Sunday, September 30, 2007

I Love the Lions... today

Today was a really good day. I love the Lions. I love being drunk.

I went to the bar to watch the Detroit Lions take on the Bears, hope that the Lions have a miracle and squeek out a win. Or at least not lose by a million like they did last week. Little did I know the the Lion would kick the Bears in the teeth.

A little pre-story to the story is needed. I went to my girlfriend's bar to watch the Lions and show patronage to my girl. Well, when I walk up to her bar they were charging a $20 dollar cover. 20 bucks. 20 fucking bucks. To watch TV. I guess there was a buffet but what if I don't want buffet. What if I want to spend 100 dollar on liqour instead? Fuck Hollywood Billards.

Dayn Mike and I go to Big Wangs instead. Yes this place is called Big Wangs and isn't a gay bay. It was packed with many many fans, I'd say about 90% of the entire bar were wearing Bears jerseys. Girls were wearing freaking Hester jerseys for crissssssake. God I hate the Bears.

We sit down and immediately get into an argument with 15 Chicago fans. The three of us are severly outnumbered. We order pitchers of beer and settle in. I say a prayer, "Please don't the Lions get killed. Please, make it at least interesting so I don't have to hear this guy tell me how much the Lions finger asshole like a West Hollywood speedbag.

I have a problem. I talk shit. A lot of shit. Too anyone. Anywhere. Out numbered or not.

And I wasn't about to back down to today. I had some liquid courage in me, fuck not talking shit!

After a couple pitchers and half time, I honestly thought we were winning. We were down 7 to 3 but I felt like if they didn't have some bullshit calls like the terrible fumble review call when we were in the red zone, we'd be up. I told this to our surrounding hecklers, they thought I was wasted.

It might have been that we were outplaying them or that I was drunk. Either one really.

The Chicago fans were like Mogwais who get hit with water, POP POP POP, they duplicated around me.

The second half, it was Dayn, Mike, myself and these two random Lions fans. They followed my big mouth lead and yelled at these other Bears fans also. Big them up because they have nuts to yell at angry black Bears fans without fear of retalitation.

Fourth quarter, it was hairy. After eating boneless buffalo wings, a quesadilla and a sampler with the gang and drinking about 7 beers, it was time for the dramatics. Talk about a back and forth game... I honestly didn't think we were going to win. Devin Hester returned one on our heads, the entire Bears group attacked me. I held me head in my hands and didn't look up, I was afraid I might get stuck in the head with a fork.

But suddenly, we started winning again. And then got a bigger lead, and then scored again. Before I knew it, the Lions set a record for the most points scored int he fourth quarter in NFL history.

We win and take some blue shots of 151 and blue carocoa (spelling? I'm drunk) and bid our new Lions fans Bon Voyage. We give some hugs to the Bears fans that were real fans, not the bandwagons like the girl in the brand new Hester jersey.

I walk down the street feeling like the Lions just won the Super Bowl. It was their Super Bowl. Just to shut up those band wagon Bears fan, it was worth a Super Bowl to me. The Lions have sucked for so long, I needed this.

Now, I just need to hope that in month when we play the Bears again that they don't have the $20 cover at Hollywood Billiards. I don't want to go back to Big Wangs when we get our asses kicked in Chicago and I have to hear it from all the people I talked shit too. Fuck the Bears and their fans.

Friday, September 28, 2007

Random Weekend Thoughts

Friday's here and I have been blogging for five days now. How does it feel? Pretttttttyyyy, pretty good.

Some random thoughts-

-You ever agree to do something but afterwards you're pissed you agreed to do it? I'm the king of the renege. I can't help it. It doesn't matter if the event is accepting a check for a million dollars, I hate committing to things. Especially on Friday, as the clock ticks, I just want to go home, take off my pants and do NOTHING.

-How come when I meet new people I don't want to make friends anymore? Back in the day, I would welcome new friends. Now, it seems like such a bother. I don't keep in touch with my good friends right now, why should I add you to the roster of people I don't call but feel bad when I do see because I am such a bad friend? Last night at this mixer for work, this guy I was talking to really wanted to hang out soon, and I was like, "Ah, yeah. I don't think so." He must think I'm a big dick. Ah well, I didn't want him as a friend anyway.

-Now that the weather is cooling down, my apartment should get cooler right? I thought so until the freaking bedroom was on fire this morning when I was trying to sleep. It doesn't help that I have a heating blanket for a girlfriend, having her in bed is like sleeping with the Human Torch. I got out of bed and realized, I forgot to turn back on the AC after my trip to Arizona. That explains why I was sweating while eating last night right? Its either that or I'm just getting that fat.

-Speaking of fat, I'm on this makeshift diet. Fucking dieting sucks. Big time. Why did America all agree that being fat is bad? Can't I go back to eating all you can eat shit and not gain a pound? They really need to figure out this healthy weight loss pill thing before they cure cancer. Getting old sucks.

-Have you ever drank so much water that you got sick? I didn't think it was possible until one day at work when I was really bored I tried to drink an entire 5-gallon jug. Man, I felt like throwing up and the room was spinning... it was great. I highly advice that you do it if you run out of weed.

-Does anyone like hail? They welcome rain if we need it and people think snow is pretty (unless you are shoveling it) but you never hear, "Man, I wish it would just hail for once. I want some gold ball sized ice to pelt me right now."

-I need underwear that holds my nuts in a little neoprene sack that has those icy things you put in coolers. Man, that would be so great right now.

-Maybe I should just take off my pants here at work. Why are my nuts so hot today? This wool underwear was a bad idea.

-I think that the Detroit Lions could win 7 more games this year. I wouldn't bet on it, but if they somehow win this week, they could roll.

