One

I’ve discovered, that, at times, the world can be obnoxiously small. I should have known that it would a matter of time before I ran into someone I knew from home. I was afraid that it would happen today (it did), but that didn’t stop me from trying to convince myself that it the similarities I saw in the guy were mere coincidence. I almost got away with it, too, until the asshole walked up to me and asked me if I was from New Mexico. And yeah, the jig was up.

So it turns out that one of the guys I met my freshman year of college also goes here. I haven’t seen him in at least three years or so, and I didn’t realize what a blissful state I’d fallen into in that time. I guess that answers the question of whether or not creepy people become less creepy over time: they don’t. Without missing a beat, he was asking for my phone number (I didn’t give it to him, but got his instead, and might “accidentally” lose it; woops, too late) and saying that we should hang out again.

In the space of five minutes, here’s what I learned:

• He lives in a super nice house in a super bad area.
• He rents his room for $450 per month.
• He has to share his room with another guy.
• But it’s okay because they’re both Christian.
• So they can discuss the Bible all the time.

I barely knew this guy to begin with, and never cared to talk much with him when I did, and in the space of only a few minutes I was trying to figure out ways to set him up on a date with my roommate.

Two

The latest fun drama from the grad school front is that someone from one of my classes uploaded the entire class’s recent projects onto the internet. Permission was never requested, nor were any of us informed of this. It’s left me with such a bad aftertaste in my mouth that I’d rather eat pickled anchovies in olive juice.

Three

I got to interpret a big standup comedy show tonight. I’m not gonna lie; it was pretty much the coolest thing ever. I love anything on stage, and I got to enjoy a show and meet some awesome comedians, including the one and only Gabriel Iglesias, who is damn funny and also a damn nice guy.

Four

I’m damn tired so dammit, I’m going to bed.

Sometimes I get restless on school nights. It happens frequently this time of year. If you, dear reader, enjoy mathematics or logic, think of it this way: my total amount of motivation (M) is inversely proportional to how much work (W) there is to do. (Translation just in case you hate math and/or logic: the more work there is to do, the less motivation I have to do it.)

I generally refer to this phase as “burn out,” because after fourteen weeks of the grueling and exhausting task that is avoiding homework, I’m totally beat. As a graduate student, I’ve done this enough times that I’ve figured out a sort of system to get me through the semester. For instance, having gotten some of my work done today, I decided that I could leave the house for a short this evening.

I should have taken the “play first, then work” approach, because by the time I left the house, it was 8:40 pm. A time, I thought, that was perfect to hit a few stores to walk around a bit and maybe do some shopping (and simultaneously missing some of the earlier crowds). I thought wrong, evidently, because everything in this part of LA closes practically as soon as the sun sets. Nine o’clock rolls around and suddenly doors are barred and gruff security guards warn you that you’d better be either exiting the premises or else going to wait in line for the release of the new video game you’ve never even heard of at that one shop in the mall where there’s a mass of people huddled together chattering excitedly and holding signs and wearing t-shirts to show their “true fan” dedication.

The whole time I just kept saying to myself, over and over, “Wait just a second. This is L.A. This is fucking L.A.!” As if saying that would make me snap out of the dream that had taken me back to a version of L.A. circa 1952 that, in addition to the general stores lining the dirt road, had stores that sold violent video games to those who would willingly stand in line for hours just so they could be among the first in the world to play it. At midnight. But dammit, they were going to close that store at 9 and make those loyal patrons stand there outside the store until midnight, at which time they’d let them in only to a specific spot, and then they’d make them purchase the thing right away before sending them the fuck home so they could close down again and be done with it.

Seriously, L.A. You’re supposed to be all big and grown up, homes. And, you’re supposed to be alive and kicking whenever I want you to be, dammit. I’m so disappointed in you right now.

