A Rambling Consignation To Posterity

Avedersain, amigos!

2006-02-15T18:38:00.000-08:00

After more than a year on the internet, A Rambling Consignation to Posterity is coming to a close. But don't fret! Check out the brand new blog Almost Fiction for your daily fix of the irrelevantly irreverent.

Thanks for reading, and happy trails.

Where Stevie Wonder gets his car detailed

2006-01-27T20:10:00.000-08:00

Jack Bauer was never addicted to heroin. Heroin was addicted to Jack Bauer.

2006-01-25T11:57:00.000-08:00

I first came to know 24 in April of 2005. I had heard about the show from multiple sources, and after three and a half years I finally decided to give it a shot. Also I was infected with Stage 5 Senioritis, and the only cure to such a disease is to constantly be finding new and innovative ways to waste time.

Countless episodes of an hour-long show, archived for easy access at my local Blockbuster video store? Count me in!

I rented my first disc of 24 at midnight on a Tuesday. I proceeded to immediately consume all four episodes back to back to back to back. At 3 am I was cursing Blockbuster's unreasonable midnight closing time.

I have since watched every episode of 24 that has ever aired. You could say I am a bit of a diehard fan.

As far as I'm concerned, David Palmer is my president.

Tony Almeida is the most whispering-est badass this side of Keanu Reeves in Speed.

Kim Bauer (Elisha Cuthbert, same difference) is my future wife.

And what can be said about Jack Bauer? All I can do is quote the man:

"The only reason you're still conscious is because I don't want to carry you."

Having now seen 101 episodes and over 4,242 minutes of this glorious show, I have decided to pay tribute the best way I know how: create a drinking game.
24 can be as unpredictable as a small toddler's bowels, but there are some reliable constants in the series that leave it ripe for such a game. I intend to post a copy of the rules for your perusing pleasure, but right now Blogger is being insubordinate. Until then, you can still download the PDF file.

She looks like the real thing

2006-01-24T14:55:00.000-08:00

If you were listening to Radiohead's Fake Plastic Trees while driving down the streets of Beverly Hills, you'd swear Thom Yorke had found his inspiration peering down Rodeo Drive over the ceramic lip of a double soy sugar free vanilla latte.

Good Day Sunshine

2006-01-11T17:14:00.000-08:00

So I started a new gig in Beverly Hills two days ago, and I've since learned a few things:

1. It is friggin' bright here. Stevie Wonder would squint. I don't know if the Hollywood honchos gave the sun a kickback, but at 9:00 in the morning I'm shielding my eyes because the streets are literally aglow.

Theories:

Jeremy: "It's the sun reflecting off everybody's golden, tan skin."

Sarah: "It's ricocheting off all the bling."

I think it's both. And everyone's whitened-beyond-belief teeth.

2. I'm never uglier than when I'm walking around the streets of The BH. Everyone's primped, pampered and primed for the catwalk. Some of the guys are prettier than the girls. Not that I want to be pretty, but I wouldn't mind a personal trainer. You know - for rock solid abs and whatnot. Oh, and I'd love more than one pair of semi-formal shoes. I have a feeling my set is going to see a lot of action.

3. Everything is overpriced. (Duh?) I bought a san'ich at Basic Bites this afternoon, and though it was quite good, it was also very small. Like a sandwich balloon that wasn't fully inflated because the clown passed out before he could finish the job. I expect more for my six dollars. Call it upbringing. I was raised on Chili's, T.G.I. Friday's, and Red Robin - give me big portions or give me death.

4. Everything closes early. By the time I get off work at 7, the streets are practically deserted. The shops, the restaurants, the boutiques - dark as the Heart of. Apparently all of the customers are so tired from a full day of shopping(/not working) that they simply have no energy to swipe their plastic after dark.

"It's a hard knock life, for us."

5. Walking around here during the day really brightens my mood. Everything is so shiny, clean, new and beautiful (environment and people, both), it's hard to ever feel down in the dumps. Pair that with the eternally shiny sun, and Beverly Hills doesn't even seem real. More like something in a movie.

Which I suppose is appropriate.

The Pizza Song!

2006-01-07T14:35:00.000-08:00

Written while bored as hell in my AP Government class, during my senior year of high school, 2001.

Pizza! Yeah!
Pizza is round, pizza is good,
Pizza brings a party to the neighborhood.
Pizza tastes great!
Pizza tastes fine!
Pizza is the one and only way to dine!
If everybody had a pizza,
The world would be a better place.
If everybody had a pizza,
Everyone could stuff their face! Yeah!
Pizza, pizza, everybody wants a pizza.
Pizza, pizza, everybody has a good time.
Yeah!

!Ojala que tienes un año nuevo muy feliz!

