16) TOBIAS> EVERYTHIN: A NEW START

WARNING: Minor spoilers!...

Author's Note: I don't know how to add the two dots over the "u" in "Funke". 

I'll apologize in advance for this.

If you spend a lot of time on the Internet (I can only assume so. Why else would you be reading this?), lately you will have seen nothing but White House "scandals" and Arrested Development chatter. Old-timers are understandably thrilled that the Bluths are back, and the newbies are hopping on the bandwagon left and right. It all can be a little much. The coverage and hype are inescapable. Twitter and Facebook have become a sludge of rehashed memes, quotes over-quoted and beaten to death, and sepia toned homemade Bluth frozen bananas.

The show could have used some of this enthusiasm when it was buried on Friday nights and struggling to get renewed, so it's not all unwelcome. It's nice to see AD finally get its due fan obsession, but we always do this with great things; we make them about me.  Look at how much me love it! Look how big a fan me is! Retweet me! Like me! Everybody should like me because everybody likes the show! Right?! Right!! Give me validation for something that, truly, has nothing to do with me!

I'm as guilty as anyone, as far as taking advantage of the social flavor of the month. Recently I've asked myself why me can't just sit back and appreciate the greatness of great things.

SIDE NOTE ON GREATNESS (because I don't know how to do footnotes): Isn't it one of life's beautiful coincidences that the release of the long-awaited fourth season of AD coincides with the NBA conference finals? If you happen to be a basketball fan and an AD fan, you're walking on goddamn sunshine. It's like you took the Limitless pill from Limitless. You're getting up at 5:00 AM and running four miles before work. You're high fiving the managing partners and buying jumbo prawn-brunches for homeless people.You gladly tolerate the daily grind when you know greatness is in your future, that is, if the Heat are on tonight and you haven't binged through the whole AD season yet. Whether or not you like LeBron James, you cannot deny his rare genius and astounding athletic gifts. He is so much fun to watch, and we are privileged to witness his brilliance on the sports' biggest stage. I mean LOOK AT THIS:

Anyway, despite my die-hard fandom I didn't want to write about AD, to add my spew to the world's spewing spew. But then I got to episode five: "A New Start".

I "viewed" it the first time. I "viewed", rather than"watched", the same way one "hears" instead of "listens"; too much is coming at you in these new episodes to make an accurate assessment the first time around. The second time, I watched. And then I watched a second time, third total. In true AD form, each time was better than the last, each time a surprise party. By the end of the third watch, fourth overall, my face hurt. The episode was so good it made me physically tired, although part of that may have been Itis from leftover Memorial Day ribs.  My face collapsed into my open, BBQ sauce covered hands. I had witnessed the greatest episode of sitcom television of all time.

Along with being completely blown away by the overwhelming genius of it all,  part of me was also relieved. The first couple of episodes this season were somewhat uneven, in particular episode two. George Sr's Arrested Development, while watchable, had shockingly few laughs. Frankly it dragged, and I couldn't help but question the writers' decision to change to the 30 minute format. I also wondered why, with so many great actors that clicked with each other like a sports team mid-dynasty, they chose to go with one main character per episode.

But "A New Start" completely redeems the season's struggle out of the gates, and more than justifies the philosophy changes. "A New Start" could not have been achieved in any other season, of any other sitcom, by anyone other than our favorite blowhard analrapist.

When we are reunited with Tobias, we find him in a very similar position as the series pilot. He's broke, and worse his sexual inadequacy (read: disinterest) towards Lindsay has left his marriage, once again, in ruins. So as usual Tobias waits for the universe to offer him a sign, and soon he begins his "New Start", journeying to India on a soul searching quest inspired by Eat, Pray, Love...or at least Eat and Pray. Of course it wouldn't be Tobias unless every decision he makes and every word that comes out of his mouth got him arrested, sent to the hospital with skull fractures, or made him look like a pedophile.  I wouldn't be surprised if the writers, in creating Tobias' story, took some pages from the slightly less brilliant, equally cringe-inducing sitcom The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Todd Margaret (Created by David Cross. Available on Netflix. Only 12 episodes. You have no excuse. WATCH IT). While Tobias and Todd are slightly different morons, I get the same delightful "Oh my god, how could he possibly make this any worse for himself" feeling in watching both characters.

Giving away as little as possible, "A New Start" is a pitch perfect opus to Tobias Funke. For newbies it is a wonderful introduction to your new favorite Uncle T-Bag and his dumbfounding obliviousness. For the long-time fans it builds off this character, taking Dr. Funke's quirks to new levels of absurdity, with enough signature "Huzzahs!" so that it still feels familiar. Among many misadventures, he finds a soul mate in a meth addict former actress, and dresses up like Fantastic Four's The Thing to sell pictures on Harvard Boulevard. If you don't watch the show (WHA?), the previous sentence alone should convince you to get your Netflix subscription. The episode is paced with staggering brilliance (again, these writers man...THESE WRITERS! COME ON!) as Tobias is offered lifeline after lifeline to escape his hardship, all of which he turns down with the stupidest smile ever.  The plot culminates in a punchline for the ages, one so good you would think the writers built the entire episode around it, just so we can hear the words come out his mouth.

