Office Rick Roll

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The Audacity of Obama Volunteers

I’ve been a Barack Obama supporter for more than a year, ever since he was rumored to be running for President. I’ve given money to his campaign. I’ve also volunteered for him. These were fairly pleasant experiences with only one major drawback: the other volunteers.

The first thing I noticed was the cheering. Between the incessant “FIRE IT UP! READY TO GO!” and the perfectly inane “YES WE CAN! YES WE CAN!” Barack Obama rallies often feel like attending summer camp in Maoist China.

In Los Angeles, Barack Obama got a big bump from the hipster community. These volunteers were the least obnoxious I encountered. Hipsters have emotional detachment down to an exact science.

Sadly, these were the exception. Most Obamanauts are inflicted with hypersensitive emotions. They love to cry, or talk about how they cried when they heard some Obama speech. They love to claim the moral high ground- except when they lose. I’ve personally witnessed three Primary/Caucus losses (California, Nevada, and Texas). Every single one of them was followed by accusations of voter fraud on the part of the HRC campaign.

We were pretty sad after our loss in Nevada. We all made our way back to headquarters, are heads hung low in defeat. In a vain attempt to pick up our spirits, the district head made a little speech. He fought back tears as he thanked us for our hard work, and took some shots at the Hillary campaign for “playing dirty.”

And then the volunteers started to speak. One by one, their mindless drivel was living proof that democracy is indeed a flawed mechanism. Then, a woman raised her hand. I couldn’t see her face, but she had the voice of a crazy person.

“At the caucus I attended, the vote went 150 to 50 for Hillary.” She said. “But afterwards, when it came time to clean up, about 70 percent were Obama supporters. I think that says a lot.”

This lunatic was claiming moral superiority as a result of winning the popular vote of the caucus clean-up team. A small part of my Obama enthusiasm died that very second, because I knew that in some way, that psychotic woman and I had a lot in common.

My Awkward Dreamworks Interview

I interviewed for a development internship at Dreamworks despite having absolutely no qualifications for the job other than that I thought working there "would be cool."

During my final semester in college, I was presented with a decision: Find employment in the field I was about to receive my BA in (Psychology), or chase my dreams of being a big-time, Hollywood producer. While getting paid minimum wage to administer anti-depressants to rats wasn't the most appealing career option, I also had absolutely no experience in "the biz." I'd always been able to bullshit my way through oral presentations in class though, so how hard could an interview at a studio be?

Thanks to a cleverly worded cover letter (using words like "multi-tasker" and "Caucasian") I found myself in the reception area at Dreamworks. I was interviewing for a content development internship in their animation division. I had no idea what that meant, but I had it all worked out: if this guy asked me why I was qualified for the position, I would joke that "I like cartoons." We would laugh, pat each other on the back, and "skip all these silly formalities and start me a career."

A very nice man named Mark greeted me and gave me the tour. He seemed genuinely happy to meet me, but with every world-class sound stage we passed and proudly-displayed Oscar we marveled at, it became exponentially more clear to me that the situation I had bullshitted my way into would not be bullshat out of.

Mark asked me a series of questions that lead to the inevitable one: "What makes you qualified for this job?" In conjunction with my pitiful resume, the "I like cartoons" line sounded significantly more retard-y than it had in my head. I came clean and told Mark I had no qualifications. The tone of our conversation shifted drastically. It was like we got 3/4ths of the way through a first date before I told Mark that what I was really looking for in a man was a daddy for my 6-year-old son.

Mark told me he'd call me if they needed someone like me. It's been 2 years now, but he'll call... he'll call.

The TMZ Tragedy

If I wanted to see non-famous girls being drunk idiots, I would watch Girls Gone Wild.

I like to go out to really fancy places like clubs or bars and get so drunk that the rational side of my brain collapses and seizes up while I do things like stand on my car and piss myself or try to have sex in a telephone booth. The other people that like to hang out at these places are the paparazzi.

Not that I have any personal beef with them as a whole, but I have a running problem with the pricks at TMZ. Following a famous person, and catching every nuance of their stupid life for millions of bored Americans to watch is a job that’s in demand. I get it. People want to know if Angelina Jolie took a shit or if Britney Spears painted a wall in the Millennium Dance Studio with the blood from her tampon. These are important issues.