It seems that every time I decide to go here for dinner, I invariably wind up stuck sitting near a gaggle of preteen chickettes. You know, the ones who are “12 going on 21″, who think it’s fun to go out with their friends and talk on their cell phones with other people the entire time. It’s like mom and dad like to drop them off at this one spot because it’s the cool hangout, right, and the girls can be all obnoxious and girly while they do their grocery shopping next door.

So, like, tonight, like, I decided to go to Baja Fresh for dinner, right? And, like, since it was so cold inside, and outside it was pretty nice, so like I decided I wanted to sit outside. And like it was so nice because there were no other people there, so like I had the whole patio to myself.

That is, until the three 12-year-olds decided I was onto something and followed me outside and sat at the table two feet away from my own, never mind that the whole patio was open. Luckily, they ate quickly and took off. Which was a total relief, considering they very nearly depleted my teeny bopper tolerance allowance. (Mercifully, none of them actually said “LOL” out loud; had they done so, I probably would have keeled over dead on the spot. Or else been forced to snatch up my plastic fork and start waving it manically at them.)

But I digress. This could just be a sign that I need to get my food there to go, and next time I need to escape the house for a while, take my hungry butt somewhere else.

Today was OCD Extravaganza! at la casa de Phil. We’re talking 9 in the morning until 6 in the evening of the most insane cleaning frenzy to which I’ve ever had to bear witness. Much to my surprise, Cruella de Vil didn’t so much as point a finger in my direction. She did, however, spend a solid two or three hours cleaning my the guest bathroom.

(Before I forget, I feel I must add that we had a most bizarre conversation about the weather. Today was hot and windy, a rather unpleasant combination. “Oh, you’re new to California, so you don’t know about the weather. This is earthquake weather,” Cruella informed me. It occurred to me that she was not, in fact, trying to pull my leg as I suspected. She was dead serious. To which I replied, “Um, ok. Pssshhh.” But the nerd in me couldn’t resist, of course, getting a perspective or two on the issue.)

Moving on. I arrive back to the house at nearly 11pm (show at the university theater and then hunting for a lost cat that we ended up finding!), and Ms. de Vil comes flying out her bedroom door to ask me if I know some police officer that was supposed to be keeping an eye on us tonight. Nope, don’t know him. So we bid one another good night and she leaves the house. Which is totally out of character for her, but whatever.

I adjourn to my room, where I put some music on and relax on my bed for a bit before deciding to post this. And as soon as I finish the first paragraph, I hear the front door open and then close. I hear footsteps making a beeline for the roommate’s door, and then I hear pounding and yelling, and two female voices working in perfect discord against one another. Apparently, we’ve gone from soap opera to Jerry Springer within a mere twenty-four hour period. That’s got to be some kind of record.

It’s easy to forget about some of the perks of living in my current place of residence. I mean, all the drama about broken garage doors, trash, towels, and dishes almost made me forget that the the woman I live with is not only anal retentive, probably bipolar, and obsessive compulsive, but also a lesbian! And lesbian drama can be the bitchiest, scariest drama the world has ever seen.*

While out and about this evening, we were in the neighborhood (sort of) so I convinced my friend Letizia to pay her respects to the funeral home where I live. I realized it was a house of death upon entering. Voices from the living room could be heard over the television (which is unprecedented), and sure enough, we had stumbled upon Bitchfest 2008. Which, to understate things, was quite the scene.

I was afraid to actually peek in and announce our presence for fear that my roommate would cast her eyes upon me and I’d suddenly burst into flame, or else turn into a giant naked stone statue. Medusa, it seemed, was on the offensive and was screaming at her girlfriend, who I’m proud to report was not taking no shit from nobody, thank you very much. Incidentally, I suddenly became aware that when you, without having heard any of the arguments, automatically side with the significant other who only lives here on weekends, it’s time to give your roommate a friendly “fuck you!” and get the hell out. (That and suggest to the significant other that she do the same.)

