Me and Fausto, Down By the Lumber Yard

Well I can kiss that last job opening goodbye. Because of the vast amount of copying-and-pasting I've been doing on my craigslist binge, I replied to an admin. assistant job an an investment firm by telling them in my cover letter "... and I would be excited to be a part of your fast-paced tutoring company". And, of course, the skill set they are looking for highlighted 'attention to detail'.

Job hunting is kind of like recess in elementary school when you are lining up to play kickball. At first you are hoping that the good captain picks you, and maybe you can play first base. But then after a few rounds of drafting, you think to yourself, maybe it doesn't matter which team I get on. And then as you stand there timidly next to the kid with crutches and the only girl, you just start praying to God Himself. Oh please let me not be last! I don't care what team drafts me anymore, I really don't! First base? I'll take right field, hell, I'll even catch. Oh Jesus, there goes the girl, now it's just me and the handicapped kid. What if I don't get picked at all, is that even possible! I was just kidding about first base! HAHA, I can't even catch that playground ball without spraining my wrists! I can't handle this kind of rejection, NOOOOOOO - there goes hop-along. Fuck it, I'm gonna go join the nerds and play Magic.

And now here I am, twenty years later, thinking the same thing about a job. It started at writer's assistant. Then it was just anything in the entertainment industry. Now it's just anything in the assistant industry. Soon I'm going to be lined up next to the Mexicans at Home Depot, hoping for an under the counter landscaping job. Damnit, there goes Pedro. Is it just me and Fausto! He can't even speak english!

zzzzz...

I'm writing this entry crouched over my computer which is placed on a 2-foot high couch end-table, sitting in an old desk chair depressed to its lowest possible height setting, with a alarmingly cluttered mound of my belongings to my left and the futon (my bed) to my right. All my earthly possessions in about 20 square feet. Living the dream. And my back hurts.

But Wednesday is a big day. I move in to a place with a dude named Tassa (South African) in Santa Monica, which brings me dangerously close to the beach. So close, in fact, that I might have to suffer through endless nights of sea-breeze related injuries and maladies. I also start one of my classes. One which has a couple prerequisites, which I have - in no way or form - taken. I'm too tired write more now, but more updates and stories to follow. I have to finish my review of the Chevy Silverado 1500, before I get fired from the only source of employment I have. There's a very fine line between living the dream and dreaming the life. You just gotta have good balance.

OMG PATRICK DEMPSEY!!!!

omg every1, i just sers. freaked out bc i was on the abc lot today visiting bff andy, and guess who i totally jst saw! mcdreamy! for sers!!

like i am totally frkng-out rt now. lol!iI think he evn looked at me!!! ;) he could stufy my greys anatomy.

and i was tttly eating a tuna snwch when i saw him, and wz like, LMIRL! and then i wz like, we R in RL! OMG - LOL!!! and my mouth was full of tuna, and i spat everywhere. i almst choked!:( good thing he's MD!! :o

bet you wish you were there, i just wntd to tell him how I love his hair ;) and in season 2 - ep 4 when he almst died, i tttly stopped eating fr a week!!! I wz getting sups fat anyway.

OMG PATRICK DEMPSEY!!!

loving h-wood - kisses!

20 inch Rims On My Honda Civic

L.A. = Land of Accessories.

Everything out here is customizable. Cars, hair, clothes, rims, dogs, dog's clothes, you name it.

In truth, all these things are customizable everywhere else as well, but it seems that only LA has realized the full potential of self-expression through accessories. Knee-high socks say that you are a skateboarder, crazy hair and tight clothes mean that you are a hipster, 20" rims mean that you are a bad-ass, and accessorizing your hand with another guys hand while walking down the street means you're gay... I think.

It's not an exact science, and I'm still trying to piece it all together. If you think that I'm joking about the gay guys holding hands, you should have been there a couple nights ago when Andy, Alex (Taylor's boyfriend) and I were walking back from a restaurant. Four guys came out of the shadows holding hands in a row with, what seemed like, full intention to clothesline all three of us with the power of the WWF superstar tandem - The Rainbow Four. I wasn't sure whether to call 'red rover', or drop the People's Elbow, so we ended up scattering o avoid a Jets-Sharks type altercation.

