Sporadic Sporkitudes

Arcade Ragamuffins

2011-12-29T19:32:00.000-08:00

I went mini-golfing yesterday, and it was fabulous as mini-golf tends to be. After the main event, we stuck around to play games at the castle-themed arcade (sidebar, why are mini-golf places always shaped like castles? Did they used to play mini-golf in medieval times? Were knights lining up to put brightly colored balls into holes in astroturf?). I was never big on video games, but I loves me some skeeball. Skeeball is, as they say, The Shit.

Castles and mini-golf. What's the connection?

But the point of this story is not to recount our nostalgic evening trying recapture our childhood. I bring this up because I witnessed something very disturbing at Sherman Oaks Castle Park. Not one child, but TWO children came up to us and asked us for spare tokens! Like friggin' orphans from Oliver Twist all strung out on Dance Dance Revolution and Cruisin' USA (that's a thing, right?). "Please sir, I'd like some more...tokens!!!!" The nerve of these children! One of which couldn't have been more than five or six. Who taught him that it was ok to go up to total strangers, looking all cute and pathetic and panhandle for another round of Buckshot Something-or-Other?

Ya greedy bastard!

My first thought was, where are their parents? Did they just dump them off at the arcade so they could go have grown-up time (meaning intravenous drug abuse and unprotected sex?) But then it occurred to me that if they had such parents, these children were probably never taught that it was wrong to beg. I just wanted to shake this poor little boy and say, "You want tokens? Get a job and buy your own damn tokens! Because this is Amer'ca, goddammit!" But then I would be the one kicked out and not this charming little vagrant.

I just really love skeeball.

One kid even tried to get into our good graces by offering color commentary as we played a very confusing safari game consisting of shooting at giant spiders and flies (for no particular reason). I was like, dude, occupado! After the game was over, he asked for spare tokens again! This just went against everything I stood for! Especially because those tokens were not cheap. (Even though we got a half-off coupon...)

So the point is, this could potentially be an epidemic! Are America's youth being taught that if you bat your eyes and stick out your lower lip, people will just drop hours of free video game play in your lap? I say NO! Not in my backyard!

Without Hope or Agenda

2011-12-28T19:25:00.000-08:00

The day before Christmas Eve, a vase full of beautiful red roses was delivered to my office. For a brief moment, I entertained the fantasy that they were for me (because I’m a girl and couldn’t help it). Sadly, the envelope was addressed to one of our residents. I dutifully notified her via phone and e-mail of her special delivery. We would be closing early on Christmas Eve, so I wanted to make sure that she received them before the holiday.

These particular roses cost $115. What a waste.

A very beautiful, heart-rending waste.

But the resident never came. The flowers were still sitting on the table when I returned from my mini-vacation four days later. By then they were all wilted and sad looking. I’ve always thought that in theory, flowers are a terrible gift. They inevitably die (plus they’re way overpriced and I don’t believe in wasting money). I still love getting them, though! It’s the thought that counts more than anything, right?

Sad!

When the roses died for real, the office housekeeper threw them away and washed out the vase. She put the card on my desk to give to the resident if she ever came to pick it up. It turns out that the resident had called to see who they were from. She authorized my co-worker to open the card and read it over the phone.

This is what it said:

“_____ Just wanted to say, without hope or agenda, just because it’s Christmas (and at Christmas you tell the truth), to me, you are perfect. Thinking of you and wishing you a Merry Christmas : ) _____”

My cold, crusty heart just melted at that! And if you are a complete loon and didn’t recognize the reference, this guy was quoting a famously heartbreaking scene from the greatest Christmas movie/romantic comedy/anytime movie ever, Love, Actually. I was shocked, SHOCKED I TELL YOU, that none of my co-workers were familiar with it. Once I explained the significance (it basically means that this poor sod is in love with a girl he knows he can never have, but still feels compelled to spill his ever-loving guts out to in one of the sweetest ways possible), they nearly died from estrogen-overload as well! The girl's response to this note was, and I quote, "Oh." Could she be less enthused?

The notoriously frustrating yet sweet scene in question.

The fact that this biznatch must have totally shot him down got me all up in arms. I mean, I don't know this girl or her situation. Maybe she's also married to the guy's best friend like in Love, Actually. Maybe she's a lesbian. Or perhaps she really just doesn't have those feelings for him no matter how much she wishes she did. I also don't particularly care if the guy is a screamingly hideous, soul-sucking bastard (though I highly doubt it if he's willing to quote an uber-chick flick and send roses). All I know is, if I had received those flowers, I would have bolted past airport security with sweeping, epic string music in the background and a crowd of Portuguese townsfolk following me, only to bang on the window of the gate where the guy (who inevitably looks like Sexy Jesus) is getting on the last plane out to America, and start belting, "All I want for Christmas is you!"

Unintentionally stole this from my friend Jess.

The other most frustrating scene in Love, Actually.

Who knows if the resident will ever stop by to claim her empty vase and love note. On second thought, she better not. Otherwise she'll get a punch on the nose from me, having imagined this grand and tragic love story that never was.

A Very Long-Winded Update

2011-11-26T18:17:00.000-08:00

Yes I am aware of how much time has passed and I have multiple bruises from the amount of times I have kicked myself for being lazy and not writing when I really had no excuse because I had plenty of time, energy, and topics and I am now writing this uber-sentence to prove how many words have been bottled up inside of me because I suck at writing even lame little blog entries even though they're really the only writing project I've stuck with because I can't finish anything to save my life and even starting something takes a Herculean effort on my part and I've never been a big fan of Hercules.

Unless he's played by Kevin Sorbo.

*BREATHES.*

So what has Hutch been up to these last several weeks? Well I will update you all in the form of a list: The things I meant to blog about but never got around to!

1. My painful inability to keep anything to myself, especially when it comes to boys I take a shine to. Namely, Sexy Jesus (no, it's not his legal name, but it damn well should be. He's the most attractive man I've ever seen in real life and he bears a striking resemblance to our lord and savior. If our lord and savior moonlighted as a latin-flavored Chippendale's dancer. Now that I would pay big money to see... Sorry I was waiting to see if I was going to be struck with lightening just then. All clear! But seriously, he's like the ridiculously attractive Carl in Love Actually that Laura Linney could totally have tapped and was like, no I have to go hang out with my brother who looks like a lumpy John Cusack and tries to hit me even though I'm trying to get the Pope and/or Bon Jovi to exorcise him, the ungrateful loon!)

"Rock me, rock me, rock me Sexy Jesus!" ~Hamlet 2

Holy Sacrilege...

Long story short, every single one of my co-workers, including the Big Boss Man knows that I am head over heels in love with Sexy Jesus (even though he's married and his wife is going to have a baby. Now I'm really going to Hell). I have got to learn to not blush, giggle, fawn, and in all other ways swoon over this man and any other attractive menfolk that walk through my door. But it's just not possible. Sigh. There's also the Nutcracker (so named because he could crack many-a-walnut with that ass. Not that anyone would want to eat an ass-cracked walnut. But still, impressive, right?), but he has since moved out, much to my chagrin. But everyone knew I had the hots for him too. Why can't I play it cool like Don Draper? Why do I lack any sort of mystery whatsoever?

2. The Downtown Pub Crawl with my UC Irvine/Bordeaux Study Abroad/Vegas Shenanigans girls. We discovered the second greatest Irish pub, called Casey's (A-MAZING, but still not quite as good as Maeve's), and the Library Bar (which is exactly what it sounds like. Super pretentious and hipster-y which we celebrated by drinking grapefruitinis and reading aloud Shakespearean sonnets to complete strangers.) We also unearthed a libation entitled the Pickle Back, which is a shot of Jameson followed by a pickle juice chaser. This made my friend Jessica who did it on a dare, promptly vomit moments later.

Have I mentioned how much I love Irish pubs?

The Pickle Back is not to be confused with the band Nickleback, which sometimes can have the same effect. This night was also momentous because I discovered that I could resolve my hatred of Downtown (most of which stems from difficult and expensive driving, parking, and navigating) by taking the Metro. Who knew? Of course the night ended when we decided to skip the expensive taxi and take the bus back to my friend's place. I must have been pretty drunk if I willingly agreed to take a bus, because not only did we trek super-far to the bus stop, but I did it walking barefoot on the nasty-ass Downtown streets in lieu of wearing my painful heels. Who knows what gnarly things have oozed, splattered, died, or crawled on those sidewalks....Not the smartest thing I've ever done, but at least I wasn't driving!

3. I finally went to an LA Kings Hockey game! I scored a deal on Living Social and it was glorious! Again, I took the Metro, which proved to be an excellent decision. Only we weren't sure exactly where the Staples Center was, so we just followed a group of burly guys in jerseys until we found the place. For a girl from Sacramento, it was super weird to root for the LA Kings. (I've been bred to loathe all Los Angeles-based sports teams, especially those that have the same mascot as my sometimes-beloved basketball team.) I consider myself a Ducks fan, though it's mostly because I love the Mighty Ducks trilogy, and that was the first (and only) game I ever went to.

It's a beautiful thing.

It. Rocked. My. World. I love Canadians. I love big burly Canadians. I love big burly Canadians beating the crap out of each other on ice. Hockey really is the greatest thing ever. Only we lost by three in a shut-out which was kind of embarrassing. Plus, there were no fights. LAME!! But it made for a great date, which was followed by a second visit to Casey's (conveniently within walking distance of the Staples Center!). Yes, I was dating someone for about three weeks (who knew that Plentyoffish would work out after all?), but it just kind of fizzled. No one's fault, but if the chemistry isn't there, you can't force it. But the point is, yay hockey!

4. My 24th birthday on October 15th! (Technically my birthday is October 16th, but since I spent the entire anniversary of my birth regurgitating bile in my very understanding friend's toilet, I'm gonna stick with the 15th). We celebrated with another one of our legendary Sally Tomatoes' visits to Gabe's, the karaoke dive bar extraordinaire since that tradition began on my birthday last year. You should know that I have very strict rules when it comes to drinking. These are my rules and a description of how I broke most of them (here comes a list within a list. Blow your mind just now, did I?):

a) Always eat a big carb-y dinner. I am currently on the South Beach Diet and carbs are in short supply. I didn't have time to grab real food, so I wolfed down a salami sandwich on that thin, round bread that resembles a whole grain hockey puck. It was not enough. And for some reason, I was trying to be good and refused to eat any greasy, starchy french fries that might have absorbed some of the booze and prevented me from tossing my non- existent cookies. (It occurs to me that I talk about vomit way too much on this blog. My apologies.)

b) Make sure you have a ride home. Thankfully my friend Eric took over designated driver duties and drove Stan and myself back to his place to crash. Not literally, because then he wouldn't be a very good designated driver.

c) Never drink sugary drinks. For one thing, they're bad for you. For another, the sugar is what makes you super-hungover. Every single one of my drinks, excluding the tequila shot, was a delicious, sugary catastrophe.

d) Speaking of tequila shots, Never never never ever mix liquors. Pick your poison and stick with it! I learned this lesson the hard way at my brother's wedding where I sample shots of every kind of liquor available at the open bar. But I ended up paying for it in vomit for hours on end afterwards. But since my friends were paying for the drinks, they insisted that I mix an AMF with a White Russian, with a Long Beach Iced Tea, etc. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!

Drinking anything this color is never a good idea.

Audios Motherfucker indeed.

e) Know your limit. I am usually very good at this. I know exactly how much I can handle to feel pleasant, but to avoid getting sick and/or sloppy. No one likes a sloppy drunk girl, even if it is her birthday. I was done, but the DJ who quickly became my best friend after high-fiving me for choosing "18 and Life" by Skid Row, bought me a vodka tonic. I'm a sucker for free drinks, but I should have 'Just Said No.'

f) Drink tons of water before, during, and after drinking booze. This one I actually followed faithfully, but I still was hurting so bad I could barely get out of bed until 5pm on the 16th. Not the best way to spend a birthday.

So that was my birthday. It was totally worth it too, so thanks ladies (and Eric) for the serenades and for not judging me for christening the toilet at Gabe's with low-carb stomach butter!

5. Speaking of my birthday, I got Target gift cards for gifts (always acceptable!) I finally bought myself a real dresser, since I had been using plastic and fabric storage containers for the past 6 years. I had picked it out and put it back for months before finally pulling the trigger. I put it together almost all by myself, a fact that I was super proud of. One month later, the damn thing is completely falling apart. It was expensive too, even with my gift cards. Stupid crappy Target furniture. One day, I'll own things that aren't terrible...

