floorpie

I went to CA|Boom 3 this weekend, the “West Coast Independent Design Show”… better known simply as caboom. It’s ostensibly a chance to see the wares of interior designers and shop for architects, but what it’s really about are the home tours. you get the chance, on each of the three days, to visit 5 multi-million dollar houses and basically see what they have in their drawers (answer: underwear and rolls of $100 bills).

Some images:

I also met this incredibly cool girl (+1) who was in the design industry (+10) and working the show. It’s neither here nor there, however, as despite her giving me her number (+25), she lives in San Francisco (-57). Wah-waaaaah.

People should not be afraid of their governments. Governments should be afraid of their people. Last night, I saw V for Vendetta. As I still don’t have TV, I didn’t really have any idea what the movie was about. I’d been privy to all of the buzz about Natalie Porrtman shaving her head, and I’d seen that someone wears a mask in the movie, but that was about it. I had my own small expectations, but… this move was a coplete surprise to me.

And I really liked it.

As I’m sure there are many of you who haven’t seen it, I’ll just say that it’s about counter-culture, revolution, and the dangers of the military-industrial complex. It’s not an action movie, but rather a dialogue driven one… and the dialogue delivered by the characters V (Hugo Weaving) and Evey (Natalie Portman) was very impressive.

As you can tell, I’m terrible at movie reviews. I’ll say this: if you know who Edmond Dantes is, go see this movie.

I uploaded all of my Vegas photos for your perusal and criticism.

I don’t know why I don’t Buzznet them like the cool kids but I should be. Especially because I have videos that I haven’t figured out how to display, yet.

Not that I should. What happens in Vegas, etc etc.

It’s all about the videos, people. I used to think, and partially still do, that the whole camcorder thing is hackneyed and dumb. Who will ever watch your home movies unless you’re a budding Spike Lee? No one, that’s who. Except yourself… once.

I think the problems are two fold:
1. context
2. spontaneity

Number 1 meaning that no one wants to see video of your kid’s 2nd birthday party, because dude, your kid’s 2nd birthday party was fucking boring! I will eat my words when they preempt Lost for Little Billy Johnson’s Neighborhood Birthday Party – Now With Balloon Animals!

Number 2 because the best videos are spontaneous, and without reason… and home movies are never either one of those things. “We’re going to cut the cake, get the camera!” That shit should have just been rolling… then people aren’t too conscious to start a food fight.

Random videos, however, of Vegas for instance, or of your friend snow boarding when he doesn’t know it, or of the girl chowing down on nachos in the Southwest terminal are all awesome videos, somehow hilarious, and look like exact representations of real life… because they are.

.: awesome Honda commercial that would make Michael Winslow blush with envy

And I still haven’t found what I’m looking for. I think the person that I’m looking for, the person that I haven’t found yet, the person that I wonder if she’s even out there, is Natalie Portman’s character in Garden State.

There is a good chance, in fact, that my dream girl, dream woman, is the real and actual Natalie Portman. Provided, of course, that she’s anything like she always appears to be.

Which is smart, deep… sublime.

‘Sublime’ is a word I haven’t used in a very long time. Perhaps because I seem to run across so few truly transcendent experiences in LA. But then I haven’t been in the mind-set to find those sorts of things lately.

It’s been self-medication without the medication.

And sexy. Completely stone cold sexy. Not sexy in the same way that your models are sexy. Sexy in the way that she challenges your soul. And that’s what I’m looking for.

Of course, I’m still looking for the other things that have been keeping my dance card filled these last several months. That’s much easier to find, and only a quarter as deep. On the peripherary, though, or always in the background, there’s a slot waiting for a block to fall into it. A tumbler waiting for that one more click when the Natalie Portmans in the world seek me out.

I’ll give you the executive summary:

.: I took today and yesterday off from work
.: Yesterday I went skiing with friends. It was awesome.
.: Today, the insurance company brought back all of my (salvageable stuff). I’ve been opening boxes like it was Christmas… albeit a Christmas where I had pathetically wrapped all the presents myself weeks earlier, and knew what was in them.
.: Textiles are at an all-time high, and our fiscal outlook looks great, Gene.