2005-12-31T20:38:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I know. It's only 10:40 here in Puerto Vallarta. But heck, it's nearly midnight in New York. And the Japanese are already well into the new year. So Happy New Year, everybody! Time to make a resolution that you'll be really strict about keeping for roughly three weeks, but by February will have completely abandoned because hey, old habits die hard!

Me? I'm off to get craaaazy drunk. Did somebody say "Open Bar?"

Yep, me.

Donde esta mi cerveza fria, Carlos?

2005-12-29T10:06:00.000-08:00

Yep, I still really, really hate flying. Whenever there is turbulence, the first thing that pops into my mind is: "I am going to die. I am really, actually going to perish in the ocean depths below."

When I eventually have children, I promise to never take them on a plane until they are at least five years of age. People can be idiots. If your two-year-old only cries during take-off or landing, it's because their ears hurt from the pressure change. Anyone with any common sense knows that what the kid needs is something to drink/eat so that he/she can pop his/her ears and re-pressurize his/her own head. But these two buffoons are just cradling the poor guy as he is SCREAMING HIS LUNGS OUT and they just, for the life of them, can't figure out why their poor baby is in such an awful temper.

Some people simply should not be allowed to breed.

But hey, on the plus side - Puerto Vallarta, Mexico is fantastic! The weather is awesome and the scenery is gorgeous. I watch the news and I see that San Francisco is being bombarded with a storm that is causing 25-foot-high waves, and I laugh. I actually giggle with glee.

Until I return, here is a blog that is ten times better than mine.

Peruse it. Love it.

In his buddy's defense, I'm sure it seemed like a swell idea at the time.

2005-12-20T02:25:00.000-08:00

After putting back a few beers at the Westwood Brewing Company (affectionately known as "Brewco" by the college set) Friday night, Mike ("Dobbs"), Sean and I swung by the local In N Out. The line was long and moving slowly, and this greatly inconvenienced our stomachs.

As we impatiently waited, Mike got an eyelash stuck in his eye. He blinked about two dozen times to no effect, and couldn't rub it out because of his contacts (he's pretty much blind). Magically producing a tiny bottle of saline from I don't know where, he began to try and flush out the renegade lash.

"Geez man, that seems like such a pain in the ass," I said. "Have you given any consideration to laser surgery?"

"Yeah, but my friend had a really bad experience. They totally fucked up his eyes," he replied, blinking a few times and then pocketing his saline.

"Wow, seriously?"

"I mean, he got the procedure done in Thailand, but..."

"What? Dobbs, you can't use that," said Sean.

"Well, I mean, yeah, but..."

I interrupted him. "You can't use your buddy's botched surgery in Thailand to write off laser procedures done here in the U.S. by doctors that - no offense to the Thailand medical community - are probably better trained."

"Yeah..."

"Consider your excuse voided," Sean added.

"You guys are probably right..."

I put my hand on his shoulder. "Yes. We are."

"I don't know, though...they really fucked up his eyes."

A Polaroid.

2005-12-15T18:15:00.000-08:00

December 11 was quite a day.

Gus - my friend and freshman roommate at UC Davis - came to visit, and joined some other friends (Sean M, Emily K, and brothers Jeremy and Tim M) and I (Mike C) for a James Bond double feature playing at New Beverly Cinema. For only seven dollars (six, with Student ID), we were granted admission to Goldfinger and From Russia with Love. That's right, folks - the Connery years. The best years.

I had never seen either movie, and what glorious surprises they were, filled with action, intrigue and some of the corniest lines of dialogue I'd ever been audience to. Somehow though, Connery made the cheesy quips sound so cool. His Scottish/faux English brogue no doubt contributed to the suaveness of his delivery. Everything sounds cooler when he says it. I do a pretty decent impression, so I tried it out on a number of otherwise innocuous phrases.

Connery: "Pash the buttahr, if you pleash."
Human: Pass the butter, if you please.

Connery: "What a mahrveloush trip to the sherkish."
Human: What a marvelous trip to the circus.

Connery: "Tosh the migetsh through the shirkling shillinder while I shafely shound the shirensh."
Human: Toss the midgets through the circling cylinder while I safely sound the sirens.

Gus, Tim, Jer and I followed this back-to-back, Connery-laden marathon spectacular with a journey to Westwood, where we stuffed ourselves silly at Native Foods. It's one of my favorite Los Angeles restaurants, and as such, people tend to ask me if I'm vegan or vegetarian. As Jeremy once put it, I'm a 'Vegan food enthusiast.' Really, I would argue I'm a 'tasty food enthusiast,' and Native Foods is some damn good eats. Even Gus, a fellow omnivore understandably skeptical of vegan cuisine, was quickly converted.

