Things I Will Not Do to Seduce You:
- Take you to Sizzler for our first date.
- Gamble away all your money.
- Make you build me a pillow fort.
- Club a baby seal.
- Sing Italian arias to you.
- Educate you on the fascinating world of the Mole People.
- Ask you what happened on Desperate Housewives.
- Kidnap your pets.
- Attempt to excavate a time capsule.

One or two of you may remember the coast-to-coast trip I did in 36 hours in May 2004 to go back to Boston for my college singing group’s 10-year reunion.  The whirlwind trip in which I traveled 6,000+ miles in less than a day and a half and got 5 hours of sleep over the course of 3 days. 

What I didn’t mention was one of the main reasons why I didn’t get much sleep on that trip.  Sure, it was great to see all of my old friends who I hadn’t seen in years and there was much singing and reminiscing and catching up—and there’s also the fact that I can’t really sleep on planes, so I didn’t sleep on the redeye out to Boston.  But a main contributor to my lack of sleep was a very enchanting woman I met that night.  We ducked out of the afterparty and sat out on the porch of the party house for over an hour, just talking.

Forget for a moment that she was the girlfriend of one of the guys in the group (not one of the guys I used to sing with, one of the guys who was in the group at that time).  Forget for a moment that I lived on the other side of the country and was leaving in the morning.  Just see the lightning charge that bound us that night.  No, we didn’t hook up.  We just… talked.  I’d met her at the show earlier that night—we’d chatted briefly and I sensed a kindred spirit in her, so when I felt overwhelmed for a moment at the party, I invited her to come outside and chat, and she accepted.  So we talked.  For over an hour before we realized we were out there alone and should probably get back to the party.  Conversation flowed incredibly easily on so many levels.  We just… understood each other.  It was almost like Garden State where I saw someone wise beyond her years and the connection just fused between us, and I was just in awe of this amazing person who also seemed pretty interested in who I was as well.  I left the party at 4am.  Three hours later, I was on a plane back to Los Angeles with my overnight bag and her e-mail address.  We e-mailed back and forth for several months, but lost touch after she moved to New York. 

I last heard from her 15 months ago.  While driving out to Tucson this past weekend, in the middle of the night and in the middle of nowhere, I heard a song on XM that reminded me of that night… which made me think of her.  I e-mailed her over the weekend asking if she remembered me, but have yet to get a response.  And then I checked the alumni database on our alma mater’s website and found she’s already moved in with her then-boyfriend, since they both have the same address listed.  At this point, I don’t know if I’ll get a response… and I’m not sure I want to.

You know how they say that there may not be 1 person out there for us, there may be several?  My only question, then, is… how many of those several can you meet before you run out, because I’ve already met a few.

Crowded House - “Don’t Dream It’s Over”
Right-click and save as.

I fell out of my car when I got home tonight, and, in the process, I apparently got the attention of someone walking through the alley where my garage is.  After 500 miles, I was a little stiff and sore.  I was more sore at the idiots out on the road today, so here’s a quick driving lesson for all y’all:

1. When in the left lane, make sure you’re going faster than people in the right lane and the people behind you.  If you’re just sitting there in the left lane and cars are piling up behind you, get out of my way—er, I mean, get the hell out of the way.  That’s when I get to play my favorite road game, “Bitch, You’re Going Slower Than Me and It’s Aggravating the Hell Out of Me So Move Your Slow Ass.”

2. If you are, in fact, a dumbass and allow cars to pile up behind you while you’re sitting pretty in the left lane, don’t get upset when people, like, oh, say, ME go around you and pass you on the right, no matter if Mom originally taught you not to pass on the right.

I’m packing up in the morning (translation: morning for me, mid-afternoon for the rest of you early risers) and coming back to Los Angeles.  Before I do, there are two three things I wish to bring to your attention:

1. I neglected to mention that, on the way out, it was definitely the Great Eastern Migration.  Even in the wee hours of the morning, I was still surrounded by cars—all of which had California license plates.  I didn’t see an Arizona license plate until I was well into Phoenix, about 150 miles after I crossed the state line.

2. On a side road here in Tucson, I saw some guy off to the side of the road selling—wait for it—high-speed Internet access out of the trunk of his car.  I mean, I can see selling fresh fruit or vegetables or maybe even the occasional tamale stand… but Internet access?  It’s not exactly something you can cart around in the trunk of your car, box it up and then sell it to people to take home and unpack in their kitchens. 

