HALF BAKED + RACISM ON TV.

So, I'm watching Half Baked on BET, baked out of my tree, when on comes the latest Snuggie Commercial. This was the only video I could find of it. If you haven't seen it already, you probably shouldn't click it. If you have, you may want to click it again to recall some kind of weird masochistic tendency you developed the first time you watched it. Apparently, since I'm watching BET, they air a different commercial. It's not the honky fest that you see on TV Guide or the Home Shopping network. No, apparently the Snuggie people decided that their advertisement was going to be hip and, as they say, "with it." They were about as on point as a Merle Haggart concert at a Shriner's convention. They dance in the video. Not trying to give anything away, just warning you. Their coreographer, apparently, had never gotten past the "white man's overbite" school of dancing.

Forgive me, I'm very fucking high and salivating thanks to some Pillsbury ads displaying the rising properties of Pillsbury biscuits versus other brands (which proved vastly superior to the store-brand).

The video is at once arrestingly pathetic in the sense that you think "Awww... They're trying so hard to be with it!" as you watch it, but it also you strikes you on the level of, "Wow, that's kinda racist!" Kind of in the way that Driving Miss Daisy was kinda condescending and antiquated, these people are raising their arms to some horrific infernal fusion of house and honky hip-hop while wearing their Snuggie everywhere - any activity a human being can do, they are there with their snuggies on. At the movies, walking the dog, watching TV, while cooking, while attending rallies - wait. Rallies? Yes. Fucking Rallies. There is a snippet in the video with at group of at least 50 people, on bleachers, attempting to "raise the roof" while that awful music plays and the voice over guy tells you that they're now available for your dog, and it is horrifyingly similar to some odd white power meeting/jousting competition. You must see it for yourself.

The next ad up was muted as a reflex action as soon as I shook myself out of my scorch-brained stupor. It featured some older black ladies that reminded me a lot of being in New Orleans after Katrina, so I thought it might be an ad for one of those mobile doctors offices that people are volunteering around the country since it's so fucked that nobody has health care in this country. So I unmute it thinking, "Oh, that's nice," then I lied to myself about how I'd totes donate if I had any money. It had a logo at the bottom advertising CareOne, reinforcing my theory that it was a mobile medical center. Nope. They were a credit card debt management company. "Help" comes in many forms, I guess.

Next was Avon, to round out the triumvirate with a nice racist Ponzi scheme designed to keep black people broke. The whole thing was pretty alienating. Also, they dubbed Dave Chappelle's voice with like three different people doing their best imitations. Sub-par, BET editors.

Then again, they also aired some Pillsbury doughboy commercials that made me very hungry.

FOR THE BRAVE:

MY FRIENDS ARE SICK

The Incident At 930 Alta Avenue from DeWalt Mix on Vimeo.


My friend's entry into the LA 48 Hour Film Festival. Personally, I am not reminded of 48 Hrs at all.

RE-ENTRY

SO I RECENTLY REINTRODUCED MYSELF into the life of a girl who is, among other things, very special to me. You may know her as emotionally-unavailable Valentine Candidate #1 from my Valentine's Day Post. It had been about a month and a half since I last saw her, but I was at my first shrink sesh in ages, so I was right up the block. I had just purchased a fantastic pair of sunglasses using my Banana Republic discount (among the only perks of working there), and was dressed rather snappily, so I decided to waltz in and sweep her off her feet. Apparently it had been too long since last I saw her, because I forgot that her feet were nailed to the fucking floor. I found myself having trouble meeting her gaze, my usually-rich baritone turning into a warbled screech, my palms sweating. I wondered what could be causing this frightful change in my unshakable demeanour. Yes, you guessed it - it was love. But I'm doing fine without her, I thought to myself. Why the fuck are you HERE? I reflected for a moment while she told me about her period which was the worst in recent memory and made her "look four months preggo." Because you'd be happier with her, dickhead! This was cause for consternation. My internal monologues are very infrequent, but when they occur they're generally right. I knew this was the case.


I realized that I was, in fact, happy to see this girl. She's always a mess, either because her stockings are running or because she's got a gnarly bruise or a hangnail. Today was no exception. She had just gotten some blemish removed right on the bridge of her nose, which she was perpetually worrying about despite it not mattering at all. I took a breath, grinned. She hadn't changed much, aside from the fact that she was seeing some Persian cunt who showers her apartment in rose petals or some such faggotry. She did give me great news, though - she'd decided to go back to school and was writing some scenes for herself. From what I've seen, she's a pretty good actress - I took her to a script reading for my Dad's new movie, and she cold read some bit parts really well.