It was then found out that Gus had never heard of Diddy Reese. For those of you not in the know, Diddy Reese is the one of the best food establishments ever to grace our world. This would seem like outsized hyperbole if not for two crucial reasons:

1.) The ice cream sandwiches they sell are delectable, savory and cyclopean, comprised of two freshly-baked cookies of your choosing and one generous scoop of ice cream from a selection of more than a dozen flavors.
2.) These sandwiches cost one dollar. No tax.

No amount of explanation, praise or hysteria can communicate what a single bite of a Diddy Reese ice cream sandwich can. So run, drive, fly, swim, skitter, crawl, cycle, hang glide or pogo over to Westwood, brave the sometimes block-long line, and experience absolute dessert bliss. Your mouth, your stomach and your wallet will gladly thank you.

Since the four of us had carpooled in my battle-weary Mazda Protege, I dropped Gus off at his car and bid him a safe trip back to his parents' new home in San Clemente. The rest of us then began the trip back to Tim and Jer's apartment, shooting the shit for about half the drive. The Beatles were playing in the background, and when Tim heard the opening lines of Hey Jude, he said,

"Dude, let's fuckin' blast it and sing our lungs out!"

So I doubled the volume, and we did just that. We sang damn loud, with a kind of joy that only a James Bond/Native Foods/Diddy Reese trifecta can bring about. The last four minutes of the song - a repeating sing-along chorus of euphoric proportions - were almost cinematic in nature; so emphatic and unbridled were our vocals. I drove a little under the speed limit so that we could finish the song before we reached their apartment.

Some may read that and think, 'Wow, how completely and utterly cheesy.'

But to that I say,

'Nay.'

Life doesn't just hand out these moments. They are few and far between, and every time one comes along I grasp it and hold on for as long as I can, as they are fleeting. When I look back on my fondest memories, it is the small things I remember the most vividly. The way my first girlfriend held my hand during Runaway Bride on one of our early dates. Lying on a summer sun-soaked square of living room carpet five years ago with my late dog Buddy. The impromptu song my Grandma and I sang on the ride to visit my mother in the hospital, just after she had given birth to my sister in December of 1985:

"We're on our way to see our Mommy today,
We're gonna hug her, and kiss her, and love her today!"

The tiny details are the ones I most clearly recall, for though they are largely inconsequential in the whole of my existence, they imbue my life with a significance that carries on with me, long after these moments drift into the ether of the past.

Do I Want One Of These? NE-Yes.

2005-11-09T00:14:00.000-08:00

My friend and I regularly send links to each other in a casual game of one-upmanship. He sent me this and I just had to share it with all of you. It is simply, bluntly joyous. My urge to build one of these suckers is almost as strong as my desire to email Mr. Heckendorn and ask him to build me one. I'm pretty lazy, so for that decision to be anywhere near a toss-up is fairly amazing.

But look at this thing. I know all of my guy friends are drooling and I'm pretty sure a sizeable portion of my female ones are as well.

Nintendo is forever linked with my childhood. Boys sat around the cafeteria tables at lunch and talked about the newest games, the most rad accessories. I begged my parents for a Nintendo, and when I finally got one at age six, Super Mario Bros. literally dominated my life. Then Super Mario Bros. 2 came out and I was a bit underwhelmed - I didn't understand why everything was so different and why was Mario throwing turnips. But Super Mario Bros. 3 hit the streets and I was on the crack pipe again. Back in elementary school, one of my teachers made us keep a daily journal, and I devoted an entire entry to Super Mario Bros. 3's upcoming debut. I read Nintendo Power with an almost religious fervor. The outside world mattered not to a 7 year old boy, but Shigeru Miyamoto's every move was monitored with an intensity only mirrored in the world of celebrity paparazzi. I hardly had an attention span but I would read pages-long Miyamoto interviews. The man was a god.

But I grew up, and my love affair with Nintendo slowly but surely came to an end. I was diehard for a long time - and I still believe the Super NES kicks the living crap out of Sega Genesis - but then the Nintendo 64 was cartridge-based, and then Gamecube didn't use DVDs and Nintendo systems just didn't have very many adult games. Goldeneye and Super Smash Bros. were the final hurrahs. When I do play games these days, if at all, I play on my Xbox. I didn't even bring my Gamecube with me to Los Angeles.

10-year-old Mike would punch me in the gut for even writing that.

But even the most cynical, jaded ex-gamer can't help but feel something deep down in his nerdy soul when looking at such an ingenious little piece of nostalgic ingenuity. Seeing those clunky grey cartridges takes me back to a childhood I often wish I could revisit, if only to experience again the kind of simple, no-strings exhiliration that is often missing from adult life. The sheer, unadulterated fun provided by an hour of Zelda (the first one, not that side-scrolling piece of crud sequel) is the kind I find myself looking for every day but hardly ever finding. Today, fun seems to come with so many conditions that sometimes I feel I've lost sight of what fun even is.

