Life's our oyster and we're gonna suck that bitch down with a champagne chaser.

  • Behavioral Therapist
  • MA Developmental Psychology, Columbia
  • BS Psychobiology/ French, UCLA

  • Movies to See:
    Mission Impossible
    A Dangerous Method

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    The Life & Times of Tim

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    Game of Thrones
    by George R.R. Martin

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    El Camino

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    Newt Gingrich

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    Fox & Friends


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Thursday, December 22, 2005  
Indiana Steve and the Goblet of Unattainable Common Sense
As I may have insinuated in my previous posts, humans are not the brightest creatures on this planet (Dolphins are but that's for another post). It's not that they can't be smart, it's just that many of them don't try that hard to figure out obvious things. Case in point with my numerous encounters with a man, a man called Steve from Indiana.

It was my first day in Palm Springs over Thanksgiving break and I have 1 new voicemail message. Being permanently attached to technology, I absolutely must check it.

"HEEEY Mike.... it's Steve. Umm. Yeah. I drove by your hotel... I couldn't find you. I was uuh... actually looking for your girlfriend soo uuh.. YEAH. Call me back. See ya."

Alright fair enough. Wrong number. I do say my name on my voicemail and it's clearly not "Mike" but whatever. He thinks I'm his friend Mike. Ignored.

However, Steve tries his luck again the next morning.

"Hey Warren. It's Steve. Ummm yeah. Where are you? We wanna come over.... we're about to leave now and uuh..... we're wondering where you are... so me back. Bye."

Ok. Now I'm Warren instead of Steve. Maybe Warren and Mike are roommates? Maybe Warren is Mike's nickname? Maybe Steve's a giant tool? In any case, I had no access to a computer on the trip and was itching to find out where this guy was calling from. His area code was 219.


The pieces to this puzzle were coming together. What kind of person Steve was. What kind of person Warren/Mike might be. It was becoming abundantly clear that I was not dealing with Nobel Prize winners. Three times had Steve left me voicemails and three times had he neglected hearing, "You have reached the voicemail box of: PASHA BAHSOUN...." Despite this, I was having fun with Steve. He's clearly some sort of drug addict judging by the long gaps in his thought process in the messages and he's clingy. Upon arriving home from my vacation and through the power of Google discovered that the number Steve was calling from, 219 area code, was in Indiana. Another piece to the puzzle had been added. He had clearly stored Warren/Mike's number into his phone and pressed the wrong number and instead of 219, inputted 213, my area code. Perhaps Steve isn't actually clingy but he's just freakin' bored. How much action must there be in Indiana?

That evening, during a particularly exciting band rehearsal, Steve struck again.

"Hi Warren. It's Steve. Um. I just... wanted to hang out... um... yeah. Please call me back. That'd be cool. Bye."

The situation was getting more and more interesting. In ignoring Steve's voicemails, I may have become the key cause in Steve's breakup with Warren/Mike. Steve has been calling his friend (or love interest? Eew) for over a week with no response. Perhaps Warren/Mike just isn't interested in some Steve action. Or perhaps Warren/Mike is actually dead. Or perhaps Warren/Mike died years ago but Steve still clings to the dear memory of "chillin" with Warren/Mike. I decided I would call Steve back... if he called one more time.

7:30 AM the next morning.

"Hey Warren. It's Steve. I'm sorry we couldn't hang out this week. I'm headin' to the office now so uh... maybe we could hook up later on today. Hope to talk to you soon. See ya."

8:45 AM that same morning.

*Ring*...*Ring*...*Ring*... "Hi this is Steve, leave a message."
"Uhh...Hi Steve... My name is Pasha. You've been calling my phone looking for a Warren. And um... I'm not him so... stop calling me. Thanks."

Done and done. The situation had been taken care of it seemed without any conflict.

7:00 AM the next morning.

"Hey Warren. It's Steve. Please call me back. I just.... I just really need to hang out. Call me back man."

Steve was getting desperate. I had to put him down for good. I had to speak to the one they called... Steve.

8:30 AM that morning.

*Ring*... *Ring*...
"Uh...hello? Is this Steve?"
" name is Pasha. I live in Los Angeles. You've been calling me for like 2 weeks now looking for a Warren..."
"Yeeaaah... could you stop doing that? I'm not Warren."
"Aw...sorry bout that."
"No problem. Bye."
"Yeah... bye."

It speaking to Steve personally I confronted a man down on his social luck. The guy just wanted to hang out and be with his friends. Warren may have been a new friend of his that he just made in his lonely, lonely life. Perhaps now Warren and Steve can "chill" peacefully, without the impedance of a manipulative UCLA student. In listening to just a few messages from Steve, I was able to classify what sort of person Steve was, what sort of lifestyle he led and what his IQ probably was. You'd like to think that people aren't this simple. That you can't categorize them on such little information and for the most part you can't. But when a dimwitted chap from Indiana comes aknockin' on your voicemail, it simply begs for such stereotypes. And frankly, they might not be the most interesting people you'd encounted, but they're certainly the most fun to fuck with.

1:53 AM


Friday, December 16, 2005  
I, Witness
On the way to my biology final tonight (let's not talk about it), I witnessed several typical Beverly Hills moments that I found memorable enough to share.