I found my palms drier, and my voice steadier. She suggested we get a cup of coffee, so we went to Starbucks and had a pair of milkshakes for grown-ups (Frappucinos? Ice Blendeds? Something...) and a "Chocolate Banana Dream Cake" (who's the fag now?). We talked for a while about fulfillment and her lack thereof, and she played me some chick music that I pretended to like and we held hands for a bit. It felt great.

Then it was time for her to go to work, so I saw her off as she dashed in, late, then played around on the driving range to work off my drunk (I'd invited myself out for a few drinks, and I had accepted). We talked a bit on BBM and I read one of her scenes. It needed a lot of work. In her defense, it's an "episodic", but the rhythm was off (the first line is "I love you," for fuck's sake), and the dialogue needs some fine tuning. But I enjoyed it. Mainly because I'm familiar enough with her to know that she was writing herself, for herself, but it was nice to know I'm not alone in the fucked-up relationship department (I still have a slight scar from when my first - and last - Filipina girlfriend stabbed me in the chest with a pocket knife).

Then I left and got drunk with Brian.

THE FOLLOWING EVENING SHE WAS, naturally, going on a date with the Persian, but I grinned a double-wide grin of satisfaction knowing that at best he'd get his red wings on the worst rag of her young life, while I'd be out with a lovely blonde from work. I had a great time. We went to our "usual" spot for drinks, then we walked damn near three miles before settling on a place for dinner (ritzy Korean BBQ with tiny portions and enormous price tags), then made out and saw I Love You, Man (Hilar-bear - definitely see it) and made out some more. THE REST IS SECRET. But, gentle readers, at least you know now what I've had my hands full with lately. Also, I'm working on three graphic design jobs despite the fact that my work computer is in the shop so WTF. Talk soon, kiddies.

C'EST LA VIE

SO MY APOLOGIES for disappearing from the blogosphere. I can't really say what's been up, I've just been fairly stagnant creatively lately. I have been feeling amazing lately, though, like I hit up a Tony Robbins seminar followed by meditation and a high colonic. I was driving (well, being driven) to a friend's house in Glendale, and the sun was setting and casting this amazing glow over the mountains and I was suddenly grinning with this effervescence shooting out of my head. I felt at one with the universe. Everything was perfect. I could (and still can) do anything I want to, and I was everything all at once. It's hard to put into words, but it was almost like a moment of clarity for a depressed person to suddenly see all his gifts. I'm smart, funny, well-liked, well-traveled, well-spoken, and I've got shelter. I'm 21 years old and drug and disease free. Sorry if this sounds preachy and isn't the nihilistic dickhead talking that you've grown accustomed to, but I like this guy better anyway.  The world is wide the fuck open, and if you're privileged enough to be reading this (to have a computer, anyway),  odds are you're more blessed than you think, too. If you don't believe me, just remember one thing.

You could have a pimp.

Ciao for Now.

HOW HAS IT BEEN ELEVEN DAYS

11 DAYS SINCE MY LAST POST? WTF, YO? I vow to get back on it ASAP. I just wrote a long email though and it took a lot out of me but I've been feeling awesome lately. I've got great friends, I'm happy, I'm goodlooking, still jobless but what the fuck, and I'm creating something new every fuckin' day. I will drop mad knowledge first thing tomorrow. Happy Sunday Night people.

MUSINGS ON EVENINGS

SO LAST NIGHT I WENT TO A SAVED BY THE BELL PARTY. I had been looking forward to it for weeks, so I got decked out in a Letterman jacket and some groovy hi-tops and conned my friend Brian into driving me on this route. And presumably back home again. In exchange for this I'd bring him to a party where we'd be in an environment rife with nubile girls looking to be facebook friends. Perhaps even some love time. Either way, I convinced him to drive and, better yet, to go as Screech, going so far as to lend him one of my dad's shirts from the early 90s that looked very similar to a Dashiki.

We made a quick stop to buy birthday presents for the girls (a bottle of Don Julio that we were gonna drink and a shitty card), then drove the endless miles out to fucking Westchester to see what this party had to offer.

