You're Welcome.

Banana Split.

2011-11-18T06:32:00.000-08:00

I stayed up late tonight.

Again.

During that time, I found some old pictures and videos on my computer. I happened upon one I felt like sharing.

Another classic AM juggle.

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.

[Yes kids, I was that close.]

You're welcome,

-The Todd

Blocking Out.

2011-11-17T06:05:00.000-08:00

On Sunday nights, I play basketball in a Rec League out in Calabasas, CA.

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.

[Hey, it’s an unspoken rule in Basketball – you reward big men for running the floor.]

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.

Wet.

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.

Fans in the stands clapped.

I was enraged.

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)?

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.

Yes, I am planning to block my own teammate’s shot. I might even foul his ass. Hard.

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.

Would I actually be charged with a foul?

Would there also be a Technical foul involved?

Would he shoot free throws?

Would my teammate have the option to decline the penalty, like in Football?

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.

We’ll see.

(Trust me, we’ll see.)

Stay close…

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

Hank.

2011-10-04T23:07:00.000-07:00

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.

Hopefully, it will never return.

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. Maybe then ESPN will stop using it as a caption at the top of every SportsCenter graphic during the preseason. And also, maybe you idiots will stop making it your Facebook and Twitter status every week, anticipating some of us might find it cute.

You're welcome,

-The Todd

Halloween Horror Nights 2011.

2011-10-03T05:06:00.001-07:00

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 really 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.

All of this got me thinking:

1 – “Who agreed that howling wolfs are scary?”

2 - “Who agreed that screeching bats are scary?”

3 - “Who agreed that reverb is scary?”

4 – So forth and so on.

[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?]

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.

Even though I have been doing this stuff for years, I have no idea how to produce a radio spot that accurately illustrates:

1 - All drivers on the LA roads being women.

2 - All women having small boobs.

3 - Sarah Palin as President.

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

HD vs SD

2011-04-21T15:33:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Don’t even try to correct me because we all know I am right.

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.

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.

Women won’t be able to resist an expensive television that displays a terrible picture if it has interchangeable pink, red, and white faceplates.

Ladies, I don’t mean to pick on you, it’s just hard not to sometimes because you are all stupid.

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

Real World: Vegas 2.0

2011-03-10T15:31:00.000-08:00

I’m stoked about the new Real World: Las Vegas.

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?

I don’t care about their lame submission videos.

I don’t care about where they are from or how cool they are back home.

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.

Just get to the drinking and 6-way kissing bitches in the hot tub already.

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.

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 as awesome when it happens.

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.

Leroy reminds me of Justin Tuck and I can’t think of anything other than that.

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.

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.

All-in-all, I’m turnt up for this season.

I still miss Irulan…

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

It's a Boy!

2011-03-07T15:23:00.000-08:00

A good friend of mine had a new baby boy this weekend.

So, Sunday night my girlfriend and I cruised over to Cedars-Sinai in Beverly Hills to peep the newborn.

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.

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?"

One person in the room got the joke (and that's all I needed to keep going).

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.

You're welcome,

-The Todd

Super Bowl (Thank You Facebook).

2011-01-24T16:59:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I watched 7 uninterrupted hours of playoff football.

It was glorious.

And, it got me thinking.

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).

There were no questions about how much more time was left in either of the games.

There was no pleading to get out of the apartment and do something active.

Nothing but 7 solid hours of NFL action being consumed by yours truly, one of the biggest football fans in the world.

WordsByTodd “likes” this.

The conclusion of the Conference Championship games in the NFL means it’s time for the Super Bowl.

Guess what?

I hate the Super Bowl.

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.

Every year at this time, I have to explain to a few more people how a football fanatic like me could despise the Super Bowl.

Let me lay it out…

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.

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).

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.

3 – I hate the commercials breaks every 14 seconds all game long.

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.

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.

6 – I hate that at the end, someone goes to Disney World.

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.

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.

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

Merry Freakin' Christmas

2010-12-31T16:17:00.000-08:00

[“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.]

If you have read enough of my bitter ramblings, it should come as no surprise that I detest Christmas.

Below are just a few reasons why...

1 – Holiday commercials where everyone says the end of the message in unison (“And from all of us here at Channel 8 News, ((all together))“HAPPY HOLIDAYS!”). 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.

2 – Office Christmas Parties. 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)…

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.

3 – Company Christmas Gifts. 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.

4 – Adults Taking Pictures On Santa’s Lap. Don’t be that guy. It’s not funny. It’s not cute. What it is 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).

5 – Mass Text Messages. 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.

6 – Giving And Receiving Gifts. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Gift giving sucks. Can we just stop the stressful charade and enjoy the time off of work? I have a feeling that is What Jesus Would Do.

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

Madrid 2 Ibiza: Day 3

2010-11-02T04:24:00.000-07:00

Still a little hazy from the night before, I woke up on day three, popped four Advil and chased them with a bottle of Evian.

My friend and I showered up and limped down to the mess hall in the hotel for provisions.

Surprisingly, the Hotel Puerto Del Sol puts on a lovely little breakfast. Not surprising, I grabbed a glass to pour myself some jugo de naranja 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.

Sounds about right.

Par for my life.

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.

FML.

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.

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.

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.).

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.

She eventually chose an omelet-type thing that caught her eye.

I ended up eating a coke.

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.

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.

Except it was.

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.

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.

I don’t eat Caesar dressing.

But, I choked it down because I was nearing a blackout.

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:

1 – Take a lot less effort thank walking the city

2 – Allow us to see more stuff in less time

3 - #1

4 - #1

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.

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.

Once inside the Royal Palace, we walked around from room to room discussing:

1 – How in the shit a family decides which room to hang out in when there are 3,418 to choose from

2 – How in the shit a family member finds another family member who is NOT hanging out in the designated

“hang out” room if the telephone has not yet been invented

3– Why in the shit there are 3,418 rooms to choose from in the first place

4– Which interior design company the royal family chose to outfit the crib-and why.

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.

Whilst cruising the plaza, I demanded pictures.

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.

Her “best” ended up cutting off my head and ramming the Royal steeple straight up my rectum (thanks again “C”).

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.

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.

This in no way derailed her game plan.

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?

So, after the tour ended we busted back to the hotel.

Siestas…

Showers…

Big, big night out on night #3.

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.

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.

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.

No luck.

So, we stumble out of the Flamenco spot around 1:15 AM and decided to walk the streets and see what was popping off.

What happened next was like a scene out of a movie.

We turned the corner and saw an enormous festival blasting off in a big open lawn area.

We rolled through.

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.

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?

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.

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).

Stay tuned for the next episode (Ibiza was epic).

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

Madrid 2 Ibiza: Day 2

2010-10-07T04:56:00.000-07:00

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.

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).

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!

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.

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.

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.

If you’re scoring at home, I’m 0-2 with two walks so far on this day.

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.

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.

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.

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.

[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.]

After a nice siesta, we shower up for dinner.

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.

It didn’t matter.

She ended up wearing a black dress with heels and her hair all pretty, so I got “the looks” anyway.

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.

On to the food…

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.

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.

We stare, we judge, we get bored.

Our drinks arrive.

We close out.

Okay, we ordered a second round and then closed out. I was on VACATION.

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.

By now, it is 2:15 a.m. and I’m Hazeyville.

We dip (estamos muy consados).

This was Day 2.

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

Madrid 2 Ibiza: Day 1.

2010-09-28T05:24:00.000-07:00

[I am just now getting back into the swing of life, so it’s time to blog again.

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.]

Yes, I went to Madrid and Ibiza.

Take your jealousy…and double it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Here it is in its entirety (not safe for children under 86):

Strange blonde woman: “(Spanish ramblings I, even with three years of high school Spanish, am unable to translate).”

WordByTodd: “I’m sorry. No hablo Espanol.”

Strange blonde woman: (grabs my left forearm with her right hand) “I speak English. Come on, let’s go fuck.”

WordByTodd: “Wow. No thank you. Wow.”

Strange blonde woman: (still holding onto my left forearm) “Come on. 25 euros. Let’s go.”

WordByTodd: “Uhhh, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Strange blonde woman: (still holding onto my left forearm) “Why?”

WordByTodd: “I have a girlfriend.”

Strange blonde woman: (still holding onto my left forearm) “Where is she?”

WordByTodd: “She’s asleep. Damn her to hell for not coming with me. She is asleep.”

Strange blonde woman: (still holding onto my left forearm) “Come on. My room is right up there (pointing just across the alley).”

WordByTodd: “Seriously no. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

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 _ _.”

WordByTodd: “Oh…my…shit. Ma’am, I am not interested. Thank you.”

Strange blonde bitch: (still holding onto my left forearm) “I want you to fuck me.”

WordByTodd: “I don’t mean to disrespect you, but there is just no way that that is going to happen.”

[At this point, she has dragged me out about 30 feet from the front of the store and into the middle of the square.]

Strange blonde bitch: (still holding onto my left forearm) “Come on. Let’s go.”

WordByTodd: “I’m not going. I’m sorry.”

[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.]

Dirty blonde whore: (still holding onto my left forearm) “Come on. Let’s go fuck.”

WordByTodd: “I’m not going; and now I’m angry.”

[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.]

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.”

[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.]

WordByTodd: (I begin to reposition my glasses atop my nose) “Please be on your way.”

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.”

WordByTodd: “(coughing…)”

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).

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.

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.

The good news? The phrase “25 euros” becomes the first catch-phrase of the trip.

This was day one.

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

Celebrity Sightings, Vol. 1

2010-08-06T03:34:00.000-07:00

I 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.
So, why not feed the masses.

[In absolutely no logical order whatsoever…]

6/26/2010 – 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.

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).

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.

It was startling.

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.

7/4/2010 – 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.

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.”

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.

7/25/2010 – 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).
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!

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.

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

E-Mo.

2010-07-07T01:44:00.000-07:00

So, I’m sort of seeing this new girl.

She’s a good one.

A really good one.

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?”

I was surprised by her surprise…and somewhat angry…and surprised.

And angry.

Couldn’t she tell?

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:

1 - I do look like a basketball player

2 - I have always been a basketball player

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.

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).

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.

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.

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).

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).

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^th 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.

Over the next couple of years people began to know my name. By 8^th 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.

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).

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.

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.

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 fear of community swimming pools to tackle to the third portion of the triathlon training.

(My bicycle was recently stolen, but I am in the market for a new one).

In addition to all of that, my friends call me “Toddy Ball Game,” “Toddy Balls” or simply, “Balls,” because:

1 – I like the Red Sox, and “Toddy Ball Game” is a Ted Williams reference (“Teddy Ball Game”)

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.

I breathe sports.

I follow scores on TV, the internet, and my phone wherever I am. I refuse to leave the house when big games are being played.

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.

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.”

EMO?!?!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But I refuse to cut myself. And I’m not piercing anything.

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

Graduation.

2010-06-14T09:41:00.000-07:00

It’s that time of year again where academic institutions reward underachievers for barely making it through school.

That’s right, graduation.

This can only mean one thing: graduation ceremonies.

Graduation ceremonies can only mean one thing: Graduation speeches.

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:

1 - Just how out-of-touch she is with all of her peers.

2 - Just how tight she is with her parents and pastor.

3 - How she cares far too much about learning and far too little about having any type of intercourse.

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.

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.

Since I graduated 45^th in my class, I was not asked to give a speech at my high school commencement.

Their loss.

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.

Here we go…

“Good afternoon friends, family, faculty and Class of 2000 graduates…and Good Morning strippers,

My name is Todd.

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.

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.

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.

When graduation speeches don’t start with quotes from God or Billy, they generally start by saying ‘We made it!’

This one will not.

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.

And now for you overachievers…

You studied hard. You did heaps of extra-curriculars and loaded your academic resume with tons of crap for your college entrance forms.

Look around….

Some of us did almost nothing.

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 did 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.

That’s what we did.

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.

At this moment, I would like to recognize those students will perfect attendance. Would you all please rise?

(applause…)

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.

Moving on…

I will not be saying anything along the lines of ‘one chapter our lives is ending and another is beginning.’

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.

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.

So what is our future?

What is ‘next?’

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.

After that, we will die….and that appears to be the good news.

There’s your future.

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).

The pleasure was all yours.

Two G’s, bitch.”

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

Audio Muffin #8

2010-04-29T13:35:00.000-07:00

New Audio Muffin today.

Scrumptious Hip-Hop...--->Muffin

You're welcome,

-Todd

Viva Las Planet Hollywood, Plies And DisposaFlask.

2010-04-19T02:28:00.000-07:00

My third trip to Nevada is officially in the rearview.

First, some things you need to know. My family went to Vegas a few weeks ago to celebrate my brother’s 21^st birthday. Myself, my mother, step-father, sister + brother-in-law, and the birthday boy were all in attendance.

I have taken some time to sober up and process what I believe to have transpired March 25-28^th 2010.

Here are those notes…

Thursday.

1:00 P.M. - I arrive at the Burbank airport for my 2:35 PM flight. While waiting at my gate, two teenage girls approach me to tell me that my shaggy haircut makes me look like Justin Bieber…only a foot taller. The sheer idea of young girls makes me uncomfortable, so I put my hands up like I am trying to convince a referee that I didn’t foul the player I am guarding.

3:28 P.M. - I depart from the Burbank airport.

4:19 P.M. - I land at the Las Vegas airport.

4:34 P.M. - I find a Moe’s Southwest Grill in the airport and proceed to crush a chicken burrito with the type of vigor and enthusiasm rarely seen outside of the porn industry.

4:57 P.M. - I step out of the airport and onto the curb to hail a cab. There are no cabs anywhere. There is only the $8.00 shuttle bus that stops at every casino (and will take 2 hours to get to my hotel), and a private car service that will charge me $39.00 to take me two miles to Planet Hollywood. Exhausted from the 41-minute flight from Burbank, I choose to ball out and take the Town Car.

When my Lincoln pulls up, a guy named “Manny” jumps out and greets me. As soon as we drive off, we start to poly. Not your typical cheesy taxi convo, but cool shit as if I had known this guy for years. I find out Manny actually lived in L.A. for over a decade. We exchange L.A. glory and horror stories. In addition, Manny imparts his “Best Italian restaurants in Studio City” knowledge. I soak it up.

Just before pulling up to Planet Hollywood, I explain that I am in town with my entire family celebrating my little brother’s 21^st birthday. Manny then lets me know that he has connects at nearly all of the clubs around the city. He hands me a business card and tells me to call him if I ever need help getting into a spot. I know immediately that I will be calling him, so I put the info into my phone, jump out of the car, and then tip extremely large (so he’ll answer my phone calls when we need help getting up in the clubs).

5:01 P.M. – I get in line to check in and then text the fam (who are already checked in and gambling) that my face is up in the place.

5:56 P.M. – After a 45-minute wait to check in, I grab my room keys and hug all five family members.

5:58 P.M. – I hand out the party favors I brought for the trip, disposable flasks. This is dope, because Planet Hollywood gives you a free full-size bottle of your choice of mid-grade spirit when you check in. Between our three rooms, the six of us have a bottle of rum and two bottles of Skyy…and disposable flasks to help us crush them (patting self on back…).

6:02 P.M. - After hearing me sing the songs’ chorus in my infamous falsetto, my mom tells me that “Lemonade” by Gucci Mane is her favorite current song.

I know, right?!?! I have the coolest mom dukes in the world.

But, the really crazy part is that as soon as moms tells me this, she starts singing Trey Songz’s verse from the “Lemonade” remix.

Just kidding---but that would have been dope.

6:09 P.M. – The entire fam mobs down to the main floor to grab some Mexican food. During dinner, we are watching the NCAA games on tv. We almost went to the sports book to wager beforehand, but the line was serious, so we skipped and hit the food spot. This part blows, because I would have put $250 each on Butler, Washington and Tennessee. I would have won two and lost one, so I would have had roughly $250 of head start in my hands before even unwrapping the hand soap in my room.

7:42 P.M. – The fam moves from the Mexican restaurant to the sports bar next door to get some beverages and watch the NCAA tournament on bigger screens.