-Nicolas Cage... how does he still get work? Does anyone find him entertaining? The only good acting job he ever did was in Leaving Las Vegas. Do women find him attractive? How does he get more movies than Bruce Willis? They are like the same freaking guy but Bruce is cool. hmmmmmm.

Anyway, have a good weekend, not sure how much posting I will do this weekend. I've got a full list of commitments that I plan on reneging on so I can sit around the house with no pants on.

Wal-Mart and God gave me Super AIDS

God gave me super AIDS. Damn it. I knew Karma would come back to get me.

Last weekend I was in Phoenix with my girlfriend to see my family. My mom loves to take me on her various errands whenever I'm in town, which means one terrible awful thing- I have to go to Wal-Mart with her.

It would be bad enough if it was just Wal-Mart but it's the world's dirtiest, trashiest Wal-Mart. You probably asking yourself, "Self, aren't all Wal-Marts dirty and trashy?"

Yes they are self. There is one difference; this one is the MOST dirty and trashy in the world. They have a faux gold plaque on the wall that declares it. If you're ever in Phoenix, you can go there and look yourself. It’s in between the in-store ghetto nail salon and that place where you can get fuzzy blankets with your likeness airbrushed on it.

Why is it so dirty and trashy? Well, the store itself isn't that clean for one. I saw a kid take a shit in the toothpaste aisle and three workers walked past it saying, "That ain't my job to clean that up."

The store resides in the old ghetto mall; you know the old ghetto mall? All bigger cities have one of these malls. Its a mall that once was happening and people shopped there but then it become outdated and the neighborhood went to shit so all the good stores left. They had to do something with the mall so they put in stores like Wal-Mart and Costco to fill the void. Its like what I imagine the malls in hell look like.

Because of this, the Wal-Mart building itself used to be a JC Penny's and the mall movie theatre. The structure isn't exactly sound. After spending five minutes in there, you thank God that Phoenix doesn't have Earthquakes.

There is something more than the general appearance and structural integrity of the store that makes it terrible, it's the clientele. I haven't seen more crazy people in one place since my family reunion.

Bikers. Bitches. Gangstas with 8 kids. Extremely fat children crying because they can't get more candy. People missing limps. Street workers with no teeth. White trash couples with matching NASCAR shirts on.

Man, its fun to walk around and make fun of these people. Which I did. A lot. But then again…

Walking the harrowing halls of Wal-Mart makes you just feel like you need a shower. You look at the 45-year-old stripper who's picking up her generic herpes medicine and you feel like, maybe just maybe, you're going to get sick. You see the trucker sneeze on a bunch of grapes in the Super Wal-Mart grocery section and think, man it’s going to happen, and I’m going to catch something.

I declared to my Mom and girl that I was going to catch airborne Super AIDS in here.

We all laughed about it. HA HAHAHAHA..... Boy I wish I hadn't said it.

You see, I learned something recently. God is a terrible, funny, super omnipotent being. He's a lot like me, except he controls the galaxy and I control my TV. We are both full of mischief and mayhem. We both like to fuck with people.

I imagine he looks down from his cloudy perch playing practical jokes on people.

This time, he nailed me. "I got your ass J. Ask and you shall receive.” God said.

My girlfriend and I went back to LA the next day and woke to discover God's little jokes.

I have an enormous painful sore under my tongue. My girlfriend developed a set of bumps that look like bug bites from the mosquitoes that bite dinosaurs and then were fossilized in amber in Jurassic Park.

A cold sore under your tongue must be the first sign of airborne Super AIDS. God was sick of me making fun of other people and joking around about such a serious topic like Super AIDS that he must have given it to me. Either that, or he was bored and wanted to fuck with me. I'm picking the latter.

Now, my tongue is screwed. It hurts. I can't eat right because it hurts. I can’t move my tongue past my teeth or it might catch my front teeth and sting. My mouth keeps producing too much saliva to try to fix the sore. Because of all the spit in my mouth, I can't talk without a gay lisp.

Let me tell you it sucks. I've had it for five days now and finally gave up and got some medicine. But the problem is that it numbs my tongue, making my lisp even stranger. Now I sound retarded and gay.

Thanks God. I get the point. Don't make fun of serious things. I'll try but I can't make any promises.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go count my T cells.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

Duck Hunt

My family used to live on the beach of this little lake in Michigan when I was very young. We had this really cool house that the bottom floor would open up to the patio and you could move freely between the two.

My mother and father both were working at the time... or my mom was working and my dad was getting drunk someplace else. We had a baby sitter who would take care of my brother and I.

We were sitting outside on the patio with my babysitter when the phone rang. She went inside and upstairs to answer it.

A little background is needed here. My two-year-old brother had a very serious Cheerios addiction. The kid wouldn't eat shit but Cheerios for every meal. You could see him dragging around a huge box of the those O's everywhere he went, even though the box wasn't too big for him to handle. It would be like me dragging around my new fridge.

On the lake, we had an infestation of ducks. Ducks were everywhere, all the time. They weren't the cute ducks you see on Ducktales. No no, these ducks were mean spirited at best. These fucking ducks were like the Crips and Bloods of the fowl family. They would follow you, harass you, and bite your ankles.

One duck took a shine to my brother and was following him around. To get rid of the duck, my brother threw a Cheerio at him, which the duck promptly ate. But just like one Cheerio wasn't enough for young Seany, it certainly wasn't enough for Sonny Corelone the duck.

He ran/half flew forward, his razor sharp bill ready to pierce my young brother's heart. Sean threw a couple more Cheerios at him mid flight, stopping his advances.

Big mistake. By this time, the entire Gambino family of ducks had 'made' what has happened. Feeding time.

A flock of ducks flew at Seany. Not knowing what to do, Seany ran inside the large sliding door on the first floor. The only problem, all of the ducks followed him inside.

