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Our intern, John, comes running past. 

"Quick! Rob is parking. Everyone hide!!!"

John is adorable in that rosy-cheeked-just-fell-off-the-bus-into-Los Angeles-and-hit-my-head-on-the-pavement kind of way. He is in his third year at journalism school and takes his job here very seriously. I'm sure he had three tasks today; stock the fridge, take out the mail, and be on the lookout for when Rob gets back from lunch. And I'm sure he accomplished all three with admirable conviction. 

My co-workers scramble under their desks in anticipation of saying "Surprise!", which seems like a wasted effort to me as we're all respectively engulfed by cubicle walls as it is. There are eight of us in the bull pen: Amy, our office manager and resident struggling actress, sits at the front door, Kyle, our style editor and resident struggling musician sits in cubicle number #1 a.k.a. "The Love Den", Brad, our field writer and resident struggling screenwriter, sits in cubicle number #2 a.k.a. "Deathstar", Ginger, the one who does a little bit of everything and is our resident struggling t-shirt designer, sits in cubicle #3 a.k.a. "The Gingerbread House", and me, the advice columnist/pop culture reviewer and resident struggling human being sits in cubicle #4 a.k.a. "Pee-Wee's Playhouse". Julie, our layout designer, works against the back wall in between Marty and Rob's offices. Julie really isn't struggling at anything. She's worked for Vogue and Playboy and has a beautiful graphic designer husband, and a fauxhawked baby from Taiwan. The two interns, John and Molly sit at make-shift desks in opposite corners of the office. I made their desks myself out of saw horses and doors and one can read about my little DIY project "Laurel's Attempt at Making a Desk" in issue #4 of our magazine. The only two enclosed offices are Rob's and Marty's. I should have an office considering I've been with these guys since the conception of Sin Magazine, but until we can afford a bigger office, I'm stuck out in the open. Marty's office has four walls and a door and a view of Sunset Boulevard going east. My office has three walls, no door, and a view of our intern's butt crack when I turn around. Sometimes I'll bring blankets into work and turn my cubicle into a fort and demand that everyone say "the secret word of the day" to enter. The only good thing about my cubicle is that it's in direct eye sight of Marty's office. When I'm bored, and Marty is on the phone, I will position myself so that I'm staring directly at Marty. He'll try to shift his chair and dodge my stare, but to little avail. He had to buy one of this remote control door shutters because of me.

Letting the Days Go By

Shit, man! 

I just realized I ain't a kid no mo! 

And it took a 1987 sing-along at the Alamo Drafthouse to notify me.

Though the Atari and Dunkin' Donuts commercials gave me a good nostalgic beating last night, it was the first few seconds of George Michael's "Faith" music video that pushed me down into my seat. My smile faded as I watched the black and white jukebox fade into a long tilt up the ripped jeans of our impeccably groomed hero. I imagined myself at four years-old, sitting on the living room carpet watching this man shake his finely sculpted ass back and forth and thinking, "Now that is what a man looks like" (could explain some of my dating problems).

It was at that moment I realized I was a long ways away from being a child anymore.

Up until that moment last night, I was movin' and groovin' to the créme de la créme of 1987 music videos. 

Michael Jackson's "Bad"

White Snake's "Here I Go Again" 

Bon Jovi's "Wanted Dead or Alive" 

After each song finished, our hearts would skip a beat waiting for the next music video to pop up. What would it be? Pastey-armed Bono in a leather vest? Adorable Whitney Houston pre-coke phase? Smoldering Billy Idol in full blown coke phase? The next video would appear on the screen, a moment of silence as recognition set in, then full crowd explosion of laughter, cheering, and dancing.

 

Then there was me.

In the very last row of the theatre, wearing a black tuxedo jacket in a weak attempt to look like Blair in "Less Than Zero", standing there, dancing anxiously, my hands clutched to my chest. As each song played, a dusty layer of blanket would lift away from the vault of childhood memory, until all that was left when "Faith" came on, was an exposed open container of the past twenty-two years that stood in between where I stood right then and the day I sat in front of that television screen bewildered by George Michael. 

I look at this picture of me and I see a woman's body and face.

