I'm Liberal With My Sugar

I voted for McCain today. I cast my vote at 7:45 this morning, and I made my decision very quickly. I couldn't vote for Obama. There was no way. It's not that I disagree with his policies, fear his Socialist ideals, or don't like black people. There were just no Obama cups available at my local 7-11.


I have been getting a 20oz cup of coffee from 7-11 every morning on my way to work, and this is the size that 7-11 has been using for their election marketing campaign. Normally, at the 20oz size, you can choose a blue Obama cup, a red McCain cup, or a regular 7-11 cup. I've been going with the regular, because I fear someone approaching me wanting to talk politics. I hate talking politics for the most part and am not a fervent supporter of either side. But today, I had to make a choice. Today, in the 20oz cup size variety (my favorite drive-to-work size) there were no Obama cups. I live in Studio City, CA. It's pretty liberal around here. Even if someone is a McCain supporter, he probably would normally go with a regular 7-11 cup in fear of getting an upside-down "B" lightly scratched into his face. But I didn't even have that option this morning. Not only were there no Obama cups, there were no regular cups! Just bright red McCain cups! Sure, there were plenty of regular 7-11 cups in other sizes that I could have gone with, but I decided that this was a dilemma that truly questioned what kind of man I am. What's more important to me? Protecting myself from the leering scorn of local Obama supporters? Or getting the size of cup that I really desired?

I'm a man of principles. I don't budge on the important issues like coffee cup size. Wait. That's just one principle.

I'm a man of principle.

I grabbed the red McCain cup and filled it. Now the 7-11 employees love me. Not because I'm supporting tax breaks for their franchise. Because I'm helping reduce their overstock of McCain cups.

Olive Juice

I haven't had much to say for the past eight months or so. There have been plenty of ideas rolling around in my mind, and they've been fermenting there. For too long, some of them. I fear they have turned to vinegar. I always get oil and vinegar on my subs from Subway. And olives. I've been on a black olive kick for two years now. Nothing looks better on a pizza than pepperoni and black olives.

Death Kick

I just can't afford to go tanning.

Gas prices are actually going down a little bit, but I won't be happy until we're back under $2/gallon...so I'll probably never be happy again.

Please tell me "WEIGHT LOSS" doesn't refer to abortions.

That's not funny. Abortion is nothing to joke about and neither is death...or so I've been told. I disagree. I'm actually on a death kick with a lot of my writing. Exploding heads, executions, dogs eating carcasses, daters eating babies...all of these things are being featured in my recent writing, and I swear it's funny.

I must be working out some issues.

Defamous

"Make that change." That's good advice, Michael. I don't care that you might have been imagining yourself hiding in a junior high boys' locker room when you wrote those words. I have still taken them to heart. That Man in the Mirror got a good starin' down this past week, and things aren't the same anymore. And I don't think it's just me. Everybody seems to be making changes. The pancake of life is being flipped. The underwear of life is being turned inside-out. Change is in the air. Change is posted on light posts in Hollywood. Quick question regarding the photo to your left. How many actors trying to learn how to do a good Scottish inflection do you think called before they had to add "FOREIGN SPEAKERS" to the advertisement? And can you ever really eliminate an accent? Can't you just learn to use a different one? The whole business is illogical.

Apparently, I'm not the only one who thinks that Robin Williams looks like a uterus as evidenced by Defamer linking my latest post. That was pretty awesome...but not nearly as awesome as finding out that Warner Brothers, producers of License to Wed, sent around a company-wide memo that included a link to the Defamer article! How do I know this? I have spies. That's how. Single File Spies.

Little do Warner Brothers know that the originator of that anatomical comparison to their major motion picture interviewed for an entry-level position at their studio lot today. Totally true. I didn't mention the blog, though, figuring that most bosses don't want their underlings to have a national audience. (Do not look at the hit counter.) I aced the Microsoft Word skills test and typed 80 wpm, so I'm expecting a call from them pretty soon. Actually, the interview did go decently, and I'm qualified for the position, but honestly something didn't feel right about the whole experience. Something inside of me said that I wasn't getting the job. I got the feeling Daffy knew something I didn't.