Seany threw the box of Cheerios all over the floor and hid under the table. The ducks had a feeding and pooping frenzy, the once clean bottom floor of our home now looked like a pigeon coop. 100's of ducks, shitting, eating, tearing apart furniture, fucking each other. It was an orgy of ducks.

The babysitter came downstairs to see what the fuss was. Man, I can't even imagine what must have run through her mind. "How do I explain this? What do I do to cover this up?"

None of those thoughts would matter. My mom got out of work early that day to walk in seconds after the babysitter saw the damage.

They both stood there in horror as my brother cowered under the table crying, ducks flying around shitting on my mom's antiques.

Needless to say, that babysitter never worked with us again. I think it was a mutual decision by both my mom and the babysitter.

Whenever I see Cheerios now, I think of those ducks chasing my poor brother. Gotta love ducks.

Black Eye Mystery

Everyone likes a good night of drinking. Unless you're Mormon. Or a recovering alchie. Or straight edge.

I used to enjoy it a lot more than I do now. I haven't gone out and gotten bombed in a while. Maybe its because I have a girlfriend who I live with, that certainly cuts into drunkie time. But deep down, I don't really give a shit about it anymore. I'd rather sit at home writing or working on shit to better my career. I know, I'm a lame old man.

How times change....

This time ten years ago, I would go out with a vengeance. I would drink a bottle of Skyy vodka, steal some shit, pick a fight, hook up with two chicks and then throw up.

Yep, throw up. A lot.

I had a run during my freshman year where I threw up like once a week. I don't know why, it might have been that I drank enough liquor to put a bear in a coma. That might have had something to do with it.

I think I hadn't really built up my drinking defenses yet. Now, I can drink a shit load and hold all my cookies.

I have this one friend Jay who never built this up. If he has like two beers, he'll throw up for months. No joke, months. He'll be bed ridden for longer than most people with mono.

But even Jay's remarkable month long hang over doesn't compare to the worst night of drinking of my life. Not that I remember any of it. At all.

The following story is told with pieces and bits from my hazy computer like brain, friend’s accounts and a few photos.

Like Mr. Ecko said on Lost, "We shall start at the beginning."

I was in a fraternity. There I admit it. It's not something that I'm that proud of, because most people think of frats as places where gay white boys hang out and play grab ass before they give GHB to their dates. And while that was partly true, there were a few Mexicans and a black guy in my frat. So we weren't entirely like the stereotype.

Don't hold this frat thing against me, it wasn't like a frat. It was a place where like-minded drunks got together and partied. We had one of the old throwback frats like Animal House. Our members were all weird, abnormal and nerdy, but in a cool way.

We had a big blowout party for some reason (did we need a reason?). My big brother in the fraternity, Matt Pfaffly, was going to stop by my dorm and get drunk before we went to get really drunk. Matt was the greatest big brother one could have in a frat; old enough to buy booze, had tons of money and was more of a troublemaker than I was.

I was getting ready when I heard something outside. "Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!"

Only it was October.

It was Matt, being what he called "Alcoholic Santa". My dorm was dry and in order to bring up his large stash of bottles, he needed to 'hide them'. He hid them in a pillowcase, where the bottles CLANKED and RATTLED and he yelled out "Alcohol here! Alcoholic Santa!" Not exactly covert but that was Pfaffly's way. If someone would have said something, he would have slapped them across the face and then later bought him or her out of a pending lawsuit.

I remember us drinking in my dorm room. The rest of the night, a complete blank.

I woke up side down. It was dark. It smelled like death. Where the hell was I?

I righted myself up and realized that my head was sitting in a bucket of my own vomit. Not just a normal size bucket either. A five gallon one. And it was half way full.

It was still dark. Wait, I can't open my eyes. I went into the bathroom and splashed water on my eyes and preyed a ton of eye boogers off of them. It was more than eye boogers, it was like the mucus that Aliens cocoon their prey in.

I finally got them open enough to notice, I had TWO BLACK EYES. Not one, but two. And not just black but bloody almost. The black circles encompasses more than just my eye sockets, they were down my cheeks and up my forehead.

I went into Sean Coyle's room and woke him up. He didn't look like he had a fun morning with his hang over but at least he didn't have two black eyes.

He said that I was wasted but that he wasn't sure what had happened. His mother (a nurse) was coming over for breakfast, she could take a look at them.

She figured that when I threw up and slept upside down in a bucket, the alcohol thinned blood must have run to my head and busted every blood vessel in my eyes and sockets.

Man, that sucks. I only knew the half of it however.

I went to the house to figure out what I blacked out from the night before. It was a little bit like Memento, I had to ask these dumb questions to people who looked at me like I was joking.

"You seriously don't remember pulling down your pants?" one guy said.

Another said, "You threw up on this chair here, and this potted plant... and this TV."

"You don't remember grabbing all those girl's asses? I had to stop a couple of sexual harassment lawsuits for you buddy boy."

When I found Matt, he had the best story of the night...

"I left you for a minute and I came back and you were talking to your ex."

My ex, the female body builder. This chick was not like the super body builder chicks you see late night on ESPN 8, she was pretty but super strong. SUPER STRONG...

"You told her that you loved her and you were wrong for breaking up with her. You told her you wanted to get married. I was about to smack the shit out of you to get your head right when all the sudden you turned around, grabbed the first girl you saw, and threw your disgusting throw up covered tongue down her throat."

I did what?

"Your ex grabbed you, punched you so hard in the face I thought of that scene in Braveheart where he bashed that dude's face in with that ball and chain. She floored you. It took two guys to hold her back."

Wow. Man I wish I was there to see it.

I never did figure out if the black eyes were from the throwing up, hanging up side down with low amount of blood in my alcohol stream or if the shear force of her one punch. I guess it's probably both.

Come to think of it, maybe this is why I'm not drinking as much anymore. Nahhhh, I'm just old and lame.


