Step aside, Jenny Craig. Weight Watchers, you too. I lost ten pounds in one day. All by getting a haircut. The last week has proven to me exactly why long hair will never work for me; ergo I could never make it as a hair metal rock star. Because what happens when my hair gets long it becomes a magnet for pollen (hello, allergies!), and at that an unruly magnet that curls and furls everywhere. Forgive the poor quality of this segue (and the poor quality of this entry), but speaking of hair metal, I took a trip down to LA Connection Comedy Theater Friday night. While there, I got to see two improv troupes perform: Stranger Than Fiction and 2 Drink Minimum.

The poorly thought up hair metal reference goes out to Stranger Than Fiction's very awesome sketch about two guys who always express emotions "the only way they know how--through song". The players are a band called Phöenyx, and they sing songs they create on the spot per suggestions from audience members.

My only complaint about my evening was that during 2 Drink Minimum's performance, a certain nameless audience member just about killed my sense of smell with his excessive use of cologne. Because of this, I've developed a new rule of life (aimed at heterosexual cologne-wearing males, in this case, but it can apply to anyone): if your cologne trumps the shit out of your date's perfume, you should not get any action that evening.

That said, the theater is a fantastic time and is an LA institution, so if you live in LA, get over there and check it out. And if you're visiting LA, or planning on visitng, be sure to add it to your list of places to go. Do it.

I spent nearly an hour today talking to my roommate's partner. It was pretty much the best hour of my entire week. Over the course of our conversation, it suddenly became clear that my experience living in this place was not Hell, or any of its seven circles. Nay, it was more like Purgatory. It turns out that that big fight that happened last month was in part started by yours truly. Here's how it played out: Satan was complaining about me to her fabulous partner, who in turn took it upon herself to come to my defense, bless her. Apparently, my "lack of cleanliness" was causing The Evil One great pain. You know, the towels were wet because I had used them to dry my hands, and I had thus upset the delicate balance of cleanliness she strives so hard to achieve.

Long story short, it seems that I drive my snarling poodle of a roommate a whole hell of a lot crazier than she drives me. Which fills me with such a sense of pride I can barely stand it. I mean, just knowing that when she spent those three solid hours cleaning the bathroom, it was on account of my having driven her to it. You know the feeling of eating the most delicious chocolate cake coupled with the best chocolate ice cream ever? This feels almost as good.

And it gets better! Oh, does it get better! It turns out that the whole issue of the bathroom "looking nice" comes from the boyfriend she had in high school (he's gay) making some crack about it. He also, apparently, asked her why she lets me live here, because I'm "weird." This is awesome for two reasons: 1) The idea of evicting someone not on account of not paying rent or maybe being consistently loud or invasive, but on what a guy who buys a 15-foot tall mirror for his living rooms simply because he can considers "weird", and 2) The concept of my actually paying to live here is not even considered in said argument.

But as things go with roommates, so too might they go with partners. I was right when I thought that that argument was the breaking point of the dysfunctional relationship of my roommate and her partner. I was wrong, however, when I thought they had gotten over the argument and were back together. Girlfriend told me everything, and it seems my pending move couldn't have come at a better time. Because the drama of my household is about to surpass that of Passions. And just as it does, I'm going to be flying free at last.

My friend Renee likes to write letters to life's editors. I was inspired to write tonight, and writing letters seemed so perfect I had to steal her idea, only in the form of love letters. The Good

Dear Togo's,

You came into my life at the exact moment I needed you most. There I was, driving around, pangs of hunger shooting through me. And then there you were, shining like a lighthouse beacon in the dusty haze, guiding me through your doors less than ten minutes before you closed. How lovely it was getting acquainted with your egg salad sandwich, and with mustard! I simply must see you again soon!

Love, Hungry But Too Lazy to Go to the Grocery

The Bad

Dear Cold Stone,

For the first time in my life, you nearly let me down. Normally, your "auditions" turn up very talented staff. But oh, tonight! Your guy mixing my ice cream dropped my first mouthwatering creation right onto the ground. And he almost did it a second time, no less. You're very lucky he didn't, and that the ice cream was so amazing, but next time I think it best we rendezvous elsewhere.

Love, Sweet Tooth

Dear Los Angeles,

You seem very upset. First, days on end of hundred plus degree heat plus humidity. You hurt me, you really did. And now, non-stop winds throughout the valley. I think we need to take a break from one another. New Mexico is calling, I must be away. It will help, I know. And I see that you see the bright side, too. You showed me the sun through a haze of dust, and I got to see the beauty that is the perfect orb of the sun, without having to worry about going blind. For whatever it's worth, thank you.

