L-7 Weenie

This is the first time I've ever written a blog on my phone, and it feels really awkward. But I'm sitting in the jury waiting room at the LA County Courthouse with nothing but an awesome book ("Dear Rick, Dear Teri" by the fabulous Teri Brown ((read it now, I say!))) and the entire Internet to entertain me. Sadly the public wifi blocked all the really *fun* websites. But Teri's book has inspired me to blog, and blog I shall!

So frickin' proud of my girl Teri!

Keeping with the spirit of my New Years resolution of awesomeness, let me tell you a little bit about baseball. "Including baseball and awesomeness in the same sentence, are you batty Child? Baseball is boring and long and stupid. America's pastime my foot!" You guys, it turns baseball is friggin' sweet! Who knew? (Still not as good as my first love, hockey, since there are far less fights and even fewer Canadians). But I do believe the LA Dodgers have found themselves a brand new fan.

This is a baseball with a Los Angeles logo on it. Get it?

"But Hutch, why the Dodgers? You're from Northern California. You are contractually obligated to like the Giants. Or at least the A's." The Bay Area is not Northern California. Ok, yes geographically it is in the northern part of the state. But it's doing it's own thing over there being pompous and expensive and douchey. (Sorry Bay Area peeps, but you know it's true!) I've lived in LA almost four years now, and I'm so much more at home here than I ever was up North.

Proof!

I'm also picking the Dodgers as my new loves because I'm highly susceptible to the power of suggestion. I know I always say I love the Ducks because of Disney, but in reality it's because my favorite professor at UCI took my friend and me to a game at the Ponda in 2009 and really introduced me to the sport. Her passion for the Ducks was contagious. As is the case for the Fella who worked at Dodger Stadium for three summers in high school. It's hard not to get caught up in the fervor of die hard, lifelong fans.

"You bob for apples in the toilet. AND YOU LIKE IT!"

I managed to get out early from work last Wednesday and we headed down the backstreets of LA to the less crowded entrance of the ballpark. Being too cheap to pay the snack shack prices for Dodger peanuts, we smuggled in our own huge bag. But I just had to complete my inaugural baseball experience with a beer and a hot dog (even though I like neither I those things usually. I'm nothing if not ceremonial.) Sixteen bucks later, I had a tankard of Blue Moon and a genuine Dodger Dog. I could hear Yeah Yeah and Squints echoing in my ears, calling me an L-7 weenie. From then on couldn't stop quoting the Sandlot (my third favorite movie of all time). Beer and hot dogs have never tasted so good though.

Disgusting. (Those aren't my feet by the way. I totally stole this photo.)

We found our seats in the second to nosebleed section and settled in. I was shocked to discover that people just drop their peanut shells on the ground for the staff to clean up later. Savages! I had consumed maybe a quarter of my beer by this point so naturally I was pretty toasted. I switched from quoting the insults of the Great Hambino to singing "Savages, Savages" from Disney's Pocahontas. Because that's what you do when faced with such rampant littering. (Mormons don't litter. Not even Former Mormons.)

You know you want to start singing now too. Give in.

As the sun was starting to set, a castoff from the Voice sang the National Anthem. And even though he Mariah'd the crap out of it (which never fails to make me think of how much my music teacher mother hates when people do that and how it's technically illegal to alter the National Anthem), I still got tears in my eyes. Because I'm a boob. (Which is totally something my mom also says. Dear lord, it's happening already...)

Without commercials, the game went by really quickly. I was shocked at how exciting it was and how much I really got into it. I was also surprised at how often the players hit foul balls. (Tee hee balls.) In movies it seems like this is a rare and dramatic occurrence. In real life, they seem to hit foul balls (tee hee) all the friggin' time! Apparently hitting a small ball hurled at top speeds with a thin wooden bat is really difficult? Huh.

Aww, Luis Cruz, you are just too adorable. Was that you I toured that one time?

On a related note, I swear that I toured Luis Cruz at my property a few weeks ago. I know it's a fairly common name for Los Angeles, but that guy was the same height, build, face shape and age. I even texted my colleague who had also assisted him to see if she remembered him mentioning anything about being a Dodger. But she didn't. That would be sweet, even though he didn't end up renting with us. Now I feel like a racist though... Sidebar, Luis Cruz has his own little, well cheer I guess is how you would describe it. When he goes up to bat, everyone starts yelling "CRUUUUUUUUUZZZZ" in a really deep voice. To me, it sounded like they were booing him and I was like, hey that's not cool. Mormons are also nothing if not sportsmanlike. But I guess it's a good thing. Sports confuse me sometimes.

I don't understand. But I do love it.

