Clogged Kitchen Sink

Today was supposed to be a special day. I had a very welcome day off smack dab in the middle of the week. I had plans - a lot of emails to catch up on, a lot of doggy cuddles to catch up on, and most importantly, a lot of sleep to catch up on. Things were gonna be great! I couldn't wait to sleep in, wake up late, drink coffee, eat Cap'n Crunch's "Oops All Berries" in my underwear, and scour the internet to read all about how awesome the Dallas Cowboys have been until their inevitable December breakdown where they miss the playoffs by one game.

Of course, the kicker was being able to sleep in. I'm the kind of person who can sleep through any kind of noise. TV, noises outside, alarms, barking dogs, screaming girlfriend - anything. I noticed something today... I cannot sleep through the foul stench of whatever odor was coming through the clogged sink in my kitchen. It smelled so bad in my place today, I assumed someone finally dug up the dead hooker that has been stored under my floorboard since Valentine's day.

I awoke from my much deserved slumber because my nose was filled with a horrendous scent. I followed the putrid smell to the kitchen and noticed both sides were halfway full with a black-ish liquid. It looked like something the classic 1950's movie villain, The Blob, would've thrown up. Actually, I once saw The Blob's vomit in the shape of a 1980's movie starring Kevin "Johnny Drama" Dillon. ZING!

Now, since I'm a real man, I figured the best way to handle this was by fixing it myself. I take great pride in how macho I am and I'm sure everyone knows that about me. I like to get down and get my hands dirty fixing motorcycles, gutting the half ton bucks I hunt for sport and shovel the massive amount of bullshit I just wrote. Actually, I am the opposite of macho. To say I am a man is an insult to the entire species of Man.

I do know a little about fixing sinks though because I'm very observant. No, I have never studied a plumber to learn the specifics of his craft but I have seen one or two Drano commercials. I can finally be a man and fix the sink myself with the help of a gelatinous fluid. I was starting to feel quite macho after all. I just needed to take care of a few things before heading out to the local Albertson's. All I had to do was wash my face with a gentle facial wash, cover my problem pores with a moisturizing lotion and freshen my armpits with baby powder infused Citrus Blossom scented organic deodorant. I may be a man but I smell like an arboretum.

I made my way to the store to pick up a nice hefty bottle of Drano and then I would make it back to my place to perform my manly duties. There was no other reason to be at the store but maybe I should look around just in case. You never know when something will pop up at you while shopping for the one necessity. I decided to take a stroll through the seasonal aisle to see what Halloween themed materials that may catch my eye before I head back to the casa and act like the man that I am. As it turns out, they were offering a sale on Reese's Pumpkins, Snicker's Witches and Butterfinger Monsters. I may be a man but I eat like a woman right before she menstruates.

My bag is now full of candy with a tiny bit of room left over for some Drano. I  make it home and open up a few Reese's Pumpkins. I figure I should get my chocolate peanut butter fix before I dirty my hands with the toxic pipe cleaner. I wolf down every delicious morsel and then head over to show that sink who's the man. I open up the Drano and pour half a bottle down the left side of the sink, then the right. That's right sink, who's the man now! As it turns out the sink is the man because the sewage goo that was invading my pipes just grew larger. Reading that last sentence out of context makes this sound like a "Fifty Shades of Grey" fan fiction blog.

After emptying the bottle of Drano into the sink and scarfing down another 4 pieces of candy, I did what any man would've done in this situation. I called a plumber to come fix the clogged sink. I didn't feel that defeated though. I knew I was the man. I'm sure I'll be just as manly as the macho plumber that comes to my door. Doorbell rings and there awaits the knight in shining armour that has come to my rescue. The first thing I notice is the nametag... Jessica. The second thing I notice is that we wear the same deodorant.

Vegas, baby!

I, just like most people, am an avid fantasy football player. I, just like some people, attend a live draft every year. I, unlike a lot of people, attend that live draft in Las Vegas. It is always a great time. Catch up with old college buddies, spend time in poker rooms and at blackjack tables, and act like a teenager for a weekend. The problem is, I'll act like a teenager and then by Monday, I DEFINTELY realize that I am no longer anywhere close to a teenager.

I am an average 30something male with a job. I'm unlike an average job having man because my job does not require me to be there on Fridays. It's kind of like my freshmen year in college where I scheduled all my classes Monday thru Thursday so I can have Fridays off to sleep in, relax and listen to Guns n' Roses "Appetite for Destruction" on repeat. The cool thing about the Fridays off is I can plan trips around then. For instance, if I'm going to Vegas for a fantasy draft, I can leave early Friday morning and have time to hit the poker rooms and relax by the pool before others get into town. A nice relaxing way to start a debaucherous weekend.

Of course, my life doesn't really work like that. If I have something planned that I'm looking forward to, it'll inevitably be messed with. I bought my cheap ass Southwest Airlines ticket from LAX to Vegas for a Friday that I'm not working, only to find out that I would be working that day. I have worked exactly one Friday since before Thanksgiving and it happened to be the one day I had a plane ticket that cost me a whopping forty nine dollars.

Because I'm a team player, or because I really don't want to be fired, I changed my flight. No big deal, I'm on Southwest so there won't be any change fee, I'll only have to pay for the difference on the new flight. Now, spending two hundred dollars on a flight is pretty good, but not after you've already spent the forty nine bucks. Oh well, I'll just win it back says optimistic me. I change my flight so instead of leaving at 9 AM and enjoying my day in Vegas. I'll be leaving at 10 PM and slaving away in Los Angeles. The good news is, I'll save all that money I was planning on spending in Vegas.

I finish my grueling day at work and head on out to the airport so I can start acting like a teenager. I get to LAX, go through baggage, check the monitors to see if any changes and and sit down at the nearest bar to start my weekend with a twelve dollar pint of beer. No worries, I'll just win it back in Vegas. Finish the most expensive beer I'll have until the next time I'm at the airport and go wait in line for my plane. As it turns out, it is now delayed so I guess I'll be having another expensive mug of suds sooner rather than later. No big deal though, I'll just win it back.

After about an hour delay (and twenty four dollars worth of slightly cold Blue Moon), I'm ready to take off to Sin City. I'll now be in at around midnight but not to worry, I'll be a teenager this weekend so I can stay up all night and be fine. I eventually get to Vegas to meet up with all my "acting like teenager" friends but I guess their teenage act is to go to bed by 11:00. I guess I'm playing blackjack the same way I listen to Alanis Morissette - alone.

After the thirteen losing hands of blackjack in a row, I decide it's time to go to bed. I mainly decide this because I ran out of all the money I was planning on spending for Friday night. Actually, I ran out of that waiting for my flight at LAX, so I've dipped into my Saturday fund. Nothing to worry about though, I'll win it back. I get up to the room to sleep my unlucky blackjacks hands away and get ready to act like a teenager starting early Saturday morning. I wake up just like a teenager the next day. That is after I stretch my aching back out, pee seven times and take a blood pressure medication. That's exactly what a teenager would do.

I made my way down to the tables with the rest of my allotted "Saturday" money and was gearing up to win all my money back. I sat down, ordered a "free" beer and got ready to become a thousand-aire. Now, if I thought thirteen losing hands in a row was traumatic, imagine how I must've felt when I lost twenty two. That "free" beer I ordered wound up costing $500.

Since I was completely out of money, I was able to go to the one machine in Vegas that always pays out - the ATM. I put my card in and, BOOM, I know had another five hundred bucks to turn into five thousand.  I decided this time to switch it up a bit and approached a roulette table. I took my chips and followed the advice of Wesley Snipes from the classic '90 film, Passenger 57, by "betting on black." As a simple rule of life, you should always follow the lead of Mr. Snipes when it comes to handling money.

I put my chips on black and the wheel spun. When it stopped, that little white ball was surrounded by the intense red of a roulette wheel. Chips gone. No worries, I had some more chips. Put it on black! Next spin = red. Well, it can't be three in a row, right? Wrong. What are the odds of it landing on red for a fourth time? I'd say pretty low. Bet on black, landed on red. Fuck you Wesley!

Back to the ATM. Of course this time, the only machine that pays out in Vegas didn't pay out. No more funds in my account. Oh well, I did have a nice necklace I received from my dead Grandfather ten years ago. I'm sure the family wouldn't mind if I pawned the one family heirloom I have so I can get some money and pay myself back for all that I lost. I mean, what are the chances that I would continue losing? That's not how Vegas works. If you don't win, then why do so many people flock there constantly to win money. These billion dollar casinos lining the strip are funded by people spending money in Vegas on food, drinks and hotels, right?

I found out that the casinos might be paid for by schlubs like me spending thousands of dollars trying win back a few hundred. Vegas kicked my ass and me crying for my mama. The problem was my mama wouldn't take my calls. I guess that's what happens when you constantly call her for money... or for more precious family heirlooms you can pawn in Vegas for seventy five bucks.

Under the Weather

I've had a week of off work which is pretty exciting. I had everything planned out. Set up some lunches, recorded a few movies on the trusty ol' DVR and turned off the alarm in my bedroom. I figured I'd catch up with some old friends, catch up on some crappy 80's era action flicks and catch up on sleep. Of course, the only thing I caught was a cold.

I'm a pretty lucky guy because I don't get sick very often. Maybe once or twice a year, I'll get a little cold that lasts a day or two. No big deal. My immune system is pretty spectacular since my lifestyle isn't one you would necessary call healthy. I stay up late, wake up early, drink alcohol and rarely work out. If it wasn't for my 10 step voyage to the makeshift bar in the dining room to fill up my wine 3-4 times a night, I'd never get any exercise.

You'd think that with my lifestyle, I'd be sick about twice a week but that isn't the case. It's nice that I don't have to worry about my health. I can do pretty much anything I want without fear of it taking me down for a week. In life, my parents blessed me with good genes. In 4th grade, I wished they would've blessed me with Guess jeans but my dad wouldn't spend the money.

I have friends that freak out constantly about possibly getting sick. They won't shake people's hands, touch doorknobs without wrapping their hand in a paper towel or shirt or even do something as innocent as share toothbrushes. I never concern myself with such nonsense. I shake hands with anyone, well, excluding lepers. I'll touch a doorknob without using a paper towel or my shirt as a hand condom and I share my toothpaste with anyone who wants it. Oh, it appears I misspelled toothpaste earlier in this paragraph.

