The Title

Pretty much everyone who has a job tries to make it sound better than it really is by taking liberties with their title.

Here are some typical title enhancements:

-- Postal Worker – “Federal Official”

-- Receptionist – “Office Manager”

-- Secretary – “Personal Assistant”

-- Gas pumper – “Petrol Exporter”

It’s much worse in Hollywood. No longer need one’s title have anything whatsoever to do with one’s actual vocation. A good example of this is the waitress who claims to be an actress, a singer and a dancer. But somehow our server enumerating her various little talents strikes us as kind of cute, charming, and reassuringly pathetic. It’s less benign when egos are on the line and deception is involved.

You’re at a party yukking it up with a twenty-something who’s wearing a blazer over a T-shirt with elaborate designs, and it’s pretty tricky to figure out whether he’s a producer or a local sceney douche bag. He says he’s a producer. What he doesn’t say is that he’s actually a bartender at the Dresden who intends on one day possibly being a producer, should the stars align just right. You proceed to waste the next couple weeks sending him your script or head shot, or whatever, until you bump into him on a Wednesday night and he introduces you to the only power brokers he knows – Marty and Elaine, who both perform nightly.

This is less annoying than the fact that Angelenos think projecting success is a necessary first step to becoming successful. They don’t take many steps to become successful past the initial projection.

Here’s how conversations would go if we were half-way honest with each other:

Guy: So, what do you do?

Other Guy: I burn copies of reels all day, sometimes pick up lunch, and get reamed by anyone in the office having a bad day. What about you?

Guy: I post internet videos that are kind of funny.

Unfortunately, this is how it actually goes:

Guy: So, what do you do?

Other Guy: I’m a post-production supervisor and media consultant. You?

Guy: I’m a producer.

Your Half-Baked Tattoo Idea Will Not Fly With Your Grandkids

One day, you'll have to explain to your grandkids why you got the Tasmanian Devil inked on your calf.

Everyone with a tattoo has their bullshit reasons behind it; You always want to live by a religious philosophy you briefly learned about in your eastern cultures class, you want to honor that guy you spent a fateful spring break with, you want everyone to know you're hard to touch, hence the barbed wire on your bicep.

While none of us want to admit it, most of the mental preparation done before getting a tattoo is figuring out what you're going to say when people ask you what your ink symbolizes. You want to be deep. You want to be profound. You spend months crafting the beautiful soliloquy that will give insight to your masterful epidermal tapestry.

But most of us are dumb and only profound in the way that a Zach Braff movie is profound. Every tattoo explanation I've ever heard (including my own) comes off as a cover story for the real reason we get tattoos: they are awesome. You can philosophize all you want, but deep down we know that the reason we brave ridicule from our friends, lectures from our parents, and potential inker's remorse is so we can look cool in a tank top.

But few people will admit this is the case. Most stand proudly by their tattoos and their vague, cryptic, undertones. The trickiest part of this whole equation is that we're all getting older, and that one day we're going to have grandkids asking about the muddy purple spots on our forearms and lower backs.

Just take a second and imagine your own grandmother, just finishing setting the table for a delicious Thanksgiving feast, saying that she got Death tattooed on her shoulder blade because she always wants to remember that the Reaper's on her back, man. Now imagine your grandfather, sporting Bermuda shorts and an oxygen tank, saying he got this piece done on his chest because Fall Out Boy is "fucking awesome."

Hilarious right? Gaze into your future, American youth.

Your Testicles Make Me Feel So Much Better

Seeking solace in a dancing beefcake's leather crotch...

Conventional wisdom says that, if you’re feeling unattractive and alone, go to a gay bar for an upbeat atmosphere, good music and the potential to feel wanted again in the advances of a doughy Filipino in a sleeveless fishnet shirt.

This is total bullshit. If you’re straight, no matter how many up-and-downs you get from a dude in tight Wranglers, it just ain’t helping your ego.

So I wasn’t looking for affirmation when I walked into The Abbey in West Hollywood last week, a gay institution set in a former place of worship. What I found, however, was something even more gratifying: a weird and genuine appreciation for Los Angeles.

Because here is a place so demonstratively, outwardly gay that it could only lie at the throbbing heart of this city, and it put to shame the other gay bars I’ve been patronized in my youth. These have sometimes been gaudy places, trying too hard, or terribly underwhelming. I’ve been to gay bars in England, where the most homoerotic gesture you can make is to loan someone your scarf, and been less than impressed.

