old 747 for certain. When I flushed, it even popped loudly, startling me. I had to get the fuck out of there immediately.

With my coat still on, I headed back down to the front desk where I asked politely for another room. This coming from a girl who feels badly sending back an appetizer. When the concierge aloofly dismissed my articulate ask and informed me that the “hotel was full” and there are “no other available rooms,” I asked to speak to the manager. When she emerged from behind a black curtain (truth) it took her but a millisecond and the touch of a keyboard to half smile and give me a key to another room.

So wait. The concierge just lied to me? Again, weird.

The second room was definitely a step up. Still tiny, but not scary. And, I didn’t need to exercise contortion to get into it. I did however, continue to enjoy neon mood lighting…but this time from Mamma Mia. At least I know the words to that one.

God love ya, New York.

Eyesore

I went to dinner with a friend last night. While we waited at the bar for our table to be ready, she began telling me a story about something or someone, but I was having trouble paying attention, because I was distracted by the woman sitting behind her, a couple seats down the bar.

This woman, while otherwise attractive, had a hideously disfigured eye. She reminded me of one of the zombies on The Walking Dead. She wore glasses, which masked it a little bit, but it clearly appeared that her right eyeball was rotated about 75 degrees backwards, into her skull, and what was visible of her iris was clouded over with a milky blueish cataract. It was, in a word, disturbing.

I interrupted my friend in the middle of her story. "I'm sorry," I said. "I can't really focus on what you're saying, because the woman behind you has the creepiest eye I've ever seen."

"I have to see it," my friend said.

"No, it's not possible for you to just turn around and look. We have to somehow switch places so you can see it from where I'm standing."

She casually pretended to drop something, I shuffled over so she could pick up this imaginary object, and a few seconds later we had switched positions. I saw her face register mild horror. "I don't know how you were able to listen to even one word of my story," she said.

"I didn't," I said. "I couldn't."

The woman was with a man who, god bless him, did not betray anything out of the ordinary while he was conversing with her. I don't know if they were married or if it was their first date, but I felt bad for him. You can't avoid looking at something like that; it's not like a cauliflower ear or a hook-hand: you look someone right in the eyes when you speak to them.

This woman knows full-well how off-putting her zombie eye must be; the least she could do for her date, and the rest of society, is wear sunglasses, or an eye patch. That's what they make them for.

Mea Culpa

"I love the Niners. But we're going nowhere. There is simply no hope for this team."

-Me, July 30, 2011

With the 49ers sitting comfortably atop their division at 6-1, having won their fifth straight game yesterday, I think it's safe to say that I may have been a bit premature in writing them off this summer. It's possible I don't know quite as much about running a football team as Coach Harbaugh and the Niners' front office. Hey, I was wrong. And never been happier to be. GO NINERS!!!

You Can Judge a Book by its Chapters

Right now I'm reading Freedom, by Jonathan Franzen, one of the most highly acclaimed books published in recent memory. Oprah Winfrey loved it. So did Barack Obama, as well as pretty much every book reviewer in the world. So I was convinced I should go out and read it.

Well, I'm about a third of the way through. And although it is a pretty good story so far, I'll tell you one thing it definitely sucks at: having chapters. In 170 pages, there have been like three chapters. That, my friends, is simply unacceptable.

Chapters are necessary components of books. They represent story breaks, and thus, logical places to pause your reading experience. When I start a new chapter, I can refer back to the table of contents to see how many pages it is, and thus know how much time to budget for reading that day. This book doesn't even have a table of contents, leaving me to flip through page after page, growing anxious with despair as I realize there will be no natural story break for some 90-plus pages. That's a stressful feeling, which is the opposite of how I want to feel when I try to relax by reading.

When I find myself adrift in an ocean of pages, no island of a chapter in sight, I am left to have to try and determine to stop reading wherever it will be the least jarring. But when I pick the book back up again, I inevitably have to scan the two pages between which I put my bookmark, trying to find where I left off. This is confusing and irritating. It diminishes my reading enjoyment.

I also find this is a bit pretentious on the author's part. What, does he expect I have whole days and nights at my disposal to just do nothing else but sit and read his stupid highly acclaimed novel? He's an author; he's probably read books before. He knows they're supposed to have chapters. News flash, Franzen: even your brilliant prose can get a bit heady after awhile. It's not exactly light fare, with all your depressing relationship dynamics and whatnot. It's not Harry Potter. Which, by the way, kicks your book's ass in the chapters category.

Things You Should Not Hear at a Library

1. Loud talking
2. Babies screaming
3. Sawing through plywood
4. People yelling "Miss? Excuse me? MISS???"
5. Someone pounding a hammer against a counter
6. A man violently coughing incessantly
7. A doorbell
8. "When the Saints Go Marching In" cell phone ring

Contagion

I just went to see a movie. Per usual, I stopped at the refreshments counter beforehand and got a small popcorn and small diet Coke. After I paid, as I was gathering my movie snacks, the young lady behind the counter - I believe her name was Jaeshida, if I'm recalling that correctly (which is coincidentally my great-grandmother's name) - said to me, "The garbage is behind you."

"Okay, thanks," I said. "Where's the butter?"

She pointed. "The butter's right there. The garbage is behind you."

"Great," I said. I went and buttered my popcorn, then turned to walk into the theater.

"Are you leaving this?" she called after me. I turned around. She was pointing to the counter, where there was sitting the crumpled up straw wrapper I had unsheathed from my straw and left there while I had been ordering, without it even registering as a thought blip on my brain radar.

