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.

What's in a Name?

A lot actually.

As video game consoles continue to evolve, becoming more realistic with enhanced in-game graphics and more powerful processors, the geniuses behind these increasingly impressive systems are reverting to a cro-magnon period of marketing evolution.

Coinciding with E3, the largest annual gathering of huge nerds and antisocial video game freaks, Nintendo has released the name of their new revolutionary game console--"Wii." Wii?!? As in an affirmation in French? Or a horrible misspelling of a group that includes oneself? Either way Nintendo, wii disapprove.

According to Nintendo, Wii sounds like "we" which emphasizes the fact that the system is for everyone, and it's easily remembered. Right--it's because of the console's name that I think it's fun to sit around with a group as wii play video games. I hate to break it, but grandma and grandpa aren't going out to buy Wii no matter what name you give it or how hard you try to make it a family activity. And it's an easy name to remember because it's ridiculously stupid. I will remember the word so I have a conversation starter--"So did you hear the name of Nintendo's new system? Yeah. Lame."

What about XBox 360--has anyone taken a second to think about their logo?


Last time I checked, that's a sphere, not a box. "But Christine, the 360 relates to 360 degrees," you say. 360 degrees makes a circle, not a sphere, and the damn console's name is X BOX.

Play Station is the only console that escapes without a boo. Their marketing department is genius. It's a station that you play at, and each new evolution of the console gets the next number in sequence--Playstation, PS2, PS3, etc. And--there's no idiotic logo, just the words, short and simple like it should be.

Naming a video game console is a lot like naming your child. You don't just ink the birth certificate with the first word that pops into your head (the first word that came to my head that second was "caffeine"--case in point), you think long and hard about potential name twists that other little brats will use to antagonize your kid, possible nicknames, and how well it meshes with your surname. While you won't make a dime after naming your child, choosing a name for a video game console is a decision with huge profit potential--arguably a more important decision. A cave man shot up with adrenaline and brought in to market game consoles could have made better choices and connected the rather obvious dots. Maybe Nintendo and Microsoft should have thought a little longer and a little harder...or borrowed Neanderthal man from the Natural History Museum.

With that said, it's time to go blow shit up on my friend's X Sphere.

Modest Self Consciousness

Imagine for a moment that this is you, basking in the sun aside the lapping waves of the Mandalay Bay Resort wave pool. You're enjoying the company of the friend laying next to you, casually reading a book through rose-colored sunglasses as the nine layers of sunscreen you've applied attempt to prevent the harsh Los Vegas sun from giving you skin cancer. Then, without any warning, as though all of your sun protection efforts were in vain...


...you're blinded.

This isn't the best photograph as it took quite some time to restore vision to my eyes and find my camera phone--perhaps for the best. I would hate to instill nausea amongst my readers. In case you can't tell, he's wearing the smallest speedo I've ever seen.

The speedo alone is unacceptable. Combine this man's poor pool attire choice with the fact that he wore no additional clothing for the rather lengthy walk from his hotel room (a walk which involves an elevator, a substantial chunk of the casino floor, a winding sidewalk littered with resort guests, and an early morning line for the pool), pranced around the wave pool, and made no effort to pretend he was there to do laps--and you have a completely offensive scenario.

Big boo to speedos, and an even BIGGER boo to those of us that lack inhibition and an appropriate amount of self-consciousness.

Golden Guac

Yesterday marked my first visit to Chipotle. Yesterday was also the day I received a coupon for a free burrito in the mail...or maybe it had my boss's name on it, but he doesn't really need to know that. The coupon managed to sit unused on my desk for a whopping three hours. Amazing, I know. So I guess my first visit to Chipotle wasn't really a visit--it was more like food stamp redemption instigated by intense hunger, lack of willpower and my depleting bank account.

I arrived at the brand new Chipotle location and began to review the menu. My coupon entitled me to "one burrito, burrito bol, or salad." There were three different burritos on the menu, I didn't know what a "bol" was, and who goes to Chipotle for a salad? The nice man behind the counter informed me that I could get any of the burritos, the "bol" was a burrito without the tortilla, and that I was right to think that getting a salad was stupid. He steamed my tortilla and passed it to the woman next in the burrito assembly line.

