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More aid is being sent to Africa, more U2 songs are being written and more kids are being whisked away by Pitt-Jolie Ltd., yet the continent still can’t get on stable footing. It’s made me wonder if Africa – the entire Continent – is the Los Angeles Clippers of land masses.
Year after year, Africa comes in last in revenue, tickets sold, attendance and they always get all the perks to turn things around. They get the best minds, they get the most aid, they always get the first draft pick. Yet, none of it seems to work. Clearly this is the fault of mismanagement.
All the resources are there to win. They have numbers, they have natural resources, they have water, food and industry, yet the people in charge keep messing things up. It’s like Baron Davis, Marcus Camby and Zach Randolph. Very talented individually, but when Mike Dunleavy is put in charge, suddenly you have epidemics, food shortages and civil wars in the Staples Center. Mike Dunleavy is the Robert Mugabe of the NBA.
Also, both have a lot of black people. If you like your metaphors more direct.
Everyone in Los Angeles is terrified about Swine Flu, which they really shouldn’t be because no one in Los Angeles ever interacts with other people. Your average Los Angelino is face-to-face with an average of two real people per month (made-up stat), and it tends not to be the person who gets Swine Flu.
But their problem is that on the oft-chance that they are around someone with the disease, they’re screwed because they haven’t built up their immune system. I, on the other hand, will be perfectly fine because I ride the bus.
Do you have any idea how much the Los Angeles Metro strengthens the immune system? I’ve had diseases that don’t even have names because they can only exist in the stale environment of the Vermont Boulevard rapid line.
I think I’ve already had Swine Flu a half-dozen times in the last month. People bring their cattle and livestock on the bus with them, it’s really nothing new.
You car-drivers are the ones in trouble. Yeah your odds are low because you never have to talk to another human being, but on the chance that you encounter the disease, you’re screwed. You’re not ready. You’ve never been on the bus.
I’m really excited for the new Terminator Salvation movie coming out soon, but it’s made me think of some of the weird time-travel logistics that will interfere with the original Terminator.
The biggest and most obvious conflict seems like it has to be that John Connor is going to send his friend back in time to have sex with his mom and conceive him, John Connor. Can you imagine how awkward of a conversation that has to be?
Surely John Connor didn’t want to have to bring it up with Kyle, but it might have crossed his mind. Right before he hit the “Send” button on the time machine, do you think he said, “By the way, don’t bang my mom,” or was he confident that his friend will go back in time and not have sex with her?
Because most bodyguards aren’t supposed to have sex with their client. I’m sure there’s some syndrome, like how caretakers fall for patients or hostages fall for their captors, but still, this is the future of the human race we’re talking about here and he’s going back to the 1980s to get laid.
But then the problem comes up that if he doesn’t have sex with Sarah Connor, then there is no John Connor and humans are screwed. So does John Connor know? And if he does, that’s even more uncomfortable to tell your friend to go back in time and have sex with your mom. How do you bring that up in casual conversation? “OK, so you need to protect my mom from a T-100 Cyborg Terminator. It’s an indistructible killing machine who will stop at nothing to kill her and anything protecting her. Also, have sex with her if you get the chance.”
I think most guys have gone through the bad facial hair choice phase of their lives. Out of curiosity for how it looks, we, at one point, grew a beard or goatee or moustache or mutton chops.
We do it because we can. It’s something our bodies can do, and we want to try it out. If I were a chick, I would totally do this with pregnancy.
That’s crazy, you have a little person inside you. I would totally try that out if I could do it. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to have a baby, so I would get it aborted. But I’d still do a solid seven- or eight-month pregnancy to just to try it out.
It’s not like I want to have a kid, nor do I know what to do with it. I don’t really like dogs and every plant I’ve ever had has died, but if you’re pregnant, it’s like you have an excuse to be a dick.
Preggers women can be as moody as possible and blame it on hormones. It’s exactly what Joaquin Phoenix has done by growing a beard. Same thing.
Y’know how when they built the trans-continental railroad, one team started in Missouri and one team started in San Francisco and they raised to see who could get to the middle first?
I feel like that’s what my chest hair is doing.
At the top is the Eastern team with a relatively flat and downhill course to go before they get to the golden spike. But the lower, western team, have to coerce the grand canyon of the belly button if they want to compete.
Maybe I’ll get a golden body piercing when the hair finally meets up with itself in the middle.
