Merry Freakin' Christmas

[“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

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

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.

 [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

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.

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.

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