tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79367658361220698782024-02-18T19:50:09.561-08:00You're Welcome.Because sometimes you have a 3-hour layover in Kansas City.Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-8581786742035843682012-07-14T04:07:00.000-07:002012-07-14T04:07:17.438-07:00Beasley To Phoenix. T-Wolves in remission. (meaning, Michael Beasley was cancerous and has been removed)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last season, I watched a scary amount of Minnesota Timberwolves games on #NBALeaguePass.<br />
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Don't believe me? Fine.<br />
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I watched so many T-Wolves games that I figured out that the in-game DJ/Music Director at Target Center played the same wolf howl during games that Duck Sauce sampled in their massive 2011 single, "The Big Bad Wolf."<br />
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Given that I am a caucasian rec league role player who wears "Stockton" shorts, keeps his jersey tucked in, and makes his free throws, it's probably not surprising that I have a hard-on for Kevin Love. Watching Love continuously beat guys with effort and precision never gets old for me. Yelling at the tv in an attempt to get other "superstar" players to give more effort, however, does.<br />
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Ricky Rubio might be my second-favorite player in the league. The kid can pass the rock. It's wild. Every time Rubio leads the break and deals a no-look dime, I feel a jolt in my swoon unit.<br />
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Suffice = As soon as the T-Wolves update their logo (or revert to the old one), I will own 2 T-Wolves jerseys.<br />
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The worst part of watching Wolves games last year was Michael Beasley. I hate him. I hate his name. I hate that his nickname is "B-Easy." I hate that he refuses to defend. I hate that indifferent look he always has on his face. I hate ALL of his haircuts. I hate his tattoos. I even hate the handful of times he will come in off the bench and drop 30. He is a cancer. The only thing I wanted more than a uniform re-design was for them trade Beasley. If any team should ever "amnesty" Michael Beasley, I demand they say that they "chemo'd" him.<br />
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After the "Beasley to Phoenix" news dropped July 4th, it appeared the Minnesota Timberwolves were finally in remission. Though I have been scouring the internet, I haven't seen any official articles confirming Beasley's signature has dried on any Phoenix Suns paperwork. So, I'm still nervous.<br />
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After removing Michael Beasley, Minny went right back out and dropped another free agency bomb when they dragged Brandon Roy out of retirement and brought him to the tundra of 10,000 lakes. I don't even care if Roy doesn't play well. Shit, I don't care if he retires again after three games. Regardless, he is one of the most likable guys in the league and, in my opnion, has made the T-Wolves the NBA's most likable team (except for their location, logo, and location...and their logo). That said, the cold weather should help keep the swelling in Roy's knees down.<br />
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All of that and I haven't even mentioned the Nick Batum offer sheet. <br />
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Mark it down right now Minnesota, I'm watching all 82 next season.<br />
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The Wolves could go 0-82 and I'd look at you like, "This shit gravy." But, that won't happen, because they're going to the playoffs. <br />
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You're welcome,<br />
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_<a href="http://twitter.com/wordsbytodd">Todd</a><br />
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["Swoon Unit (c)" is the property of, and was not used with permission from, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ceyjBg3Z34">Digable Planets</a>.]<br />
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<br />Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-88730088437185589032012-06-26T14:54:00.000-07:002012-06-29T21:21:56.176-07:00Top 5 Racially-Insensitive Sneaker Ideas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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By now, you are all probably familiar with the ADIDAS "Shackle" shoe. Word recently surfaced that ADIDAS would cancel their release, due to an incredible amount of backlash (no pun intended). I found them to be spectacularly offensive. So, last week I sat in the SportieLAB, popped an Aquafina, and set off to see if I could generate any fake shoe ideas that the public might find more cringe-worthy than ADIDAS' attempt to set Black people back five decades.<br />
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[Editor's note: All text in this article reflects only the ideas of the writer (who is a freelance hack) and not the thoughts or opinions of <b>SportieLA</b>. It is all meant to be humorous. We love everyone equally.] <br />
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Now that we got that out of the way-hold on tight, these might sting a little...<br />
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1 - <b>SUPRA "Sex Offender."</b> Imagine a Supra <a href="http://www.sportiela.com/store/product.php?productid=22240&cat=371&page=1">SkyTop III</a> in a faint peach colorway. Imagine each shoe's<b> </b>suede upper having a chunk missing to comfortably accommodate those bulky ankle monitoring devices.<br />
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2 - <b>Jumpman "Welfare."</b> A lifestyle shoe if ever there was one, the Jumpman "Welfare" is perfect for sitting around all day, rolling up blunts, talking in movie theaters, and claiming other people's kids on your taxes. Imbedded in the toe of the shoe is a digital clock that is set 90 minutes ahead, so you're always on time. The initial launch will be in the "Newport King" colorway. New colorways will follow each 1st and 15th.<br />
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3 - <b>"Middle" Eastland</b>. All white <a href="http://sportiela.com/store/product.php?productid=22413&cat=0&page=1">Eastland Freeports</a>. Dark, tinted laces. BMW insignias on the toe and heel.<br />
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4 - <b><a href="http://sportiela.com/store/search.php?mode=search&page=1">K-Swiss</a> "Kosher." </b>Ideal for walking to temple, being coddled by your (s)mother, filing other people's taxes, taking the L-SAT, and negotiating a cheaper price. The sticker price has already been knocked down 60% off the suggested retail price.<br />
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5 - <b>Fira "Kung Fu."</b> The folks at Fila dropped their "L" and added a "R" for this exclusive Eastern Hemisphere release. The Kung Fu's come with interchangeable logo inserts for each color of the martial arts belt system. Don't even think about wearing these to hoop, the Kung Fus were specifically designed for the three most popular hobbies in Asia: Algebra, Trigonometry, and Calculus. The lacing eyelits are thin and slanted. I couldn't think of a funny way to incorporate karaoke or traffic school.<br />
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If you were offended, feel free to drop a comment.<br />
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You're welcome,<br />
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_<a href="https://twitter.com/#!/wordsbytodd">Todd</a>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-608458161121273042012-06-21T13:03:00.001-07:002012-06-22T22:32:49.945-07:00NBA Finals 2012: Haircuts and Consequences<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Tonight is Game 5 of the 2012 NBA Finals.
But, who can forget what we just saw in Game 4?<br />
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Russell Westbrook put up Shaq numbers. LeBron gave us damn near a triple-double. The Thunder eventually came up short in the "final" seconds of an instant classic.<br />
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Even with all of that, the best part for me was Norris Cole's haircut. It currently resides somewhere on the border of two different school districts: "box cut" and "high-top fade." Either way, I feel like if he doesn't do something soon, his mother may send him to live with his auntie and uncle in Bel-Air.
My question is, are the veterans hazing him, or did he cut his hair that way of his own free will? Regardless of who is to blame, he and his teammates need to be aware of the historical significance at play here. Pictures and video from every NBA Finals gets replayed at nauseum during the months following the series. Sometimes (Game 4 from this year, for instance), the games are replayed in their entirety on ESPN Classic or NBA TV. Then, each year around NBA Finals time, we revisit crazy games and anniversaries from the past. I am not so sure Norris Cole is aware that he is etching that haircut in stone for eternity.<br />
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The other problem is, at a glance, we can generally ballpark the year a game took place, based on the hairstyles, sneakers, and trouser lengths of the players. Norris Cole has sent that straight to East Hell. In 30 years, someone is going to see the 2012 NBA Finals and think it was the 1992 NBA Finals, because they won't realize Norris Cole's haircut was meant to be ironic (or as part of a cruel rookie hazing program). <br />
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I feel like at some point tonight, Norris is going to catch an alley-oop pass from Bobby Hurley and dunk it to give Duke an early 7-1 lead over Kansas in the 1991 NCAA Championship.
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You're Welcome,<br />
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_<a href="http://twitter.com/wordsbytodd">Todd</a>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-74098428773839615902012-06-20T14:04:00.001-07:002012-06-22T22:38:34.154-07:00Lea Thompson.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Like most people born in the 80's, my favorite movie is "Whichever volume of <i>Back to the Future</i> is Playing at the Time." I have spent an incalculable number of nights blowing off friends to watch Marty McFly shred skateboard at Hill Valley's town square, and guitar at "The Enchantment Under The Sea" Dance. Admittedly, the trilogy's 3rd installment blows in comparison to the first 2, but regardless, I will forgo anything my other 5,000 channels have to offer in order to watch all, or even fractions, of any BTTF film.<br />
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Moreover, I want a Delorean. Not so much in a nerdy "Comic-Con" way, but in more of a "fuck yeah" way (though, those may be the same).<br />
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A few weeks back, when I was "researching" <a href="http://wordsbytodd.blogspot.com/2012/05/george-clooneys-house.html">George Clooney's address</a> for a post, I stumbled upon a very sexual nugget of information. As it <u>turns</u> out, Lea Thompson (Lorraine Baines-McFly) currently lives just a few driveways down from GC's Fryman Canyon home. Had I known her address during my teenage years, I probably wouldn't be able to legally get within 200 yards of her today, due to the amount of "research" I would presumably have done with my binoculars. By now, it has probably become clear that Lea was the object of my affection (loins) for most of my life (AKA, I wanted to take her to "The Enchantment Under The PANTS" Dance).<br />
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Recently, while discussing my Clooney post with a friend, I mentioned how it was actually cooler for me to see Lea Thompson's house than it was for me to snoop around George's. My friend proceeded to tell me that her brother randomly met Lea in '92 and "went on a few dates with her." Immediately sick with jealousy, I launched a full-scale interrogation, with my iPhone serving as the scorching hot admission-evoking lamp. I needed details. She wasn't about to simply leave it at "went on a few dates." <br />
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After some back-and-forth, I deduced that the 1992 dates took place in Kansas City, Missouri. As legend has it, the brother approached Lea from the opposite side of a fence while she was jumping on a trampoline at her friend's house (presumably in a wet t-shirt). Flirtatious conversation ensued and contact information was exchanged. Sadly, the story was too odd and specific to be fake.<br />
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Though I didn't know if my poor heart would be able to deal with the answer, I had to ask "The Question." I knew Lea poked her phone number through a hole in the fence on that fateful day back in 1994, but I had to know if my friend's brother poked his penis through the hole in Lea's vagina. After several deep breaths, I demanded the answer. <br />
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Could my friend possibly have a brother smooth enough to defile Lea Thompson at the height of her fame and sexiness? If so, could simply hearing about it decades later scar me for life and ruin all future viewings of the BTTF trilogy? In the event the relationship was consummated, would I consider Lea to have cheated on me, though she was much older and we have still never met? Though I found out years ago that Lea had kids, was I still foolishly hoping that she was "saving herself" for me? Regardless of the goings-on in 1992, would I still smash <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?num=10&hl=en&biw=1280&bih=583&tbm=isch&tbnid=WIP6KkAlyg0pgM:&imgrefurl=http://www.iberkshires.com/story/31757/Lea-Thompson-Is-Caroline-in-Theater-Festival-Debut.html&docid=-enDC_adNA75cM&imgurl=http://www.iberkshires.com/UserFiles/Image/LeaCloseup.jpg&w=360&h=504&ei=bCXiT5rmK6i42wXvpoW7Cw&zoom=1&iact=rc&dur=318&sig=111723118402909045905&sqi=2&page=1&tbnh=164&tbnw=109&start=0&ndsp=16&ved=1t:429,r:15,s:0,i:185&tx=35&ty=75">Lea Thompson today</a>, just for sport and legend? <br />
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1) Yes.<br />
2) Yes.<br />
3) Yes.<br />
4) Yes.<br />
5) Yes.<br />
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As told to me, the guy beat Lea's cakes like they owed him trick money. Thankfully, he didn't do it in the back of a Delorean. That would have sent me barreling over my threshold.<br />
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After learning all of this news, I am not ashamed to admit I was semi-comatose for a couple of weeks. Several days were spent in a catatonic state. As you can imagine, all of my creative projects were pushed back.<br />
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And so it is. I am currently on the long road to putting the pieces back together, which includes finding a new favorite 80s movie. Fortunately, there are a lot of solid films to choose from. Unfortunately, I had already chosen the best one of all - and now that's completely fucked. <br />
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Forgive the crudity of the article; I didn't have time to build it to scale.<br />