Love, Homesick

The Ugly

Dear Roommate/Landlady of Death,

I tried so hard to love you, but my intense dislike of you, and your hatred of my relaxed and "lived-in" lifestyle, just made love impossible. I love that you said "Thirty days notice would be nice" without batting an eye when I broke the news to you. I love that you said that because it confirms everything I ever thought or said about you. I love that all the problems you have and all the things wrong with this house will remain, and I will soon be free. I love that, should we ever meet again once we part ways, we may actually be glad to see each other, if only because we can say goodbye and know that we don't have to see one another at home. We took dysfunction to a new level, you and I, and unbeknownst to you, I have every intention of using that to my advantage. No hard feelings, on the condition that you return my deposit in full.

Love, Soon-To-Be-Ex Roommate

I've been surprised at how much work I've actually had to do this week, even though I'm on break. My way of handling said work is to goof off all day and luxuriate in the total "lack" of responsibility, and then realize at about 11pm that I have a whole bunch of things I need to take care of. And what the heck, that's as good a time as any to get started, right? Which is why it's 2:15 and I'm still awake. Let me just emphasize that the last three hours have been so productive that even The Bobs from the movie Office Space would have been proud.

I”m currently on break. Which means that, while I don’t have to study at the moment, I have to figure out how to arrange everything so I can get back into another glorious semester of school. Because that’s all boring and uninteresting, here’s a list, in no particular order, of things currently taking up my time.

• While walking through a parking lot after lunch today, a station wagon nearly ran me over. My first instinct was to shout at the person for being such a dumbshit motherfucking idiot, but then I saw the lady behind the wheel and suddenly felt sorry for her. She had a neck brace on, so of course I should be the one apologizing. I waved her through and smiled benignly, but wound up flipping her off anyway because really, what’s a person wearing a neck brace doing driving? Idiot! I can see her talking to the police after causing some huge wreck: “I know that other car had right of way, but I couldn’t see them so I figured there was nothing there… How’d I get this brace? Oh, I was in a car accident a month ago.”

• Unsurprisingly, I’m peeved at my Dancing With the Stars-loving roommate. The garage is still broken; she’s not bothered to even think about getting it repaired. And now she keeps locking the gate, so I can’t get my bike out of the backyard. She said all I have to do is let her know when I want to ride my bike and she’ll unlock the gate. I told the bitch to shut the hell up and get me a key.

• I recently beat the medium level of Guitar Hero III. It turns out that the jump from medium to hard is sort of akin to finishing kindergarten and jumping right to college. My fans keep booing me off the stage and I’ve broken countless guitars in frustration. Also, what’s up with the songs switching between first and second guitar? I hate having to stop mid-riff and jump to a new riff. It makes no sense, and clearly I just proved that I’m also a music nerd.

• Thanks to the lovely Dooce, I’ve taken to listening to The Bryant Park Project. They’re an NPR show whose podcast I’m now subscribed to. The show is fantastic, and in addition to reporting and discussing news, they have all sorts of interesting stories and interviews. Over the last week, I’ve learned about the physics of bowling, a British band who made a music video using closed circuit cameras, and the popularity of computer solitaire. It’s quickly becoming a part of my morning routine. For one thing, it’s way better than waking up and smelling my roommates pot of coffee.

Sheldon and Dobson: 'We Can Hear the Bells' May 19, 2008

SAN FRANCISCO, CA - Mere hours after the California Supreme Court determined 4-3 that the state's ban on same-sex marriage was unconstitutional, a meeting was called to be held at a local San Francisco Chili's between leaders of conservative watchdog groups. The meeting was to discuss options and tactics for introducing a constitutional amendment to protect the institution of marriage.

Andrea Lafferty, executive director of the Traditional Values Coalition (TVC), started off the meeting. She emphasized the urgency of the issue, and stated that something must be done lest traditional marriage be destroyed completely. "Before we know it, activist judges are going to force everyone to marry members of the same sex," Lafferty stated.

Patrons of the restaurant complained about the ruckus from the group meeting, and sought to have them removed from the premises. Gary Honster, a construction worker enjoying his lunch break, approached the group and asked if they'd mind toning it down, but he was met with hostility. "They're really nasty people," he said. "And anyway, gay people still find one another even without being allowed to marry, so what's the point? If they really wanted to make a difference, they could, like, fight homelessness and hunger."

