Jul 14 2011

A Different Proposal

Hey Kids,

The other night, I had dinner with a lovely couple who had recently gotten engaged.  As expected, conversation eventually turned to the proposal.  How did he do it?  Was she surprised?

They were both professional writers so, naturally, they had an affinity for the game Scrabble. During one afternoon game he proposed by spelling out the words “WILL YOU MARRY ME” on the board.  Very clever.  Very romantic.  At least for them.*

“I didn’t even finish spelling out the phrase! I only got through ‘WILL YOU’ and she screamed ‘Yes!’,” he said

“Well, he was so nervous.  I knew something was up,” she coyly added.

“What if he wasn’t asking you to marry him?!  That would have been embarrassing!” I laughed at this notion to myself while stuffing some shrimp down my face.  “That would suck if he was really spelling out ‘WILL YOU FORGIVE ME, I SLEPT WITH YOUR SISTER.’”

There was an uncomfortable chuckle throughout the group followed by long drags of wine.  Maybe not as amusing to them.  Duly noted.

But, it did get me thinking about something: What if people broke up with each other the same way they proposed to them?

You look up on a jumbotron at a baseball game and it says “Jessica, I don’t love you anymore.” A prop plane flies by with a banner waving behind it that reads “It’s not you, it’s me.”  Maybe you’re at dinner and a waiter dramatically removes the silver dome from your plate to reveal the words “MOVE OUT” spelled in chocolate.  Or, my personal horror fest, you come home to a trail of rose petals and candles that lead to a note with the scribbled phrase “You’re not the one.  Lets have sex one more time, friend.”

It’s kind of funny to think about it in terms of a break up, but can you imagine terminating a marriage that way?  Instead of proposing to start a life together with a ring…they’re proposing to end it with divorce papers.  “Meet me atop the Empire State Building at sunset.  I’ll be carrying a single rose…and manilla envelope. P.S. Bring my grandmother’s ring.”


I recently got an invitation to a post proposal party…at least I think it is.  The invite read “I’ll be attempting ‘the plunge’ this Friday.  Assuming everything goes well, please join us afterwards for a celebratory cocktail.”

After thinking about this breakup/proposal notion, a small part of me is hoping she’ll come home and flick on the lights to find him on one knee screaming “Surprise!  I’m a homosexual!” then present her with jazz hands instead of a velvet box.

Probably not the case, but it would still be a good party.  If your significant other is going to break your heart…it seems only fair that he would supply you with booze, cake, and half naked men to platonically disco dance with.

Just a thought.


*I was am very dyslexic.  Back in grade school, bad smelling tutors used to make me play Scrabble with them as a form of “therapy” in lieu of after school activities.  Now, where some see an exciting game of creativity and wit, I see a stolen childhood.

Jun 7 2011

Name Blame Game

Hey Kids!

I have a habit of naming parts of myself that I take issue with or just plain don’t like: pimples, a bad hair cut, extra weight. This way I can hate an aspect of myself without actually hating myself. I’m much better at blaming someone else for my problems, anyway. Just ask my shrink….or my mother.

For example, I call my extra weight “Janet.” When I eat too much ice cream and my thighs rub together I just say “DAMN IT JANET” or “MISS JACKSON” if it’s nasty. I went through a period of time when I thought I would look sexy as a red head. And if your definition of sexy is a dirty Russian whore, then yes I did. Until I got it back to a semblance of normal color I called my hair “Olga.” When my dating life slowed and my love of vodka got excessive, I blamed Olga (she was such a drunk whore).

This strange habit started in college when, one sunny Sunday, I made my first and last attempt at becoming bulimic. I quickly learned that self-start vomiting was harder than those skinny bitches in my sorority made it look. With them it was so adorably natural, like a little baby burping. Alas, when I tried to pull the proverbial trigger, I looked like Schwarzenegger in “Total Recall.” Not as cute.

All that straining caused a blood vessel to pop in my eye and those things don’t just disappear. They get bigger and bigger until your entire eye is blood red. If I was auditioning as the host of a zombie virus a la “28 Days Later,” I would have been set. But, I wasn’t. I was going to college parties and trying to pull tail. So, instead of telling the truth about my botched bulimia, I just told everyone that this shit in my eye was a bitch named “Poppy” who’d crashed my brain and made me do crazy things like wear mid-drift bearing lace dresses and take beer bongs…often at the same time.