I’m viewing this turn of events as ammunition (i.e. blackmail), to be used however I see fit. “Oh, you mean there’s some dirt, on the floor, where you walk? I’m sure you’re the only one who noticed, but hey, at least your company didn’t have to walk in on you and your girlfriend in the midst of a screaming match.” I ran into Medusa when I came home around 11 tonight, and was shocked that she didn’t verbally abuse me for letting a friend in the house. Methinks she was too embarrassed and guilt-ridden to bring it up, which only increases my leverage. Hells. Yeah.

*This obviously blanket generalization does not apply to all lesbians. Excluded from this are the fabulous lesbians I already know and love, and those who I’ve not met but would totally love because they’re so awesome. Also, any readers of this blog who happen to be lesbians clearly do not fit the generalization by virtue of reading this. I heart cool lesbians, but I don’t hart drama, unless it’s of the thespian variety.

A couple of honorary mentions are in order this evening. They should have been in order last night, but we’ll make this vicarious because I was too tired to write anything last night. Here’s why:

• Tuesday, 5:15:32 pm: Power in all outlets in the house suddenly and unexpectedly disappears.
• Tuesday, 5:15:33 pm: Phil freaks out because the take-home exam that’s due in 23 hours is suddenly gone. Caput. Lost.
• Tuesday, 5:30:18 pm: Power is still gone, and Phil is now desperately trying to figure out what to do about the stupid test.

And since I recently purchased a glorious (not to mention amazing) iMac, there was no way for me to use laptop power. Which meant that as long as power was denied, so too was my partially completed exam. A partially completed exam that I’d rather go shovel cow manure for an hour than actually have to redo any of what was already done.

This is where shoutout number one comes into play. I’d earlier that day saved part of my exam to Google Docs so I could work on it from my laptop, or from a campus computer. So I at least had some of my work still. Next up, shoutout number two goes to Panera Bread, first for having only one of the best chai lattes the world has ever seen, and second for having free wifi for customers. (This is the part where I give a big thumbs down to places like Starbucks other big corporate coffee places who use the T-Mobile network for wifi and actually force those of us who don’t use that shit to pay $10/hour for wireless internet. Boo! You guys get scathing looks from me and also no links to your websites for not being cool to your customers.)

Anyway, back to the point of my take-home testing drama. When power finally DID return (when my red-faced and horned roommate got back, it was apparently fine; I had fled the place before 6 o’clock rolled around and sought shelter at Panera, where I sipped tea and worked on my less-than-optimally-functioning laptop. Turns out I lost a good chunk of what I had been working on, because the file was still open when I lost power. So Tuesday night and then on into Wednesday, I busted my chops and cranked out nine pages of sheer brilliance. That’s all I’m saying about that.

Next on the agenda, Step It Up and Dance. Tonight’s episode was probably the best one yet, because STOMP is fucking amazing. I think a part of me was hoping that more of the dancers would have actually known about Stomp and really gotten into it. I could be biased, because I’ve been into Stomp for years. I’ve seen the DVDs, and have seen them live three times. And I really, really, really hope that two weeks from now that bitch Miguel gets eliminated from the show. Every time I see his hair I cringe in fear that lice are going to leap out of the screen at me. Makes me really miss Christian Siriano from Project Runway, because at least when he talked about himself, he had smarter, more interesting commentary than “I’m so the best” or “I really can’t stand Michael, he’s a wannabe dancer.” I’d love to see Heather and Jessica really go to town on Miguel’s fashion sense, and just tear him to shreds.

I was just cleaning out my pockets and discovered a receipt from a recent purchase. Upon looking at it, I realized that 1.) I could have walked away with more than a penny in change, and 2.) I think someone could be in (or already was) in pretty big trouble with the boss.

My purchase cost a grand total of $5.29. I paid $5.30 cash for it, only when the cashier rang it up, she put in that I paid $53.30, thus causing the system to say that I was due back $48.01 in change. Upon first looking at the thing, I was miffed as to why the cost was so high, and that I had paid over $50 for a $5 purchase, until I realized that I’ve never, in fact, put a Grant in my wallet. Ever.

