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  All my posts will feed to as well!


Mar 22 2009

Bachelorette Weekend Part 2

Hey Kids.
We arrived at SFO and hailed a cab. It was then I realized that I had left all my once daily contacts on the other end of the flight. This wouldn’t come to really bite me in the butt until later on in the trip when I’d pour PS’s cleaner in my eye thinking I’d nip some of her contact solution to lube up my failing one day contacts. It burned like the devil and my eye was swollen and red for the rest of Saturday. Jokes on me.  
My friends weren’t very sympathetic either.  See, I have a history of red eyes with this group.  In college I popped a blood vessel in my left looker when I tried out bulimia for a day.  It was God’s way of saying that he had already given me an eating disorder and its called obesity…don’t fight it.  I tried to make the best of this unattractive situation by proudly parading my 28 Days Later look, rather than hide it.  I promptly named my red-eye “poppy,” gave it a voice, and winked in every picture I took.  My red-eye went away eventually, but the memory of poppy has not.
Once we got to the hotel I busted out T-shirts. I had taken it upon myself to design some bachelorette t-shirts. Not wanting to be trite I personalized them with dirty pictures from her past. Thank god the bride-to-be has a since of humour or the “motor-boat her, she’s the bachelorette” t-shirt with a close up of her cleavage could have been misconstrued as tasteless rather than the genius that it was. 
I should introduce this delicious bride-to-be.  She’s one of my best friends and has got the greatest set of cans this side of the Atlantic.  Case and point: on our last girls trip to Vegas we made a late morning mosey out to the pool area to find all the good lawn chairs had been snagged by the sober early risers.  I demanded she take off her top and within 5 seconds we were being escorted to the VIP section.  Yeah.  For this I’m calling her “Whoppers.”
Whoppers lead the crew through a fun filled night on the town.  She even wore the penis encrusted glow-in-the-dark veil I had purchased for her.  Real trooper.  My one misgiving was that we finished the night at a dueling piano bar instead of dancing with fairies on Castro street.  I have a particular love for gay men. Unfortunately for me, I mean that in the biblical sense.  I was hoping to get some that weekend and my best chance, as I could see it, would be by dry humping a beautiful hairless homo to Britney Spears’s “Womanizer” in the same-sex love capitol of the US.    Instead we bopped to Neil Diamond at cabaret tables while imbibing imported beer and high-fiving couples in their 30s.  
The next morning I woke at the butt-crack of dawn.  PS has an internal alarm clock that’s more jarring and consistent than your most jarring and consistent alarm clock.  It goes off at 7am so help me God and when PS is up, especially after a night of hard core drinking, her not so subtle giggling will assure everyone else is too.   I wish she’d had this habit freshman year when she would sleep through repeated playings of Mary J Blige’s “Family Affair” on her clock-radio.  I can’t stand Mary J Blige now.  And I blame Pork Sausage.  
To Napa we went, six of us crammed into a 5 seater, coffee in hand.  By 9:45am we had replaced the crammed SUV with a spacious limo and and the coffee with flutes of champagne.  May I just say that anyone who thinks wine-os are pansies can kiss my grits.  Grade “A” vino makes drinking a cultural experience.  No matter how much of a lush you are, if you know your wines enough to only drink the good stuff, people will always forgive you.   It’s like looking slutty in gobbs of Ralph Lauren.  Not really possible.   Oh, and for all of you who think drinking 2 buck chuck and white zin makes you a classy chick, you’re probably sporting chunky highlights and acrylic nails right now.  Go bedazzle something and drop the act.  Call me a snobbish whore if you like.  I may be easy, but I’m not cheap.  And you can quote me on that.  
After 5 vineyards and a well lubricated lunch we headed back to the beautiful house we were staying in (thank you Whopper’s fiance).  This is when everyone started texting and calling their significant others so I got busy marinating some prime rib and setting up a dirty game I’d picked up at a sex store in Santa Monica.   We all shared our first kiss, love, and blow job stories (that last one wasn’t a truth or dare, but just me getting excited). While confessing various acts we knocked back a few more bottles then proceeded to cook some grub wasted.  Whoopers faired well with her yummy pasta, but I almost lit the house on fire trying to turn on a gas grill.  The beef was cooked to a perfectly crisp “well done”….man time flies when you’re trying not to pass out over an open flame.  A few “I love you man” speeches to Whoopers and off to bed.  I woke up fully clothed and covered in pasta.  DANG!  Not again.  

