"Holy crap, Wayne Newton's hitting on Mom!"

Now that the hangover has subsided, the blistering heat has been replaced with pleasantly warm, and I'm no longer stuffed into Spanx and a little black dress, it is finally time to recap my adventures in Vegasland. While it was a fabulous three-day weekend filled with all kinds of amusing debauchery, the highlight definitely was my pilgrimage to what should be every straight girl and gay guy's Mecca, CHIPPENDALES. But I'm going to save that for its own blog. Because it was that good. For real...

Obligatory Vegas Sign

I'm sorry, where was I? Oh yes. Vegas. Which, like all trips I end up not regretting one bit, I started off dreading like nobody's business. Mostly because, despite the fact that I am gainfully employed and have been for six whole months now (practically a record!), I am still crazy broke. Also, because traveling even just to the next state over, is incredibly stressful. There are flights to book, taxis to reserve, and itineraries to plan. Not to mention strict budgeting that I will inevitably completely ignore while actually on vacation. Then there was the added stress of attempting to pull off a short Youtube video in approximately 24 hours (a topic for another blog altogether. Suffice to say, there will be Running Man). Basically, I had to work overtime like mad just to take one day off.

But by Friday night, I was in Vegas, reunited with my UC Irvine/University of Bordeaux girls, some of which for the first time in the two years since graduation. There were seven former Anteaters in total, and Vegas was stoked for us. We landed at the Carriage House sometime after midnight, then hit up Walgreen's for supplies. Meaning booze and junk food to stock our hotel room that was bigger than my whole apartment, including full fridge and dishwasher. It was a little alarming seeing Vegas for the first time since I was 15 and with my family. Probably because Vegas at 3 in the morning is a little alarming no matter how old you are. Crazies and drunks everywhere. It was fabulous.

The next day, we slept in, then headed out to the Strip. We made it as far as the Paris before deciding to partake in the grand Vegas tradition of comically large souvenir cocktails. My Eiffel Tower-sized margarita was delightful, as was the prospect of getting fairly drunk before one in the afternoon. It was even better knowing that I would have been at work, probably stressing about dog poop or parking snafus, had I not been traipsing down the corridors of various gambling establishments. The only downside was that it was hot as balls in Vegas. Everyday was at least 105 degrees, maybe 90 at night. So hot that if I even tried to sweat, it would evaporate before it could cool me down.

Me, Stefan (The Eiffel Tower Cocktail), and Tiffany

We only hit a few hotels before giving up to the heat, exhaustion, and extreme tipsiness. We came back to our own decidedly less impressive hotel to get ready for the evening's festivities. The lady Anteaters had decided early on in the planning stage to purchase slutty dresses to really get into the spirit of the place. We quickly discovered that California slutty is nowhere near as intense as Vegas slutty. We felt positively Puritanical with our skirts that extended longer than an inch past our cooters and heels less than seven inches tall. I don't know how those girls did it. My feet were screaming after walking a few blocks in my relatively conservative peeptoe wedges.

Mutinous Feet

Saturday night was Cirque du Soleil's Mystere. The primary reasoning behind our selection was that it was the show that Seth Rogen watches in "Knocked Up" where he freaks out whilst on shrooms. I am telling you now, you don't need shrooms to be freaked out by that show. I'm pretty sure it was the closest thing to an acid trip I will ever take. Especially that fat baby with the big orange ball. I fucking hate that baby. He is the stuff of your most obnoxious nightmares. There was also this ventriloquist in hot pink that just spoke jibberish and held a creeppy Dr. Seuss-looking dummy. Boo. But the actual acts were amazing. Especially the two half-naked guys who lifted each other with impressive strength. And I won't lie, despite the intense homoeroticism, it was kind of working for me. Then there was this big snail thing that was just bizarre. But I'm glad we went, because it's not Vegas without a big snail thing.