"Yes...?" I said, kind of confused as to why she thought I might be taking it with me. She looked back down at the wrapper and scowled. And when I mean "scowl," it was a full on, corners-of-the-mouth-turned-down-frowny-face. There was disgust on her face, as if a homeless guy had just ejaculated on her toes.

That's when it hit me: she had repeated telling me where the garbage was because she had anticipated me leaving my straw wrapper there on the counter, dozens of seconds earlier in the conversation. In that instant I felt horrible. I apologized, grabbed the wrapper, threw it away, then apologized again. She smiled, satisfied, and told me to enjoy the movie.

Only a minute later, when I sat down, did I start feeling angry. How many times had I left a straw wrapper on any counter, let alone a movie theater refreshment stand, and not given it a second thought, because it's a totally acceptable thing to do? I just gave this girl $10.75 for popcorn and soda; I'm totally within my rights to leave my crumpled up smidgen of paper on the counter. What, should I not leave my garbage on the theater floor when I'm done? You want me to pick up all the popcorn I've dropped and throw that away too? Blow me.

Jaeshida may not enjoy picking up my straw wrapper and throwing it away. It may not be a dignified responsibility. But you know what? That's part of her job. You don't like throwing away people's refuse? Great. Then don't be a garbage man, don't work at McDonald's, and don't work behind the counter of a popcorn stand at a fucking movie theater.

Shmecmology

Say what you want about the iPod; I never had a Walkman that suddenly changed songs at the slightest dove's whisper grazing its sensitive surface.

Cursing: An Endorsement

The other night I caught the end of the movie THREE KINGS on TV. I don't remember what channel it was on, but they had commercials, and it was edited. This meant that all the swear words were replaced with more suitable words that would, I assume, be deemed less offensive to a mass audience.

While this may be true on one account, the dialogue they chose to censor the cursing with was, to my ears, exponentially more offensive. For example, in one scene an American soldier drags George Clooney to the ground and screams, "You frag me? Now it's my turn to frag you!" A few seconds later, another soldier shouts "Bullsquat!"

Let's put aside for a moment the insult to my intelligence that is asking me to accept that a soldier in the midst of a war would actually yell "Bullsquat!" instead of "Bullshit!" Go back to the first example. "Frag you" is supposed to replace "Fuck you"? "Frag" is barely a real word! No one says "frag you"! This otherwise ordinary piece of dialogue has been rendered completely ridiculous.

All you overprotective parents out there: is it really that important to shield your children's delicate ears from the word "fuck," to the point where you want them picking up vocabulary that has virtually no real-world meaning? Wouldn't you rather they go around sounding somewhat normal, as opposed to saying "frag you" to some kid at school and getting ridiculed all the way home?

It's sadly comical that we're permitted to watch Mark Wahlberg blow the top of an Iraqi's head off in the very first scene of this movie, but must be protected against hearing swear words by having them replaced with nonsensical impostor words. If you really must censor our cinema, just mute or bleep the curses, so we at least know what the intention was. Pretending we live in a world without swearing is just fragging bullsquat.

But Scratching Feels So Good...

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Come On Irene

Well, that was a bust. All week long, all I heard on the news, all everyone was talking about was this massive hurricane that was going to lay waste to New York City. And at the end of the day, to quote the great and mighty Yogurt, Irene was bupkis.

I was actually talked into going "hurricane shopping" yesterday. My roommate and I walked around to three different drug stores and two grocery stores, looking for flashlights, candles, bottled water and non-perishable food stuffs. Most items were sold out. The lines at the stores were ungodly, filled with other gullible Manhattan yokels who were duped into thinking they wouldn't otherwise survive the impending doom that was going to turn their urban existences upside-down.

Back in our apartment, we hunkered down, preparing for doomsday. Around midnight last night, the rain really started coming down and the wind picked up. But according to the weather reports, the brunt of the storm wasn't going to come for another few hours, with today being nothing short of armageddon. I was so excited for my first hurricane, I couldn't even sleep, so I took a Xanax and finally drifted off around 2AM.

I awoke at 11AM, sprung out of bed like it was Christmas morning (assuming I was a person who didn't hate Christmas, but celebrated it), and ran to the window. What did I see? People strolling down the streets. Leaves rustling in a mild breeze. In short, no sign that anything had happened at all.

My roommate told me I had missed it, that at around 9AM it was pretty windy, but that Irene had moved on. "What?!" I said? "I slept through a hurricane?" Let me tell you something. If you can sleep through a hurricane, it's not really a hurricane. It's just a stupid storm, and by the looks of the perfectly clean streets below, a mild one at best. It's like the third strongest storm I've witnessed this summer. No fallen trees, no patio furniture smashed through anybody's window, not even a goddamn clogged drain in the street gutters.

An earthquake and a hurricane in the same week, and I miss them both. I'll tell you what, for all the bravado, machismo, and self-felating pride New Yorkers have in their toughness and heroism, they really are a bunch of pussies when it comes to natural disasters.

Hell's Bells

Seeing as how I haven't had much to complain about lately, I was delighted when my friend Emily sent me this very special Guest Kvetch. Enjoy.

I am guessing that the last time you enjoyed a cold glass of milk with your Oreos or needed some milk to mix in with your Mac and Cheese mix, you did something along the lines of: opened your refrigerator, grabbed the plastic vessel in which your milk was purchased and poured out the required amount.  It probably took less than 20 seconds.  I am quite sure you did not strap on your boots, walk to the barn where Bessie, the family’s Heifer is kept, to squeeze the milk from her udders with your very hands into a silver pail, which you then carried back into your kitchen with a fireplace as a stove to pour a glass, or pewter mug, of milk.