9:44 P.M. – The fam hits the casino floor. I have never played anything other than a slot machine, so me and baby-brother agree to let our brother-in-law teach us how to ~~DOUGIE~~ play roulette. We all buy in for $40 expecting to lose it all and chalk it up to ”Entertainment” expenses.

10:09 P.M. – Stuart and I are both hemorrhaging chips and bro-in-law has more than doubled his stack. It’s at this point that I commence chastising the bastard that married my sister for each and every winner he plays. It was only seconds before the other two guys at the table-that were NOT related to us-joined in the verbal abuse.

10:13 P.M. – Stuart is bleeding to death, I have climbed back on top with some RED/BLACK winners, and bro-in-law has safely cashed out $50 richer than he came in (and I begin a lengthy explanation of why I hate him).

10:15 P.M. – After failing several other times with various dollar amounts, I finally hit a $2 bet on RED 19 that pays me $35. I wore this number on the Baseball field in high school and figure I am the only one to ever use this logic to beat Las Vegas in roulette – and it’s working. Roulette, Jesus what an easy game. As soon as the chips come my way, I turn around and scream “Let’s get some batches over here!” (as if one $35 win is going to somehow draw one of those crowds you see in the movies at a Vegas Craps table).

10:17 P.M. – After cheating death several times, Stuart dries up. So, at this point, I am up $45 and the only one in my family playing. Since everyone looks bored, I decide to put aside the money I came in with and try to use my profit to make some seriousness.

10:18 P.M. - $25 bet on RED….aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand BLACK.

10:19 P.M. - $10 bet on BLACK….aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand RED.

10:19 P.M. – I take a couple of rounds off to change diapers.

10:21 P.M. – I put my remaining $10 on RED 19 one last time. This way, I am either going to win $350 dollars and head straight to the Spearmint Rhino for the dinner buffet, or go hang out with my family.

(C’mon RED 19 you fickle BITCH!)...........aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand double f-ckING ZERO!

I scream “You’ve got to be f-cking F-CKING me” and walk away from the table like the two of us just broke up. If the table had been lighter, I might have flipped the bitch over. At the very least, I still have $40 in chips in my pocket that I came in with, so I guess I got a free Roulette lesson and an hour of free entertainment (but this was not the time to explain either of those things to me).

10:22 P.M. – Walking back to the rooms to gear up for an evening stroll down the strizzy to see the lights.

10:49 P.M. – Standing outside the doors to both my mom and my sister’s rooms, mom dukes brings to my attention that my sister and her husband have decided to go to bed, and will not be joining us. I totally understand that it’s almost 3:00 A.M. in Florida where they come from, but nonetheless I call my sister and her husband “throbbing vaginas” and begin my walk to the elevator.

10:55 P.M. – Walking down the strip…

10:58 P.M. – Trying to figure out how the people handing out flyers for prostitutes make that “snap” sound with the cards in their hands.

11:07 P.M. – Hey, it’s The Flamingo…

11:12 P.M. – Caesar’s! (“This isn’t THEE Caesar’s Palace, is it? Did Caesar live here?”)

11:18 P.M. – Bellagio fountains…

11:30 P.M. – Stuart and I are back in our room deciding which club to go to.

11:38 P.M. – While talking about clubs and watching SportsCenter highlights, I get very sleepy.

11:39 P.M. – Stuart goes to the bathroom.

11:41 P.M. – Stuart comes out of the bathroom and I’m half asleep with my left hand over my face.

11:58 P.M. – It’s nearing midnight and Steezy is watching a marathon of “Fantasy Factory” on MTV. I slap myself awake as I realize that we are all in Las Vegas to celebrate my brother’s 21^st birthday and I should be taking him out to party.

12:01 A.M. – I go to the bathroom to splash some water on my face to help me get over the hump.

12:03 A.M. – I come out of the bathroom and am feeling my third wind coming on strong.

12:03 A.M. - Stuart is now asleep with his right hand over his face.

12:04 A.M. – I yell at LL Steezy to wake up so we can talk clubs. Steez makes the executive decision to call it a night, adjust to being three time zones West of where he lives, and hit it hard the next night.

His birthday, his call.

But, for the official record, I made it over the hump and was ready to pop shamp Thursday night.

12:10 A.M. – Stuart is almost asleep and I make him get up to help me put my sheets that I bring from home onto my hotel room bed. Stuart is less than enthusiastic, but he has known me his whole life-so he spares us both the pointless speech about my O.C.D.

12:26 A.M. – Stuart is way gone and I am wide awake watching “Fantasy Factory” by myself.

12:30 A.M. – “Fantasy Factory”…

1:00 A.M. – “Fantasy Factory”…

1:30 A.M. – “Fantasy Factory”…

2:00 A.M. – “Fantasy Factory”…

2:30 A.M. – “Fantasy Factory”…

3:00 A.M. – “Fantasy Factory”…

3:30 A.M. – “Fantasy Factory.” Ooh, the episode with John Mayer; I’ve never seen this one before. Score.

4:00 A.M. – “Fantasy Factory”…

4:01 A.M. – “Fantasy Factory” marathon is over and MTV turns to “Nitro Circus.” No, thank you.

4:02 A.M. – I know my family members will be awake in about four hours, so I get ready for bed.

4:37 A.M. – Lights out.

4:37 A.M. – SHIT, I forgot to put the “DO NOT DISTURB” sign on the door.

4:38 A.M. – laying in bed listening to my brother grind his teeth and trying to fall asleep.

6:?? A.M. – I’m finally asleep.

Friday.

9:21 A.M. – Being a light sleeper, I awaken to my brother moving around in the bathroom. I listen closer and notice that his iPod is playing Daft Punk’s “Digital Love.” I would be mondo-stoked about this if it were five hours later in the day.

10:00 A.M. – My family is cruising the strip and my Twilight-ass is still posted in the bed (I work the night shift for a living).

1:57 P.M. –I wake up and text the fam. Wouldn’t you know it, they are going back to the same Mexican restaurant for nachos. Yes, please.

2:15 P.M. – Nachos and laughs.

3:36 P.M. – Mobbing deep through the mall at Planet Hollywood.

3:42 P.M. – Some fat guy is laying on his stomach and getting a tattoo on his back in the front of some tat parlor in the mall that has the workbench right in the front window of the store. I get that they do it to attract customers, I’m just saying it’s not always a good idea. For example, it’s not a good idea---when you just ate an entire plate of nachos and you turn the corner to see some 380-pound biker getting a tramp stamp of a unicorn or some shit on his lower back fat. Not a good look, tat parlor. Not a good look at all.

3:53 P.M. - I almost buy three pairs of Creative Recreations, but decide to wait until I get back to L.A. because I don’t want to lug three shoe boxes home.

4:07 P.M. – I cop two ties and a watch at ALDO. Does anyone else realize that, while ALDO’s shoes are fresh, they are the least dope thing they sell?

4:08 P.M. - The sales lady at ALDO was very hot and very flirtatious, so as a birthday present to my brother, I invite her out to party with us that night.

4:09 P.M. – The hot/flirtatious sales lady explains to me that she is not old enough to get into a club. Immediately, my hands go up (no foul, ref, no foul!). Shocked and speechless, I mumble something that sounds Russian, pluck my AMEX from her underage right hand, grab my brother by the collar and get ghost.

5:10 P.M. – In the casino watching my Bro-in-law go down in flames playing Roulette. Justice at last!

8:18 P.M. – The six of us head back to the rooms to pool our collective room furniture, crank some NCAA tourney, and fire up a game of euchre.

9:39 P.M. – I have drank two shots of vodka on the rocks in a solo cup and lost one game of euchre to my sister and her huz. At one point, my B-I-L dealt himself the five highest cards in the deck and went alone for four points. If you asked him, I’m not sure he would say it was worth getting open-handedly slapped on top of his shaved dome by me for doing so, but nevertheless, he did it. Crooked bastard.

10:32 P.M. – I have drank a third and fourth shot of vodka on the rocks in the same solo cup and pulled even to a game apiece in the euchre tournament.

10:51 P.M. – Stuart and I head back to our room to get fresh for the club.

10:53 P.M. – We decide Tryst is the destination.

10:54 P.M. – LL Steezy iTuneses me some Lil Wayne “Steady Mobbin’(Feat. Gucci Mane)” and I’m zonin’.

11:11 P.M. – We each do a shot and then fill up our flasks and head downstairs to hail a cab to Wynn.

11:40 P.M. – In line at Wynn for Tryst and the bitch is juiced.

11:42 P.M. - I’m half-wasted after drinking four shots in an hour during the card game and taking another before we left our room, so of course I start in on the full flask of vodka in my back pocket (knowing it could be confiscated at any time by security).

11:43 P.M. – LL Steezy and I make immediate contact with the groups of girls behind and in front of us in hopes that they will tack us on to their parties and help us cut the hour-long line.

11:49 P.M. – The group of eight girls and two guys in front of us get called out to cut the line and jump into the club. Stuart and I plead for the girls to tell the staff that we are with them. The girls not only failed to get us in, but they left the two guys they brought with them standing with us. It’s amazing how women forget who their friends are when a velvet rope opens up in front of them (shaking head in disgust…).

11:50 P.M. – Waiting in line…

11:58 P.M. – One of the stranded guys in front of us sees me taking shots out of the plastic DisposaFlask and alerts me that it might be the coolest thing he has ever seen. He then begs me to let him photograph it with his phone. I oblige.

12:02 A.M. – A group of five girls is being ushered through to the club to the left side of the cattle chute where we are standing. I ask one of them to please be kind to me and my brother (who is celebrating his birthday) and let us ride her beautiful coattail into the club. She looks at me like I’m street trash and tells me that she’s “sorry.” I tell her that she is lucky that she brought her pretty friends with her tonight, or she and her fake-ass manolos would still be standing in the parking lot.

12:24 A.M. – We FINALLY make it to the front of the line with two other guys that got left behind by their chick friends and we start wondering if the four of us are ever going to get in.

12:25 A.M. - I realize that my flask (which holds five shots) is empty. I somehow drank it all in 45 minutes.

12:33 A.M. – The ropes part and me and LL Steezy are up in the plizzy plizzy.

12:34 A.M. - $30 apiece, but about to be totally worth it. I pay both fares cuz it’s bay-bro’s 21^st birthday and I have placed him on scholarship for the night.

12:35 A.M. – We get our hands stamped and run down the tunnel like we were just announced for the starting lineup.

12:35 A.M. – As soon as we step in Jay-Z’s “On To The Next One” is banging and the place is electric as f-ck.

12:35 A.M. – Stuart and I make eye contact and head straight for the middle.

12:36 A.M. – As soon as we get to the middle, the DJ drops “P.S.A.” like he somehow knew we had just stepped in the bitch. He may have been tipped off by the way the ladies were reacting to our sheer presence (charisma, thy names are “Todd” and “LL Steezy”)

12:36 A.M. – “Allow me to re-introduce myself, my name is HOV!”

12:36 A.M. – (Diamond signs up. I’m talkin’ WAY up.)

12:37 A.M. – Straight into Jay and Alicia “NY, NY.” I couldn’t believe how huge that record went over in the club that night. Wowza.

12:38 A.M. – Diamonds still inna di atmospheeeeeeere.

12:41 A.M. – T.I.’s “Swing Your Rag” comes on and Stuart and I completely lose it.

12:50 A.M. – At the bar. A shot apiece and cocktails to hold. I’m ten shots deep now and holding a Belvedere on the rocks. I begin yelling “VEGAAAAAAAAS” at my brother every three minutes from this point forward.

12:51 A.M. – Waiting to pay my bar tab and the DJ drops Guetta’s “Memories (Armand Van Helden Vocal Remix – Feat. KiD CuDi).” Stuart and I start bouncing at the bar and everyone looks at us like they wish they were having as much fun.

12:53 A.M. – WordsByTodd “VEGAAAAAAAAS” @LLSteezy.

12:54 A.M. – On the dancefloor screaming “All the crazy shit I did toniiiiiiiiiiiiiight, those will be the best memorieeeeeeeeeeees.”

12:55 A.M. - Bay-bro is surrounded by eight 21-year-olds from UCLA that are messing up his hair and passing around his Faux-Ban glasses. At this point, I have one of those moments where I realize that my brother and I are doing exactly what he came to Las Vegas to do on his 21st birthday. I know we are in the middle of a moment in time that will be forever etched in his memory and I am overcome with joy.

12:56 A.M. – I forget about the “big brother” moment I was having because the DJ drops the Steve Aoki remix to KiD CuDi’s “Pursuit of Happiness.” (screaming…).

1:25 A.M. – Back to the bar for one more round. I get Déjà vu as the DJ drops DJ Class’ “I’m The Shit (Remix – Feat. Kanye West) because I am standing in the same spot, at the same bar, inside the same club as when this same song came on during my 2^nd ever trip to Vegas. Weird.

1:38 A.M. – We’re back in the middle of it and screaming every word to “Steady Mobbin.”

1:49 A.M. – I finish my drink and have no idea what to do with the cup. I realize how long it takes to make it off the dancefloor to safely dispose of it and I have zero interest in doing so for fear of never finding my brother again. I contemplate throwing my cup on the ground, but my feet routinely leave the floor when a new song comes on and I don’t want a drunken ankle twist to plague the rest of my trip.

1:50 A.M. – My glass goes over my right shoulder, over the pool railing and into Tryst’s waterfall (see “12:54 A.M.”).

2:30 A.M. – After two solid hours of screaming, dancing and drinking, we mutually decide to leave.

2:31 A.M. – I almost immediately pull a 180 and beg Stuart to stay for “just a couple more songs.”

2:52 A.M. – Audi 5000.

2:53 A.M. – Ducking the paparazzi, rabid “Pray For Hotness” fans and various other hangers-on outside the club.

3:24 A.M. – Our cab somehow arrives back at Planet Hollywood. I am not certain how, since when the driver asked me “Where to?” I believe I answered, “I don’t care.”

3:30 A.M. – At the sandwich shop at Planet Hollywood placing our orders.

3:31 A.M. – Stuart grabs four bottles of Aquafina, caresses them like a pet recently returned in exchange for reward money, and carries them to the cashier.

3:31 A.M. – I laugh at how funny it is watching a drunk person carry four bottles of Aquafina.

4:06 A.M. – Two footlong sandwiches and four bottles of water are now a just a memory.

4:10 A.M. – Stuart gets a phone call from mom dukes explaining that she and my step-father are leaving a day early to head back to Florida. We’re weirded out because we just got home from the club and they are out at the same taxi stand we just got back from-trying to score a ride to the airport. This type of thing is fascinating when your B.A.L. is four times the legal limit.

Saturday.

5:30 P.M. – Me, LL, my sister and her husband (the only remaining members of our party) cab over to The Mirage to get ready for the “Cirque Du Soleil: Love” show (yeah, the one with The Beatles’ music).

5:44 P.M. – We realize we are an hour and a half early for the show and decide to knock down some California Pizza Kitchen before we take our seats.

6:32 P.M. – We exit CPK and move next door to the Sports Book, where Kentucky is getting their perm peeled by West Virginia.

6:41 P.M. – I realize Ray J is standing five feet away from me.

6:41 P.M. – I realize Ray J is as tall as my femur.

6:42 P.M. – I ask myself “Why the hell is Ray J at The Mirage?”

6:47 P.M. – Ray J walks into the CPK we just exited.

6:47 P.M. – Ray J walks up to a table of eight women and starts very matter-of-factly explaining to his woman of choice that he is interested in her, sexually…while her seven friends are listening. It’s at this point that I begin to marvel at three things: 1) how Ray J just went one-on-eight like it wasn’t even a thing, 2) how Ray J is standing while the woman he is talking to is seated-and she is still taller than he is and 3) how none of this even fazes the kid. What a champion. Next time we roll to Nevada, imma Twitter his ass and see if he wants to roll with. It’s good to have a guy like that in your crew.

7:14 P.M. – sitting in our seats at the Cirque Du Soleil show.

7:17 P.M. – I shake my brother for his iPhone because he has a euchre app.

