You Can't Handle the Tooth

Had someone asked me the top five things I wouldn't be doing yesterday at 5pm, going to the dentist would have been near the top of the list. Like most people, I hate the dentist. I hate everything about it- the waiting room, the paperwork, the scraping, the suction tube thingy, the spit cup, and the condescending demonstration of the proper way to floss. It's a piece of string. You run it between your teeth. I get it. Going to the dentist isn't supposed to be an enjoyable experience, but it shouldn't be dreaded. I avoided it as long as I could. I brushed and flossed longer and harder in the past year than I ever have thinking I could avoid the dentist. I was wrong.

For about the past week, I had a little pain in my upper molar on the left side of my mouth. It only happened while eating and mostly sweet foods at that. It wasn't unbearable, but I knew a trip to the dentist was in order. As a child of the internet age, I went to 1-800-DENTIST.com. I filled out a little info and was given a few choices for local dentists. I read some of the reviews and chose an office. With some trepidation, I clicked for an appointment and waited for a call. A few minutes later, the receptionist called me and I told her I needed an exam and cleaning. I was thinking two weeks. She had just had a cancellation and was thinking 5 0'clock.

My main problem with going to the dentist office is actually the dentist. This may have stemmed from my childhood dentist who was an unapologetic Tarheels’ fan. I back the orange and blue of UVA, so our differences reached farther than my brushing habits. However my main problem with the DDS coalition is that they want to poke around in your mouth. The tools of their trade are a twisted array of metal picks and drills. The typical exam tray looks like what Arnold Schwarzenegger was tortured with in True Lies. There is something fundamentally wrong with anyone who wants to scrape plaque and tartar out of tooth crevices for a living.

That being said, I would rate my experience yesterday as not too unpleasant. The receptionist was extremely friendly. The paperwork was quick. I didn’t have to wait at all. My x-rays took a couple minutes and then my actual dentist did the cleaning. She was a fellow east coast transplant and we had some common stomping grounds near Washington, D.C. She kept it light. We chatted about my job. It was rather nice until she strapped on the mask and went to work. What came next was my fault, not hers. Although I said it was two years since my last cleaning it was actually more like four. What? I hate the dentist. She picked, scraped, polished and shined the bejesus out of my teeth. I’ve been running my tongue over them all morning.

I also found out that as an adult you don’t have to have the fluoride treatment. You know, that tray of goo you bite down on for twelve minutes with the suction tube jammed in between? Anyway, I was done. Less than an hour, relatively painless. I was halfway out of the chair when she said, “Now let’s take a look at those x-rays.” Damn. I’d forgotten about the minor tooth pain that spurred the visit. Sure enough, it was a cavity. And it had a brother. Both of the drill and fill persuasion. Just my lucky day. It’s a good thing my first visit to the dentist office of the second George W. administration wasn’t as dreadful as I thought because as it turns out, I get to go back in two weeks.

The Time I Went Blind

I've been busy lately. I finished up all the crazy travel between the east coast and west coast that spanned my spring and summer. I went to the beach. Twice. I got a promotion. I flew to Phoenix for a day to shoot a correspondent piece for work with Orlando Hudson of the Arizona Diamondbacks. Oh, I also went blind.

The last set of nuptials I attended came just after July 4th. My best friend, Kristen, got married in our home town of Newport News. It was a wonderful occasion, but a busy one for all parties involved. The ceremony and reception flew by and I got to spend just a few mintues with the bride and groom. Before I left, Kristen said that a select few were going to a bar across from the hotel. Even though my flight back to Los Angeles was at 5:45am, I couldn't say no to my oldest friend. Kristen and I have known each other for about 23 years.

Despite the lack of sight I experienced less than 12 hours later, I'm glad I went. Not only did I get to spend some time with Kristen and her new husband, but two other high school friends were randomly at the bar. We lived it up, drank it down and stayed until last call. I got back to my brother's house and in bed by about 2:30am. After sleeping in my clothes, I awoke a mere two hours later and headed to the airport.

My flight to Atlanta went without incident. I slept for the hour and a half, still pretty drunk. Once in the Peach State I had two hours to kill. Instead of drinking water or getting something to eat, I elected for more sleep in the corner of the waiting area at my gate. My cell phone alarm rang as they were boarding my flight to Los Angeles. Again, I passed on liquids or nourishment; a huge mistake.

I had the window seat, next to a nice couple with a baby they passed between them the entire flight. At this point the wonderful affects of alcohol had worn off and the ill affects had settled in. I was getting hot and cold flashes and attempting to sweat out any water still left in my body. I tried to sleep but couldn't. I couldn't read. I couldn't listen to music. I was fidgety and uncomfortable. I thought to myself that I'd never felt so bad in my life. Then I went blind.