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You're welcome,<br />
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_<a href="http://twitter.com/#!/wordsbytodd">Todd</a><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/O6tra0YF22k" width="560"></iframe>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-35925148683583190062012-06-07T18:46:00.002-07:002012-06-07T18:47:55.269-07:00Chuck, Chuck, Bo, Buck...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-15407610157479669752012-05-15T17:04:00.001-07:002012-05-16T03:17:49.382-07:00A close call with Claire Dunphy.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The first time I saw Modern Family's <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0100866/">Julie Bowen</a> at the Studio City Sunday Farmer's Market, I was excited. The second time, I realized she probably lived in Studio City.<br />
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Recently, I landed on a real estate website that listed a mother load of celebrity addresses. Julie Bowen was on that list. Now, if you'll remember, I recently <a href="http://wordsbytodd.blogspot.com/2012/05/george-clooneys-house.html">visited George Clooney's house</a>. And, since I knew that Julie lived only a mile away from George, I decided to swing by Julie's house on the way home from Clooney's. It must be stated that celebrity address websites are often out-of-date. Thus, I was not certain if Julie Bowen even still lived at the Studio City address I had for her.</div>
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Here come he hijinks.</div>
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My g/f and I rolled by the address we had for JB. It's a modest house with a black Toyota Prius in the driveway. There was also a big black Cadillac Escalade parked in the driveway. Immediately, I thought two things:</div>
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1 - She still lives in the house.</div>
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2 - She is either being picked up or dropped off by a car service right freaking now.</div>
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Due to some very thick shrubbery, the view of the house is only visible for a brief window as you pass the driveway. Since we got a such a short look at the house, we decided to turn around at a neighboring property and do a second drive-by. As we neared the driveway for a second run, we slowed to maximize our time in the short viewing window. When we actually approached the opening, the Escalade was waiting at the end of the drive! It was obvious to whomever was in the Cadillace that we were gawking. The only question that remained was whether or not Julie Bowen was in the truck.</div>
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Did she still live at the residence? If so, had she just been dropped off, or picked up.</div>
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Two hours later, I went home to watch Game 7 of Lakers v Nuggets.</div>
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Look who had just been dropped off for her courtside seats (presumably in a black Cadillac Escalade)...</div>
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<br /></div>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-72883476928022236822012-05-15T00:51:00.000-07:002012-05-15T00:52:26.027-07:00George Clooney's House.This past weekend, I went hiking with my girlfriend at Wilacre Park in Studio City. <br />
<br />
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One of the trails just so happens to end on George Clooney's street. To get back to our car, we just so happened to pass George Clooney's house.<br />
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I just so happened to get semi-erect.</div>
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Since President Barack Obama was on the property for a star-studded $40,000 per plate fund raiser two days prior, I was especially interested in having a look around the estate. In doing so, I came upon another trail that runs up and behind Clooney's property. Adamant about trying not to appear to be a sleezy photog, I kept my iPhone in my pocket...for the most part. As we reached the end of GC's acreage, my girlfriend mentioned his satellite dish. When I looked, I saw a small DISH NETWORK apparatus. On sight, I admittedly lost 31% of the respect I had for the man. The reason? DirecTV has an exclusive contract with the NFL for NFL Sunday Ticket. Thus, I know Clooney doesn't obsessively watch NFL football every Sunday like myself. Then again, given the types and amounts of recreational opportunities as his disposal, watching unhealthy amounts of professional football probably seems boring (and sexless), relatively speaking.<br />
<br />
As I walked the perimeter of the property, I was hoping I might catch George and briefly discuss the possibility of me referring him to DirecTV. For, if he were to accept, we would both receive a $100 credit to our respective accounts. I can't speak for him, but I could really use the money.<br />
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I also had a moderately funny discourse planned about a fake screenplay of mine I wanted him to read.<br />
<br />
Alas, we never came face-to-beautiful-face.<br />
<br />
As I walked away from George's house (I call him "George"), I started to think about the very thorough tour he gave to CBS' "Person to Person" back in February. <br />
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<embed allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" background="#333333" flashvars="si=254&&contentValue=50119658&shareUrl=http://www.cbsnews.com/video/watch/?id=7398037n" height="279" salign="lt" scale="noscale" src="http://cnettv.cnet.com/av/video/cbsnews/atlantis2/cbsnews_player_embed.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="405"></embed>
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<br />
Then, I added to that the highly-publicized fund-raiser Clooney hosted for President Obama last Thursday night. I came up with a conspiracy theory about how he used all of the publicity to showcase the home because he plans to put it on the market this Summer. Given how much his home has been on TV and the internet lately, he would make a Madoff. When it goes on the market, remember that I wrote this.<br />
<br />
[Industry note: George Clooney's Studio City, CA home was previously owned by Stevie Nicks. There may not be a cooler two previous owners of a home in all of the world. Shout to Fleetwood Mac. I still bang "Dreams" at least twice a week.] <br />
<br />
Clooney is one smart son-of-a-bitch that is obviously operating on a level light years away from the rest of us. But, this is not news.<br />
<br />
<br />
You're welcome,<br />
<br />
<br />
_<a href="http://twitter.com/#!/wordsbytodd">Todd</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Todd is a freelance stalker from Los Angeles who lives 2.7 miles from George Clooney.</i>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-62341149299731159612012-02-29T20:49:00.001-08:002012-02-29T21:01:46.146-08:00Danica 500I am going to make this quick, because I hate car racing. I most loathe when people try (unsuccessfully) to convince me it is a sport.<br />
<br />
<br />
So...<br />
<br />
<br />
When will the day come when a woman causing a crash during a car race is no longer news? <br />
<br />
<br />
I thought we all just assumed this.<br />
<br />
<br />
It should be news when a female driver finishes a race. <br />
<br />
<br />
I fully expect the female drivers to bump into someone accidentally. The wreck Danica Patrick caused at the Daytona 500 this past weekend was nothing compared to the carnage she and every other woman cause on a daily basis while running errands in their respective communities. <br />
<br />
<br />
Somehow, women make mundane drives to the grocery store look like an audition for <i>The Bourne Identity 4.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
#WomenCan'tDrive<br />
<br />
<br />
Let's get that trending.<br />
<br />
<br />
You're welcome,<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
_<a href="http://twitter.com/wordsbytodd">Todd</a>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-82301850070812561892012-02-19T03:52:00.000-08:002012-02-19T03:52:32.151-08:00Celebrity Sighting 2/17/12Friday, after lunching in Beverly Hills I had to head back across <i>the</i> hill for a 4:00 meeting in Studio City.<br />
<br />
[That sentence makes my life sound a lot more important than it really is.]<br />
<br />
About 6 minutes into my drive up Coldwater Canyon, I realized that traffic was going to turn my 25-minute trip into 2 hours, so I headed East on Sunset toward Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Predictably, Sunset was packed like a mother, but eventually I made my way onto LCB. <br />
<br />
Since I was stuck in my car for a classic Friday 4:00 West Hollywood traffic extravaganza, I had my iPod working hard. And, because I feel like I am always listening to the same playlists over and over, this time I scrolled to "Songs," spun down to "S" and let the bitch ride. About 5-6 songs into the Ss, I had advanced nearly 400 feet to the intersection of LCB and Hollywood Blvd. At that time, "Seasons of Wither" by Aerosmith came on my iPod. Full disclosure, I only keep 2 Aerosmith songs on my device. But, since I really enjoy "Season of Wither," I decided to let it run. 45 seconds into the song, Steven Tyler blew past me (going the opposite direction) in a black Porsche Carrera GT convertible. <br />
<br />
Full-on irony.<br />
<br />
I laughed for a second and then said aloud, "Fuckin' L.A."<br />
<br />
It was wild to see him right when 1 of 2 Aerosmith possibilities was playing in my car. <br />
<br />
And it was so clearly him. Because he was speeding downhill in a convertible, his tinted hair extensions were blowing everywhere. His scarf was blowing everywhere. The blonde woman in the passenger seat's hair was blowing everywhere (in a complete stunner, she was wearing a scarf too). There was literally shit flying every which way. <br />
<br />
Does anyone out there think this is as amazing and funny and ironic as I do? Exactly zero of the friends I have told this story to so far have even bothered to look up from their phones.<br />
<br />
At any rate, I have recently decided to write an e-book about my celebrity encounters and this story might just bat lead off. I'll let you all know when the book drops, and I am expecting you all to buy it for you Kindles and iPads.<br />
<br />
<br />
You're welcome,<br />
<br />
<br />
_<a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/wordsbytodd">Todd</a>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-3920497752017791932011-11-18T06:32:00.000-08:002011-11-18T06:32:51.834-08:00Banana Split.I stayed up late tonight. <br />
<br />
Again.<br />
<br />
During that time, I found some old pictures and videos on my computer. I happened upon one I felt like sharing.<br />
<br />
Another classic AM juggle.<br />
<br />
This was taken at "Banana Split Sundays" at Club LAX a few weeks before he passed. Easily the most fun I have ever had in a club.<br />
<br />
<br />
[Yes kids, I was <i>that</i> close.]<br />
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You're welcome,<br />
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<a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/wordsbytodd">-The Todd</a>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-22794691648312852892011-11-17T06:05:00.000-08:002011-11-17T06:08:18.456-08:00Blocking Out.<div class="MsoNormal">On Sunday nights, I play basketball in a Rec League out in Calabasas, CA.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A couple of weeks ago, my team began imposing its will on the opponent in the second half. On one play, I ran out after a steal, caught a beautiful outlet pass, and was all alone on the offensive end of the court for what could have been an easy layup in front of my on looking girlfriend. But, as I peaked behind me, I noticed my team’s Center (and the largest human on the team in terms of overall mass…by about 100 lbs.) running hard to trail the play. So, rather than chalk up two more uncontested points for myself, I dropped a dime on the big man and let him rack two more on the score sheet under his own name. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">[Hey, it’s an unspoken rule in Basketball – you reward big men for running the floor.]</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Two possessions later, the same big man that I had just rewarded with an easy layup was holding the ball at the top of the key. I saw an opening under the basket, so I cut to the box. When I arrived under the rim I noticed I was all alone. No one saw me standing by myself in the paint…except my teammate. So, obviously, our Center looked at me, paused, decided against passing it to me to reciprocate my previous assist, and launched a 30-foot bomb.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Wet.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It didn’t even hit the rim. It was all net-just like when the nerd in every movie hits a jumper at the end.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fans in the stands clapped. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was enraged. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How could he NOT have returned the favor there? And to compound it, how could he not return the favor to instead take a terrible shot (in terms of percentages and also in terms of his skill limitations)?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the game, this set off an exchange between my Center and me about how I plan to exact revenge before the end of the season by blocking his next wide open layup attempt.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, I am planning to block my own teammate’s shot. I might even foul his ass. Hard.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The idea of this happening really got us all thinking about what in the world the referees would do if I purposely fouled my own teammate. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Would I actually be charged with a foul?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Would there also be a Technical foul involved?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Would he shoot free throws?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Would my teammate have the option to decline the penalty, like in Football?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We are all excited to see what happens when I put the refs on the spot. I personally feel like this might tear a hole in the universe.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We’ll see.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(Trust me, we’ll see.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stay close…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’re welcome,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/wordsbytodd">-The Todd</a> </div>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-35576391872968181822011-10-04T23:07:00.000-07:002011-10-04T23:07:33.165-07:00Hank.