Monday, January 26, 2009

Germs.




There was a lot of fan mail in response to the “Vegas” blog. Most of the comments were about the prom vest. The majority of the other comments were about the germy Vegas hotel room. So, I figured, what better time to unveil the “Germ” blog that I have been working on?



[I am exceedingly passionate about this topic, so please forgive the length of this article. This thing is kind of like my opus.]



I am a germaphobe.

Doctors call it “Verminophobia.”

My eyes see the world like a black light sees a hotel room. Colors and textures give way to imaginary visions of the 10,000 bacteria per square inch that reside on almost everything we touch with any sort of regularity.

First, a little about me. I wash my hands anywhere from 30 to 1,378 times per day. I wash my hands after EVERYTHING…and sometimes after nothing at all…and occasionally before doing things.

Each time I wash my hands, I do it twice. After washing my hands, I walk around like a surgeon entering the Operating Room after he has just “scrubbed in.” I bring my own bedding (and disposable slippers) to hotels. I do not shake hands with people. I never carry paper money, and I wipe down my credit cards and cell phone daily. I use the bottom of my shirt to cover my hand when I open doors and I have bottles of disinfectant stashed all over my apartment, car and man purse.

I am not certain when this all happened, but I have a notion.

I grew up in a house with my mother, step-father, sister, two step-sisters and half-brother (it’s really tough to comprehend without a Tree Diagram). For me, there was no real sense of exactly how dirty my surroundings were. There were too many freaking people around to think about anything other than getting away from them so I could have some time alone away from the chatter. What I do know is that my germ phobia is getting exponentially worse with every passing day. I feel myself slipping into full-fledged insanity about germs. My germophobia seems to be directly proportionate to my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder-and they are both heading up and to the right toward the “Howard Hughes” section of the “Madness” graph.

Never mind that growing up my entire house was carpeted and that I cannot recall anyone ever taking their shoes off in our house (for more on carpet, see my entire blog devoted to this phenomenon “Carpet is NOT Awesome”). I think the event that started this snowball was seeing that community bar of soap in the ONLY family shower at my house (this may later resurface as an entire column of its own as well). If one put soap on a wash cloth before scrubbing one’s body, why would there ever be hair on the soap? After picking all of the hair off of that bar of soap, it’s clean, right? If one does not subscribe to the idea of wash cloths and washes himself “bar of soap on skin,” does the soap clean itself? I carried on as if this were the case for a while because I was unaware of any other options.

The day Jergens aired its first commercial for bottled liquid shower gel, my entire life changed. My thought process was that if you squeezed the soap from a bottle, the liquid inside would not be tainted with hair and skin cells from the other people using the community shower.

I had to have this new gel soap. I was so excited about it that when my mother bought me my first bottle, I kept it in my room. I began taking my own bucket of shower products into our family bathroom like a freshman in a college dorm (even though I was only 13). I found the autonomy very liberating, and much less disgusting than sharing intimate products with every member of my enormous family. The more I separated my things from the others, the more disgusted I became by the idea of sharing anything with anyone. Ever. Thus, I began wearing flip-flops in the family shower and feverishly longing for the day that I would have my own apartment (again, at age 13).

My obsession with cleanliness grew beyond the home and went worldwide when I hit high school and got my hands on a medical journal that highlighted some very interesting, very scarring information about one of my favorite childhood activities. This particular medical journal was doing a story about how bowling alleys have the highest concentration of fecal matter per square inch of any public place that is not a bathroom.

It makes sense really.

Think about your local bowling alleys. Have you ever gone into one and said “Wow, this is really classy…and as freaking clean as any place I have ever seen?” Me neither. But you probably DID comment on the fact that it was full of townies, secondhand smoke from Basic Non-Filter 100’s and that the décor had not been updated since the year bowling was invented and the place opened.

I do not mean to be judgmental (alright I do), but bowling joints are not exactly the hangouts of aristocracy.