At first my vision went fuzzy, sort of like when you rub your eyes to hard. Then it tunneled. Then it went black. I blinked for the first thirty seconds just waving my hand in front of my eyes. I have no idea what the people next to me thought, but I must have looked crazy. I started to panic and felt around for the stewardess call button. When she arrived, I could barely gasp, "Water." I slugged down a couple glasses, but still no vision. I refrained from alerting anyone to my problem for fear the plane would be diverted to somewhere like Kansas City and I'd end up on the news.

A few minutes went by and the idea of running up and down the aisles screaming was looking better and better, diversion be damned. As a last resort I felt around in the seat-back pocket for the vomit bag. I breathed in and out, trying to calm myself back down. Miraculously, some five to seven minutes after I'd gone Stevie Wonder my eye sight returned. It was slow at first. A little gray here. The outline of the seat. Then everything slowly came into focus. I was so happy I could've cried had there been any liquid left in my body. I stayed awake the rest of the way home, afraid to close my ears. I sucked down a few more glasses of water and had a few bags of pretzels. So in short, I've had a good summer. Lots going on. Really looking forward to the winter.

Wedding Season

I love weddings. Love them. First off, I look damn good in a suit/tuxedo, and that’s really the only opportunity I get to wear one. Second, the food is always fantastic. I have yet to leave a nuptial spread unsatisfied. Third, there is usually enough booze per person to kill a donkey. Last, but certainly not least, there is dancing. And I don’t mean, rave, glow stick, sweaty, rolling on “E” dancing, I mean real dancing. Not the type of dancing your girlfriend always wants to do at bars, but waltzes, foxtrots, jitterbugs, and the electric slide. From the flower girl to the brides’ grandparents, everyone hits the dance floor no matter what skill level they are. I could go on, but those four reasons alone are more than enough to justify my love of weddings.

And it’s a good thing I love weddings because I have four this spring/summer. The first of which was last weekend. My good high school friend, Brooke, got married at a destination wedding in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Next, my college roommate and former L.A. roommate, Spencer, is getting married Memorial Day weekend in Richmond, VA. The very next Saturday, my best friend from high school, Austin, is also getting married in Richmond. A month later on 7/7/07, my oldest friend (as in length of time known, not age) Kristen is getting married in my home town of Newport News. It’s truly a whirlwind four months of travel back and forth across the country.

A word of warning to everyone who invited me to their wedding: I’m going to dance and I’m going to drink. Lord sweet pappy Johnson with an erection I will drink! Not to the point of excess, mind you. Not like the old Adam. Not like the Adam who first moved to Los Angeles and may have broken a toilet and blamed a visiting “fat girl.” I’m going to have some liquor, charm the pants off your friends and waltz with your aunt. It’s standard operating procedure. Just let it happen.

Also, according to wedding etiquette, I have a year to get you a present. Funds are tight. Cross country flights ain’t cheap. Neither are rental cars and hotels, so for the time being sit tight. You’re going to get something awesome, from the heart and not a gravy ladle. I’ll think about everything we’ve shared and come up with a thoughtful gift. For instance, I got my friend Bryan and his wife some nice wine from a place I visited in Napa Valley. Seems generic on the surface, but if you know us, it makes sense. I drank wine in high school and was made fun of mercilessly, mostly by Bryan. Cut to a year after college and he’s slamming Chardonnay at his apartment as a quick way to get drunk before going out. I’d like to think he’s more refined now, but after our power hour-induced Vanilla Ice rap session, I know that’s not the case.

So for all of you who have just gotten engaged or are about to, don’t forget about me. I’ve already got an informal “save the date” marked on my calendar for my old roommate Kent’s wedding next January. This marriage has been about seven years in the making so I hope it lives up to the hype, and by hype I mean crab cakes and Bud Light. As for the rest of you, keep the wedding invitations coming. My address is 1510 S. Wooster Street, Los Angeles, CA 90035. I’ll even accept invites from strangers. The only thing I need to know is the time, place and which of your aunts has both original hips.

(P.S.- I have no idea who the people in that picture are.)

Taxes Two Step

I hate taxes. I hate them because they’re everywhere. If I make money, I pay income tax. If I spend money, I pay sales tax. It seems to me that I should be taxed once and then what’s mine is mine. As the saying goes, “nothing is certain but death and taxes.” Yet, now the two are more intertwined than ever. Even when you die, the government gets a chunk of your money on its way to your relatives thanks to the Death Tax. They are inescapable. But the good news is I have a plan.

Most people who hate taxes feel that the government is not putting the money to good use. They disagree with the billions spent each day on the war or want to see education receive more funding or hit the same pothole at the end of their street on the way to work each morning. Sure I’d like to see all those things change, but that’s not my main beef with taxes.

The worst part of taxes is knowing how much you would really have if the government didn’t take a chunk out of your paycheck. It’s right there on your pay stub every Friday. You can’t miss it. The joy of getting paid always comes with the mixed emotion of seeing some of it taken immediately. That’s why I propose the first-ever Blind Tax. Take whatever you want, just don’t tell me about it. Let me be happy with what I have. This would also make doing your taxes a lot easier.