It became an ongoing joke I could bask in rather than hide from. It worked so well that a mildly attractive frat guy actually tried to get with me. He said he’d never had a “threesome.” I think he wanted to cum in my eye, so I respectfully declined.

Still, it had opened up a whole new world to me. Why should I be self-conscious about my blemishes when I could make them someone else and mock them out right? I’m really good at judging other people. So now I use my weakness to play to my strength.

Recently a pimple named “George” decided to visit my face unannounced. When I went out, he’d come too and I’d introduce myself as “Burrito and this is my pimple, George.” People would greet him with aplomb and my boyfriend even kissed him goodnight. Eventually he got the memo and moved on. We parted ways on good terms, although I have been meaning to talk to my boyfriend about etiquette and face guests.

Earlier today Pork Sausage texted me. She was a bit testy, claiming that I gave her my pimple. “Oh no, no that’s not me,” I said. “That’s George.”


May 28 2010

If two is a party…

Hey Kids!

Recently I was out with one of my favorite home girls. I shall call her Pez. Pez is one of those people who could get along with a Priest or a Persian. I swear to God I can take her anywhere cause she’s got super street smarts, which I find wildly unfair considering she triple majored from a major university. This plus her taste for almost anything, except meat, makes her one of the best people to go out with when you wanna have a good time. 

And that is what we were doing on this particular night, having a good time.

For the record, I find the cocktail/dance floor combo an excellent way to party down…so Pez and I were getting busy getting down in this particular fashion when I was approached by an aggressive boogier.  I deferred to Pez for thoughts on said boogier and noticed she was being chatted up by a lovely lady with a swing hair cut.  Pez usually doesn’t go for women, but like I said…she can get along with almost anyone.  So, I didn’t judge and turned my attention back to the task at hand.

As a newly minted free agent, some serious attention on the dance floor can go a long way. So, when this decent looking guy started busting MJ moves my way to the sweet sway of PYT, my ego soured.  After the disco beat began to morph into some Black Eyed Peas tune, the two of us shifted to the sidelines for classic club convo.

“Hey,” he said

“Hi there. (beat) Nice moves.”

“Thanks.  You too”

“Thanks (Wink).”

“What’s your name?”




“Oh. It’s loud.”

“My name is Burrito.  What’s your name?”


“Nice to meet you (awkward sip of drink).”

“Hey, Burrito?”


“Can I get your number?”


Drumsticks pulled out his phone and just as I was about to shout my digits over “Imma Be,” Pez interrupted…


“One sec, Pez”

“No, NOW.  I need to tell you something.”

Pez looked serious, even if she was drinking Rum and Coke.

“One sec, Drumsticks.  I’ll be right back (sexy over the shoulder look as I walk away).”

“Do NOT give him your number.”

“Why not?  I need to venture out more.  Date new people.”

“Because his friend and that girl that’s been flirting with me just asked if I’d have a four-some with them tonight.”

The bottom dropped out of my excitement.

“A-WHAT?! Are you fucking with me right now?”

“I swear.  What should I do?”

And this is where it gets messed up because a wave of jealousy made the first thing I thought, “why didn’t they ask me to be in a foursome?!” rather than “I just dodged a bullet with THAT guy.”

After I got over my initial shock and awe, I pulled it together to advise Pez, who was apparently actually considering this.

“Well….do you want to?” I asked her with as straight of face as possible.

“I don’t know.  I gave them my number and told them to call me later.”

“Maybe tonight isn’t the best idea — not that any good orgy came with foresight.”

“It’s not an orgy, it’s a foursome”

“Let’s be clear about something…if 2 is a party and 3 is a crowd, then 4 is definitely an orgy.”

“Good point.”

Pez and I saw this as a apropos time to bounce, so we did.  And after a 24 hour hangover, we revisited the proposition with new questions.  I figured after the glow of the evening dulled, the foursome would be off the table.  Turns out the topic was just beginning to be explored.  Pez started convo by asking the pink elephant question:

“So logistically how would you go about having an orgy.  I mean there should be a book or something.”

