Assumed Ineptitude

I've never been considered inept at my job. No one has ever asked if I should be wearing a helmet, or tried to put me on the short bus home. In fact--I'd say my lasting relationships with EVERY employer I've had since I entered the work force at the age of 16 are a testament to the fact that I'm a good employee--intelligent, hard working, and humorous when appropriate. Rather than itemize this list, citing specific examples for each job since my beginnings as an Old Navy sales associate, let's just say that if my job history was an entity, it would be hallowed. Despite the glowing resume, my current employer (The Job From Hell) appears to hate me.

In certain respects, I agree with their current demeanor. In every new job there's a moderate amount of hazing, so to speak. There's a period of time where they have to figure out whether you can actually be trusted to do the job they hired you to do; However, after week one, I've usually managed to jump past this and move forward with a joke and a smile. Not at TJFH.

This frustrates me.

If an actor slips past me at the end of the night and I am physically unable to hand them a callsheet, I will let you know, or I will take care of it myself by calling them directly. I do in fact understand that, in order to show up the next day, they need a time. If an actor isn't ready the second you call for them, I am pushing them as much as they can be pushed without freaking them out and pissing them off seconds before they are to appear on camera. If there is a hair change between scenes, it is not an exact science, and assigning it a specific numerical time doesn't change that. The hair department will do their best to get it done as fast as they can, which is not aided my me bugging them every five seconds for an update--it's going to take as long as it's going to take. If an actor doesn't show up on time, I will let you know. Surprisingly I have a callsheet too. After they've already shown up and I've already announced it, don't ask me if they're here. You'll know if they aren't and I don't need to call them out on their 4 minutes of tardiness.

But...apparently my discomfort with assigning specific times to hair jobs, my calm demeanor when actors run a few minutes late, and my efforts to abide by the actor's requests and keep them in their trailer hanging out rather than on set in the 900 degree weather, and keeping them happy by staying out of their asses... all this makes the folks at TJFH "very uncomfortable."

Gee--I'm sorry I make you "uncomfortable" and I'm sorry you see nothing but my assumed ineptitude. For two weeks now I've been extremely bothered by it and felt like I've been doing something wrong. But now, my TJFH friends, I've decided that it's not me, and from now on--what you see is what you get. It has become somewhat entertaining to watch you scurry around and double check every task I'm assigned and every routine move that I make. So--if all you see is an imbecilic trainee with nothing to contribute, that's what you get. And while extreme boredom may become a regular part of my day, I think my feeble minded other half will learn to fill the time.

Only forty more days, TJFH and then maybe you'll get a top shelf trainee instead of just the wells. Or perhaps you'll think they suck too, which seems more likely.

Oh, The Hypocrisy of the PoPo

Today is Tuesday, a day of the week most decidedly better than the one prior as I'm actually getting payed as a temp, but not quite as awesome as the next when chances are I'll be getting payed as an unemployed, but highly valuable, member of society. While a day of work is what I've been longing for, and it puts me one day closer to the "ultimate fun" of the weekend, this particular Tuesday is doing absolutely nothing for me.

This Tuesday began with the overwhelming possibility of an exciting day of fast paced and fun filled work--work that, with any luck could turn in to more than just a single day. (I'm not saying I wanted the sinus infection that has forced out the regular receptionist to spread and develop in to something fatal, but... maybe a short hospital stay would have been nice.) Now, at 5:15 pm, it appears as if the sinus infection that was on the verge of plague has improved immensely with simple antibiotics, the overwhelming possibilities at this company have trounced me instead, and the ticket I got 2 months ago was today assigned a monetary value--an obscene, completely ridiculous, unaffordable-on-a-temp's-salary value.

Thank you, Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department for forcing me to pay for the accident that the Police Officer I saw just a few days ago talking on his cell phone for a full fifteen minutes must have caused. That totally works for me. In fact, next time you guys want to drive all over Los Angeles and completely ignore your uber important new legislation, I'll cover whatever happens, no problem. Oh yeah--and I know this new law covers texting and talking, but I don't believe donut fondling is in there. Just to be fair, I'll cover that too. I wouldn't want your department to suffer sans donut if one should happen to cause an accident. That would just be wrong...I mean you might get in shape. That's just plain unacceptable.

On that note, I have to run. It's almost 6 pm and I have to fill out my time card, and then go get ready for my other job. You know the one I'm talking about, I just "picked it up."

Oh yeah--one more thing. Since I think this "no talking while driving" legislation is so important and I've offered to cover it when you inevitably fuck up, you can't arrest me for my second job. Really, it's fine. For all I've done for you, you'll really be doing me a solid if you just keep driving.

Boo to hypocritical police officers with no sympathy. What, did I have a sign that said "NO JOB!! PICK ME!" on the roof of my car?

Now Change is Bad?

I don't get it America. I really don't.

While today my allegiances lie with President Obama, not too long ago I would've begged, stole, raped, and pillaged to get a female in to the presidency. I got shit from the left saying that Hilary wasn't progressive enough, didn't represent a necessary "new era" and rode too close to the middle. I got shit from the right because, quite simply, she has a vagina, and because her energy, health care, and international relations policies scared them with their liberal undertones.