Pictures!

George Clooney parked his ego here.


My head asplode?


When this building eventually collapses, it will be the first ever pratfall from beyond the grave.


Hey, that looks like a penis!

Starring Robin Williams as The Uterus

What? No Silver Platter?

Me? Drive David Carradine? THE David Carradine? Sure--I mean, of course! I'd love to drive him! Oh man, this is going to be so great. Me and David Carradine riding around in my Sentra. We'll become best of friends! I just know it!

And we did become best of friends. We talked about life. We discussed Betamax vs VHS. We talked about David's book which bombed because he didn't promote it. He smoked in my car...with the windows up. We listened to his CD which he gave to me. Everything was going just swimmingly...

...until his head fell off!

Besides the initial heavy rush of grief that hit me after realizing my new best friend was now dead, I also felt a sudden powerful panic. I was David Carradine's driver! They trusted me with his life, and I failed them. His head fell off while in my care! In my care in my car! Not that I had anything to do with his head falling off. I mean...it just fell off! Look, the guy did a lot of kung fu back in his day and maybe he took a few too many chops to the neck. Add all of those cigarettes smoked inside cars with the windows up, and I imagine his whole neck region to be pretty dried out. I mean, just a slight tap of the brakes at his age could totally, feasibly cause sudden decapitation. And that's what happened. And that's what I told them. And they didn't care anyways because he was picture wrapped. So, instead of getting yelled at and fired...we all decided to enjoy the Head of David Carradine.









Like my Head of David Carradine hood ornament?



Everyone's gonna want one!

Eventually, the Head of David Carradine began to smell. Heads don't keep long in the Valley sun. So I had to drive to the desert and bury the Head.



Let's just say that the drive back home from the desert got a little emotional for me.











I'm still sad but keeping that stiff upper lip. I miss you David Carradine...and I miss your head.

So sketchy...

A very special treat for you and yours.

And now it's time for a breakdown.

Actually, it's past time. I had my breakdown Wednesday night while driving back home after having my heart removed from my chest that evening. It wasn't ripped out by anyone else. No, no. This time, I decided to dig into my own ribcage, pull it out myself, and fling it at a girl that I love. Of course, it hit her right in the face and blood got everywhere: all over her clothes, all over the floor, and even some on the ceiling. Not an easy clean-up job to say the least. Why would I do that? What got into me? Because I needed to breakdown.

I didn't realize that I needed a release, but my subconscious did. Unfortunately, my subconscious does not care about the feelings of others, and I dragged someone else through my shit on my way to resolution. I'm sorry about that.

So my friend killed himself, and that sucks. It's not fun to be alone, and hopelessness is my least favorite emotion. He would probably still be alive if he had something to strive for, something to look forward to, something, anything. May we all have hope in our lives.

My work on Hell Ride ended Friday and today I began work on Ball Don't Lie. I haven't received the script yet, but it appears to be a basketball flick. The onscreen talent includes Ludacris, Nick Cannon, Sharon Stone, and Baron Davis. I can't say I'm amped about this project yet. Maybe that's because my first day is on a Saturday. My weekend! My precious weekend!

This film doesn't qualify as "something to strive for" in my life. It's just a job. A way to hopefully pay the bills. Instead, I have been working on my scripts. I have a few shorts that I want to make, and I've been working on tightening the scripts. "Roger, You're Making Me a Fat Ass" was finished last weekend, and I sent it off to David to read. Unfortunately, he is losing a battle with his computer and hasn't read it yet, but his girlfriend shares his email and she read it. That was pretty surprising to hear. I have no problem with her reading it...in fact I love that she did. I want everyone to read my stuff. The really great news? She loved it. Reportedly, she laughed outloud multiple times while reading the script. Gooooood. I can't wait to start shooting it.

I miss him already.

Rob McDill was one of my favorite people.

I'll believe it when...

This is in reference to these stories:
this-a-one and that-a-one

I first found them both at Fazed.

Git! Git! Git! Git them Duke Boys!

I have a feeling that this training does not include too much book larnin'.

