Sleep (me likey).

I sleep a lot.

I am not sure if anything makes me more happy than sleeping. Actually, I am sure, and nothing does.

There is nothing more beautiful to me than unplugging my alarm clock and letting my body to decide for itself when it has finished resting. Yums.

I am obsessed with sleeping. Seriously.

Don’t believe me?

I often talk to people about their favorite positions-and it has nothing to do with sex.

When I first learned what a “bed sore” was, obtaining one became a personal goal of mine.

My earliest memories of truly enjoying being asleep are from when I was around 11 years old. When school was out during the summers and my daily schedule was delightfully void, I would sleep until at least noon every day. Well, not really. I would have, but my mother would call the house at 9:30 a.m. every day of the week to make sure that my sisters and brother were alive and awake. Every single day, everyone in the house would be awake when that call came, except for me. Inevitably, my mother would send one of my siblings up to my room to drag me out of bed.

Off top, I cannot think of many things that make me as angry as being woken up against my will. The only two things that are coming to mind are Nathan Lane’s stupid face and Nathan Lane’s stupid voice.

I never understood why my mother so desperately wanted me to be out of bed. I had to wake up early everyday during the school year; was it too much to ask to enjoy myself and get extra rest during my time off? It was at this time when I first began to realize that when people are miserable (i.e. at work) they want everyone else to be miserable too. “Misery loves company” as some say. This principle is what makes mothers want to ruin their children’s summer sleep-ins. It is this very same principle that also makes people want to make each other feel guilty for being unemployed.

[SIDEBAR: What is the deal with people making their family and friends feel bad for being unemployed? Unemployment is rarely something that people choose (and if they did choose it, more power to them). When you do not have a job, it rarely helps to have people constantly reminding you. I just became extremely angry. I am shutting this down and turning this topic into a completely separate article.]

My mother’s diligent efforts to wake me up early during the summer were thwarted by my laziness. Each morning, when one of my siblings would enter my room and yell at me to get out of bed (per mother’s orders), I would wake up…for about 14 seconds. I spent those 14 seconds sleepwalking down the staircase to the living room couch where I would immediately begin work on a nap. Either way, I was going to sleep until I was ready to be awake. It could have either been in the privacy of my own room (out of everyone’s way), or in the middle of the house (where everyone had to maneuver around me). I have no idea why my mother felt compelled to disrupt my sleep pattern and make me everyone else’s problem. No matter her reasoning, it was all wasted effort.

Did it make my mother feel better to have someone “wake me up,” even though I began napping 14 seconds after “waking up?”

Can a nap even be considered a nap if it begins 14 seconds after a full night’s sleep?

Would my mother have been happier if I had slept four hours every night, jumped out of bed at 7:00 a.m., and then taken two separate two-hour naps throughout the rest of the day to get my full eight hours in? If so, how long after waking up from a full night’s sleep (four hours) would I have to wait before I could start my first nap and have it NOT be considered an extension of the previous night’s sleep and risking being classified as “sleeping in?”

It is these types of questions that kept me up at night. Well, those questions and soft porn. Amongst all of the confusion I was facing as a teenager, I really did not need all of the red tape. What I did need was sleep.

Leave me alone people.

I vaguely remember my mother explaining to me why she never wanted me to sleep in. Her explanations cited something pertaining to irregular sleeping patterns being unhealthy (I was always half asleep when she was explaining this stuff to me). Either way, nothing my mother did, or attempted to do, made any difference. In my older age, I am pretty much the worst sleeper in the world. I have wildly irregular sleeping patterns. I go to bed late and wake up late. Some nights I skip sleeping altogether. When I do sleep, I do so in 15-minute increments, change positions with an angry attitude and then repeat the process (for anywhere between 15 minutes to 12 hours).

When I am not on my home court, things are even more awful. My bed at home is stupid plush, so sleeping on couches and futons at other people’s houses only make my incremental thrashing fits more intense.

It turns out that it’s not just my mother.

(When I sleep over with friends and family, they are always banging on the door way too early in the morning telling me to wake up. Don’t these people realize that this is like me banging on the door when they are trying to FALL sleep? Either way, you are keeping the other person from sleeping when they have obviously chosen to do so.)