Shortly after tweeting about my Blue Moon-fueld one-woman Disney cabaret, my dear francophile amie Amanda texted me: "Are you at the game right now too??" Small frickin' world! Running into my old UCI/Bordeaux chum (who coincidentally happened to be the same friend that went with me to that first hockey game back in '09) in the middle of a crowded stadium at my first baseball game! (Also coincidentally the same friend I happened to run into at a hostel/campground outside of Venice, Italy completely out of the blue.) So I met up with her after the game in front of the giant statue of a macaroni noodle. Like you do.

I'm weirdly turned on by this.

Back to baseball though. It's a hell of a sport. I also have much more respect for the game after hearing about the brawl between the San Diego Padres and the Dodgers. Now that's more like it! (I'm shockingly bloodthirsty. I think I was a gladiator in another life.) I'm determined to see a grudge match just in case someone starts throwing punches in addition to curve balls (tee hee, balls). It's also kind of sweet that everyone stands and sings "Take Me Out to the Ball Game," in the Seventh Inning Stretch. Like I said, I dig ceremony. I also dig the fact that the elderly organ player is a big fan of old musicals and that these big tough baseball fans probably didn't realize that they were singing along to showtunes from "Guys and Dolls" and "South Pacific." True Story.

I should probably also mention that we lost. Because I'm bad luck. But I won't let that stop me from going back to the ball park!

St. Patrick's Day is Overrated

Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone! I hope you are all out there getting toasted on green beer (which I think is doubly disgusting since I loathe beer and things that are colored a color that is not their usual color. For example, I once made a green coffee cake because I thought it would be funny. I love coffee cake and I'm not too shabby at making them. But the fact that it was radioactive-colored made me throw pretty much the whole thing away. But I digress. ((Which is really why you love me))), and eating corned beef and cabbage (which also sounds disgusting although to be fair, I've never actually eaten it. Because it sounds disgusting.).

Blech blech blech.

Seeing as I have a wicked and persistent case of Green Fever (severe bouts of lust for any man with an Irish accent regardless of his physical form, age, or other characteristics), as well as a strange obsession with Irish pubs, you'd think that this would be my favorite holiday. And it is in theory. But I am now twenty-four years of age and have never truly celebrated this day in the manner in which it was destined. It seems that every March 17th, I end up being even lamer than usual and squandering this chance to honor all things Irish (and therefore sexy and/or awesome).

Here are some of my worst St. Patrick's Days ever:

Bordeaux, France 2008: I was a twenty-year old kid abroad in Europe for the first time and partying like a rock star. When I wasn't spending way too much time on Facebook, super homesick whilst watching bootleg episodes of Gilmore Girls. But in any case, I had fully planned on traveling to Dublin for this holiday and really doing it right. I soon found out that if you don't book your hostel and plane ticket months in advance, good luck trying to get anywhere near the Emerald Isle. Plus, it was a weeknight, so no one wanted to even just go out to our favorite pub, the Cock and Bull (which is actually British-themed, but close enough!) I ended up doing some homework, taking a shot of Bailey's, and going to bed around 9pm. I made it to Dublin eventually, and it was pretty much the greatest place on the planet. But Ireland in June just isn't the same. Sigh.

Not even a guilty pleasure. Gilmore Girls kick ass.

Irvine, California 2009: My first St. Patty's actually being legally allowed to drink alcohol. It was a Tuesday during my last Finals week ever if I remember correctly. I had to go to class all day and then partied it up at Albertson's to get some groceries. Woo wild child! I was wearing green rubber flip flops and ended up slipping and falling in the cereal aisle while mulling over the festiveness of Lucky Charms. Why on earth was there a puddle in the middle of the cereal aisle??? I could understand produce or even frozen foods if something was left out. But cereal by its very nature is dry. I don't even want to know what it was. But the point is, I fucked up my knee for months afterwards and the stain from the grimy floor never really came out of my jeans. That night, not only did I have to work, but I had to do inventory at Blockbuster. Meaning that I had to literally scan every single DVD in stock from 8pm to 5am, usurping prime partying hours and being an all-around bummer. Plus, my knee hurt so much that it made the shift even more depressing.

Isn't this flipping terrifying??? More Halloween than St. Patrick's Day.

South Central Los Angeles, California 2010: Broke. Unemployed. Bored. Without many friends in Los Angeles even though I'd lived here for 8 or 9 months at that point. This was the night that I auditioned for the Sally Tomatoes. Which ended up being one of the best decisions of the last few years. But I got horribly lost in Downtown LA and was followed to my car by a leering homeless man. And then I went to bed early again without even taking a shot. I did however, post a blog about how lame it is being of British descent, since it's nothing worth being proud of. You can totally tell how bitter and angry I was at the time.