I was so proud when I took this picture.

Future Me laughs derisively at past Me.

6. Halloween and the Monster Massive that Wasn't. My big brother Scott flew all the way down here from Northern California to see Armin Van Buuren ("The World's Number One DJ" according to him as I shrugged in ignorance) perform at Monster Massive in Orange County. My friends have gone to Monster Massive in years past and from what I understand, it's a massive concert/rave/spectacular filled with tens of thousands of bedazzled club kids in crazy/slutty costumes. I was down, even though I didn't know crap about techno music. We were about to leave when we decided to check the website one last time. Monster Massive had been cancelled a few weeks before. Seriously. They never sent an e-mail, they just refunded the money without a word.

See, World's Number One DJ!

Which to me is like being the World's Number One Pole Vaulter.

It's certainly impressive, but it's still not really my thing.

He is rather attractive though, isn't he? No Kevin Sorbo, but still...

So we had to find something to do on a Saturday Halloween Eve in Los Angeles. Seems easy enough, but while there were a myriad of parties, costume balls, and other events of debauchery, all were either sold out, super lame, or really expensive. We ended up going with our back-up plan which was to see DJ Sasha (like the Number Seven DJ in the World, don'tcha know) spin at Club Avalon in Hollywood. I had never been before, but apparently Avalon is, like, super famous. It took us two hours and forty bucks each to get in and from the moment we walked through the door, our ears were assaulted with the loudest, most obnoxious music ever. Did you ever see that episode of How I Met Your Mother with subtitles? It was like that, only worse. There were costumes. And Asian tourists who push you around. I hate to be pushed around, especially when the floor is vibrating so hard my esophagus was shaking. But we had a good time nonetheless. After a while, we walked down Hollywood Boulevard and saw all the crazies out and about at 2am. Many of which were entranced by my shiny, silver, satin, sequined dress (that I bought for South Pacific in 10th grade. Nothing goes to waste in my closet!). That weekend, we fit in trips to the Hollywood Overlook, the Santa Monica Pier and Promenade, The Getty Center, and The Griffith Park and Observatory. Pretty damn good considering Scott was barely here more than 24 hours. It's nice having someone come to visit so you have an excuse to do all the touristy things you never get around to doing when you live here. Plus, Scott and I hadn't hung out just the two of us since I was 13 and he was 23 and he took me to an N Sync concert in San Francisco (what a stellar brother!). By the way, the Getty is the coolest place ever. Go.

7. Thanksgiving Vacation in Foresthill. I actually scored 6 days off in a row and had my first real time off in about a year. I got to go home to Foresthill and jammed literally 10 pounds of fun in a 5 pound bag. There was the Mountain Mandarin Festival (like the orange, not the Chinese), where I saw about eight people I used to know, most of which I tried to avoid, including the mythical Skank who stole my man in high school, that bitch. Then the reunion with my friends I've known since 5th grade and that I haven't hung out with altogether in about 5 and a half years (they have kids now! Weird!) There was also our annual visit to Apple Hill, which is this awesome apple orchard with delicious pies, beautiful views, and cheesy crafts for sale. It's the best way to celebrate my favorite season.

Post-Soggy Turkey Trot.

The morning of Thanksgiving itself, my friend Jenna and I decided randomly to do the Roseville Turkey Trot 5K for charity. Not sure why, since I usually hate running, doing good works, missing the Macy's Parade, and being outside in the rain, but overall it was a fabulous experience that I totally want to do next year! I came in 812th out of 997, badass! The meal afterwards was epic, and pie at my grandma's was even better. I loved being surrounded by the adorable mini-mafia that is my nieces and nephew. We started decorating for Christmas the next morning, before I visited with more of my best friends that I never get to see. Then I flew home and it was back to reality. Or as real as Studio City can get.

8. I guess I'll go ahead and toot my own horn too and announce that I have lost about 36 pounds since August 16th! Toot toot! Turns out that eating healthy and powerwalking every morning is a potent combination. I even survived the terrifying obstacles of my birthday and Thanksgiving, and managed to come out unscathed.

One of these days, I'm hoping to take the iconic,

"Look at how big my pants used to be!" picture.

Normally when I lose momentum, I can't get back on that proverbial horse for another 8 or 9 months. But I refuse to beat myself up about eating pie on Thanksgiving, because you can't deny yourself everything. You can't indulge every craving either. I'm striving for balance and so far it's working. But ask me again in a few months. We'll see. December is going to be a bitch.

9. Oh I almost forgot! I also survived the freaking delicious Sally Tomatoes Formal Dinner Pah-ty (you have to say it with a hoity-toity accent)! Survived as in I was strong enough to eat Dana's monumentally amazing food without going crazy on it. You can read more details and get recipes on her delightful cooking blog here!

So that brings us back to today when I had to fit in nine days worth of work into one since it is now my regular weekend. But at least I got to spend a good hour showing potential transfer apartments to Sexy Jesus (and his pregnant wife who is annoyingly delightful and normal looking so I can't even hate her). If you are still reading this, congratulations! You must have even less to do than me!

Hutch's Vision of the Newsies on Broadway

2011-09-19T10:03:00.000-07:00

The Newsies always has been and will always be my favorite movie of all time. It is my rainy day movie, my bad day movie, my celebratory movie, my any and all occasions movie. It is what made me fall in love with Christian Bale before he became Christian Bale (read: talented but crazy). I love the pelvic thrusts, the bad New York accents, the rousing chorale numbers, (and the moment where one of the Brooklyn newsies climbs out of the river and you can totally see his you-know-what.) My friends and I have even made up a Newsies drinking game, though we have yet to actually play it.

Pre-rage Christian was so saxy

I am not alone in my obsession with this 1992 failed Disney musical. There are dozens of us out there who belt along in our living rooms to Santa Fe whilst wearing a cowboy hat, who have tried to jump over our own right leg, who have wondered if the newsie who spins on the ceiling fan puked afterwards. We have been teased with a stage version of our favorite movie for almost two decades now, but it always seemed like a distant dream. Like the flying car or chocolate that doesn't make you fat. Finally, a few years ago, I learned that a project was in the works to bring the joy of the Newsies to a whole new generation of snobby theater geeks. I thought, yeah yeah, I'll believe it when I see it. But it seems like it's finally going to be a reality, according to this article.

While I am glad that it's finally happening, (even though I'd have to go to friggin' New Jersey to see it), I have a few bones to pick with the adaptation. First of all, why are they getting rid of the cowboy element? I don't like cowboys myself, but that was Jack's whole dream! He wore that stupid hat proudly. Cowboy was his nickname, and the driving force behind Santa Fe (arguably the best song in the whole damn thing). It was where he claimed his mom and dad were, instead of dead and in jail respectively. Not cool, guys. Also, I happened to like "High Times, Hard Times" even if it did win a Razzie. It was classic Vaudeville which was a big part of newsie culture. Plus, they're getting rid of Medda! Granted she was kind of useless, but she did add some much needed female presence in a borderline sausage-fest. And what's with getting rid of Denton? I loves me some Bill Pullman.

"To our man Denton!"

I think the biggest reason I'm bitter is because when I was a Freshman in high school, I was planning my own version. It would be true to the heart of the story, but with a few improvements:

Unrequited love

1. Brooklyn Newsie Kingpin Spot Conlon would be a girl. Sure Spot is a badass, especially with his wicked cane and slingshot acumen. But think how much more badass Spot would be if he was a girl! Plus, I had imagined a whole secondary love plotline with girl-Spot and Dave The Walkin' Mouth (because he kind of comes off as a little bit hopelessly in love with Jack.) I also wanted a musical number with just the Brooklyn Newsies, but it seems like the new musical felt the same way.

I do not take credit for this sweet Spot collage. But isn't he just a pimp?

2. Speaking of female love interests, David's sister/Jack's lady friend Sarah would have a much bigger part. There would be an awesome duet with Jack and Sarah while they're on the rooftop. Plus, when the Delancey bruddahs try something with Sarah, she would kick their asses instead of stupidly bruising her hand on the wall and needing Jack to come save her. Also, their kiss at the end would be stellar instead of the worst screen kiss ever (seriously, when Jack snorts a bunch of snot up his nose right before slobbering all over Sarah, I just want to puke).

Oh Ele Keats. You're just useless.

3. I always had this theory that Racetrack was secretly either Medda's son or her boy toy (not both). Mostly because in the riot scene when Racetrack gets punched, Medda freaks out and screams "RACETRACK!!!!" So either she's a fake Swedish Mrs. Robinson and Racetrack is a pimp with a taste for older ladies, or Medda gave Racetrack up for adoption to pursue her Vaudeville career and this was her way of keeping tabs on him. Whichever one I decided to go with, that subplot would be fleshed out.

Medda, the fake Swedish Mrs. Robinson

4. I'd also like to see Pulitzer sing some great Disney villain song like "Poor Unfortunate Souls" or "Be Prepared." I think he could pull it off. But I understand that in the movie Robert Duvall wasn't up for belting showtunes or tripping the light fantastic.

I may look intense, but inside I'm singing Gypsy

5. I wouldn't be surprised if Kid Blink and Mush had their own thing going on behind the scenes, but it might be pushing the limits of Disney to have underage boys hooking up on stage.

You can feel the sexual tension between these two.

6. Refuge Warden Snyder seems like an even more evil character than he is portrayed in the movie. I see him as a physically abusive pedophile rather than just a mean embezzler. (The pedophile aspect would just be faintly hinted at since if we can't have a gay love story, we definitely can't have child molestation.) Making the Refuge even more of a scary, terrible place would create a greater sense of relief when Snyder is thrown in jail at the end and all the kids are freed. Or maybe my mind is just dark and twisted after watching too much Law and Order: SVU.

One creepy-ass mother. I honestly wouldn't be surprised.

He did go on to steal John Locke's kidney after all.

I'm sure I have more notes on my Newsies dream musical, but for now that's all I can remember. So, anyone want to go to Jersey with me to see how the real thing turns out???

UPDATE: Watching the Newsies now. I'd definitely axe the ridiculous cowboy solo dance that Jack does in the middle of Santa Fe, almost ruining it. I'd also have more of a rebellion in the Refuge before Snyder gets thrown in the pokey.

Why I Keep Watching Felicity (Even Though I Kind of Hate It)

2011-09-16T23:26:00.000-07:00

'Obsession' seems like the wrong word to describe this latest Netflix kick I've been on. 'Obsession' implies some sort of affection for its object. I guess 'rut' would be more accurate in the case of my recent on-going marathon of the late 90s post-adolescent drama Felicity. It's on and I don't feel like searching for something else. Am I really so lazy that I'm not even up to the idea of searching for a new, better show to watch unhealthy amounts of? The answer to that is yes. Yes I am. But there are other reasons I kind of secretly dig this horrible show:

Pictured: Playdough Man

1. Scott Speedman, or Ben Covington. Not to be confused with Scott Foley (Noel. What kind of a stupid late 90s name is Noel? Besides, he's just like a lumpy blob of playdough. Not off-putting, but by no means enticing.) Ben is also kind of a bland character (as are the rest of them), and he's not traditionally attractive. But he's got this crinkly-eyed smile that is pretty goddamn dreamy. I can almost understand why Felicity was such a stupid, girly, stalker, moron and gave up her entire life plan to follow him across the country.

Ok, I kind of get it. But still, have some self-respect, Felicity! Dammit.

2. Every week is an ugly sweater party. Seriously. Homegirl has a major bulky woolen cable-knit fetish. I find it hard to believe that a girl who resembles a sheep for most of her screen time gets so much play.

Standard Felicity Wardrobe.

Stacy and Clinton would have a field day in this girl's closet.

3. A little part of me wishes I could go back and do college over again. This gives me a bit of nostalgia for the college experience I never had.

4. An even smaller part of me wishes I lived in New York. Which is silly, because the majority of my personalities despise New York. It's cold in the winter, humid in the summer, smelly, dirty, dangerous, overcrowded, overpriced, and everyone is nuts and really arrogant about the fact that they live in New York. BFD. But I still found myself idly looking at apartments for rent in the Manhattan area. (And I thought my apartment complex I work for was expensive! Jesus!)

What a stupid, wannabe moody opening sequence. What is the theme song even saying? Is it just gibberish? And what's with the black and white still photographs of the characters looking like they're in pain while trying to look thoughtful and/or like they are having fun?

