Memoirs Of An Evil Genius

Hair Today, If You Don't Pull It All Out

I'M NOT DEAD!  I swear!  I know it's been a month or so since my last update, but it's just because I've been busy.  Busy NOT choking my producer to death, which believe you me has been a lot of work.  I don't want to go into details because it will kick-start a rage that will NEVER DIE, but suffice it to say that my homicidal impulses have been getting a workout like decathletes preparing for the Olympic games.

Other things I've been doing: removing the old, beat-up chair from my bedroom and replacing it with a cabinet; filling said cabinet with the pile of books, rapidly expanding like the blob, beside my bed; restocking said pile of books with rash and ill-conceived purchases from Amazon; eating Cadbury Creme Eggs; and going to bad movies.  I've been doing more than that, but I've been out drinking tonight and can't remember all that stuff.

Oh!  I also got a haircut.  There's a place in my neighborhood and I've never gone there - mostly because it has a person's name in the title without words like "super" or "fantastic" or "EZ", which translates loosely to "expensive" -- but I was kind of feeling like I wanted an expert at the helm for once.  Frankly, though, it seems like a waste of money as I wear my hair pretty short and it doesn't take much skill or critical thinking to execute that particular look.  And back when I decided that I wanted to do that "shaggy" look the kids were all going in for, I found out that when my hair gets longer?  It gets all wavy and curly and impossible to manage.  So I went to one of these pricey salons and asked the hairdresser (I feel so sophisticated!) to help me find a controllable look I could sport while continuing to let my hair grow out.  So she said she'd just cut the curl out of it, and fifty dollars later I walked out with a buzz cut.

Anyway, I avoided the expensive places after that, because what's the point, right?  Except that the last two times I went to the cheap places they cut that part above my right ear just a smidge too high, and I looked like Claus Von Stauffenberg's mentally handicapped cousin from Mayberry.  So I thought I'd give it a try one more time.  The woman who cut my hair was a close-talker, and an over-sharer to boot, and as she styled me she YANKED on my hair about A HUNDRED AND FIFTY TIMES.  I'm surprised I have any left.  More so because, in addition to the yanking, she CUT ALL MY HAIR OFF AGAIN.  They all say the same thing: "I LOVE your hair!  I wish MY hair was like yours!  I'm just going to cut the curl out of it."  And then later, "You like SHORT hair...right?"  I do like it, though.  I just with it hadn't cost FIFTY DOLLARS.

There I go with the rage again.  Anyway, you'll all love to know that Argyle totally told our loud-sex neighbor's roommate all about the loud sex, and apparently the roommate has been mortified on the loud-sexer's behalf about the loud sex.  Maybe you didn't love to know that.  But I've had wine.

Okay, I'm going to bed now.

Flying/High

I hate flying.  To begin with, I don't enjoy being 30,000 feet in the air -- call me crazy -- with nothing to break your fall but 90,000 pounds of fiberglass and aluminum, and maybe, like, a rosebush.  I also hate the fact that unless you are traveling WITH someone, you inevitably sit down next to somebody who wants to be friends.  I do not want to be friends.  I want to read my book and NOT DIE.  This does not seem to me to be an unreasonable request of the universe.

I should say that I had a wonderful Christmas vacation.  I went home, I saw my toddlin' nephew, I taught him how to say "octopus" (he said it like "OW-psss", and then I GAVE HIM ALL MY MONEY), and gave/received a lot of wonderful gifts.  I got to play with my dog and hang out with my friends, and my four-year-old niece invited me to her birthday party.  I told her that, as I live 2,500 miles away, I probably couldn't make it.  Her response?  "Ask your mom!"  I had no more money left, so I gave her my blood.

THEN.  I had to go home.  Ever since I enjoyed this little experience, I have been a...not so good passenger.  I tense up, I sweat, and every jitter of the plane causes me to start carving my last will and testament into the tray table in the hopes that it alone will survive our death drop into the rosebushes.  So I do what all God's children are supposed to do -- I get good and tipsy before climbing aboard, and try to let my buzz dispel the clamor of nerves.  We were maybe a half-hour into the five-hour flight (and I was maybe twenty pages from the end of my book) when the girl at the end of my row leaned over and asked in a drunken stage whisper what I was reading.  I explained, to the best of my abilities.

Drunk Girl: THAT SOUNDS GOOD!

