USA vs. iPhone

Weighing the costs and benefits of the United States Government and the iPhone. What have they done for me lately?

Cost

This year, I paid about $12,000 in federal income taxes. I paid $599 for my iPhone. Interestingly, both gave me refunds- Congress recently passed a stimulus package, from which I should receive $600, or %.05 of what I paid. Apple gave me back $100 dollars in apple store credit, about %17 of what I paid. Not only is iPhone cheaper than the federal government, but the refund it gave me was more substantial.

My Reputation Abroad

Have you been to a foreign country lately? Everyone thinks you’re an asshole because you’re an American. Foreigners feel obliged to tell you what a monster George W. Bush is, and when you say that you voted for the other guy, they look at you like you’ve just claimed that the MOMA is cooler than the Louvre. The iPhone, on the other hand, will probably get you laid abroad, and even if it doesn’t, it’s sure to impress Asians, who are obsessed with technology.

Transportation

I’m pretty grateful for all these freeways and whatnot, but Eisenhower built those like fifty years ago. Since then foreign and monetary policy have caused gas prices to skyrocket. On the other hand, I can find my way around anywhere in the country with the Google maps feature on my iPhone.

Transparency

The Bush administration has been Stalin-esque when it comes to transparency. Dick Cheney claims executive privilege when you ask him about the weather. They’ve used draconian measures to deal with terrorism, and are now illegally spying on U.S. citizens. Apple, too, has had a bumpy track record when it comes to transparency. And for a while, it was locked in a veritable arms race with iPhone “hackers,” who only wanted to run 3rd-party applications and allow iPhones to be compatible with other service providers. But lately they’ve changed their tune a bit, releasing SDKs, opening the door for 3rd party applications. And while they’re still fighting off the hackers, they appear amenable to comprising a little. At least more than Dick Cheney and his man sized safe full of baby tears.*

Conclusion

The iPhone will get me jerked off. The U.S. government will just jerk me around.

* Source unconfirmed.

Rock Bottom in Bellflower

Several of the lowest points in my life happened in the year I moved back home after college. The absolute bottom was the day a job interview left me stranded in South LA.

Since my last gig in the movie business had wound up with me working for a shady, Persian “producer” who drove two Hummers and had a long history of credit card scams in Orange County, I had decided to try my luck in other fields. Whatever would move me out of my parent’s house.

I submitted resumes to every internet job listing, from craigslist to entertainmentcareers to Yahoo! HotJobs, and every afternoon I would wake up at about 2, see I had no new emails or voicemails, and go back to bed wondering what reason I had to keep living. If I had a health plan, I would consider getting on some SSR-Inhibitors - numb me and kill my sex drive so I wouldn’t have to think about how I had nowhere to bang women without my mom overhearing.

I was pretty fucking elated when one company actually called me back for an interview. They did “sports and entertainment marketing.” That sounded right up my alley! “This is an opportunity to join a team of young, energetic professionals as an entry level marketing rep.” I’m young! I’m energetic! I can wear a tie!

I nailed the first interview. I was a slick, UCLA grad with upper management written all over me. I confidently drove home from their Sherman Oaks offices having been asked to come in for a second interview the next day. When the guy had asked me whether I would rather be doing office work or being “out and about,” I said send me out there man! I imagined seducing expensive clients with fancy dinners and box seats at the Staples Center, all on the company card.

The second interview consisted of going out into the field with a pro, to see what the job was about, hands on. As soon as I was crammed in the back of a Kia and told we were going to Bellflower, a feeling of dread came over me. Jamal, my mentor for the day, told me he quit Medical School when this great opportunity came along. What would we be doing exactly?

Going door to door in a shitty south LA neighborhood to sell coupons for Clippers games and Papa John’s to people who didn’t want to be bothered. Aren’t coupons supposed to be free?

The guy in the front seat pulled out a CD and said “Hey! Have you guys heard of this guy Dane Cook?! He’s hilllarrriooous!”

Let me out. Let me out. Let me the fuck out.

I spent the 3 hours until lunch following these guys around in my suit as they went door to door selling pizza coupons to angry homemakers, dodging sprinklers and rabid dogs. There were no Orange County housewives hopped up on Valium who gave you a quick blowie in the kitchen. These were the girlfriends of former gang members answering the door.