The madness of unemployment.

North Hollywood, California 2011: Went to work. Went to Sally's practice. Came home, drank one beer and was already pretty tipsy. My friend Kelly Bean called me around 11pm and and drove my lightweight, buzzed ass to Denny's for a midnight apple pie run. That part was actually pretty awesome. Though it was kind of funny to be consuming an American icon on an Irish holiday.

North Hollywood, California 2012: Finally, the holiday falls on a Saturday! But it also happens to be a rare week when I have to work on Sunday. Blarg. After going to bed way too late last night, I was rudely awakened at 6:30am by a terribly loud, blaring smoke alarm. No particular reason. It just decided to go off. And not the innocent though obnoxious dead battery chirp. This thing could have woken the dead. But I couldn't figure out which one was going off, since I have two that are right next to each other (kind of a stupid design come to think of it). Still half-asleep, I tried to just change the battery. I discovered that it takes a 9-volt though, and who keeps 9-volts in the house? I ended up just pulling it out of the ceiling and going back to bed. It eventually was silent.

Also extremely creepy. I see this as a rare depiction of the smoke detector demon

who always sets off the alarm at odd hours and

kills the battery when he knows you don't keep replacements in the house.

Too soon after, I was awakened by my regular alarm clock. I weighed myself and discovered that I had gained weight due to the movie popcorn and red vines I was forced at gun point to consume the night before (I take no responsibility for that. But I'm still down roughly 70 lbs!). Eventually, I dragged my exhausted self to work, completely forgetting to wear any sort of green whatsoever. It was pouring rain and the roads were flooded since LA is not rain-compatible. That was exciting. Then at work, everything was broken. I was unable to log in all day, and yet was still running around like a chicken with my head cut off. A headless chicken who has to have really awkward conversations about strange toilet smells. A rainbow came out though just as I was leaving, which must have been some sort of sign. Maybe I have a guardian leprechaun. With a really sick sense of humor.

SO BADASS!!!!! "And shepherds we shall be..."

Now I'm relaxing at home, wearing green sweat pants and fuzzy socks. I plan on drinking a beer (not Guinness, but a raspberry wheat Belgian beer. It still counts), and watching Boondock Saints, which has been my tradition for the last several years. Despite all the crappy times and lack of proper partying, Boondock Saints always makes me feel better. I think it has to do with my love of cheeky Irishmen in pea coats with guns.

Love them year-round, but particularly on days like today.

Speaking of cheeky Irishmen, my dream is to one day spend March 17th in Boston at a Dropkick Murphy's concert. Kelly Bean actually accomplished this Bucket List item in 2008 while I was busy studying for finals, screwing up my knee and doing inventory in lame Orange County. Bitch. (Just kidding, lady!) If I can't do St. Patty's in Dublin, Boston would be the next best thing. Who knows, maybe I'll run into an Irish lad in a pea coat who will buy me a raspberry wheat Belgian beer (and not mock me too horribly for my taste), events will transpire and I will conquer another Bucket List entry... But I guess St. Patrick's Day is kind of like New Year's Eve. It always seems awesome, but is never as epic as you want it to be. And most of the time, you end up falling asleep before 10pm anyway. At least I do.

What's the Opposite of an Ode?

Whatever it is, I'd like to write the opposite of an ode to beer. Beer is gross. One whiff and I get bitter beer face so bad I'm literally afraid it will freeze that way and I'll be stuck with a twisted, screwed up mouth and a scrunched up nose and eyebrows for life. Once I tried to take a sip of my friend's brother's super dark ale and nearly threw up in his authentic souvenir German stein. I hate beer. I know everyone says it's an acquired taste, like coffee or wine. But I fail to see the purpose in an acquired taste. Why bother acquiring it if the process is so yucky? Now I understand that some people require coffee just to survive. And though it took me several months of living in France, I finally understand why people like wine (red anyway. White is just a waste of time.)

Blech.

I drank my way through Europe, sampling the best beers that Munich, Prague, and Brussels had to offer. I was determined to acquire that taste so I could be a normal college student. Blech, blech, and more blech (with the exception of Belgian cherry beer. Droooool...) I made it all the way to the Guinness Brewery in Dublin, where I gave beer one last ultimatum: If I didn't like it by Ireland (one of the last stops on my trip), I was giving up for good. And sure enough, after touring the factory (and learning that eggs are the single best cure for a hangover, thanks Guinness!), I went up to their sky bar for my free (well, included in the extravagant ticket price) pint. Dirt. Dirt and poo was all I tasted. So screw you beer! Also, it has a ton of calories (not that I really care about that), and it takes a lot of it to really take an effect (expensive and inefficient).