5. It's weird seeing actors who are now famous in bit parts. So far I've spotted Jennifer Garner (Pre-Alias. Which I have never seen, but have heard good things. Maybe I'll try that and give JJ Abrams a second chance at writing a believable, non-infuriating female protagonist), John Cho, and one of the guys in American Pie. I've also seen Christopher Sarandon (better known as Prince Humperdinck in The Princess Bride. Though I suppose that would be after he was famous...).

Have some self-respect, Humperdinck.

Frankly, this is beneath even you.

6. I genuinely loved Felicity's prime time counterpart, Dawson's Creek. That was the shit. I don't care that the dialogue was completely unrealistic and that all the characters were absurdly self-aware. Why should we fault a show for striving not to be dumbed down, even if the result is somewhat silly? I keep hoping that at some point, Felicity will be one-tenth as good as Dawson's Creek was. Or maybe I'm just killing time until they finally put Dawson's Creek on Netflix. (Get your crap together, Netflix! You owe me this one!)

God this show was good. Don't even try to hate. 'Cause I'll slap you. Through the internet.

7. While I don't love her character (holy hot mess, batman!) I was so excited when I saw that Amy Jo Johnson plays Felicity's best friend, Julie. I was all about the Power Rangers in elementary school and the Pink Ranger was my favorite! (Though I was always relegated to playing the Yellow Ranger at recess because I wasn't as pretty as the other girls.) One of my (only) favorite moments in the show so far (and that's about 13 episodes in) was when an extra dressed up as the Pink Ranger at a Halloween party and Ben makes out with her! Wink wink, nudge nudge! See what they did there?

HI-YAH! Badass.

8. I feel kind of obligated to watch it, since I am attempting to become a dubious expert on all things teen-oriented. Just in case that knowledge ever comes in handy in a future game of Trivial Pursuit with the Grim Reaper and knowing that Felicity's ever-so-slightly offensive gay and vaguely ethnic stereotype boss at Dean and Deluca was named Javier just might save my soul.

But for reals, y'all, this is a terrible show. I do NOT recommend it. Really just a waste of time. But since that's all I'm interested in at the moment, I guess it does the trick. But it does raise my hackles every time Felicity acts like a lovesick puppy with really low self-esteem, Noel gets walked over like a proverbial doormat, and Julie is on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and Ben just doesn't give a shit. Which is basically the entire show in a nutshell.

Now I'm off to bed to watch it some more.

Keys in Strange Places

2011-09-10T18:03:00.000-07:00

One of the services my office provides is to unlock people's apartments when they lose their keys/get locked out of their apartment. Usually I dread someone coming in saying, "Can someone open my door for me?" First of all, I revile these people for being so stupid/unorganized/lazy and losing their keys in the first place. Secondly, this usually happens five minutes before closing and we have to rush maintenance to cut another one (which is very stressful and difficult not to mention we all just want to go home.)

Boo!!!

And finally, it means I have to drop however many hundreds of balls I happen to be juggling at the moment (tee hee balls), get the keys from the box, and escort them all the way to their apartment. Depending on where their apartment is located, this could mean quite the trek. Especially if it is 100 degrees like the other day and I'm wearing a full suit. Then I secretly chant makeshift voodoo curses in my head while making cheery small talk.

But sometimes, I enjoy rescuing people because they often have hilarious or unusual stories about how they came to be without their keys. Here are the top five:

1. Guy who lost his keys several months ago in The Body Shop, a strip club off Sunset. To this day he still has not paid the $5 fee to cut a new key. He simply locks his front door from the inside, then goes out his patio door and jumps over some bushes. This is someone who pays at least $1200 for rent every month, (and god knows how many thousands on strippers), and he won't fork out five bucks for a key. I hope she was worth it, buddy.

My favorite part is "18 Years OK!" Classy joint.

2. Guy who left his keys in Israel. God knows how expensive it must have been to overnight a package from a place where the local post office is probably getting bombed constantly. Reliable courier services must be hard to come by there.

3. Guy(s) who left their keys in Vegas. From one type of pilgrimage to another. This one happens quite frequently. I just chuckle at them and ask them if they had a good time. They tend to respond with a sheepish grin.

4. Guy(s) who pissed off their crazy girlfriends who are now holding their keys hostage until they grovel. Seriously, I encountered this with two different residents, one of which not only stayed with the girl, but she did this twice! I don't know what they did to piss them off, but it sure is a brilliant way to get revenge.

Bitches, man. Bitches.

5. Guy whose keys are at the police impound lot. I asked him if he had had a rough night, and he replied, "Not as rough as some." Badass. But it turns out that it was his friend who was caught smuggling something nefarious unbeknownst to our hero, and his car was impounded because of it. Doesn't that suck? Anyway, the guy told me that now anyone who enters his car will be subjected to a strip search in case they too may be holding. I thought he was joking until he exclaimed, "If you don't want my finger up your rectum, then you won't be getting in my car." True story. Needless to say, I will be avoiding this person for several reasons from now on.

If you've noticed that this list is comprised of entirely male residents, then you would be spot-on. Girls get locked out all the time too, but they don't have nearly as good stories. (Usually it's because they went to the gym and their roommate locked the door. Yawn) I will update the list if I get any more good ones. Just so you know, the curse I put on these people is less severe depending on how entertained I am by their excuse.

Pretty Much the Cutest Thing Ever

2011-09-09T19:59:00.000-07:00

I'm tired and still semi-cranky so I'll make this one short and ridiculously sweet. You know when you have a bad day and all you want to do is call your mom and vent about it? (Because you're a hopeless mama's girl/boy like me?) Well when I called my mom tonight after what I call a classic example of Clusterfuck Friday (where everyone is terrible and everything goes wrong and for some reason it usually happens on Fridays) she was babysitting my kickass little nephew Ayvind.

Ayvind is about 18ish months old now and smart as a whip. (Though how whips have any sort of intelligence is beyond me.) He's quiet and contemplative for a baby, taking in the world and forming his own tacit opinions of it. But he can still giggle and peek-a-boo like a boss. He's a man of few words, though he possesses great understanding. He knows exactly what you're saying, he just chooses to communicate back via sign language. According to my sister-in-law, he can speak about 50 words, but can sign up to 230.

Pictured: Baby genius.

Also I'm not sure what he's signing here,

but it is probably something like

"Holy crap, I'm friggin' awesome!"

Anyway, so my mom was giving Ayvind a bath while she talked to me on speakerphone. The whole time Ayvind kept shouting "Pooe! Pooe!" (Which is my brother's nickname for me -long story-, so now I'm 'Aunt Pooe' which also prevents confusion since his other aunt and I have very similar first names). Ayvind knew exactly who I was, although we haven't spend nearly as much time together as I wish we could.

According to my mom, (who could have been lying since she was also trying to cheer me up) he signed "I love you," and tried to kiss the phone. Then he tried to give the phone a rock to play with, all the while saying "Pooe! Pooe!" Since he doesn't talk much, it was an honor to hear him say my name. Especially since I had such a crappy day. He also loves rocks, (which is a bizarre family trait I thankfully did not inherit) so giving me a rock was a symbol of great sacrifice and love.

The point of this is that you can't stay upset and frustrated when you have an adorable little guy 450 miles away who adores you right back. (Though I still find it hard to believe he remembers me even after not seeing me for at least 4 months. That's roughly a quarter of his life!) You pretty much made my day, Little Ayvind. Aunt Pooe loves you too!

Creepster Fish

2011-09-04T12:09:00.000-07:00

It's been a few weeks now that I've been on Plentyoffish.com. So far I've had one date (a rather uneventful trip to the Sherman Oaks Starbucks where we didn't really have anything to say to each other and it was terribly uncomfortable). Other than that, I've just been e-mailing or chatting with a few blokes. Nothing to write home about, that's for sure.

"I have a grande chai tea latte with

a shot of stilted conversation for Hutch?"

I was online today when I got a chat request from this guy without a picture. I don't trust profiles without pictures because a) the guy is either too lazy/stupid to upload one or b) he's ashamed of the way he looks. If I have to upload one, you do too. However, I decided to give him a chance because he mentioned in his profile the fact that he actually is familiar with English grammar and if he doesn't know how to spell a word, he looks it up on Dictionary.com. I think I've said before that guys who can't spell worth a crap or prefer ridiculous abbreviations are a major NOPE for me. And since I do the same thing (google a word before making a fool of myself), I thought maybe that's enough to build a relationship upon.

We went through the usual, "Hi, how's it going, what do you do, blah blah blah." Then he asks,

"Would you mind if I had a fetish?"

All I could think about was this episode of Sex and the City,

which is (almost) every girl's worst nightmare.

Um... I resisted the urge to block him because my interest was piqued. Here was a guy who was completely upfront about what makes him a weirdo. And we're all weird in some way, (like me with my correct spelling fetish), we just usually try to hide it. You have to respect him for that. Why waste time when you know there's something that's important to you that might be a dealbreaker? Curious, I responded,

"Depends... what kind?"

It took him a few moments before he wrote, "I'm really into it, so I'm looking for a girl who can accommodate." Now he was really starting to freak me out. I replied, "Are you going to tell me what it is?"

Finally he said, "I like girls in pantyhose, the ones that go all the way up."

I don't get it. But I guess the point is that it's irrational.

I guess as far as fetishes go, it's not as disturbing as others. And like I said, I appreciate his honesty. But seeing as I loathe pantyhose (they're scratchy, expensive, inconvenient, time-consuming, they rip easily, and they just get in the way. I also despise the word 'panty'), I'm thinking this is a big fat NOPE. More importantly, when you've been talking to someone for about three minutes and don't even know what they look like, much less if they're a decent person or not, it's a little soon to be talking about specific plans for the bedroom.

Maybe I'm just old fashioned that way.

How "The Help" Helped Me

2011-09-03T21:39:00.000-07:00

Tonight I made a rare trip to the theater to see the film adaptation of "The Help." I read the book not too long ago. I didn't love it, but it was very nice. I mostly went because I adore Emma Stone and wish we could be best friends in real life. The film was pretty great, but what resonated most with me was just one of the end credits: "Based on the novel by Kathryn Stockett." This whole movie was made because one day a woman sat at her computer and began to type.

I started writing a novel almost exactly one year ago. It wasn't my first attempt. There are drafts written in pencil on college ruled notebook paper going back as far as second grade. And for my fifth grade yearbook ambition, I wrote that I wanted to be an author. In high school and college I cultivated my love for writing through creative writing classes, screenwriting classes, and other studies of what makes for a great story well-told. Once I got my first real job though, writing sort of took a back burner to bill paying and mindless TV watching.

While I was pretty much unemployed during the first part of 2010, I was finally able to exercise my long lost creativity. I started working on a script with a good friend of mine. We made it two-thirds of the way through a promising coming of age adventure story inspired in part by the Goonies before we hit a wall. Plot-wise we were stuck. And it was time for me to go back to work where I actually got paid. And so the story sat unfinished in the dark recesses of my aging laptop.

Since it was looking like that would never again see the light, I decided to once again try my hand at novel-writing. Screenwriting has so many rules. Relentless formatting, keeping descriptions succinct, letting directors and actors decide how a line should be delivered instead of instructing them, and what pitfalls to avoid lest your script appear juvenile. All that for little pay, less credit, and the joy of seeing your baby be torn apart by people who don't know a good script from their Aunt Mildred. With a novel, you can pretty much do whatever you want. Sure you have to keep to a basic story structure if you want it to be successful. But there is so much more you can do with tone, setting, and characters. You can really develop where you'd have to hold back in a script.

With this somewhat bitter attitude, I began my novel. It was semi-autobiographical even though the concept of a writer writing about themselves as if they are the most fascinating subject in the world irritates me. But you have to write what you know and just hope that others can relate. (That is, if you hate doing any kind of strenuous research, like me.)

I went back just now and read the first 11 pages. I only read 11 because that's as far as I got last September. But as I read those few pages, I was pretty damn proud of myself. Normally I go back and read something I wrote and cringe ever so slightly. But I made my future self laugh out loud! So now I'm inspired to go back and if not finish this book, at least keep heading in the right direction. Any progress is better than none.

Because some day I want to see "Based on the novel by C-------- H--------" on the big screen just like Kathryn Stockett. (Not that she's my new hero or anything. Tina Fey will always be number one. But I figure if she can do it, why can't I?)

Canada's Bad Seed

2011-09-02T20:11:00.000-07:00

The other day, I was an oblivious witness to this "car accident." I use air quotes, which normally I despise only because it was more of a love tap than an actual collision. I also say oblivious, because I watched the whole thing happen and didn't even realize until 10 minutes later that it happened to be Justin Bieber whose Ferrari was nudged while he was blocking traffic.