7:18 P.M. – I’m getting worked in iPhone euchre because my virtual partner is a dumbass---thus causing me to weave a tapestry of curse words I feel went unappreciated by the families that paid $120 a seat to sit next to us. Classy.

7:31 P.M. – The Cirque show starts.

7:32 P.M. – We’re only 60 seconds in and I have already burned the “The ‘shrooms are turning on me, man” line. No one laughs except for my brother . Everyone else can suck me.

7:35 P.M. – “Eleanor Rigby….” (this is my favorite Beatles song).

7:56 P.M. – “Here Comes The Sun, Doon, Doon, Doo Doo…” (no, this is my favorite Beatles song).

8:04 P.M. – THE WHITE SHEET! (if you’ve seen the show, you know what this means. If you haven’t, holy shhhhhhh!)

8:04 P.M. – As the white sheet comes out, I yell “I’m trippin’ balls, man,” even though I’m sober.

No one laughs (suck me…).

8:09 P.M. – “Yesterday…” (no, this is my favorite Beatles song).

8:25 P.M. – “Hey Jude…” (No, THIS is my favorite Beatles song).

8:32 P.M. – The show concludes and we walk out with blown minds discussing the happenings.

10:05 P.M. – Steezy and I are back in our room blasting Drake’s “So Far Gone” mixtape and chugging what’s left of our rum and vodka bottles, respectively.

10:16 P.M. – Stuart pulls out the iron in our room to iron a shirt. I explain that I do not even own and iron, and have not actually seen one up close since 1998.

11:07 P.M. –Stuart and I decide to keep it local and hit up club Prive at Planet Hollywood where we are staying. No cabs, no fuss.

11:33 P.M. – We get in line at Prive and it’s already deep.

12:20 A.M. – We get to the cash register and it’s $40 apiece. Really Prive? Your spot is not even close to that hot (more on this later).

12:22 A.M. – We’re pacing the perimeter and looking for a jump-off point. As we swing past the V.I.P. section, I feel someone grab my arm. I look back and it’s Manny, my driver from the airport.

12:22 A.M. - Manny scoops us into his friend’s table area. I introduce Manny to my brother and greetings are exchanged.

12:23 A.M. – The staff drops off three bottles of Belvedere and a bucket of ice.

12:34 A.M. – Manny makes drinks for the three of us and we toast to the good life.

1:10 A.M. – DJ Drops Plies’ “Becky.” Some girl in our VIP area is surprised that me and Steezy are killing every word. In my mind I chuckle at this young woman, because she obviously has no idea who she is dealing with. This girl is experiencing the equivalent of running into Kobe Bryant at a YMCA basketball court, not recognizing him, and looking surprised when he makes every shot. THIS IS WHAT I DO.

[SIDEBAR: We are not usually big fans of Plies. The only real time he comes up in conversation between my brother and I is when either Plies or B.G. comes out with a new album and we are forced to revisit the topic of “Gayest Facial Expression Ever Used As An Album Cover Photo” (which these two perpetually battle it out for in a category all their own).]

1:19 A.M. – Trey Songz’s “Say Ahh” comes on and has the VIP area getting outlandish. I am screaming the lyrics as loud as I can (shocking, I know).

1:21 A.M. – I can’t feel my face.

1:27 A.M. – DJ Drops Drake’s “Loonies To Blow (A-Trak Remix)” and my hands go up as if Swizz Beatz had just stepped in the club (props if you got this reference).

1:30 A.M. – Stuart and I decide to leave the VIP and hit the floor.

1:42 A.M. - DJ drops California Swag District’s “Teach Me How To Dougie” and everyone on the floor acts surprised that I know it’s coming while the song before it is still playing. They really freak when I start to “D-Town Boogie.” It was at this point that I decide the place can’t hold me.

2:09 A.M. – “Hop up out da beeeeeeeeeeeeeeed, turn my swag ooooooon…”

2:21 A.M. - DJ drops “Beamer, Benz or Bentley.” We have been waiting on this record all weekend-so things get ignorant in a hurry. We completely shut the dancefloor down.

2:22 A.M. – Sadly, security asks me to put my shirt back on.

2:32 A.M. – We head back to the VIP to give Manny dap. I tell Manny that I will be calling him every time I come to Nevada from this point forward. He tells me “Do it, man. And shit, if it’s my day off, I’ll come get you in my Beamer.” We all laugh and then me and Steezy flee the scene.

2:37 A.M. – (Ducking the paps…)

2:39 A.M. – Same sandwich shop. Same sandwiches. Four more Aquafinas.

Sunday.

9:57 A.M. – My sister (whose husband left a few hours earlier to catch a flight) bangs on the door to make sure me and bay-bro wake up in time to check out. She enters the premises to find a disaster area that, simply put, looks like a hangover.

10:04 A.M. – Rock, paper, scissors to see who has to wake up first and shower. I lose and curse passionately.

10:17 A.M. – I exit the bathroom rapping the first lines to Plies’ “Plenty Money” (“What’s in my pocket dawg? BIG FACE HUNNEDZ. Just left the mall, bought everything that I wanted.”). It is the first of roughly 214 times I will spit this line in the next three hours.

10:54 A.M. – We speed pack and race to beat the 11:00 A.M. checkout.

10:59 A.M. – We check out. Always on time…like Ja Rule and Ashanti.

11:01 A.M. - “What’s in my pocket dawg? BIG FACE HUNNEDZ. Just left the mall, bought everything that I wanted.”

11:04 A.M. – Bagels and juice downstairs.

11:53 A.M. – Me, Steezy and sister cab to the Venetian to check it out.

11:54 A.M. - “What’s in my pocket dawg…”

12:07 P.M. – We enter the Venetian and begin to follow the indoor river.

12:11 P.M. – We have walked the entire river in four minutes-and are completely over it.

12:13 P.M. - “What’s in my pocket dawg…”

1:03 P.M. – Venetian food court meals and poking fun at the tourists…

1:45 P.M. – I say my goodbye to my sister and brother and catch a cab to the airport.

2:55 P.M. - I see Ian Ziering at the airport and wonder the following:

1 – How the breezy he has with him is 1) so young and 2) so hot.

2 – How much the residual checks he is still getting from Beverly Hills 90210 reruns are for.

3 – Why the guitar line in the BH90210 theme song is so fire!

3:26 P.M. – Zoning out to my iPod. Cold Blank, Pray For Hotness, Sam Cooke, The Cataracs, Treasure Fingers, Swedish House Mafia…

5:30 P.M. – I touch down in Burbank, CA.

6:16 P.M. – My cab drops me off and I’m home at last.

6:22 P.M. – In the shower.

6:47 P.M. – En route to Santa Monica to meet a friend for a late dinner down by the beach (damn, jet-setting takes it out of you).

Parting Shots.

Don’t ever go to Prive.

It’s as- if not more expensive than every other club. Meanwhile, it is just as plain as every other club you have ever been inside in your life. In Las Vegas, you have so many club options with “Wow” factor you don’t see every day. For example, Tryst has a convertible top (“Damn, where’d my roof just go?”), 100-foot waterfall and enormous dancefloor. Moon at The Palms is on the rooftop of the joint and offers views of all of Las Vegas. When you can pay $30 to get up in the dope clubs that you don’t see every day, why would you pay $40 to go to Prive and stare at a bunch of sausage in a club that looks like a nightspot you would see in a Missouri strip mall? I’m so mad at myself right now for taking my brother to Prive.

Go see the Cirque Du Soleil show “Love.” And when you do, get the cheap seats at the top of the arena. The arena is really small, so when you are in the nosebleeds, you are actually only about 120 feet from the center of the stage. I felt like the people sitting really close missed out on some of the larger features (namely, the white sheet) that those of us sitting in the back were able to take in comfortably due to our wider angle. Get the cheap seats!

Yes, it was hard to spend $120 to see a bunch of dudes in tights rollerskate (especially when I knew that, at that very moment, for the same price I could be at The Palms watching Jay-Z + swinging my shirt above my head like a helicopter). But, it was a fun Vegas-type thing to do with the fam. Just make sure that if you do see a Cirque production that it is “Love.” After the show, I explained to my family how dope I thought it was, but that I couldn’t imagine how much it would have blown if the music was some goofy, 125 BPM Tribal nonsense that didn’t engage me (like all the other CDS shows). Having that Beatles soundtrack banging throughout really kept me in the game. Had it not been for the recognizable music, I probably would have dipped out 20 minutes in to hit up CPK and see what kind of headway Ray J was making.

Roulette, we shall meet again. Next time, I am bringing my RED 19 jersey out of retirement. It is coming down off the wall, out of its frame, and I am stuntin’ it in the casino. You have no chance.

Music notes from Nevada.

1 - Jay-Z is still the mother of all f-ckers in any club. Point-blank period.

2 - I think I went harder on Trey Songz’s “Say Ahh” than any other record all weekend. That thing gets hotter every time I hear it.

3 – The “How Did I NOT Hear That Record In The Club Even Once During The Trip” award goes to = Gucci Mane – “Lemonade.” It’s a shame, too. I was ready to get ignorant.

4 – The “Song I Thought Would Go Harder In A Vegas Club” award goes to = David Guetta – Memories (Armand Van Helden Remix – Feat. KiD CuDi).” Granted, I was going banana pancakes when this song came on, but no one else in the club reacted like they had been waiting on it all night like me. Boo. Oh well, I got mine.

5 – During some downtime in the hotel room, my brother introduced me to a monster rap duo out of L.A. called “U-N-I.” Since then, I have 1) dealt with the embarrassment of not knowing about them first-especially because they live in my city and 2) ordered their album online and bumped it every day. Look for an Audio Muffin post on these two real freakin’ soon.

So, that’s it for my third date with Las Vegas. As of press time, there is no plan for trip #4. I will pass any and all plans for #4 along as it becomes available to me.

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

[SCORING OPPORTUNITY: If you can tell me how many shots I drank the night/morning we went to Tryst, post a comment and receive your points. Standard scoring rates apply.]

Movie Review #1: "Valentine's Day"

2010-04-02T05:29:00.000-07:00

I finally saw the movie. As a reward for everyone, I figured I would write up a quick review.

Overall, the plot was for the most part believable, and at the same time, the road less traveled. As an added bonus, they were able to hold a couple of surprises until the very end. These sorts of things do not happen very often in romantic comedies and I am appreciative.

Now that I work in television, I pay close attention to camera angles, shot selection and continuity. With that in mind, I can easily say this is one of the most poorly edited big-budget films I have ever seen. There was an abundance of bad cuts in this film, but the one that bothered me most was the “North Hollywood” scene (not surprising if you know where I live). One minute Hector Elizondo is whipping his Cadillac CTS North on Lankershim boulevard under the egregious, nuclear yellow “NoHo” sign, and in the next shot he is driving West in some other neighborhood in Los Angeles. Admittedly this jumped out at me because I live about three blocks north of the ugly “NoHo” sign, and was able to easily recognize the break in continuity (because if they had stayed with the shot sequence, Hector would have driven right past my building in the shot after the close-up of the sign). What’s wrong people, were the next three blocks of North Hollywood too real for you?

Continuing with my negative comments, and this one is no fault of the filmmakers, but I was not happy to see Hector Elizondo attending a Cinespia screening. The reason I am pissed is because it is one of the coolest things to do during the summer in L.A. – and because of this, it is crunkalicious every weekend. Now, after having been featured in an enormously popular film, I figure Cinespia will be even more packed this summer…and the majority of the newcomers are probably going to be tourists. So, thanks for that.

Continuing on…

I like George Lopez. He seems like a genuinely nice man. Also, I typically find him to be funny (unless it is during the monologue on his current show). Further, George did great work in this film. He was able to dial back the comedy and act like a regular guy that was believable as Reed’s best friend. But, after viewing “Valentine’s Day,” I personally feel that Mr. Lopez needs to be more judicious about the way he is lit in his scenes. Something about being outside in the Cali sunshine in a pink hoodie made the skin on his face look like it caught on fire and someone put it out with a 9-iron.

Taylor Swift was hot, but that was about it. Before you start firing up your hate emails in defense of America’s sweetheart, hear me out. I have a very high opinion of Swifty. She lives her life surrounded by paparazzi and somehow manages to do so with the utmost grace, even at her tender age. Her last album was fire, and I don’t really even listen to Country music (unless it’s George Strait). Further, she was surprisingly versatile and undeniably hilarious when she hosted Saturday Night Live (her monologue, her Shakira impersonation). I realize how much sense it made to cast her in this role, but she just did not seem ready. She took “ditzy, blonde teen cheerleader” so far over the top that I had to look away on more than one occasion. She was at 241 when all she needed was 30. I am not sure if director Garry Marshall somehow thought her performance was really dialed in, or if he was simply reluctant to actually direct Ms. Swift. Or, maybe he directed his balls off and she gave him nothing but “yuck” in return (this seems most likely). Either way, TS ruined a large part of this film for me (still looking forward to your next album though, boo).

I was happy to see that Jessica Alba was finally in a movie that I would attend while sober. I was unhappy when I saw how underwhelming her role was. They didn’t give her a lot to work with, so she was not able to show her true talent (breasts). Either way, I hope this is a sign of roles to come for Jessica. In the meantime, I will continue my attempts to telekinetically impregnate her. I remain convinced that I am her child’s father.

Well, I guess that is about it.

I feel like this really sucked,

-Toddy Maltin

Audio Muffin #8

2010-03-31T14:33:00.000-07:00

After a 3-day trip to Nevada, I’m back on Audio Muffin today.

http://tinyurl.com/yjqgx72

Trust me; you’ll be glad you did.

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

Southern Californication?

2010-03-12T05:15:00.000-08:00

Wednesday: While watching tv in my office at work, I notice “Superbad” is playing on FX, but I somehow end up watching “Friends With Money” on Lifetime instead.

Thursday: I’m at work with my office tv muted, but tuned to TBS to keep me company. In the middle of my shift, I take a look up and notice that “Sex and the City” is on. And, just by seeing Carrie’s haircut I am able to deduce that it is a rerun from the season where she dated “Burger.”

Friday: The algebra here suggests that I will spend Friday at work making an excessive amount of phone calls to my mother to discuss petty social minutia - and planning a bachelorette party for a sorority sister.

Should I call in sick today? Will it even matter? Would I simply be delaying what will inevitably arise Monday?

I do not know what any of this means, but I do find these events to be cause for concern.

I will be using this upcoming weekend to take a long, hard look at myself and ask some really tough questions.

I realize that I typically write “You’re welcome” in this space, but today I’m not so sure you are,

- Unnerved in North Hollywood

Cover Letter 2010.

2010-03-10T04:06:00.000-08:00

If this topic looks familiar, it is probably because you read the OG last year.

So, a few days ago another close friend of mine asked me to re-work her cover letter, which I was happy to do. But, before I could think of anything serious that a normal person might actually forward to a potential employer, I had to purge my brain of what it really wanted to say by making my own 2010 cover letter.

Please feel free to use any part of my cover letter for your own gain. In this economic climate, it is the least I can do for you.

Oh, and if anyone else has a funny cover letter they would like to share, send it over and I will post the bitch up like my name was LeBron.

---------------------- - ----------------------------------------------

Dear Sir Or Madam:

So you’re the one.

The one who has me up all night using the “Synonym” tool in Microsoft Word looking up better, more intelligent-sounding words to substitute in for my already above-average vocabulary. I hope you enjoy what you see, because I worked on it for days.

Well Human Resources person, I am also “the one.”

I am the one who is the impossibly perfect fit for the open position at your firm. The efficiency fanatic with the obsessive work-ethic that is also honest and trustworthy. The one that comes off “friendly” to co-workers in a way that allows him to demand optimal performance from everyone around him while not seeming even the slightest bit demanding. The one you wish would just appear so you could hire him and spare yourself the next month of reading underwhelming resume after underwhelming resume and scheduling pointless interview after pointless interview. Well, today is the day you put those resumes in the recycle bin, because you are about to hire me.

You’re not going to believe this, but I am also “young guy older employees fear is coming in with his able body and tech-savvy knowhow to take their jobs.” Yep, I am him too. I will not apologize for unintentionally growing up in the “Tech-Age,” or for having the mental and physical tenacity to run four miles every day.