After the meat, beans, sour cream and salsa were heaped onto the tortilla, I requested guacamole.

"That will be an additional $1.40. Is that alright?"

I silently stare at her in disbelief which, in retrospect, made for a very long and awkward silence. After she repeated the cost of this spoonful of guacamole again I started laughing and politely told her to forget it.

$1.40??!?! Is this guacamole laced with liquid gold? Are the tomatoes, onions and avocados from the fucking moon?! Precious metals or grandiose shipping and import taxes are the only two things that I can think of that would make a spoonful of guac that expensive. And if that's the case--buy your fucking guac at Ralph's, Chipotle because guacamole isn't something that I'll take out a mortgage to buy on my burrito. And another thing--my coupon said FREE burrito. If your intention was to get me in the restaurant frequently, which it was, you should have just given me the guac.

I'm giving Chipotle a boo, not just because of this incident, but because it's no comparison to Anna's Taqueria in Boston (where the guac, and anything else you want, is added at no additional cost).

La-La Land

Today is officially the most beautiful day in my short history with Los Angeles. Not a cloud in the sky, sunny and 75, and not a drop of humidity in the air.

This day allows me to forgive Los Angeles for her recent weather turmoil and to remember why I moved here.

This day, and any day like it, get the antithesis of a boo...whatever the proper word for that is.

Monopolistic Anarchy

I understand corporate survival strategy and the desire to vertically integrate. I also understand the desire to take over the world. Some basic services are regulated by the government and thought to be better outside of a market economy, and some are not. One company can't own broadcast television stations that reach more than 35% of the national broadcast television audience, but one company can reach all those same people with 9000 owned cable channels. I don't really have a position other than to say, in my experience, monopolies really suck for the consumer.

Yesterday, per the request of my boss, I left the office for lunch. I returned home where a gourmet hot pocket was waiting for me. My building excitement for this hot pocket, while sad, was just the beginning of my troubles.

My apartment door had a little white card shoved in the door jam. It was from the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. Apparently I hadn't paid my electricity bill in about 9 months and they had "discontinued service." Right.

I don't pay my electricity bill.

I live in what's called a "corporate suite." Before you get all excited, trust me, it's less glamorous than it sounds. Basically all is included--utilities, rent, furniture, etc. And it's all part of my job's compensation.

Apparently they failed to mention I wouldn't be compensated for the painful situations my compensation creates. I called my leasing agent--"I'll take care of it."

Flash ahead five hours as I'm returning home from work. Though slightly annoyed, I'm ready for that hot pocket I couldn't have at lunch and my DVR that is just bursting with amazing programming.

Still no power.

Long story short, all my food spoiled, I discovered that, while the Department of Water and Power can turn off your power when you're not home, they can't turn it on "for safety reasons," and when they tell you they'll be there that evening, they really mean that you're going to have to call back five more times before they'll tell you someone will be there in fifteen minutes and then actually show up the next day only after you've attempted to shower in the pitch black. Oh, and reimbursement for my spoiled food? Not so much.

One would also think the Department of Water and Power would send some delinquency notifications before banishing me back to the stone ages, right? Wrong. Consider highly influential monopoly number two--the US Postal Service.

I have lived in my current apartment for about nine months. In that time I have become friends with my mail man. He's a cute little Asian man who always seems to have a quiet little smile brought on by perfect contentment with his job and his schedule. After running in to him in the mail room several times and smiling back at him I finally introduced myself and shook his hand. Since that time I have stopped receiving other people's mail, and got a special mail man's "Happy Birthday" when he noticed the pile of greeting cards I received.

So--because I befriended the mail man, I didn't get the delinquency notices that weren't even for me, read for four hours by candlelight, couldn't eat my damn hot pocket, was rendered speechless when I realized I couldn't threaten to take my business elsewhere, which then lead me to an epiphany. I suddenly realized that "the customer is always right" is nowhere near true.

