Eternal Sunshine of the Blogless Mind

I stopped blogging for a few days. I'd like to tell you that the reason for this is that as a rule I don't blog my craziest adventures, and the past four days have been non-stop insane action. In actuality, I've pretty much done nothing worthy of blogging. Scroll down and see that me doing push-ups with the guys has been something I deemed blog-worthy in the past, and you will realize how boring the past four days have been.

There have been some highlights that probably don't deserve entire blogs themselves. So to catch you guys up, I'm just going to tell a story using pictures and no words. Here goes:

ONCE UPON A TIME...

THE END

Now that you're all caught up, let me tell you about my day yesterday because, it's kind of story worthy.

I need a car. My Chaueffer Previously Known as Pat starts his job on Monday, leaving me with no way to get around town. And if I ever decide I want to go on interviews to maybe get a job, I'm gonna need my own wheels. I've been to a few dealerships just to scout out the price range of things, yadda, yadda, yadda... Yesterday, I woke up determined to have a car by the end of the day. I'd been fucking around for long enough, Pat's been driving me all over and sitting with me while I talk to these people, I don't want to have to go through this a million more times, plus I don't have the time to do that because come Monday I'd be jogging to the dealerships.

So we pull up to a Toyota dealership about ten minutes from our house. This was around 1:30 in the PM. Remember that time, because it is important later. I wanted to check out the Corollas because they are towards the cheaper side but are still good cars, definitely great on gas mileage which would save me a lot of money right there. The guy who approached us was a young guy named Bachir (ba-SHEER) who was Lebonese, but looked Italian, and didn't have an accent. It was his first week on the job. Turns out he's 22. We walked around the lot a bit, but they were all pre-owned and not for lease. The reason I want to lease is so I can get a new car whenever this lease is up and I never have to deal with any heavy duty repair costs that comes with owning for a long time. So anyway, he had to take us up the street to this other lot with the new cars, so we went. I checked out a Corolla I liked, and asked to take it for a test drive. We got in and sped off.

On the car ride we all got to talking, and he started telling us a little bit about himself. Turns out he's in the music business. Bachir is a battle rapper. For those of you who do not know what battle rap is, it is basically two rappers who go against eachother freestyling insults to eachother, and the crowd decides who wins in the end. Bachir is apparently the champion of Los Angeles (or at least this place called "The Pit". Check out Bachir's music myspace here. Scroll to the right and hit stop on the music that begins to play automatically, then scroll down and watch some of his battle videos. He goes against some black dudes and an Asian guy. Some highlights:

• "Yo, we're gonna put a box around him. cuz he like a donut shop, whenever you see him you see cops around him."
• "I say the rhyme sick, don't make me check you. You like Elton John, you a faggot but for some reason people still respect you."
• To an Asian guy: "I don't know about you, but I'm a martyr. This ain't for me this is revenge for Pearl Harbor."
• "You ain't really rippin' shit. You such a faggot you went to England and they nicknamed you Cigarette."

This is the guy who sold me a car. His name is MC Dizaster.
I bought a car from MC Dizaster.
MC Dizaster is going to be on the new show "MTV: Flow Blah Blah Blah". I say "blah blah blah" because it's Flow something, but I don't know the rest. Also, he's going to a big battle in Tucson, Arizona to battle sixteen of the countries best battle rappers for 3,000 dollars. I hope he wins.
But anyway, to make a long story short, I was at the dealership until 9:30 at night. That's right. From 1:30 to 9:30. Could that have something to do with me being from out-of-state and unemployed? Yes. Could it also have something to do with MC Dizaster being my salesman? Well, yes.
Waiting there was almost unbearable. Pat and Jorge actually left twice. Once to go to Carl's Jr. for lunch, the other time to go to Best Buy. We went on the bank's computers and downloaded episodes of Saving Jeremiah. That was Pat's idea.
We also saw the kid from "The War at Home", that show with Michael Rapaport. If you recall, I also had another close encounter with him last March. Will our paths cross again? It seems like destiny.
So 8 hours and one goofy celebrity sighting later, I am a proud owner of an '07 Toyota Corolla. Well, leaser, not owner. And I'm not very proud because I totally got fucked over, and I need a job soon or I'll be home with my confidence so bashed that I'll never leave my house, much less the East Coast ever again.
God help me.


Send donations to:
Paul Gulyas
3260 De Witt Drive
Los Angeles, CA 90068

You will go to Heaven if you do.

Let's Blog It Out, Bitch

Yesterday, Iron Chef 3260 De Witt resumed with quite an ambitious endeavor. Joe couldn't just make maybe some macaroni and cheese, or say, fajitas or something. When he was in Georgia (again, not the home of Ray Charles, the country) he ate this bread and cheese dish called KHACHAPURI. Yes, it is as hard to say it as it is to prepare it. Perhaps harder. I got so fucking tired of saying it. I'm already sick of typing it.

Anyway, that stuff consists of a bread (which Joe was to make from scratch, something he'd never done before) filled with three cheeses: Mozzarrella, Feta, and Monteray Jack. The cheeses took some preparation; he let them soak in heavily salted water overnight. Yesterday when he took them out, it smelled like Abe Vigoda's crotch. Joe got to work kneading the dough while I shredded the cheese. Yeah, that's right, I participated in my opponent's recipe. I'm that good of a sport. I did contemplate sabotaging it by throwing in some unneccessary ingredients, such as dish detergent, but the cheese already smelled like Abe Vigoda's crotch.

Once all the cheese was shredded, Joe added one egg white, some plain yogurt, and THREE AND THREE QUARTERS STICKS OF MELTED BUTTER. I found this a little unfair, because if you put that much butter in anything, it's just gonna taste good. If I soaked dirty diapers in that much butter I could sell that at carnival stands. I would call it KHAKA-POOPI.

Anyway, we flattened out the dough and poured all that shit in there with the intent to fold it over. However, reading the recipe that Joe had from a friend named Tatia, we then noticed on the bottom that it said the ingredients she had given us were good enough for three very large Khachapuris and we might want to cut them in half. Well, we just made one fucking giant one. It was probably ten pounds. Holy shit.