Well, America... congratulations. You elected a man with a Scotchgarded suit. Nothing would stick, and his campaign avoided criticism because it was so progressive and new. Now you want to tear him down for his sweeping efforts to reform this country?!

"Is the president taking on too much? Give us your thoughts at CNN.com"

"In a time of such drastic economic crisis, the President needs to focus on the economy with laser-like focus, and leave the rest for a better time."

"New administrations moving too quickly have been known to make mistakes."

"The President believes that the health care system plays a very important role in the state of the economy, but is it too large an undertaking at this crucial junction?"

Crucial junction. Thank you.

To the Anderson Coopers, Brian Williams and Charles Gibsons of the world--stuff it. When you criticized Hilary and all but promoted a vote for Obama, you inspired a nation to vote for the most unlikely candidate for President in this nation's history. You pushed the masses to realize that a drastic "change" was necessary, and hinted that "change" could only come with the election of a young senator from Illinois. This young senator has assumed the most important office in the land with honor and complete regality, and with it, an even more daunting responsibility to this dwindling nation. He is now working hard, pushing against every political obstacle imaginable to, for the first time in my lifetime, make drastic revisions to this country's everyday operation. He appointed his former political enemy as his secretary of state, listens to the media criticize his progressive wife for having the gall to show her arms in her First Family portrait, and laughs off the further waste of television's valuable digital spectrum addressing his graying hair, all while fighting opposition with every attempted initiative--initiatives to achieve the drastic reform we put on his shoulders.

This is in fact a crucial junction--two words that seem to have become the chosen phrase in the media. Not in my lifetime, or arguably the lifetime of my parents, has there been a time so drastically calling for immediate action. How does a voting populous so adamant about change suddenly seem to advocate for inaction?

Questioning our leaders is our right and our duty, but seriously? Cut the one man doing anything about our situation a break.

Keith Olbermann Chimes In on California's Ridiculousness

While at times he can be a bit over the top, this is reason number 5,982 that I love Keith Olbermann

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

Fast Food Premiums

*UPDATE: Video fixed*

It's always interesting what you come across when backing up your computer. Some of those pesky files cluttering up your hard drive haven't been accessed in years and are just screaming for the attention they deserve, the attention that will inspire you to blog. Case in point:



*Keep in mind this was recorded at approximately 2 am while slightly intoxicated.

While the majority of you don't know the star of this video, a few of you do, which honestly makes the video just that much more amazing; however, lacking the pleasure of his acquaintance should make his words no less meaningful.

"McDonald's really needs to clean up their shit."

Prior to this occasion, and after my first grade birthday party with Ronald McDonald, I can't remember a single visit to McDonald's. I don't know whether it was that creepy "cat meat" scare that went around my small town in Ohio, or whether I just found that I enjoyed Wendy's and Burger King more, but whatever the reason my avoidance seems to be substantiated. Any more than ten minutes for a "sourdough bitch" is completely ridiculous.

"I pay a premium! I pay my $5.95 for my @#ck*ng sandwich!"

Does anyone else remember the days of the $.99 value menu? Or the Happy Meal that one could scrounge together nickels and pennies to pay for? I find it hard to believe that the quality of the freezer shipped meet and chemical injected lettuce and tomatoes has improved so much as to bring McDonald's prices up by the factor of inflation x 2.

All of these observations, of course, are not applicable before 11 am, at least on the west coast. The sausage, egg and cheese McMuffin?! The only acceptable substitute for the Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwich.

Note to all those in southern California with the cash to buy a franchise of any kind: Franchise a DUNKIN DONUTS and I'll say peace to McDonald's forever.

Chalk One Up For The Valley, Part Deux

In recent months, I've been visiting the smog-trapping, greenhouse-like environment that characterizes the frightening model for urban sprawl and suburbia that is The Valley a bit more often than I'd like to admit; However, due to these more frequent visits, I've discovered another reason that indicates the valley may not completely suck.

Consider the average gas station in your coastal Los Angeles borough with its rising gas prices, sometimes insane lines and... its annoying ass vapor-recovery nozzles.

These nozzles are tasked with curbing air pollution and saving the gas consumer from inhaling fumes. Super.

While I appreciate the concern for my fume inhalation, I hate to break it, but... It's a gas station. No efforts to mask it with perfume or candles, or trap it with a nozzle thingie can change the fact that I'm standing on top of huge tanks of gasoline that could explode with one stray spark and [spoiler] smell like gas.

"It can't hurt to try," you say? WRONG. These vapor-recovery nozzles rule out the possibility of a pump-handle-holder-thingie, quite possibly the only thing that could ever be enjoyable about the gas station experience.

Last night at about 3 am (long story) I stopped to pump some gas in The Valley and was pleasantly surprised to find my savior. When I'm too tired or lazy to even think about squeezing a gas pump handle, nothing hits the spot like the pump-handle-holder-thingie.

Also amazing? You don't have to fight against a vapor-recovery nozzle, constantly pushing against you as you push against it, automatically shutting the pump off when you provide inadequate pressure, and ultimately leaking gasoline all over the side of your car as you go to pull it out.

Boo to vapor-recovery nozzles, but props to the valley, once again, for resisting change and remaining content in their abundance of greenhouse gasses and not even attempting to control them.

I've Figured It Out...

For the past several days I've been visiting my own blog...repeatedly...rereading and revisiting events and annoyances from the past.