Each January I get a bunch of forms in the mail. W-2. 1099. 1099-Div. 1098 A. 1098 B. R2D2. The stack is enormous and doesn’t make any sense to me. Evidently if an account I started when I was a kid and have never touched makes three cents annually I have to fill out 12 pages. Even if you just have a W-2, filing your taxes can take hours. From your employer’s Tax ID number to your Adjusted Gross Income, you have to fill out blank after blank and even one mistake could lead to an anal probe from the IRS.

I sat down yesterday afternoon and did my taxes. I file them electronically. It costs my $9. Here are the two interesting things I learned from the experience. First, anyone who owned, used or practically looked at a phone last year was eligible for some credit. I’m not sure how much it was, but I took it. Secondly, no matter how much I make, I’m always going to get the same amount back. Last year, the year before, this year- it’s all the same within like fifty bucks. And just so you don’t think I’m a moron, I’ve made different amounts of money over those three years, with the government taking larger chunks, but my refund remains the same.

I never thought I’d say this, but Montana has it right. They are one of a small number of states that don’t have sales tax. Making things cost what the price tag says is step one in my new tax plan. Don’t charge me $19.99 either. Round up. I don’t want your penny. The second step is the all-important Blind Tax I laid out earlier. Let it start with employers. Make my salary match my paycheck. You deal with the government. Leave me out if it. Thirdly, when it comes time to file taxes- let’s not. Save the paper, save the stamps, save my time and just send me a check at the end of April with the same amount I always get. Thanks.

How was Vegas?

The question is asked with such promise. No one cares about your trip to Ft. Lauderdale. Outside of your parents, no one really wants to hear about your honeymoon. Your summer vacation to the Grand Canyon? No thanks. Everyone knows what your average vacation entails. That’s why people can’t wait to ask, “How was Vegas?” There is nothing average about Sin City. No other place on earth has the potential that Las Vegas has. You could win enough money at the tables to quit your job. You could also lose your house. You could meet the woman of your dreams. She could give you crabs. Any trip to The Strip is filled with endless possibility and that’s why everyone wants to know what happened. Your friends, family and co-workers will never accept that “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” They want to know and you’ve got to tell them something.

When it comes to Vegas I give very detailed descriptions of two things: food and what I did while the sun was up. I’ve never had a reason to lie. This past weekend I had the worst meal I’ve ever had in the state of Nevada. The Veracruz Seafood Hot Pot was $60 worth of Cambell’s tomato soup with a rubbery lobster tail floating in it. However, the Brazilian Steakhouse from Saturday night more than made up for it. I conservatively ate 2 pounds of various grilled meats. It was quite the display. As for my daytime activities, I watched some March Madness, enjoyed the pool and did a little gambling.

Some Vegas lies are easy to see through. “I lost a little at the tables.” No, you lost about a grand. A quick check of your cell phone will easily reveal the 3am call to Bank of America asking them to let you take more money out than the $300 daily limit. They don’t build casinos with giant gold lions out front from people winning their money back. Still, you recount one good winning hand at the black jack table; splitting nines against a six, getting two twos and doubling down on both. Then you hit a “bad run” but didn’t lose “too much.” Right. Personally, I lost about $20, which is a huge win for me. Usually, I lose $100 in about 7 minutes and have to hover next to the table until my “free” drink comes.

The trickiest part of any Vegas trip is talking about the nightlife. I think we all know about the sheer volume of excess available. It’s not called Sin City for nothing. If you want to do it, you probably can. This part of Vegas stays in Vegas. I’m not saying everyone who goes there does an 8-ball off a stripper while two hookers do things you can’t mention in The Aristocrats’ joke. I’m just saying it’s possible. It’s also possible for someone to stay in their hotel room and watch the Discovery channel.

There’s plenty that goes on under the bright lights that you can tell your family. (Speaking of families, don’t bring your baby to Vegas unless you’re planning on selling it. It’s no place for kids. There’s nothing for them to do. There’s a reason I don’t drink at Chuck E. Cheese. I don’t want to be drunk around children. Leave them at home.) From bachelor parties to fashion conventions to shotgun weddings, people want to know about the trip. The bottom line is this: ask the question, but be satisfied with whatever answer you get.

Dear Mr. Fantasty

I have to apologize for not posting yesterday. I know that I normally update the site with a new nugget of wisdom or funny anecdote every Wednesday, but I wasn’t able to. My dream didn’t come true yesterday. I didn’t win the lottery. I was crushed. I had spent the previous two days figuring out how I would spend $370 million and it was hard coming to grips with the fact that I had to go back to work. Not winning the lottery was like losing that jackpot, not just the dollar I used to buy the ticket. What is it about the lottery that makes everyone believe they can win?