Finally, once we got the thing folded over like a calzone, we threw it in a pan and popped it in the oven, which had been pre-heated to 350. From then on, all we could do was wait to see if Joe would redeem himself from his humiliating failure in the Iron Chef: 3260 De Witt Competition. Would Joseph Brian Sabia bounce back? Or would the meticulous preparation of the Khachapuri bite him in the ass? The one thing he had going for him was that the rest of us didn't know what it was supposed to taste like; he could totally fuck up and still do well in our eyes. But still, the concocture of cheese, yogurt, egg whites, and so much butter looked a tad unappetizing, and Joe had never made bread before. It was safe to say, none of us knew how it would turn out.

So we waited about 40 minutes for that thing to cook. When we took it out, we had this:
See that cheesy goodness oozing from the bottom right corner? See how the bread glows? It tasted amazing. Plus we wouldn't have to worry if that occasional group of wandering Georgians decided to show up. We had plenty of food for everyone! And with that, Joe took back the competition, hands down.

I don't even have a clue what I can do to compete with this. I'm at a loss. If anybody has any ideas, PLEASE, leave some in the comments section. If it isn't something that can compete with Khachapuri, don't bother.

I came all the way to Los Angeles to have cooking competitions with Joe Sabia. Fuck.

Raging Blog

Yesterday was Woody's birthday. This called for a celebration.

We were a little bit late to the party at Woody's place in Santa Monica, but we brought the shot glasses for the power hour, so really, the party couldn't start without us. Apparently it was tradition amongst some of Woody's buddies back at Boston College to do a power hour consisting of all Disney songs. So in keeping with tradition and upholding the law that Birthday Boy gets preference, we did an all Disney songs Power Hour. However, we contested a few songs: there were two American Tail (does that sound like a porno to you?) songs on there, as well as one Fraggle Rock, and a Carebears tune. Turns out the Carebears are property of Disney, but American Tail and Fraggle Rock did not qualify. Woody's time-honored Disney tradition had been reduced to a Power 57 Minutes. Tragic.

Well, after about an hour or so, being sufficiently hammered, we decided to walk down Wilshire to find a bar. I can't even remember the name of the one we went into, but there was a no-nonsense bouncer at the door that definitely looked like he had been wronged in some way, like he just found out his father was gay or something. We all took a booth and hung out for a while. Pat spilled malt vinegar on his chest and kept complaining he smells like Easter Eggs. Sabia drunk dialed Father Don of "The BC" at around 4:00 AM EST. It was a pretty cool atmosphere. After a while, Pat, Joe, Jorge, and I decided it was time to get going so we all got up from our seats and went to say our goodbyes.

Suddnely, seemingly from nowhere "Pump It" by the Black-Eyed Peas began blasting. Out of pure instinct honed by Push-Ups Anonymous, Joe and Pat immediately dropped to the bar floor and started feverishly doing push-ups. Before either of them could get to ten, that disgruntled bouncer was grabbing Joe by the arms and pulling him up. He next went to get Pat up. Pat believed the person tugging on him to be one of his friends so, like a true P.U.Aer, continued to do push-ups with zest and determination. My heart pounded fiercely with pride. Pat didn't stop until the bouncer grabbed him around the waist and pulled him up. "THIS AIN'T NO GYM!" He exclaimed.

After that, we left. It was an awesome exit though. That's just how we roll.

Above: Sherwood Tondorff and his GF caught in the middle of some birthday canoodling in a bar on Wilshire Blvd.

Above: AGREED!

8 Heads in a Duffel Blog

Today is Friday, the 13th. However, it was yesterday that didn't go that well for me. I was in no blogging mood, thus the absence of an entry until now. A few things that pissed me off about yesterday:

• There is a quote from the New Haven Register Article on us that goes like this: " Gulyas is following up on another possible "in" at a production company. He says his sister knows someone whose cousin is a production assistant in L.A. "A lot of it is who you know," he says." Right. And my friend's father-in-law's niece's landlord's step-sister's fifth cousin's professor's gimp's pet snake's former owner says that just made me look like an asshole in front of New Haven County.
  
• A friend called me up after seeing the picture in the paper and said, and I quote, "Gees, you need to get some sun, Paul." I laughed and said, "I know!" Then as soon as I hung up the phone I ripped off my shirt, layed out on the deck, and lit myself on fire.
• I received an e-mail yesterday from my former boss at Laurel House, Inc., which I quit a week before moving out here. It said this:
  
  "paul - when you came to me that sad dark day to give me your notice - you fed me a story about "establishing residency in Cali so you can go to grad school and be that clinician you always dreamed of being..." So I wrote you a nice recommendation letter, gave you some leads of people to contact for jobs in clubhouses/human services, and sent you on your way with my best wishes.....
  
  
  but now, just today... I'm reading an article in the local Milford newspaper where a guy named Paul Gulyas - (who looks remarkably like you) is trying to break into "the business" as a screen writer. Is it true? Am I really that much of an ice queen that you couldn't just tell me that straight up? Did ya think I wouldn't be happy for you regardless?" Woah, that's funny, I feel like an asshole again! Deja Vu!
• My shades are still inexplicably not up.

But today has been better. It was a slow start this morning, but eventually I got Pat and Jorge to drive me to some car dealerships to check out cars. The first one we hit was a Chevy Dealer, where I checked out a Cobalt and some other more expensive car I forget the name of. They didn't look like bad deals, but I wanted to shop around. We next went to a Honda place which was ginormous. I looked at an Accord and a Civic. If you couldn't guess by what cars I'm looking at, I'm looking for the cheapest thing I can lease. I don't need power locks, GPS, a CD changer, a time machine in the glove compartment, and an Automated Road Head Simulator (ARHS). I just need an engine, four wheels, and something to steer it with. It doesn't even have to be a wheel, it can be like the stuffed head of an ox or something. Althought that would probably be more expensive than the wheel, I suppose.

So anyway, the Accord looked like a pretty good deal, so I wanted to get some figures written down so I could mull it over for a while and shop around town. Jose Cruz took me to his desk and sat me, Pat, and Jorge down across from him. He said before he could give me any quotes he needed to know about my credit. So he had me fill out this huge form which included my name, D.O.B, driver's license number, social security, screen name, and MySpace page (just kidding about the last two). I also had to fill out my present employer. But, as most of you know, I am not presently employed so I just left that blank. All this info was to do an instant credit check to see what the bank would offer me. So he took my papers and left the three of us sitting at his desk.