When we stopped for lunch, I couldn’t take the prospect of another 6 hours of this. I ran out of that Wendy’s and wandered the streets of Bellflower, calling all my friends frantically; desperately trying to get them to pick me up and take me home so I could stick my head in my mother’s oven.

The Do’s and Don’ts of PAing

As a Production Assistant, you can look forward to long hours, back-breaking manual labor, and getting treated like a retarded child. A handy guide to surviving the shittiest job in LA.

DON'T: Take the "walkies" assignment

On most shoots, some poor PA is in charge of making sure every Walkie Talkie gets returned. Those walkies are worth more than your life, and there's always some teamster that goes home early and leaves his walkie in his truck. If you hear someone asking for a volunteer for this job, subtly look away like you have something more important on your mind.

DO: Take that run!

Going on runs (driving somewhere to pick something up) is great, because you get to get away from set. On a run, DO: take the scenic route pad your mileage sheet, find receipts floating around the Rite-Aid parking lot, turn them in, and deduct the total’s amount from petty cash. Fortunes have been built in this town by this very method!

DON'T: Volunteer for pro-bono office PA duty the day after shooting.

One day, someone will ask this of you and say, “do us this solid, we'll hook you up down the road.” They are lying. No one’s gonna “hook you up” or give you a chance “down the road.” They will forget your name within three days. Acts of kindness come rarely PAs, and when they do, they come without rhyme or reason, like prostate cancer.

DON'T: Tell anyone your name.

When someone knows your name, they'll ask you to do all their bullshit work. If someone asks, turn you head away, put one finger in your ear and your forefinger of your other hand up in the air. This is the universal sign for, “Hold on, I’m getting a call.” Now slowly back away.

DO: Smoke cigarettes.

Smoking cigarettes is the best way to network in Hollywood. It puts you in an exclusive club that often includes the most powerful people on set. It’s also the most acceptable way to take a break- more so than eating or childbirth.

DON'T: Talk to grips.

Most of these entitled union pricks are convicted felons who would sooner stab you in a bar fight than tell you what a C-stand is.

Stan Lee Ignored Me While I Was High on Hash

Production assisting is my Anti-Drug.

It's no small coincidence that the title of "production assistant" shares the same initials with "piss ant." My first gig in the dream factory found me completing such fulfilling tasks as getting yelled at for not retrieving a large enough “Mango-a-Go-Go” from Jamba Juice. I smiled gratefully to whoever it was dehumanizing me that day, be it the out of touch producer who threw tantrums when he had to eat In-N-Out, or his partner who used the term "rock and roll" earnestly.

On my 5th day working on a throwaway game show, a seasoned P.A. was gracious enough to take me under his tattooed wing, and teach me the secret to dealing with the obstacles of low end grunt work: covert intoxication.

Returning from a run to purchase $450 worth of Koo-Koo-Roo, John, the career P.A., indicated I retrieve a film canister from the backseat of his Chevy Tahoe. "You ever smoked hash?" He asked in a tone that implied, regardless of my response, hash-smoking would happen in the following moments.

Part of me thought it irresponsible to return to a set high on the mysterious, distant cousin of my all too familiar friend, marijuana. I'm a sucker for presentation though, and the fact that John had all sorts of paraphernalia rattling around in that film canister struck me as a fitting metaphor for the entertainment industry: flashy exteriors filled with instruments of sedation.

Returning to the set in an acrid daze, I immediately wandered into a bathroom to urinate, and did so successfully until I figured out I was pissing into a waste bin directly next to the sink. A call on my radio from an assistant younger than myself, but with way better tits (and higher in the power chain) snapped me out of my piss trance. She ordered me to show up to some sort of holding tent backstage for talent. “Stan Lee is inside, and under no circumstances are you to let him leave.” It is hard to understand things on hash, and even harder to assert authority over an opera singer, Miss California, a breakdancer, and the creator of Spider-Man.

After silently ogling Miss California from my stool in the dark corner of the tent, I shifted what little attention I had to the conversation happening between the breakdancer and Stan Lee; the former was pitching a comic book about a breakdancing superhero to Mr.Lee. Stan listened for a moment, exhausted his courtesy, then immediately exited the tent.