But don't worry mom, I'm safe. What I haven't figured out yet, is why they get those tiny little white Yorkie terriers buckled into tiny little camo vests. Graham, if you are reading this, you are either white-knuckled with anger, or laughing hysterically. Either way, take a deep breath and try to assuage the immediate urge to drop-kick something.

It's My Party And I'll Cry If I Want To

If somebody told Salvador Dali to create a city by combining San Fransisco, Universal Studios, and Tijuana, it would be a dead-ringer for LA. I've had a couple not-so-normal experiences thus far, with a birthday party I went to yesterday taking the cake (I'm not sure if the pun is intended).

Andy was kind enough to invite me to his friends birthday party which was at a state park (wow grass! I haven't seen this stuff for a week!) so I headed over there and met the birthday gang in the section of the park that inhabited the remnants of the old LA Zoo. So we had a couple of picnic tables, covered in plastic happy birthday tablecloths, a grill and some beer, and we were enjoying it all in the old lion's den (I did a quick look-around to make sure they didn't leave any behind). I try not to question things anymore. Grilling in a lions den? Sure, why not?

The birthday celebration for this 25-year old gal included a balloon toss, a three-legged race, and probably a lot of other fun/strangely-immature activities that we never had the chance to get to. The balloon toss went off without a hitch, but my partner and I ended up winning. This was kind of weird for me because I saw that she bought gifts for the winners to pick out. So here I am, some random guy that just showed up, and now I'm taking her party favors. I considered, for a second, grabbing my silly-putty prize and bolting out of there (Haha! Suckers!). But I didn't. And I made a promise to myself to lose on the first round of the next activity.

In hindsight, I should have run away, because five minutes later, three Park Ranger SUVs screeched up to our den, literally out of nowhere, and unloaded the most vigilantic Park Rangers I have ever seen. Shit, I thought, first weekend in LA and I'm headed to Chino.

I can't tell you how lucky I am that I attended a dry campus in college. My learned and practiced cat-burglar like reflexes came into play as I quickly slid my beer away from myself at the table and adopted a glazed-over 'screw you cops' look on my face.

Captain Fun-kill came up to me and Andy (we were in the middle of a very serious game of ball-twapping with our newly won sticky-hands prizes) and looked me squarely in the eye and pointed to the drink in front of me.

Is this drink yours?

No. (mine was right next to it)

Then he asked Andy the same question. Andy said no. Andy got written up and recieved a court summons for proximity to an open alcoholic container in a state park. There was absolutely no method to this guys madness. But I was safe, so I didn't care as much after that.

I felt really bad for the birthday girl who was in tears at this point, and not because her party was absolutly ruined, but because she had two friends who were trying to argue legal rights with the park rangers, armed with iPhones and a stubborn tenacity embued by two-to-three Coors Lights.

So as the party was divided into two groups; one getting citations for drinking liquor, and the other waiting for this all to finish up because they were better liars, and the birthday girl crying in the consoling arms of her boyfriend, I had the sudden urge to start singing.

Haaaaapppyy Birthday toooo yoouuuuu....

Palm Trees and Pomeranians

So I made it in one piece. The sun is bright, the weather is hot, and I don't know much else because I haven't left the apartment yet. My knowledge of LA is primarily, but not solely, limited to my google maps experiences.

Things I have learned so far in LA.

1) There are an insane amount of stoplights.
2) They always turn red right before I get to them, making me slam on my brakes.

That's about it so far, but I'll keep you updated as I learn the city more. My only adventures thus far have been battling the ever-powerful craiglist. The problem with the LA craigslist is that, being in such a big city, the apartments go really fast. If you don't reply to someone within 24 hours of their posting, forget about it. Hi, excuse me, I saw that you just posted a room for rent, and I... it's already taken?....How is that possible? you just posted it five minutes ago... no, I'm not a female anyway.

Thats another thing. EVERYONE is looking for a female roommate. Give me another week of futile cragslisting, and I am going to change my name to Svetlanka and say I am a Russian body-builder with a high testosterone level. What, are they going to check my genitals? If it's in West Hollywood, probably.

I'm still a little jet-lagged and still very much culture-shocked, so my levels of wit and story structure are a little lacking. I'll leave you with Zach Galifianakis's favorite joke.

Guy goes to the doctor, and the doctor says, "Sir, you've got to stop masturbating." And the guy was like, "Why?" And the doctor says, "So I can examine you."