The odds of winning the Mega-Millions drawing are roughly 1 in 175 million. If everyone in the entire United States bought a ticket, less than 2 people would win. Those aren’t just bad odds, they’re terrible. Yet, we keep playing. We gladly hand over the cost of a fast-food burger for the opportunity to own Belize. It’s $1 for an unfathomable amount. Who wouldn’t take that deal? And that’s why the lottery is so attractive, addictive and heart breaking.

From the time you buy your ticket to the time of the drawing you become more and more convinced that you’ll win. I buy quick picks and never even look at the numbers, yet I’m sure they’re winners. I can’t believe how awesome it’s going to be to turn four quarters into hundreds of millions of dollars. I work myself up into such a frenzy when I play the lottery that I can’t even imagine not winning because I just know it’s my time. That’s why I couldn’t write yesterday, because my fantasy didn’t come true. All the plans I had for my new found wealth were shattered. But since I’ll never be able to play them out in person, I’ll share them with you.

I’ll only briefly mention the standard moves like buying your loved ones houses and cars and making sure they are taken care of. I’d like to do it in a fun way, surprising everyone and throwing keys at my parents and brothers like Oprah does. Sure, I’d give back to my Alma Mater and various charities too. I wouldn’t be one of those jerks who say they won’t quit their job just because they won the lottery. I’d take a dump on the rug, shout “that’s real ultimate power” and speed away in my new Jaguar. I’d spend the money in small amounts doing crazy little things. I’ve always wanted a room filled with plastic balls like at Chucky Cheese. I’d have an entire refrigerator filled with proscuitto. I’d have a KFC/Taco Bell/Pizza Hut in my living room. And I’d have a penguin.

Sure, those things don’t take millions of dollars to have, but I think that’s the underlying lesson that comes with playing the lottery. We let our thoughts run wild about what we’d do and spend, but most of the things we come up with are within our grasp. Maybe you can’t buy your relatives a house, but you can do other things that send the same message that you care. You may never own a Chucky Cheese, but you can buy a kiddie pool and a few thousand plastic balls for a couple hundred bucks. You can fill a mini-fridge with cured ham for half that. As for my penguin, it turns out they’re protected and it’s illegal to sell or purchase them. So, I’m just going to have to steal one. And my penguin and I will keep playing the lottery. After all, it’s only a dollar.

Gym Crow Laws

If you've ever been to a gym, then you've probably ranted about a gym. Sure they're a great place to get exercise when you want to be indoors and surrounded by strangers, but there are some drawbacks. Who hasn't dealt with the 5 o'clock cardio rush only to find every treadmill filled by people completely ignoring the 20 minutes when busy rule? And how many times have you stalked your way to an empty machine, sizing up other potential users and cutting them off through the free weights, only to find the bench covered in sweat? As for unnecessary nudity in the locker room, what can I say that hasn't already been said? Grab a towel. Don't stretch without pants on. Have some shame.

No, I have a totally different set of issues I'd like to raise with the gym-going population. I'd like to first address the gym rats and I'm talking guys here. You know, career exercisers who happen to be at the gym no matter what time you go. If you're there on Wednesday morning, they're there. Ditto if you show up Thursday at midnight. Now, I have no problem with these macho-types working out a lot. More power to them. I simply have a problem with their attire. If I can see your nipples head on, what you're wearing doesn't constitute a shirt. I understand you want to show off your pecs, but do it at appropriate places like the beach or the prison yard.

My criticism of attire isn't limited to the fellas. There is a very large subsection of the female gym crowd that never seems to break a sweat. Their workout clothes are designer and hug every curve of their already toned bodies. They walk on the treadmill at the same pace as a DMV line while talking on their cell phones not burning the number of calories they ingest from a Mentos. Again, if that's your regimen and it works, great, just don't get mad at me for staring. I'm looking for two reasons. One: I think you're an idiot for coming to a gym and essentially doing nothing. Two: You're hot. When I'm done working out I'm closer to discovering fire and dragging a woman back to my cave than walking out of the pages of GQ and offering to buy you a drink. I'm going to look. Stop getting mad at me.

This next PSA is for those who frequent the community hot tub. Let's just get out of the way the fact that it's gross. Hair. Skin. Old people. Band-aids. The stuff that floats around the whirl pool is disgusting. And yet I still use it. Why? Because I've weighed the pros and cons and decided that having a nice soak after my workout is well worth having to scrub off the first few layers of my skin afterwards. What I don't need is anyone to make the experience any grosser or more uncomfortable than it is. I'm talking to you, old guy who pretends to be stretching but is actually just positioning his balls next to one of the jets. I know what you're doing. You're not fooling anybody. I understand that by the nature of the swirling water, most of it is going to contact the area around your speedo that houses your nugget pouch, but for God sake's don't make all the water rush past it on the way to me!

