who dat? contest:

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"i know!"

previous results:

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one of the mowrys. either sister or sister. i don't know which.

first correct answer:

brian gluckman


My shit just got the stiff-arm by a producer I was supposed to meet for lunch in Beverly Hills today; he read the script, wants to meet. Anyway, he did the typical sorry can we postpone ‘til next week I’m so swamped I really want to meet hope you understand thing. Sure dude, but what are you so busy with? Trying to figure out why your company’s last film only made 15 million?

OK, I’m now talking shit about companies who may be interested in giving me money for 115 pieces of paper with typing on them. Bad sign.

Why am I mad today? I can’t figure it out. (Guy, you’re mad every day you sourpuss motherfucker.) Maybe because after writing about being awakened by homeless with cans outside my window yesterday, sure enough at 6am this morning – crunch, crunch, "*insert drunken Spanish here*" crunch. And I yelled at the dudes and they did shut up but I was kept awake by the irony of it all. Being kept awake by irony. Another bad sign.

(Random memory: friends and I were so into the Doors when we were younger, we once were crashing at Devin’s place and put the song "The End" on repeat and went to sleep. We calculated we listened to the song like 43 times. I wonder if that did any permanent damage?)

I don’t think I’m pissed off because of anything that happened last night. I got a night off rehearsal so I tried to take a nap after work, but couldn’t, because I was rushing home so fast to have enough time to take a nap that by the time I was trying to take a nap I was too wired. So I watered my plants. Some of my plants I’ve had for over three years. Most are doing pretty well. I like my plants. I have some on my back porch. Someone stole one of them a few weeks back. My reaction to petty vandalism like this is always, "Aw man…" – and I stare at the empty place where the little fichus once was and then shrug my shoulders and go on my merry way because of this fact: I used to do all that shit when I was much younger. Graffiti. Petty theft. Breaking into cars. Severe egging. All of it. I even remember us stealing plants from my neighbor’s porch and throwing them at each other. And so when this happens to me, it’s just karma, plain and simple, and you can’t bitch about karma because you’ll get eye cancer.

In high school my friends and I were very into egging. It was like a personal hobby. Like woodworking. Like quilting. Egging. We raised it to an art form. Jeff (the dude who just got married) and I would do our homework and then one of us would pick the other up and we’d go to Safeway and buy 2 dozen eggs, mumbling something about an "omlette party", and head out. The best targets were people washing their cars. More specifically, people drying off their cars, indicating that they’d just finished. We’d drive by and SMACK! Dirty car. Have to wash it all over again. Ha ha. The best time of the year for egging for us was during Grateful Dead concerts. For some reason we found it fun to egg hippies. Because the town, back when they allowed the Dead at the Greek in Berkeley, would literally be overrun. Hippie-vans everywhere. And while I realize I am probably going to hell 19 times over already, I have to say egging hippies was fun. Tie-dye often swirls into a center which would serve perfectly as a target on their shirts. Joke was on us when we once egged a guy on his bike and he chased down some cops and the cops found us in the area and arrested us. Ha fucking ha, bike boy. I still remember what you look like.

Egging houses was fun, too. My house was egged once, so I felt totally justified egging whoever I felt like. The main target of our abuse was this rich-ass Young Republican fuck named Ron (which when put across from the hippie thing shows you that we were totally open to egging people of all political ideologies). Ron had a speech impediment and was in my economics class and I once almost got into a fist fight with him during a debate on Rent Control. I didn’t even give a shit about the topics of most of the numerous impromptu debates we’d get into, but for some reason when he opened that misshapen but well-groomed yap of his I just had this need to shut him up.

Anyway, as a result, every once in a while we’d go drive to his rich-ass street and get out of our cars and egg the fuck out of his house. Then, we’d drive around to the back of his house and egg that too. We never got caught, but we did realize one day that we’d been egging a neighbor from the back instead of Ron. For months. Oops.

Another fun game was "you dropped something". Being a college town, there were thousands of great candidates for this game; nervous and harried Cal freshmen hustling from class to class. You just drive past them and slow down, lean out the window and very helpfully say, "excuse me, you dropped something back there". This works almost 100% of the time as we are so worried in general about our possessions. The best was driving around the entire block only to see the poor guy still searching around the ground for something he may have dropped. Then we’d egg him. Try it sometimes. It’s great fun.

Another fun game is the puddle game, which, naturally, you can only do during or after rain. We did this mostly with underclassmen we’d pass on our way to high school. You find a puddle and then back up and wait at the curb for a little freshman to walk by with his little homework and his little khakis and then you floor it just at the right time and SPLASH!!! His little day is ruined.

Ha ha ha.

You know, I feel much better now just thinking of causing others discomfort. Thanks.


…Yesterday I left out the lovely Kim. She also did the survey.


… just to complete my first of many unfinished thoughts, the rest of last night I ate pizza with M., went to see Mumford (confusingly dull and strangely cast), and then went to a crazy-upscale bar for a friend’s get-together. We felt very out of place and underdressed and just sat in a corner and we pretended that M. was a famous actress and I was from Premiere and I interviewed her and she was a total cokehead slut bitch who really didn’t want to be interviewed but desperately needed approval from others. We amused ourselves to stop from wanting to slit our wrists.

The Larry King Happy Song Corner

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Man you’re not so perfect. I said man you’re not a pearl. You’re nothing more, man, than a little piece of sand that grew up inside of a girl. I don’t go for the novocaine cuz I don’t like the pin. And I don’t fall for the Jesus freaks when they seem like they want to win. And don’t be fooled, don’t be flattered. It’s not like you ever mattered. When the world around is falling down and every ship’s been shattered. Don’t be fooled, don’t be flattered. It’s not like you ever mattered, not to me. Ah, Rick James was the original Superfreak… speaking of which. That Rick James, boy. He can shimmy and dance like a feral dingo at an Upper East Side Gymboree during the play-supervisor’s illegal smoke break but, man, is he’s one crazy schvatza!

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