Nugs and Tits Do Thanksgiving (Hahaha. "Do.")

For those of you who are living in 1) a foreign country B) outer space or COPERNICUS) anywhere else I forgot, it's Thanksgiving weekend in the US. Normally I would commemorate this event with a post but I stupidly agreed to cook and bake this year, so I've been running around like a ferret on speed for the past 48 hours and forgot to write one.

Luckily I have two blogs, and over on Snark and Sex, Coyote Tits took the Thanksgiving reins (oh haaaai) and put up a blog entry dictating how to survive the holiday at your significant other's house. Since I contributed to a good third of that, the work was pretty much done for me and I just decided to post our joint effort here as well. Plus this gives me another chance to shamelessly promote myself, so there's that.

Whether you're spending this Thanksgiving alone and depressed, or you're with your date's family and depressed, or with your own family and depressed, here's mine and Tits' sacred manual of rules on how to withstand the holidays.

PS- there's a drinking game! You're welcome.

Tits' genius advice is in blue; my infinite wisdom is in red.

1. Do Not bring your dog. I don't care how cute Precious is and that she's normally so well-behaved and fits in your purse. Don't do it. Especially if they are Tits' dogs (below). She likes to think she's an awesome mom but it's really because she lets them get away with fucking murder because they're so adorable and she's a pushover.





As cute as they are, remember that they will hog all the food and/or attention.

2. Do Not wear sweat pants, Ugg boots and an old tank top. At least try to look like you are making an effort.


3. Do Not complain about the food. I don't care if it doesn't taste like your grandma's mashed potatoes, and so what that they have oysters at their dinner. Keep your bitching to yourself.


4. If you have a food allergy tell someone in advance. My sisters are lactose intolerant and so we tell everyone like 20 times in advance or bring our own food. Don't show up and be like "yeah I'm gluten free, vegan and allergic to garlic."


5. Do Not try to have sex at their house. Can you spell awkward? Nugs: That never happened to me that one time in college or anything. 


6. Do Not flirt with someone who isn't your date. I don't care if his older brother is Brad fucking Pitt, wait till after Thanksgiving to flirt with him. Nugs: Unless said brother is Baby Goose. Then all bets are totally off, and no one would blame you. Especially me.





7. Do Not get drunk - Even if the family makes you fucking insane, try to limit yourself to enough wine to just get you tipsy.


8. Do Not smoke. Anything. Even if offered. This is clearly a trick. Again, this never happened to me, ever.


9. Do Not bring up taboo topics. Find out what they are in advance and avoid them at all costs. Whether this be religion, politics, cats vs. dogs, Dancing With the Stars or the New York Yankees a.k.a. the Evil Empire, learn what gets your date's family all wonky and DO NOT DISCUSS.


10. Do know how to dress. CANNOT BE STRESSED ENOUGH. I don't care if your "best feature" is your amazing rack; it's probably not the best idea to shove it in his parents' face. Usually a nice pair of jeans and a dressy top that doesn't put the goods on display is your best bet. Unless, of course, his brother is Baby Goose. See Rule #6.


11. Do know how to win over every family member individually. While this may seem like the ultimate in horrific situations, don't commit suicide just yet. Basically the key to mastering this art is what I (and the US Army) refer to as "Divide and Conquer:"

THE MOM: This is the most difficult, since showing up at her Thanksgiving feast is an admission that you're being railed on the regular by her baby boy (doesn't matter what his birth order is; he will ALWAYS be her baby boy). The trick to winning over his mother is to go on and on about how amazing her son is (not in that way, because GROSS). Also offer to help out during dinner as often as you can, especially with dishes. Getting his mom to love you is by far the most important because if she hates you, it only goes downhill from there. Seriously, I've been there with a mom hating me. I always like to volunteer to bring something like cookies or wine.

THE DAD: The males of the family are always easier for me, probably because I'm half a dude myself and I realize now how weird that made me sound. The best strategy for the father is innocent flirting- "oh, Mr. Gosling, I see where your son gets his great ass. Eyes! I meant eyes." Just kidding. Never talk about anyone's ass. Keep it to neutral topics such as intelligence and snappy dressing, or radiation levels.

If this is any of his relatives let me know. I'll be right over.

SIBLINGS: Dealing with siblings is usually more manageable due to the fact that your date will probably brief you on the situation prior to your arrival. If one of their brothers or sisters is exceptionally unbearable you'll most likely have been prepared for it way in advance. For the regular, more normal siblings, mastering them should be relatively (see what I did there?) more simple: 

• BROTHERS: Brothers are pretty painless- just sit down in front of the TV and watch the football game with them. If you're a fan, don't hold back with the commentary. If you're not, let them know that you're "trying to get into it." Also, it helps if you're moderately attractive. Just sayin. 
• SISTERS: Contrary to what my scintillating personality may have you believing, I am, in fact, of the feminine persuasion, so I am aware that the best way to charm a woman is to let her talk about herself. Find out from your date what she's into and ask her questions, and let her dominate the conversation. You're in.