But my first image on stepping into The Abbey was thus: A heavily-muscled Latin man wearing only a headband, wristbands and underwear that wouldn’t fit my 8-year-old nephew, hanging upside down from a rafter over the bar. And then he did a split.

Later, taking a seat, I found my view of a mostly-nude, dancing Asian man in six-inch platform boots obscured by a bodybuilder in a cowboy hat who stood directly in front of me and waved his junk – vacuum packed into a pair of Spiderman Underoos – just inches from my face… right before someone stuck their hand in there, rooted around a few seconds, and deposited a dollar.

I don’t often like L.A. It’s big, it’s dirty, it lacks a certain character. But I will say this – it isn’t afraid to put its bulging, sweaty testicles directly in your face and let you know who it is. And that makes me feel better.

Libation Logic: A Guide for the Ladies

Before you get drunk know what you’re getting into…

I’ve been drunk plenty of times. In fact, some people might think that my giant tits are the proverbial camel’s humps that house mountains of liquor and allow me to drink day and night with ease, but they’d be wrong. Drinking like a girl isn’t a bad thing if you have any idea what you’re doing...

Beer – If the situation is unfamiliar and you want to loosen up a bit stick with beer. Luckily, all the beers in the world won’t make anyone better looking or more desirable. The added bonus is that it will take you longer to get drunk so you can call your friends to pick you up when the creep at the bar stops taking a hint.

Gin – You’ll start the night out as a princess but end up acting like the sad, sorry sack of shit you hate the second you start drinking gin. Your clothes will probably come off, but whoever is dealing with you will have to validate your every perceived physical imperfection.

Vodka – Vodka drinkers are a sordid sort and probably drink it all day long at work just to make it through the day. That water bottle people see you carrying is VODKA. You can drink steadily all night long and wake up in time for work. You also sleep with an ice pick hidden in places no one could begin to imagine so anyone that tries to mess with you will be sorry.

Tequila – aka Mexican Demon Juice. Introduce this into the mix when you don’t care what the outcome is, as long as you accept the fact that you’ll end up naked. The problem is where you’ll be naked is a veritable mystery, but the surprise over whom you’ll wake up next to is something you come to accept overtime.

Whiskey – Ever want to know what it’d be like to be Cobra Commander with nice tits? Anytime you start throwing back shots of whiskey like you’re John Wayne you risk finding it out. You will go home with the first idiot that dares you and then hate fuck him in a way that was previously considered impossible.

Jagermeister – Serious Jager drinkers are champions beyond human comprehension. You can drink any man under the table and easily turn men into boys that run out of the bar while puking into their own hands. If you’re not a drinking champion, chances are that you’ll morph from a sultry nymph into a fountain that vomits crude oil.

I'd like "Non-producer," please.

A call for a new trend in LA dining.

Choosing between "smoking" and "non-smoking" when dining is a practice we no longer deal with here in LA since smoking is now banned in all public gathering places. And you know what? I fully support that. I think its one of the more progressive, health-minded decisions our state has made in the last 20 years.

And in the spirit of being socially progressive, I'm publicly petitioning the city of Los Angeles to provide two new restaurant sections to take the place of "smoking" and "non." I think it's critical for the dining establishments in the greater Los Angeles area to provide "producer" and "non-producer" sections for their patrons.

Since I moved to this city, I don't think I've had a single meal out that didn't involve trying to talk over the loud, cocky, empty ramblings of a producer in an adjacent booth. Whether they're having a business meal or just blowing off some steam after work with a few El Nino Margaritas, their constant biz speak is much more disruptive than a few hipsters puffing on a cigarette while they eat their pancakes.

So I, and the rest of the LA dining community, would greatly appreciate the option of these two new sections: Choosing the designated "non-producer" section would allow you the luxury of eating your meal in peace without being subjected to unwanted glad-handing, Hollywood lingo, empty promises, and hearing the word "project" more than twice per minute. Choosing the "producer" section means you'll hear your fair share of douchey double-speak, however you do have the right to approach any producer eating their meal and, without warning or tact, pitch your "awesome idea" for a new reality show.

Its not just a move towards a more peaceful dining experience, its a move towards social justice. You know what they say: if you can't beat 'em, segregate them into the back corner of a restaurant.