About 8 seconds too late my lips mumbled a protest with the volume and energy of two sleeping caterpillars. I peeked my head out of the tent to see what had become of my escapee, and watched as that same titted-assistant intercepted Stan Lee, shooting winces at me and my apparent failings.

Wow, I finally made it.

Trailer Trash: Tropic Thunder

The making of a Vietnam War film with Robert Downey Jr. as an actor in blackface. Why isn’t this trailer funnier?

I’m having trouble putting my finger on exactly why this trailer is so mediocre when it clearly should kick so much ass. Maybe it’s because the plot is a little too close to The Three Amigos. Maybe because it strays dangerously close to really-bad-movie-parody-land (see: Epic Movie, Date Move, and so on). Or maybe it’s because Ben Stiller is completely devoid of talent. (editor's note: Yes, he is.)

Ok, so Cable Guy is pretty good. But I’ll tell you why: Ben Stiller doesn’t try to be funny. When it comes to comedy, Ben Stiller always looks like he’s trying too hard, like the guy at work who tell his jokes really loud because he thinks the reason you’re not laughing is because you can’t hear him.

Jack Black is even worse. The weird thing about Jack Black is that he’s actually pretty funny in Indie movies. But put him in a Studio film, and he turns into a cross between Chris Farley and the Hamburglar.

The Robert Downey Jr. as a fake black guy part of the trailer does look pretty funny, especially the scene at the end when he starts quoting The Jeffersons theme song to the other black guy. You can really see why all those D.W. Griffith movies used blackface. Because it’s funny! What do you bet that this is the only good part of the movie?

If nothing else, shit blows up good and proper in this preview. That should be worth at least $200 million at the box office. I also hear that there are all sorts of crazy cameos, like Tom Cruise and that hippie guy that always takes his shirt off. I bet the Tom Cruise part is funny, too. Have you seen The Last Samurai? The man knows funny.

Even the Homeless are Critics

Last night I performed stand-up at the Karma Coffeehouse and offended a homeless person.

She came up to me after the show and told me. “You’re funny,” she said, “but do you mind if I give you some constructive criticism?”

I don’t normally converse with homeless people, but this one said I was funny, so I said “sure.”

“Your joke about the homeless person is offensive,” she said.

The bit in question is about this homeless guy, Murray, who lives outside of my apartment building. Murray’s got the laziest hustle I’ve ever seen. The guy just lays there in his sleeping bag all day, uttering out the occasional “d’ya have any change?” to passersby.

In the bit, I tell Murray to sit up. “I go to work all day,” I say, “the least you could do is sit up when you ask for your change.”

I don’t like hurting people’s feelings. So I tried to convince my bag lady critic that she wasn’t like the homeless guy in my bit. “You get up and do stuff, like go to comedy shows,” I said, trying to remain positive and affirming.

“Yeah, but sometimes I don’t like to sit up,” she said.

I could relate. Who doesn’t have days when they don’t want to get out of bed? I guess the only difference between Murray and me is that he actually does what I only wish was possible: lie in bed all day and have people drop money by your head.

“And another thing,” the homeless lady continued, “I noticed you brought a piece of paper with you on stage.”

“Yeah, I was working on some new stuff.” I said.

“None of the other comedians brought paper with them on stage,” she said.

What I wanted to say was “Um, yeah. It’s a comedy show in coffeehouse with homeless people in the audience, so sorry if I wasn’t bringing my A-game. But I probably would have just offended her further. And while I have hopes and dreams of someday performing in homeless free audiences, I have to take into consideration that right now, my fan base is sleeping outside of Big Lots.

How to Maintain Your Manhood While Walking Teacup Yorkies

Think you're man enough to walk a tiny dog? Think again.

OK, I know the title promises some sort of solution to the issue, but the truth is that I don't actually know how to maintain one's manhood while walking two yippy three-pound Yorkshire Terriers. I wish I did; it would make me feel a lot less gay.

At least twice a day, I strap Max and Minnie into their lavender-hued designer harnesses and take them prancing down the sidewalk. When I pass people coming the other way, the best response I can hope for is a polite "Aren't they cute?" smile, but more often than not, I get an "Is it Halloween in WeHo already?" sideways glance out of the corner of their eye. They don't say anything out loud, but I can sense them silently judging me. It's as emasculating an experience as a man can have with his pants on.