Weird big snail thing at Mystere

After the show we went to Botero Steak House for a fully vegan meal at the Wynn. Yes I can appreciate the irony of going to a steak house for vegetables. But Miss A.K. Brown as she was known by her assassin name had an in with the chef who created the menu. The same chef who also catered Ellen's wedding (be impressed, dammit!). So her family offered to pay for the meal as long as we all ordered vegan. I never thought I'd be so stuffed just by eating veggies and tofu. But five slow courses and gallons of water made eating just painful after a while. The food was fantastic, especially the mini-churros. And our waiter looked exactly like Chuck, so bonus. We had planned on going clubbing after dinner, but one look at the slutty and/or douchey mob outside XS (with one exception being the adorable guy in full formal Scottish regalia), we were over it.

Pretty fabulous

Sunday mornings were made for brunch buffets in my opinion. And Planet Hollywood had an amazing one. After brunch, we did some more Strip-ping. I made the mistake of wearing super thin flip flops so my feet were still not happy. But I consoled myself with another souvenir margarita cup, not quite as spectacular as the tower I named Stefan, but nearly as effective. Then came the Jello shots. And the vodka cranberries back at the hotel. Basically I was drinking from 3pm to 1am. Since it was over a long period of time, I never got crazy drunk, but I maintained a nice buzz. Vegas should be experienced no other way.

INSERT CHIPPENDALES SEGMENT HERE!!

Monday I woke up feeling slightly ill. But I considered it a seminal right of passage having vomited in a Vegas hotel toilet. But after a handful of dry Cheerios, I was right as rain. We checked out of the hotel and wandered around the City Center, this time at a much more leisurely pace. After killing some time at the Luxor, Mandalay Bay, and Excalibur, we dragged our tired, hot, aching butts to the airport. We were no longer drunk, unlike many people at McCarren who extended their walks of shame to the plane ride home. But I was done. Vegas is good for 2.5 days tops. After that, it is just too much stimulation. Plus there's nowhere to sit.

It was blissful coming back to Burbank where it was a perfect 72 degrees. It was weird to no longer be surrounded by intoxicated bachelorette parties and belligerent frat guys desperate to reenact the Hangover at any cost. But I appreciated the peace.

So now I think I'm all set for Vegas for the next several years. Though I'd be happy to fly in every other week to meet up with my Chippendale's husband...

Beulah

I'm having an affair, and what's worse, I'm falling in love with the other woman. She happens to be a green Honda Civic I've named Beulah. But you have to understand the circumstances during which I went from a loving, monogamous relationship with Stan (my 1989 Mercury Topaz that I've had since I was sixteen, easily the longest relationship of my life), to considering transferring my loyalty and devotion to Beulah, all in under 12 hours.

Beulah, the Green M&M of Vehicles

The only things my parents still pay for are my car insurance and DMV-type registrationy fees. (Other than that, I am fully independent). So when the DMV informed my dad that it was time to get Stan smogged for his registration come June 1st, my dad made sure to give me plenty of time to take care of it. Being a natural procrastinator, and proud of it, I just now made it in to Pep Boys with four days to spare. I even made an appointment online (self-five!). Four hours of waiting, reading a large section of "The Help," and awkward conversations with a stranded young family with car trouble on the way to Disneyland and a teenage Tim Burton look-a-like, I still hadn't heard about the status of Stan.

Finally I decided to ask the very cute and charming Pep Boy Artin. (He's lucky that he was cute and charming, otherwise I would have been even more annoyed at this waste of my time). He said, oh, bad news, it failed. I had joked in my Facebook status before leaving that I had my fingers crossed for him to pass, otherwise it was "curtains for ol' Stanny." But it never really occurred to me that he would actually fail. Sure he has his many many many flaws and eccentricities, but he's always come through for me in the past six and a half years.

How can you not love this face?