So thanks, Ben Heckendorn, for reminding me, at least for a brief moment, how much pure fun there is to be had when you're looking for it with the right set of eyes.

And thanks, Nintendo. I forgot how much you truly meant to me. Six-year-old Mike sends his regards.

As Advertised.

2005-11-08T11:49:00.000-08:00

UCLA requires all who apply to its graduate film program to submit a statement of purpose as well as a film proposal. The proposal should represent an idea that the student would possibly pursue during his or her time in the program. Below is a copy of my film proposal, written as a short story.

* * * * * * * * * *

Fred wakes up. His radio is blaring beside his right ear. Some car ad. He rolls over and turns it off. Rising slowly from bed, he curls his hands into fists and rubs his eyes. He gets out of bed and turns on the bedroom television. As he washes his face, the television can be seen reflected in the bathroom mirror, a Toyota commercial flashing on the screen.

He wanders in and out of the bathroom, retrieving his bathrobe, showering, taking his clothes off the hangers, brushing his teeth, putting his clothes on, combing his hair. As he moves back and forth, the TV set is out of focus in the background, quietly showing advertisements for the freshest soap, fanciest jewelry, hippest new cereal, the sheerest panty hose. Fred stands in front of the television and tries putting on his left dress sock. He stumbles backward and falls on his bed.

Fred’s car beeps twice, unlocking as he approaches. He starts the engine and turns on the radio. As he drives, a jingle for facial cream plays from his speakers. Seeing a Starbucks on his right he hastily pulls over. Fred enters the cafe and gets in line.

The female barista behind the counter flashes Fred a smile. He steps up to the register.

“Hello, sir,” smiles the cashier. “Could I interest you in our new Mango Madness Frapaccino?”

Fred politely declines.

The young woman picks up a recently made Mango Frapaccino and holds it beside her face, smiling wide. “Summertime has a new best friend in the Mango Madness Frapaccino! There’s no surer way to beat the heat than gulping down this delicious, delectable and downright desirable drink!”

Her stare is aimed slightly over Fred’s left shoulder. He turns around, but no one is there. The customers are sipping their lattes, chatting, reading. A lone barista sweeps some trash in the corner. Fred turns back to see the girl still frozen in a pose. He hesitantly orders his small coffee. Her face relaxes. She looks at him.

“Sure thing, sir. That’ll be one dollar and fifty-five cents.”

Fred pays, picks up his coffee, and leaves. He shakes his shoulders a bit as he walks to the car.

He soon arrives at work, sits down at his cubicle and begins to unload his briefcase. As he shuffles his papers around on his desk, a young, well-groomed co-worker pops his head over the cubicle divide.

“Hey Fred.”

Fred looks up.

“You check out that new Xerox 1280?”

Fred shakes his head.

“Ah, well it’s only the best of its kind! Printer, scanner, copier all-in-one, the Xerox 1280 outperforms its competitors in printing speed, photocopying dot resolution and scanner clarity.”

“That’s great, Jerry.” Fred looks back down at his files. Footsteps can be heard from down the hall.

“Oh, hey Susan! I was just telling Fred about the new Xerox 1280.”

“The printer, scanner, copier all-in-one?”

“The one and only!”

Susan, a portly middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks, pops her grinning head over Jerry’s wall and looks eagerly at Fred. A combination of apathy and annoyance can be seen in his face. Jerry turns to Susan.

“Susan, did you know that the 1280 outperforms…”

“Its competitors in…”

Together, “Printing speed, photocopying dot resolution and scanner clarity!”

Jerry’s energy seems boundless. There is an odd glint in his eyes. “Four out of five corporations prefer the Xerox brand!”

“Who on earth is the fifth?” Susan’s timing is too perfect. The two of them laugh quite hard for a moment, then stop abruptly and turn to Fred. Their smiles are large. Almost impossibly so. Fred looks at them, stunned.

“That’s, that’s great, guys. Anyway, I have to start working, so…”

Susan and Jerry apologize and excuse themselves. Fred looks down at his desk in a daze. Slowly he rises from his chair, turns, and walks out into the hallway.

A co-worker pops his head out of his cubicle. “Hey Fred, you see the new Audi?”

And another. “Freddy! Did I tell you I bought a new lawnmower?”

And again. “Berkeley Farms makes the best milk, don’t they?”

Fred does not acknowledge the gauntlet of employees vying for his attention as he makes his way past. He finally reaches the break room, where half a dozen employees are standing around conversing. They all notice him simultaneously and abruptly stop talking. They smile with teeth.

Fred turns around mid-step and walks to his supervisor’s office. He doesn’t bother knocking. The supervisor, a smallish man in his mid-thirties, is on the phone.