Those are the best parts about rarely feeling under the weather. The worse part is when I do feel sick, I'm the biggest baby there is. I mope around the house in a ratty, old, yellow bathrobe that used to be white. I lay around on the couch, blow my nose on some Puff's Plus w/ lotion and then throw the used facial tissue on the ground because, "I'm too sick to throw it away in the trash." I drink a gallon of Orange Juice and after every sip complain about how much I don't like orange juice unless there's champagne in it. I sniffle obnoxiously loud whenever my girlfriend asks me to hand her the remote control so she can, "turn off this dreadful Sylvester Stallone movie and watch Bachelor in Paradise."

Another thing about me when I'm feeling ill is that I'll sneeze about 12 times a minute. Actually, when I'm not sick, I'll go on some sneezing tangents every now and then but when I have a semi-cold, I'm sneezing like one of Snow White's seven dwarfs in a pepper factory. I can't remember the name of the dwarf I'm referring to that sneezes all the time. You know, he has allergies, a sad face and a big nose. Jewey the dwarf? That must be it. People say that sneezing is very close to having an orgasm. If that's the case, then I'm close to getting gangbanged by the seven dwarves right now. Let me tell you something, behind closed doors, Bashful ain't so bashful.

Since I'm feeling so crappy the only thing left to do is make a big pot of matzoh ball soup, grab another gallon of OJ and settle on the couch for a marathon session of Rambo movies. This is actually such a good idea, I hope I'm sick again next week. Better go lick a few doorknobs.

Blood Pressure Check

I live a pretty stress-free life. Things are great and I have no issues to speak of. I have a sweet and beautiful girlfriend, two cute and loving canine companions and a DVR filled with 1990's era movies that I forgot to watch twenty years ago. I stay in shape, eat relatively well and only drink on days whose first letter belongs in the 2nd half of the alphabet... with the exception of Monday and Friday. I have great friends, a working central A/C unit and a job that is walking distance to Chick-fil-A. I also have a family that has blessed me with full love and support. They've also blessed me with high blood pressure.

My family history is very typically Jewish. We eat with each other, talk to each other and complain about each other. A very Jewish upbringing means you're with family a lot. Holidays, weddings, Bar/Bat mitzvahs, Sunday dinners and especially the opening of a new bagel place. This are all parts of my genetic make-up that I have embraced about my Jewish heritage. The genetic trait I dislike the most is the passing down of high blood pressure. Well, that and the nose size.

I went to the doctor a month ago and was informed that I was "at risk" for high blood pressure. My BP was not too worrisome but with my family history, I would have to keep an eye on it. I was told to work out regularly and be mindful of what I was eating. That seemed like two very reasonable things. Work out regularly, like, a couple times a month. Be mindful of what I eat, like, don't eat a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup that fell on the floor of a movie theater unless you were able to pick it up within 13 seconds.

My doctor actually meant that I should work out more than twice a month. He went as far as to say I should work out 3-5 times a week. Hey Doc, I'm just trying to lower my blood pressure, not join the Marines. He also said my eating habits should go beyond not just stopping myself from eating a tasty treat off the floor of the stale popcorn stained concrete of a popular movie theater chain and actually paying attention to what I'm ingesting into my body. Not too much red meat, not too much fried food and not too much beer. I don't think that's going to happen - I may be Jewish, but I'm also Texan.

The best part about modern medicine is that the doctor can lecture you on how to live your life but he can also prescribe to you a magic little pill that helps you out without having to listen to the quack. I don't have to work out or watch what I eat. Instead, I swallow an unjagged little pill as I woof down my second plate of bacon.

I feel great, I look great and my life doesn't have to change at all. I like these small blue tablets I take daily. They're easy to digest and affordable to buy. Everything is alright in the world. Now, if I can only figure out how to get rid of this constant erection...

August

Today is August 1st. It's not necessarily a great day or a bad day. There's no history that I know of that happened on August 1st. August 1st is not celebrated the way you would for July 4th or a loved one's birthday and it's not a date that you would shudder at the way you would for September 11th or last Saturday when we found out that 5 Seconds of Summer's album knocked "Weird Al" Yankovic's album off the number one spot.

August 1st is a day that, as a kid, kind of sucked because it was the last month of Summer. You go to Target on July 31st and in their seasonal department is lawn chairs and barbecue grills. You go on August 1st and it's backpacks and notebook paper. That's a shitty day as a kid. As an adult, it's kind of cool because it means that football season is a month away. It also means that the blazing heat outside will start fading. It also means, and this might make me sound a tad bit old, that the kids will get the hell off my lawn.

I live in a pretty urban area of Los Angeles. Lots of apartments, restaurants, bars, and because this is LA, yoga studios. Of all the apartment complexes on our street, we're the only one with a lawn. This is great because, hey, it's a grassy lawn in front of our apartment. This is bad because, hey look everyone, come enjoy the only lawn on the block. It's not like we're having BBQ's or birthday parties on the grassy knoll in front of our place. It's just that people like sitting there. Seems crazy to me, because you can just sit on a beach 10 miles away.

What are people doing while sitting there, you ask? I'll tell you... nothing. That's right, they don't bring books, they don't bring dogs, they don't bring flaming batons to throw around. They literally do nothing. Just sit on the grass patch and stare into the oblivion. In this case, oblivion is a rundown apartment across the street.

Living here is very different than the area where I grew up. In the suburbs of Dallas, Texas it seemed that everyone had big yards and swimming pools. Well, everyone but us. No swimming pool for the Schwartz household. We had a backyard with 2 swingsets though. One that was nice and new and one that was rusty and old. When we upgraded to our brand spanking new swingset, complete with monkey bars and slide, we never got rid of the old one. We just had 2 vastly different eyesores invading our space where a fucking pool should have been.

We did have access to a few pools though. Summertime in Texas, you kind of need a pool. The sprinklers just don't cut it. 100 degrees plus everyday warrants a dip in the pool. Otherwise, you'd have to spend time indoors like a chump. Sometimes, you could run through the sprinklers or even better, you can hook up the ol' Willy the Waterbug and become the envy of the block.

Willy the Waterbug was some sort of weird plastic caterpillar looking thing that you hooked your hose into. It had about 6 beaded, little "water veins" that would thrash about and squirt water. As a kid, it was pretty awesome. We'd play a game where you got a running start and tried to jump over Willy without getting hit by one of his nasty little water arms. As an adult looking back, it was terrifying because those hard, beaded, unpredictable little water arteries of Willy would hit you in the, well, the willy constantly. 

Back in that day, we didn't use protection from the sun. Didn't need sunscreen or lotion. Actually, the girls I knew greased up with baby oil and sat in the sun for hours on end. We'd get in our bathing sutis, walk outside in the blazing Texas sun and run around the yard for hours with no sunscreen in sight. The only protection we needed was our hands covering our peckers as we tried to jump over Willy.

Dallas Cowboys Training Camp

Today is a day I look forward to every year. I'm not talking about a birthday or a holiday. I'm talking about something much bigger, much better, much more exciting. Today is the day that I will watch a bunch of 21-35 year old men put on tights and beat the shit out of each other. I know it may sound like my usual Tuesday night ritual, but it's not. Today is the day I'm going to Oxnard, California to watch the Dallas Cowboys practice.

I currently live in Los Angeles but was born and bred in Dallas, Texas. Because of this, I'm a die hard Cowboys fan. Since I live about 1500 miles away from my hometown, it is quite difficult to see my favorite players in person on gameday, but lucky for me my hometown boys train in sunny Oxnard, CA. Oxnard is about an hour and a half from Los Angeles. This would obviously make it much easier to catch, in person, Tony Romo throwing interceptions to numerous receivers.

Growing up in the '90's in Dallas made it impossible to not love the Cowboys. They were the only sports team in the metroplex that had any kind of success - unless you count the Tatu era Dallas Sidekicks, and we won't. The Texas Rangers, at least on the days that Nolan Ryan wasn't pitching, were a joke. The Dallas Stars were the Minnesota North Stars. The Mavericks were 10 years away from the Mark Cuban/Dirk Nowitzki era - the only era in which a Jew and a German worked perfectly together on anything not called a Volkswagen.

The Cowboys were our city's only bright spot. Sure, we had Edie Brickel and the New Bohemians, but those stinky hippies had nothing on Jerry Jones and Jimmy Johnson. These were the glory years. Three Super Bowls in four years, constant playoff appearances, constant division winners, constant cocaine and hookers. The 1990 era Cowboys were the most explosive the thing the city of Dallas had every seen. Well, except for that one time in Dallas when the President got his head blown off.

The Cowboys in the '90's were full of great players. Charles Haley, Bill Bates, Leon Lett, Mark Stepnoski, Darren Woodsen, Nate Newton, Jim Jeffcoat. We even had fierce animal nicknames for Daryl "Moose" Johnston and Kenny "The Shark" Gant. I mean, come on, nobody's gonna mess with a moose and a shark. That would be crazy! The only thing more frightening than that is a Moose-sharknado, which is probably what the hookers at the "white house" called it when they were selected for a Daryl Johnston/Kenny Gant menage a trois.

The roster was full of stars but none could hold a candle to the Gods that were Troy Aikman, Michael Irvin and Emmit Smith. "The Triplets" were the true Kings of Dallas/Ft. Worth. They were the men that every woman wanted to be with and every man wanted to be. Their faces were plastered on billboards around town. The newspapers wrote about them every day. They couldn't leave the house without being mobbed. They were like the Beatles, except better, because there was no Ringo.

The thing I remember the most about "The Triplets" was their famous poster. Every person who lived in Dallas in the '90's knows exactly what poster I'm speaking of. It's an iconic shot of our city's biggest superheroes - Troy, Michael and Emmit - on the sidelines of Texas Stadium, facing away from the camera, arms around each other, looking out onto the field.
#8 Aikman
#88 Irvin 
#22 Smith
Every kid has that "aha" moment where they realize the things they loved more than anything in life takes a backseat to their true passions. My "aha" moment came when the muscular asses of Troy, Michael and Emmit replaced the furry face of ALF on my bedroom wall.

Now we all know good and well that the Cowboys are not the same as they were back then. In the '90's, they were loved by the fans and feared by their opponents. Now they're laughed at by both. It used to be whenever I wore a Cowboys shirt, people would walk by and shout out, "Go Cowboys!" Now when I wear a Cowboys shirt, people walk by and shout out, "Go change!"