More accurately, "the customer, acting as a consumer in a market economy, while not always right, will be generally satisfied as businesses compete for their patronage. Customers of government regulated corporations and service providers, while sometimes satisfied, are really never right or wrong--they're just there."

Garbage Never Sleeps

This is a photo of my garbage man--or rather, my garbage truck, which seems to bring a different man to my apartment complex each and every morning.

Perhaps I should define morning. This photo was taken from my apartment at 7 am. So when I say morning, what I really should be saying is the asscrack of dawn.

It's difficult to tell from this photo, but this garbage truck is the mother of all garbage trucks. This is a front-loading garbage truck, and is the bane of my existence.

While I recognize that dumpsters do need to be emptied, do they really need to be launched into the air by hydraulic prongs, tipped over, and then psychotically shaken back and forth to the point where I feel like a plane has crashed in my parking garage setting in motion a chain reaction of explosions and destroying everything? Putting necessity aside, does this psychotic dumpster shaking really need to happen at 7 am?

For those of you fortunate enough to have those nice men riding on the back of a regular sized garbage truck heaving trash into the abyss as they drive along--consider yourself fortunate. Please never take for granted what those men do for you.

First and foremost, these men and women provide each and every person with an invaluable service. If these people went on strike, we'd all have a problem. Secondly, the normal garbage men riding on normal garbage trucks are relatively quiet.

With that said, please do not misunderstand my frustration. Even though we sleep, the trash never does. I value the service that I am provided, but 7 am?!?!? Will it be a huge problem if the trash gets to the landfill, say, in the afternoon? I'm sure the men and women that drive the most horrendous, makes-a-sonic-boom-sound-like-nothing garbage truck share my opinion when I say BOO to the garbage retrieval schedule.

MySpace-aholics Anonymous

I have recently realized that I have a problem.

Good guess, but no, it's not that hosting a blog based solely on bitching makes me appear bitter in the eyes of those who know me--and even those who don't. And, incidentally, I do realize that a good portion of you probably have no desire to meet me for fear that I'm a huge bitch. I'm really not, there's just a lot of things in life that are fundamentally frustrating. While I do write those frustrations down in order to blog about them later, I just want all those in the blogosphere to know that I am honestly not bothered by said frustrations for more than the twenty minutes it takes to write about them. Now--back to the point...

MySpace is the death of any and all productivity.

There, I said it. Some of you are probably throwing your hands up in disgust wondering how a person could say such a thing about their precious online community, while others are just rolling their eyes and thinking that I'm one of those uber conservative, sheltered individuals that won't let my kids watch television and refuses to get high speed internet. But, no matter how you reacted, I bet that just reading the title of this particular post tempted you to open another browser window and check your MySpace profile. This is not ok.

I initially joined MySpace after I moved to Los Angeles. I had graduated from college and felt as though I needed to move on from The Facebook, the wildly popular online community which requires a college email account to join. I found a couple friends from high school through MySpace who, although they weren't "lost," had been lost to me and I began to use the voyeuristic website more frequently. My casual use escalated to such a degree that MySpace visits during a minute or two of free time at work somehow resulted in the loss of an entire afternoon. It's very scary when you know what you were doing for those four lost hours, but can't really remember--like how many people, bands, and filmmakers can a person stalk before it gets ridiculous?

Because of my MySpace obsession, which drew my attention from other more important websites, I had no clue why Mexican-American high school students were running down the 10 Freeway on my way to Santa Monica. I had no knowledge of the new immigration law proposal that is plaguing the country's Latino community at the moment.

After that realization, I have curbed my MySpace consumption and advise all to do the same. I can proudly say that, although I logged in briefly today to read a message I received, I have not logged in since last Thursday.

I hesitate to give a big boo to MySpace, so I'll just say boo to MySpace's mind-control potential.

Ethnically Challenged

Although names and settings have been changed to protect the innocent, I was privately entertained by the following--while shamelessly eavesdropping and people watching...