While I'd like to think I had some true purpose for doing this, I think I'll just acknowledge that I can't even make up a good reason. I'm bored at work.

However--it has been bothering me for quite some time that I've let blogging fall by the wayside. The complete sense of satisfaction that comes from the successful combination of a mildly humorous sentence or two to be consumed by everyone on the Internets is nothing short of amazing. The fact that my words could move thousands to laugh hysterically at my [choose one: pain, anquish, hell, annoyance, career woes] inflates my self esteem bubble to the point of bursting each time.

And then I remember that only like five people (all of whom I know personally) read my blog... and they've all stopped reading my blog because I haven't posted since just after I entered the gainfully-employed-yet-hopelessly-poor work force... and I'm not that funny.

After revisiting the past, I've now realized that my previous posts are the ramblings of a completely different person. The new me has had her life sucked out by work.

Either that, or I've become one of those positive, happy people that approaches life from the half full perspective abstaining from biting, bitter, and sarcastic commentary on life.

That, my friends, I refuse to accept.

Crack, a Bull Horn, and Kiefer Sutherland

All bitching about my "full-time gig" aside, when you break it down, it's really not that terrible--ignoring the close proximity to the poverty line, of course.

But in all seriousness, I'm privy to some pretty amazing information and learning quite a bit. For instance, today I learned that placing your livelihood in the hands of a crack addict probably isn't the greatest move. How did I learn this you ask? Lohan's next project, slated to begin production next week, has been pushed because...well...I think we all know why. My agents have the Director of Photography on the project. When movies push, the DP doesn't make any money until it actually goes, meanwhile they're committed to the project and have passed on others. Ouch.

I've also learned that when your boss text messages you something funny, for instance "I'm quitting," and you think it's funny enough to share with a couple people in the office--probably not the best idea. Although your reasoning was rooted purely in humor and sharing it with the rest of the world, your boss might regard it as insubordination, or "stealing the thunder." Then your boss might inform you that he's never telling you anything ever again because it's like "sharing information with a bull horn."

Another tidbit to add to the plethora of new information I've acquired, the life of an adult in Hollywood is akin to a pre-pubescent teen. There are many examples of said tidbit, but let's just stick to today's examples. I spent a large portion of my day trying to acquire a signed head shot of Kiefer Sutherland for a client. This client has no children, and has been quite vague about the need for this photo. While I'd like to think that I'm assisting my way to importance and my day is filled with uber-important supportive and administrative tasks, sadly, I would be mistaken. Instead I have to call the assistant to the agent of some really big TV star and explain why my client needs a photo that might very well end up hanging on the wall and fawned over--while giddily laughing and painting fingernails. After emails, awkward made-up rationale, hold time, and trading of phone calls, turns out the star is out of the country for another 2 months. Sweet--tell him I hope his 10 star hotel and yacht are treating him well.

So as you can see, information abounds in a day-in-the-life of a Hollywood (or Santa Monica, same diff) assistant. Watch out world...after my year here, there's no telling how smart I'll get.

Note to self: When part of you has a "weird aversion to landing a full time gig" with [insert company name here], listen to yourself. Please allow me to recount the events of my week...

Monday: Arrive at your temp assignment, the same assignment which you've already had for two weeks. Accept compliments from the agents you work for and think to yourself "working here wouldn't be all that bad." Remember that you were supposed to go down and meet with the head of HR to "discuss [your] future," which really just means "how much money will it take to keep you here?" Pleasantly, yet obviously, stick your nose up at the base assistant salary, then divulge how much it would take to get you to stay. Leave the HR office not really knowing what the fuck just happened, or what the events of the past twenty minutes mean for your future.

Tuesday: Receive an email from the head agent in your department saying "I had a nice discussion with the head of HR regarding you staying with us. She said that if we were to offer $X, you'd stay on with us here. Is this true? I think the company is prepared to make you this offer. Are you interested?" Respond to email with an affirmative response, yet again not knowing what that means for your future. Receive a phone call, seemingly minutes later, from your agent at the temp agency asking what the points of your discussion with HR were. Attempt to talk salary as every single assistant in your department surrounds you. At the end of the day, receive a phone call from HR asking you to come downstairs because there's "paperwork" for you to fill out. Go downstairs and realize that they've given you a job. Think about it for the five seconds it takes you to pick up a pen, and then sign the next year of your life away by way of a W-4.

Wednesday: Receive a phone call from Recruiting/HR managing the job you interviewed for (and really wanted) at a major studio/production company...let's just put it out there...Fox...asking you to come in for a second interview. Keep in mind, the second interview is basically a joke if you've bypassed HR at a large corporation and gone straight for the interview with the VP. The second interview in this situation simply means that the principal loved you, so now you have to go through the bullshit hiring process. Call your friend who's temping in the exact same position, who you thought wanted the job and would automatically get hired, and realize that she's changed her mind for monetary reasons. Leave your desk at the job you just accepted and go outside to smoke a cigarette.

Thursday: Call every important person in your life and bitch about your present situation.