Me: It is good, actually.

Drunk Girl:  I AM TOTALLY STEALING YOUR BOOK!  HA HA HA!  I NEED MORE WINE!  DO YOU LIVE ALONE?

Me:  No, I have a roommate.  A crowded house, actually.

Drunk Girl:  GIRL OR BOY?

Me:  A girl.  But our boyfriends come and go.

Drunk Girl: OHHHHH!  ARE YOU BISEXUAL?

Me:  Um...no.

Drunk Girl (disappointed):  OHHHHH.  SO YOU'RE STRAIGHT-UP GAY?  I'M BISEXUAL.  I LIKE BOTH!

Me:  That's...what that means, all right.

Drunk Girl:  YOU'RE ATTRACTIVE.

Me:  ...thank you.

So by this time, everyone on the plane knew that I was straight-up gay, and that my new best friend liked it both ways.  I was a trifle embarrassed, but tried to communicate that although I appreciated the company, it was reading time now.  She didn't get it.  She proceeded to inform me that she was flying out on an impulse to party with some guy she didn't know, whom she suspected would possibly be picking her up at the airport.  She used some...outmoded terms to describe him, which I will not reprint here because I find them to be impolite and inappropriate.  Just imagine her screaming "high yellow" or something similar, and you have the basic idea.

During the last forty-five minutes we bonded again when we encountered some minor turbulence in our descent that nearly sheared the wings off the plane, and I decided that if we were all going to die I wasn't going to meet my maker until I'd eaten every last piece of chocolate in my carry-on.  I shared, and this seemed to further cement our bond.  At the baggage claim, she was still with me, and still in...high spirits.

Drunk Girl:  I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT STEWARDESS CUT ME OFF!  I NEEDED WINE!  WOOOO!

Me:  When the hell are they going to send out our luggage?

Drunk Girl:  DOES THIS OUTFIT LOOK TOO WHOREY?

Me:  Nope, just whorey enough.

Drunk Girl:  HA HA!  LIKE YOU'D KNOW.  NO, YOU WOULD, BECAUSE YOU'RE HOT.  WOOOO!

Me:  ...where are my bags?

Drunk Girl:  WHY IS EVERYBODY STARING AT ME?  IS IT BECAUSE I'M DRUNK, OR IS IT BECAUSE I'M DRESSED LIKE A WHORE?

Me:  Can I pick more than one?

Drunk Girl:  I LIKE EATING PUSSY.  IT'S THE BEST!

Me:  ...

Drunk Girl:  YOU SHOULD TOTALLY TRY IT!

Me:  ...no thank you--

Drunk Girl:  OH, RIGHT.  NO, IT'S COOL!  YOU CAN HAVE ALL THE COCK YOU WANT!  I LIKE THAT, TOO!

Me:  Oh Jesus, please send my bag out right now.  I will donate to the church -- any church -- just please.  Please--

Drunk Girl:  I SURE HOPE MY RIDE SHOWS UP!

Me:  Yes, we all do.

Drunk Girl:  YEAH!  OTHERWISE I'M GONNA HAVE TO STAY WITH YOU!

Me:  Oh, look, it's my bag!  Bye!  Don't get killed!

And it actually WAS my bag?  But even if it wasn't, I was going to grab the next one that rolled by anyway, take it into the bathroom, change into someone else's clothes and make a mustache out of toilet paper, and then sneak back to the opposite side of the carousel to wait for MY shit to come through.

I am never taking the plane again.

Dressed for Distress

So last year for Halloween I decided I wanted to go as Colonel Percy Fawcett, famed British explorer thought to have died under mysterious circumstances in the Amazon jungle in 1925.  I had this vision of me in full Great White Hunter attire, with some arrows sticking out of my back for effect.  In the end, everyone else in my party decided to go extremely low-key that year, and I wasn't about to be The Guy With The Complicated Costume.  So instead I went as Andy Warhol, and it all went over very well.

This year, I decided to revive my dead explorer idea, and employed Tex in the enterprise of rigging my arrows.  We realized that putting them in my back would actually not be a serviceable idea -- one cannot sit in the car with arrows sticking out of one's back -- so we moved them to the front.  It actually worked really well, although the harness acted like a lung tourniquet whenever I sat down, and people all responded really well.  I had this stupid mustache I made out of cotton balls and tape (hey, not everything can be all fancy and special effect-y), which made drinking difficult, but I guess we all have to make some sacrifices for fashion.