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:DocumentProperties> <o:Template>Normal</o:Template> <o:Revision>0</o:Revision> <o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:Pages>1</o:Pages> <o:Words>84</o:Words> <o:Characters>484</o:Characters> <o:Lines>4</o:Lines> <o:Paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs> <o:CharactersWithSpaces>594</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:Version>11.1287</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:UseMarginsForDrawingGridOrigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Thank Christ that Hank Williams, his beard and his hat have finally pissed off ESPN to a point that they have pulled his dreadful song from the opening credits of Monday Night Football.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hopefully, it will never return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am also hopeful that my dream comes true and all memory of the song and the phrase itself disappear from the public’s memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe then ESPN will stop using it as a caption at the top of every SportsCenter graphic during the preseason.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And also, maybe you idiots will stop making it your Facebook and Twitter status every week, anticipating some of us might find it cute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">You're welcome,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/wordsbytodd">-The Todd </a></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-40767856899196914722011-10-03T05:06:00.001-07:002011-10-03T05:07:24.452-07:00Halloween Horror Nights 2011.<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">A few days back, I was driving to work and heard one of those cheesy “Halloween Horror Nights” radio commercials for a haunted house at Universal Studios here in LA. Apparently, it appears the masses (much like myself) are no longer “horrified” by the “horror” conveyed with the customary “howling wolf,” “screeching bats,” “thunder,” “owl,” and “psycho laughing guy” sound effects (all complete with ridiculously splashy 80’s reverb). So, for 2011 Universal stepped it up. They paid Alice Cooper to be the spokesperson for this year’s house (because, you know, he makes things <i>really</i> scary). Thus, in this year’s radio spot, Alice is talking over all of the cliché background sounds about how this year is scarier than ever. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">All of this got me thinking:</span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">1 – “Who agreed that howling wolfs are scary?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">2 - “Who agreed that screeching bats are scary?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">3 - “Who agreed that reverb is scary?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">4 – So forth and so on.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[SIDEBAR: This is not radio-related, but why does every Halloween party flyer have a spider web in the top-right corner? Are those scary?]</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As an Audio Producer, I am often asked to produce things for all sorts of radio and television commercials. Naturally, I began to think about what I am frightened by, just in case I am asked to create a “Halloween” radio spot for someone this month.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Even though I have been doing this stuff for years, I have no idea how to produce a radio spot that accurately illustrates:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">1 - All drivers on the LA roads being women. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">2 - All women having small boobs.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">3 - Sarah Palin as President.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You’re welcome,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/wordsbytodd">-The Todd</a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-11663314086640022112011-04-21T15:33:00.000-07:002011-04-21T15:34:11.831-07:00HD vs SD<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSGfQ4xcjnxZBkKO3P-kYUMPUWzZvIuv8UGo9xz8Cz7gLtD8ZT07kthhiz9fexPCITuM2RfB7S6DdI43I9H-tYScRRa7mMviXFkHOuWpCL9IycFFfyz1D-TcnxcpkQ9reYic1VQt3ab0Y/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSGfQ4xcjnxZBkKO3P-kYUMPUWzZvIuv8UGo9xz8Cz7gLtD8ZT07kthhiz9fexPCITuM2RfB7S6DdI43I9H-tYScRRa7mMviXFkHOuWpCL9IycFFfyz1D-TcnxcpkQ9reYic1VQt3ab0Y/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I hate working for the man, so I am always looking for a way to get rich quick. My friends and I toss out ideas on the regular in hopes that we can get something lucrative rolling. I am happy to report I think I have it all figured out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have been collecting this data for a while subconsciously, but only recently realized that no woman in history has been able to tell the difference between Standard Definition and High-Definition television.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Don’t even try to correct me because we all know I am right. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All men, at one point in time or another, have played the game where we flip back and forth between the SD and HD versions of the same channel and ask the nearest woman if she can tell the difference, to which she inevitably answers, “They look the same.” Or, my other favorite: when your girlfriend moves to a new apartment and asks DirecTV to set her up with a SD DVR box for her 1080i flat-screen. Or, my other favorite: when you come home to watch something you had your girl DVR for you…and she DVR-ed it in SD.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Given this, I have made the decision to put the wheels in motion to form a technology company (specifically geared toward women) which produces small, flat-screen televisions that display images in Standard Definition only. They will look, weigh, feel, and cost the same as actually HDTVs, but will cost far less to produce due to their shitty screens and lack of HDMI hardware-which will lead to larger financial margins for my company.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Women won’t be able to resist an expensive television that displays a terrible picture if it has interchangeable pink, red, and white faceplates.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ladies, I don’t mean to pick on you, it’s just hard not to sometimes because you are all stupid.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’re welcome,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/wordsbytodd">-The Todd</a></div>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-41113249983387726712011-03-10T15:31:00.000-08:002011-03-17T02:26:44.464-07:00Real World: Vegas 2.0<div class="MsoNormal">I’m stoked about the new <i>Real World: Las Vegas</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s nice to finally have something waiting for me on my DVR when I get home from work late on Wednesday nights, but I have a request: Can we please just skip the first episode of each new Real World series?<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t care about their lame submission videos.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t care about where they are from or how cool they are back home.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Also, it’s painful to watch all of the foreshadowing. As they establish everyone’s back story, we all have to fend off the urge to fast-forward through all of the “Do you have a boyfriend or girlfriend” questions and all of the calls back home where the significant others try not to sound jealous when they inquire about roommates that could be a threat to their relationships.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Just get to the drinking and 6-way kissing bitches in the hot tub already.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I almost hate that they flashed forward at the end when they played the “Coming up-on this season of the Real World: Las Vegas” piece because had they not, my blog today would have proved to be prophetic. Because one, I could somehow tell from the look in Adam’s eyes that he likes trouble. The kind of trouble where he gets loaded and punches holes in walls and breaks coffee tables for attention. They type that scares females in the room enough to call the cops.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nany is a slore. It’s rare that you call a girl who’s in the midst of a 6-year relationship a slore, but I said it-and I stand by it. She wanted to give Adam mouth-sex from the first moment she saw him. There may not have been anything more funny in RW history than watching Nany (supposedly in a “serious” relationship) vent her obvious jealousy for the slunts Adams brought home the first couple of nights. It won’t be long until Adam is “ears deep” in Nany. Unfortunately, MTV already showed them kissing in the flash-forward segment, so I'm not going to look <i>as</i> awesome when it happens.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dustin seems cool. It’s fascinating to me how he knows women are so territorial that, if he kissed Heather, he would never be able to bring another female back to the house for the rest of the show…AND HE STILL DID IT. I love it. Heather is very “wifey,” so if a roommate was going to throw away his entire experience (that includes random “Vegas Sex” with an incalculable number of hot females in their 20’s for someone) I would say Heather was an understandable play.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Leroy reminds me of Justin Tuck and I can’t think of anything other than that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is so embarrassing to watch Michael talk to women. So much so, that I may have to >> through those segments for the rest of the series.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am intrigued by the chick from BX. Due to the geography and population of NYC, girls from that area are used to being constantly bombarded by men left and right. With all of the guys in the house looking to hammer different strays every night (or dating Heather) BX is going to have to do some naked hot tubbing for attention. If not, I look for the bi-sexual angle, possibly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All-in-all, I’m turnt up for this season.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I still miss Irulan…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’re welcome,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/wordsbytodd">-The Todd </a> </div>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-65726542762521695612011-03-07T15:23:00.000-08:002011-03-07T16:22:18.957-08:00It's a Boy!A good friend of mine had a new baby boy this weekend.<br />
<br />
So, Sunday night my girlfriend and I cruised over to Cedars-Sinai in Beverly Hills to peep the newborn.<br />
<br />
There ended up being two more friends visiting the happy parents at the same time we showed up. After an hour or so of observing the baby and, for some reason, talking to him in voices nine octaves higher than any of us normally use, the conversation predictably turned to...iPhone apps.<br />
<br />
At one point, the new mother asked if any of us had seen the phone application for bad drivers in Los Angeles. To which I replied, "So, it's an app for women?"<br />
<br />
One person in the room got the joke (and that's all I needed to keep going).<br />
<br />
I went on to explain how-any phone app designed specifically for women needs to be designed to be seen through a cracked phone screen.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
You're welcome,<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/wordsbytodd">-The Todd</a>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-76619054133808446222011-01-24T16:59:00.000-08:002011-01-24T17:01:09.217-08:00Super Bowl (Thank You Facebook).<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGH1Z8lB5NSZqiflt4W9YD4a7mosZeB7KAmydAUk3_ojderpXHew6gOvd-j4oglemVcov-bUup3JFR1OSA4_3dM4ytj7x6em3gInOjZVyayYNf6s9UTTl4TpHZ3kLd65G8cMZ4Ru8slJA/s1600/Kordell-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGH1Z8lB5NSZqiflt4W9YD4a7mosZeB7KAmydAUk3_ojderpXHew6gOvd-j4oglemVcov-bUup3JFR1OSA4_3dM4ytj7x6em3gInOjZVyayYNf6s9UTTl4TpHZ3kLd65G8cMZ4Ru8slJA/s320/Kordell-2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Yesterday, I watched 7 uninterrupted hours of playoff football.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was glorious.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And, it got me thinking.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As much as I loathe people’s addictions to their phones and how it seems to be causing increased attention deficits these days, I found that I had no issue with my girlfriend using her iPhone’s Facebook application to scroll through all of the pointless status updates on her “friends” list for the 7 consecutive hours I was parked in front of my plasma (A.K.A. “Kordell”). For once, Facebook relinquished its position as a pesky, unrelenting blitzer in my life and instead became a lead blocker for me on this football Sunday (yes, I hate that I just wrote that…and that I’m keeping it in, even though I do not have a boss insisting I do so).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There were no questions about how much more time was left in either of the games.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There was no pleading to get out of the apartment and do something active.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nothing but 7 solid hours of NFL action being consumed by yours truly, one of the biggest football fans in the world.</div><div class="MsoNormal">WordsByTodd “likes” this. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The conclusion of the Conference Championship games in the NFL means it’s time for the Super Bowl.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Guess what?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I hate the Super Bowl.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Probably not a total shocker (considering I hate everything), but interesting in that-I am such a fan of the NFL overall-yet care not for the culmination of its season.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Every year at this time, I have to explain to a few <i>more</i> people how a football fanatic like me could despise the Super Bowl.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Let me lay it out…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I refuse to watch the Super Bowl for all of the same reasons people who do not watch a single game all season long want to all-of-the-sudden throw a party and watch a football game.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">1 - I hate the two weeks off before the Super Bowl to do nothing but build media hype for a game that needs none. Right around noon on the Monday following the Conference Championship games, I am ready to stab myself in an artery with my remote due to looped playback of ESPN’s “Coor’s Light Six-Pack of Questions” where two analysts I don’t care about debate who has the coaching advantage, who has the better quarterback, who has the better kicker, and other questions whose answers in no way impact the outcome of the actual game. If Tim Hasselbeck’s opinions impacted game outcomes I might actually care what he had to say. But, alas, his opinions do nothing other than fill time, so instead it’s more Real Housewives for me (“Team Kyle” over here).