There's No Such Thing as Sexy Shitting

Nothing is quite as satisfying as listening to a gaggle of women the morning after a night of heavy drinking.

Upon waking up, after checking out one another, someone will get up and go to the bathroom. Once she emerges, this woman will look at her friends and brag about taking the best, most awesome shit of her life, and her friends will be jealous. If there is a man present this will never happen because women somehow think they’ve convinced men that they do not shit, ever.

In a way this is a good thing because I am sure men never want to hear about the fact that their girlfriend took a massive shit in the shape of an S that she secretly dubbed, “Super Shit”. So I understand that there is a bit of a gender understanding when it comes to taking a shit, but let’s not pretend overall that women never shit, ever.

Too bad some women cannot handle the fact that they do take shits and people know it. Once, I was at a party where this girl went into the bathroom for over twenty minutes. At some point, people started getting upset at having to wait so long to use the facilities. Finally, my sister walked by and said, “Relax people, she’s just taking a shit. Just relax and give her some respect. She’s making a poopie.”

Well, the second my sister said that, the bathroom door flung open and a tiny woman emerged and wanted to know who said she was taking a shit. This girl was enraged beyond belief and acted like she was ready to fight. Eventually, she gave up because my sister asked her if she was in the bathroom for twenty minutes shaving her face. All night long she kept saying, “How dare that girl say I was shitting. How dare she.” Right, how dare she, because everyone knows women do not shit. Duh.

I'm Here for the 2:00 Botox

Dermatologists like 'em wrinkly.

I saw a dermatologist last week for a, um, "thing," and as I sat on the examination table explaining my symptoms to him, I couldn't help but notice a vague sense of disappointment. Never having received this reaction from a doctor who wasn't staring at my penis, I wasn't sure what to make of it until I saw another patient -- a squat, fifty-something woman dabbing her cheeks with cotton swabs and promising to come back next week -- walk by the examination room. That's when I realized that I was an LA dermatologist's worst nightmare: a need-based patient.

Unlike the haus frau stopping for a touch-up between the eyes (Why not between the toes, like other junkies?), I wouldn't be a recurring source of income. I had no need for brow paralysis, and the only crow's feet I ever had came from a Korean take-out.

As I spoke, the doctor sighed and had a faraway look in his eyes -- no doubt wondering if he should add nipples to the figurehead on his yacht. He barely glanced at my "lump" before scrawling down a $15 prescription and shoving me out the door. He claimed he was giving me antibiotics, but I could swear that the illegible scribble on the little square paper read "anti-poverty pills".

I should've suspected as much when I saw the 40-inch plasma TV in the waiting room running soft-focus infomercials for Botox and a skin tightening procedure that seemed to involve electric cattle prods. "Will I be able to make facial expressions?" a woman on screen asked with the subtle intimacy of a douche commercial. It was clear that this 30-year-old actress had never needed Botox a day in her life, but as I learned that day, it's not about needing it; you have to want it.

I Mistook an Actual Blazing Inferno for a Movie Shoot

As I was getting off the 101 at Vine last week, I saw that the street had been completely blocked off and that there were about 10 fire trucks shooting hoses at a building on the west side of the street. I was enraged.

There are constantly street closures in this part of Hollywood for movie premieres and film shoots, so I naturally assumed this debacle was an inconsiderate production unit shooting an action sequence.

I mean, how can you just shut down one of the biggest intersections in the country during morning rush hour? Does ANYONE give a flying fuck about the non-famous citizens of this town anymore?

I cursed these douches for not properly announcing the street closures and got all pissed off that I was 15 minutes late to work. I even went out of my way to take a picture with my phone so I could complain to all my co-workers about how these studios never take the common man into account when shutting down major commuter traffic. And all this in the name of a more convenient shooting schedule? Fuck these guys.

It wasn't until I flipped on the news an hour later that I realized what I'd seen was not a shoot for the new Will Smith vehicle, but in fact a Hollywood historical monument, the old building that houses the Basque nightclub, burning to the ground.

The Mosh Pit

What's the deal with the shirtless dude?

I recently saw Bad Religion play at the House of Blues.

[Ed. note: Can I pay $40 to see a punk band play in what looks like the line waiting area for the Jungle Cruise at Disneyland?]

The band was fantastic, but as every punk rock fan knows, there is an illogical, violent, spirited, retarded force at every punk rock show that cannot be ignored: The Mosh Pit.