And I wonder where the hell I went.

Heaven vs. Hell

What does heaven look like to you?

I always imagined that heaven looked like a big city filled with lush trees and crystal lakes, beautiful people riding bikes and hanging out at coffee shops, music drifting through the air, art being created around every corner, and a transgendered homeless man wearing a leopard print thong parading around downtown.

For all accounts, I have reached heaven. 

Austin is heavenly.

So why do I daydream about hell so often?

Hell being Los Angeles.

I don't imply that it's "hell" to live in Los Angeles, I allude to the Biblical sense- fire, brimstone, lost and torched souls, all that jazz. I'm convinced that the devil lives in the basement of the Chateau Marmont. I think I saw him getting a Bloody Mary at The Body Shop strip club before it mysteriously caught on fire in December.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to hell.

Austin, I need to be saved! 

Wipe these dirty daydreams of driving down the Sunset Strip at 2AM from my memory. Take away my longing for the cool Venice Beach sand smooshed between my toes. Show me your path to a bare toed, bicycle riding, plastic recycling, no make-up wearing future! I repent!

From November 17th:

"I miss Los Angeles.

That day, when I watched the lights of Downtown get smaller and smaller in my rear view mirror, I thought I was leaving behind all the coagulated love and hate for the city that I had accumulated inside.

I guess I was wrong.

These past few days, while listening to the music that gave soundtrack to my last year in L.A., I felt the sting in my heart for a love I thought I gave up on.

So, I've been thinking about all those nights we drove down the PCH, coked out of our minds, listening to The Cure with the top down and the warm air wrapping around our necks, holding us firmly in our place.

Or the spur of the moment trips to Palm Springs at 3AM, watching you, with your hand out the window, your sunglasses on though it was pitch black in the desert, and thinking there was no greater moment than this.

I remember the limo trips through Hollywood, driving up and down Sunset, rolling into the Whiskey, the Viper Room, the Roxy, and crashing at the Chateau Marmont where a beautiful boy and I would watch the lights flicker around the bend and head straight towards the ocean.

And then I think, "Oh shit. None of these things happened to me."

My nostalgia for the city doesn't belong to me, but to the movies, books, TV shows, and music videos I grew up watching. Just like New York City, the charm of Los Angeles is not always the reality, but the fantasy. If you believe the fantasy, you will be ok.

I guess what I miss was the feeling off holding my breathe every single day. Literally and figuratively, I grasped for air. It was dizzying. It felt good. It felt scary. It felt like at any moment ANYTHING could happen."

Today is National Bret Easton Ellis Day!

I just made that up.

Let's just pretend it's National Bret Easton Ellis Day.

Let's devote this day, April 21st, some random, fairly forgetful day in the middle of April, to celebrate the life and work of Bret Easton Ellis, ok? How does that sound to you?

The cause for celebration is not only because of the April 24th release of Ellis' THE INFORMERS (a movie that WILL NOT be debuting in Austin), but because of the news that Ellis has just completed his sequel to "Less Than Zero"!

MTV reports that the new book, entitled, "Imperial Bedrooms" (Ellis and his Elvis Costello obsession!), will be released May 2010 and will reaquaint us with Clay, Julian, Blair, and Rip now all twenty years older. Ellis is quoted as saying he'd be interested in having Robert Downey Jr., Andrew McCarthy, Jamie Gertz, and James Spader back to fill their roles (let's pretend that 20th Century Fox didn't kill off Julian in the movie). Ellis says that Julian's character is now "sober" but "fragile" (glad to hear that an over-privileged white kid from L.A. can rise above being a cracked-out male prostitute)

I am so f'ing excited! I read "Less Than Zero" ever time I made the flight from L.A. back to NY. I thought of myself as a backwards Clay; instead of cocaine and themed parties in some kid's multi-million dollar home above the Strip, it was Keystone Light keggers and bonfires on somebody's farm.

"Twitter Quitter"

That's what my dear friend Chris (the next adopted Weinstein Brother) said to me earlier today on AIM.

"I'm thinking about quitting Twitter...which I guess would make me a Twitter Quitter."

I think he's onto something.