Evil demon spawn

Now, unlike most people I know, I didn't have particularly strong feelings one way or the other regarding the Biebs. He was just this silly little boy that made crappy music and pre-teen girls squeal. I can't judge those girls too harshly since I too was a victim of expertly marketed and well-groomed young boys who made crappy music. Though I maintain that it was way less crappy than the piffle they dare to call music these days. That's right, PIFFLE.

Pictured: Not Piffle

Because he was barely on my radar, other than an adorable sketch on SNL with Tina Fey, I just didn't care. That was until the other day when I saw a 16 year old kid test driving a car worth more than I will ever make in my lifetime. That pissed me off to begin with. But once I heard the conversation that took place after the accident, I was livid!

Biebs started going off about how this poor lady hit him on purpose because she knew who he was (paranoid with delusions of grandeur???) Then when she started speaking in Spanish to someone nearby, he started ranting and raving about how "This is America," and she needs to speak English. Finally, he demanded to see her green card. Really dude? First of all, you sound like an ignorant, racist prick. Secondly, your own girlfriend is latina. You are soooo not getting laid for at least a week. And thirdly...

Shania is watching you, Bieber. Always watching.

YOU'RE CANADIAN FOR SHANIA TWAIN'S SAKE!! If it wasn't for your crappy music, you would be the illegal alien. And speaking of illegal aliens, the woman speaking Spanish happens to work at the Spanish Embassy. So good luck ever trying to play a concert in Spain again. She probably has mad connections and can shut down your visa quicker than your fan's attention spans. You're welcome Spain!

Next up, Justin Bieber!

It has been a well-documented fact that I love Canada and Canadians with all my heart and soul. Every Canadian I have ever met, and I've met quite a few, has been exceedingly kind, generous, hilarious, and awesome overall. Now I know it's not right to generalize. But when you've met many fantastic people from a certain country, you start to get a feel for the values they tend to espouse as a nation.

Pictured: Canada

So you can imagine how betrayed Canada must have felt by the actions of this one bad apple-faced goon. Maybe he's just a kid who got too famous, too fast, and spent too much time on the mean streets of LA. But that's no excuse. I think he needs to take a serious time out back in his mother country to refocus on not being a jackass hoser.

It was hilarious how this minor, and I can't stress minor enough, collision (bumper cars have more violent impact) became such a big story. The police showed up and agreed that there wasn't even enough damage to take a report. I saw myself that there wasn't even a scratch on either bumper. But the Biebs had insisted on calling the cops and what the Biebs wants, the Biebs gets. Douche.

Plenty of Awkward

2011-08-22T11:02:00.000-07:00

The past few weeks have been filled with awkwardness of the most acute variety. Mainly from two sources which I will now proceed to break down like a late 80s neon-clad subway busker on a cardboard dance floor:

PART ONE: Here fishy fishy!

I have mentioned before that I have twice dipped my toe into the proverbial ocean of online dating via Plentyoffish.com. First, I just looked around, was disappointed in the kind of menfolk that were available, and ran away screaming. The second time, I gave it some more thought and actually tried to fill out a profile. This just made me depressed and caused hours of tipsy self-analysis. Since then I hadn't really given plenty o' fish another though. My life is complicated and stressful enough without adding some guy's baggage to it.

My own baggage is already full enough.

But a few weeks ago I was clearing out spam from my personal e-mail, already bored with my weekend. I noticed an e-mail with the headline "Hutch, you have 17 new matches!" Woop-de-doo. Doesn't mean jack. But still, it piqued my interest. Why the hell not take a look? So I finished my profile (queasy the whole time) and started fishing for real. It seemed like every guy listed 'working out' or 'going to the gym' as one of his interests. Whether he really is a gym rat, or thinks that by saying he is, he will get more girls, I don't know. But anyone who views exercise as fun and not a necessary evil is clearly someone who will not be interested in me (who works out faithfully for months at a time, only to go months without working out at all.) Not that staying healthy and active isn't important. But if you spend over twelve hours a week in the gym running in circles and lifting heavy things, your priorities are out of order. Or they just aren't in sync with mine.

Just seems rather pointless, doesn't it?

I also noticed an inordinate amount of guys with pictures of themselves in the bathroom mirror taken with their iPhone. Whether they were fully clothed, shirtless, or lifting up their Ed Hardy shirt Situation-style, this was a major turnoff (*salutes* "Major Turnoff!"). I don't know why it bothers me so much. Some guys may just not have a good picture of themselves, but can't they have their friend or mom or cat take two seconds to snap a photo that doesn't have a toilet seat in the background that clearly hasn't been cleaned in years? Nothing says sexy like seeing which kind of deodorant and shaving cream a guy uses while he throws up some lame peace sign. Of course I'm judging these guys, but I'm sure my profile is just as lame in other ways. Because as I observed previously, it's impossible to create these things and not come off as some type of tool.

Typical. And just silly. Stop it, boys.

Within a few minutes with my face permanently fixed in stinkeye position, I already had a couple guys interested in meeting me (meaning they probably just pushed the 'yes' button while scanning my picture for .5 seconds without actually reading my profile. Not really flattering, but I'll take what I can get). I also had a message from one guy. It wasn't much, but it was a start. So I started e-mailing back and forth with this one guy, as well as a couple others. The problem is, what on earth do you talk about with a complete stranger?

The basic theme of the conversations seemed to be "Hi, how are you today?" Me, being the witty conversationalist that I am, always tried to throw them off with something adorable and quirky, but they didn't seem to really appreciate my sense of humor. Many of them just wanted to get my phone number so we could text. Like I'm going to give out my number to someone who could be an axe murderer. (Which could conceivably happen in a bar or other socially acceptable arena, but at least then I would know what he was really like in person first and if it was worth the risk). Plus, and more importantly, I don't have unlimited texting and this could get expensive.

This kind of messaging went on for a few days until one night when I got a chat request from some guy I had never heard of. He was kind of cute, and had a profile I would actually consider. (The ratio seems to be one in twenty-four profiles is not completely abhorrent to me. That sounds like I'm really picky, but I just don't want to waste my time with Douches. Note the capital 'D.') So we're chatting away, which seems to be slightly less stilted than e-mailing back and forth. Discussing relationships, men and women, even sex (but in a general, philosophical sense). Then he started getting dirty. Like really dirty. Which freaked me out big time. Aaaah! What the heck? Am I here just for some cyber one-night stand? Plus he still lives with his parents at 26 and uses 'u' instead of 'you'. NOPE!

"Well as far as I'm concerned, the internet is just another way of being rejected by a woman."

-George from "You've Got Mail"

So that put me off the whole process for a while, but there were a few nice guys I was still talking to. I like that you can sort of get to know each other first before giving out any personal information lest they turn out to be an uber-creeper like the aforementioned. And you can always block a guy if he says something really random but cruel like one guy did. I won't repeat what he said, but it didn't warrant a response. Just a swift click of the 'block user' button. I got that message, another chat request from dirty perv boy, and made a connection with one of the good guys all within about 10 seconds of each other. A little overwhelming ride of emotions, from pain to disgust to delight. I'm meeting one of the guys for the first time in a few hours (in a public place in mid-day). We'll see how that goes...

PART TWO So when did you get saved?

Yesterday I was invited to my neighbor's birthday party. He's a nice guy that I've talked to a few times since moving in in March. I always kind of got the feeling he dug me. Which put this whole fantasy in my head a la Friends or Big Bang Theory of falling in love with the guy across the hall. Not that I was that into him, but that's a pretty powerful pop culture image. Plus, it sure would be convenient seeing as it's the complete opposite of a long distance relationship.

I miss "Friends" a lot.

I stopped by about 30-45 minutes late because I thought it would be awkward to be the first one there. Hah. Also I was watching Friday Night Lights which is my new favorite thing in the world. (Sorry Desperate Housewives, you've been replaced. I don't give a crap about high school football, but this show is riveting and so well-done! Plus I met one of the actors and wanted to get more familiar with his oeuvre of work. Tee hee, oeuvre sounds dirty doesn't it? Anyway, back to my story.)

Hell yes!!

I walked across the way to my neighbor's apartment where several people had already crammed in the tiny one-bedroom. Picture this, a room full of nicely dressed though slightly douchey looking dudes sitting in silence around a veggie tray watching a subtitled kung fu movie. There was one other girl, but she didn't seem to have anything to say other than "Are you sure you don't want any potato chips?" Maybe she was just as bored as I was. I could tell something was off about this party. But not wanting to sit awkwardly much longer, I asked, "So, how do you guys all know each other?"

"Oh, we all go to the same church."

Oh....

I should have suspected this when I noticed the cutesy angel sign reading 'God Bless This House' over the bedroom. Not that there's anything wrong with going to church. By all means, if it makes you feel good and provides the social atmosphere that people crave, that's fantastic. I just knew I was even more out of place than I thought (besides being underdressed in just jeans and a t-shirt). So more awkward silence persisted while the kung fu movie gave us something to look at besides our shoes.

Hell no!

Then one of the guys turns to the guy to his right and asks, "So when did you get saved?" The guy responded, "Once when I was seventeen, then again when I was twenty-six and gave my life to god to be a pastor."

It was at that moment that I knew I had to get out of there. Luckily, I had a good and true excuse that I had to go meet up with a friend. But our host was hiding in his room talking on the phone and folding laundry. I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye. Because we were all sitting silently, I couldn't just slip out unnoticed. So I counted the minutes until my neighbor was done with his laundry so I could say "Happy Birthday" and take off. He gave me a hug, (which I am not a hugger, but whatevs) and said to stop by when I got back.

Finally I was free!!!! I drove off like I had the devil after me (tee hee). I went to my friend Eric's house for our Sunday tradition of quiche and True Blood (which is a whole lot more satisfying than church in my opinion.) Why quiche you may ask? Because it's effing delicious for one thing. And for another, Eric and I have been making quiche ever since his 21st birthday almost exactly five years ago when we got drunk and were craving quiche even though we had never made it before and ended up making the best quiche ever even without any recipe or soberness and proceeded to eat it on the floor of my kitchen with two random girls we met at the supermarket at midnight after work. So that's my quiche story which I've probably told a million times, but it was such an awesome memory I don't care.

After True Blood, I headed back from Koreatown to NoHo only to find an ambush waiting for me in the parking lot. My neighbor's "party" had turned into a late night bible discussion. My neighbor called me over and I couldn't very well say no even though it was late at night and I was tired. True Blood takes a lot out of you, you know. He asked me about my faith, which I tried to sum up succinctly. "I believe in something, but I'm not a fan of organized religion." Of course, my religious history is a hell of a lot more complicated than that, but it was too late to get into it.

But he kept goading me in the polite, well-meaning way Christians often do. And I just couldn't deny my Hutch heritage to debate circles around an opponent. Normally I hate debating, but he wouldn't let it go. So I let him have it. And I explained how many horrible things I have witnessed under the guise of religion. How I don't believe in the bible, so don't use that to support your arguments. How my biggest political believe is that religion has no business in politics. How I don't agree with a large majority of what is considered to be a sin. How pretentious, insincere and commercial religion has become. How religion has mistreated a large number of my friends who happen to be gay and caused them so much pain and heartbreak. For all the good things religion does, it destroys and divides just as much.

It was a calm, respectful discussion for the most part, but it did raise my hackles quite a bit. Especially when an older gentleman got involved and tried to convince me that people aren't born gay. I tried to make him understand that why would someone choose to be estranged from their family, bullied and beaten at school, not given equal rights under the law, and suffer so much derision from people like him if they weren't being true to themselves?

Anyway, so now it's going to be suuuuper awkward whenever I see my neighbor. I used to think he wanted in my pants, but now I know he just wants to save my soul. Which is kind of hurtful to my ego, but whatevs.

Sunshine, Lollipops, and Puppy Snuggles Part Deux

2011-07-20T19:31:00.000-07:00

I am the first to admit that I am often a Debbie Downer, Negative Nelly, and an Unpleasant Ursula. And having a crazy stressful job working with a community of close to one-thousand of LA's most wealthy and eccentric residents only accentuates my dramatic tendencies. But today rocked. Not unlike this day last year when I just felt the need to spread happiness and good cheer. Also like last year, I feel the need to make a list of the reasons why life is just grand, despite my incessant venting and frequent exclamations of "You're killin' me, Smalls!" Because making lists makes me even happier.

"You're killin' me, Smalls!" -Me on any other given day.

1. I woke up in a fabulous mood. It might have been the margaritas and True Blood the night before that gave me sweet dreams, (Oh Alcide...Why must you be a fictional character who also happens to be a werewolf with a savior complex? Otherwise it would totally work between us. He needs a special mention on this list too).

