Day Three of crossing the picket line:
Meh. I've gotten bored of trying to invoke social change and instead I'm watching a marathon of Will Smith movies in preparation for I Am Legend. And if there's one thing that I've learned from The Pursuit of Happyness (other than that producers can't spell worth a damn) is that one man can't change the world.
But then again, Hitch taught me how to dance Bad Boys II taught me that even thatched roof cottages can explode if Michael Bay says so.
Either way, now that my court mandated two days of "giving a damn" are up, it's time to focus on the commerical element of the holidays. You know, the fun part. When I got back from New Zealand, I was greeted with a 52" flatscreen TV in the living room. But my joy was soon curbed when I was told that this constituted the entirety of Christmas. So either my parents are planning on punk'ing me, or I'm looking at sending myself presents like it's Valentine's Day or something.
So seeing as I'm going to be a bereft, Charlie Buckett child this Jesus Day, maybe some of my loyal readers want to help me out with some holiday cheer. That's why for the next fortnight minus two, I'll be presenting the 12 Days of Christmas...only instead of "my true love," anyone with a major credit card will do.
On the first day of Christmas, I want someone to give to me:
Barry Manilow's severed head impaled on a spike.
Seacrest out.
-MGD
Thursday, December 13, 2007
13 December 2007 -
Day three of crossing the picket lines:
I did my part to strengthen the producers by illegally downloading and catching up on season 5 of Nip/Tuck. That'll teach those basic cable bastards.
And there's still not much to report on the PA front. Working in post production at Below The Radar in Soviet Monica. And yes, I get $15 every time I mention their name. If NBC.com gets ad revenue on episodes of Chuck, I should start charging for all of my shameless plugs (Note: Dan Coscino, you owe me about $3500).
So here's a taste of what I've been up to in the fast paced lifestyle of production: ESPN.com video. It's not enough to get me to watch Frank TV on TBS (That'll be $15, Ted Turner), but I can never watch a Bill Walton telecast without laughing ever again.
Use your illusion,
MGD
That's what she said of the day:
Re: Finishing up an edit before the 4pm deadline
I can go faster if you need me to.
I did my part to strengthen the producers by illegally downloading and catching up on season 5 of Nip/Tuck. That'll teach those basic cable bastards.
And there's still not much to report on the PA front. Working in post production at Below The Radar in Soviet Monica. And yes, I get $15 every time I mention their name. If NBC.com gets ad revenue on episodes of Chuck, I should start charging for all of my shameless plugs (Note: Dan Coscino, you owe me about $3500).
So here's a taste of what I've been up to in the fast paced lifestyle of production: ESPN.com video. It's not enough to get me to watch Frank TV on TBS (That'll be $15, Ted Turner), but I can never watch a Bill Walton telecast without laughing ever again.
Use your illusion,
MGD
That's what she said of the day:
Re: Finishing up an edit before the 4pm deadline
I can go faster if you need me to.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
12 December 2007 - I moved it into a bigger file.
Day Two of crossing the picket line:
I'm currently working on a spec script that a director may or may not use for his reel. The "may" part because it's heavy on the dialogue and he's mainly known for shooting cars. The "may not" because as of right now, he doesn't know that I'm writing it for him...yet.
*Cue Scrubs fantasy sequence where Max wallpapers an office with his script*
So rule one of PA work is that if anyone ever asks "Who's not doing anything?" you never answer. The higher-ups never want to learn that they're paying someone to sit around and lollygag (Sidebar: If a sadist sits around and does nothing, would that make it "lollyballgag?"). Normally, this isn't a problem, what with constant coffee runs and more faxing than one human can possibly manage.
But on this job, there's a surprisingly tiny amount of work that's split amongst three PAs. So there are plenty of moments where we lapse into YouTubing, screenplay writing, or playing running charades. And each time we say "Sounds like kneecap," we run the risk of getting fired.
Which is why I give to you my patented Five Step Guide to Looking Busy (Note: patent pending).
Step One: The busy walk. The pace is somewhere between a forty yard dash and a powerwalk. Your feet should never leave the ground, but you need to convey a sense of urgency. An angry frown or dismayed SIGH may help.
Step Two: Sit at a computer with multiple monitors and drag windows to and fro. Sure, you might be checking Facebook. But when the window passes from one screen to the other, it makes your boss think that a) you're techno-saavy and b) you can multi-task.
