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

  • TV Shows to Watch:
    The Life & Times of Tim

  • Book to Read:
    Game of Thrones
    by George R.R. Martin

  • Album to Listen to:
    The Black Keys
    El Camino

  • Person to Hate:
    Newt Gingrich

  • Group of People to Despise:
    Fox & Friends


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Sunday, September 30, 2007  
A Sign of the L.A. Times
I've always tried to keep myself up-to-date with the news and current events whether it be through the masterful anchoring of the local news, the hapless attempts at journalism over at CNN, the always reliable Jon Stewart, or the old long-winded favorite, the newspaper. As a working man, you might picture me early in the morning with a cup o' java, reading the front page of the L.A. Times, with a pipe hanging out of the corner of my mouth, before heading off to work. Your image would be accurate except for the part of me being awake in the morning and everything that came after that. The truth is, I pick apart the newspaper Thursday through Sunday, selecting articles from my favorite sections, the front page, California section, Calendar, Sports and the comics of course, and save them for later. Every other day, I get it in my email in which case the sorting is slightly different, i.e. opening up 30 tabs in Firefox. Sometimes I save the articles for so long that they become dated and irrelevant, so they get thrown out. However, it's the gathering of these select articles that has become my ritual and when that is disrupted, I am none too pleased.

In the apartment building I call my place of residence, otherwise known as the den of thieves and scoundrels, my L.A. Times frequently goes missing. If I don't get to it by a certain time, it's gone for good. The delivery guy tends to leave it by the elevator instead of in front of my door where he's supposed to, hence any vagrant moseying around the putrid halls of Hamilton Park can snatch up my paper. I've recently found a solution, albeit a lame and passive one, to this issue on the L.A. Times website. You can report a missing paper and either request a replacement or a credit on your account. I typically request a credit because I don't really want a replacement...I'll just read it online. Last weekend, after a 3 day string of missing papers, I reported each one of them missing on the website, hoping to reconcile my lost newspapers. Unbeknownst to me, apparently reporting a missing paper is filed as a complaint against the delivery boy for some reason. It is with that fact that leads to what was found on the Sunday morning edition of the L.A. Times the following day. Written in black marker on the plastic wrapping around my paper was the following:



Everyday there are complaints why if I give you paper!


My intention with this whole ordeal was not to penalize this delivery boy, but to be credited for my rightfully earned newspapers, defiled by my demonic, thieving neighbors. I was tempted to write a rebuttal on a plastic bag, but I wasn't sure what I would say. "It's not your fault, buddy. My neighbors are douchebags and steal my paper. NOT COOL!" I think the last time I was called "not cool" was some time in highschool (or was it last week...) so it kind of hurts me, to tell you the truth Mr. Delivery Boy. It was not my intention to endanger your job over at the Times. I feel your plight and I sympathize. But maybe put my paper in front of my door next time instead of in front of the elevator where the nefarious pricks who pervade my apartment building will be less prone to steal my Times and therefore will prevent any further defamation against your reputation, Mr. Delivery Boy.

Where have the days gone when an 11 year old boy would chuck newspapers from a bike at 4am? I suppose that would be a little more difficult to accomplish in an apartment building, but still, protesting against the subscriber via black marker and plastic bag is a huge leap from child on bike throwing papers. Perhaps I will put a note one of these days for the delivery boy, describing my dilemma and defending my stance, proclaiming my innocence, and professing the guilt of the transgressors living around me. Perhaps we will join forces, me and the delivery boy, to fight back against the sinners of Hamilton Park. Thou shalt not steal, you fleet of douche nozzles. Thou shalt not be NOT COOL!


4:45 AM


Sunday, September 09, 2007  
Money Business
Much has changed since I last posted in this venue. Since being in education/employment purgatory, I've gotten off my lazy behind and actually gotten myself a real job. Not a half-assed summer job at Blockbuster, not a volunteer gig and not a job that pays in traveler's checks. An actual, growed-up people's job. And I'm lucky enough that it's a job that I actually enjoy, that's in the field I studied in college and it's not a horrific research job that I would've been stuck with. And guess what? I get paid for it too. Working full time is a change from my lethargic lifestyle that I was growing accustomed to, but feeling sort of guilty about at the same time, but it's been a good, character-building experience. Granted, I've only been working a week, but in that time, I have aged at least two. While I've never been in it for the money, discussing salaries and paychecks has gotten me a little riled up that I'll actually be earning money not extracted from my mom's wallet for doing something I enjoy, and at a pretty good rate at that.

Graduating and not having the structure of school, summer, more school, summer again that I've adhered to for upwards of 16 years left me bewildered as to what the blazes I was supposed to do. I had made the decision to take a year off but didn't really think through what my plan for that year was going to be. I'd been hounding professors for months begging for research jobs (snoozefest) but they're mean, as we all well know, and never responded to me, except for one that just responded a month after I emailed them and when I have already secured a job. I started to panic for a while there and started looking for any sort of employment. Looking through long lists of suspicious looking internships on Craigslist made it seem like I'd either be unemployed for life or have an internship with Faroush Maliki Enterprises, an interior decoratoring firm in Beverly Hills. But those days are long gone, for I can now call myself a working man, something I never have been, and didn't think I would be for a very long time.

A steady income is still a foreign concept to me. Filling out timesheets, something about some guy named Fica who steals my money every two weeks. I was excited to have the sporadic income of selling textbooks on, but this is an entirely new venture. With the benefits of paychecks and the prosperity of declaring that I am a working young man comes changes to the lazy lifestyle I once practiced. I generally have forfeited going to bed in the early morning hours and waking up in the early afternoon. Instead of going to bed right before the Today Show, I go to bed right before Conan (or right after the monologue, because I can't help myself). Another benefit of being at work and not at school, when you get home there's no homework or studying to do. Sure, I find myself thinking about that day and the following day due to the nature of the job, but otherwise, I have nothing to worry about. Another perk, I get to say things like, "I've gotta stop by the office for a bit," and, "Man, I had a long day at work." I feel somehow more accomplished by being exhausted from work than tired from studying a boring ol' textbook. I'd hate to knock the educational system, but working just feels better after cracking the books for oh so long.

The whole thing has made me feel all the more aged, not like a fine wine that gets sweeter and smoother over time, but like a bucket of water that's sitting outside. It slowly evaporates over time and accumulates hordes of mosquitoes carrying West Nile Virus. I've resurrected a Palm Pilot, circa 2001, to keep track of my schedule, I pack a sack lunch, and I have the possibility of a 401k in my future. Something tells me that if and when I finally got to graduate school, that I'll be more aged and wrinkled than my competition, but at the same time more experienced, richer and dare I say wiser, than the lot of them. I was looking for experience in the field of psychology, but it's quite possible that I've found something more valuable: a steady income and experience in a field that I've been sheltered from for too That'll give me a leg-up when I take the next step in my endless academic endeavors, while I develop more corny lines like that last one. Don't scoff at me...I'm old, it's how I function.

4:08 AM


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