The answer, we soon found, was not a lot. There were slight ruminations of bass emanating from an empty garage, and a lone girl was trying desperately to re-hang a sign emblazoned with "HAPPY BIRTHDAY NAT AND MAD" but she was too short to reach. I gave Brian a look belaying my hesitance, comforted myself with the fact that I had some amazing Dr. Simon weed in my pocket, and headed in. Scattered crowd. No music inside, just an iPod in the garage. Dead as Elvis. As I turned to Brian and started to say "At least there's not that many dudes," EVERY guy in the greater Los Angeles area showed up and started mobbing on the few girls that were there. I wasn't too mad as there hadn't been much eye candy and the girl whose affection I was vying for (the birthday girl) looked really worn out and way too tired to fuck.

We decided that the only solution that will fix every problem is more alcohol, so we applied the theory in full effect. The Jungle Juice that allegedly had "six handles of vodka in it" got a little tequila face-lift from the girls' birthday present that Brian and I had helped ourselves to in true indian-giver fashion. Everything began to seem more interesting for the moment, and I talked to a couple girls doing the "stick and move" routine that usually works really well. It didn't.

This party was so full of guys, you had to book an appointment just to have a two-minute flirt. So I went into the dining room and played the worst drinking game of all time, flirted with somebody's wasted girlfriend, and killed time while Brian tried to lay the mack down. I decided it was time to dip into my supply of Dr. Simon's magical weed and invited a girl I had been talking to to sit down with me and smoke a J. She accepted, I got a couple frenchers, and we went about our business. I went back inside to see what Brian was up to. Let's just say he wasn't winning it. I was pretty fucked up, but I decided the best thing to do was to snatch bottle of Don Julio and nurse it until Brian got sober.

While I waited, I met with a fabled creature of yore, the uncharacteristically ever-present unicorn of parties - the beautiful, boring-as-fuck-girl. This girl was about 5'5", with bright, perky c-cups and long brown hair. She was sitting at the table getting hit on by two guys and I was drinking the Don Julio so I elbowed my way in and started talking to her. I instantly regretted it. Even my most base of flirts was met with a look of complete confusion. This girl was dumb as a fucking rock. I tried to get her to tell me about her stay in Germany, and heard the same boring stories of beer-halls and museums that everybody fucking has and I had to close my eyes so she wouldn't see me rolling them. I couldn't help it. She told me she spoke fluent Spanish so I busted out the classic "Entonces hablamos Espanol," which usually gets girls to raise their eyes in amazement that a guero has such a good accent and a degree of fluency on par with a native speaker. Not this little muffinbrain. She just looked at me like I had punched her in the face with a pillow. Complete confusion and a stupid grin. I decided this girl was not worth my efforts and smoked the middle third of the joint. I went back in. 1:15. I texted Brian to get us the fuck out of here, but he was still drunk as a priest. The solution was for him to eat cake. After fifteen minutes of him stuffing himself with birthday cake, we decided that it would soak up enough of the alcohol for him to be  roadworthy.

Not the case. He makes a wrong right turn that lands us on a familiar-sounding street, and all seems well for the moment. We bitch about the party and girls and life and muse on music and movies and pop culture and economic downturns while heading down this street for about twenty minutes. "Where the fuck is the 405?" Brian slurs, looking around in a fog. He is shitfaced, and we are doing an easy 80 down this street. I cannot possibly attempt to describe where we went because honestly, I have no idea what fucking portal we entered into alternate-universe Los Angeles. I do know that we were, at some point, in Windsor, then El Segundo, and finally Randy's Donuts. The route, as I can retrace it, is something like this. Except more driving. But while we were at Randy's Donuts, as I smoked the last of the joint and Brian pissed on a wall, the experience began to transcend into one of those magical evenings that affirm friendships so well. We bought 20 dollars worth of 80 cent donuts and milk and OJ and downed the shit like a hooker on crank. We sat in Brian's car, high, lost, and happy to have found this magical 24-hour donut shop that served pure joy. We sang along to Biz Markie's Just A Friend, and we sounded so amazing I had to send it to my friend Michele. We had fallen into a shitty evening, gotten lost, and found ourselves at a donut shop at 3AM.

We took pictures outside of Randy's iconic 20-foot donut knowing we'd never be there again. It was just by the magic of the evening that we'd even wound up so far from home.

But sometimes, far from home is right where you need to be.