Naturally, the technician who tells you exactly why he failed and what you need to do to get him fixed, wasn't in that day and won't be in tomorrow for Memorial Day (which is already my day off and I don't think I get holiday pay so it's more of a nuisance than a mini-vacation like for most people). Plus, it's an extra $140 not to mention a whole day without a car in order to diagnosis this mysterious illness. Not including the repairs to make him pass. I'm already having a belt-tightening month and was barely going to afford the cost of the test and an oil change. Now I find out I have to sink even more money into Stan just to pass California environmental standards? I'm all for the environment, but do the hippies mind forking over the money to buy me a new Prius? 'Cuz I don't have it, son.

I found out that it's possible I could qualify to get financial aid from our bankrupt state to "retire" my old man. It's the least they could do since they're the ones imposing such high standards anyway. But the thought of letting go of my buddy, the Murtaugh to my Riggs, is heartbreaking. Not many partners-in-crime will stick with you even after throwing up all over them while driving in Laker traffic on the 10 freeway. I always knew that Stan wasn't going to last forever. But it's like losing your first dog or your first boyfriend. That's a bond that will never break, no matter how temporary. I just know that I'm going to cry if I have to drop Stan off at a recycling plant to be dismantled. Think of how gut-wrenching that one scene in Toy Story 3 was!

I picture this, only insert a

Mercury instead of cute CGI toys.

Sure I'll be happy to get a new car. One that functions like it's supposed to and doesn't make weird old man gurgling and sputtering sounds. And idly browsing the North Hollywood online used car market yielded a few prospects, like the lovely, enticing, and affordably priced Beulah. The more I check out her statistics and financing options, the more seduced I become. But the fact remains that I am broke. The best thing about Stan was that he was completely paid for. I'm even considering getting a bike and just biking to work. But we all know that not having a car in Los Angeles is laughable.

The Green M&M of M&Ms

Hopefully I'm just jumping the gun and throwing the baby (or old man car) out with the bathwater. I don't know how much it's going to cost to fix. It could be less than a couple hundred dollars in which case maybe I can squeeze a few years out of Stan. But at the same time, isn't it better to start putting the money towards a new car and let go of the past? Should I start embracing a future with Beulah, the saucy Japanese mistress?

Getting Busy

I am convinced that yesterday was the pinnacle of my customer service career. One resident was so fed up with her upstairs neighbor's "bedroom habits" that she decided to record the incessant squeaking of the bedsprings that were keeping her awake at night. She was tired of having to explain to her young daughter that the neighbors were just "moving furniture" in the middle of the night. "Momma, they sure move a lot of furniture," the daughter said. So just in case we thought she was exaggerating or making it up, she actually caught the neighbor in the act on tape knocking boots like some kind of boot-knocking madman.

I kept trying to convince her that we believed her and that we were doing everything we could to resolve the situation. But it's not like we can ask this poor guy to stop having sex in his own apartment. We didn't need proof but nevertheless she insisted on holding the tape player up to the phone and playing it for me. So there I was sitting at my desk, listening in on the intimate if not exactly private affairs of one of my residents. Emotionally, I was torn. I felt bad for the guy on the tape who just wanted to get his freak on and here we were about to meddle. But at the same time, it was really loud. I'd be pissed too if that was my neighbor and I couldn't sleep whenever he got lucky. And then on the other hand, I was impressed. Homeboy has stamina. I mean, he was REALLY going for it. Hat's off to you, sir. But mostly I was just uncomfortable. There's nothing worse in my opinion than accidentally overhearing other people getting it on, no matter who it is. I have some horror stories, believe me.

So this incident just combined many things I despise:

1. People bitching

2. Problems for which there are no answers

3. Awkward confrontations

4. Listening to complete strangers have sex

I believe the compromise was that Homeboy was going to dismantle his bed frame and just put the mattress on the floor. Hopefully that helped. I really don't want to have to listen to another amateur recording of his mating rituals. Situations like this, of which there is no short supply in Studio City, definitely keep life interesting.