“Jonathan, I have to leave.” Fred’s face is grim.

Jonathan puts his hand over the receiver. “What? Why?”

“I just have to go. I don’t…feel well. Things aren’t right today.”

“Alright, OK. You can go. It’s slow around here, anyway.” Jonathan turns his attention back to his phone call. Fred moves to leave. As he puts his hand on the doorknob, Jonathan speaks again.

“Oh, by the way, Fred.”

Shoulders slumped, Fred keeps his hand on the doorknob.

“Have you tried the new Mango Madness Frapaccino?”

Fred turns the doorknob, opens the door, and leaves.

The parking lot Fred walks through is packed with cars in every shade of silver and grey imaginable. The vastness of the lot is intimidating. It is thousands of cars deep.

Fred sits in his car for some time, alternately leaning back in his chair and resting his forehead on the steering wheel. He starts the engine and exits the lot.

Fred parks in front of a Safeway. He turns off the engine but does not open the door. He checks his rear and side view mirrors, his eyes darting from one direction to the next, his neck craning back over his right shoulder. He takes a deep breath and exits his car.

The grocery store is busy for a weekday morning. Mothers push grocery carts housing their children. An old lady holds a jar of pickles close to her face so she can read the nutrition label. A handful of employees are restocking the cereal aisle. Fred walks over to the magazines. He looks at everyone twice. Picking up a magazine, he thumbs through its pages. As he settles into an article, a Safeway employee approaches him. He asks Fred if he needs help finding anything.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“Are you sure? Anything at all?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m having fun reading.”

“Well sir, enjoy your magazine. But you should know that we’re having a promotion on Duracell batteries over in aisle six, just in case you need any.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“They really are great.”

“I understand.”

“Duracell’s copper-top batteries outshine the competition. They’re simply unbeatable in both longevity and reliability. Duracell: the energy you need, when you need it most.”

A woman, who was pushing her cart by the aisle, stops. A toddler sits amidst her groceries. “You really can’t beat Duracell, can you?” She says. “Their batteries outlasted the leading brand in every single field test!” The child picks up a pack of Duracell batteries from a pile beside him. He smiles to reveal a lonesome tooth. “Duracell!” he declares.

Fred puts back his magazine and walks past them in the direction of the exit. Employee and customer alike have begun to converge near the front of the store. They all talk about the wonders of Duracell batteries, at one moment to Fred and then to each other. As more and more gather and the crowd grows louder, sentences can hardly be heard over the cacophony of conflicting voices. Only “Duracell” can still be made out amidst the chaos. Fred backs away from the crowd, desperately looking for the door. The crowd’s voices begin to synchronize. From the confusion a melody begins to take shape. People start to harmonize. By the time Fred finally backpedals out of the Safeway the crowd is joined together in a Broadway musical-like chorus trumpeting the quality and craftsmanship of Duracell. Fred trips over a concrete divide. He scrambles to get up and runs frantically to his car. As he fumbles with his car keys, Safeway employees can be seen in the background flipping and tumbling in synch. Customers tap dance atop cars. A local policeman ceremoniously shoots his gun into the air in time with the beat of the song.

Finally finding the right key, Fred slides into his car and starts the engine and his tires squeal against the asphalt. The performance can be seen continuing in his rearview mirror as he drives away.

Hours later, Fred walks into his bedroom to find his wife reading a book under the covers. He sits down on the other edge of the bed, haggard and weary. Some time goes by before his wife speaks. She does not look up from her book.

“Hey honey, how was your day?”

Fred does not respond.

“Honey, our TV remote died this evening. Do you think you could make a pit stop on your way home tomorrow and pick up some batteries?”

But What If I Want To Be A Naked Wood Nymph?

2005-09-29T14:09:00.000-07:00

I never played Dungeons & Dragons as a kid, but I did spend a few summers playing Magic: The Gathering with my pal Ivan. This may give readers a clue as to why I'm without a girlfriend.

(Click image for full size.)

Cod Dammit. (Or: Check Out The Size Of My Friend's Cod Piece!)

2005-09-17T19:15:00.000-07:00

Jer, Dobbs and I went to Ye Olde King's Head a couple of weeks ago. It's a British pub/restaurant, serving English cuisine (if you can even call English food a "cuisine") and a wide assortment of beers from the tap. Zagat's recommended it, so we decided to give it a look-see.

We entered the restaurant on the wrong end, through the patio, so we were forced to awkwardly walk through the dining area back to the front where the hostess was. Speaking with a predominant British accent, she guided us back across the land we had just traversed to a cozy little booth that could have easily sat many more than just the three of us.

