This tale of last night's exploits comes after completing my first shift at bloomingdale's. Now let's get something out of the way right off the bat, yesterday was supposed to be my first day of training; videos, register training, store tour, that whole deal, but half-way through completing my paperwork, my manager Al strolls up to me and tells me,"Hey bro, what do you say we skip this today and we get you on the floor?"
I guess my previous sales record is good enough for me to skip a few steps...okay. Little did I know, my boss is actually the hispanic version of David Brent (no joke) from The Office, and he wanted me to believe he was cool right off the bat. This man is hilarious, not in a funny way, but because he still thinks he is young and hip. This is probably going to be the easiest job of all time. The fact remains: Californians are just plain lazzy. I don't think they mean to be, but compared to my midwest work ethic, these people are lazzy!Jeepers.
Back to the story
So I closed on my first day, which forced me to arrive back home at about 9:45pm. That's all well and good, but mewithoutyou was playing a show on Hollywood Blvd, and Blade Miracle and I were planning on going. The show started at 8pm and Hollywood is about 15-20 minutes from my house, so Blade put the peddle down and we reached Hollywood shortly after. Now, if you're unfamiliar with the strip, it is the stretch of Hollywood Blvd where the actor's stars are in the sidewalk, and the location of the handprints in the concrete.(this is also the location of the Kodak Theatre and the home of the Oscars) So Blade and I arrive, park down the street, and stroll onto the strip.
A short discussion between Blade and I lead to our conclusion that neither of us knew where this show was actually going to take place, so further delaying our approach, we walked up and down the strip like a couple of hookers until we found the venue. Once we walked up to the ticket both we realized we had actually missed the band and had made these far travels for really know reason. It was at this moment when Blade and I wondered why there were so many local television crews all filming and interviewing people on the strip. After I asked a policeman, I was told of this not-out-of-the-ordinary LA tale:
There was a 75mph car chase at about 9:30 on the Hollywood strip. Now, if you don't really understand what that means, think of this: Bro Row in Lincoln (the strip of 16th street on UNL campus that runs between all the greek houses) between classes around the noon hour. Imagine a 75mph car chase through that crowded strip of street. That is was happened in Hollywood. The shocking part of the whole deal was that people were like, "hmmm.That was weird.oh well."
Welcome to the craziest place on earth. I was going to try to make this whole story more interesting, but I guess I'm too busy thinking about my new boss.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Square peg, triangle hole
This morning's "incedent" happened to take place at the very same local as many of my other memorable moments of Southern California. Why yes, you guessed it; the ill fate that befell me today happened yet again at 24hour fitness. Thankfully today's tale has nothing to do with making a 'duce', but it maintains it's own level of hillarity (or at least its resounding interest struck me as such)
This morning's trip to 24hr began like many of the others before it except for 3 ironic scenarios:
1) While working out late last week I remembered how much I prefer to lift in a tight-fitting running top. It really has nothing to do with thinking I look tougher in something tight (though, let's get honest with ourselves...I do look way tougher lifting in that tight running top) I just prefer to not look like all of the dudes going sleeveless so they can show off their 'pipes' to all the 'whores'. So to wrap up: tight-fitting running top.
2) While working out around 9pm on Sunday evening I noticed that I was sweating terribly as I lifted (due to poor air circulation...thank you Magic Johnson for your contributions to 24hr Fitness) so when I prepared to go to 24hr this morning I remembered to pack my navy blue bandana to prevent the sweat from imparing my vision of the weight room and poor plastic surgery
3) Let's just get honest with each other here: up untill this afternoon, I've been unemployed which had created a lack of zeal for any sort of facial hair removal or shaving on my part. Granted, this little unkempt appearance might have been the very condition keeping me from employement, but none the less, as I left for 24hr this morning, I was about 3-4 days unshaven.
So in review: Tight fitting long sleave running top, Blue bandana worn low on my forehead/over my ears, 3-4 day amount of facial hair all leading up to a grand total of: LOOKING LIKE A TOTAL GANGSTA.
I honestly hadn't made the connection between myself and a skinnier Tupac Sukar until I was doing a set of reverse flies on the "freestyle" machine when a large ex-Raiders lineman approached me and asked, "how many more sets you got...Hommie?"
