Dude, I think I'm Wii-Sick

I think I'm about to coin a phrase here, so stand by my peeps, while I lay some new English on ya. Remember, you saw it here first.

So, I've had my Wii now for about two months, and I love it. It's one of the few electronic gizmos that I haven't yet experienced a decrease in interest for, and the first video game since the heyday of Atari that my feeble, fumbly fingers have been able to manage well enough to not get frustrated with after 10 minutes of atempting to play.

After my Wii arrived, I played around with the Sports pack and got hooked on the baseball and bowling games. As these are two of the few sports I can actually play in the physical world, I found the action to be familiar and natural, and I started to gain back my form and strength.

The morning after, I noticed that my back was kinda sore. Like when I had sprained it trying to learn to surf. Like I had been lifting 100 pound weights for hours. Except I knew I hadn't been to the gym lately and I couldn't imagine how I could have strained those particular muscles that I'd been training into a nice, soft, veal-y existence with hours upon hours of carefully planned television watching. And then it hit me that this video game had actually made me use those muscles again. This was revolutionary. If this game could get me to sweat and get exercise, what else could it get me to do.

Of course. It could get me to pick up a crossbow.

The next game I picked up was Link's crossbow training, which taught me that I would make an excellent sniper. For this game, the Wiimote and nunchuck sits in a crossbow housing designed with unique and esquisitely simple engineering, and I spent the better part of a week shooting at kargaroks, chilfos and ooca-carried targets to their complete and total annihilation.

Armed with the power high of my Wii success, I decided to tackle a more popular game... but theonly thing available for rent at Blockbuster was a game called Manhunter 2, where you help a wrongly-imprisoned mental hospital inmate escape by shanking guards with hypodermic needles and kicking the crap out of fellow cellmates. Sounds like some good, dirty fun.

The 360-degree viewpoint game requires you to move through areas of alternating dim and brightly flashing light, making it hard to see where you need to go, and giving off an overall claustrophobic feeling to boot.

After about 30 minutes of maneuvering around really quickly, stabbing enemies and searching frantically for the exit from the cell block, I noticed I was getting a bit dizzy and sweaty. Since I was sitting down for this game, I knew I wasn't straining my muscles this time. Something else was going on.

I played for about 10 more minutes, until the slight dizziness gave way to lightheadedness and a rumbling in my stomach. I actually had to put the game away and go lie down for a minute, pondering what I could have done to make me feel so suddenly awful, like I had been reading in the car or rolling on some rough seas. Wait. Was that it? Seriously? Was I getting seasick from the Wii.

Holy crap. Did I just get Wii-Sick?

My god. I have friends who can't watch movies filmed by hand-held cameras because they get dizzy and nauseous, but they also are afflicted with a full range of motion sickness disorders (hi Ms.E). Sure, I have shitty balance, and my vision is pretty bad, but despite these handicaps, I've never gotten carsick, or airsick, or even so much as remotely queasy from bobbing around in the big wavy ocean. But as cruel fate would have it, my equilibrium and iron-clad constitution was brought down by killer graphics and the ability to view my enemy from all sides with the wave of a wand. Sonovabitch!

Since then, I've been sticking to shooting, puzzle and challenge games and games where I can move a little less quickly if I need to spin around, and so far, so good. Yet another bizarre and annoying anomaly in my physical makeup has been compensated for.

Oh, and I did a quick Google search, and I could not find a single listing for the word Wii-Sick. So it's mine. Take that madam combonym!

D'ya like dogz? Or Balloons? Or rationality?

California seriously needs to re-evaluate its priorities. Here are a few propositions that our lawmakers are spending their "valuable" time on.

"Keep your paws off my puppy's privates"
A bill has been introduced that would require pet owners to spay or neuter nearly all cats and dogs by the time they’re 4 months old. Failure to comply would result in a $500 fine (registered breeders would be exempt).

The law is in response to the need for the state to euthanize thousands of stray and unwanted animals. Believe me, I'm all for a reduction in "kill shelters" and I absolutely support anything that protects animals and furthers the efforts of the patron saint of puppy spaying, Bob Barker. My question here is, how the hell do you enforce something like this? Will there be a door-to-door cat-nads task force? Will I be taking little Nemo for an innocent walk, only to have to subject him to the embarrassment of a random search-and-seizure of his sack? And what about the poor law officer charged with the task of making sure that our female furry friends are no longer able to get their freaks on? Does the state budget have enough money in it for all the extra rubber gloves?

Hurting 'em or helium?
Next up is a bill that could blow up in the faces of the party industry. This past week, a legislative panel voted to support a ban on sales of metallic, helium-filled balloons beginning in 2010. Apparently, they are the third-largest cause of power failures in the city of Burbank, CA, and a great general concern due to the proclivity of released balloons to get caught on power lines.

Here's my favorite part: According to the Los Angeles Times, "Barry Broad is battling the balloon ban...He represents a group of balloon industry firms called the Balloon Council, and says the proposed law is another overreaction by state government to a problem that can be addressed with less drastic results."

First, how do I get on this Balloon Council? Do you need an advanced degree from clown college or something? Second, let's look to our friends, the Floridians, who are looking to pass the "Take your gun to work" law. If Florida isn't concerned with people breaking into a random mall-worker's car in a crowded parking lot, pulling out the gun hidden in there and starting a shooting spree at said lot, does California really need to be concerned with a few party balloons enjoying their freedom? And third...ok, forget third. I'm really only concerned with how I get elected to this Balloon Council thingy.

Prop-A-Razzi
And don't even get me started on the proposed "Britney Law", a proposed ordinance that would impose a 20-yard “personal safety bubble” around celebrity paparazzi magnets. I'm sure it sucks that Britney, and Lindsey, and any other celeb who has to use the bathroom at their local Gas 'N' Gulp causes a three-ring circus of snapshotters. But why does California have to foot the bill of legislating and enforcing this issue of security? Maybe there should be a celeb-tax to raise the necessary funds for this. And what about other people who need and deserve to be able to live their lives without the fear of attack by items more dangerous than digital imaging? Are we proposing a safety bubble around poor people who have no choice but to live in zones of rampant gang activity and other crimes? Hell, I'd like a personal bubble around my car every time I go into the dangerously overcrowded local Target parking lot. Once I get on that Balloon Council, I'll have to see if they have any pull with the Bubble Dissemination League.

Verizon: It's the Network...of Thieves

I've been talking about posting this story for a long time, but with 10 months of ammunition, it took a long time to gather all the information and write it in a cohesive way. If you have an hour or so to kill and like getting fired up about corporate consumer service ineptitude, read on...

I bought a Verizon cell phone in August 2004. I got great reception, loved the phone and its features and was content with keeping everything status-quo on my contract. It was the third contract I had signed with the company, and had appreciated the reliability and quality of service for many years, not just on my mobile phone but my home phone service. I had been with other carriers previously, and none had met all my requirements and expectations as satisfactorily as Verizon.

I’m one of those loyal customers that brand marketers salivate over. I will not only remain loyal to a service that treats me well, but I will testify to my satisfaction and an vocal and active in recommending products I like to friends and family when they are in the market for similar products. Likewise, I will not keep silent when a company proves it’s not worthy of my loyalty and support.

My saga of how my faith in the consumer/vendor relationship began to crumble begins In May 2005, when I moved to Long Beach, California, but kept my New Jersey phone number. I reasoned that most calls I would be getting would be from my friends back home, and I figured that the adjustment to my being thousands of miles and several time zones away would be difficult enough without making anyone memorize a new phone number too. Besides, my number had been mine for a few years, it was easy to remember and mnemonize, and my life was changing so fast that I craved the stability of a phone number that would remind me of my 732-area code roots. I did, however, dutifully change my billing address to California, to make sure my responsibilities would not get lost in the shuffle.

Phone phonies
All was, relatively, well until I moved from Long Beach to Culver City, California, on July 29, 2006. In preparation for the move, I tried to arrange for Verizon land line service to be transferred to my new place, and was told it wasn’t available in my area, so begrudgingly, I had to switch to another carrier. I rarely used my home phone because I had my trusty Verizon cell phone, and as the only reason I needed a house line was to get DSL access for my computer (which was cheaper through AT&T anyway), it was no big deal.

I let go of my Verizon angst until December 2005, when I decided that it was time to upgrade to a new phone. While I was at it, I figured it was high time that I joined the ranks of the 310-Nation and get a local cell phone number too. I went to a Verizon store and was told by a service rep that it would be easier to first call customer service to have them do an “EZ-Move” switch to a California account before I bought a new phone.

When I called Verizon to get the process started, I was told the account would be open until the end of my billing cycle, which was December 6. My new phone number was activated immediately, and I thought that was the end of it. I was informed that in order to change the number, Verizon had to change the branch that billed and delivered my service, and this meant that I would need to transfer my account to the California branch. They explained that I would have to again pay activation fees and pre-pay for a month of service. This made little sense to me, but I was told that in 6-8 weeks, I would receive a check from Verizon refunding my original pre-payment from my first contract. I figured this would just about balance out, and that I wouldn’t miss the extra expense for the few weeks before the refund arrived.

What wasn’t made clear at this point was that by changing my phone number, and thus the account, I was voiding my eligibility for the company’s New Every Two phone discount—because in essence I was opening a whole new account (not just transferring my account to another branch) and would have to serve the term of this new account. If this, and all the implications that would follow, had been clearly outlined and explained, I would NEVER have agreed to do all this. The reason I did it in the first place was that I wanted to buy a new Verizon phone and get a Cali number, and I wouldn’t be able to afford the phone I wanted unless I was getting the $100 New Every Two discount.