EXT. GARDEN - LOS ANGELES - MORNING

Golden sunlight streams down in rays upon a group of three girls chatting. They're seated Indian-style in a garden pulling weeds and planting flowers; however, based on their trendy apparel, meticulously kept hair, and designer sunglasses, it's apparent that gardening is not part of their normal routine.

CAMERA PANS RIGHT

Also seated Indian-style in the grass, a slender, attractive Asian female, CHRISTI, sits alone near the three girls with a trowel unearthing unusually large dandy lions. Although alone, she seems perfectly content and enjoying her labor.

The rays of sunshine spotlight ELAINE, one of the three chatty girls, who is telling her counterparts about her latest day at work--interactions with her boss, her coworkers, the office itself, etc.

ELAINE
Yeah, so he came over to me and we
were talking about random stuff, and
then he started telling me about his
plans for the evening. He didn't
directly invite me at first, but it was
like totally obvious that he was testing
the waters, seeing if I would even be
interested. So...I had never been to that
bar before...

One of Elaine's COUNTERPARTs stops her in mid sentence.

COUNTERPART
So was he hot?

ELAINE
(pausing for effect)
He's Asian.

Christi looks up from her dandy lion, pauses, narrows her eyes, and then resumes weeding.


Despite the fact that random office boy's "Asian" description didn't answer the Counterpart's question, the conversation continued without further inquisition--and with literally no regard for the Asian girl seated directly behind the group. Office boy was ruled out without any further description.

Note to self--If you're dating an Asian guy, apparently it's common knowledge that he's unattractive. Your first descriptive adjective while talking to friends should not be "Asian."

*DISCLAIMER*
I dated an Asian--and DO NOT agree. Boo to "Elaine" and her like-minded people.

Hanger Mayhem

Today I have to go back to Old Navy.

I know, you're thinking this can't be painful. The thing is--I was just there, and already had to go back to Target last week. Why do I have to go back to these places you ask? Well, it really all boils down to a hanger and a disturbing trend that's infiltrating retail across the country.

Friday I bought a shirt. It's a really cute shirt and it would look fabulous on me--if it fit. I know, I know..."Why didn't you try it on?" This forces me to go in to my personal shopping habits, which could be an entirely seperate blog in itself, but basically I'm a get-in-and-get-out-never-enough-time kind of shopper. I perused the store, found the shirt, convinced myself I could spend the money, grabbed the hanger that had a big yellow "S" and walked to the register before I could convince myself that it was a frivelous purchase. Then I went home, happy with my decision. Maybe five hours later as I'm getting ready to go out, I remove the tags from the shirt and put it on.

The "S" prominently featured on the hanger was just toying with me and had absolutely no relation whatsoever to the shirt that I was now wearing. I bought a large, and now had nothing to wear out.

Last week I went to Target--a store that I think I should now partially own as I can't seem to leave there without the store taking at least $50 from me. This trip I was doing well, and was only buying the toiletry items that I needed...until I got to the hosiery section and saw a sale. Let me preface this buy saying I loathe the bra/panty section of any store. My get in, get out shopping style isn't even accurate in this situation. A witness would be lucky if he or she could even see me enter and leave the section I do it so fast. The awkward stares from the mom whose little boy plays amongst the panties, clearly envying your young, single tastes, and the guy walking by on his way to pick up some socks who sees what size bra you're looking at and casually stops to check you and your twin friends out--enough to make me wear the same bra for the rest of my life. At any rate, I found a bra, liked it, grabbed the hanger prominently labeled with the correct size and headed to the cash register.

The next morning I get ready for work and decide to wear my new bra--my "48-DD" bra. Realizing I would need drastic surgery to even hope to fill this bra, I planned a trip to Target once again.

Stores didn't used to have sizes on their hangers. And was it so difficult to look for a size sticker stuck to the front of a shirt or a pair of jeans? Even worse--look on each and every label?