Suddenly, Howie Mandell climbed out of the hatchback next to us and took a seat at the desk. I was like "What the hell is going on!" He just smiled and looked at me and said "He is scared. He. Is. Scared." He was pointing when he said this, so I looked to where he was pointing to see this dimly lit room with the sillhouette of a man inside. I turned around to see Howie staring at me intently. I was like "Howie, seriously. The hatchback.... How?" Without warning, a phone on Jose Cruz's desk rang. Howie Mandell picked it up, nodded a little bit, then hung up. "He is ready to make you an offer," he says. "That offer is, since you don't have a job, we can not let you lease a car.... Deal?..... Or no deal?" Instantly the crowd of hundreds of Latino car salesmen were screaming insanely at me. I looked at Pat and Jorge. This was gonna be a tough one. Pat was telling me "NO DEAL" while Jorge was eagerly exclaiming "DEAL! DEAL!" The Latino car salesmen seemed about evenly split. Finally, I realized what I had to do. I looked at the red button in the glass case before me. "NO DEAL, HOWIE!!!!" The Latino car salesmen unhappy with this decision groaned as if they had just watched a matador get shanked by the bull's horns. Jorge looked like he wanted to hit me. I turned around to see the silhouette of the banker giving me the finger with both of his hands.

Then the actual real car salesman guy (not Jose Cruz, some Philipino guy named Ed who I think thought he was black) came back and told me he needed somebody with a job and good credit to co-sign or else I couldn't get a car there. So we left.

Blog 182

So, last night at about 4:30 in the morning I hear like a rustling, some clawing, and some more rustling.

The goddamn fucking mouse was in my room.

I got up, turned on the light, looked at where the noise was coming from. It came from around all the unused tools and equipment for my shades that Jorge failed to put up yesterday. I took the long empy plastic thing that held the shades and started poking around. Nothing.

I ran and got a big plastic bowl from the kitchen so that if it ran out I might trap it. I came back. Now it could be anywhere. I looked under my bed. Nothing. I looked behind my desk. Nothing. That little shit was good. Then I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I slowly walked to my closet and opened it. I pulled the chord to turn on the light. Nothing in sight. I moved some shoes around. Nothing. I lifted an empty Adidas bag... and the fucker LUNGED out at me going straight for my throat. I barely escaped alive. Then I realized I had a big motherfucking plastic bowl to combat it, so I chased after it. It ran under my chair, around my desk, and out my door.

I used my new shades to plug the gap at the bottom of the door so it could not get back in. See how that worked out?

Also, here's our article in the New Haven Register. Um, yeah, you can't tell from the internet, but we made the front page, also.

The Blog Newhart Show

It's funny how things tend to work out. Not to say that all things do, but in my experience, most do... if they are given ample time. I'm sure not everybody agrees with me. Those who have had their lives cut short due to, let's say war, or drunk drivers, or disease, or domestic violence, these people may be in fundamental disagreement with me. And I certainly do not intend to trivialize their legitimate sorrow. However, I'm in an extremely good mood, a little bit buzzed, and feeling as if I were Born to Blog. NOTE TO SELF: May use "Born to Blog" as blog title in future.

So most things work out is my claim, and convincing you I'm right is my game. Even when things look grim. Let's look at my friends here as examples, ranging from the mundane to the life-altering. Look at Joe for example. He wakes up every morning to drive 40 minutes or so into Santa Monica to a dream job. That in itself is the manifestation of some prior qualm "working out". However, he has gotta be annoyed most mornings, because often times he will forget something here at the house. Since I've lived here has texted me after leaving about 1.) his laptop, 2.) a peanut-butter and jelly sandwhich he left out on the counter, and 3.) a grey sweatshirt he was SURE was in my room but when searching high and low was nowhere to be found. So I found the laptop next to the staircase, I wrapped the PB&J in aluminum foil, and the sweatshirt turned out to be in Jorge's room. All these things worked out for Joe. And you know, he may be down in the Iron Chef: 3260 De Witt contest, but it'll probably work out that his Georgian crazy bread will be awesome.

You see what I'm saying? Mundane, every day things. Do you realize how much works out for you? Do you realize how much worse your life would be if NOTHING worked out for you? So often you hear "Nothing is going my way" and a person gets all down in the dumps on you. I'm guilty of this probably more than most people. Today, I asked Jorge to hang the blinds I bought and I would pay him ten dollars. He gave it a valiant effort and gave up. This did not work out for me, nor him. But do I think I'll never have my blinds up? No. I'll get them up, and maybe he'll help me. Who knows. Madison the freeway chick didn't know who Pat was when he called the other night, right? Wrong. She was just tired and a little drunk. After a few seconds she totally knew who he was. Things work out. Pat got a job today at Enterprise Rent-a-Car. He'll start soon. The other day, he told me that if he chose it, this could be his career for the rest of his life. This is one of those "life-altering" things I was talking about earlier. Joe's left-out PB&J doesn't quite hold the weight of consequence as does Pat's decision to take a job at Enterprise and his actions from here on out regarding that company. But things worked out, you know? You can't doubt it.

A month and a half ago, none of us knew where we were living, but we still moved out here to California. I remember Jorge telling me not long before he left good old Milford, CT that he knew he should be worried about going out without a place to live, or a job, but he wasn't. And he couldn't help but feel that everything would just work out. And it did. We got this awesome place. And Jorge starts at ING Banking on October 23rd. And right now he needs a car bad, and he's figuring out how he should go about doing that, but my guess is it'll all work out for him.

Tomorrow, I'm starting my first day of work as a Production Assistant on the set of a movie that's soon to wrap, Senior Skip Day. Late tonight, Sara (the one who hosted that dinner party) called me and left a voicemail saying that she had some work for me for tomorrow in Burbank. She also said that her and some friends would be meeting at a place called Birds on E. Franklin. I went there and brought the guys. There, Sara told me that soon she'll be starting on another project, and as soon as that starts, I'll have a job. A job that pays pretty well. It won't be Friday, and probably not Monday. But soon after that.

