gerrickwood

Fin.

2011-04-26T19:43:00.000-07:00

At some point it’s just time to move on…

Gerrickwood was first created to chronicle my life as a recent transplant to sunny California. I had no issues chronicling everything from food adjustment, dating and crazy neighbors.

But eventually I stopped.

Despite the e-mails I get from readers on a regular basis (really I can’t believe anyone other than me cared enough to read and I thank you) I didn’t update. Not because there was nothing going on in my life – trust, there have been lots of moments worthy of writing. I just felt like living. Living without a trace, or a reminder. That’s what pictures are for. And yes, I've had my fair share of looking back and cringing moments.

Most importantly, I decided the time had come that I was no longer in transition. Hell, the taxes I pay, the tickets I’ve collected and the fact that my Ohio drivers license has a big hole punched in it and is collecting dust somewhere other than my wallet made me realize something: I’m no longer a stranger here.

Though I'm still a midwest boy at heart hoping to find his way … this is home for me – flaws and all. So now that the awkward part is out of the way...that's all folks.

Oh No (Part III): Sigh, that ain't gonna work

2010-08-26T08:26:00.000-07:00

The egg barely dried on my porch before she started acting up again…

This woman was a sheer nightmare. All day long THUD, SLAM, BOOM, THUD, SLAM, BOOM. Over and over and over again.

I had had enough. Egging her house (how embarrassing) did nothing. Engaging in a shouting match did nothing. The cops did nothing. So what if I became equally loud?

Well, I’m not in the business of walking into walls, but I can blast music loudly. Beyonce, Rihanna, Kanye West. Whatever I felt like listening to. Her rants didn’t stop, but I drowned her out

And obviously my loudness was a detriment to her crazy time. And once again my porch became a dumping zone with more groceries – seriously what is it with this woman throwing trash, good food at that! Yet again I’m at her door. Knock, knock, knock.

Of course this time I had zero patience and my knock was more of a pound.

I’m really over this woman. There is a moment when I’m beating on her door that I realize I quite possibly have the worst landlord ever. I mean seriously, how did this woman get approved? No really, HOW. This just ain’t gonna work one bit.

After another unsuccessful call to the police I decided to play the waiting game. As in I stood by my door and waited for her to leave, which eventually she did and of course there was a confrontation. Now I cant say I’m proud for arguing in public, but I had some thangs on my mind that needed to be said.

But why bother.

Looking into her eyes, I could see how far gone she was. Not that I felt bad for her or anything, she needed to get some…and she was lucid enough to know who I was – though she oddly spewed that Id been harassing her for weeks, odd considering this is only the second interaction we’d had.

All I’d wanted from this lady was an apology, to stop the madness and for her to bust a mop and broom out and clean my porch. All three of those were too much to ask considering all I got was gibberish, a death threat and more screaming. That ain’t gonna work. But thankfully stupidity worked in my favor as she somehow found herself locked out of her home, which may or may not have been my fault – don’t know, don’t care.

This led to a panicked screaming match in our courtyard and finally an audience as she threw rocks into her window and broke into her own place (she held help from some random guy, and yes that's her on full blast in the picture above). Now that her craziness was on full display, our whole little gated community banded together (including another subject of my parking wars opus) to plot the next move. The landlord was never going to show up and do his job, neither were the police.

There was nothing pretty about this woman smashing and thrashing her own place….nor was it pretty when the cops came (to our surprise) and smashed and thrashed her before taking her out in handcuffs an hour later…sad sight. Even sadder sight? The cat locked in her closet that hadn’t eaten in days.

Crazy lady, if you’re reading please go get help. Now. I know you’re out of jail and all, and the powers that be threw you out (you never paid rent anyway) and you possibly have no place of your own o destroy and whatnot. I wish you the best. Never come near me again. Ever. Like no, ever, ever, ever. K, go get help now…

Considering how I spotted her belongings in the trash, I doubt there will be a part four....but I still come home each and everyday expecting to see more eggs...

Oh No (Part II): Excuse me, did you egg my house?

2010-08-25T08:25:00.000-07:00

Now I bet you’re wondering what exactly the photo is.

That would be eggs.

On my porch.

That she threw.

Yes, she egged my house.

Sigh.

Third red flag. I knew she was older from when I saw her, so I was confused as to why she traveled back in time to her high school days and egged my house. I’VE NEVER EGGED ANYONE”S HOUSE AND I’M HALF HER AGE.

Well never say never.

I go to not confront her per se, but ask if she dropped eggs on my porch, because you know crap happens, and I didn’t want to accuse her, even if she had a carton of eggs sitting on her porch (along with all of her groceries and dozens of bottles of cough syrup in 95 degree weather) but I had a little hunch it was her crazy butt. So I knock.

“Go away,” she yells….yeah that ain’t gonna work.

So I knock again. Louder.

“I’m gonna call the cops,” she screams. I actually encourage this scenario. It was the next words outta her mouth that weren’t so hot and I reckon the dispatcher told her the same.

“There’s no N***** at my door and he wont go away.”

Yeah, about that N-word … not gonna work boo. Never mind for never having egged someone because I went to my house grabbed a full carton and went to town.

Bang. Bang, Bang. I was throwing these eggs like freaking grenades. One by one. Savoring every minute. Then I called the police. Who never came, but called me five hours later asking if they should still show up. No. She killed me already.

Still in disbelief of the egging incident that just went down, and feeling silly for indulging in her little immature game I left and showed my bestie around town. Upon returning cray cray left a little something for me: two dollars and a full egg. Why? I assumed it was some form of an Olive Branch.

My how I was wrong…

Obviously there is a Part III, yes, really....

Oh No (Part I): I think my neighbor might be crazy?

2010-08-24T02:11:00.000-07:00

I think its safe to say I have zero luck with neighbors…

The toughest part about my job is the constant grind. There is a continuous go-go-go-go state of motion and that oftentimes means late hours, early mornings, and weekends.

Now none of those things are an issue…but with a schedule like mine I look forward to my home being an oasis. A place of tranquility where I can blow some cool A/C, sip a cold drink or a nice glass of wine and kick back to some music, or watch some deliciously trashy television.

All those plans came to a halt when I inherited the Worst. Neighbor. Ever.