 I use this as an example to show that as a result of many technological advances, we are no longer operating under the confines of life in Puritan Massachusetts in the 18^th century; we are living in urban New York City in the 21^st century…just in case you were unaware or are forgetful.  So why, pray tell, is it that every morning, weekday and weekends, I wake to the sound of church bells?

 I have a number of grievances related to this issue of church bell use in the 21^st century.   First, but by no means most importantly, every human I know, including a 4 year old, owns or has access to a cell phone at all times.  A feature on all cell phones is a clock.  It is nearly impossible to not have access to some mechanism that will tell you the time in a matter of a glance.  We are past the point where we need to wait for a bell to strike to remind us how much time is passing by. 

Second…even if it were helpful to have a non-secular reminder of another hour passing by, the church bell system is exceedingly inefficient in that you need to COUNT the number of times the bell rings in order to determine the time.  Come 12:00, it will take over 30 seconds just to determine the time by listening to the number of ding-dongs, and that is assuming you haven’t missed a dong or lost count because of a distracting fire truck passing by and you are busy looking at the firemen… Wait, was that 11 rings or 12?

Third, every night, excluding weekends, I set an alarm for the time that I need to wake up in the morning.  I do not ask my neighbor to set his alarm in order that I can wake up, nor do I make unnecessary noises in the morning so that others must wake up at the same time as I do.  This is common courtesy.  Sleep is valuable, and it is downright rude to infringe on someone’s hard earned sleep time.  The church outside my building has offensively assumed the right to wake everyone in the neighborhood by 8 AM every day, including Saturdays and Sundays.    

The bottom line is, some antiquated things are still lovely and relevant, such as using leeches to help blood flow during surgery or reading books as opposed to a Kindle.  The church bell no longer falls in the category of lovely and relevant.  This Sunday please join me at the offending church on 47^th street, we will walk in during their precious mass and loudly announce the time just to be sure that everyone knows exactly when it is 10:47, 10:48 and 10:49.

Cheese!

There are a lot of people in New York. It seems like every street has thousands of people, all rushing around, trying to get to wherever they're going.

There are also a lot of tourists in New York. Tourists like to take pictures. Hey, no problem there. I'm a tourist too sometimes, and when I am, I like to capture those memories on my camera as well.

But for some reason, here in NY, there is an incessant need for people to take pictures in the most routine places - say, on a busy sidewalk in front of a nondescript building. The problem with this is that when you stop to take a picture of your stupid looking wife from ten feet away, you hold up the whole goddamn flow of foot traffic.

Some people walk right through your dumb picture, which they have every right to do. But that only keeps you trying to get your idiotic picture taken longer. I, on the other hand, always stop and wait for you to complete your mentally retarded picture, because I am a courteous and chivalrous gentleman. But do I get a thank you? Well, sometimes I do, actually.

But that's not the point. If you want to take pictures of New York, go to picture-taking places. Go to the Statue of Liberty, or Central Park, or the Appollo Theater. Don't stand on Lexington Ave outside a busy subway station and pose for five minutes like you've never seen a fucking newstand before.

Et Tu, Niners?

The resolution of the NFL lockout has led to the most frenzied free agent signing period the league has ever seen. High profile star players are flying around to teams at a dizzying pace.

And yet, the San Francisco 49ers have done nothing.

The last time the Niners were in the playoffs was 2002. That's awhile ago, in NFL terms. Pretty much every team has been to the playoffs since then. Between the time I was born and the time I was a freshman in high school, the Niners won five Super Bowls. FIVE SUPER BOWLS. And now we can't win the worst division in football.

We've had the same shitty quarterback for the last six years. The one we took instead of Aaron Rodgers, who just won the Super Bowl with the Packers. The one we just signed to a new one year deal. I can't even bring myself to mention his name.

Donovan McNabb, Matt Hasselback, Kevin Kolb, Vince Young...all proven quarterbacks, snapped up by other teams. Young is now the backup in Philadelphia. While the Niners sit by and do nothing.

I don't have the ability to occupy the minds of the people running the San Francisco 49ers. But as a lifelong fan of the team, I would relish the opportunity to punch them all in their dicks and tell them they're ruining the next six months of my life.

I love the Niners. But we're going nowhere. There is simply no hope for this team.

Non-Kvetch

No kvetch today, just a shout-out to my roommate Rob, who made one of the most accurate calls, if not THE most accurate call, I've ever seen today.

This morning I was goofing around, and hiked my underwear up into a thong-like positioning, then put both arms up against the doorway of Rob's bathroom and wiggled around in a little jig while he was brushing his teeth.

"You look like a fat version of Sting in DUNE," he said. I told him I'd never seen DUNE, and within 20 seconds he had produced this picture on his BlackBerry:

It's not a stretch to say this is pretty much exactly what I looked like, except not as ripped. I was astounded at  the pinpoint precision of the comparison Rob made so immediately. Well done, sir.

I would have provided a picture of myself at that moment to prove the point, but I've probably said too much already.

Escalating Tensions

How long have escalators been around? Hang on, let me Google it...

Ah, 1897. Well over 100 years. You would think that would be enough time for people to learn the social etiquette that surrounds this helpful invention. If you want to stand, stay to the right. That way, the people who aren't too lazy to move their legs, or who aren't riveted by this poor man's roller coaster, are free to walk on the left.