Finally, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention at least one problem in the locker room. I'm usually breathing kind of heavy when I'm done. It's the sign of a good workout. My lungs need oxygen and that requires deep breaths. What my lungs don't need is your spray deodorant. It seems like every time I walk in the locker room it's fogged in like the Golden Gate Bridge in June. Let off the nozzle! Those cans aren't single use. Mix in a stick of Degree and save the planet. That goes for you cologne addicts too. It's concentrated shit, just use a drop. You know why I don't wear Tag Body Spray? Because I hate it. Consider yourselves warned. I'm going to get one of those bird flu masks and start carrying cans of Raid and hold the nozzle down as long as you do. Now if everyone would just take these points into consideration our collective gym experience would be a whole lot better.

Our Funny Valentine

I love Valentine’s Day. Love it. What’s not to like? Chocolates. Flowers. Cards. Romantic Meals. Champagne. Sex. It’s all there. If given the opportunity, I’ll stuff myself to the point of sickness with See’s Candies or Ghirardelli squares. I’m secure enough to have my home littered with roses and tulips. They make a nice counterpoint to the piles of dirty dishes. And I grew up on Hallmark, even wanting to write for them at one point. There’s not a person out there who doesn’t at least smile at a card with a train on the front that says, “I choo…choo…choose you.” As for the elaborate dinners, I don’t even know where to begin. Everything is succulent and shaped like naughty parts. Which leads us to the bubbly. Nothing washes down a briny oyster like a glass of Veuve Clicquot. Marilyn Monroe used to bathe in champagne and the idea seems more appealing to me by the minute. Lastly, St. Valentine’s Day is about love, which makes girls amorous, which is a great thing for us boys.

Here’s just a little history on the subject (borrowed from another website):

For eight hundred years prior to the establishment of Valentine's Day, the Romans had practiced a pagan celebration in mid-February commemorating young men's rite of passage to the god Lupercus. The celebration featured a lottery in which young men would draw the names of teenage girls from a box. The girl assigned to each young man in that manner would be his sexual companion during the remaining year.

In an effort to do away with the pagan festival, Pope Gelasius ordered a slight change in the lottery. Instead of the names of young women, the box would contain the names of saints. Both men and women were allowed to draw from the box, and the game was to emulate the ways of the saint they drew during the rest of the year. Needless to say, many of the young Roman men were not too pleased with the rule changes.

Instead of the pagan god Lupercus, the Church looked for a suitable patron saint of love to take his place. They found an appropriate choice in Valentine, who, in AD 270 had been beheaded by Emperor Claudius.

Claudius had determined that married men made poor soldiers. So he banned marriage from his empire. But Valentine would secretly marry young men that came to him. When Claudius found out about Valentine, he first tried to convert him to paganism. But Valentine reversed the strategy, trying instead to convert Claudius. When he failed, he was stoned and beheaded.

During the days that Valentine was imprisoned, he fell in love with the blind daughter of his jailer. His love for her, and his great faith, managed to miraculously heal her from her blindness before his death. Before he was taken to his death, he signed a farewell message to her, "From your Valentine." The phrase has been used on his day ever since.

The other reason I love Valentine’s Day is that it is such an American holiday. We’ve turned the simplest message of love, “From your Valentine”, into the most commercial of occasions. Sure, people buy more presents and cards for Christmas, but at least they know why they’re doing it. Don’t get me wrong, the birth of Jesus is way too entwined with a fat guy sliding down your chimney, but Valentine’s Day is worse. I bet 99% of the population has no idea what the holiday was originally was about. And I bet more than half of the country if asked to describe St. Valentine would conjure up the image of Cupid. We’ve even exported our version of the holiday and now China and Japan have begun exchanging expensive chocolates on February 14th.

And yet I still have no desire to change it. Like I said, I love Valentine’s Day. Tonight I’m going to cook a romantic dinner. I’ve got a great bottle of sparkling pinot noir. I’ve got a bag full of gifts. Is it too commercial? Yes. But for one day a year, love rules. If you have to wrap up that sentiment in a card or bouquet, so be it. And it’s not just for couples. Tell your parents, siblings and friends what they mean to you. You can have more than one Valentine.

Back to Food

In my short lifetime, I have witnessed many ridiculous situations concerning our nation’s consumptive habits. There have been lawsuits against fast food giants claiming they are responsible for the fattening of America. On the other end of the spectrum are those who can’t open their mouths lest they proclaim the glory of Atkins or South Beach regiments. It is nearly impossible to go a day without hearing of this restaurant’s smash opening or that one’s closing. Amidst the crashing waves of epicurean speak, there is one encouraging undercurrent: the country is getting back to food.