I'm not too concerned with show business awards (except for this guy), but it would be a shame if David Cross wasn't at least nominated for an Emmy for his performance this season.  I can't think of a comedic actor more suited to a role than Cross to Tobias. For a guy who once said he would never do sitcoms, Cross has done pretty well for himself in the format. If three brilliant seasons had not done it, this fourth, hell, this episode, has vaulted Tobias into one of the greatest TV characters of all time.

I'm afraid to finish the fourth season of Arrested Development, if only because I know that might mean the end of Tobias, but as the show has become such a cultural phenomenon I wonder whether it will be. I suppose if we want to Save Our Bluths again all we can do is keep me-tweeting and me-liking. I feel like a fat attention-whore poser for doing so, but even if I have to take a chubby, I will suck it up.

TOBIAS > EVERYTHIN

15) THE OFFICE> EVERYTHIN: THE HALPERT DELUSION

I have a ginger-rap-artist-friend that blames the fall of the American man on Seth Cohen from The OC. He suggests that Seth Cohen, a nerd and coward, never in real life would've been able to "pull" Summer Roberts, who was wealthy, popular and incredibly sexy, way more so than Seth.   But even if that weren't the case, Seth severely lacked the charisma that might have compensated for his gooberish physical attractiveness, or perhaps unattractiveness. His greatest failing was always that he was such a puss. 

Their relationship had little basis in reality, but the show was a generational touchstone, so in addition to being a plot hole that spanned the series, the Seth-Summer relationship has instilled, in the millions of gooberish real world men who bought the DVD box set, completely unreasonable sexual expectations. Again I'll argue, it's not just the discrepancy in attractiveness. A lot of women I know find Seth Cohen incredibly attractive, in a "cool nerd" sort of way; if we're honest, most real world Seth Cohens are just "nerd nerd".

The disturbing fact is that these OC goobers hold on to the toxic idea that you don't have to expand your interests, and at least try to improve your physical appearance and health, to find mates that may be a little more "out of your league". No, she'll love me anyway is the mentality. She'll read my comic books and dress up like Wonder Woman and happily make love to a scrawny-chub body that is upholstered in acne. Worked for Seth!

No way.

So...TV shows aren't real...not exactly a breakthrough is it?

But what if they are real, or at least try to be, or at least for the first few seasons before the zaniness goes overboard? OK so The Office is finally coming to an end next week, and as former die hard this comes as welcome news. I remember discovering the show in high school and burning through two and a half seasons in a matter of days; I count the 2nd season among my favorites of any show. Like a lot of people my loyalty began to waver right around when Michael left for Colorado, and by the end of Will Ferrell's strange run it was no longer appointment viewing. I am now roughly two seasons behind and everything I know about this final season is hearsay. I guess Pam is dating the boom operator.

I was an Office goober, so I was in love with Pam Beasley. Smitten by her gentle playfulness and infuriated by her devotion to Roy, naturally I put myself in Jim Halpert's shoes. "Casino Night", the season two finale, was a masterful and devastating culmination of years of sexual tension and unrequited love. Jim professes his love to Pam outside of the warehouse, to which Pam can only reply "You have no idea what your friendship means to me". I can't think of a more crushing response. It was like she was shutting me down,and I took it like a punch to the gut.

So Jim moved to Connecticut before Season 3, forced to move on with his life,  but everyone who watches TV knew they would end up together. Sure enough, a series of convenient corporate layoffs brings Jim back to Scranton,  even though he was in a new relationship, we knew it was a matter of time. After a season of stalling, PB&J finally make it official, ending the show's most essential driving story and initiating its decline.

Of course, anyone that has ever been stuck in the Friend Zone knows that Halpert's comeback is absurd. 99% of the time you can't change the other person's mind about you; they either feel the same way or they don't. Jim has been working at the office with Pam for years when we enter the story. Years of, presumably, pranks and unacceptable workplace flirting with an engaged woman. If nothing had happened between them up to that point, then nothing was going to happen. If Jim and Pam had a drunken make out session at party the first weekend they knew each other their journey would make more sense. But they had worked together for that long and hadn't touched each other? Stick a fork in him.

 But the implausibility is not at the heart of "The Halpert Delusion"; we've already established that TV shows aren't real. Like "The Cohen Conceit", "The Halpert Delusion" is toxic because you are paralyzed into maintaining the status quo. Getting over someone is hard, but you find ways to cope; maybe you, I don't know, move to a new city! And you may suffer for a time, but once you've reached the other side you could find that you've grown; you have new interests and talents that you didn't even know you possessed. You might even say "What the hell did I see in this person? Moving was the best thing that ever happened to me."