What I don’t get is when TMZ morphed from the place to get the latest news on celebrities to the place to see random tawdry young idiots who aren’t even in movies or on TV being wasted as hell in front of Hollywood hotspots. It’s gotten so that a random drunken vagabond like myself can’t act out without worrying that it’ll be the lead story on TMZ that night.

So now I live in fear.

Every time I go out it is like a covert operation where I avoid being filmed by some asshole as I turn into Anna Nicole Smith and scream shit like, “Do you like my body?” while rubbing my vagina. TMZ’s bastardization of anyone willing to act like a fool, especially while intoxicated, is the beginning of the end of fun. Journalists are supposed to be the watchdogs of society, but these guys are hardly journalists and I already have a mother. Speaking of which, when she sees me on the next episode of TMZ while I’m in front of Les Deux while yanking my thong off and throwing it at the idiots filming me as I start peeing, well, let’s just say I’ll enjoy hearing I’m out of the will.

Real Stories From the L.A. Transit System

Ride the bus, get shit all over your neck: ask me how!

About 80 percent of the time, riding the bus in Los Angeles is uneventful. On the ride home through Sunset, it’s usually just me, and a couple of exhausted working class Hispanics who only want to catch a siesta before waking up for their next job in 2 hours. But then 20 percent of the time, some social miscreant will use the bus as their personal crazy-theater, and ruin the ride for the rest of us.

It was with this in mind that I noticed a man lumbering down the walkway, heavy-set and bleary eyed, intent on the seat beside me. He reeked of booze, but as the man was much larger than myself, and much drunker than myself, I chose to employ a strategy of polite ignorance. He leaned forward to the neck of an elderly Asian man sitting in front of us, and blew gently on the man, soft and playful, like a lover. I was quite puzzled to witness this ruse, as most bus hi-jinx I’d seen consisted of fairly self-contained crazed shouting either praising the Lord, or condemning the government, and in some cases, both.

The Asian man scowled a bit, but continued looking forward. As if going in for another drunken lover’s waft, this time ol’ boozer leaned up and hocked a huge throat loogie all over the Asian dude’s neck. Esophageal snot slid down into the old man’s collar like raw egg. In silent defeat, the old man stood up and exited at the next stop. No sooner had the old guy excused himself, than I felt a ¾ full can get shoved into my hand.

“Hold this,” the guy mumbled. I looked down, and it was Budweiser and Clamato, which is a combination of two shitty things that are in high enough demand to create a single shitty product out of. I immediately shoved the beer back in his hand and said, “Ah sorry dude, this is my stop.”

Surprisingly, he stood up to let me through, and in the process lost his footing and fell back about four feet, spilling Budweiser and Clamato onto a floor already layered with the sticky remains of various questionable public fluids. The bus let me off, and I was thankful to have survived another Los Angeles bus ride with no shit on my neck.