Each of us perused the menus and made our choice. I was to go with the chicken sandwich, flavored with "British spices" for an extra, uh, spicy, taste. Jer, having eaten only a half hour before, decided he would nurse a beer back to health. Dobbs knew he wanted fish and chips (a historical English dish made with real cod!), he just wasn't sure how much of it he wanted.

The waitress finally arrived, and in British, began taking our orders. Dobbs ordered last.

"So, I'm trying to decide between the King's Fish and Chips and the Queen's Fish and Chips. I'm just not sure how much I want to eat. How big are the fish pieces?"

"About this big," the craggly, and frankly, ugly waitress replied, making a modest measurement of about 4 inches with her thumb and forefinger.

"Oh, well that's not very big at all! In that case, I'll have the King's Fish and Chips (which came with two pieces of fish, instead of one)."

The waitress took our menus and left.

Let me just get something out of the way before I continue any further. The service was very shitty. Our waitress was AWOL for nearly the entire time we were there, leaving the very non-British, very much Mexican busser to refill our water glasses three times. Damn Brits.

So our food finally arrives. My sandwich is very much a normal sandwich, moderate in its dimensions and not overly spectacular in its presentation. Then there's Dobbs' fish sticks. Calling the waitress's earlier fish stick estimate "inaccurate" is akin to calling John Travolta's acting abilities "only slightly below average."

Below is a picture of Dobbs holding one of the cod pieces that was crushing the helpless fries below.

He wasn't able to finish his meal.

None of us tipped the Brit well.

La Cucaracist

2005-08-31T20:54:00.000-07:00

So my friends and I are at Cabo Cantina last night, drinking some good beer and having some good times. Cabo is this cool little bar that's about 2 blocks from my apartment. It's great, it's awesome, it's the perfect anti-Los Angeles watering hole and I'm blessed to be so close to it.

However, it was only last night that I really paid attention to the very large mural painted on its walls. And it was only then that I noticed something rather disturbing and extremely Macintosh (un-PC).

The mural depicts a happenin' beach party scene, with beautiful white people gettin' their groove on and shakin' their collective thang. It's kind of cartoonish, yes, but everyone is drawn with semi-attention to realism and no one is made to look particularly foolish.

Well, except for the Mexican in the painting, enthusiastically enjoying himself behind the bar. Click on the image below to see a larger version of this happy hombre. The lighting in the bar was kind of crappy and I took the picture with my cell phone, but I think you'll get the gist.

I don't consider myself to be very foul-mouthed (read my other blog entries and see for yourself), but the only thing that comes to mind when I look at this is:

"What. The. Fuck."

There's racism, and then there's racism painted on the wall of your establishment.

Look at his devilish grin, his obvious enthusiasm and addiction for alcohol. Is he pouring those 2 drinks for himself? Probably. Observe the 1930s villainesque handlebar muscahe. Note the ridiculous horse-toothed grin. His sombrero.

I was in the midst of driving to Inebriationville when I saw this. Talk about your buzzkill. Yes, I laughed. I'm laughing right now. But not the, 'Ha ha, Mexican people are hilarious' kind of laugh. More the, 'Ha ha, I can't believe how ridiculously bigoted this mural is' brand of giggle.

Unfortunately my little camera phone couldn't take a more panoramic view of this wonderful piece of art without losing the details of our devious Mexican pal to the night, but I was able to fit a couple of other people into the shot. As you can see, they are drawn to look like normal human beings, with proportionate eyes, mouths and cheekbones. See how wonderfully this contrasts with our loco little bartender?

Aye carumba.

P.S. - Yes, I am going to continue patronizing Cabo. From 4-8 p.m. daily they offer 2 drinks for the price of 1. I may hate bigotry, but I love me some cheap beer.

Helen. A Handbasket.

2005-08-25T03:13:00.000-07:00

I recently went to Whole Foods for the first time since arriving here in Los Angeles. I intended to buy one of their sandwiches, since I've heard so many good things about them, but the line at the deli was too long and I was going to be late for Oldboy so I purchased some marvelous sushi instead. I wasn't expecting this but I shouldn't have been surprised, considering the name of the store - they wrap the fish in brown rice, not white. Still, extremely delish.

So I'm standing in line to purchase this fantastic yet expensive sushi, and I do the ol' 'Are there any cute girls in the vicinity' gaze that all guys do in a new environment. Directly next to me is some young guy I don't know, and behind him is Helen Hunt.

I quickly looked away so it wouldn't appear like I was staring, but I think I looked away a bit too fast, making it obvious that I recognized her. I felt bad, because I know celebrities must dread going on errands, for fear they'll be treated like exotic animals and gawked at. I tried to remain calm and casual and not act out of the ordinary. Something tells me I failed. C'est la vie.