I don’t mean to sound as if everyone had stopped eating and has merely broken their collective fast. No, people are taking back their kitchens. No longer do roaches rule the space between the dining room and the garage. Drawers of dusty graters, spatulas, whisks, garlic presses and measuring spoons are being polished to nearly newborn status. Days of tuna salad sandwiches and nights of dry meatloaf are being phased from memory, and at the forefront of our consciousness is filet mignon covered in béarnaise slowly oozing over a pile of roasted garlic mashed potatoes and delicately steamed baby carrots. Everything homemade; an every-pan-in-the-kitchen meal made more satisfying by not having to sport a suit and tie, sign a credit card slip, or fight traffic back to your driveway.

Dining out is becoming more like it was decades ago when families patronized restaurants for birthdays and other special occasions. There will always be those empty masses that rely on the gifts of others to satisfy their hunger, and never know the true joy of cooking, but I fear nothing could convince them to pick up a shopping basket and fill their fruit and vegetable bins with the delicacies that compose Waldorf salad or spinach artichoke dip. No, I am focused on the home cook. The one removing the stained takeout menus from beneath the leaking packets of soy sauce and used chopsticks, ripping the submarine sandwich coupons from the tight grip of the “I love New York” refrigerator magnet, and erasing Papa Johns from the number one spot on speed dial. It is this dedicated group demanding prompt seating at the dinner table at six thirty who are making restaurants step up, their families eat a little better, and resurrecting those dog-eared cookbooks covered in mom’s tomato sauce thumb prints that are taking this country back to food.

In Los Angeles alone there are thousands of restaurants that serve everything from spicy tuna rolls to steak Diane. This city is built around dining out, but I’ve got a radical idea for those who eat 14 meals a week outside of their own abodes: drop by the grocery store and fend for yourself. Start simple. Fresh pasta with basil, olive oil and parmesan cheese. You don’t have to slave over a pot of duck sausage gumbo right out of the gate. Get familiar with ingredients and cooking techniques and build your confidence to the perfect hollandaise. I promise to be your lifeline if you’ll just put down the takeout menu. I’ll answer any culinary question under the sun and if I don’t know it, I’ll look it up so I learn something too. So dig out the recipe book that you got for graduation half a decade ago and let’s eat. But more importantly, let’s cook.

That New Car Smell

I don’t know the first thing about cars. When I open up the hood and look at the engine I pray nothing flies out and hits me in the eye. When a light on the dashboard comes on I treat it like a shooting pain down my left arm; I immediately take Bayer and lie down on the couch. Secretly I hope that I am having a heart attack because the medical bills would probably be less than the car repairs. I really wish my mechanic would just tell me what he wants to give his kids for their birthdays so I could buy it and skip the middle man. I’m working on some sort of conversion chart: A flat tire equals some new clothes, a busted belt equals a new bike and a gasket leak equals a new swing set.

I played that game with my car for the past two years. It started with a couple trips at $400 each. It hurt, but it felt like going to the dentist and only having one cavity. I knew it could be worse. A couple months ago, my fear was realized. My EGR valve was clogged and the corresponding sensor was broken, not to mention a few other incidentals. Although it was explained to me, I still have as much understanding of my EGR valve as I do the female body. This round of repairs set me back a cool $1100. With no dashboard lights on and a sizeable debt to Visa, I drove my ’99 Taurus around with confidence. Until a month later when smoke started coming out of the hood.

I’m a firm believer in the saying, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” In this case, where there’s smoke, there’s an oil pan and gasket leak. That, my friends, is a very large swing set with the optional clubhouse. A quick visit to www.kbb.com revealed that based on the blue book value of my car it was not worth fixing. I apologized to my mechanic and told him the family would have to get their spoils from someone else from now on. I was getting a new car. And by new I mean used.

The first part of buying a new car is taking a look at your finances and having a good cry. I was surprised to learn that even when you’re out of tears you can still “cry.” It’s like dry heaving through your eyes. A few days later you can attack the 5 stages of buying a car. One- selling your old car. Two- finding some financing options. Three- deciding what car you’d like, then actually finding a car in your price range. Four - negotiating, or what I like to call experiencing hell from a sales desk. Five - Signing on the dotted line.

Most of these stages require extensive work, research and follow through. Since none of those are my style, I read through a couple websites, grabbed my checkbook and hit the pavement. (Actually that’s not true. I spent three weeks learning everything I could, getting several financing quotes, researching the most reliable cars and their resale values, getting trade-in offers, and calculating out-the-door costs.) I decided on a Honda Civic because I’ve finally learned that American cars just don’t last. I looked at models from ‘02-‘04 and decided that an ’03 with some bells and whistles was what I wanted. After searching several dealerships, I found Honda World in Orange County about a mile from my studio.