What to expect when you’re expecting to have an orgy,” I suggested.


Since this book doesn’t exist, we thought we’d compile a list of concerns that, decidedly should be addressed before entering into an orgy.

#1 Safety First

The whole condom situation sounds complicated.  The sheer amount you’d go through in one romp is concerning, not to mention the hitch in flow switching them every time you entered a new orifice.   It would seem rational to just all get tested, but how would you go about that?  Make it a group event and all go to the clinic together?  Grab beers after and get to know one another?  OR present papers prior to the event, like passports or a doctors clearance before you set sail.

#2 Where?

Who hosts?  Is it better to have it in the comfort of your own home or at a strangers place where its easy to walk away if things get dicey?  What about hidden cameras?  Can you scan the place first?  Do you hide valuables in case there are humpers with sticky fingers?  Allergic to goose down?  Infinite questions, no?

#3 Stamina

If you’ve gone through the trouble to have an orgy, lets assume you’re gonna wanna spend some time exploring and enjoying.  It’s not really a wham bam situation, but how long is long enough?  Until everyone orgasms?  Until everyone has paired off?  Until someone has to go to work?  Falls asleep?  Comes down off of whatever they’re on, realizes they’re having an orgy, and bails?  Are there rounds?  If so, maybe there should be snacks. But who brings snacks?  Is anyone a vegetarian?

#4 Crossing Swords

This can get tricky.  In any multiple partner session it is usually safe to assume there will be some girl on girl, but guy on guy is very situation based.  Most males don’t mind sharing the lady steak, but get a bit squeamish with the man salad.  In fact, unlike the ladies, a casual brush with the same sex  can kill a party.  I’d assume guys, like when you’re driving, would keep one “car length”  between their “car” and the “car” in front of them.  But whose “car length?”  Try bringing THAT one up before hand without killing the mood.

#5 Post coital

So lets assume all the above went smoothly, you did the deed, and found an appropriate stop point. Now what?  Do you all engage in a group cuddle?  A group spoon?  A group how was it for you?  A group cigarette?  Do you stay for the night and go to breakfast in the morning or jet out the door with a dismissive “I’ll call y’all?”


Where do you go from here?  Therapy?  I assume after after one partner you maybe switch sexes, then try a three-some, then an orgy. But after that, what is the next frontier?

These are the questions Pez and I culled through careful Socratic discussion and hungover munchies.  I personally demolished an entire box of dry cereal while we explored stamina alone.  So now I turn the questions to you, little tacos.  I encourage an exploration of orgy etiquette and all I request is that you share your findings here.  Do it for Pez.  Do it for America.  Cause Europeans are just born with this skill set, like smoking and socialism…but I digress.


Mar 3 2010

The LA Party Scene, Part 3: Frat-tastics

Hey Kids!

Now understand that I’m hardest on the ones I love.  I once was an active participant and believer in the frat scene, spending four hard years in the Greek system.  But, now I see those days as something of the past.  Something for the college kid…and perhaps the recent post grad.  But 30, 35, 42, LOCK IT UP!

You know who you are.  You play beer pong on a regular basis, say things like “black out” when referring to a good time, and consider mesh basketball shorts acceptable social garb (they’re not BTW).  The only difference really from your life in a frat/sorority and now is…well very little.  Frat-tastics don’t change, they ex-change. School for a day job, a frat house for a real house, dues for a mortgage, and kegs/wine coolers for long necks/yellow tail.  You’ll be able to spot these types by their love of hats.  Guys love the baseball cap (all varieties) and girls love the cowboy hat (beat up variety).

A frat-tastic party will almost always revolve around a sporting event.  Either at a bar with lots of beer on tap or at whoever’s home has the biggest flat screen and meanest grill set up.  Frat-tastic guys are the only guys who can get away with slapping your ass in front of your boyfriend and frat-tastic girls are the only girls who can claim to be your best friend a mere two glasses of chardonay after you’ve met.