But hey, you gotta hand it to Jim though...right? Defying all odds, his Herculean mental effort to escape the Friend Zone succeeds. All the suffering, loneliness, self-pity, it was all worth it. After all, who needs Oscar nominee Amy Adams,  Rashida Jones,and New York City? Jim's got paper. Jim's got Scranton. Jim's got Pam Beasley... the art school dropout. "But Jim loved her!" you might say. And yes, love is important, but it's hardly everything. What about your career? Your sense of satisfaction in your social life? Your pride? Age?   Jim turns down potentially life changing opportunities so he can wake up every morning, spend the day selling paper and pulling pranks with Pam, go home every night and rub one out to her Facebook photos? To conclude, let's just recap. Jim turns down this:

... and then THIS:



...for this:



...where were his friends?



THE OFFICE> EVERYTHIN

14) ATTACK THE BLOCK (2011) > EVERYTHIN: DROP EVERYTHIN



This is the first of a new, reoccurring series called "DROP EVERYTHIN". I hate writing about things that are new and topical (I'm usually painfully behind the times), so this is a series in which we'll discuss things you may have missed.


I saw Super 8 in theaters the first weekend of its release. I got there early, finding my favorite seat in the very back where I could put my feet up without bothering anyone, and as people entered the theater and the previews flashed on the screen I was excited. This was a movie right in my genre-wheelhouse,  another classic "kids take on the bad guys and save the day" movie  a la The Goonies, Home Alone, and others. All the ingredients were in the mix. Ensemble cast of kids. Mr. "Clear Eyes Full Hearts" Kyle Chandler in a leading role. Spielberg at the helm. Script penned by JJ Abrams. As I've gotten older I tend to find reasons to dislike movies; I get it from my mom and I'm trying to get over it.  But as the previews came to a close I thought, at worst, Super 8 bring me back to a time when I didn't.

Then the movie started. We open at a small gathering in a small house in a small, blue collar town. Everyone is wearing nice clothes and talking quietly as they nibble on humble potluck spread; "Why does everyone look so sad?" I thought, shoving a slippery handful of popcorn down my gullet. Then came the sudden realization that someone has just died. Next I realized it was a mother. If my mom would've been in the theater with me she would've sarcastically exclaimed "Oh great! Another 'Mom's Dead' movie!"  I coughed up a kernel, took a deep breath and massaged my sinuses. This wasn't what it was supposed to be. Not another "Mom's Dead" movie.

 Jimmy (I don't know the main character's name) and his father Coach Taylor are having trouble dealing with the untimely passing of Jimmy's mom; it seems as if they don't have a lot in common and it was the mother who really kept the family together. Jimmy decides the guests have become no comfort to him, so he hops on his sad little bicycle and rides away.  It was the most depressing, downer of an opening I can remember from a movie I thought was going to be fun (Up is an obvious exception, but that now legendary opening sequence was so much more moving and artfully done). I had sympathy for Jimmy, but the choice of opening put me squarely into "criticize everything" mode. I nitpicked the length and the acting performances and the plausibility of a train crash causing an Armageddon-like disaster, not to mention the alien who inexplicably didn't slaughter Jimmy in the end. I audibly groaned "MY GOD!" and dropped my full bag of popcorn onto the ground in resignation. I wanted so badly to like it, but in the end I couldn't wait until it was over.

Crack a smile! You're in a movie!



For me, one bad sequence set off a domino effect of hate for Super 8. Perhaps such rigid criticism is harsh, but it goes to show two things: the first being that I will never change and the second is that the genre itself is difficult to get right. Compelling "kids take on the bad guys and save the day" movies are rare, endangered even, because they require extremely careful direction, charismatic child actors, and airtight scripts. Added to the trickiness is weighing the stakes of the story against the overall tone. In The Sandlot, the gold standard for films about kids, the stakes were low; the boys have to get the Babe Ruth baseball back before Smalls's father returns, and so in turn the tone was lighthearted and fun. Super 8 was uneven, too often drifting into the "family drama" and "feelings" territory that movies like that should avoid like the plague.

Fortunately in the same year, another "kids take on the bad guys and save the day" movie was released, albeit to a much smaller audience and fanfare. But for those of us who were lucky enough to catch some of the Internet buzz and saw it it in theaters, Attack the Block was the antidote for disappointment of Super 8.



"Inner City vs. Outer Space", reads the tagline. Aliens versus thugs, facing off  head-to-head in a match up that would not feel out of place in a blaxploitation film or an episode of Manswers. But ATB is anything but cliche, never chasing a cheap laugh or utilizing the convenient stereotypes inherited in the absurd premise. In fact the film as a whole can be taken as a social commentary. Issues of race and class permeate throughout; as the kids struggle to defend their modest London housing project from annihilation they wonder out loud why the fuck the police or, hell, the army haven't arrived to help them (The lack of a military/police response in ATB juxtaposed against the lightening fast military action taken in Super 8's largely-white middle class town is fascinating). The kids battle the alien invasion, the cops, and revenge-seeking drug dealers as they have battled every day of their short lives, relying on their own strength of will, a blunt between them, and bicycles for a quick escape.


