floorpie

By now, everyone knows how our Vice President goes around shooting people (78 year-old Harry Whittington, for instance) that disagree with his Iraq policy. That’s old news. The one thing in the article, though, that I found hilarious was the following:

Whittington sent word through a hospital official that he would not comment.

Wait, he commented that he would not comment? No, that can’t be right… he declined to comment by sending word that… wait. I’m so confused.

I get periodic reports of what The People are searching for on my site. Usually, it’s someone’s name that thinks I might have written about them (most likely, I HAVE written about you… I just almost never use names -Ed.), or some kind of porn reference, or something completely apropos of nothing like Bobby trendy. I loved the Anna Nicole Show as much as anyone did… but I’m fairly certain I never wrote about Bobby.

At any rate, I copy the searches, from time to time, to see just what The People may have found. After trying “bobby trendy” (no references), I succumbed to narcissism and started reading a few of my old entries.

Shortly after 9.11, I had one of the most surreal and chilling conversations I had ever had with my parents. In summary, they were thinking of getting a gun for protection. I’m not at all against guns, but this totally disturbed me. Something about the visual of my mom shooting someone’s head off, I guess.

>Anyway, what cracked me up is the transcript of an IM conversation I had with a friend of mine a few days later; and, because I’m so vain, I’m going to recycle it (note, I’m Lion-o, and yes I realize how dorky that is… but you gotta admit you. love. it.):

voltron says: you’re mom is gonna buy a gun…. sweeeeet
Lion-O says: scary, huh?
voltron says: definitely a shotgun
voltron says: …with sawed off handle and barrel of course
Lion-O says: naturally
voltron says: tell em to get an AK
Lion-O says: I was thinking grenade launcher
voltron says: all the kids have em….they’re in
voltron says: yeah… but then you have to like set it up and drop them in….you might not have time for all that
Lion-O says: you could if you sleep with it
voltron says: i dont think your mom could handle a shotgun
voltron says: they are clunky and heavy
voltron says: she needs to take advantage of her agility….
voltron says: go for the glock 21…… or sig sauer
Lion-O says: right, and her innate Asian kung-fu style
voltron says: ..it never hurts to have some shuriken tucked away in the pockets…
Lion-O says: true true
voltron says: they can be used very effectively with smoke balls
Lion-O says: wait, I’m writing this down… smoke balls…

Look, wherever it is you live in America right now, it’s better here in LA. I’m sorry that I had to tell you that, but it’s just reality, so it’s best if you just accept it. Gravity keeps your feet stuck to the ground. Time seems to keep marching forward. Bush is ruining America. It’s better in LA than anywhere else in the country. These are all just facts.

Today it was 80 degrees F in LA. The sun was shining, the palm trees were swaying in a gentle breeze humming Beach Boys tunes, surfers strolled down the boulevards boards in hand, and bikini-clad women did jumping jacks along the 405.

In Washington D.C. it was 36 degrees, mostly cloudy, and Bush ate some homeless babies that he bought with your tax dollars.

You can’t argue with the evidence.

Unfortunately, instead of spending the morning surfing like I wanted to, I spent it touring the post office of Venice looking for my mail.

Was it at the post office where I had my mail forwarded to a PO box while my apartment was being worked on? No.
Was it at the other post office less than a mile away that was apparently the main station for my neighborhood? No.
Was it at the “carrier building” another fraction of a mile away where my mail is apparently sorted prior to delivery? Yes and no.

Well, actually no and no.

You see, I had cleverly put a temporary forward on my mail to the aforementioned PO box while my apartment was being ripped apart and rebuilt from the fire. I foolishly thought that 3 months would give Them plenty of time, and that my mail could simply revert back to my original address at that point. Little did I know that 3 months would barely scratch the surface of what I still contend is a f’ing 3 WEEK job.

So, my mail carrier, once given the go-ahead to start re-delivering my mail to my apartment, found it apparently abandoned and in shambles, and has had the last 3 weeks or so of my mail sent back to sender.

The more astute of you will immediately realize why this is more of a problem than usual. It has nothing to do with bills or anything; I’m composed of 85% internet, so I laugh at paper bills. Doing some quick higher math, however, you’ll realize that it is the beginning of February, and that 3 weeks before now means that I haven’t been gettin gmail from around the middle of January to the end. All of your (and my) tax stuff gets mailed and delivered in that time. All of that tax stuff that is not internet enabled, and mildly important, especially when you make as little as I do and are desperately hoping for the fat refund.

If I haven’t said so before, let me say so now: if given the opportunity, maybe don’t let your apartment burn down. It’s a major pain in the ass.

I just gave myself a mild shock by accidentally clicking the headline for U.S Citizen May be Handed Over to Iraqis:

The U.S. government wants an Iraqi court to prosecute an American citizen who is being held in Iraq on suspicion that he is a senior operative of insurgent leader Abu Musab al-Zarqawi.

The man’s lawyers said he is innocent and likely to be tortured if handed over.

instead of Conan O’Brien Set to Travel to Finland:

“Late Night” host Conan O’Brien has joked that no one watches his talk show. That’s certainly not the case in Finland, where he has become an unlikely cultural icon — and soon a visiting one.