In my most recent frat-tastic encounter I ended up at a sport bar with loads of fresh out of law school types in full gym gear (apparently showering and changing after playing basketball was too much of a chore). They were eating a meaty fried something and sucking back suds with an “I am sex” attitude.  Don’t know how they had the confidence, they just did.  Next to the bros were a table of corresponding hos huddled together like a judgey sorority clique in full makeup and going out regalia. They finger waved at me with french acrylics.  After a very fake “how are you! OMG what have you been doing?  Its so good to see you” moment, most of them managed to brush off my questions about their career (claiming they were merely teaching something or working in real estate) and quickly turned the focus back on me.  Very cheeky and smart.   I forgot how good these types are at deflecting.

“How is acting, going?” They asked

“Awesome.  I just booked a film playing Matt Damon’s love interest.”


“No, not really.  But I am in a funny play that goes up next month”


“No, not really. I’m lying about that too?”


“Boob fart.”


This conversation wasn’t going to have much depth.  I could tell.

“Really.” I said “Did you hear so and so got engaged?”

“Oh we know!!!!!  Isn’t she lucky!  It’s going to be a lilac and cream color theme, in Laguna, so pretty, we’re all bridesmaids!  Did you see the rock? So jealous.”

I tried to suck back the chunks.

“So jealous.” I said.

“Do you have a boyfriend, Burrito?”

“In fact I do?”

“Is he the one?”

“He’s one of a kind, that’s for sure.”

“But do you think you guys will get married.”

“Not all of us can be as lucky as so and so, right?  I gotta go.  Spinning class in the morning. Byeeeeeeeeeeee.”

I left as swiftly as I could without looking like I was fleeing.  Just when I thought I was in the clear an old frat buddy of mine ran up behind and goosed me. I was a little perturbed, a little violated, and a little complemented.

“Eh! Watch it.” I said.   He winked at me.  And, yes, I winked back.  Old habits die hard.


Feb 22 2010

The difference between crazy and Crazy

Hey Kids

I’m sure NONE of you will be shocked to hear that I see a shrink.  And will be un-floored even more to hear that my shrink’s office is in a psychiatric hospital, not a business high rise with a a nice waiting room and day sofa, an in-patient psychiatric hospital fully equipped with padded walls and straight jackets.

There is one tiny office where the head of the hospital sees out patients on a casual basis.  I believe that casual basis involves me and two other people.  I feel special….in both the good and bad way.    His office is on the top floor, right outside two large metal doors that you need a special ID and finger print to get into.  I can only assume it’s where they keep the serious crazies.   Sometimes being on the floor of this building makes me feel normal and pulled together.  It reminds me to snap out of it cause, no matter how big my mother issues are, theirs are probably worse.  Other times I feel a mere hop, skip, and jump away from loony…literally.

It took me a while to be comfortable with a doctor of this caliber listening to me bitch about how hard it is to be an actress when a mere 20 yards away some lady is having full blown conversations with her dead cat, but eventually I convinced myself that he enjoyed a break from the schizos and psychos. This is me assuming that spending an entire hour talking about eliminating red meat from my diet is a break from the psychos.

So, besides me and the two other “casual basis” peeps, everyone at the hospital is either a patient or works there.  Naturally when I’m seen by other employees walking around without a hospital gown covered in paste, they assume I’m one of them.   You should see their f-ing faces when I tell them otherwise!  HAHA.

Today I came out of the office and was waiting for the elevator.  Some hot shot male nurse eyed me ( I’m attractive, btw.  I know I don’t always make that clear) and I could tell he was waiting to make his move.  Finally, just before the doors open he goes, “Hey….so you just start working here?”

“No,” I go.  ”I don’t work here”

“YET… you don’t work here yet.  Interviewing for a job?”

“No, definitely not interviewing for a job.”  Then I kind of chuckled in a sinister way.

“Oh.”  He looked concerned and then I laid it on him.

“I just got out.”

His face went ashen just as the doors opened and we stepped into the elevator.  He looked like he’d finally realized I was Dexter or something.  I just stood in the corner and practiced this acting technique I’d learned the week before where you stare at something but think of something else and mumble.  It’s suppose to make you look possessed.

It worked.