12. Do use this handy guide from HappyPlace.com with your own family. You'll thank us later.

Good luck with whatever you're dragged to this holiday season, and remember that I'm always thankful for all of you. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, and I mean that in every possible way.

Nature Can Suck It

At 3:30 this morning my night table started rattling. I had been sleeping and did not appreciate being jolted awake by anything other than Ryan Gosling carrying a Costco-size crate of coffee ice cream. Combined with the fact that I had spent the entire holiday weekend (Labor Day, for those of you not in the US) fighting off an incredibly annoying sinus infection, this was not how I had planned to end the summer of 2012. I mean, it's not like my phone was ringing off the hook anyway, but still. No, Richter scale. NO.

Growing up in New York City, I've been through a bunch of Nor'Easters and more than a few huge storms. Usually what those meant were a couple of days off from school. I remember one instance in high school where they prematurely cancelled classes due to a "hurricane warning," and then the next day turned out to be bright, sunny and like 70 degrees. It was awesome and my friends and I went to the park and hung out all day. Before moving to California, I'd become pretty desensitized to natural disasters, although I sympathized with other areas and always worried about my friends. The only time I'd really been directly affected by a "natural disaster" is when I got up every morning and looked at myself in the mirror.

I'm going to ask you nicely to stop taking pictures of me and
posting them on the internet. Thank you.

Then I moved to Los Angeles. I knew, when I relocated, that earthquakes were a Thing. That kind of freaked me out, but I had also heard that they were very infrequent. My dad had already lived in LA for a few years and had yet to experience one, so I figured I was OK. LA was never my first (or even my eighth) choice of residence, but I got offered a job here, and besides, nothing in Los Angeles is natural anyway, so I thought that maybe the only "disaster" would be like, a dye job or something. 

PS- despite what we all thought we learned from Clueless, the "Pismo Beach" event was entirely made up.

The thought of the ground vibrating and opening up under my feet absolutely fucking terrifies me. I'll admit that most of my fears are pretty irrational adorable, but when something's main characteristics also sound like the coming of the apocalypse, that's enough to make me run far the fuck away. Forever.

That was definitely one of the four signs of the apocalypse.
Earthquakes, Pestilence, Famine, and uh, Bieber.

Free-falling into a black hole of nothing isn't exactly on my bucket list, thanks. What makes it worse is that you never know when one is going to hit- earthquakes sneak up on you, like the stomach flu, or midgets. 

This fun surprise from last night is just the latest in a string of Southern California shake-ups in the last two months. Depending on which news report you read, there have been between thirty to four hundred mini-quakes, all between the magnitude of 3.0-4.5. Maybe it's because I'm so paranoid, but I've felt a lot of them, and they all scare the shit out of me. If yesterday's quake was only a 3.3, I never want to feel anything above a 5. I have no idea why there have been so many in such a short amount of time, but I don't like it, and I can't believe anybody would choose to live an area where the ground could crack open with no prior warning. 

Add this to one more reason why I've booked my flight back home. I still have to wait until my lease is up- right before Halloween- but I do get to leave, and I will never, ever, have to live in constant fear of being swallowed into the Earth ever again. 

Oh, Canada: A Rebuttal (Emphasis On BUTT)

Last week I wrote a post about my failed hookup with a slab of Canadian Bacon. I honestly didn't think my story-telling skills were that terrible, but they were obviously bad enough to turn off three of my followers. I have no idea why they chose to quit reading That Ain't Kosher, and at first I figured that they were disgusted by my PG-13 re-telling of my non-existent sex life.  Seriously, though, that's pretty pathetic, seeing as how my details weren't even that graphic. A couple of my friends read it, including those of the hardcore Christian variety, and their response was to laugh their ass off and tell me I was "full of win," so whatever.

So I have determined that those few pansy-asses jumped ship due to my denouncing of the Canadian persuasion. Really, guys? Considering you're solely responsible for unleashing the Satanic horde that is Bieber Fever onto this Earth, I'd say I went pretty light on your asses. That's reason enough alone to to detach your entire country from this continent. I mean, before, Canada was one of those places everyone wondered about but never went to, like Narnia, with big closets and a secret language and a talking fucking magical lion. Now you're famous for Bieber, so, uh, congratulations.

Look at the devil eyes. I fucking knew it!