I will admit, though: it took everything I had not to turn around, look Ms. Hunt directly in the eyes, and say,

"A beautiful Tuesday evening. Gorgeous weather. Fantastic, natural, organic food. Reasonable prices, all things considered. I mean really, isn't this As Good As It Gets?"

I Lied.

2005-08-19T21:31:00.000-07:00

My apologies, readers. There was no new blog yesterday evening, like I promised. But trust me - I have had too many stories - it would be a crime not to blog them. As soon as I get enough time to sit down and devote half an hour or so to writing a new blog entry, I will. Hang in there - I see that many of you are still checking regularly, and I appreciate it.

Just know that your efforts will not go unrewarded! I will be posting several longish blog entries this weekend. I'll have enough free time and the Echinacea has succeeded in curing my writer's block. Stay vigilant, folks, and I promise you it will be worth it!

-Mike

Let There Be Blog

2005-08-17T00:14:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the drought.

A lot of blog-worthy stuff has happened lately but I've been short on time and more importantly I've been fighting a very nasty bout of writer's block. I'm taking some Echinacea for it and the symptoms are starting to lessen so here's hoping there will be a lengthy, tasty new entry for you sometime before Wednesday calls it quits.

Thanks for checking in, and as former Journey frontman Steve Perry says,

"Don't stop. Believin'."

Lindsay Lohan or Lindsay Nohan?

2005-08-12T21:59:00.000-07:00

I may or may not have seen Lindsay Lohan at the gym today. I couldn't get a very good look because I hear celebrities don't like being stared at. So it was either her or someone who bears an amazing resemblance to Lindsay Lohan.

But there can't be that many extremely tan, extremely skinny, extremely bleached-blonde girls in LA, right?

Right?

No, I Don't Set Off Metal Detectors

2005-08-11T02:36:00.000-07:00

I've had this permanent retainer behind my lower set of teeth since I had my braces removed in the 4th grade. Every once in a while a renegade sliver of gum or a pesky little piece of popcorn film gets stuck between the wire and the back of my teeth.

It is the most aggravating thing in the world.

OK, maybe that's an exaggeration. If my arms and legs were bound with rope and tugged by opposing horses while a midget wearing four-inch heels did a spriteful jig on my chest, that might be slightly more aggravating. But since that hasn't happened yet (why isn't ANYONE answering my personal ad?), getting tiny pieces of assorted items stuck behind my immovable metallic retainer stands unchallenged as the most aggravating thing.

But I suppose it's preferable to the alternative.

I'm With Stupid

2005-08-10T11:13:00.000-07:00

While driving aimlessly around Los Angeles yesterday I decided to make a quick stop at Albertsons for a deli sandwich.

"Hi, I'd like to order a sandwich, please."

"OK," the middle-aged woman behind the counter replied. "What kind would you like?"

"A turkey sandwich on a...what kind of breads do you guys have?" Having been to Albertsons maybe four times in my entire life, I was unfamiliar with their bread selection.

The lady looked down at two plastic-wrapped loaves of bread.

"We have...white and wheat."

I looked down and sure enough, there was one loaf of white bread and one loaf of wheat. Both were provided by outside vendors.

"Hmmm."

"Yes?"

"Well, I guess I'm just a little surprised that you only have those two kinds because, well, you guys have a bakery."

"No. We don't have a bakery." She looked at me as though I had said,

"Well, I guess I'm just a little surprised that you only have those two kinds because, well, you have an enormous metallic jungle gym in the soup aisle."

I stared at her blankly.

I turned my head 45 degrees to the left, at three large rolling metal shelves stacked high with freshly baked breads of all varieties.

I then turned my gaze upward, to a 15-foot wide sign that read in bold, easy-to-ready print:

Albertsons
Bakery/Deli

"Hmmm."

Exciting and Fresh: Comments!

2005-08-08T02:20:00.000-07:00

You are now free to post comments on every new blog post, building up and tearing down my confidence at your discretion!

Cowabunga, dude!

I Think I'll Go Scrub My Corneas With Lye

2005-08-06T18:15:00.000-07:00

A Rambling Consignation To Posterity is monitored by a site that provides tracking statistics, so I can learn how many people are viewing my site on a daily basis and where they're coming from. This helps give me a better idea of how my readers are getting here. It also works to massage my massive ego.

The counter can tell me if the blog was found through a search engine like Yahoo or Google, but more importantly I can see what was initially typed into the search bar. About a week ago I was checking my traffic statistics and noticed that one of the recent viewers happened to come from a Yahoo search. I was curious to see what they were searching for that brought them to my blog, so I clicked on the link and was whisked over to Yahoo.

This is what I saw.

I was immediately shocked and appalled.

However, he did check out my blog.