Over a couple weeks I test drove cars, did some casual negotiating and found the car for me: A black, 2003 Civic LX with 32,000 miles on it. I apologize to all my friends who drive Civics, especially black ones since it may appear that I’m ripping off their style. Because the car has so little mileage, it’s basically on ’05 and in pristine condition. And it’s shiny. Oh, so shiny. I ended up trading my car into the dealership for a reasonable price and got them to lower their APR because I had my own financing and they wanted to be the ones to loan me the money. I negotiated to about $2500 under blue book value which I feel was aided by the fact that the owner of the dealership is a huge fan of Jim Rome. (For those of you who don’t know, I work on Jim Rome is Burning on ESPN.) Long story short, I am now the proud owner of a new (read slightly used) car and no longer have to deal with flashing lights, smoke signals and oil leaks. Sure I’m on the hook for a substantial amount of money for the next half decade, but if you’re 26 and not five figures in debt, you’re just not living right.

American Idle

I’m not one of those water cooler evangelists who watches every show and has to talk about it at length the very next day with my coworkers. In fact, I’m usually a day behind everyone else since I have to go to bed so early. (I’m up at 5 because I have to be at the studio an hour away by 7.) Normally, I plug my ears and hum when someone comes running in to compare notes about the latest “Lost” episode. “Can you believe they killed Mr. Eko?” Fuck. Thanks a lot. Now, I don’t know what the etiquette is here. Is it my responsibility to steer clear of discussions about the shows I haven’t watched? Should people be required to give a spoiler alert? It’s a gray area. What I do know is that when it comes to reality shows it doesn’t matter. Nothing is being given away. Knowing what happens doesn’t detract from the overall entertainment value of the program. That’s why I have no problem discussing the first episode of American Idol 6 the morning after its premier.

Bottom line: It sucked. SUUUUUUUUUUUUCKED! For at least the past two years I’ve turned on A.I. with the intention of laughing at the tone-deaf insane masses who show up in droves. I plan on having a few chuckles at their expense and then tuning out when the group is pared down. The problem is that I usually get attached to someone. Last year there were two such contestants. I would’ve sold everything to move to Albemarle, North Carolina and marry Kellie Pickler. “Pick Pickler, Pick me!” I don’t care that she comes across as dumb or naïve. She was adorable. And hot. The other person was Bucky Covington. Bucky is from Rockingham, NC, just a few miles from Laurinburg where I went to college. I knew Bucky in passing. He dated a girl in my dorm and sold drugs to my friends. That was enough to give me a rooting interest.

There were no such characters from last night’s premier. Not a single memorable one in the two hours. Yes, the bad contestants were bad, but even they left something to be desired. For the first time the producers actually sent cameras out with contestants who didn’t make it. In the past if they showed footage of singers outside the auditions you knew they’d gotten through. This season they either wanted to trick the audience or there were just no interesting local stories of talented people. The first girl to audition took A.I. to the Mall of America where she worked at a Glamour Shots type place. Maybe she wanted a few more seconds of fame, but the piece gave the audience a sense of hope for her that was crushed moments later when we found out she clearly couldn’t sing, and that false hope was never reconciled by another story that ended with a golden ticket.

Because there weren’t enough feel good stories interspersed, the terrible singers were painful to watch. Where was the Elliot Yamin of Minneapolis? I can’t remember even the first name of anyone the judges put through to Hollywood. There was the Hispanic girl from Florida whose accent was so thick I couldn’t understand her. And there was the navy guy who sang Rascal Flats. Who else? There’s no way any one of those 17 people will win A.I. this season. Sadly, as bad as this episode was, it’s not enough to get me to stop watching. I’ll tune in for another two hours tonight for the 37 minutes of actual content. I’ll cringe for the bad singers and fast forward when Simon makes me uncomfortable. And I’ll be looking for someone to root for in Seattle.

Resolu-shuns

I’m not exactly sure how New Year’s resolutions work. Do you have to decide what they are before the ball drops? Do they go into effect on the first tick of the New Year? Is it okay to come up with your resolutions around mid-January and implement them then? Is there a certain number you should have or is one okay? I don’t know the answers to these questions. I’m trying to figure out two things. The first is am I doing this right?

What’s the etiquette of resolutions? If they’re just for yourself it makes sense that you could set your own rules. That being said, resolutions are usually the result of not being able to follow through. “This year I’m going to work out more.” “I’m going to eat better.” “I’m going to be more organized.” “I’m going to stop spending so much money.” It’s the inability of most people to police themselves that leads to these problems.

The second question is is it okay for your resolution to disrupt the lives of others? I’m not talking about someone resolving to play more practical jokes involving livestock and your personal possessions. I’m talking about resolutions that by their nature affect others. When two hundred people sign up for memberships at my gym, that affects me. Having used the same L.A. Fitness for three years I’m used to the cycle. From January to May you can’t find an open piece of equipment at a reasonable hour. Summer thins the herd and by late fall the gym returns to the regulars plus a committed 2% of the new signups.

A similar situation arose with all the New Year’s dieters a couple years ago. They all went no-carb and changed the landscape of grocery stores and restaurants across the nation. It was easier to get a hamburger wrapped in lettuce than a decent loaf of sourdough. I’m all for self-betterment, but if I can’t find a treadmill at four o’clock on a Tuesday and then go get a sandwich on actual bread, we have a problem.