This begs the question of why I should have been made ineligible for the company’s loyalty program for continuing my service with the same company UNDER A NEW FUCKING PHONE NUMBER? I had been a loyal customer at that point for over four years, had paid every bill on time, and had not only recommended the company to friends because I was (mostly) pleased with my cell phone coverage, call quality and contract options, but also purchased additional Verizon products (local and long-distance calling, in Long Beach, for example) as well.

The plan goes all pear-shaped
With the phone number changed, I figured I had some time to do some research on my next phone purchase to get exactly what I wanted. There were also rumblings of an iPhone coming out soon, and as a big Apple fan, I wanted to leave the option open for a little while in case that was a feasible alternative (or even a true reality).

A month or so went by, and friends told me they were still getting my voice mail if they called my old number, alerting me to the fact that the account had not actually been closed. I called Verizon, asking them again to close the account. I was on hold with the customer service center for over an hour, despite the assurance by an irritating robot that my approximate waiting time was 15 minutes – this message played for over 40 minutes) waiting to be helped. I explained the story, they told me the account would be closed, and that a credit would be issued to me for the unused portion of my monthly service (you see, Verizon makes you pay for a whole month of service in advance). Since my service should have been terminated at the end of the billing cycle for the month of December, I should have received the entire 59.95 monthly fee back. At the time, they told me that the refund would take 6-8 weeks to arrive.

I figured my refund would be on the way eventually, and as there was nothing else I felt I could do at the time, I didn’t really give it any more thought. However, in March 2006, I found out, in a rather inconvenient way, that my account had still not been closed. I received my regular bill, and not realizing that the NJ account had not been closed, I assumed the bill was for my Cali account, and paid the bill. A week later I got another bill from Verizon and realized that the first bill was for the account that should have been closed. So I called to find out why they were still billing me.

When I finally reached someone, I explained the story again, and was told that the account would be closed immediately. I was also told (again) that I would receive a credit for the bill I mistakenly paid and that the balance of my original account would be credited. I was told by representative Robert DeLeon on March 16 that it would take 10 business days for the request to be processed, but after that I would receive a credit to my NJ account for the now 3 bills that I hadn’t paid (on a supposedly cancelled account) in the amount of $246.17, and that I would be sent a check refunding my upfront payment and for the extra payment, in the amount of $164.11.

Sure enough, I checked the next morning to make sure my NJ cell number was no longer activated. It wasn’t. This was the first good sign I had in five months that they were finally taking care of the problem.

But they weren’t. On April 22, I received a statement that said that my previous balance (for March 2006—now four months after the service was to havebeen cancelled) of 82.06 had not been paid. The statement reflected an adjustment of $242.78, as well as a credit balance of $160.72 (both numbers differing from the amount I was told the month before), but it also noted that there was to be a surcharge and other charges of $179.43, leaving me with a bill of $19.02.

I steeled my resolve and called again, reaching Jim (operator # 3565. I asked for his last name, and he said he wasn’t allowed to give it to me. Guess no one told Robert DeLeon about this). I frustratingly recounted the lengthy details, and was told that the charges were due to an early termination fee for the NJ account. Once again, I explained that as far as I was concerned, I did not terminate the account, I merely switched a phone number. And regardless, my contract was over as of August 2006. He checked their records and found that my contract had indeed been up (though his date was October 2006—making it a 2-year and 2-month contract, but at this point, I wasn’t interested in negotiating that particular point). He could not find a reason why I would have been charged for terminating a contract -- even their own records showed that I hadn’t terminated before the contract was up.

However, instead of saying that the charge would be eliminated, my account credited and a refund issued, I was told he would submit a request to have all this done, and it would take ANOTHER 10 BUSINESS DAYS to review. I lost it at this point and conveyed how this was not acceptible. He said all he could do was schedule a courtesy call on the 10th business day to let me know the results. I was to receive a call at 2 pm on May 10, 2007, telling me my fate, which hopefully would be that all charges for the past five months were credited and a complete refund was being issued IMMEDIATELy.

My mind raced with revenge plans should things not go according to what I was told. I would contact the Better Business Bureau and register a complaint; I would look into filing a small claims court case; I would start making picket signs and park myself in front of the busiest Verizon store I could find and sing protest songs about my plight… In anticipation, I did take step 1, and resolved that the minute I receive the refund that was due to me, I will be heading to my nearest Cingular store to order a new phone and new service.

I eventually cooled off. My complaint to the BBB was registered and I was told that Verizon was informed about it. I felt a little better that I was no longer just sitting by idly while the corporate screwing machine continued to turn.

Before I knew it, the middle of May came and went. I never received a call from Jim. So I tried to call him at his extension. I left several messages over the course of the next week, none of which resulted in a call back. So I started again, this time, reaching Matthew at extension 2010. I gave the same story, and received the same basic answer. I was told another bill had to generate on June 6, which should reflect a credit of $176 and change. The bill would be viewed by the 11th of June and I should receive my refund a few weeks after. Matthew also gave me his phone number and extension, but this time, I was given a reference number for my case. I had asked for this several times before (because it would keep me from having to do 7 months of recaps every time I called), but I was told they didn’t have reference numbers up until this point.

I continued to play the waiting game, but on June 6, a complication arose: My cell phone died. While taking it out of my bag to make a call, it practically disintegrated in my hands. A pin came out, releasing the top half of the clamshell. I tried to put it back together, and managed to get the phone back on the hinge, but this caused the screen to go completely dead. The phone part still worked, but without the ability to see what I was doing, it was useless. I can’t survive without my cell phone, so I decided, refund or no refund, I needed to get a new phone ASAP. And this meant going to Verizon.

At first, I was tempted to use my phone insurance plan to get a new phone unit. This would have meant waiting a week for them to send me out a new phone, but at least I would not have had to sign any new contracts or give Verizon itself any additional business. I also thoroughly researched my carrier alternatives. I spent the whole day online at all the service sites, looking for a comparable phone to the Verizon models I was looking to buy, but nothing at AT&T, Cingular (which was still separate at that point), T-Mobile, Helio or Alltel had all the options I was looking for in the model type I wanted. So the choice was clear: go to Verizon and take another one up the ass, or spend the next two years using a phone that didn’t satisfy my needs for a new phone. By this time, my beloved iPhone had debuted, to the tune of $600. As that was out of my price range, I had no other choice.

So off I went to Verizon.

Complicating matters further was that it was now time again to deal with my eligibility for the New Every Two program. I knew that I had satisfied the terms of my contract, and therefore had satisfied the criteria for my participation – meaning that I should be entitled to $100 credit toward a new phone every two years that I have a contract with Verizon. Tricky part was to get Verizon to acknowledge this. With every call I had made about my billing issue, I inquired as to whether I was still eligible for the promotion. While some operators said it would be up to the individual branch (why the hell this would be, I didn’t know), the consensus was that the service center should be able to look it up for me and I should be eligible, as I had fulfilled the terms of my contract. Of course, their acknowledging this did not go far enough to get them to give me my refund, but I digress for the moment…

At the Verizon store, I selected my new phone, chose my new service plan, selected my calling options, and then pled my case to the sales rep. I told him that I should be entitled to the New Every Two promotion, and as he looked it up my contract, it only showed the terms of my new contract, from December 2006, which I hadn’t yet had for two years (though it was beginning to seem like a lifetime with all the hassles).

He said my only option was to call the service center to get things straightened out, at which point I lost my patience. I explained again how many times I had already spoken to them about this, and how they said I should be eligible, and that if I was not eligible, there was no way I would continue to do business with a company that was not going to honor the terms of its contracts and its promotions by signing a new contract. I then told the sales rep that he was going to have to make the call for me, right then and there, reasoning that they could tell me whatever they wanted, but if his computer didn’t reflect it, he wouldn’t be able to give me the discount. He agreed, and then I stood by for the next 45 minutes and he negotiated with the corporate office for me. He put me on the phone after a while so they could explain that they needed to speak to a supervisor to get the necessary data updated into the store’s computer, but that I was indeed eligible. Halle-fuckin-lujah! I waited another 30 minutes in the store for the computer to refresh with the authorization, and two hours after I entered the store, I left with my brand new, $279 flip phone for a grand total of $29 (a discount due to the new service contract I signed, my $100 credit and an additional equipment rebate they were offering on that model).

My first battle was therefore won. Step one to winning the war. Yes, I had to sign another contract to deal with The Network of Thieves for two more years, but my problem was never with the company’s phones, its reception, quality or services – only their billing processes. So I didn’t consider this to be a major concession. Especially when I started playing with my new the dual-flip Samsung SCH-u740, which I have grown to love as much as any technological device I have ever owned.

Back to the bigger battle, though.

On July 6, I received another billing statement for the old account, so I renewed my resolve and rejoined the fight. This time, I was told the account was finally released, but no check had been issued yet. I was given yet another service rep’s name (Cheyenne, extension 3543) and a follow-up date, and was told it should be another 2-3 weeks before a check was issued.

On July 26, I had still not received a check, so it was time to call again. This time, I reached Raleigh (ext. 2007), who profusely apologized for all the hassles and promised (like many reps who had come before him), to get the matter taken care of ASAP. Raleigh even gave me the name of his manager (Wakisha Montgomery, ext. 1150), and told me she would give me a call the next day.

Of course, no call arrived. Then, a few days later, I received my August statement. This one held a surprise. Instead of a bill, there was a credit that appeared, for $160.72, instead of the $176 and change (or 164.11 or $246.17…) of the last one. So now they were at least acknowledging that I was owed money, but they were nickel-and-diming me on the amount again. I hit the roof, and hit the phones.