I caught my first glimpse of the neighbor came when I overheard her through my thinner than necessary office wall. She was cursing to the high heavens and I just assumed she was on a phone call pulling a “who gonna check me boo”… Me, naturally being a nosy Nellie I decided to take a gander at her (FYI, for some context, I live in a complex of small bungalows, however there is a studio sandwiched in-between my unit and another family, crazy neighbor occupies said unit) so I mosey out of my house, and take a peek at her door. First red flag. She obviously just moved in a day or two before. She had NO furniture, just some boxes of popcorn…odd right?

After a weekend in San Diego for Comic Con (yes, I’m a nerd) I return to more noise. But I pass it off as her finally investing in furniture.

“$%#, #$@#, #$*@!,” this is all I hear. Then THUD, SLAM, BOOM….gain I pass it all off as her fighting with some furniture – I’ve had my fair share of shouting matches with Ikea’s completely offensive instructional manuals.

Days later. Still the same ole $#@!. Now I’m no means a morning person, but the last thing I need is to hear you screaming and pounding things and unfortunately for a few weeks I had to be an early riser for work. No need for an alarm clock. THUD, SLAM, BOOM, over and over and over again. Now we have a problem.

During my early days I had a friend in town so I’m now sleeping in my office. Again for context my office faces her studio so I was getting a huge dose of all her craziness. And a huge dose that was. Now it was time to be proactive so again I walk over to take a peek at what the heck is going on and well, this is where it starts getting weird, Ms. Thing was walking into the wall. Over and over and over and yelling. It was like watching one of those horror movies where the person is getting their butt kicked by a ghost.

With this err revelation I decided to call the landlord. Second red flag. I nicely ask if there was something I needed to know about the new neighbor and to my surprise he didn’t know what the heck I was talking about. Now looking back on everything I realize I jumped through my fair share of hoops (including background checks) so ummm I think it would be safe to say that maybe, just maybe, you’d be privy to someones tendency to walk into walls shouting obscenities. Not to throw shade at anyone with a mental illness, but those types of things are a bit difficult to hide. After chatting with the super I know found myself more confused, and irate.

But, he promised to call her and ask what was up, which he did, and which apparently ticked her off.

Stick around for Part II....

Life in Gerrickwood a year later...

2010-07-09T02:07:00.000-07:00

Has it really been a year since I moved out here . . .

It’s weird to feel such disconnect with space and time since I hopped onto this crazy rollercoaster ride. The past year has been full of triumphs and low points – as I’m sure any life for a twentysomething discovering “adulthood” (I use that loosely given that I’ve been an independent bloke for quite some years now) is.

If someone asked me what I’ve learned in a year in LA I’m sure I’d have some smart-alecky profanity-laced list with a punchline that reads something like this: If you don’t have a working spine or two feet to stand strongly on…stay far, far, VERY far away from LA. Like move to Kentucky or maybe Arkansas or maybe even Iowa (if the awkward guy I met that compared Iowa to Ohio is reading this I still think you’re wrong, and an idiot).

There are lots of cons to living in the city that sex, drugs and rock n’ roll built: The people can be exhausting (there’s about a million people pretending to be someone else for every one genuine person), the driving is a sport where everyone is out for blood, the economy is catastrophic, you can’t walk four feet without someone wanting to beg or steal from you, it takes an hour to drive 6.3 miles and did I mention there are mudslides, wildfires and earthquakes (I had the pleasure of experiencing one while on the toilet – talk about a warning). Plus this city has somehow found a way to have the most incompetent government ever, and this is coming from a man who comes from a city where Jerry Springer was once mayor. Springer is actually incredible compared to the umm challenged mayor here.

But of course there are just as many pros: My job has allowed me to do the things I only dreamed about as a chubby lil Midwestern boy, when the ground isn’t shifting, the mountains on fire or the hills melting the weather is a living postcard – nothing beats the chill the brushes your face while standing feet away from the ocean. Sure there is four million people squeezed right next to you, but those rare moments of serenity make the insufferable moments of big city life worth it.

Over the past few weeks more and more people have felt the need to ask me, “Do you see yourself living here forever.” After only a year of walking the LA walk, my answer is always simply “depends on the day.” I’m honest enough to admit I miss the slow burn of life in the Midwest but crave the flashing lights of Hollywood, and for a music junkie like myself the experience I have here is nothing short of “Intervention” worthy.

I’ve yet to feel like I call this home, and maybe that’s just the life of a transplant. There is a very temporary feeling of LA, a not so authentic feeling of permanency that I’ve yet to experience. Maybe it’s my circle of friends, maybe it’s the lonely nights of missing your nephew’s laughter, your mom’s cooking or chatting with your brother and pops. It’s taken longer than I’m willing to admit to adjust to that. For someone who transitioned into adulthood earlier than necessary, the little things in life have caught up to me. And I’ve finally come to a place where I’m okay with that.

It took a year…but let’s see where the next year takes me...

Green Light, Yellow Light, Red Light, Flashing Light

2010-04-23T15:36:00.000-07:00

I think I should just start writing a check to the City of LA …

I've learned (and sadly accepted) in my short time here that someone or something is always trying to dig into your pocketbook, and the latest gotcha-gotcha is no better.

Imagine my surprise when I get a letter from Enterprise car rentals (refer to my Bang. Crash. Fail. series for background) that I had gotten a traffic violation while using their vehicle.

Now, I’m not the smartest guy in the world but I’d remember getting a ticket – it’s always humiliating getting pulled over by a cop and only ONCE in my life have I been able to semi-flirt my way out of a ticket and it wasn’t even my car!

Of course I acted like a fool and shouted all types of expletives at the letter as if he could hear me – they give you a $10 administrative charge of course, could be worse. I check online and there was no record of a ticket, of course…

After e-mailing and calling Enterprise they inform me that I received the violation for running a red light and it was captured on one of those cameras. I had to stop myself from laughing. Again, this is something I’d remember right? We all push it through some yellows and cut it close…but running it? I think not. At this particular intersection.

It only took a few days for the proof to come in the mail. I held my ticket – which had not one, not two but FOUR pictures (two of me, one includes a close-up where I’m giving great attitude). The best part is I’m turning right at the light. Now I remember, I probably assumed the car next to me, going straight sparked the flashing light - I think.