Mar 22 2009

Bachelorette Weekend

Hey Kids!

Just got home from a romping good weekend with my ladies: a bachelorette in Napa. 
 At first glance this particular choice for enjoyment seemed destined for lame.  Not so much for my good company (who are all engaged, married, or in v. serious relationships), but for yours truly who can’t think of anything more ugg-inducing than swishing wine with a bunch of vaginas while they speed text their significant others.  In hopes of combating this love-fest, I packed my suitcase full of penis trinkets, inappropriate games, and embarrassing t-shirts.  If I was going down I was going down swinging.   
I flew out with Pork Sausage on Thursday.  We flew Virgin America.  My first experience with them was questionable, but it’s been all uphill since then so I give them a good review.
I booked the flight so PS agreed to take the middle seat (she’s very self-less like that).  I prefer to rock the isle whenever possible…not just because of the extra legg-room, but ’cause I like to be able to pop to the pooper on a whim.  
Now, we all know that moment.  The moment you lay eyes on the person who will be intimately sharing air space with you for the next some-odd hours.  This is a very intense moment.  You know you’re both analyzing each other and weighing the pros and cons.  
Small in size
Light in luggage
Clean smelling
Lots of Snacks
Affinity for 20 questions
PS and I laid eyes on the third member of aisle 21 a-c and cracked a self deprecating joke about our itching for a cocktail…you know to establish how fun we are and how lucky she was to be sitting next to us.  RED FLAG #1: she took us seriously.  RED FLAG #2: pretty sure she had a fake British accent.  RED FLAG #3: she immediately let down her hair…. and it hadn’t been washed since Boxer Day.   I’m talking long witch hair so greasy that if it wasn’t for the wafting smell and accompanying dandruff you would have thought it was perpetually wet.  She continued to run her shotty acrylics through her mangy locks while we sat on the tar mat.  I offered to switch seats with PS twice but she kindly declined and agreed to suck it up.  When our new aisle mate started pulling full strands out and laying them on PS’s thigh, I saw her eyes scream with desperation to get away.  Unfortunately I have a little policy on airplanes.  No refunds after take off.    PS crawled into my lap and we cringed as the stewardess handed us two vodka cocktails.    By the end of the flight PS was on the verge of stomach contusions and I was laughing screwdriver out of my nose.  
I realized two things in that moment.  1. Girlfriends can make any situation fun and 2. Alcohol can make any situation fun.  Those were the two things I was walking straight into.  What the hell was I worried about? 
To be continued…

Mar 12 2009

Pork Sausage

Hey Kids.
Let me introduce Pork Sausage…I call her that because when some so-called “friends” dubbed me “burrito” in college, I asked her not to encourage them. She promptly giggled slyly and said I will not, burrito.  I vowed to give her an equally unflattering name for this betrayal.  She is extremely attractive and has a very thick skin, so I knew this would be hard.  But when I landed on Pork Sausage I could see the fear in her eyes.   Victory. 
Pork Sausage (aka “PS” Roll with the short-hand people) is my closest friend and favorite commiserater.  Why do I love her so much?  She’s just like me: a walking dichotomy.  For example, she will never turn down daytime drinking, but detests blow-job shots. 
We met at college orientation when we both refused to join our group bonding session because it was taking place on a chair-less dewy field and we were both wearing white linen.  I knew our superior fabric choice would bond us forever, I got lucky with the drinking and sarcasm.  We became freshman roommates and have never lived more than a few steps/blocks from each other since then…mostly because of the DUI potential but also because of the love.

When PS and I are united we are like brown sugar and swiss, best served with ham.  I’d be the swiss (due to my inclination for euro-trash) and she’d be the brown sugar (due to her inclination for the brothers). Which reminds me of my New Years resolution to diversify.  It was one of those New Years resolutions that got lost to Super Bowl Sunday like weight loss and work ethic.