After going through transfer hell, from department to department, I got a Financial services rep, Tiffany (ext. 3533) on the phone. This saucy little corporate drone told me that the original refund had gone through their department and was rejected because they had gotten the amount wrong. The bill now had to be RE-submitted to the refund department (why hadn’t they done this already, I thought. Would they have bothered if I didn’t happen to call again? ), and I was now looking at another 6-8 weeks of delays because another one of their brain trust had dropped the ball. Now, the $160.72 was less than my calculations of what I was owed, so again, I explained the situation, and this time, I got more assertive. I told Tiffany that this was completely unacceptable, that I wanted this settled once and for all right now, and asked to speak to a supervisor and to the refund department directly.

This is where it all almost became a nuclear war: Tiffany got offended and told me that the refund dept. did not have a number that consumers could access. She said that even she couldn’t speak directly to them, and that she had to send a request, by email, for them to review the account and determine the refund. I tried to calmly explain that this too was unacceptable for a publicly held company like Verizon to have branches of customer service that consumers couldn’t access directly, and that they were accountable to their customers and shareholders. I asked for their email address and to be copied on the email that she sent, so that I could prove that she actually did her job and sent the email (at this point, I was doubting that any of their reps were doing their jobs and were just doing what they could to get off the phone and answer their next call, striving to meet quotas that would keep their jobs from being shipped overseas, rather than striving to meet customer needs). This obviously pissed the minimum-wage-unskilled-labor-working Tiffy off royally. Instead of following the calm, diffusing-the-customer’s-anger tactic from her script, she decided to take it upon herself to vent her own frustrations with customers, screaming over my requests for proof and information with a condescending tirade about how I didn’t understand how corporations worked and that even if she had the info I was requesting she wouldn’t give it to me. She continued to rant and rage over my increasingly agitated protestations and assertations that I would certainly be bringing this matter to as much media (and legal, if necessary) attention as I could garner. When I realized she was just gonna keep screaming at me like I was a moron who couldn’t possibly understand how complex her $8/hour service job was, rather than dealing with the issue at hand, I hung up.

That was the final straw. It was August 2007—now 9 months after I had begun this maelstrom of bureaucracy and frustration. All I wanted was what was legally owed to me—not to be verbally abused and get into a pissing match with some dimwit corporate lackey.

So I called again, got Tiffany’s supervisor on the line, and registered an official complaint about how I was treated by their employee. I explained the situation again, told the rep (John Godfrey) about all the previous ineptitude, and how this particular behavior was rude, unacceptable and unnecessary. He agreed, apologized as profusely as the many before him, took down the complaint, and made a few inquiries to make sure that Tiffany had at least done what she said she was going to do – email the refund department. I was assured that the process was continuing as promised, and that a refund should be issued by the end of the month.

Now, most people would have been so disheartened by this whole ordeal that they would have simply given up at any of these intervals. And I must admit that in previous times, $160 didn’t mean all that much to me, and I may have just let it go and taken the loss. But unfortunately, I am not in a position these days to let even that insignificant amount slip away or of the mind that companies should be taking advantage of customers in any way, shape or form. And though I’m averse to bureaucratic nonsense and red tape whenever I can avoid it, I’m tenacious enough to fight for every last dollar and every consumer right I am due.

It’s with this tenacity that on September 14, 2007, with no refund arriving yet, I set myself up to continue to fight the good fight. I called Verizon again, and almost passed out from the shock of what I heard:

My customer service rep (Amber) looked through the system and triumphantly informed me that a check had been mailed the day before, and I should receive it within 10 business days.

Could that be it? Could the battle be over? Could 10 months of calls and stress and frustration be coming to a, somewhat anticlimactic, close?

The answer, thankfully, is yes. Though it arrived no less than 15 work days after my conversation with Amber, I finally received my refund for $160.

So what did I learn? Though I still dispute the amount that I was owed, I don’t have ready access to my old contract to verify this (I also don’t want to continue to drive my stress level to the boiling point with every call I make to Verizon). So the first thing I learned is to always keep all paperwork handy whenever you sign a contract. Keep copius notes of all your customer service dealings, including the date, whom you spoke to, what their responses were and when follow-ups are scheduled.

The most important lesson I learned from all this, though, is to get everything in writing to the best of your ability when you are entering into any contract dispute. And in this age of online customer forums and digitized customer service options, this sometimes means doing all of your business at a physical brick-and-mortar store, rather than using customer service phone numbers.

So ended my epic battle with the demons of customer service, but I’m sure it won’t be the last one I wage. Customer service in the digital age is becoming a lost art. Call centers are being outsourced to other countries to cut costs; or are being replaced by voice-response systems, click-to-call services, DIY-online help forums and other technological “advances”. These all might save money in the short term, but no one yet has determined the costs in terms of long-term customer satisfaction and loyalty. Any marketer will tell you that it’s less costly to keep a customer than to win a new one. And as responsive service becomes a thing of the past, many of even the biggest and most powerful corporations will be struggling to win over customers from the diminishing pool of those who have not yet established their loyalties to the competition. I hope stories like mine (and those of others who feel its important to speak up on myriad forums available to today’s empowered consumers) will serve as their epitaphs.

Hulu, Preview

For you media geeks out there, the debut of Hulu -- the collaborative Fox/NBC video site effort -- has been greatly anticipated. Media pundits much more qualified than I have been expressing their both their optimism and their skepticism about what power the site would wield, and what its success or failure would represent for online entertainment content.

Hulu functions as the official home of professionally-generated, ad-supported NBC and Fox content. It was conceptualized as a video destination that would provide such a unique and comprehensive user experience that it would transcend the fact that the world really doesn't need another video destination. Sure YouTube, Joost, Break.com, Veoh and other video products are still figuring out the legal/user-generated/pirated content dilemmas, but they are established, popular, easy to use and highly entertaining. Hulu must pull audience share away from these better-known, more collaborative competitors and provide an engaging experience that pulls in enough ad revenue to justify its existance as a high-profile also-ran. Hulu also has to overcome a few unique challenges, like acquiring rights to enough content to satisfy ravenous video consumers, and fighting itself for traffic -- at present most of the site's content is available elsewhere, for instance on iTunes, Amazon Unbox and even the Fox and NBC home pages themselves.

Because the media world thinks I am special (ok, because my Fox-employed sister thinks I'm special), I got my hands on an ultra-exclusive beta logon. And because I have had this honor bestowed upon me, I decided to share my first impressions.

The interface:
Refreshingly spartan (but bordering on sterile). When navigating a content site for something good to watch, I hate being bombarded with alternatives to show I came there to watch. A large banner for "The Office" took up the top two-thirds of real estate. Scroll arrows offered options for a few featured shows, and the nav and search features are simple and unobtrusive.

Making a selection takes you to search options and browse categories. The results are displayed with large, clear thumbnails of the shows, a few details and favorites rankings. There's also a list of content sources, in case you care about who's getting revenue from each particular show you pick. I don't. Stick to keyword searches.

The player
A win for Hulu is that the player is gorgeous. The video is crisp, though less so when watching animated shows. Options include full screen views and a lights out feature that dims the screen surrounding the player, for less distractive viewing. Yet, as the video content streams, popular content seems to stutter quite a bit, especially if your connection isn't top-notch. Also, though you can scroll through scenes to any point you wish, there's no real way to tell how far into an episode you've gone. Markers with a time-stamp or scene description would have been a great addition to the scrolling capability.

The goods
This is where Hulu misses the boat. Hulu is the first major corporate media foray into online video. And, much like most corporate entities, it has decided that it's in control -- it will give users choices, but only within the confines of it's self-serving model. Thus, there is no user-generated content available on Hulu, and no real options for users to interact with the site or the content. There are some nice feature where you can select clips of clips to email to your friends, but there's no ability to mash up the clips or upload your own. You can, however, build a personal profile and rate videos, but there are no forums or real community features yet. Without at least the ability to integrate your profile into other applications to get these other desired features, why would you even bother creating yet ANOTHER online persona?

The money shot/revenue
The ability to control ad revenue and copyrights seems to be the real motivation for two huge media conglomerates to band together and build TV Networks 2.0. So how does the advertisement portion of the site rate?

That depends on whether you are looking at it from the advertiser or consumer side of the coin. From my professional/consumer standpoint, the ad model is a step in the right directioin. The ads are less obtrusive than many sites, and they only play at intervals that are determined by the length of the program you're watching. If you are willing to invest in 2 hours of your time to watch "Blues Brothers"...again...in front of your computer screen instead of on your comfy couch, you may not protest too loudly about having to sit through a 30-second spot; clips or TV eps may be a different story.

The ads are also programmed so that if you go back to a video you've already seen, you will likely not get the ads again. The first time I checked out Hulu, I saw a very few ad logos dispersed throughout the site -- and those I did see didn't seem to want to load, even while the video was working perfectly. Of course, with parents with names like News Corp and NBC, you can afford the short-term losses to lure in big-budet, premium sponsorship opprtunities.

Overall, the Hulu service is designed for users to watch, not get involved-- just like with the traditional model of TV viewing. To me, this says, "You will watch our shows, you will sit through our commercials and you will feel grateful that we're giving you a nice screen and convenient scheduling choices." Thing is, with a million and one social networks, video sites and content creation options online today, we don't have to settle for this anymore. Moreover, if we can't find more of a reason to stick with a site than to mind-numbingly watch what is presented to us, we may visit, but we won't stay long before we go back to our fave place to find video of dogs jumping double dutch and IM our buddy list about it. If I wanted to watch and not participate or interact at the same time, I would just watch the show on Tivo.

What I'm willing to do for money

My first job ever was babysitting for my cousins when I was 10. Thinking back, I wonder how the heck anyone thought a 10-year-old could be responsible for the well being of anyone, let alone a 2-year-old and a 5-year old? I'm now over 30 and I'm still not even good at keeping plants alive and healthy. But somehow I've always been able to convince employers that I was a responsible, diligent person.