At any rate, the fact that I lost three followers is mildly unsettling- as much as I like to talk shit about the border, I will admit that it has its redeeming qualities as well. So here is my attempt to call off the maple leaf-wielding masses with my official list of Canadian Things That Don't Suck, Kind Of.

1) MY BEST BLOGGITY FRIENDS

Believe it or not (probably not), three of the most awesome people I've ever met are all located in Ontario. Two of my favorite bloggers, Tabs and Allison, both call the province home, and, in an honorable mention, Amber Lee of AmberPeace, has 51 COUSINS in the city of Windsor.

Not only do I have some amazing girlfriends I can crash with (uh, did I not mention my special invites? OH HAAAAI), but my oldest friend, who's put up with me since we were both in high school, coincidentally also lives in Windsor. This guy has been with me all through my adult life, and now that he's pushing thirty (AHAHAHAHA) I'm planning a Toronto vacation next year for the big birthday. We're like brother and sister- you guys can blame him for my football obsession, and I definitely wouldn't have passed high school chem if it weren't for his "tutoring" (or the fact that I emailed him all my assignments- I am still anonymous, right?). He's in med school now, which I can't even believe when I think that I met him when I wasn't even legal driving age. He knows who he is, so I'll just say thanks.

B) HOCKEY

I went to my first NHL game when I was probably around eight years old, and I've been hooked ever since. Hockey players are hands down the toughest athletes in pro sports- you try getting back up when your throat's been slashed by a skate blade and moving around the rink with masses of pounds of padding strapped onto your body. For those of you that haven't put it together yet, I'm an obsessive Rangers fan, which means that while I don't have any active extreme rivalry with any of the Canadian teams, Montreal is fucking awesome and they share our conference, so they're fun to root against.

When I first went to hockey games with my brothers, who are hardcore hockey fans, the players were rougher and the fights were way more frequent and totally Jerry Springer-esque. I remember seeing two players smash each other up against the glass right in front of me at a Kings game (I saw Wayne Gretzky play live, FYI). Now the violence is toned down somewhat but the action is just as intense. I seriously recommend going to at least one NHL game in your lifetime- even if your home team blows (what up, Isles?).

PYGMY MARMOSET) WILLIAM SHATNER

The Shat is one of the coolest celebrities EVER. Even if you don't think that Star Trek could actually happen (and um, I so don't), you have to admit that his Priceline ads are hilarious. William Shatner is not only awesome because he's synonymous with Captain Kirk, but he also isn't afraid to make fun of himself- he voiced a version of himself on Family Guy and was in the forgettable misfire $#*! My Dad Says. I actually saw about ten minutes of one episode, and WOW.

He's also a Jew, so all is forgiven. Shatner rules.

DD) RYAN REYNOLDS

Ryan Reynolds is shirtless in every single movie, probably because most of his movies suck. That's OK, though: just look at him.

You could bounce coins off of that shit. There's a reason the Canadian police have the word "mount" in their title.

AND FINALLY:

RYAN GOSLING.

I still refuse to see The Notebook, because it looks sappy and retarded, but Good Lord. I'm a Toys R Us kid.

And if that's not enough for you (although why wouldn't it be):

Steve Carrell better move his goddamn head.

Now I'm not saying that if I am ever alone with him in a room there definitely will be assault charges. I'm just saying that there definitely will be assault charges.

So I guess Canada can be pretty cool. I also hear Toronto is really nice, and hopefully I'll be there in February for my friend's thirtieth blowout. Just a heads up, Ryan Gosling, so you can escape while you have the chance.

THE RELOCATION CHRONICLES, CHAPTER SEVEN: SPANK YOU VERY MUCH, CALIFORNIA

Now that Labor Day weekend has come, raided the liquor cabinet and gone, the state of California is really driving it in that summer is over. Today I woke up to disgusting clouds and an absent sun, and the prediction for the next ten days doesn't look much more promising.

And here's the forecast for New York City for the next week and a half, according to weather.com.

What the fuck, Southern California??? My friends back home are supposed to be jealous of me, not the other way around. Do you think that just because little kids are forced to ride the school bus again you can just take away shorts and beaches and shit? NO. It's bad enough I spent the entire summer here; why don't you just bend me over and hit me with a paddle some more? You fail at life.

However, I do need to take into account that this may be because the entire state of California is just really fucking weird. The reason I always carry my camera with me is not because I may cross paths with a minor, F-list celebrity. It's because I'm a blogger, and the crap that I see around here is so ridiculous that I couldn't make this shit up and I need documentation. For example:

The other day I was on a supermarket run, and within five minutes I had photographic evidence of some glorious gems that I knew I would wind up posting on this site sooner or later. Observe:

I'm an eight-year-old.

This needs zero explanation.

And, the one that made me go, "Eh?"

In Original and Vanilla!