Dot Commmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

I arrived at David Carradine’s house ten minutes late, but I waited in my car for another thirty before he came out. While I waited, I got to know his dogs a little bit. He has a Golden Retriever and some kind of St. Bernard-type dog. If a man’s dogs’ personalities are any indication of his own disposition, then David was going to be friendly, aggressive, and may try to mount me. His wife came outside to tell me that he was throwing down some coffee and would be out in a minute, so I sat in my car and ruined my outlook on sports by reading Game of Shadows. I wonder if I can get human growth hormone in Mexico. I want to try steroids. Just once or twice. Just enough to get these guns going.

David came out and practically had sex with his wife just outside my car. As they embraced, they were enthusiastically joined by the Golden, but I think the St. Bernard gets a little turned off by PDA. Eventually, David made his way into the passenger seat of my Sentra, didn’t shake my hand, and we were off.

As far as celebrities go, David Carradine is a nice guy. He was very gregarious the whole drive to the studios. This is in direct contrast to John Larroquette who spent the first five-plus rides with me in brooding silence before eventually opening up…some. David owns a Ferrari, and he loves to talk about it. He has also owned a Mazarati and a convertible Cadillac of some kind, but he did not enjoy them nearly as much as his 1993 Ferrari. I asked him if he takes it anywhere and opens it up, but he does not. “I don’t like talking to cops,” he remarked. “It’s not like it used to be. I used to get a ticket for going 140mph and my agent knew someone in the Hall of Records who would take care of everything and it only cost me 100 bucks. Now they take you to jail.” I hear that. I never drive my Sentra more than 120mph for that very reason.

Immediately after sitting in my car, David lit up a cigarette. He didn’t ask if he could smoke in my car, and I didn’t tell him he couldn’t. He’s a celebrity. This is what they do. They can be as rude as they want whenever they want. For most of their life, people have catered to all of their eccentricities and demands so much that they no longer are capable of seeing others as equals. Could I have told him that he can’t smoke in my car? I suppose…and he probably would have obliged. But, then you can count on word getting back to my dozens of bosses that I was not courteous to David Carradine, and soon I would be jobless. Hey, at least it wasn’t Dennis Hopper. He lit up two cigars in another Production Assistant’s car. Would you ever get into a stranger’s car and just light up a cigarette without asking? Think about that. It is so brazen!

I’m sitting in my car outside of KNB Studios where they do prosthetics and anima-tronics. David’s getting a rubber head cast for the film. Inside the studio there are examples of some of their work. Aslan the Lion greets you as soon as you walk in the door, and David was immediately taken by him. He patted and groped and basically manhandled our Feline Lord right in front of one of the technicians. The technician had a look on his face like some celebrity had just lit up a cigarette in his car without asking. At least David was complimentary about the lion. He really loved it as opposed to the Boar/Warthog creatures which he called "just a joke"…in front of the technician...who probably made that boar himself.

Celebrities are funny. Here are some pictures I took at KNB.

These jokes were in Chronic (what?) cles of Narnia.

Oink

Don't let this guy hold your baby.

Frankenstein started the whole jacket-with-no-tie look.

I'm sad because I have nobody in my life. No body.

The blog entry to end all blog entries! Part III

So back on the road I went. I should seriously consider becoming a long haul truck driver. I love driving!

The trip to California started off with an important decision at a Southern Indiana pit stop.


















It actually wasn't that tough of a decision. One of these places doesn't exist in California, so it was time for one last hurrah.



I'm having difficulty coming up with anything interesting to say about my trip. Maybe nothing happened. Or maybe my brain isn't working right now because my officemate is pelting me with a constant barrage of Elton John and Tori Amos. Are you reading this, Lisha? Stop it. Stop it now.

So, I hit some bugs on the way.



I arrived in Tempe, Arizona a little after noon the day before the Last Comic Standing auditions.



I didn't see anyone in line, yet. Sweet. I could relax, find a nice spot to camp out, play some guitar, work on some new knock-knock-jokes, and wait for tomorr--whoa! What was this behind the club?

Comics

More Comics

Comics with Tents

Comics with Ass Cracks

A Plethora of Comics

There were over 100 comics already in line, and a lot of them appeared to have been there for a looooong time. It was clear that I wasn't going to get to audition. Now what?