Unless I’m missing something, you can do that right? Turn right on red, unless of course there is a sign saying otherwise, which there was not. Because I found the ticket laughable – and because it burned me deep in my soul with its hefty fine of $446 (you might as well rounded that crap up to $450) it collected dust on my desk until I finally decided to go to the court to file paperwork to contest it.

While none of my questions got answers to them, I scheduled a court date that is nowhere close to the present future. I don’t have to pay a dime until then. My favorite part of the court visit? The clerk looking at the pictures, then looking at me. Yeah, I had an attitude.

It’s always something….

Have I fallen off of a turnip truck?

2010-04-22T00:12:00.000-07:00

That's how a source started an e-mail after I didn't rush to return his message. Sorry I'm a busy bee, and I thought the repeated e-mails I sent him saying I was stretched thin and needed to meet some deadlines before I got to him would make that clear. But no.

Though his passive aggressive e-mail inquiring about my status in life applies to the world of Gerrickwood. Thankfully I'm still alive, at least I think I am...which me being the smartie pants I am that was how I responded - hey gotta laugh a little right?

But no, I'm very much alive and desperately hoping to getting back into the swing of things and documenting my life...the interesting parts. Not the I've sat at home on my derriere in my jammies part.

PS....when is the last time you saw a turnip, if ever?

Parking Wars: An Opus - Part III (Yes, Really)

2010-03-11T18:17:00.000-08:00

Over the next weeks there was a dirty look or two, but then the landlord did his job and responded to the angry calls he got from people letting them know, spots aren’t assigned! Really, I had been saying this for how long?

Finally my last straw, my complete and final straw. The events in Haiti were unfolding and I came home to watch more coverage. It was overwhelming seeing these images on repeat, and I began to get emotional. Then a fucking knock on my door. Are you serious right now? I yank the door open and it’s baby girl who interrupted my “Glee.” She’s back, the same day as a natural disaster.

Oh you’ve got to be kidding me.

I immediately tell her, “I’m not doing this with you right now, please leave.” I start to close my door, and she pushes it open.

Sigh.

I tell her in my nicest voice possible, that she has three minutes and then she needs to get the fuck off of my property. She gives me this story about how ever since I’ve moved in I’ve been nothing but trouble and she is so stressed out, and it makes her so angry to see my blatent disrespect for her and everyone else. There is lots of finger pointing, lots of curse words and lots of aggressiveness….then she starts crying.

Sigh.

I really can’t deal with this, and she is making it about her.

Now I’ll be honest, this is where it gets nasty. Because this is the last button, how far did she expect to push me. I’m going to paraphrase the words that came out of my mouth, but basically I corrected her on the finger pointing, told her if she valued having her fingers she’d stop, told her if I’ve ruined her life she should just go kill herself because truly everything isn’t about her. It got ugly, really ugly – she pressed all the right buttons, and now she’s turning red because she knows she’s fucked up, she didn’t expect to see this guy come out, even though our first exchange should have told her some things not to do.

So I actually called the landlord and told him, she needs to go to her house, before the police have to show up. I told him the situation and handed the phone to her (yeah I gave her my cell phone, this shit was out of line) and I could hear him tell her, I will assign spots but you need to leave him alone, he’s the only tenant that doesn’t give me problems and he pays his rent on time (oh snap, he called her broke ass out). She hands me back the phone, sniffles and says he is going to assign spots (as if I couldn’t hear) and I told her unless it’s a life or death situation don’t ever knock on my door again, and I had to add in the “do you understand,” she did.

I spoke with the landlord for an hour and he apologized repeatedly and he informed me the last person went through the same thing, they believe it’s a seniority thing and then when you move into the largest bungalow in the complex you have a target.

Well I’m the wrong target.

The next day, assigned spots for all. He put names in a hat and assigned them. That quick and easy spot in the front, now belongs to yours truly. Now it wasn’t about karma and the guy, though never apologizing, asked if I was comfortable with that spot. He now speaks to me, and so does she. Funny thing she has her friend over often and lets her park in the lot. Hmm, of course there are double standards when its your friend. Of course. Needless to say the only knocks at my door have been FedEx, the post office and Scientologists.

The way it should be.

Parking Wars: An Opus - Part II

2010-03-11T18:15:00.000-08:00

Days later, I’m glued to the television watching “Glee,” where there is a knock at the door. Really? Now I’m just irritated. Another neighbor. She came to just “inform me” that I was parking in other people’s spots and that it was disturbing the peace. No disturbing the peace is the loud mariachi music I hear two houses down every Saturday afternoon, disturbing the peace is the neighbor who decides to run laps with her two loud dog’s every day. Me parking in an unassigned spot? Not disturbing anything.

I break it down to baby girl that this conversation is over, and she starts screaming that it’s not. Sigh. Spots aren’t assigned. Now she’s yelling. It was cute because here I am 6’1,’’ in Simpson's jammies getting yelled out. And now I’m missing "Glee," so ugly G came out. And I so nicely told her to lower her voice, back up and go get a life. Okay I’m lying, I cussed her out in the worst way she ever got in her life, this after asking her to lower her voice. I told her I’m not the bullying type, and that’s all this is, it’s a power play. I even humored her and went with her to the parking lot so she could “show me my spot.”

I asked her how exactly it got determined this was my spot. Her reply (and I kid you not), “Well we all had a meeting and we picked a spot, and that’s what the girl who lived there before you picked.” I stopped her in her tracks – these people think I’m a fucking idiot. A. I’m not the last tenant, so the little “system” doesn’t work. 2. I don’t pay you or the other assholes here rent, that goes to the landlord who says the shit isn’t assigned. 3. You’re a liar, the last tenant was a man, I had to deal with him for not paying cable for the past 6 months, nice try. Walked away from the situation.

I started parking in the same spot, not the one she told me was mine, because as I told her, “I don’t give a damn what you tell me, you don’t run shit around here.” Except one day I was in a rush and there is this spot right in the front that’s easy to navigate and you can whip in and out of, again the lot is like a freakin’ sardines box. So I snapped that spot, ran inside and went inside. My neighbors, I swear, are like ninjas. Knock at the door. Loud, banging, I’m already irritated, and frankly over it. So I don’t answer. I put on my iPod and cranked up Beyonce. Minutes later, still knocking. More knocking. Wait, are you knocking on my windows now? You are. After going away and coming back twenty minutes later I answer.