I used to feel proud to be a Cowboys fan. Now I feel sad. So sad in fact, I've decided while writing this that I'm no longer going to training camp. Who wants to keep living in the past and remembering all that glory days from many years ago? It's pathetic to think of days long past. Now, if you excuse me, I have to go watch my VHS tape of the 1996 Super Bowl.

Happy Birthday to Me!

My birthday is July 21st, this coming Monday. I will be (insert lots of numerals here) years old. I have always loved birthdays, especially my own. Remember when you're a kid and your birthday is the greatest day of the year. Well, that, Christmas/Chanukkah or the day that your camp takes a trip to Six Flags.

As you get older, the magic of a birthday isn't the same. You start to mature and realize that celebrating your birthday might make you seem like a douche. Hell, I still love my birthday but it really is a douchey thing to send an e-vite telling your friends to meet at a bar that you would never go to if it wasn't your bday and have them buy you drinks. Last year, I went to a bar that I have only been to once... five years ago on my birthday.

I totally understand how a birthday isn't a big deal anymore. As a child, it's one of the only things you have to look forward to every year. As you get older, there are lots of exciting things to look forward to - pay day, vacations, quality time with the girlfriend and dogs, the new Woody Allen movie - all the great things in life.

As you grow up, a birthday is just "another day." When I was younger, a couple friends of mine and I wrote a terrible screenplay about a man who is depressed about his upcoming birthday and decides to live the day like he's a kid again. He leaves work, plays miniature golf, drives a corvette, orders the biggest sundae you've ever seen at a fancy restaurant and finally asks the girl out that he's been pining for his whole adult life. There's also scenes where he reconnects with his brother, has weird flashbacks about the shoes his father used to wear and has a come to Jesus moment while on a golf course with Robert Loggia.

The point of that movie was supposed to have you look at your birthday in the same way you did as a kid. Take advantage of the one day a year that is solely for you. There is no other day where that happens. Your birthday is you and you alone. You have to share Christmas/Chanukkah, Valentine's Day, Fathers Day/Mothers Day, Secretaries Day, New Years, Halloween, Thanksgiving, MLK day, Simchat Torah, 4th of July, Boxing Day, The Super Bowl, The Oscars, Labor Day, Memorial Day and the day the new Iphone comes out.

I can't do something big for my birthday every year, I know this. This year, I'm going to take it easy - make some dinner at home with my lady, open a nice bottle of wine that we labeled 07-21-14, watch a movie, cuddle on the couch with the dogs, and listen to my girlfriend fake snore when I attempt to make out with her.

Taking it easy on my bday might be a sign of things to come. Maybe I'm maturing and realizing that I don't need to go all out every July 21st? Maybe I'm just done with the hassle of planning and executing the "great day of birth?" Maybe I'm like Danny Glover in the Lethal Weapon franchise and am "getting too old for this shit?" Maybe, nowadays, the most fun thing I can do is be with my girlfriends and the dogs watching movies instead of bumping elbows with strangers in a crowded bar? Maybe it's because I need to rest my old bones for the huge Las Vegas party I'm already starting to plan for next year's birthday? Yeah, that's it.

Fridays Off

I recently started a new job and it's been great. The work is challenging, the people are nice and the best part... it's only four days a week! Even better than that, it pays better than my last job, and is one less day a week. Win/Win! The coolest part about having a "free" day weekly is all the stuff I'm able to get done on my off day. I can write, set up appointments, have lunch with friends, spend quality time with the dogs, clean the apartment - the possibilities are endless. So endless, in fact, that I wind up doing the exact same thing every Friday... Nothing!

Now, it's not like I'm waking up super late or staying in bed and sleeping the day away. I'm getting up early with my girlfriend to walk the dogs. She, like most other people in the world, go to work on Fridays - what suckers! We wake up around 6:30 AM and take the dogs for a mile and a half. Yeah, that's right - 6:30 AM! What are we, farmers?! And you read that correctly, a mile and a half! That's like a full marathon! What are we, Kenyans?!

We get back a little after 7 AM and then it's a great start to the day - A cup of coffee and internet browsing. I check email, fantasy baseball scores, news of the day and, of course, have to check what celebrities kicked the bucket in the middle of the night. I like to stay up to date with my celebrity dead pool. So far this year I've received points because Sid Caesar and Casey Kasem took a dirt nap. I'm currently in 4th place but if Jenna Jameson goes six feet under, I'll jump up to 1st. And because she's a famous porn star, I should clarify the last sentence. I did say six feet under, not under six feet.

While I'm drinking my coffee and screwing around on the world wide web, I have lofty goals. I say to myself, "Once I finish this cup of joe, I'm going to get so much work done."  The problem is once I finish a cup of coffee, I start realizing that I should actually do something worthwhile. The problem with that is I don't want to do anything. The solution to that is to make another cup of coffee. I did say to myself that I would work as soon as I finish my cup of coffee, but I never said after my first cup. The way I look at it, I can make pot after pot of coffee and I'd never have to do anything. Well, I'd have to do at least one thing, and that would be to clean up all the diarrhea I've expelled after drinking a half gallon of coffee.

I do wind up drinking a lot of coffee on these Fridays but the weird part is, I don't like the taste of coffee. I do very much like the taste of sugar and milk though so really my coffee is pretty much equal parts sugar/milk/coffee. Why drink it, you ask? Because it seems like the thing you're supposed to do. I like having caffeine in the morning but the thought of drinking a Jolt Cola right after the sun comes up doesn't appeal to me. The "adult" thing to do is to drink coffee and I'm a full fledged grown man. It shouldn't matter that I like my coffee like I like my women... Sweet, decadent and the ability to put me in a diabetic coma.

It's not like I waste my entire day doing nothing. After partaking in seventeen Buzzfeed quiz's asking, "What vegetable side dish are you?," I hit up the living room and watch whatever late night talk shows I DVR'd earlier in the week. Sometimes I get lucky with a Don Rickles or Steve Martin appearance. Most of the time I get confused as to why I set my DVR to record Tom Green on Craig Ferguson. First of all, why is Tom Green on a talk show and second of all, how the hell did Craig Ferguson get a show? I ponder questions like this as I slip into a sugar crash induced slumber.

When I wake up five hours later, I'm reminded of all the things I was supposed to get done on my day off. Clean the apartment, do some laundry and wash some dishes. Seems like a very simple thing to do with all the free time I have. You know what, I'm going to take care of that right this second... Actually, maybe I'll wait a little while. After all, there is a new quiz I can take that will let me know, "What 1990's failed TV Show are you?"... Oh, I hope I get Cop Rock!

The Bored Cup

Every four years, something happens that unites even the strangest of strangers. It's an event that transcends languages and dialects. It brings everyone together despite geography, cultures and religions. I'm, of course, talking about U2 albums but the same can be said about the World Cup. The World Cup is the Olympics if the Olympics only had one sport that Americans are bad at and using your hands is a no-no. In that way, the World Cup is very similar to my sex life.

The World Cup is just one big ol' month of soccer. Actually, it's just one big ol' month of futbol. There's a weird thing happening where some countries call it futbol and others call it soccer. I understand that here in America it's called Soccer because we already have football. This doesn't make sense because football is played with hands. We can't call it handball though, because there's already a sport called handball which is racquetball without a racket. What's the different between a racket and a racquet? A "q." What's the difference between Daniel Craig and every other James Bond? Different "Q's."

Everybody makes a big deal out of the World Cup. People analyze every matchup, every player, every time slot. Fans "ooh" and "ahh" with every kick. Viewers yell at the screen when someone fakes a brutal injury. Now I understand that The World Cup is a big deal and the matches are intense and climactic, but it's normally two hours that result in 3 scores. If you're watching 2 hours of basketball, there will be more scoring than Leonardo DiCaprio at the Victoria Secret's Fashion Show.

As much as soccer (futbol) bores me, I'll still watch when the USA takes the field. Maybe it's American pride, maybe it's the thrill of competition, maybe it's because there's nothing else to do on a Sunday in June. If I'm going to watch though, I'd rather watch in a bar. Same thing can be said about the NBA All-Star game, opening weekend of NFL Football, and a 22 minute video of buff men in tighty-whiteys doing push-ups. (I once spent happy hour in the Castro section of San Francisco.)

I know that I want the USA to win. I also know that the USA has no chance to win. Soccer (futbol) is one of the few organized sports that the USA doesn't excel at. We kick ass in basketball, swimming, gymnastics, track and field, baseball, football, skiing, skating, snowboarding, skateboarding and waterboarding. Once the USA is out of the tournament I just don't care. That is unless the Germany team is still in it and I can go against them. I can cheer for Germany to lose The World Cup for a couple great reasons.
1) What they did to Jews in World War II.
2)  Dirk Nowitzki doesn't play soccer.

I probably will watch a few non USA matches and I probably will appreciate the athleticism, determination and intensity of the players. The greatest athletes in the world are soccer (futbol) players. They run the equivalent of a marathon in 120 minutes. All over the world they are revered as Gods among men. They have cool names like Pele and Ronaldo. I should like soccer (futbol) but I find it difficult to enjoy. Maybe it's because I wasn't very good at it as a kid. Maybe because when I was growing up there weren't any professional soccer teams to cheer for. Maybe it's because I like to use my hands more than Helen Keller did. There are many reasons that I don't like soccer (futbol), but I think the main one has got to be that everytime I write the word soccer (futbol), I have to use parenthesis. I'd never have to do that with basketball (basquetball) or football (succor).

When the girlfriend's away...

My lady just celebrated her birthday. I'm sure it was a lovely day for her. For starters, she had to get up at 4 AM, so she could take a four and a half hour long plane ride from Los Angeles to Nashville. She then got to celebrate her day of birth by working till midnight. This might all sound pretty bad on a normal day, let alone your bday, but she did have one positive thing going for her on this magical day. She didn't have to spend it with me. Now, I'm sure she loves me, and I know I love her, but everyone deserves a spousal break every now and then... especially her.

She got to celebrate her birthday without me, but she was surrounded by co-workers, put up in a nice hotel, given a per diem, and got to experience the culture of one of the coolest cities in the United States, Nashville. I, on the other hand, got to hang out all by myself with two needy dogs and DVR filled with crap that I've been putting off for just this occasion. There are many fun things I can do while the GF is away, and only a couple of them include touching my own penis.