That guy bolted as soon as the doors opened.  I don’t even think it was his floor.

That’ll teach him to hit on newbies.



Apr 28 2009

Just as good as Star Trek

Hey Kids. 

I keep getting spam comments for plastic surgery and Viagra.  I think it’s because I mentioned these things in my last few posts.  So I’m gonna try something for shits and giggles.  

Penis. Ass. Fuck. Lactate. Cum. Scrotum. Dirty Sanchez. Donkey. Nancy Pelosi.  

Will let you know what comes of this.  

Now that THAT’s out of the way.  I have a funny.  Working out in the gym today with my friend/sometimes trainer….I’ve been very committed to my workouts lately due to a little incident: after weeks, I was finally feeling skinny and decided it was safe to get on the scale.  Even in my “feeling skinny” state I was packing 5 extra lbs.  I’ve never been actually delusional about weight gain, and it freaked me out. Freaked me out enough to attempt a diet and up my exercise… So I’m at the gym with my friend/trainer and he casually mentions that he’s going to the Star Trek premiere this Thursday (real shocker considering that he trained it’s star actors. Impressive?  Yes.  But  I constantly feel like a loser in comparison.  I think he babysits me doing squats so he can feel prettier than his clients for a change).  I’m all “thats cool” but actually feeling shit about myself as it reminds me yet again how NOT Star Trek Premiere I am.   I ask him about what he’s going to wear, he coos (as much as a meat head can).  I ask him about the after party, he gushes (as much as a meat head can), I ask him about his coming to MY short film’s tiny premiere this weekend, he shuts up.

“What?  It’s no Star Trek, but its something.  Just pretend my mother is Mary Hart and my best friend’s creepy cousin is the paps and same diff!” I joke.  
“HEY,” he snaps at me “Don’t do that!  You’re movie is just as good as Star Trek.  Own it!  You should be proud!”
“You’re right, you’re right.  I wear my tiny short film in a local film festival badge proudly. Graumans can go fuck itself!  So you coming to the Saturday or Sunday screening?”
“Ah babe, I’m busy!  So sorry.”
“You’re not working all weekend? Oh wait your show!  You have a matinee Sunday, right?  It’s cool.  I totally understand.” 

My trainer/friend is an actor btw. Shocker.

“Um, no I’m getting a massage.”
“Wait one flipping minute!  What was that whole ‘just as good as Star Trek’ pep talk?  I mean we both knew it was shit and you were just trying to be a good friend, but seriously?!?!?!   A massage!”

You have to admire his honesty.  Most people would just get the massage and apologize later with a lame excuse.   For all of his bull shit.  He’s a total straight talker.  I shut the hell up and continued squatting.  My movie may not get a lot of attention, but my ass sure better.  


Apr 2 2009

Queso Quest

Hey Kids!  