Though I opened a Twitter account over a year ago, it wasn't until recently that I jumped on that 100 mile per hour Twitter Train. After a nausiating worldwhind, I'm now standing at the edge of the boxcar, looking down at the passing landscape, trying to find a safe place to land.

In addition to discovering the site shallow and mostly a "my dick is bigger than your's" contest, I've managed to LOSE A FRIEND because of it's insanity. I made a comment to a friend who was changing his status every two seconds that his "status updates are out of control!". That led to him calling me a "bitch" and "pompous" and "defriending" me- in all areas of life. Why that provoked such anger, I don't know. It's safe to say that though Twitter is not the full problem in this matter, it was the straw that broke the extraordinarily sensitive camel's back.

Twitter is another slop of cafeteria sludge added to the growing pile of crap food on your high school lunch tray. How did we get so caught up into all of this? As ironic as WALL-E seemed at first (no, actually it seemed fucking terrifying), the irony has now worn off and turned into slight actuality. How is it that the only way we can communicate with people is through internet transmission? Where we will drop a friend after reading into a couple of simple words that convey no emotion or inflection. Why do we constantly feel the need to outdo each other with our status messages mentioning the "I'm cooler than you" things that we do. I'm no innocent bystander in this mess, but I've finally had my "come to Jesus". WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO US? 

A few weeks ago, I finally gave my thumbs a rest from texting all day and decided to spend the few hours I have away from  staring at a computer screen, actually away from the computer screen. 

Maybe I'm Twitter Bitter, but I'll soon become a Twitter Quitter as well. Who wants to join me?

Marfa, TX

The Marfa Film Festival is coming up on April 29-May 3rd (and Larry McMurtry will be there!)

What's Marfa, Texas you ask? (native Texans roll their eyes)

Marfa is a tiny artist oasis deep in the desert of West Texas. Marfa has a population of a little over 2,000 residents and only two traditional hotels.

Why is a town of only 2,000 so popular? Well, after minimalist Donald Judd moved to Marfa in the early 70's, the city has since become a popular haven for artists and hipsters. The city boasts a number of galleries and foundations and that perfect photo op of the vacant road median or big Texan sky reflection in your side view mirror.

The city's charm was not left unnoticed by Hollywood either (of course not, Hollywood always has to whip out it's dick and piss everywhere ) where movies such as GIANT, THERE WILL BE BLOOD, and NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN were filmed.

And if you watch "Gossip Girl", you might have noticied the Prada Marfa sign that hangs in Lily's condo. Prada Marfa is a 15 X 25' Prada "store" on a barren stretch of Interstate 90 outside of Marfa. The store isn't really a store at all, but rather an art installation piece.

Every month I announce that I will be making a road trip to Marfa.

I have yet to go.

I will make it this time, by God.

I have to. I need to be on that road.

It's one of the few places where I feel like I'm home.

Driving down a deserted stretch of highway, alone, the window down, Bruce Springsteen playin'....that's what life is all about, isn't it?

Marfa road trip mixed tape:

The Wanderer- Johnny Cash and U2

Leavin' Las Vegas by Sheryl Crow

Wicked Game- Chris Isaak

Dead Sound- The Raveonettes

King of the Rodeo- Kings of Leon

I Only Want You- Eagles of Death Metal

Chinese Translation- M. Ward

Graceland- Paul Simon

Just Like Honey- The Jesus and Mary Chain

Knocked Up- Kings of Leon

Dramamine- Modest Mouse

If I Had a Boat- Lyle Lovett

I'm on Fire- Bruce Springsteen

Graduation Day- Chris Isaak

Lust- The Raveonettes

I Shall Believe- Sheryl Crow

Atlantic City- Bruce Springsteen

Good Dose of Douchebag in the Morning

Tonight is the premiere of TV Land's "The Cougar". 

I'm pretty sure you can figure out what this crapfest is all about.

A bunch of twenty-something douchebags fight for the affection of 40 year-old realtor/mother of four/douchebaggette, Stacey.  

