I recently passed by Jeff Probst as he enjoyed lunch with a friend on Ventura Blvd. Since I didn’t have the guts to say hello, I dealt with the situation the next best way: By posting a missed connection on Craigslist. Since ads only stay listed on the website for a week, I’ve posted it below for posterity.
As of now, Jeff Probst has not responded.
Jeff Probst – m4m – 30 (Ventura Blvd.)
Since I have a high moral code, and rule #14 of said moral code is “Never disturb a man while he’s eating lunch,” I turned away and continued my walk back to the office, wondering what might’ve been if I had only stopped and said hi.
I hope you enjoyed your healthy lunch choice. Me? I’m regretting two things: our missed connection, and eating the onion rings. They were too greasy.
They say co-ed slow pitch softball is humankind’s greatest game. I never truly understood that until recently, when I hit two home runs in three at-bats. Luckily for you, a friend immortalized my first dinger for all the world to enjoy.
This was best sporting performance since I won MVP for pitching a six inning, three hit shutout in an All-Star tournament when I was 11. The trophy from that game is displayed proudly, deep in the closet of my childhood bedroom. For my most recent display of athletic prowess, I received the game ball, which is now perched on my mantle next to my Kevin Federline ticket stub.
If you had asked me back then what I would be as an adult, I would have said an NBA player or a doctor, with professional baseball a close third choice. Fortunately, I was able to reach even greater heights as an athlete than my wildest adolescent imaginations could dream.
I had the honor of playing a referee in The Whiskey Saints new video for “The Gift.” It was a lot of fun and I got to eat pizza and drink beer. So far, the reviews have been stellar, with commenters on a blog saying I look like Peyton Manning or a young Jerry Sandusky. After viewing the video I gave myself a 15 yard penalty for being too sexy.
In a blatant attempt to get more Twitter followers, I announced a contest stating that follower number 300 would receive a prize. I take announcements seriously, so giving the winner something frivolous was out of the question.
Winning something so important deserves a prize that can be cherished for a lifetime. According to De Beer’s website, two things last forever: Diamonds and Blogs. Since diamonds can be purchased by anyone and I control what comes out of my brain, the only logical thing to do was write an entry dedicated to the winner.
Juliana (@jules4119) is a lovely human being. I’ve known her for years, though not very well. Her brother was in my graduating class at Thomas Jefferson High school, but she was a few years younger than us.
She might have been someone who faded from my memory over the years, if not for one occasion that still makes me laugh when it comes to mind.
Juliana was a frequent moviegoer at Carmike Cinemas Southland 9 in Pleasant Hills, Pennsylvania, where I worked for several years as a teenager. One day she came to the theater and saw a friend of hers working at the ticket counter.
She walked up and started to peek her head over the counter to say something. Unfortunately, she didn’t see the plate glass barrier and smacked her face right into it. She wasn’t injured, so it was OK to laugh, and laugh I did. It was one of the comedic highlights of my teenage life, and I have her to thank.
Congratulations to Juliana, my 300th follower.
As one last gift, here’s a haiku about our contest winner:
The greatest contest ever
Plate glass windows hurt
Do yourselves a favor and follow her on Twitter. While you’re at it, follow me on Twitter @muldo. If I have another contest, the next winner might be YOU!
People in Los Angeles have an odd relationship with their neighbors. They spend months or even years separated by only a few feet of drywall, yet since everyone is so self-absorbed, it’s rare to know much more about them than their names, and even those can be tough to remember.
By mere proximity, I was able to learn a lot about the neighbors in my first Hollywood apartment. Each were strange, colorful characters in their own ways.
Next door was a former Penthouse Pet who once dated Crispin Glover. She tried to compensate for being past her prime with multiple plastic surgeries and heavy Gothic makeup. After a year and a half of actively avoiding any interaction with me, she slid a note under my door offering to pay me $10 a month to siphon my internet. The next time I passed her in the hall way, she still didn’t say hello. She never got my wireless password.
Across the courtyard was an elderly, obese Hispanic woman who would lean out of her French doors and chain-smoke Marlboro reds all day. She greeted me every morning with an “hola” in a throaty gargle, and when I returned from work in the evening she was there again waiving hello with a lit cigarette. I don’t think she left the building once in the 3 years I lived there.
Every time I went to the dumpster to take out the trash, she would yell out “bottles!” She wanted my recyclables so she could make a profit, and actually had a nice racket going since she requested bottles from everyone in the building. At first, I would separate my bottles for her. Then, she got greedy.
She’d ask for bottles when I clearly had only garbage in my bags. The last straw came when she asked for the full water bottle I was still drinking out of after coming home from the gym. I told her no. Enough was enough. From then on I lied and said I had no bottles, making it a point to not give her anything that could net her 5 cents (7 cents in Michigan).
Across the hall was a couple who both worked at a hair salon and looked like they could be the Nihilists from The Big Lebowski. He was thin with jet black hair pulled back in a pony tail. She was pair shaped with platinum blonde hair, sloppy tits, and owned a bitchy chihuahua who was equally neurotic. He was affable enough to say hi, while she would give dirty looks to anyone she passed.
They drove a hearse, had a Halloween decoration above their door which read “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here,” as well as a HAZMAT-like sticker on the door with something about zombies.
They often had loud sex, which prompted me to make this reaction video one morning upon waking up to their moaning.
One evening, they had a domestic dispute and the police were called. I looked through my peep hole just in time to see the woman standing against the wall, handcuffed in nothing but her bra and panties. She was screaming at the officers and was nearly arrested.
They broke up soon after. He moved into another unit in the building and left her in the apartment next to me. She played a Danzig song on a loop all night, every night for a couple solid weeks. It took the police threatening arrest and the landlord threatening eviction for her to finally stop. She filled the silence with screaming fits at random times throughout the day. I moved out soon after.
Sometimes, when I drive by my old apartment building, I see that hearse parked outside and wonder how they’re all doing. Did the Penthouse Pet ever get the internet? Did the hairstyling nihilist couple reconcile? Did the old lady die of lung cancer? Then I snap out of it and realize I don’t care because they’re all assholes.
While in line for a new SIM card at the T-Mobile store on Beverly Blvd. last Saturday, I saw something I will never un-see. A gentleman clutching a mannequin with matching clothes and hair was entrenched in conversation with a sales rep, most likely signing up for the family plan. I did my duty as a citizen journalist and documented the experience by discreetly photographing them until the salesperson waited on me. The resulting photos are below.
While I exchanged obligatory quips with a salesperson about the situation, the doll and her human suitor waited around quietly, then posed for a picture with one of the employees before leaving as two happy T-Mobile customers.