Friday I'm going to check out some car dealerships for leases on cars. I'm a little more confident with that knowing that I will have some paychecks coming in at some point in my future. So that worked out. What's worked out for you lately? I don't care if you have the blade to your wrists right now, SOMETHING has worked out for you and all I'm saying is you have to realize it, appreciate it. Be thankful for it because you might be one of those people I mentioned earlier that might be cut short and it's not worth it to sweat the small stuff.

Man, I tell ya, me, Pat, Joe, and Jorge got a lot goin for us. I have a good feeling, like that feeling Jorge had before he left to travel 3,000 miles from home with basically nothing definite about his future. Everything is going to work out in one of those life-altering ways.

Cherish this because this is the most positive you will ever hear Paul Gulyas speak.

Now for some crazy pictures:
Above: Jorge attempting to hang my curtains before exclaiming: "I'm going to fucking kill people." and quitting.

Above: Pat and Jorge enjoying food from "Tommy's" after a night out at Birds. Pat tought two girls to do the Yayo there. I was not impressed.

A Blogwork Orange

Suddenly this house has turned into Iron Chef: 3260 De Witt. Sabia, by nature a competitive person, of course saw my excellent dinner the other night as a personal challenge to him. And maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. Before I came to the house, he was Master Chef, cooking mostly pasta and sausage. The next thing he knows even he himself is being swept away by my magical culinary skills. To him, it must have been a swift, scrumscious slap to the face.

So last night I guess he decided "It was on". After the gym we came back to the house (this was at like 9:00; we are accustomed to eating dinner around 11:30 in this house), and immediately began on a new creation: Pasta Carbonara, a dish consisting of pasta, eggs, bacon, paremesan cheese, and lots of pepper. He immediately got points for originality: it was a dish that hadn't been prepared in our Kitchen Stadium. Also, pasta was his domain.

I grew nervous of the appetizing aromas wafting from his cooking area. It was threatening. I sat in the living room with a glass of wine and a book and continuously shot dirty looks into the kitchen to try and fuck up his shit. However, this was useless because he couldn't see me from the kitchen, and I just looked strange. This was enough of a humiliation, I could not let his dish defeat me!

Finally, when calling "the judges" to the table, I could tell Joe was nervous. Mainly because he kept saying "I'm so nervous". He admitted that he had no idea how it tasted and apologized in advance. This was not a good sign. DJ was the first to take a bite and said it needed pepper. Jorge was next and said that the pasta was a little sticky. Pat refused to eat it. Joe hung his head in shame. It looks like I still reign supreme in Iron Chef: 3260 De Witt.

But, wait! Sabia has one more recipe up his sleeve. It is the Georgian dish that takes two days to prepare. He read the recipe out loud to boost his confidence. It seems that he thinks this recipe will take me down, and take me down hard. I must admit, it is intimidating. Joe immediately got to work on it. He rushed back into the kitchen, set on redeeming hisself in the eyes of the judges. Alas, the first step requires a measuring cup and we don't have one. I think Joe cried himself to sleep.

Hootie and the Blogfish

You know, sometimes I blog because something funny has happened. Sometimes I blog because something new and exciting has happened. Sometimes I blog because I'm lonely. It is a rare blog when I am doing so because I am proud.

Did I get a job? Did I sell my first screenplay? Did I make love to multiple beautiful women? Is this why I am proud? No. I am proud because I made an excellent dinner tonight.

I don't even know what to call it. I started by getting some water boiling and pre-heating the oven to 350 degrees, then dicing two green peppers and about three quarters of an onion. I then defrosted and cut up about five boneless skinless chicken breasts. In a large bowl I added a can of condensed cream of mushroom soup, white whine, and shredded cheddar cheese. Then I threw the pasta in the boiling water, let it get al dente, and added that to the big bowl of ingredients. Finally, I put the chicken in. After adding salt and pepper to taste, I mixed that bowl up real well and then spread it in a 9x13 inch pan and put it in the pre-heated oven for thirty minutes. At thirty minutes, I took out the pan, sprinkled some shredded cheddar and jack cheese over the top of it, and put it back in for another fifteen minutes. DJ made some bruschetta to go with it. I popped it out of the oven, served it up, had some of that white wine I used in the recipe to go with it, and voila, everybody's happy.

Now, the part I didn't tell you was while chopping up those green peppers way in the beginning I sliced my finger pretty good and Pat actually cut up the rest of the peppers, some onion, and the chicken. So I gotta give my boy some credit. My cut was a real gusher, I kept kind of opening it to see how far deep it went and let me tell you... it went deep. Then Jorge brought to my attention that if I keep doing that, it will keep bleeding profusely... So, I stopped.

Everybody enjoyed the pasta/chicken dish, and Joe vowed to prepare something to challenge it: the official food of Georgia (naturally, having to do with Joe Sabia, it is Georgia the Eurasian country, not the home of Ludacris). The official food of Georgia apparently is some crazy bread with mozzarrella and feta cheese and butter and something else that you have to prepare for two days. Sounds awesome, Joe. No, really.

Above: My crazy chicken/pasta dinner and DJ's bruschetta. Fuck you, Ruby Tuesday's.

I don't know why I picked Ruby Tuesday's to call out. I guess I could have used T.G.I. Friday's, Applebees, Chili's, Olive Garden, Macaroni Grill, Cracker Barrel, or On the Border. But not IHOP. Never IHOP.

Oh, also, Pat called that chick Madison tonight, the one he met on the freeway! She was in Minnesota on a fashion shoot, but here's the thing... she didn't know who he was! The mighty Patrick Beck has fallen. I think it's kind of funny, but at the same time, she can join Ruby Tuesdays in fucking herself.

My finger hurts. I'm going to bed.

Blog Meets World

So I had a new experience last night. I was invited to an actual dinner party by my friend Sara, who I happen to have never met before. No, this isn't one of those online dating things, although I have dabbled in that along with a few of my other friends *cough*Joe*cough*Hatkoff*. But the main purpose of talking with Sara was to see if she could get me a job in "the industry", as people not in "the industry" tend to call it. It's actually funny how I got to know Sara. One night back home a few days before coming to L.A, I got a voicemail from a guy named Steve, saying he goes to school with my sister Stacey and he has a cousin in Los Angeles. Anyway, I talked to Steve, I talked to Sara, yadda yadda yadda, two weeks and three thousand miles later I'm eating dinner at her house with four other dudes I don't know.