The fecal matter thing comes from bowlers going to the bathrooms and not washing their hands. Then, those same bowlers head back to their lanes and proceed to high-five their friends and jam their shat-covered fingers into those lane-issued bowling balls that the owners of the establishments replace everyyyyyyyyyyy 30 years or so (once they crack and are rendered unusable). Do you think the staff cleans the finger holes of those bowling balls? Judging by the fact that “cleaning the shoes” consists of one quick dot of what we believe is antibacterial spray into the heel of each shoe; I would guess the balls are not shown much attention (what else is new? heh heh). And you thought those 23 year-old rental shoes were nasty. Those shoes are probably the cleanest things in the whole freaking Bowl-A-Rama.

Needless to say, I no longer go near bowling alleys. If my travels take me within 12 blocks of one, I choose an alternate route.

A year ago, I was invited to attend a very high-profile celebrity charity event at an Indianapolis-area bowling alley. I entertained the idea of attending due to my commitment to the charity, but had to decline last-minute because I was unable to obtain a proper sedative and full-body condom.

Pool Halls probably finish a close second to Bowling Alleys. Community pool sticks probably don’t last as long as lane-issued bowling balls, but I am pretty sure they are just as dirty (and for the exact same reasons).

Bars are nasty even though you really don’t touch anything. The most important thing to be aware of is your drink. I always make sure to ask for no straw and no fruit wedge because the last time I ordered a drink without such a warning, I saw the bartender wipe his brow and then immediately proceed to bare hand my straw and lime with his dirty, sweaty hand and toss them into my glass of top-shelf vodka. Suppose we are very lucky and bartenders fall into that percentage that do wash their hands before returning to work (which is impossible, because the soap dispensers in every bar worldwide are ALWAYS empty), their hands still get very dirty from bartending duties and brow wiping as the night progresses. The last thing I want is to pay $10 plus tip for a drink with a straw and lime wedge loaded with bacteria and ball sweat. If your drink ever does come with a straw and fruit slice, throw them out immediately. DO NOT drop the fruit in and SWISH IT AROUND. And please DO NOT put your mouth on that straw. You would not walk around letting strange people randomly stick their dirty fingers in your mouth, so why would you drink from a bar-issued straw?

Your shoes are filthy. You wear them everywhere. You step in dirt and mud puddles with them. You wear them into public restrooms and step into those pools of toilet water that drip down and land where your feet are supposed to be positioned (which sometimes causes us to pull out that “Karate Kid” pose while at the toilet). Occasionally, darn it, you step in dog doo doo. It’s pretty much impossible to clean everything out of all of those cracks on the bottoms of your shoes (and I don’t know anyone who even bothers), so there are MILLIONS of bacteria and remnants on those shoe bottoms. If you wear your shoes in your house, you are tracking this lovely stuff everywhere. Then, when you are lying on the floor, you are laying in what you tracked in with your shoes. Enjoy your nap.

Babies spend most of their time on the floor. Babies also like to put their hands in their mouths. Do the arithmetic.

While we are talking about kids, I have something that I need to get off my hands…I mean chest. When you take your kids to public places, please do not let them play with those toys in the toy chests at public establishments. Nothing makes me want to seizure more than the thought of little kids playing with those “trace the bead across the maze of wires” toys (pictured above). Newsflash, those toys have not had so much as a disinfectant wipe run over them since the day they were taken out of their respective boxes. Further, the toys at the doctor’s office are probably the worst. The kids that play with the toys at the doctor’s office are slapping flu and other germs all over everything. Think about the reasons those kids are at the doctor’s office in the first place---they are sick. I think I feel a cough coming on now.

Ladies, are you disgusted by the urine-soaked floors in public restrooms? Of course you are. So, why would you lay your purses on those very same floors? Then, to make it worse, you take your urine-soaked purses and place them on tables, car seats, kitchen counters and beds. Yummy.

Movies theaters are nast (not nasty, nast…it’s a word I use when things are many degrees beyond nasty). It’s a darn good thing that the lights are kept very low in movie theaters. There is a reason for this that has nothing to do with seeing the screen. If you saw a movie theater with the lights on, you would wear a full-length rain coat to the movies…like I do…with the hood up. If you ever end up with head lice and cannot seem to figure out where you got it from, ask yourself if you were at a movie theater recently.

Further, they should require women to be on birth-control before entering a screening room and I don’t care to further explain why.

To close, when you get home from a movie theater, bowling alley or pool hall, and if you didn’t wear a rubber outfit that can be hosed down and left outside, then you should just burn whatever outfit it is that you did wear before going back into your house (or car for that matter). You don’t want to bring those germs home to your couch (where you take naps face down).