Now, I would like to make it clear that he didn't just say, "How many more sets you got hommie?" He walked up to me, set his bag down, puffed his chest slightly as a unsaid way of letting me know that he could really say anything he wanted, and said "how many more sets you got" looked me up and down, leaned in and finished with, "Hommie"
Was I scared, Yes. Did I think he was going to hit me, Yes. Did I thug out and tell him I'll be finished when I'm finished...No. I simply said, I just got one more (which was a lie, I had wanted to do another 3 sets, but he was an ex-Raider), finished up my last set, wiped the machine down for the man only to have him loose interest and walk off.
The moral of the story is unknown. It should be something about trying to be something you're not, but that wasn't a bad thing in this case. A large black man called me "Hommie". That was probably the coolest thing to happen to me since I've been out here. At least it tops those dolphins we saw at the beach. Dolphins...please.
This morning's trip to 24hr began like many of the others before it except for 3 ironic scenarios:
1) While working out late last week I remembered how much I prefer to lift in a tight-fitting running top. It really has nothing to do with thinking I look tougher in something tight (though, let's get honest with ourselves...I do look way tougher lifting in that tight running top) I just prefer to not look like all of the dudes going sleeveless so they can show off their 'pipes' to all the 'whores'. So to wrap up: tight-fitting running top.
2) While working out around 9pm on Sunday evening I noticed that I was sweating terribly as I lifted (due to poor air circulation...thank you Magic Johnson for your contributions to 24hr Fitness) so when I prepared to go to 24hr this morning I remembered to pack my navy blue bandana to prevent the sweat from imparing my vision of the weight room and poor plastic surgery
3) Let's just get honest with each other here: up untill this afternoon, I've been unemployed which had created a lack of zeal for any sort of facial hair removal or shaving on my part. Granted, this little unkempt appearance might have been the very condition keeping me from employement, but none the less, as I left for 24hr this morning, I was about 3-4 days unshaven.
So in review: Tight fitting long sleave running top, Blue bandana worn low on my forehead/over my ears, 3-4 day amount of facial hair all leading up to a grand total of: LOOKING LIKE A TOTAL GANGSTA.
I honestly hadn't made the connection between myself and a skinnier Tupac Sukar until I was doing a set of reverse flies on the "freestyle" machine when a large ex-Raiders lineman approached me and asked, "how many more sets you got...Hommie?"
Now, I would like to make it clear that he didn't just say, "How many more sets you got hommie?" He walked up to me, set his bag down, puffed his chest slightly as a unsaid way of letting me know that he could really say anything he wanted, and said "how many more sets you got" looked me up and down, leaned in and finished with, "Hommie"
Was I scared, Yes. Did I think he was going to hit me, Yes. Did I thug out and tell him I'll be finished when I'm finished...No. I simply said, I just got one more (which was a lie, I had wanted to do another 3 sets, but he was an ex-Raider), finished up my last set, wiped the machine down for the man only to have him loose interest and walk off.
The moral of the story is unknown. It should be something about trying to be something you're not, but that wasn't a bad thing in this case. A large black man called me "Hommie". That was probably the coolest thing to happen to me since I've been out here. At least it tops those dolphins we saw at the beach. Dolphins...please.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Perfect time for a catastrophe
Yesterday morning after a joville celebration acknowledging the fact that I slept in later than 7:30am, I proceeded to use the hallway water closet in hopes of preforming my morning constitutional when I stumbled upon the unthinkable: A disaster so devious throughout history it has been the very act responsible for bringing kings to their knees, religious leaders to uncontrolable rage, nations to cival war...Yes, I peered into the hallway water closet only to discover that we were out of toliet paper.
Even at this moment I shutter at this thought of the unthinkable, and even you reading these lines are failing to see the merit in my words. This situation wasn't like seeing Bigfoot walking across a clearing, or a blurry photo of the Loch Ness, this was a true account of what some have already dubbed a brush with fate or a meeting with destiny.
As I saw the vacant toliet paper dispenser staring at me blankly like the view inside an ancient tomb, denile began to fill judgment: "there is more under the sink, we must keep more of it in the hall closet, maybe someone used it as a napkin and the remanding role is sitting on the table." Like trying to find Kennedy's killer, all options proved useless. Suddenly like a lightning bolt cascading through my brain, and idea struck; check Jeff's bathroom. As if I was the star quarterback entering the field before the homecoming game, I poured into Jeff's bathroom. Aside from a high-school era photo of Jeff's family, the bathroom contained nothing but Jeff's parents peering eyes.