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">2 – I hate that, after two weeks of dissecting the matchup, there is still a 7-hour pregame show to do the exact same thing before kickoff.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">3 – I hate the commercials breaks every 14 seconds all game long. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">4 – I hate the commercials themselves. I hate that everyone talks about the commercials while I am trying to talk about the game. And, I hate listening to people talk about the commercials the next day at work.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">5 – I hate the Britney Spears, Nelly, Aerosmith, Beyonce Spring Break halftime mash-up and fireworks extravaganza. If it was the Teen Choice Awards, I could understand. But, it’s the Super Bowl, so I get angry because all I want to do is watch football, but the producers of the game seem to want to show me every else except football.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">6 – I hate that at the end, someone goes to Disney World.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so, for me, football season has come to an end. Quietly, I have bowed out and shut it down. Another season in the annals. I shall not pout, because frankly, I need a break. And, before we know it I’ll be DVR-ing collegiate spring games and NFL preseason action and breaking down those game tapes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have fun at your Super Bowl parties-where no one has any idea what the score is all night because no one is paying attention. And FYI, your favorite commercial will probably have a talking animal or baby in it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’re welcome,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/wordsbytodd">-The Todd</a></div>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-31016837772228289452010-12-31T16:17:00.000-08:002010-12-31T16:19:01.364-08:00Merry Freakin' Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY8lcvrg9hRr_YZe2NoAwDAlsFE2qZ7IejXZi1xhXnWAw50FyTHlNHGE6ho8KL_7WVVOV8rcK4R1rNDbkyTqOxloT9i-l1Q9Siuqs_CpZCQ_apLctP68xXu3yuCvObk76QiSsCAhSLsfg/s1600/Santa+Hat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY8lcvrg9hRr_YZe2NoAwDAlsFE2qZ7IejXZi1xhXnWAw50FyTHlNHGE6ho8KL_7WVVOV8rcK4R1rNDbkyTqOxloT9i-l1Q9Siuqs_CpZCQ_apLctP68xXu3yuCvObk76QiSsCAhSLsfg/s320/Santa+Hat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>[“Merry Freakin’ Christmas” is a phrase my family and I begin to incorporate when the annual family gathering we were all naïve enough to believe would be fun inevitably changes course, hops into a hand basket and heads straight for hell.]</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you have read enough of my bitter ramblings, it should come as no surprise that I detest Christmas.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<br />
Below are just a few reasons why...<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">1 – <b><u>Holiday commercials where everyone says the end of the message in unison (“<i>And from all of us here at Channel 8 News, ((all together))“HAPPY HOLIDAYS!</i>”).</u></b> Note to everyone that does this, someone in the group is ALWAYS off on their timing. And, even if this exercise were somehow perfectly executed, it’s lame as shit anyway-and you all look stupid.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">2 – <b><u>Office Christmas Parties.</u></b> We just spent 40 hours a week for an entire year throwing one another under the proverbial bus during meetings and talking shit behind each other’s backs. Why would I want to throw all of that away by working another 8-hour day alongside all of you- then going home to change clothes into something that proves I could dress nicely for work if I wanted to-and showing up to a boring “party” where we all pretend none of the backstabbing happened-and that we like each other? We see our co-workers more than we see our families. Forgive me for bypassing that scrumptious buffet dinner and staying home to hang out with the people I actually care for. Enjoy the EDIBLE ARRANGEMENTS. There are no bacteria on those things whatsoever (sarcasm)…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No one wants to go the office Christmas party. What we want is for the company to divide up the budget for the party and disperse it equally to all of us workers as a sort of bonus. Seriously, if it comes out to $9.84 each, we’ll take it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">3 – <b><u>Company Christmas Gifts.</u></b> Nothing says “We appreciate yet another year of your hard work” like a cheap-ass coffee mug with the company’s logo on it. Oh, thank you for noticing all of my tireless effort---and for using me as a mule to help promote your stupid company. You shouldn’t have. Literally.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">4 – <b><u>Adults Taking Pictures On Santa’s Lap.</u></b> Don’t be that guy. It’s not funny. It’s not cute. What it <i>is</i> is a doosh move. It looks and feels like an awkward high school kid is desperate for attention. If you do this, I hate you (and your friends too).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">5 – <b><u>Mass Text Messages.</u></b> If we are not close enough of friends for you to text me a personalized Christmas wish, then do not text me at all. If you have ever included the phrase “you and yours” in a text, then I want to flick your Adam’s apple. Also, this year, I saw a few generic messages come through with my name at the top (making it easy to copy, paste and change the name before sending it to the next friend on the phone list). Let it be known, I’m on to you bastards as well.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">6 – <b><u>Giving And Receiving Gifts.</u></b> This is where I completely lose it. First, I have no real issue with giving gifts, other than the fact that no matter what it becomes astronomically expensive and no one I buy for needs anything anyway. Giving can feel nice, so I tried to compromise with my family and asked them to adopt the “Pick a name, everyone buys and receives one gift” thing, but no one was having it. So, in protest, I just shut down my end of the gift-giving entirely. I don’t do it. I’ve been clean for three years now.</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, the issue of receiving gifts still remains. Yes, even though everyone knows I officially reject the idea of Christmas gifts they STILL buy me things every year. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Receiving gifts from people is tricky. If they are really into the gift they bought you, your reaction to the item must match the excitement they imagined you would have upon receiving said item. This is nearly impossible to gauge and subsequently perform, so most people just fake their typical “excited” face and keep it moving. The problem with this is, the professionals will notice that you did the same face for the previous 19 openings and their feelings will be hurt. So, you’re forced to Meryl Streep the shit and act like you have always wanted a Steven Curtis Chapman CD, but somehow never got around to buying it for yourself. And really, very few of us have that kind of energy, much less the acting chops.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Receiving gifts is even worse with aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents that you see only a couple of times a year-and who know absolutely nothing about you. But, the absolute worst has to be going home with a girlfriend or boyfriend for your first Christmas together. Their family doesn’t want you to feel left out. They feel like it would be better to buy you a gift (even though they have never met you before) so you can partake in the festivities. Am I the only one that would prefer to just chill in the corner with no spotlight on me? We have never met. There is no need to spend your money on me. You didn’t want to spend the money, and I didn’t want you to, but for some reason convention tells you I want you to, so you bought a gift I didn’t want and I had to open it in front of everyone and act like I was happy with the outcome. Now, we’re both pissed off because you’re out $40 and I’m holding a Rush Limbaugh autobiography and a Dane Cook DVD. What a nightmare. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My favorite has to be when people exchange gifts and both gifts are a Starbucks gift card. Now, you have wasted time, effort and gasoline to end up holding the exact same $15 Starbucks card you just gave away.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Gift giving sucks. Can we just stop the stressful charade and enjoy the time off of work? I have a feeling that is <u>W</u>hat <u>J</u>esus <u>W</u>ould <u>D</u>o. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’re welcome,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">-<a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/wordsbytodd">The Todd</a></span>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-21060481122357486142010-11-02T04:24:00.000-07:002010-11-02T04:29:54.887-07:00Madrid 2 Ibiza: Day 3Still a little hazy from the night before, I woke up on day three, popped four Advil and chased them with a bottle of Evian.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My friend and I showered up and limped down to the mess hall in the hotel for provisions.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Surprisingly, the Hotel Puerto Del Sol puts on a lovely little breakfast. Not surprising, I grabbed a glass to pour myself some <i>jugo de naranja</i> and got immediately reprimanded in Spanish by the lady in charge. Apparently, you were supposed to flag senora down and ask for whatever you wanted so she could bring it to you. Now that I think of it, it was very clearly written…on a small piece of paper…tucked behind a microwave…in a tiny appliance armoire…where no one could possibly see it (and she pointed to with that look in her eye that I was one of the dumbest people she had ever come into contact with). So, it took me all of 11 seconds to completely piss off the only person working the hotel breakfast room. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">Sounds about right. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Par for my life.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Rather than inconvenience another, I served myself. As a result, I got scolded in front of several other hotel guests. But, wouldn’t it have made me more of an A-hole if I simply sat down and assumed the one busy lady in the room was supposed to wait on me? It’s lose-lose situations like this that make me want to stay home alone in my apartment all day and night where I have control. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">FML.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Two orange juices, two crepes, one apple, one charro, 20 grapes, and one tongue-lashing later, we hit the streets for a day of sights. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">First stop, Parque De Retiro. This was a gorgeous public park in the middle of the city. Lush lawns and flowers everywhere. We chose it because I saw a picture in a guidebook that showed a small pond where you could rent little row boats to cruise around and be lazy in. Once we found the pond, I was frozen by how idyllic the scene was. It was so calming that we didn’t even rent a boat, just watching it was enough. I mean, of course I lobbied for 15 minutes to row around in a boat. I even played the “I will do ALL of the rowing” card, but to no avail. It was eventually decided for me that we, as a group, wanted to keep walking.</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the park, we needed more fuel, so we set out for food. Somehow, there was absolutely nothing to eat at the West end of the park. So, we mobbed through a small neighborhood looking for a restaurant. In the distance I saw an adorable little café on the street three blocks from where we were standing (maybe my proudest moment in the first three days of the trip. Big up to my Optometrist.).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXkEXw-qQUCcbXwuaOeY6LWgpAvtAe7jeuR_8rZ7y05hXMUAPwhSrsUwfvqFs3nzP9yVUPzvqUX7HooncYOzfDvllRe5-3GzF3vsHvCRiIBIQEWj9IYbfqIAS79FLtRtATLKu4cuInipY/s1600/DSC02997-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXkEXw-qQUCcbXwuaOeY6LWgpAvtAe7jeuR_8rZ7y05hXMUAPwhSrsUwfvqFs3nzP9yVUPzvqUX7HooncYOzfDvllRe5-3GzF3vsHvCRiIBIQEWj9IYbfqIAS79FLtRtATLKu4cuInipY/s400/DSC02997-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXNm7o6YfNfkm8EmhtoL5dfdT9O06ihhswcbqo1Kik8Y7wz9SGiLjNUdlSDJOjZzym3IpKL1gk5UfDWrmmd7FPCNxoWalIGnALD1nGkFiJ2Ho297zNzJ_kDga76Vhtkb2zyLMoHdhpWtM/s1600/DSC03001-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXNm7o6YfNfkm8EmhtoL5dfdT9O06ihhswcbqo1Kik8Y7wz9SGiLjNUdlSDJOjZzym3IpKL1gk5UfDWrmmd7FPCNxoWalIGnALD1nGkFiJ2Ho297zNzJ_kDga76Vhtkb2zyLMoHdhpWtM/s400/DSC03001-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, we get to this cute little cafe, get a lovely table on the sidewalk, and in true “Todd” fashion there was nothing on the god damn menu that I eat. I made my friend translate the menu for me twice and nothing I heard sounded even close to acceptable. I explained that I was perfectly fine with leaving, but we decided to stay. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She eventually chose an omelet-type thing that caught her eye. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I ended up eating a coke. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My friend’s food came out, she ate it, hated it, and began feeling sick (of course, because I suggested the place). Seriously, people wonder why I never make any suggestions with regard to where to go, what to do, where to eat, or whatever. This is just another in a string of 77,843 wrong restaurant suggestions I have made in my lifetime. I am not sure why I somehow always end up looking like a jack-dick, but it inevitably happens. This is why, I would rather someone else make the suggestion, let me agree to it, hate it, be silently miserable for the duration, and keep some sort of dignity intact. But, no.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still starving, we walked back to a section of the city we were more familiar with to seek out yet another chance at food. We realized we were close to a tapas place that my friend had seen in a travel mag, so we busted up in the bitch. After all, it couldn’t be worse than the first place. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Except it was.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After getting the menu translated for me, I authorized three tapas dishes. One came out looking (and smelling) like scrambled eggs were liquefied in a blender and then microwaved until they were smoldering hot. The second was so puzzling I wrote it off entirely. And the third was fried asparagus (which I don’t eat-and only approved because I knew my friend loved them). If you had not figured it out already, I DID NOT EAT at this restaurant either. That’s two in a row. Unprecedented. I looked like the petulant 6-year old at a fancy restaurant that only wants macaroni and cheese off the kids’ menu. Not a good look. So, I watched my friend choke down those nasty tapas like a scene from “Fear Factor” and we rolled out---looking for yet ANOTHER restaurant where I might find something I could actually consume.