Sure, a part of me wishes the cashier really had given me that much back in change. But then I got to thinking about how unlike a crook I am, and even if I considered it a donation, of sorts, they’d probably notice the error sooner or later, play back their security tapes and subsequently arrest me for their own mistake. And who am I to make others work that hard for less than $50?

For future reference for the cashier: it’s generally best to click VOID when you screw shit up. Just saying.

After that doozy of a story from my previous entry, I needed a good follow-up. And what’s a better way to follow up something like that than by totally stealing someone else’s idea? The lovely Erin has a history of writing hilarious tales based entirely on Google searches. (”Google Fiction: Searches Incorporated into Brief and Awesome Tales” is what she generally calls them.) Should you need clarification, it works like this: the punch line of the story is a google search that got a hit for your website. Got it? Good.

It was barely five minutes into the meeting, and already Sandra was listing off statistics and figures about the company’s current plight. Bob sat half in awe, half in a sleepy stupor, unsure of whether or not he should actually care about the discussion at hand. In the real world, it seemed trivial to worry about the tenth and hundredth decimal percentages Sandra was going on about.

Despite himself, Bob tried to pay attention, only to end up zoning out while staring at Sandra. She was wearing her usual attire: solid button-up long-sleeve shirt, sleeves rolled partially up her forearms. Business slacks she’d no doubt gotten at Sears. She looked menacingly about the room, barking out numbers in a voice that didn’t quite mesh with her stocky, five-foot-five frame.

“We really need to push the sales in this area,” she said, pointing to a pie chart on the overhead projector. “The market is there, we just have to milk it.” Bob was startled by her choice of words and, before he could catch himself, started laughing. Sandra whirled on him, and the hair that stopped just short of her back brushed against the collar of her shirt.

“And if you can manage to ever focus, Bob, you might actually be able to be more than a cashier for this company.”

“I’m sorry,” Bob replied, “what was that? You said something about milking things and totally lost me.”

Sandra replied by picking up her stack of data sheets and lobbing it at Bob, hitting him square in the jaw. Apparently, Bob realized, the HISTORICAL SUPPLY AND DEMAND OF BIRKENSTOCK SANDALS was no laughing matter.

Saturday night was the first night of Pesach (be sure to really annunciate that gargled /ch/ at the end of the word; if you want to say it in English, it’s “Passover”). Given its first night priority, a Seder was in order. I was unable to find a Seder to attend, however. And by “unable to find,” I mean that nobody sought me out and invited me. That was how it worked for tonight (night #2), so I figured if that didn’t happen for the first night, it wasn’t meant to be.

Instead of going to a Seder, then, I stayed home and worked on the heaping pile of homework I’ve had before me, then went to what I had heard was a good rock ‘n roll gay bar. Apparently, “rock ‘n roll”, to those people, means playing techno remixes of pop and dance songs. I heard a techno version of Pink’s “Get the Party Started”, for instance. Once I realized that that was the song I was hearing, I promptly made to pour my beer over my head then rush up to the DJ and yell “See what you made me do? This shit is killing me!”

It’s not that I have an aversion to pop. I am gay, after all. I can do the pop and dance music, but dammit, it has to be done right. And really, Pink just does not go well with all the leather and studs. Get with it, people.

The highlight of the evening, aside from leaving that place behind, was what I saw on my way back to the car. The area was really quite homey and nice, so long as you’re looking to graffiti up some buildings and then score some cocaine. I didn’t score any coke, myself, but I did happen to witness someone else doing just that. It was all I could do to not burst out “Holy shit, I’m watching a drug deal go down at a bus stop!” as I walked past the people exchanging their goods. It was awesome.

But I digress. For this, the second night, I dragged my Jewish ass to a friend’s house for the Seder. She’d invited me like two months ago, and since I’d agreed to it back then, my Jewishness made it impossible for me to back out at the last second. Even after finding out that I was to bring a bathrobe to the event, and also to wear a turban throughout the Seder. Apparently, my friend’s dad (”He’s really weird!”, she warned me) likes to have everyone dress up so we can really feel like we’re fleeing the desert for freedom. Wow.