Mr. RamblingHutch

2. I got to listen to my customized Pandora station chock full of classic 70s rock, 80s hair bands, 90s grunge, and some random newer stuff mixed in. This lead to...

3. "Footloose" dance party with the maintenance guys. Can they cut a rug, or what?

4. Speaking of maintenance, my buddy Edi made us all killer orange julius type smoothies with fresh squeezed orange juice just for the hell of it.

5. No one yelled, tattled, or whined at me like a well-dressed, overgrown kindergartner. This is a big deal.

6. There were no crises of any kind, whether they involved Canadian and/or Mexican mafia, unstable porn producers, the wretched hellbeast I have unaffectionately nicknamed Big Mama, or flaming tacquito shrapnel.

An artist's rendering of "Big Mama,"

the Mother of all Muthereffers

7. We got to watch the end of Superbad and the beginning of Forgetting Sarah Marshall at lunch while eating McDonald's and making an unofficial, off-the-record list of hot, foreign male residents who may be interested in a sham wedding for green card purposes. Simple pleasures indeed.

8. And for the grand finale, my Costa Rican co-worker and I hijacked the golf cart and went on a joyride to 7-11 for a popsicle and candy run! Just because we could. It was terrifying since there is no buffer between you and certain death from the distracted driver of a mondo SUV. Plus, my co-worker insisted on pushing the little cart to top speeds of 25mph (It feels a lot faster when you're out in the open like that. Not to mention, I'm still terrified to drive the damn thing, even after all this time.) I kept expecting to get pulled over by the police who followed us into the store because of my unwarranted guilty conscience. But we were big damn heroes when we came back with supplies of cookies, chocolate, and ice cream for the troops.

I kept expecting this to happen, but all was well.

9. This may be anti-climactic, but I was also able to go home at 7pm on the dot. It's amazing that it was slow enough I could get all my work done on time and be out the door when scheduled. We're just so used to being bombarded by interruptions that we often can't even start our actual work until the doors are locked and phones are off the hook.

Who knows what tomorrow holds in store, but I'm not sure we could top today. Especially since I'm a lot more productive and content when I have popsicles in my system. Food for thought.

PS!!! Oh oh, I forgot one of the other awesome parts of the day! I got to give a tour to some USC grad students who want to film on the property. They brought when them a retired location scout who is old school Hollywood. He just talked my ear off with all kinds of stories about who's good to work for, who's terrible, and other great anecdotes about famous people. He wished me good luck with my career. It was nice to chat with fellow film people and hear all the juicy gossip!

"Holy crap, Wayne Newton's hitting on Mom!"

2011-06-28T21:30:00.000-07:00

Now that the hangover has subsided, the blistering heat has been replaced with pleasantly warm, and I'm no longer stuffed into Spanx and a little black dress, it is finally time to recap my adventures in Vegasland. While it was a fabulous three-day weekend filled with all kinds of amusing debauchery, the highlight definitely was my pilgrimage to what should be every straight girl and gay guy's Mecca, CHIPPENDALES. But I'm going to save that for its own blog. Because it was that good. For real...

Obligatory Vegas Sign

I'm sorry, where was I? Oh yes. Vegas. Which, like all trips I end up not regretting one bit, I started off dreading like nobody's business. Mostly because, despite the fact that I am gainfully employed and have been for six whole months now (practically a record!), I am still crazy broke. Also, because traveling even just to the next state over, is incredibly stressful. There are flights to book, taxis to reserve, and itineraries to plan. Not to mention strict budgeting that I will inevitably completely ignore while actually on vacation. Then there was the added stress of attempting to pull off a short Youtube video in approximately 24 hours (a topic for another blog altogether. Suffice to say, there will be Running Man). Basically, I had to work overtime like mad just to take one day off.

But by Friday night, I was in Vegas, reunited with my UC Irvine/University of Bordeaux girls, some of which for the first time in the two years since graduation. There were seven former Anteaters in total, and Vegas was stoked for us. We landed at the Carriage House sometime after midnight, then hit up Walgreen's for supplies. Meaning booze and junk food to stock our hotel room that was bigger than my whole apartment, including full fridge and dishwasher. It was a little alarming seeing Vegas for the first time since I was 15 and with my family. Probably because Vegas at 3 in the morning is a little alarming no matter how old you are. Crazies and drunks everywhere. It was fabulous.

The next day, we slept in, then headed out to the Strip. We made it as far as the Paris before deciding to partake in the grand Vegas tradition of comically large souvenir cocktails. My Eiffel Tower-sized margarita was delightful, as was the prospect of getting fairly drunk before one in the afternoon. It was even better knowing that I would have been at work, probably stressing about dog poop or parking snafus, had I not been traipsing down the corridors of various gambling establishments. The only downside was that it was hot as balls in Vegas. Everyday was at least 105 degrees, maybe 90 at night. So hot that if I even tried to sweat, it would evaporate before it could cool me down.

Me, Stefan (The Eiffel Tower Cocktail), and Tiffany

We only hit a few hotels before giving up to the heat, exhaustion, and extreme tipsiness. We came back to our own decidedly less impressive hotel to get ready for the evening's festivities. The lady Anteaters had decided early on in the planning stage to purchase slutty dresses to really get into the spirit of the place. We quickly discovered that California slutty is nowhere near as intense as Vegas slutty. We felt positively Puritanical with our skirts that extended longer than an inch past our cooters and heels less than seven inches tall. I don't know how those girls did it. My feet were screaming after walking a few blocks in my relatively conservative peeptoe wedges.

Mutinous Feet

Saturday night was Cirque du Soleil's Mystere. The primary reasoning behind our selection was that it was the show that Seth Rogen watches in "Knocked Up" where he freaks out whilst on shrooms. I am telling you now, you don't need shrooms to be freaked out by that show. I'm pretty sure it was the closest thing to an acid trip I will ever take. Especially that fat baby with the big orange ball. I fucking hate that baby. He is the stuff of your most obnoxious nightmares. There was also this ventriloquist in hot pink that just spoke jibberish and held a creeppy Dr. Seuss-looking dummy. Boo. But the actual acts were amazing. Especially the two half-naked guys who lifted each other with impressive strength. And I won't lie, despite the intense homoeroticism, it was kind of working for me. Then there was this big snail thing that was just bizarre. But I'm glad we went, because it's not Vegas without a big snail thing.

Weird big snail thing at Mystere

After the show we went to Botero Steak House for a fully vegan meal at the Wynn. Yes I can appreciate the irony of going to a steak house for vegetables. But Miss A.K. Brown as she was known by her assassin name had an in with the chef who created the menu. The same chef who also catered Ellen's wedding (be impressed, dammit!). So her family offered to pay for the meal as long as we all ordered vegan. I never thought I'd be so stuffed just by eating veggies and tofu. But five slow courses and gallons of water made eating just painful after a while. The food was fantastic, especially the mini-churros. And our waiter looked exactly like Chuck, so bonus. We had planned on going clubbing after dinner, but one look at the slutty and/or douchey mob outside XS (with one exception being the adorable guy in full formal Scottish regalia), we were over it.

Pretty fabulous

Sunday mornings were made for brunch buffets in my opinion. And Planet Hollywood had an amazing one. After brunch, we did some more Strip-ping. I made the mistake of wearing super thin flip flops so my feet were still not happy. But I consoled myself with another souvenir margarita cup, not quite as spectacular as the tower I named Stefan, but nearly as effective. Then came the Jello shots. And the vodka cranberries back at the hotel. Basically I was drinking from 3pm to 1am. Since it was over a long period of time, I never got crazy drunk, but I maintained a nice buzz. Vegas should be experienced no other way.

INSERT CHIPPENDALES SEGMENT HERE!!

Monday I woke up feeling slightly ill. But I considered it a seminal right of passage having vomited in a Vegas hotel toilet. But after a handful of dry Cheerios, I was right as rain. We checked out of the hotel and wandered around the City Center, this time at a much more leisurely pace. After killing some time at the Luxor, Mandalay Bay, and Excalibur, we dragged our tired, hot, aching butts to the airport. We were no longer drunk, unlike many people at McCarren who extended their walks of shame to the plane ride home. But I was done. Vegas is good for 2.5 days tops. After that, it is just too much stimulation. Plus there's nowhere to sit.

It was blissful coming back to Burbank where it was a perfect 72 degrees. It was weird to no longer be surrounded by intoxicated bachelorette parties and belligerent frat guys desperate to reenact the Hangover at any cost. But I appreciated the peace.

So now I think I'm all set for Vegas for the next several years. Though I'd be happy to fly in every other week to meet up with my Chippendale's husband...

Beulah

2011-05-29T21:23:00.000-07:00

I'm having an affair, and what's worse, I'm falling in love with the other woman. She happens to be a green Honda Civic I've named Beulah. But you have to understand the circumstances during which I went from a loving, monogamous relationship with Stan (my 1989 Mercury Topaz that I've had since I was sixteen, easily the longest relationship of my life), to considering transferring my loyalty and devotion to Beulah, all in under 12 hours.

Beulah, the Green M&M of Vehicles

The only things my parents still pay for are my car insurance and DMV-type registrationy fees. (Other than that, I am fully independent). So when the DMV informed my dad that it was time to get Stan smogged for his registration come June 1st, my dad made sure to give me plenty of time to take care of it. Being a natural procrastinator, and proud of it, I just now made it in to Pep Boys with four days to spare. I even made an appointment online (self-five!). Four hours of waiting, reading a large section of "The Help," and awkward conversations with a stranded young family with car trouble on the way to Disneyland and a teenage Tim Burton look-a-like, I still hadn't heard about the status of Stan.

Finally I decided to ask the very cute and charming Pep Boy Artin. (He's lucky that he was cute and charming, otherwise I would have been even more annoyed at this waste of my time). He said, oh, bad news, it failed. I had joked in my Facebook status before leaving that I had my fingers crossed for him to pass, otherwise it was "curtains for ol' Stanny." But it never really occurred to me that he would actually fail. Sure he has his many many many flaws and eccentricities, but he's always come through for me in the past six and a half years.

How can you not love this face?

Naturally, the technician who tells you exactly why he failed and what you need to do to get him fixed, wasn't in that day and won't be in tomorrow for Memorial Day (which is already my day off and I don't think I get holiday pay so it's more of a nuisance than a mini-vacation like for most people). Plus, it's an extra $140 not to mention a whole day without a car in order to diagnosis this mysterious illness. Not including the repairs to make him pass. I'm already having a belt-tightening month and was barely going to afford the cost of the test and an oil change. Now I find out I have to sink even more money into Stan just to pass California environmental standards? I'm all for the environment, but do the hippies mind forking over the money to buy me a new Prius? 'Cuz I don't have it, son.

I found out that it's possible I could qualify to get financial aid from our bankrupt state to "retire" my old man. It's the least they could do since they're the ones imposing such high standards anyway. But the thought of letting go of my buddy, the Murtaugh to my Riggs, is heartbreaking. Not many partners-in-crime will stick with you even after throwing up all over them while driving in Laker traffic on the 10 freeway. I always knew that Stan wasn't going to last forever. But it's like losing your first dog or your first boyfriend. That's a bond that will never break, no matter how temporary. I just know that I'm going to cry if I have to drop Stan off at a recycling plant to be dismantled. Think of how gut-wrenching that one scene in Toy Story 3 was!

I picture this, only insert a

Mercury instead of cute CGI toys.

Sure I'll be happy to get a new car. One that functions like it's supposed to and doesn't make weird old man gurgling and sputtering sounds. And idly browsing the North Hollywood online used car market yielded a few prospects, like the lovely, enticing, and affordably priced Beulah. The more I check out her statistics and financing options, the more seduced I become. But the fact remains that I am broke. The best thing about Stan was that he was completely paid for. I'm even considering getting a bike and just biking to work. But we all know that not having a car in Los Angeles is laughable.

The Green M&M of M&Ms

Hopefully I'm just jumping the gun and throwing the baby (or old man car) out with the bathwater. I don't know how much it's going to cost to fix. It could be less than a couple hundred dollars in which case maybe I can squeeze a few years out of Stan. But at the same time, isn't it better to start putting the money towards a new car and let go of the past? Should I start embracing a future with Beulah, the saucy Japanese mistress?