I generally go to sleep last, so I generally wake up last. Somewhere along the line, people who go to bed the earliest (and consequently wake up the earliest) decided they had the green light to be annoying and wake up the people that are still sleeping.

This makes me want to strangle everyone involved AND passers by.

Keeping me from sleeping late in the morning is like me keeping these bastards from falling asleep before me at night. Eight hours of sleep is still eight hours of sleep, no matter which eight hours you choose to sleep through. Why is it that people who go to bed early and wake up early feel they are the only ones choosing the correct eight hours to be asleep? Moral high ground? I think not.

I just do not understand why people take such an interest in when other people are asleep and when they are awake. One of my college roommates always woke up extremely early on the weekends, had breakfast, ran errands, and then came home and napped for hours every afternoon. Occasionally, my roommate would nap a second time later in the evening for an hour or so. Cumulatively, we each slept 8-9 hours on Saturdays and Sundays. I did mine in one lump slumber, usually from 3:00 a.m. to around noon. My roommate, on the other hand, chopped her rest up as described above. I never made fun of her for her sleeping patterns, but she always joked with me about waking up so late.

Why is it that people do this?

I get sick, and in addition, I get tired (I get sick and tired) of people telling me I am “sleeping the whole day away.” I never bust into their rooms at 9:45 p.m. crying that they are “sleeping the NIGHT away.” I let people do what they want to do. It is not too much to ask for the same courtesy and respect in return.

I stay up all night because that is when all of the cool stuff happens. All of the good tv shows and movies are on late. I see no point in waking up before 99% of the rest of the world, making coffee and watching “Live with Regis and Kelly.” Oh, and the reason you need coffee is because your body is saying “F me John. Again? Why are we awake right now?” Nope, I slept straight through that this morning because last night I was up watching Kimmel. Then I went out clubbing and ate breakfast at a diner with a handful of strange women before zonking out at 4:00 a.m. I just cannot see swapping one for the other at this stage of my life (or ever).

If I ever buy a house and have houseguests for the weekend, I am going to make coffee and breakfast at night in an effort to keep everyone awake longer so we can all go to bed so late that it is actually early the next morning. This way, my houseguests will wake up the next afternoon, like me.

Stop sleeping the NIGHT away. And, stop waking your houseguests. If they wanted to be awake, they would have made their way out of bed already.

I’m not sorry.


You’re welcome.

-Todd

Germs.

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



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



I am a germaphobe.

Doctors call it “Verminophobia.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It makes sense really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


The following things are dirty and should be washed:


1 – Car keys

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

3 – Doorknobs

4 – Car steering wheels

5 – Car gear shifters

6 – Car door handles

7 – Computer keyboards

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

9 – Phones

10 – Grocery cart handles

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

12 – Restaurant menus

13 - Your DAMN hands


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

F me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go wash your hands.


You’re welcome.

-Todd

Viva Las Wind Burn, Hookers and Cigarette Smoke

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

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

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

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

I packed, and it was on.

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

So…

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

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

At least I thought that is what we were doing.

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

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

I did not find this pleasing.

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

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

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

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

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

Yucky. No likey.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Bright Spots:


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

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

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

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


One last very important thing:


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

Cindy, please email Todd at WordsByTodd@Gmail.com

Todd would really appreciate it.



You’re welcome

-Todd

Not so fast, my friends.

This past Friday night, I went to a nearby Studio City, CA bar with some co-workers to have a night cap. Whist at the bar, a co-worker of mine was introducing me to some of his friends that came out to join us. During the introductions, my associate was capitalizing on every chance possible to make fun of the fact I was from Indiana.

Minutes later, Guns 'N' Roses came on the jukebox and that very same associate went into a spiel about how he loves GNR. I instantly threw it in everyone's collective face that Axl Rose is from Indiana. When he replied with "Yeah, and that's about it," I struck back with The Jackson 5 (Michael Freaking Jackson), Janet Jackson, John Mellencamp and Kenneth "Babyface" Edmonds. Everyone kind of went quiet at that point, myself included. I mean, I have always known about these people being from Indiana, but I guess I had just never thought about all of them at one time. That is a pretty impressive list when you sit (or stand) and think about it. Everybody respects that list-as was exhibited by the impromptu moment of silence that came over our entire group in the middle of a raucous bar. You would have thought it was the 7th inning stretch and that some NYPD officer was singing “America The Beautiful” or something.