“Move your fucking car,” he shouts. Well hello to you too. But what it is about shouting and cursing to strangers. My parents don’t yell and scream at me, an asshole who feels entitled to a parking spot definitely isn’t about to yell at me. Your life is a fail, and I’m in no mood. I break it down to him. Spots aren’t assigned. Don’t know how many times I have to say this. Spots aren’t assigned.

Again he shouts. So I had to tell it to him like this, “I’m not moving my car, and if you touch my car you will certainly regret it.” That argument made me the saddest, because before he would always say Hi to me, his kids were cool and adorable. Now he’s screaming at me, which in itself is a joke when you’re barely five feet tall. You fail.

Parking Wars: An Opus - Part I

2010-03-11T18:06:00.000-08:00

I think my neighbors hate me…

I’ve never wanted to be that annoying neighbor. You know the one who plays his music too loud, throws too many parties, has a million pets. You know just generally dickish things that people do to make you hate life. Well apparently I became that guy for another reason: parking.

Yes parking.

Now when I moved in my landlord said, hey there are no assigned spots but I gotta tell you some of the people think they are entitled to spots here and if you don’t mind fighting for it you can park everywhere. Goodness, I didn’t think he was serious. For about two weeks I parked wherever, this lot is small – like can of sardines small because there are only so many tenants in the complex of bungalows where I live. (I counted there are 12 spots, don’t ask why.)

I come out to go to work one day to a note on my car, “don’t you dare ever park in my fucking spot again.” Wow, harsh. A bit overdramatic. Needless to say I used the note to spit out my gum. Spots aren’t assigned. I get home, and go to park, well someone comes on outta their little house and to my car. Sigh. I proceed to tell the lady spots aren’t assigned and I’m being pretty nice although I can barely understand her idea of English. Well she sends her husband out who is all of 5 feet.

Not to be a dick, but I’m 6’1’’ so I really hope he didn’t plan on getting ugly. Sigh. He did. He starts shouting in what I assume is his idea of English and I’m unfazed so I walk away. He’s behind me, still. I have groceries, including three bottles of wine for weekend movie time. I’m not in the mood. He follows me to my front little stoop, and I say to myself, if he walks up the step or touches the handrails we will have a problem. Sigh. He did. I put my groceries down, take a deep breath, turn around and sternly – but nicely say, “Look, if you have a problem call the landlord. Now back off my porch before I put you to sleep.” (Okay typing that, wasn’t so nice.)

Next day to avoid Tiny Tim I park elsewhere, another empty spot that’s been empty all week.

Two glasses of wine into my evening I get a knock on my door. Knock. Knock. Knock. Yeah, heard you the first time, I answer the door. “Hey I need you to move your car, you’re in my spot.” Sigh. Spots aren’t assigned. Now I will give him the bennie of the doubt. I don’t think he expected me to know perfect English or have a functioning brain. But I tell him it’s impossible that that is his spot because I’ve seen his car parked in three other spots this week. “Well that’s my spot,” he says. “Well tough shit,” I say as I close the door in his face – notice I didn’t slam.

There goes a new friend...

Gerrickwood 3.0

2010-03-10T00:49:00.000-08:00

Had to change it up again with a new design, was inspired by someone to revamp the site.

Love it, drop down menus to your left. Fabulous right?

Gerrickwood 3.0, enjoy it.

My favorite color is fluorescent beige....

2010-03-09T16:20:00.000-08:00

Awards season is always my favorite time of year…

This year would mark my first in LA during the gold race, and to say I was excited is a big understated. Now I knew this young pup didn’t have a golden ticket to any of the shows, but what I did know was that I’d weasel my way into a party or something – it couldn’t be that hard right?

Found out it wasn’t. Not that I party crashed or anything (it is good to have friends in high places). First up, the NAACP Image Awards. The Image Awards never get much attention outside the black community but between the force that is Tyler Perry and that lil movie, “Precious” I knew they’d have to step up their profile this year.

A friend of mine scored tickets to the pre show party held where else, Hollywood, actually it was five minutes away from Gerrickwood, so I was beyond happy. I had just been at work all day and pulled into my driveway when I got the text. It’s a Thursday and besides television I had nothing going on that night. But I had all of 20 mins to get ready so I literally blew through my house like a tornado – clothes flying, stumbling over my jeans that I’m trying to take off – I had a new shirt in one hand, bottle of cologne in the other, dress socks in my mouth. I was a mess, I also could have taken a lot longer to get ready – my friends are never on time.

Eventually after getting “suited and booted” we met up at Milk Studios to find a line of groopies ready to get in and celebs slowly stepping on the red carpet. Eva Marcille (America’s Next Top Model) posed it up, though I felt like her stalker – we made eye contact at Mariah Carey’s concert two days prior and now here I was again four feet away. Me and the crew were a bit lost at some of the faces hitting the red carpet and there was a lot of “you know who she is, she was the girl in the back of the scene in that one TV show that had the other girl who gave Precious the chicken in that one scene. Yeah her.” Yeah, there was lots of that. But in typical Hollyweird fashion everyone pretended to know everyone - air kisses and hugs all around!

Inside the DJ was spinning predicable hits from Beyonce, Lil Wayne with splashes of old school R&B, the latter of which shut down the dance floor and a lot of ladies in barely there tops who were old enough to be my grandmother were dropping it low, sweeping the floor and picking it back up. A part of me admired how agile the “Senior Single Ladies” were but my eyes were still burning at the outfits: one was a short fire-engine red leather ensemble, with cleavage for miles, 6-inch heels and a leather cowboy hat (if she was younger than 60 you can personally smack me silly).

After plenty of awkward encounters we were ready to go – plus I really, really, really wanted to find Sherri Shepard and get a picture.

My favorite color is fluorescent beige....

While there certainly weren’t any funny moments in “Precious” the rare LOL-worthy moment came from that one liner. While no one knows her name, they can point her out as the girl who’s favorite color is fluorescent beige (which by the way sounds like a color you can find only at Forever 21 or in stores that carry lines with such punchy names as Self-Esteem or Shenanigans.

And now here she was in the flesh sipping on a cocktail. My “HAM (hot ass mess)” reader was beeping louder than a pager in 1995, so we pounced on our new favorite actress. And she quickly became the highlight of the night. She's everything you want a drunk celeb to be: spacey, candid (too candid), abrasive and HAM-tastic.