I wear my wedding ring as conspicuously as possible, as if to exclaim, "You see? I'm married! They came as a package deal!" But alas, neither that nor a summer squash in the trousers makes me feel any more macho during "walkies."

It probably doesn't help that I'm carrying a sandwich bag ever so foppishly between my thumb and index finger to pick up their leavings. They're not the big, forearm-sized poops you get from a Mastiff or Irish Wolf Hound, either -- ones you could use to maim someone who looks at you cockeyed. No, these are cute little pinky poops that fit three to a baggie and can be scattered by a slight breeze. Max at least hikes up his leg when he pees; Minnie squats like a bitch.

I've tried the clandestine approach, but a low-key walk is out of the question because they bark insanely at anything they perceive to be another dog -- whether it be actual dogs, horses (big dogs), birds (flying dogs) or brown paper bags (dead, crunchy dogs).

Ultimately, though, the key to maintaining your manhood is quite simple: never get married.

An Insignificant Part of the Magic

I’ve accomplished a lot, these past 6 months. After a total of 3 completely uncompensated internships, 236 cups of coffee fetched, 3,797 documents copied, and 1 unfortunate handie in a cramped closet where PAs store the walkie-talkies, I finally landed my “big break”: a trivial position in the post-production studios of a major Hollywood backlot.

But I am not a ditherer. In my short time there, I’ve already changed the course of movie history in a variety of possibly imperceptible, certainly inconsequential ways. Whether it’s giving Ashton Kutcher faulty directions to a stage or mistakenly eating a sandwich intended for Randy Newman, one thing is clear: I am a totally insignificant part of the magic.

Take the time that I “met” George Clooney.

We were recording the score for Leatherheads that day, and it was my job to show him where we were doing that. When he beached his car halfway on the sidewalk and climbed out, I was humbled. His jeans were expensive, his skin flawless, his jaw squared.

When my body instinctively went into a light cower under his calm gaze, George could tell that I hadn’t had much personal experience with good looks, talent, or wealth. He took the reigns.

“Hey, I’m George,” he offered with an easy extension of his hand. I was so excited at the prospect of shaking hands with Danny Ocean, Batman, and Michael Clayton all at once that, oh God, I completely forgot about wiping my snot-clogged nose on that hand just minutes before!

What happens next is easy to wildly speculate: Clooney made it to the scoring session fine, but by the next morning my germs had broken the perfect harmony of his beautiful system. He woke up just sick enough to justify canceling his pre-production meeting for The Fantastic Mr. Fox, the one-day setback turned into three or four, and by the end of the whole production, boom, we’re looking at a delayed release of a week at least.

So when you finally see The Fantastic Mr. Fox a full week after you should have, know that it was my play. That was my call. Hello, Hollywood. My name is (NAME WITHHELD BY ORDER OF THE STUDIO). It’s nice to finally meet you.

Don't Hate LA, Hate Yourself

I own a t-shirt that reads "I heart LA." Almost every time I wear it, someone asks me, “Is that a joke?”

Why do people find Los Angeles so despicable? Let’s look at what the Haters have to say.

Haters: There’s no culture.

Have you ever noticed that people who say this haven’t opened a book since they dropped out of college? I’m not exactly sure what these people mean by culture- do they mean really old museums with giant whales hanging from the ceiling? Or shitty musicals based on shitty movies?

The fact is, LA has plenty of museums, small theater companies, and all sorts of “cultural” crap that no one goes to.

Haters: There’s nothing to do.

According to the LA Weekly, there are 285 things to do tonight. And it’s a Tuesday (there’s almost 500 on Friday). And these are events, like special screenings and openings. It doesn’t include eating a cheeseburger at the 101 or looking for anonymous gay sex in Griffith park.

Los Angeles is also one of the only major cities located close to the beach, the mountains, the desert, Mexico, and Las Vegas. If you’re bored in LA, you’re probably just boring.

Haters: There are no seasons.

This one is just stupid. We have no seasons because our weather is fucking perfect! I’ve been to New York in the winter. No one was talking about how great seasons were. In fact, no one was talking about anything except how fucking cold it was, and how important winter jackets are. It was fucking boring.

Haters: The traffic is horrible.