Suckers!

I don't think I've gone more than a few months since then without having at least a short-term job, and most of them seem pretty random. Among the teen-standards and more career-driven positions, a few stand out as being extra-bizare, at least to me. Let's take a look:

Babysitter
Grocery store cashier
Summer camp counselor
Recreation commission events registrar
Girls softball league team tryout coordinator
Soup taster (for a market research company; lasted 1 day)
Customer service at a Hickory Farms kiosk during the holiday busy season
Substitute teacher: grades K-12 (music, art, science, math, english)
Salesperson at a leather goods store (lasted 3 weeks)
Games Department worker at a Six Flags amusement park (lasted 3 days)
Manager of a jewelry and crystal souvenier concession at a Six Flags amusement park
Background investigator for Citibank applicants
Manager of men's recreational basketball league
Copywriter for medical division of a PR agency
Marketing copywriter for a business software company
Office manager for a municipal uniform supply company (ask me about my Kevlar discount offer)
Editor for medical journals (including Pharmaceutical Discovery, Emergency Medicine and Applied Radiology)
Freelance writer/editor for educational content publisher (as needed, over 10 years)
Freelance music reviewer (about 4 months)
Promotions manager, volunteer coordinator and overall logistics for an independent film festival
Background investigator for nuclear test site applicants
Resume writer
writer/editor for an online magazine.

My personal favorite was my stint doing background checks for nuclear test site employees. You'd be surprised how often people fudge their credentials, even for high-security positions like this. At least once a former employer reported that a candidate had come close to causing an accident, and dozens of times we found people had lied about their salaries, birthdates, social security numbers, education and experience.

Anyone out there have a weirder employment history, or a particular bizarre job that can beat what's on my list?

I lost on Jeopardy

Weeks have gone by, and since not much has happened, I guess I'll return to stories of my last busy week.

As I've mentioned before, I'm a game show fanatic. To the point where I TiVo'ed the first week of the new Price is Right to see how Drew Carey fared in his first attempts to fill Bob Barker's shoes as host (so far, so good). I'll watch just about anything where contestants compete for prizes (even if that "prize" is a chance to screw a washed-up 80s glam-metal singer or a boobed-up, screechy Flavor-Flav reject).

About a year ago, my sister hooked us up with an audition for a game show called Set for Life. We weren't chosen to play, so I felt pretty justified when the show seemed to fizzle: even with high-profile host Jimmy Kimmel, its buried summer Friday evening test slot didn't exactly cause a whirlwind of excitement. On the bright side, though, the casting director, Leslie, took a liking to us, and kept us in mind when she had a new game show, That's the Question.

TTQ is a strange hybrid of Jeopardy without the intellectual challenge; Wheel of Fortune without the wheel, and the ubiquitous word jumbles found in old-lady magazines like Family Circle. In its first season, produced in Amsterdam, it garnered a reputation for misspelled clues, wrong answers and all-around mishaps. However, the U.S version of the show was scheduled to air on The Game Show Network, which few people get (myself included) and fewer people watch, so the embarrassment factor would be minimal. I figured I had nothing to lose, even if I lost (and very little to win if I won, in fact, as the prize money was probably the smallest sum I've ever seen on a game show -- including 70s classics like Match Game PM). But I wasn't doing this for the money as much as I was doing it to fulfill a dream -- a dream of bright lights and catchy theme music; of on-air chit-chat with a low-level celebrity and lightning-quick buzzer reflexes. A dream of being one of the select few who could put away dignity, rational thought and a hipster-cool nonchalance for a shot at fabulous prizes and public recognition of my mastery of useless knowledge. Plus, it was a chance to serve the first love of my life: Television.

I kicked major butt at the initial interview and the test. And I was thrilled that, in a room full of contestants -- many of whom had auditioned for and/or appeared on other of Leslie's shows in the past -- Leslie recalled many of my funny stories from my previous audition and encouraged me to tell a few more tales of my bizarre existence (including the roster of weird-ass jobs I've held -- remind me to share those another time). Two days after the interview, I got word that I was cast and received all the details I would need for my upcoming taping.

As this was my first game show, I can't say that the list of rules I had to follow were unique, but they did seem pretty bizarre. I couldn't be living with or related to anyone who worked for GSN, Sony, or any of the sponsors. I couldn't have appeared on another Sony show for at least a year, and I wouldn't be eligible to appear on another Sony game show for 3 years afterwards. While on the studio lot, I couldn't speak to ANYONE who wasn't a contestant or a contestant wrangler (lest they be tempted to slip me some answers, I suppose). And to make sure this rule was followed, we had to wear Contestant badges and were instructed to just point at them should anyone we ran into on the lot try to say hi. Also, the Wranglers were charged with babysitting us until our game, even walking us to the bathrooms, monitoring us as we went out for smoke breaks and escorting us, like kindergarteners to the commissary for lunch.

We waited up in a little Green Room as our little group of 15 contestants were assigned to opponents and a game order. I was the fourth of 7 games they taped, so I had plenty of time to pick up the finer points of the game, chat with my fellow green room hostages, change clothes a few times to suit wardrobe concerns and to slather on pounds of stage makeup so my death-white skin wouldn't blind the camera operators or render me invisible to photographic light.

To keep us busy until our taping time and orient us with the game play, they provided us with a live feed of the stage and other contestants' games. The feed started before the sound came on, and the group of us collectively watched, entertaining ourselves by watching contestants play with their hair and clothes and by providing our own snarky soundtrack to host Bob Goen's pantomimed banter. We needn't have bothered: the sound suddenly kicked on, and the first words we heard from the set was Bob's comment that "it's only sexual harrassment if the girl is really ugly."

Seriously. You can't make that shit up.

I sat through three games, answering nearly every question and gaining confidence, before I was called down to the set. With uncharacteristic enthusiasm, I gathered my things and made my way to the stage. I tried to conserve my mental energy for the game, but I had a touch of stage nerves and kept bouncing around while they set the lights and did techie things. One of the show runners took one look at me and mumbled something into a two-way radio, requesting a "half apple box". From my days in high school theater and from the few panel discussions I've moderated at conferences, I knew what was coming. Sure enough, a stage hand ran up to me with a small box, which I would be expected to stand on so the cameras could see me over the huge podium. While this bit of awkwardness filtered through my mind, I tried to break the tension by engaging my opponent in some chit-chat. He was pleasant and friendly, but kinda quiet and reserved. In fact, I hadn't even noticed him the entire time I was up in the green room.

There was a reason for that.

He was the Answerbot 5000, programmed only to answer obscure trivia questions and solve jumble puzzles -- not confer with inferior beings.

The first round of our game revealed that we were a pretty even match. We took turns answering our respective questions and took turns answering each one quickly and correctly. Neither of us missed a single one of the trivia questions in that first round, but I was a bit quicker on the draw, solving the first two puzzles before he could decipher them. I was only a few points up going into the third game, and we were neck and neck. On the third game, he buzzed in to solve the puzzle before I did, but missed one letter, giving me the chance to steal the round, which I did. And it was this slight lead going into round 2 that would cost me the game.

In round 2, we no longer took turns answering questions; instead the player who was behind got the first question, and kept control of the board until they failed to answer one. And this time, I didn't stand a chance. My opponent got the first question right and robotically responded to question after question, solving the first puzzle without missing a beat, or giving me a chance to play. The second round went similarly -- though I had the first question, I was eventually trying so hard to solve the final puzzle that I wasn't paying attention when Bob asked me a question about some traditional beef dish. Veggie-girl that I am spaced out after the word "meat" and couldn't come up with the answer, giving Answerbot an opening to have another run and give himself an untouchable point lead.

Though we each missed a question in the third game, it no longer mattered. I couldn't catch up point-wise, and Answerbot was headed to the bonus round. I took my place off stage and watched dejectedly as he tore the final puzzle a new one and won the $5000.

As a crew member led me off the stage and directed me to the parking lot, I reflected on my day. Disappointed, caked in makeup and no wealthier than when I started out the day, I made my way home through Hollywood traffic and realized that this first foray into televised gaming had not quenched my thirst for game show success. I needed to try again. Right away.

Reaching home, I dove into a search for any other game shows that filmed in Los Angeles. My choices were slim. My sister's job at Fox makes me ineligible for Fox game shows; and TTQ TKO'ed my shot at Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune or other Sony game shows for three years. Little by little, I realized CBS was the only beacon that still shone on me. And it was the brightest light of all, as it was the home of my game show nirvana, The Price is Right. The perfect plan swam in front of my Showcase-dazzled brain. I would order free tickets online, camp out in Studio City with the sorority girls, grandmas and other low-hanging game show fruit, chirping and squealing my way into the hearts of the casting directors and onto the stage of Plinko-induced heart failure, where 5 years as a grocery store cashier and over 30 years of pricing-game expertise would put me on a straight path to fabulous prizes.

I had pondered this path and looked into ordering tickets before, but could never commit to a day in advance that I could justify taking off from work to sit on a line for hours waiting, possibly in vain, for a shot at hearing a deep, smooth-voiced announcer beckon me to the stage. But this time, nothing was going to stop me. Then, as I filled out the online application form, a new codicil to the process caught my eye. TPIR added a new regulation -- potential contestants could not have appeared on any other game show for at least one year.

Et tu, Drew Carey?

So, I'm out of the game for a year. But all hope is not lost. For Los Angeles is a city of dreams, and around every corner is another celebreality contest or fledgling game show pilot, aching to stretch its wings and draw viewers to its sparkly, insipid, greed-sating bounty. And so help me God, I'll never go home without a consolation prize again.