Quick, give me the names of five recording artists that epic from your home state (I’m talking born and raised people). Don’t worry, I’ll wait.

Admittedly, I rag on my home state of Indiana from time to time when it helps a joke come to life. It is different when people you don’t know are just ragging on your home state because of stereotypes. If they have visited and are making an informed observation, then I can at least respect that. But, you can’t knock a place solely based on what you have grown up hearing about it (unless it is Canada). Or, I guess you can, but I will just have to clap back at you.

In an effort to cast my home state in a positive light for once, I have compiled a list of extremely prominent people from Indiana that everyone (even Californians who have never visited Indiana) will recognize.



MUSIC


Michael Freaking Jackson – no descriptor needed.

The Jackson 5 - Classic. Classicly Classic.

Janet Jackson - Epic.

John Mellencamp - You know you sing his stuff. Let’s just be honest with one another.

Kenneth “Babyface” Edmonds - Remember those songs you liked in the 80’s, 90’s and 2000’s? He wrote them. All of them.

Axl Rose - “Sweet Child Of Mine.” “November Rain.” HAVE SOME.

David Lee Roth - He started that whole “tight jeans” thing. Also a musician.



HOOP


Larry bird - The man.

John Wooden - The other man.

Oscar Robertson - Like Wilt Chamberlain, only with (I am guessing here) about 9,800 less sexual conquests.

Greg Oden - #1 overall pick in 2007 NBA draft.

Eric Gordon - The L.A. Clippers’ first-round draft pick last year.

Bonzi Wells - Moron, but he can ball.

Shawn Kemp - Bigger moron, but he could really take it to the hole. He also played basketball.

Zach Randolph - I held him to 13 points in 7th grade (I was 5’ 9,” he was already 6’ 5”).


THE PASTTIME


Don Mattingly - One of the most popular New York Yankees of all-time, and kind enough to pause for a picture with me at Disneyworld.



ENTERTAINERS


David Letterman – This is my dude right here.

Jane Pauley. Yup.

Steve McQueen. For serious.

Sydney Pollack. Seriously.

James Dean. Seriously, what?

Jenna Fischer. Best known for her work on an American television situation comedy called “The Office.”

Greg Kinnear. He is just so dang solid. Always playing the “unassuming guy” role and stealing the show while doing so. I love him because he is from Logansport, IN and because he does amazing work. I hate him because he kissed my girlfriend Tina Fey in “Baby Mama.” I love you Greg, but suck me.



?????????????


Jeff Gordon and Tony Stewart – I have no idea myself, but I am told these two are prominent Nascar drivers. I have no idea myself, but I am told “Nascar” has to do with “auto racing.” I have no idea myself, but I am told that “auto racing” involves “driving cars in a circle over and over again until the participants become too disinterested to continue and a winner is somehow declared.” Again, I have no idea.

Chuck Taylor – If this name doesn’t get plenty of Cali Love, then I cannot think of one that would. Everyone in The Fornia skates Chuck Teezies. Seriously, big up to Charlie Taylor. Recognize game in your face, bitches.

The Todd – The famous blogster, comedian, screenwriter, producer, DJ, rapper, songwriter, photographer, entrepreneur, fashion icon, trend setter, cheerleader prom dater and supermodel heartbreaker.

As the literate ones can see, a lot of talent has been grown and honed in Indiana. Respect due. Check yourselves before you wreck yourselves.


In conclusion…


MICHAEL FREAKING JACKSON.

See you at "The Crossroads."

Larry Bird bitches,


You’re welcome.

-Todd

"Welcome to L.A."

This ain’t no Disco; nor is it a country club.

For those that do not already know, I just moved to L.A…Los Ang…Floss Angeles.

I have officially hit the 3-month mark, and I have a few comments…

I live in North Hollywood’s “Historic Arts district.” That phrase sounds really cool until you realize what it means. Allow me to break it down:


“Historic” = rundown, forgotten about, left for dead.

“Arts District” = hippies…everywhere.