Let me clear the air a little bit. Two people have emailed me that it must suck to have your boss.

My boss is actually awesome. I love him. He's my mentor. He gives me opportunities that I could have only dreamed of before.

With that said, he can yell sometimes. All bosses can. I had a boss at a much lower level who was 50 times worse than my current boss, and he was a nobody.

I would rather get yelled at by the best than not have a job.

Meg White only sort of pisses me off now

I guess that the video of Meg White having sex on the internet is a hoax. Man, do i feel dumb.

Wait, no I don't. I want the White Stripes concert to happen. NOW. Come on Meg, get over the freaking anxiety already.

Your mom thinks your funny

Hey gang-

Sorry for the late post. I'm sure everyone who is reading this has been refreshing their pages, waiting for the next morsel of wisdom to fall out of their computers... but I had to get a new fridge this morning. It's a big beautiful stainless steel special one that I got off of Craig's list for $450. A hell of a bargain considering that it lists for about a $1000 more if I bought it new.

I had this moving guy help me this morning who has two new roles on TV, one of Days of our Lives then other on Nip Tuck. So when you see an episode of Nip Tuck where a Spanish softball player thinks he has a tail and that he might be Satan, he moved in my new fridge. Only in Hollywood....

I have all sorts of things to write about today but first I thought I would get down to something that I wrote on two napkins last night when I was painting.

My girlfriend had on the HBO last night on that show.... what the fuck is it called? It's got that guy Bill who rants about super left wing views, why can't I remember his last freakin' name?

Anyway, that's not the point. He had Jeaneane Garofalo on the show. Man, she's aged in dog years. She looked like the Mummy, only if the mummy wore black-rimmed glasses.

She looks like some sort off science experiment where they took Tina Fey, cloned her, then took the clone and had her do nothing but smoke crystal meth (you smoke it right?) and not sleep. In fact, they need to have a reality TV show with this as the theme soon, someone call Fox.

I digress....

She wasn't very funny. But on that damn show, they have an audience who claps or laughs or cheers after every sentence. And after everyoe of her jokes, there was one woman who wouldn't stop laughing. I'm pretty sure that was her mother. I wasn't there so I can't tell you for sure but I'm pretty damn sure it was. Who else would laugh at this dame?

Then I started to think about it, how did she get a shot in the first place? She started in Stand up comedy, which I am sure her mother was there, paying everyone to laugh. Then I guess she got hugely popular during the slacker early 90's, where she was on Saturday Night Live and had all sorts of roles on movies like Reality Bites where she played the same character over and over. She was the cynical lady who cracked very non-funny jokes about how life sucks.

The point of this post isn't how much Jeaneane Garofalo sucks; I guess that's part of it. But really this post is about how fake studio audiences are. I should know, I was a professional studio audience person at one point in my career.

What's a professional studio audience person you might ask? Well, it's a job where you get paid very little to sit in the audience of TV shows and clap, laugh, oooh and ahhh when told to.

People outside LA are asking themselves right now, is that true? There is no way that they pay people to do that. Well yes, it's completely true. It helped keep me in my apartment the first couple of months in Hollywood.

Dayn and I found an ad on Craig's list for this illustrious position when we were trying to find real TV/Film gigs. We signed up and were immediately thrust into the worst possible professional studio audience gig, the Jerry Lewis Telethon.

8 grueling hours of watching bad variety acts from midnight to 8 AM. We saw it all, jugglers, singers that would make American Idol cast offs look like Cher, terrible comedians (but no Jeaneane Garofalo, thank God), cheerleaders at 5 AM yelling in our face. All we wanted to do was sleep....

But that wouldn't happen. They had a group of people who would come and stick you with a cattle prod when you closed your eyes. This was terribly tough for Dayn, who could fall asleep through an earthquake. In fact, I don't think Dayn has ever seen a movie the whole way through; he has that bad level of narcolepsy.

The worst part is he snores. LOUD.

Above us were a bunch of microphones intended to pick up the laughter and cheers. Instead, Dayn provided the sound of a bear growling mixed with chainsaw being shoved into the engine of Ford F150.

Needless to say, the usher decided to post up right next to Dayn and keep him well caffeinated.

We did this for several months, watching several bad talk shows (Larry Elder anyone?), bad sitcoms (According to Jim anyone?) and only one good show we wanted to go to (Best Damn Sports Show).

Our other fellow 'employees' were possibly homeless. They all smelled and were terrible conversationalists. The bosses loved Dayn and I, mainly because we had shoes with no holes in them.

All of these shows paid us about $35 a show, not great money but it was better than sitting at home playing Madden. But it got us closer to the Hollywood we wanted to be a part of, the production side of things. We watched cameramen doing their thing; stage managers, lighting guys, and we talked to them to try to figure out to break into this hard industry.

The moral of the story-

Then next time you hear an uproar of laughter or a bunch of clapping on your favorite show, realize that it’s probably some slackers who are getting paid to be there. Unless Jeaneane Garofalo is on the show, which in that case its probably her mom.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Deep Blue Sea

Unintentionally Funny Moments

Life is full of moments that are meant to be serious but just come off as 'hold your gut' funny-

Here is my short list of a few from my life.

-The serious pep talk speech that Samuel L Jackson gives in Deep Blue Sea about "Nature is lethal but it doesn't hold a candle to man..." just before he gets eaten by a shark...

-When I saw a guy run his motorcycle into a car at 40 miles an hour... he was thrown like a rag doll 100 feet in the air. I guess you had to be there; it was funny at the time.

-The time my ex girlfriend threw a cell phone at my head and missed me by an inch when she was drunk as a skunk. She made this big scene, crying and yelling so much that everyone in the neighborhood came out to see the commotion. I was mad on the outside, but I couldn't stop laughing on the inside.