Stacey recently tweeted proudly that "she's UrbanCougar of the month!!!" and has been quoted as saying that she finds men her age "boring". Stacey hopes to "shatter dating stereotypes" and "believes society has placed a double standard on woman who date younger men". Though I will always champion older women dating younger men, how does one think that starring in a cable reality show entitled, "The Cougar", will earn one any ounce of credibility?

Let's take a look at some of the men vying for Desperate's attention, shall we?

Jim, our loveable dudebro below, is 22 and "when he and his friends hit the town, it's "epic!". Jim doesn't have much experience with cougars, but "he's excited and open for adventure."

Awww....Jim.

You like every Jewish Long Island brat I ever met. OR, interchangeably, any Italian Orange County dude I ever walked by. The funny thing is, he's from a tiny town in Colorado. Must have had to drive out of town to find those Affliction shirts, huh Jim? 

Austin, 24, is a "self-described "yupster" and "splits his time as a snowboard instructor/writer." Austin swears he's never competed for a woman before, "because usually they're competing for him!"

Ok, this dude bothers me.

First of all, he's not fucking 24. He looks like he's 38. You know, the age when the boyish looks start to fade? Yeah, he's already losing that. His chin is the size of a watermelon. He looks like Ben Affleck on a bender.

And what's up with that outfit? A striped pull-over hoodie with a gold chain??? What are you going for, Austin, a Mr. T nautical theme?

Last but not least is Colt (really?). Colt says "he's not a romantic guy" and "he doesn't believe in buying flowers". Colt "loves cougars be cause he appreciates the experience they possess. The oldest woman he has ever dated was 61."

Well, he sounds like a real winner, huh ladies? He'll sleep with your grandma but he won't buy her flowers.

Ugh. I can't write anymore. I've had too much douchebag overload this morning. I don't think I can take anymore. 

Up next, douchebags versus hipsters...

I Am the Passenger

Hey, remember hearing about the Iggy Pop biopic, The Passenger?

Remember when you hit your head against the wall when you heard that Elijah Wood was going to play the wild child?

Well, what the f happened to that movie?

It's been two years now since they announced the movie was in production and I haven't heard anything since.

Look, I'm just as not thrilled as the next guy with the choice in casting, but I'd at least like to see the movie! Did the studio execs finally wake up and decided to get someone who doesn't look like a fawn to play perpetual leatherface or something?

Let's see here...

According to Wikipedia the movie is scheduled to come out this year though IMDB doesn't even have it listed in the system. I will have to reach out to some of my informants to see what the dealio is here (I can't believe I just wrote "dealio"...)

On a separate note, Mr. Pop will be releasing a French jazz album entitled, Preliminaires, on June 2nd. I almost feel like this is too obvious for me to make fun of. Chances are, it will probably be amazing. It's just hard to imagine French jazz and a man who plays with his penis on stage going hand-in-hand.

In the meantime, as we wait for the freakin' movie and album to come out, I would like to analyze the picture below. What are your thoughts? To me, his shoulder looks like a Northern Texas landscape during a lightening storm and his chest looks like the beginning formation of a Muppet.

Discovering Your Sexuality Through Hairy Gay Men

Remember that age when you started discovering your sexuality?

That awkward, dreadful time when you didn't understand why your male friends suddnely felt the urge to show you their penises while you were trying to reenact "X-files" episodes in the basement of your house, or why you got that funny feeling when you climbed the rope in gym?

When classmates started throwing around the words "pink", "taco", "tossing" and "salad" and you still thought they were talking about food, and your class president got detention for receiving something called a "blow job" on the 8th grade school trip to D.C.?

Then there you were. Clueless and wearing a sports bra. Fantisizing over a picture of a shirtless Elton John from 1972 hanging above your bed.

I wish I could say it was 1972 when I would gawk at this picture. That would make a little more sense.

I guess?

However, it was 1997. While all my friends carried pictures of Leonardo DiCaprio and Gavin Rossdale in their text books, I licked my lips over a twenty-five year old image of pudgy, gay piano-player.

We all know what Elton John looks like, but I'm going to paint you a portrait anyways. Here was a picture of quite possibly one of the most flamboyantly gay performers in history of the world with a pasty, doughy body covered in what looks like bear fur, standing in his shoe closet, wearing glittery high waisted pants with suspenders and no shirt. He had a shit-eating grinning on his face as he showed off his favorite pair of bejeweled platform shoes.