Ok, the haters sort of do have a point here. LA traffic sucks, and so does our public transportation. But it’s important to remember that when people talk about LA traffic, they’re usually driving pretty long distances. If you really want to live in Silver Lake and work in Santa Monica, sorry, you’re gonna have to deal with traffic.

And it’s not like other cities don’t have traffic. San Francisco is like a giant parking lot on the Swiss Alps. Plus, you have to be Indiana Jones to find parking. And sure, public transportation is better, but waiting for a subway, transferring, and then hiking up a goddamn cliff can take a pretty long time too.

Haters: Everyone is so "fake."

In my experience, when people say this, what they really mean is, “there are a lot of hot girls in this city that won’t fuck me.” I got news for you, buddy, she seems fake to you because she doesn’t want you to know anything about her! Because she thinks you’re a fucking creep!

You Know You're a Redneck Homosexual If...

This morning, I had a nightmare.

I dreamt that I was the CFO of a well-respected pharmaceutical company that’s made billions by cheating the sick and elderly, and that my name was Tushie. (That wasn’t the nightmare part, that’s true.) In the dream, I was the definition of a flamboyant homosexual. (Also true! Also fine with me.) That’s when I passed a mirror, and saw that I was wearing a Confederate flag bandanna around my neck. I awoke in a cold sweat!

It was just a dream... or was it?! Quickly, I pulled my MacBook Air from the drawer of my night table and did a Yahoo search for “Jesus fuck! Am I a redneck homosexual? :( No way!!! AAAAH! How do I know?”

I pushed return, and in .003 seconds, I got the search results that changed my life forever:

YOU KNOW YOU'RE A REDNECK HOMOSEXUAL IF:

1. You like dick, but love a dick in flannel.

2. You like to fire off your rifle sometimes when you're fucking butt.

3. You no longer get hard when beating your wife.

4. Your Klan hood smells like Acqua di Gio.

5. You give your pal Skeet a blow job while thinking racist thoughts about minorities.

6. You get hard beating up other redneck homosexuals.

7. You like your Jim Beam with a snifter of fresh cum.

I Love My Dick Covered Burrito

One of the plus sides of living in Los Angeles is the abundance of cheap but delicious taco shacks. The secret ingredient is penis.

Last week I was standing in line at the Cactus when my bff Suzy called. “Where you at?” Suzy said.

“I’m at Cactus,” I said. “Vine, between Santa Monica and Melrose.”

Suzy pulled up in her new-to-her 2005 Mercedes Benz C-Class. Only in LA does a person who lives in a shitty apartment with a lesbian roommate and no air conditioning drive a newish Mercedes Benz.

“You eat here?” Suzy asked indignantly.

“Yeah, they make a good vegetarian burrito,” I said.

“I don’t trust these places,” she said, “I mean, where do they go to the bathroom or wash their hands? It’s so gross.”

I’d never noticed the lack of bathrooms at the Cactus until that moment. Where do those Mexis pee?

For a second she had me. Then I thought about it and decided, so what? What’s the worst-case? So they literally have no pot to piss in and have to drain their lizards in the alley behind the El Rancho market. There’s no sink in the alley and I bet they don’t use hand sanitizer, that’s too bourge for a Mexican working at a taco stand, so they go straight back to rolling burritos with dick-hand.

And while I don’t really like to think about the fact that my burrito has been made with dick hands, honestly it doesn’t really bother me that much either. I mean it’s not like I’ve never put a dick (or twenty,) in my mouth before. And though I personally wouldn’t go down on a guy working at a taco stand I’m sure there’s some lady out there sucking his dick and loving it.

So if a little dick residue gets on my burrito...even if it is a warty, herpetic dick...it probably won’t kill me. In fact, whatever they do to it at the Cactus, it tastes pretty good. Mmmmmmmmm, I love my dick-covered burrito.

“They got an A.” I said, pointing to the health code rating hanging in the window.

“Yeah, they probably stole it.” Suzy said.

Some girls just don’t understand good Mexican food.

Trailer Trash: Where in the World is Osama bin Laden?

Giving Morgan Spurlock money to make a movie is like giving me money to make a spaceship. I can give you a rough idea of what a spaceship looks like, because I’ve seen a picture of one. But that’s about it.