Friday: Go out for drinks with one the agents in your new office. Have a great time, realize that your other friends who worked at agencies weren't in such a close-nit department and would NEVER get to drink with one of their bosses. Get a ride to your car in a C230 and realize that, despite the opportunity that arrived sans expedience, there is something to be said for job comfort and taking the opportunity at hand that will, quite likely, lead to an abundance of opportunity. Get in your car and return a phone call you received while at drinks from a friend who was going through the same interview hell as you. Hear that she just got a job for $X x 2. Arrive home, combine every liquor you have in the apartment in to one glass and repeat until there's no liquor left.

Once again, glitz and glam overtook the sleezy strip of Hollywood Blvd. that plays host to The Academy Awards, and once again, the stars delivered--Nicole Kidman's big ass "back bowtie" aside. For whatever reason I just can't seem to avoid getting all wrapped up in the spectacle, despite the post-viewing depression that consumes me when I realize -- I am a failure. Let's review the facts, shall we?

1. I used to have a job where part of my compensation was an apartment--as in free, no rent, no utilties, no cable, no bills period.
2. I quit said job.
3. I now share an apartment, for which there are many bills.
4. I am a temp.
5. I have not been, nor am I on a track to be, at the Oscars.
6. Did I mention I have no job?

I moved to Los Angeles (no, not to become famous) to become a line producer for features or television. Right now I'm temping at an agency. They love me, and have made me an offer to stay, yet why does part of me have some weird aversion to landing a full time gig here? Oh that's right, because I won't be line producing.

I interviewed at Fox as well--I thought things went really well, but the VP hasn't made an official decision yet. Please buddy, take all the time you need. My livelihood isn't really that important.

I know that there are many paths to each person's ultimate goal, but could someone just push me in one direction please?

Polonium: Does a Body Good

Lately we've been hearing a lot about former KGB agent Alexander V. Litvinenko and his undoubtedly excruciating, yet seemingly scripted death. But today, rather than more ridiculous details about grounded planes and possible means of contamination, I stumbled upon an op-ed piece in the New York Times (ok, my boss forwarded it to me for soon to be obvious reasons) that basically insinuated the apocalypse is upon us--an apocalypse brought on by...

Terrorists? No...

Flooding as a result of global warming? No...

The return of Jesus Christ? Well, not yet anyways...

Instead, this professor of history at Stanford University seems to think all of us will eventually die in Litvinenko-like fashion (or begin to glow in the dark) as a result of cigarettes. *The article is linked with the title above.



Does anyone else think it odd that a professor of history has served as a witness in litigation against the tobacco industry? Maybe it's just me, but I'd like to think that those suing the tobacco industry would have something along the lines of, oh I don't know, science in order to prove their case.

Regardless, Mr. Proctor successfully added another harmful poison to the laundry list of death-causing agents in cigarettes. Question: Why?

"Wow, Mr. Proctor! I knew that arsenic stuff, and I reckon I heard a bit about cyanide...oh, and that stuff that keeps me addicted? Um...nicotine? Yeah. But this polonium stuff. That's the last straw."

Right.

If you read anything in this blog, read this. People that smoke aren't stupid. ...ok maybe, that was the wrong way to put it. Smokers are NOT ignorant to the dangers of smoking. It's not possible to pick up a cigarette without knowing that it's a carcinogen. Lengthening the list of harmful side affects is great, go for it, but please realize that if one death-causing toxin isn't enough to prevent me, three or four probably isn't either. If I'm gonna die, I'm gonna go all out.

I especially enjoyed Mr. Proctor's bit about my cigarettes helping to make a continuous chain from the earth to the sun and back with enough left over to make a couple similar chains from earth to mars. Although I've never been a fan of these impractical examples of quantity, Proctor's example gave me comfort. It's good to know that I come nowhere NEAR the 5.7 trillion cigarettes consumed each year.

The Moment Has Arrived

Alright, I realize that most of you havent been anticipating this quite as much as I have, but... Ass Wipers, Inc. has premiered!!

Check out the best new sitcom to hit the internet! This is the teaser episode, BIRTH OF A SALESMEN, and it's the extended version of the infomercial that you may have already seen on YouTube. It stars Bryce, as well as his friends Olivia and Lawrence. It'll give a quick look into the way Ass Wipers, Inc. conducts its revolutionary business.

To see episode two, THE BRYCE-MAN COMETH, and all subsequent episodes on the 1st and 15th of every month, visit Ass Wipers, Inc.'s website

Posted By:Ass Wipers, Inc.

Get this video and more at MySpace.com

On an entirely seperate note, now that AWI has premiered, I should be back to more regular blogging, booing, and making-fun soon...

Positive Alternative

For whatever reason, be it hectic schedule, fatigue, or maybe even the weather, I've been uninspired to blog.

This on the other hand, is very inspiring...

Posted By:Josh Jennings

Get this video and more at MySpace.com

The thought of Josh Jennings solving all of our nations ills...aah, heartwarming.

Mother May I?

Is it just me, or should there be a mandated and forced relinquishing of motherly command upon the arrival of a child's 18th birthday? Perhaps even before that... Once a child reaches a certain level of maturity and self-reliance, a mother just really isn't practical.

Four months ago...
Mom: Did you get the wedding invitation?
Me: Yeah, I just got it in the mail today. It looks really nice, huh?
Mom: This is Johnny's kid, could you expect anything less than perfect?
Me: I guess you're right.
Mom: They put all the airline information in there, so you should buy your ticket soon. You're coming the farthest of anyone.
Me: Mom...the wedding's in October.
Mom: Ugh...you and your father, last minute everything!