"Is Everyone Ok?": Murderers in Studio City

This was the headline of an e-mail I got from my operations manager today at about 2:30pm. Most every one else was out of the office on tours or jaunts or whatever it is people do when they leave me to man the fort. Intrigued, I opened the e-mail and discovered this message:

"I heard there was a murderer loose in Studio City. Three schools are on lockdown.

Is everyone alright?"

At first I thought it was a sick joke. But April Fools Day was over two weeks ago (and had passed thankfully without event. Damn that blasted holiday. I positively loathe practical jokes.) But this isn't the kind of guy to pull that stuff.

So frantically, I started googling "Murderer loose Studio City April 15th" (just in case there were murderers loose on other days). I came up with an article saying that sure enough, three schools were on lockdown and many of the streets within a mile from us were closed.

Suddenly feeling the urge to start

singing "Bad boys, bad boys

whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do

when they come for you."

But that's every Friday.

I panicked, since I was basically alone in the office. The apartment complex I work at is massive with lots of sweet hideout spots for someone on the run from Johnny Law. And though it is gated, with full-time security guards, there are ways to penetrate our defenses if one is desperate and crafty enough to try. Naturally my mind started flashing back to the special I had just watched on E! the day before about "15 Shocking Acts of Violence." (Which was followed by E! News. It's hard to go from watchings Kindergartners get murdered in cold blood to Who is Miley Cyrus dating this week?). Then I started thinking about that season finale of Grey's Anatomy where that crazy dude starts shooting up the place (a most intense and excellent episode). If it happened on Grey's Anatomy, it most certainly could happen in Studio City. Because as you know, that kind of shit actually does happen here in real life!

In this scenario, and this scenario alone,

I fancy myself McDreamy.

I started running around the office frantically, not sure what to do in case of a possible mass murder of our precious porn stars and child actors that live in the complex. I didn't know what or whom I was looking for, but I couldn't just sit at my desk and wait to be killed to death! (Because I was convinced it was going to happen at this point. Though the way the afternoon turned out after this, it probably would have been a relief. Hooo-wee!) Eventually I sat back down and re-read the article for clues on how I could take this mother down if he tried to hurt me, my co-workers or the porn stars. Then I noticed this addendum at the bottom of the article:

"The suspect has been captured and is in custody as of 1:30pm"

So he had been caught for over an hour before I got the e-mail. Phew. That was fun. Then it was back to frantically working as always without the threat of impending doom.

Until about 6:45pm when the FedEx guy arrived. He was late because of the streets being shut down. We started talking about the murderer and he said that he was still on the run. But...but...but...they caught him hours ago, right? Apparently there were three and they had caught two? At least that's what the FedEx guy said. Maybe it had just gotten exaggerated by the media over the course of the day. But by that time I was just so stressed and exhausted by normal things that I just started laughing. Of course there's a murderer still on the loose. Because that's exactly what my day needs.

Not me. But sometimes I feel

the urge to bite my keyboard because

I'm just about to lose it. Well, no.

This lady is batshit ka-razy. But still, you get the point.

This is a really long caption. Mazel tov.

Anyway, it's over now, and I just want to soak in a vat of red wine. But I'll probably just end up cleaning for when Mama Hutch comes to visit tomorrow (YAY!!!) This is not the first time a situation has gotten real at my place of business. When I worked for the Market, there was a major FBI standoff with a shooter at the Federal building one or two blocks away. Then there was a bomb/anthrax scare a few weeks later when I got trapped in the kitchen with the sexy guy from legal. Good times. It also reminded me of the time my dad thought he saw a dead body in the desert but it turned out to be Mexican Drug Dealer's jackets. Just in that I got all riled up for no good reason.

Here is the follow up article on the murderer in case you were curious.

Night of the Living Spatula

Today is my oldest niece's 6th birthday. It makes me feel really old to remember a time when this person didn't exist and now they are practically a teenager (kids today grow up so much faster than we did). Naturally I got all nostalgic about the night Miss Ally Paige was born...(insert clip of Wayne and Garth wiggling their fingers diddly doo diddly doo diddly doo as the screen dissolves into black and white).