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We ended up popping into a YIPS (which, in America, would be like a Walgreens with a Denny’s inside it). I settled on a fried chicken salad and I felt good about it. I have no idea why, because it was, of course, a disaster. It came out with loads of Caesar dressing on it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t eat Caesar dressing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, I choked it down because I was nearing a blackout.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After some walking, three attempts at food, and making much fun of the stupid tourists on the double-decker tour buses, we decided to…jump on a double-decker tour bus. We did this because we realized paying a few euros to be driven around in a bus would:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">1 – Take a lot less effort thank walking the city</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">2 – Allow us to see more stuff in less time</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">3 - #1</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">4 - #1</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, we found a bus stop, bought two tickets and set out for the West side of the city where the Royal Palace resides. Along the way, we saw some buildings, some streets and some people.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihgziGxVe_ZKrzFXX5cazDhhMNHs8bU9hfCVV4T77YiTsftwcFsz8Hrxs7GaaL5I0xGdkjKE6HT8owr0XHS3Xblz1qccGhOlTAUYNtwIU_Z0HunoTrVc4w8C0crgAMr7Z9jDBkjWqUX4E/s1600/DSC03014-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihgziGxVe_ZKrzFXX5cazDhhMNHs8bU9hfCVV4T77YiTsftwcFsz8Hrxs7GaaL5I0xGdkjKE6HT8owr0XHS3Xblz1qccGhOlTAUYNtwIU_Z0HunoTrVc4w8C0crgAMr7Z9jDBkjWqUX4E/s400/DSC03014-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-aw-TR36TvM-YYqbLHg0O3LSbjz5WD-6mhleJxge5DQW9v3NeeoGqrw7rp7tKo3Z5ykouJXbZCMi2fmnkO4Fecap0ahSmHRRwDg3XCrDITQ32sretzk3eObu33Duxgq07tYSoJkg7CyE/s1600/DSC03021-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-aw-TR36TvM-YYqbLHg0O3LSbjz5WD-6mhleJxge5DQW9v3NeeoGqrw7rp7tKo3Z5ykouJXbZCMi2fmnkO4Fecap0ahSmHRRwDg3XCrDITQ32sretzk3eObu33Duxgq07tYSoJkg7CyE/s400/DSC03021-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">When we got to the Royal Palace, we found a Spanish man sitting outside cranking some Simon & Garfunkel on a little guitar, so I did my two-step for the entire first verse + hook and kept it moving.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once inside the Royal Palace, we walked around from room to room discussing:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">1 – How in the shit a family decides which room to hang out in when there are 3,418 to choose from</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">2 – How in the shit a family member finds another family member who is NOT hanging out in the designated </div><div class="MsoNormal">“hang out” room if the telephone has not yet been invented</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">3– Why in the shit there are 3,418 rooms to choose from in the first place</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">4– Which interior design company the royal family chose to outfit the crib-and why.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcIXLjiO7G1bR9PiK6joY4JY5VDN1LErfPBDEIZ_uma3eccz6IrzqoxV5JJULuVzqFp4bAFQ6OfqoHEo2Ix14hSFIAzURei1oxf1BxosML7PQh7Vvv4pCOhsd48UqdyHVaJxLRFvcIecU/s1600/DSC03027-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcIXLjiO7G1bR9PiK6joY4JY5VDN1LErfPBDEIZ_uma3eccz6IrzqoxV5JJULuVzqFp4bAFQ6OfqoHEo2Ix14hSFIAzURei1oxf1BxosML7PQh7Vvv4pCOhsd48UqdyHVaJxLRFvcIecU/s400/DSC03027-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">About nine minutes into the tour of the palace’s interior, the smell of dust, mold and hot feet started to get to me, so we bailed. Exiting the palace’s internal tour lands you out in the biggest freaking plaza/courtyard in the history of the world. I am not certain of the square footage (and am obviously too lazy to wiki the information), but it felt like a patio made of four football fields of limestone, surrounded by 70-foot walls. It’s definitely something to behold. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Whilst cruising the plaza, I demanded pictures. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ICm4lAJdpmRkCy8qbzQ413GRH6IrhSXv4vUb77RX35HF-C_Ofw4LvoMsV8khlh1HN2YBLCVPehojptL2y0KVJ3LDxxmTPg7LTML4rua8Vlz8uu1V37BkxHT6HV6wUgTudaFhlOznTB8/s1600/DSC03049-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0ICm4lAJdpmRkCy8qbzQ413GRH6IrhSXv4vUb77RX35HF-C_Ofw4LvoMsV8khlh1HN2YBLCVPehojptL2y0KVJ3LDxxmTPg7LTML4rua8Vlz8uu1V37BkxHT6HV6wUgTudaFhlOznTB8/s400/DSC03049-small.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxR4Q8PHfiz3-6hzY3Xmcjk5qp9W0Gy58zkK6awhedyGU9YlP1wsMdarIEV2sNSUxHC7TRN3kTT8zDLyTX0Nug5SO88LLn3ZQOUN-mWsnDB3z3TB0O5H_F0l_QvaWsdvUnV9ipazV7wfY/s1600/DSC03041-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxR4Q8PHfiz3-6hzY3Xmcjk5qp9W0Gy58zkK6awhedyGU9YlP1wsMdarIEV2sNSUxHC7TRN3kTT8zDLyTX0Nug5SO88LLn3ZQOUN-mWsnDB3z3TB0O5H_F0l_QvaWsdvUnV9ipazV7wfY/s400/DSC03041-small.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Underwhelmed by how I was being dwarfed by the palace in the shots we were getting, I insisted my friend shoot me up from the ground to give me size in the frame. Not exactly a “professional” photographer, my friend did her best. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Her “best” ended up cutting off my head and ramming the Royal steeple straight up my rectum (thanks again “C”). </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsfZKaNTV1ICXuNYIYsI7uaCj_8eSKiRIIj_ybSWRYwYsk5-Blf02OVtBIZdvoKr6s0XVu6WkbYDmuAJBdBGseYQOXoI87OMME-AC0Yii6dMRQke3DcRnRXt5iY48IStwt3unCs_ddnJg/s1600/DSC03047-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsfZKaNTV1ICXuNYIYsI7uaCj_8eSKiRIIj_ybSWRYwYsk5-Blf02OVtBIZdvoKr6s0XVu6WkbYDmuAJBdBGseYQOXoI87OMME-AC0Yii6dMRQke3DcRnRXt5iY48IStwt3unCs_ddnJg/s320/DSC03047-small.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Near the end of the “red bus” tour that took us to the West side of the city, we realized there was also a “blue bus” tour that scopes the East side. It was all included in one lump price, so we decided to suck it up and ride out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The home stretch of the “blue bus” tour line finds you at the Santiago Bernabeau Futbol Stadium. As my luck would have it, Christiano Ronaldo (my travel partner’s “Man-tasy”) plays for the team that calls this stadium home. Thus, I had to listen to her explain (in excruciating detail) what she would like to do to each of his body parts. I explained soon after that many of the things on her list are illegal in most of our United States. </div><div class="MsoNormal">This in no way derailed her game plan. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She quickly assured me all activities are fair game in Espana, which is apparently where the tryst would be taking place. The lady had a point. How could I argue this? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, after the tour ended we busted back to the hotel.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Siestas…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Showers…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Big, big night out on night #3. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Maybe the top item on my friend’s “Madrid wish list” was seeing traditional Spanish Flamenco dancing. We scooped some tickets online for the most celebrated of Madrid’s Flamenco spots and cabbed over to the West side for drinks and Flamenco.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The Flamenco spot was hot. It was really quaint and comfy. Dimly lit with a small, elevated stage in the corner of the establishment; it was everything I hoped it would be. Oddly, the show didn’t start until after 11:00 PM. We saw a few different Flamenco acts and all were very, very impressive. Most notably, my obsession with castanets began with act #2. I still vow that I can figure out a way to incorporate those things in a DJ routine. Time will tell. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The lobby of the Flamenco place was adorned with pictures of celebrities that had come to see the show over the years. On the way out, I waited 20 minutes for someone to recognize me and snap a photo to add to the wall. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No luck. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, we stumble out of the Flamenco spot around 1:15 AM and decided to walk the streets and see what was popping off. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What happened next was like a scene out of a movie.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We turned the corner and saw an enormous festival blasting off in a big open lawn area. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We rolled through.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When we got down to the main section of the lawn, there were food stands, drink stands, cotton candy, thousands of people and a big-ass stage with a DJ banging House music. We grabbed drinks and assimilated. My friend and I spent the next half hour watching Spanish men flirt with Spanish women and dissecting the differences between their courting customs and our own. To be hoest, their tactics appeared to mirror those of America’s. The biggest difference appeared to be deodorant.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After we figure this out, the DJ dropped “Sexy Bitch” by Guetta, and I couldn’t believe the crowd was feeling it. How does this song still go hard in Madrid 18 months after the fact?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After Guetta, the DJ ran “Viva la Vida” and people started chanting like it was a Coldplay concert. I was surprised to see this song also go over big. I don’t know what I expected from the DJ and/or the crowd that night but overall I found it surprising. Eventually, I got over my music snobbery and started banging back drinks like I was a freshman in college and Madrid was Panama City during Spring Breazy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally, at 4:00 AM the cops shut the fete down. I was pissed. But, I guess it was 4:00 AM after all. We cabbed back home and slipped off to sleep (because our flights to the gorgeous island of Ibiza leave in the morning).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Stay tuned for the next episode (Ibiza was epic).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’re welcome,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">-The Todd</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-26163754579198000302010-10-07T04:56:00.000-07:002010-10-09T01:28:49.381-07:00Madrid 2 Ibiza: Day 2<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After an eventful day one, I expressed to my friend my desire for some stress relief on day two of the trip. When my travel partner suggested hitting the Museo de Entologia, I reluctantly agreed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After spending 20 minutes in line trying to figure out which wing of the museum we wanted to see, and then deciding which ticket that was on the all Spanish menu, we were in. This is probably a good time to explain to everyone that my travel partner is fluent in Spanish. And so, every chance I get to make fun of her for being confused by the language, my mono-lingual ass takes full advantage – as if I should be talking (these are the things I do). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Anyway, 7 minutes into our tour of the museum I was bored to tears. I, for the life of me, will never understand why people pay money to walk around all afternoon wasting their time looking at-and attempting to discuss-a bunch of nonsensical paintings that all look alike. Oh, another 440-year old piece where a bunch of people in robes stare at a baby (which is right next to a guy who is bleeding for some reason) while two birds (indicated by painted black Vs) look on from a distance, AMAZING!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Realizing that this trip is not all about me, I pretend to enjoy myself for the sake of the young lady I am with. As we all do at museums, galleries, operas and other places of immense boredom, I went through that “I am going to try to act and talk as if I really give a shit about all of this so she will think I am at least somewhat sophisticated and capable of caring about something other than SportsCenter and Laffy Taffy, but really all I want to do is spoon my eyes out” inner dialog. After the 372nd identical painting, I cave and explain that I am so bored my toe nails hurts. Luckily, my friend shares many of my same sentiments, so I don’t end up looking like a completely uneducated, uncultured, classless moron. Always a sport, my friend agrees to dip out and find something more interesting to do. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We left the museum, but not before posing like tourists in front of the building for pictures. Hers was probably for lasting memories of her trip to Madrid. Mine was to commemorate the all-time lowest point in my life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After walking North a few blocks from the Museum of Religious Paintings That All Look Alike and Mean Nothing to Me, we happened upon a small private garden. From the outside, it looked very lush and beautiful. On the inside, all of the seasonal plants and flowers were dead. This “garden” walk ended up being 19 minutes and 3 euros I will never get back. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">If you’re scoring at home, I’m 0-2 with two walks so far on this day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">In typical female, Type-A fashion, my friend whips out her traveler’s map of crap she wants to see while in Madrid. As my luck would have it, she finds that we are close to another museum on her wish list. Pissed that I already blew my veto card at 10:45 a.m. at the first museum, I have no choice but to either agree to roll with (and seem excited to do so), or run the risk of really coming off as the most annoying/incompatible travel companion in history…15 hours into the trip. Always conscious of the psychological undercurrent in every conversation, I make up some story about how this next modern art museum “really sounds like it’s more my speed.” Secretly, I am mentally preparing for two hours of abstract paintings, stupid shit made out of glass, and oddly-shaped red chairs. And not just that, but having to generate pompous, fake intellectual things to say about each of them. For a moment, I wonder to myself if my dental insurance will work in Spain-as I might instead choose to go in for a cleaning and just meet my friend after. But, as I just mentioned, I forecasted the social damage of choosing a dental visit in a foreign country over strolling through a Spanish modern art museum with a beautiful and interesting woman might cause and instead chose the oddly-shaped red chair tour.