This is what I will refer to as "planting the weed." This is the conversation where you realize your mother's id is satisfied by your complete annoyance. You make a mental note to avoid mention of any and all topics that could possibly be wedding or plane ticket related.

Two months ago...
Mom: Hi! How are you?
Me: I'm fine, just really busy with this project I'm working on.
Mom: Oh, really? How's it going?
Me: Things are going well, I'm just tired. But how weird is it that I'm working with Sara again? It's been fun though, and her friends are cool and all pretty talented.
Mom:You were both always so hard working, so it's not a bad combination.
Me: Yeah... I'm glad we...
Mom: Did you buy a ticket to the wedding yet?
Me: Mom...I've been busy.
Mom: Oh, Christine, it takes thirty seconds to buy a plane ticket.
Me: Thirty seconds is hard to come by when working three jobs, Mom.
Mom: If it's about the money I already told you we'd help out.
Me: It's not about the money, I told you you're not giving me anything.
Mom: Well then why haven't you bought it yet?
Me: Mom, I have to go.
Mom: Fine.

This one I'll call "self actualization." This is the conversation where the weed realizes that it's a weed, and that you've been avoiding it for a couple months. The weed will no longer be ignored. You hang up the phone and vow not to have a conversation with the weed for quite some time so as to have built up sufficient topics of conversation that won't allow digression to plane tickets or weddings.

One month ago...after receiving a voicemail from Mom
Me: Hey Mom! Sorry I missed your call...
Mom: Oh, I'm glad you're alright.
Me: Yeah, I'm fine, I've just been super busy.
Mom: Still?
Me: Yeah, well we were shooting for fourteen days straight and...
Mom: Did you get your ticket yet?
Me: NO! I've been busy, get off my back about it. I'll do it on Tuesday, that's the cheapest day to buy an airline ticket!! Where's dad? He might actually care to listen about what's going on in my life...

I'm not sure what to name this converation, but this is essentially when the child gets really freakin' pissed off and is certain this is the last time she will speak to mother.

Two days ago...
Me: Hey Mom...sorry I haven't called you back yet.
Mom: It's ok, I understand you're busy. So how is your project going?
Me: Really well! We're in the middle of a ten day break, so I've had time to catch up on things for when we start up again...and sleep.
Mom: Well that's good. You seemed really stressed out. How's your real job going?
Me: Mom...they're both real jobs.
Mom: Oh I know, but...you know what I mean.
**insert forty minutes of casual conversation**
Mom: So Uncle Johnny asked if you had purchased a ticket yet, and I told him you weren't coming because you hadn't.
Me: MOM!!! I'm fucking coming to the fucking wedding!! GEEZ!! I'll buy a damn ticket right now. It takes a bit more than thirty seconds to go to a million websites, compare prices, itineraries, work schedules, various airports, and then check credit card limits and budget limitations!! But I'm gonna buy it right fucking now, just for you Mom, just for you. Happy?!?! Jesus... Bye!!!!

This is the conversation where A) the mother gets hung up on, but realizes that her attempts at motivation using all possible forms of psychology resulted in success, and B) the child realizes that she's been tricked and screwed over by her own mother, both at the same time. The constant nagging by mom served as the antithesis of motivation and in fact discouraged the ticket purchase for so long that now ticket prices require a mortgage.

Basically, boo to motherly control, or influence, or contamination...whatever you want to call it.

Put That Away!

Over the past two weeks I've interacted with several people who have decided to abstain from sex, whether it be for a set period of time or until after a designated event.

Each individual has different criteria for their sexual cleanse--for instance some will allow themselves "to wade in the pool but not actually swim" while others are refraining from any kind of sex at all, including with oneself.

Different periods of time and different criteria aside, each individual also has their own personal reasons for abstaining. Reasons range anywhere from "I just want to see if I can do it," to "I'll have the best orgasm of my life when I'm done," to "I want to make a true emotional connection with someone instead of just physical." I can respect all of these reasons, but mainly the last one. To each his own...

Incredible importance has been placed on sex. Couples break up if it isn't good enough, marriages end if there isn't enough of it, the porn industry is one of the most lucrative divisions of the entertainment business, and it's possible to make a spectacular living as an escort. It's also widely accepted that thoughts about sex enter the human brain at least once a day (which is a rough average based on a women's thoughts once every other day and men's every minute).

With all this emphasis on sex, including all of my recent posts (hmmm...), I'm starting to wonder why things are the way they are. I mean, I guess it's pretty obvious why people like sex, but there are plenty of things in life that we all can enjoy.

I guess what lies at the heart of my question is--where are all these people that are abstaining from sex getting all the sex that they feel they have to abstain from in the first place??!?!?

Boo to people that get so much ass that they feel like they have to take a break for a while--also known as, WAY more ass than me.

Those Crazy Japanese...

Now I'm going to be perfectly honest--despite 23 years on this earth, and what I thought was a fairly substantial sex-word vocabulary, the first time I heard the word bukkake was only three weeks ago.

At the time my ignorance didn't bother me, considering that I have no interest in multiple penises ejaculating on my face, let alone simultaneously. Since the initial twenty minute explanation of bukkake, my astonishment regarding its practice has come up in several conversations, none of which included an explanation of the word from me or any confused looks from the others in the conversation. Apparently I've been missing something...