The logic behind the mosh pit is basically such: As a mosher, you show the band how much you like them by running around in a circle and indiscriminately beating the shit out of those around you. The more you run and punch, the more you dig the band. This set up is particularly crazy because the logic doesn't transfer to other scenarios. If you get a particularly good quarter-pounder at McDonalds, you don't show your appreciation for the kitchen staff by running around in that area in front of the register and punching other customers in the face. Or if you see a musical you really like, its usually not appropriate to hop down into the orchestra pit and murder the French horn player. It's unfortunate, but its true.

There is also a "pit code" that says if a fellow mosher falls down, they are immediately picked up. This seems like a very peaceful, utopian idea until you consider that the reason they're on the floor is because they were just shoved down there, and that it will only be a matter of seconds before they are shoved down there again. It's like the circle of life. But instead of "life," it's filled with "savage beat-downs."

The oddest part about the mosh pit is the dude who is immediately shirtless when the band hits the first note. There is one in every pit. Its as if he has planned this move ahead of time to be like a costume change. Even though he is fat and sweaty and spends 2 hours ramming into other dudes, he is the first to call the bowler hat you're wearing "pretty fag-queer."

I do not understand The Mosh Pit, but I do respect it. Where else would it be socially appropriate for an adult male to punch a 13 year old girl in the face?

Instant Legitimacy with Video Cameras!

Video may have killed the radio star, but it's created a butt-load of new stars to take his place.

Back in the day, life lessons like "Wear clean underwear" or "Never leave bruises" could keep you out of hot water, but in this modern age, a more techno-savvy rule of thumb is needed: "Always bring a video camera." Cameras legitimize even the hinkiest of situations, turning potential embarrassment or incarceration into fame and/or fortune.

Situation #1: So, you like streetwalkers. Who doesn't? John Q. Law, that's who. Getting The Man off your back is as easy as one simple equation:

* Prostitution (Illegal!) + video camera = porn (Legal!).

Filming your sordid Motel 6 fling turns a sex crime into low art.


Situation #2: Is Jodie Foster sending you subliminal messages again? Does she secretly want you to follow her every move, no matter what those restraining orders say? Well...

* Stalking (Illegal!) + video camera = paparazzi (Legal!).


Situation #3: Poor guy. Not even the skanky burnout girls at school will give you the time of day. The solution:

* Girls who would never go about with a dork like you + video camera = girls fighting over a dork like you because they think they're on a dating show.


Situation #4: You've got all the teen angst of the Columbine kids, but you lack the dedication and firepower. Why not get your frustration out on video?

* Social retard - inhibitions + web cam = YouTube superstar.

Make sure your venting and/or pathetic display of coordination is as authentic a train wreck as possible in order to maximize replayability.


Situation #5: You're a pampered rich girl who's known, but not really KNOWN. Find a similarly desperate D-lister of either sex willing to penetrate your nether regions, because...

* Wannabe celebrity + video camera + faux outrage = celebrity sex tape + backend profits.


Situation #6: Face it, ex-star of some show from the '80s, your best days are behind you. Ninety percent of your fan base is ironic. Try this on for size:

* Wilting celebrity status + drunken stupor + cheeseburger + video camera = renewed celebrity status.


Situation #7: You and everyone in your entire upper-crust clique are complete tools. Your families have interbred so many times over the generations that you're probably dating your half-sister. You have no talent, no technical skills and nothing to offer the world other than a trust fund and Brandon Davis's phone number...and a video camera.

* Douchebag high school cliques + video camera = hit MTV show.

Vegan Nazis

Angelenos pride themselves on their diversity. They lovingly embrace everyone and everything without judgment, so long as they approve of it. Luckily their activism lapses when they run out of Zoloft or as they recover from their fifth nose job.

So I never thought I'd be oppressed when I went out for dinner the other night.

I ate at a vegan restaurant. I knew things were amiss when a huge sign let me know that by eating there my stomach would be purified. My stomach didn't need purification - it needed food because I was fucking hungry. The sign next to it cheerily read: "Einstein was a vegetarian. Think about it!" Well, dip shit, Hitler was a vegetarian.

I ordered a tofurky burger with Ghandi sprouts, Fair Trade flax seeds and a bunch of other "conscious" ingredients that later blew out my colon. So much for purification.