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Once inside the Reina Sofia Museum, I was pleasantly surprised. It was a gorgeous building with somewhat reasonably interesting art inside. Aside from the socially-outraged slideshows + light installations, I had myself a good time. If you are ever in Madrid and someone in your party absolutely has to visit an art museum, do all you can to steer everyone to this one. Just trust me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">At 12:30 p.m. we exit the museum and start looking for food. Naturally, our first lunch in Spain finds us at…an Italian restaurant. It’s empty, so we walk inside to see if they are even open. Inside, we are greeted by two people who look surprised to see us. My friend handles asking them if they are open for business and, after hearing they are, we (she) request a table on the sidewalk with a view of the square outside the museum. Two Coke classics and one amazing pizza margherita later, we noticed the lunch crowd had finally arrived. I guess the reason the restaurant staff was so surprised to see us was because we were an hour or so early for Madrid lunch time. This is nothing new for me. Honestly, if I had to choose one word to sum up everything in my life, it would be “premature.” No question.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After lunch, we decided to fully-immerse ourselves in Spanish culture and walk back to the hotelly to enjoy a siesta. It’s funny, I grew up hearing about siestas, but I just never connected the dots that Madrid was the place where they did that before I landed in town. It wasn’t until after we left lunch and started walking around and noticed all of the businesses closed that we realized everyone was at home napping and cooling out. At this point, we have the predictable “Why The Shit Doesn’t America Do The ‘Siesta’ Thing?” These are the things I enjoy about traveling. You can read and get beat over the head by teachers with stories about other cultures, but it’s not until you walk through the streets of the capital city of another country, only to find that everyone went home to take a three-hour nap, that you realize there are other philosophies on life out there that have, and continue to, prove successful. Look, I realize that nationally we are never going to adopt siestas. That’s why, mentally, I spent every afternoon in Madrid. I now make sure to take three hours in the middle of my work day each day to remove my shoes, place my feet on my desk, check Facebook, YouTube funny videos, text my friends, knock back some food and watch movies on HBO. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">[SIDEBAR: I try to keep my mouth shut when I’m in other countries, especially if that country speaks and entirely different language. But, for some reason, throughout this trip I was overcome with the urge to explain to everyone on the streets of Madrid just how gay soccer is (not “homosexual gay,” but “Maroon 5 gay”). Coming off a World Cup win, I am sure no one was keen to listen, so I withheld all 7,993 urges to do this.]</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After a nice siesta, we shower up for dinner.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Because the Hispanic woman I am traveling with is, by any estimation, one of the top-10 most attractive people in the world, I have to dress extra fresh to be able to stand next to her when we go places (especially at night). If my textile game isn’t tight, I get an influx of “How did he pull THAT off?,” “What is she thinking?,” and “He must have an amazing personality” looks from passersby. Thus, I go green Zara (Spanish company) chinos, green top-siders, blue shirt and striped J. Crew tie for dinner.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">It didn’t matter. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She ended up wearing a black dress with heels and her hair all pretty, so I got “the looks” anyway.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The good news was, we had dinner outside in one of the gorgeous plazas Madrid is famous for. For those unfamiliar with the city, they have numerous open areas in each neighborhood where you will find tables surrounded by restaurants and bars where the people come out and bring you whatever you want while you soak up the night air. We sat outside at a table with a gorgeous view of an expensive hotel. We also had a view of the table next to us where an apparently divorced couple was attempting to have dinner with their son. The ex-husband showed up late, the wife kept bitching, and the bratty child was yelling non-stop. It’s at this point that I break into my “Children should not be allowed in public until they are 12. And even then, if they begin to misbehave in any way, strangers should be allowed to smack/choke them” speech. Shortly after, I revealed to my friend that I fantasize about ways to slip Benadryl to all noisy children. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On to the food…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">This dinner was mostly focused on one thing: Paella. Apparently, it is the dish Spain is famous for. And, since it is rice-based, I was on board. 42 minutes after ordering, the Paella finally arrives. If you are ordering paella at a restaurant, they generally tell you ahead of time that it is going to basically take forever for it to come out because it takes a really long time to make. Make a note of that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After dinner, we walk the plaza and do some people watching. I see so many men in Capri pants that I decide I need a few drinks to help me forget it, so we slide to cozy bar down the alley from the plaza. One step into that smoke-filled spot has me longing for the fresh air and men in capris back at the plaza. But, we ordered a drink anyway. After ordering, we notice that the party across from us has a stroller…with a baby in it…in a bar…that’s full of cigarette smoke…at midnight. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiuyTatRrdwNXxRX2IciwnK4AIpXvlm9JchyT0wy0KPk-VyHWslGapN7DHKdrxVnUfoHhVEBst6HnCP17XPRjdsmNlMIIqDtAKx1kx0TsrYUGRft8-C72oYJ0mM3kShi5yq4jsJoZyMq4/s1600/DSC02995+-+Small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiuyTatRrdwNXxRX2IciwnK4AIpXvlm9JchyT0wy0KPk-VyHWslGapN7DHKdrxVnUfoHhVEBst6HnCP17XPRjdsmNlMIIqDtAKx1kx0TsrYUGRft8-C72oYJ0mM3kShi5yq4jsJoZyMq4/s320/DSC02995+-+Small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We stare, we judge, we get bored. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Our drinks arrive.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We close out. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Okay, we ordered a second round and then closed out. I was on VACATION.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Walking home, we see a bar popping off across the skrizzy from our hotelly, so we bust up in the plizzy plizzy to show them how L.A. gets down. At the bar, we are watching a fat, old, bald, white guy try to game this older, scantily-clad Spanish lady. Predictably, the “Is she a prostitute, or are they on some sort of awkward date?” conversation follows. We end up deciding that is must be a date because, if she were a prostitute, she would have come over to me at some point, removed my glasses and attempted to extort me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">By now, it is 2:15 a.m. and I’m Hazeyville. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We dip (estamos muy consados). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">This was Day 2.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">You’re welcome,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">-The Todd</span></div>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-14140169836337049622010-09-28T05:24:00.000-07:002010-09-28T05:25:49.340-07:00Madrid 2 Ibiza: Day 1.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiimZaMtmeMnDaEvvNZA3nij8K5u7CDSRRWzQzuiM3btLgEz5AcmDj9RamyhtqQ2FdT0I71O28ad60nxUgBeDXqHHnx5H-9CSQqgGzFv-5c_9Vn81da1qr-V7emSEg89NjXVSnJtuylh5E/s1600/DSC02928.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiimZaMtmeMnDaEvvNZA3nij8K5u7CDSRRWzQzuiM3btLgEz5AcmDj9RamyhtqQ2FdT0I71O28ad60nxUgBeDXqHHnx5H-9CSQqgGzFv-5c_9Vn81da1qr-V7emSEg89NjXVSnJtuylh5E/s320/DSC02928.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"> [I am just now getting back into the swing of life, so it’s time to blog again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My latest Euro trip was 9 days long and I know that recapping it all would be a marathon that even my closest friends would not stick around to read, so I have decided to make it more palatable by recapping it one day at a time.]</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, I went to Madrid and Ibiza. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Take your jealousy…and double it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I flew to Spain by myself, but met up with my travel partner (who was coming from South Africa) at the Madrid airport. From there, we jumped right into it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first evening, we walked around the area immediately surrounding our hotel, familiarizing ourselves with our local shopping, dining and drinking spots. After our initial trip around town, we headed back to the hotel around 7:00 PM to sneak in a nap before heading out for dinner. Five hours later, it was 1:00 AM and we slept through any chance of going out to dinner. Starved, I pleaded with my semi-comatose friend to venture out with me to find some rations. She declined my invitation. Thus, I was on my own. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I set out on foot across the Madrid night, I couldn’t help but notice how the neighborhood was still very much alive at 1:15 AM. Scooters, pedestrians, taxis, bars, restaurants-it was like a hazy New York City. Normally, I have an uncanny sense of direction, but the section of Madrid where we were staying was a nonsensical grid of streets and alleys-and I kept my trusty iPhone turned off-so I decided to focus my search for food in the area where we snacked earlier in the day. I seemed to remember a pizza spot across the alley from the café where we had eaten lunch, and I figured-being a pizza spot-that it was probably open late, so I headed that way. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I was nearing the pizza shop, I passed a police station. Always aware of my surroundings (and always untrusting of others), it made me feel comfortable to know I had the Policia nearby. Feeling relaxed, I had a little swag in my step as I strolled through the warm Madrid night like I was the lovechild of Shaft and Jay-Z’s mom. I was about 12 feet from the front door of the pizza shop when a strange woman grabbed my right arm. The conversation that ensued changed my life.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here it is in its entirety (not safe for children under 86):</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Strange blonde woman: “(Spanish ramblings I, even with three years of high school Spanish, am unable to translate).”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">WordByTodd: “I’m sorry. No hablo Espanol.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Strange blonde woman: (grabs my left forearm with her right hand) “I speak English. Come on, let’s go fuck.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">WordByTodd: “Wow. No thank you. Wow.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Strange blonde woman: (still holding onto my left forearm) “Come on. 25 euros. Let’s go.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">WordByTodd: “Uhhh, I can’t. I’m sorry.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Strange blonde woman: (still holding onto my left forearm) “Why?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">WordByTodd: “I have a girlfriend.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">Strange blonde woman: (still holding onto my left forearm) “Where is she?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">WordByTodd: “She’s asleep. Damn her to hell for not coming with me. She is asleep.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Strange blonde woman: (still holding onto my left forearm) “Come on. My room is right up there (pointing just across the alley).” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">WordByTodd: “Seriously no. I can’t. I’m sorry.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Strange blonde woman: (still holding onto my left forearm) “25 euros is too much? Is it too much? 25 euros I do _ _ _ _job and I do an _ _.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">WordByTodd: “Oh…my…shit. Ma’am, I am not interested. Thank you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Strange blonde bitch: (still holding onto my left forearm) “I want you to fuck me.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">WordByTodd: “I don’t mean to disrespect you, but there is just no way that that is going to happen.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">[At this point, she has dragged me out about 30 feet from the front of the store and into the middle of the square.]</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Strange blonde bitch: (still holding onto my left forearm) “Come on. Let’s go.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">WordByTodd: “I’m not going. I’m sorry.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">[Whilst holding onto my left forearm with her right hand during the entire conversation, the discussion gets even more heated as she uses her left hand to TAKE MY EYEGLASSES OFF OF MY FACE AND COMMENCE BENDING THEM IN A FASHION WHERE SHE IS OBVIOUSLY THREATENING TO CRUSH THEM IF I DO NOT PAY HER 25 EUROS FOR MOUTH AND BUTT SEX.]</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dirty blonde whore: (still holding onto my left forearm) “Come on. Let’s go fuck.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">WordByTodd: “I’m not going; and now I’m angry.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">[After voicing my distaste for the entire exchange, I attempt to retrieve my spectacles by reversing my grip on her right hand with my left arm that she has been holding and trying to steady her so I can reach at my glasses. As soon as I make my move, she starts screaming like I am trying to rape her and everyone in the square stops to stare. It’s obvious she has done this dance many times. I let go and stop to assess. Immediately, I think to myself how different her and my lines of work must be. I begin to wonder, since she seems so well-rehearsed in her sales pitch, how many times threatening someone’s personal property has ended up benefitting her.]</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">WordByTodd: “Look, you are either going to break my glasses or you’re not. I’m not going to pay you 25 euros to do it. I cannot imagine a scenario where threatening to smash someone’s personal property has put them in a mood for this type of thing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">[It appears the dirty whore was so mesmerized by my words of wisdom that she made the mistake of letting her guard down. When I saw this, I struck-like an orange-skinned girl from New Jersey hungry for blood and hair extensions. I held the bitch in place with one arm and grabbed my glasses with the other. I decided that she could scream if she wanted, and I might be going to jail for either solicitation or assault, but I wasn’t going to be the tourist that gets taken advantage of by a prostitute after being in town only 6 hours. Rather, I decided to distract her with my wit and impose my will while she was paralyzed by my intellect and business savvy.]</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">WordByTodd: (I begin to reposition my glasses atop my nose) “Please be on your way.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Diseased Whore: (whilst I am fiddling with my glasses, the bitch turns her hand backwards and gives me a palm-in slap to the scrotum and says…) “Pussy.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">WordByTodd: “(coughing…)” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">--</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">Shaken, I limp into the store to buy some pizza…and they’re out (f-ck me!). I settle on a sleeve of crackers, an apple and a bottle of water (well worth a trip out to be assaulted by a prostitute).</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I get back to the hotel, I realize I have just had the worst experience of my life and would have been better served to lie hungry in bed all night and wait for the safety of morning. I am also wondering if I should tell my friend what happened. Would she even believe it? I mean, this sounds like one of those stories I sometimes make up to entertain people.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I settle in to bed visibly shaken and licking my emotional wounds, she wakes up. She asks if I am ok and-against my better judgment-I jump right into it. Obviously, she is in disbelief. </div><div class="MsoNormal">The good news? The phrase “25 euros” becomes the first catch-phrase of the trip.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This was day one.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’re welcome,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://twitter.com/wordsbytodd">-The Todd </a><br />