For starters, I can eat donuts for breakfast! If I had my way I'd eat donuts for breakfast every day, and probably lunch and dinner as well. When my lady is around, I can have a donut every now and then, but would have to hide the evidence if I ate them more than once every few months. This week, I can let my freaky donut flag fly by popping those little buggers in my mouth the way Homer Simpson would after coming off the Atkins diet.

Another cool thing I can do when she's not around is watch afternoon baseball. When I'm "working" from home and decide to take a three hour break to watch the Rangers, Rays or Twins lose (this happens a lot this season), my girlfriend doesn't like that. When she gets home from a hard day of actual work and finds me sitting on the couch and screaming at a left fielder to "dive for the fucking ball" it makes her a tad angry. If she's going to slave away all day to bring home the bacon, the least I can do is pretend to help out. Now matter how many strikeouts Yu Darvish gets in a game, it still won't help me find a job. It might get me 70 bucks in my fantasy league though.

Speaking of that, I can be on my fantasy baseball site all day. I don't have to click away to job board sites every time my GF walks by the room. This week I've proposed 6 trades, add/dropped 4 players, changed my lineup every 18 minutes, and read about 1600 blogs on which starting pitchers are destined to have Tommy John surgery in the next 3 weeks. By the way, if Mark Teixeira gets another home run while riding my bench, I'm going to set my computer on fire.

One more advantage of my little princess leaving me by my lonesome is that I don't have to keep up with my set of household chores. The bed will not be made every morning, the dishes will not be washed, the pillows and blankets will not be put away, the laundry will not be laundered and my stinky body will not be showered. In fact, I don't have to shower for a week if I don't want to. The only time I'm showering in the first place is when I have someplace to go. When she's away, I never have to go anywhere. I can watch Arnold Schwarzenegger movies and wallow in my own filth for six straight days.

Now don't get me wrong, I love my girlfriend and would do anything for her, but when she's not around there's nothing she needs me to do. Right now there's only one thing that needs to be done... Bring on another dozen of glazed twists!!!

Ghostbusters Art Show

A couple friends and I are attending a super sweet event today. Since we're one day removed from Memorial Day, you'd think that we're going to the Veterans graveyard by UCLA and paying our respects. Maybe we're going to the VA hospital and visiting the heroes that ensured our freedom and independence. How about taking my lazy ass to the Military recruitment center and signing up to fight for the dear ol' U S of A? Nope - I ain't doing none of that. Today is the day that I attend an art show celebrating the 30th anniversary of "Ghostbusters."

"Ghostbusters" came out in the Summer of 1984. I was just a wee lad but I remember seeing it in a movie theatre with my Camp Chai camp mates. I remember eating popocorn. I remember being scared of Slimer. I remember being in awe of the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man. I remember having a crush on Sigourney Weaver. I remember wanting to be Bill Murray. And I remember laughing my little balls off whenever Rick Moranis appeared on screen. Up to that point, I had never seen another movie that was as funny and exciting as "Ghostbusters." And I had seen "Grease 2" twice by then!

"Ghostbusters" was a game changing movie. Groundbreaking special effects, top notch comedy, edge of your seat suspense, and family friendly with a little edge. It's one of the few movies that kids and adults can see together and both enjoy it just as much as the other. My brothers and I dragging my father to this movie wouldn't have made him hate us forever. That only happened after we took him to see the Andrew Dice Clay classic, "The Adventures of Ford Fairlane." I don't think he's ever fully gotten over that.

As I gear up to go see some art, it occurred to me that I'm not very well versed in the art world. I've been to the Getty museum out here and checked out a few museums in Europe a couple years ago. While in Paris, my lady and I went to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa. It was very cool to see the most famous painting in the world but I bet it won't be nearly as cool as seeing Annie Potts answering a phone on Canvas.

I haven't seen "Ghostbusters" in years but I imagine it still holds up. The cool part about this art show is that it'll make me want to watch the movie again. After all these years, it should feel like visiting an old friend. Hopefully it won't be like that old friend who did lots of drugs in college and remembers weird details of stories that didn't actually happen. I don't care what Sammy says, I never mistook his walk in closet for a bathroom and urinated all over his neatly pressed suit the night before the Fraternity Formal.

I am excited to bear witness to this historic art event and I hope it's as exciting to me as the first time I saw the movie. Even if it's not that great, it still has to be at least twenty times better than "Ghostbusters 2." What a piece of crap.

Running Errands

My days are generally spent at home staring at a computer screen, writing and reading, with the frequent interruption of dogs barking at someone or something out the front window. My office is in the back of the house, so jumping up and running down the long hallway, past the bathroom and the kitchen, through the dining room and finding myself in the living room yelling at two pooches who have literally been barking at absolute nothing is about the only relief I get. Being holed up in a small room on the bottom right of a Four-plex apartment, sitting at a desktop computer and trying desperately to come up with the next "Seinfeld" can be take its toll sometimes. Luckily for me, every now and then, I get to run some errands.

Most people I know feel very burdened by having to take care of the "real" things in their life. Grocery shopping, picking up laundry, vehicle maintenance, getting your hair did, returning the twelve pack of boxer briefs to Target because they "rubbed the wrong way" are just a few of the many expeditions you'll be forced to do throughout the month. It all sounds annoying but when my options are continuing my diagnosis of Cabin Fever or going to drop off two full boxes of VHS tapes at Goodwill, I'll take the latter every time. As a matter of fact, in one of those boxes is a copy of Eli Roth's directorial debut, "Cabin Fever" so it just feels right.

Today is going to be a great day because I have three things I have to do. Ahhh, take it all in, THREE whole things. I can't wait for the day to begin. These are relatively small and mundane things but it may as well be Disneyland for me. This will be, like, two and half hours worth of time eaten away from my day. That's almost three hours that I won't have to be cramped up on in my place, trying to avoid eating another sleeve of graham crackers. Three hours! That's almost as much time it takes to wait in line for Space Mountain!

I'm going to start my super busy day with a quick jaunt over to pick up some laundry. The cleaners near my place is called Celebrity Cleaners. I assumed it's called this because it's close to Hollywood and has framed autograph pictures from their "celebrity" clientele. Celebrity is in quotations because I don't think you'd consider the third lead in a Cialis commercial a true celebrity. I hand the ticket to the person behind the counter and then get to watch the roller coaster of clothes weave their way throughout the shop. All the while, Cialis commercial actor's headshot is staring right at me, making my boner go down.

Once I get the laundry, it's off to my Pep Boys appointment. I have the fortune of taking my lady's car to get an oil change and fresh new wiper blades. This is a great way to spend a Tuesday. Sitting in a dirty cramped waiting room, drinking stale coffee, watching Judge Judy and reading a Motor Trend magazine with the Cover Story, "Most Efficient Cars of 2008." It's either that or an old People Magazine with the headline, "Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston: Nothing Gets in the Way of Hollywood's Most in Love Couple." I think we all know by now that there is definitely something that can get in the way of this couple, and this thing no longer has tits.

After the Pep Boys lube up my sweetheart's front parts, it's off to Trader Joe's. Grocery shopping can be irritating but it's one of the few joys in my life nowadays. That is, grocery shopping at a big store with ample parking is. The Trader Joe's in my neighborhood is a monstrosity. There are about 20 parking spots, but generally about 100 people shopping. Most of your shopping experience is sitting in the car waiting for someone to leave the store. If this isn't bad enough, you'll also have Eduardo, the parking lot attendant constantly yell at you to "Back up, Senor." The only comfort I get is from the 80's station on Sirius satellite radio - As long as there's a chance to hear Tommy Tutone then I'm a happy man.

After all my responsibilities are taken care of, I'll return to my home with a true sense of accomplishment. My tuxedo is clean and neatly pressed, my freezer is full of Trader Joe's "Mini Mint Ice Cream Mouthfuls," and my girl's car is running smoother than Angelina Jolie's vacant booby bags. It'll be a real productive day!

Get out of here, Yellowjacket!

I heard a little buzzing sound this morning while I was working in my home office. No big deal, there are a couple of windows where the desk is situated, I hear sounds of "wildlife" every now and then. The buzzing was a little annoying but not nearly as annoying as the whiny voice of the man who lives in the apartment next door who is constantly answering the phone and then yelling at whoever is on the other line. Wife, mother, son, daughter, telemarketer - it doesn't matter, this dude loves to yell. The buzzing is actually comforting compared to Mr. Loud Whiny Voice so no big deal. That is until I discovered the buzzing was coming from... INSIDE THE ROOM!!!!

It turns out that the buzzing I was hearing is from a wasp or hornet or whatever those scary looking, winged bastards are outside my window. Now, I'm not a big fan of insects anyway but I'm especially not a fan of insects that have the capability to cause me physical pain. These mofo's have stingers! I might even be allergic to them for all I know because I've never been stung by anything ever. Not by a bee, a wasp, a hornet,  a scorpion, not even a jellyfish. The closest I've ever come to a sting was when I saw The Police's Reunion Tour on VH1.

Normally in a situation when a tiny flying pest is in my apartment, I do what any strong heroic man would do... I scream, run into the other room and cry to my girlfriend until she takes care of it. It was truly a scary day at the Schwartz/Silvi abode because my girlfriend was nowhere to be seen. She had some sort of thing she has to do on Mondays thru Fridays from 9 AM to 6 PM. She calls it work, which sucks for most people, but if your life is shared with me, every opportunity to get out of the house is like Club Med.

I had to take matters into my own hands so I quickly jumped up out of the chair like I was on fire and looked for anything I can find that will let me smash the buzzing asshole. Well, I didn't exactly jump up quickly like I was on fire, I actually stood up frighteningly slow. Not that it was so slow that it was scary, more like I'm scared so it's slow. I found a shoe and knew I had to take care of the flapping prick. I wanted to approach rapidly and with confidence, but instead I approached like I was drunk and disoriented. I looked like a first grader at a children's birthday party after they had been spun around before walking up to hit a pinata.

The wasp had made it's way to the door in the front of the room. It was circling around and not landing on any surface that would've allowed me to whack it. Every now and then it would land on the light fixture which was no mans land for the shoe. If I had hit it, it would just bust the light, shattering the glass lamp and the lightbulb all over the floor. It would also give the insect a chance to get away while I would be forced to walk around on broken glass as if I were Annie Lennox.