Pets are cute, but really gross. Don’t let your cat get on your kitchen counters and tables. Fluffy just shat himself in the litter box (we hope) and then dropped it as if it were hot on your counter and table where you later prepared and ate that night’s meal. Maybe you like smeared ass remnants on your food. If so, that’s cool. Your non-pet-owning guests may not be as open to the idea.

If you don’t usually cook in the bathroom, don’t let your pets pounce around on food preparation surfaces. Also, please refrain from petting your animals while preparing provisions; and if you must pet them, please wash your hands before returning to cooking tasks. I don’t enjoy my grilled chicken topped with dog hair and drool as much as I used to. Write that down.

If you absolutely have to use the bathroom at a gas station, be careful. Don’t touch anything. If the Shell station where you are requires a bathroom key, throw on a plastic glove before you grab it. If you don’t have a box of latex gloves in your car, get some. That piece of wood with key attached that says “Men’s Restroom” is one big stick of poop bacteria. Think it through, motorists young and old, fat and skinny, clean and dirty get hopped up on fast food and bad coffee and then stop off to explode in those Shell station bathrooms. Many of these people grab the key, use the facilities, forgo hand washing and then return the key with their own personal brand of germs. Just pee your pants in the safety of your own vehicle…seriously.

Swimming pools give me “The Shakes.” Just because pools are treated with chemicals DOES NOT meant that they are germ-free. On the contrary, they are full of bacteria. Chemicals are generally applied to pools once a week. This treatment will kill almost all bacteria living in the pool and make it sink to the bottom where it will be vacuumed up. But, as soon as someone jumps in the day after the treatment and sweeping takes place, the pool instantly begins to refill with bacteria.

Public pools are a joke. Have you ever peed in a pool? Of course you have, and you are an adult. Now, think of all of the little kids at the pool. Those kids don’t do much else other than pee while they in the pool all day. And then, you jump in and swim right through those clouds of urine with your mouth open. If you like mouthfuls of unfamiliar urine so much, you should just put your face directly into public toilets (hey, no sunblock required). Something about a bunch of strangers stripping down, jumping in, splashing around and rinsing all of their crevices into one collective puddle does not make me want to put so much as a toe in that bitch.


The following things are dirty and should be washed:


1 – Car keys

2 – Credit cards (you hand them to strange people so they can swipe them for you. These people just came back from the restroom, where they did not wash their hands)

3 – Doorknobs

4 – Car steering wheels

5 – Car gear shifters

6 – Car door handles

7 – Computer keyboards

8 – Pens (especially the “community” pens chained to the table at your bank, and those next to the “sign-in” book at that wedding you just went to)

9 – Phones

10 – Grocery cart handles

11 – Refrigerator/Freezer handles (and basically any handle that is built for your hand to grab on to)

12 – Restaurant menus

13 - Your DAMN hands


Be aware of coins and paper bills. Thousands of people handle currency before it runs its life cycle. Have you even been sick and handled money? Think about it.


I am really excited for money to go 100% electronic, but would this mean homeless people and ”Vietnam veterans” would start begging for donations via debit and credit cards, or just asking for the shirt and shoes you are currently wearing? Would this also mean that the “Firefighters” holding fireman hats and rubber boots and knocking on your windows at stoplights would be asking for the same types of donations? If so, those donation helmets and boots would fill up pretty rapidly. Some things to ponder.

(One quick thing to also give some thought to: we are far too trusting of these “stoplight donation collectors.” Just because a group of people threw on matching T-Shirts and decided to stand on the medians of busy intersections in your city does not mean that the money you donate is actually going to the cause listed on the sign on the bucket. I mean, the construction paper sign with the cause written in Magic Marker does look super official, but try not to be fooled. Back in high school, my friends and I executed a fake “Fire Station” fund raiser in the middle of a busy intersection in the next town over from where we lived. We fooled hundreds of drivers into donating $241.78 in spare change into the stolen rubber boots we were holding over a 5-hour period. I am only joking, but for a second there I had you thinking a lot more seriously about all of the “stoplight causes” you have donated to in your lifetime.)