Thanx IV Time-Sharin'

Took some time out of my regularly scheduled boredom to have a busy week recently. Here's how it started:

A few weeks back, Allan and I wandered over to a small town festival in Culver City. It was the typical fair fare: rides made from rusty iron and tetanus, held together with nostalgia; greasy food stands offering all the junk people only eat at boardwalks or fairs; a somewhat sad petting zoo populated only by chickens, goats and a few alpacas; and the requisite arts and crafts concessions and local company recruitment booths. One of these booths was boasting a chance to win a trip to Tahiti. It's been a while since I've been anywhere new, and since I will pretty much enter any sweepstakes, drawing or game of chance, Al and I wandered over to get the details.

Turned out that the drawing for the trip could only be entered if you signed up for something feared and mostly misunderstood by scam-wary citizens young and old: the vacation time share sales presentation.

I had always heard about people going to these elaborate presentations, where you sit in a room and salespeople pressure and embarrass people into buying shares in a vacation property they would have no interest in visiting, with money they didn't have to spend. The friendly, personable sales reps dangle trips and prizes in front of your face to tempt you into listening to their colleagues' well rehearsed and tested spiels, and promise that you get your prizes, whether or not you make a purchase. Our chosen lure was Macy's gift certificates, free movie passes and two free nights in Las Vegas (which we were thinking of driving to soon anyway). With my eyes on the prizes, we pondered this challenge: could two ADHD-addled but smart and cynical people sit and listen to a bullshit sales pitch for 2 hours for something we didn't understand but knew we had no interest in, resisting the pressure -- and the boredom -- in exchange for some lunch, some prizes, and something to laugh about for years to come?

Hells yeah.

On the hottest LA weekend of the year, we drove to what felt like the surface of the sun: Pasadena, where the time share offices sat in a small, but air conditioned mall complex. They ushered us in, asked us to fill in a few forms, show ID and bask in artificial cool air until our rep escorted us to the buffet, and then to a small table.

Our guide to the wonderful world of "Vacationing" was also named Al. Al chit-chatted for a while, asking us about trips we've taken, what we do for a living, where we'd like to go on vacation... all the things he would write down so that he could tailor his story to our personal interests and situation. Though I was interested in finding out exactly how vacation shares work, I was much more interested in the sales pitch -- how they present the concepts, options and benefits to different customers and make it sound like a dream come true and a great investment as well. Al-1, my Al, took copious notes, while I absorbed the process, including Al-2's explanations and sharing of personal stories (which totally didn't add up. Who leaves a highly lucrative technology job to sell time shares? Who buys their wife luxury cars and jewelry and travels 15 weeks of the year on a pyramid-scheme salary?).

After Al-2 finished his presentation, they brought in the numbers guy. Where Al was all personable banter and flair, the numbers guy was gruff, oafish, and to the point. He gave us prices, pretended to listen as Al-2 shared details of our vacation aspirations and our position on the program and then point-blank asked us if we wanted to buy. When we told him no, his surgically-altered nostrils flared for a minute, and then he outlined a few other, more reasonably priced, options. We turned him down again, he tossed off a few somewhat condescending phrases, and he stomped off.

We were then asked to sit for a few more minutes, so that the business manager could come by, make sure our experience was as pleasant as possible, and give us our prize vouchers. At this point, we had already been there much longer than the promised 90 minutes (though this was mostly due to Al-1's incessant questions. Hell-bent on getting the whole experience and playing the role of contemplative prospective vacationers, he went a bit overboard in trying to authentically seem like we were interested), but they obviously weren't shelling out the gifts until they had tried every available angle. And the final weapon in their arsenal was pretty awe-inspiring, but not for reasons you would think.

The secret weapon brought in to close the deal: Balki Bartokumus. Well, almost.

The business manager came over to chat just a bit more about the program and see if we qualified to come back at a later date. I stared at him, transfixed as he explained the options, realized we were never going to buy a time share, and then chatted with Al about their shared interest in the music business while he finished the paperwork.

My part in this final dance was negligible. I could do nothing but stare at this guy who bore the most amazing resemblance to Bronson Pinchot, formerly Balki from Mypos on the old Perfect Stranges sitcom of the late 80s or early 90s, and most recentlly a Simple Life celebrity-has-been-housemate. The fact that our closer's name badge said Justin Pinchot added fuel to my pop-culture obsessive fire. I was thorougly convinced that this guy had to be a relative of Bronson, but I didn't want to add insult to the injury of our not making a purchase by pointing out that he looked like the vastly less successful brother of a Hollywood D-lister from the 80s. And what if I was wrong and they weren't related? Being so wrong about an 80s entertainment pop culture hunch would be more than my fragile ego could take. So, with an uncharacteristic bout with restraint, Al and I left without mentioning the 800-pound Myposian gorilla at the table, went to the cashier's window, claimed our prizes, and high-tailed it back into the Pasadena heatwave hellscape.

After obsessing over this on and off for a few days, I finally remembered to do some internet sleuthing on Bronson and any family members he might have in the Los Angeles area. In about two seconds, I came upon his Wikipedia page, where I learned that Bronson Pinchot has a TWIN brother, named JUSTIN. He was even on an ep of Perfect Strangers.

So, all in all, I came out of the deal with detailed knowledge about time shares, some cool gifts, another semi-celeb sighting, an afternoon's worth of funny stories and my pop culture queen reputation intact. Couldn't ask for more.

If you've finished this lengthy diatribe, check back soon for tales of my OTHER bizarre LA experience of the week.

Out and about

It was a busy week in an otherwise completely uneventful summer, so far.

Fourth of July is probably my favorite holiday. It's usually warm and sunny, I love seeing fireworks, and I usually take a few days off from work to hang out with friends, hit a few parties and BBQs and throw back a few drinks without the stress and family obligations of Thanksgiving or Christmas. But this year, July 4th fell on a Wednesday, and without a long weekend to extend the festivities, no one seemed to have any big plans or any interest in making any.

My sister and I spend most of our holidays in different places, but we've always shared core groups of friends, and we've hung out together nearly every 4th of July I can remember. Growing up, our house was always the gathering place, taking over the large backyard to drink and smoke ourselves silly, throw watermelons in the pool, stuff ourselves with heavily-frosted red, white and blue cakes (which my friend Christa would tipsily and accidentally drop without fail) and fire up my dad's homemade cannon. Dana decided to have a small BBQ at her place on the 3rd. So even though we were far from my parents' New Jersey yard and the usual Indepence Day suspects, we kept up the tradition as best we could.

Stupid Act # 1 occurred when Al and I drove over to her house right after work. I pulled into a parking spot on the street, and as I got close to the curb, I heard a grinding sound... a popping sound... and then a hissing sound. Turns out I got my tire too close to the curb, which was ripped up and jagged in one small spot. Of course this was the exact spot I hit, and the broken concrete ripped a hole in the side of my tire. I watched as the tire slowly deflated, along with my hopes for an incident-free holiday, and then I called AAA. The tow-truck came, changed out the tire, and we began the festivities.

Wednesday was a big birthday for Al. Again, no one seemed to be doing very much for the holiday, so we decided to have a low-key celebration, sitting by the pool, going to dinner in Culver City, hitting the Coldstone Creamery for some desert, and then hanging out on our balcony to catch the local fireworks show. It wasn't the debaucherous, rowdy and intoxicated 4th either of us were used to, but we managed to avoid any accidents or incidents, so I considered the day a success.

Stupidity #2, however, was just around the corner. On Friday, I left work early, and rather than going home, I decided to run some errands and do some grocery shopping. I was dawdling a bit, figuring that Al would have left for work before I got home and I would get some nice, peaceful "me time" for the afternoon. When I pulled into the garage, however, Al was still in the driveway, sweaty, flustered and cursing. His car wouldn't start; it was stuck halfway in our tandem spot, and he was late for work. So he left the car where it was, I loaded him in my car and drove him to work, with my car full of frozen food.

After picking him up from work a few hours later, I decided to go back to the Kwik-E-Mart so Al could see it firsthand. The line was shorter than it had been the first time, but they were also out of almost all the Simpsons goodies. We managed to get some Buzz Cola and a few doughnuts before we headed home. When we got back, Al went to put the car in neutral so we could push the dead car to the front of the spot. On a whim, he decided to give the car one more try. He turned the key, and with no pressing need to use the car at this point, it started right up. D'oh!

Saturday was a long-awaited concert event: my first trip to the Hollywood Bowl, to see one of my favorite bands, The Decemberists, play a once-in-a-lifetime show with the LA Philharmonic Orchestra. Having never been there, I hadn't realized 1) what a monsterously large venue it was, 2) you could bring coolers, snacks and drinks in, rather than having to pay for high-priced concert snacks and 3) that no matter where we parked, it would require a lengthy walk.

Figuring the trek would be no more than a few blocks, I had worn an old pair of flipflops. They're comfortable for standing for long periods of time, but they're not particularly suited for walking long distances, especially uphill, where they tend to slide right off my feet. We ended up parking more than a mile or so from the Bowl, and as there were hundreds of fellow concertgoers walking along the streets of Hollywood with us, we had set a brisk pace for ourselves. Unfortunately, my shoes weren't interested in moving that fast, and thus Stupidity # 3 struck. One of my flipflops got stuck in uneven pavement, and before I could stop myself, I took a spectacular diving fall, splattering onto the ground and splaying my bag, sunglasses, keys and random purse contents all over the place. It was one of those slow-motion dives, where you know it's going to happen just before it actually does, and where you wish it was someone else, so that you could have watched the whole thing transpire-- as I've said before NOTHING is funnier than watching someone fall down. Luckily, I recovered from the trip with no more than a slightly bruised hand, and a wish that someone had caught the fall on video.