I swear to God that's real. Hemp Milk. That you can drink. I can't even imagine finding that anywhere else. I really want to buy this just so I can save the packaging forever.

Hemp milk kind of makes sense here. When I was filling out all those job applications and it had that "have you ever been convicted of a felony" question, all of them actually said, "California applicants: do not include marijuana charges." I'm serious! I wanted to put down something like, "Really? Sweet!" I remember before my dad moved, he used to live a few blocks away from a medical marijuana "clinic." Right. "Clinic."

Anyway, at least I'm finding humor in my less-than-ideal situation. I knew that being a partial LA resident would at least provide some fodder for the blog, and really, I couldn't lie about this shit if I wanted to.

THE RELOCATION CHRONICLES, CHAPTER FIVE: SAVE THE DATE (PLEASE!)

So despite my conviction NOT to date at all in LA, I actually met someone a few days ago. But before you all throw me an ecstasy-laden rager, stop swooning: it's going nowhere.

Earlier this week I went to Starbucks for one of their overly-priced, overly-buttered croissants. I had to tell them my name when I gave my order and while I was waiting some guy came up to me and inquired after my nationality. It turns out he was dead-on, but it's not that tough to figure out anyway because I guess my first name sounds pretty ethnic. I know all of four people here, however, so I figured, "Fuck it." Plus he had a Yankees hat on, and when I brought up New York City, he said he had lived there for a while. Too bad he wasn't that cute. I'm not saying he was a hunchback or anything, but TOTALLY not my type, and he looked kind of old. Like, at least 35.


We had a short conversation in which the subject of my job-hunting came up, and he mentioned that he might know people in the field that I was looking into. Might? You either do, or you don't. I recognized this shameless attempt to get my contact info, but I wasn't ruling anything out. I gave him my email address, but apparently that wasn't enough for him, and he managed to finagle my cell number, too. He said he would see what he could do, and I grabbed my buttery goodness (that's what she said) and left. BTW, after almost everything I said he responded with a creepy, drawn-out "I like it!" He sounded like Robert DeNiro in Cape Fear right before he tried to bone Juliette Lewis, and it got seriously annoying.

He texted me the day after and asked if I wanted to go out for a drink. Dude- not during SHARK WEEK! Seriously, I would have gone if I found him the least bit attractive, but I was still contemplating whether or not I was interested enough to see if he had any real connections. I totally lied and told him I had plans, but maybe I could do tomorrow. An hour later, he finally got back to me and told me he would "check his schedule." Haha, I know how the game is played. I knew I'd be going out the next night.


My friends all told me to do this date just so I could write about it. Since I already didn't care about this clown I decided that I would start out with my "eighth date personality"- you know, when you're no longer at the "audition" phase and you can just let it all hang out? I was on the phone with one of my girlfriends and she was like, "What if it backfires and he like, falls in love with you?" Well, too bad for him. That's his fucking problem.


So the next day I'm fucking around on Urban Dictionary when he called me and asked if I "felt like lunch." Yeah, but not with you. I agreed since I was kind of hungry anyway. He picked me up almost exactly at 1:30 and we got to the cafe. I was already taking mental notes about which heinous deductables to get him on later. Normally I'm really low-maintenance and don't care about shit like this, but I admit that I was just looking for excuses at this point.


There was one table outside, so he offered to wait for our food while I saved the seats. We both ordered an ice water, and he came back with just his (minus points). I did notice that he had really good arms, but did I really want those arms holding me down over an extended period of time? No, I did not.


While we waited nine centuries for our (horrible) food, the awkward conversation went like this:


LEX LOSER: So, how old are you? (FAIL!)


ME: I'm actually 14. But the meth has aged me considerably.


LL: *series of random, morse-code like blinks*


ME: No, seriously. I'm clean.


I did wind up revealing my actual age, and he managed to partially redeem himself by telling me that he initially thought that I was 21 (points go back up!), but then he told me he had just turned 36. EW! Pedophile! Kind of. "So you're a Cancer?" I asked. "Yeah," he said. "Like your last 3 exes?" Um, what? And no, not really. I said yes anyway, though. Why the fuck not?


So after we jumped that hurdle and our food finally arrived, the job subject came back up. "You could model," he suggested. "Why don't you do that?" I know where this is going. There is no way in Miley Cyrus Sing-Along Hell that I'm coming down to your leaky-ass basement with a broken tripod that your cousin set up after he got out of prison. Besides, I told him, "I like food and eating too much." "I can tell. You're making short work of that salmon plate."


What. The fuck.


Of course this was punctuated by an arm grab. Dude, you are NOT permitted to touch me yet. And if you say "I like it" one more time I'm going to give you something you're not going to like. Perhaps a fork to the face?