Just how inconsiderate and unaware of your surroundings do you have to be to get on an escalator in a busy subway station on which dozens of people are clearly standing on the right hand side, and then just plant yourself there on the left, creating a blockage of humans behind you too timid to even say excuse me? And then when someone does say excuse me, in an only slightly but appropriately sarcastic manner, you act surprised that anyone else could possibly exist anywhere in the world, and would want you to move your fat ass twelve inches out of their way.

It's 100 degrees here, people. You could literally boil blood.

Semi-Racist Thoughts

1) Black people are at a terrible disadvantage when it comes to tattoos. I just saw a black guy with tattoos all up both arms, and I couldn't make out what a single one of them was. What's the point of getting a tattoo if people can't tell what it is? I guess I could have squinted, but I don't want a black guy catching me squinting at his arms.

2) Asian kids on the subway unsettle me.

3) Is it racist if I'm Jewish and I strongly dislike Hasidic Jews? I'm sorry, they're creepy. They walk around all solemn, never smiling or laughing, dressed like funeral directors in the middle of summer, with bizarre ringlets of hair hanging off the sides of their heads. I don't like religious extremists of any kind, but Hasids in particular freak me out.

That's all for now. Don't worry Argentinians, I'll get to you.

Time-Warner, I Miss You

Never, ever, ever would I have believed that I would yearn for the days of Time-Warner cable. But I have found a more frustrating cable company, and its name is RCN here in New York.

It began when the cable guy first came to install my cable. My roommate Rob had not yet moved in, and he was bringing his TV, but I wanted to have the cable hooked up and ready to go when he got here. The cable guy marches in, a stocky, goateed New Yorker, looks around and asks me in his thick NY accent, "Wheh's yeh TV, bro?"

"Oh, it's not here yet," I replied.

"Wheh is it?" he asked again, more pointed this time.

"Uh, it's actually in Virginia at the moment," I told him, not seeing why he needed to know this information.

He shook his head. "I ain't supposed to hook up the cable widdout a TV."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Well, I guess you'll just have to come back then." It was like he was trying to get me to admit I was hiding a TV, but I called his bluff. He backed down, peering around as if someone might be listening.

"All right. I'll hook up the cable. But I ain't s'posed to."

"Whatever you want to do, man."

So we got the cable, thanks to this gentleman's magnanimous nature. Then a couple weeks ago I got our first bill: $224.67. This includes $89.43 for our monthly rate, and $135.24 for our "Previous Balance." Being that it's our first bill, I'm not sure how we have a previous balance, so I did what anyone would do in this situation: ignored the bill and figured I'd deal with it later.

Well, I just got a message from RCN wanting to discuss my account, so I tried calling back. A recording told me the number I dialed was invalid. I checked it again. Dialed again. Invalid again.

I looked on the bill for the Billing Support number. Same number. For whatever reason, I dialed it again. Same result. I even dialed the Technical Support number. A different recording told me that number was also invalid. No further information was offered.

This is a new one for me. With Time-Warner, they keep you on hold for three days, but at least they acknowledge it's the right number. This bastard of a company just provides you with numbers that don't even go to anything. That's one way to cut down on your tech support payroll.

I guess I'll just keep putting this off until they call back. Although I'm a little worried: Curb Your Enthusiasm starts soon, and we don't have HBO.

This is What Happens When I Get a Middle Seat

I just took a flight on JetBlue. The flight attendant did her shpeal, saying "My name is Claire, and it's a pleasure to be serving you today, with my colleagues Jeff Blume and Robert Richardson. The co-pilot is Michael Anderson, and the pilot is Curtis McGee."

One question: Who gives a shit?

What is this, a Broadway play? Are you going to tell me who the stewardess's understudies are, too?

"Oh, Curtis McGee, he's the best. This is gonna be a great flight."

Just shut up and unfreeze my little tv so I can get on with watching fat babies on Maury Povich, using the headphones I had to purchase for two dollars. Why you can't just charge me an extra two dollars for my ticket and pass out "free" headphones is beyond me. But I imagine it must be just to make me feel even more like a chump than you already do. 

Guest Kvetches!

What a banner day it is over here at KK headquarters. I actually got sent two guest kvetches! So without further ado, enjoy the literal stylings of Jonas Wadler, my Hollywood Regis neighbor/Wii Tennis protege; and my mother, lovingly known throughout the family as P-Furmz. (Just kidding. Nobody calls her that.)

JONAS'S KVETCH

Dear Members of the National Public School Auditorium Naming Center,

I'm a local, upstanding, tax-paying member of the greater Hollywood community. I'd like to address the naming board about the "Michael Jackson Auditorium" that has been christened at the local elementary school down the block from where I live.

It has come to my attention that the Jacksons attended this elementary school and you have decided to honor the fallen singer with an auditorium so that in death he can still touch the hearts of young children.

Now, litigiously, Michael Jackson was not convicted of his crimes against children, but nor was Orenthal James Simpson, yet I don't see any government offices naming their institutions 'The OJ Simpson Probation Center.' You know why? Because by naming an auditorium after a highly suspected pedophile, it is an easy way to outrage and concurrently drive away potential parents who would want their children attending this school. Now maybe you're saying, "Enough, let the guy live peacefully in death," to which I say, look at Macauley Culkin. That muthafucka hasn't done anything since Home Alone besides Party Monster which I put up there with my first album post-American Idol: hovering right above the trash bin, but not in it. Macauley even let Mila Kunis run away. That's how fucked in the head he is by Michael. Why? Because he's still got visions of Michael Jackson's hands cavorting around his private parts like it was his own, private Idaho.