Plain and simple, I was nervous to go. I'd be going to a place where I didn't know anybody or anything about the social scene. I think I had the vague fear that at some point I would be peer pressured into doing cocaine. I am such a naiive child. But I was also nervous because it was my first time driving alone in Los Angeles, and it was to a place I had never been before. I printed Mapquest directions to get there and to come back, but when it comes to directions, I'm a moron, especially if I don't have anybody there with me to say "No, moron, you go this way." I was trying to get on the freeway and somehow found myself in Universal Studios parking lot. At this point, I didn't want to go, I was gonna be late, and I was about to call Sara and tell her "Sorry but I'm purchasing a ticket to Universal and hitting the Back to the Future ride. Peace." But she's nice and I was hungry and so I decided not to give up.

Unfortunately, just as I was leaving Universal, EVERYBODY who had taken their families for the day Sunday said "Alright kids, you've had enough! Get in the car, we're going home!" and cut me off. Also, pulling out of Universal Studioes, my Mapquest directions were useless to me as I was not fucking near the expected course. And so, it took me 20 minutes to get maybe a mile to the 101 South Freeway.

So I was 45 miuntes late. I was picturing everybody sitting around the table in silence, with fork and knives in hand, waiting for me, while a grandfather clock ticks loudly. Fortunatley, this wasn't the case. When I got there, Sara was still making dinner. Everybody else was standing around drinking white wine and eating brie and strawberries. Yeah, cut to Joe, Pat, and Jorge eating microwaved tortillas with sauce and cheese. I felt like such a child compared to these people. I kept wondering if they were going to make me sit at the kids table when we ate. But it turned out everybody was super-nice and down to earth.

There were four other guys there: Brad (who I think lives with Sara), Mike from Virginia who looks like Ryan Gosling without the beard and long hair, AJ, and Giacun (pronounced Ja-COON) from Switzerland. All of these people were working in "the industry". Mike came this past February and has had steady work as a grip on features, as well as commercials I think. AJ was from Cincinatti and he actually has his own production company, Cobra Productions, in which he has written, directed, produced, and edited an entire feature, as well as a lot of other things. Giacun is a student at UCLA Film school, of which they accept about 8 people every year. By his graduation in 2008 he has to have an entire feature film created. I asked him if the school finances that. He said no. He isn't working since his work load from school is so intense, so I asked him if he was able to take out loans, and he says "The movie will mostly be financed by my private sponsor." I was gonna leave it at that, but then he says "My father." His father is some big real estate guy in Switzerland. Well, what if you go to UCLA Film School and you're father is not a big real estate guy in Switzerland who can finance your final project? Oh that's right, then you don't get in!

Giacun was a cool guy though, don't get me wrong. He said that he's looking for a script to shoot and asked me to send the treatment of the film Jorge and I are writing. That would be an excellent chance to get something we've written made, which would be a tremendous step.

All in all it was a pleasant evening. Sara was awesome and her cooking was phenomenal (we had chicken in this cream sauce wrapped in Filo bread which was just plain flaky goodness), and the people were cool. They said they would try to get me something as far as work goes. The impression I got was that all these people were friends who all support eachother with getting jobs and whatnot. For example, Sara mentioned over dinner how when the movie she is working on wraps, she's doing a three week commercial shoot and mentioned to Mike that so and so was interested in having him on production if he was interested. She also mentioned options for AJ as well. Sara is a good person to know. However, she did say she wouldn't be recommending me for work anywhere if I didn't have a car. It wouldn't be responsible on her part, so I guess that's my next objective. Luckily, Giacun said he has a friend in the Valley who could get me a deal. Networking, people. Networking.

In other news, Leah booked her ticket and is coming November 21st to the 27th!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
We also have another mouse.

I'm Still, I'm Still Jenny from the Blog

My eyes snap open. Why? I had been in a sound sleep, a sleep after a night of drinking. Something had to have woken me up? What was it? I listened.

Whispers. Whispers in the kitchen.

Girls. In our kitchen.

After last night, I immediately assumed it to be a 32 year-old Asian woman. More on that later.

Suddenly the fire alarm goes off. Apparently the girls are lighting our house on fire.

But I soon realized that the girls whispering in our kitchen were Joe's friends from BC who were visiting. They were over last night and promised to make us breakfast this morning. I must admit, although I was getting a free breakfast out of it, I was a little disapointed it wasn't a 32 year-old Asian woman.

Last night was awesome. It was a really good time. Originally we were supposed to go to some bar in Hollywood called Cinescape. Rumor had it that Woody and Joe's friend, a girl, was renting out the bar or something. It's a really nice bar, so we all wore blazers. In the house, we thought
we were bad ass, but once we were out and we realized we were six guys walking together ALL
wearing blazers, we felt kind of gay. It was kind of gay, actually.

We drank at the house and then left for the bar. The thing at Cinescape fell through because the girls couldn't get in or something, which didn't make sense to me because I thought they had rented the bar out. If they rented the bar out and still couldn't get in, then six guys in blazers were definitely not gonna make it. So the new plan was to go to the Roosevelt. While looking for a parking spot, we got the call that those girls couldn't get into the Roosevelt either, and were just going back to their place in Hermosa Beach. We figured that the bars were only open till 2 AM, and Hermosa Beach is open 24/7 so we'd hit the bars for a while and if we still fancied, we could go to meet those girls in Hermosa Beach later.

We met up with Caroline (Facebook Girl) and her friend from last weekend and started looking for a place to hang out. While walking along Hollywood Boulevard, the most ridiculous thing happened. A car with three Asian women was stopped at a light. The next thing I know, Jorge approaches the car, opens the door, and climbs in. This is no lie. The light turns green and the car speeds away. I figured it was one less blazer. We pressed on.

While walking by the Pig N' Whistle on Hollywood, the big black bouncer told Caroline and her friend it was free admission, so they went in. However, when the blazers went to get in, it was suddenly ten bucks a pop. Somehow, I ended up dropping a fifty dollar bill for the five of us. The other four guys would pay me back with drinks. Probably a bad idea.