As you might expect, I excel at all things pertaining to Social Media.

I can Twitter, text, email, Facebook, YouTube and Skype with the absolute best. If there were a “Top Gun” competition for cell phones, you could call me “Ice Man” and etch my name on the trophy before the shit even jumped off.

You want proof?

I once redirected a Southwest Airlines flight out of Minneapolis from Phoenix to Burbank by using only BlackBerry Messenger and a Lipton Green Tea (with anti-oxidants). Not really, but you get the idea.

Just in case no one actually reads these resumes because you send them through a software program, I should probably add a bunch of cliché cover letter terms like:

1 - self-starter

2 – teamwork

3 - expert time-management skills

4 – skill set

5 – team player

6 – outside the box thinker

7 - Ph. D.

Should we take the next step and meet face-to-face? I am thinking so. You know you want to interview this.

Stoked,

- The Todd

Email = WordsByTodd@Gmail.com

Facebook = WordsByTodd

Twitter = @WordsByTodd

Blog = WordsByTodd.Blogspot.com

MySpace (Yep. Still.) = /WordsByTodd

Cell = Do people still use phones call one another? It doesn’t matter; don’t call me.

Audio Muffin #7

2010-03-01T07:14:00.000-08:00

I'm back on Audio Muffin today.

You're gonna need two things for today's article: 1) an MP3 player and 2) a jockstrap.

Grab both and then read this---> MUFFIN

You're welcome,

-The Todd

First Restaurant Review: El Compadre (Hollywood).

2010-02-24T05:38:00.000-08:00

[This marks my first ever restaurant review. Stick with me; it’s all over the place.]

This past Sunday morning, I woke up half-hazy from the night before (Hollywood, DJ Steffi, lots of Belvedere on the rocks). Since I never seem to sleep well after going dumb the night before, I woke up around 10:00 a.m. (after going to bed at 5:00 a.m.) and couldn’t go back to sleep. So, I shot a quick text to my friend Scott to inform him that he wanted to exercise with me. Thirty minutes later, Scott and I were on the train to Hollywood to hike Runyon Canyon.

[SIDEBAR: This hike marked only the second time in all of my visits to Runyon that I did not see Dane Cook running the trails. A part of me is beginning to miss him.]

After the hike, Scott and I discussed our collective hankering for Mexican food. Since the hiking trail let us off right on Hollywood Blvd (and we hate tourists), we headed south to Sunset to seek out provisions. As soon as we hit Sunset, an old friend of mine from Indianapolis (who just recently relocated to Los Angeles) ran right past me with his iPod on. At first, he didn’t recognize me because he has not seen me since I started rocking the “Tom Hanks: ‘Cast Away’” haircut. I was eventually able to stop him and we conversed. During the convo, my friend gave me a tip on a nearby Mexican spot that he frequents. Shortly after parting ways with my long lost comrade Scott and I started down Sunset toward El Compadre Mexican Restaurant.

As soon as we walked up in the spot, I almost fell on my face. It was so dark inside the restaurant that I did not see the step up from the front door. After almost smashing my face coming through the entrance, a staff member came to show Scott and me to our table…and I nearly broke my neck for a second time in 60 seconds because I did not see the decline ramp leading from the foyer back down to the dining room level.

[SIDEBAR: I am not a clumsy person. I am a lifelong athlete and consider myself to be quite coordinated and agile. I just struggled with the lighting in the restaurant because it was incredibly sunny outside and extremely dim inside. Since I did not have time to let my eyes adjust to being indoors before being shown to our table, I nearly paralyzed myself…twice…in 60 seconds.]

Seconds after sitting down, fresh tortilla chips and salsa were distributed and our drink orders were promptly taken. I unfolded my menu and immediately began double-fisting chips and salsa. As I was shoveling fistfuls of chips and salsa into my mouth, I noticed that Deryck Whibley from Sum 41 was sitting in the booth next to us. That would have been worth mentioning back in 2006. I would have taken a pic for this entry, but as you already know the lighting was poor-and since iPhones take bad pictures in perfect illumination, getting anything useable in El Compadre’s murky interior was highly improbable.

The other reason I didn’t take a picture of Deryck is because it’s not 2006.

Back to the food...

It is important to note that El Compadre may have the best chips and salsa that I have ever had in my lifetime. The chips were fresh and crisp. The salsa was more soupy than chunky (just like I like it) and packed a pleasant punch of radiating heat. It is also important to notate that the salsa might be considered too hot for beginners and fans of ‘Twilight.’ But, if you mess with the spicy stuff, you are in for a treat. Scott and I crushed three baskets of chips and nearly four cups of salsa before our entrées even arrived.

The restaurant did not seem particularly busy for 12:30 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon, but the food did seem to take a while. Though I try, I am not a patient man (…boy). Although, I was less impatient on this occasion because the chips and salsa were so life-altering.

When the food arrived, a fried chicken burrito (sans sour cream and guacamole, per my specifications) was placed in front of me. It was effectively a chimichanga (shredded chicken and cheese inside a fried flour tortilla and topped with red sauce and even more shredded cheese). Spanish rice and refried beans came on the side.

I put on my game face and got to business.

Sadly, the chicken smelled and tasted like it was cooked on Saturday, spent the night in a bucket of water at room temperature, and reheated in a microwave for my tasting pleasure on Sunday. After my initial foray into the burrito, I gagged back a few more bites just to make certain that I was officially having the nastiest burrito of my career. After the 4^th bite I gave Scott the official confirmation and laid the thing to rest.

The Spanish rice smelled like mop water and yet somehow had no taste whatsoever.

The refried beans were satisfactory in every way.

I found the staff at El Compadre to be pleasantly attentive and polite.

I found their chips and salsa to be remarkable-so much so that Scott and I each ate them to the point of extreme discomfort.

I found their chicken to be similar in many ways to road kill.

But, this place has that good crushed ice that makes everyone happy (these things matter).

Overall, I would give them a 6.8. Everything was good except for my entrée (and maybe the rice). My love for Mexican food makes me want to give this place a second run with a different entrée…and maybe on a Saturday.

El Compadre Mexican Restaurant

7408 West Sunset Boulevard

Los Angeles, CA

(323) 874-7924

If you are in Hollywood and looking for Mexican fare, maybe pop in. If you do, send us a message and let us know what you thought. Just don’t get the chicken (on Sundays).

Quite possibly the perfect place to spend a relaxing afternoon the next time your optometrist dilates your pupils.

You’re welcome,

-@WordsByTodd (Follow Me!)

Over (2-16-2010)

2010-02-16T04:45:00.000-08:00

Getting Your (insert noun) on. I saw this ad on a bus stop in North Hollywood this week. Once the people handling the “Smokey The Bear” ad account align with a catch phrase, it’s a pretty good idea to sprint in the opposite direction.

I am a fan of Chelsea Lately. And, considering how unapologetic and progressive her show is, I am shocked to see that she still allows her promo tagline to be “Get Your Chelsea On.” Really? How can she make fun of other people for their shortcomings while sporting that tagline? Either way, as of today (or as of 1998, depending on where you live) no one is getting their anything on any longer. Agreed? Agreed.

Mr. T impressions. We know, you pity the foo’. In 1978, we did too.

Pouring out liquor to your dead homies. Given the meteoric popularity rise of African-American culture in the 1990’s, thanks to films like “Boyz N The Hood,” it was permissible for several years thereafter for White people to make ironic jokes about pouring out liquor to their dead homies. That ended. When I saw Dave Duchovny doing this in a “Californication” rerun a few months ago, I winced in embarrassment. That show is too good, and this gesture it too old.

Blow-up sex dolls. I am just ready for people to be ready to be over these kinds of cheap jokes. If executed in the perfect situation by the proper personnel this could still play, but it’s safe for everyone to move forward assuming that you and your situation do not fit those criteria.

Clapping in restaurants when a staff member drops something. First, it isn’t funny. Second, they are trying as hard as they can. Third, they hate their jobs enough already. Ninth, who the hell are you? You’re a dumbass, and we all know you’re a dumbass-so stop acting like you never make mistakes. Remember your Von Dutch hat? So do we. Stop clapping.

Olive garden commercials. I don’t generally watch commercials because I DVR everything in an effort to bypass stupid commercials such as these and make my obsessive TV watching 20% more efficient. But, occasionally I will catch a live program and every time I do, I seem to end up suffering through the horror of an Olive Garden commercial.

First, I can’t help but think I could be an Advertising executive when I see how atrocious the creative is on this account. It can’t be that hard to cast bad actors and have them recite unfortunate copy in the most cheese-dick way possible. Why I am not an overpaid/underachieving ad exec again?

After all of the scriptwriting, casting, acting and directing went straight to hell, they could have at least hired a good voice-over talent to handle the tag lines…but no.

Dear Olive Garden, is there any way I could get you to hand your advertising account over to me and a couple of dudes I know? We kinda sorta know a little about writing, producing, editing and voice acting. What we don’t know, I am somewhat confident we might be able to learn. In any event, I am sure we could produce equally dreadful promos for your company, and at a twentieth of the cost of your current agency. If interested, hit me up at WordsByTodd@Gmail.com. I don’t have a phone, but I will get back to you as soon as I see an email. Let me know.

OG, if you dudes want to see a cover letter first...well I just happen to have a few of mine online.

The Disney vault. Some things are so lame that it makes me grit my teeth. This is one of those things. I wish these bastards would make one literal version of a promo where they explain that they are going to start withholding copies of their films for years at a time in an effort to create artificial demand. And, that no copy of any movie of theirs will ever be “gone forever.”

“Are you ready for some football?” Yes, I am. I just hate when you put this as your Facebook status before the season starts. It is not original. It is not cute. It IS annoying.

Breaking wood planks with your Martial Arts. Not gonna lie, Suuuuuuper dope when Karate Kid came out in 1984. The only issue is, it’s 2010. Regretfully, I saw a guy doing this on the Ellen DeGeneres show a couple of weeks ago. C’mon White people...

Michael Buffer and getting ready to rumble. Michael, everyone hates you. But, if they’re dumb enough to pay-it only makes cents to continue to cash their checks. It’s just important that while you are cashing the checks you know that we all wish something semi-serious would happen to you and your vocal chords, thereby rendering you unable to speak. Ever again.

Further, it is my personal feeling that anyone involved with any of the Jock Jams albums should be forced to move to Siberia or face public stoning (Technotronic , Rob Base & DJ E-Z Rock, Notorious B.I.G., Puffy, and Deborah Cox are excluded, of course).

Making a “record scratch” motion and sound effect when someone talks about DJing. Unfortunately, I have been a DJ for years and have consequently run into this on an incalculable amount of occasions. I have a sneaking suspicion that people do this for my benefit. Quick note, it does not make me like you. In fact, it makes me want to stab you in the neck with the nearest writing utensil.

Thermometers that represent some sort of numeric goal and are progressively filled in with red marker to symbolize progress. Twenty more boxes of cookies and it looks like you will break the National Girl Scout record! PS – we would all understand just as clearly if you didn’t put the bulb at the bottom of the thermometer drawing. What a waste of perfectly good red Sharpie.

These things matter.

Please spread this around.

We really need to start taking action.

You’re welcome,

-Words

Toddy Chesney: On A Steel Horse I Ride.

2010-02-05T07:10:00.000-08:00

There have been a lot of emails rolling in about last week’s “Drinking” blog. Thank you for those emails (and the one death threat). Even as brilliant as the piece was, none of the emails were in regard to the subject matter “Drinking” tackled. Instead, all of the emails inquired about the reference to my alter ego, “Toddy Chesney.”

I figured I would shed some light on the guy.

Toddy Chesney started on a serendipitous day back in 2006. I was living in Indianapolis then and I somehow let a couple of my friends convince me to attend Indiana’s State Fair. Since “a couple of my friends” means “a girl I was trying to bed” I agreed. I had always been resistant to the idea of the Indiana State Fair because rednecks, tractors and livestock are not really my scene. In an attempt to make the best of it, I rounded up my old cowboy hat and set out to impress (schtup) my lady friend.

Seven friends, four mozzarella sticks, three mixed drinks, one hay ride, two goldfish, one corn-on-the-cob, 76 digital pictures, and one amateur rodeo later, “Toddy Chesney” was born.

[SIDEBAR: For some reason, I get really pissed off when girls (who are not “Country” in the least) go out and buy cowboy hats before they attend the one and only Country music concert of their lifetimes. Something about it just feels so corny. I am also not “Country” in the least, but I am giving myself a pass on owning a cowboy hat since 1) I bought it as a Halloween costume and because 2) I wear it less in the name of acceptance and more in the names of humor and consummation.]

Prior to surfacing 1/23/2010, “Big Chez” had not made an appearance since his inception in 2006. Being that I was attending friend’s birthday party 1/23/2010, I wanted to take my game up a notch (to notch two)---thus, I donned the hat.

When my friends showed up at my apartment for Cocktail Kickoff hour and saw me sporting a Stetson they almost went home. I received threats during the entire cocktail hour that if I wore “the hat” out of my apartment that night my friends would call the whole thing off. 60 minutes and a few shots of vodka later, everyone was so worried about leaving to get to the bar that no one realized I snuck out of my apartment with “the hat” still intact.

I had it figured this way: We go out a lot and the action is hit and miss. I hoped stepping out in a ridiculous hat would at least be a possible conversation starter (and trust, a conversation is all “Toddy Chesney” needs to start another amateur rodeo).

Standing in line outside the bar two Saturdays ago I was feeling good. People outside were telling me they loved the hat (and not in a “he’s really a d-bag and we’re going to be making fun of him as soon as he turns around” sort of way. I can sense these things). I felt amazing and my spirit was riding high…until we made it inside. Because NOTHING EVER goes my way, the only open table was in the back of the bar...RIGHT NEXT TO THE ONLY OTHER GUY IN LOS ANGELES THAT WORE A COWBOY HAT OUT THAT NIGHT (because Bret Michaels was out of town). Immediately, my entire group of friends started pointing and laughing at me. I Told You So’s started rolling in faster than…something that’s really fast.

I was actually proud of how I shrugged off the embarrassment.

The other guy’s hat was white and my hat was black (it was a lot like the “Friends” episode wear Joey sells cologne. A showdown). I figured there was room enough for both of us in the bar.

“Blanco” apparently figured differently.

As soon as Blanco saw me, he and his friend stood up and sprinted for the door. At that point, I knew it was gonna be on and subsequently crackin’ because I was the only hat in town. Moreover, I was taller, thinner, more funny, and better looking than Blanco.

Now, free of all other cowboy hats, we ordered the first round and beganst to get it popping.

Soon, I was all over the bar drinking, telling jokes, and doing what I now refer to as “the move.” It’s where Toddy Chesney (Yes, I am now referring to myself in the ninth person) uses his index finger to pop the front bill of his cowboy hat up so you can see his mysterious eyes.

It worked.

Well.

Two hours after our arrival at the bar, Ice Man, Slider and me were all engaged in combat (it was what I call a “target-rich environment”). The interesting thing about my conversation is that the young lady I was conversing with had told me an hour earlier that she was not drinking because she was her party’s designated driver for the evening. One hour later, this woman was on her third glass of wine, wearing my cowboy hat and asking me if I was in possession of several pieces of football equipment that I now believe to have been euphemisms for sex acts.

I’d say the hat played.

(“Face” @allofmyfriendswhodidn’tbelieveinToddyChesney).

As you know from last week’s blog, I didn’t go home with the woman who was pursuing me. I am too hard to get. Instead, I fulfilled my friend responsibilities and 1) took the drunken birthday girl to breakfast, 2) handed her off to her roommate for safe keeping and 3) hit on a gorgeous Spanish girl at the breakfast spot who will probably never call me.

[SIDEBAR: Does anyone ever go out with anyone? As evidenced by my most recent night out, it feels like I am never interested in the women who make advances toward me. Meanwhile, the women I ask out are never interested in me. It feels like we’re all just in limbo. How do people ever get a date these days? Online dating? Shameless.]

So, that was a little background on, and some of the goings-on in the life of, my alter ego.