My friend had given me very specific directions on how to get to her house. She didn’t realize who she was trusting with said directions, however, and I still managed to get lost twice before actually finding the house. I would have gotten lost a third time, as I was straining to find the house numbers listed on the street in this most Jewish of neighborhoods (one house had a giant menorah in the front yard). While scanning, I noticed one house had a sign that read “FROM SLAVERY TO FREEDOM” posted on the wall, and thus I knew I was in the right place.

I conveniently forgot my bathrobe, and was relieved that none was offered for me to wear. I did get offered a turban (a pillowcase held in place by a stretchy headband), though, and being a good sport, I caved and put the thing on. But not before first rooting through the large cardboard box and finding the one pillowcase that best complemented my attire (read: didn’t make me break any of the china because it clashed so much).

The ceremony was held on the back porch, which had a tarp/tent to enclose the area. Spanning the two sliding glass doors was a timeline, covering Jewish history in its abridged entirety. Also included on the timeline were various and sundry other important historical events. Turns out my friend’s dad is quite the historian. Throughout the Seder, he lectured us on history and brought to life many aspects of the Pesach story, and the story Jewish history tells. Despite the many oddities before me, I found myself captivated.

Throughout the evening, I sat next to a fabulous Jewish grandmother who, with every glass of wine, got progressively more motherly. So much so, in fact, that when she learned (I’m not sure how; I was enjoying the wine very much as well) that I was living with a non-Jew, and at that a female and unmarried one, she suggested I immediately get in touch with the American Jewish University and see if I could find housing through them.

And of course, it wouldn’t be a Jewish event if someone didn’t ask the obligatory questions about getting married and having kids. Never mind that tattoo of mine, which instantly appeared on my forehead the second I came out. You know, the one that says “I’M GAY” in cursive rainbow letters. To dodge the question, I snatched up my glass of wine and gulped down the remaining three-fourths of it. Damn, that wine was good.

The whole affair was so Jewish, I can’t even say. Announcing a 5pm start time but not actually beginning until 6:30. Everyone carrying on and chattering away, starting out the Seder properly and then being so worn out toward the end that the latter parts were totally rushed through or else skipped entirely. Siblings squabbling over who would do what, and older ones demanding that the younger ones get their butts to the front and sing the damned song already. And all the while I sat there, totally enjoying myself (and laughing uncontrollably at all the shit going on) because for once I was not a part of the all the family drama. And oh, how nice a feeling that was.

This isn’t exactly what the doctor ordered, but I decided it fit well with the prescription. Let me first say that I’m not what you’d call an avid video gamer. I generally lack interest and/or patience to bother playing them. But there are certain games that were designed with me in mind, and I give them props.

First, even though it always gets a bad rap, Dance Dance Revolution is one of the best games ever. It can be impossibly hard, but it’s generally always fun, and even a good workout. Am I crazy about the music? Not always, but there’s enough other cool aspects to the game that more than make up for that.

A year and a half ago (or thereabouts), I was introduced to the next soon-to-be craze: Guitar Hero. A friend of mine I was working with for acting class got me started playing it. But I never envisioned myself getting it, mostly because you had to have a video game system to play it. Having never owned one of those, and not really interested in owning one, I moved on with my life.

But then. BUT THEN! I discovered there was a computer game version of the game, and it was way cheaper than buying a whole system just for one game. And then once I got my new computer, I found out that, holy shit, I could actually get a video game that I really liked! But given its hefty price tag, I decided against it.

Until tonight, that is, when I went to Target and discovered something unbelievable: it was on clearance for 30% off! Which totally made it worth it and I had no choice but to take the plunge. Studying blues? No worries, I can now rock the stress away at the end of the day. Friends over? Hey, we can be loud and annoy my roommate! Bored? Not anymore!

It’s literally a win-win situation. Speaking of which, it’s high time I go rock out. Excuse me.