Step Three: Have a large stack of papers or CDs nexto to your workspace. Creates the illusion that you're involved in a project with no end in sight. And when the pile doesn't seem to get any smaller, it shows just how dedicated you are to this company.
Step Four: Pretend that you're always having printer or copier problems. Everyone empathizes with this, so the guy kicking the copier always gets a free pass. Hell, it might even be a conversation starter with the IT guy or the other people who need to use the fax machine.
Step Five: If you ever get caught goofing around, make up a fake boss and say you're working on a side project. For the past 6 days, Mr. Calrissian has had me putting together a file on blonde American Idol winners who sing country.
Or, you could always pull a George Costanza and leave your car in the parking lot overnight. That way, you're the last man in the office and the first one to arrive.
Serenity NOW,
MGD
'That's what she said' of the day:
Re: Splicing a 15 second audio clip onto 12 seconds of film.
"Don't worry: I'll make it fit."
I'm currently working on a spec script that a director may or may not use for his reel. The "may" part because it's heavy on the dialogue and he's mainly known for shooting cars. The "may not" because as of right now, he doesn't know that I'm writing it for him...yet.
*Cue Scrubs fantasy sequence where Max wallpapers an office with his script*
So rule one of PA work is that if anyone ever asks "Who's not doing anything?" you never answer. The higher-ups never want to learn that they're paying someone to sit around and lollygag (Sidebar: If a sadist sits around and does nothing, would that make it "lollyballgag?"). Normally, this isn't a problem, what with constant coffee runs and more faxing than one human can possibly manage.
But on this job, there's a surprisingly tiny amount of work that's split amongst three PAs. So there are plenty of moments where we lapse into YouTubing, screenplay writing, or playing running charades. And each time we say "Sounds like kneecap," we run the risk of getting fired.
Which is why I give to you my patented Five Step Guide to Looking Busy (Note: patent pending).
Step One: The busy walk. The pace is somewhere between a forty yard dash and a powerwalk. Your feet should never leave the ground, but you need to convey a sense of urgency. An angry frown or dismayed SIGH may help.
Step Two: Sit at a computer with multiple monitors and drag windows to and fro. Sure, you might be checking Facebook. But when the window passes from one screen to the other, it makes your boss think that a) you're techno-saavy and b) you can multi-task.
Step Three: Have a large stack of papers or CDs nexto to your workspace. Creates the illusion that you're involved in a project with no end in sight. And when the pile doesn't seem to get any smaller, it shows just how dedicated you are to this company.
Step Four: Pretend that you're always having printer or copier problems. Everyone empathizes with this, so the guy kicking the copier always gets a free pass. Hell, it might even be a conversation starter with the IT guy or the other people who need to use the fax machine.
Step Five: If you ever get caught goofing around, make up a fake boss and say you're working on a side project. For the past 6 days, Mr. Calrissian has had me putting together a file on blonde American Idol winners who sing country.
Or, you could always pull a George Costanza and leave your car in the parking lot overnight. That way, you're the last man in the office and the first one to arrive.
Serenity NOW,
MGD
'That's what she said' of the day:
Re: Splicing a 15 second audio clip onto 12 seconds of film.
"Don't worry: I'll make it fit."
Monday, December 10, 2007
11 December 2007 - Read this blog, prevent Max from becoming literate
Max Davison's self imposed intervention
Item One: I've been slacking on the blog.
Yes, I'm well aware of this one. Part of it is laziness. But if you know and love me, you'll have long accepted this part of my personality and this won't bother you.
Secondably, I've gotten back into the labor force with a week or so of PA work. I'm working on a Suzuki job where my bohemian, South African superior is cutting together a new spot made up of three other commercials. Addition by addition. Unfortunately, my coworkers and superiors are far too nice on this job, so I don't have any good Devil Wears Prada stories about overly-specific coffee orders or being forced to serve as pest control for the entire office (Because a good boss doesn't fire people. He hires people and inspires people).
Thirdly, I'm on the verge of having my post count surpassed by that person whose taste in music and movies is so close to mine that we no doubt have to enemies...that is if we were ever to talk, which oddly enough has never happened.
And we wouldn't want that, now would we?
Fourthly, thanks to the douchebags formerly known as the WGA, I have no more TV shows to watch/insult. Although I could probably write a master's thesis on why the finale of Heroes was the worst 43 minutes in the history of television, I think that my energy can be better spent in other areas...namely crossing the picket line.