Most people call North Hollywood “NOHO,” but I refuse to do so. It seems a little too “New York is really cool, so why don’t we jock them” for my personal taste (officially, I think it is cheesy that NY does this with their neighborhoods as well). The one good thing about a new-agey acronym for a neighborhood means that a few rich real-estate developers have decided to sink loads of money into rebuilding the community in an attempt to turn the neighborhood around and make trillions of dollars.

All in all, I like North Hollywood. I spent most of my life living in the middle of nowhere with no one around. I decided it was time to mix it up and opt for a place crawling with hippies, hipsters, skaters, blaring sirens and all-night, cash-only, non-English speaking taco stands. I was desperate for a change and North Hollywood seems to be a decent fit.

The worst thing about moving to L.A. so far actually has not been the traffic, the fires or the smog. It is people saying “Welcome to L.A.” to me every 15 seconds.

For some reason, that phrase really makes me want to choke people. No matter the circumstances under which this phrase occurs, it always seems to carry a sort of condescending tone that sends me over the edge.

It is hilarious to me to hear people smirk and utter “Welcome to L.A., man” with an inflection that makes me seem like the most ignorant, backward, unrefined person in the world. I may have moved here from Indiana, but I have also visited nearly half of the states in America, went to college in Florida and have been to three countries in Europe. It’s not like this is my first time seeing celebrities, Ferraris or paying $20 for a drink.

The best part is that the jerks that I hear this phrase from were in my exact same position two years ago. Hence, I honestly feel like it bothers people as much as it bothers me to hear this phrase, but since they had it done to them, they feel the need to be “seasoned veteran L.A. know-it-all guy” whenever they get the chance to return the favor. I guess this somehow makes people feel better about themselves since they felt so inferior the first time someone tried to make them feel like an idiot by welcoming them to L.A.

The best part is when people that I know for a fact are also transplants and have only lived out here for a couple of years drop this phrase on me. I have come to learn not to ever mention anything remotely interesting I see, or anything irregular that occurs, for if I do, I am only asking to hear this infuriating phrase.

I have decided to never…ever…use the phrase “Welcome to (insert any place on Earth here).” Although, if I wanted to, I am curious as to when I am allowed to play the “seasoned veteran L.A. guy” act on another person. Six months, one year, what is the ruling on that? When do you get to move on from “clueless new guy” to “informed jerk off guy?” At any rate, this whole thing needs to stop before fatalities occur.

A couple of times since I have moved here, massive fires have broken out. I must admit, the fire thing is pretty scary. Every ten minutes, my TV show will get interrupted because a new fire has popped up in yet another location. It is really scary for me, because I do not know much about the local geography, so I am clueless as to whether or not the fires are near me or not. The scariest part is that I am too lazy to get on the computer and Google map it to find out. For all I know, I could be surrounded by fires and marked for death. I really am a lazy piece. It truly sucks when the sky is black and North Hollywood smells like a campfire. But, since some people lose their lives and houses during these disastrous fires, I try to keep my fire complaining to a minimum.

Another thing I have noticed is that everyone is obsessed with celebrities…but vehemently denies it. They all claim celebrity sightings are “common,” that it is “not a big deal anymore” and that I will “get used to it.” Nothing could be further from the truth. The only thing people ever talk to me about is who they saw at the grocery store, the restaurant, the gas station or at the club last night.

Everyone gets a rush from standing in line at Starbucks next to someone they have grown accustomed to having a “TV only” relationship with. I mean, it’s kind of surreal. Why do people have such a problem owning this? I sure don’t. If I saw Jay-Z right now, I would soil myself, fight the urge to pass out…and then hand him my resume (hopefully sans urine). There, was that so hard? Look, I know you, so I know exactly what kind of “work, eat, sleep, repeat” life you live. So, as embarrassing as it may seem, let’s not act like seeing Hilary Duff at Coffee Bean yesterday wasn’t the most exciting thing that has happened to you in the last six months (since your last celebrity sighting). Be for real.

Now, for a few highlights:


Celebrities!!! – Although no one in L.A. would have you believe it, being constantly surrounded by famous, rich, successful people is actually kind of nice. At least there is a 0.0006 chance I could be discovered by, or land a date with, one of these powerful people while in line at the grocery store. The same could not be said, however, about all of the Newport-smoking townies that I stood on line with at the grocery in Indianapolis. You know, not a lot of reasons to be handing those folks my resume and demo.