Coast2Coast

Zodiac, Shmodiac

So I'm a Virgo, and I actually find that I am embarrassed by it. My birthday falls on August 23rd, so I am on the 'cusp'. But Virgo sounds so much like 'virgin', I can't help but but be wary of the connotation's strength. So I always say "Oh, I'm a Leo, but I'm on the cusp" (I make sure I chuckle heartily and do something 'manly' - like punch someone - when I say this), when in reality I'm just afraid to tell someone that I've been predestined to never get laid. I have been! I swear! Plus, Leo sounds a lot cooler.

All the other signs sound cool. Sagittarius, Pisces, Gemini, Taurus, Escort, Windstar.

Except Cancer. That one kind of sucks too.

-What are you?
-Oh, I'm a Cancer.
-A cancer on what? society?
-No, that's my sign.
-Oh, I'm sorry. At least you aren't Virgo.

Taurus gets the powerful bull, Leo is the brave lion, Capricorn is a... umm, a sea-goat, Cancer is the slightly creepy side-stepping crab, and Aquarius is a 'water-carrier', which sounds pretty lame (and laborious) but the 5th Dimension wrote a sweet-ass song about them. But I'd take any of them over Virgo - our song is by Madonna.

If us Virgos are going to have to live with this damned appellation, we might as well have a vote in who our mascot should be. And if it's going to be a virgin, I think that there is only one clear choice.



P.S. next post will be brought to you in Pacific Time...

Tim Allen The Science Guy

The internet has practically taken over my life; it's quite scary. I have websites I browse for news, entertainment, sports, and anything else you could think of (that's right, I said anything). I also have quite a few go-to websites that I use in case of emergency*.

*emergency: (n)

1.	a sudden, urgent, usually unexpected occurrence or occasion requiring immediate action.

2. when I have a lot of stuff to do and need to procrastinate to prevent anything from actually happening

Some of these are located in my blogroll to the right under 'Fellowship Of The Blog'. Others are random sites like msnbc, and fasterskier.com. So one really, really busy day, I was on youtube watching a particular episode of Inside The Actors Studio with James Lipton (nothing kills an afternoon like nine-part youtube clips) and I saw that Tim Allen's episode had been uploaded. After seeing almost every episode of Home Improvement, I was excited to get to see the real side of the Tool Man. What was it like? Answer: Depressing as hell.

He is riddled with issues and guilt, and as some celebrities tend to do, he used James Lipton as a very public therapist. He did say something, however, that piqued my interest. Tim wrote a book called I Am Not Really Here in 1996, which is - get ready for this - the Toolman's attempt at Quantum Physics. Oh, but with some humor thrown in too. In the interview, he claimed that he wasn't actually standing there, and that none of us where actually here either. Crazy? Maybe. But with this particle collider getting warmed up over at CERN right now, and my penchant towards philosophy and physics, my curiosity was instantly piqued.

I'm not really sure what I expected when I grabbed a book from the shelf that had a comedian holding forward a photoshopped picture of a atom. Enlightenment?

Anyway, the book, like most academic papers, meanders back and forth from his research to comical reasons as to why women (like photons and muons) are always rushing about from place to place.

I actually had genuine interest in the book and his forays into quantum mechanics, but couldn't get past his TERRIBLE transitions. The man was a standup comedian, so I can see where he got it, but the editor should have known better.

So as I stood there waiting for my shower to warm up, it reminded my of how it takes a while for a woman to warm up to a man, coincidentally, the same laws apply in the world of quanta!!

Jeesh. Lesson? Get your comedy from comics, and you science from scientists. And if you're really, really busy, get your procrastination here.


I don't think so, Tim
-Al Borland

These Aren't Fantasies, These Are Options

Meet Chris McDaniel. The Boy Wonder. The Star Wars Kid. Possibly even Jesus Reincarnate.

I'm going to come right out and say this first: I just bought another deck of magic cards at Newbury Comics. There. It's out there.

Now I just want you to get over that fact, and appreciate with me, that I got a Magic: The Gathering Pro Player Trading Card with my deck. And my pro player is Chris McDaniel.

I mean, just look at that steely scowl. That imposing stature, and those deep penetrating eyes that you know, deep down, are asking you to teach him how to talk to girls. Who wouldn't want one of these cards?