Let's just skip over the obvious discussion of how ridiculous a bukkake session seems to me and jump straight to my real issue:

Is bukkake a noun, a verb, or an adjective?

Is it possible to bukkake someone, or do you have to give bukkake? Would it be appropriate to say I'm going to go bukkakeing, or is the addition of "ing" inappropriate?

According to Wikipedia (whose definition is quite extensive, by the way) Bukkake originates from a Japanese verb meaning "to splash." So to the Japanese, it's a verb, but any English definition I can find defines it as more of an...event.

Someone better clear this shit up for me ASAP before I recruit twenty dudes to come over to my apartment and make incorrect use of the word.

I'm getting shit because of the lengthening time between posts.

I'm sorry that I've been MIA. Boo to hectic schedules that consume your day, night, early morning, and any other time of day thus keeping you from your all important blog.

I'm working on a new internet sitcom. There's a lot to be done, but for you guys, there will be plenty to watch.

Check it out: Ass Wipers, Inc.

"Grande Boob Latte, Please."

According to Gizmodo, this mouse pad is appearing in internet cafes all over Hong Kong for breast cancer awareness.

Part of me doesn't even feel the need to post a single line of text to elaborate as to why this mouse pad is completely wrong. The other part of me realizes that, sadly, this mouse pad is currently seeing the light of day; therefore, someone fails to recognize just how ridiculous it is. I realize that the Chinese will one day soon take over the world, or just simply buy it, but I kinda feel like maybe they should be a little bit more appropriate when they actually do control everything.

More than most I recognize the need to promote breast cancer awareness and regular mamograms, as well as the need to raise money for breast cancer research--but am I the only one that sees anything wrong with someone's mouse rolling over and/or fondling a pair of tits at a cafe?!

Breast cancer alone should have enough shock value to earn the attention of the masses. Why trivialize it?

Yeah, you're probably right. I'm sure that those getting the most out of these mouse pads are charitable organizations and cancer foundations--rather than the ogling eyes of testosterone filled males.

Also wrong? The fact that Gizmodo superimposed Justin Timberlakes face over both nipples to censor themselves. Justin Timberlake covering nipples...

...So wrong.

Big boo to boob mouse pads.

**DISCLAIMER**
I realize this is the second boob related post in nearly as many posts... Deal with it.

Body Recontamination, Day 1

Today is day five of my body cleanse.

Last night I had two vodka and cranberries, and a sex on the beach--way out of style, I know, but I'm bringing it back, and there is a large, very caffeinated cup of coffee on my desk right now.

So let me start over...

Today is day one of my body recontamination.

Call me weak, call me unmotivated, say that I lack self control--I realize that I was only one day away from my five day goal. Things were going so well, and then last night I was persuaded to go out. I had doubts of my ability to keep my distance from the bar, but I entered the club with what I thought was a strong build up of willpower.

That buildup lasted approximately five minutes when the posh Los Angeles bar setting triggered all my insecurities. Admittedly, everyone was already trashed so mingling with a cup of water wouldn't have been too difficult, but let's be honest--one is always more relaxed when they've had a drink.

Two vodka and cranberries, one sex on the beach, and one Oliver Stone encounter later, I was walking with a couple friends to the pizza joint down the street--where I did NOT get a slice...I've got to give myself some credit.

While I suck at life and didn't quite meet my goal, I am still proud of myself. For four days--and yes, four entire days because I didn't have a drink until about midnight, I recovered from my addiction to caffeine, and let my liver recover from alcohol consumption. My coffee this morning actually served its intended caffeination purpose for the first time in several months. I haven't touched a Diet Coke in several days and for the first time would actually prefer to grab a water. I'm not sure that I lost any weight, but I feel so much healthier and optimistic about continuing on a healthier path. Coffee won't be a staple of my morning anymore, nor will Diet Coke or sugary fruit drinks pretending to be all natural, and the alcohol in my apartment will no longer serve as my entertainment when bored.

Although grapefruit and water is a bit extreme, I will join all those that said the body cleanse gave them more energy and a much healthier outlook. It's difficult, but I'd recommend it to anyone.

So...boo to my lack of willpower and falling just shy of the goal, but I give the antithesis of a boo to body cleansing, formerly known as "new age shit."

Body Cleanse, Day 3

Last Sunday I decided that I had reached a point of ridiculousness that was entirely unacceptable. Arriving home Sunday night after yet another alcohol, smoke, and horrible food filled weekend, my liver was throbbing (yeah, I wasn't aware it could do that either) and I felt and looked as if I had gained approximately twenty pounds. After this realization, it's difficult to function without constantly thinking of said throbbing liver and extra pounds. It was time to cleanse.

This week I will be drinking nothing but water--plain, no flavors, no extra vitamins water and eating nothing but grapefruit.

It's important to note that some people on MySpace decided to do a group cleanse about two weeks ago. I read what they had to say...and laughed.

"Cleansing the body? No smoking? No alcohol? I'm definitely not in need of all this new age shit."

Right.

On Sunday I spent a significant amount of time reading about several different cleansing programs, and the benefits of certain fruits and vegetables to the skin, lungs, liver, colon, intestinal tract, etc. and decided I was all about it.

