Wednesday, May 03, 2006

You don't need to tell me 

All I ever talk about anymore on this dumb page is the freakin' Lakers. So what?

Hey, check it out, in lieu of being shut out of the advanced Borat movie screening, I watched the entire series of Freaks and Geeks over three days last week. That show is (was) great. Favorite character is probably Bill. I now see what all the buzz is about.

I have absolutely no intention of seeing Mission Impossible III (call it a lack of interest) or rather Tom Cruise terrifies young actresses hoping to jumpstart their careers by cornering them with the Lords of Xenu. Tonight, though, friends and I came across a happy little show on the Food Network called "Catering Impossible 3." I kid you not, it was about the guys who ran the catering truck on the set of the movie. Thank you, Food Network, for making me feel that much closer to Hollywood.

I wish I could take more leisurely drives to the beach on weekday afternoons, but gas costs roughly the annual salary of an immigrant field worker. I mean, I spent over $40 on my last tank. I don't know what to do with myself.

I went to an after-hours joint this past Saturday in the downtown area called "House of M." It's a sort of Japanese lounge/speakeasy type of place where drinking scotch, smoking cigarettes, and playing piano are encouraged. It's members only, too. One of the guys in our group ordered a pack of Marlboro Lights and when the elderly Japanese lady saw that she had run out of them, she went to the nearest convenient store and bought him a pack. Free of charge! Service! When I asked the guy in our group who was a member (and was able to get us into the joint) how he became a member, he simply replied, "I don't know. I just kept on coming by." You better believe I was taking notes because this whole "membership" thing sounds complicated.

A couple weekends ago, some friends and I were leaving a wedding en route for the Metro (yes, we were the best dressed people on that train). On the way there, a girl that had tagged along with us got caught at the wrong end of the intersection after several of us had crossed and she had to wait for the light to change before she could join us on the other side. In typical fashion, I booed her mercilessly and yelled, "GO BACK TO RUSSIA!" I was informed seconds later that she actually is a Russian immigrant. Needless to say, my face was red. When the girl finally caught up with us, I immediately apologized for maybe possibly perhaps being out of line.
"I didn't know you were Russian," I insisted.
"Well, ugh, do I look American?"
What? You mean overweight and willfully ignorant? The answer to her question, by the way: yes. Everyone looks fucking American! Unless they're Asian or brown, of course... but everyone else!

I've been goofing off on Youtube.com far too much, recently. These last few days have been a veritable Youtube/Wikipedia bonanza. You can spend endless amounts of time on both sites. It's dangerous. The internet is dangerous.

Over the past month, aside from the playoffs, The Sopranos is the only show I've made time for on a regular basis. I'm glad that the next four weeks provide new episodes of Lost.

Without getting too into it (because it's funnier this way), my brother got a summons for jury duty and is now afraid that he might be deported. He obviously won't, but I'll be sure to let you know if he does.

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