Selfishly, I'm conflicted. While this can't help the re-assessed value of my apartment, maybe it can help lower my property taxes.

MA'S KVETCH

I went to Sam's Club this afternoon for a few necessities.  Among them, toilet paper.  After I got home I looked at the packaging. It says "Charmin -- Soft, Absorbent, Long Lasting."  Really?  Exactly how long do you want your toilet paper to last???

Light of My Life

This is a picture I took of the lamp I bought from Bed, Bath & Beyond for my room:

Admittedly, I suck at putting things together. Being handy is not one of my strengths. That being said, I have never paid money for a bigger piece of junk than this lamp.

You can see those poles, right? Those poles are supposed to screw into each other with double-sided screws. Well, they don't. They don't screw together at all. I stood there with each pole, twirling them around absent-mindedly for a dozen minutes, before coming to the realization that it just wasn't going anywhere.

Determined to get my money back, I marched out into the hallway, where 5 minutes earlier I had thrown away the box for the lamp in the recycling bin. But alas, in that 5 minutes, the garbage had been collected. So now I'm stuck with this modern art.

I think I'm going to set it on fire and throw it out my window. People do stuff like that in New York, right?

I HEART NY

A whole new city. A whole new world of bullshit I never imagined having to deal with before.

My first day here, I bought a mattress. Imperative to buying a mattress in New York City, the salesman told me, is also buying a mattress cover, to prevent being infested by bedbugs. Interesting. That's something I never thought about in LA.

So I buy the mattress cover for an extra 100+ dollars. Fine. When the delivery guy comes, he tells me I have to wash it first. Fine again. I take it down to the laundry room in my building.

Here's where shit starts getting annoying. When I lived in an apartment building in West Hollywood eight years ago, it cost me 75 cents to do my laundry. Now it costs $2.75. Thanks, Obama. But the machine doesn't even take money. It only accepts a prepaid laundry card that I have to get from a machine on the wall.

Not only do I have to load money onto this card in advance to do my laundry, I also have to pay for the card itself, which costs four dollars. I actually have to pay $4 just to simply earn the right to do my laundry in my apartment building.

And even that alone would only be a giant scam I could go about my day cursing under my breath...except the machine only takes ten dollar bills for the purposes of buying this sacred laundry card.

That's right. It accepts ones, fives and twenties if you want to add money to the card...but only tens to buy the card. I stare at the instructions on the machine, flabbergasted.

Since ten dollar bills are the rarest of all American currency, next to Sacajawea dollar coins, I did not have one on me. So that meant I had to go out into the city, into a grocery store, ask for change for a twenty, get denied because the girl couldn't figure out how to open her register without me making a purchase, wait behind someone else in another line, ask that cashier to break the twenty............................kjsbfsjkdbjkbgjdwo4utiOWUI4T0.........

It all turned into a blurry haze. I understand now why people in New York are so busy. Even the littlest things here take the most maximum effort.

I Know, I Know...

...I haven't kvetched in awhile. I get it. You can stop reminding me. I've been busy moving from LA to New York, via Lafayette, CA. I've been a little crazed. Rest assured that plenty of things are still annoying the piss out of me, and I'm sure that will continue in a whole new New York state of mind when I arrive on the East Coast next week. But for the next few days, go find someone else's misery to delight in.

Bad Rap

If I hear one more rap song about doing shots of Patron, I'm going to freak out. I get that there's some unwritten rule that says rappers can't write songs about anything other than how awesome they are and how much they like to party, but do you guys really all have to drink the exact same booze, too? What, none of you can think of anything that rhymes with Cazadores? Here, let me help you out: florist, Boris, clitoris. That was just off the top of my head.

While we're at it, stop saying "Throw your hands in the air, and wave 'em like you just don't care," too. That was a fun lyric when Snoop first used it...20 years ago. Now it's just a tired cliche that implies you couldn't think of your own rhymes. What does that even mean, anyway? "Wow, look at that guy waving his arms around. He must be totally indifferent to everything."

Now Snoop is rapping on Katy Perry songs. It's a dark age of music.

How Do These People Find Me?

I was on a date the other night, having drinks at a hotel bar, when a couple sat down next to us. The girl was a little tipsy, but was friendly enough. The four of us made some pleasant small talk, and she kept complementing my date on everything: her hair, her clothes, her look, etc.

Then, out of nowhere, the girl says this to her: "You're a lot cuter than he is."

I turned around, incredulous. "What did you just say?" I asked.

"What?" she slurred defensively. "All I said is that she's cuter than you."

I couldn't believe it. What an epically insulting thing to say to a total stranger. I told her as much. "Do have any idea how rude that is?"

"Whaaaat? No it's not. I mean, you guys are cute together. I just mean, you know, she's cuter." I did not find this explanation to be suitable. Fail.

My date understandably backed away from this brewing controversy. "I'm staying out of this," she said, chuckling.

The drunk mess continued to dig herself a hole. "You should take it as a complement," she said.

"I should take that as a complement???" I asked, my voice rising. "I'm sitting here having a drink, you sit down and tell us that she's better-looking than me, and I should be fucking flattered?"