The group was not thrown out of the restaurant, however. Due to their literal take on laws and Biblical verse, they were able to find a loophole in the Chili's restaurant policy, and threatened to push for a constitutional amendment barring all Chili's restaurants from serving its delicious array of food to heterosexuals.

James Dobson, Ph.D. and founder and chairman of Focus on the Family, was the first presenter at the meeting. "Marriage is a privilege, and should include only one penis and one vagina," Dobson asserted. This was as far as his lecture went, however, due to TVC Chairman Reverend Louis P. Sheldon interrupting him.

"It was so crazy," Chili's manager Jennifer Cornell stated in an interview after the event. "Rev. Sheldon got up from his chair, ran up to the front, and started making out with James Dobson! The whole restaurant stopped to watch."

Dobson and Sheldon were unabashed, and reported that they fell in love the moment they saw one another. "We took Tae Bo classes together," said Sheldon. "Jim and I were just waiting for the right moment, and because we're both so religious, the right moment was the time when we could officially tie the knot." Dobson and Sheldon joined the many happy couples who signing up for marriage licenses, and are thirteenth on the list. The two lovebirds are thrilled that they no longer have to hide behind the veil of fundamental conservativism, and can love one another in a committed relationship sanctified and protected under law.

When asked about his current marriage of 51 years with his wife, Sheldon replied, "Well, because this Supreme Court ruling effectively destroyed the sanctity of marriage defined as between only a man and a woman, I figure our marriage is null and void." Sheldon says he plans on having his partner at TVC, Andrea Lafferty, be his best man.

*All events and quotes in this story are fictional and are for satirical purposes only. All characters are fictional, with the exception of James Dobson, Andrea Lafferty, and Louis Sheldon. Those three are real people, and really are fighting to limit the rights of some of their fellow citizens who have done nothing to limit any rights of theirs. This blog entry is inspired by recent events, as well as the fine writers at The Onion.

Okay, so it took me two days to finish everything up. But I can't be blamed, because certain factors were beyond my control. For one, my ass was hating me for all the hours I'd had to sit on it. And trust me when I say that if any part of your body can turn on you and totally force you to not do what you "should" be doing (in my case, sitting and writing papers), it's your ass. My ass revolted and there was nothing I could do about it. Then there was all the partying to be done. Two of my friends graduated this semester, so obviously I had to join in the celebration. They finished up on Thursday, so the party was Thursday night. And given that my butt had turned the other cheek on my studies anyway (pun totally intended, unfortunately), I had no qualms about going. I even hit the dance floor, bad moves and all. I drew quite an audience, too. The tattooed and pierced guys with mohawks all joined me and wanted to party with me. Me, wearing a lime green polo and white shorts and sporting moves that are timelessly awful. One guy I met was from a band, apparently, and he, smitten with how I moved and danced around, offered me backstage passes to some festival show he's playing. I guess that means I win.

And as promised the other day, I have one thing left to say to my spring 2008 semester: "SO LONG, AND THANKS FOR ALL THE FUCKING FISH."

Within the next day, I'll be able to look back on this semester and give it the ol' Douglas Adams quote from the extended trilogy book series I've yet to read: "So long, and thanks for all the fish!" And when I yell that for all the world to hear, it will be rife with unspoken meaning. Like "I won't miss you at all because I kinda hated you" and "Bitch!," because I'm all about subtlety. My exam this evening consisted of me writing four pages, front and back, of material. I'd venture to guess that about 90% of it didn't make any sense at all. But wait! That still beats out most James Patterson novels* in terms of quality, so I'm in the clear.

*Except for The Jester. That book fucking rules.

A desk cluttered with papers and CDs. A bed covered with a three-ring binder stuffed full of paper, some books, and more papers. The floor is littered with text books, loose-leaf papers of handouts and rough draft term papers. A neatly organized pile of clothes in the corner. Stacks of mail in front of the bookshelf and on the desk. That's the anatomy of a grad student's room, in case you were interested. The mess comes from notes, term papers, and text books rather than the other, more conventional fare of younger, more care-free individuals. Simple logic follows, then, that a grad student's room is one that attempts maturity and good feng shui, but hits well below the mark.

In my case, the mess that is my current room is organized chaos. I know where almost everything is, and given that my mind is in a state of complete disarray, I think it's only fair that my living space live up to that same standard. Two more days to go. And when I fix up my room again, I'll probably have forgotten most of what I've just been trying so hard to learn. No doubt I'll feel much better for it, too.

It's the last week of school, and there is much rejoicing in my small little world. I can't jump the gun too much, but having gotten some of my work done today, I decided to ease up a bit tonight. I broke out Guitar Hero and put on the wildest show anyone has ever seen! I was rocking amazingly hard, and there was no stopping me. Tonight I beat the game on the "medium" level. But not without some struggle. After all, it takes practice to climb to the top of your game.