I’m not sure Morgan Spurlock has ever seen a movie. Maybe he’s heard about a movie, or read an article about what a movie is like. Maybe he’s seen a TV episode where the characters go to the movies. Spurlock’s films are so bad, so banal, so completely inconsequential, that you have to wonder, “Who gives this guy money to make movies?” followed by, “Where do I get in line?”

The trailer for where in the world is Osama bin Laden consists primarily of Spurlock dressing up in an A-rab outfit, flying to A-rab countries, and asking people where Osama Bin Laden is.

Spurlock is a poor man’s Michael Moore. Moore, of course, is also a total hack. His films are simplistic and intellectually dishonest. But at least Moore has something to say. The bin Laden trailer plays like a bad sketch on the Daily Show, minus John Oliver's cute accent.

The most telling line of the trailer is about a minute in, where he tells a man, “I’m looking for Osama bin Laden.”

The man laughs.

Spurlock asks, “Why is that funny?”

Exactly.

What the Hell Happened to My Career?

Hollywood is littered with stars who'll take any role that comes with a dollar sign attached, but these people desperately need to fire their agents. And managers. Seriously, Cuba.

Unlike those who've just gotten too old or fat (or both, Kathleen Turner) to hold out for quality roles or those for whom quality was never an issue (Steven Seagal), there are a select few who seemed destined to build up an impressive body of work -- only to end up starring alongside Casper Van Dien.

Ray Liotta
High Point: Goodfellas (1990)
Low Point: In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Tale (2007)
Diagnosis: Had the misfortune of appearing in such good films so early in his career (Goodfellas, Field of Dreams) that everything subsequently resembled a sack of crap. That said, nothing excuses starring in an Uwe Boll video game "movie." Nothing.

Mira Sorvino
High Point: Mighty Aphrodite (1995)
Low Point: WiseGirls (2002), co-starring Mariah Carey
Diagnosis: Her Oscar-winning role in Mighty Aphrodite was her own private "perfect storm" in which all the stars aligned to make her seem like a better actress than she really is. Reality set in soon thereafter. (At least she wasn't in Glitter.)

Wesley Snipes
High Point: Jungle Fever (1991)
Low Point: everything since 2002
Diagnosis: Is pretty much a douchebag. Seriously, dude, pay your taxes.

Heather Graham
High Point: Boogie Nights (1997)
Low Point: Blessed (2004), in which she's impregnated by Satan's DNA at a fertility clinic
Diagnosis: Even horny 14-year-olds got tired of seeing her pasty tits.

F. Murray Abraham
High Point: Amadeus (1984)
Low Point: the Sci-Fi Channel killer ape movie of the week BloodMonkey (2007)
Diagnosis: Obviously suffered a cerebral aneurysm sometime during the late '80s that caused him to go from the Academy Award-winning Amadeus to Slipstream, starring Mark Hamill.

Christopher Walken
High Point: The Deer Hunter (1978)
Low Point: Tie: Gigli (2003) / Kangaroo Jack (2003) / Balls of Fury (2007)
Diagnosis: After watching 274 hack comedians do impersonations of him, he's had a break with reality and now thinks he's Frank Caliendo doing a caricature of Christopher Walken.

Cuba Gooding Jr.
High Point: Jerry Maguire (1996)
Low Point: Where to start? Boat Trip (2002) / Snow Dogs (2002) / Daddy Day Camp (2007) / Norbit (2007)/Selling Michael Jordan's underwear
Diagnosis: Sold his soul for the ability to win an Academy Award based solely on a catchphrase. Even Satan regrets this decision now.

Jenna Jameson
High Point: I Love Lesbians (1995)
Low Point: Evil Breed: The Legend of Samhain (2006)
Diagnosis: While I Love Lesbians embodied her amazing tolerance of both same-sex relationships and vaginal trauma, Evil Breed is just a sexless horror movie lacking her usual social commentary and ass play. Plus, now she looks like shit.

Piñata Hate Crimes Infect Los Angeles

Curbing for Candy

In the wake of Barack Obama's riveting speech on race, as well as the endorsement of Bill Richardson, racial tensions have blown wide open in LA. These horrifying pictures surfaced on the Internet early this afternoon. Several white supremacist groups have claimed responsibility for the attacks.

WARNING: These photographs contain explicitly violent images.