The Weather. – Today in Indianapolis, it was 36 degrees. It was 80 degrees today in L.A.

End of explanation.


“18 Dummy.” - Being a huge Hip-Hop fan, I know a lot of slanguage. I have long been a fan of West Coast music, so I was familiar with the phrase “18 Dummy” way before I ever moved out here. It just feels good to finally live in a place where people commonly use this expression in everyday conversation. For those not familiar, it means “getting super stupid drunk on Jose Cuervo1800 tequila.” Not that I would ever do such a thing (because Patron is waaaay more smooth).


Seriously, next time you are talking to your friends about going out to get drunk, instead of saying that you are “going to get so drunk tonight,” say you are “going18 Dummy.” I promise you’ll have more fun.

That’s it for now (but not even close to the last of it).


You’re welcome.

-Todd

"'Straight Reggie Bushin'."

It’s that time of year again where they crown the Heisman Trophy recipient. Seeing as how I am the biggest College Football fan in the world, one would assume I would have some level of interest in seeing who the award goes to.

Erroneous.

I could not give less of a shat.

The Heisman Trophy blows and I will explain why.


1 – Quarterbacks always win.


Seven out of the last ten recipients have been quarterbacks and I do not see this trend ending anytime soon.

Running backs are the only other position that has a chance at the award and even they only seem to win the HT over quarterbacks when the quarterbacks nominated are underclassmen, or play in a weak/non-BCS conference.

Matt Leinert was handed a 2004 Heisman trophy that belonged to Reggie Bush. Anyone who watched even half of USC’s games in 2004 knows this. Leinert took a really nice snap. He also handed off beautifully. What Leinert did NOT do was single-handedly procure USC’s perfect season by breaking off huge runs on handoffs and pass receptions from both the running back and receiver positions, or run back numerous 4th quarter punt and kickoff returns for touchdowns and huge gains that lead to game-winning scores when the offense was struggling and USC was looking dead into the eyes of a loss. The guy that DID do that stuff was Reggie Bush.

Adrian Peterson tore up the Big 12 as a freshman at Oklahoma, but lost the trophy to his quarterback Jason White. Who? Exactly. In White’s defense, he threw for 40 touchdowns with only eight interceptions. But, why do you think the receivers were always open? The correct answer is “because A.P. had been running through 8-man fronts and gashing the opposing team with the running game all day long.” If Peterson had gone to Baylor, White would have never put up good enough numbers to win that trophy.

Now, I try not to get into the whole “such and such player won the Heisman but never got drafted, or never did anything in the NFL so he didn’t deserve the award.” College and NFL football are extremely different and the Heisman Trophy and the NFL have little correlation in my eyes (See “Charlie Ward” and “Rashaan Salaam”). Given this, I am not arguing that Peterson deserved the award over White due to the fact that Adrian Peterson is now one of the top three running backs in the NFL and Jason White is pumping gas. I am arguing that Peterson deserved the award because he was the better player in 2003.

The Heisman is a freaking joke.



2 – Underclassmen cannot win it (even when they deserve it).


Well, this part was true until last year when Florida’s Tim Tebow became the first underclassman in HT history to win this popularity contest.

How could anyone even need to think about last year’s voting? Tebow threw for 29 touchdowns and rushed for another 22 scores…IN THE SOUTHEASTERN CONFERENCE. He became the first “20-20” guy in the history of College Football and did so in the roughest, toughest conference in the sport. Those that did not vote for Tebow were either paid off, idiots, blind and deaf, far too loyal to the candidate that was in the running that attended his alma mater, or some combination of all these reasons.

I am still shocked that they didn’t hand 2007’s to Arkansas’ Darren McFadden simply because Tebow was a sophomore. This makes me want to believe there is hope, but there isn’t.

Michael Vick destroyed everyone, led his team to an 11-0 season and ALMOST beat Florida State by himself in the National Championship game as a 19-year old and yet lost the trophy that year to Ron Dayne.