Driving down Wilshire, I passed the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences where they were holding the premiere of some new Jennifer Aniston movie. Cameras, carpets and limos abound but nothing too out of the ordinary. Further down, parked in front of Kate Mantilini's were 3 Hummer limos, in a row. I don't know if they were planning on seizing the territory but there was a bonafide black barrier in front of the place, small penises and all.

As stereotypes would have it, fate found me stopped at a long red light on Rodeo Dr. (I have to give credit to the city workers or planners or whoever of Beverly Hills for doing such a great job with the holiday decorations from Beverly Dr. to Santa Monica Blvd.) As I gazed to my right, up the Via Rodeo steps, I saw a nice couple gazing upon the breathtaking lights and then engaging in a public display of affection (P.D.A. for all you hip cats out there). As I looked closer (in a, uh, non-creepy manner), they seemed to be hovering back and forth. I finally realized why their bodies were moving so strangely as they were kissing: they were both riding Segway scooters. Now I've seen businessmen mosying around town on their little Segways, but only in Beverly Hills, on Rodeo Dr., would there be a couple, making out on those scooters. They didn't even get off the scooters to express their emotions to each other. Perhaps they wanted a challenge.

Just after witnessing this event, I looked to the driver in the car on my left as if to motion with my eyebrows, "Are you seeing this??" and I SWEAR it was Dr. Ruth staring back at me.... of course it could've been just another old lady. They all look the same after all.

As the light turned green and I shifted my attention back to the matter at hand, my biology final, I realized that upon failing the exam, I would probably not get into a good grad school, not get a respectable job and never be successful in life. I would then not make that much money in whatever career I settled for, therefore I wouldn't be able to live in Beverly Hills and make out with my wife/girlfriend on my Segway scooter, at my own volition.

Funny how the mind works.

Editor's Note: While searching for links to tantalize you, the precious viewer, in this post, I stumbled upon several sites with pictures of Rodeo Dr. and other such places. What are the ODDS that the Wikipedia listing about Beverly Hills would have a picture of my apartment building as the main picture?!!? I mean come ON.

5:16 AM


Monday, December 12, 2005  
It's Finals Week
And that means it's time for the tradition of the ridiculously pointless Blogger/LiveJournal/Xanga Surveys.

I'm particularly proud of the results of this one.

Modern, Cool Nerd
52 % Nerd, 69% Geek, 26% Dork

For The Record:

A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.

A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.

A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.

You scored better than half in Nerd and Geek, earning you the title of: Modern, Cool Nerd.

Nerds didn't use to be cool, but in the 90's that all changed. It used to be that, if you were a computer expert, you had to wear plaid or a pocket protector or suspenders or something that announced to the world that you couldn't quite fit in. Not anymore. Now, the intelligent and geeky have eked out for themselves a modicum of respect at the very
least, and "geek is chic." The Modern, Cool Nerd is intelligent, knowledgable and always the person to call in a crisis (needing computer advice/an arcane bit of trivia knowledge). They are the one you want as your lifeline in Who Wants to Be a Millionaire (or the one
up there, winning the million bucks)!


Thanks Again! -- THE NERD? GEEK? OR DORK? TEST

Ok, for such a cool title, that guy is not a good representative of the population of "Modern, Cool Nerds." Can I be Regis? I'd rather be Regis.

1:38 AM


Tuesday, December 06, 2005  
Who Says There's No Good Left in the World?
During this time of the year, with finals upon us and the burden of finding new classes for next quarter looming, we as students seek to find relief from these pressures through any outlet. Some use Facebook stalking as one manuever, others check AIM away messages. I, on the other hand, looked to my Jack in the Box combo meal, in hopes of obtaining a promised complimentary antenna ball. As I drove away from the drive thru window, and reached into my bag for some curly fries and the ball, my hand could find no ball to grab. As I grew more panicked, I knew that the inevitable had happened: my ball was nowhere to be found.

Upon consuming my Jack's Spicy Chicken combo, I did what any self-respecting person with a buttload of finals coming up would do: I emailed Jack in the Box customer support.

I have been a long time customer of Jack in the Box and am a huge fan of your restaurant chain. Recently, I visited a Jack in the Box as I often do. I was so elated to have yet another Jack combo for lunch. However, as I drove away from the drive thru window, I realized that I had not been bestowed with a holiday antenna ball, as promised in the Jack in the Box ad campaign. Is there any way to rectify this issue without having to revisit the restaurant? I don't need to tell you that it would be quite embarassing to ask for an antenna ball while waving a receipt in the cashier's face. I thank you very much for your time.
Pasha Bahsoun

Now, I wasn't intending on actually putting the ball on my beauitful Mustang's antenna, but dag nabbit, I wanted justice. The email went out, and I received a confirmation email stating that I would be contacted within 24 hours.

No one responded.

One week later, coincidentally after a particularly depressing UCLA football game (I don't need to tell you which), I desperately needed a pick-me-up. I opened my mailbox and what do I find...

By golly, the folks at Jack in the Box just wanted to surprise me. They didn't notify me of their kindly gesture beforehand but chose to wait for my elated response when I received the care package. Good people exist in this world. Not all corporations are money grubbing power-mongers. Some companies care about their customers.

I see a Sourdough Jack or three in my future.

1:07 AM


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