But is this how I want someone to be introduced to my little corner of the internet? I can practically picture the scene:

::rubs hands together:: "Ah, fantastic! Yet another site with photos of girls being deflowered! Exxxxcellent. I'll just click on over and the fun shall be...what on earth is this? This isn't girls being deflowered! This is a rant about MySpace! Oh, this doesn't help me at all! Blast! What am I...hey, wait a second...this is so true! MySpace really IS that stupid! This blog isn't half bad. I believe I shall continue to peruse it."

Also - who below the age of 85 uses the word "deflowered" these days? There's an image in my mind of a man shrouded in a velvet bathrobe, smoking a pipe and drinking some Earl Grey, reclining in his cushy leather computer chair and getting hot and bothered at the prospect of looking at "naughty, naughty photographs." Honestly, the word sounds like something out of an Oscar Wilde play:

Algernon. Well, in the first place girls never marry the men they flirt with. Girls don’t think it right.
Jack. Oh, that is nonsense!
Algernon. It isn’t. It is a great truth. It accounts for the extraordinary number of bachelors that one sees all over the place. In the second place, I don’t give my consent.
Jack. Your consent!
Algernon. My dear fellow, Gwendolen is my first cousin. And before I allow you to deflower* her, you will have to clear up the whole question of Cecily.

Did you happen to notice where my blog showed up in the list of results? Number NINE! Because that particular post had the words 'girls,' 'photos,' 'being,' and 'deflowered.' Not in the correct sequence, mind you, but apparently it was enough for Yahoo. What other kinds of search phrases are going to pull up A Rambling Consignation in the top 10? I shudder at the hypothetical.

And if the person responsible for that lurid search is still reading my blog, I'd just like to say thanks for sticking around - it means a lot to me that you find my ramblings entertaining enough to interrupt a rousing afternoon of sleaze. Best of luck finding those photos.

*Edited from the original word, "marry." Apologies, Oscar.

Still Outperforming 'The Decade'

2005-08-02T13:40:00.000-07:00

Something new, exciting and amazing has just happened in my life: I subscribed to a magazine! Can you taste and smell the considerably palatable exhilaration I'm exuding?

This particular rag is called The Week. Amazon describes it thus:

"THE WEEK will give you everything you need to know about everything that matters. Best reporting, analysis, commentary and opinion from scores of newspapers, magazines and other news sources."

Think of it as the print version of Google News, but better. It collects all of the recent news and entertainment stories and compiles them for more convenient consumption. I discovered the existence of this magazine through Mad Professor, an entertaining little blog full of many wonderful things to enjoy. Its description of The Week is what sparked my interest:

It's like having a friend who reads everything, from the New Republic to the National Review to the Beijing Times, and then tells you about it in a way that holds your interest. After reading it, I really feel as if I have a handle on world events. Best of all, it's actually fun to read. I consider it my one must-read magazine.

I followed the provided link over to Amazon and read a few user reviews of the magazine. This particular one sealed the deal:

The Week is easily one of the LEAST biased news sources I've seen. Because they so frequently offer multiple points of view it's difficult to determine (if not impossible) just what the editors think of any given story. Also, the editors frequently highlight a section they call "How they see us." This one little half page feature in itself is a goldmine and certainly illustrates the purest form of unbias - telling Americans what others think of us. Far too many US based news stories filter out the rest of the world which is probably the worst kind of bias there is.

I despise bias in the news, be it liberal or conservative, and so often it's glaringly obvious, so I jump at the chance to read something that provides a balanced perspective.

I clicked mere seconds later and snagged this fab rag faster than a tail wag.

The only downside? I won't start receiving it until sometime between the 1st and 15th of September! How on earth am I supposed to be even-handedly informed until then!?

Crunches Make My Stomach Scream

2005-07-26T11:10:00.000-07:00

I wish life was uncomplicated like when I was twelve.

When I was twelve, I could go to the pool or the beach and not worry about feeling self-conscious about my body. At 22 I have to be cut like Bruce Lee, decked out with rippling muscles cascading down my body if I'm to attract the opposite sex.

Nobody weight lifted when I was twelve. All of us prepubescent boys basically looked the same - short and skinny. As long as we weren't the fat kid we were set.

Now I have to worry about the size of my pecs, the flatness of my stomach, the thickness of my neck, the broadness of my shoulders, the circumference of my arms and the width of my back. I toil away at the gym, desperately trying to look like the dude on the neighboring bench press wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and resembling Tobey Macguire post-spider bite, attracting the wandering eyes of all the nearby beauties.

Never mind that I'm moving to Los Angeles, the locale credited for single-handedly inventing the day spa, as if life weren't already hard enough for a man living in the 2000s. Without thousands of dollars to burn on a personal trainer and dietician, what chance do I have?

One only slightly larger than my pathetic excuse for a bicep.