The next progression in my story occurred at age 21. The men’s bathroom at my old workplace had one stall and one urinal, allowing you to see the shoes of the person next to you. On several occasions, I ended up in the bathroom at the same time as an employee from my department who, to my knowledge, owns only one pair of shoes. Every single time we were ever in the restroom together during my 5 years with the company, he left without washing his hands. I knew this for a fact because if I was still at the urinal, I would never hear the water run. If I was at the sink first, I would have to move for him to get past the sink and out the door. After handling his wedding tackle, the last thing he touched in the bathroom is the first thing I touched with my post-wash hands…the doorknob. I became conditioned to use the paper towel that I dried my hands with to open the door.

To add E-coli to injury, this “non hand washer” often spent time in my office when I was on vacation or out sick (or if I called in “disinterested,” which I became famous for). When I was out of the office, people would need access to files on my computer, so “NHW” and the other members of my department would get on my computer and act as my stand-in. I still have nightmares about “NHW” heading straight from the bathroom without washing his hands and into my office where he would proceed to smear his schlong germs all over my doorknob, keyboard, mouse and phone. Knowing this, the night before taking a vacation day I would disconnect my “Todd only” keyboard and mouse and swap it out with replacement hardware that I had stashed behind my desk. If I called in “sick” or “disinterested” I was screwed. Unplanned days off meant 2 hours of disinfecting everything in my office before settling in for a long day of work dodging, EBay bidding and napping in my swivel chair.

Wash your damn hands. Wash them thoroughly and wash them often. If you ever see someone leave a restroom without washing their hands, you have my permission to call him out. Embarrass him. Get angry. You should be angry. If you do check that jerk, he will think twice about ever skipping the sink again because he will fear that the crazy bastard that almost started a fight with him for doing it last time might be watching. Consider this your responsibility. It’s up to you all. If you don’t speak up, these perpetrators will walk out of bathrooms with germs and bacteria from their nether regions on their hands…which you will be shaking minutes later when your girlfriend introduces them as her old friends from college. This happens everyday unfortunately.

CNN released a study in September 2007 stating that 30% of men surveyed DID NOT wash their hands after using the restroom. The study reported that 12% of women exhibited the same behavior. A second, non gender-specific study stated that 1 out of every 6 people do not wash their hands (16.666%). What does this make you think about that little “Employees must wash hands before returning to work” sign? It’s terrifying. What gets really scary when you think about it is that something prompted the businesses to start reminding their employees in the first place. I am asking right here and now for police officers in every public restroom worldwide. We need someone holding these lunatics accountable.

Another thing, public restrooms in America send me to the brink of nervous breakdowns. It’s almost pointless to use the sinks in these bathrooms to clean your hands. Studies show that the sinks are sometimes one of the dirtiest things in the entire restroom (being that they are the first things people touch after getting busy). Sometimes, I would just rather pee my pants. And once again, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE REFILL THE SOAP DISPENSER????

F me.

My first trip to Europe was amazing. Not surprisingly (and at the same time, very surprisingly) one of the things that I remember most about the countries I visited was that the public restrooms were immaculately clean. Of course, this is because there are attendants in these public restrooms cleaning 24 hours a day-and it costs a few Euros to use them (about $0.75 USD). The idea of paying to use a public bathroom seems absurd to people whose only experience with public bathrooms has been in America.

The public facilities in Europe are spotless. The attendants are wiping and disinfecting for the entire span of their respective shifts. Once they finish cleaning every inch of the entire room, they repeat the cycle. The attendants stop only to grab the occasional coin from a paying customer. Not only were these European restrooms clean, they were pristine. I would rather use a public restroom over there than use the lieu at any of my friend’s apartments. I mean, you could eat in these joints. They are cleaner than any room in your house. The bleach smell is heavier in these places than it is in any of the Mexican restaurants that you thought held the title.

When is America going to adopt this public bathroom attendant/cleaner idea? The guys in the dirty restrooms at nightclubs that hand you a paper towel (assuming you wash your hands), splashes you with Drakkar, cleans nothing and asks for a tip is not getting it done for me.