-When a different ex leaned out of my car throw up but couldn't get all the way out because she was stuck by the seat belt. When I pressed the button to let go of the seat belt, gravity took hold and she flew out of the car face first into a pile of rocks. She sat there crying, bloody, covered in puke, but damn if it wasn't funny.

-Every time a boss yells at me, red faced and angry. I know I should be worried, but I have to hold in the laughter.

- My dad's funeral. Not just one moment but the whole thing. Why? I have no idea. It was just funny for some reason.

What's your favorite 'un funny' funny time? Please post in comments.

Where have you gone Hunter S. Thompson?

I read an article in Rolling Stone about Hunter S. Thompson, with excerpts from an upcoming book on the great 'Gonzo' writers life. I couldn't focus on the finishing the soundtrack for my short film, I had to sit down and read this article.

It made me think,
"What happened to journalists who take chances?"
"What happened to people writing their thoughts, damn what authority says they should write?"
"Why did everything get so politically correct?"

I guess the next generation of America's writers moved onto ‘Dave Eggers and David Sedaris’ type of books and blogs. Is this the last bastion for quality storytelling and unabashed opinions?

You certainly can't get it in the op/ed pages anymore. It seems like those are just made up of rehashing of the same news stories over and over again. How many ways can you spin Michael Vick or Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and not come up with the same freakin' point of view?

Why not go into a dog fighting ring and learn about it first hand and then report about it, instead of sitting in your lofty cubicle writing stories based on what others have written?

Can't we have a writer who writes about real life? There are two Americas, what the media tells you versus the real America. Can a mainstream print journalist write how America is in practice, not principle?

If Hunter was alive, I'm sure he would dose these writers with acid, pistol whip them and drag them to a Hell's Angels bar...

Shawn Marion needs a hug

Shawn Marion of the Phoenix Suns was my favorite player for many years. His highflying dunks, intense defense and ugly jump shot won me over. But that was before he got a little too big for his britches. He went from being a complimentary player to a guy who complained that he wasn't the focal point.

But you could always tell there was something not right about Shawn. He seems uncomfortable in his own skin at times. He's a guy who wants to brag and jump around, but deep down inside, he's shy. Unsure of himself. He carries himself as the cock of the walk but behind closed doors, would be unsure about his standing in the public's eye. He’s jealous of everyone else getting attention that he felt he deserved.

It came as no surprise to me that he declared today that he wants to be traded.

This last weekend, I visited Phoenix and my family. My mom, girlfriend and I went to the Suns team shop so I could cop a new pair of Suns orange shorts, a bumper sticker and a special gift for Dayn, since he was watching my fish while I was gone.

I told my mom as we walked past a Shawn Marion mini statue that I didn't think by this time next year that Marion would be on the Suns. She agreed.

Strange right? Not really. There are so many factors that are leading to this likely breakup.

First off, MONEY. The Suns have a ton of salary cap killing contracts on their team. They gave away three draft picks and Kurt Thomas this summer to cut salary, even though Thomas was the only teammate who could guard Tim Duncan.

Because of this money issue EVERYONE except Steve Nash was thrown into trade rumors, including Amare Stoudemire, who Marion appears to be the most jealous of. That's part of the business.

The money problem only intensifies the biggest problem EGO.

Marion's angry, "Why they dissing me? Why don't they like me? Why would they include my name in trade rumors?" Boo hoo. Get over it already. You know the business, you make the most money on a team filled with high dollar contracts, and of course you are going to be examined in possible trade scenarios.

But more over, it's this seething jealousy and blows to Marion's ego that are causing this. He doesn't want to be second fiddle. Certainly not third fiddle behind Amare and Nash. He wants to be on all the billboards, win the MVP's, and get all the commercials.

I'm not in the locker room personally but from what I have read from many articles and Jack McCollum’s book "7 seconds or less", it seems like it brings down the entire roster. He pulls everyone into some high school bullshit.

It's him before the team.

I say, good riddance. Get the fudge out Marion. I just hope that Steve Kerr can get more for Marion than Lamar Odom or Andrei Kirilenko.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

A honest hard day's work

Some days I really hate my job. I hate getting yelled at for my boss's lack of memory and patience. I hate getting him coffee. I hate the fact that I'm smarter than half of the people in the WB ( I wouldn't green light Hot Wheels the Movie), yet I'm the company bitch with no real responsibilities.

Everyone has to work, unless you are my biological father or homeless, then you have to panhandle, which is like work but without working. I hate panhandlers but that's for another post.

When I grew up, my father was hell bent on me learning the values of a hard day's work, even though he never had one himself. My father was unemployed so often, I considered it his career.

The last real job my dad had was being 'half' owner of many dive bars, meaning he sold the computer software to do inventory and sales in exchange for part ownership of the bar. Good work if you can get it....

At any rate, every summer I would go back to Michigan from AZ to spend quality time with my dad. He would make me work at these run down bars where I would have to wash 400 pounds of potatoes, cut 18 flats of strawberries or scrub pissed stained urinals. I think my pay was something like 3 dollars an hour, which is peanuts, but to a preteen with a bad Nintendo addiction, it was tons of money. It meant I could buy Metroid or Legend of Zelda, I just had to clean the scary basement in a building built during the 1800's.

My first summer job was working at the Tin Lizzy. This was probably the most 'normal' of the bars at which I worked. I learned how to cut every type of fruit and vegetable in the kitchen, sometimes for 10 hours a day. So much for child labor laws. This was also my favorite place to hang out with my dad after work, where I would put "Don't Worry, Be Happy" on the jukebox 25 times, much to the chagrin of many bikers who frequented the bar. At the time, the 'Baby on Board' signs were huge and the bar hung up hundreds of these signs and variants on the walls. That spread to hanging fake vanity license plates up, where people's names, including mine "Scoo", my father's nickname for me, covered every spot not taken by the fake yellow caution signs. It made the place look like a tacky car accessory convention.