Interview with a Hipster, Part 2

Probing the mind of the hipster, one interview at a time. Today, we speak with… yet another Jared.Hillel: Why is everyone around here named Jared?
Jared: [referring to the Jared that works here] He’s my Intelligentsia friend.
Hillel: What’s the name of your band?
Jared: Weird Dreams.
Hillel: Where’d you get your t-shirt?
Jared: I don’t know. It’s an old one.
Hillel: Is it actually inside out, or is it just made to look that way?
Jared: Well, I got paint on it, and it looked like bird shit, so I turned it inside out.
Hillel: Where’d you get your sunglasses?
Jared: A vintage store.
Hillel: How long have you had the beard for?
Jared: Maybe… 3 weeks?
Hillel: It took you 3 weeks to grow that beard? It would take me like six months to grow that beard.
Jared: Really?
Hillel: Well, the problem is my moustache. I look like a suicide bomber when I grow a beard. Thick, curly beard, whispy moustache. People are afraid of me.
Jared: Oh no.
Hillel: You gonna shave that beard when it gets hot?
Jared: It grows so fast, when it gets big, I just shave it and start over.
Hillel: Is that a metaphor for your music at all?
Jared: [thinks] Is my beard… like my music…. Well, it grows! Hahaha.
Hillel: What do you keep in your messenger bag?
Jared: I have… [starts to pull stuff out] a copy of Kerouac’s Big Sur. And my poetry book. Where I write my songs, and drawings, and whatever.
Hillel: Ok, let’s talk about music. Morrissey, Yea or Nay?
Jared: Big-time Nay.
Hillel: What about that one song that goes, do, do, do, do, do, do-do, do-do…
Jared: I don’t know that one.
Hillel: What mainstream band do you like, but you’re kind of embarrassed about?
Jared: Well I LOVE Hall and Oates.
Hillel: That’s pretty embarrassing. Which do you like better, Hall or Oates?
Jared: Oates. He’s got the moustache.
Hillel: Do you like Journey?
Jared: Name some of the hits.
Hillel: Don’t Stop Believing?
Jared: How’s it go?
Hillel: [singing] Just a small town girl… Living in a something something…
Jared: Oh yeah. Yeah I like Journey.
Hillel: I hated them, until that last Sopranos episode, and now I love em!
Jared: Were they on it?
Hillel: You didn’t see the last Sopranos episode?
Jared: No.
Hillel: You don’t have a T.V.?
Jared: Well, we just use it for DVDs.
Hillel: What everyone around here got against T.V?
Jared: I don’t know.

Team Fortress 2 Makes Me Hate Myself

Why does my computer feel the need to remind me of my worthlessness?

People choose different ways to waste their lives. Some people watch TV. Others pursue an acting “career.” Personally, I tend to surf around the internet, and play video games.

Except for the crushing loneliness, I’ve been generally content with this non-existence until the last few months, when I started playing a game called Team Fortress 2, or as the kids call it, TF2.

The problem is that TF2 makes me hate myself.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fun game. Addicting even, which may be the problem. See, when I load up a new map, it shares with me the amount of time I’ve been playing. Not the amount of time since I sat down to play, but the time I’ve spent playing it. Ever.

It’s in a box called “Your Performance Report”, but should be more accurately called “Say goodbye to your 20s.”

According to my performance report, I’ve played about 170 hours, almost 50 hours as the engineer class alone. And that class is lame.

Using what’s left of my math skills, I’ve calculated that 170 hours is over four 40 hour weeks: A whole month of additional full-time employment. At the pay rate of my current job, I could have earned literally hundreds of dollars.

170 hours would be enough time to crank out an entire screenplay. And everyone knows that this town is desperately short on screenplays.

Or I could have maybe dated a girl. 170 hours of relationship could possibly translate into dozens of minutes of sex.

Or I could have maybe exercised a little. I took my shirt off the other day, and I think I'm a B cup now. A full B.

So why do I still play? I bought the game for about fifty bucks, so each hour of amusement has cost me about thirty cents. That’s the best deal in entertainment since back when Grandpa was slipping quarters into the knickers of dancing French street floosies.

Compare that to seeing a movie. 2 hours for $12. $6 an hour? Buying a DVD doesn't compare unless you watch the same movie about 25 times. What about spending $15 on a measly 40 minutes of music? A stripper charges $30 for 3 minute lap dance. No, thanks.

I’m all about value. And I'm not alone. Maybe that's why Halo 3 sunk the box-office the weekend it was released.

Yankee Go Home!

Why I hate New Yorkers.

Let’s just get some things straight. I like New York. I like the New Yorker. I like the New York Times Sunday Edition. But I can’t stand New Yorkers. Pretty much any time a New Yorker opens his mouth, it pisses me off.

“No, you know where the best ___ is…”

Have you ever been out to dinner with more than two New Yorkers? I bet they spend the whole time talking about the where best pizza place, bagel place, or heroin connection is. But since New Yorkers are the least intellectually curious people on the planet, instead of being a free exchange of ideas, it was more like a shouting match. “Johnny’s pizza on 55^th and West End!” “Sal’s on Broadway between 103^rd and 104^th!!!” New Yorkers aren’t actually interested in finding good things, they just want to know about good things and convince you that those places are the best.

“You think this is cold?”