If you don’t like people rubbing their dirty shoe bottoms on you, then don’t ever lay on the floor. If you don’t make a habit of letting people sit on your face, then don’t make a habit of taking naps face down on a couch. You probably wouldn’t go #2 in your bathroom, forgo wiping, and then go sit on your couch-so why do you let your pets do the exact same thing? Give careful consideration to these things and others just like them.

There is a good rule to live by: If you touch it, they touch it (don’t go to the bad place on me). Public places do not get cleaned all that well, so be aware of things that you touch. Be especially aware of handles and other things that are actually designed for people to put their hands on. I was out yesterday in a public place that had a doorknob so worn that the silver was rubbed off and you could see the brass beneath it. That looked like decades worth of germs to me.

DO NOT shake hands. My ex-girl (it didn’t work out) got very angry when she would introduce me to people that she knew because I would stone them with a wave and leave them with their hands hanging out. My research shows that a large percent of her friends probably bypass hand washing. Screw shaking their dirty hands, I bite my nails when I get nervous AND when I get bored. Add that up.

Often times when we are in places where we are meeting new people, it is some sort of party. At parties, there are generally trays of finger food for everyone at the entire party to grab and eat. Be aware of people not using toothpicks to pick up these hors’ dourves. I see a lot of people grabbing cheese squares and crackers, jamming them (and their fingers) into their mouths and then reaching right back for seconds with their saliva-covered hands. Play it safe, eat at home.

I am pushing for America to adopt the bow that many Asian nations use as a way to greet one another. It is also common in many places in Asia to remove your shoes when entering someone’s house. Hopefully, my columns change the world like I have been anticipating and some of these policies get implemented in America. Otherwise, I am moving to Asia.

I realize that I am extremely neurotic. Really, I just want to raise awareness. Just because I spend my days standing in one place with my hands held out away from my body doesn’t mean you all have to let germs paralyze you as well. Just be prepared for me to completely stone your next handshake offering. I will instead politely step back and bow.

Go wash your hands.


You’re welcome.

-Todd

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Viva Las Wind Burn, Hookers and Cigarette Smoke




Living in L.A. is unique for many reasons. One of said reasons definitely has to be the fact that, whether you know it or not, you are always an hour away from leaving the city to head to Las Vegas for the weekend.

A lot of people that I have met out here go to Vegas all the time. And I am learning that very few of their trips are put together more than 24 hours in advance.

Three and a half hours of desert is all that separates L.A. from L.V. And, one incoming call is all that it takes to separate your weekend of couch napping from a weekend of debauchery in the desert.

A friend of mine called me last weekend and said that he had received a phone invite by two friends that had decided at the last minute to leave it all behind and party in Vegas for the weekend. My friend informed me that we were going as well, and we would be leaving in one hour.

I packed, and it was on.

This was my very first trip to Las Vegas. I would like to say that I didn’t know what to expect, but honestly I felt like I did know what I was getting myself into. Enough has been made of Las Vegas in movies, Wild On E! (E! Entertainment Television) and stories that I have heard friends tell that I felt like I was prepared for what I was about to encounter.

So…

My friend (another Vegas first-timer) and I rolled into town around 11:00 pm on Saturday night and headed over to check in at the MGM Grand. Traffic was not a factor, which surprised me. I just figured people were EVERYWHERE in Las Vegas, especially on the strip, and especially especially on Saturday night.

After dropping our bags in the room, changing clothes and making fun of my friend for the prom vest he chose for the evening…we headed out. Out to on the town. Out to the casinos. Out to the clubs. Out for the laaaaaaaaadieeeeeeeeeeeeeees.

At least I thought that is what we were doing.

In reality, we headed out to find casinos “full” of around 13 people, completely empty streets, freezing cold weather and almost zero half-pretty young ladies with self-esteem issues looking keep what happened that weekend in Las Vegas.

If I had known that people were allowed to smoke in casinos, I probably never would have gone to Nevada. It is amazing how much cigar and cigarette smoke 13 gamblers can generate. Two hours after arriving in town, my throat was already scratchy and starting to hurt when I swallowed.

I did not find this pleasing.

When we got bored with the other 12 people at whichever casino we were in, we would hop out onto “The Strip” and walk down to another spot. I was always under the impression that “The Strip” was wall-to-wall people drinking and partying out of control. Last weekend, it was a few scattered handfuls of people walking with their heads down and their backs to the wind like we were in freaking Chicago. There were no people partying in the streets. There was no “Mardi Gras” atmosphere.