So by this time I had decided to completely freak this guy out. I brought out my Wikipedia-worthy comic book knowledge and watched his eyes glaze over. Then the topic turned to sports.


LL: "So you like the Mets and the Yankees?"


ME: "No, I hate the Yankees. I told you that already."


LL: "Oh, yeah. You did. But you know a lot about them."


ME: "I know."


LL: "What about Jason Giambi? Is he good?"


ME: "He's not with the Yankees anymore."


LL: "He's not?"


ME: "He's on the Rockies now. Dude, you walk around in a Yankees hat. You should get on that."


On the car ride home I realized I had one last rifle in my arsenal. We happened to pass a restaurant where I got violently ill last year, and I pointed it out to him. Picture me talking about two whole days of puking, only add more fuel to that fire. I didn't go into graphic detail or anything, but you get the point. I had high hopes for the end of the conversation until his response: "I like it!" Are you fucking kidding me?

After he pulled into my driveway, I did thank him for lunch, and he said he would text me later this week. I said I had a bunch of stuff to do, and he told me he would once again "check his schedule." I told him I had a lot of my friends coming with me anyway, and he replied, "that's cool, I'll see where I am and I'll let you know in a couple of days."


Shit.


I hope he's not into me after I was a total bitch that pulled out a vomit story. I mean, I know I'm a total stunner, but I'm not doing Maxim covers or anything. Maybe he just gets turned on by puking. I will be SO relieved if I never hear from this tool again.


This one time I saw this Discovery Channel special on these worms that segregate their bodies into two parts and then procreate by putting themselves back together. I could totally get down with that.

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT

Despite the Monty Python reference, I'm actually not going to be that funny today. I know, you're all in shock. But lately I've been inspired by the fact that I really haven't been that inspired by much at all.

Don't give me that bullshit. I'm allowed to be serious sometimes. If you don't want to hear a depressing rant, come back in a few days.

Don't think I'm lame, but I really miss my family back East. I talk to my mom every day like a fucking pussy, and my brothers and I text a lot (usually about baseball, but still). We have one of those typical sibling relationships where we kicked each others' asses when we were kids, but we all get along really well now (my brothers even live together, which is pretty cool). It probably helps that I like all this guy-related stuff- sports, action movies, graphic novels, etc. God, I'm a loser.

I'm naked without this.

This job hunt is really knocking me out, too. California is one of the states with the worst unemployment rates in the US, and NO ONE is hiring. I even considered going back to cocktailing, which I did like eight years ago and was really fucking degrading, but not even the bars here need any more employees, so I'm stuck doing absolutely nothing. It's really frustrating, and at this point I'd consider whoring myself out to Burger King. That, or an actual whoring out. At least it's money.

Besides that, it really isn't helping that I keep seeing all this New York City-related stuff all over the place. A lot of food places in LA have the audacity to call themselves "New York Style (fill in the blank here)." That's a pretty steep fucking claim that usually turns out to be unbelievably false. The pizza here, for the most part, is laughable, and I can't find a decent black-and-white cookie or bagel anywhere. You're also not supposed to drink the tap water. I can't even believe that! They have to make special "drinking water" containers. Well, excuse the fuck out of me.

They've been showing a lot of "New York City" specials on TV, too. Way to drive the stake through my head, cable. Fuck you, too.



At least I've been getting life updates from home. Two of my friends from the Blogoverse have actually started dating in real life, and while I won't disclose who they are, I will congratulate them here. L'chaim, guys! If your birth control ever fails, that is going to be one hilarious, creative as hell kid who will probably be hot because I at least know what the mom looks like. Their whole story is kind of like a Meg Ryan movie, only a lot less retarded.

While I am really happy for the two of them, though, this does remind me that all my friends and my mom are always trying to set me up or make me join one of those ridiculous dating websites. I don't really care about finding someone to mooch child support payments from, but it does kind of suck feeling like you're the last single person left on the planet. Yes, I know this is an exaggeration, but considering my outstanding track record with those that have called themselves "men," it's getting kind of hard to keep holding my breath.

BTW, the blogging community really is a community. Some of the writers on my blogroll have left incredibly supportive comments reminding me that while LA does bite dick, I have to keep trying to get back East, and when I do, we're definitely going to party. I seriously <3 you all. I won't single you out, but you know who you are, and while this might sound really gay, it has helped to keep me upbeat. Note: you can read some of the comments on my posts.

 

The rest of my inner circle keeps posting these amazing Facebook updates about what's going on with them: vacations, dinners out, promotions, engagements, general hangouts. While I know it's totally unfair to expect the people in my life to just sit around in a dark room waiting for me to return (there can be a light switch in there if they so choose, I guess), it really is sobering to remember that life does go on with or without me.