But who needs all the sobering politics in a "kids take on the bad guys and save the day" movie? The good thing is that they only serve to augment ATB's story; the film never gets distracted from its main goal, which is to kick ass. Like Moses, the story's brooding central character, ATB is a movie that feels dangerous, confident and self-assured in its irreverent humor and splendidly violent action, with Basement Jaxx's impeccable score pulsating throughout (I'm not an EDM fan but apparently they are a big deal). The script is lean and razor sharp; from the moment the first alien crashes into earth not a moment feels wasted. The film was produced by the "Shaun of the Dead" guys, and directed, in a strong debut effort, by Joe Cornish. Their dry humor, heart, and massive talent shine through. We even see a familiar face in Nick Frost, who plays a bumbling drug dealer who, naturally, enjoys nature shows.

Despite the movie's modest budget, the special effects are fantastic. The jet black alien monsters are menacing and relentless, darting in and out of dark alleys and barrelling through narrow hallways in hot pursuit. The monsters provided moments that were genuinely terrifying, another rarity in this type of film. The final sequence, without giving anything away, is one of the most satisfying, thrilling, EPIC action sequences I have seen in a long time, and as the stakes are constantly raised throughout the film there is a genuine sense of panic. These kids may or may not make it out. Mind-blowing.



But what about the characters? A rule of thumb in judging a "kids take on the bad guys and save the day" movie is simply asking yourself "would I want to hang out with these kids?". If the answer is no, Super 8, then the movie likely fails. ATB's protagonists are criminals and drug users who rule their kingdom and do what they please, so obviously the answer here is "Yes".  The delinquent heroes are delightful. It doesn't take long to get a feel for their voices, and the authenticity of their accents and slang add to the (forgive me) swagger of the film. There is a hierarchy within the gang, and Moses  (remember the name John Boyega) is their unquestioned leader. The necessary archetypes are present; there is the wise ass "Squints" character called Pest, the nerdy Jerome, and fireworks specialist Biggz among others.  We've seen these characters before, and the sense of familiarity is comforting. Far more so than Super 8 does ATB feel like the kids movies we used to love, but, just like us, a little older and utterly desensitized.

If you haven't seen this movie, I suggest you DROP EVERYTHIN and do so immediately. Whatever you're doing, just stop...I just bought a copy at Blockbuster so, you know, if you'd like to borrow it..



ATTACK THE BLOCK > EVERYTHIN

13) RAO'S > EVERYTHIN: SPLURGE

Worth every penny!



I am in the final stages of packing my suitcases. I'm only wearing boxer briefs, in the dead of winter, so I'm freezing as I collect my miscellaneous socks and underwear, shove my brand new Hoyas and Redskins hoodies into my bag and contemplate my mental checklist (I had not quite reached the Pat-Down stage). Then my mother enters the room. It is normally around this time in the process, a few hours removed from departure, that she suggests I take some of the copious leftover food from the holiday celebrations back on the plane with me. I'm grouchy because I stayed up too late and I can't find my phone charger. I grumble that I don't want any of the leftovers, and even if I did, I can't fit anything else in my bag. Neither of those statements is true; as soon as I get back to my apartment I'm going to devour that lasagna, and we both know that with some minimal rearranging I could fit a lot more stuff in my bag, and like so many other things that I'm capable of doing but haven't done, it comes down to the fact that I haven't tried hard enough.

Among the food items that I take along with me (lasagna, brownies, gingerbread people, a block of my favorite horseradish cheese), she includes a jar of Rao's Homemade All Natural, Premium Quality Arrabiata Fra Diavolo Sauce; we just call it Rao's (rhymes with cows, at least how we said it.). "Mom, you beautiful bastard! I am unworthy of your love." I think to myself. I can't show how pleased I am with this discovery, because that would mean that she wins and is right as always, but on the inside I'm doing a Tiger Woods fist pump, because Rao's is unbelievable. I packed it safely away deep in my luggage between some of my thicker clothing.
__________________________

I never learned how to cook, mostly because my favorite food, pasta, requires no cooking. I'd imagine most chefs or anyone that knows their way around the kitchen wouldn't consider dropping dry linguine into boiling water, or placing an Italian sausage on a pan "cooking". But while I'm no expert, I am very particular about my pasta. For instance, I only do linguine or penne; Fettuccine is too thick to slurp, and I refuse to touch "angel hair" because I think it tastes like slime. I also know that the secret to any great homemade pasta, more important than even the pasta itself, is the sauce.

 

Thin and gross. I won't eat you.



I'm convinced that I'm the first person ever to buy a jar of Rao's; I was in high school I think, perusing the sauce aisle as my mother waited at the deli counter. I glanced over the mid-shelf stuff indifferently, the safe Barillas and Bertolli's, the lumpier Classicos, and the incomprehensible Newman's Own. At the time this was the sauce bracket in which my family operated. My earliest memories are of us as Prego family, which was fine as long as it wasn't Ragu, but as we grew as a family our tastes grew as well. And once again we were at a sauce-roads. We needed something to shake things up, and then I saw it, on the top shelf holding dominion over all other sauces, with a laughable $9.99 price tag on it. At first I was outraged, a ten dollar jar of tomato sauce? Where do you get off?! Even more shocking was the Rao's was parked on the high end shelf between one sauce endorsed by Francis Ford Coppola and another by Paul Sorvino, two Italian American film legends, and their sauces were cheaper than Rao's! When my mom found me I showed her the jar. "Ten dollars?" she said dubiously, "Well this better be the best damn tomato sauce in the world".