But last night when me, the Bean, and the Bean's boyfriend went out on the town (and by town I mean the Universal City Walk), we came across a beer garden. And while I loathe the sight, smell, and taste of beer, I love what it symbolizes: hanging out with your friends, relaxing over a pint. And anything consumed outside tastes better for some reason. Plus, it was happy hour. Three fifty a glass? Happy hour indeed! We had some time to kill between getting frozen yogurt (sidebar, I am the queen of Yogurtland), and going to see the Green Hornet (more on that later). So we decided to go for it. I ordered a Belgian Wheat Heffeweizen (I think), simply because the description mentioned something about bananas, vanilla, and cloves, and that it was 7% alcohol (I'm all for more bang for your buck). And you know what? It wasn't terrible. I didn't get bitter beer face. I didn't love it, but I didn't want to regurgitate my digesting froyo either. So, progress. I should also mention I was able to stand Bud Light with the lime juice already in it. It tasted like water and from what I understand, doesn't count as beer.

So yes, I celebrated Martin Luther King, Jr. day with an exercise in tolerance. And while I still don't really like beer, I do like the way it makes you feel. As with wine, for some reason it gives you a happy, warm feeling. You appreciate everyone and everything around you. Not in a sloppy, "I love you, man" kind of way (at least in moderation). But still, it enhances the good times. Unfortunately, it had been a really long time since I'd had any alcohol, and frozen yogurt does not a substantial dinner make. So that 7% kind of hit me harder than expected and by the time we walked to the theater, I was laughing hysterically and awkwardly cha-cha'ing to the crappy world music being performed on the promenade. It was quite a performance, if I do say so myself.

Pretty good poster actually.

And now, on to the somewhat rushed and vague review (I have to finish getting ready for work. I just felt bad that I went so long without blogging.) THE GREEN HORNET!!!! I had been so excited about this project ever since I first heard that Seth Rogen was attached a few years ago. I love him as a writer and I thought he would make an interesting choice as an action hero (since Pineapple Express, like Bud Light with Lime, doesn't quite count). I was also stoked to hear that Michel Gondry was directing. Another unusual choice, and who would have ever paired those two up as a team? Anyway, the whole reason I got scammed by this extra company was that they were advertising for background players for the Green Hornet. Any chance to catch a glimpse of my beloved Seth was worth the exorbitant sign up fee. But that didn't exactly work out and I developed a slight resentment for the Green Hornet (even though it was just a pawn in Actorsonset's nefarious scheme).

Swoon.

When I finally saw the trailer (after the film was pushed back a few months, not boding well for its quality), I was severely disappointed. It looked really stupid, honestly. And not in a good way. Britt Reid's sidekick Kato seemed like such a horrific racial stereotype (which probably wouldn't have bothered me as much if it was genuinely funny). And I just didn't buy Seth Rogen as basically a male Paris Hilton. But after reading The Sassy Curmudgeon's surprisingly good review, I decided to take a chance. I rarely see movies in the theater, so this was a big deal. I trust Una, and Seth has rarely let me down before.

As for the movie itself, I think it helped that I was still a bit tipsy from my Heffeweizen. It took a while to really get going, and only in the last half of it did I really laugh out loud. But homeboy looks startlingly good in a suit, even if I maintain that he looked better 30 pounds heavier. The relationship between Kato and Britt was adorable and complex, even gleefully addressing the unintentional homoerotic subtext a few times. And as much as I love Seth, it was really the Kato show. Britt didn't really do anything except bankroll the operation and be snarky. He was more often the damsel in distress than the hero. Cameron Diaz was just awful, and her character seemed to serve only as conflict between the guys, and as exposition for the plot. And while Christopher Waltz was amazing in Inglorious Basterds, he was a bit wasted in this. He only appeared in a few scenes, and his whole bit about not being scary enough as a bad guy was underdeveloped. He had such potential as a supervillain, but really just seemed to phone it in. But he did have one of the best lines, "I'm UNGASSABLE!!" There were some great action sequences, but since I really only cared about the dialogue and the characters, I was perfectly 'whelmed.' A few great lines, clearly improvised, but for the most part, it seemed a little superficial. I know it's not trying to be more than an action comedy loosely based on an old timey radio show. But it had the potential for a lot of heart.

I think I'd give it a solid 5 or a 6. Maybe more because I am hopelessly devoted to Seth, even if he is engaged (*heart breaks). But the point is, beer is still gross.