I did try to tie up as much as I could before I went away, but there were some things that were left unfinished. There was stuff I could have handled differently, and some people I wish I could have fit in the time to visit, but couldn't. I even left some of them on a bad note, and I found out the hard way that putting their Facebook status on hide, or deleting them altogether, doesn't make you think about them any less. When you're forced to leave your hometown, the place you grew up in, there are people that stay on your mind even though you know they shouldn't, even though you're 99% positive they're not even remotely thinking about you, and it sucks.

Anyway, sorry to shit on you guys, but I figure one of these serious Prozac-inducers every six months is enough. The me that you're used to will be back shortly, after I take a nap, get a massage and stop being such a whiny little bitch.

Love You... Seriously.

THE RELOCATION CHRONICLES, CHAPTER FOUR: POPPED CULTURE

One of the things I miss most about my New York apartment is that, no matter which direction I turned, I was always within walking distance of some kind of museum, theater, foreign restaurant or, to be fair, some unidentifiable odor. In short, I was never at a loss for culture at its best.

Even LA natives seem to agree that this city is severely lacking in that department. Unless you're in the mood to eat, shop or drive up the coast, there's really nothing to do here. Maybe it's because I was exposed to so much of the arts at such a young age (and not the kind of "exposed" that Los Angeles is so familiar with), but this really annoys me.

It's also totally obnoxious that a lot of people here really don't seem to care. I literally get really excited every time I'm introduced to something that constitutes a "cultural" occurrence. Take, for example, my friend Tina- she's in her mid-twenties, but already makes my life seem like an epic fail. She's a sought-after electric cellist that was considered a prodigy in elementary school and has played all over the world, including in the orchestras for movies and TV shows. She's also performed at the Grammys and MTV awards, appeared in music videos, been nominated for a bunch of shit and has basically made me question what the hell it is I've been doing with myself. You can check out her stuff here. It will blow your mind.

Anyway, I went to see her perform with a jazz band last week and she was gracious enough to put me on the guest list and give me a "plus one." It was short notice, but the few people I asked to attend the show with me "didn't like jazz" so they wouldn't go.



Are you serious? I mean, I'm not a huge fan of the genre but I can appreciate the amount of talent it takes to learn the craft. Second, I don't care if it was a two-hour show where I had to listen to her recite the Dragon Tales theme song, beatnik style. Tina is my friend, and I'll support her. She asked me to go, so I went, and she sounded unbelievable.

BTW, one of the movies that Tina was featured in was Inception. I just saw it on Friday, and dude, seriously, see this fucking film. It's one of the greatest cinematic achievements of the last ten years. I'm a huge Christopher Nolan fan, especially after what he accomplished with The Dark Knight, and after this whole sequel/remake cataclysm Hollywood's been insisting on lately, I'll pretty much check out any original project they come up with that isn't in 3-D. Plus: sci-fi!



Note: I have an on-going competition with my brother over who sees awesome movies first. So far he's beaten me with Batman Begins, Spider-Man 2, Watchmen, The Dark Knight and Star Trek (by half an hour!). This time I finally won by TWO WHOLE DAYS, and now that I wrote this he's probably going to post some dickhead comment about how I always lose anyway.

A-hole.

HA HA!

My brother, as well as my friends back home, would throw the girls in this building in front of a speeding train. The other day I was in the elevator, and some bleach addict in nine-inch heels stepped in. She was carrying three shopping bags and a tiny purse with an even tinier dog inside, and was also balancing some 1,000 dollar drink from Starbucks while she nursed an iPhone under her chin. BTW, she looked like she was about 16, which probably meant that she was either 12 or 25.

Legally Stupid

The ridiculous conversation she was having on her cell went like this:

"Oh my God, I know... Oh my God, I know... Oh my God, I know... TOTALLY! OMG! Oh my God, I know." It was the longest elevator ride of my life. I wanted to push her down the shaft. If this moron saw Inception or anything with a remotely original concept her head would explode like that dude in Scanners.

What really pissed me off, however, is when I went to dinner with my dad this weekend. We went to this sushi place that has really awesome spicy shrimp that I love, and we were seated next to this group of guys that I knew immediately were total douches thanks to their beanies and Ed Hardy shirts (the unmistakeable symbol of douchebaggery). My dad and I tried to carry on normal conversation and enjoy our food, but I couldn't but help but overhear these assmonkeys discussing an unlucky group of girls that unfortunately weren't there to defend themselves.

During the next half hour, I learned way more than I cared to about these girls' favorite sexual positions, "sexting" abilities, and booty call rankings. The youngest female in the group had just turned 21 and this winner assumed that he was "definitely more mature" than she was. Also, all these girls were all apparently "all over" these guys' "flavor." I almost spit out my drink.