I was transfixed. At thirteen years old, I thought this was what a real man was like.

I have mostly likely sealed my fate by marrying a closeted homosexual who enjoys collecting shoes and Bedazzling his clothing.

Anyways, I just tried Googling "shirtless Elton John" and "Elton John with no shirt", but I'm guessing that's not a popular search item. In fact, the only images that come up are pictures of people one should normally lust after like, Hugh Jackman and Zac Efron.

...Gosh, I really wish I had that picture right now...

Rick Moranis in the New GHOSTBUSTERS?!

I want to declare my love for Rick Moranis.

RICK MORANIS, I LOVE YOU!

Phew, now that that is out of the way...

I was pretty excited when news surfaced a few days ago that Rick is on board for the new GHOSTBUSTERS movie (yes, they're doing a new GHOSTBUSTERS with the original cast supposedly on board). This would be Rick's first live action feature since 1997 (and for all you idiots out there who are always like, "Haha, whatever happened to that guy?...by the way, I'm a douchebag.", why don't you take a second to read his bio and learn that his wife passed away and he opted to focus on his family. Feel like an ass now? HUH?)

Rick has been one of my all-time faves since I was four years old and watched GHOSTBUSTERS every day for three months straight much to my parents chagrin. I would quote the same lines of dialogue over and over, though I absolutely had no idea what they were talking about ("Mom, what does Dana mean when she says to Peter, "I want you inside of me?") 

Though my four-year-old little heart belonged to Dr. Egon Spengler (I have a thing for fictional scientists...Doc Brown, I'm still waiting for your call...), I knew that Louis Tully was somebody special. As I got older, I ended up falling in love with almost every Rick Moranis movie I saw (yes, even MY BLUE HEAVEN!)

LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS, STRANGE BREW, SPACEBALLS, CLUB PARADISE...Rick always played some wonderful character that struck a chord. Thanks for making my childhood, AWESOME!

Below is a list of my top ten favorite Rick performances. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do! 

(P.S. Rick also recently released a country/western album entitled "The Agoraphobic Cowboy", which you can purchase on his site at www.rickmoranis.com)

-SCTV ('80-'82)- Rick Moranis does the BEST Woody Allen I've ever seen. Since I can't find a video of Rick doing Woody, here is some McKenzie Brothers for ya, eh.

-STRANGE BREW ('83)- The Bob and Doug McKenzie movie! Beer, world domination, Max von Sydow. How much better can you get than that?

-GHOSBUSTERS ('84)- "Gozer the Traveler. He will come in one of the pre-chosen forms. During the rectification of the Vuldrini, the traveler came as a large and moving Torg! Then, during the third reconciliation of the last of the McKetrick supplicants, they chose a new form for him: that of a giant Slor! Many Shuvs and Zuuls knew what it was to be roasted in the depths of the Slor that day, I can tell you! "



-CLUB PARADISE ('86)- so few people know about this movie, but yet it's fantastic! A lot of the SCTV cast were in it, including Eugene Levy. Eugene and Rick play the slimy, gold bejeweled Barry and Barry on the prowl of women and weed in the Caribbean.



-LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS ('86)- That voice! That hair! Those khakis! 



-SPACEBALLS ('87)- "I bet she gives great helmet."



-GHOSTBUSTERS II ('89)-: "Your Honor, ladies and gentleman of the audience, I don't think it's fair to call my clients frauds. Sure, the blackout was a big problem for everybody. I was trapped in an elevator for two hours and I had to make the whole time. But I don't blame them. Because one time, I turned into a dog and they helped me. Thank you."



-HONEY, I SHRUNK THE KIDS ('89)- not my absolute favorite... but it can't be denied. Here is a long ass scene from the beginning of the movie (it's not easy finding HISTK clips on Youtube)

-PARENTHOOD ('89)- again, not a fave fave, but Rick and Steven Martin were pretty funny it. Another difficult clip to find. It's either the trailer or the popular-when-I-was-in-second-grade clip, "The diarrhea song". Here is the trailer.