"Yeah, because, like, you're with her, and--"

I pointed to the guy she was with. "You know what? You're a lot stupider than he is." I turned away from her. That was the end of the conversation, other than her trying to stammer some sort of apology to my date. Five minutes later I paid the bill. Ten minutes later I was studying myself from all angles in the mirror. Damn my weakness for caring what strange inebriated imbeciles think of me!!!

And so this is the end of our story...and everyone is dead from AIDS...

I read an article in a magazine the other day titled "Health Scare of the Week: The Insidious Spread of Herpes." It said that one in six people have type-2 herpes simplex virus, but that 90% of those who have it don't even know it, because they don't have any symptoms, and doctors don't usually test for HSV-2.

Wow, I thought. That's pretty scary. I could be carrying around a strain of herpes and not even know it? I got pretty unsettled.

Then I thought back to a meeting I had with a television executive a couple weeks ago. He was telling me about a show his company is doing about shadowy "wag the dog" type forces who manipulate what's in the media in order to influence what the public believes, usually for financial gain. He gave me the example of the Swine Flu virus - the fact that it was basically just the flu, but since it was always in the news, people went into a panic, bought vaccines, etc.

Maybe this is one of those situations. I mean, a virus that has no symptoms, isn't tested for, and you can't even tell if you have it or not? That actually sounds much less scary than regular viruses. You know, the ones that make you sneeze and puke and die and stuff. If somebody said to you "I'm going to punch you in the face, but you won't feel it, won't remember it, and won't show any effects of it having happened," would you really feel all that threatened? That's just called not getting punched in the face.

Nice try, condom mongers.

My Thoughts on One of the More Significant Developments of Our Time, Without Trying to be Funny

This is all very bizarre. Never in my life have I ever witnessed such mass jubilation over the death of a human. Obviously I'm extremely psyched about this development; it's a pretty sweet victory for the good ol' US of A. It's just kind of interesting.

I mean, you must be a pretty bad guy to have throngs of people in the streets of America, crying with joy and singing songs as a result of your demise. Bin Laden was responsible for the murder of thousands of people. And yet he was so up front, so deliberate about it, that I have to think he really believed what he was doing was right. He must actually have thought he was doing the right thing.

Just like Hitler. Or Jared Loughner. Or anybody who's batshit crazy but has a surprisingly productive psychosis and wants to get some shit done.

Well, I'm happy we still have people we can call on to take care of business. This is the kind of thing Batman would have done if he was real.

Adios, asshole.

You're Welcome, Society

I was just driving along Hollywood Boulevard, filled with rage at the obscene traffic caused by a concert at the Hollywood Bowl. When you're stuck in a standstill at 11PM on a Saturday night after being at a dinner party in the Valley, your patience runs out very rapidly. Mine does, anyway.

As I was sitting there, I noticed the guy to my left, driving a car in the opposite direction, also stuck in the horrible traffic. I am not kidding at all when I tell you that this guy was literally - not figuratively - literally, sleeping at the wheel.


I mean, this guy was out. Mouth open, totally unconscious. Two full car lengths of open space in front of him. Since my window was down, I screamed "WAKE UP!!!" at the top of my lungs. As I drove off I just barely managed to see him snap out of his slumber, terrified, and realize he was piloting an automobile on a busy street.

There's no telling how many lives I saved tonight. And I got to shout at a stranger. My work here is done.

Please be Kidding

"The plan for Alex (Smith) is unchanged. He has the ability and license to be the starting quarterback and so does (2nd round draft pick) Colin (Kaepernick). We want to get the best players on our roster, throw the balls out there and let them compete." - San Francisco 49ers head coach Jim Harbaugh


Pardon me for being blunt, Mr. Harbaugh, but are you completely fucking retarded? You're the highly coveted new coach of a once proud, currently embarrassing football franchise. I'm just a simple fan, but are you seriously considering starting off your first season coaching in the NFL with Alex Smith as your starting quarterback? How many terrible seasons does this guy have to fart his way through before he loses his job? Two more? Three? The six seasons he's put together sucking testicles doesn't count for anything?


A word of advice, Harbaugh: FIND ANOTHER QUARTERBACK. Your popularity in the Bay Area will skyrocket once you just start looking around.

Nice Little Monday Morning

What better way to start off the week than by having my cell phone vibrate 117 consecutive times at 7:30 AM, having been flooded with returned emails from defunct email addresses, indicating that my Gmail account has somehow been hacked for the second time in as many weeks?

Not only do I have to endure the annoying embarrassment of having promotional emails appear in people's in-boxes who I haven't spoken to in years, I also have the pleasure of spending my morning changing the password on my account, which inevitably leads to a phone call to Sprint to be able to keep getting emails on my Blackberry. Highly aggravating. I have to take an extra Crestor today.

Please, computer hackers, I beg you: STOP HACKING ME. None of my acquaintances are going to start drinking acai berry juice, or whatever the fuck it is you're trying to trick people into believing I'm pushing on them. Leave us alone. Go hack into a government site, someplace where you can really do some damage. Google actually alerted me to the fact that someone had accessed my account from Saudi Arabia. Don't you people have more important shit going on over there? Terrorism and uprisings, that sort of thing? Figure out how to put your technological prowess towards advancing those goals.

By the way, Google, crackerjack job you're doing protecting your users from this sort of thing. I have absolutely no appreciation for the decade of free email service you've provided me. You suck.