If you're famililar with this next sensation, you're not alone, panic can strike at anytime. We call it 'loosing it' the French call it "le panic", but it isn't normal fear like, "Oh man, the Germans rolled over us again I really hope the US can bail us out." It is terror. As I rifled through my belongings hoping to find a blade capable of ending this nightmare I stumbled upon my 24hour Fitness ID. At first I failed to realize how staring at beautiful women while they worked out would help my current predicament, but then it struck me: 24hour has restrooms. My ID, my saving grace, was held close to my heart like a wayward kitten who had thought it through.
Within seconds of my epiphany my sneakers were on and I reached my hand toward the door only to be plagued with yet another fork in the road; run or walk? 24hour Fitness is literally 3/4 or a mile down the street on which I live. I can jog there in less than 6 minutes, but would the jarring up and down of my body force some 'unnatural' results, or do I risk a long walk where, like a pregnant woman, I was do at anytime? As my lower midsection burned with the pains of nature, I was running down the street before I knew what was happening. As an old runner, there are a few tricks to 'keeping your cool' while you're running, but this scenario was perhaps the toughest situation I'd ever settled into. Thankfully, I walked through 24hr's doors with my undershorts still shy of a nuclear rating, scanned my card, stood around for awhile so it didn't look like I had just ran a mile to use the bathroom, and carefully moved toward the restroom.
The last stint of terror occured in the bathroom stall itself, as I reached for a paper seat cover only to read the capation blazen above the paper. "Supplied by the management, for your Protection." I'm sorry, but the last thing I want to have to think about while I'm unleashing a duce, is the fact that I also have to be Protecting myself from only the Lord knows what. Needless to say, I hovered.
Shortly after the smoke cleared in the men's room, I emerged victorious. The problem no became that I couldn't just leave the gym after what I had done because the beautiful women who work the front desk would certainly believe, "Hey, that guy just came in here to drop a duce...what a sick-ie." So I proceeded to ride an exercise bike for 20 minutes to make it look like I was an athlete. Only the mighty. Only.
Even at this moment I shutter at this thought of the unthinkable, and even you reading these lines are failing to see the merit in my words. This situation wasn't like seeing Bigfoot walking across a clearing, or a blurry photo of the Loch Ness, this was a true account of what some have already dubbed a brush with fate or a meeting with destiny.
As I saw the vacant toliet paper dispenser staring at me blankly like the view inside an ancient tomb, denile began to fill judgment: "there is more under the sink, we must keep more of it in the hall closet, maybe someone used it as a napkin and the remanding role is sitting on the table." Like trying to find Kennedy's killer, all options proved useless. Suddenly like a lightning bolt cascading through my brain, and idea struck; check Jeff's bathroom. As if I was the star quarterback entering the field before the homecoming game, I poured into Jeff's bathroom. Aside from a high-school era photo of Jeff's family, the bathroom contained nothing but Jeff's parents peering eyes.
If you're famililar with this next sensation, you're not alone, panic can strike at anytime. We call it 'loosing it' the French call it "le panic", but it isn't normal fear like, "Oh man, the Germans rolled over us again I really hope the US can bail us out." It is terror. As I rifled through my belongings hoping to find a blade capable of ending this nightmare I stumbled upon my 24hour Fitness ID. At first I failed to realize how staring at beautiful women while they worked out would help my current predicament, but then it struck me: 24hour has restrooms. My ID, my saving grace, was held close to my heart like a wayward kitten who had thought it through.
Within seconds of my epiphany my sneakers were on and I reached my hand toward the door only to be plagued with yet another fork in the road; run or walk? 24hour Fitness is literally 3/4 or a mile down the street on which I live. I can jog there in less than 6 minutes, but would the jarring up and down of my body force some 'unnatural' results, or do I risk a long walk where, like a pregnant woman, I was do at anytime? As my lower midsection burned with the pains of nature, I was running down the street before I knew what was happening. As an old runner, there are a few tricks to 'keeping your cool' while you're running, but this scenario was perhaps the toughest situation I'd ever settled into. Thankfully, I walked through 24hr's doors with my undershorts still shy of a nuclear rating, scanned my card, stood around for awhile so it didn't look like I had just ran a mile to use the bathroom, and carefully moved toward the restroom.