Off to Vegas I went. It was my first visit since I started playing poker, and I wanted to see what the atmosphere was like. Small. The poker rooms are tiny compared to the Commerce Casino in Los Angeles. I was really surprised. I hate talking poker on here, since I get the feeling that this is when my average reader tunes me out. Blah blah blah sat at 1/2NL table at MGM blah blah blah played for about 5 hours blah blah blah won $200 blah blah blah saw Antonio Esfandiari playing a guy that might have been David Sklansky at the Bellagio blah blah blah.

And now I'm in Los Angeles...and there are stories to tell already!

The blog entry to end all blog entries! Part II

Grooming is a situational activity. I participate in varying amounts of self-maint-enance (external) everyday, and somedays, like the days where I play Madden all day long, that means no grooming at all. When more major events come along, like dates or auditions for Last Comic Standing, I do a full upkeep. I break out the razors, tweezers, loofahs, power washer, and turpentine. When you are getting detailed, you learn a lot about yourself, and I'm not going to qualify that statement as purely physical. Your mental makeup has a direct relation to your physical appearance. This means that somewhere in the recesses of my mind there is a part of me that is oblivious to things that normally should be noticed more quickly, things that should be corralled, things that should be contained, specifically things that should be tweezed. Oh yes, whilst performing a full body inspection I found an anomaly that my conscious self cannot allow, something that shook the foundations of my vanity, something that made me question the very direction of my life! I found a rogue hair growing out of the top of my ear.



That sucker was over a half inch! How long had it been there? It surely didn't just pop out over night! Have people been secretly referring to me as Hairy Ears? Or just Harold? Needless to say, this was a pretty disturbing moment. Evolutionarily speaking, how could this giant hair on the top of my ear ever benefit me? Warmth? Wind protection? Help in finding a mate outside my species? What am I? A Hobbit?? It had to go and was immediately plucked. Since this moment, I have been making routine inspections of the tops of my ears. There are some tiny hairs there, but nothing out of the ordinary. I feel like they are waiting for me to let my guard down. Someday, not too far off in the future, I may wake up to find my entire head wrapped in a cocoon of ear hair from which my cranium will emerge in a couple weeks with giant ear wings with which I will fly off to the Isle of Misfit Boys and live the rest of my days in freakish splendor.

I arrived at the comedy club for the Last Comic Standing auditions a little after 3am on the day of the auditions. It was cold. This is Minnesota, remember. It was f'ing fucking cold. And windy. F'ing fucking windy. And cold. When I got there, a few people were sleeping in sleeping bags, but the line was not very long. I counted about thirty people. I froze at the end of the line for about twenty minutes when I realized that the line wasn't getting any longer. I could go sit in my warm car and wait for more people to arrive before jumping back in line, which I did. At about 5:30, more comics began to show up, so I got back in line in the exact spot I was in before.

After freezing for a couple more hours, someone in line near me asks, "Did you sign the list?" List? What list? There's a list? Whose list? There is no one from the show here with a list. I ran to the front of the line where there was a comic with his own makeshift list. This jackass starts off by telling me that everyone is honoring the list and then proceeds to sign me in...as number 154! There weren't even fifty people in line! This isn't even an official list! The guy with the list was number four! I was pissed. Instantly fumingly enraged. Apparently, the local comics at this club had been signing up their friends and whoever else, and these hacks all went home and slept all night while a few of them stayed in line. "This guy's been here for two days," the comic says as he points to a dude in a sleeping bag who gives me thumbs up. "Two days?" I ask. "You better be fucking funny." And I'm certain he wasn't. None of them were.

No one in that line made me laugh all day. 99% of that crowd didn't even have more than three minutes of material. How were they expecting to even do the show without material? Jerry Seinfeld wants to know who are these people! So, I didn't get to audition. I got windburn, sunburn, and lost a nipple, but I did not get the pleasure of having Ant (pictured) tell me I'm not funny. I did however get to do some jokes for a couple reporters from the Minneapolis Star Tribune, which you can see right here. I'm the guy at the beginning and end. Oh, and please notice that I'm wearing every article of clothing that I own, because MINNESOTA IS A GLACIER.