After ordering, I washed my hands. The sink had one of those ridiculous water conservation faucets that require you to push and hold a knob - which utterly defeats the purpose of hand washing. I looked to dry my hands and a note affixed to the mirror informed me that the restaurant put a spiritual moratorium on paper towels so trees can smile.

Wanting to get the hell out of there, I ate quickly but not without overhearing other patrons drone on about how people who use hemp tote bags will inaugurate a new world order.

Once on the street, the delightful scent of sizzling animal flesh danced in my nostrils. I sprinted to the burger joint down the block and sat at a window seat to enjoy a Drippy Double Bacon Cheddar Chuck. The hempsters from the first restaurant walked by; and when one of them noticed me, he ran up to the window. His comrades followed. They shouted at me for being a soulless dick and asked whether I would want someone to throw my cat between two buns and eat it. I said I wouldn't mind at all because my cat is also a soulless dick.

Hollywood Facial Hair Guide

In a land where your appearance can make up about 80 percent of your net worth, its not your mouth that does the talking, it’s the follicle-laden area around it that speaks for you.

Soul Patch: You refer to graffiti as “art” and refuse to attend films not made in Europe. You love bands no one has ever heard of and if you have to wear glasses, their frames are as thick as a Goodyear.

Chinstrap: You are either a wealthy pro athlete or someone who has recently married Britney Spears. You spend more time sculpting this creation than you do at a job, and gold jewelry figures heavily into your wardrobe.

Moustache: You are deeply tanned, have bad taste in sunglasses and are likely here illegally. I mean you, Burt Reynolds.

Full beard: You are at the extreme end of the wealth scale – meaning you are either Steven Spielberg or picking through his garbage. Either way, your looks matter little to you.

Three Day Scruff: You concoct painfully transparent schemes to look cooler or more hip than you are. You frequently shop at second-hand stores and wear sneakers that look just as good on middle-schoolers.

Handlebars: Hygiene is not a priority for you, but kicking ass and drinking Pabst are at the top of the list. You own or may have starred in the first season of Jackass. You may also be gay, but we’re not going to ask.

Goatee: You have a lot of insecurity to cover up, and you have apparently decided that insecurity rests mostly on your chin and upper lip. You are also weirdly comfortable with your assumed status as a sexual predator.

Pencil ‘stache: Hello John Waters.

Blast from the Comedy Past

Standing in line for a show at the UCB this week, I noticed someone behind me who looked familiar. “His name was…ME!”

For every article of clothing he was wearing, there were probably five copies just like it in every thrift store in the city: the solid color hoodie sweater, black Converse sneakers, an appropriately worn ringer-tee promoting some summer camp kayaking trip that had occurred decades before he was brought into existence. I knew that I knew him from somewhere, but I couldn’t quite place it until a friend of his showed up and they got to talking. Their conversation went a lot like this:

-“Have you watched much South Park?”

-“Nah, I only really watched the first couple seasons…”

-“Well you know that Kerri Kenney, Ben...Something, and Thomas Lennon all went to college together, right?”

-“Yeah, that’s where they started The State. Man, Porcupine Racetrack is such an amazing bit!”

-“Do you ever watch The Office?”

-“Yeah I catch it sometimes but, I dunno, to me it’s just, like, missing something from the British version.”

It must’ve been when one of them brought up Mr. Show for the third time that I realized why they seemed so familiar. It was because they were having the exact conversation that I probably had four years earlier, the first time I trekked across town from Westwood to see an alternative comedy show at the same theater in the bright morning of my early college years. I was doubly excited by my youthful belief that any venture east of Doheny held a good chance of being tranny-raped.

I listened in on the rest of their talk the way a proud parent might watch a toddler stagger to its feet and pull itself along the edge of a coffee table. I could see where certain views would later be refined, tightened up, where certain connections would eventually be laid in, or abandoned.

One of them, for example, was still under the impression that Robin Williams is funny. Tsk tsk, and for shame. This culture is a constant exam and that view is a patently wrong answer. Williams is ironically likeable in Mrs. Doubtfire, he served his purpose in Death to Smoochy, but he has no place anymore on the stand-up stage. Not in the post-Patton era.

Other guy, you showed good instincts by downplaying your ignorance of a popular TV show by explaining that you only watched it in its early days, before all the fucking fanboys jumped on the wagon. Of course, you’ll soon learn that this technique doesn’t work on South Park. The sanctioned view is that the show has actually gotten better over the years. In the future, try covering such flub-ups with a line like, “Oh, you were talking about South Park? I totally thought I heard you say The Simpsons.”