The last stint of terror occured in the bathroom stall itself, as I reached for a paper seat cover only to read the capation blazen above the paper. "Supplied by the management, for your Protection." I'm sorry, but the last thing I want to have to think about while I'm unleashing a duce, is the fact that I also have to be Protecting myself from only the Lord knows what. Needless to say, I hovered.
Shortly after the smoke cleared in the men's room, I emerged victorious. The problem no became that I couldn't just leave the gym after what I had done because the beautiful women who work the front desk would certainly believe, "Hey, that guy just came in here to drop a duce...what a sick-ie." So I proceeded to ride an exercise bike for 20 minutes to make it look like I was an athlete. Only the mighty. Only.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Richie Tennenbaum is playing the worse Tennis of his life.
Yesterday, the stars aligned, good and evil were in a bitter stalemate, and everything was beautiful. I'm speaking, of course, of the Apartment 206 Summer Tennis League. The boys and I went to LA Valley College tennis courts and waged war on each other for about two hours of brutal tennis (or about as brutal as one could feel wearing high shorts and holding a racquet) I would be lying if I said it wasn't the sweetest thing I've done in a long time. I whipped up on the Juice and Blade Miracle, and played Ryan for the crown (note Kuhns was not mentioned due to the fact that he isn't good at all and was defeated in the first round of Tourney play) When the dust cleared, not only did I beat Norris in straight sets, but he also go mouthy and conned me into a double or nothing scenario where I cleaned his clock yet another time. Some children just need to be punished.
I still live on the couch which does suck, but I've been sleeping well so I can't complain about that. The living quarters are yet a bit on the side of cramped, but we're all having a good time thus far (thank you Reno 911!)
Last night as I drove through Beverly Hills and onto the sunset strip, I saw my first Ferrari, my first Hooker, and my first drug pusher. Oh what a town. I'm going to go look for a job today. I don't really know where, but I'm going to go look anyway. I'm going to hope for the worst, that way everything will look like a success.
I still live on the couch which does suck, but I've been sleeping well so I can't complain about that. The living quarters are yet a bit on the side of cramped, but we're all having a good time thus far (thank you Reno 911!)
Last night as I drove through Beverly Hills and onto the sunset strip, I saw my first Ferrari, my first Hooker, and my first drug pusher. Oh what a town. I'm going to go look for a job today. I don't really know where, but I'm going to go look anyway. I'm going to hope for the worst, that way everything will look like a success.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Californianiaian
I sleep on the couch. I don't know my way around town. My only friends are my roomates. I am in California. I guess that last statement is supposed to make all the previous sentances seem ludacris, but it is tough living in such an interesting place knowing things are so much easier back home.
Honesty time, I know you want it so here it is: I miss Lincoln, I miss Nebraska. (it almost looks like I wrote: I Miss Nebraska) I know this home sickness only stems from being in a new place for the first time in my life, but there is some value in those thoughts. Everything was plesant and all around perfect for me in Lincoln...besides the fact that I was miserable. Being the new fish in this huge ocean called 'LA' isn't any better at this point, but its something I have to do so I'll make the most of it.
Things aren't completely unsightly, I did swim near some dolphins in Malibu today. Who would have thought you'd be swimming in the ocean and then all of the sudden...dolphins. Wild stuff. I have to admit it is beautiful country out here. It's nice I guess, but a good old cornfield would beat any ocean view or mountain ridge any day of my week.
Honesty time, I know you want it so here it is: I miss Lincoln, I miss Nebraska. (it almost looks like I wrote: I Miss Nebraska) I know this home sickness only stems from being in a new place for the first time in my life, but there is some value in those thoughts. Everything was plesant and all around perfect for me in Lincoln...besides the fact that I was miserable. Being the new fish in this huge ocean called 'LA' isn't any better at this point, but its something I have to do so I'll make the most of it.
Things aren't completely unsightly, I did swim near some dolphins in Malibu today. Who would have thought you'd be swimming in the ocean and then all of the sudden...dolphins. Wild stuff. I have to admit it is beautiful country out here. It's nice I guess, but a good old cornfield would beat any ocean view or mountain ridge any day of my week.
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