After I amused the crowd with my near face-plant, I got up, brushed myself off, and continued on our uphill trip to the bowl. By the time we got there, I was sore, sweaty, blistered and bruised, and couldn't wait to get to my seat... and stay there for a few hours.

Our seats were waaaaaay in the back of the Bowl (requiring more limping. Next time I will remember to wear sneakers). The whole orchestra was like a tiny toy set at that distance, but the sound was amazing. The show was wonderful, though the set list -- comprised of some of the band's more orchestrally-arranged music -- was a bit lacking in the band's usual energy and exuberance. I enjoyed the music, but I felt far-removed from the action, and since our seats were apparently in the chatty, karaoke-singing, cell-phone obsessed section, I can't say I enjoyed it as much as seeing them in small clubs. I was more than ready to get a head start on the crowds by leaving during the first encore song.

So after a busy, hectic week, I now return to my regularly scheduled ennui.

Who Needs the Kwik-E-Mart? I do!

This week, Los Angeles gave me yet another reason to love living here.

Thirteen 7-Eleven stores around the country rebranded themselves as Kwik-E-Mart's as a promotion. Of course, Los Angeles was among the lucky 13, and the 7-Eleven chosen happens to be just a few miles from my apartment. Simpsons fan that I am, I left work early, fought afternoon traffic and stood on line for 20 minutes for my chance to throw some cash down on Buzz Cola, Krusty-Os, and Squishees with limited edition Simpsons magnets/swirly straws.

Fox and 7-Eleven did a great job of transforming the place, and there were some great touches here and there, including a likeness of Jasper trapped in the ice freezer, and some funny signage for everyday 7-11 items like sandwiches.


The place was such a mob scene that the "Squishee" machines couldn't keep up with the demand (and I'm sure the 90-degree weather didn't help), so my collector's cup-filled Squishee was mostly frothy, watered-down fruit punch. But there were plenty of extra Kwik-E-Mart employees around, trying to keep the crowds moving along and enjoying the experience.

And this time, they didn't forget the doughnuts. Mmmm. Doughnuts.

Era-DICK-ator

A group of my coworkers and I went bowling after work on Friday night. Though I haven't bowled in around 8 years or so, I used to go kinda regularly, back in New Jersey. It wasn't so much that I liked the game or anything, or was remotely skilled at it. It was more that I liked the white-trashy atmosphere created by playing a sport where you could drink and smoke while playing the game, and I liked people-watching in a place where characters were much more colorful than in my everyday suburbia.

Of course, this was in the time where you could still smoke indoors, and when you are bowling, you kinda have to smoke or drink, in order to get into the true spirit of the game. If you've seen The Big Lebowski, you know what I mean.

These days in LA, the smoking part of the game has to be done outside, in between frames. Our lane was at the end of the room, right next to the door, so I was able to take frequent breaks in between kicking my coworkers' asses at knocking down pins (apparently, once I put a few White Russians in me, my new bowling persona, Jersey Jodi, comes out, making me a 10-pin goddess).

I snuck out about half-way through our game, to find a scrawny man screwing with his car in the parking lot outside. He had some souped up Pontiac or something, with doors that open upwards, like the 80s DeLoreans did. While I watched, he closed the doors with a prideful flourish... then proceeded to set off the car alarm and fumble with the key for about a minute trying to figure out how to turn it off. I watched the display with amusement, and then noticed the guy's vanity license plate. On it was a clumsily-rendered, license-plate version of the word "Eradicator," but it wasn't done in so logical or obvious a way that you'd be sure what he was going for.

The guy finally got the alarm to turn off, and walked towards the bowling alley door. He mumbled something as he was passing me about not knowing how to work the door right yet. I nodded my head in a "whatever, loser" kinda way, and asked him if his license plate was supposed to say Eradicator.

His response?

"Yeah. Coz I kill things."

Seriously. He was so trying to be bad-ass, I guess to make up for looking like a moron who can't work his own needlessly accessorized car. At this point, I started cracking up to the point where I nearly fell over. When the tears finally dried in my eyes, I went back to the lanes to share this priceless convo with my coworkers.

I wonder how often this cheeseball has used that line. Or if he was just waiting for someone to see his car, see the license plate and set him up for what he built up in his mind to be the comeback-spike of all comeback-spikes. I'm just glad I got to witness the glory, and reminded myself to NEVER leave a bowling alley without my video camera. That shit would have made a priceless video for YouTube.

Party in My Purse

Sometimes I carry a big handbag. The problem is that in that handbag, things tend to get lost. There must be an entire parallel universe in there, or maybe a similar vortex to the one that removes one sock from every pair I put in the dryer. But large or small, no matter what I'm looking for in the big bag, I have to grab everything else in there until I unlock the magic that releases the item I wanted in the first place.

Often, the thing that I lose is my cell phone, and when I root around in there to find the phone, or anything else, I accidentally hit the button that turns on my camera. Most of the time, I just get a random, dark, blurry shot of the physical inside of the bag.

But today, I got this:


I dunno what the heck is going on in there. No wonder my bag is so freakin heavy.

The Ultimate Whoo-hoo!

Well, there hasn't been much to report over these last...oh eight months or so, but last night I did an offical Hollywood-type thing, so it goes in the Cali-girl blog.

My sister Dana is working for Fox studios these days, and when she took the job I threatened to disown her if she didn't take me to a Simpsons Movie premiere or some other special event to celebrate the greatest show ever created. I've been a massive fan since the day the show first aired in 1989, and have made Sunday night at 8 pm a not-to-be-interrupted special event for the last 18 years. Dana told me that there was very little chance that she had the pull to get us into such a star-studded event, but what she doesn't always fully appreciate is that she is magical. She has this enviable ability to fall into cool things, so I kept my hopes high that something would turn up, and that she would share her yellow, cartoony fortune with me.

Well, Fox put together a big party on the lot to celebrate the show's 400th episode, and though Dana didn't get an invite, her boss did. Luckily for us, her boss couldn't make it, so once again, Dana's fortune shone on us both, and we got our laminated passes for the big event.

Ehhhhksellent!

I gotta say, it was the funniest thing I've seen in forever. The whole place was bedecked in Simpsonery. Intricate balloon versions of all the characters sat on a big porch on the fake studio city scape of the back lot. Costumed characters wandered all around. There were cardboard character cutouts strategically placed throughout the party scene, and facades were erected of some key Simpsons locations. For example, a mock Kwik-E-Mart was set up, where Kwik-E-Klerks gave out Buzz Colas and Squishees. Strangely, the clerks were not dressed like Apu, but the roving coctail waitresses WERE forced to wear large, blue Marge hair wigs (must have been REAL pleasant in the 90-degree heat we were experiencing).

A big livingroom set-up was off to the side, with statues of Marge, Homer, Maggie, Bart and Lisa placed on a huge couch. A spot was saved for party-goers to get their pictures taken on the couch, so I indulged, as you can see.

I also partook of the large spread of Homer's favorite treats (greasy, fried foods including Frying Dutchman-esque, all-you-can-eat fried clams and shrimp nuggets). Little character-themed chocolates were spread over the dozens of tables, which featured weird, green centerpieces adorned with Simpsons gumby-like action figures, that everyone seemed to be stealing. There was also a little candy shop set up, where kids (and immature adults like myself) could make little candy sand-filled test tubes branded for the occasion.

In addition to the costumed characters, some of the real-life stars were on hand as well. Both Matt Groening and Yeardley Smith (voice of Lisa) were being interviewed on camera at the party. Yeardley Smith is the tiniest little woman ever, which is kinda funny coming from little ol, less than five-feet-tall me. I also heard that Hank Azaria was there, though I didn't see him). Groening was just hanging out in a corner in between interviews, and seemed readily approachable. If I had the confidence to be sure I wouldn't just kneel at his feet and pledge my undying, tearful (and likely embarrassing) gratitude for his creation and the joy it has brought to my life, I'm sure I could have walked over and said hi.

Of course, as Simpsons-struck as I was, I still noticed a few glaring omissions that the party planners should be whacked with a snake-whacking stick for making. There was a slideshow projected on a screen with just a few promo pics for the party and the 400th episode, but I think they missed the opportunity for some Simpsons trivia on the screen, or to show scenes or something to entertain the crowd as they sat and waited for the big episode screening (which hadn't happened by the time we left, after 3 hours of hanging around in a Squishee-induced sugar coma). There was a photo booth on site, but there was no Simpsons branding whatsoever on it-- not even a background screen. But the biggest, nearly tragic oversight: THERE WERE NO FREAKIN DONUTS!!! Seriously. There was cake, candy, cotton candy, chocolate, fried food, Squishees, Buzz Cola, a Kwik-E-Mart, a couch-gag set, Simpsons pool tables and foosball tables and blue-haired, drink-toting strumpets, but not a single donut was to be found. There was no Duff Beer either (though there were festive and cartoony-colored mixed drinks and other beers), but I can forgive this. But the donuts? They should have been raining from the sky (a la Treehouse of Terror V), or given out instead of the cake. How 'bout a donut/ring toss for the kiddies? No? Really?

D'oh!

Let's make a deal...or no deal

Yeah, it's been a while. Since my last post, I've changed apartments, changed cities, changed cars, and changed my job position. With all this stuff finally behind me, I finally feel like I'm getting my life back to normal. Of course, normal is a relative term in my life, especially in the city of Los Angeles.