No, I don’t think it’s cold, my body is sending me signals that it’s cold and that I need my jacket, you asshole. New Yorkers have this whole macho thing going on with the cold weather. But they don’t admit that in New York they dress with sixteen hundred layers, and their winter jackets use NASA technology to keep warm and have a dozen different pockets. Plus, they’re always moving around because they’re cavemen and don’t have cars.

“What’s the hold up?”

New Yorkers are not laid back people. They’re thrown off when they come to LA and see us strolling, or patiently waiting for a table instead of demanding to see the manager. Remember when the cops shot that guy who was reaching for his wallet? I don’t think they were racist, I think that the whole thing was just taking too long, and they just got impatient.

“It could’ve been me in that tower.”

I wish it had been you in that tower.

“The city...”

Forget such metropolises as Tokyo, London, or Paris. For New Yorkers, there is only one city. But notice how none of them are actually in New York. If New York is so great, why don’t you go the fuck back there? I know why: because it’s expensive, crowded, cold as fuck, and the girls are hotter in LA.

Alternatives to Rick Rolling

It’s essential that we find an alternative weird-looking has-been before it is too late.

The internet can be an ugly place. Popup ads. Japanese tentacle porn. And Rick Rolling.

What is Rick Rolling? Well, say you are on the internet, and you see a link that claims to take you to a YouTube video you might be interested in, like a trailer for Resident Evil 5 or an upskirt of Elisabeth Hasselbeck. When you click on the link, you don’t get Hasselbeck, you get this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eBGIQ7ZuuiU (They disabled the inbed on this!)

Rick Rolling has become so popular, even the LA Times recently tracked down Astley to find out what he thinks.

Now, when the mainstream media catches on, that means your internet meme is dying. It’s essential that we find an alternative weird-looking has-been before it is too late. If we have to bring back forgotten pop songs, here are some suggestions:

John Parr - “St. Elmo’s Fire”

This is from an 80’s movie called “St. Elmo’s fire.” I haven’t seen it, but I assume that the movie involves a Catholic red Muppet catching on fire.

• Pros: Best John Parr song. His mullet is somehow also an afro.

• Cons: No flaming Elmo. Still a John Parr song.

• Proposed name: Parrjacking

Londonbeat – “I’ve Been Thinking About You”

This video wastes no time being both annoying and catchy. This was a #1 song in 1991, but is largely forgotten.

• Pros: Neon CG guitars floating through the desert night.

• Cons: Londonbeat not actually thinking about me.

• Proposed name: ‘Beatboxed

Joey Lawrence - “Nothing My Love Can’t Fix”

Joey Lawrence starred on the early 90’s sitcom “Blossom.” In this song, he claimed that there was nothing his love couldn’t fix, but 15 years later, we still have the national debt and AIDS.

• Pros: Good demonstration of Joey’s three great strengths: singing, rapping and taut abs.

• Cons: Rapping and taut abs not seen until later in the video.

• Proposed name: Joey Whoa’d

Hopefully, one of these alternatives will catch on. This is simply not acceptable.

Interview with a Hipster, Part 1

Probing the mind of the hipster, one interview at a time. If you're planning on living east of Hollywood, take careful notes.

Jared Linzmeier works at the Silverlake coffee shop Intelligentsia. His blog can be seen here.