3. If you haven’t heard of a band called The Go! Team, go out and get their CD.  Get it now!  I’ve already listened to it three times in the past couple of days, since it’s so infectious.  The only way to really describe their music is to say it sounds like music from end credits of ‘70s films with vocals from cheerleading competitions or those rhyming chants kids say when they’re doing those fancy pattycake routines, all drenched in some swell beats.  Thunder, Lightning, Strike is quickly becoming one of my favorite albums of 2005.

NWA - “100 Miles and Runnin’”
Right-click and save as, punk-asses.

Bits of tid about the past 36 hours of my life:
- Given that, including stops for gas and food, I usually make the almost-exactly-500 trip between Los Angeles and my folks’ place in Tucson in 7 1/2 to 8 hours, there must’ve been some serious crap going on on the freeways to justify making my trip into an 11-hour ordeal.  It took me 4 hours just to cover the first 90 miles!  It’s official—there are too many freakin’ cars in Southern California.
- I have never had a Frosty at Wendy’s.  There.  I’ve admitted it.  So imagine my surprise when it turned out to be not a shake, but instead a real honest-to-God dairy dessert like it says on the machine.  That said, having collapsed two straws in my initial attempts to suck it out of the drink cup the Wendy’s people put it in, it’s damn hard to drive with two unfrozen fingers while you rocket down the freeway at 85 mph, attempting to eat a Frosty with a spoon in the dark without spilling any on your clothes.
- At 2am, a great way to kill your progress is to see a Ford Crown Victoria pass you on a deserted road, then suddenly whip into a U-turn and catch up to you.  Yes, the cops were looking for blood, but thankfully, I gave them none.  I yanked the emergency brake so he wouldn’t see my brake lights, took it down to the speed limit and let him follow me for a couple miles before he got bored and left me alone.

Despite all that, I have metric assloads of stuff to be thankful for, including loving parents, good friends and a best friend who kicks ass.  And I’m also stuffed full of turkey and stuffing.  I love stuffing.  It’s my absolute favorite part of Thanksgiving.  I hope you had lots as well.

Oh, and before I forget again—to the person who hit my blog 40 times looking for “how to have a merry disco Christmas,” look elsewhere.  I’m Jewish, there will be none of that here.

There’s a distinct possibility that I was still a little drunk when I woke up this morning.

The legend of the pit-smelling has spread.  Okay, so I’ve been telling the story a bit, but mostly because it’s funny.  Sadly, it usually results in more people wanting to smell my armpits—but thankfully, it’s generally agreed upon that, yes, there is something going on with the chemistry between my deodorant and my body that results in a very pleasant candle-like scent.  Thank Jeebus the stuff is doing its job.

So I’m working another 13-hour day tomorrow with most of my Elite Cadre of Idiots™ already gone on vacation, making the day significantly less fun.  Then on Wednesday, I work a partial day and then begin therapy—500 miles of road with a metric assload of music to sing along to.  The Silver Streak launches at 3pm that afternoon… if I can get out early enough to miss the main wave of Los Angeles traffic, I expect to hit warp speed somewhere around 5pm.  I can only hope that all the stuff that’s weighing heavily on my brain can’t travel fast enough to keep up.

Citizen Cope - “Son’s Gonna Rise” (featuring Robert Randolph)

Random thoughts on the Monday of a shortened work week:

- Person whose car alarm went off outside my apartment at 6:02am, 6:17am, 6:54am and 7:13am?  I am completely going to smite you.
- My horoscope today used the word “sweet”—and not in the “awww, that’s so sweet” kind of way.  It was in the “that’s freakin’ sweet” kind of way.  So basically, I’m doomed.
- In the words of Droz, coffee.  Coffee NOW!

I heard everything from “you owned that stage” to “you totally rocked” to “you are a natural performer and a great singer” tonight.  If only they had any idea how nervous I was before I grabbed the microphone tonight for my singing group’s performance…

If you haven’t seen National Treasure, you really ought to.  Yes, I’m a sucker for Nicolas Cage movies, but he usually manages to do good stuff.  And this one is funny and fun at the same time, intriguing and captivating, not stupid and not sappy, and it’s able to do it all with a PG rating.  How about that.

The thing is… at least three people have told me that the character of ”Riley” basically is me.  Great.  I’m the comic relief.  I’m the computer geek who says all the funny one-liners to break the tension and amuse everyone while I’m also working some magic.  The problem is that comic-reliefers and one-line-magical-computer-geeks aren’t usually the stars, and, as in National Treasure, in the end, they make their funny little sarcastic quips and drive off in their shiny new Lamborghinis while someone else gets the girl.  Wheeeeeeeeee.