The place was pretty cool, lots of beautiful girls. I actually found myself dancing like a fool on the dance floor. It was a blast. It gets a little foggy after the SoCo and Lime shots and the strawberry flavored lines of coke (joking, but did you know that's a real thing?) Anyway, I definitely didn't make my fifty dollars back, but I was feeling good. We stayed until last call, and eventually shuffled out onto Hollywood Boulevard, wondering where thet fuck Jorge was. Eventually, I got a call from him. He was at a place called I Bar, which was apparently all Asian. The Asian woman he jumped in the back seat with paid for his cover (20 bucks!) and they danced the night away. They may or may not have locked lips. That will remain a mystery. However, when he found out she was 32 years-old, and she found out he was 21, Jorge basically said "Have a nice day" and left.

We met up with him eventually and went back to the parking garage where we parked the car. Pat saw a coffee cup and decided to punt it, unaware that it was FULL. Coffee splattered all over him. It was awesome.

DJ fell asleep in the car on the way home and his ears got really red for some reason:
Also, breakfast was awesome:
And finally, our Blazer-filled homage to "The Departed", particularly fatal head-shots:
Also, our toilet has been running for three days.

Must Love Blogs

They say that life immitates art, and vice versa. Yesterday, I felt like I was experiencing a scene straight off the silver screen. A romantic comedy, no less. Alas, I was not involved in doing the romancing. I was the driver.

Driving South on 405 to Santa Monica around 3:30, traffic is horrendous. It's almost as if aliens have stationed big, looming space stations above every major city in the world and the entire population of Los Angeles is scrambling to get the fuck out. I kept expecting to look in the rearview mirror and see just flames and flipping vehicles. Where the fuck can people possibly be going?

Anyway, Independence Day is not the movie I lived in. The point is, traffic was a nightmare, and we were maxing out at speeds of ten miles per hour. I was driving and Pat was sitting shotgun. While driving, Pat and I both noticed a very pretty girl in a silver VW Bug. Our lane was moving faster than hers and we quickly pulled ahead without a passing thought. My iPod was blasting my 80's playlist so we were both "getting into the groove", as Madonna would have it. Apparently the hot girl in the Bug was impressed with Pat's moves because she pulled up right next to us and said "Nice moves."

This was all Pat needed to charm her off her feet. Naturally, he taught her the "Yayo" which is just your hand kind of waving hello to your own face from inches away. Something a retard would do, you say? No, it is the hottest dance move sweeping the country. She participated in that joyfully. Now if this was real life, she would have crashed and perished, but since we had entered into the scripted world of some romantic comedy, everything was alright. Pat asked if she was an actress. No, she said, she was a model from Orange County. She was kind of intrigued that we were from Connecticut. She asked both of our names and said hers was Madison. To keep in line for conversation and not hit anything took skill. We were moving so slow that we were probably good contributors to why a man seventeen exits away was waiting twenty five minutes just to get to the end of the on-ramp. As Pat and Madison began to say their goodbyes, I was nudging Pat and going "Number! Number!" He bitched out and I sped ahead of Madison.

"That was weak, man." I told him. It's rare to ever see Pat Beck shy. I told him I'm slowing down and when she catches up he's getting her number. If she liked him enough to do the Yayo in traffic with him, then she probably wouldn't be outraged if he asked for her digits. I slowed down and Madison caught up, and as soon as she was next to us she burst out laughing, covering her smile. I think she really liked Pat. So Pat casually gives her the, "So, Madison, when are you gonna come visit us?" She says, "Visit you? Well, how am I gonna get in contact with you?" Pat coolly extends his arm out the window and hands her his cell phone: "Put your number in my phone." I had to maneuver the car very close for her to reach. Watching her try to put her number in his phone and her name looked very dangerous as she was driving.

At this point, a fat woman in a mini-van behind me got sick of the obvious canoodling going on in front of her and began to lay on the horn... and didn't stop for forty-five seconds. This may not seem long, but just stop and think about that. Listen to the first forty-five seconds of a song and realize that I just heard angry-blasting-fat-mini-van-woman horn for that entire time. It was unpleasant but comical at the same time. Thus the romantic comedy. I'm thinking maybe a Ben Affleck as Pat, Scarlette Johansen as Madison. I'm the stupid side-kick so I'd probaby be Clint Howard or some shit.

PS Go see "The Departed". It's already deadlocked to take home the Oscar for "Most Fatal Headshots in Least Amount of Screen Time".

Blog! At the Disco

"Today at brunch at Doughboy's on 3rd and Fairfax, Andy Milonakis was caught canoodling with an older hunky man."
-Paul Gulyas, People magazine

No, but seriously, I saw Andy Milonakis today when I was at brunch at the above place. While dining outside, I was just biting into some turkey sausage when I heard the laughter of a small child. I looked up to see an ugly, fat kid bolting across the street to get to Doughboy's. He was with an older, taller, handsome gentleman. It was only while chewing my peculiar tasting sausage that I realized I had just had a celebrity sighting of the most pathetic kind: Andy Milonakis, of such hits as Waiting, The Andy Milonakis Show, and Jimmy Kimmel Live.

So, let's recap the celebrity sightings since I've been in Los Angeles:

1.) Michael McDonald
2.) Andy Milonakis

If I don't get to like high five Cuba Gooding, Jr. soon then this is going to be very depressing.

So what else have I been up to lately? Jorge and I took a walk to Universal City, had some lunch, and then discussed our movie project (still in its early stages) over Starbucks where I enjoyed a Banana Coconut Frappuccino with Caramel and whipped cream. I"m such a fat ass. L.A Fitness should whip me.

Besides that, we went into Santa Monica last evening to the home of one, Sherwood Tondorff of "The BC" fame. He and Joe both got jobs working at HBO because of their success on the Internet and in the news. Woody's a good guy, though he likes the whiskey a bit much. Both he and Joe apparently chugged a handle of whiskey each at work or something yesterday. By the time we got to Woody's, right off Wilshire Blvd., they were hammered.

There were actually a few girls there. Joe's Facebook Girl, AKA Caroline, a girl Woody apparently met drunkenly at a bar last weekend, and some other chick that showed up later. Of course, Pat begain to canoodle with all of them at once. It always amazes me how he blatantly sexually harasses women and somehow tricks them into liking it.