Now it's day 3.

I'm tired. My stomach is growling. I've already determined that I won't be able to cut smoking out of my diet while also fighting my body's need for caffeine. Someone in the building just brought in some kind of food that smells really amazing. My headache has subsided, but I fear it will return when my boss comes back with his Coffee Bean beverage. And finally, I've spent more money on grapefruits than I normally spend on regular food.

The benefits of this cleanse seem minimal, if there are any. Am I just too rotten inside for this to work? Ugh.

Scarlett's Top

According to In Touch Magazine's latest "Best Breasts" poll, Scarlett Johansson has the nations best set of tatas.

I wonder what the trophy looked like.

But seriously--regulations for any good boob competition should cover artificial enhancements to bodily assets. Is anyone else wondering where those "best breasts" came from? It's as if they appeared out of nowhere somewhere between In Good Company and Match Point. This actually isn't surprising considering Woody Allen is a huge perv, but let's stick to the facts.

The first movie I saw with Scarlett Johansson was The Horse Whisperer which was released in 1998. Scarlett is one year younger than me. I was a junior in high school in 1998, meaning she was a sophomore, even possibly a junior as well. I had a lot of things in high school--insecurity, a crappy car, a couple good teachers, a boyfriend or two, a part time job, pimples, and my breasts. Yet somehow, by some delayed growth syndrome, Scarlett, at the age of 15, did not have any breasts whatsoever.

Fine. Fifteen is still fairly young. Flash forward five years to the release of Lost in Translation. Scarlett is 20 at the time, and although she has breasts, they are nothing like the award-winning rack pictured above.

Is it possible to delay puberty until the age of 22? I think not. What I really think? Woody Allen pumped up her chest like an inner tube.

My friend Blake wants Scarlett to be his girlfriend, first to save him from the hells of online dating, but her ginormous rack probably figured in there somewhere. Be careful what you wish for, my friend...I've heard implants don't fare well to the touch.

At any rate, I have my own set of tatas that, in case you were wondering, I'm pretty proud of, so this post is in no way rooted in jealousy. I've also been told a couple times that Scarlett and I look alike. Whether that's the case or not, my breasts are real. I'm not saying hers aren't, I would just like to see In Touch's polling rules.

Boo to fake boobs winning any "best of" competitions, boo to Woody Allen's blonde hair, big boob fetish (I could probably also insert something in here about step-daughters), and lastly, for Blake, boo to shitty online dates that suck the life right out of you.

No Junk In My Trunk

Yesterday I wanted to take my recyclable cans and bottles to the grocery store because, yes, I save them, and yes I need the money--oh, and some crap about the environment, too. I have been so busy as of late (see previous post) that I haven't taken these recyclables in, managing to accumulate two garbage bags full of empty cans. Not only do two full garbage bags consume a lot of space in my tiny kitchen, they serve as a reminder of my horribly unhealthy drinking habits--most of the bag is Miller Lite, lightly sprinkled with Coors Lite and Diet Coke. The bags needed to go.

Grabbing my purse and both garbage bags, I exited my apartment. I walked to my car with building excitement for the snazzy machine that would suck the cans right out of my hand and give me money in return. Setting the bags down next to my car, I pushed the trunk release on my Volkswagen Jetta's keychain.

Nothing.

Confused, I tried again, and again...and again.

Nothing.

I unlocked the car, so obviously the battery inside the remote wasn't dead. Opening the driver's side door, I tried the trunk release on the door.

Yet again, nothing.

As a last resort, I walked back to the trunk and actually stuck the key in the lock and turned it. Hearing the unlocking mechanism turn over, I assumed the trunk would pop open.

One should never assume anything.

It would be bad enough if I was forced to set aside my total and complete laziness instigated by my car keychain and actually stick a key in a lock, but using the key doesn't even work! Does this seem normal to anyone?! What if the battery in my car was dead but I needed to get under the hood to replace it? Are you telling me I wouldn't be able to open the door? What if I was kidnapped and the kidnapper wanted me to get in my trunk like one of those far-fetched movie kidnappings? I'd get shot instead because my fucking trunk won't open!

Also concerning--I put the back seats down so I could retrieve something from the trunk. While I was back there I looked for one of those emergency, "help-me, I'm-somehow-trapped-in-my-own-trunk" release levers. There isn't one.

Someone will be getting a strongly worded letter. Boo to the engineer who designed the back end of the Jetta.

Goodbye Complacency, Hello AA

Today I realized that I haven’t posted in over a month. This forced me to take a moment (while at work, of course, because, let’s face it—it’s Friday and productivity is a dirty word) and attempt to determine exactly where the last five weeks have gone. What was I doing that was so compelling that I couldn’t sit down for five minutes and post something? Or was it just simply lack of humor/creativity/poignant interactions?

Admittedly, a good chunk of the last five weeks was spent on MySpace. I know I vowed to curb my social networking site consumption, but I’m a smoker. Vices are not something that I can easily let go of.

The rest of the last five weeks are a bit of a blur—a fun and alcohol induced blur.