For example, now that I no longer have a hideously long commute every day, I discovered I have a lot of free time. More so than the average person, in fact. Which means I need to find meaningful, fulfilling hobbies-- or at least bizarre ways to waste time and entertain myself. But what to do? I'm not particularly athletic-- in fact, all my previous attempts at sporting hobbies have been met with bloodshed, bruising, and semi-permanent damage. Softball games left me with scarred knees (from a clumsy attempt to run, which turned into a VERY clumsy and unintentional slide-- face first-- into home plate), strained muscles and a black eye, which at the time I tried to pass off as a domestic violence incident to my busybody coworkers. My brief stint as a surf bunny resulted in a sprained back and neck and a firsthand account of what it feels like to inhale two pounds of sand. Hell, even a spirited bit of couch jumping once caused a sprained ankle and a severely bruised ego, so it was safe to say that my new prospective hobby would have to be free from anything that required things like balance, coordination or rapid motion.

So sports are not where my talents lie. Yet, I'm super competitive, so a good activity needs to involve some form of gaming. The first, obvious thing that came to my mind was gambling. It involves competition, some form of skill, and you can smoke and drink while you do it. Perfect. Except for the part where you need to use, and perhaps lose, actual money to participate. Someone like me, who just cracked open their childhood piggy bank to pay my TiVo bill shouldn't be undertaking any risky financial ventures right now.

Or should I? What if I could find a way to gamble, risk money, and entertain myself, and possibly millions of others, with my spasticity and enthusiasm, all without it costing more than parking fare and perhaps my self regard? The answer came to me with a phone call one night from my sister, and frequent partner in crime, Dana. I could go on a game show!

We were invited, by a game show producer Dana had met, to audition for a new game show airing on ABC this year. Other than high school plays, a few school choir competitions and a number of jobs where I had to pretend I gave a fuck about whatever it is they were asking me to do, I've never auditioned for anything. In fact, my sister and I are probably the only two women in Los Angeles who have never had a headshot taken, let alone stood in front of a casting director -- camera in hand -- and feigned emotion for monetary gain.

Well, we WERE the only two left. And now, LA is going to have to import some other showbiz naifs.

On the day of the audition, I stood outside the production studio in Hollywood for a few minutes, waiting for Dana to meet me. I noticed two paparazzi lurking outside the front gate, so I passed the time asking who they were there to see (Jim Carey, who had been inside for a while, according to the photogs), and how much they thought they could get for a pic of him doing something as mundane as leaving an office building (more than I had imagined).

We were shown in, we signed in at the desk and were taken to a small, white windowless room, where we were told to stand, next to a table and some chairs that were set up. From there, the inquisition began.

And I say inquisition because the experience was not unlike what I would imagine being arrested is like. I filled out a lot of paperwork (the application for the show was over 13 pages long, and asked prying, personal questions about my background, my associates, and what I would do if I came across an unexpected windfall). I held a card with my name and a number on it in front of my face as my picture was taken. I was told that being honest would only help me (never fall for that one). And I was asked to reveal personal secrets about Dana-- as my parner in the game show's plot.

And I totally folded under the pressure. I talked. A lot. I blabbed everything I could think of. My addiction to game shows and pop culture: revealed. The real story behind my accidental couch-based injury (see above): pridelessly blurted out. My short stint as a contraband smuggler (I had my mom mail 5 pounds of bubblegum to me at a summercamp for sugar addicts): made up to look good for the camera. I was shameless.

But then, it came time to demonstrate our excited victory dance-- how wildly and excitedly Dana and I would jump around in a frenzy if we won money on the show. Dana and I looked at eachother, looked at the floor, looked at eachother again, took a deep breath... and soundly refused to become every game show contestant we'd ever made fun of for jumping around like a moron.

The truth is, neither one of us dance, or squeal, or could imagine commanding people in the audience to "give it up" for us, as if they truly cared whether we won a million dollars or not. And we both tend to show our enthusiasm with a hearty "Fuck Yeah"-- with both feet planted firmly on the ground, rather than dissolving in an uncontrolled, emotional heap.

As we quickly realized, TV studios prefer the emotional heap. So when this new show appears on ABC this season, we will not be among the smiling, psycho-happy contestants. But we will be among the group of viewers who watch the show simply just to laugh at them.

Smell update

Sorry I'm taking so long between posts. I'm busy, I'm lazy, I'm not much of a writer, I'm tired of blogging, no one reads this anyway, the earth's polarity reversed itself in my apartment...ok that's all the excuses I can think of for now.

But today, the 405 north smelled like grilled chicken. And the 405 south smelled like the solution used for home perms. Thought you'd wanna know.

Where did you go?

For a while, I've been meaning to write about my top 5 favorite things about living in LA. They were gonna be:

1. The weather, and knowing that I can leave the house and never need more than 2 layers of clothing. I shiver when it's less than 65 degrees, and even I haven't found the need to unpack my collection of sweaters, hats, gloves, scarves, and thermals. For season-affect disorder sufferers like me, you just can't underestimate the value of waking up nearly every morning to sunshine, palm trees blowing in the light breeze and a craving for Slurpees (my favorite summer treat).

2. The abundance of varied activities. Within a few hours drive (maybe a little more if you take the freeway), you can be at the beach, or in the mountains, or in a big city's downtown area, at a museum, at a club, an amusement park, a ball park, the desert, a casino...

3. The freaks. For example, I was driving around Beverly Hills a few days ago, and a guy wearing a bandana and a ratty t-shirt was hanging out of a mercedes convertible. He looked like he wanted to talk to someone, anyone, in the next lane of traffic, maybe to ask directions or yell an obscenity. As I watched him, a tiny ferret peeked out from beneath his shirt, exposing the guy's ulterior motive of showing off his unusual pet, and its unusual hiding place. Another time, I was down in Huntington Beach, and I was mesmerized by an english bulldog who was totally obsessed with riding a skateboard. For 10 minutes, I watched the dog push the board, run along side of it until it picked up enough speed, and ride it until it stopped. Then he turned it around and started the process again, obsessively, over and over. That dog so obviously LOVED to skate that you knew it LIVED to skate, much the same way that my skater friends in high school loved nothing more than crusing through parking lots, practicing new tricks, falling down, getting all banged up, and getting right back on to try it again until they got it right.

4. The proliferation of vegetarian food options. No matter where I go to eat, whether it's the pricey, lousy-with-celebrities hotspot or the food court at the local mall, there are always at least 3 or 4 things that I could choose from to satisfy the picky veggie girl that I am (and there are probably 2 or three other choices that I wouldn't care for, but are still available).

5. Indie 103.1, a radio station that's a mix of modern formats and a throwback to the days when radio DJs had the freedom to play what they wanted. You could hear great songs in a million different styles in a 1-hour period. You could hear obscure tunes from a band that had plenty of radio hits. The next song would be an early punk tune that never got radio play in its own day because it was too weird, or offensive. After that, you'd get a Johnny Cash tune, or some Sinatra, and that would be followed by tunes from local bands, bands that hadn't broken yet, or a band that, tragically, probably never would break.

But now one of those favorite things has been cruelly yanked away.

At the end of March, Indie 103.1 made a tragic mistake and fired it's biggest draw: Dicky Barrett, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones leader and host of the station's Mighty Morning Show. Dicky's subtle wit, working-class charm and punk rock attitude made my ridiculously long commute something I actually looked forward to in the morning (the afternoon drive is another story). Whether it was Tattoo Tuesday, time for his curmudgeonly banter with his news staff and show regulars, or his brilliantly irreverent editorials on the stupidity of today's political or celeb-filled media landscape, he always provided something worth listening to. And when he wasn't talking, he was playing the best mix of music imaginable -- punk rock classics, emerging musical geniuses, novelty tunes, "old's cool" country tunes...as well as the modern rock staples that on any other station feel overplayed and stale.

Apparently, it came down to Dicky's refusing to submit to Clear Channel's content demands, and his refusal to bend over and take it (and I'm sure you can imagine where he was asked to take it). You can read the whole story by following the link that I so clumsily provide here.

If you live in the LA area, or followed the Mighty Morning Show's streaming broadcasts, I urge you to write to KDLD and tell them they better change their name from Indie 103.1 to Idiocy 103.1. Or better yet, shell out a few bucks and go for a satellite radio system. Tell them Dicky sent you.


LA Voice article


Indie103/entravision
5700 Wilshire Blvd #250
Los Angeles, CA 90036
877.900.1031

Trashing the LAPD?

It's not that I can't find enough strange things about LA that strike me as blogworthy. It's more that the sheer number of absurdities fight eachother for dominance in my head, and making the tough decision of where to start is such a battle that I end up not starting anywhere.

But this one piece of information clawed its way right into my typing fingers, bypassing my brain's selection process and, therefore, winning a spotlight in my blogging efforts.

During a smoke break at work today, I was chatting with a woman from another office, and she spilled some golden LA trivia on me. Apparently, her and her husband were having a little neighbohood issue that required some legal intervention. When her husband contacted the police, they bestowed upon him a surprising statistic. It incensed her to such a degree that she disposed of usual trivialities of smokers conversation (wow, it's nice out here...I'm absolutely swamped at work...thank god it's almost Friday...) and went right into it. She asked me if I knew the three things the LAPD's Pacific Division is called upon to investigate most often. I made a few reasonable guesses before she could contain her excitement no longer and blurted the answer out.

1. Guns (well, yeah).
2. Drugs (another Duh. I mean, that's probably what any law enforcement agency in a major U.S. city has to contend with).

But number three?


Wait for it...


Trash Can Violations!!!!

Apparently this includes people who serially block driveways with their trash cans; those who leave their trash out on non-designated days; and people who claim prime parking real estate by strategically placing cans so that neighbors can't park in front of their house -- even when they themselves don't need the space.