I was delighted to discover this morning that we have a garden in the backyard which grows tomatoes, grapefruits, thyme, rosemary, and oregano. Does that make me gay? Maybe that plus the fact I used the word "canoodle" twice in this blog.


I'm kinda proud of this picture.

The Good, the Blog, and the Ugly

We just made our first step towards fame.

Jorge, Pat, and I just interviewed with Jim Shelton from the New Haven Register. Walk of Fame, here we come.

This morning I came to a shocking epiphany. Jorge asked me how to use the washing machine. The three of us do not know how to tie a tie.

And we are living on our own three thousand miles away from any family in an expensive house in Hollywood Hills. I don't know how to use an iron.

We have been so pampered and now we're kind of forced to rough it out here. You might say, "Yeah, really rough, you guys are living five minutes away from Hollywood Boulevard." But we are coming from the sheltered existence of living with our parents. If I am ever famous enough to be a guest on Leno, and I want to wear a tie... I'll have to call my dad. Or at least read about it on the Internet.

I talked to Joe yesterday when he was at work. I had asked him to talk to his boss about "spec" scripts. A spec script is something you write not on assignment or contract, you are writing under "speculation" that somebody will buy it. This particular spec script I was thinking about was one for HBO's "Entourage". How it works is if I can show that I can write my own episode in a series not created by me, and it was good, and HBO liked it, then I could be hired as a staff writer on another show in its early stages. Not bad, right? Unfortunately, Joe told me that HBO does not accept spec scripts from writers without agents. Blow me.

However, there is some good news to this. Joe informed me that his boss suggested that we (Pat, Jorge, and I) write our own original pilot episode of a TV series and film it with Joe's help. If it is good-- no, if it is the best thing she's ever seen-- she will show it to the Head of Production at HBO. This is an incredible opportunity. She mentioned she had seen a SPOOF of "Entourage" and thought it a good idea. However, the particular spoof she had seen was not good itself. But clearly, this is something she is interested in. I think we could pull it off.

In other news, I still don't have shades on my window and last night apparently an alien spaceship landed outside my window for about an hour and a half and flew away. It was so bright in my room, when I opened my eyes I thought it was day. It was three in the fucking morning. I need shades, damn it.

In Cold Blog

Finally, after a lifetime of waiting, I was inducted into Push-Ups Anonymous.

I shouldn't be telling you about this. The first rule of Push-UPs Anonymous is that you don't blog about Push-Ups Anonymous. The second rule: You have to do push-ups.

I was taken down to the dark, abandoned-warehouse like atmosphere of Pat and Jorge's bedroom to see three shirtless men: Pat, Jorge, and Joe. Immediately, I was stripped of my shirt and all personal belongings; to enter Push-Ups Anonymous, you must lose yourself completely in the collective conscious. Next, Pat introduced P.U.A's Secretary, Joe Sabia, who then announced my induction to the mysterious society.

The next series of events happened so fast. Suddenly, the Black-Eyed Peas "Pump It" was blasting seemingly from nowhere. Then, I was rushed to stand shoulder to shoulder in a circle with the other three P.U.Aers, take the hands of those next to me, raise them up on our sides, and lean in, as if we were doing push-ups off of eachother, except we couldn't without the literal support of the other P.U.Aers. If one of us stepped out, then we all wouldn't be able to do push-ups. The metaphor made my heart pump fiercely with pride.

Next, we nonsensically began to run back and forth from one end of the room to the other, weaving in and out of each other. I was particularly bad at this.

Without warning, we all stepped back and Pat hit the ground, furiously doing push-ups as the rest of us watched intensely and listened to Fergie. When Pat hit 100, he stood up, and tagged my hand. I had to place my hands on the rug exactly in the imprints of where Pats hands had been. I began doing push-ups.

Very soon after I began, I stopped doing push-ups.

But it was okay. My P.U.Aers were there to support me. Everybody had their turn and I supported them.

It was the most beautiful thing I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing.

All Blogs Go to Heaven

I woke up this morning before 9:00 PST. Why? Well, because I had this nagging feeling, call it a hunch, that my new Checking Account at Bank of America was negative $2,114.20. I immediately rolled out of bed (which is just a mattress on the floor right now) and went to my computer. I checked Bank of America's webbsite and my account info. I was only half surprised to learn that my hunch was correct.

I called the stupid fucks in Milford, CT where I started my account. I spoke to a woman named Terry. Terry really had no idea why I would have negative $2,114.20 in my account when there had been no withdrawals. There were multiple holds on my account, however. She said she would call me back after she made some phone calls.

I called my dad and told him the situation, mainly because I needed to vent and the guys were still sleeping here, and Joe was at work. Dad seemed to think that Terry had brushed me off and gone on her lunch break and that we needed to send somebody over there to make sure I get this straightened out. He said that if he went down there he would end up in jail so he'd send my Mom. She knows how to talk to people.

However, Terry called me back pretty quickly and told me she got most of my money back but there were still some holds. I told her, I understand if I have holds on my account since I just opened it and deposited some faily large checks... But how does that amount to negative money and not just zero money? Basically, Terry told me "I have no fucking clue." and that was the end of that.

To add insult to injury, a couple hours later I received some actual mail from Bank of America which read:

We have decided to place a hold on these funds because:
reasonable cause to doubt collectibility

Well, thank you Bank of America, but I have reasonable cause to doubt your fucking competency. Negative $2,114.20? Where did that number even come from? Fuck off.

I just went out on the back deck to find Pat eating a peanut-butter & jelly on a hamburger roll.
I asked him if that was a Hollywood thing. He said it's more like a poverty thing. We're poor.

In the end it's hard to be mad here for too long though, mostly because of this:

Yes, that's the view from our balcony. Much better than this computer screen so I'm gonna go admire that for a while, maybe get some lunch.

My life is better than yours.

It Don't Matter If You're Blog or White

This guy seriously wanted our blood.

You can't tell from the picture but he was the size of a Great Dane.

Mike went to take the trash out and was startled to see this monster awaiting him.

Between the mouse (which we have not seen or heard from) and raccoons, I feel like all California has given me is a wild beast around every corner in my own home. Also notable: since Joe, Jorge, and Pat have been out here they have not seen a drop a rain. Today, my first full day in California, it rained. Besides that we ate at Pollo Loco, which was strangely recommended to me by my dentist back east. It was good but the real "crazy chicken" was what Jorge concocted this evening for dinner. Seasoned with a tad too much salt. Everybody is going to be guzzling water for the rest of the night.