This is a true story.  Names have been changed to protect the innocent.  I swear it happened just like this:  I was sitting at my desk this afternoon when a co-worker came over to ask me a question.  I turned to face her and assumed the relaxed position—feet up on the desk, arms up and hands clasped behind my head.  She stopped in mid-sentence and then said, “Something smells good over here… is it you?  Actually, it smells like nice candles… have you lit some candles?  It smells good.” Being the wiseass that I am, I innocently said, “Maybe it’s my deodorant.” So she said, “Really?” and then bent over and put her face in my armpit to smell it!  Holy crap!  I couldn’t believe it—but I was thankful as hell when she said, “Yes, it is your deodorant that smells good!” Oh my God… I was mostly speechless—kind of alternating between laughing hysterically and trying to come up with some kind of response and failing miserably.

Either way, for those of you in the Los Angeles area, my singing group is putting on what could be our final performance this Sunday night.  If you’re around and have nothing better to do, why not stop by The Bitter Redhead in Santa Monica?  Doors open at 6:30pm, we go on at 7pm.  No cover, no minimum drink limit (and no maximum one either!).  Hope you can make it.

Yeah.  So.  Enjoy this lovely track for your Friday amusement.  Right-click and save as.

The Bloodhound Gang - “Mope”

Searches from the referral logs that led people here:

- ass rights for Catholics
- this toads the wet sprocket [Ed. note: That line is from one of my all-time favorite episodes of Futurama, which actually aired last night on Adult Swim.]
- vodka latkes
- lemonade picture
- why Whoopi doesn’t have eyebrows
- Jewish women on sale
- why Barry Manilow rocks

And now, please enjoy this aural pleasure:  DJ Zebra - “Foo to the Floor” (Foo Fighters vs. Starsailor)

After spending a 13-hour day at work, my Absolute Most Favorite Thing in the World™ is to go down into the bowels of the building I work in, seek out my car in the empty garage, open her up (yes, my car is a she), put the key in the ignition, turn it, have all the lights come on but have nothing else happen.  It’s the driver’s equivalent to a woman asking a guy, “Is it in yet?”

Thankfully, at 11:30pm on a Tuesday night, the tow companies don’t have much to do, so AAA was able to summon someone to my aid within like 5 minutes.  Seriously.  I got off the phone with them, went outside and wandered up to the security guards keeping a close watch on our garage entrance to let them know AAA was coming, and I managed to say the words “my car’s in the garage and it won’t start, so AAA is coming” when the guy pointed behind me and said, “There they are.” It was amazing. 

A quick jump and I was on my way.  (Construe that however you please.) Sadly, I have to get a new battery and may need another jumpstart in the morning, but I also had to keep the car running for at least 40 minutes, so I took the long way home… the really long way home.  At least I once again proved my theory that no matter what kind of a high-performance car you drive, what matters most is the driver’s skill—while whipping around curves on Sunset Boulevard at somewhere upwards of 50 mph, a Porsche challenged me and my little Honda Civic… and lost. 

Sponge - “Go Speed Racer Go”

- Why is it when people call you but it’s a wrong number, they always ask who they’ve called?
- Who the hell would drink wine named Jake’s Fault, Gnarly Head or Razor’s Edge?
- Why do most hot dog packages come with 7 hot dogs when there’s usually 8 hot dog buns in a package?  You’d have to buy 8 packages of hot dogs and 7 packages of hot dog buns to even everything out.

Oh, the IM follies… and no, I usually don’t use capital letters when I IM. 

Me: the dmv want to know if i’ve had any episodes of marked confusion, because if i have, i have to renew my driver’s license in person.
Me: does “yes, whenever i deal with women” count?
Amandarin: ROFL, well it should, but I don’t think that’s what they mean.
Me: oh.  well, that’s a good thing.  i can renew over the internet then.

Dear Linda (if that’s even your real name),

Hi.  We’ve probably never met, and there’s a pretty decent chance that we never will, since we appear to run in different circles.  You seem like the kind of girl who gets out to a lot of bars and clubs and gets hit on by a ton of guys, and that’s just not my scene. 

Normally, I’d pay you no mind, but that’s my number you’re apparently giving out to all those guys hitting on you who you’re not interested in.  Sure, my phone number sounds cool (and that’s been remarked upon by most of the people I give my number to), but that’s no reason to make me suffer—I’ve gotten phone calls from 7 different guys for you in the last 2 days.  There are definitely other ways to gently blow off guys that don’t involve me being pestered at inopportune times. 

Thanks.

xoxoxox

Now, for those of you who aren’t Linda, please enjoy the French new wave sounds of Plastic Bertrand’s “Ca Plane Pour Moi”.