-MY BLUE HEAVEN ('90)- silly movie where Rick plays the straight man and Steven Martin plays a dark-haired Italian?




And in honor of the man, I found this wonderfully creepy video of someone who loves Rick more than me. Enjoy!

How to Become a Hollywood Assistant

I wrote this Ehow.com a bit ago and all the not-yet-jaded kids seem to like it. I should have put the disclaimer, "But you're a fucking jackass if you think you REALLY want to be a Hollywood assistant." 

So little do they know...

You see that picture? You want to look like her? Tired eyes, frizzy hair, walkie talkie strapped to belt, listening to her boss scream obscenities in her ear as she tries to drown it out by shoveling into her mouth phallic looking hot dogs from craft service that sadly remind her that Hollywood is one big sausage fest? Is that what you want to be?! HUH???

So, below, is the sweet, encouraging Lauren on Ehow encouraging YOU to become some pathological-egomaniacal-big-chip-on-his-shoulder-because-kids-called-him-fatty-still-has-mother-issues dude's assistant (P.S. rent "Swimming with Sharks" you clueless idiot).

Thinking about becoming an assistant in Tinseltown? Well look no further! I will give you first-hand info on the steps you need to take to become the next hot Hollywood assistant.
Check out more of my writing at www.hipstercrite.blogspot.com

1.) Interning- Unless your Dad is Harvey Weinstein (God help you) and you're well-connected, this is one of the only ways you're going to get your foot in the Hollywood door. It's simple; go to college, check your school's database of internships, or cold call companies saying that you're a student and you're looking for an internship. People LOVE interns! You're free labor! Make a good impression during your internship and I'd say 50% of the time their is a job opportunity waiting for you after you've completed it (this depends solely on if the company/person you are working for needs hired help, if not, they'll gladly refer you to others if they liked you). This is how I got my job. It's probably the simplest way to break into the business. HOWEVER, the important key here is make a good impression and do a good job. If you don't, it's back on the train home for you.

More here...

Love, Sex, and Missing Appendages

Being single and living in a big city can suck. Having one arm may suck more though...

It Was the One Armed Man by Kate Mullen 

(*I have the privilege of calling this brilliant and beautiful woman one of my closest friends)

After finding out my fiance was gay and suddenly needing to move, I turned to Craigslist to deliver to me a roommate and confidant. I narrowed my search down to finding a fellow single gal. I fantasized about us having late night talks and mixing our social circles. I thought of how I'd meet my new boyfriend through her and we'd laugh at my wedding reception how it all began on a site that listed yard sales and sex opportunities. I envisioned strangers stopping to tell us how our witty banter belonged on HBO, or at worst Fox.

Reality quickly bitch slapped the fantasy right out of me. Turns out not many people are rushing to live with a single 25 year old stranger. My new roommate Kira was nothing that I had hoped. Upon first looking at her she looked like a personified version of a wet sweater crammed into a dresser drawer for months. Her laugh annoyed me to the point of suicidal idealizations. She claimed to love cats. crosswords and gardening, but in reality enjoyed bringing home strangers of both sexes. Strangers that would use my bath towel, wear scrunchies with sweatpants and combat boots, or pass out in my bathroom in their own vomit blocking the toilet.

Among the slew of strangers that paraded in and out of my door, there's one particular night of stomach turning awkwardness that remains tattooed on my brain. Actually, it's probably the back of my brain, since I had repressed this memory until last night when my father asked me if I had ever seen "The Fugitive".

I had made the mistake to assume, "Do you mind if I have two of my guy friends over?" meant "Do you mind if I have two of my guys over?". Unfortunately it meant, "If I have a guy I'm interested in over, will you please take his friend?" Hey, you live you learn.

Kira prepped me with the visit by letting me know that Tim only had one arm. I'm not really sure what the socially acceptable response to that is. I thought "Okay" would suffice. I thought maybe she was giving me a heads up, maybe others had encountered this poor man and gawked or screamed. I again mistakenly took something as face value and moved on.