What’s up my little beaners!
I apologize for the long gap between entries, very inconsiderate of me, I know.  
Just got back from an early dinner with a fellow Texan.  He found a restaurant in LA that serves “chili con queso”  or  ”queso” for short….Now I know that’s the Cholo word for cheese (please I’ve lived on the border my whole life…and I don’t mean Taco Bell), but in Tejas its also known as a delicious dip and can be found on any basic Tex-Mex menu…This restaurant I speak of is called The Pink Taco.  You heard me right.  Needless to say I was a little confused when I asked him what he was in the mood to eat.   I thought he might have misunderstood our “just friends” talk a few months back.  But all was forgiven when I realized this place would be serving two of my favorite things: queso AND burritos.  Obvi.  
Now, this Pink Taco place was in an outdoor mall.  Two things I don’t trust.  Outdoor malls and mall restaurants.  Let me address the former. 
 Outdoor malls are just a bunch of stores next to each other….like any other store ever!  Plenty of times have I driven down a street where there was a J Crew, Gap, Pottery Barn, and Starbucks lined up one after another and I wasn’t like.  ”So I was hanging out at the 8500 block of Wilshire MALL.” If I can see your window display from my car you’re not in a mall!  Gimme an F-ing break.  What makes a MALL is that all of the stores are encased in one building.  One structurally sound top to bottom encased building.  Lets be honest.  There’s a reason why the biggest mall in America is somewhere in the mid-west.  Malls were created so that we don’t have to deal with the outside elements.  In an indoor mall (aka real mall) there is mood lighting, painted ceilings, piped in music, and windowless walls.  In fact mall is an amalgamation of two words “minus-window” + “wall” = mall.  Coincidence, I think not.  In a mall you don’t have to deal with what’s going on in the outside world.  In a mall you can be anywhere your heart imagines, regardless of what’s going on outside.  These outdoor malls must be stopped!   They are infringing on the great institution of malls.  They want in on the action, but I’m not so sure there’s enough action to go around. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.  
The Later, mall restaurants.  Walk into any hotel restaurant and I guarantee you 75% of the people eating there are only eating there because they’re staying in the hotel.  This increases to 99% at chains like Marriott and Hilton, but decreases to 50% for Leading Small Hotels of the World and the four seasons.   What does this mean?  That most people go to hotel restaurants out of convenience, they’d go if the food tasted like butt…eew.  Same theory with mall restaurants.  Are you really gonna drag your exhausted behind to the garage, pay out the bung for parking, fight traffic, all to get to your local 5 star?  NO.  You’re gonna say “ooh Chili’s!  An awesome blossom would really recharge me after that sale at Coach.  Soon as I polish of this baby I’ll pop next door and digest in one of those Brookstone massage chairs.”   These places have Darwinian low expectations.  All the discriminatory eaters that keep a place honest : gone.  How can a place get a good read on the quality of its grub when every middle class dip shit is gratefully putting back whatever you put in front of them and THANKING you for it.  Mall restaurants are opportunists, not quality establishments.   Salls I’m saying.  
The Pink Taco had a little Mall-ness to it, but seemed decent over all.  AND our waitress was tops.  If it wasn’t for the name I may have actually held down my ahi tuna burrito….which was surprisingly delicious.  Then again.  I am bias towards that particular entree. 

Mar 26 2009

Rental Cars

Hey Kids!

So I just picked up my rental at Enterprise.  When I first called to get a rental the guy answers the phone in the most dry monotone voice ever “Hi, this is Steve. Welcome to Enterprise.  We’ll pick you up.”  I thought he was doing a comedy bit, so I laughed.  He didn’t really get it.  
“Stevo. You sound enthused,” I said.  
“No, not at all actually.”
“So, my beemers in the shop. While I get ass-raped by the dealer for a few brake pads I need an alternative ride.  You down?”
“Thing is, I’m at home now cause I thought it would only take a few hours and now their telling me 2 days min.  So how should I go about doing this?  The dealer said you could come to me.”
“We’ll pick you up.”
“Right, you did say that didn’t you.”
“It’s like, what we’re known for.”
“Cool. So you’ll bring the car to me?”
“Yeah, we’ll pick you up.”
“Whatever.  How soon can you be here.”
“An hour. Don’t worry I’ll hook you up.”
“Good man Stevo”
“‘s what ah said.  Peace.”
Two hours later I found a little Mexican man pacing below my apartment with an Enterprise shirt on.  I knew he was Mexican because he had the brazen attitude to blame me for not being able to read the English directions he was given and unapologetically blared AM Tejano music the whole ride over.  California Mexicans are pretty bad with their self-righteousness, but not as bad as Texas Mexicans.  South of the border I have it on good authority they teach their degenerate youth that Texas is technically still part of Mexico. So you can imagine their swagger when they cross the Guadalupe, less “wet back” and more “we’re back.”  I have to remind them about The Alamo constantly.  TRUE we Texans lost the battle of the Alamo, but anything that is turned into a John Wayne movie is victory in my book.
After dropping me off at their hub, I was craving tortillas and cerveza.  Stevo swaggered out to meet me in a cheap suit and even cheaper smile. 
“Burrito?” he said.  
“Let me see what we have?”
He shimmied over to the key case (which housed approximately 3 sets of keys), made a deep contemplative humming sound (presumably deep in thought),  and swiftly plucked two keys from the case (with such fan fare you half expected a stadium audience to gasp in amazement).
“I scored you two of our best to choose from,” Stevo announced in his most frat-tastic voice
“Oh-Reeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaally.  You’re goooooooooooood.” wink, wink, eye brow raise, lip bite.
Stevo walked me out to a 5 year-old Corolla and a Prius.  For such a great relationship with the German dealerships they sure loved their Japanese POS.  ”Score!” I said deadpan “I’ll take Green Peace on the left.  Do I get a commemorative  this is my other car bumber sticker to go with that?”  Stevo just kept smiling and brushing his surfer bangs from his face.  I think he was posing.   “Awesome,” he said.  I signed my life away and jumped in, demanding I was smart enough to figure out how to work this joke by myself.  
20 minutes later I pulled out of the rental lot.  I was starving so headed straight home to make a healthy snack.  After sucking the last bit of cheese enchilada from my plate I got a phone call from the dealership saying they’d quoted me wrong.  My engine had a leaky hose.  I’ll tell you whose getting hosed! ME.  I told them to fix only what would keep my car going for two more months and get it past a smog test (I have plans to sell).  
They said it would be at least 24 hours.  Thank God I got the Prius…was all I could think. Being in LA without wheels for 24 hours is like being without cigarettes in Europe.  You can do it, but I really don’t recommend it if you want to be taken seriously.  Car in LA = Freedom.  And I value my freedom more than anything else in this world…besides competitive dance shows.  What can I say.  I’m an American.  
I was feeling good about spending a ridiculous $60/day on my Al Gore-mobile until the dealership called again.  They put two men on my car and it would be ready in an hour.   SON OF A!!!!!!