The next summer I worked at the Roxy. Not the cool Roxy here in LA, no no. It was this run down spot with a failing comedy club underneath. That's where I learned many foul-mouthed jokes from crappy comedians. I also learned the difference between dry and sweet vermouth and how to make jalapeno cheeseburgers, two skills I still use today. This was also the place where my father's friend asked me if I had dipped my wicket yet. I had no idea what he meant, but I knew had something to do with my penis. That's probably not the greatest question to ask an 11 year old. But then again, what was an 11 year old doing working at a bar....

At 12 and 13, I worked closer to 'home' in Milan MI at a bar called Netty's. Netty's was the most dangerous, small town bar in recent history. A long line of bikers, stoners, and alcoholics would party it down in the tiny bar. My first summer, I was responsible for cleaning up the back area and the basement, as well as doing food prep. It was long strenuous work but I loved the little kitchen in the back, where I would make all sorts of pizza concoctions. This bar was a landmark for many firsts in my life. This was the first place where I saw two women kiss each other. The first place I heard the words "Coke" and it not refer to the cola. One of the managers had me and my baby brother, who was all of 9 years old; guard the door to the bathroom where we heard tons of sniffing. I know what Britney Spears kids must feel like.

It was also the first place that I bartended.

Yep, you read that right, bartended. At age 13. One of the bartenders was 'sick' which was probably code for 'did too much coke'. My father was called in for a late night Friday shift and needed help. He woke me up and we ran down to Netty's. I was a huge hit. All of the patrons loved me; I made the strongest whiskey pours in Michigan. I got so many tips that night, it was criminal. But someone didn't like my service and called the cops. Word was sent that the cops were outside. I ran and hide in the bathroom; sure I was going to prison. I sat there, legs up on a toilet, not sure what to do. After 20 minutes, someone came in and said the coast was clear. That ended my first day of bartending but I did get enough tips to but three Nintendo games the next day.

My last youth bar work experience was at a strip club outside of the airport. Unfortunately for me, I did inventory at the bar in the early mornings, instead of during the working hours. I would get there early, cue up music on the DJ equipment (my first DJ experience) and dance on the poles. There was also a chin up bar in the middle that I would use like a jungle gym. Fun times.

Eventually, I learned that if I dragged my feet and went slow counting the bottles, I would still be there when it opened up. I would walk to the kitchen window (of course they had a kitchen, who doesn't get hungry when looking at tits) and stare out at the young lovely ladies. I remember them all being extremely hot and classy, not like the strippers that I see now. My father, someone who gave my brother his Playboy collection for his 10th birthday, didn't have a problem with this at all. In fact, he seemed to encourage it. The cooks always got a kick out of it and would tell me little stories about the girls. "You see the redhead, she's a better cook than me." "You know Jeanie, she shot her boyfriend in the leg when he wouldn't leave her apartment last week."

I didn't have much interaction with these lovely ladies at first but my dad noticed that I liked one girl the most. Andrea, I think her name was. She was this short curly blonde with enormous fake boobs and a smile that could melt steel. One morning, my father summoned me out of the office. There she was, standing in nothing but garters and white feather boa. I was dumbfounded. I'm usually the outgoing, talk to everyone type. But with this girl in front of me, I couldn't form a sentence. She did all the talking and thought “I was so cute!" She said that we should go to Cedar Pointe together next week.

Man, did I have a hard on after that. All I could think about was riding on rides with her, feeding popcorn to each other and then maybe getting a hotel room out by the park afterwards. Not that I would know what to do in that hotel room. Man, I couldn't shake the image of her big tits in my face.

When I went the next week to count the bottles, I couldn't wait to set a date for this trip. I saw her, looking even hotter then last time in an all red outfit, if you could call it an outfit. My dad nudged me forward and demanded that I figure out what day we were going. I stumbled over and couldn't get two words out. She said that was going to set everything up, she couldn't wait for me to meet her boyfriend.

BOYFRIEND!?!?!?! What the fuck are you talking about? Boyfriend? I thought that I was.....

Then it hit me; she thought I was cute like my mom thinks it’s cute when her puppies lick each other. I wasn't a love interest; I was a sideshow of cute.

I was so hurt after that. I didn't go with her to Cedar Pointe, in fact, I didn't talk to her after that (not like I said anything to her before). I couldn't even look at her the same way. She broke my heart in two.

That was my last summer of working at my dad's bars. After that summer, my dad lost all his interests in his various business ventures and took to his natural career of mooching.

After that, it was my mom's turn at making me learn the meaning of work.

For my 16th birthday, I stayed in AZ with my mom instead of going back to MI. For my birthday, my mom was going to take me to the mall to pick out my b-day present. She wanted to stop off at McDonald's and grab some fries. When there, she made me fill out an application to work. I protested, saying that I didn't want to work at Mickey D's. She said that I didn't have work there, just humor her and put in an application since I was now the legal age to work. I turned it in and wouldn't you know it, they hired me right there, without an interview. I told them I didn't want the job, but damn it if my mom didn't accept the job for me and make me work there.

Fuck an A. Tricked again.

Working at McDonald's for me was like working in prison camp where it was the guards job to humiliate you ever chance they get. Slave labor, long hours and surrounded by what could have been cancer-causing levels of grease. It wasn't like my other jobs with my dad, where I worked hard but I had this sense of entitlement, I was working at a BAR. In my preteens no less. But now I was just like every other teenage nerd asshole, working a McJob.

I wanted to be fired so badly but I was too much of a goodie goodie at the time to fuck up enough to get fired. I wanted to quit, but my mom kept saying that it was good for me and demanded that I work there. I couldn't win. I counted the days until school started again and I could quit and go back to school full time.