Sized hangers have encouraged a serious level of shopping laziness to come out in me and I don't like it. Old Navy...if you're going to make me lazy, then increase the physical size of your sizes to compensate for my obesity...at least check that those oversized articles of clothing are on the appropriate hanger. Otherwise--big boo to sized hangers.

Anti Anti-smoking

It's official. I'm tired of everyone telling me smoking is bad for me. The "Surgeon General's Warning" is pretty hard to miss, and--also official--I can read.

To the woman who cleans my offices, who noticed the distinct smell of tobacco when I returned from lunch, and who went in to a twenty minute rant about how she used to smoke and "everyone in [her] country smokes but it wasn't for [her]...," congratulations.

To my boss who yesterday started laughing as I stood outside my car because I don't want it to smell like an ash tray and said "isn't it funny that someone who smokes doesn't want their car to smell like it?" No, it's actually not at all funny. It means I bought a car, and I want to keep the interior cigarette burn free, and am a generally clean person. Just because I pollute my lungs with tar does not mean I want my clothing, furniture, and car to have an uncomfortable odor.

To the douchebag who lives in my building, came outside, told me I looked like "a girl who has it together," and then accused me of being the sole polluter of the precious 5 inch by 5 inch patch of grass outside the building where his children play--fucking take your kids to the playground. Or, better yet, save your money, find a house, get a mortgage and quit blaming me because I live on the first floor and am the only person you see consistently smoking. Even if I wanted to, there's no way I could take sole responsibility for the cigarette landfill that, because of your lack of involvement, is now the only place your kids can play.

To my friends who constantly roll their eyes and ask how many I've smoked today or when I'm going to quit or insist on giving me gum, your incessant questioning only encourages me further. Smoking is a choice just like where to eat or what to where. Several of you, and you know who you are, have chosen poorly with the aforementioned examples. My choice may be a poor one as well, but at least I dress well.

As for the restaurants and bars that have banished me to the outdoors for several years now, that's fine. I don't enjoy smoking while I'm eating either. But could you refrain from building that little smokers corral outside your establishment? Confining me to a small space with those little ropy, pedestal thingies, never providing enough room, doesn't do much to increase the likelihood of my return.

To all of you... I am anti anti-smoking and have heard enough. I know it's bad for me, I accept the fact that I'm wasting money, I'm aware of the risks and the social stigma, but I'm a happier person with cigarettes in my life. I'm not ready to quit, I don't want to quit, and boo to anyone that opposes.

I Own a Purple Shirt...

Remember your college years? Those were the years when anything seemed within reason--drinking until 4 a.m. the night before an 8 a.m. class, starting a twenty-page research paper a day and a half before it was due, pulling an all-nighter to finish said paper, getting on the greyhound website and buying a ticket to NYC for the weekend before finals, experimenting with drugs, etc. I look back fondly on those years, and when I say look back, I mean I call up my friend who I was in college with less than a year ago, and reminisce. Admittedly, these years are not far behind me, yet I find myself at what I'm going to call a flooded impass.

Let me elaborate.

Let's pretend we're standing at the base of a creek. This creek is flooded, and there is no other means to cross, besides of course, wading waist deep from bank to bank. For whatever reason--running for your life, you thought it'd be cool to be a contestant on Survivor and need food, or there's an injured party on the other side--it is imperative that you cross. While it is important that you cross, you don't really want to. So you hesitantly begin your treck, twisting your ankle on rocks as your other foot getts stuck in the suction of the muddy creek bed, and working against the tremendous weight of the water. This, although less extreme, is how I feel about my life right now.

Again--further elaboration required.

I recently took on a freelance job for an independent producer who needed something right away. Promise me wealth, promise me fame, promise me a job, promise me nothing, I will do what you ask. In this case, the job turned out to be a bit more overwhelming than anticipated. Let's skip over all the mind-numbing details and just say that I had two days to complete the job, and the last night I needed to pull an all-nighter in order to finish.

Now--brief pause. All-nighters excite me--or at least they used to. The fact that I have something so important to complete, and there's the chance that I might not complete it, gives me some sick, twisted, OCD rush.

Cue the flooded impass.