I joined L.A Fitness with the guys, and got a pretty good deal. Now I just gotta make sure I get my fat ass down there. We asked if there were any celebrities who go there, since we'll be going to the one in Hollywood. One of the staff there told us a story about how Brian McKnight slapped a book out of his hand for no reason. You can not be surprised that Brian McKnight is an asshole, though, come on.

Joe is calling me downstairs for "P.U.A". The three of them started a "Push-Ups Anonymous" club where they just do push-ups. Strangely, they know eachother well and are in no way qualifying for the definition of the word "anonymous". I'd agree to go down but I just took a shower, so, F that. Plus we're going to L.A Fitness bright and early.

After a trip to Ikea and over four hours working on putting a desk together, my room is coming along pretty well, and will soon be fully operational for "getting some booty" as the kids say. I can't wait to not do that.

Blog to the Future

I'm in Los Angeles, and you're not.

Maybe you are. But I'm in a gorgeous house in Hollywood Hills with three of my best friends in the world. Plus a mouse. More on that later.

When I got to Kennedy Airport to board my plane, the boarding pass said my flight would be from Gate A8. I quickly noticed there were no gates with letters in their titles, nor was there a Gate 8. It literally went from 1-7, then 9 and up. I was leaving from a Gate that didn't exist. I felt like I was in an episode of The Twilight Zone. I thought this might have been my Guardian Angel trying to stop me from getting on a doomed flight. I could picture him when I got up to Heaven after the crash: "You fucking idiot, I tried to warn you. Here, here's a gate for you, it's the Golden Gates of Heaven 'cause you're fucking dead. You happy, dumbass? 'Cause you're dead?" Don't ask me why my Guardian Angel verbally abuses me.

Anyway, I asked Customer Services where my flight was and they kindly directed me to Gate 15. I couldn't help but shake the feeling that this flight was no good because of the "A8" thing. Plus, my seat was in the fourth row. That meant that if there were terrorists on the flight, I wouldn't be one of the heroic few in the back planning to forcefully and courageously overthrow the Jihadists, I'd be the guy they make an example of right in the beginning by slitting my throat with the a credit card or some shit. Then I saw that Michael McDonald from MadTV was on my flight and I felt safe. Terrorists don't hijack planes with celebrities, it would cloud the ultimate message of their mission. Media discussions of political implications of the hijacking would be drowned out by heartfelt tributes to mediocre actor/comedian Michael McDonald. For example, did you know the Golden Gate Bridge was destroyed by terrorist explosives last month? I bet you didn't because Steve Irwin died within the next 24 hours. That same day all American and Coalition armed forces in Iraq were redirected to the Great Barrier Reef to seek and destroy the entire stingray population.

So, with a celebrity on my flight I felt good and boarded the plane. It was an awful six hours in which I didn't get up once. When we finally landed in Burbank it was great to see Joe, Pat, and Jorge waiting for me by the baggage claim. The weather was beautiful even at night. We loaded into Pat's car and headed back to the house, not ten minutes away. When we walked in, I was stunned at the size of the place. It's huge. And awesome. I couldn't ask for more.

Finally I got to meet DJ and Mike, our two other housemates who Joe knows from college. They're cool guys. All six of us literally embraced when I walked in. Then we did shots of Red Label and I almost died because I hadn't eaten since noon and it was 11:30 Milford, CT time. After unnecessarily doing another shot of Bacardi, the four Milfordites decided to head to Fatburger for some grub, and we'd meet up with Mike and DJ later at this place on Hollywood called the Geisha House, apparently a place that Ashton Kutcher liked to frequent, which made me kind of not want to go.

At Fatburger, we made up a game. When ordering, the first person has to use the term "Ah, fuck it." as many times as he wishes. Then, the next person in line has to beat the amount of times the first person said it, and so on. Some examples:

"You have a Fatburger, but do you have a Low Fatburger? Ah, fuck it, I'll have a Fatburger."

"You're sure this is better than In N' Out Burger? Ah, fuck it, let's try it."

"You need my name? Should I give you a real name or a fake name? Ah, fuck it, my name's Jorge."

It's actually kind of hard when you're a later person in line because it becomes very apparent to the cashier that he is being fucked with by multiple people.

So we ate and it was pretty good. Pat decided to challenge a medium-build hispanic looking man to an arm-wrestling contest, which he politely declined due to a "weak wrist". Also, the most stoned man I've ever seen in my life stumbled into Fatburger like a fucking zombie, headed straight for the men's room, opened the door, turned OFF the light, and closed it. We never saw him again.

We paid ten dollars for parking on Hollywood Boulevard, which I guess I'll have to get used to. We parked in this old warehouse type place with lots of old wooden chairs with velvet seats. We vowed to steal one on our way out.

Geisha House was incredible simply because of the fantastically hot girls that would not give me the time of day if I had a gun to their head and was shouting "Bitch give me the fucking time of day!" We ordered some saki there, hot, which was 36 bucks for two small pitcher things with probably about six or seven shots in each. We met up with Mike and DJ, and a female BC alum Joe creepily met on Facebook, and a friend of hers. They were pretty cool.

At about four in the morning, Milford CT time, I felt like that stoner guy from Fatburger because I was so tired. Pat offered to drive me home. Jorge joined us. We stole one of those chairs. Pretty sweet.

When we got home we immediately saw the mouse scamper across the living room floor and behind some boxes. Pat and Jorge grabbed some tupperware to trap it and started kicking the boxes so it would run out. Unfortunately when it did, it rain directly into DJ's room. We ran in there and started tearing the place apart looking for the mouse. Eventually he outsmarted us. I felt like Nathan Lane from "Mouse Hunt", only not gay.

Soon after, Joe and DJ arrived with the girls. We hung out on the deck for a while, they played some drinking games, and I tried to get to sleep. Joe set up elaborate traps using tupperware, cheese, string, butter knives, and a collander to catch the mouse overnight. Needless to say, there was no mouse in his trap this morning.

I hear somebody cooking breakfast so I'm gonna go get me some. Peace out.