At one of the parties, we randomly ran into two women I work with.  One of them, Manda, was outfitted as Elle Driver (from Kill Bill).  She actually did a very good job, and was sexy in an understated way.  At one point in the evening, I was approached by some guy who wanted to let me know that my "girlfriend" was very sexy.

Me: Um, thanks.  But she's not my girlfriend.

Him: Not YET.

Me: ...right.  No, we're not going to go out.

Him: But you COULD.

Me: ...no, probably not, actually.

Him: But the interest is there, right?  Right?

Me: ...have you met my boyfriend?

Then he got all quiet and awkward.  Straight guys are so weird.

Pride of Dracula

I am going stir crazy.  My boss has asked all of us in my department to put in "an extra hour" every day for this next little while in order to meet a hastily organized deadline or two.  Seeing as I do NOT get up earlier than I absolutely have to, and seeing as I refuse to stay any later than I can possibly manage, this means I have been working through my lunches of late.  This means I have not gotten a BREAK at WORK all WEEK.  I am going crazy now.  All work and no play, and all that, right?  I have half a brownie sitting on my desk and it is STARING at me, because it wants to seduce me into eating it, but I am STRONG!

That's bullshit.  I'm totally eating that brownie right now.

I'm going on vacation next week, and that should be nice.  In the meantime, we're watching The Hills again, and although it's not quite as titillating as last year, it's still generating a lot of conversation.  See, we like to stop our shows every minute or so to expound on why Spencer is a scary douchebag, and how he looks like a serial killer in training.  This is not really a joke -- we are seriously afraid that when he gets a little older, he's going to start keeping women in a pit in his basement.

I just finished my brownie.  OMG, if and when I die?  Please promise me that you guys will see to it I am buried in a coffin made of brownies.  That was so awesome.

Oh, and that reminds me of a humiliating story that's as good as any to end this post: when I was in college, I took this sociology class.  My professor would routinely go on these colorful and bizarre rants about personal space issues, his cat, eating a gallon of ice cream in one sitting, and odd behavioral quirks.  One day he happened to bring up Bela Lugosi -- I don't know what y'all know of the original Dracula, but the man sort of...became obsessed with the role and lived it.  Not with the blood drinking, but he walked around in costume all the time and slept in his make-up in a coffin and shit; weird.

Anyway.  My professor asked if any of us were familiar with how he was buried, and of course I knew the answer, so I practically LUNGED out of my chair with my hand raised, and he called on me, and I blurted out in this really smug voice, "In a COFFIN."  And then I looked around all proudly as I sat back down, like, suck on THAT bit of trivia, bitches!  It wasn't until he supplied the additional (and salient!) factoid, "...in full Dracula costume," that I realized I'd sort of picked the wrong element of that funeral on which to focus.  Like, yes, dumb-ass, he was buried in a coffin; as it turns out, that's not so uncommon. 

I was thinking about how he SLEPT in a coffin, and how creepy it was, but I couldn't exactly explain that to the rest of the class, so everyone just sort of SMILED at me after that -- in that way that you do whenever you're about to use the Royal We with an adult. ("And how are we doing today?")  Not my finest moment.

And let that be a lesson.

Nobody Drives, Nobody Gets Hurt

Okay, seriously, what the hell?  Remember how a driver-less van smashed into our building the other day?  Well, not ten minutes ago, an SUV plowed into the building across the street.  And this comes four days after I watched a car's TIRE COME OFF on the EXPRESSWAY in the MIDDLE OF TRAFFIC.  I don't mean that the hubcap popped off, or that the rubber blew or something; I'm talking about a wheel jumping ship and rolling merrily down the center lane all by itself, while the sports car skids to a sparky halt against a guardrail.  I repeat: what the hell?  There is some bad driving juju in the air, people!  It's like Lindsay Lohan is astral projecting from rehab to take revenge!  I'm afraid to get on the road now! 

In related news, tomorrow is Deposition, Part Deux.  I have to drive downtown, remember in detail an accident I witnessed three years ago, and then drive all the way back into the Valley for work.  The commute alone is going to take at least an hour each way, and I am SO JAZZED ABOUT THE DRIVE I CAN'T EVEN TELL YOU!!!