Since the culprit wouldn't leave the safety of the light fixture, I thought of a way to get it to move without having to be too close and therefore too scared. I was holding the left footed shoe so I grabbed the right footed one and threw that close to the light, scaring the wasp and making it fly off the light. Success!!! Well, it seemed like success, but it actually made the fluttering dickhead fly right at me. In a genuine moment of panic, I was able to duck under the kamikaze wasp and it made it's way to the wall by the windows. I raised the shoe above my head and marched straight ahead to show the insect who was boss. I was scared, confused and bewildered but I knew that the nightmare would not be over until that wasp was beaten like Jay-Z in an elevator.

I inched closer and closer to the aerial assassin, shoe held at perfect ninety degree angle, and was just about to pounce when the small-scale shithead found his way on the window screen. The screen is even worse than the light fixture! There is no way to blast that bitch into oblivion while he was on a window screen. Even if I attempted to, it would work like a trampoline and I would have just flung the fucker into my face. The only thing I could do was close the window, trapping the twat between the screen and the glass. I was prepared to just wait and watch him die slowly, but then realized something... We have RAID!!! I grabbed the big black can of Wasp/Hornet/Flying Insect Raid and headed out the back door.

I walked around the corner cautiously, maybe our little bugger has friends that were patiently waiting to sting whatever asshole comes around the corner. Maybe the whole thing was an elaborate scheme to get caught between the window and the screen and then have the gang attack whoever shows up to Raid them. "He can't take us all!!!" they'd say in their stupid insect language as they fly at me like the Galaga arcade game. I turned the corner and there was no other bug there. Just our little nemesis trapped like Cherie in a refrigerator from that episode of "Punky Brewster."

I sprayed the crap out of that dude and it felt good. I now have the taste of insect blood! No hornet can stop me! I'm going to throw punches at each and every one of you. Wasps, hornets, and flying insects, meet your new worst nightmare - Solange Schwartz!

Spring Cleaning

This last weekend was spent doing the most fun thing anyone can do with their spare time. No, I'm not talking about raiding my girlfriends make-up cabinet and dancing around to Culture Club's "Karma Chameleon." I'm talking about cleaning out and organizing the closets in my apartment.

Last week I was really looking forward to the fun, laid back activites that we had planned. Long walks with the dogs, watching playoff basketball from my couch and a round of golf. Sounds like a great relaxing weekend. That was, of course, until my girlfriend decided that she should clean out and organize the closets. By the way, when I say she decided that SHE should clean, I really mean she decided that WE should clean. SHE and WE sound very similar but they mean very different things.

We started with our hallway closet which is mainly towels but there are a few things scattered about: bedsheets, pillow cases, purses, an old Wham! cassette tape and winter clothes. We live in Los Angeles so that explains why our winter clothes were tucked away in some closet with little access. I live in the '80's which explains the Wham! tape. Our first order of business was to move the winter clothes into a big bin that we could keep in the garage. Again, we never have to wear these clothes. The only reason we have them is because we sometimes spend a few days of winter in Minnesota. If you've ever been to Minnesota in the winter, you understand why we need a super heavy coat, gloves or mittens, knit caps, scarves and thermal underwear. If you've never been to Minnesota in the winter, it's the equivalent of living in a large freezer where the ice cream is very friendly and can't stop talking about Joe Mauer.

Once we finished the hallway closet, we tackled the bedroom closet. The bedroom closet is generally where the co-habitants hang their clothes in blissful harmony. At our place, my girlfriend has the ENTIRE closet and I get to hang up my clothes in the the other room. It works out though because she needs room for Casual dresses, formal dresses, tank tops, T-shirts, jeans, pants, skirts, sweaters, shoes, belts, workout clothes, leggings, jeggings and possibly other stuff that ends in 'gings. I understand that she needs a lot of room but she should be able to share with me. After all, how much room do two pairs of jeans and seventeen T-shirts with the Dallas Mavericks logo really take up?

After we finished our, ahem, HER closet, we took on the daunting task of cleaning out the dining room closet which is... (cue scary music) THE CLOSET UNDER THE STAIRS!!!! (cue Vincent Price evil laugh from the ending of Michael Jackson's "Thriller"). Now this closet is legitimately scary. It is filled with old clothes, old board games, old sports equipment, old boxes, old fans, old space heaters, old vacuum cleaner, old boxes of old photos, old bags filled with old wrapping paper, and a very old smell. This closet smells dirty and grungy like how Kurt Cobain would've smelled. Actually it smells more like how Kurt Cobain would smell now.

Once cleaned and organized we were able to pack up six huge bins we bought last week from Target. We would've filled up all nine bins, but we were missing three of the lids that were sold separately. I was in charge of making sure we had all the corresponding lids to each of the bins we had purchased. I, instead, spent my Target time buying week old Easter candy instead of properly counting the lids. In my defense, they were selling Reeses Peanut Butter Bunnies, Cadbury Mini Chocolate Eggs and Sweet-tart Ducks for half price. What's a Jew to do? Also, what the f#*k do ducks have to do with Easter?

The boxes were packed up and ready to move into the garage, but first we had to make sure the garage was cleaned. The garage is as much fun as the "under the stairs" closet but with the added pleasure of bugs. Anytime I had to put my hand behind something in the back of the garage to move it, I imagined myself in "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom." I am not a fan of insects, I find them repulsive which is why it doesn't surprise me that "insects" and "incest" sound so similar.

All in all, it was a job that had to be done. The closets are clean and organized. It is now possible to see the items we have without having to move through the closet like we're heading out into the Amazon. We can walk in and smoothly grab all the stuff we need whether it's dog food, the vacuum cleaner or an autographed poster of Duran Duran, all the important things in life.

A Sub Shop Nightmare

My lady and I decided to have dinner the other night at this little mom and pop owned submarine sandwich shop called, "Subway." It is delicious, convenient, and can make you lose a couple hundred pounds if you eat there everyday like Jared Fogle. I, like most people, love a good Subway sandwich. I also, like most people, live approximately 3 steps from a Subway restaurant. My neighborhood Subway is the one I go to all the time. I'm comfortable there. I always have a pleasant experience there. The other night, I went to a different Subway. I will never do that again.

First of all, why did we decide on Subway? We live in a very big city with plenty of food options. The possibilities were endless, we could've eaten anything from Armenian to Zimbabwayan. We decided on Subway, or actually I decided on Subway, because of one very important reason... We had a coupon! Buy one 6 inch and a drink, get one 6 inch for free. That's the same as if they just handed us $3.75 in cold hard cash!

Instead of walking the one block from our home to the nearest Subway, we were on the road and decided to stop at the Subway that was on the way home. It was only a couple blocks away from our place, but we had never been. Actually, there are about fifteen Subways within a 3 mile radius of where we live. Is there a law that you must have a Subway, McDonalds or Starbucks within pissing distance at all times? We decided to stop at this particular Subway because, hey, it's Subway - they're all the same. Famous last words.

We entered the restaurant and were relieved to notice that there were only two people in front of us in line. They had even begun their order which is great news. We would be helped in no time.  I mean, it's Subway - the easiest ordering in the world. Pick your bread, your meat, your veggies and you're done. Easy Peasy. I walked in and noticed the elderly man and his teenage granddaughter in line in front of us. It's always great to see family spending time together. The disheveled eighty year old being helped by his precocious young 16 year old granddaughter. Oh look, she's leaning in to explain to him what's on the menu. Poor guy probably can't see very well. Oh, she's getting closer to him. Poor guy probably can't hear very well. Oh dear god, she's kissing the senile old bastard! They are REALLY kissing!They're going at it so hard, I think she's now wearing his teeth.

I must've been real hungry because the sight of Larry King and Kendall Jenner making out didn't stop me from trying to order a 6 inch sub club on Honey Oat bread. I say "tried" to because the moment I got to the counter and opened my mouth to speak, the bread oven beeped. I don't mean a small, sligthly distracting beep. I'm talking a shrieking, ear-ringing, "there's a deadly tornado a'coming" sound that makes you need to change your pants. Here's the exchange:
 Subway Lady: "What can I get you?"
Me: (about to speak)
Oven: "BEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPP!!!!"
Me: (craps my pants)
*I did not crap my pants but I did almost throw up watching Wilford Brimley and Selena Gomez play tonsil hockey.
The subway "sandwich artist" asked me again what I would like to order and once again before I could speak, the oven beeped. It's as if at that moment, I turned into a Martin Scorsese movie on TNT.

I finally got my sandwich and moseyed my way down to the cash register. Right before I was to pay with my trusty coupon, a man jumped in front of me in line. I'm not using artistic license, he literally jumped in front of me. It was as if he was double dutching with ghosts. He then asked the cashier for cookies. Didn't ask for a specific number of cookies, didn't ask for a specific kind of cookie, just asked for "cookies." It was as if he was at a bar in a low budget film and asked for a "beer." The Subway employee eventually got him to order correctly by asking, "What kind and how many?" This confused the dear fellow, so he just pointed and raised all the fingers on his right hand and just his index finger on his left. The lady, no doubt a genius mathematician, looked upon his hand offering and said, "Seven?" He corrected her by saying, "six" but not before he looked at the calloused hands in front of him and counted them.

He ordered his six raspberry cheesecake cookies to go and went off, I assume to play cookie Santa Claus with 5 of his friends. I was wrong, instead he walked outside, took a 180 degree turn, stared inside the Subway that he had just patron-ed and starting eating six raspberry cheesecake cookies, one by one. He wasn't looking inside with a creepy "I'm watching you" vibe, he stood outside and looked into the place he just came from with wonder as if to say, "How do I get inside that enchanting place?"

We finally paid for our meal and exited the god forsaken place. Of course, not before watching our favorite couple offer up a three-way with Subway's cookie monster. He, of course, accepted but not before stuffing the last two stale cookies in his desert hole. Something tells me that won't be the last yeast filled thing that enters his mouth this evening.

When we got home, I discovered the scariest thing of all. Not the wrong order. Not the moldy bread. Not the overabundance of mayonnaise. Nope, the scariest thing... They never honored the coupon. It was a true nightmare.

Broken Printer

There are real problems in the world. Floods, earthquakes, wars, bombings, me losing my hair - real horrible stuff. I recognize that these things are out of my control and I should just learn to deal with them. However, there is one terrible monstrosity that I am forced right now to deal with and that is my broken printer.