About two months ago I came to the realization that I was in a funk. My life: Attempt to get up at 7 and work out, actually rise at 8:30, quickly shower (or not), show up twenty minutes late for work, drive home from an office that I really should be walking to, sit on the couch while eating dinner, remain on said couch thinking about possibly working out until the next morning when the vicious cycle begins again. Sure, I went out from time to time, but I often found myself pretending like I had work to do in order to get out of happy hour drinks or dinners at Farmer’s Market.

Why? Who really knows…

Part of the funk was caused by limited funds, but then I got a raise. There goes that excuse. Part of the problem was post-graduation depression. I think we’ve all been there at one point or another—“I paid all this money for a degree and I’m working here?!” But that can only really be a problem for so long. At some point you begin to say “Yes, I am working here…but I’m waaaay overqualified and have to pay the bills somehow.” Maybe part of the problem was that my closest friends, the ones you can call for anything at all, were nowhere nearby, and I had the added time zone obstacle making phone time harder to come by. That’s still a problem, but I have free weekend minutes. Regardless of the origin of this funk, it was time to pick myself up by the boot straps (where’d that phrase come from anyways? Do boots have straps?) and attempt to regain my life.

The post boot strap-grabbing period includes, but is not limited to, attending film screenings, meeting people from MySpace at bars, going to concerts and lounges, ending history’s longest dry spell, buying some new clothes, obsessing over one of the directors at the aforementioned film screening, hiking in Griffith Park, and going home for a weekend—remembering why I moved on.

Here’s what I’ve discovered—revitalizing your going out energy and experiencing new things goes hand-in-hand, in my life anyways, with total and complete drunkenness, rampant alcohol abuse, cigarette over consumption—and a shitload of fun. Whatever the reason, Los Angeles is a culture based heavily on drinking—drinks with clients, drinks with friends, drinks with WeHo socialites, drinks to see celebrities, drinks down the street because neither you nor your friend have a nice apartment—there’s basically a lot of drinking. So…although I’ve abandoned my complacent existence in favor of actual fun, I should probably find a good AA meeting. BUT, thanks to “B to the...” for the hangover remedy. I think I’ll try that before actually attending meetings.

Boo to funks, couches that you never leave, and lack of motivation to change—avoid at all cost.

Chalk One Up For The Valley

The smog-trapping, greenhouse-like environment that characterizes the frightening model for urban sprawl and suburbia that is The Valley rarely gets a visit from me, much less a compliment. Today I'm altering that code, even if only for the few minutes I'll need to write this post, and giving credit where credit is due.

Consider all those restaurants you've been missing in your pristine [insert your coastal L.A. borough here] bubble--The Olive Garden, Outback, Red Lobster, TGI Friday's, Uno's, Great Steak, any one of those cheap buffets we all know and love, Wendy's, etc.

They're all in The Valley.

Sure most would say that we've "traded up" on our side of the hill. We've gained innumerable mom and pop operations, very specific ethnic cuisines, chic restaurants where being seen is more important than actually eating, and there's always valet. But sometimes you just need that specific food fix that can only be satisfied by the mechanized national chain restaurant.

Last night I committed to the forty-minute trek to the nearest Outback and devoured a bloomin' onion, a plate of cheese fries, and a cheap-yet-amazing steak.

Despite the mild indigestion and today's tight pants syndrome, the trip was worth it.

Normally holding a permanent boo, The Valley has made a slight, microscopic improvement in my eyes. I mean I can't give too much credit. I did have to park my own car and walk a few hundred feet through a nearly impenetrable wall of smog...

The Trapezoid

This sign was posted outside my building a couple weekends ago--hanging on the wall directly adjacent to my back stoop smoking den. Being "a girl that has it together," it doesn't take much to determine who put this fabulous piece of art in my smoking den: who else but the douchebag that prompted the linked post.

I can't decide what is more disturbing--the hazard triangles or the handwriting.

The fact that it has hazard triangles seems to imply that 1) cigarettes, not only hazardous to your health when smoked, are also composed of some highly flammable material that could explode at any moment just lying on the ground, or 2) his children plan to eat the butts that litter the ground.

The handwriting looks like that of a two year old just learning to write and sadly, this man has procreated. Hopefully the kids' Los Angeles Public School education can help them overcome their defective genes.

I should probably also address the fact that "the area" to which he is referring is an area no bigger than a parking spot, maybe two, and is a trapezoid shape. Pan Pacific Park is less than two blocks away from my building. In the amount of time it took douchebag to create this broke ass sign, he could have walked to the park with his kids.

Instead, douchebag has chosen to take the comfort out of my smoking den. Great.

In our first encounter, while spastically pointing at the cigarettes that littered the ground around him, insinuating that they were all smoked by me, he asked that I take my butts inside with me. While inconvenient, it was not an unreasonable request.

But...I was pissed that he could think any human being, let alone ME, could smoke that many cigarettes in a lifetime. I might have rolled my eyes a little.

"You do realize that these are not all my cigarettes, right? I mean people come out into the stairwell area on every floor and throw them down," I said.

Our first encounter went downhill from there. Apparently he lives in the building too, and apparently I'm the only person he ever sees smoking. (Yawn) At this point my eyes started to glaze over and he was clearly talking but I couldn't hear anything. I regained consciousness for his closing remarks: "We can all do our part."

A bit of advice: If you're asking something of me, don't piss me off and insinuate that I smoke too much, or that I am the sole polluter of your precious trapezoid.