Once we did finally make our way into whichever casino we happened to be heading to at the time, I can only assume that I was not looking too hot in the eyes of the ladies with my wind burned face, chattering teeth and runny nose. Every entrance I made looked like a Campbell’s Soup advertisement (only I probably smelled more like smoke than the actors in the actual soup commercials).

And as for the ladies, the only steady female interaction we were getting was from the prostitutes. Now, this was not my first time seeing hookers (I have been to Amsterdam, NYC and Miami), but it was the first place I had ever been where the working girls outnumbered the patrons 2:1. And these chicks were aggressive. Walking into a casino felt like walking onto the lot at a car dealership. After leaving one casino and heading out onto the street, my friend and I were followed by two madams of the night. These two women tried the time tested “Hey baby. How ya’ll doin’ tonight? Ya’ll looking to have a good time?” lines that I ALMOST ALWAYS GO FOR, but we declined. I thought the whole thing was hilarious, but I couldn’t laugh because the muscles in my face were too cold to function.

Later, I told my friend that part of me just wanted to pay those hardworking girls $2,000 and tell them nothing was expected in return. I just wanted to pay them a nightly wage and tell them that I respected their work ethic, but I would like for them to each head back to their respective dwellings so they could get warm, get something to eat and get to bed. You know, it would have been easy for those two to take a sick day, but they decided to come in to work anyway. They were out pounding the pavement in 20-degree weather with short dresses, 6-inch heels, sunglasses, wigs, knife fight scars and razor-sharp game. I was in jeans, undershirt, a button-up and a jacket…and whining about the cold like a bitch. Get it girls.

I sometimes view hookers like I do street beggars. The presence of either one tarnishes a bit of the ambiance of any locale. Further, both factions are incessantly sweating me for money. The difference is, bums ask for cash and hookers ask for cash…while cupping my package. You never realize how much you miss bums until you are being publicly stroked and propositioned by a prostitute.

Yucky. No likey.

So, I am not a big gambler. I do not know enough about gambling to feel comfortable with it. What I do know is that people who have dedicated their lives to gambling and sacrificed their families and fortunes for gambling still cannot seem to beat the house, so I feel like my money is probably safest in my pocket...or tucked into a G-string.

I said that to say this, casinos are really lame if you don’t gamble (and also if you do). It’s just a bunch of poker tables and slot machines across from a sandwich deli, a bar, a Gap and a coffee shop. It feels like being in an airport.

I thought casinos were going to be more sexy and glamorous. I thought they would be places that you would never want to leave-when in fact, I tried to hold my breath, race through a quick tour of the place and get out before I needed to inhale another chest full of secondhand cancer.

Another thing I noticed while walking down “The Strip” is that all of the buildings look very unique and interesting. Once you are on the inside, however, you cannot tell one casino’s slot machines and jarring ornate carpet from the next (and, Marlboro Light smoke smells the same no matter where you breathe it in).

The MGM Grand was a nice hotel. The room was reasonably modern and the stuff seemed as clean as a germophobe could expect for a Las Vegas hotel room. My only real beef with MGM is this: After hanging out until 7:30 am, my friend and I decided we wanted to get some sleep-and that checking out three hours later before MGM’s 11:00 am deadline was not a possibility. So, we decided to hit the lobby and rent our room for a second night. After re-upping our room, we headed upstairs to get some sleep.

By 8:15 am I was laying atop my hotel bedding fully clothed wondering how I could lay on the bed without touching any of it, watching “Vegas Vacation” on TV and wondering why it was tomorrow already and I had not yet gone to sleep for yesterday yet. Things were, you know, going really well.

I remember sneaking a look at the bedside alarm clock at 9:23 am before turning off the light to get some sleep. I nodded off for about 19 seconds when it hit me like a shot of patron that neither one of us had put the “Shhh. Please Do Not Disturb” sign on the door yet. I sprang out of bed and slapped that sign on the outside doorknob with authority. The last thing I wanted was some lady that did not speak English banging on the door 45 minutes later asking if we were going to be checking out before 11:00 am.

