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.