Oh, and for all you people actually responding to this spam, writing back to ask me if I've been hacked, allow me to answer you collectively: YES, I HAVE BEEN HACKED. Thanks for being part of the 5% of people I've ever emailed to think I may have actually intentionally sent you an email containing only a web address for vitamin supplements, and then creating another 25 emails I have to go through by asking me about it. Please, for both our sakes, next time you get an email from me with the subject heading "Hullo There!!!"...just delete it.

What a Twist!

I just spent the weekend with my family in Phoenix, my Least Favorite City in America (although to be fair, I haven't yet been to Cleveland, Detroit, or New Shitstainberg, Delaware). The locale itself was actually not the subject of today's ire; everything went swimmingly until my final meal before leaving.

It was breakfast, this morning at the hotel. The service was bad. Specifically, our waiter was very slow taking our order and bringing out the food. Worse than that, he was condescending. He made little feather-ruffling quips here and there, such as when my uncle ordered egg whites with broccoli, and he said "I have to see if we have that. That's not a normal menu item." It wasn't exactly the content of what he said, but they way he said it that chapped my lips. It was downright snooty. (Snooty? Snotty. Snotty?!?! Five bucks if you can name the movie.)

Anyway, later on in the meal, a busboy brought out the scoop of cottage cheese my aunt had ordered a half hour earlier, and she politely refused it, saying she was no longer hungry. When the waiter came back, my grandfather's wife informed him of this development.

"Oh, okay. I'll take it off the bill. Somebody had to be served last."

Can you believe that? He actually said that. "Somebody had to be served last."

I turned and looked up at him. "What an asshole," I said, chuckling in disbelief.

"Excuse me?" he said, incredulous. 

" 'Somebody had to be served last?' Are you kidding me? You're a fucking prick, man." The waiter didn't know what to say, so I continued. "You say that like you brought everyone's food out at once, happened to set her cottage cheese down last, and she complained about it. As opposed to what really happened, which is that you took a half hour to scoop some cottage cheese into a fucking bowl and trot it out here."

"I said I was sorry--" the waiter began to stammer.

"No you didn't. At no point did you attempt to apologize. You just said you'd take it off the bill. How does not charging someone for something they didn't eat constitute an apology?"

"I don't appreciate your language," the bastard sniveled, trying to assert himself. 

"I don't appreciate anything about you," I shot back. "Bring your manager out here, post haste!" The waiter muttered something and disappeared. Five minutes later, his manager came over to speak to me, a middle-aged British woman. I explained to her what had happened, and the waiter was fired on the spot. Then he went home and hung himself.

You might presume that the subject of this kvetch was our jerkoff waiter. But you'd be wrong. In fact, more than anything, I was annoyed with myself, as that entire interaction, after the waiter said "Somebody had to be served last," occurred only in my mind, several minutes after he had left the table, having not at all been put in his place, and with an inflated, unchecked air of self-righteousness. 

One of the many instances when I wish my life had a rewind button.

More Celebrity Lookalikes

Wisconsin Congressman Paul Ryan vs. Gabe from "The Office"

PS - Good job not shutting down the government over abortion rights. USA! USA!

Most Recent Cool Thing I Said to a Dodger Fan:

"Sorry, I have to take this home and piss on it."

-in response to a sweet girl in Dodger gear who noticed I was a Giants fan and politely asked me for the giveaway Dodger Snuggie I was carrying out of the game tonight at Dodger Stadium.

I Object

I was watching coverage of Barry Bonds's perjury trial, and they showed this illustration from the courtroom:

Honestly, is there anything more outdated than the courtroom sketch artist? Why is this still the way images are recorded from trials? In the 19th century, I get it. There was no other option besides having someone draw what was happening. But now?

Are cameras not allowed in courtrooms, for some reason? Wasn't the O.J. trial televised? The very fact that they have a guy illustrating these ridiculous cartoons and releasing them to the press is proof that we're supposed to see what's going on...kind of. Why does our judicial system still prefer this slightly less accurate, MUCH more costly and time-consuming medium to actual photographs?

Since our government has such a nostalgia for these antiquated sketches, I'm going to go down to the DMV and demand they replace my driver's license photo with this:

911 is a Joke in My Town

I was hiking up at Runyon Canyon yesterday with my friend and neighbor Jonas; Runyon is the popular little mountain a few blocks up from my building that the local yuppies and dog-walkers turn to for exercise. While we were up there, an LAPD helicopter repeatedly circled overhead. It seemed like they were looking for somebody.

On our way down, Jonas and I noticed an extremely suspicious person. He was clearly hiding behind a tree, watching the helicopter. After it circled once more and flew away, this guy took off jogging down the hill. At Jonas's insistence, we jogged after him, to see where he went.

We followed the guy back out to the street, where he continued to appear somewhat like a fugitive, glancing behind him, until he ultimately got in a car and drove away. Some 30 minutes later, as Jonas and I were on our way to a happy hour, he was obviously still concerned.

"Do you think I should call it in?" he asked me in the car. "Am I crazy?"

"Call what in?" I asked, having already forgotten about it. "That guy we saw?"

Jonas felt a yearning to perform a civic duty that clearly eluded me, but I told him to go ahead if it made him feel better about himself. Not knowing what else to do, he called 911.

Now, I've never called 911. Never had I needed to. But I would expect there would be some sense of urgency. Instead, our call was immediately put on hold, because "all operators are busy," and the message went on to suggest dialing 311 if it was a true emergency.

Really? 311 is the new 911? Did you guys know this? I thought 311 was just an enjoyable pop-funk band from the late 90's.