Pictures!

Well, Minneapolis wasn't the last stop for Last Comic Standing auditions. They were going to San Antonio in a couple days and Tempe in a week. I realized that Tempe was on the way to Los Angeles, and I was planning on moving back in a couple weeks anyway. Why not move my trip forward a little bit and stop in Tempe for the audition on the way? That's a great idea! Let's do that! Check back for Part III where I say goodbye to Indiana and hello to a tightly packed Nissan Sentra.

The blog entry to end all blog entries! Part I

It can't really end all blog entries...I mean, it's Part I! What about the other parts? This title is preposterous! It's self-defeating! It's ironic!

When we last left our hero, he had just quit his job and took off for Minneapolis to audition for Last Comic Standing. It was time to get the hell out of Indiana, and there's nothing like a little life upheaval to get you motivated. Additionally, if there is no danger of starving to death, I'm just not happy, so wind meet caution and here we go.

I love road trips. I love driving. I love myself. I love driving on road trips by myself. This particular trip took me north through Chicago, Southern Wisconsin, and into Minneapolis on the eastern edge of Minnesota.

The first stretch of this trip can be summed up in two words: Toll Road. This particular toll road is brutal. And it’s not the total price of the road that’s so wickedly cruel. It’s the amount of stops. You can barely drive 5 miles on this road before having to pull up to a booth and shell out anywhere from 15¢ to $1.50. When I’m on the road, I want to go. Let’s f’ing drive, man. All these stops are momentum killers. Oh, I like to make stops, but my kind of stops involve caffeinated beverage purchases, refueling, bladder relaxers, and deep knee bends; none of which you can do at a toll booth. The Toll Road Barons want you to purchase their speed pass, so they make paying with cash as annoying as possible. They don’t even post how much to pay at each toll booth until you get all the way up to the window! I could have had exact change ready, you assholes! Exact change!

Ah...the open road!

One of Satan's merchants

Wisconsin didn’t have toll roads, fortunately. They did however have cops. A lot of cops. Before I left, my dad continually referenced Wisconsin as one giant speed trap, and I discovered how right he was soon after entering the state as I saw three state troopers on a single off ramp ready to stop any speeders that an additional cop was shooting with a speed gun from the bridge above. I don't have any pictures of the Wisconsin fuzz, because I was too paralyzed with fear to think about photojournalism. However, I'm pretty sure that outside of their cruisers they all look like the guy to the right.

I went through two crazy rainstorms in Wisconsin. They were hard, heavy, lasted five minutes each, and the sun shone the whole time.

It's raining if you can't tell.

Once the rain stopped, I experienced a much more pleasant force of nature.


Nathaniel saw this picture and said something about Jah.

Who's Nathaniel? I hate qualifying everyone I write about as "a friend of mine" or "this guy I know" or "my deformed friend." This is his Myspace. Go make friends.

I arrived in Minneapolis a day early, so I got a hotel room and relaxed. (It's a little embarrassing to reveal how early I arrived considering what was to happen...) The next day I went over to the comedy club and saw that no one was lining up yet. So what does one do when they’re in Minneapolis with time to kill?

One goes shopping.

Here are some of the highlights of my visit to the Mall of America:


I couldn't fit the whole directory in the shot.


I rode the horse bush.


Learn proper grooming at a young age.


I want to be cool!


Well...not that cool


Obligatory weed joke


Now where is that ferris wheel?


Ah, right next to the Starbucks


No, the other Starbucks


This one has better coffee anyway.


For your heavy shopping needs


Who starts in the mailroom these days?


If it weren't for mannequins, I'd have no idea how to dress!


Am I the only one a little turned on right now?


If I had a time machine, I'd go back to the time of prohibition and get hammered.


Now, where is the exit?

Check back for Part II coming very soon (maybe tomorrow) in which I discover hair in an interesting place, wait in line with hundreds of migraine-inducing comics, make a major decision out on the road, and risk my whole roll in Vegas! ...hmm, I may need a Part III.