Another excellent gauge of these guys’ familiarity with the alternative L.A. lifestyle was that they had heard of Toi “Rockin” Thai Food, but had not yet eaten there. However one of them did understand that the thrust of the restaurant is, “really good Thai food, but, like, with this really edgy atmosphere.” Yeah, edgy because the whole ordeal of parking, waiting, eating, and paying can take upwards of 3 hours, and it will totally make you late for David Cross’ set at the M Bar. But you didn’t really care about seeing him anyway, right? Or did you? Go on, say what you think. Everyone is listening.

The Couch Hopping Guide

It's safe to say that you're not really a true Angeleno until you've taken an extended residence on your buddy's couch.

Times are tough when you've just made it to the big city. You probably don't have a job, and if you do it's an unpaid internship, so why pay rent when you can just take advantage of someone else's goodwill?

Finding the Right Friend To Mooch Off Of

I went to an expensive, private college filled with tons of spoiled, rich kids and then made friends with the financial aid students. Don't make the same mistake as me. When you finally move to LA, you're going to want to fall back on Clayton, the trust-fund baby whose parents bought him that house with the pool in Los Feliz, not Gary the PA who lives in a Van Nuys bachelor.* Clayton doesn't give a shit how long you stay, because it's not like he's paying the bills. Gary wants a portion of the rent for every night you sleep in his parking space.

You'll also do well to find someone who has a ridiculous 70-hour assistant workweek. They won't be around for you to get on their nerves and when they do get back to the apartment, they'll go straight to bed without nagging about all your luggage strewn across their living room.

Create the Appearance of Progress

The majority of couch-hosters aren't going to want to give shelter to someone who seems like they will be there forever, so it's important to establish the facade that this arrangement is only temporary. Leave your laptop on the coffee table with the Craigslist housing pages onscreen at all times so they think you might be moving out soon.

Getting Laid

Her place.

Dealing With Your Friend's Roommate

This is the trickiest and most common problem that all couch-hoppers will encounter. Sure, you were on friendly terms with the guy beforehand, but once you move into his living room, you two are destined to become mortal enemies.

He didn't agree to let you live there and not pay rent. The most effective way to deal with the roommate is to simply sow the seed of hatred for him into your friend. It's as easy as eating all your friend's food while he's away and then blaming it on the other guy. Once this has been accomplished, your friend will now want you to stay at his place purely out of spite. It'll definitely make your living situation more awkward, but it always beats signing a lease.

*Guantanamo Bay prison cell with a hot plate.

He's So Straight, He's Gay

It's official: hyper-machismo is the new gay.

We all know that guy. He lives his life just a bit too close to our personal space. He relishes every opportunity for man-on-man contact: high-fives, chest bumps, spontaneous wrestling matches, invasive wet willies. He always checks to see if you wanna "work out," with no hint of irony. He doesn't realize it, but he's totally gay.

I used to think that sexual orientation was a straight-line continuum, but it's actually more like a circle, and hyper-straight men have gone so far around their end that they've looped back to the gay side. And not the cutesy, fun-loving West Hollywood gay, but rather the no-nonsense, sock-in-your-mouth, prison cell gay.

The whole teabagging phenomenon should've been a clue. What straight man would want to put his junk anywhere near another man's face? Who's degraded more in this equation?

But über-butches will do anything for the approval of their "boys" -- particularly if it involves rubbing testicles on another man's person. They're so male-centric that now I realize that "Bros before hos" isn't just a philosophy; it's a mating call.

It makes sense, really, because gay men trying to act straight tend to overcompensate, like, "See, I love poon! It's all...flappy and stuff." It's transparent and sad.

C'mon, guys, look deep inside -- you know, where your boy stuck a Sharpie when you were asleep -- and you'll realize that you're living a lie. Put down that Dane Cook CD and pick up a rainbow flag. This is 2008; you can be both macho and proudly gay. Look at Lorenzo Lamas or that construction worker from The Village People.

To the People who Love Canter's Deli:

Stop it.

Everyone has one friend who LOVES Canters. They suggest it every time a group of 3 or more are hungry and, once a week, they go out of their way to mention a craving for those pickles and bagel chips they have. I understand going out of your way to get a really good steak, or driving an extra 15 minutes to get to the bar that's got your favorite beer on tap. But Canter's is a deli.