Hillel Aron: Where did you buy your shirt?
Jared Linzmeier: This flannel was given to me by my girlfriend, who bought it at Walmart.
HA: Walmart! In LA?
JL: No, I think in San Francisco. But it’s cheap, I think it’s only 10 or 15 bucks.
HA: I notice you have a scooter. Do you have a fixed-gear bicycle?
JL: I do.
HA: Do you have your own t-shirt company?
JL: No.
HA: Are you in a band?
JL: No.
HA: Really?
JL: Not yet…. I’m learning to play the trumpet.
HA: That’s cool.
JL: Sometimes I practice at Barnsdall Art Park. People look at me kinda funny.
HA: Do you put your hat out for money?
JL: No.
HA: You should…. When was the last time you were at the Cha-Cha Lounge?
JL: Two weeks ago. No… it was a week ago.
HA: What kind of music do you listen to?
JL: I used to listen to more hip-hop. Lately I listen to… that band Rademacher, from Fresno. This girl Glasser.
HA: Hmmm… what mainstream bands do you listen to?
JL: I can’t… [thinks]
HA: No?
JL: I listen to Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard.
HA: R.E.M.?
JL: No.
HA: Pearl Jam?
JL: No.
HA: Hmmm.
JL: I don’t know. Gnarls Barkley?
HA: Ok. When did you stop listening to Modest Mouse?
JL: The last one I listened to… was, The Moon and Antarctica.
HA: Really? You didn’t go for the next one?
JL: I don’t think so.
HA: It had Float On. The song that was on The O.C. You didn’t get that one?!
JL: I’m sure it’s good…
HA: Do you watch Lost?
JL: No.
HA: Do you watch Survivor?
JL: No. I don’t watch enough T.V.?
HA: You don’t watch any T.V.??!!!
JL: Not really.
HA: You didn’t kill your T.V., did you?
JL: I watch movies on… DVD.
HA: What kind of scooter is that?
JL: It’s a Honda Elite 80. I’m in a scooter gang. The Elitists. Watch out for them.

Trailer Trash: Valkyrie

Tom Cruise. Wearing an eye patch. Fighting Hitler. It’s like someone made a movie just for me.



I got no problem with Scientology, at least as far as it being a cult. All religions are cults. But for a while, it was looking like Scientology had ruined Tom Cruise. All of a sudden he was jumping on Oprah’s couch, holding cute little Katie Holmes hostage, and his last few films have been total shit, and Baby Suri looks nothing like Tom.

But the trailer for Valkyrie shows that Tom’s still got it, and that Scientology is therefore as benign as Christianity or Islam. Cruise is back, and in Valkyrie, he looks like a fucking pirate. A Nazi pirate. Trying to kill Hitler.

I really hope this movie ends with Cruise and Hitler having a karate fight, and then Cruise stuffs a grenade in the fuher mouth, and says something clever like, “heil this, Hitler,” or, “I got a hundred year plan for you. It’s starts with your head exploding!” and pulls the pin.

CUT TO: Close up of Hitler’s eyes wide open.

CUT TO: Slo-mo, Cruise running away from Hitler, who explodes in a ball of flame.

Cruise, looking sleek in his SS uniform and black eye patch, is surrounded by all these delightful little British actors like Kenneth Branaugh and Eddie Izzard, even the non-science-guy Bill Nighy. It actually makes the smirking Cruise look even tougher, kind of like how when I went to Japan I felt like a fucking giant. When you’re the only non-British guy in the room, you’re also the most masculine. Maybe Cruise could use this strategy in other parts of his life.

The genius of Valkyrie is that it makes the bad guys Nazis, but makes the good guys Nazis too. I hope this starts a trend: we’ll get the A-rab from Lost trying to kill Bin Ladin and that Asian dude from Harold and Kumar going after Kim Jong-Il (I’ve already registered both those ideas with the WGA, so don’t even try to steal my shit).

More Fun with the Homeless and Comedy

In which the drug-dealing host of an open mic insults an L.A. vagrant...

Note to so-called “edgy” comics: Amplified assholery does not make you a comedian. There’s a difference between being a Don Rickles and being just another Don Imus.

Recently, I witnessed the latter occur at one of Los Angeles’ oh so inspiring open mics. The host was busy commenting on my resemblance to that of a “geeky serial killer” when a disturbance from the back of the coffee shop caught everyone’s attention. It was an elderly homeless lady in a filthy tweed coat, who repeatedly mumble-shouted, "You can't touch me back there. I'm a lady! I am a lady!"

It’s been my experience that everything has a joke in it somewhere, as long as you go about finding it in a smart way (call it the non-Michael Richards way). Sure we can kid about the downtrodden, poke fun at stereotypes and such, but where’s the fun in breaking down the broken? It’s redundant, like throwing a pie in the face of a coma victim.

Anycrap, this host decided it was time to take the mentally disabled down a peg. Those ghosts of society have had it too easy for too long, he must’ve assumed, while tearing into this frail, disoriented zombie with such slams as, "Ma'am, I know ain't nobody touch you back there because you smell like you ain't have a shower." In response she screwed up her face and shrieked something indecipherable.