Dear Muse, your song "Knights of Cydonia" is amazing, but damn it's hard to play. I think it took me like ten tries just to get three stars on that shit. Dear Lou, I kicked your ass on my second try. Face it: you got served. Dear DragonForce, I love that I get to play your song during the credits. Just know that I'll probably die before I can play every note to your song because my arm seizes up every time I try. But thanks anyway for the good times.

It's already past midnight, I know, but let me first take a moment to wish any of my readers who happen to be mothers out there a happy Mother's Day! Next, a note on how awesome Mother's Day is. The whole day, I didn't receive a single spam email or spam comment on my website. As soon as midnight hit I started getting my usual influx of spam. Spammers don't normally even take Christmas off, so Mother's Day must therefore be the top dog of holidays.

Now then, next order of business. I did manage to leave the house today, just in time for dinner and the Mother's Day crowds. And let me just say this: holy crap, everyone and their mother was out! Literally! Except for me; I was flying solo. And, as a result of my experiences this evening, I've realized that there's another kind of mother that tried to be celebrated on this holiday: the Mother Fucker.

Even though I saw my share of Mother Fuckers on Mother's Day, I propose we make the day after Mother's Day "Mother Fucker's Day". It can become an annual sacrilegious holiday where we celebrate the fine folks in the world who royally piss us off. I make a motion to declare today, May 12, 2008, the first annual Mother Fucker's Day.

• Let's dispense with the formalities and state the obvious: my roommate. Or, She Who Rearranges Her Dishes Every Other Week Just To Try To Keep Phil From Using Them. Seriously. I wanted to make some pasta for lunch today and couldn't find the stupid pot to boil the water. She is such a Mother Fucker!
• You know who else is a total Mother Fucker? The guy who was doing 30 mph in the mall parking lot today and almost could have hit me. Had he not slowed down and let me pass, I was poised to remove my shoe and throw it at his windshield to teach him a lesson.
• I've been working on term papers for the last two weeks, and am finally nearly finished with them. I hate them with a passion, and thus must declare that whoever it was who invented term papers is one of the biggest Mother Fuckers of them all.

Let's see what other Mother Fuckers are out there. Post them in the comments or on your respective blogs (let me know if you're posting them on your blog(s) so I can see them). Let's start the celebration!

This entry is inspired by my roommate, who caught me walking out of the bathroom just now (I’m so glad I was wearing my robe) and in her fake happy conversationy way told me she wanted me to clean the bathroom. I almost said “Why? You cleaned it so well last week that it’s practically impervious to getting dirty,” but thought better of it. Instead, I said “Sure thing,” and promptly rushed to the safety of my room and slammed the door shut. I’d been thinking about this anyway, but was further inspired by this event to post ten ways you know it’s time to move out. I like to think that this will benefit the greater good, so here goes.

10. You’re afraid to actually be in the kitchen, much less use it, when your roommate is in the vicinity.
9. You’re thrilled to leave the house for the day instead of being relieved to get home.
8. You’re afraid to talk too loudly on the phone for fear that your roommate can hear you. Or worse yet, is eavesdropping on you.
7. Your roommate randomly breaks out the vacuum at 11:30 at night and spends an hour vacuuming her room.
6. Your roommate takes it upon herself to clean the bathroom you use. This would be a perk, except in the instance that she takes three hours to clean the space that takes you no longer than 40 minutes.
5. Your roommate almost knocks herself out because she’s exposed herself to too many household chemicals in a confined area for too long. This spells bad news for you, given that you’re also being exposed to the toxic chemicals
4. A simple palm tree toothbrush holder is deemed by your roommate to be inappropriate decor for a bathroom with dark brown walls.
3. You get bitched at for using some of the butter that your roommate never actually uses, only to find out that your roommate eats a ton of your honey roasted peanuts.
2. You roommate refuses to call the power company about power-related problems, even after repeated power failures.

And the number one reason you know it’s time to move out…

1. You lock the door to the bathroom every time you take a shower for fear that your roommate (who never uses your bathroom, in theory) will open it while you’re in there.