In 1999, Michael Vick did not lose to Ron Dayne’s 1999 season. In 1999, Vick lost to Dayne’s entire body of work over his 4-year career at Wisconsin that just happened to include Dayne breaking the all-time NCAA rushing record as a senior. So, they could have either given the HT to one of the top three most dynamic freshmen in history, or to a senior running back with impressive career statistics. And…they did what they always do.

Michael Vick did NOT win the Heisman in either of his years at Virginia Tech. Really?!!!? REALLY?!!!? Someone please name me one “collegiate” that was more “outstanding” during those two years. No one? Again, exactly. Further, if you answered “Ron Dayne,” “Joe Hamilton,” “Chris Weinke,” or Josh “Heupel” you were incorrect and should slap yourself.

The Heisman is a freaking joke.



3 – No one is allowed to win the award twice.


In 2004, Matt Leinert was handed Reggie Bush’s trophy because everyone knew Bush had to stay for one more year because he was only a sophomore and needed to play through his junior season before he could leave for the NFL. And, since everyone knew Bush was a freak that could not be stopped by anything not named “Torn ACL,” the voters knew he would run away with the trophy in 2005…and we cannot possibly ever have a player win two Heisman’s while he is in college.

The old boys that vote for the Heisman seem to steadfastly stand by the rules that no underclassman will ever win the award (unless it is “Tebow Obvious”) and also that no one is ever going to win two of them again because they are still in love with Archie Griffin being the only person to ever do so. This is so sick, twisted and contrived that I cannot associate myself with it.

FYI, I blame Brent Musberger for the whole “no two-time winners…every” thing. He talks about Archie Griffin being the only two-time Heisman winner about 53 times during every game he announces (in between incessant uses of the word “folks” and oft homoerotic statements about his love affair with the quarterbacks playing in the game he is currently announcing).

They claim the Heisman Trophy goes to the “Most Outstanding Player in Collegiate Football.” In actuality, the HT goes to “the quarterback from the sexiest team still ranked in the top 3 at the end of the season---as long as that player is not a freshman or sophomore or in line to possibly collect two awards in his four years of college football.”

Michael Vick should have won two trophies. Reggie Bush should have won two as well. Between them, they ended up with one. Collectively, Chris Weinke and Eric Crouch have two. F me.

After this blog, I refuse to ever engage in conversations about the Heisman, listen to analysts engage in conversations about the Heisman, or watch the actual trophy presentation until they give me an official vote for the award and I can commence talking some sense into the other idiots that vote for the wrong players every year.

The only solution is to let me head up the Heisman committee. I will appoint a cabinet of Kirk Kerbstreit, Chris Fowler, Rece Davis, my friend Darren, my bagel guy, The Queen, The Vatican and The Rothchilds. We would quit our respective jobs, watch every single snap of every single game, conference call thrice weekly to hold everyone accountable and meet tri-annually at a secret country mansion known as “The Meadows.” Then, we would come together at the end of the season and get this thing right. Until this day comes, I’m out.

The Heisman is a freaking joke. In fact, I am not even capitalizing it anymore (not that anyone is going to notice, because I am never writing about it every again). No disrespect to the trophy’s namesake, Mr. John Heisman. It’s not you John, it’s the voters.

The heisman is a freaking joke.


You’re welcome.

-Todd




In an attempt to end this thing on a happy note, I will leave you with one of my favorite videos…

Six months of awesome.

I just noticed that it has been six months since I started this blog.

Wow.

As flaky as I am, I have been able to post at least one entry for each of the last six months. That’s like, half a year.

I feel compelled to admit that this is one of the greatest accomplishments of my life (as embarrassing as that may seem). But honestly, when the only other thing I have ever accomplished is being named league MVP of my coaches pitch baseball team when I was nine, it’s easy to see how my blog ranks so highly on my “all-time” list.

In honor of this six month anniversary, I am asking you all to celebrate the greatness of this blog my sharing it with someone who may not know about it-but would appreciate the hell out of it. It could be your mom, your brother, your co-workers, that hot chick you can never think of a reason to start a conversation with, or maybe your cell mate. I mean, we all like to laugh, right?

So, (raising imaginary champagne glass) “Here’s to me”…I guess…or something…

You’re welcome.

-Todd