That's right, desperate producers, I'm more than willing to scab. You need another 8 episodes of Lost? Ask anyone who has talked to me on a Saturday night: I have enough crazy theories to last five seasons. Maybe it was the Smoke Monster who really killed JFK? Just a thought. I can also write insane Tracy Morgan ramblings (which could also pass for Creed Thoughts, come to think of it).
So I'll try to update you on a daily basis about all of the ins and outs of the P.A. job (and not just the ones involving receptionists with low self esteem. ZING!), as well as my ongoing quest to singlehandedly end the WGA strike and make sure that we get Gossip Girl back on the air ASAP. I mean, where else is my right hand going to get any exercise? (DOUBLE ZING...and a complete joke if any attractive, single female types were wondering).
But seriously, people: if I don't get a new episode of House in the next two months, I might be forced to read a book. And in case you didn't read that correctly or are hearing impaired: READ A BOOK.
The horror...the horror...
Death to the infidels,
MGD
That's what she said of the day:
Re: A film negative
I really didn't think it would be that long. Should we cut it down by three inches?
Item One: I've been slacking on the blog.
Yes, I'm well aware of this one. Part of it is laziness. But if you know and love me, you'll have long accepted this part of my personality and this won't bother you.
Secondably, I've gotten back into the labor force with a week or so of PA work. I'm working on a Suzuki job where my bohemian, South African superior is cutting together a new spot made up of three other commercials. Addition by addition. Unfortunately, my coworkers and superiors are far too nice on this job, so I don't have any good Devil Wears Prada stories about overly-specific coffee orders or being forced to serve as pest control for the entire office (Because a good boss doesn't fire people. He hires people and inspires people).
Thirdly, I'm on the verge of having my post count surpassed by that person whose taste in music and movies is so close to mine that we no doubt have to enemies...that is if we were ever to talk, which oddly enough has never happened.
And we wouldn't want that, now would we?
Fourthly, thanks to the douchebags formerly known as the WGA, I have no more TV shows to watch/insult. Although I could probably write a master's thesis on why the finale of Heroes was the worst 43 minutes in the history of television, I think that my energy can be better spent in other areas...namely crossing the picket line.
That's right, desperate producers, I'm more than willing to scab. You need another 8 episodes of Lost? Ask anyone who has talked to me on a Saturday night: I have enough crazy theories to last five seasons. Maybe it was the Smoke Monster who really killed JFK? Just a thought. I can also write insane Tracy Morgan ramblings (which could also pass for Creed Thoughts, come to think of it).
So I'll try to update you on a daily basis about all of the ins and outs of the P.A. job (and not just the ones involving receptionists with low self esteem. ZING!), as well as my ongoing quest to singlehandedly end the WGA strike and make sure that we get Gossip Girl back on the air ASAP. I mean, where else is my right hand going to get any exercise? (DOUBLE ZING...and a complete joke if any attractive, single female types were wondering).
But seriously, people: if I don't get a new episode of House in the next two months, I might be forced to read a book. And in case you didn't read that correctly or are hearing impaired: READ A BOOK.
The horror...the horror...
Death to the infidels,
MGD
That's what she said of the day:
Re: A film negative
I really didn't think it would be that long. Should we cut it down by three inches?
Sunday, December 02, 2007
2 December 2007 - Nearly ready to continue
Dear loyal readers,
The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. My laziness, however, has not. This is party due to the fact that I drove myself into the ground on Thanksgiving, which turned into a headcold, which became a chest cold, and finally a 'Blair Witch I'm so' cold. Good news is that the antibotics are working so I'll be back to my sardonic self in about two more days. Bad news: still don't feel up to criticizing Ron Paul or Teach for America just yet.
So in the meanwhile, enjoy the clip from "Pushing Daisies." If watching Kristin Chenoweth break into song isn't enough to get you to start watching, then I'm guessing you're somewhere on my enemies list.
Death to the infidels,
MGD
Monday, November 19, 2007
21 November 2007 - Trader Joes = Dead to me
Today was one of those perfect days where every song on the radio is seemingly about your life. It was downright creepy how 93.1 Jack FM (shameless plug) kept blasting out my own personal soundtrack. Giving you a look at said soundtrack, however, would just be a passive aggressive act on my part to describe what I've been feeling over the past week or so. And there's no room for that on my blog. But one key song was "Mama, I'm Coming Home" by Ozzy. An oddly emotional ballad from the bat-head-biter-offer about homecoming and redemption. I recommend you hit up Limewire and find it immediately (Note: Max Davison in no way supports the illegal downloading of copyrighted material).