I'm running out of steam, it seems. I've got to make it through next Wednesday and then I'll be done. In that time, I have to read a whole bunch more research articles and write a paper synthesizing them, complete a project based entirely on a hypothetical human being, and study like mad for the one class I rely on for my mid-afternoon nap once a week. My weekend, given what I've just mentioned, is looking to be about as much fun as washing the neighbor's RV using only a toothbrush and lye. If it was up to me, I'd go out this weekend, sing some karaoke and have a few drinks. Then I'd show up to my tests where'd they'd ask me if I learned anything this semester, and I'd reply by saying "Of course I did, silly!" and then get an A+ for having such brilliant wit, a winning smile, and a positive attitude.

Hallelujah! Tonight was my last official night of lecture for the semester. (Now only one week, two projects, and one final exam to go.) For tonight's lecture, my teacher decided to play us some tapes of a recorded lecture from a psychologist who works with parents whose children are born with or acquire disabilities. The tapes (no, they were not even CDs) actually proved to be worthwhile listening. I was very impressed, which was both a nice surprise and also kind of disappointing, given that I was all set to take a nap and everything. I would totally go see this guy if he ever does a workshop near me.

One thing he said, though, got me thinking. It was something like "If you find that a parent yells out you and you get mad and just yell 'Fu--fff'..." And I accidentally said "fuck!" for the man, because let's be honest. The whole time he was speaking, I know, you know (and I know you know) that he wanted to say it.

Through the rest of his lecture, the only thing that kept me awake was that, in my head, I was imagining that he was using the words fuck, shit, and bitch at least 30% of the time. It's a proven fact that the more swear words we hear in one sitting, the more likely it is we'll remember exactly what was said, word for fucking word. Fingers crossed that some high school kid reads that last sentence and quotes me on it.

In keeping with her tradition of spending more time in my bathroom than I do, my roommate recently exchanged the small night light, whose bulb burned out, for one of those electronic air freshener things. It's way over-the-top, as usual. As in, it's very fragrant. Overpowering, even. Every time I walk into the bathroom it's like someone just shoved a bunch of roses on steroids into my face, which leads me to suspect that this particular model of air freshener was intended for use in a warehouse, rather than the 3.5' x 8' space that is my bathroom. This is yet another area in which my roommate and I differ. We'd previously established that I am not OCD and I am not bipolar. We can now add "prefers household chemicals to be inhaled in limited quantities" to that list.

I'm not sure whether or not I should be thankful for what can only be described as a purging of all my functioning brain cells. On the one hand, my first graduate course here in California is officially over. Still, though, there's all that time I spent over the weekend shoving a metal pole up my nose and into my ears in the hopes that there might be some extra neurons to glue to some paper so that I could turn in what the Monopoly Man professor described as "the culmination of a semester of study." The work I turned in was more like the culmination of a hearty bean burrito and Raisin Bran breakfast, but I guess that's close enough to what he wanted.

If you've ever wondered if it was possible for getting lost to become an art form, let me now put your wonder to rest. It is indeed possible. But I've killed all the competition and proven myself to be the world's leading expert for getting lost. It can only be done by first knowing exactly where you're going, and then fucking it up beyond belief. I give you, a masterpiece: Plan: Meet friends for breakfast at 10:00 am in West Hollywood.

Action:

• 9:30 - Review directions to the Farmer's Market and print them.
• 9:34 - Text friends to let them know I'm on my way.
• 9:40 - Leave house and begin the drive.
• 9:55 - Call friends to inform them I'm running a tad late.
• 9:58 - Miss exit off freeway I was supposed to take.
• 10:00 - Take the next exit and attempt to use intuition to get back on track.
• 10:07 - Intuition fails. Turn around.
• 10:09 - Ask directions from random stranger on the street. No help.
• 10:12 - Forced to turn right onto unfamiliar road. Now officially lost.
• 10:14 - Pull over and break out the Thompson Guide.
• 10:18 - Get lost in Thompson Guide. Friend calls, but doesn't have a clue where I am based on the cross streets I mention.
• 10:23 - Bravely try driving back toward destination. Fingers crossed.
• 10:30 - Finally get on the right track.
• 10:40 - Still driving toward destination
• 10:45 - Finally arrive. Yay.
• 10:46 - Pull into parking lot only to find it's full.
• 10:50 - Exit parking lot after waiting in line for four minutes to do so.
• 10:52 - Wait in line to enter secondary parking lot.
• 10:56 - Finally get parking ticket stub and go park.
• 10:57 - Attempt to exit car only to find white SUV driven by woman with too much plastic surgery parked too close to you. Flinch at sight of her, but ask politely that she not park like an asshole. Please.
• 10:59 - Exit car and enter Farmer's Market.
• 11:04 - Enjoy wandering around, and enter The Grove by accident.
• 11:07 - Realize that I'm so not where I'm supposed to be.
• 11:10 - Turn around and head back to the more food-related area.
• 11:13 - Finally arrive at destination. It's about damn time.