First of all, I think not. The only one of them whose physical appearance didn't make me dry heave resembled a gargoyle in heat.

I'd tap that.

And really- "flavor?" This is Beverly Hills, and it isn't 1992.

One of the other losers then started complaining about how girls can't tell the difference between sex and love, which of course is true, because I've wound up proposing marriage to every guy I've ever slept with. Then he went on to explain how this is why cheating is bad when girls do it, but doesn't mean shit if a guy fucks somebody else, because men don't ever love anyone they have sex with. Hear that sound? That's my pants unzipping for you, right away! If I hadn't been with my dad I would have dropped my plate facedown in his lap. Luckily our check came and I didn't have to listen to any more of these clowns' brilliant witticism.



That's an astonishing amount of asshole that I didn't even know existed. If you're going to insist on being a complete retard, do it in the privacy of your own house, not in a public forum where people can hear you and have access to knives. Not only was I sitting next to them, but there were two other tables full of women within earshot of their imbecilic conversation, and I know we all heard them. Miraculously we all managed not to poison their food.

What the fuck is going on in people's heads? Has it really reached that point where everybody has just stopped trying? Does no one have any original thoughts anymore? When I listen to my friend play the cello, or see a movie like Inception, I actually think about how pathetic it is that I'm energized by projects that don't try to replicate something that I've already seen, sometimes as recently as three years ago (take a hint, Spider-Man franchise!). I hope this movie is the box office hit of the year, because maybe idiots like this will learn something.

Probably not, though.

THE RELOCATION CHRONICLES, CHAPTER TWO: PEOPLE ARE PEOPLE

So it's my first day in Los Angeles, and at the risk of sounding redundant, I'm already missing New York like crazy. It's hard to look at the non-shitty side of things when so many people managed to piss me off. My uncle, as it turned out, went out of his way to get my dad to read my last post where I got angry about his making me to come to LA in the first place. My dad got mad at me, which I knew he would, which is why I didn't show it to either of them, and I can't figure out why my uncle would want to cause discord between my dad and I when I have to stay with him for the entire summer.

Seriously, that was so fucked up. Et tu, Uncle?

Over the weekend I called who I thought was a good friend of mine and asked if he wanted to hang, reminding him that it was my last night out before I bit it. He refused because he "went out last night," and asked if I would be horribly offended if he just saw me again if I ever came back. Considering this is a guy who makes fun of overweight women and never waits until I get into the house when he drops me off, no, I wasn't offended, because now I know that he's a gigantic douche. We'll see if I ever call you again if I get back to the East Coast.



A couple of days before I left I also hung with a group of people that happened to include a guy that I hooked up with about a month ago. Since we know a lot of the same people, we both agreed that we shouldn't tell anybody, even though he did tell me that he had feelings for me and that he would do anything he could to help me on my quest to get back home. I'll believe that when I see it, because he's with a different girl every three seconds, and a couple of weeks later, we got into an epic fight about which I won't get into here because this post is going to get ridiculously long.

Anyway, I hung out with him and a bunch of mutual friends this week and it was the first time I'd seen him since our colossal blowout, and even though he knew I was leaving, he barely even looked at me and wouldn't even say goodbye when I left. Seriously, can you not even wish me a safe flight? Whatever, this guy always has a massive amount of groupies hanging all over him so he probably doesn't even realize I'm gone.

A lot of people, however, actually were devastated to see me go. On Tuesday I had a couple of tearful goodbyes with my family. My mom hugged me so hard I thought I was going to snap in half. My brothers reminded me to stay positive, and I told them I'd try, which is the best I can do at this point.

My blogging friends were great, too. Even though I've never met the vast majority of them, I got a bunch of supportive comments about how much LA blows and how I'd be back soon. I got an interesting perspective on my employment situation, an apartment offer, and was even treated to a legendary weekend in Boston by the formidable Ginntastic, which definitely alleviated my stress, if only for three days.

On Saturday night I went out with my friend A. We had dinner where we were momentarily joined by H, who had an early flight the next day but came out just to say goodbye. There were tears, laughter, and almost a hand stabbing when when one of them tried to steal some of my mac and cheese. Sorry, Girls- I love you, but I can out-eat the best of them.

MINE!

A wound up buying me drinks all over the City, including a delicious white chocolate martini. We managed to make it back to her place at 5 am, where we watched my last Manhattan sunset and played that cheesy Eve 6 tune "Here's To The Night." We instructed each other not to cry but neither one of us has never been that great at following directions. Actually, that's probably why we're such good friends. We finally passed out on her couch around 6, and after I left in the morning she sent me a text with a sad face that read "miss me yet???" Dude, you have NO idea.