As a matter of convention, they serve basic foods you can buy in a grocery store. If we boil this down to Canters' basic function as an establishment, you're really paying these people to assemble 3 or 4 ingredients into a sloppy stack or bowl of those 3 or 4 ingredients.

But what restaurant doesn't? Isn't the point of eating out that someone else prepares the meal while you and your homeys talk shit on your friends who aren't there? Yes, absolutely. But the process of going to Canter's is an absolute nightmare. Not only do you have to wait in line no matter when you eat, but parking there is impossible considering the additive cluster-fuck effects of being Melrose-adjacent and across the street from a high school.

So once you've performed the Herculean tasks of finding parking, standing in line, and getting sat at a table, you get to eat some food that looks shockingly like food you can make in your own fucking house. I'm sorry, but if I'm going to pay 12 dollars for a sandwich, it better include a hand job and free valet.

Canter's does not.

Believe me... I asked about the hand job and was pointed toward a 50 year-old Eastern European battle-axe who stuck out her palm for 'tventy fife dollas'. Cheap. Not free.

Acceptable Reasons to Be Late for Work

Because everyone has to fight the traffic.

A 10-mile drive in LA can easily take an hour, so what excuse can you give for being late for work when everyone has to fight traffic? Here's a few choice options.

The paparazzi confused me for Mario Lopez.

Make sure you pick a star that: A) you look remotely like and B) is famous enough to be hounded but not so famous that the paparazzi would've tailed you all the way to work.

It's the Scientology time of prayer.

Employers won't touch this one with a 10-foot pole. They won't know enough about Scientology practices to argue, and they won't want to infringe on anyone's religion -- especially one that has non-believers fed to giant sand worms.

I had to smuggle a nanny across the border.

This one is both relatable and socially relevant. Your boss will want accept the excuse to show his commitment to diversity -- short of actually hiring a Mexican himself.

The reality show I auditioned for made me eat sheep zits dipped in bile, which of course gave me projectile diarrhea.

You can play around with the exact food you had to eat for the audition, but it should always come back to projectile diarrhea.

The porn shoot at my house needed a third dick.

Back in the day, this excuse would be the exclusive territory of the rich and pervy in the Hollywood Hills, but nowadays all you need to make a porn movie is a video camera, Internet access and a teen with low self-worth.

The dead hooker in my trunk was leaking.

We've all been there before, haven't we? Chances are you won't even have to explain any further, except maybe to specify which bodily fluid was leaking (my choice: lymph).

Promoting Your Improv Show

Improv shows are a dime a dozen in LA. Here's a list of "don'ts" to help you effectively promote your gig.

When you live in LA, you're friends with a lot of actors and you inevitably get invited to 6 improv shows a week. I turn down 99% of these requests based solely on the info on the flier. If you want people to show up to your gig, I recommend you heed the following:

-Don't perform at a venue that has words like "laugh," or "ha ha" in the title. This implies that the only time these sounds will actually be heard throughout the evening will be when the MC repeatedly mentions the name of the club. I'm sorry, but I'm simply not driving out to Pasadena to spend a entire night in a place called The Chuckle Hutch.

-When naming your troupe, don't use the buzzwords like "improv" or "comedy," and for the love of God don't use a Simpsons reference or make it rhyme. It's like naming your ska band something like "The Ska-shank Redemption." It's a douche move and I'm not going.

(Editor's note: I'm a big fan of SSR. Is that wrong?)

-Even if your group is good, watching 2 hours of terrible improv groups before you makes me want to murder you and all of your fellow joke-sters. Just tell me when your set starts. I know this goes against the actor's code, and if I'm willing to come see my friends I should be willing to experience the other groups as a sign of artistic support blah blah blah blah blah rage punch stab run.

By the way, if you're free Wednesday night at 11:15, my group "The Chortle Squirrels" is doing 10 minutes at Happy Harry's House of Ha Ha-larity. 3 drink minimum and you have to bring your own drinking glass.

Roommate, Where Art Thou?

A staple of finding new digs in this town is the potential roommate meet-and-greet. This is my story…

Meeting people from the “housing” section of Craigslist is kind of like a job interview, but the questions all concern self-assessed personal hygiene, and your stance on food organization. Searching for rooms in the past, I’ve been invited to play tennis, consume beers, and discuss religion with complete strangers. The routine is half real estate, and half blind date.