A few days ago I was trying to print out one simple black and white page from my trusty HP Deskjet printer. I have owned and operated said printer for about three years, which I guess is seventy in printer years. As I was printing out the most basic of basic documents, the printer made a rather unusual noise, almost like how a robot would sound if it sneezed, and wouldn't drag the paper into its, its... whatever it's called... ink pit? Let's go with ink pit. I'm now imagining that the inside of a printer looks like the a Sarlacc in the Great Pit of Carkoon from "Return of the Jedi."If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you should sincerely be proud of yourself.

I've worked in many situations where I had to un-jam a printer. Maybe it's because I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty, maybe it's because I'm the type of person who goes the extra mile to get things done, or maybe it's because I've happened to work at places that are too cheap to buy printers that consistently work. We'll go with the latter.

In order to fix a jam in a printer, you would just open up the doors and yank out whatever is stuck - A piece of paper, a staple, a buffalo chicken wing from Hooter's - whatever it is, you should just be able to pull it out of there. If it's a piece of paper, remove it slowly to make sure it doesn't tear into smaller pieces and stay in the hard to reach crevices. If it's a staple, be careful that you don't accidentally push it back in the machine or accidentally cut yourself on the sharp ends. If it's a Hooter's wing, you should probably make sure that your company has not hired "Sleazy Joe" to be your Xerox representative.

The problem with this cheap piece of crap printer that I have is there are no "doors" to open and check for paper jams. If I need to check, I have to literally take apart the entire printer. Or, more realistically, have my friend Andrew do it. The poor guy has to break apart my printer AND fight off my dog that is constantly trying to attack him. Talk about a shitty Monday.

I finally get the printer completely taken apart to find out that there is no paper jam. That little digital window on the bottom left of the machine is a freakin' liar! What I thought was going to be a quick, painless and very cheap tug for my fingers is now a slow, painful and very expensive tug for my wallet. I'm now going to have to use my hard earned dollars for a new printer instead of what I'd normally use them for - a quick and painless tug by the one and only "Sleazy Joe."

Happy Passover!

Everyone loves a good story. From the early days of humans, people would gather around the cave and tell the tales of whatever was happening at that time: how they caught the food, how they discovered fire, the time someone ate bad Brontosaurus and they had horrible diarrhea. Everybody I know has a story - whether it be themselves or someone they know - where the punchline is, "And then I/he/she/ shit all over themselves." I would imagine the same thing was happening way back in the early days of human existence. Especially since they didn't have refrigerators.

The oldest story I know is the one that Jewish families tell every year during Passover. As a kid, every Passover my family would go to Grammie's house and partake in the Seder. It would be two nights a year and they were two of my least anticipated nights. We would show up hungry and then be unable to eat for a couple hours while we told a fucking story?! The same story every year?! Just bring me the gefelte fish and shut up. That's how it was every year. My dad would lead the story and we'd all take a paragraph here and there and re-tell this same stupid tale. Jews wandering in the desert. the ten plagues, the Pharoah wanting to kill the Jews, Moses parting the Red Sea, the sales clerk at JC Penney overcharging my Grandma on her new blouse. Same ol', same ol' every year.

Last night, my lovely Shiksa and I decided to host a small seder. We invited the family we have in L.A. that happened to be in town. One of my brothers and one of my cousins were going to "real" Seders so they couldn't join us. We made sure to have plenty of Passover food - Matzoh, Brisket, Gefelte Fish, Matzoh Ball soup, Potatoes, salad, Charoset, etc. The Charoset is an apple, cinnamon, Jew-y thing that you have every year. It's quite delicious but you're supposed to mix it with horseradish. I don't understand why you would spend time to make such a tasty dish and then ruin it with something disgusting. It's the equivalent of a bowl of Chocolate Ice Cream that you cover in boogers.

I was the "leader" of the Seder last night so I was able to tell people what parts to read. Being the leader also means I have to hide the Afikomen. The hiding of the Afikomen is always the most fun part of the Seder as a child. It's hidden at the beginning and after the meal, you search for it. The winner gets a whole dollar bill! Back then you could buy a burrito and a small Dr. Pepper at Taco Bueno. Nowadays, that dollar can get you a couple pieces of Juicy Fruit gum. As I was hiding it last night, it occurred to me that I won't be able to play the weird Jewish version of hide and seek with the rest of the group. At that moment, I realized my innocence had ended. I knew exactly what Don Henley was singing about in 1989.

We went through the Haggadah last night, each reading various segments. At a few points, everyone in unison is supposed to read bits of Hebrew. The first time we came to such a moment, the language was butchered worse than the cow we were about to eat for dinner. There were two horrible sounds that happened simultaneously. One was the horrific version of our mangled Hebrew, the other was the sound of my Grammie rolling over in her grave.

All in all, it was a pleasant evening. The Passover Seder gives you everything you expect to have in your life - family, food and the suffering of Jews - all that makes things right in the world.

Happy Passover!

Unfunny Stand Up

Have you ever gone to a comedy club expecting to see some comedy, but instead witnessed a train wreck of a show with absolutely no laughable moments? It's the worst, right? You know what's even worse? Being the "comedian" during this excruciating moment. Here's the story of just how unfunny I can be in front of a roomful of people expecting to laugh.

My younger brother Brad, a very talented comedian, put together a comedy show last week. 8 PM show on a Thursday night, talented lineup, lots of people showing up to drink and laugh. What could go wrong? Brad, serving as MC and headliner, starts the evening off with a few jokes to get the crowd going before introducing a super funny comedian. Brad's jokes worked - the crowd was into it - the first comic goes up and kills. Then the next guy goes up to a great response. Then the next guy, then the next, etc. with Brad keeping the energy going with some quick bits in between. The audience is laughing and enjoying themselves. These poor bastards had no idea what was in store for them when it was my turn.

After five comics, it was my turn to take the stage. The rest of the comedians had done their job and kept the audience going. As a comedian, there are two horrible things that can happen before you go on. One is the comic right before you absolutely destroys. There is always a grizzled old comic at every club that re-tells the story of how he/she was about to perform for network execs/agents/managers/Lorne Michaels/future ex-wives, but they had to follow Richard Pryor. For some reason, it's always Richard Pryor and for some reason that comedian never got over it. The other devastating thing that can happen is you follow someone who is TERRIBLE. There is a grizzled old comedian at every club who tells the story about how they had the entire industry filling up the showroom to witness them become the next Jerry Seinfeld, but then they had to follow Carlos Mencia.

As I stated above, every comedian before me (and after me) had a done a great job. There was nobody that had bombed so I wasn't walking into a war zone. The audience was relaxed and excited to see every act. Now, I wasn't doing a traditional set. I decided I was going to do a more sketch oriented act. It would start as a regular stand up set and then within a minute, it would turn into something else. I had my older brother Jeff, who is super duper funny and had performed his own set earlier in the evening to tons of laughter, planted in the audience to "heckle" my performance. I had written out the bit and rehearsed it earlier with Jeff. It sounded good and seemed like it would've been a fun change of pace from the evening of stand-up. Throw in a little good-hearted, staged, audience ribbing for a couple minutes and then the others could perform their well crafted, genuinely funny wordplay.

I don't want to bore you with the details or transcript of the set I was performing. The only thing worse than watching bad comedy is reading bad comedy. The only thing worse than watching or reading bad comedy is performing bad comedy. The only thing worse than performing bad comedy is watching Carlos Mencia.

Again, I'm not going to write the entire act here because I'm afraid you might read it and poke your eyes out or hang yourself or light yourself on fire or jump out of your 17th floor office window or eat three cups of rat poison or snort eight grams of carpet deodorizer or hijack a plane and crash it into an ocean close to Malaysia or stick your head in an oven or put a plastic bag over your head and tie a rubber band around it at your neck or jump into the lions den at the zoo and attempt to molest a cub or perform magic tricks in Vegas with a white tiger or date an ex football player/sometime actor in Naked Gun movies and then start seeing a Jewish waiter or become Jett Travolta.

The only thing I can do is to offer advice to anyone wanting to perform and not wanting to ruin the show. If you're going to do a set that is funny, engaging and makes people laugh and think, you might want to make sure the writing is strong, the performing is top notch and you remember your lines. Oh, and you also want to make sure it's not about the Holocaust and Holocaust Remembrance Day and you shouting horribly offensive things about Jews, Mexicans and African-Americans.

I apologize to whoever had to follow me. To him I will always be Carlos Mencia which makes me wish I were Jett Travolta.

Texas, Texas, Yee-Haw!

I just spent four glorious days in three cities in Texas. I flew into Dallas, the city where I was born and raised. Spent the next day in Ft. Worth, the city where my mother was born and raised. And spent the next day/night in Austin, the city where my alcohol tolerance was born and raised. I enjoyed spending time with Mom, Dad, Grandma, Aunts, Uncles, Great Aunts, Great Uncles, First Cousins, Second thru Eighth Cousins, Friends and, most importantly, Dirk Nowitzki.

I had a little bit of free time the last few months because I'm (ahem) between jobs at the moment. I figured it would be a good opportunity to visit the state I called home for eighty percent of my life. I figured I'd hang out, see family and friends, and just relax. The first two I was able to do. The last was not in the cards. The only way this trip could be considered relaxing is if your idea of relaxing is constantly going from one place to another in an effort to see everyone and everything you've held dear since you had a foreskin.

I didn't have much of a plan while in Texas. The only thing, besides seeing family and friends, that I cared about was the "3 B's" - BBQ, Beer and Burritos. Specifically, Rudy's Barbecue. Shiner Bock Beer and Taco Bueno Burritos. If I still lived in Texas, I would eat and drink those three things everyday. It's a good thing I don't live in Texas anymore because with that diet, I'd be so unhealthy that my diabetes would have high blood pressure.

I'm normally not that much of an eater but when you're in Texas, you eat like a Texan. Big greasy cheeseburgers, moist barbecue brisket, chicken fried steak, Texas Sweet Heat Buffalo Wings, Snuffer's Cheese Fries, Spicy Chicken Tenders, Jalepeno infused sausage, Chick-Fil-A Chicken Biscuit, Chicken Express Fried Chicken with buttermilk biscuits, Z Tejas' Ancho Chili Fudge Pie, Potato Salad and Taco Bueno bean burritos. I need a Pepcid just writing that. I gained so much weight in Texas, I'm surprised I didn't have to buy two seats on Southwest Airlines.

All in all it was a great trip. Saw a bunch of people, had a bunch of laughs, ate a bunch of crap. It's everything Texas is supposed to be. My mind can't wait till the next time I'm there, but my stomach is in no hurry to get back.