The only thing PS and I flourish in more than a good late night snack,  is the opportunity to abrasively make fun of others…usually to their face.  Typing this out now I’m starting to realize why we don’t have more mutual friends.   
Alcohol to our behavior is like water to a gremlin, one drop and things get ugly.  What may be perceived as “destructive” to others is swinging from a ceiling fan and eating pizza after midnight to us….especially when it’s good stuff.  Hey, we may be drunks, but we’re not cheap!  And I will always stand by that motto, even when I’m on my back.  
Some of our most exciting nights of memory loss were at the classiest of affairs like Champagne tastings to benefit children’s cancer, Pinot Noir tastings to benefit lung cancer, and Tequila tastings to benefit my zodiac sign cancer…. When we’re depressed on a week day afternoon do you think we go home and down a bottle of Kendell Jackson in private? NO we proudly parade into the local Whole Foods and order a flight of organic wine from their tasting bar, because we’re classy like that.
Lately PS is between jobs and this couldn’t make me happier.  The only thing better than being unemployed is being unemployed with company, ESPECIALLY when that company is a “yes” man like my girl PS.  The other day we were having a leisurely 4 hour lunch and I’m all lets drive to Vegas RIGHT NOW and she’s like, lets…and since you’ve given up drinking for lent, I’ll drive so you can smoke!  That’s true friendship.  
PS doesn’t smoke, but likes to entertain the idea from time to time.  The truth is both of us are too scared to try real drugs.  May I repeat that TOO SCARED.  Not too Christian, not too smart, not too mature, but too scared.   We don’t like to admit this, so please don’t spread it around.  Druggies tend to be less trusting if they think you’re judging them and nobody is more judgemental than a sober person.  Needless-to-say what we lack in narcotic addiction we make up for in wasteless-ness, which we have been doing a lot of lately and it feels great.  
Now, PS starts a masters program in education next month so I’ve gotta milk the shit out of her free time while I can.  She wants to teach children…don’t even get me started on this.   I tell her I’m all the children she needs, but she says its not the same.  Until she makes this huge mistake dedicating her life to tomorrow’s future (whatever THAT means), I’m going to put my social work in acting on the back burner and spend some QT getting in trouble with my little Pork Sausage.  Stay tuned.

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.   

Mar 9 2009


Hey Kids.

So, I’ve noticed some new signs have popped up ’round my neighborhood (that sounded awfully British didn’t it?  Probably because I just watched Russell Brand on Letterman.  So hot he is.  Okay, now I just sound like Yoda).  They’re Tsunami evacuation signs.  (I live by the beach btw.  Jealous?) I wanna know who’s hard earned tax dollars were burned to erect this stroke of genius.  The signs are immaculately composed Asian pictures of a large wave with an arrow pointing away from the beach. Hmmmm where do I start. 
1. Thanks for clarifying via pictionary.  When I’m staring into the crest of death via my own personal Poseidon adventure I’ll remember this picture and think… FUCK
2. Really?  I should run away from the beach? God Bless this sign otherwise I would have followed my instinct and run towards the thunderous wall of water engulfing 4 story beach side mansions.
3. You know!  Tsunami!  Like from a Housai print.  
4. Okay so, lets say, I have fair warning for a tsunami (like 2 seconds) and I pack up my truck and start tutting towards the safe zone.  I get two randomly placed signs along a couple of streets pointing “this-a-way” and then Pfffff?  If you’re gonna start with the idiot ACME signs you might as well follow up with a “stop! you’re safe now” or “Now call FEMA.  Here is the number….” or “keep going! don’t cause a traffic jam.” 
Wouldn’t it be better to try a public service announcement on how to prepare for a tsunami, create an information/reserve center…maybe it doubles for earthquakes, educate the masses on procedure and survival techniques?   It’s the whole “lead a horse to water” syndrome…or I guess in this case “away from water.”  Is the government thinking “put pretty signs up, then they’ll think we’re on top of our shit!  And when we fuck up worse than Katrina at least we can point to the signs that point away from the water. MUCH easier than creating effective infrastructure for disaster relief!”?  
And you know what REALLY wets my whistle?  This whole band aide idea that thrives on the assumption that “all citizens are ignorant” is probably comforting the very people that will be up in arms about it when it fails.  
All I’m saying is I’d rather pay 5 bucks for something that works than 2 bucks for something that doesn’t.
One more thought: This wordless picture game for two-year-olds would have been very effective in the illiterate Wards of New Orleans, but this is a white collar beach side neighborhood in Southern California.   We’re good students.  