</span>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-31949837833202278132010-08-06T03:34:00.000-07:002010-08-06T11:13:16.970-07:00Celebrity Sightings, Vol. 1I blog about what I believe to be really interesting topics…and no one cares because all people want to talk to me about since I moved to L.A. is which celebrities I have seen.<br />
So, why not feed the masses.<br />
<br />
<br />
[In absolutely no logical order whatsoever…]<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVtkRjYt9-HIjAuAFYHAmclL2oIUsbipsvSDqDyxsEcoFgI9qQNE3vAVnS_0l-DsGDycvIm-lHvi1gmyCV5Jou8I-C8zVX9ijI7NXjLBIQI3LhVGNzkoLq74qYrCO0n_bsXldzDhK6ezI/s1600/Kyle+Gass+-+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVtkRjYt9-HIjAuAFYHAmclL2oIUsbipsvSDqDyxsEcoFgI9qQNE3vAVnS_0l-DsGDycvIm-lHvi1gmyCV5Jou8I-C8zVX9ijI7NXjLBIQI3LhVGNzkoLq74qYrCO0n_bsXldzDhK6ezI/s320/Kyle+Gass+-+2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<b>6/26/2010</b> – I am eating lunch with a friend at The Counter in Studio City. As we sat down at our table, I took a quick glance around and realized that I was sitting directly next to Kyle Gass from Tenacious D. This is ironic because three years ago I lived in Indianapolis and decided to start a DJ company called “((( Tenacious DJs ))),” thinking that I was so far removed from Jack Black, Kyle Gass and their respective legal teams that little stink would be made about my company’s name possibly infringing on their likeness.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpE4U-6G_FTkuWnCIELAswuUxonm4lvZoffGbp9rhx5xSbmRFJL71RFhTA1q6cSvhX8HIAYkatC-C02NaNOVnyIvpvlUliIsJOe0SLG6DngvZERefQ0A46yf2dWYUyq60MVXo34K9BZUg/s1600/Justin+Timberlake+at+The+Counter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpE4U-6G_FTkuWnCIELAswuUxonm4lvZoffGbp9rhx5xSbmRFJL71RFhTA1q6cSvhX8HIAYkatC-C02NaNOVnyIvpvlUliIsJOe0SLG6DngvZERefQ0A46yf2dWYUyq60MVXo34K9BZUg/s320/Justin+Timberlake+at+The+Counter.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
A few minutes after Mr. Gass vacated, the waitress brought a new pair outside onto the patio to fill the table next to my friend and me. As I glanced over my friend’s head at the new couple heading our way, I thought the man in the tandem (with his short blonde hair and thin “Color Me Badd” chinstrap beard) was Justin Timberlake. As the young man came closer I could tell that it was definitely NOT Justin. Five minutes later, my friend says “Whoa, for a second there I thought I saw Justin Timberlake, haha.” I explained that I thought the exact same thing when I saw the kid next to us. That’s when I realized that my friend was not looking at the guy next to us when she made this statement. So, I asked he who she saw that looked like Justin. She promptly pointed through the window to a table surrounded with four gentlemen…one of which actually was Justin Timberlake (by the wall, in the fedora).<br />
<br />
Upon finishing our lunch, my friend and I stepped back inside the restaurant to make our exit. Before doing so, my friend wanted to use the restroom. I used the time I was standing next to the door waiting on my friend to exit the restroom as time to sneak a pic of Justin with my phone and text it to friends of mine to whom it would matter. As soon as I hit “send” on my phone, I looked up and Justin was standing right next to me, trying to get past me and out the door.<br />
<br />
It was startling.<br />
<br />
He’s an impressive little man, that one. You see, as I have said before, most people in L.A. are obsessed with celebrities but vehemently deny it. While Justin was eating, everyone was stealing glances, all the while trying to act like they weren’t. But, after he walked out, everyone exhaled and chatter erupted. “Was that really him?” “That was him, wasn’t it?” It was crazy. I have never seen one person control a room with his presence alone like Justin did. That will probably be the closest I ever get to him…and I forgot to hand him my resume.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>7/4/2010</b> – Whilst walking and chatting with a female friend on the strand at Hermosa Beach this past July 4th, I was rudely interrupted by Jo from Real Housewives of Orange County. As our parties were walking in opposite directions, she pulled away from the man she was walking with to announce to me and my friend that she loved my outfit. Now, I have had a massive physical crush on this woman since I first saw her on TV three years ago. So, seeing her made me half-hard. Having her go out of her way to talk to me sent me over the threshold to fully-erect. The fact that when she spoke to me she complimented me on my outfit…in front of my lady friend…and that she pulled away from the dude she was walking with to do so almost caused pre-emergence in my red Zara chinos.<br />
<br />
As I have told this story to my friends in the previous weeks, Jo’s quote evolved from “I love your outfit” to “You’re sexy as f-ck” and then ultimately to “I don’t care if you have a girlfriend and I have a man, I want to fully blow you.”<br />
<br />
I always told myself that if I ever saw Jo I would ask her out. Well, I did see her, and she approached me---to compliment me, no less---and I did nothing because I was with someone more important. Sure it would have been more salacious if I had taken her home and given her the most disappointing sex of her life that night, but for conditions to be such for that to happen it would mean I would not currently be seeing a top-notch/keeper/not-to-be-messed-with goddess. And, I have to think that I am coming out way ahead on this one. Sorry guys.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>7/25/2010</b> – After beaching the afternoon away in Malibu with a friend, we stopped off at the Malibu Country Mart for some food. Whilst waiting on our tacos, we saw paparazzi following someone that we assumed to be important. I usually pick out celebrities pretty quickly, because I watch insane, unhealthy amounts of television. But, this time I couldn’t get a beat on the woman the paps were following. Luckily, my friend came through in the clutch and deduced that the woman in question was Victoria’s Secret model Alessandra Ambrosio. It’s probably best I didn’t know it was her (if you know what I mean).<br />
After eating our tacos, we headed to the bathrooms. I ended up in a two-toilet bathroom (and no separating apparatuses) with Clark Gregg from “New Adventures of Old Christine.” Nice looking penis on that young man. Just kidding, it’s small. Just kidding again, I didn’t look. Just kidding, I did. Just kiddiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I have seen about a hundred celebrities in the two years I have lived in L.A. I will post more celeb sightings as I remember of them. Additionally, I will try to post the new sightings as they occur. But, we all know none of that is going to happen.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
You’re welcome,<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://twitter.com/wordsbytodd">-The Todd</a>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-5574119086354084552010-07-07T01:44:00.000-07:002010-07-07T01:44:48.015-07:00E-Mo.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZZDBYQDN3pyw0GkW6CUeNRBk0hPcdlRLRrOUBjbEDydBKiZSly7ymNJQ4uYB-1TtAznV104RoG2y62BrOmD9D1tx8AqIxxnvN0XTBz-_SoB2wd5grXKuhyxA88QyD6syqGB9VuLad7lA/s1600/23_emo-kid.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZZDBYQDN3pyw0GkW6CUeNRBk0hPcdlRLRrOUBjbEDydBKiZSly7ymNJQ4uYB-1TtAznV104RoG2y62BrOmD9D1tx8AqIxxnvN0XTBz-_SoB2wd5grXKuhyxA88QyD6syqGB9VuLad7lA/s400/23_emo-kid.gif" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">So, I’m sort of seeing this new girl. </div><div class="MsoNormal">She’s a good one. </div><div class="MsoNormal">A <i>really</i> good one.</div><div class="MsoNormal">So anyway, the other day she and I were talking and I somehow mentioned that I played basketball in high school. Immediately, she says to me---in disbelief, “You were a basketball player?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was surprised by her surprise…and somewhat angry…and surprised. </div><div class="MsoNormal">And angry. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Couldn’t she tell?</div><div class="MsoNormal">All of my life everyone has told me (when they see my lean, athletic, 6’1” frame) that I look like a basketball player. It always bothered me because I hate when people talk to me, but at the same time, it always made sense to me-and for two reasons: </div><div class="MsoNormal">1 - I do look like a basketball player</div><div class="MsoNormal">2 - I have always <i>been</i> a basketball player</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, imagine my surprise when I find out this woman is shocked at the thought of me being any type of athlete. I didn’t even know what to say. All I could think of was the massive amount of time we have been spending together…and how she somehow has no clue about who I am, or who I was.</div><div class="MsoNormal">My father was a baseball player---and I hear a very good one (before overall dumbass-ness ultimately took over and lead him nowhere. To his credit, he did become a Major League drinker). My father was not around much when I was little, but whenever we were together, we were throwing a baseball. Sometimes we were throwing it to each other, and sometimes he was hurling it at me way too hard while I was holding a bat---all the while telling me to “stop being afraid” and to “stay in the batter’s box.” I like to think that my father would have obsessively pushed me to become the amazing athlete he never became (a la Earl and Tiger Woods), but he wasn’t even around enough to incessantly urge me against my will to be the best at a sport I was indifferent about. A master of all things fuck-up, he couldn’t even find the time to ruin my childhood by pushing me too hard (a la Joe and Michael Jackson). Once again, thanks for nothing pop (and shoutout to my moms for always holding me down).</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m from a small Midwestern town of about 450 people, with no stoplights, two basketball courts and two baseball fields. Without much help or coaching, I became proficient in both sports as a youngster. Mostly because there wasn’t shit else to do. The only thing people from my town did (other than ball) was drink, chain smoke, and let their perms go bad.</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I was younger, I was always the kid that was picked first---no matter which sport we were playing. I realize it sounds arrogant, but it’s the truth. </div><div class="MsoNormal">My last year in Coach’s Pitch baseball, I hit the ball over the fence about every other at bat. It got so bad that the league changed from a spray-painted fence line to an actual 5-foot high plastic fence to keep me from Barry Bonds-ing the shit (but it didn’t matter). </div><div class="MsoNormal">When I moved up to Little League, I became a pitcher. I threw too hard for most kids to get a bat on the ball---and once struck out 18 hitters in a six-inning game (which was every single out of the contest).</div><div class="MsoNormal">Around the time I was growing bored of Little League baseball, I began to pick up hoops. I practiced obsessively, sometimes eight hours a day. My first season of organized basketball (5<sup>th</sup> grade) I averaged 33 points a game. I was taller and much more athletic than most of the other kids. But it wasn’t just about my size or athleticism; I had a fair amount of polish for an 11-year old. I could blow by defenders going either direction and was able finish with either hand at the rim. The only thing that stopped me was my mom, who routinely grounded me (and demanded that my coaches bench me for entire games) due to all of the shit-talking I did to the other kids for not being able to guard me. It was always my feeling that, if people wanted me to stop talking shit, they should try holding me under 30. Mom never saw it that way. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Over the next couple of years people began to know my name. By 8<sup>th</sup> grade, I had my Junior High basketball coach picking me up in the offseason and taking me to the high school gym to work out with the varsity basketball coach before my classes started. I was being groomed to be one of the next great hoopers at my high school and I loved it.</div><div class="MsoNormal">During my freshman basketball season, I had to wake up at 5:30 a.m. for freshman practice (7:00-8:00 a.m.), go to school all day, practice with the varsity basketball team after school from 3:30-5:30 p.m., work at a grocery store from 6:00-9:00 p.m. and then go home to do homework (five days a week). I started for the JV basketball team that year and played reserve minutes for the varsity. I got burned out after only one season of hoops because the schedule was ridiculous---and because my coaches got so serious about me becoming a great basketball player that I was no longer allowed to smile or have any fun during practice or games (which becomes frustrating for a 15-year old during an 8-month long season).</div><div class="MsoNormal">I played outfield for the varsity baseball squad my freshman and sophomore years, before I realized how boring baseball is and decided to leave it behind in favor of varsity skirt-chasing.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I would have played football in high school, but I separated my shoulder during the first day of camp freshman year, causing a nasty surgery and my subsequent retirement from football. My career lasted nearly 23 minutes. </div><div class="MsoNormal">In my free time, I have always played golf, tennis, racquetball, slow-pitch softball, Frisbee, and done a fair amount of biking. More recently, I have decided to take up triathlon. I run 3-5 days every week for anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour straight. I am working on overcoming my <a href="http://wordsbytodd.blogspot.com/2009/01/germs.html">fear of community swimming pools</a> to tackle to the third portion of the triathlon training.