Spring Mornings

Ahh, the beauty of a Spring morning. The glimmering sun, the fresh grass, the birds chirping, the squirrels chasing and the not too faint smell of fertilizer. Spring mornings always remind me of the good old days. Walking around outside, barefoot, without a care in the world. Sure you'd come back into the house with black feet that would get on the brand new living room carpet your mom just had put in, but until then you didn't have a care in the world. Then you'd be forced to stand in a bathtub half full of too hot water while your mother scrubbed your feet, shouted obscenities, and continually reminded you just how much money it cost for that new Stainmaster Active Family Dorchester White Frieze carpet.

When you're out of the tub, you have the feeling of guilt, sadness and in a weird way, accomplishment. I mean you accomplished to ruin something your mom was so proud of within seven hours. Way to go, kid! Once you're dry and head to your room your guilt feelings will immediately turn into loneliness since you're now grounded and cannot leave your room. You will hear the sound of the TV in your brother's room as he watches "The Simpsons" and it will be as torturous to you then as watching an episode of "The Simpsons" is now.

While you're sitting in your room, contemplating different ways to attempt suicide, you'll stumble on an idea that will really teach your parents a lesson. They deserve this lesson because, after all, they shouldn't have grounded you just for ruining the only thing they hold dear in this while rotten world. They went through beige shaggy carpet, a light orange and brown sheen carpet and now they've fallen in love with this weirdly milky white nonsense. They love this carpet more than they love you and your brothers, which is annoying, but completely understandable. The idea you come up is to grab the red magic marker you have in your desk drawer and draw on your wrist, thus making it look like you slashed your veins open in a psychotic rage. That'll learn 'em!

Once that is complete, you'll fake yell/cry for your precious mommy. She'll enter and right then you got her. "Oh, how could my perfect little baby have done this to himself? Why God, WHY?!!!!!!!" This is NOT what she'll be saying as she sees you. She will instead be even more furious because your marker wrist has rubbed all over the brand new one thousand thread count, eggshell bedsheets you insisted on having. Your mother will remind you how you begged and begged for these even though they were expensive. "You'll just ruin them" she said. "No, I won't." you'll respond. "I'm responsible and will never fake slash my wrists ever!"  Point = Mommy.

Once you're grounded again and forced to sit on the ground without touching your red stained arms on anything, you will once again contemplate suicide. This time you'll do it right though. Nothing screams "cry for help" better than "gunshot to the head." When your parents go to bed, you'll sneak in there and grab your dad's handgun, you know, the one that you're not supposed to know where it is. Once you grab that, you'll load in the .22 caliber bullets, spin the cylinder like you're in '70's exploitation movie and head back to your lonesome room. You will think about that documentary you saw where a teenager shot himself in the head because the backwards lyrics of Judas Priest told him to. Personally, I'd shoot myself in the head because I'm listening to them normally. Backwards probably sounds better. Anyway, if that kid lived, you probably will too. You lift the fully loaded gun to your temple and say to yourself, "This ought to show them." Pull the trigger and... brains splatter all over the wall that your mom just spent a fortune painting in the most gorgeous Cornsilk white she could find at Sherwin-Williams.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is, Spring mornings remind me of death.
  

Truth or Dare

When I was a wee lad, the season I looked forward to the most was the summer. School lets out in June, my birthday is in July and August, I'm sure, has some redeeming qualities. The main reason I loved the summertime is because of the camp I went to. It was a day camp at the Dallas Jewish Community Center called Performing Arts Camp. It was "Glee" minus the homo-eroticism. The highlight of summer camp every year was the sleepover we would have for one night during the second to last week. We would order pizza for dinner, perform in a talent show and have a dance featuring the hits of Whitney Houston, Michael Jackson, Bryan Adams and other singers that are no longer alive. After the dance, the counselors would go to sleep, and a few of the campers would partake in an epic game of "Truth or Dare." This was always my favorite part of the ENTIRE summer. It was better than 4th of July fireworks, vacations and any new Weird Al song rolled into one. As a child, there is no single event better than a game of Truth or Dare. As an adult, it's not so great.

I participated in T&D this past weekend. Since the group of participants were non-swinging couples in their 30's, it might as well have been D&D. As a kid, anything could happen. If you picked dare, the possibilities were endless. You could be forced to kiss someone you didn't like or have the fortune of kissing someone you did like all while trying to hide your boner. If you picked truth, you'd pretty much only be asked who you would want to kiss. Come to think of it, truth was pretty worthless. As a non swinging adult, the possibilities are anything but endless. For instance, if my girlfriend picks dare and I dare her to kiss some dude, then I'm an idiot. If she picks truth and I ask her who she wants to kiss, I'm a bigger idiot, because it for sure wouldn't be me.

Another reason, truth or dare doesn't work too well for me and my friends as an adult is because there are no stakes. As a kid, someone dared you to strip down to your underwear and run down the hallway, you did it no questions asked. You'd probably be devastatingly embarrassed about having to do it but not nearly as embarrassed as you would be if you refused and everybody yelled at you. As an adult, who gives a shit if someone tries to peer pressure you. If someone dared me to slather my dick in peanut butter and have the family dog lick it off, I'd tell them to go "f'" themselves. I'm not going to waste delicious peanut butter on a fucking dog.

As a kid, the most exhilarating thing that could happen for a game of truth or dare is to be dared to spend a certain amount of time with someone in a private location. It could be a small closet or a large room. The important part was that the place needed to be as bare as my elementary school genitals. As an adult, we're far too lazy to actually move locations for a stupid dare. If I was dared to spend 2 minutes with my girlfriend in an unoccupied bathroom, we'd eventually do what we normally do in a bathroom: pee all over each other.

The next time you want to re-live your youth, instead of a game of truth and dare, I recommend you try something where the nostalgia holds up better. Maybe a game of horseshoes. Or even better, whore shoes. A prostitute's footwear always brings me back to the good old days. I think because of the smell.

How to Fully Enjoy Happy Hour

There are many ways to fill up week. Work, eat and sleep. Those three are pretty standard. I'd rather spend my week doing these three things: Drink, drink and drink. Pretty much every bar offers a Happy Hour, and I'm here to tell you the best way to utilize these hours.

First of all, find a place that's not too crowded. There are places that offer 2 for 1 drinks, free pizzas, ladies drink free. These are all good and fine, but it normally means that you'll be fighting for a place to sit and relax. The 3rd worst thing to happen at bars is having to drink while standing up. The other two things that are worse than that, in a very particular order, are: 1. drinking too much and vomiting all over the place, and 2. getting gang raped on a pinball machine.

Find a seat at the bar, not at a table. Here's the thing about happy hour, the waitstaff doesn't like it. Cheap drinks and cheap food usually means cheap people. The only thing worse to a waitress than a cheap dude is a drunk, cheap dude who, after downing his third drink, refers to her as "My future ex-wife." See, the reason that's funny is because the dude is saying that their marriage will never last. I guess it's hard to maintain a marriage when you're drinking gin and tonics at 3:30 PM while sexually harassing a community college student.

Full disclosure, when I was attending community college, I worked in a restaurant as a server and sometime bartender. On the rare occasion, that I was the "cocktail waiter" during happy hour, the sheer disappointment from the straight male patrons was rampant. I guess Steve and his cubicle mates at Texas Instruments have a hard time enjoying themselves when a penis is so close to the Coors Light they ordered. When you take a seat at the bar, you're never waiting too long for your next round. Plus it's much more difficult to sexually harass a bartender because they're too busy fake laughing at your racist jokes.

Another great way to get the most of your happy hour experience is to not fall for their "famous cocktail concoctions." These are the drinks that are offered "for half price" at happy hour but are actually made up drinks that aren't on menu. Since they're not on menu, there is no price. "half price"is really just "price." Plus they're not real drinks. It's pretty much a watered down daiquiri with a stupid name that you'd only find at a cheesy happy hour. Would you ever order a "Small Smokin' Sombrero" at a cocktail reception? I guess you would if that reception is for the wedding of Willie Nelson to a dwarf named Rosarita.

There are many reasons that happy hours exist, but mainly because it's a great way to wind down after a long day at the office, kick back with a few cold ones, and complain to your co-workers about how your wife stopped having sex with you once she started her tennis lessons with Gustavo. The weird thing is that she's been going to her lessons for two and half years and still doesn't own a tennis racket. Even weirder, the lessons take place at a Rodeway Inn at the intersection of Washington and 123rd street. And I'll tell you the weirdest part, I had no idea that tennis can give you a wicked case of cold sores on your mouth. It happens to my wife every couple of months since she started her lessons.

Well, it's 5:00 somewhere which means I better get to happy hour.

What to Do When Your Back Hurts

I, like many other people in the world, experience some back pain every once in a while. I'm sure it's from the many years of playing All American level football for my State Championship winning High School football team, helping Grandpappy out on the farm during the grueling summers of North Carolina, or from making up wild claims about how I spent my youth. It's probably from sitting weird on the couch for 30 years while watching TV. It doesn't matter how I hurt my back, it only matters that it hurts, so I'll give you a few ways you can diminish your pain.

1. Stretch - The doctor told me to do yoga. I tried to, but when I went to the studio, the yoga instructor asked me how long I've been doing it. I said, with a smile, "It's my first time!" She replied, without a smile, "Oh, you can't be in here then. I don't want you to hurt yourself." Now if you know anything about me, it's that when someone tells me I can't do something, I spend every waking hour of my life practicing, getting better and ultimately proving to them that I deserve to be there. And you if you REALLY know anything about me, you'll know that when someone says, "You can't do that." I immediately react by saying, "Yeah, I know. I can't do anything. I'm a failure and a worthless human being. Thank you for being honest and forthright with me. The fact that you're even speaking to such a lower class person makes you a saint in the eyes of the Lord." Needless to say, I've never been back to a Yoga studio.

2. Eat Better - How does locally grown green vegetables, grass fed organic hormone free beef, and free range vegetarian fed chicken eggs sound? Pretty good, right? Now,  how does a Frito Pie with extra chili and cheese, a dozen Cadbury Cream Eggs, and a thick Peanut Butter and Chocolate Milkshake sound? Now that I think about it, it's my back that hurts, not my mouth. I'm going to eat whatever I damn well please.