But my mood was easily disrupted by someone that I thought was an old friend: Trader Joe. On Tuesday, I had to make three trips to Trader Joe's, which is normally something that I don't dread. But in the madcap caucophany that is the week before Thanksgiving, stepping into a market is like an unprotected big toe at a snapping turtle convention.
The aim of the first trip was to pick up salad greens. Simple enough. One little, overpriced, green bag. So I grab your classic spinach salad mix (one of Men's Health's power foods to boost your metabolism) and happily jaunt past the Greenpeace clones with the petitions and head back home.
But apparently Mom wanted Spring Mix. And as much as I demonstrated that they're basically the same thing, the "I gave birth to you" card always ends up on top.
So I braced myself for what would invariably be a horrendous exchange/store credit experience. But thankfully Alan the assistant manager at TJ's actually understood how to handle a return, and I was in and out in under 7 minutes.
This is how my day went from the calm, collected, Black Sabbath Ozzy into the blundering pile of shit that was "The Osbournes" Ozzy.
Whereas getting Spinach over Spring Mix was admittedly my fault, the problem with Bag #2 was entirely on the shoulders of American frailty: apparently this bag of spring mix wasn't marked "organic."
"Organic" is just a fake word invented by Big Agriculture to make money off of America's liberal guilt. It's a word that jacks up the price by 200% with no notable difference in the product. I'm willing to bet that there's no physical difference between Spring Mix #1 and Spring Mix #2. So what are we paying for? It's kind of like shilling out a little more for a blood-free South African diamond or dolphin-free tuna. Only with organic vegetables, you're not helping Leo DiCaprio save Djimon Hounsou's son or posting bail for Hayden Panetierre. Nope, you're just lining the pockets of Big Agriculture and making sure that the pesticide salesman's son can't afford to go to college.
Also, I came home and wanted nothing more than to sit down with my favorite TJ's mixed berry yogurt. So I open up the carton (without plastic lids anymore. Even yogurt has gone green) and take that first bite...and notice that there's no flavor. It's plain yogurt. Or is it? That's right, my droogs, Trader Joe's only sells item #47 on my enemies list: Fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt. There is no benefit at all to mixing your own yogurt. I thought that's what we had machines for. And before you blame me for killing John Henry, automatic-yogurt-mixers are a slightly different animal than the steam engine.
Even worse is that the words "Fruit on the bottom" were printed on the cup in size 4 type. It was the inverse of the surgeon general. Had I seen "WARNING: THIS PRODUCT CAUSES YOU TO STIR THE CONTENTS FOR 30 SECONDS BEFORE CONSUMPTION," I'd be bolting in the other direction like when the fat chick eyed you at a high school dance.
So in the coming weeks, I'm on a quest down the yellow brick road to find the good Trader and let him know what's happened to his products. The man behind the curtain needs to understand that the good people of munchkinland have been oppressed by the Wicked Organic Witch for far too long.
And now if you don't mind, I'm off to go start downloading "About a Boy" so that I can endure the culinary pre-production of Turkey's Day Eve. Or maybe I'll go see "Southland Tales." But in the latter case, baking a three layer pumpkin/walnut cake might be more painful.
Death to the infidels,
MGD
'That's what she said' of the day:
(Re: chugging a glass of milk)
"I can't believe that I swallowed that and kept it down!"
But my mood was easily disrupted by someone that I thought was an old friend: Trader Joe. On Tuesday, I had to make three trips to Trader Joe's, which is normally something that I don't dread. But in the madcap caucophany that is the week before Thanksgiving, stepping into a market is like an unprotected big toe at a snapping turtle convention.
The aim of the first trip was to pick up salad greens. Simple enough. One little, overpriced, green bag. So I grab your classic spinach salad mix (one of Men's Health's power foods to boost your metabolism) and happily jaunt past the Greenpeace clones with the petitions and head back home.
But apparently Mom wanted Spring Mix. And as much as I demonstrated that they're basically the same thing, the "I gave birth to you" card always ends up on top.
So I braced myself for what would invariably be a horrendous exchange/store credit experience. But thankfully Alan the assistant manager at TJ's actually understood how to handle a return, and I was in and out in under 7 minutes.