Granted she might not be this funny sober, but she offered the best entertainment you could ask for at an otherwise stuffy awards party.

Turn my swag on*

2010-02-01T20:33:00.000-08:00

I never quite understood Carrie and the gang when it came to shoes. I've come to finally understand it and accept my addiction. These are my Jimmy Choos, and I can retire from the shoe game for a little while. But I wont.

Like most addicts I never knew I had a problem, until other people felt the need to bring it to my attention. My parents would make diminutive jokes, “Did you change your shoes again today? What did you do this weekend, oh, you bought some shoes…didn’t you buy some last week?” When I would entertain guests, they’d always make it a habit to look in my closet, which is a bit unnecessary to begin with- then more comments on my shoe collection followed.

It didn’t hit me fully until I was faced with moving post-college. Making the journey from Ohio to California meant I needed to find a way to pack and ship 32 pairs of shoes. 32 pairs – old ones, new ones, cute ones, bright ones, high ones, low ones. 32! Needless to say, I have an addiction.

Growing up my brother was persistent he and I always had the latest Jordan’s, something my single-parent mother couldn’t always co-sign but somehow found the way to make it happen. Then, I hated it.

As a kid, shoes were simply a mark of status around the hood. It was simple. If you had the newest kicks on your feet, you were “the shit.” It was sad, I was the fat, smart kid – and in the hood that meant you had absolutely zero going for you. But I always had some J’s on that were new and fresh, many before my peers because my mom worked dumb early and we’d wake up, be the first ones at Foot Locker and then be the first at school. Killing the haters who either beat your ass and took them, or did some bullshit like step on them.

Soon I grew out of that. I didn’t care what people thought of me and I went for comfort. I even – gasp – owned a faithful pair of black Saucony’s that went with everything. Then as I got older – and spent my own money – I discovered more shoes. I lived in a world where you could only wear Nike, which as I look back makes my stomach churn. High school was the same.

It took me going away to college (and leaving the hood and moving closer to my brother) to finally discover Adidas, Puma and New Balance among other lines of footwear.

It was almost overnight where something changed, and I can remember vividly. It was senior year of college and I saw a pair of maroon, gray and black Nike Dunk high tops and for a moment I saw that face, those eyes, those lips, those thighs. The year prior I had fallen for someone, and while their fashion game was mean, it was the shoes that burned in image in my mind. The way I’d watch them walk up the stairs or the way those legs would wrap around mine. Those Nike Dunks made me flashback to those sweet, sexy, stolen moments to this day still gives me a chill if I think about it long enough. It’s funny, really looking back, because when I met this person, I still didn’t care about shoes – they did nothing for me. In fact, I was wearing my go-to comfort shoes when we met: white and blue Adidas, Sambas to be exact which I was told were cute – although I felt a little self conscious about them around this fashionista.

I touched the shoes, sitting there all alone on display, and during that moment I felt a presence. I could see this someone in these with a nice pair of jeans, my eyes following closely as they walked away from me. Calling for me to own these. To rock these.

With a quick swipe of my credit card they were mine and the second I got the receipt I was hooked. It was almost orgasmic putting my feet slowly in them – I paired them with a light jean, and a purple and black shirt. Walking to classes, I could see the eyes on me. I looked good. But more importantly, I felt good. And I thought, “Is this what Carrie and the girls feel like?” Right there I got my answer.

Over the next year, I grew into a connoisseur. I came back to Nike, but I looked into vintage J’s as a way to have those moments back with my brother. Shoes became my go-to answer for everything.

I even turned to shoes for some not so great moments – sad over an ex telling you you’re nothing: a rare all gold Adidas high top did the trick.Shoes became an emotional investment for me, still is, while a lot of my friends are turned on by a cute outfit, a nice pair of shoes tells me everything I need to know about you. High-tops, you dare to be different, a little bit of edge, a little bit of attitude. Low tops, you are classy, quiet, maybe a little bit shy. Sandals, you’re not really my type but I applaud your open-mindedness.

There is something in the look. The touch, the construction, the colors – they literally speak to me, they call me. I’ve never ignored the call. As long as I’m provided with this feeling of euphoria only a slick fresh pair of kicks can provide, I never will.

*Thanks to my friends over at Project Duh for giving me the chance to indulge.

Bang. Crash. Fail. Part Deux

2010-02-01T19:46:00.000-08:00

I still can't believe I'm talking about this...

Nearly a month since my last post (and about 100 more conversations with Allstate) they finally take my car in to get serviced. But not without drama.

I decide one afternoon to call my adjuster, who really is like my best friend. Considering we talk at least once a week, but unlike any best friend I know this chick lies to me at least once every conversation.

"Oh I called you at your residence Mr. Kennedy." Trick please.

"I promise I'll get to your case this week Mr. Kennedy," Again you ain't gotta lie to kick it Miss Thing.

Finally I had enough. The next convo I decided to override little miss sunshine and took it to her boss. Yes, her boss.

I explain the circumstances:

She never gave her statement, then tried to go through my insurance – although she’s at fault – so after repeated back and forth’s with her insurance company (Allstate who officially is now thee fucking worst piece of shit insurance companies you could have, although I still watch the commercials *read, soft spot with Dennis Haysbert*) I decided…maybe I should make her life a living hell.

Now that she was caught up to speed and pulled up the file she says, "well nothing is stopping you from going through your own."

Now, I took a deep breath, because i knew it would get ugly. And I really didn't want to show out at work. But I looked around, and my boss was gone. So I broke the news to her.

I said, "look this shit is out of hand, I've been calling back and forth and everybody is trying to play me like a fucking fool. well we'll see who's the fool when i have that stupid bitch and you all in court."

Apparently all you have to do these days is say court and you get your way. A day later my car was headed into the shop.....so lets see where this will get me.

Bang. Crash. Fail.

2010-01-06T08:44:00.000-08:00

It was only appropriate that I have my first car accident in LA…

Most of the drivers drive like, well shit. And that’s putting it nicely. Even worse you can usually tell how awful the driver will be by looking at the car.

If it’s a Daewoo – watch out now! A Honda civic – swerve immediately. A beat up late-model white truck – do anything in your power, and I repeat anything, to immediately leave the road.