I am now about 75% back to normal, which is within 5% of throwing a huge “Burning Down the House Party”. I’m already looking forward to cleaning up the aftermath.

I still need to buy a few big-ticket items like a couch, a TV, a dining room table and chairs, a washer/dryer, and on and on; but, I’m glad I at least have a place to sit down again.

The Simpsons Body Count. A listing of all of the guest actors that have perished since "appearing" on the show. (via Samantha Burns

I love Vegas, and it is not a love unrequited.

Vegas loves me back, and it does so with gusto and passion.

Vegas returns my phone calls.

Vegas sends me text messages so I know she’s thinking about me.

Vegas lets me sleep in the morning, and has dinner ready when I get home.

Vegas loves me for who I am and counts the hours until she sees me again.

I love her, too.

If you live in LA, flying into Vegas is the best investment you can make… especially if you’ve ever driven the 4-6 hours it will usually take, as you crawl out of the greater LA area and draft behind semi-trucks that refuse to pass each other along the two-lane Interstate 15.

When you fly into Vegas, you are a pimp. You are The Man. And you have no reason to ever stop drinking before heading home. Just stagger onto the plane, and hold it together for an hour. Before you know it, you’re back in LA’s loving embrace.

This past extended-weekend was St. Patrick’s Day, the end of Spring Break (apparently), and the beginning of NCAA March Madness. And Vegas, motherly figure that she is, handled them all.

My friend Jules and I started the weekend sitting in the middle of a Southwest 737 and toasting my Seven an’ Seven to her Vodka Tonic… at exactly 10:47AM. Less than two hours later we were finishing up lunch with a friend who met us there, and all headed back to our room at Mandalay Bay to charge up for the night.

That’s the thing about Vegas, by the way. Guaranteed that each hotel room has at least three people in it, usually 5.

Rio Buffet. Crab legs. No explanation required.

I love to gamble, but I don’t have particularly deep pockets to do so with. The most I’ve ever brought to lose is $300 (pronounced “three-hundy” when in Vegas, of course). I seek out the $10 Blackjack tables, and the $1/$3 No-Limit Hold ‘Em, and try to win my millions there. This time, I had no chance to play poker, as I was too busy more than doubling my money at 21. The run got so ridiculous, that the guy next to me simply stopped hitting.

It didn’t even matter what the cards were. If he had a 2 and 4, and the dealer showed a King, he’d just wave it on. “Interesting strategy,” I said. “It won’t even matter,” he replied, “She’ll bust.” And she did. Again and again and again. 6 hours, 10 Jack and Cokes, and several hundred dollars later, we all just laughed and laughed and laughed. Somehow, Jayson was able to make discretion the better part of valor, and for the first time I quit when I was very very ahead.

Then there was the club.

Readers, I’ve said so before, but recently I’ve come into my own. I think it’s the fact that I just don’t seem to care anymore. Desperation, or even strong desire, seems to be girl-repellent, and somewhere along the line I’ve lost that. I don’t know if it’s confidence garnered from past success, a zen calm that assures me that it will all work out, or if tab A finally fit into slot B, but things are much easier now, and for someone 31 years old, it’s about time.

I don’t know how long the dancing went on for, but the 10 free Jack and Cokes did absolutely nothing to me until the 1 drink I paid for joined them. And then the second and the third.

At some point, it was 5AM, and so obviously this meant it was time to have dinner for the second time.

By 6AM, I was riding up the elevator to the 16th floor, laughing at myself, and laughing at the swaying guy accompanying me, drinking from a champagne bottle with a straw. Fucking classy.

I didn’t sleep, though. I just lay there looking at pictures and shaking my head bemused. I got up, took a shower, and headed back downstairs where I balanced the paying of my entire trip plus some, to the idea of playing poker for a few hours. I decided to leave Vegas with money in my pockets this time. After some effort, I convinced my friends to go with me to my favorite place in all of Vegas. The Peppermill, where I fell in love with Sylvia, the hostess from Bulgaria.