This is how my day went from the calm, collected, Black Sabbath Ozzy into the blundering pile of shit that was "The Osbournes" Ozzy.
Whereas getting Spinach over Spring Mix was admittedly my fault, the problem with Bag #2 was entirely on the shoulders of American frailty: apparently this bag of spring mix wasn't marked "organic."
"Organic" is just a fake word invented by Big Agriculture to make money off of America's liberal guilt. It's a word that jacks up the price by 200% with no notable difference in the product. I'm willing to bet that there's no physical difference between Spring Mix #1 and Spring Mix #2. So what are we paying for? It's kind of like shilling out a little more for a blood-free South African diamond or dolphin-free tuna. Only with organic vegetables, you're not helping Leo DiCaprio save Djimon Hounsou's son or posting bail for Hayden Panetierre. Nope, you're just lining the pockets of Big Agriculture and making sure that the pesticide salesman's son can't afford to go to college.
Also, I came home and wanted nothing more than to sit down with my favorite TJ's mixed berry yogurt. So I open up the carton (without plastic lids anymore. Even yogurt has gone green) and take that first bite...and notice that there's no flavor. It's plain yogurt. Or is it? That's right, my droogs, Trader Joe's only sells item #47 on my enemies list: Fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt. There is no benefit at all to mixing your own yogurt. I thought that's what we had machines for. And before you blame me for killing John Henry, automatic-yogurt-mixers are a slightly different animal than the steam engine.
Even worse is that the words "Fruit on the bottom" were printed on the cup in size 4 type. It was the inverse of the surgeon general. Had I seen "WARNING: THIS PRODUCT CAUSES YOU TO STIR THE CONTENTS FOR 30 SECONDS BEFORE CONSUMPTION," I'd be bolting in the other direction like when the fat chick eyed you at a high school dance.
So in the coming weeks, I'm on a quest down the yellow brick road to find the good Trader and let him know what's happened to his products. The man behind the curtain needs to understand that the good people of munchkinland have been oppressed by the Wicked Organic Witch for far too long.
And now if you don't mind, I'm off to go start downloading "About a Boy" so that I can endure the culinary pre-production of Turkey's Day Eve. Or maybe I'll go see "Southland Tales." But in the latter case, baking a three layer pumpkin/walnut cake might be more painful.
Death to the infidels,
MGD
'That's what she said' of the day:
(Re: chugging a glass of milk)
"I can't believe that I swallowed that and kept it down!"
20 November 2007 - If only the real world were broadcast in HD
The first week after I went away for my freshman year at CMC, my parents (now free of their offspring) decided to sign up for both digital cable and Netflix. I can only assume that this was their passive aggressive way of dealing with empty nest syndrome. While I can't say that these technological advances made me more apt to come home for the weekend, I was noticably annoyed at the timing and decided to stop speaking to Mike and Christina for two and a half months.
Well two years later, it looks as though the silent treatment worked...as one day before I came back home, a 52 inch flat screen HD TV was installed.
Just when I thought that television couldn't get any better...
Before I was a skeptic who thought that the difference was as negligible as Keira Knightley dropping two pounds. But brothers and sisters, I was wrong. It's honestly like the TV has become a window into some sort of magical, land of OZ realm with bubblegum mountains and tumbleweeds of bacon. There is added depth, razor sharp clarity and colors that previously only existed in acid trips. For the first time in my life, I was able to watch Dancing with the Stars and not be bored...only due to the crystal clear definition (and Jennie Garth, of course).
And nothing can compare to watching spoiler alert HRG getting shot in the head last night end spoilers. I honestly felt like his glasses were going to fly right out of the screen and into my lap. Too bad the same can't be said about Claire. Who cares if she's a friend to the dolphins? If West (Mr. I pick up girls by asking them if they're robots or aliens) has a shot with her, I think that anyone can.
In the past, I've been accused of watching far too much television. Sure, I currently watch about 27.5 shows a week (the half is for Gossip Girl, which I still don't admit to viewing). But it's not because I'm an "addict" or I "have no life" or I "haven't gotten laid in a while." No, it's because I know that the dumbass writers are going to shut down Hollywood in about two months, so I'm just savoring the precious few episodes that are left before a TV drought that turns audiences into the Joads in our own celluloid version of the Grapes of Wrath.