I’ll be honest. I haven’t made any resolutions this year. I’m like everyone else. Sure I want to waste less money, eat healthier, work out more, and get my life organized, but it’s probably not going to happen. We’re ten days into 2007 and so far I’ve had a salad everyday, I haven’t purchased anything I didn’t need and I’ve been to the gym four times. (I also haven’t had anything alcoholic to drink, but that stems more from how I rung in the year than any plans to cut back on booze.) I’m going to try and stick with these things, but I know they’re not realistic. And since I’ve had such a late start, I’m not going to put any resolution pressure on myself until ’08.

Instead, my gift to 2007 is the definitive list of rules for making New Year’s resolutions. They are as follows:

• You must make your resolutions before the stroke of midnight. However, they don’t take effect until you wake up on January 1st. The first few hours of the New Year aren’t the time to turn over a new leaf and honestly, most of us aren’t sober enough at that time to do so anyway.
  
• You may only make one New Year’s resolution. Let’s face it, you’ve probably got a lot of things to work on, but unless you focus on one, you won’t change any of them. Pick one, make a plan and try not to screw it up before March. Since you probably will, just make the same resolution next year and try to make it to April.
  
• Your resolution may only disrupt the lives of others if you’re serious about what you’re doing. I don’t mind you taking up space at the gym, especially if you’re a girl. I want you to get in better shape because I never tire of looking at attractive women. (Please forward all sexist-themed hate mail to my hotmail account.)
  
• Finally, remember that you don’t have to make a New Year’s resolution. There’s a good chance that you’re perfect.
  
  
  
  

Happy New Year!

After a two week hiatus, I’m back. The holidays were good and I spent my first Christmas away from my family. It was different, but I actually enjoyed it. I celebrated Jesus’ birthday with a couple friends. We cooked a big meal including prime rib and all the trimmings, drank wine and watched “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.” I changed into my red onesie and went to sleep. The next morning we opened presents, had mimosas and made brunch. It was a simple holiday, one made so much less stressful by not having to travel. I avoided all the planes, trains and automobiles that make getting home for Christmas exhausting. However, I did travel for New Year’s Eve and those few days were both the best and worst of my life.

A large group of friends and I rented a house in Palm Springs to ring in 2006. It was such a fantastic time that we decided to do it again this year. The place had everything we needed to welcome 2007 in style. Pool. Hot tub. Guest House. Fruit trees. Mountain views. What wasn’t provided, we purchased at CostCo: $700 worth of food and booze to sustain our four day odyssey.

Cocktail hour began as everyone trickled in Friday afternoon. Some people were old friends, while others were meeting for the first time. In some cases, faces were finally put to names. We made lasagna, salad and garlic bread for dinner. By the time the plates went into the sink it seemed like we’d been living at the house together for years. The drinking and camaraderie continued long into the night. And to celebrate the wonderful occasion, the last couple awake had sex in the hot tub.

Saturday was the drunkest day for many. Beer flowed early and water sports were the game of choice. There was a rousing tournament of pool volleyball. Burgers and dogs were grilled. The boozing kicked into high gear during the afternoon and evening. Everyone was building up to our annual dinner at Kobe, a Japanese steakhouse. I was pacing myself because I don’t remember much from the previous year’s trip. However, the rest of the group was getting sauced. By the time the cabs dropped us off for our 9:30 reservation, the collective BAC had to be hovering around point 2. Dinner was entertaining to say the least. My girlfriend reenacted a scene from Wedding Crashers. I’ll let you guess which one. We got home around midnight and everyone pretty much called it a day.

New Year’s Eve was set to be the biggest night of all. On top of the liquor, beer and wine, we had 6 bottles of champagne. The food plan was heavy appetizers. We made shrimp, spring rolls, mozzarella sticks, savory tarts, pizza poppers, etc. It was the best combination of shitty food a drunken person could ask for. Competition at the beer pong table was intense. The liquor flowed and midnight seemed to sneak up out of nowhere. We popped the bubbly, counted down and rang in 2007 with a frenzied dance party. I took a half empty bottle of champagne, filled it with red bull & vodka making a giant Absolut Shambles. Coincidentally, that’s the last thing I remember.

January 1, 2007 was one of the worst days of my life. My hangover definitely falls somewhere in my top 3 all-time. The drive back to L.A. from Palm Springs was brutal. We stopped at In & Out burger at the halfway point. The food was amazing, but nothing was going to make me feel better but time. The total drive was only about two hours and I would’ve cried when I made it to my house had there been any water inside me. I choked down some Gatorade and tried not to shake too badly while watching the Rose Bowl. It took two days to fully recover and I still have no desire for alcohol. Regrets: A few. Resolutions: None. Happy Holidays! Here’s to a great 2007.