So imagine my surprise when I’m traveling north on Sunset Boulevard and a Mercedes E-Class barrels into my Hyundai Sonata, while trying to turn left from the southbound lane.

Now, because I’m such a fucking gentleman – I wanted to be cool, calm, and collected because hell, it wasn’t my fault. This would be easy breezy.

But no. First words out of her mouth, “Why did you hit me?”

Again, because I’m suuuuuch a gentleman I say, “Well honey [you have to kill em with kindness] it’s impossible that I hit you, seeing as how I had the right-of-way. You also tried to speed up to around me, which wasn’t the best idea.”

Everyone who knows me, knows I wanted to say, “You stupid ****, why the **** did you hit my ******* car.” I can’t even go there with the expletives right now, because I’m sure there would have been blood. But again. I’m such a fucking gentleman. I spent an hour talking with cops, helping Ms. Thing out – her car had minor damage – it’s an E-Class afterall. However my Sonata was sprinkled all over the intersection. It is a Hyundai afterall.

Here's the Gotcha, Gotcha: this was two months ago. TWO FUCKING MONTHS AGO.

I’ve gone through the proper steps, making statements, phone calls, appraisals, yada, yada, yada….. but I’m still driving around in a car that looks like a Mike Tyson went 12 rounds with it. All because this stupid **** wants to hold up the process.

She never gave her statement, then tried to go through my insurance – although she’s at fault – so after repeated back and forth’s with her insurance company (Allstate who officially is now thee fucking worst piece of shit insurance companies you could have, although I still watch the commercials *read, soft spot with Dennis Haysbert*) I decided…maybe I should make her life a living hell.

But there is something inside of me, holding me back from turning all “No Country for Old Men” on her. Maybe the hope I hold that karma will do its job and one day that E-Class will fall off a cliff, and with her driving I’m sure she’ll be inside, then wonder why the cliff hit her.

Until then I’ll wait it out…but, I have her address.

p.s. never google image ‘car accidents’ … yuck.

A whole new world

2010-01-04T21:15:00.000-08:00

My what a difference a few months make ...

It seems like forever and a day to go when I thought, "I've gotta get the fuck up outta here."

Koreatown was weighing me down. This was only the second time in my life where a neighborhood/city overwhelmed me emotionally. The first was in Michigan while residing in Lansing. There was just something awful about the city that I still to this day can't put my finger on, which is bizarre because unlike Koreatown, I never met a person that i didn't like.

But my time in Koreatown was single handedly destroying my life. Okay, so that might be incredibly overdramatic but i felt like the place was swallowing me whole. There was so much I hated about Ktown, that i don't think I ever discovered something i did like. Well there was a Sizzler, and I was incredibly convenient to Ralph's. But that's it.

Fast forward two months and I'm continuing to discover my new digs in Los Feliz, and loving every minute. There are so many little shops and eateries i get to explore, although I had the most embarassing misadventure this past weekend. I've been looking for a bookstore for quite some time, and I always have some intense drool moments when I pass Circle of Books on Sunset so I thought, "yes, let's FINALLY check this place out. How awkward to walk inside and see they don't sell books, but they do have more porn to make you feel like a dirty little whore. THERE SHOULD BE SIGNS!!!

However I will admit I can't quite call myself a new fangled hipster, considering i eat at Jack in the Beezzy (gosh, I'm fat...I give it a nickname) when I could just be pushing myself right on over to the other, less-trans fatty, side of Vermont Avenue and grab a bite to eat at one of the nicely tucked away restaurants, as opposed to continuing my love affair with Jack.

Welcome to....Cincinnati?

2009-12-23T19:52:00.000-08:00

I can't lie, the only thing I like about Cincinnati is my family....

All the things that make my heart sing are revolved around them: pulling into my parent's driveway. Hearing them come home from work. Talking and laughing about everything and nothing all together.

But I've never been the type that's like, "Ooooh, let me come on down to Cincy." My parents would come visit, or there would be an occasion that I was around. This one being Baby Jesus' bday, and one of the best holidays although Hallmark, Target and ABC Family sees the day as a surefire way to dip into my pockets - and it always works. Curse you magical elves.

So here I am, but as much as I love the relatives they can't keep me busy 24 hours a day. At some point I'd be left alone. And damnit, those moments were NO good. Instead of slitting my wrists or sleeping my way through the vaca I've taken to filling the void with food and booze. Dang, when I write it out it sounds really depressing.

Until that marathon of "A Christmas Story" can keep me occupied I'm chaining myself to mom and dad.

All the Single [Fellas] ... Part Trois

2009-12-14T20:27:00.000-08:00

Someone once asked me what I was looking for in a relationship. The question took me by surprise, since I had never really thought about. Okay, I'm lying through my gums - I've thought about it. In fact when I meet people I try to figure out some of the answers to these questions before I'm let down by the inevitable fail that happens when people get comfortable around you. I've since drafted what I like to call, oh I don't know, a list:

1. Please, and I mean please, have your own car. Come on....asking me to pick you up. You asking me what bus to take to get you to my house. I just can't deal with it. Gas isn't cheap and if i can pay for it...soooo can you.

2. Yeah, you can't live with your folks. What if I don't want to meet your parents. Well thats hard when you stay there. Now I have no issues with you still staying with your parents if you're saving up for a new place, or if the checks stop coming in. I get it, it's a recession. But don't get comfortable on my couch because you've gotta get the fuck out and make it home before the streetlights come on.

3. There is a big difference between a job and a career. You don't have to be carrying a pocketful of business cards to prove you have a thriving career, but at least be someplace with a salary, maybe a 401k. Getting invited to a company picnic or office Christmas party would be nice. No, I don't care about hook-ups at BP, the cable company, Best Buy or any quick and easy fast food services. I like to eat but I can't quite get down with you smelling like burgers all day.

4. Addendum to rule #3. I know its Hollywood and everyone here is a writer, actor, producer, director, screenwriter, yada, yada, yada. But just because I'm a reporter - doesn't mean I can promote you. Come on.

5. If you're taken. You're taken. Not taken and still looking. Cause trust me, I fight over no one and anyone showing up at my door wondering where you are won't exactly get the help they were looking for. Don't play the sideline ho role too well.