On the back of the card it gives the players stats and a bio that tries ever-so-hard to make them sound bad-ass. The best they could come up with was that his nickname is the Star Wars Kid. Oh well. He has $25,000 in winning so far, so I can't laugh too hard. But I can still laugh. Picture him posing at Topps, next to Terrell Owens...

Since I am leaving soon, I try to spend more time with the brohams, and that usually means playing magic. It is all-inclusive (no athletic handicap), it's easy to set up, it's competitive (important), and it pisses the hell out of my mom when we don't do anything but play cards all day. All pluses!

On the back of my Pro card it has an 'action' picture. Which looks about as ridiculous as it sounds. Chris's still has him slouching in a chair and tossing a do-you-know-who-I-am look over at his opponent. They don't show it, but I would be willing to bet they are sitting at a foldable card table in a dingy high school gym, surrounded by an acne level so high, that Neutrogena reps flew in all the way from Norway.

What this card has given me, besides a good laugh, is the seed for a new dream. A seed that, if planted, might blossom into a glorious new career.

Happy 100th Blog!

Hi Ya'll

I would like to invite you to share in my 100th blog celebration! I had a speech prepared, but I can't find it right now. Hold on, I think I found it. No, that's just a receipt. Well, it went something like this.

I could not have gotten here without all of your help. Thanks to countless hours of boring work, boring Boxborough, Itunes, my comfy chair, and my 15-30 anonymous readers per day! None of this would be possible without you. In actuality, the blog was intended as a satirical-picture website upon its conception. Here are a couple of samples from when I started it in 2006.

http://seeandsigh.blogspot.com/2006/12/mi-casa-es-su-casa-mexican-congress.html

http://seeandsigh.blogspot.com/2007/11/amid-turmoil-devastation-man-finds.html

The URL 'seeandsigh.blogspot.com' was a description of my reaction whenever I read a slightly clever pun, but it wasn't quite funny enough to laugh at. I also titled it Iron-E because I couldn't think of anything better to put up there. If my name was Eric, or Edmund, or Zach Effron, it would have been a lot more clever.

After about a week, my interest subsided and I didn't pick it back up until a year from then when I boredom-induced vertigo would hit me so frequently at work, I would just arrive in the morning with crutches so I would survive the day without collapsing of ennui.

You're exaggerating, you saying. Nobody has that much free time at work. Oh yeah? I wrote a trilogy about how I bought my alarm clock last February. Go ahead, check the archives.

Seriously, THANKS for reading, and I hope that the blog gets even more entertaining (like that's possible!) in a week when I make like Fievel and move out west.

Music starting to play...

Oh crap. I'd also like to thank my HP, blogger.com... um... I wish I had that damn paper.

Music playing louder...

Oh here it is! Welcome to the 100th blog, I'd like to take this short time to th-

Britain's Beastie Boy

See I reckon you're about an 8 or a 9,
Maybe even 9 and a half in four beers time.
That blue top shop top you've got on IS nice,
Bit too much fake tan though - but yeah you score high.

But there's just one little thing that's really really,
Really really annoying me about you you see,
Yeah yeah like i said you are really fit
But my gosh don't you just know it

-Mike Skinner (The Streets)

I can't figure it out. I have listened to The Streets album over and over in my car for about three weeks now. And I have no idea why. The beat is manufactured, I don't understand half of what he says, and the lyrics are really bad. In fact, they aren't lyrics, really. It's basically a story that is told over a beat. Sometimes I wonder if he even hears the beat.

So what is it? What makes me keep listening to a song about waiting at a club for a girl, or about this guy hitting on a girl, or another one about him complaining about his girl? It's not his lyrical diversity, that's for sure. Maybe it's some inner desire to understand the blue-collar rebellious youth of Birmingham, England. Maybe it's my perverse interested in seeing how far rap can travel from its original roots. Or maybe, being a white dude, I'm just displaying Wes Welker Syndrome (cheering for the only white guy in a situation where he is the minority [it never happens, so we try to celebrate our newfound underdog-ness]). You ever watch the track events at the Olympics, and see the single white guy standing at the starting blocks for the 100m finals? You just look down and shake your head, don't you. We appreciate your effort dude, but we all know what's gonna happen. 5th? Nobody blames you.

I digress.

So it took me three weeks of listening to this seemingly ill-communicating Birmingham 'lad' to realize that I liked about him. I liked his honesty.