Mar 8 2009

Mamma Ceviche

Hey Kids.

My mother just called me. Serious concern in her voice. “Burrito, I just read your blog. You sound like an alcoholic. Take it down.”  I sound like an alcoholic…that’s rich.

So, instead of taking down the post I will use this as an opportunity to introduce my mother. AND since I will be giving everyone food names I will call her…Ceviche. She’d approve of that, not that she deserves a likable alias after that verbal barrage this morning, but I’m no monster.

Ceviche is a little firecracker. I got my best traits from her: the know-how to properly host a party, confidence to pull off the most questionable of fashion trends, and most importantly an affinity for the sauce.

Cheers Ceviche!  Don’t get too worried.  Nobody reads this thing anyway.  

Mar 7 2009

Breaking Lent

I’m sitting in bed watching TMNT (that’s the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for those of you geriatrics). Leonardo is rocking his shit, per usual.

My head is pounding due to an evening of unplanned drinking. I must say that when I woke up this morning fully dressed, hazy, and covered in mustard….I felt at home. It’s been serious business since I decided to break Lent. After weighing the pros and cons I realized I was actually doing a disservice to JC by nixing the very blood that ran through his veins. So wine is back on the list. Also, I was substituting my nightly glass of pinot with a bag of tortilla chips and spoonfuls of Nutella. Whoever said, “cutting alcohol out of your diet will help you lose weight” must have had an endorsement deal with Tostitos.

My first morning-after recollection came to me in the classic “did I dream that” form. It was a piece memory of a heated fight with my debt collector. She, as it were, has been calling me at increasingly odd hours. Her former mistake was calling early in the morning, no doubt hoping to catch me before I took off for work. What a loser for thinking I work. You’re a debt collector get a clue! Smarty wised up though and hit my Achilles heel: late night on a weekend. I always answer the phone after 11pm on a weekend. #A because booty calls are guaranteed ego boosters and #B because I’m usually drunk and lonely. Before I go any further let me just say that this is a debt with Cedar Sinai for $48.72 that I refuse to pay because they refuse to tell me what it is for. I’m no hypochondriac, but I don’t hesitate to see the MD. How many times have we heard the ‘ol “yesterday she said she felt like she had a cold and today she woke up dead!” I’m no sucker. I survived a meningitis scare in College. I think I know what I’m talking about. So I’ve accrued quite a few medical bills in my time. These days I spend more money at Cedar Sinai than Barneys (which is sad for me), but I always know what I’m getting…usually grade “A” psychoanalysis. This one seems weird. $48.72? What quack doctor charges less than $50 for….well anything. So this is what I’m dealing with.

“Ms. Burrito?” she says condescendingly into the phone. “Who is this?” I say extremely disappointed to hear a female voice. “Is this Ms. Burrito?” So she keeps asking me to verify who I am and I keep telling her to send me an itemized bill and she says she can’t send me an itemized bill until I confirm who I am. This went on for quite some time. I’m pretty sure there was yelling from my end and a vague attempt to explain identity theft and how people can clone credit cards with tiny spy cameras. She eventually caved and vowed to call at another time when I was more “lucid” whatever that means.

I figured I bought myself ‘til Monday. That ho definitely aint calling back this weekend. Nice work Burrito. Phew that last story was exhausting. I gotta take a shower and get ready for brunch. I hate meeting people for meals that take place before 7pm, but my fellow diners have guaranteed daytime drinking so I might be able to get on board. Later.