Getting Busy

2011-05-26T22:53:00.000-07:00

I am convinced that yesterday was the pinnacle of my customer service career. One resident was so fed up with her upstairs neighbor's "bedroom habits" that she decided to record the incessant squeaking of the bedsprings that were keeping her awake at night. She was tired of having to explain to her young daughter that the neighbors were just "moving furniture" in the middle of the night. "Momma, they sure move a lot of furniture," the daughter said. So just in case we thought she was exaggerating or making it up, she actually caught the neighbor in the act on tape knocking boots like some kind of boot-knocking madman.

I kept trying to convince her that we believed her and that we were doing everything we could to resolve the situation. But it's not like we can ask this poor guy to stop having sex in his own apartment. We didn't need proof but nevertheless she insisted on holding the tape player up to the phone and playing it for me. So there I was sitting at my desk, listening in on the intimate if not exactly private affairs of one of my residents. Emotionally, I was torn. I felt bad for the guy on the tape who just wanted to get his freak on and here we were about to meddle. But at the same time, it was really loud. I'd be pissed too if that was my neighbor and I couldn't sleep whenever he got lucky. And then on the other hand, I was impressed. Homeboy has stamina. I mean, he was REALLY going for it. Hat's off to you, sir. But mostly I was just uncomfortable. There's nothing worse in my opinion than accidentally overhearing other people getting it on, no matter who it is. I have some horror stories, believe me.

So this incident just combined many things I despise:

1. People bitching

2. Problems for which there are no answers

3. Awkward confrontations

4. Listening to complete strangers have sex

I believe the compromise was that Homeboy was going to dismantle his bed frame and just put the mattress on the floor. Hopefully that helped. I really don't want to have to listen to another amateur recording of his mating rituals. Situations like this, of which there is no short supply in Studio City, definitely keep life interesting.

"Is Everyone Ok?": Murderers in Studio City

2011-04-15T20:35:00.001-07:00

This was the headline of an e-mail I got from my operations manager today at about 2:30pm. Most every one else was out of the office on tours or jaunts or whatever it is people do when they leave me to man the fort. Intrigued, I opened the e-mail and discovered this message:

"I heard there was a murderer loose in Studio City. Three schools are on lockdown.

Is everyone alright?"

At first I thought it was a sick joke. But April Fools Day was over two weeks ago (and had passed thankfully without event. Damn that blasted holiday. I positively loathe practical jokes.) But this isn't the kind of guy to pull that stuff.

So frantically, I started googling "Murderer loose Studio City April 15th" (just in case there were murderers loose on other days). I came up with an article saying that sure enough, three schools were on lockdown and many of the streets within a mile from us were closed.

Suddenly feeling the urge to start

singing "Bad boys, bad boys

whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do

when they come for you."

But that's every Friday.

I panicked, since I was basically alone in the office. The apartment complex I work at is massive with lots of sweet hideout spots for someone on the run from Johnny Law. And though it is gated, with full-time security guards, there are ways to penetrate our defenses if one is desperate and crafty enough to try. Naturally my mind started flashing back to the special I had just watched on E! the day before about "15 Shocking Acts of Violence." (Which was followed by E! News. It's hard to go from watchings Kindergartners get murdered in cold blood to Who is Miley Cyrus dating this week?). Then I started thinking about that season finale of Grey's Anatomy where that crazy dude starts shooting up the place (a most intense and excellent episode). If it happened on Grey's Anatomy, it most certainly could happen in Studio City. Because as you know, that kind of shit actually does happen here in real life!

In this scenario, and this scenario alone,

I fancy myself McDreamy.

I started running around the office frantically, not sure what to do in case of a possible mass murder of our precious porn stars and child actors that live in the complex. I didn't know what or whom I was looking for, but I couldn't just sit at my desk and wait to be killed to death! (Because I was convinced it was going to happen at this point. Though the way the afternoon turned out after this, it probably would have been a relief. Hooo-wee!) Eventually I sat back down and re-read the article for clues on how I could take this mother down if he tried to hurt me, my co-workers or the porn stars. Then I noticed this addendum at the bottom of the article:

"The suspect has been captured and is in custody as of 1:30pm"

So he had been caught for over an hour before I got the e-mail. Phew. That was fun. Then it was back to frantically working as always without the threat of impending doom.

Until about 6:45pm when the FedEx guy arrived. He was late because of the streets being shut down. We started talking about the murderer and he said that he was still on the run. But...but...but...they caught him hours ago, right? Apparently there were three and they had caught two? At least that's what the FedEx guy said. Maybe it had just gotten exaggerated by the media over the course of the day. But by that time I was just so stressed and exhausted by normal things that I just started laughing. Of course there's a murderer still on the loose. Because that's exactly what my day needs.

Not me. But sometimes I feel

the urge to bite my keyboard because

I'm just about to lose it. Well, no.

This lady is batshit ka-razy. But still, you get the point.

This is a really long caption. Mazel tov.

Anyway, it's over now, and I just want to soak in a vat of red wine. But I'll probably just end up cleaning for when Mama Hutch comes to visit tomorrow (YAY!!!) This is not the first time a situation has gotten real at my place of business. When I worked for the Market, there was a major FBI standoff with a shooter at the Federal building one or two blocks away. Then there was a bomb/anthrax scare a few weeks later when I got trapped in the kitchen with the sexy guy from legal. Good times. It also reminded me of the time my dad thought he saw a dead body in the desert but it turned out to be Mexican Drug Dealer's jackets. Just in that I got all riled up for no good reason.

Here is the follow up article on the murderer in case you were curious.

Night of the Living Spatula

2011-04-13T08:47:00.000-07:00

Today is my oldest niece's 6th birthday. It makes me feel really old to remember a time when this person didn't exist and now they are practically a teenager (kids today grow up so much faster than we did). Naturally I got all nostalgic about the night Miss Ally Paige was born...(insert clip of Wayne and Garth wiggling their fingers diddly doo diddly doo diddly doo as the screen dissolves into black and white).

APRIL 13, 2005

The reason I was not present for the birth of my brother Scott's firstborn was because I was goofing off with the rest of the advanced placement English students in Ashland, Oregon. We were all at the Shakespeare Festival, a kickass celebration of the Bard and adolescent tomfoolery. The APES to Ashland trip was on occasion notorious for normally well-behaved honors students to get footloose and fancy free, Oregon-style. And after studying our fannies off the whole year for the AP test, it was time to rock out with our codpieces out. Of course the year we were finally old enough to go, the administration (read: The Man) decided to get tough about kids sneaking booze, pot, and other various paraphernalia of debauchery (how do you like them SAT words?). Anyone caught during the random suitcase searches would be sent home immediately and worse. Well, crap. I guess we'd just have to enjoy the quaint Ashland scenery and Elizabethan theatre (note the 're' spelling).

Ashland Shakespeare Festival

Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of Shakespeare. But I was looking forward to some crazy "what happens in Ashland, stays in Ashland" stories. Especially since I had never done anything wild in my life. (Unless you count buying condoms and chocolate pudding from Raley's the year before as a gag gift). Nevertheless, my friends and I were having a great time crammed into a tiny hotel room with a buffet of delicious treats (I recall cheez-its, mini muffins, and gummy bears specifically). Things did get a little wacky when we were all simultaneously locked out of our rooms and had an impromptu hall party that was promptly squashed. Then my friend somehow made our toilet explode into a beautiful fountain and we had to have maintenance come save us from the rushing tide of toilet water. We rewarded them with mini-muffins.

Forever Plaid

That night we all got ready for our non-Shakespeare night. We got to see Forever Plaid at a cabaret type theater, which was quite the treat. It was kind of a broadway meets barbershop quartet show that was just delightful. During the intermission I checked my voicemail and discovered that my sister-in-law, Nay, had gone into labor earlier that day! I could barely concentrate during the second half knowing that I was about to become an aunt for the first time! As we piled back onto the bus after the show, I announced to all that I was officially an aunt at the tender age of seventeen. My fellow students didn't seem as excited for me, but I was walking on air! Though I was a little pissed that I missed the birth itself. Miss Ally, impatient as ever, decided she couldn't wait to terrorize the world until her Aunt Pooe (long story) could get to the hospital. Silly girl.

When we got back to the hotel, a bunch of us had gathered in our hotel room to hang out, watch TV, plunder our junk food buffet, and do whatever it is teenagers abroad do. It wasn't enough for me though. We had to celebrate the occasion by doing something crazy! They had already taken away the booze we would never have had the guts to bring anyway, so a toast was out of the question. We were high enough on sugar, like cracked out little squirrels. Looking for some way to act out against the Man's oppression, we decided to go on a quest for porn. Don't ask me how we came to that conclusion. None of us had seen any before, and felt this was a rite of passage we had missed. The only place we could think to find some was the Albertson's across the street. Surely they had some sort of dirty magazine we could giggle and shriek over.

So about eight of us snuck out into the hall when Mr. Duda caught us red-handed. "Where are you guys going?" He demanded. Me, "We have to make a quick Albertson's trip." (Which was true.) "What could you possibly need from Albertson's at this time of night?" (It was like 10pm). Me, not missing a beat, "It's personal." To which Mr. Duda got really flustered and most likely assumed I meant feminine hygiene products. "Oh, well you can take one person with you, but be quick about it." So I took Kirsten, the only one of us who was 18 and could legally purchase pornography. We headed across the street to Albertson's, barely avoiding getting hit by cars.

After looking around the store for a good 20 minutes, we discovered that grocery stores in Ashland do not carry porn. What a shame. But the porn wasn't the point. It was the epic and dangerous quest, fraught with peril in the form of grumpy old English teachers and speeding vehicles. We couldn't go back empty-handed. So we scoured the store for something to bring back as proof that we had made it. Then we came across the kitchenware aisle. The plastic spatulas seem to have a heavenly light about them. Of course! Spatulas! Spatulas are just as good as porn! So we bought two of them (and some batteries for my camera) and ran back across the treacherous street, laughing hysterically all the way.

A Spatula.

We walked back into the hotel room, the spatulas behind our backs. TA DA!! We revealed our loot, and the group seemed a little confused. But being just as hopped up on sugar as we were, they suddenly burst into peals of laughter too. We had a mock swordfight with our kitchen utensils and collapsed on the floor.

When I finally got back into town and was able to visit Miss Ally Paige in the hospital, my brother Nick and I bought her a yellow duck we named Spatula with a promise to explain the story one day when she was older.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALLY!!

Discrete Gossip Queen Part 2

2011-03-30T19:42:00.001-07:00

I'm going to skip the self-flagellation for being such a sporadic blogger (with a name like Sporadic Sporkitudes, you have to expect periods of radio silence in between frantic, Fun Dip fueled rants and lame but lengthy lists). Basically what I've been up to these past few weeks has been just collecting stories. Oh, such stories. Wonderful, weird, so unbelievable that they could only be true, stories. Unfortunately, I can't really share many of them. I don't want to get in trouble. But one of these days, your new favorite prime time 'soapedy' (a phrase I just coined) will be based on the wacky land that is Studio City.

Especially if you are off your nut, balls to the wall, k-k-krazy!

With a population of residents larger than my hometown, there is no end to the hijinks that occur on a daily, no hourly, basis. Especially when that population consists of porn stars, child actors, their stage moms, struggling actors both attractive and not, (also talented and not), wannabe musicians, fading flash in the pan reality sensations, participants in the Witness Protection Program, spoiled rich playboys/girls, and the straight up bat-shit crazy.

Yes, I'm writing it all down. Observing to report later on. If nothing else but for my own amusement. I already had the idea for a show that was based upon the first apartment complex I lived in in Irvine. But Studio City blows that sleepy little college town out of the water and into the stratosphere. I'm actually overwhelmed by what goes on here. It's too much to even fathom at times. Luckily the stress has gone down now that we're not as busy. But there is no shortage of insanity.

So I guess this blog is a bit of a tease, but I will tell you some of the elements you will see in my future, probably never to be written much less produced soapedy:

1. Mistresses featured in major celebrity sex scandals. Yes, that was plural. (and finding out the preferences certain insane celebrities request when choosing their prostitutes).

2. Crazy ladies screaming in gibberish whilst running topless from one of the three gyms on the property.

3. Former one-hit-wonder rap/rock celebrity rehab junkies (the one that climbed the building a few months ago) trashing an apartment and then hearing on the radio the next morning about this person's arrest.

4. Rumors of a meth lab that could explode any moment and discussing whether or not this was a legitimate excuse to evict someone.

5. Residents using the move-in inspection as an excuse to attempt to seduce certain employees (which certain employees claim to have refused, but you never know ; ) )

6. A Russian mob shooting in the parking garage

7. Couple who may or may not be in the Witness Protection Program. (They're not very pleasant. But I guess you wouldn't be either)

8. A big time hip hop artist and producer's daughter's Crip boyfriend dragging her out in the hall by her hair wearing only a bra at the time.