I have in the past indicated that I am directionally challenged, but I've now taken this to a whole new level. I'm talking major league baseball professional level, sans any line drives. Circles, homes. It's all about the circles.

Without bothering to get into any spoilers, I feel I must point out that I'm going to miss some of the drama I've come to love on Step It Up and Dance. What can I say, I love it when the contestants whine, especially to the judges, because invariably they get beaten the fuck down. It's a delicious experience. One of the things I love about that show is that it's filmed right here in LA, which means that when they include little clips on the air of surrounding scenery, I jump out of my chair and shout things like "hey I've seen that up close!" or "I was just there last week!" Mostly, this excitement only strikes when I see the Capitol Records building; it reminds me of the first time I saw it, and I was like "Dude, it's the Capitol Records building."

Wednesday, unfortunately, brought sad tidings for that area. A building recently burned down at the intersection of Hollywood and Vine. It strikes me especially hard because only a month ago, I was standing at that very corner with my partner, and we stood there for a bit and tried to remember exactly why that spot is so famous. (Turns out it's a corner that historically had bars and clubs that used to be frequented by big name Hollywood stars, and they all used to hang out at that corner or something.)

The fire destroyed mostly just that corner. Fortunately, it happened in the early hours of the morning, and the rest of the block was okay. A relief, since no one was hurt, and also since the Pantages Theater is practically right there. LA, despite the traffic and the many negative aspects people are quick to point out, has a lot of history, and much to be proud of. Hopefully nothing like this happens again, if at all.

One I've discovered, that, at times, the world can be obnoxiously small. I should have known that it would a matter of time before I ran into someone I knew from home. I was afraid that it would happen today (it did), but that didn't stop me from trying to convince myself that it the similarities I saw in the guy were mere coincidence. I almost got away with it, too, until the asshole walked up to me and asked me if I was from New Mexico. And yeah, the jig was up.

So it turns out that one of the guys I met my freshman year of college also goes here. I haven't seen him in at least three years or so, and I didn't realize what a blissful state I'd fallen into in that time. I guess that answers the question of whether or not creepy people become less creepy over time: they don't. Without missing a beat, he was asking for my phone number (I didn't give it to him, but got his instead, and might "accidentally" lose it; woops, too late) and saying that we should hang out again.

In the space of five minutes, here's what I learned:

• He lives in a super nice house in a super bad area.
• He rents his room for $450 per month.
• He has to share his room with another guy.
• But it's okay because they're both Christian.
• So they can discuss the Bible all the time.

I barely knew this guy to begin with, and never cared to talk much with him when I did, and in the space of only a few minutes I was trying to figure out ways to set him up on a date with my roommate.

Two

The latest fun drama from the grad school front is that someone from one of my classes uploaded the entire class's recent projects onto the internet. Permission was never requested, nor were any of us informed of this. It's left me with such a bad aftertaste in my mouth that I'd rather eat pickled anchovies in olive juice.

Three

I got to interpret a big standup comedy show tonight. I'm not gonna lie; it was pretty much the coolest thing ever. I love anything on stage, and I got to enjoy a show and meet some awesome comedians, including the one and only Gabriel Iglesias, who is damn funny and also a damn nice guy.

Four

I'm damn tired so dammit, I'm going to bed.

Sometimes I get restless on school nights. It happens frequently this time of year. If you, dear reader, enjoy mathematics or logic, think of it this way: my total amount of motivation (M) is inversely proportional to how much work (W) there is to do. (Translation just in case you hate math and/or logic: the more work there is to do, the less motivation I have to do it.) I generally refer to this phase as "burn out," because after fourteen weeks of the grueling and exhausting task that is avoiding homework, I'm totally beat. As a graduate student, I've done this enough times that I've figured out a sort of system to get me through the semester. For instance, having gotten some of my work done today, I decided that I could leave the house for a short this evening.

I should have taken the "play first, then work" approach, because by the time I left the house, it was 8:40 pm. A time, I thought, that was perfect to hit a few stores to walk around a bit and maybe do some shopping (and simultaneously missing some of the earlier crowds). I thought wrong, evidently, because everything in this part of LA closes practically as soon as the sun sets. Nine o'clock rolls around and suddenly doors are barred and gruff security guards warn you that you'd better be either exiting the premises or else going to wait in line for the release of the new video game you've never even heard of at that one shop in the mall where there's a mass of people huddled together chattering excitedly and holding signs and wearing t-shirts to show their "true fan" dedication.