It’s really anyone’s guess as to when Toddy Chesney will ever ride again.

Regardless, I can’t wait to saddle up for another round.

ReTweet,

-The Chez

[Author's Note: I do not even know one Kenny Chesney song. Points will be awarded to the first five people to post K.C. song titles that you think I should download. Get on it.]

Why Must We Always Drink?

2010-01-29T05:38:00.000-08:00

I’m not a big drinker. At the same time, there are occasions when I do get busy.

Lately, I seem to be having trouble understanding why, after we turn 21, every function we attend seems to be fundamentally based on consuming alcohol (more often than not, excessively).

I don’t want it to get confused---I DO PARTY.

I’m not the conservative guy who never touches the sauce and looks down on people who do. For instance, as I am writing this l have three full bottles of vodka in my freezer (no roommates; no girlfriend; I never have people over). Further, last Saturday night was my friend’s birthday. I wore a cowboy hat out for no reason at all (other than simply to party as my alter ego, “Toddy Chesney”), took nine shots of vodka at the bar, told jokes all night, laughed endlessly, had to be taxied to a Denny’s for late night cuisine with the birthday girl, crushed an entire appetizer sampler, noticed a gorgeous Spanish girl at the table next to us, paid the bill, and on my way out of the restaurant I walked up to the beautiful Spanish girl’s table and delivered a very embarrassing speech about wanting to take her out on a date in front of nine people. And Sunday morning, I woke up still a bit pissed.

[SIDEBAR: I just remembered that after my vodker shots I capped my night off by ordering a can of TaB and toting it around the bar as a joke. No one laughed.

(yes, somehow the bar had cans of TaB on chill).]

So as you can see, I truly do get after it on occasion (about four times a year).

Sometimes, I go straight up “Lindsay Lohan” in the club (about once a year).

But lately, I have been questioning why every event I attend is booze-centric.

I don’t mind a cocktail here and there, but why do we ALWAYS have to drink to tolerate hanging out with other people---especially when the “other people” are our friends?

People are always saying that they “don’t need to drink to have fun.” If so, why do those same people seem to be drinking at 100% of the parties we mutually attend?

Again, why after we turn 21 does getting wasted seem to be the theme of every single get-together?

Do we all hate our lives so much that we have to get hyper-trashed for the pure escape of it? Do we become socially inept in our older age? At what point did drinking to have a good time become drinking to simply coexist with others? Does asking all of these rhetorical questions make me seem too “Carrie Bradshaw?”

Think about it, have you ever in your life attended a party (thrown by people who actually DO drink) where no one broke out some sort of drank?

Could you do it?

Would you do it?

Would you attend a party this weekend at a friend’s house if you knew ahead of time that there would be zero hooch? If so, would you stay longer than 45 minutes?

It’s bizarre to me that we somehow lose the ability to soberly talk, laugh and have fun with other people after we turn 21. Well, maybe we don’t lose it, we just never go back to trying it because everywhere we go alcohol just always seems to be near (like TMZ).

One of the best birthdays I ever had was when a friend of mine from out of town came to visit. We went downtown to a decadent Italian restaurant and then to a club to see one of our favorite DJs. Neither of us had a drink the entire night and yet massive amounts of fun were had. The next day, we both remembered how delicious the food was, every song the DJ played, every joke each of us told, and how/why/where each picture was taken. It was a legendary night out---and we were both stone sober.

I feel like no one wants to be sober anymore-and this idea makes a part of me really sad.

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Another thing that interests me is how so many people seem to associate having fun with getting belligerent-and ONLY with getting belligerent. When friends visit us from out of town, we too often seem to mark those occasions with binge drinking-as if there is some sort of correlation between the amount of alcohol your group consumes and the amount you care for each other. I on the other hand, view this type of behavior as somewhat insulting.

If you really enjoyed someone’s company, I would think you could stay completely sober with them and remain entertained throughout. Is this not what true friends are? When I meet up with people I rarely get to see, I want to be sober so we can talk and listen and remember everything the next day.

Getting super “Hazeyville” is for those nights when you get set up on a blind double date and your date is a train wreck. I have trouble seeing why people treat those dreadful instances with the same behavior as when best friends visit or turn a year older.

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

One last thing: Can we all agree to stop drinking too much?

If you are 28 years old, this probably means you have been drinking for anywhere between seven and 13 years. Can you freaking learn how alcohol affects you and adjust accordingly? If you know you get angry and yell and kick and scream and fight when you get drunk, then maybe be a responsible adult and cut yourself off after three or four drinks---so the rest of us at your birthday party don’t have to:

1 - listen to you awkwardly curse out your friends

AND

2 - help you up every time you fall down whilst attempting to execute menial tasks (such as standing).

I am beyond over pleading with grown-ass adults to stop drinking because everyone but them appears to know they have had too much and the Fun-O-Meter is dropping exponentially in ten-second intervals.

I am pleased to announce that I am a very fun drunk. The only real differences are I talk a bit louder and a bit more frequently. That’s it (I am always likely to dance, so nothing really changes on that front as my Blood Alcohol Level increases). Unfortunately, we are not all so joyous when intoxicated.

How do you act when you are slizzard?

Do you even know?

You should, because you have been getting drunk twice a month for a decade. If you have no idea what you are like when you are twasted then maybe you should start paying a touch more attention (now that you’re 34).

Getting super stupid and assuming a “babysitter” was kind of cute when you were 19.

These days, I hate you.

Have your drinks, have your fun, just be a f_cking professional and cut yourself off at the appropriate time so you don’t ruin everyone else’s night. I don’t know why, after years of experience, people remain incapable of this. But inevitably, someone gets “teenage drunk” and makes me feel like the adult at the Junior High dance. Figuring your B.A.L. is simple arithmetic. If you can count to five, you can learn to cut yourself off before you get start to get obnoxious.

Stop with the excuses. You’re grown as shit.

If you still claim it “must have hit me all at once,” then I want to karate chop your Adam’s Apple.

Of course it didn’t “hit you all at once.” Alcohol has (and will always have) a cumulative effect. We would all love to be tipsy four seconds after our first sip, but it doesn’t work that way. Set a number and stick to it---regardless of whether or not you are feeling affected when you reach that number (I am so embarrassed to be explaining this right now).

Though I wish it were true when you say you are “never drinking again,” it’s not. You will drink again-so spare us all the melodramatic cliches.

I work hard all week and look forward to enjoying my nights out. If I wanted to spend that time babysitting I would have knocked up one of the skanks I used to court. Stop making it all about you. Instead of thinking about how drunk you are going to get this weekend, maybe think about making a conscious effort not to ruin your friend’s R&R time with your Sorority Girl/Frat Guy agenda.

I just want people to be honest with me from now on. If it’s what you plan to do, then explain verbatim in your call/text/Evite that you are trying to get a group of people together Saturday night to watch you “go out, get blackout drunk, start a fight with one or more of your friends (and possibly a group of strangers), fall down, scrape your knee(s), ruin your outfit, cry, lose your camera, make out with someone you should not (and consequently forever ruin the social dynamic of your workplace, our group of friends or both), forget to pay your tab, leave your credit card at the bar, scream about losing your cell phone for a hour when it is in your purse (or pocket) the whole time, get us all thrown out of the bar, attract the attention of the police, puke, cry again, and have a hangover for nearly two days that I will have to listen to you complain about incessantly. See, if you would do this I would know where your head was at in advance-and then be able to make a fully-informed decision about whether or not to attend the catastrophe.

[SIDEBAR: I have always associated cameras with females. It was only recently that I realized I make this association because most females I know seem to go dumb super early-and count on the photographic evidence to piece together the previous night (A la “The Hangover”).]

You know those times when your friends decide to stay in rather than meet the rest of the group out and you text them back something to the effect that they are being “lame?” Right. It’s not that your friends are lame, it’s just that they want to enjoy their relaxation time and they know that when they hang out with amateurs like you, things go straight to shit. They know they’ll end up babysitting without the $10/hour to show for it at the end of the night.

Drinking is for adults. It’s time for you children to either grow up or surrender your red cups.

Oh, and I hate all of you.

Uggghhh…I need a drink,

-The Todd

[Editor’s note: Speaking of excessive drinking (and promoting ahead here), I will be back in Las Vegas March 25-28^th for my brother’s 21^st birthday extravaganza (i.e. “Vegas, Pt. 3”). Those of you familiar with this blog know what this means. Stay tuned.]

Right Back Where We Started From.

2010-01-20T05:52:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, I heard what I thought was a bizarre story about a football player who drank human breast milk ever day. He explained that it was beneficial to his body because it contained numerous fatty acids and whatnots that proved to be great supplements to his diet and strength training. Together, the combination helped keep his body where it needed to be to take the physical beating given to an NFL running back.

Are you disgusted? Of course you are, but only because this idea is not yet the norm. Just because something is NOT traditional does NOT mean that it is wrong. Moreover, just because something IS traditionally done DOES NOT mean it is right.

Here I go again, questioning conventional wisdom.

It’s weird to imagine a grown man slurping human hooter juice like a 3-month old, but when you really stop and think about it, why is it so strange?

First, we drink the stuff as children anyway.

Second, human milk does not need to be Pasteurized like the livestock version that most of the world uses.

Third, it is better for you.

Nineteenth, it’s not from freaking livestock.

Lately, I have been passing this idea around to a few of my friends (okay, both of my friends) and it has been met with the usual resistance. It is absolutely hilarious to me that people scoff at the idea of consuming human breast milk as adults. Meanwhile, those very same scoffers drink cups full of fluid squeezed from an ugly, smelly, grass-grazing beast that someone arbitrarily chose as our milk source decades ago.

So, why a cow?

What is so appetizing about siphoning solution from the veiny flesh bag that hangs from a grazing beast-which lies in its own waste and lets fruit flies eats its nose?

If I told you I drink monkey milk (if one could actually milk a monkey), you would probably grimace and then go on to explain how peculiar drinking milk from a strange animal seems to you. Would it really be any more disgusting than chugging cow sauce?

Again, why cows? Who chose this? Who approved it? I was not involved in this decision making process, so I do not accept it.

When I speak to people about this new idea, I think they are put off by it mostly because it makes them think of chugging from their mom’s boobs. Now, I am not suggesting that we all go back to the source where we each got our breast milk in our younger days, or that we go about receiving a serving the same way we did as infants. I think people would have issues with the winner of the Indianapolis 500 jumping out of his car and taking a huge pull from his mom’s left breast, but I think there is something to this whole “human milk source” idea.

Granted, the idea of women milking themselves into a jar so it could be packaged with a “Toddy Farms” sticker and placed in the dairy aisle at your local grocery would be somewhat strange initially; but I think if the money was right, women would oblige (goodbye unemployment rate).

I already see this becoming the new Hollywood/Whole Foods grocery store craze. I might just go ahead and open the country’s first woman milking operation. Lord knows I have the experience in my background (Midwestern guy with a respectable batting average-and whose grandfather raised cows).

To be honest, it wouldn’t take much to get this idea implemented. I mean, some women already refer to each other as “heifer” and “cow” anyway. It makes so much sense now.

Currently, we break milk types down into classes by way of fat content. With human milk, we would need to do something similar.

You might have guessed-I came up with a little something.

Below, you will find the updated nomenclature and conversion chart for my proposed move to human milk.

Fat Free = Jessica Alba

Low Fat = Angelina Jolie

2% = Tyra Banks

Vitamin D = Beyonce

(Bitch milk is probably sounding a little more appetizing after reading those names, isn’t it? It’s all about marketing, people. And it just so happens that I am a marketing genius. I mean, can you imagine the packaging possibilities? And to think, they have been using a boring carton this whole time.)

Now that I am thinking about it, Louie Pasteur (who invented the process of “Pasteurization,” which is heating milk to reduce the number of its harmful micro-organisms-making it less likely to cause disease in the humans who drink it) was in one of my History books in elementary school. We actually spent part of a school day talking about him. My teacher spoke about Mr. Pasteur like some great American hero.

F that.

I think “Sweet Lou” was a coked out of his gourd (Cows? Really, Lou?).

I want to be celebrated in classrooms nationwide. Teachers should brainwash elementary school students with propaganda about how I am a visionary. I know I deserve it more than Louie Pasteur.

I am seriously jacked about this idea. I plan to commence job shadowing Lactation nurses at local hospitals in order to advance my research. Hey, somebody has to do the due diligence. How else will we find the answers? Edison goofed off in his garage with copper filament and I will be at local hospitals juggling bosom. It’s all science.

I know this whole thing sounds crazy at this stage, but that is just because it is not the norm yet (imagine how crazy it sounded when Louis Pasteur first asked people if they would drink cow squirt). In 50 years, they will be talking about how I was the visionary at the forefront of all of this.

I feel like this idea is going to win me yet another Nobel Peace Prize (the other being for my Vasectomy piece). At the very least, I know I am getting PETA’s vote. Geez, that’s two NPP’s that I should have coming my way now. When the first one arrives, I am going to celebrate with a nice tall glass of woman.

Honestly, wouldn’t you rather pour some Jessica Alba into your morning cereal?

I know.

You’re welcome people.

-Todd (AKA “The Milk Man”)

[Scoring opportunity: I am not stoked about the term “wilk,” so I need some name ideas for this product. The same goes double for “Todd-steurization” (the term for the act of milking a woman and processing said milk for commercial consumption). If you have any ideas for either, post up.]

2009 Final Scoreboard.

2010-01-18T05:39:00.000-08:00

The reader point totals from my 2009 posts have finally been tabulated.

And the winner is...

Jenna & Jackson.

This is how it all broke down:

1 - Jenna & Jackson = 35 points

2 - lindynicole = 25 points

3 – christina = 19 points

4 - trina = 16 points

5 - Frank = 15 points

6 - The Carter Posse = 11 points

T7 - Lynda M. = 10 points

T7 - J Bear = 10 points

8 – cindy e = 6 points

9 – LL Steezy = 1 point

Jenna & Jackson, your loyal readership is greatly appreciated. To prove it, I will allow you to pick a prize from the following:

1 – ShamWow

2 – Snuggie (in the print of your choice. Zebra?)

3 – Shake Weight

Send me an email at WordsByTodd@Gmail.com with your prize of choice and mailing address and I will make it happen.

I would like to take this time to thank everyone for reading, commenting, and forwarding my site to your friends and family. The blog gets bigger every week and it is because of “yinz guys.” Let’s keep it going.

I would also like to thank the consultants over at Ernst & Young for their accounting expertise and their efforts in this matter.

As of right now, the scoreboard has been set back to all zeros. Stay tuned in for all of the 2010 posts for your chance to score big.

The first scoring opportunity of this year is to give me ideas for the 2010 grand prize. As of right now, I am leaning toward a package containing a Boyz N The Hood DVD and a “Compton” hat.

Please post your ideas.

And we’re off…

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

Online Dating.

2010-01-15T07:06:00.000-08:00

One of my best friends has been begging me (literally, begging) for four years to let her sign me up for online dating. Each time, after I finish shaking her vigorously, I explain to her (yet again) that I am not interested. Even though I have explained my reasons why to her numerous times, she asks me why each time anyway.

Here’s why.

Before we get started here, I want to say that I still feel like online dating has a negative stigma and I think it’s a shame. Everyone that scoffs at people who met online (or are attempting to) need to realize that there is no shame in internet dating. It’s for smart people who enjoy efficiency. And, I feel like it will be how the majority of dating gets down over the next 20 years.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I would like to submit that I think online dating actually makes more sense to me than any other sort of dating. I have a very scientific brain, so I find the idea of preemptively submitting critical search criteria very appealing. It seems like this would solve many compatibility issues before wasting precious time and money on tricks-ass bitches that would eventually complain incessantly about how I do not measure up to all of the boxes on their extensive “Perfect Guy” checklists.

But, there are problems. Problems with me, problems with others and problems with the online dating system.

First, I do not even desire a girlfriend. I’m not a “Himbo,” it’s just that I have no real interest in being in a relationship at this stage of my life. I have plenty of friends to take to movies and dinners. There would be advantages (like not being automatically relegated to the couch when me and all of my married siblings return home for the holidays), but presently the thought of any and all advantages does not seem to outweigh how much I cherish the freedom to go anywhere and do anything with anyone at any time.