9. A Saudi princess with her own security detail who did nothing but shop for Gucci bags all day.

10. I assisted an 18 year old male model with his very first taxes.

Even the dogs are actors. I met one who had been in multiple episodes of CSI New York among other things.

I'm sure there's more, but I'm just slowly taking it all in. There's years of crazy to sift through and find the juiciest bits.

On an unrelated note, I just found out that Kenneth from 30 Rock frequents the pub down the street where my friends and I went to trivia night the other night! And to think we were stoked to see the kid who played Elliot in E.T.!

Riding on the Metro-o-o!

2011-03-10T14:53:00.001-08:00

I don't have a lot of time, since I only have access to the internet on my lunch at work. It's still not set up at my new place, which has really grown on me since I first moved in. Now that most of my stuff is set up, I'm super stoked. My only concern is that I don't have any sort of blinds or curtains so if one of my neighbors looks up at the wrong moment, they could get an eyeful...

I would like to chronicle two of my achievements in the past few days:

1. I drove a U-Haul all by myself. Having driven nothing bigger than a mid-sized SUV a few times in my life, this was a big deal. And driving in LA is a beeyotch no matter what you drive, so in a ramshackle behemouth like a U-Haul, 15 miles deserves an internet high five. This was also the first time I moved without the help of my parents so it was very much a milestone in adulthood.

2. I rode the Los Angeles Metro for the first time last night. Also by myself. I've ridden subways, metros, and trams all over Europe, Australia, New York, and San Francisco. But the idea of an underground railroad in LA just seems preposterous. But I got complimentary tickets to go see Beauty and the Beast at the Pantages Theater last night, thanks to the Bean, and parking in Hollywood is a very expensive, time-constricting near impossibility. Even though the train was late and I just barely made the 7:30pm curtain, it was awesome that I spent 3 bucks as opposed to 15-20 for 3 hours of valet only parking you have to wait in line for in and out. This is the secret to avoiding those bad parking situations I loathe so much. SCORE.

Beauty and the Beast was pretty sweet. A little over the top cartoonish, but that's kind of the point I guess. Great for kids. When Belle came out in the giant gold dress that is every little girl's fantasy (minus the hairy hunchback dude with the tail), my inner child started jumping up and down in the seat. And I won't lie, a little tear rolled down my cheek at the very end when I heard that music that was so influential in my formative years. The theater geek in me noted that Belle's voice was all over the place pitch-wise, and Lumiere sounded more like Borat than a Frenchman. But Gaston and Lefou were a treat. A very violent, heavily slapstick-laden treat.

Ok, gotta go...So many people yelling at me, so little time.

Movin' On Up To the Northside

2011-03-06T13:01:00.001-08:00

Well, technically I am moving up in the world. From ghetto South Central to glamorous North Hollywood. Though despite my change in latitude, I really see this as a lateral move rather than an upgrade. I was super excited to find a one bedroom for not much more than my studio, plus when you subtract the cost of the ever-rising gas prices, it's a great deal. And it's a great apartment, in theory. But when I saw it this morning in the harsh light of day, I realized several things:

1. It wasn't painted. Which I wouldn't care, but it really looks bad. All sorts of scuffs and marks and dirt.

2. The sinks and counters are dirty, like they were never cleaned.

3. There are holes in the walls that they didn't even bother to spackle.

4. The cupboards are in terrible shape. They are grimy and stained. They also need contact paper.

5. There is a hole in the bedroom where a outlet plate used to be.

6. The light in the bedroom is basically a bare bulb.

7. There's a random CHP bumper sticker on the front door (which is filthy).

8. The overhead light in the kitchen is broken and dirty.

9. There's probably more that I'm forgetting, but you get my point.

I hate to rant about stuff like this. I have super-low standards (I live in South Central, exhibit A), and I am not the kind of person who files formal complaints or asserts her rights as a tenant. Which is why my heater and a/c have been broken for a year and a half. And then I get all passive aggressive and whine about it online or to my mom without actually getting the problem fixed or fixing it myself. And that's on me.

But still, when you rent an apartment, even a cheaper one in a quasi-ghetto, you expect certain things. Especially if the previous tenant lived there for over 5 years. Fresh paint is not too much to ask for. No gaping holes in the wall isn't either. It's mostly the kind of stuff that on its own isn't a big deal. But when you realize that there's a flaw in every room, that's all you can see. And I don't have a lot of time, energy, money, skill or patience to fix this stuff myself.

Maybe it's the beer I had at lunch (yes I actually went out and bought beer on my own accord for the first time ever), but I just feel super down about this now. It's taken all the fun out of setting up a new place and all the possibilities that come with it. I know you get what you pay for, but seriously? I'm just wondering if this is going to be worth the pain in the ass it's been so far to move. Because right now I'm having major renter's remorse.

I remember the first day I moved into my current apartment and just looking around, completely stoked that I had my own place. It was fresh and clean and cute, even if it was in a bad part of town. But moving into the new place just feels like putting on someone else's dirty laundry. That's the best way I can think of to describe it.

The worst part is, I am just not comfortable asking for things. I hate to inconvenience people, even if I'm the one being inconvenienced. I know it's important to be assertive, but on the other hand, it's almost more important to me to have a good relationship with people I have to be in contact with frequently. I hate and avoid awkward situations at all costs. But what do you say? Um... I'm sorry, I think you missed a spot during the week plus that you had to get this apartment ready for a new tenant who is paying a significant portion (even if it is cheap for LA).

I guess I'm going to go back there later this afternoon to take some before pictures and maybe do some cleaning. It just sucks because I shouldn't have to. I'm already going to bust my ass cleaning this apartment because that's what a decent person does when you move out. Or a decent landlord who understands that apartments need to be clean and ready for the new tenant. That's why there's a freaking security deposit, folks. Maybe it's because I now work in the industry, at a place where the standard is impeccable. All the people who call me to bitch about the tiniest thing have now been wearing off on me and I've become the kind of person I hate.

I apologize that my first blog in weeks is such a boring downer. But I really needed to get this off my chest before I resume dragging my stuff up to the Valley. Sigh.

Hutch the Apartment Hunter

2011-02-20T07:09:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, I was all stoked because I had decided to finally leave my hovel in South Central. But then I ended up not going out to look at apartments because I had so many other things to do. Like watch Snakes on a Plane with my gay best friend, Eric. That was absolutely vital. Who else was going to drink 3 glasses of white wine and dance around his living room singing "So kiss me goodbyyyyyyeee, honey I'm gonna make it out alive, so kiss me goodbyyyyyye!!!!!!!!?" (I nominate that song for new best 'dance around singing like a jackass' anthem, now that 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough' should be graciously retired). So I lost momentum on the search, burrowing deeper still into my trenches and just gritting my teeth through the 25-50 minute commute. (Sure it could be worse, but commuting is commuting. And Stan is not long for this world. Every minute counts). I even told my landlady, "I like it here, I'm settled. Plus, moving is such a pain."

Singing into a spatula.

Because hairbrushes are so overdone.

But then someone egged my house. And when I say 'egged,' I mean singular. One egg. Some jackass (the obnoxious destructive kind, not the ridiculous dance around to catchy one-hit wonder kind) threw a single egg at the iron screen door of my apartment. This is why I hate living so close to the street in the ghetto. Hoodlums feel entitled to employ unhatched chicken offspring as a form of malicious vandalism. The thing that pissed me off more was that they did such a half-assed job of it. If you're going to egg someone's house, egg the damn house. You don't throw one roll of toilet paper on someone's tree and call it a day. Kids today. So fucking lazy. In any case, three day old, dried stuck-on egg is tricky to get off of a non-stick pan (which reminds me, I have to do the dishes). But how does one get it off of an iron door when one doesn't own a proper bucket or have access to a hose, I ask you?

Now this is a proper job. Take note, hoodlums.

Normally this kind of thing would amuse me. Haha, I live in the ghetto, isn't that funny? Like the sign on the Boost Mobile store that just opened on Crenshaw "Grang Opening!" And it's not like my house hasn't been vandalized before. There's some sort of tagging on the busted a/c unit outside the window. I don't think I'm a specific target, people are just bored so they want to draw on shit. But still, this was the last straw. As soon as I got in the house I started Craigslisting apartments within a 5 mile radius of my work. And yes, I just used 'Craigslisting' as a verb. And it sounds vaguely dirty for some reason. The other last straw, the epilogue straw if you will, was when I made a delicious chocolate cake last night. I had one piece and didn't cover it with foil right away. When I went to do so, I discovered a small cockroach crawling alllll over it. What a waste. Stupid cockroach. Stupid apartment.

Me, more or less. More more than less.

I found a few options, all more than I'd like to pay ideally, but I could probably swing at least 5 or 6 of them. So I'm going forth and going north today to check them out. And I can't back out like I did a few weeks ago. This is happening whether I like it or not. Because I just gave my thirty days notice a few days ago (about 5 minutes after discovering the egg on my door), and now the clock is ticking. Though most places you visit want you to move in right away and intimidate you by making up fake other interested parties which doesn't work out so well when you have to give 30 days notice. It's the catch-22 of apartment hunting. I wonder if there is an apartment website that has a search parameter "within walking distance of a kickass Irish pub." Now that would be sweet.

I'm excited to see my potential new home, but at the same time, the daunting task of driving all over Hollywood, North Hollywood, and Valley Village is intimidating. I don't even like going one place in a single day. This is one of the reasons I'm living where I am, because I was too lazy to look at several different options before jumping on the most convenient at the time. One shouldn't impulse shop when picking out an apartment. Especially when you don't know the area. It's just that my first three apartments were all in Irvine, ranked one of America's top 5 safest cities. Every apartment is gorgeous, new, perfectly maintained, and fully stocked with every appliance you would need. I took for granted that I would have my own washer and dryer, a full-sized fridge, a dishwasher. Then I moved to the ghetto and was in for a world of doing without. Which was fine, I dealt with it. I just think I could have gotten a lot more for the same amount of money if I had actually tried. And now that I actually work for a property management company and have become more worldly in the ways of Los Angeles, I think I'm much better equipped.

A typical leasing office in Irvine. It may have been a boring college town,

but it sure was purdy. And you'd have been arrested on the spot for egging someone's house.

I'm still just as lazy though. And I still hate driving around to more than one place.

But enough apartment talk. Actually, enough talk period. I need to start getting ready to haggle and peruse.

Hold the phone! I forgot to mention that I finally got to drive the golf cart at work! It only took me two months and one failed attempt (during which the thing just beeped angrily at me and wouldn't budge.) To be honest, it was kind of a let down. It just beeped a lot, and didn't have any turn radius, and I kept running into curbs and guard rails. Plus, it was a bitch to drive in heels since you have to slam on the accelerator to get it to move. So, my inner child is severely disappointed. But still, VICTORY!!

And in other news, I found out that a one-hit wonder R&B group from when I was in high school used to live in my apartment complex. They threw an all-night eviction party the night before they were kicked out. Poor one-hit wonder R&B group who couldn't pay the rent. The high school version of me used to sing their song and attribute it to this totally dreamy guy we dubbed "the Sexy Beast" because he was on the basketball team and had a small part in real movie.

And that's all the news for now!

The Never-ending Search for the One True Pub

2011-02-05T19:31:00.001-08:00

I have been on a noble quest ever since I first saw How I Met Your Mother four and a half years ago: to find my MacClaren's. For those of you sad, bitter folk who are not familiar, MacClaren's is the Irish pub that the loveable gang from HIMYM (I know I said I hate acronyms, but typing out How I Met Your Mother really is tiresome), frequent on a daily, sometimes hourly basis. It is conveniently located a few floors below their apartment, making it easy to pop down for a pint, and never worry about designated drivers. ("How easy is it to sneak into the zoo, because I need to see some penguins like right now.")

The Dream.

I have a thing for Irish pubs, even nay especially fake Irish pubs. I'm not even Irish. I think I just have the Green Fever something fierce. So now that I'm searching for an apartment, one of the things I'm looking for is close proximity to an Irish pub. Not just any Irish pub though. THE Irish pub (or British. I'm not too picky.) When it comes to finding my MacClaren's, here is what I am looking for:

1. Good atmosphere. Meaning not douchey, too old or too young. The kind of place you can go in jeans and not feel completely out of place.

2. Not over-crowded. I hate not being able to sit down. Not empty either. That's just awkward if you get a boring bartender.