Mar 22 2009

New Rules

Hey Kids.

Gonna start posting here at www.talkingburrito.com.  All my posts will feed to www.talkingburrito.blogspot.com as well!


Mar 10 2009

Idol Babies

Hey kids.

I just finished watching American Idol…. I know LAME right.  But how am I suppose to know what they’re talking about on The View tomorrow?  
Like EVERY contestant has a baby on that show!  AND THEY’RE BABIES THEMSELVES!  This blows my mind for many a reason.  The primary one is thus…
My closest of friends, lets call her Pork Sausage…she knows why, made a very important point the other day that I would like to expound on:
 In the heartstrings package that plays before each 12 year old contestant performs, there is a trite moment when the camera zooms in on the child of the contestant.  This child is usually sitting on the lap of the contestant’s mom (looking cute as hell in that manipulative baby way). Then the contestant says, through tears, “I’m just doing this for my (lap-bouncing) baby.  Everything I do is for my child, so that he/she can have the best life possible.”  
HILARIOUS for three reasons.
1. When I think of a parent busting their ass to give their kid the “best life possible” I think of coal miners inhaling cancer for decades, hormel factory workers, or that oil drilling guy in the opening of “There Will be Blood.”  Blue collar workers that die at age 30, not wannabe pop singers on national television.   Pursuing a self-important career on a show that is literally named after one’s hope for idolatry is hardly a selfless act to give your kid a better life.  If you were REALLY doing everything for your kid you would be working a double shift cleaning the toilets of a Pop Star, not trying to be one.  I don’t care that you’re following your dreams, just don’t pull the baby card.  This is about you, not your kid.  Own up to your ego asshole!  
2.  If you’re so crazy about your kids, why are you letting YOUR mother raise them, which they obviously are.  Maybe it’s karma, your mother looks like she’s 24.  Apple doesn’t fall far hmmmm.
3. Don’t act like because you’re a teenage mother/father that your life has been hard and you deserve this.  You know whose life has been hard?  That teenager who managed to ABSTAIN from sex drugs and alcohol, graduate from high school, put themself through college, and pay rent and taxes every month….. then play club after club trying to get their music in front of the assistant of the head of a label.   Believe me, if someone told THOSE guys having a kid at age 16 would have made them an international rock star, we’d have a lot more dads and a lot fewer hipsters.
I blame the producers of Idol and America.  As Americans we love two things: Dreams and Babies.  The first few seasons of Idol were about babies with dreams now its babies with dreams with babies…. ick.  Someone has to put their foot down and that foot is a size 8M Jimmy Choo-clad bean and cheese stuffed tootsie.  Suck on it.