For this whole idea to work I would need some sort of uber-exclusive “Why Are You Still Single?” dating site where the only people that are allowed to enroll are all attractive, educated, sweet, kind, friendly, emotionally-balanced, fun women whose friends have no idea how they could possibly still be single. The only thing I have seen close to this is that TV show where millionaires pay a service to be set up with young bimbos. I am not wealthy, and I do not seek a cliché piece of arm candy (I still have some hair on my head).

Second, I have no interest in paying for the service. Why would I pay a service to find me a girlfriend when I am indifferent about girlfriends? It seriously gets expensive. Dating a girl is usually costly for the first couple of months because you are always going out to spend time together-since meeting up at someone’s apartment to watch movies in your sweatpants is a somewhat uncomfortable thought for two people whom have only recently met. It takes a month or two of dating before you can begin with the honest portion of the relationship and tell a girl that you need to curb your spending because you have dreams of someday purchasing a house (in Los Angeles, for that matter). Now, if I was paying for the internet service and consequently taking SEVERAL women on two months worth of first dates apiece, that would be astronomically expensive. Financially, I just can’t make the numbers work. Blame Microsoft Excel.

My chick friend that wants to sign me up for this stuff always tells me that she will “handle everything.” She is of course speaking about all of the sign-up nonsense. Yes, I hate answering 40-page questionnaires and creating usernames and passwords more than anyone in the world, but writing is what I do. Putting together a funny bio page about myself would be the most enjoyable aspect of the entire online dating experience. So, since I sincerely doubt that I will ever be dating online anytime soon, I figured I would show everyone what my bio page would look like if I were to ever get involved.

Screen Name: GayForClooney8592.

Quote: “Life’s a dance; you learn as you go…”

(Cheesy Country music quote that makes me seem wholesome. All the while, I yearn to keep shit thorough with a gutter-ass quote from Tupac, or something trashy about “feeling yummy head to toe” from Gwen Stefani)

Sex: Male.

Ethnicity: Caucasian.

Age: 28

Location: North Hollywood, CA

Height: 6’1”

Weight: 155 lbs.

Body Type: Slim. Some might call me “Skinny.” I lean more toward “Athletic” or “Marathoner.” Fine, I look like Lance Armstrong. There, I said it. Either way, I’m sexy. Dead.

Hair: Blondish.

Eyes: Brown.

Relationship Status: Single.

Seeking: Females 25-35.

Marital Background: Not a chance in shit.

Have Kids: Should not be allowed in public until they are 12. And even then, if they start acting crazy people who are not their parents should be able to strike them in their respective windpipes.

Want Kids: Just practicing. I need reps.

Religion: Football.

Smoke: That’s a deal-breaker.

Drink: Like it’s for a grade. Belvedere on the rocks, no straw, no fruit wedge. Keep them coming every seven minutes until I pass out…then every 10 minutes after that.

About me: I’m a manic-depressive with an on-again, off-again Mt. Dew addiction. So, occasionally you’ll have the pleasure of seeing me on a manically-depressed sugar-high---which is, if nothing else, an entertaining train wreck that is difficult to look away from.

And those are the good days.

It’s the days when I’m off Mt. Dew and having manic-depressive sugar-deprivation come down symptoms that things really get dicey.

I am kind of a romantic though, I suppose. I guess the best way to describe me would be “Ro-manic-depressive.”

I do adventurous things from time to time (hiking, kayaking, Buffalo Wild Wings), but let’s be real---most of my time is spent in my apartment trying to convince myself to get out of bed. And on those rare occasions that I make it out of bed, I spend nearly all of my time listening to records. All day. And night. And often times into the next morning.

As you might guess, I am an on-again, off-again DJ. I thought I would throw that in here because women seem to find it attractive for some reason. The upside is I could fill 2,000 of your iPods with hotness (maybe the one selling point in this article).

If you couldn’t tell, I need alone time. A lot of it. I am socially bi-polar. Sometimes I am the life of the party that pops “shamp,” dances his balls off, tells jokes and makes everyone laugh-and sometimes I sit alone in my dimly lit apartment and stare at the wall.

What really bothers me about dating is that I hate acting proper so women will find me suitable. I mean, yes, I respect you, but why act like I’m not mostly just interested in finding a reliable dinner date and steady, disease-free sex? A couple of years ago, I gave up acting the way I know girls want me to on dates. These days, I keeps it f-cking really real---so as to NOT waste each other’s time. I have to think that women would appreciate that more than someone who is being disingenuous.

My ideal first date would be wearing a sweatsuit to a quiet wine bar where the two or three (heh, heh) of us could talk quietly and hopefully enjoy a Jazz or Soul soundtrack (that would eventually turn Hip-Hop and evolve into Dubstep and then finally, Electro). I would attempt to be funny and it would work. At the end, we would split the check right down the middle (or three ways) and she (they) would be okay with it. Not just say she (they) was (were) okay with it, but would actually be okay with it. I hate when women make an offer just to test us so they appear to be kind, then proceed to go home and complain to their friends about how a guy actually allowed them to pay for their halves. My time and company are worth just as much as any woman’s. If you want to date this (and I’m certain you do not), bring your debit card.

I don’t pay for dates. Ever.

Check that, I do pay for dates---my half.

It is important that women know that they are not so special that they deserve to have their every want paid for. It seems arrogant to me that any person would think a total stranger should pay for every penny of every activity during a date (or an entire relationship for that matter). Further, it makes me feel like I’m hiring a prostitute when I rent a lady for an evening. I will never again put a girl on scholarship. Ever. How else would I know that she didn’t just agree to see me every weekend for some free food and alcohol? If you really enjoy my company, you won’t have any problem paying your way.

Marriage is the same as dating to me. Breaking up is the same thing to me as getting divorced. Feelings are more real to me than binding social contracts, so I do need any paperwork to tell me how I feel about someone.

I will never marry, but I would like to eventually have one person to spend the majority of my time with (for however long that may be). Not because I want to grow old with someone or any of the other clichés, but mostly because I get tired of telling new girls the same information about me-only to break things off a few weeks later and repeat myself yet again to the next one (this is where my online dating profile could really do some of the initial heavy lifting for me).

I probably won’t commit to you. I’m not a cheater or a herder, I simply cherish my freedom. And also, I’m a realist-and we all know that we eventually run out of things to say to people we are dating, so I have no delusions about finding someone eternally engaging. I do hate working, so I suppose I might marry for money. Truthfully, I would give careful consideration to even marrying an ugly bitch that was turbo-annoying if her family was wealthy to the point that the marriage meant I could retire effective immediately. I most certainly subscribe to the idea of money buying happiness. Well, mine at least.

If I had my pick of all of the women in the world, I’m not sure I wouldn’t pass on them all and just chill by myself. I’m not going to be easy to wrangle into a relationship.

Looking for: A lady. Average looking. Sweet. Not just sweet, but the sweetest. I just like sweet girls that want to be agreeable, have fun and laugh a lot. I hate bitchy bitches with “Pretty Girl Attitudes” who think they can act stupid and be inconsiderate of other people’s feelings just because they are used to getting a free pass due to their looks. And, I cannot handle women who thrive on controversy and try to turn everything into a fight. The high highs and low lows those women bring are too exhausting for me to keep up with. I suppose, if she did not have a pretty girl attitude, that I might entertain the possibility of dating a gorgeous woman, I just really wouldn’t prefer it.

If you tell people that you are “dating,” but are actually interviewing every guy you meet for the position of “Husband” please do not contact me. You bitches scare me.

[SIDEBAR: I don’t know what ever happened to dating. Why is it always about finding someone to spend eternity with? I don’t ever want to get married, but I still like having dinner and intelligent conversations with interesting people. I can’t be the only one that feels this way.]

I put up with absolutely zero bullshit.

Show me jealously and I will show you one choice finger-and then turn said finger sideways to point you in the direction of the exit.

Exhibit drama and I will crank The Heisman in your collarbone region.

As you can plainly see, any and all candidates need to be secure and “Diet Drama.”

Oh, and I want my concubine to be funny. She doesn’t have to be “stand-up comedian” funny, but someone who gets the funny in every situation and likes to laugh. I need her to understand my dry, sarcastic, oft-hateful humor. I would even be open to the idea of her piggy-backing off of my comedy and adding to it in a sort of tandem attack. That being said, I will not be overshadowed. I’m the funny guy. It’s my thing. It’s really all I have. I would need to be Michael Jackson, while she would ideally be Tito (or even Marlon).

After reading all of that which appears above-you might find it impossible to believe that I’m confident nearly anyone who has ever met me would most likely co-sign me as a “good guy.” Or, that I constantly get the “I can’t believe you’re still single” speech from my bitch friends. Or, that I’m actually average-looking. It’s interesting, really.

If for some sick, twisted reason you find enough of the above appealing to the point that you are interested in what will most likely be a failed attempt at a first date, feel free to email me at WordsByTodd@Gmail.com. Maybe this way we can circumvent the online dating system entirely and spend that money on a date.

Okay E-Harmony, let’s see you find a match for that.

Seriously, I dare you bitches to date this.

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

[Editor’s Note: In doing research for the layout of this article, I logged onto Match.com to see how to construct an online dating profile. The first profile I clicked on was of a P.Y.T. in Sherman Oaks, CA with the screen name “Fashionista8592.” Ironically, I read her profile and really wanted to take her out on a date. Very random. And it feels like it has the makings of a screenplay. Fashionista8592, if you are reading this, hit me on the hip.]

Audio Muffin #5.

2010-01-13T07:39:00.000-08:00

Are you missing me?

I figured as much.

I suggest you get on over to Audio Muffin and check my post for today.

As if the witty banter were not enough, I'm also giving away free mp3s over there, too.

You're welcome,

-The Todd

Parks and Recreation and a REALLY hot bitch.

2009-12-30T05:11:00.000-08:00

Rashida Jones.

Oh, Rashida Jones.

For those familiar with NBC’s “The Office,” you may remember Rashida Jones from several episodes between 2006 and 2009. Others may know her from the throwback favorite “Freaks and Geeks” or more recently, from another NBC Thursday night comedy, “Parks and Recreation.”

I remember her frommmmmmmmmm every dream I’ve had in the past six months.

Holy hot.

Now that I live in Hollywood, I feel like my chances of living the dream (i.e. dating a “Balls hot” + wealthy Hollywood actress) are closer to reality than they have ever been. People that know me know that – when it comes to approaching women - I fear nothing. I will pretty much walk up to anyone, anytime, anywhere and strike up a convo (this doesn’t mean I’m a man whore that does it a lot, it just means I ain’t neva scurred). Lately, I have been hoping to run into Rashida Jones so I could do just that.

After seeing Rashida in the movie “I Love You, Man” with Paul Rudd and Jason Segal, I could not stop thinking about how adorable she was. She has the perfect face, hair, teeth, eyes, skin, body and smile. All of that without mentioning her impossibly charming personality and the fact that she appears to be quite funny. Oh, and she just happens to have an extremely lucrative job.

Further:

She’s part African-American ---I’m super attracted to brown-skinned ladies.

She’s part Irish---------------------I’m a huge Notre Dame Football fan.

She’s part Russian-----------------I drink vodka like it’s for a grade.

Who could deny all of that obvious compatibility? This is some E-Harmony-type shit.

It’s kind of weird how into this girl I am, given my “Absolutely NO BANGS under any circumstances whatsoever” rule. As luck would have it, the latest episodes of “Parks and Recreation” suggest that she is growing her hair out. Thus, she gets hotter with every single day (as if this weren’t already hard enough).

As soon as I finished watching “I Love You, Man” I jumped on IMDB because I just had to know her story.

Seconds after reading her IMDB profile, I decided to set Rashida free (even though we’ve never met).

At this point, you might be asking yourself why I prematurely broke up with a woman I have never met.
Well, I did this because seconds into reading about her, I realized that her father is Quincy Jones.

Like, THE Quincy Jones.

Like, “Michael Jackson, Paul McCartney, Thriller, Off The Wall, 2 million Grammys,” Quincy Jones.

Meeting a girl’s parents is scary enough. When daddy is Quincy Jones, the thought is even more terrifying.

From time to time I have flashes of what I would say to Quincy Jones if I ever met him while accompanying his daughter to a family dinner. In every occurrence Quincy and I shake hands (I botch the handshake), he says “Nice to meet you” and I say “Hhhhhhggggguuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrlllllllllllmmmmmmm” and then smile tensely.

I just cannot envision an interaction with Quincy F-cking Jones that goes well.

As if embarrassing myself in front of her father would not be enough, I get the feeling that at least one of her sisters would hate me. Rashida’s sister Kidada was engaged to Tupac Shakur at the time of his unfortunate murder. Being the ridiculous music historian (and major Tupac fan) that I am, I would undoubtedly harass Kidada about ‘Pac every time she was within shouting distance (or logged in to any type of online messenger service). I would hate myself for it, but I would do it. I don’t like it either, but I would do it.

I would do it.

And just for fun, let’s say I was able to somehow compose myself enough to speak to Rashida’s father like that of at least a highly-functioning mentally retarded person, and also found the strength to NOT continuously hound Kidada for stories about Tupac - I STILL feel like the relationship would be in jeopardy.

Why?

Because I doubt Rashida would react favorably to finding out that her ex-fiancé Mark Ronson has been a personal hero of mine for the past decade. Hmm. Awkward.

In addition to the Mark Ronson stuff, Rashida would probably also not like the fact that I would constantly babble about how her ex-ex-fiancé Tobey Maguire is a total soup sandwich (though it’s partly the Tobey Maguire thing that makes me think I would actually have a chance of convincing her to date me).

Knowing that Ms. Jones has been romantically linked to Josh Hartnett in the past, things would also get awkward when I inevitably made fun of her for that, or when she eventually read this piece of my blog.

I mean, dating Rashida Jones would be a really good way to finally get my rap career off the ground, but I just can’t see it working. For now, I just have to DVR “Parks and Recreation” every week, scream at the TV about how lovely and adorable she is during every episode, and let my wasted heart secretly love her for eternity.

In the words of Mayer Hawthorne, “It Just Ain’t Gonna Work Out.”

I’m sorry Rashida.

It just has to be this way.

It’s not you…it’s me (and your dad).

-The Todd

[Follow Your Boy On Twitter.]

The Todd is on “The Muffin.”

2009-11-12T05:38:00.000-08:00

Dudes,

Today is a monumental day.

So, I recently landed a spot writing for a dope music blog called Audio Muffin – and my first ever post for them goes up TODAY (7:00 A.M. PST)!

The Audio Muffin is a collection of music uber-enthusiasts from all corners of North America that help spread the word about sonic freshness. Whether it’s something mainstream like the new Hova, or an underground act just beginning to create musical fusion in a storage unit next to your house, it is likely that one of the Muffin writers already has it on lock. Articles, mp3s, videos, pics, streams, “The Muffin” has it all.

And now, they’ve got me – so you know it’s serious.

I am turbo-jazzed to see what happens when I join forces with a bunch of other obsessive collectors who were always the “music person” in their respective social groups.

Audio Muffin is really emerging in the blogosphere (for some reason, I really hate that word). They are about to completely take sh*t over, so I went ahead and jumped on The Dream Team.

If you don’t know, now you know. And on that note, go ahead and inform your friends that don’t already know about Audio Muffin (it makes you look extra fresh when you inform people of the cool websites first).

If we end up having some sort of official Christmas party /music nerd-fest, I will be sure to report back about it.

Until then, bookmark Audio Muffin and follow that bitch like it’s for a grade.

http://audiomuffin.com/ (click)

Make your way over to Audio Muffin now and read my first post about Afrojack!

You’re welcome,

-The Todd

[Please be aware that I will continue to write on this blog as I always have. The Audio Muffin gig is simply in addition to my WordsByTodd franchise. Also be aware that the first 5 readers to jump over to Audio Muffin, read my post, and leave a comment on Audio Muffin will receive points (Standard scoring rates apply).]

Follow Audio Muffin on Twitter!