I liked that he said exactly what he was thinking. I liked how he told his stories in HIS vernacular. And I liked how, in his own way of being so specific and pigeon-holed, he painted a clear vivid picture with most of his songs. Some are rubbish, don't get me wrong. But he said what he wanted to say, he said it in his own way, and he didn't let a little thing like, for example an overabundance of musical talent, get in his way.

If you want musical talent, listen to Outkast, the Roots, Mos Def, hell even Kanye. But Rap, like almost all music, acts as a venue of expression, and Mike Skinner expresses himself flawlessly, and it appears that a lot of people identify with that.

I'll leave you with a sample, and then two more that I like. I'll try to mix it up and be obscure, so don't expect 50 Cent.

I actually like how this music video is different from the original song lyrics that take place in club


Bad-ass BMX-ing mixed with Australian rap... Can it get any better?


And Mos Def, sans cue cards.

MyList

In my search for a life out west, it's important to take a deep breath from time to time, and realize that I cannot control everything. There are forces out there beyond my control that I must yield to, and bid for passage through, in order to truly get settled out there. You may know of what higher power I am speaking of (Hint: It's omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent and Omni-theater).

You guessed it: Craigslist.com. Quite possibly the website with the most life-altering power. It tells you where you can live, who you can live with, where you will work, and if you missed any opportunities to meet that gay guy who was ogling you at the gas station. Being one who has moved my fair share of times, I have ridden the bucks and kicks of the website, and come out on top. So I have compiled a simple list for everyone else.

How to successfully use craigslist:

1) Sacrifice a small animal (hamster/gerbil/jack russell terrier) and use their blood as war paint while doing a shaman dance around your hard drive.

2) Pray in the direction of San Fransisco each morning, afternoon and evening.

3)Never look craigslist directly into the URL. It might attack you.

4) When looking for an apartment:

• Be aware of people looking for renters who are 'cute'. They probably have a few two-way mirrors installed in the house.
• Be aware of landlords that post naked pictures of themselves and their wife, looking for someone to share in their lovely experience. It's not as lovely as you think. Trust me.
  
• Access to highways = under a highway. Access to shopping = in a shopping mall. Access to the beach = underwater.

5) When looking for a job, just keep you head down and plug away. Send out as many resumes as you can, and be prepared not to have any replies. If someone does reply, consider it a scam, and report it to the craigslist authorities.

6) Order craigslistPro! for $39.99.

7) Don't try to find out who Craig actually is. It's a long and dangerous road, that will ultimately get you assassinated.

8) The "2-5k-2" rule for used cars. Add 2 years to its age, 5 thousand miles to its odometer, and 2 mice that have nested in the rear seat cushions/engine compartment.

9) Don't forget to pray.

10) Always close your browser when you are done with craigslist. If left open for more than an hour, it will start posting random items in your room for sale.

If you follow all of these rules, you yourself could be a great craigslist browser one day. Good luck and may the Force be with you.

Northern Departure

So I have recently made the very difficult decision to move to L.A.

After living in Massachusetts, Norway, and Minnesota, L.A. will be more than a departure from the ordinary. It will be a departure from friends, family, seasons, skiing, and an earthquake-free home. There are countless things that I will miss about about the north. And the good thing is, that if I miss them too much, I can always move back.

But, to my anxious, semi-adventurous personality, I need to find out if I can make it as a writer. And it just happens that TV writing gets done in LA.

You know that movie that you've seen about a hundred times, but never finished it? You've seen bits and pieces, but for some reason, never in completion? For me, that movie was High Fidelity. A movie about a complaining, relationship-killing, solipsistic guy living in Chicago. And it wasn't until last month (when I started my rent-and-burn DVD borrowing initiative from the local library) that I finally saw the whole movie through from start to finish.

And as I watched Rob Gordon, drenched in rain (a metaphorical film technique that was beaten like a dead horse in that movie*), ambling from one doomed relationship to another, he poignantly said something that was exactly what I needed to hear.

"I always had one foot out the door, and that prevented me from doing a lot of things, like thinking about my future and... I guess it made more sense to commit to nothing, keep my options open. And that's suicide. By tiny, tiny increments."

One of the truest things I've heard. So off I go, in the hopes that commitment will open more doors than it closes. And for this all to work, all I need is a job, a place to live, and some money to get started in time for classes. In four weeks.


*That could be the first time I've used a double-metaphor.