Despite my full mental commitment, my cherished coffee maker, and two "fridge paks" of Diet Coke, I was unable to remain awake for the entire evening. Around 3:45 am my body began walking itself to bed. Something must have told my body to do this, but it was not me. As if pushing against myself I tried to get back to my computer, but could not.

Elizabeth Lucas's poem, "Warning, When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple," comes to mind. I will be twenty-three years old in April, and today I am wearing a purple shirt. Two nights ago, the formerly simple task of staying up all night wasn't possible, and yesterday I woke up and legitimately did not know what day it was. Alcohol abuse takes a lot longer to recover from than it used to, and I responsibly used this years tax return to pay off all my credit card debt rather than buying something cool.

Despite my best efforts to stay on my side of the creek and my metaphorical flooded impass, I think I have begun to cross in to old age. How did this happen? Who decides? Boo to bodily limitations...

This is unacceptable, and I will fight it, likely with rampant alcohol abuse.

Orwell's Foreshadowing

This topic has peaked my interest, obviously, as two posts in one day is unprecidented with me. Thanks to Blake (Blake's Eyes) for the link:

Gizmodo - "Real ID Act Approved by House of Representatives"

When I was in eighth grade, I wanted to do ANYTHING but read the books that were required in English class. As I get older, I increasingly appreciate being forced to read 1984 by George Orwell. I'm thinking about sending a copy to George Bush, maybe redoing the cover with a parenthetical underneath the title something like "Bush's Guide to the Future."

Boo to the "Real ID Act," but props to "markgm" whose comments inspire me to think we actually have a future. Microwaves unite!

MPAA Begins Using RFID Implants

It was announced today that the Motion Picture Association of America has expanded its efforts to kill the internet--and all the intelligent, tech-savvy and well-read citizens that make use of it. As if P2P networks weren't enough, a file exchange protocol that has vast uses aside from copyright infringement, now the MPAA is focusing its efforts on Torrent search engines--torrent files being yet another file exchange protocol initially created for quick transfer of information. The last time I checked, the Digital Millenium Copyright Act specifically limits the liability of internet service providers and the like. Torrent search engines...uh...search the internet. They search for links to content that's nowhere near their engine servers. Boo to killing the messenger, MPAA! In your efforts to rip away the freedom that the internet provides, you must have missed that age-old saying. I'd give you a link to a website that defines it, but I'm afraid their webmaster would get a cease and desist order. BOO!!

In other MPAA news, "Boo to that shit" received an exclusive on this afternoon's press releases. Later today, the MPAA will announce the release of a special edition MPAA RFID chip. The devices will be distributed to movie theaters across the globe where they will then be implanted in an estimated 95% of movie-goers. The chips have apparently been tested on employees at each of the eight studios the MPAA represents. "The RFID program has been a great success. With minimal discomfort, and in some cases, total oblivion, the test group of studio employees has all been fitted with the device. The information obtained thus far has been astounding," said head douchebag, Chairmen and CEO of the MPAA, Dan Glickman. With the specially modified chips, the MPAA can monitor internet use and nail copyright infringers before they even have a chance to enjoy what they've stolen. The chips are expected to be in a theater near you by the end of 2006.

Marlboro Goes Brokeback

Those half-size cigarettes Marlboro is trying to sell at the same price? Boo. What are they trying to call them? Half-the-tobacco-same-death cigs? How about half-the-tobacco-same-price-same-death-not-gonna-buy-those cigarettes? I think I like that better.

Um...?

Have you ever been out at a bar, a restaurant, the movies--hell...ANYWHERE and found yourself staring at an individual, not because of their amazing beauty or unique qualities, but because you just...don't...get it? I will be the first to admit that I lack the style and fashion sense of most here in this incredibly trendy city, but seriously people, get a clue. This guy can't possibly think what he's doing is acceptable, let alone something he should actually want to wear.

Check it out from the front:

If this guy's packin anything at all "down there," it's gaspin' for air and struggling for a way out. Boo to dudes who keep their peckers in denim shrinkwrap.