The evening began in a fairly low key fashion with beer and burgers. It progressed into a game of Taboo, which quickly became awkward when I needed to make my one armed partner give the clue for "Amputee". As I said pass, Kira was quick to lean over me and give the poor guy the clue, "You are this..." That was the tipping point to me saying that I was getting tired and needed to get some sleep. Kira quickly cornered me, questioned me, and guilted me. She wanted to know what my problem was, didn't I like Tim, was I being discriminatory about his one arm. I assured her that I wasn't quite sure what my specific problem was, that I wasn't discriminating and that I just wasn't feeling dating right now. She countered this point with a suggestion that I go into my room to show Tim my scrapbooks and let him sleep in my bed. Up until this point in my life I hadn't considered my scrapbooks to be an aphrodisiac, and again made the mistake of thinking that a one word answer, in this case "No", would suffice.

As I was announcing my departure to bed, my wonderful roommate chimed in that I had some great scrapbooks. My rebuttal was that the books where under my bed and couldn't be removed without moving the entire bedframe. I thought this would clearly end the discussion, but again, I was sadly mistaken. My roommate pushed the issue and the next thing I knew, Tim was holding my bed frame up. He then asked me, "Can you pull the scrapbooks out? I would but I only have one arm." The newness of this particular situation struck me dumb. I pulled out my Tuppaware box of scrapbooks and watched as Tim opened to a page of me getting engaged. There I stood smiling at Fenway park with my fiance, having no idea that he was soliciting men for sex online. I looked at the bizarre picture in this increasingly bizarre situation and didn't know if I should assign it laughter or tears. Tim tried to coax me onto the bed, tried to rub my back with his good arm, as I had this sad little thought of "this is my life".

Drama ensued as I asked him to leave, which he said he would do but that he would then drive home drunk. Most people wouldn't want to be responsible for causing an amputee to go on a drunk driving rampage, but as this point in the evening I was okay with it.

Only later did this story become humorous. I recounted it to my aunt with confidence saying that, even though this guy was camping out in my room that I felt confident in my ability to fight him off. My aunt quickly replied with, "You've obviously never seen The Fugitive." I had infact seen the movie years before and suddenly could relate to a situation that would make you jump down a cascading waterfall over jagged rocks.  

Dad, I REALLY Hope You Don't Read This One...

Because it's all about this little problem we're having with you reading my blog...

I'm serious, Dad. DON'T READ THIS ONE.

STOP RIGHT NOW.

Ok, if you aren't my father, you can continue reading...

NO! NO PEEKING DAD. GO READ SOMETHING ELSE! HERE, LOL CATS ARE COOL. GO TO THAT SITE INSTEAD. IT'S A BUNCH OF CUTE CATS WITH FUNNY CAPTIONS. YOU LIKE THAT SORT OF STUFF.

So, I get a Facebook message from my father the other day telling me that he's defriending me on Facebook (which he has yet to do). Actually his words were, "I'm cutting you loose". He wasn't specific on which way he was cutting me loose. For all I know, he could have been trying to tell me that he was sailing to Marlon Brando's island out in the South Pacific and I was to never hear from him again. I found out later that he meant Facebook, when my Mother, called me concerned.

"You father called me."

My parents have been divorced for seventeen years, so when my dad calls my mother, it's usually because he's worried about me and doesn't know how to handle it.

"He's distressed about your current mental state and he's defriending you on Facebook."

"Why? Because of the Prince's pubic hair story I posted?"

"Yes. I told him, "Karl, she has her own life and this is how she writes and it's better if we don't read it." And I told him that you embellish anyways."

"Of course I do! I'd say about 72% of what I write is the truth." 

(For example, this is not entirely how the conversation went. This conversation generally happened, but the exact language was not used. For example, my mother would never say, "He's distressed about your current mental state." That makes her sound like a former guidance counselor or therapist, which she, thankfully, is not.)

GOSH DANGIT, DAD. IF YOU'RE STILL READING THIS, STOP! 

So my Mom and I continue the conversation about how my twenty-something lament has been upsetting my father. Then, I air that my father's new life as an actor in Los Angeles has been upsetting me for reasons that I'm still not quite sure of.  I get off the phone with my mother and think, "This is a really fucking stupid ass problem." 

So, let me dissect this here....