 Pauly and Frank got nothing on Rao's.

I've never been to Italy, so it's hard to prove Rao's world ranking. I do know, without a doubt, that it is the best tomato sauce you can buy in a store, and frankly I would put Rao's up against any of your favorite Italian restaurants (for any LMU people reading this, C&O's too). There are several different varieties of Rao's, but the Arrabiata is in its own league; it's one of the few Arrabiata's I've enjoyed where I didn't need extra pepper flakes, Sorvino and Coppola notwithstanding.

The fiery kick is what you come for, but the texture and consistency are what set it apart. To appreciate this element of Rao's, you have to understand the cheaper brands. Most of the cheaper brands tend to be way, way too thick, which can lead to clumpy, uneven distribution and, worst of all, burning.  Ragu is notorious for burning quickly, among its many other inadequacies.  Rao's has a balanced and delightful simmer about it, and because of its superior fluidity and bold flavor only a small ladle is required. With bland Ragu and the like, you can't even taste it without piling it on, which goes against the principles of subtlety that one should always follow with tomato sauce.

Since that fateful day in our local grocery store Rao's has been part of the family. We can't ever go back, so we keep an emergency arsenal of around ten jars in our pantry at all times. It is a staple of my Mom's Christmas lasagna. My grandma had a spaghetti recipe she hadn't altered in decades, until we found Rao's. You can make it into Bolognese, throw some sausages in it, seafood, shellfish, whatever you want. You can achieve your Barefoot Contessa dreams today! For ten bucks, well...

____________________________________________________________________

Now I'm unpacking, warmer, but still grouchy after a particularly nauseating flight and cab ride. I open my suitcase to only to find a sea of red; my Rao's, God bless it, has exploded.

Panic sets in as the prospect of laundering my entire wardrobe becomes very real."No one told me this would happen!" I whisper to myself pitifully.  Thankfully, I suppose, I find out that the sauce has miraculously avoided all of my clothing...except of course my brand new Hoyas and Redskins hoodies, which were ruined (The damaged hoodies proved to be an omen. Both of my teams would lose in embarrassing fashion the following weekend. I blame myself). I had lost my beloved Rao's, but it could've been much worse, and as I cleaned up the mess and licked my fingers clean,  I was just glad it wasn't Ragu.


RAO'S > EVERYTHIN

12) The Pat-Down > EVERYTHIN: COPING WITH LOSS



Throughout most of my life I've lived with a feeling that I was missing something. The feeling is as permanent and reoccurring as a first memory; it hums and clacks and sputters in the background of my life's work like an obsolete machine. I've lost so much, become so used to that dissonance that wakes me up before my alarm goes off in the morning, before the sun is up. Now I've learned the patterns. I drum them out calmly with my fingers at my desk. At one point there must have been panic and anxiety, because most people feel that way with loss. Now I just get on with my day, confident that I'll just as soon forget about whatever it is that is not there.  I've realized that some of us have a talent for loss, a trait born not out of habit but in our genes. People like me know that with time, whatever substance that is within us will absorb the memory of the loss. Some people were made to remember. I was made to forget.

Also, the fact that RAZR is so thin really makes things more difficult for me. It has a ton of cool features, but the one I love the most is the "Fall to the Deepest Crevice Between the Couch Cushions" app. You can't turn it off. In fact, the battery it doesn't even need to be on for the app to work! Droid does, indeed, do.

Cell phone, wallet, keys. The three items any person needs to function at an adult level in 2013. If you're like me you're content with knowing where two of those things are at one time. The third one is in the pockets of the jeans I wore yesterday, or in my car, or on the sidewalk next to your car. Or in the keyhole of my apartment door, adjacent to the crazy old lady who thinks I stole her ring.

People don't think so, but I try my best to keep track of my belongings. I am interested in self improvement. I know I'm an organizational wreck. I want to do something about it! So I have developed a frequent "wallet, keys, cell phone" Pat-Down that has increased my efficiency particularly in my pre-work morning routine. The casual self-grope, if done effectively and often enough, can eliminate the possibility of losing your "Big 3". And  while I'm alone I'm usually fine; It's when I see people I haven't seen in a long time or who know me well that I freeze up, that I forget to do the Pat-Down or just perform lazy, sloppy Pat-Downs. It's too much pressure! And next thing I know I'm calling Bank of America to cancel my debit card.

________________________________________________

"Floor four"

The voice of the elevator wakes me up. My neck hurts, because I'm using my wallet as a pillow. I'm also in the hallway and my mouth tastes like dirt and plaque. But why?