Have you ever tried to time the start or end of a relationship around holidays which would otherwise require you to spend money?
It’s a really fine line to walk, if you start dating someone two-weeks or a month before Valentine’s Day or a birthday. You don’t want to have to blow a lot of cash, but you also want to seem interested.
Although, if you want to look at it another way, it does even out in the long run, because you get the money back at the tail-end of the relationship, right? It’s sort of like your rent deposit. You might have to pay for the present up front.
Like let’s say you start dating someone just before their birthday, and you gotta shell out for flowers or teddy bears or whatever girls like. But then at the end, let’s say Valentine’s Day or Christmas is looming, suddenly you’ve got a deadline to get out. Plus a financial incentive. It’s like a tax break for people who only enjoy company up to a point.
It’s incredible how much I find myself bargaining for a few extra minutes of sleep every morning, when the concept of time seems absolutely worthless every night.
If my alarm clock had such a setting, I think I would easily throw on a three-minute snooze button, because of that negotiating committee that enters my head at around 7:15 A.M. You even start calculating if the crappiness of the song you wake up to can be sustained for the eighteen more seconds of sleep that you think will make the difference.
But at night, the idea of minutes being valuable is worthless. It’ll circle around one O’Clock in the morning and suddenly it seems like that’s the perfect idea to start reading the Wikipedia entry on World War One. As though surely I won’t regret that decision in the morning, which is now in ten minutes.
A couple years ago David Beckham signed up to the play for the L.A. Galaxy MLS team with the promise of making soccer matter in America, which was sort of like if Tony Blair had joined Air America radio to make that matter as well.
Two months ago, the Galaxy loaned him to an Italian premier team, AC Milan, to play during the Galaxy’s off-season. Now Beckham is having a solid season and is doesn’t want to return to the U.S.
Most people think that it’s because he misses playing in a country where soccer matters, or in a big-time league or having his passes actually be received. But in my opinion, I think the entire reason lies in the city of Los Angeles, California.
I don’t think Beckham knew what he was getting himself into when he moved out here, the same way no one else does when they move from places that are designed with logic. Sure he’s playing for the “L.A.” Galaxy, but when you’ve been stuck on the 110 for two hours to travel the eight miles to get to the wasteland between Compton and Long Beach, do you really start humming California Dreaming?
My theory is that Beckham googled “Home Depot Center” before he moved out here, and saw that it was relatively close to the beaches or downtown. “Surely there’s an easy way for the limo to get between there and the lovely, clean, warm, L.A. beach where I’ll be living,” he must have thought. Not knowing that a year later, he’d be stuck fighting traffic on the PCH to get to a Malibu beach with freezing filthy water only swimmable in late-August.
And on top of that, the 405 to the 91 is murder, especially if the game is at 8p and you need to get there during the afternoon rush at 5. Plus, when you get there, no one cheering you on speaks a word of English. It’s got nothing to do with soccer or America or pride. It’s all about L.A. It’s all about traffic.
The problem with living in Morningside Heights has nothing to do with its distance from lower Manhattan. I have no problem with waiting for the late-night 1 train, the time it takes to get uptown isn’t a problem and the neighborhood is one of the best in the city.
But it seems like my patience for all of that immediately dissolves every single time the 1 train has to make a stop at that goddamn 18th Street Station. That one stop is a singlehanded “Fuck you” compliments of the Metropolitan Transit Authority.
This has to be the most unnecessary stop in the entire system. Is it really that much of a pain in your daily routine to walk from 14th Street the entire four blocks to 18th Street. I’m so glad we could create an entirely new stop to cater to these people who just deem that kind of trek as being ridiculous.
And the weird thing is that I could care less when the train stops at 18th Street any other time of day. It’s only when it happens at 1:30 A.M., that I think the entire train lets out a collective, “Oh, come on! Really?”
I had to go drop off a package at Creative Artists Agency, but being the lowly intern I am, they directed me to depths hundreds of feet underground into the receiving docks.
But here’s what’s great about Los Angeles, California. I was on level D of the mail room basement and there were still hot people there. On level D. Four floors into the basement, like forty or fifty feet UNDERGROUND and there were hot people there.
If you go to level D of any other corporation, you encounter trolls and goblins and freaks that they pulled out of the sewers like the Penguin. Not at CAA. They had hot people.
Century City must be the only place in the world where you can go to Level D and the women are still too good for you. It’s terrifying.