The whole time I just kept saying to myself, over and over, "Wait just a second. This is L.A. This is fucking L.A.!" As if saying that would make me snap out of the dream that had taken me back to a version of L.A. circa 1952 that, in addition to the general stores lining the dirt road, had stores that sold violent video games to those who would willingly stand in line for hours just so they could be among the first in the world to play it. At midnight. But dammit, they were going to close that store at 9 and make those loyal patrons stand there outside the store until midnight, at which time they'd let them in only to a specific spot, and then they'd make them purchase the thing right away before sending them the fuck home so they could close down again and be done with it.

Seriously, L.A. You're supposed to be all big and grown up, homes. And, you're supposed to be alive and kicking whenever I want you to be, dammit. I'm so disappointed in you right now.

It seems that every time I decide to go here for dinner, I invariably wind up stuck sitting near a gaggle of preteen chickettes. You know, the ones who are "12 going on 21", who think it's fun to go out with their friends and talk on their cell phones with other people the entire time. It's like mom and dad like to drop them off at this one spot because it's the cool hangout, right, and the girls can be all obnoxious and girly while they do their grocery shopping next door. So, like, tonight, like, I decided to go to Baja Fresh for dinner, right? And, like, since it was so cold inside, and outside it was pretty nice, so like I decided I wanted to sit outside. And like it was so nice because there were no other people there, so like I had the whole patio to myself.

That is, until the three 12-year-olds decided I was onto something and followed me outside and sat at the table two feet away from my own, never mind that the whole patio was open. Luckily, they ate quickly and took off. Which was a total relief, considering they very nearly depleted my teeny bopper tolerance allowance. (Mercifully, none of them actually said "LOL" out loud; had they done so, I probably would have keeled over dead on the spot. Or else been forced to snatch up my plastic fork and start waving it manically at them.)

But I digress. This could just be a sign that I need to get my food there to go, and next time I need to escape the house for a while, take my hungry butt somewhere else.

Today was OCD Extravaganza! at la casa de Phil. We're talking 9 in the morning until 6 in the evening of the most insane cleaning frenzy to which I've ever had to bear witness. Much to my surprise, Cruella de Vil didn't so much as point a finger in my direction. She did, however, spend a solid two or three hours cleaning my the guest bathroom. (Before I forget, I feel I must add that we had a most bizarre conversation about the weather. Today was hot and windy, a rather unpleasant combination. "Oh, you're new to California, so you don't know about the weather. This is earthquake weather," Cruella informed me. It occurred to me that she was not, in fact, trying to pull my leg as I suspected. She was dead serious. To which I replied, "Um, ok. Pssshhh." But the nerd in me couldn't resist, of course, getting a perspective or two on the issue.)

Moving on. I arrive back to the house at nearly 11pm (show at the university theater and then hunting for a lost cat that we ended up finding!), and Ms. de Vil comes flying out her bedroom door to ask me if I know some police officer that was supposed to be keeping an eye on us tonight. Nope, don't know him. So we bid one another good night and she leaves the house. Which is totally out of character for her, but whatever.

I adjourn to my room, where I put some music on and relax on my bed for a bit before deciding to post this. And as soon as I finish the first paragraph, I hear the front door open and then close. I hear footsteps making a beeline for the roommate's door, and then I hear pounding and yelling, and two female voices working in perfect discord against one another. Apparently, we've gone from soap opera to Jerry Springer within a mere twenty-four hour period. That's got to be some kind of record.

It's easy to forget about some of the perks of living in my current place of residence. I mean, all the drama about broken garage doors, trash, towels, and dishes almost made me forget that the the woman I live with is not only anal retentive, probably bipolar, and obsessive compulsive, but also a lesbian! And lesbian drama can be the bitchiest, scariest drama the world has ever seen.* While out and about this evening, we were in the neighborhood (sort of) so I convinced my friend Letizia to pay her respects to the funeral home where I live. I realized it was a house of death upon entering. Voices from the living room could be heard over the television (which is unprecedented), and sure enough, we had stumbled upon Bitchfest 2008. Which, to understate things, was quite the scene.

I was afraid to actually peek in and announce our presence for fear that my roommate would cast her eyes upon me and I'd suddenly burst into flame, or else turn into a giant naked stone statue. Medusa, it seemed, was on the offensive and was screaming at her girlfriend, who I'm proud to report was not taking no shit from nobody, thank you very much. Incidentally, I suddenly became aware that when you, without having heard any of the arguments, automatically side with the significant other who only lives here on weekends, it's time to give your roommate a friendly "fuck you!" and get the hell out. (That and suggest to the significant other that she do the same.)