More stuff happened, more pictures were taken. I’ll post them eventually. I rolled into bed at 10PM, a solid 39 hours since the last time I’d slept, and lay my head down for the sleep of the angels.

I had two thoughts upon waking this morning:

>1:. A quote created itself and floated through my head, “Tomorrow is today’s epilogue and yesterday’s echo.”

Ummm, huh?

2:. It’s weird how when you’re lying on your back in bed reading and you pull your knees up to form a triangle with your legs, that sometimes your feet are _____ enough to stay in place, while other times they are too ______ and your feet immediately slip back down the bed.

And that’s how I started my day.

.: For some reason, a recent post is referenced on some drug's sleep apnea and insomnia site. Which I think is funny. But then not so funny 'cause it ain't like I'm getting paid for it.

Homer: Your honor? I’d like to sue the producers of “Police Cops” for twenty million dollars for improper use of my name.

Judge: Court finds in favor of “Police Cops”. Next case.

Homer: [shuffles papers] Then I’d like to legally change my name!

Judge: What name would you prefer?

Homer: Any of these will be fine.

Judge: Hmm. “Hercules Rockefeller”. “Rembrandt Q. Einstein”. “Handsome B. Wonderful”. Huh, I’m going to give you the only name you spelt correctly. From this day forward, your name shall be …[cut to a shot of Lisa, reading from a sheet of paper on the Simpsons’ couch]

Lisa: “Max Power“?

Homer: Dynamic, isn’t it?

Bart: I love it, Max.

Marge: You changed your name without consulting me?

Homer: That’s the way Max Power is, Marge. Decisive. Uncompromising! And rude!

Abe: Oh, wait a minute. The family name is my legacy to you. I got it from my father, and he got it from his father, and he traded a mule for it! And that mule went on to save Spring Break!

Marge: But this will be so confusing! The mailman won’t know what to do. Did you think of the mailman at all before you did this?

Homer: Yes, briefly.

Marge: And what about the tattoo on my you-know-what?

Homer: Oh, Honey, they have acids that can burn that off.

Marge: But I fell in love with Homer Simpson! I don’t want to snuggle with “Max Power”!

Homer: Nobody snuggles with Max Power. You strap yourself in and feel the “G”s!

Marge: Oh, Lord.

Homer: And it doesn’t stop in the bedroom. Oh, no. I’m taking charge! Kids, there’s three ways to do things. The right way, the wrong way, and the Max Power way!

Bart: Isn’t that the wrong way?

Homer: Yeah, but faster!

As I alluded to in the last post, I’m going to Vegas this weekend. And I intend to do so the Max Power way. My co-conspirator, Jules, apparently agrees as she sent me this itinerary:

Agenda:
Friday

1050am Print your boarding pass.

Saturday

845am: You come over to my place and we drive to the Parking Spot together. We can take my car you or yours. Doesn’t matter.
915am: Go through security
1000am: Julie takes call from girlfriend from France
1035am: Jump on plane
1050am: Take-off
1115am: 2 Amstel Lights please
1140am: 2 Vodka Tonics please
100pm: Jump in a cab to Mandalay
120pm: Grab lunch and continue to drink until check-in time
300pm: Check-in and take a nap
500pm: Get ready for an evening of gambling and boozing
fin

There will be stories.

I woke up this morning and I didn’t know where I was or what day it was. I didn’t recognize my apartment as my apartment and I didn’t recognize Friday as Friday. I sat straight up in bed like a robot and just stared at the wall for a while, thinking furiously. “What day is it?” I said outloud to no one, because sometimes I sleep alone. “Is it fucking Friday? Or is it Saturday?”

“Is it Saturday?” I repeated. If it was Saturday, I was about to either be very pissed or very excited. If it was Saturday and it was still the early morning, then I would be excited as I still had time to get up, throw a few things in my bag, and fly to Vegas like I planned. If it was Saturday and it was the afternoon then I would be pissed because I’d missed my flight and had dashed my plans.

I groped for my cellphone and saw that it was 6:25 AM. Why the fuck was I up so early? Again?! But at least I didn’t miss my flight.