"Somebody call a locksmith?"

"Yes" says a tired voice, the voice of my roommate. Then I remember everything. The beers and then the cab and then some sweet beverage with liquor and wine and then a frantic, unsuccessful search for keys, and then another cab, and then a wish that we had left the door unlocked. Now a headache and a locksmith.

I also remembered that we were with friends; a couple who my roommate knew from high school that had graciously contributed Longboard Ales that evening. They were visiting  from Santa Barbara and had planned to stay the night on our couch, or at the very least inside our apartment. They were now sleeping soundly, a blonde girlfriend in fishnets on her boyfriend's lap by the fire escape.

I stand and brush myself off. I can't be angry at my roommate.  I had left my own keys behind for the evening, trying to eliminate the high probability of losing them, because I lose everything. But part of me relished that, for once thank god, it was the other guy who fucked up. For once I was helping him retrace his steps, calling the cab company in vain for his keys.. It was his frustrated voice trailing off in half sentence for the past several hours, a flabbergasted inflection that I am quite familiar with  "I don't know where..." "I coulda sworn there were..." "No I couldn't have left them..." "Where the fuckin...". My keys are on the kitchen table. I know it for a fact.

"I can't pick this lock", says the locksmith, without having even moved within twelve feet of our door. He was unlike any locksmith I had ever seen, although I suppose the only time I have ever interacted with one was when I locked myself out of a storage unit in Westchester. I remembered a rotund, sweaty white guy with a beard, and that he was nice enough to explain to me exactly why he was making me pay a fortune. That was a locksmith. This guy was Aladdin in patent leather shoes and an expensive peacoat; he looked like he just walked out of a club except he was holding a toolbox. "If it was any different type of lock I could pick it in literally three seconds. I'm going to have to drill it."

My roommate and I share a look. "How much is that going to cost?" he asks.

"$367.00"

"Uh...what?"

"Dude let's just wait it out", I say. Luckily the security at our apartment complex has back up keys available, for a fee of course, for just such occasions, but they inexplicably weren't available until 6 AM. Plus we weren't about to wake up the whole building with a power drill at 3 AM, and something about the indifference in Aladdin's tone tells me that he knows that too. "Can't afford that."

"Ok so you'll just have to pay the cancellation fee", says Aladdin, pulling out a ticket. He jots down a number and hands it to me.

"$167.00?" I ask, the number adding do the grimy taste in my mouth.  My roommate snatches the ticket away from me to see for himself.

"When I called  the lady said it was $19 for you to come and check it out", says my roommate, his voice rising.

"This is emergency service, and after hours service, so there are additional fees". The tone in Aladdin's voice was matter-of-fact and infuriating. "It's all standard."

"You want us to pay you $170 for showing up at our door and not doing anything?" My roommate's shake starts shaking uncontrollably, "No. No. I mean no. I'm not doing it. I'm calling your fucking manager, because this is bullshit, and because fuck you". He's still quite drunk; if he were a different type of guy he might've tried to fight Aladdin, but instead he steps out onto the fire escape with his iPhone.

I stand sheepishly beside Aladdin as we listen to my roommate, endowed with new purpose, rant at the dispatcher, explaining unnecessary details of the evening ("it was my friend's birthday, and we were all having this great time, and playing all kinds of drinking games")  referring to the locksmith as "this fucking asshole/douchebag/motherfucker". I suspect my roommate thinks we are out of earshot, but our walls are paper thin.

Aladdin's staring daggers at me, "Bad things happen to bad people" he whispers, taking a seat on the floor and pulling out his phone. "You're too cheap to get back into your apartment, and your friend is the biggest piece of shit I've ever met.". It's clearly an overreaction, but like a coward I let the insult slide.I step outside just to escape the awkwardness.

It's a chilly morning. My roommate hunches sadly over the railing, the last reserves of his energy now spent. He turns and sees me.

"What did that fucker say?"

"Nothing."

"My phone died."

"Mine too"

"I was thinking that maybe I could climb over to the window." he says. The closest window to our apartment is about 10 feet from the fire escape, four stories up.

"I don't think you'll make it". I'm almost ready to restrain him, because I almost believe he'll try to make the climb anyway. He'll do anything to get back into this apartment.

"This never happens to me"

"Did you do the Pat-Down?

"I always do the Pat Down!" he says, exasperated. He taps hopelessly at his deceased phone. "Dude, how the fuck am I going to get around?"

"We'll figure it out." I say, and as he looks again to make the impossible leap "...let's go back inside"

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After additional arguing and ad hominem attacks we end up giving Aladdin sixty bucks just to leave, and a few minutes before 7 AM security finally shows up. They apologize for the delay and mercifully end our ordeal. We wake the sleeping couple, who, polite like old friends, jokes about the whole thing and won't hear any of my roommates apologies. They settle on the couch as I make a beeline for my bedroom. Out of curiousity I stop in the dining room, just long enough to realize that my keys are, in fact, not on the dining room table, and that I have no idea where they are. But the hangover is setting in so I'll figure it out later.