I'm viewing this turn of events as ammunition (i.e. blackmail), to be used however I see fit. "Oh, you mean there's some dirt, on the floor, where you walk? I'm sure you're the only one who noticed, but hey, at least your company didn't have to walk in on you and your girlfriend in the midst of a screaming match." I ran into Medusa when I came home around 11 tonight, and was shocked that she didn't verbally abuse me for letting a friend in the house. Methinks she was too embarrassed and guilt-ridden to bring it up, which only increases my leverage. Hells. Yeah.

*This obviously blanket generalization does not apply to all lesbians. Excluded from this are the fabulous lesbians I already know and love, and those who I've not met but would totally love because they're so awesome. Also, any readers of this blog who happen to be lesbians clearly do not fit the generalization by virtue of reading this. I heart cool lesbians, but I don't hart drama, unless it's of the thespian variety.

A couple of honorary mentions are in order this evening. They should have been in order last night, but we'll make this vicarious because I was too tired to write anything last night. Here's why:

• Tuesday, 5:15:32 pm: Power in all outlets in the house suddenly and unexpectedly disappears.
• Tuesday, 5:15:33 pm: Phil freaks out because the take-home exam that's due in 23 hours is suddenly gone. Caput. Lost.
• Tuesday, 5:30:18 pm: Power is still gone, and Phil is now desperately trying to figure out what to do about the stupid test.

And since I recently purchased a glorious (not to mention amazing) iMac, there was no way for me to use laptop power. Which meant that as long as power was denied, so too was my partially completed exam. A partially completed exam that I'd rather go shovel cow manure for an hour than actually have to redo any of what was already done.

This is where shoutout number one comes into play. I'd earlier that day saved part of my exam to Google Docs so I could work on it from my laptop, or from a campus computer. So I at least had some of my work still. Next up, shoutout number two goes to Panera Bread, first for having only one of the best chai lattes the world has ever seen, and second for having free wifi for customers. (This is the part where I give a big thumbs down to places like Starbucks other big corporate coffee places who use the T-Mobile network for wifi and actually force those of us who don't use that shit to pay $10/hour for wireless internet. Boo! You guys get scathing looks from me and also no links to your websites for not being cool to your customers.)

Anyway, back to the point of my take-home testing drama. When power finally DID return (when my red-faced and horned roommate got back, it was apparently fine; I had fled the place before 6 o'clock rolled around and sought shelter at Panera, where I sipped tea and worked on my less-than-optimally-functioning laptop. Turns out I lost a good chunk of what I had been working on, because the file was still open when I lost power. So Tuesday night and then on into Wednesday, I busted my chops and cranked out nine pages of sheer brilliance. That's all I'm saying about that.

Next on the agenda, Step It Up and Dance. Tonight's episode was probably the best one yet, because STOMP is fucking amazing. I think a part of me was hoping that more of the dancers would have actually known about Stomp and really gotten into it. I could be biased, because I've been into Stomp for years. I've seen the DVDs, and have seen them live three times. And I really, really, really hope that two weeks from now that bitch Miguel gets eliminated from the show. Every time I see his hair I cringe in fear that lice are going to leap out of the screen at me. Makes me really miss Christian Siriano from Project Runway, because at least when he talked about himself, he had smarter, more interesting commentary than "I'm so the best" or "I really can't stand Michael, he's a wannabe dancer." I'd love to see Heather and Jessica really go to town on Miguel's fashion sense, and just tear him to shreds.

I was just cleaning out my pockets and discovered a receipt from a recent purchase. Upon looking at it, I realized that 1.) I could have walked away with more than a penny in change, and 2.) I think someone could be in (or already was) in pretty big trouble with the boss. My purchase cost a grand total of $5.29. I paid $5.30 cash for it, only when the cashier rang it up, she put in that I paid $53.30, thus causing the system to say that I was due back $48.01 in change. Upon first looking at the thing, I was miffed as to why the cost was so high, and that I had paid over $50 for a $5 purchase, until I realized that I've never, in fact, put a Grant in my wallet. Ever.

Sure, a part of me wishes the cashier really had given me that much back in change. But then I got to thinking about how unlike a crook I am, and even if I considered it a donation, of sorts, they'd probably notice the error sooner or later, play back their security tapes and subsequently arrest me for their own mistake. And who am I to make others work that hard for less than $50?

For future reference for the cashier: it's generally best to click VOID when you screw shit up. Just saying.