I looked a little closer and saw that it was Friday as well. “Well hell,” I said outloud to no one again, “what was all the excitement for?”

Since I lost it in the fire, I haven’t used an alarm clock to get up in the morning. I bought a cheap one on one of my replacement trips to IKEA, but I’ve almost never had the occasion to use it. Granted, I’ve set it from time to time, but I always wake up before it. I’m not really sure, in fact, what the alarm sounds like.

And this was months ago. I haven’t used an alarm clock for something like 3 and a half months now, and it bothers me to no end. Not because I miss the opportunity to be rudely awakened, but because that means that I wake up entirely too early, no matter what time I go to bed. For a while, the magic hour was on or about 7:30, which was fine as that was when I woke up regularly anyway. It bothered me a bit that it started to happen on weekends as well, but at least I was getting an early start on a relaxing day. For the last month, though, it’s been on or about 6:30, with the 7:30’s still sprinkled in for flavor. I have absolutely no reason to get up that early and I usually end up lying in bed reading to eat up the time before I “really” get up. It sucks.

And it doesn’t matter what time I go to bed, either. Fall asleep at 10? 6:30. Fall asleep at 3AM? 6:30.

This is just another footnote in the long list of weirdness that is Dave’s Insomnia. And it may have something to do with why I didn’t know where or when I was this morning.

This is exactly why Jay Leno is a punk bitch

Jay Leno Apologizes to Offended Viewer

LOS ANGELES – Jay Leno knows that comedy means sometimes having to say you’re sorry. After Leno’s “Tonight Show” aired a sketch that compared Vice President
Dick Cheney’s hunting accident to a 2003 videotaped shooting outside a Los Angeles courthouse, he received a letter of complaint from a viewer.

>Wendy Brogin, a friend of shooting victim Gerald Curry, wrote to Leno condemning the recent sketch as offensive and asking him to “do the right thing relative to this matter.”

Within days, Leno responded with a phone call that greatly impressed Brogin, the Daily News of Los Angeles reported Tuesday.

The journalist has it wrong, comedy never means having to say you’re sorry. At least not edgy, balls to the wall comedy that’s ground-breaking and revolutionary. Richard Pryor never said he was sorry, George Carlin never said he was sorry, even Eddie Murphy never said he was sorry though he started to look like he was when he started making movies like Dr. Doolittle.

I know I live in LA, and I am therefore obligated to bow to the Shrine of Leno, but I just don’t. I’ve never been much of a fan of Jay, and there’s a reason for it.

I can’t remember what it is, though.

Oh yes:

He’s not funny.

The main reason, besides the fact that he’s milquetoast, is his delivery:

“Why’d the chicken cross the road?”
[pause to laugh at punchline before telling it]
“To get to the other side!”
[laugh at your own joke some more. Double over from difficulty of breathing due to your own hilarity]
“To GET TO THE OTHER SIDE!”
[laugh]
“Kevin! Did you hear that? The chicken wanted to get to the other side of the street! To get to the other side!”
[laugh. repeat punchline ad nauseum]

You think I’m joking, but watch Leno tonight. If he repeats a punchline (and he will), you owe me a dollar.

The other reason I don’t like Jay Leno (besides, again, because of how he’s not funny), is that he’s a fucking thief. It’s a well-known fact that all comedians steal material. It’s also a well-known fact that these comedians are pussies.

The truly funny comics are innovators. They come up with stuff and say things that no one ever would have thought of; or didn’t have the bravery or the timing to pull it off. Most of all, though, the really original comics don’t shank stuff from other people; especially when they are so hugely popular.

Jay Walking? Howard Stern
The Homeless game? Howard’s
His funny announcer who ambushes red-carpet celebrities? Stern!

It’s just sad.

And now he’s apologizing to individual people because his comedy insulted someone? I’d understand him apologizing for his comedy, but saying you’re sorry that someone got their feelings hurt?

There are two incontrovertible facts in this world:
1. There’s no crying in baseball, and
2. There’s no “I’m sorry” in stand-up.