11) BLOCKBUSTER VIDEO > EVERYTHIN



I got sucked into Deadwood on Sunday. I've now become accustomed to cranking out a half seasons of HBO Go on the weekends, carrying my open laptop computer with one hand to various rooms in my apartment, relishing the experience of an unbroken story, and in the end wondering where the first six hours of my day went. Truth be told I did a lot of other things while watching Deadwood; I cooked breakfast and futilely pawed at my guitar and then ate breakfast and checked my Facebook. Deadwood was the compelling background noise I needed, and later if I find I'm lost somewhere in the plot  I could go back whenever I wanted.

When I left my apartment at around 4 I didn't plan to end up walking out of the last Blockbuster on Earth with two DVDs in a bag. My original destination was Coffee Bean and my original purpose was simply to be a human being in the outside world, if only for an hour or so. I strolled through my apartment complex towards Wilshire, and I remembered too late that the Coffee Bean I thought was on Wilshire was actually in the opposite direction on 3rd. So following a tried and true method of finding a coffee shop in any major city, I simply walked in one direction until I came across a Starbucks, which took all of four minutes.

With my white chocolate-whatever in hand, I stepped around a homeless woman counting her change and back onto the sidewalk. Then I saw the sign, the dying company's name written in big yellow letters, and I thought someone had forgotten to take it down. But when I turned onto La Brea and peered through the window I found ten or so people browsing through the aisles. EVERYTHING MUST GO, EVERYTHING ON SALE commanded a banner hung over the doorway, and a flip chart counting down the days until the end read "47 DAYS". I didn't have much else to do, and I was intrigued by the prospect of a good deal.

Jaw-Achingly Mediocre

Inside was gloomy, emptying. The walls were essentially bare, with no movie posters and decorations of any kind. The two employees, a guy and a girl, acknowledged me noiselessly as I entered. They looked to be about my age and, when not dealing with the customers, their eyes were glued their phones. There was a point when it benefited them to chirp "Welcome to Blockbuster" or something as customers entered, but now I suppose that time has passed.

I gravitated towards the XBOX games first. Not much to say about these. The pickings were slim to say the least. NBA 2K11 and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, identified with masking tape labels, were the highlights of the woeful selection. I didn't even glance at the Blu-Rays since I don't own a Blu-Ray player.

The DVD section was the most depressing. The rack had been picked clean; the shelves had decayed into a historical record of Hollywood's trash sequels (Mean Girls 2), flops (Pluto Nash) and generally bad ideas (I've never seen so many copies of MacGruber in one place). Horror films, per usual, were the worst offenders. They had an entire section to themselves, each featuring a possessed Caucasian child or lazily-conceived monster. On the price labels $12.00 had been crossed out for $8.00, and then $8.00  had been crossed out for $7.00; in the horror aisle there was a  special handwritten green sign that simply read "Some Exceptions Included" (read: "Make Us An Offer"). Another section nearest the register housed DVDs without boxes. I thought this was similar to how supermarkets put cheaper items like soda and candy near the check out line so people will buy them impulsively; it was surreal seeing  What to Expect When You're Expecting beside Casablanca share a $3.00 price tag in the bargain bin. I kept walking through the aisles over and over again looking for some hidden gem. Eventually I grabbed a copy of Attack the Block (OVEREVERYTHIN), only minimally scratched, and, inexplicably amongst twelve copies of a Jack Black film I'd never heard of called Bernie, I found Beasts of the Southern Wild. After I had completed the transaction and was halfway out there, I turned back towards the two employees; they looked at each other with hopeful grins. "Two more! Yay!" beamed the girl with the black pixie cut, despite their looming unemployment, offering her male counterpart a small fist bump before returning to whatever she was watching on her phone.

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There was a Blockbuster less than five minutes from my house in Maryland; like seemingly all closed Blockbusters the sign is still up. As kids my sister and I ran like maniacs through the aisles, astonished at the number of selections and salivating at the sugary snacks. We would run until we simultaneously collided into whichever parent drove us, and argued loudly, as we still do, in favor of our choice of movie and the candy we would share. It mattered a lot more then because once we picked a movie we were stuck with it; that was our Saturday night. And, whatever we decided on, we watched more intently, without checking our social network, and stayed up to finish it even though we were succumbing to Dominos-induced food coma. These days if the movie sucks all you have to do is adjust in your seat, click the exit button, and try again. Or just throw on Deadwood and pass out. It's so convenient.


BLOCKBUSTER > EVERYTHIN.

10) HOMELESS MUSICIANS > EVERYTHIN

I walked out of the Gas Company Tower and started down 5th Street. The sun was out, and it warmed my dragging legs and eyelids, both of which gravitated down the sloping sidewalk towards Olive. I liked being warm very much, but when I got to the corner I remembered that because it was warm, and because "Febru-any" was in its final days, the line at Subway would be much longer. I considered the additional time cut into my precious lunch hour unacceptable, so when the light changed I turned on Olive and decided I'd take my chances at  Yorkshire Grill, where I knew I would be eating immediately at the expense of a few extra dollars.