Follow ME ON TWITTER!

Reader Scoreboard #3.

2009-11-11T05:22:00.000-08:00

Here is the updated reader scoreboard.

Good work some of you.

To all the losers: step your game up.

1 - Jenna & Jackson = 25 points

2 - lindynicole = 12 points

3 - The Carter Posse = 11 points
3 - trina = 11 points

4 - Lynda M. = 10 points

5 - J Bear = 10 points

Now, instead of a ShamWow!, I'm thinking about changing the winning prize to a Shake Weight.

Your thoughts?

Oh yeah, follow me on Twitter.

You're welcome,

-Todd

"Parent Speak."

2009-10-20T03:57:00.001-07:00

At this point in my life I do not feel like I want to have kids.

I have no idea how I will feel about this issue in the decades to come, but presently I feel like I would probably end up trading my kid(s) for any combination of goods, services, future draft picks, and cash.

Since I get the feeling that being a parent is not on my horizon, I try to integrate that which I find most attractive about being a parent into my life, as if I do have children.

I am, of course, talking about “Parent Speak.”

Great question…

“Parent Speak” is when you talk to a person in either a dismissive manner, like a drill instructor, while using a condescending tone, or all of the above (as if you were that person’s parent).

Just because I will probably never have a kid (on purpose) does NOT mean I should have to miss out on talking down to people like they are my children. For this reason, when my friends ask me to do things that I know I will never do, I tell them “We’ll see.” Further, it is common for me to attempt to send lippy girlfriends to their bedrooms without dinner. I am also known to end conversations with the phrase “Do you understand me?”

As with most things, my “Parent Speak” has not been very well-received by any of my friends or co-workers (which is exactly why so many of my friends and co-workers are currently “grounded”).

Cumulatively, my mother and step-father have five children – the last of which just moved out on his own - leaving the ‘rents one-on-one for the first time in their lives.

I recently rang my mother to ask her what, if anything, she is missing most about having kids in the house to slap around and talk down to. Below is the exchange in nearly its entirety (unedited so it’s extra gully)…

Mom Dukes: “Hello.”

WBT: “Mommy Dukes, it’s your 5^th most-favorite child.”

Mom Dukes: “Hey.”

WBT: “What’s goin’ down?”

Mom Dukes: “I’m in London right now.”

WBT: “Work?”

Mom Dukes: “Yes.”

WBT: “’YOU SOUND LIKE YOU’RE FROM LONDON! (Me quoting Paul Rudd in “Forgetting Sarah Marshall).’ Is it gonna cost extra for the phone?”

Mom Dukes: “Not for you, but for me, yes.”

WBT: “How much extra?”

Mom Dukes: “I don’t know.”

WBT: “Well…should we reschedule, because I know this is going to go at least 30 minutes?”

Mom Dukes: “Well, why don’t you try to condense it?”

WBT: “Whatever.”

WBT: “I am calling about the ‘Parenting’ interview I told you I was working on for my blog. Are you ready for this?”

Mom Dukes: “Probably not.”

WBT: “And a correct answer right out of the gate!”

WBT: “Now, this interview is about me not ever having kids, so instead I talk to everyone in my life like they are my children. I am calling this “Parent Speak.” This way, I get to be impossibly condescending and order people around without the stress or expense of having to produce my own offspring.”

Mom Dukes: “Gotcha.”

WBT: “Great. Away we go…”

WBT: “First off, can you think of a better name than ‘Parent Speak’? I’m really not happy with it.”

Mom Dukes: “Nothing is coming to me. That name really doesn’t flow well. Everyone will say ‘What?’ It’s hard to process. I’ll get back to you on that. Wait, how about ‘Because I Said So?’”

WBT: Nah; not good enough. And, it was the name of a bad Diane Lane movie.”

Mom Dukes: “Diane Keaton, but you were close.”

WBT: “Hahahahahahahahaaaaaa…this is classic already.”

WBT: “Moving ahead…”

WBT: “Do you remember the first time you used ‘Parent Speak?’”

Mom Dukes: “No, but I imagine it was not long after your sister was able to understand words. I expected you all to do whatever I said whenever I said it – beginning just as soon as you could comprehend verbal instructions. It was your job to do what I said, because I did what I was told when I was a kid. It’s a natural progression.”

WBT: “That’s never been a good enough reason for me to do anything.”

Mom Dukes: I know.

WBT: “Did you instantly fall in love with the level of condescension that you were able to get away with – and with absolutely zero repercussions?”

Mom Dukes: “I have never really thought about it.”

WBT: “People don’t think about a lot of things until I bring them to their attention. This is just another case of me seeing the funny in a place that has forever been ignored.”

Mom Dukes: “You know, you’re right. It is kinda funny when you explain it the way you do.”

WBT: “Trust me; I know.”

WBT: “Was it easy to abuse ‘Parent Speak?” It would be for me – and I wouldn’t be able to turn it off when I went out into the world with other people.”

Mom Dukes: I don’t think I abused it, but I definitely used it. When every penny you make you pour into your kids (food, utilities, gas) you feel like, yeah, you own those little robots.

WBT: “And see that’s my thing: I like owning things. So, you would think I would be into wives and children…but I just can’t see it.”

Mom Dukes: “Give it time. We’ll see what happens.”

WBT: “I think you just used ‘Parent Speak’ right there.”

Mom Dukes: “…(laughing)…”

WBT: “When did you last employ the phrase ‘We’ll see’ in response to something that you knew there was no chance of you either engaging in or purchasing – and to whom did you say this?

Example:

[Child: “Mom, can I have a pony for Christmas?”

Parent: “We’ll see.”]

Mom Dukes: “…(laughing…) it would have been your brother, but I’m not sure when the last time was.

WBT: “Your ‘mom pants’ don’t appear to be on right now.”

Mom Dukes: “The last thing I think he asked for was help paying for his college books.”

WBT: “And you told him ‘We’ll see,’ when you knew there was not a shot is hell you guys would be forking out any jack for his books?”

Mom Dukes: “…(laughing) Yeah.”

WBT: “Very ‘Parent Speaky.’”

WBT: “Now an ‘Empty Nester,’ in what ways are you continuing to integrate ‘Parent Speak’ into your daily life?”

Mom Dukes: I try to tell anyone that will listen what to do. I called your brother yesterday and asked if he and his roommates had paid their rent. He was like ‘Yes mom.’ I’m like, ‘ALRIGHT – I guess I’m done; I’ll talk to you later.’ I could tell I was getting on his nerves.

When you’re a parent, it’s just what you do. Its part of who you become. It’s always on. You don’t flip back and forth. Once you’ve been that; you are that. It’s not a pair of pants that you put on and take off. I’m motherly in everything I do. I worry about kids that look cold on airplanes. I always get blankets for them even though they have not asked for one. I just like to take care of people.

WBT: “Well, all of this sweet/serious stuff is taking all of the fun out of this, so thank you.”

Mom Dukes: “I’m sorry.”

WBT: “Ugggghhhhhhh!!!”

WBT: “Due to there no longer being any children under your roof, have you had to resort to telling my step-father to ‘Do what he is told?’”

Mom Dukes: “Yes.”

WBT: “Is he slacking on his ‘Man List?”

Mom Dukes: No, but sometimes he won’t do what I tell him to and it makes me crazy. Crazier now because I have no one doing what I tell them to.”

WBT: “I feel really bad for the poor guy. It’s got to be tough being the only one there dealing with a control freak while she goes through control withdrawals. Tell him to keep his head up.”

WBT: “Have there been any recent occurrences where you have had to send your husband to his room without dinner?”

Mom Dukes: “No. Not ever anything like that. I do a lot of growling and rolling my eyes.”

WBT: “And what is his reaction that stuff?”

Mom Dukes: “He doesn’t care. He acts like he can’t hear or see me when I’m being a brat. It’s nothing juicy. We don’t’ fight anymore. If I am pissed off, I don’t yell, I just go buy something. He hates when I spend money.”

WBT: “Hahahaha. Good Stuff.”

WBT: “What is it like telling YOURSELF to ‘Do your chores?”

Mom Dukes: “It sucks.”

WBT: “HAhahahahaaaaaaaa. Amazing!”

WBT: “Do you miss the army of five that you used to have at your disposal?”

Mom Dukes: “…(laughing)… Absolutely. Now, I can’t even get your brother to wash my car for my birthday or even Mother’s day. He always says he will and never does.”

WBT: “I used to wash your car. I remember doing it many times.”

Mom Dukes: “Yes you did. It was wonderful.”

WBT: “Do you miss your kids because that 5-person staff was a lot of manpower for knocking out household chores, or because you ‘Miss miss’ us?”

Mom Dukes: “Miss miss. You were all so interesting, and at times, so much fun.”

WBT: “I can’t use any of this crap for the blog.”

Mom Dukes: “Sorry. But if you do, I want to proofread it before you throw it out on the internet.”

WBT: “I owe you at least some sort of approval rights, but I’ll probably forget.”

WBT: “Do you miss coming home from your job in an angry mood and projecting that onto your children by yelling irrationally?”

Mom Dukes: “No. I hated that. And I hate that I did that. I never thought that was a good idea. You just have no idea what it’s like.”

WBT: “Can you think of a time where you told one of us ‘GOOD JOB’ after we really sucked terribly at something? Please be specific.”

Mom Dukes: “Yes. When you all painted the front porch and there were big globs of paint and runs everywhere.”

WBT: “Did you guys laugh about it?”

Mom Dukes: “Yes?”

WBT: “What did G-Money say about the porch?”

Mom Dukes: “’They tried their best.’ I wanted everything perfect; he just wanted it done.”

WBT: “So…we slaved to paint a huge wrap-around porch on an enormous house for free, and it wasn’t’ good enough for you? I think you got what you paid for.”

Mom Dukes: “But still…not good enough.”

WBT: “Do you miss ‘Parent Speak’?”

Mom Dukes: “I do, because when you don’t get to use it anymore, it means your kids are all gone.”

WBT: “Aw, that’s very sweet, and also not going in the funny direction in which I intended. Give me something mom, JESUS!”

Mom Dukes: “I’m trying. It’s hard to instantly recall all of the stuff all five of you did and said over twenty-some years.”

WBT: “What was your favorite ‘Parent Speak’ phrase to utilize?”

Mom Dukes: “That’s why they call them accidents - nobody ever means to.”

WBT: “Very boring.”

Mom Dukes: “It’s hard when you put me on the spot.”

WBT: “I don’t even know what that means. I refuse to acknowledge clichés.”

Mom Dukes: “Oh, and ’Because I said so.’ I like that one a lot too.”

WBT: “Now, see? That’s the kind of stuff I’m talking about. That’s one of those phrases you would use with your children, but not with friends or co-workers…unless you’re me.”

Mom Dukes: “You’re terrible.”

WBT: “I’m totally aware.”

WBT: “Now, name your least-favorite ‘Parent Speak’ phrase?”

Mom Dukes: “’I’m sorry.’ That’s always hard for me to say. I will; I just hate to.”

WBT: “That’s actually hysterically funny.”

WBT: “When was the last time you grounded one of your children?”

Mom Dukes: “The last time it worked?

WBT: “Hahahahaha…Yeah.”

Mom Dukes: “When your brother got his most-recent grades and we saw some letters that we did not particularly care for.”

WBT: “You grounded him in COLLEGE?!!?

Mom Dukes: “Haha…Yes we did.”

WBT: “What were the terms?”

Mom Dukes: “He couldn’t go anywhere but work and home.”

WBT: “I still can’t believe you grounded him in college…and he listened! He’s 20 years old and has a job and money. There would have been no chance of that working with me. If I were him, I would have respectfully declined and gone to the beach.”

WBT: “Keeping with that. Aren’t you glad don’t have to wrangle me anymore?”

Mom Dukes: “No. I miss doing that.”

WBT: “Impossible. I was a wild, untamed, running, wandering thoroughbred Mustang.”

Mom Dukes: “…(laughing)…Yes you were.”

WBT: “Okay, so, which of your children did you find the most entertaining? Yes, pick a favorite.”

Mom Dukes: “Everyone has their highlights. Everyone is different and everybody fulfills something different in my eyes.”

WBT” “Nice ‘mom’ answer. Very diplomatic. You know none of them read this, right? You can totally say it’s me.”

Mom Dukes: “Whatever. It’s true. You’re all great.”

WBT: “Yeah. There’s that. But, only one of us has an amazing blog that is lighting up the netweb. I mean, I don’t even feel like it’s a close race, but if it were, I’m feeling like the blog would easily put me over the top.”

Mom Dukes: “You’re all great. That’s still my answer.”

WBT: “Yeah, but maybe that won’t be what gets printed. I guess we’ll just have to see what happens.”

Mom Dukes: “You wouldn’t.”

WBT: “It’s like you don’t even know me.”

Mom Dukes: “Whatever.”

WBT: “Which of your children is the tallest (by about 6 inches)?”

Mom Dukes: “You, of course.”

WBT: “I know. Sorry. I just wanted to guarantee that my name was in here at least once, so I threw this in as the last question - just in case you stiffed me on the ‘Most Entertaining’ award…which you did. I mean, it is my blog, so I figure I should at least get one mention, you know?”

Mom Dukes: “…(laughing)…”

WBT: “Just one last thing: is your homework done?”

Mom Dukes: “Yes. My homework is done.”

WBT: “Do you miss reminding us all about homework?”

Mom Dukes: “No, it was like a job.”

WBT: “Not a job I want to put my resume in on, you know what I mean? I’m not ever having a kid on purpose. Luckily, I’ve been involuntarily celibate for a while now. Judging by the current (and past) state of things, accidental procreation may never again be a concern.”

Mom Dukes: “…(laughing)…”

Mom Dukes: “Alright, I am going to try and get some sleep.”

WBT: “What? No non-interview small talk? I can keep it off the record, you know?

Mom Dukes: “…(moaning)…It’s like $2 a minute!”

WBT: “We’ve been on 49 minutes, just like I said. And, do you realize that at first you didn’t know how much extra that placing this call to you internationally would cost, but now you are claiming to know exactly how much it is per minute?”

Mom Dukes: “That’s part of my mom powers.”

WBT: “You must have your ‘mom pants’ on. Oh, that’s right they’re always on, aren’t they”

Mom Dukes: “Yeah.”

WBT: “Okay moms, I’ll let you go – I know you need to rest.”

Mom Dukes: “Okay punkin. It was nice talking to you. I have missed you.”

WBT: “Me too mummy. I’ll speak to your soon. Love ya.”

Mom Dukes: “I love you too. Buh-by.”

WBT: “…(click.)…”

Just wait until your father gets home,

-Todd

*** [If anyone is interested in scoring some points, send me your replacement name ideas for “Parent Speak.” You can either post it in the “comments” section on the blog or twit your answer to me on Twitter. Standard scoring will be in effect.]

Twitter.

2009-10-19T02:53:00.000-07:00

Dudes, I'm on Twitter (I think. I mean, I'm pretty sure).

That's right; I caved - get over it.

Follow me at http://twitter.com/wordsbytodd (I think).

Also, I would like to officially note that I refuse to use the word "tweet" in regard to Twitter. Instead, I declare that I send and receive "twits" (and you can get over that too).

Scoring opportunity: Can you name the famous Cali landmark in my Twitter pic? If so, list it in the "comments" section of the blog or twit it to me. Points will be awarded to all who guess (standard scoring rates apply). Bonus points (5) for the first to answer correctly.

Twit me! If not, you can go twit yourself.

You're welcome,

-Todd

Watching Football Games At Bars.

2009-09-28T02:58:00.000-07:00

(I had a lot of fanmail action in my inbox last week in response to the “Love Actually” blog, so I figured I would keep the football theme going for one more…)

My friends are always suggesting that we “hit up a bar, grab a few beers and watch the game.” One, I am a HUUUUUUUUUUUGE football fan. Two, I am not a big drinker. Three, I like to actually watch games instead of intermittently glancing at the screen between meaningless conversations with strangers, orders of rubbery boneless chicken wings and “excuse me, I need to get by you”s.