45 minutes later, some lady that did not speak English was banging on the door asking if we were going to be checking out before 11:00 am. I managed to cough a sentence that sounded enough like “we added an extra day to our reservation” for her to understand. She then apologized to me for waking us (and for making me want to murder her entire family).

Why is that I can program my DVR wirelessly from my cell phone from anywhere in the world, but billion dollar “Resort & Casino” front desk staff are somehow unable to communicate to their housekeeping staff that patrons have rented a room for an extra night and should not be bothered for any reason (especially when displaying a sign that says exactly that)? I almost went to jail because of this lack of communication. If I had had the strength, balance, brain power or interest I would have tackled that little housekeeping lady when she knocked on the door, but at the time I was without all four of those things.

Give me a room with no bed. Give me a room with no windows. Give me a room with nothing but fours walls. I don’t even care. All I ask is that NO ONE EVER WAKE ME UP UNLESS THE BUILDING IS ON FIRE. And even then, if the fire is not going to affect my room specifically, then we can talk about it later on when I wake up.

Is there a hotel anywhere issuing “Please bang on the door and wake my friend and me up because we hate sleep” doorknob signs in their rooms? If not, all hotels should just go ahead and make this change now. Let’s just be honest with each other about what we are getting ourselves into so everyone knows to expect the early morning knocking.

Another quick Vegas-related note, I have officially decided that “Swingers” quotes are over. I love that movie as much as anyone, but all of that is done. Unless, of course, it is something under the radar, like “This place is dead anyway,” or “Like House of Pain was really gonna do something.” Otherwise, it’s officially a wrap. Thanks for playing.


Bright Spots:


I saw the rapper Too $hort at The Flamingo at around 4:15 am on Saturday night/Sunday Morning. Just as I was about to ask my friend if it was legal in Nevada for nine-year olds to be in casinos this late at night, I realized that it was just Too $heezy’s 5-foot 3-inch ass in that gaudy red sweater with two bodyguards and 15 sycophantic blonde associates surrounding him. I was going to bust through his entourage and ask him if I could get a quick picture, but I didn’t want to get spray tan and glitter on my jacket.

Club Prive at Planet Hollywood was pretty nice (again, not as glamorous or sexy or wild as I expected it to be, but very nice). Most importantly, the DJ (the only real reason I go anywhere) was pretty much killing it. A fellow Serato user, he was utilizing a lot of loops and mixer effects that are not for beginners. These kinds of things make a big difference, people.

The best part of the weekend also happened at Prive. Whilst trying to look cool on the edge of the dance floor with my $21 dollar drink, a gorgeous young Latina by the name of Cindy danced her way up next to me and began chatting me up (i.e. screaming directly into my earhole). It was so uncomfortably loud in the club that Cindy and I were able to exchange that she was from Orange County and I was from L.A….and that was about it. After growing frustrated with repeating ourselves, we decided it would be best if she put her information into my phone so we could correspond when we both got back to California. Thus, she put her fake name and fake phone number into my very real phone and I promised to spare her the waiting games and call her next week like a gentleman.

All in all, I personally thought Las Vegas was underwhelming as balls. But, I am willing to give it one more shot. Next time, I am bringing 60 people with me in case the city is barren once again. Also, my next trip will be during the warmer months, so if everything else breaks down I can just get sauced out by the pool and gawk at the pretty girlies.


One last very important thing:


If you are reading this and your go-to fake clubbing name is “Cindy” and you are from Orange County and you met a guy named “Todd” at club Prive on Saturday, January 3rd 2009 and you put your go-to fake phone number that starts with “909” in Todd’s iPhone and Todd explained that he thought you were absolutely adorable and he promised he would call you when he got back to L.A., then please forgive Todd. The reason it has been a week and Todd has not yet contacted you is because Todd’s iPhone somehow did not save your fake number that Todd watched you input with his own two eyes. In an attempt to play it cool Todd decided not to call you immediately after you put your math in his phone (which would have cemented each party’s number in the other’s call history). You see, Todd is an idiot. An idiot who apparently does not know how to properly save the single most important phone numbers that will ever be tipsy enough to place themselves in his wireless device. So, now Todd has no way of contacting your very hot ass.

Cindy, please email Todd at WordsByTodd@Gmail.com

Todd would really appreciate it.



You’re welcome

-Todd