The quirky, self-deprecating NBC host, along with a camera crew, will visit the Nordic country next week. He’ll meet with newly elected Finnish President Tarja Halonen and receive an award on Feb. 14 at the Telvis Awards in Helsinki for being “the most surprising and entertaining TV personality in Finland.”

like I meant to.

I actually physically recoiled and made a little “Gah!” sound. What does this say about me, you ask?

Nothing good.

Yesterday, driving down Wilshire, ADG and I passed each other heading in opposite directions (a metaphor for our lives?); which serves to illustrate that, for as big as LA is, it’s also incredibly small.

Yes, there were minor heart palpitations. Why wouldn’t there be? We were together for a good amount of time.

Better, though, was the pre-Grammy party sponsored by my company. The setting was the private home of a (presumably) incredibly rich sculptor who rented out his home for US$20k… for three days. It was this amazing converted warehouse just outside of downtown LA and was exactly the type of place I dream of living in.

It certainly beats, at any rate, a two-bedroom loaner apartment with next to no furntiture.

Also, three words: open bar.

Also, a few more words: an incredibly hot girl working the party that was kind enough to keep bringing me drinks and food. Of course, this isn’t what she really does, you see; acting is what pays the bills, and music is her passion. She’s really a singer, when she’s not in Bacardi commercials, and yeah let me call you when we play next week.

Fingers crossed.

Whatever the outcome, though, it was fun getting there.

This weekend was the Super Bowl or whatever. I’m not that in to football, just as much as is required by the Guy Rules. I have a favorite team, I know the rules, I watch a few games a year, and I can talk the talk. It’s just that, for the most part, football is f’ing boring. There’s a lot of waiting around, a lot of time between plays, a lot of lame commercials, and a lot of really who-the-fuck-cares statistics.

In short, football ain’t no basketball.

Besides, everybody know that the Super Bowl is not at all about football. The Super Bowl is about hanging out with friends, BBQ’ing, drinking and laughing your ass off.

It is also, on occassion, about making out with hot chicks.

But mostly the friends thing, which is what I did. I saved the making out with hot chicks for the night after the Super Bowl.

And as long as we’re talking about crazy-freaky shit, try this on for size. Before we all left, my friend and his wife had an announcement. All the single guys reading this just gulped because they know exactly what that means, and they’re right. One of my best friends is going to be a DAD!

For a guy who went out with a beautiful girl the night before, I’m awfully somber.

Though I know why.

Because I played golf today, which I don’t do, and I therefore sucked at it completely. Which I hate. Not sucking at golf, in particular, sucking at anything is what I hate. Just like you. And the thing is, I’m human, which means that I suck at a good lot of things, I just generally try to avoid those things and save myself the embarrassment.

And that is why I am not a kajillionaire. Cause I would suck at it. I’d be all bloated on my own sense of real, monetary worth, actually buying and selling countries just because I could, like a total prick. I would hate myself.

And who wouldn’t? I would buy these countries, fuck up their economies by turning their major export into coffee mugs with my mug on them (and I’d laugh every time I told that joke, which would be often. My minions would be forced to laugh, of course, that being their job; but one day I would meet this stunningly gorgeous woman who wouldn’t put up with any of my shit and she wouldn’t laugh. I would suddenly realize what a major a-hole I had been for years, and my whole life would suddenly be meaningless), change their names to U.S. of Daaaaave, and then sell them back to Russia for a loss. Just because I could.

It would be ugly. So I think I’ll just become a multi-millionaire, which I think I could handle fairly well with class and dignity. I’d even contribute regularly to charity, and would be beloved by all. “That Dave,” they’d say, “he’s one kick-ass multi-millionaire!”

I’m not down because I sucked at golf today.

I’m down because I’m addicted to attention and the fact that I had a date with a hot girl the night before doesn’t sustain me through even an entire weekend.

That’s all true, but it’s not why I’m down.

I’m down because I’m still in this fucking loaner-apartment with only my bed and a chair, no fridge, no microwave, no TV, and with my life on hold waiting for my burned-out apartment to be fixed already so I can get the rest of my stuff back from the insurance company and get on with my life, pathetic or not, for chrissakes.

I’m 1,000 years old with a real job, my own car, many leatherbound books, and stuff that smells of rich mahogany and I’m living like less than a college student. I’m like a college student that can’t even pull it together enough to steal cinderblocks and 2×8’s from a construction site to put my crappy Yorx stereo and older brother’s records on (do they even make Yorx stereos anymore? Those were the days -Ed.).

I’m like a college student who was so lame he got caught swiping milk crates from the back of the supermarket and so instead his shoes, and underwear are in a big pile at the bottom of his closet, covered with dirty clothes, rendering the two indistinguishable.

Which reminds me: before my place burned down I had my own washer/dryer, which, in retrospect, I friggin’ loved. Now, I have to gather quarters like a chump and waste a night standing in front of a laundromat dryer trying to put on a face like I really do have a party at the Playboy mansion to get to, but I’m just so down with being cleanly for the ladeez that this is a necessity. And that’s why I’m wearing Power Rangers sweats. And flip-flops. With beanie and a T-shirt that says, “I’m with stupid” but there’s no arrow because it’s meant to be directed at myself.

And that’s what I’m down about.