The voice recording was followed by about 30 seconds of what it sounds like when you accidentally call a fax machine: horrible high-pitched digital screeching. Jonas and I looked at each other in disbelief. Then, finally, an operator got on the line. It had been about a minute and a half since he dialed in. If I had called at the beginning of being raped by a rapist, I would have been raped already.

Jonas told the operator what we had seen. The operator clicked away on her computer, then said nonchalantly: "Um, I see that there was a helicopter over Western and Crawford............?"

Jonas let that hang, not really knowing how to respond. It wasn't like we were looking for confirmation of the helicopter buzzing Runyon Canyon. We were just trying to be helpful. Jonas told the woman that he was just providing a tip. She promised to "make a note of it," and we hung up.

I can't say I was ever truly concerned about the particular individual we may or may not have thwarted from further criminal activity yesterday. But after the way that 911 call played out, I certainly hope that I never have to rely on an employee of the Los Angeles government to get me out of any kind of legitimate jam.

Ma-newer

How come only horses and chickens get to refer to their excrement as "manure"? Why don't we say "dog manure" or "bird manure," or get to use this word for our own droppings? It's a much more pleasant euphemism than any of the other words we have: "crap," "shit," "dump," etc. I'm partial to "poop," but it's a little on the immature side, especially when you have to excuse yourself from a business meeting.


George Costanza has already proven the attractiveness of the word "manure" with his analytical breakdown to Marisa Tomei: "If you think about it, manure is not really that bad a word. I mean, it's 'newer,' which is good, and a 'ma' in front of it, which is also good. Ma-newer!"


The primary definition dictionary.com gives for "manure" is "excrement, especially of animals, or other refuse used as fertilizer." But you could argue that not all horse manure is used as fertilizer, especially those big green clumps I had to avoid when I used to bike around Venice Beach, thanks to those highly modern mounted police. You could also make the case that all feces, of all species, eventually returns to the earth, and thus every organism produces manure.


So going forward, I've decided to refer to my own waste as my manure. When I have to go, I'll inform people that "I'm off to make manure." And if you're interested, I'll be selling 10 lb. bags of it at Orchard Supply Hardware for $5.99. Garden season is upon us!

Sequitur

I think Mohammar Gadhafi is getting a little bit of a bad rap in the media. I keep hearing about how he's "killing his own people." Ehhh...I mean I get that he's the leader of Libya, and he's having Libyans killed, but I wouldn't really describe them as "his people." They're an angry band of armed rebels who hate him. In fact, they're trying to kill him.


So when Gadhafi says things like "My people all love me," that's really not all that crazy, when you put it in context. I'm sure he considers "his people" to be the gun-weilding maniacs slaughtering rebels in his name. Those people definitely love Gadhafi. He probably gave them all Gadhafi t-shirts that they wear all the time. I mean, that's basically how I became a Giants fan. Subsequently, it's also the reason why I'd murder a Dodger fan in a heartbeat like the Libyan rebel dogs they are. So I get it.

This all relates back to my anger about the dude I met in Cabo last weekend with the "San Francisco" tattoo who told me he switched from being a Niners fan to a Saints fan because of Hurricane Katrina. I'm the one who stole your jacket.

Cocaine is Awesome

One thing that really chaps my lips is how people, especially the "liberal media elite," are always talking about how drugs are bad. Without the magic of drugs, we would never have the 18 minute phenomenon that is this Charlie Sheen interview:

http://www.tmz.com/2011/02/24/charlie-sheen-two-and-a-half-men-chuck-lorre-argument-radio-talk-show-tirade-turd-thomas-jefferson/

Without cocaine, we would have never gotten the uber-accurate definition of San Francisco Giants closer Brian Wilson as "a Vatican Assassin."

"It's his job to embarrass people. Not just beat them, but embarrass them in the process. And he's as radical as you think he might be."

Preach the truth, brother. This dude is enlightened. He also screamed "Thomas Jefferson was a pussy!" I can't speak to that, but at least Charlie Sheen is offering a different point of view. Tea Party candidate, anyone?

And don't forget, without drugs, we wouldn't have the Libya uprising. That's a direct quote from their leader of 42 years.

Mental note: create a sitcom starring Charlie Sheen and Gaddafi. Instant smash hit.

See? Without drugs, I'd never have thought of that!

Hey, I Tried

It's Thursday, 9:15 AM. Due to a series of unfortunate events, I'm giving up on today and going back to bed.

I take medication for high cholesterol. The other day, when I went to the pharmacy to get my prescription filled, I was told they were unable to do it and that I had to call my insurance. My insurance provider told me I had to get it filled by mail, and to have my doctor fax them the prescription. My doctor said I had to come in to get my blood tested again. I made an appointment for today at 9:45 AM.

Unrelated to this, BMW sent me an email saying I was due for a service. I took my car in on Tuesday, where I was told my car in fact did not need a service; the email was some sort of inexplicable mistake. But there were in fact four recalls (!!!) they needed to do on my car, so they could do those and have it back to me in the morning.

Well, yesterday evening, when I still hadn't heard back about my car, I called BMW and was told my car had "failed programming," and would hopefully be ready first thing this morning. As you can guess, I have not received a call, so I still have no car, and thus cannot go to the doctor. Appointment cancelled.

I just opened my front door to discover that not one but both of my newspapers (the LA Times and Wall Street Journal) have been either not delivered or stolen. The coincidence of the former is highly unlikely; the fittingness of the latter is not.

G'night.