Now I know that the west side of LA consists of a helluva lot of swanky areas; gated communities, untouchable beach-front property, bazillion-dollar estates... But can crimes of the 'Can really be at the top of the biggest problems LA's finest have to content with? And if so, why aren't other petty grievances further up on the list, like toy poodle-knapping or soy latte counterfeiting?

Sigh.

Do Over Part II

Things continue to be strange for me here in California, in a way that contrasts my first adventure, but not so vastly. I recall on the day that I flew out, I was expecting history to repeat itself -- delays, misadventures, natural disasters. In truth, the trip was uneventful. My flight was on time, my rental car was in perfect working order, I arrived at my destination without getting lost or traumatized in any meaningful way, and I even made a tightly timed dinner reservation to help my sister celebrate her birthday with friends, new and old.

In a way, I had prepared for my second arrival for over 10 years. This time, I had money saved, a car on its way, a place to stay, a new job to start, and a bit of experience under my belt that assured me that I wasn't the naive and unresourceful soul I had once been. I had a boyfriend planning to meet me in a few weeks, and the promise of a brand new start. And I still had the conviction that this was where life was meant to take me. So why would I believe that old patterns die hard and things never really change? Well, because they do...and they don't.

I settled in to my life as a temporary couch surfer at my sister's place. She was gracious and asked no more of me than to keep her dog fed, walked and amused until I started my job and found my own apartment. Nemo was not quite the troublemaker that Mackenzie had been, though I found myself watching him carefully, to make sure he stayed away from squirrels and other small creatures that he liked to chase...

Mackenzie had had similar habits. Only he liked to torment people. And lizards. When I lived at my aunt's house, he would always come to the gate to bark at anyone or anything that came up the driveway. Except once.

On this particular day, my aunt and I had been shopping, and when we returned and walked up to the gate, we were surprised that Mackenzie was not making his presence known in his standard, menacing way. When we entered the garage, we found out why. He was "playing" with a small reptilian creature in the garage, and was distracted by it. While this didn't alarm my aunt -- she told me it was common for him to toy with the small green lizards that inhabited the neighborhood -- I got a glimpse of his new friend and was immediately confused. While I'm certainly no expert on lizards, what I saw in Mackenzie's paws didn't seem to have the tiny legs of your average chameleon. And it had several curious nubs on the end of its tail. And those nubs were making a rattling sound. Like the rattlesnakes you see in cartoons. And in real life.

My aunt got the message right away, and started screaming. She chased the dog into the house and ran for a neighbor to help us remove the baby rattler from the garage. For all my tendency to panic in situations like this, I remained unsettlingly calm, because it was obviously Elaine's time to shine in the panic department. The blood she found in Mackenzie's mouth made it clear that an immediate trip to the vet was in order. And because she loved her dog, it was equally clear that we follow vet's recommendations that we start the droolmatian's antivenin treatment immediately.

Have you ever seen a dog on antivenin? Well, it's not pretty. Mackenzie's head swelled up to the size of a large bulldog's. And it's drooling problem swelled to the size of a small fish pond. And my aunt, in an apparent show of solidarity, broke out in sympathy hives.

The dog recovered and in a few days; his swelling went down, he drooled at comparably tolerable levels, and his cocky attitude returned with a vigor. On the other hand, my aunt's hives didn't disappear as quickly. Coz, you see, it takes about two weeks for chicken pox to disappear.

That's right. My aunt, in her mid 40s, had come down with a case of chicken pox, for the first time in her life. And I, who was busy job searching and couldn't afford to be down for the count for any length of time, had never had them, just like my mother, and her mother. We had thought some family immunity had existed. But not wanting to take chances, I fled the scene and found some places to crash for a few weeks while in hiding from plague.

Not that it did me any good. Two weeks later, a singular pink, itchy bump appeared on my left arm, and my fate for the next 10 days was sealed.

Now that I had endured earthquakes, snakes, boils and the slaying of the first automobile, I began to recall some early old testament education and figured that maybe it was time to get the hell outta Israel, so to speak.

In the midst of all the biblical signs that I should return to the east coast, I actually did get a job offer, with Ford Motor Company. It was far from my dream job, and work in the auto industry was far from what I thought would lead me down the path that I had intended when I began my westward journey to the entertainment capital of the U.S. My stubborn will would have allowed me to work my way up the rungs of the job ladder to the rooftops of my goals, but it wasn't gonna let me climb the Hollywood Hills without a straighter path and surer footing.

So, I booked my return flight and decided that I would return someday, when I had established myself in work, in life, and in my head.

It didn't quite work out that way, of course. Like I said, things don't change all that much, and over the years, I have often fallen victim to fate's cruel double whammy of stupidity and circumstance. Believe it or not, I have come almost full circle. I'm in California. I'm forcing myself to go out and make new friends. I'm learning new neighborhoods. I'm trying not to believe that every time I feel a door slam, it's caused by nothing less than the sheer force of techtonic plates slamming together. And I am working for a web magazine dedicated to marketing...in the automotive industry. Maybe I'll do things right this time?

Do Over

So here I am in California. Again. I've been here for seven months now, and it looks like this time it might actually stick. While I still consider myself a newbie here, it seems like I should be exempt from any cosmic hazing rituals this time around. Here's why:

The first time I moved to Cali, I was fresh out of college. I had dreamed of coming out to the Land of the Natural Disaster since I was a kid. My favorite aunt had fled here to escape our family's loving-but-smothering control when she was in her 20s, and over the years, I had visited her so often that it felt more like home than home did. So when I was ready to forge my own life, it was practically a given that I would follow in her footsteps and head west. I packed up, said my goodbyes, and lugged my belongings across the country to seek my predestination.

Looking back, there were signs right from the beginning that things were not going to turn out as well as I planned, and I hadn't really planned anything all that well to begin with. For starters, I was headed out with not much money, no car, no contacts, no real job experience, no permanent place to live...and no clue as to how to go about getting these things. But I had one thing in my favor -- I'm stubborn as all hell, and I was going to give it all a try.

California smacked me around from the get go. For starters, I had chosen a cheapo fare that involved a very tightly timed stopover in Atlanta airport. If you've never been there, it's a HUGE place, and often connecting flights requires a long walk from one terminal to another. This was the case, and since I had pretty much all my worldly possessions in carry-on bags, I made a frantic dash, dragging about 80 pounds of crap from one side of the airport to the other. I finally tumbled, sweaty and hyperventilating, into my seat for the second flight, and thought that all would be well from there.

Ah to be young and ignorant. My second flight hit some bad weather, and my fellow passengers and I were told that we would not be able to land at Ontario airport (about 2 hours east of Los Angeles International airport), as planned. We detoured to LAX and were coming upon the landing strip, when they reopened Ontario and re-re-routed us back there. Again, we were ready to land, when fog closed the landing strip AGAIN, and we were forced to circle for another hour. The plane finally touched down about six hours later than scheduled, and my poor aunt, who had been following the landing saga for hours, was able to pick me up in our original destination.

A few days passed, as I adjusted to jet lag, friend lag and ambition lag. I hadn't anticipated how odd it would be to live with family but not know anyone else around to talk to or relate to. My aunt Elaine worked crazy hours, and traveled often, leaving me alone with her dog, Mackenzie, for most of the week. I spent most of my days sending out resumes and sitting in her backyard, wondering what the hell I just did, and why the hell I did it. But on the weekends, Elaine would try her best to find ways to entertain me and help me familiarize myself with my surroundings.

And then she told me she was leaving for a week. She and my uncle were going to Hawaii for a vacation. I was fine with being on my own, and I was excited that I would have access to her car while she was away, so I could explore. But no more than eight hours after they left, I took the car to get some gas, and it died. Right in the gas station lane. Not knowing anything about cars, and not knowing anyone in the area, I did what I had to do: I panicked. Then I found a pay phone, called my aunt's neighbor, and begged for them to bail me out.

In retrospect, it was no big trauma. It was just a freak bit of car trouble. No reason to regret my relocation. It wasn't like the earth was crumbling beneath my feet or anything.

Then a few days later, the earth crumbled beneath my feet. And everyone's feet...and homes...and freeways. The Northridge earthquake was a 6.9, one of the biggest in southern California in many years. It hit at around 4 am, only about an hour after I had gone to sleep that night. I awoke to a sound that was like someone pounding on the door to my locked bedroom, trying to get in. Except that the door wasn't locked...and late-night bedroom intruders rarely throw picture frames, suitcases and entire bookshelves down on the floor next to your bed while trying to force the door open. This time, panicking seemed a much more standard reaction to have, so I took the excuse to freak out.

Aftershocks followed by the hundreds, and shaky, unstable buildings tossed bricks at unsuspecting passers-by during the next few weeks. An already weak job market was thrown into complete disarray as businesses spent their days looking for new office space and equipment, rather than for new employees. I was starting to get disheartened by my turn of bad luck. Little did I know that this turn, in turn, would turn just plain strange.

Stay tuned for Part II.

Smell Ya Later

Today's Freeway Scent: 405 N. smells like baked bread and chocolate croissants.

So far, the only smells I've noticed have been breakfast foods. Even in the afternoon, it's been eggs or toast. I'm trying to reason out a cause for this. First I thought that maybe there's a large Diner District that I drive past on my way to work every day, but that seems unlikely. Less likely is that someone is robbing a bakery supply store, stealing ingredients and stashing the uncooked food under my hood every night and when the car heats up, the food starts to cook. But as much as I like my Bakery Bandit theory, even I'll admit that these types of crimes rarely occur outside my imagination.

Speaking of...of course, my first thought was that I'm imagining these smells. But I know my brain pretty well, and if I'm going to imagine a foodstuffs smell, it's gonna be something I like or crave on a regular occasion, and I've never been a fan of breakfast. The day I smell garlic fries or pasta primavera, I'll accept my scent psychosis.