6. You know this rule is embarrassing and I don't know how its still a conversation. But the following lines I can't accept: "I'm out of texts" "Oh, I'm over my minutes" and my absolute favorite "Can you call me after 9."

And I wonder why I'm still single now.

All the Single [Fellas] ... Part Deux

2009-12-14T20:10:00.000-08:00

Oh dear, Hollywood....why!

I blame myself. I've played the game, and trust me in the land of flashing lights, fake smiles and manufactured personalities, it is a game. A game that I'm loosing like no other.

On a recent night in with a good friend of mine we spent a night of pizza, trashy TV and dishing on our nonexist love lifes.

Within an hour of watching "The Wedding Planner" we were overwhelmed with not so subtle clues. First match.com, then eharmony, then back to match.com. After getting sick and tired of it all we Tweeted our disdain for the force-fed advertisements of the online dating world.

Now granted, maybe we asked for it - watching a J.Lo rom-com on a Monday night and all, but damn did we really need an hour of dating commercials. And worst of all I get a retweet from ANOTHER dating web site.

Talk about feeling like a failure.

20 Questions: AMA edition

2009-11-30T20:34:00.000-08:00

This is a little belated…but such as life when it comes to me.

I covered the AMA’s a week ago (right, I think) and as many of you tweeted, and lots of bloggers updated there were lots of unanswered questions about the telecast.

I have twenty.

1. Why did Jermaine Jackson thank Michael for his own award?

2. Is Jermaine putting both of those AMAs on his mantle, was that what he was basically telling us?

3. Paula Abdul, umm is there something we need to talk about? Rehab? Psych ward?

4. A backstage spy told me J.Lo fell multiple times at rehearsal? Why did anyone think she’d nail it.

5. Will Lady Gaga be relevant this time, next year?

6. Will she run out of things to wear?

7. Back to J.Lo…she did a song about shoes and decided boxing attire would be suitable…was that really a boxing ring on stage?

8. Taylor Swift = artist of the year? Really?

9. How did the AMA’s pull off a telecast without Beyonce?

10. Who’s idea was it to have the “lesser” category – i.e. rap – presented off camera, even the Grammy’s have come around?

11. Three hours….really?

12. Still not sure who Gloriana is, and why should I care?

13. Speaking of which, didn’t one of the girls have her own MTV reality show?

14. Does anyone remember that Daughtry performed?

15. Why must Janet continue to get upstage at award shows? First Kanye. Now Adam Lambert?

16. I love Janet, but wasn’t her outfit a little Jurassic Park?

17. Not sure, but I think Shakira is taking Nelly Furtado’s steez.

18. Timbaland in leather pants. Was that exactly a good idea?

19. Will Eminem ever be what he used to be? Will 50 ever get the point?

20. Why is the Adam Lambert controversy even worth talking about? Madonna, Brittany and Christina did it MUCH better. And with better pipes.

Photo Credit: Bossip

More on Adam Lambert

2009-11-25T20:56:00.000-08:00

A friend tweeted me earlier...

Apparently the ladies of "The View" discussed this Adam Lambert controversy.

Not that that's important. What's interesting is they used quotes from MY STORY. Score one for me.

You're welcome Barbara and CO.

Notice anything different?

2009-11-24T23:36:00.001-08:00

The world of Gerrickwood has changed...

So why not switch things up with a new layout.

More posts to come. Soon.

"This Is It" a love letter for T-R-U-E fans

2009-11-02T18:57:00.000-08:00

I debated about writing about this...

My summer was shaped by the untimely passing of Michael Jackson. I had started my first week on the new job, which required me to go straight to the scene and be with the mourners. Asking them how they felt? What was it like to loose your icon?

But he was mine as well. In retrospect, I think I did a heck of a job having journo Gerrick on the forefront, although inside quiet as kept I too was distraught.

I spent my life influenced by Michael, something that every little black boy would be lying if they said they hadn't. My fondest memories was watching him in awe. Wanting to recreate the "Thriller" video. Learning the steps to "Remember the Time" and showing off to family members. Begging my parents to take me to his childhood home, they did and forever thats one of my favorite memories of them. They didn't know it then - but that was the coolest thing. To see where he was from. It gave me hope, at that very moment that I could be more than where I came from. Standing in front of that tiny house humbled me - and made me hungry for success.

I can go on and on of fond memories shaped by MJ. But the point is I realized I never had a moment to grieve the loss of my childhood, and the loss of his life. All he wanted was this show, this one last chance to show the world, the naysayers, the haters, those people who spent all summer speculating, doubting he still had it. This was it. This was that moment. Sitting through the movie I felt tears sting my face. I finally had my moment to grieve the man who inspired my love of music and then it hit me like a ton of bricks. I fully understood what Elvis meant to so many, what John Lennon meant to so many, hell what Tupac meant.

I used to think the passing of Aaliyah would take the cake of musician deaths that rocked my life. But there wasn't the same magnitude there. Of course her death was tragic, no doubt about it. But I didn't grow up transfixed by her. That came later, when I had already proclaimed MJ as theee man. Her death shook me, and each August - for a moment I feel the sadness in my heart.

It felt like that day in June when I had to interview fan after fan, this time they were waiting to see his last performance. But there was a difference. I saw people just there for the excitement, I could be holding a gun to their head and they couldnt name ten songs. I looked around for that little black boy waiting to see the man on screen that they admired at home. I guess I was looking for me.

As I watched him dance - God those moves, like magic - and I heard that voice - so boyish, yet strong, powerful. I realized this moment was only for those that deserved to witness his talents. And lets face it, more than half of the people in the theater don't deserve to share in the moment. More people will turn out to see "This is It" hoping to see a freakshow, hoping to see him fall, flub is lyrics, need help. That wasn't there.

But what was there, was sheer magic. And each June from now on, I'll feel a sadness in my heart, and then I'll pop in the DVD and remember just what he was. And hell I'm not too old to bring back those moves I learned from him. But I'll keep that to myself.

So long K-town, I have NO love for you.

2009-11-02T18:24:00.000-08:00

At first I loved my apartment...

I had a killer view (which of course meant an inflated rent). I was close to Hollywood and close to downtown so it made the morning commute to work golden.

To bad that fairy tale only lasted so long before the REAL Koreatown exposed its grimy little self for all to see.