It didn't help that the manager loved me. He thought I was funny, smart and the best register person he had. It wasn't much of a compliment, considering the retards that I worked with. I was the only one who knew how to count to ten, so I had that going for me. Which is nice.

Because my natural McDonald's ability, they worked me morning noon and night. I would get up early to open at breakfast, ride my bike home 19 blocks for a couple hours rest (I didn't get that car I wanted for my 16th b-day) and then would ride my bike back to close the damn place.

I was lucky though; I didn't live near my high school. At least no one would know that I worked there. Right?

Until the dreaded day when a kid I was on the school newspaper went to visit his cousin in my hood. They just had to go to McDonald's. Fuck me. Now everyone would know. It didn't help that this kid was a huge goof ball that I made fun of constantly at school. Now he had fuel for his fire.

After that summer, I vowed to never go back to that life of work.

The next two summers, I got a job with my high school girlfriend's dad filling vending machines all over Phoenix. A former ASU football standout, he had his playing career cut short when he knocked up his girlfriend and had to drop out of school. Needless to say, he had some anger issues. He was cool for the most part, letting me go to swim team events on certain days when I needed to work. But for the most part, he was a nuclear bomb with a short ticking clock.

One time, we were going to go play golf together, his treat for my good hard work. But we had to get there at 4 for our tee time. Mind you, it was 114 degrees in Phoenix on that day and golf didn't sound like the most fun in the heat after working 8 hours of ball busting lifting of cases and cases of soda. But I wanted to prove I was good enough for his daughter, so I pretended interest in the golf outing. But we had 4 hours of work to do in 1 hour. That meant every time we pulled into a new spot, he demanded that I fill the machine at machine gun pace. I was doing well enough, running 5 cases of soda up 3 flights of stairs and filling the machine like it was going to blow up if their wasn't enough Diet Dr. Pepper inside of it.

At the last machine of the day, we had 5 minutes to get this done and fly to our golf match. We were standing side by side at a coke machine in a laundry room, both filing it at a hummingbird’s pace. Of course, this laundry room had no air conditioning, it felt like 300 degrees. I reached for the Welch's grape soda and I was practically throwing them in the machine when the worst happened. One can hit the back of the machine, bounced out of its column and fell. I tried to grab it but it hit a metal bolt in the machine.

KABOOM! Grape soda went everywhere, dousing both myself and my boss in sticky, hot grapeness. He turned from his normal red color to some color that I imagine that plutonium changes before its atoms are split apart.

He called me every curse word in the book. We had to clean up, which took easily a half an hour. We missed our tee time, not that I minded much.

Then I got home and was called every name a second time. I tried to quit but then my girlfriend's mother made him apologize and I was too much of a pussy to quit.

I guess these experiences toughened me up to the harsh world of show business. Now when my boss at the WB yells me at when he's having a bad day, I just remember I been yelled at by much much leaser people. And I look back and say, I could be scrubbing potatoes right now or working at McDonald’s, I guess getting coffee isn't so bad.

Monday, September 24, 2007

Meg White pisses me off

The White Stripes canceled their US tour. Fuck me. How come everytime I want to see a show it gets canceled? It started back during the early 1990's when Wu Tang canceled on me like 5 times. Fuck, you think Ol' Dirty had a crack problem or something?

Now this 'Meg White has anxiety' thing comes out... we need to cancel shows. Bullshit. Fucking get over it already. I have anxiety ever day, you know what I do? Cry and then get over it.

I was already pissed about the canceling and then low and behold I find out she's not completely being honest about this stress... she's stressed because she has a leaked sex tape coming out and its too much for her to handle.

Well, guess what? You tape sex of yourself getting choked out, that shit is going to make it on the internet somehow. You could put that tape in a deep fryer with some jalapeno poppers, eat the tape and then shit it out and then eat that shit and somehow, it would be leaked. Moral of the story, if you are famous, don't fuck on video tape. End of story.

Do you want to make more money? Sure we all do....

I'm dead fucking broke.

Not that I don't have money in my account, I do (thanks to a generous 'donation' from my mom). All of that is tied up in paying bills or trying to get my ever-expanding credit card debt from shooting my movie down to national debt levels.

I've been trying to come with new and interesting ways to make money that don't require me quitting my day job.

I need a night job!


Bartending. Fun work. You get to meet new people. But it requires me to be on my feet and actually do work, sometimes lifting kegs and cases of beer. Plus long late nights when I should be at home sleeping. Fuck that retarded shit.

Cat burglary. Now that's an exciting part time job. You get to break and enter, look really cool in the all black outfit, like some sort of French poet or something. Plus, there is a never-ending amount of valuables to 'find' in people's houses. But the downsides are getting caught and going to jail and I'm still not sure what to do after I steal this shit. Sell it out of the back of my car? Too much work, I don't want to sell shit. Same thing for pawnshops, they can trace that shit back to you. So I guess that's out.

Drug dealer. Again, exciting job. You also get to meet interesting clientele to make fun of. You never have to leave the couch but to get the door or the drugs to sell. Seems easy enough. But again, I have to sell things, which sucks. Plus, crack heads coming to your house doesn't sound that appealing. Oh, and it's illegal. I forgot about that. And you can't get high on your own supply so I guess I would be bad at it.

Stripper. Exciting. Meet lots of drunk women. Good hours and pay. Downsides, I have to work out a ton. Stripping for women is more of a funny thing for them, not a sexy thing. "Look at that guy shaking his dick around. I'm going to pull on it and see if it hurts." Plus, I have to be naked- a lot. Which is fine at home, but in front of 25 drunk bitches... what if I get 'stage fright'. And my girlfriend would be so pissed if I were stripping. Really pissed. Super pissed. More pissed than when I stormed off because the Lions game wasn't being shown on TV. But that pay is soooooo good. Hmmmmm.... I might have to consider that one.