Olive runs adjacent to Pershing Square, a mixed bag as far as city parks go, and one of the Downtown's largest gathering spots for homeless people. If you live or work near Pershing Square you are regularly encountering homeless people, some of whom you begin to recognize or even know by name. I wasn't halfway down the block before I was solicited by a middle aged guy in a beat up brown jacket and flip flops. His toenails were black and yellow and crusted over.

"Help me out with a dollar sir?", he grumbled, standing directly my walking path. I looked him in the eye for a moment, then back at the sidewalk, and gave my head a quick shake as I sidestepped him.

Everyone has their own ethics on giving money to panhandlers. Based on my own experiences and chatting with others, I've discovered there are essentially four character types when it comes to giving.

1) "The Rigid No": Some people never give money to panhandlers under any circumstances. Usually the reasoning behind this philosophy is that the potential giver doesn't know if there money is going to help or hurt the panhandler, whether the money will feed the panhandler's family or their possible addiction. However sometimes the "Rigid No" is more capitalistic. "I have a job. I work hard for my money. Why should I give it away to some lazy stranger who bothers me on the street?". 

2) "The Food Giver": I knew a really generous girl in school who would keep peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in her car and give them out to the homeless. I've mostly just given food if I no longer want it; leftovers from lunch or a candy bar I wasn't going to eat. Giving food seems like a better, safer option than cash, but offering it sometimes exposes the sad truth "Rigid No" folks are so wary of. My cousin who lives in New York City once offered  some leftovers to a panhandler. The guy asked him what type of food it was, and when he found out it was Mexican, he rudely sneered and shook his head "No". He also told me he once saw a good Samaritan offer to buy a panhandler some McDonald's; the man rejected her offer and continued to ask for money. On the surface the panhandler who rejects food seems ungrateful. "I'm handing you food. You must be hungry. How dare you reject it?"

3) "The Pushover"- These are the people who give money if only to be rid of an overly aggressive panhandler. When I was in high school our hang out spot was a movie theater in Bethesda, Maryland, outside of which was a particularly aggressive but well-liked panhandler; let's call him Frank. My friends and I all knew Frank for his sense of humor and colorful language, but I had never been approached by him. One evening we were headed into the theater when he came up to us pleading for money. My friends were able to deflect his requests wordlessly and continued walking, but I, taken in by his good nature, apologized and said "Sorry man, I only have twenties."

"That's fine" Frank replied, and he quickly pulled out a fat stack of cash from a Big Gulp cup he always carried around and started making change. I was surprised; Frank seemed like he was rolling in dough, and it made me want to keep my money.But I was fifteen, generally a naive kid and didn't know how to deal with this type of awkward situation. I ended up getting $10 change in return.

4) "The Customer"-Some approach the act of giving as if conducting a transaction. They appreciate the panhandler who has something to offer, even if whatever they are offering is undesirable. In fact, doesn't logic dictate that a panhandler who has something to give cease to be a panhandler?

Again this seems like a fair attitude. But like all different types of giving, there are moral gray areas here as well, mainly that the whole idea of "giving" is compromised when you demand something in return. People want a service, whether that's wiping off the hubcaps of a car (I gave the guy $5) or simply a chuckle from a particularly clever or humiliating sign (I've unfortunately done that as well). "Prove to me your worth" the attitude seems to project, as if I, simply by virtue of having innumerable beneficial circumstances in my life that have led me to a job and a home, am superior and require validation from someone that I don't even know.
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Most of us have days when, depending on our mood, we can be any one of this types. I'm sorry to say that I am primarily a "Customer". But I'm not in the market for manual labor or jokes. I want to hear music.

It's an old stereotype: the homeless musician. He or she leans against the side of a building or at the end of a subway car, strumming rusted guitar strings or banging on a bucket tom as an upside down hat collects falling change. I'm a musician myself so I'm naturally a sucker for that kind of thing.  There's something about  what it adds to the atmosphere, particularly in urban areas. I dig the melodrama that comes with spontaneous music. The homeless musician provides the diagetic soundtrack for the movie in which I star. Whatever I'm doing is immediately made more important than it actually is. So whenever I encounter a homeless musician, I always feel compelled to give whatever I can.

There's an incredible blues guitarist that performs outside of the Central Library sometimes. He has a plays a beat up Stratocaster plugged into a small portable amplifier. I sit at an outer table beside a Coffee Bean across the street and watch him as I eat my lunch. He's so focused and soulful, even with the commotion of the blue collar rush and midday traffic and nonsense screams of the homeless guy standing a few feet away. As he plays he closes his eyes and doesn't seem to notice any of it. I lose track of time and before long I realize that I'm running late getting back to the office. As I gather my things I take one last look at the impoverished virtuoso and think to myself "Jesus man. What the hell are you doing out here?"

HOMELESS MUSICIANS> EVERYTHIN