And if you'll allow me to get on my soapbox and sermonize for a second: You're writers for television. The only people in this town more overpaid are Jason Schmidt and Kwame Brown. Get over yourselves and stop making the grips, gaffers, make up artists, teamsters, craft service, and all the other below the line people suffer. Let's talk in three years when we see if downloading shows catches on. In the meanwhile, get back on your PowerBooks and finish typing up season four of LOST so I can experience the Smoke Monster in HD (Sidebar: RIP Mr. Eko. You're still missed).
Death to the infidels,
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(Re: pizza toppings)
It was so damn hot when I got it in my mouth, but after it cooled off it was great.
Well two years later, it looks as though the silent treatment worked...as one day before I came back home, a 52 inch flat screen HD TV was installed.
Just when I thought that television couldn't get any better...
Before I was a skeptic who thought that the difference was as negligible as Keira Knightley dropping two pounds. But brothers and sisters, I was wrong. It's honestly like the TV has become a window into some sort of magical, land of OZ realm with bubblegum mountains and tumbleweeds of bacon. There is added depth, razor sharp clarity and colors that previously only existed in acid trips. For the first time in my life, I was able to watch Dancing with the Stars and not be bored...only due to the crystal clear definition (and Jennie Garth, of course).
And nothing can compare to watching spoiler alert HRG getting shot in the head last night end spoilers. I honestly felt like his glasses were going to fly right out of the screen and into my lap. Too bad the same can't be said about Claire. Who cares if she's a friend to the dolphins? If West (Mr. I pick up girls by asking them if they're robots or aliens) has a shot with her, I think that anyone can.
In the past, I've been accused of watching far too much television. Sure, I currently watch about 27.5 shows a week (the half is for Gossip Girl, which I still don't admit to viewing). But it's not because I'm an "addict" or I "have no life" or I "haven't gotten laid in a while." No, it's because I know that the dumbass writers are going to shut down Hollywood in about two months, so I'm just savoring the precious few episodes that are left before a TV drought that turns audiences into the Joads in our own celluloid version of the Grapes of Wrath.
And if you'll allow me to get on my soapbox and sermonize for a second: You're writers for television. The only people in this town more overpaid are Jason Schmidt and Kwame Brown. Get over yourselves and stop making the grips, gaffers, make up artists, teamsters, craft service, and all the other below the line people suffer. Let's talk in three years when we see if downloading shows catches on. In the meanwhile, get back on your PowerBooks and finish typing up season four of LOST so I can experience the Smoke Monster in HD (Sidebar: RIP Mr. Eko. You're still missed).
Death to the infidels,
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(Re: pizza toppings)
It was so damn hot when I got it in my mouth, but after it cooled off it was great.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
19 November 2007 - Santa Monica Boulevard? We love it!
I was entirely content upon putting ye olde blog on hiatus for a while as I get over my jet lag and get accustomed to seeing Joe Torre in Dodger blue.
But apparently I've garnered a small yet loyal fan base and the wait between blog posts is equivalent to waiting for the next Salinger novel or Guns n' Roses CD. Normally peer pressure doesn't work on me, yet I'm afraid that some of these "fans" might go Misery on me and break my legs and keep me trapped in a cabin until I finish the next post.
So duty calls and I'm forced to cathartically type up some of my trademark allusion-filled angst.
And it has also been brought to my attention that people think that I "use up all my material" in this blog and have nothing else to talk about. I'm an open book, easier to read than "Goodnight Moon" (which, incidentally, touches upon some very deep questions about Benthamite utilitarianism). All you have to do is read these little updates and there's no need to talk to the real deal.
Well I hate to ruin the party, but like onions and Patrick Dempsey's hair, I have layers. My approachable yet rugged exterior doesn't show you everything that's going on inside. You have no idea how many details I'm leaving out. Like my script about an MLB umpire. Or how I met Cheryl from the Clue Crew. Or how sick I've gotten of the Claremont Independent. Or that I mistakenly voted for Nader in 2004. Or how I occasionally dress up like a spider and fight crime at night. Or that one poker game that got way too intense and ended with a dead hooker, two kilos of blow and a life long pact to never talk about that night again.
So yeah. The big, recent news is that I'm back home in LA. After four and a half months, it felt good to sleep in my own bed. And even though the sky is grey and the freeways are more congested than Chuckie Finster, it feels like home. I've taken the past week off to reacquaint myself with my old friends Tyler Florence and Jim Rome.