If I am going to plan my day around watching a game, then I plan to do exactly that. If I wanted to go to a bar, stand in the aisle, constantly move out of the way of people who need to get past me, eat bad food and have hard-to-hear conversations over the dull roar of 300 people, I would have invited my friends to go out and do that, instead of watch a football game.

When it comes to watching a game, I like to be engaged for every snap of the contest. This is impossible when you only glance at the screen every couple of minutes due to the constant interruptions of “bar activity.” When I watch games this way, every time I look up more points are on the scoreboard and I have no idea how those points got up there. Was it a fluke flea-flicker? Was it a fluke turnover that lead to points? Was it one little missed assignment on Special Teams that lead to a fluke kickoff return for a score? Or, did one team just jam the ball down the other’s throat en route to a dominating seven-minute, 18-play scoring drive? You see, I like to know who’s offensive and defensive lines are controlling the line of scrimmage, and which team’s coordinators have the other team best figured out. This is the only way I can get a real sense of which team is truly “beating” the other - as the score does not always reflect the better team at every juncture of a football game.

This is where it gets fun…

Of all of the people I have noticed that like to try and move game viewings to bars, the majority of the perpetrators seem to be female.

I understand this.

On average, women seem to enjoy watching sports on tv less than men. So, wives, girlfriends, chick friends, bust-it-babies and “We’re just seeing where it goes”-es tend to try and push to get out of the house so everyone can meet up and watch games at bars. This way, the women get to socialize with the girlfriends of my guy friends, get drunk on our tabs and make every attempt possible to ensure that I do not pay any attention at all to the game we all came out to watch in the first place.

One of my ex-girlfriends used to always push to get out to the bars on Saturday evenings in the fall while I was still immersed in that day’s College Football action. I would explain that I wanted to stay in and watch tv until all the games were over-which, in the Eastern Time Zone meant getting to the bars around 12:30 A.M. She would kindly enlighten me to the fact that these bars would actually have their own televisions displaying the very same games I was currently watching (which, to her, was apparently the same thing as me watching from the quiet, clean, pleasantly fragrant comfort of my home). Eventually, I would explain myself using all of the same arguments listed above in this blog and a fight would inevitably ensue

(A “fight” for those that do not know, is when a man is right and a woman does not want to admit it).

You see, she never really understood where I was coming from…

…until I came up with the greatest idea EVER…

This ex-girlfriend of mine was particularly consumed by MTV’s fake reality show “The Hills.” She and her friends liked to get together every week, make food, gossip and DVR the show…while they watched it live (in case a part was missed or needed to be rewound for further clarity). So, in many ways, they were equally as anal-retentive about “The Hills” as I am about football.

Hmmm...

Sooooooooo, of course I would suggest one Thursday that we move the “Hills” party out of the house and over to our favorite bar. This way, the girls could bring their boyfriends and the guys could chat and get drunk while the ladies squinted to see the screen, constantly moved out of the way of passers-by, and labored to hear muffled dialogue.

Of course, I was an idiot for suggesting something so absurd.

My idea was instantly met with an avalanche of criticism. I was quickly reminded that it was a weeknight (Thursday) and that everyone needed to get up early Friday morning. Quickly, I reminded everyone about how many Monday Night Football games we had been forced to move out to bars at the suggestion of the women so the chicks could socialize. Getting up early for work the next day never seemed important on those weeknights. Further, I made sure to bring to everyone’s attention that “The Hills” ends 2.5 hours earlier than MNF games, which would mean far less sleep deprivation.

Wouldn’t you know it, another “fight” ensued.

You’re welcome.

-Todd

(Scoring opportunity: Points will be award to the first five people to post their favorite football team - College or Professional. Standard scoring is in effect You must post your favorite team in the "comments" section of this blog (at www.wordsbytodd.blogspot.com), and your favorite team must NOT be Ohio State.)

College Football: My Love Actually.

2009-09-25T06:05:00.000-07:00

If you have read any of my past entries, you have heard me make numerous remarks about my longstanding love affair with College Football.

I love it.

Seriously.

Love.

The whole thing is kind of comical.

It is also disturbing.

Almost everyone in my life tries to give me ish about how CFB takes over my life from September to December every year.

To that, I say this:

Friends have lives and get too busy to hang out with me. Girlfriends come, nag, irritate, cost me money and go. College Football is there for me every time it promises to be every September through December.

And I don’t know what it is with people always needing to tell me how to live my life. If I was addicted to doing rails of blow, my friends and family would probably wish that I stayed home more often to do less harmful things, like watch football games. But, since I am currently addicted to College Football, everyone wants to ride my ish about how I need to “get out more” and “do something about my football obsession.”

I do “do something about my football obsession.”

I feed it.

I wonder if my friends and family would stop trying to tell me things if they knew that I dismiss their words of “wisdom” almost immediately after they speak them to me – and that I am affected zero by anything anyone ever tells me.

First, I have three TVs (see picture). Second, I watch games on all three of them at the same time. Next, I have remotes for all three screens which I set to two games so I can hit the “previous channel” button on each remote to effectively watch pieces of six games simultaneously.

I get the special football package that lets me watch nearly every game that is being televised. I blow my friends off to stay home and watch games. I tell my girlfriends (during the brief stints that they are around) that I promise we can “get out of the house next weekend…when there are fewer good games on.” This is obviously a lie because there are ALWAYS good games on, but I say this anyway because it buys me more time.

Part of me feels bad for the women that temporarily happen into my life. From Jump street I am upfront with them about this obsession of mine and the time I allocate to it each and every season, but they still just don’t seem to get it. Every girl feels like she will be the one I will find so interesting that I will miraculously waver in my conviction and watch less football during the season in which I date her…because she is just that amazing.

I don’t need to tell you how every single one of those stories ended.

To all the girls I’ve loved before (and those I will break up with in the future): I am about to explain why you will never be more interesting than a day of watching football (in advance, I would like to say “Take it personal”)…

Ladies, think of your favorite tv show.

Now, imagine that your favorite tv show is three hours long.

Next, imagine that this 3-hour favorite tv show of yours airs every Saturday September through December. New (and completely different) episodes play each Saturday on 4 different channels simultaneously. The first wave of episodes begin at noon (EST) on MTV, NBC, Oxygen and The Style Channel. Different (and again, All New) episodes of your show appear on each channel back-to-back-to-back until that last episodes end around midnight (EST). This means that 12 different NEW episodes of your favorite show air in one day…EVERY SATURDAY in the Fall. That’s 48 hours of run time in ONE DAY of nothing but your favorite tv show (which is low, because if you were really a fan you would pay for your local service provider for their “Obsession” package and unlock 15 more channels that air even more new episodes of your show. You’ve gotta want it.).

If this happened, do you think you would want more than one tv when the season rolled around? Would your boyfriends be able to get you to leave in the middle of the day to go with them to the grocery store? Would you forgo watching your shows in lieu of mowing the lawn? Would you be eager to miss your show so you could go to a bar to hang out with your boyfriend’s friends?

Exactly.

So, shut it.

And keep it shut.

We don’t want to hear it. We won’t hear it. We are no longer listening (and not just because there’s a game on).

You’re welcome football lovers,

-The Todd

I Could Be An Actor.

2009-09-14T05:04:00.006-07:00

“Actor,” as everyone knows, is a highly sought after and well-respected occupation. Knowing this, most people find it arrogant when I tell them that I know I could be an actor. I figure they find this arrogant because when they hear me say the word “actor” they immediately think of their favorite actor, and then when I try to throw my name into the same industry as, say Leonardo DiCaprio, it seems like I am over-estimating myself.

When I say that I know I could be an actor, I am not even thinking about being on the “A-list.” In reality, I’m not shooting for any list higher than the letter “W.”

You see, I don’t want or need to be any sort of leading man. I just want to be a working actor that makes hundreds of thousands of dollars annually for working what equates to only a couple of months. You know, one of those guys whose name you do not know, but whose face you recognize from a few scattered movies, TV shows, commercials and Jonas Brothers videos.

I am about to explain my inspirations for this blog.

Danny Masterson. – I am sure Danny is a nice guy, but I don’t think anyone would confuse him with being any sort of extraordinary acting talent. In actuality, he was doing a bunch of nothing until he was cast into the most boring/non-demanding role in what would become the hit TV show known as “That ‘70’s Show.” Masterson walked around (but most often sat on a couch) and delivered what limited dialog was written for him without changing facial expressions. And he was extra-average at doing so.

Now, he’s rich from the TV show, has a social network of rich/famous/powerful people and has parlayed all of that into restaurants and other investments that have only made him more money.

I could be him. Easily.

(I’m already a better DJ. Yes “DJ Mom Jeans,” I am talking to you. Let me know if you think you want it. But trust, you don’t. I would take you out. DJ battle threats feel a little bit like threatening someone with a dance-off, so I will stop here.).

Josh Hartnett. – Another actor that I find unimpressive. It’s people like Josh that make people like me think becoming and actor is possible, even easy. The fact that, with zero talent, he has overcome the obstacle of looking like he has Down’s Syndrome only further fuels me. His resume reads: “Blah, blah, blah, landed the “C” role in one of the worst movies ever (“Here on Earth”), fell assbackwards into “Pearl Harbor” where he was surrounded by enough action and skilled actors that no one noticed he was completely worthless, parlayed the success of “Pearl Harbor” into the backseat of “Black Hawk Down,” parlayed BHD’s success into being handed the leading role in “40 Days and 40 Nights” (where he got paid millions to tongue down Shannon Sossamon), and all of the sudden he’s considered a “leading man.”

I am pretty confident that I could have fake flown those airplanes and for real kissed Shannon Sossamon just as effectively as Josh. I’m sorry, but I could have.

Freddy Prinze, Jr. – This d-bag is the single worst actor I have ever seen in a movie that was not for a grade.

He is completely worthless.

I get embarrassed for him when I see him “acting”…and he had his own TV show for a stretch.

I am not sure if it is more embarrassing that I saw “Summer Catch” (Jessica Biel = yums) or that in the film Freddy threw a baseball like such a school girl. What I do know is that I could be as poor of an actor as he is (all while throwing a baseball like a male).

It’s not that I think I could be as good as the best (Leonardo DiCaprio)---It’s just that I know I could be as bad as the worst (Freddy Prinze, Jr.).

Is anyone going to fight me on this?

If so, it doesn’t matter because:

1) I was asking rhetorically

2) You can’t tell me nuthin’.

Points will be issued to the first five readers to name a male actor we both know I could out act. As always, list your answers in the “comment” section of the website at www.wordsbytodd.blogspot.com (standard scoring will apply).

You’re welcome,

-The Todd (Shooting for “second-to-last” since 1981)

Reader Scoreboard #2.

2009-09-14T04:48:00.003-07:00

Here are the up-to-date reader point totals.

Things appear to be pretty jammed up at the top. We should have that cleared up in the next couple of weeks.

1 - The Carter Posse = 10 points

2 - Jenna & Jackson = 10 points

3 - lindynicole = 5 points

4 - trina = 3 points

5 - everyone else = 0 points

If you are serious about scoring points and winning the ShamWow! that I am giving away, then bookmark/RSS this blog, read it religiously, find the trivia questions and leave your answers in the "comment" section.

You're welcome,

-Todd

Mayer Hawthorne.

2009-09-09T15:56:00.004-07:00

I first heard about Mayer Hawthorne back in November of 2008. I was taking my weekly cruise through DJ A-Trak’s blog when I found an interesting piece Trizzy wrote about a heart-shaped vinyl record (http://djatrak.com/2008/11/25/trizzy-likes-stones-throws-heart-shaped-vinyl/). Always looking to add interesting pieces to my vinyl collection, I scoured the netweb for the song on the heart-shaped record to see if the vinyl was worthy of a purchase. After landing at YouTube and watching the unofficial video for Mayer Hawthorne’s “Just Ain’t Gonna Work Out,” I was mesmerized (okaaaaay, obsessed). “Just Ain’t Gonna Work Out” instantly became my favorite (current) song. Four minutes and ten seconds later, it was bumped to #2 after I watched the video for the B-side track “When I Said Goodbye”…and nearly shat myself. Next, I pulled up the video for “I Wish It Would Rain” and went officially crazy in my apartment. Seven minutes and fifty-one seconds after “Just Ain’t Gonna Work Out” became my favorite (current) song, it dropped to 3^rd place behind two other Mayer Hawthorne tracks that, to this day, remain tied for my #1 spot.

It is not often that one goes to check out a new artist and finds that the first three songs he stumbles upon are unbelievably dope. Well, it happened.

From there, I jumped on his MySpace, Facebook, Twitter, iTunes and YouTubed everything that came up under any and all spelling variations of his name.

It’s not “stalking” if I’m not sexually attracted to him, right?

Who was this guy? And, why was he making Motown/Soul/Doo-Wop records in 2008? All of those questions could be answered later, but at that point, I headed straight to Stone’s Throw’s website (http://www.stonesthrow.com/) and dropped one of those heart-shaped 7”s onto my America Express card as if it were hot.

The answers to the aforementioned are: He is a 29-year old white guy from Ann Arbor Michigan that writes, sings, produces and plays multiple instruments. Oh, and he was a DJ before any of this happened. He makes Soul music because he grew up outside of Detroit (like, “Hitsville” Detroit…as in “Motown”). The wild part is, he had been Djing primarily Hip-Hop for years before recording his first Doo-Wop tracks as a side project. After hearing only two demo tracks, Peanut Butter Wolf (head of Stones Throw Records) asked Mayer to record an entire album under the Stones Throw imprint. The best way I can describe the sound is: “Smokey Robinson meets…that kid you know from down the street that plays an instrument.”

It has become fashionable of late to say things like “People don’t sing about anything anymore” and “They don’t make music like they used to.” If you are one of these people, please check out Mayer Hawthorne and then stop talking (Oh, and pick up Raphael Saadiq’s “The Way I See It” album that came out last year).

While Mayer Hawthorne is taking it back to the old Soul sound, he is also incorporating contemporary elements into his material in an effort to take the movement even further. For example, at the beginning of “I Wish It Would Rain” he plays an arpeggiated synth line that reminds me of what Jazze Pha laid down on Tela’s club classic “Sho Nuff” (yeah, that was back in ’96 but you see where I’m going with this).

Unfortunately for my generation, we primarily associate going to a club with raging out to Hip-Hop or Electro. Don’t get it twisted up, I love and own more Hip-Hop and Electro records than anyone you know, but at the same time, I have been aching for a Soul singer to come out so I could put on a suit, go to the show and slow dance with my date like they did back in ’68.

I’m tired of raging.

I want to go concerts where artists are performing music that evokes the type of emotion that makes me want to look my girl in the eyes, kiss her passionately, and tell her that we should really consider “taking things to the next level”… as soon as she graduates high school. A Mayer Hawthorne show seems like the type of setting where that could happen.

Man crush? Maybe. Either way, I the full-length dropped this Tuesday and I am copping it today.

If you are from L.A., you have probably known about MH for a while since DJ Felli Fel has been playing “Just Ain’t Gonna Work Out” in his “New @ 2:00” mixes on Power 106 for months now. I did not write this piece for you Angel City residents already in the know. I wrote this for the people that have not had the privilege of hearing Mayer Hawthorne’s music yet. I am less concerned with who heard it first and more concerned that people simply get it. I mean, I just bought a Donny Hathaway album last week. It doesn’t matter when I got it; it just matters that I have it.

I am always calling my friends to tell them about new artists. Often times, I will email these friends mp3s for their iPods to help drive the message home. One of the interesting things about Mayer Hawthorne’s music is that, for the first time, I want to call my grandpa and tell him that I have some new hot sh*t for is tape deck.

Consequently, if they release Hawthorne’s album on cassette, I may already have grandpa’s X-mas present in the bag.

All of this because Stone’s Throw pressed up MH’s first single on turbo-dope, heart-shaped vinyl and A-Trak thought it was cool enough to post a picture of said record on his blog. It’s crazy how word gets around these days.

If you don’t know about Mayer Hawthorne, get familiar.

Once you’re familiar, get the album.

You’re welcome,

-Todd

http://www.myspace.com/mayerhawthorne