APRIL 13, 2005

The reason I was not present for the birth of my brother Scott's firstborn was because I was goofing off with the rest of the advanced placement English students in Ashland, Oregon. We were all at the Shakespeare Festival, a kickass celebration of the Bard and adolescent tomfoolery. The APES to Ashland trip was on occasion notorious for normally well-behaved honors students to get footloose and fancy free, Oregon-style. And after studying our fannies off the whole year for the AP test, it was time to rock out with our codpieces out. Of course the year we were finally old enough to go, the administration (read: The Man) decided to get tough about kids sneaking booze, pot, and other various paraphernalia of debauchery (how do you like them SAT words?). Anyone caught during the random suitcase searches would be sent home immediately and worse. Well, crap. I guess we'd just have to enjoy the quaint Ashland scenery and Elizabethan theatre (note the 're' spelling).

Ashland Shakespeare Festival

Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of Shakespeare. But I was looking forward to some crazy "what happens in Ashland, stays in Ashland" stories. Especially since I had never done anything wild in my life. (Unless you count buying condoms and chocolate pudding from Raley's the year before as a gag gift). Nevertheless, my friends and I were having a great time crammed into a tiny hotel room with a buffet of delicious treats (I recall cheez-its, mini muffins, and gummy bears specifically). Things did get a little wacky when we were all simultaneously locked out of our rooms and had an impromptu hall party that was promptly squashed. Then my friend somehow made our toilet explode into a beautiful fountain and we had to have maintenance come save us from the rushing tide of toilet water. We rewarded them with mini-muffins.

Forever Plaid

That night we all got ready for our non-Shakespeare night. We got to see Forever Plaid at a cabaret type theater, which was quite the treat. It was kind of a broadway meets barbershop quartet show that was just delightful. During the intermission I checked my voicemail and discovered that my sister-in-law, Nay, had gone into labor earlier that day! I could barely concentrate during the second half knowing that I was about to become an aunt for the first time! As we piled back onto the bus after the show, I announced to all that I was officially an aunt at the tender age of seventeen. My fellow students didn't seem as excited for me, but I was walking on air! Though I was a little pissed that I missed the birth itself. Miss Ally, impatient as ever, decided she couldn't wait to terrorize the world until her Aunt Pooe (long story) could get to the hospital. Silly girl.

When we got back to the hotel, a bunch of us had gathered in our hotel room to hang out, watch TV, plunder our junk food buffet, and do whatever it is teenagers abroad do. It wasn't enough for me though. We had to celebrate the occasion by doing something crazy! They had already taken away the booze we would never have had the guts to bring anyway, so a toast was out of the question. We were high enough on sugar, like cracked out little squirrels. Looking for some way to act out against the Man's oppression, we decided to go on a quest for porn. Don't ask me how we came to that conclusion. None of us had seen any before, and felt this was a rite of passage we had missed. The only place we could think to find some was the Albertson's across the street. Surely they had some sort of dirty magazine we could giggle and shriek over.

So about eight of us snuck out into the hall when Mr. Duda caught us red-handed. "Where are you guys going?" He demanded. Me, "We have to make a quick Albertson's trip." (Which was true.) "What could you possibly need from Albertson's at this time of night?" (It was like 10pm). Me, not missing a beat, "It's personal." To which Mr. Duda got really flustered and most likely assumed I meant feminine hygiene products. "Oh, well you can take one person with you, but be quick about it." So I took Kirsten, the only one of us who was 18 and could legally purchase pornography. We headed across the street to Albertson's, barely avoiding getting hit by cars.