The night before I left, I went to my friend K's place. We walked around for a while, and when I passed my old neighborhood I almost fucking lost it. Luckily she took me to a great diner where we had turkey sliders and a slice of cheesecake that I warranted amazing enough to take a picture of:

This entire thing went into my belly.

Later we watched the Bridezillas marathon and fell asleep around 2. I almost forgot what lay ahead of me. Almost.

After a cab ride to JFK where I cried for a solid half hour, I nearly missed my flight because the bonehead who read the boarding passes wouldn't let the line move. Unfortunately, I got to the plane on time. When I turned my phone back on, I had 13 text messages from my friends with sad emoticons and copious "I love you!!!!'s" Wow. Way to make me cry again, Guys. By now I can probably form a small tributary under my feet.

So now I begin my three months away from the city that I adore. It'll be tough, but I have to remember that it's temporary, and that I have a lot of love waiting for me when I come back.

And hey, my hair still looks pretty good.

THE RELOCATION CHRONICLES, CHAPTER ONE: PACKING HEAT

So here's the short version of what's been going on with me for the past six months and why I've been more of a turbo-bitch than usual:

For about a year I worked for this company that recently went totally under, and my job search proved to be an epic disaster. Because the lease for my apartment is up at the end of this month, my dad is making me stay with him in Los Angeles because the freelance stuff I've been doing, while I love it with a passion, isn't getting my bills paid.

There are so many reasons why this is a gargantuan level of suck. First of all, besides my dad, everyone I love is back East. This includes 95% of my family, all my friends, and every single shred of sanity that I can still stake a claim to. Not to mention I'll be living with my dad, which in my twenties is an astronomical cockblock. Of course, he also chooses the Summer to force me to do this. Thanks, Dad.

Second- I'm a New Yorker. I was born there, raised there, have the accent, root for the sports teams (except the Yankees- can't stand 'em), downloaded all the songs, own all the movies, know all the subway lines by heart, etc. The food is amazing, the public transportation can't be beat and the culture puts every other city in the world to shame. Where else can you travel to six countries in two blocks- on foot? Yeah, the cost of living will bleed you dry and leave you in a dumpster in a dirty alley in Brownsville, but ask anyone that rents there and they'll still tell you that it's the best city on the planet.

Third- LA sucks. Everyone there is only concerned with how famous they're going to become, and it never pans out and they just wind up doing porn. Yeah, the dry heat is definitely conducive to my Jew-fro, but I own a flatiron so I don't care. The pizza is awful, the only public transportation they have are buses that come every nine hours and cabs that fuck you up the ass, and the lack of culture is appalling. Plus I don't get any of my Jets games. Everybody in LA is full of shit- it's probably the reason their roots are all brown.



For some reason my dad loves it there and is totally convinced that if I "gave it a chance," I would, too. I've given it tons of chances- I even lived there for a few months- and every time I go there I hate it even more. Moving is stressful enough when you're actually relocating to a place you want to go to- now I have to deal with this shit on top of it. I'd rather be getting on a spaceship to Jupiter. I'll pretty much be on a different planet, anyway.



Luckily this move is only supposed to be temporary- I'm planning on just going for a few months, working a few part-time gigs and saving up enough to get my ass back home sometime in the Fall. This is probably good for you guys, because I can only imagine that my blog posts will get exponentially more bitter, and thus more hilarious.

The actual "moving" part is pretty aggravating in itself. There's all the little shit I have to remember to do such as forwarding my mail, canceling utilities, dealing with my cheap-ass landlord who was of no help the entire year that I lived here, and then there's the bigger, annoying stuff like packing.

I HATE packing. Besides the actual "going to LA" part, packing is probably what I detest the most about this whole moving deal. The only good thing about it is that I finally have rug burn on my knees that I actually don't have to lie to my mom about. Also, I'm probably burning some calories by rummaging through my shit and making and lifting the boxes. I guess.

My family has been coming and going, helping me get my shit together and store it in my brothers' basement, and also making sure that I don't go completely crazy and purposely break a bunch of crap. They're taking most of my furniture, which is great because that means I'll get it back later. I've also been going through my clothes, shoes and bags, giving away what I don't want anymore to homeless shelters and Goodwill. After the shitty attitude I've been hauling around since I got the news, it felt good to do something nice.

Anyway, I'm cataloging my entire moving experience as a way to get my head in perspective and my ass in gear. Hopefully it'll only be until sometime in October, and then I'll be back, ready to find a new place to live, a better East Coast job and to reconnect with everybody I left behind. I've got New York on my iPod, in my DVR and in my heart, and no matter what Los Angeles tries to do to me, that will never change.



Here's something to leave you (and me) with.