3. Lift with your Legs, not with your Back - Whoa, wait a second. I lift with my arms like a normal person. What kind of a moron lifts things with their legs. Oh, are you talking about one of those Youtube vidoes where people that are missing their arms make peanut butter sandwiches, draw a picture and drive a car with their feet? Those people are amazing. Making peanut butter sandwiches with their feet! So inspiring. It inspires me to never eat another peanut butter sandwich. Gross! You want to hear the worst part? I Love peanut butter. Thanks for ruining my favorite food, Armless Betty.

4. Apply Ice or Heat - Some people will tell you to ice down your back. Others will tell you to place a heating pad on the sore area. Some, crazily enough, will tell you to do both. Well, I'm not falling for that. Both heat and cold? Not a fan. I once used a Trojan Fire and Ice condom that promises you a "warming and tingling sensation for you and your partner." What it should promise you is "all the pain and confusion of gonorrhea without the pleasure of having sex with a bachelor party stripper."

5. Take a couple aspirin - Sounds legit. Take a few pills and the pain will subside for a few hours. I'll tell you what I learned. Take a couple Vicodins and wash them down with three quarters of a bottle of Jack Daniels and you won't feel the pain all night. The next day you will, however, have a splitting headache, Sahara Desert like dryness of your mouth and the pain and confusion of gonorrhea from a bachelor party stripper.

Hope this helps!

A Yelp Review from a Very Positive Woman

My husband and I were on our way to the "Happiest Place on Earth," Disneyland! We've been planning this trip since our very first meeting at The Disney Store at Valley View Mall. Needless to say, it was our dream vacation! We saved our pennies and for Christmas, we gave each other a plane ticket to beautiful Anaheim, California. It was a very funny Christmas because, just like in that wonderful story, I sold all my Snow White sweatshirts, Cinderella jewelry and Tinkerbell snowglobes in order to afford our plane tickets. You think I had it rough, my husband sold the car, took out a third mortgage on the house and sold his kidney through Ebay. I sure hope FelchingFreddy puts that kidney to good use.

Once we landed at the scenic John Wayne Airport in Orange County, we knew we needed to find an affordable hotel. We had heard that the places next to Disneyland were a little out of our price range so we decided on the charming town of Norwalk. We were really drawn to it because, not only is it a mere 12 miles from Disneyland, we were also able to make jokes about the word, Walk, in the city's name since my husband was stuck in a wheelchair and unable to walk himself. There were a few complications from the kidney surgery, word of advice - I will never again use a Groupon for kidney removal. The fact that Dr. Midnight's office was the back of a rusty van should've been a sign, but the semi-framed diploma from "Doctor's College" put us at ease.

We took a super shuttle to the Norwalk Villa, and were a little alarmed when the driver said he had to drop us off 2 miles from the motel. He also warned us that we shouldn't wear any red on our walk/wheelchair ride to the Villa. Lucky for us, the Pinocchio cargo shorts my husband was wearing turned from red to brown, courtesy of the bowel control issue he was experiencing since the kidney removal. We arrived at the place a little late since the super shuttle driver told us the wrong directions. He said to go right by the Math Lab. We didn't see any school or any building resembling the studies of Arithmetic anywhere on that 2 mile hike. The only building we saw was small beaten up house with a heck of a lot of chemical barrels outside on the lawn. We did have a pleasant encounter with one of the residents of the house, Toothless Sally, who offered to blow my husband for twenty dollars. I guess she noticed the breath controlled electric wheelchair that he uses to get around since he's now paralyzed from the neck down after the botched kidney surgery. It was very sweet to find someone willing to help!

We eventually found our way to the hotel which was a relief because while walking through a park on the way, I accidentally stepped on something that went straight through my Sleeping Beauty flip flops. At first I feared it might have been one of the shards of broken glass that scattered the park. I was surprised to look down and find a hypodermic needle sticking through the heel of my foot. It must've been from one of the diabetic teenagers sleeping on the park bench. My cousin is diabletic so I understand that when you need your insulin, you need your insulin. Whether it's in the comfort of your living room or next to a rusty swingset in a grassless park at midnight. I was able to limp the rest of the way to the hotel and by the time we made it into the lobby, I was feeling great. Almost as if someone had injected me full of that medicine they give you right before they fill a cavity at the dentist. I guess it was the adrenaline of being so close to Disneyland!

They only had one room available, and we did have to share it with a delightful young woman. She wore a snakeskin mini-skirt, bright pink crop top and the heels on her shoes must've been 10 inches high. What a brave look! She also had the most defined Adam's Apple I have ever seen on a woman. She was very popular and she must've had about 20 friends come over and visit throughout the night. It was a real funny moment when we found out that every single one of her beady eyed chums was named, John. What an interesting coincidence!

All in all, the Norwalk Villa was a great place for the money. Fifteen dollars an hour! Of course, you did have to leave your wallet with the front desk so I guess we'll find out what kind of hidden fees there are when they mail us back our belongings like they said they would. They have a unique system because I don't even remember giving them our address upon arrival. They must have looked it up when they rummaged through our bags in the middle of the night. Luckily, we had our Disneyland tickets in my husband's fecal stained back pocket. Of course, we weren't able to use the tickets since my husband wasn't able to recover in time from the knife wound he received when one of our roomate's buddy's thought he "looked at him funny." The joke was on John because my husband hasn't had any vision since the the removal of his kidney.

I give the Norwalk Villa 4 1/2 stars!

I'm Scared of the Dentist

I'm not scared of many things. Spiders don't bother me. I don't mind public speaking. I've seen "The Shining," like, 4 times. There's not much that can bring my normally manly, brave self running for cover and screaming in terror, but the dentist is absolutely one of them.

I went to see Dr. Teeth today, and no, I'm not talking about the leader of the Muppet band. I'm not sure what my dentist's name is, I like it better that way. I wouldn't have wanted to know the names of the guards at Auschwitz either. Now, I'm not comparing dentistry to the worst thing to happen to the Jews since they raised the price of the nickelodeon to 7 cents, I'm just saying that the dentist is a horrible experience. Kind of like the first time I kissed a girl. It makes me scared, nervous and there's normally plenty of spit. Oh, I forgot to tell you that my first girlfriend was a pitcher for the 1978 Montreal Expos.

Today, I decided to take the subway/metro line to Dr. Filling, and no, I'm not talking about Oprah's mustached "doctor" buddy. I say "decided" to take public transportation because I don't have a car. Therefore, there was no actual decision. I either take the subway or walk approx. 13 miles alongside a highway. Now that I think about it, I should've walked. Maybe I would've been hit by a car going 70 miles per hour and it would've been slightly less painful than going to the dentist. So, because of L.A. County's finest public transpo, I'm running a bit behind schedule and show up a few minutes late. By the time I'm walking into the fear factory, I notice a voicemail from the place where nightmares go to get scared asking if I'm coming in for my appointment. That's like Freddy Kreuger calling to confirm your reservation at Elm Street's Neighborhood Block Party. I'll never understand why they put Freddy K. in charge of such a joyous occasion.

I show up and am immediately escorted into the chair of a thousand pant shitters. I don't know if people actually shit their pants in that chair, but it wouldn't surprise me. I mean, there's a Taco Bell AND a Del Taco right next door. I psych myself up for my teeth cleaning/butt clenching and think to myself, "Well, it could be worse. I could be watching "Man of Steel" on blu-ray." Then I realized I don't own a blu-ray player, so the dentist just beat Superman.

I'm not going to bore you with the details of my visit with Dr. Smile, and no, I'm not talking about some birthday party clown who secretly pleasures himself to youtube footage of 7 year old's limboing. I will just leave you with this little piece of advice for all you dentist fearing folk: Next time you're in the dentist chair, awaiting your fate, just think about how great it'll be when you're old and have no teeth... I'm gonna go buy some polident right now.

The Olympics Make Me Feel Old

I wake up every morning with my back achier than the day before. I'm developing a widow's peak that rivals Dracula and Pat Riley. I've started to really enjoy "60 Minutes." But none of this makes me feel as old as I feel while watching the Olympics.

First off, all the athletes are so young. Actually, they're not that young - they're normal athlete prime age, but I'm so old, they seem so young. The other day I saw a commercial during speed skating that showed one of the U.S.'s most respected skaters in home movie footage from when he was a small child. It was adorable footage of a tiny little guy, all bundled up in the snow, wearing tiny little ice skates and falling on his tiny little ass over and over. I guess the commercial is showing that at everyone at one point, even the greatest athletes in the world, could do amazing impressions of a baby giraffe. What you're supposed to pay attention to is the small child growing into a gold medal winning Olympian. All I could pay attention to is the date displayed on the screen in the lower left corner. The date was DEC. 17, 1993 - On that date, this Olympian was figuring out how to not fall while standing at the same time I was trying to figure out how I was going to scrounge up enough money to put gas in my car and get a pack of cigarettes. Writing that made me feel older than I did before because I just remembered that gas was 96 cents a gallon back then. And people stilled smoked.

Another way I feel old is, since these Olympics are in Russia, the announcers will bring up the 1984 Los Angeles Summer Games because Russia boycotted these Olympics. They will talk about how long ago it was and that most people won't even remember these games because they were so long ago. You know who remembers these "so long ago" Olympics? Me - Old Man Schwartz - because I was there at these long ago Olympics. They talk about them as if they took place in Julius Caesar's Colosseum instead of Carson Palmer's Colosseum. My family and I drive from Dallas, Texas in a big blue van all the way to Sunny LA so we could attend the Olympics. Although, if you asked me and my brothers we traveled over 1000 miles in Friendly Chevrolet's finest so we could go to Disneyland. I have very fond and defined memories of my first trip to LA and now Bob "One Eye" Costas is speaking about that time as if Moses was on Israel's curling team.

All that makes me feel pretty old, but the oldest I'll feel is whenever the Moguls skiing is on TV. This is the event where the young skiers race downhill over little snowy humps that look like what Frosty the Snowman's sister's chest might have looked like at her Bat-Mitzvah. How do I know Frosty's family was Jewish? Their last name is Snowman. When we watch these events, we're supposed to notice the beauty and grace of the world's greatest athlete's balance and concentration but all I think about is how my knees would explode after the first hump. These spring chickens go over these young snow woman's boobs and are still able to flip 30 feet in the air and land on their feet without even a grimace. I just watch it and immediately have to ice down my whole body.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go yell at some kids to get off my lawn.