After looking around the store for a good 20 minutes, we discovered that grocery stores in Ashland do not carry porn. What a shame. But the porn wasn't the point. It was the epic and dangerous quest, fraught with peril in the form of grumpy old English teachers and speeding vehicles. We couldn't go back empty-handed. So we scoured the store for something to bring back as proof that we had made it. Then we came across the kitchenware aisle. The plastic spatulas seem to have a heavenly light about them. Of course! Spatulas! Spatulas are just as good as porn! So we bought two of them (and some batteries for my camera) and ran back across the treacherous street, laughing hysterically all the way.

A Spatula.

We walked back into the hotel room, the spatulas behind our backs. TA DA!! We revealed our loot, and the group seemed a little confused. But being just as hopped up on sugar as we were, they suddenly burst into peals of laughter too. We had a mock swordfight with our kitchen utensils and collapsed on the floor.

When I finally got back into town and was able to visit Miss Ally Paige in the hospital, my brother Nick and I bought her a yellow duck we named Spatula with a promise to explain the story one day when she was older.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALLY!!

Discrete Gossip Queen Part 2

I'm going to skip the self-flagellation for being such a sporadic blogger (with a name like Sporadic Sporkitudes, you have to expect periods of radio silence in between frantic, Fun Dip fueled rants and lame but lengthy lists). Basically what I've been up to these past few weeks has been just collecting stories. Oh, such stories. Wonderful, weird, so unbelievable that they could only be true, stories. Unfortunately, I can't really share many of them. I don't want to get in trouble. But one of these days, your new favorite prime time 'soapedy' (a phrase I just coined) will be based on the wacky land that is Studio City.

Especially if you are off your nut, balls to the wall, k-k-krazy!

With a population of residents larger than my hometown, there is no end to the hijinks that occur on a daily, no hourly, basis. Especially when that population consists of porn stars, child actors, their stage moms, struggling actors both attractive and not, (also talented and not), wannabe musicians, fading flash in the pan reality sensations, participants in the Witness Protection Program, spoiled rich playboys/girls, and the straight up bat-shit crazy.

Yes, I'm writing it all down. Observing to report later on. If nothing else but for my own amusement. I already had the idea for a show that was based upon the first apartment complex I lived in in Irvine. But Studio City blows that sleepy little college town out of the water and into the stratosphere. I'm actually overwhelmed by what goes on here. It's too much to even fathom at times. Luckily the stress has gone down now that we're not as busy. But there is no shortage of insanity.

So I guess this blog is a bit of a tease, but I will tell you some of the elements you will see in my future, probably never to be written much less produced soapedy:

1. Mistresses featured in major celebrity sex scandals. Yes, that was plural. (and finding out the preferences certain insane celebrities request when choosing their prostitutes).

2. Crazy ladies screaming in gibberish whilst running topless from one of the three gyms on the property.

3. Former one-hit-wonder rap/rock celebrity rehab junkies (the one that climbed the building a few months ago) trashing an apartment and then hearing on the radio the next morning about this person's arrest.

4. Rumors of a meth lab that could explode any moment and discussing whether or not this was a legitimate excuse to evict someone.

5. Residents using the move-in inspection as an excuse to attempt to seduce certain employees (which certain employees claim to have refused, but you never know ; ) )

6. A Russian mob shooting in the parking garage

7. Couple who may or may not be in the Witness Protection Program. (They're not very pleasant. But I guess you wouldn't be either)

8. A big time hip hop artist and producer's daughter's Crip boyfriend dragging her out in the hall by her hair wearing only a bra at the time.

9. A Saudi princess with her own security detail who did nothing but shop for Gucci bags all day.

10. I assisted an 18 year old male model with his very first taxes.

Even the dogs are actors. I met one who had been in multiple episodes of CSI New York among other things.

I'm sure there's more, but I'm just slowly taking it all in. There's years of crazy to sift through and find the juiciest bits.

On an unrelated note, I just found out that Kenneth from 30 Rock frequents the pub down the street where my friends and I went to trivia night the other night! And to think we were stoked to see the kid who played Elliot in E.T.!