3. Cheap drinks. And by cheap, I mean under 5 bucks for a beer or cider in my case.

4. Must have cider. Preferably on tap so we can get pitchers. Because cider is the shit.

5. Good music. The kind of place that you might spontaneously burst into a full-bar singalong of Don't Stop Believin'. It's happened once, I'm convinced I can make it happen again.

6. Kickass bartender. One who can flip and twirl bottles and glasses, make hilarious small talk, occasionally gives free drinks, and is preferably an adorable man candy, but not in an obnoxious douchey way.

7. Cool locals. Preferably hysterical old men who buy you drinks and make for great stories.

8. Brick. I have an inexplicable passion for brick architecture. Something about it just feels so authentically Irish and homey.

9. Within walking distance. I may not get lucky with this last one. It's probably too much to hope for.

10. Overall, it just needs to be the kind of place my friends and I can hang out at, where everybody knows our name. ("HUTCH!!") (That was a Cheers reference if you missed it.)

As much as I hate beer,

that's how much I LOVE Cider!

I've found a few contenders since moving to LA:

1. Molly Malone's on Fairfax. (Great music, multiple celebrity sightings - I stood next to the pretty blonde Australian doctor from House, saw Bob the Bachelor, and someone else who escapes my memory-a little pricey, more than slightly douchey and touristy)

2. O'Brien's in Santa Monica. (Good prices, but I went there both times for a company event where we got happy hour prices. Mediocre service, but great decor. Not to mention cider!!)

3. The Queen's Head in Santa Monica (British, but kudos on the authentic bartender, great fish and chips, multiple types of cider, unfriendly atmosphere, way too expensive. Also has bad memories since I went there by myself when I was depressed and unemployed and got fairly tipsy in the middle of the day on a Wednesday for the first and last time in my life.)

4. The Fox and Hounds in Studio City (Again, British, but within walking distance of work and my friends' house. Decent prices. Cider on tap. But overcrowded, loud, and somewhat douchey.)

5. Gabe's on Sepulveda. (Neither British nor Irish, but a kickass karaoke bar where the Sally Tomatoes made their debut as karaoke supahstars and brought down the house with a little help from the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Great prices, strong drinks, awesome atmosphere. Bit of a drive though.)

Notable mentions (ie, not in LA)

The Temple Bar District (Dublin, Ireland. Duh. Also known as Hutch's Disneyland)

The Cock and Bull (Bordeaux, France/Sydney, Australia)

Hannigans (Granada, Spain)

That one in Melbourne with the awesome trivia night (Anabel, Romany, help me out!)

That one Scottish bar in Rome (sorry I can't be more specific)

Goat Hill Tavern (Newport Beach, CA)

Little Knight (Costa Mesa, CA)

And probably a few others that I can't remember right now. There are still a few more I've been told about, but have yet to visit. I welcome recommendations.

The good news is, last night, I do believe Kelly Bean and I discovered our MacClaren's. We thought it might be the Fox and Hounds. We went there for the second time after I'd had a long week and really needed some cider. It was nice, but kind of loud and smokey. So we scooted out early and headed back towards her apartment. On the way there however, we noticed hidden away in an abandoned looking shopping center, a little pub called Maeve's Residuals with an Irish flag on the sign. Since it was only 8:30pm, we decided to give it a shot.

From the moment we walked in, we felt home. We sat at the bar and were instantly welcomed by the world's most adorable bartender, Josh. He hooked us up with two bottles of Strongbow, and gave us one for free, since it was our first time there (yay!). There was a good crowd of locals, but it still felt open and breezy. The music was mostly decent, some classic rock including Santana (until some stupid ho-bag picked out a piece o' crap rap song from the juke box. I wanted to slap her with a shillelagh.) The bathrooms weren't disgusting (which is all you can ask from any bar.) And Josh gave me sound advice for living in South Central: Duck.

I love a man who knows how to work a shillelagh.

The evening had it's highlights, like when Kelly spit out her mint from Fox and Hounds onto a napkin in order to truly appreciate her cider and then ate it after she was done. Classy lady, that one. And it was also enjoyable when we were both hit on by men in their fifties. Mine was a drummer who travels to places like Singapore, India, and Korea. Jealous? He offered to buy me a drink but since I had to drive, I offered to let him buy me a water instead. I went out to try to escape from the absolute madness that is my job, and wouldn't you know it, my future boyfriend is a resident of my apartment complex. And in the middle of brazenly hitting on a woman who could easily be his daughter, he had the nerve to ask me what it would cost him to get out of his lease if he had to move to India. Grrrrrrrrr.

So maybe frequenting a pub so close to where I work isn't such a good idea. Still though, I gotta give Maeve's a solid review. I think in time it could be the One.

Plentyoffish Revisited

2011-02-02T20:12:00.000-08:00

The other night whilst imbibing a White Diamonds cocktail (patent pending), I was indulging in far too much Grey's Anatomy and cursing the world that Dr. Owen Hunt doesn't actually exist. Screw McDreamy or McSteamy. Give me Dr. Hunt anyday. He's all manly and interesting-looking with a deep voice and a vulnerable badass quality that just makes my eyes lose focus and forget what I was talking about....what? Oh yes. Anyway, add him to my list of Fictional Men who have Ruined Real Men for Life. The point was that I got super-bummed all of a sudden that he's not real.

That's right Patrick Dempsey.

Take a backseat to the much manlier Kevin McKidd.

The only ginger who deserves the title of World's Sexiest Fake Doctor.

As I mentioned in a previous blog about my troubles with menfolk, my standards for real men are actually not that high. It boils down to being taller than me, a non-smoker, aaaand that's about it. Preferably not younger too, but I'm flexible if he is (hey-oh!). Hell, I'd settle for any guy who shows the slightest bit of interest (who isn't some crazy one-legged ghetto guy at a gas station expecting me to drop trou right by pump #4 forcing me to invent a fake boyfriend to make him skedaddle. Or a homeless downtown jazz trumpeter named Tiny with similar assumptions and consequences.True stories both).

I was slightly tipsy from my cocktail and feeling melodramatic that I was never going to find a decent man candy in LA (blame the Grey's). So I decided to give online dating another try. Once again I went to plentyoffish.com simply because it's free. Absolutely miserable once more. I looked at a few guys' profiles to see if it was even worth it. So pathetic. I couldn't take any of them seriously. I wanted to either slap them for their douchery or laugh in their internet-profile faces for their stupidity. Is this what we've been reduced to? After a while, it wouldn't even let me look without signing up. So I started my profile. But with every field on the questionairre, I wanted to slap myself. There is no way to write those things and not sound completely ridiculous.

Searching for my mythical rainbow fish.

Is it possible to construct a profile for one of these sites without sounding a) pathetic, b) mentally handicapped, c) like a total tool? And how is it possible to consolidate everything about you into a few short text boxes and represent yourself at your best while being honest so if you do ever meet you don't disappoint them?

One final bone to pick with dating sites: Body type. I agree that it's important to know what you're looking for and not to lie about yourself. But when your choices are "a few extra pounds," or "big and tall/BBW," how does that not just kill your soul? I actually had to google BBW. If you look it up on Urban Dictionary, it means 'big, beautiful women.' First of all, egads. Second of all, those definitions are so cruel and ridiculous. There's no way I would want to associate myself with either of those connotations.

Anyway, the whole experience just pissed me off. So halfway through I gave up. I finished my drink and a few more episodes of Grey's and went to bed.

Discrete Gossip Queen

2011-02-01T19:48:00.001-08:00

I have the world's biggest blabber mouth. If I know something juicy (or even vaguely moist...ew...moist), I have to spill. Unfortunately, I'm not technically allowed to divulge any personal information from my job. And this is Sporadic Sporkitudes, not TMZ, so I have to keep it classy. But things happen and they're so weird/funny/crazy, and I feel like I'm going to explode if I don't tell someone. Because if no one knows about it, it didn't happen. And therefore my entire existence is invalidated. (Blow your mind just now, did I?)

Not actually me. But just so you know

how I feel when I see these things

and think, wow that's super cool

and can't say anything...

So I've decided to let y'all in on some of the wacky hijinks to which I am lucky enough to be privy. Well most aren't really wacky. But they do involve people you might recognize if I were not classy. What follows is the censored version. I won't give any names, any real info other than the situation.

Here is what happened in the past week:

1. A former Playboy model took family pictures out on our lawn.

2. A recurring character on the L Word took a tour of the premises.

3. I reset a password for a girl I recognized from a movie I had just seen on Netflix, as well as an episode of Grey's Anatomy.

4.5. I gave away a former resident/current Laker's parking space to someone else. Oooh exciting, right? But still it was cool to see his name in our system even if I don't follow sports and actively loathe the Lakers and everything this person stands for.

4. A former Nickelodeon star turned legitimate actor marveled at my strength as I lifted his enormous package. (Best compliment ever, "Wow, you're really strong." Darn tootin', former Nickelodeon star. Darn tootin'.) Get your mind out of the gutter. It was a cardboard box, not his penis. But it was really heavy, so be impressed nonetheless.

5. A former rapper/singer for a band that had a one-hit wonder when I was in 7th grade that my mom wouldn't let me sing because she thought it was dirty even though I didn't get the innuendo at the time but now I do (breathes) turned junkie turned Celebrity Rehab reality star turned back into a junkie ("who prefers to smoke rock-cocaine" according to the report) literally scaled several floors of one of our buildings to break into someone's apartment. Now that one I wish I could say his name, because it is the best name EVER. (Hint, it's an alliteration. And I do love me some alliteration)

6. This doesn't involve someone marginally famous, but I did get a call from a new resident asking if I had heard anything about the attempted murder in the parking lot. That one caught me off guard. But nope. No attempted murder. She was misinformed. But still. Weird.

7. And speaking of non-famous people who do weird things, a guy called our front gate to report that his psycho ex-girlfriend was so mad at him she was "pouring orange juice and kool-aid all over the floor." Who does that? I swear, these people may have money, but they crazy.

This is a very strange place. You can basically assume that anyone who walks through the door is in some phase of fame, whether it's child stars with pushy moms obsessed with dog poop, those you can tell probably won't make it, those right on the verge, those who will never make it out of the fringe, and the washed-up has-beens. And if they're not famous, they think they are and you should treat them accordingly. Sigh. Good stories though, even if I can't say everything.

UPDATE: 2/2/11 A sitcom child star is finally grown up to get his own apartment, but still needs his momma by his side. I think if I say the sitcom is based on a certain comedian, it won't give it away too much. Most of them are.

But Dad, Mexican Drug Dealers Get Cold Too!

2011-01-31T17:25:00.000-08:00

My dad is in the desert right now at the Quartzite, Arizona gem and mineral trade show. He goes every year to buy precious stones and jewelry for his business, Naturally Mine of Foresthill. But Papa Hutch wasn't always a jeweler. He used to be a cop. And a damn fine one at that. Which is why he got suspicious when he noticed tire tracks leading out to a shallow grave in the middle of the desert.

Not actually my dad. But just so you get a visual going.

That's right. A shallow grave.

It's like something straight out of Bones! SOOO COOL! Naturally he called me right away. We don't talk on the phone that often, so you know this is a big deal. He says, "In all my years of going out to the desert, I've always wondered if I would come across a dead body. And I think I finally found one!" He was practically giddy with excitement. He called the local sheriff around 10 this morning to come out and investigate the grave. I've been waiting in agony all day to find out if life really is like it is in the procedural cop shows. Some random passerby in the desert stumbles upon the remains of some high-class hooker, caught up in a high-ranking politico sex scandal. So that's what my brain has been working on all day.

I imagine this is what the Sheriff and her Deputy looked like.

I sent my dad a text a few hours ago, unable to stand the suspense. "Was it a dead body?" He just called me now.

"GRUESOME BODY PARTS EVERYWHERE!"

My dad is pretty twisted sometimes. It runs in the family. But no, he was just kidding. The sheriff arrived to check out the grave. She (yes, a kickass female sheriff) approached the site slowly, also with a bad feeling about what she was about to find there. She peeled back layers of plastic to discover...

Jackets. Sweaters. Blankets. Buried in a shallow grave. (Insert signature Law and Order DUN DUN sound here).

The Mexican drug dealers are very well-dressed in my mind.

What the what? Apparently that strip of desert is a known corridor for Mexican drug runners. The weather has been so cold lately that in addition to caches for food, water and supplies, the American side of the operation was kind enough to include warm outerwear. Awww, aren't we sweet?

So no dead bodies. Sad. But at least it was an interesting day for the desert.