The audience froze up like children who accidentally killed something for the first time. The host kept at it, instigating a wild tantrum of, "You can't touch me back there! You can't touch me back there!"

When the homeless woman broke down into tears, the open mic host zinged, "I’m sorry I ain’t speak crazy," tagged with the ever so subtle closer "Get out now you stank bitch."

To top it off, this particular open-mic host is also my drug dealer, and buying pot off him was half the reason I showed up there. As the saying goes, "You're only as much of a low-life as the person you buy pot from," which the more I think about it, means I'm a pretty terrible guy.

Guitar Hero: A Public Shaming

The Nintendo DS game that threatens the good name of people who love to rock out (at home).

After decades of being associated with tubby children and socially awkward shut-ins, gaming is finally becoming more acceptable. I don’t know if it's because more and more girls are playing, or because of the incredibly high quality of the movies based on games, but there’s been a lot of progress.

I’m worried Guitar Hero: On Tour will destroy all of that.

In the Guitar Hero games, you get to pretend to play guitar in a band that is incredibly popular, even though they seem to play only one cover song a night. You even get to hold a fake guitar while doing it.

It’s a fun concept, but I think Activision may have taken the excitement of faux-rocking a little too far. Here’s the trailer for the upcoming Guitar Hero game for Gameboy DS.



Sure, people look a silly playing regular Guitar Hero, but they look silly in the privacy of their homes. On Tour demands you wave your hand frantically small grey box strapped to your hand while clacking buttons…in public.

And in the trailer, it seems like the kid has to blow on his DS when his “guitar” catches fire. Odds are you’ll have to blow on your DS periodically too, like an alcoholic who just got done ripping the court-ordered breathalyzer out of his car.

It might be unfair, but the general population tends to have a negative view of people flailing around and blowing on electronics. If this game catches on, people might just go back to thinking that all gamers are spastic little weirdos.

Even if you choose to play On Tour in private, it still looks like a good way to get carpal tunnel syndrome. When you finally sprain your wrist playing this game, save yourself some embarrassment and just pretend that you got hurt during a furious session of masturbating.

Then there’s the way they set up the buttons. The vertically arrangement looks more like Accordion Hero to me.

And no one ever, ever got laid for playing the accordion. Not even that guy from Arcade Fire.

Pedestrians: LA's Pansies

If Los Angeles ever gets another football team, they should name it the LA Jaywalkers, because nothing embodies the city's pompous sense of self-worth more than these footed freaks.

I was watching a public-access channel for Glendale or Burbank or one of those towns with too much time on their hands, when I saw a sting to catch drivers who don't stop for jaywalkers crossing the street. What kind of Bizarro shit is this? Jaywalking is illegal; that's why there's a name for it. Otherwise, it'd just be walking.

Pedestrians in LA don't know how good they have it. When I lived in Washington, DC, we'd self-police jaywalkers by running them the hell over. Jaywalking wasn't really a concept for us; it was just another form of suicide.

Apparently, even for people who aren't jaywalking, LA has some sort of law requiring that every square inch of a pedestrian's foot be on the sidewalk before drivers are allowed to go through a crosswalk. That's the only way I can rationalize the pansy-assed coddling of these car-less degenerates. In DC, if a pedestrian got brushed by a car in the crosswalk, it would be considered good luck -- like avoiding a falling anvil or realizing you got a false positive on an AIDS test.

Who are these pedestrians anyway? How do they survive in LA without a car? I take my car when I go to the bathroom. Is this pampering of pedestrians just another LA charity case? What color ribbon is Pedestrian Awareness anyway?

Whatever the case, these foot-mongers have become spoiled from the attention. Just look at the way they saunter across the street, stopping to double-knot their shoe or play a quick game of Minesweeper on their cell phone. Peds in other cities thank the car gods when they live to see another intersection. In LA, they've got their lawyers on speed-dial in case a car commits an affront to their toe-dragging lineage. (Sometimes I think they secretly want to get hit because they blew their trust fund on tanning booths and morning-after pills.)

So, LA pedestrians, take heed: there's a new sheriff in town. I drive a crappy car, and I don't have insurance.