Also in related news, I have been working through my lunches all week just for that purpose: so I can still leave on time tomorrow.  See, tomorrow is ALSO Ulrich's and my 2nd anniversary!  So we want to go out to dinner together.  Working until 10:30 to make up for my deposition would put a crimp in that plan.  Like, happy anniversary, I got you a typed copy of my testimony in Barton v. City of Los Angeles.  But it won't arrive for another three weeks or so.

I Think I'm Paranoid

I hate it when I can't sleep because it's too hot and my boss keeps walking in to check on me.  I could really use a nap, people.

My hair is doing really strange things today, by the way.  I'm not sure what happened, but it all stood up this morning like it was holding a vigil for some reason, and it has yet to relax.  I totally look like a Parasaurolophus or something:

Well, I take better care of my skin and nails, but you get the idea.  Anyway, I cut all my hair off not that long ago, and it's actually kind of refreshing to have my hair short enough where it'll stand up and stuff.  Before, I had only two modes: Acceptable, or Hat Day.  Hat Day is hard when it's 8 million degrees outside, y'all.  Although it's actually been pretty cool the last few, go fig.

Domino is in town, too, by the way.  It's actually pretty cool, although I haven't really had a chance to see much of her.  We all got drinks on Saturday, but I wasn't feeling very good, so we didn't stay out long.  She was supposed to come meet me for coffee this afternoon, but...dude, NOBODY wants to drive out to the Valley.  Not if you have to, certainly not if it's optional.  So I excused her from that, but will see her tonight.  It's weird -- she moved ten months ago, but somehow it feels like it's been so much longer.

Anyway, we met for drinks at this pub -- it's a great place, but...okay, people, it's where He Who Shall Not Be Named used to hang out with his friends.  Like, the ONLY place they used to hang out, and do you know why?  Do you?  Guess.  No, don't guess, because you'll never get it, it's that stupid.  It's the only place they used to hang out, because they didn't know of any other bars.  IN LOS ANGELES.  I mean...what can truly be said about that?  The statement mocks itself with dry sarcasm, right?

Anyway, I bring this up to put you in my frame of mind on Saturday.  EVERY time someone entered the bar, I would look up in a panic, worried that it was him.  This seems totally irrational, I know, but HE was totally irrational, as if you need the brush-up lesson on the Kafka nightmare that was my relationship with HWSNBN.  Anyway, I would sit there, feeling like everyone was staring at me and texting YOU KNOW WHO that I was at the bar, and OMG!!1!  I did run into HWSNBN once after I dumped him and he freaked out and I worried he would stab me or May Day one night.  I should clarify: I saw him once after all that, at Target, but he didn't see me and I turned and literally RAN for the door like the place was on fire.  He might have seen me as I ran away, but there was no confrontation and that's all I care about.

I know, I sound crazy.  But the thing is, my life is SO GOOD without HWSNBN in it, and I have no desire to upset that balance.  Not for an evening, not for five minutes.  He was on a downward spiral like a water slide, and I spent six months with him dragging me along after him.  Done.  Anyway, he didn't show, and that makes me very happy.

At any rate, we're doing something tonight, and it should be a lot less harrowing, methinks.  After all, we're going to a different bar.

People Who Loathe People

So, did everybody have a good Fourth?  Mine was deliciously low-key.  When I was unemployed, every day was kind of low-key, so it was a treat that I got to take a half-day on the 3rd and have the 4th off all together.  I slept in, I read my book, made sangria, went to the movies with Ulrich (no, we did not see Transformers; yes, that does make us the ONLY people on earth who did not see Transformers), drank sangria and tried to read my book but ended up having a long discussion about Scooter Libby, made dinner with Ulrich, drank a coconut margarita while watching Alfred Hitchcock's Saboteur, and then essentially passed out.

I regret that I did not go out and watch any fireworks, because that used to be such an indispensable part of my July 4th experience, but crowds are becoming an increasingly effective deterrent for me.  With EVERYTHING.  Like, I hate going to mall and shit, or even the grocery store when it's all full of stupid people.  I'm not an agoraphobe, or anything, I just don't like all the hassle.  Someone's always bumping into you, someone is always standing where you need to stand; at the store, you always pick the shortest line that turns out to be the longest line because the guy behind the register takes for-fucking-EVER to scan that shit and put it in a bag; on the highway, you always switch lanes in a mad dash, only to come to an almost immediate stand-still while cars start shooting past you in the lane you just left.  I hate it.