I also had to reorient myself with those little differences between NZ and LA. The most important of which is driving on the other side of the road. You see, it's not safe for me to get behind the wheel of a car after playing Grand Theft Auto. So you can imagine how dangerous I'd be after driving on the left side of the road for four months. I've literally had to mark my left hand with an X to remind me which side is the driver's. Too many times have I sat down in the passenger's seat and wondered where the steering wheel was.
My first meal was something that I couldn't get in Auckland: authentic Mexican food. Yup. Tacos so fresh that even the guacamole didn't have a green card. Apparently you just can't find any good Mexicans in New Zealand. Maybe this has something to do with the fact that instead of a poorly patrolled fence, there's an entire ocean separating the two countries. It all goes back to my new plan for border patrol: turn Mexico into an island. We'd see fewer illegals entering the country and co-eds would have a new beach for spring break. And it would also stop any debate on the issue, like when Obama went on about supporting drivers licenses for illegal immigrants or when Kucinich takes it one step further and wants every illegal to own a hybrid car powered by aborted fetuses.
But I digress...
Then you had the recent weekend I spent at CMC. Mind you, it was a classic Claremont weekend. Underwhelming parties with themes that no one seems to care about. Hours of video games. Finding someone who's sober enough to drive to Carl's Jr. Disappointing Friday nights at Collins.
But oddly enough, it felt right. It brought back smells and feelings and memories. It felt like home. And for someone who's been gone far too long, that's exactly what I needed.
Death to the infidels,
-MGD
Also due to popular demand, I'm bringing back *drumroll please*
That's what she said of the day:
"Beller, what the hell are you doing down there?"
But apparently I've garnered a small yet loyal fan base and the wait between blog posts is equivalent to waiting for the next Salinger novel or Guns n' Roses CD. Normally peer pressure doesn't work on me, yet I'm afraid that some of these "fans" might go Misery on me and break my legs and keep me trapped in a cabin until I finish the next post.
So duty calls and I'm forced to cathartically type up some of my trademark allusion-filled angst.
And it has also been brought to my attention that people think that I "use up all my material" in this blog and have nothing else to talk about. I'm an open book, easier to read than "Goodnight Moon" (which, incidentally, touches upon some very deep questions about Benthamite utilitarianism). All you have to do is read these little updates and there's no need to talk to the real deal.
Well I hate to ruin the party, but like onions and Patrick Dempsey's hair, I have layers. My approachable yet rugged exterior doesn't show you everything that's going on inside. You have no idea how many details I'm leaving out. Like my script about an MLB umpire. Or how I met Cheryl from the Clue Crew. Or how sick I've gotten of the Claremont Independent. Or that I mistakenly voted for Nader in 2004. Or how I occasionally dress up like a spider and fight crime at night. Or that one poker game that got way too intense and ended with a dead hooker, two kilos of blow and a life long pact to never talk about that night again.
So yeah. The big, recent news is that I'm back home in LA. After four and a half months, it felt good to sleep in my own bed. And even though the sky is grey and the freeways are more congested than Chuckie Finster, it feels like home. I've taken the past week off to reacquaint myself with my old friends Tyler Florence and Jim Rome.
I also had to reorient myself with those little differences between NZ and LA. The most important of which is driving on the other side of the road. You see, it's not safe for me to get behind the wheel of a car after playing Grand Theft Auto. So you can imagine how dangerous I'd be after driving on the left side of the road for four months. I've literally had to mark my left hand with an X to remind me which side is the driver's. Too many times have I sat down in the passenger's seat and wondered where the steering wheel was.
My first meal was something that I couldn't get in Auckland: authentic Mexican food. Yup. Tacos so fresh that even the guacamole didn't have a green card. Apparently you just can't find any good Mexicans in New Zealand. Maybe this has something to do with the fact that instead of a poorly patrolled fence, there's an entire ocean separating the two countries. It all goes back to my new plan for border patrol: turn Mexico into an island. We'd see fewer illegals entering the country and co-eds would have a new beach for spring break. And it would also stop any debate on the issue, like when Obama went on about supporting drivers licenses for illegal immigrants or when Kucinich takes it one step further and wants every illegal to own a hybrid car powered by aborted fetuses.
But I digress...