My mother calls me to tell me that her ex-husband, my father, is mad at me for being twenty-something and miserable and writing about things like pubic hair, while I'm mad at my Dad for pursuing a career in one of the most vain professions ever created, in the most vain city in the world.

Wow. If this is the worst of my problems...

Sigh...

My father just sent me a really amazing email. 

He explains that though he's defriending me on Facebook, it's not because he's mad about Prince's pubes or my lament. He loves me more than anything and just realizes it's better if he doesn't know certain things.

OK, POP, IF YOU'RE STILL READING THIS, I LOVE YOU MORE THAN ANYTHING AS WELL. THANKS FOR BEING AN AWESOME, DAD.

*On a similar note, Heather Armstrong (www.dooce.com) will be speaking at Book People on Wednesday, April 8th at 7PM. She will be promoting her new book about pregnancy and depression, entitled, "It Sucked Then I Cried". However, I REALLY like the title of her previous book, "Thing I Learned About My Dad: In Therapy".

Why Mr. Natural? WHY?!

A friend in L.A. (who obviously pays more attention to Austin news than I do), sent me this hateful link regarding Austin's worst restaurant health inspections of last year. 

I wasn't overly concerned with what the news piece was telling me, until they dramatically unveiled the lowest rated restaurant in Austin.

I looked closely at the screen and realized the anchorwoman was standing in the intersection where I work. 

"Dammit! They better not be talking about Mr. Natural!"

They were.

According to KVUE, The Mr. Natural on Cesar Chavez got a rating of 46 out of 100. "Critical violations include grain beetles in the bulk flour bin and an accumulation of food particles or mold on numerous surfaces including the ice machine, the waffle iron, and the interior of the bakery freezer."  

Since the inspection, Mr. Natural has upped their rating to a 76 and 72. 

I'm kind of depressed about the whole thing. 

At the same time, I think of how many bugs we eat daily without knowing it and how some molds are good for you (and how some will kill you by respiratory failure, but we won't think about that).

I will not turn my back on Mr. Natural, but like any relationship that has begun to sport mold and produce beetles, I think need my space for a little bit.

An Open Letter from Doc Brown to Marty McFly

From Chris Hardwick's Nerdist.com.

Sure, this was posted back in January...but who cares? It made me squirt liquid out of my nose. Who knew Doc Brown had such pent up anger?! That's what you get for hanging out with teenagers, you old creepy perv!

Dear Marty-

Having recently reviewed the surveillance footage of the events of the night you went back to 1985, I couldn’t help but be slightly taken aback by your spurious reasoning of only allowing TEN FUCKING MINUTES to SAVE MY GODDAMN LIFE. Ten minutes??? Really. You actually thought that you could get from the Courthouse to Twin Pines Mall (I’m sorry, I mean LONE Pine Mall now–way to run over a tree, fucknut) in ten minutes. What the fuck did you think that could accomplish? What were you going to do? Vanquish the Libyans with your shortness? Yeah, I said it. YOU’RE TINY. Like Ratatouille (2008 reference), but in a puffy vest . Listen, you little feathered-haired leprechaun, any one of these Hill Valley MOUTH-BREATHERS would have had the good sense to go back, oh I don’t know, AT LEAST A DAY to give me time to prepare for the Middle East extremists and their Summer of Love van of fucking DEATH, what with having a device that has mastered the dimension of TIME and all. And I’m INCLUDING Biff in that group. You are goddamn lucky that I have a compulsive disorder when it comes to taping paper back together. Otherwise you’d have been as useless as Einstein with a Vernier caliper. Mark my words, Stuart Little, as SOON as I get this DeLorean up and running again (thanks for turning my car into a fucking lightning rod, BTW) I SWEAR I am going to go back and convince Jennifer to dump your Hobbit ass so you can go on that dumbshit camping trip ALONE with nothing to do but jam your little meerkat penis into that extra sleeping bag in the back of your gaywad new truck. Then I’m going to fuck her into tomorrow…LITERALLY. How long am I going to tap that skinny bitch? “Ten minutes oughta do it!” You vapid douche.

Thanks for watching me get shot twice,

Emmett "Doc" Brown


PS - You’re a fucking CHICKEN.