Blood Donor. Not nearly exciting, unless they take too much blood. Great hours, shitty pay. Doesn't require much effort, if you even consider sitting in a chair effort. But I hate needles. And getting the blood drained out of me just makes me want to eat, which would take my paltry wages and spend them on tacos. That’s not exactly the financial influx that I am looking for.

Cat Groomer. How much do cat groomers make? I guess I don't really know... what does that exactly entail? Don't cats hate getting wet? Is there a way to dry clean a cat? Do I need special equipment for this process? That costs money. Fuck, I don't even like cats. Bad idea.

Erotic Masseuse. Great money. Short hours. But I don't know if I'm ready for the 'happy ending' part. Where would I set up shop, West Hollywood? Dayn's house? Plus my hands cramp easily. I can barely jerk myself off. And then there is the whole totally gay thing. I guess that's out.

Well, I haven't come up with shit. The closest thing I have to an option is cat burglary. Although stripping might work. Do you all have any suggestions?

Greatest Movie Ever

I'm going to give you a movie that I bet would get greenlight by some studio tomorrow (if tomorrow was 1986).

The Ultimate Action Movie- "Die or I'll Kill you"

John Woo (fresh off of making Hard Boiled) directs

Michael Mann (fresh off of making 'Heat') writes

Jerry Bruckheimer (fresh off of Top Gun) produces

Michael Dudikoff (of American Ninja fame) stars as a rogue secret agent with Martial Arts skills learned from an old master...

who teams up with...

Eddie Murphy (fresh off Beverly Hills Cop) a fast talking street wise small con hustler...

who must take down a 1980's sleeper cell of terrorists (with no true shared nationality) led by...

Alan Rickman (fresh off of Die Hard, "where are my det-a-nat-ors?!")

and Gary Oldman (fresh off of Professional/Leon)...

who plot to kidnap...

President Louis Gossett Jr. (who is a retired Air Force Colonel) and his vice president's daughter Alyssa Milano (fresh off of Commando)...

And brainwash the president...

so he will give up the computer passwords to nuclear ICBM's (I know a stretch, but this is freakin' Bruckheimer!)...

to start a war against a communist Russia causing nuclear winter to cover the world!!!!! ahahahahahahahahaha (insert Oldman and Rickman criminal laughter here)

(side note- Why do they want to do create Nuclear Winter? I don't know. Maybe they own a product that can clean up nuclear winter errr... does it have to make sense if Bruckheimer is involved?)

Dudikoff and Murphy run through a serious of elaborate traps and action set pieces (while Murphy cracks bad jokes) to find that their only way to stop the terrorists is to enlist the help of Dudikoff's estranged ex wife-

Sean Young (fresh off of Blade Runner) who knows 80's computers like Murphy knows witty one liners.

After stopping the possible computer nuclear threat (using War Games like computer lameness)...

Murphy and Dudikoff must break into a huge mansion covered with tons of bad movie goons and douches (led by Bolo Yeung fresh off of Bloodsport and Brian Thompson fresh off of Cobra) to set up the final battle...

in an elaborate action set piece that takes place in an completely functional steel work plant inside the mansion (of course this happens, it has to)...

Before the showdown starts...

Oldman admits to Murphy that he was the person who killed his mother and made him a orphan and forced him into his life of petty crime and...

Rickman admits to Dudikoff that he killed his kung fu master...

Extracting revenge, Murphy and Dudikoff kill Oldman and Rickman (in elaborate deaths involving melting steel or a conveyor belt)


Oldman hits a self destruct button on the mansion as he dies and a ticking clock goes off...

They must get Milano and Chappy, err, I mean the President out alive... but how?!?!?!?! They have an Apache helicopter but who will fly it?

The president hops in the pilot's seat and flies the good guys in to safety as the mansion explodes!

Dudikoff gets together with Sean Young, patching up their problems. Murphy gets a job as a secret service agent, ending his career as a con artist. His first assignment? Taking a wise cracking Alyssa Milano to school. The End. Roll duet song by Bryan Adams and Kenny Loggins.



Hello All-

If you are reading this, you must know me. How else would you stumble onto this blog? Hmmmmm.... you could have google searched for Blog + Stupid + hollywood + sports + poop + Liberace + Mexican food and it would have been the first entry on the top.

This first entry will serve as a mission statement for what I plan on writing about- Everything. Movies. Sports. Life. Love. Family. Dirty Jokes. Scripts. Stories. Strange Anecdotes from a life on the edge of 30.

A little about the author-

I was born to two parents (strange huh?) in the land of closing auto factories, fatty fried foods and sports- Detroit. I lived there until my mother was smart enough to leave my father and move to the land of cacti, dry heat and plastic women- Phoenix. Torn between two worlds, I bounced from MI to AZ. I spent my summers in MI roaming the woods with my plastic guns and GI Joes. When school came back, I was off to AZ for training in general studies, swimming, basketball and acting.

I could go into great length about the differences between the two, but I'll save that for a later blogggggg.

I graduated High School and college in AZ. I got a normal job, girlfriend and thought my life was going to be 'three kids, one dog, house in the suburbs' in Tempe. After A) getting fired from my job B) being broken up with by my girlfriend at the time and C) losing my grandma to death, I decided I needed something more out of life. I needed to chase my dream- to work in movies.

That's when I pulled up stakes, went to the most expensive one year film school I could find in Florida. After graduating, I moved to the land of swimming pools, movie stars and even more plastic women- Los Angeles. So far, so good. I work for a movie studio, write my own scripts and I'm finishing my first short film.

Again, if you are reading this, you know all of this. Why am I stating it again? Not sure really but just in case this becomes an overnight sensation and you google cool + blogs + poop + handsome and reached this page, you have some background.