Then you had the recent weekend I spent at CMC. Mind you, it was a classic Claremont weekend. Underwhelming parties with themes that no one seems to care about. Hours of video games. Finding someone who's sober enough to drive to Carl's Jr. Disappointing Friday nights at Collins.
But oddly enough, it felt right. It brought back smells and feelings and memories. It felt like home. And for someone who's been gone far too long, that's exactly what I needed.
Death to the infidels,
-MGD
Also due to popular demand, I'm bringing back *drumroll please*
That's what she said of the day:
"Beller, what the hell are you doing down there?"
Thursday, November 08, 2007
9 November 2007 - This is the end, beautiful friend
There's an old joke: two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of them says, "Boy, the food at this place is really terrible." The other one says, "Yeah, I know. And such small portions." Well, that's essentially how I feel about life - full of loneliness, and misery, and suffering, and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly.
-Woody Allen
Except that's the thing about New Zealand. It's over far too quickly, but it wasn't full of melancholy or suffering or sadness (at least, not all of the time). It was happy, it was smiles, it was trusting, it was everything you could want.
And now...t's over.
I just spent a good long while in the lobby saying numerous, teary goodbyes to all the people I've met over this past semester. And since packing is just one step closer to leaving NZ, I'm putting it off as much as possible. How desperate am I right now? I'm watching Smallville. Yes, Smallville. And I'm not even of the opinion that Kristen Kreuk is that hot. But hey, that's 43 more minutes that I don't have to think about leaving the country.
So in the interest of not being filled with the sadness associated with leaving behind a part of yourself, I'm just going to move on. But I'm going to miss so much about this past semester. The people. The clean air. The entire feeling of the country.
And I'm going to miss you most of all, Scarecrow. You know who you are.
Best things I did in Auckland (The G rated version):
1) Bungy jump off the Nevis high wire
2) Sky diving in Lake Taupo
3) Caving in Waitomo
4) CADBURY CHOCOLATE FACTORY TOUR
5) Watching a red lunar eclipse on a private beach in Abel Tasman National Park
6) Overnight cruise in Milford Sound
7) Watching the All-Blacks pound the Wallabies at Eden Park
8) Zorbing in Rotorua
9) Kayaking with Daryl, our ex-con, deadbeat dad instructor in Abel Tasman
10) Jetboating in Queenstown
11) Skiing Mt. Ruapehu
12) Deep sea fishing in Kaikoura
13) Went abroad to another country where I didn't know anyone else.
So first thing I'm going to do when I get home? Simple. Park myself on the couch with a nice big burrito (made by authentic Mexicans). And watch Top Gun for the first time in 6 months.
See you in another life, brother.
-MGD
-Woody Allen
Except that's the thing about New Zealand. It's over far too quickly, but it wasn't full of melancholy or suffering or sadness (at least, not all of the time). It was happy, it was smiles, it was trusting, it was everything you could want.
And now...t's over.
I just spent a good long while in the lobby saying numerous, teary goodbyes to all the people I've met over this past semester. And since packing is just one step closer to leaving NZ, I'm putting it off as much as possible. How desperate am I right now? I'm watching Smallville. Yes, Smallville. And I'm not even of the opinion that Kristen Kreuk is that hot. But hey, that's 43 more minutes that I don't have to think about leaving the country.
So in the interest of not being filled with the sadness associated with leaving behind a part of yourself, I'm just going to move on. But I'm going to miss so much about this past semester. The people. The clean air. The entire feeling of the country.
And I'm going to miss you most of all, Scarecrow. You know who you are.
Best things I did in Auckland (The G rated version):
1) Bungy jump off the Nevis high wire
2) Sky diving in Lake Taupo
3) Caving in Waitomo
4) CADBURY CHOCOLATE FACTORY TOUR
5) Watching a red lunar eclipse on a private beach in Abel Tasman National Park
6) Overnight cruise in Milford Sound
7) Watching the All-Blacks pound the Wallabies at Eden Park
8) Zorbing in Rotorua
9) Kayaking with Daryl, our ex-con, deadbeat dad instructor in Abel Tasman
10) Jetboating in Queenstown
11) Skiing Mt. Ruapehu
12) Deep sea fishing in Kaikoura
13) Went abroad to another country where I didn't know anyone else.
So first thing I'm going to do when I get home? Simple. Park myself on the couch with a nice big burrito (made by authentic Mexicans). And watch Top Gun for the first time in 6 months.
See you in another life, brother.
-MGD
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