I walk everywhere.  Everywhere I can, I mean.  Like, I don't walk to work, because I would die, but I walk to the store and the bank and all that.  It's relaxing (when the sun isn't out, of course), and I feel so much less aggravation and stress.  When you're in the car, it's all 'stop at the stop sign, stop at the light, shift gears, hit the brakes, shift gears again, find a parking space, what's that funny noise?, why aren't my gauges working?, that better not be the tire I just got replaced, etc.'  When you're walking, there's really none of that.  Maybe, 'what did I just step in?', but you can wash that off.

Okay, this entry went to a strange place.  Anyway, work update: today I did nothing.  They have nothing for me to do.  Tomorrow I will have actual tasks, but today I have been fucking around online, and it is AWESOME.

Now You're Not Cooking With Gas

I admit it's been a while since my last post.  I've been busy, though.  Working, working, worki--

I can't finish that statement or I'll be struck by lightning for lying.  I have ZERO work ethic these days, y'all.  The good news is that no one really seems to care.  Show up late?  Fine!  Take a two hour lunch?  Go ahead!  Fuck around online?  I don't even know who you are!  Here, have a paycheck!

In short: best job EVER.

We did get a ceiling fan put in, because in a couple of months you will be able to roast a turkey in our front room just by leaving it out.  Of course, you'll have to come by once every thirty minutes or so to baste it, or it'll be all dry, but regardless.  Also, I wouldn't recommend stuffing it, because the thermometers really only measure the temperature of the meat, and so sometimes the stuffing doesn't cook all the way through, and it TOTALLY absorbs raw turkey microbes while it's in there.

We are also finally getting our oven fixed tomorrow.  It hasn't worked for about three months, but this is the first weekend that I will be around and able to supervise.  You may ask how one gets along without an oven for three months, and the answer is: you don't eat!  I'm kidding.  The answer is: you go bankrupt eating out every single motherfucking night.  Personally, I like to take a little from Column A and a little from Column B.

This might shock you, but next week I might not be updating much, as I will be out of town from Tuesday on.  I will be thinking fondly of you guys, though, as always.  And also of all the shows that I will TiVo and then have to catch up on when I return.

Noises Off

Dear Neighbor With Apparent HEARING LOSS,

You are loud.  LOUD.  If the people throwing things out the dead man's windows (one of our neighbor's died last week -- yikes) didn't wake me up, your INCESSANT and BAD techno music would certainly have done the trick.  The other night, it was your girlfriend's caterwauling that AGAIN woke me up THREE TIMES in the middle of the night, and her disturbing sexual hysteria that followed for THIRTY MINUTES and, in my opinion, YOU ARE DOING SOMETHING WRONG.

Also?  In re: your choice of "music" this morning, which you are blasting at top volume?  At 7:30am?  Yeah, that.  Listen: 1986 called.  IT WANTS THE ROBOT BACK.

--Dr. Julius "I Will Come Over There And Choke You With My Claw Hands" No

Full House

Stately No Manor is a little bit cramped these days.  When Argyle moved in, she brought a surprising amount of furniture with her.  This was great, because after six months of living with my ascetic boyfriend -- sitting on the floor and eating out of ziploc bags -- it was kind of neat to have the place looking like a grown-up home again.  We acquired more stuff, and really jazzed the place up.

Ulrich has started to spend more time in LA, though, because he's lonely up at school all by himself.  This suits me fine, of course, because I get to see him more often, but it also brings complications in the form of all his crap.  He has to bring things with him when he comes, and because he's never gone long, he's started to just leave certain things behind.  My room is tiny, and already at full capacity, so this means there are now piles of things scattered around on the floor.

Ulrich is also on spring break this week, and staying at No Manor in the meantime.  Argyle's boyfriend Tex is ALSO in town for the month, working on a pilot, and he is staying with us as well.  Argyle's boss, in a fit of domestic pique, offloaded a roomful of furniture on her the other week.  OUR APARTMENT IS FULL.  I mean FULL.  My room looks like a landfill, the living room looks like a flea market, and the refrigerator positively cascades with food (HALF of which, let me just say, is elderly or infirm).

It's actually kind of fun, because we all get along, but I wish we had an annex.