This one’s name was Noelle and she greeted me with a handshake while explaining how uncharacteristically sick she had been lately. In my attempt to make a good impression, I extended my hand, and smiled warmly, while making a mental note to not touch my face for a while, in case she had hand-ebola, or finger herpes. You never know.

As soon as we entered the dining room, I noticed a weed pipe sitting on the dinner table. No shock really, I’ve currently got three strategically placed pipes in my bedroom alone; you can usually tell how depressed I am by the proximity of my paraphernalia to my pillow; if it’s on the dresser across the room, most likely I’m puffing on the way out some where and smiling with the world; if it’s on my nightstand, that means I am in a state of general world-fear. Healthy, I know.

No sooner had my eyes fallen on the glass, than my host nodded at me and challenged, “So what do you think of that?” The mildly boastful threat caught me off guard, like she expected me to tell on her or something. “You mean, you smoke r-r-r-eefer? I’ve seen educational filmstrips about rebels like you! I’m telling my youth group leader!”

“That’s okay,” I responded coolly, not letting on how much or little I smoked. You see, in the pot-smoking community, there are levels of acceptable usage, and with this taunt, Noelle may have been trying to figure out which category I fell into: functional stoner, or doesn’t leave the bed stoner. I happen to be one of each.

Weeks passed. I did not end up getting the place, and I’ll be honest, it bothered me. In my attempt to appear legit, had I totally betrayed my true pothead self? Did my putting on of professional appearances cost me the chance to live in my natural “420 friendly” habitat? Oh well, at least I didn’t get hand-ebola.

99 Problems but a Job Ain't One

Wanna work less at work? Regret giving your boss your cell phone number?

Follow these six tips written in the blood of my enslavement and you’ll have way more off-site time, lose those last ten pounds, and your own office/assistant/expense account in no time*:

1. Have a kid.

Don’t actually have a kid, please. But find yourself a pre-existing one that you can exploit. Ironically, even if you’re single and everyone thinks it was unplanned, you’ll look real responsible due to your being in charge of another human person AND extra easy. It’s gonna cost you a little upfront, cause you have to initially claim him or her as a dependent and then recoup that money at tax time, but the benefits you will reap make it worthwhile. Breeders get away with tons of shit. No one can really say ‘No’ when you have to leave early cause your kid is “sick” or you have a “parent-teacher conference” or day care is “closed pending investigation.” When people procreate they also buy cameras so photographic documentation is key. You should also pretend to be really really into it, so tack up photos often and all over.

2. Smoke.

Don’t actually smoke, please. But get yourself one pack of cigarettes and own it. When a smoker is frustrated, cranky, or bored, they are never refused a 10-15 minute smoking break. But you can’t just ask for some air. These guys get to act like assholes AND go outside. If you get two breaks a day, five days a week, for one year, that’s a one hundred thirty hour savings of reclaimed time straight back to you! The trick is to establish yourself as a lone wolf smoker, find your own secret smoking spot, and if anyone asks you why you don’t smell like BBQ Lung, tell them you’re just really good at it.

3. Get therapy.

You probably should do this, but even if you want to keep that unhealthily low self-esteem, misogyny, or eating disorder, tell your HR representative otherwise on day one and establish an Outstanding Shrink Appointment. Every week. Which just happens to fall mid-day. If you want to go pro, pick a brain doctor that’s on the other end of the LAiverse so there’s no time to come back to the office afterwards. Sign up for that UCB class!

4. Be old.

No matter how old you are, be over thirty. Just trust me on this.

5. Yes. Say it.

No matter what is asked of you, always say, “Yes” with your mouth and, “Fuck You” with everything else.

Example: “Hey Seth, Big Jenny clogged the ladies bathroom again. Could you roll up those Thomas Pink sleeves and…”

“Yes.”

If at all possible, muster up a smile, too! I’m not saying you should actually DO the work. Just say yes. Everyone loves a yes man.

6. Go grey.

Even if you just take some whiteout to individual strands of hair. Nothing gives insta-cred more than being a Silver Fox. George Clooney, Anderson Cooper, Maya Angelou, you know it’s true.

*I am not responsible for anything bad following these tips may result in, including but not limited to: cancer, termination, or hair loss (though that also lends major credibility). I am however, responsible for all positives. Gratitudities appreciated.