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(My bicycle was recently stolen, but I am in the market for a new one). </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In addition to all of that, my friends call me “Toddy Ball Game,” “Toddy Balls” or simply, “Balls,” because:</div><div class="MsoNormal">1 – I like the Red Sox, and “Toddy Ball Game” is a Ted Williams reference (“Teddy Ball Game”)</div><div class="MsoNormal">2 – In the trunk of my car, you will find two baseball gloves, a baseball, a softball, a basketball, a basketball pump, basketball pump needles, “indoor-only” basketball shoes, “outdoor-only” basketball shoes, an ankle brace, a Frisbee, and a college-sized football. I have all of these things in my car so I am prepared to play absolutely anything, anywhere, anytime, no excuses. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I breathe sports. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I follow scores on TV, the internet, and my phone wherever I am. I refuse to leave the house when big <a href="http://wordsbytodd.blogspot.com/2009/09/college-football-my-love-actually.html">games are being played</a>.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I watch SportsCenter on the TV out of the corner of my eye while this new girl is trying to make out with me on my couch.</div><div class="MsoNormal">And she never would have guessed I was an athlete. Even worse, she told me she thought I was “probably an ‘Emo’ kid in high school.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">EMO?!?!</div><div class="MsoNormal">Where I’m from, “Emo” is what you became when you weren’t athletic enough to make any of the sports teams…and I was on almost all of them.</div><div class="MsoNormal">This past week, I met up with my lady-friend and some of her friends at a bar and we re-opened this discussion. One of my lady-friend’s friends echoed the “emo” sentiments submitted by my girl. I found it shocking because this third party was also an athlete in high school-and WE ATHLETES can usually tell---just from looking---who is and who ain’t. But alas, no. Thus, I began pleading with these two women like a wrongly-accused defendant, citing all of the information above as evidence. It was at this time that I realized the only thing more pathetic and embarrassing than no one believing you are even the slightest bit athletic is trying to convince them otherwise with high school glory stories from 13 years ago. You know who does this? My father. With this in mind, I decided to put what little pride I had left aside and concede my futile attempts at winning this argument.</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s strange how you think you know how you are being perceived, and then you find out it is nothing like what you thought. It’s really strange when you find out somebody relatively close to you thinks of you completely opposite of how you think of yourself. I think I’m LeBron F-cking James and she thinks I’m Michael Cera.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I guess it doesn’t really matter how this woman thinks of me, as long as she thinks of me. I hope she is around to mistake me for an emo kid for a good long while, because I think she is really dope.</div><div class="MsoNormal">And really, what’s so bad about “Emo” anyway? I guess it’s how I come off these days. I’ll just have to embrace it. </div><div class="MsoNormal">But I refuse to cut myself. And I’m not piercing anything. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’re welcome,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://twitter.com/wordsbytodd">-The Todd</a></div>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-42662907018726139062010-06-14T09:41:00.000-07:002010-06-14T09:41:28.099-07:00Graduation.<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 12" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CTODDYB%7E1%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CTODDYB%7E1%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx" rel="themeData"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CTODDYB%7E1%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml" rel="colorSchemeMapping"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>It’s that time of year again where academic institutions reward underachievers for barely making it through school. </div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s right, graduation.</div><div class="MsoNormal">This can only mean one thing: graduation ceremonies. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Graduation ceremonies can only mean one thing: Graduation speeches.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Graduation speeches can only mean one thing: wasting fifteen minutes listening to a presumably female valedictorian recap all of the boring nonsense no one cares about, proving: </div><div class="MsoNormal">1 - Just how out-of-touch she is with all of her peers.</div><div class="MsoNormal">2 - Just how tight she is with her parents and pastor.</div><div class="MsoNormal">3 - How she cares far too much about learning and far too little about having any type of intercourse.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Since, like you, I am bored to tears and teeth grinding every year when I attend a graduation commencement (only to hear the same exact speech from a different person) I thought I would offer some reprieve. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Generally, it’s only the statistically smartest kids that get to give a speech at graduation. This saddens me for a couple of reasons. First, as I mentioned above, the valedictorian is generally a super-conservative female. Why would you want to listen to her recap the journey? This is where I wish they would let the kid with the lowest graduating G.P.A. slide in and bat cleanup by giving the last of the commencement speeches. I want to hear the funny weed-head kid that actually lived it drop knowledge, not the virgin with perfect attendance that spent the weekends hanging out with her parents.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Since I graduated 45<sup>th</sup> in my class, I was not asked to give a speech at my high school commencement. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Their loss.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Being that it is once again graduation time, I decided to share the speech I would have given, had I cared enough to cheat even more in high school and solidify one of the top two slots. Maybe you can pull this up on your phone for a quick read in the coming weeks when you are stuck listening to a stupid kid bore you to migraines with her wide-eyed, cliché commencement speech. I’ll be in Evanston, IL this weekend for a ceremony at Northwestern. Hopefully, I will not be forced to pull out my phone and read my own blog.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here we go…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Good afternoon friends, family, faculty and Class of 2000 graduates…and Good Morning strippers,</div><div class="MsoNormal">My name is Todd. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Since most of you know me, I won’t bore you with too many details. For more information, ask either your daughter or any of the cheerleaders.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Let me first recognize all of you scholars that thought it might be humorous to garnish your hats with unfunny text and dooshey decorations. I hate you all.</div><div class="MsoNormal">While reflecting back upon my high school voyage, I was NOT reminded of any quotes from the Bible, or from Bill Shakespeare-so I won’t be leading with that predictable nonsense.</div><div class="MsoNormal">When graduation speeches don’t start with quotes from God or Billy, they generally start by saying ‘We made it!’ </div><div class="MsoNormal">This one will not. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Because we didn’t make it. We graduated high school, which anyone with 70% attendance and only mild mental retardation will tell you was a complete joke. This brings me to my next point: Why are we even celebrating? We intelligent students are asking ourselves this question right about now. We ask ourselves this because being congratulated for graduating high school is like being congratulated for brushing your teeth, you didn’t really do much. But, for you dumb shits, this is your mountain-top…your one shining moment. If you’ve ever wondered what kind of person still works at a gas station after high school, it’s retards like you. So for you all, “Congratulations. You made it!” Yes, you conquered the ever-daunting education curriculum in one of the dumbest states in America with a robust C- average. Enjoy the bottom rung of the Shell Corporation ladder.</div><div class="MsoNormal">And now for you overachievers…</div><div class="MsoNormal">You studied hard. You did heaps of extra-curriculars and loaded your academic resume with tons of crap for your college entrance forms. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Look around…. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Some of us did almost nothing. </div><div class="MsoNormal">We smoked drugs in the bathroom. We cut class. We got to know the truancy officers on a first-name basis. We slept through the classes we actually <i>did</i> attend, and we faked illnesses so we could sleep on the cots in the nurse’s office because it is are far more comfortable than doing the “straight-arm” sleep move on the classroom desks. </div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s what we did. </div><div class="MsoNormal">And somehow, we all ended up at the same finish line. All you have to show for your sacrifices is that gay sash. Magna-Cum this, Suma-Cum that, what’s the difference? Colleges don’t really care. I graduated Suma-Cum-BARELY and I’m going to college. Colleges accept students who pay them…so, see you guys there. Let this be a lesson about working hard-and how it is always a worthless idea…unless someone is naked.</div><div class="MsoNormal">At this moment, I would like to recognize those students will perfect attendance. Would you all please rise?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>(applause…)</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes….it’s you robots that scare me the most. How, in four years, did you NOT grow tired of the monotony and minutia that is every high school? The same building, same classes, same holier-than-thou teachers, same cafeteria lunches, same unquestionably gay gym teachers, same first grade-level Art class posters explaining how you need to fire up and cheer the football team on to beat this week’s opponent. How did that not nauseate you enough in four years to say ‘You know what-f_ck that sh_t, I’m staying home today?’ I see a cubicle in all of your futures. And, I imagine your status quo-asses will retire at the same pay rates you were all hired on for.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Moving on…</div><div class="MsoNormal">I will not be saying anything along the lines of ‘one chapter our lives is ending and another is beginning.’ </div><div class="MsoNormal">I will also not be making reference to us being ‘The Future’ or ‘Changing the world.’ Everyone does this shit and it is 1) cliché and 2) false. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I consider it a bit premature to label ourselves ‘The Future’ after graduating from an institution that still has typewriters in the Keyboard lab. Just because you graduate from high school does not necessarily mean you are ‘The Future.’ I thought my cousin was ‘The Future’ when he graduated back in 1998. Twelve years, 50 pounds, two kids, one crystal meth habit and three arrests later, I can safely say he wasn’t ‘The Future.’ He never really changed the world. He mostly just ate cheetos.</div><div class="MsoNormal">So what is our future? </div><div class="MsoNormal">What is ‘next?’ </div><div class="MsoNormal">It appears we go to college, date a hippie that is perpetually barefoot, learn pieces of every Dave Matthews Band song on acoustic guitar, get an STD, receive loads of poor academic advice from advisors that know nothing about us, get pushed through the system, pop out 4-5 years later with huge amounts of debt that we apparently exchanged for a degree we can neither pronounce nor explain-and that does not match any education requirements for any occupation listed on the internet. The best we can hope for is landing a job we hate with every fiber of our being that leaves us manically-depressed and that doesn’t compensate us enough to pay back the loans we incurred to get it. Luckily, we only have to put up with that job nine hours a day for the next 50 years. Then, we will retire at 87 with barely enough money to feed ourselves and that bitter bag of bones that pulled the goalie and stuck us with a kid 50 years back-yet hasn’t shagged us in 45. By then, Global Warming will have the year-round temperature hovering near 193 degrees and we will stay indoors all day wondering 1) if our osteoporotic arm will snap the next time we lift the 8-ounce remote control and 2) how in the hell there is still a syndication deal in place on the Miley Cyrus channel that plays all of those old “Saved By The Bell” reruns we have all seen 4,000 times.</div><div class="MsoNormal">After that, we will die….and that appears to be the good news. </div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s your future.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Lastly, I would like to take a second to clear up a couple of rumors. Though everyone always suspected it, I never had sex with (insert female’s name here). On the other hand, no one would have ever suspected that I did hit (insert female teacher’s name here). </div><div class="MsoNormal">The pleasure was all yours.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Two G’s, bitch.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’re welcome,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://twitter.com/wordsbytodd">-The Todd</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Words By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7936765836122069878.post-55758851782485615202010-04-29T13:35:00.000-07:002010-04-29T13:36:13.265-07:00Audio Muffin #8<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHcbuT-ogSeS91sVGZpC1qKa40DiRfSntcp1_3ggfudmbYosL-cd9fVSPIuBKTR_1pHZnquLqUVPuqoE9EiNGEu9oFtrN8sAw7Hb-5L_vNHY5hYHXbUL08-vppgXhrvW9BndueAp0YGkU/s1600/Muffin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHcbuT-ogSeS91sVGZpC1qKa40DiRfSntcp1_3ggfudmbYosL-cd9fVSPIuBKTR_1pHZnquLqUVPuqoE9EiNGEu9oFtrN8sAw7Hb-5L_vNHY5hYHXbUL08-vppgXhrvW9BndueAp0YGkU/s320/Muffin.jpg" /></a></div><br />
New Audio Muffin today. <br />
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Scrumptious Hip-Hop...---><a href="http://audiomuffin.com/u-n-i/">Muffin</a><br />
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You're welcome,<br />
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-ToddWords By Toddhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00564361386234109428noreply@blogger.com0