One, the people are a little unnecessary. I'm a pretty nice guy, but I can only take so many crummy drivers and my personal favorite - the vultures. Koreatown vultures are terrible drivers who follow you closely - within an inch everywhere you go, and because they are inept drivers the sit and idle on streets and wait for cars to leave before they pull in. They are the reason we should all be retested. Just saying.

I've never had an issue with all things foreign. I mean I love trying new foods and embracing new cultures. But, this is awkward, its not exactly a two way street in Ktown...which um, yeah. Weird right? Needless to say it only takes me a few times to go to your stores and restaurants before I realize you aren't going to freshen up on your English skills and that if you yell at me i understand you. Nooooooooooo you yelling just makes me want to punch you in your throat.

Over time I realized Koreatown just isn't for me. There are no hip, cool bars for me to knock back a few beers (ones that I can pronounce and that were crafted in one of three countries). There is definitely no good shopping, and that is unnecessarily unfortunate. There are no trendy stores for me to get new threads and I'm sorrrrrry but brightly colored shirts in sizes no bigger than xtra small and hello kitty paraphernalia DOES NOT MAKE A TRENDY CLOTHES STORE.

So goodbye Koreatown.

I hate your congested roads.
Your annoying signs I can't read.
Your mean neighbors who steal.
Your abundance of stray cats.
And most of all, your trainwreck of a parking situation.

All the Single [Fellas] ... Woo oh ooh oh oh ooh oh oh ooh oh oh oh

2009-10-15T22:18:00.000-07:00

The recent anniversary of my parents reminded me of something...

My folks have been married for 11 years and to be frank I'm jealous.

As hell.

Yes, I'm jealous of my parents. They have each other and they love each other. And THAT is what I'm looking for. I'm only 22, but I feel like the clock is kicking. Now, I'm not saying I'm ready for holy matrimony and all that good stuff but at least the cheesy stuff - someone to call and see how my day went at work.

Someone I can go the movie house with and catch a picture show.

Someone to go to a sock hop with.

Someone to share a milkshake with and argue over what to play next in the jukebox. All old school references aside. I want someone to add to my life. Right now coming home to two cats ain't cutting it.

I actually think it's to the point where it might not happen for me. And maybe I need to lower my standards. Beyonce certainly didn't help, and yeah I've shucked and jived my single ass to the beat of her year long anthem. But it gets to the point where enough is enough. No longer do I want to pretend like I'm not lonely around these parts. Hell I've watched enough romantic comedies to buy into that shit.

Sooooo I'm on a quest. I'm scouring LA for a suitable mate. And of course because I love making fun of myself along the way I plan on detailing every minute on my quest. To take a line from B I'm looking for someone "that makes me, then takes me/And delivers me to a destiny, to infinity and beyond/Pull me into your arms/Say I’m the one you want."

This is gonna be a mess.

Fat boy, fat boy...watchu gonna do, watchu gonna do when the food runs though?

2009-09-30T17:01:00.000-07:00

So I have to admit something…

When I first moved to LA, I thought my food habits would die – mainly my fast food habits, which are terrible.

I had this image in my mind that because all I was seeing on television were skinny, beautiful people there was no way anyone was shoving McDonalds, Burger King or KFC down their throats.

But what I was most worried about wasn’t if skinny bitches was eating it, it was if this fat boy could! Would I not be able to find them? Would I have to leave Hollywood and go to Fat Central for some grub? Would I … wait for it … give up the greasy stuff? Would this mean a life without my two fav destinations: Taco Bell and White Castle?

Sadly this was half true. The latter is no where in California other than my grocers freezer which is

NOT THE SAME AT ALL ONE FREAKIN BIT NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES LOSERS TELL ME SUCH ONLINE.

As for Taco Bell. I could get shot in the foot for saying this, but Taco Bell is magically delicious. In fact it’s the best taco. Period. No argument. So many people would tell me how great the tacos were out here and how there are great ones everywhere. Well they are true. I can take a leak out my window and hit a taco truck. I can throw a stone from my car and it would land on a taco stand. I could – you get it, there are a lot of taco places out here.

I’m just not impressed. Sorry. I don’t like the real thing. I’m not even in the least bit ashamed to admit. As opposed to eating a real, genuine, authentic taco. I’d much rather eat its bastardized step cousin. Sorry but that damn Chihuahua (God rest his precious lil soul) was onto something. Taco Bell is fucking fabulous.

Now to get over my fat boy wounds of not having a White Castle (which I fully intend on binge eating on when I visit the Midwest) I wanted to discover new – equally tasty fast food joints. I didn’t think my heartbreak would end so fast. But the second I sunk my teeth into a double/double (animal style of course) from Inn-N-Out I heard an angel sing from heaven. I kid you not.

It didn’t end there.

Jack In the Box (OMGee).

Del Taco (Not as fabulous as Taco Bell).

Wienerschnitzel (It’s derlicious!!)

El Pollo Loco(the Mexican Popeyes)!!!!

Carl’s Jr. (Its Hardee’s no matter how hard they try)

My tastebuds had arrived to the mecca of fattening, no good for you, fried, dipped, wrapped and sauce laden deliciousness. And for that, I like California just a little bit more.

Why are (some) LA drivers terrible?!?

2009-09-22T16:20:00.000-07:00

Out of all my dislikes about Los Angeles this has to be my #1 pick…

The drivers in this city drive me crazy. SO much so that I wish my horn was a gun. I know that’s a bit intense. But after a few months living here it’s very necessary. Very.

What I love most are the drivers who are extremely inpatient. Imagine this. You’re on a four lane road waiting to turn left. Typically in most rational cities there would be a little green arrow – just for you…not always the case in sunny LA. So there you sit, waiting. Mr. And Mrs. Assholeface are behind you honking for you to go. Now, I know you’re thinking, “But traffic is oncoming in the opposite direction!” Why, yes it is. These dumb asses in this city actually expect you to jump out in traffic, get hit just so they can go around you, give you the finger and make their way to Pinkberry.

My next love is what I like to call “riding my ass until I go bonkers.” Apparently 35 mph on a street really means 50 mph and if you aren’t going fast enough for Joe Blow he gets right up on your ass and trails you about an inch away until you’re so flustered you speed up. Well not me. I’m king of the road rage assholes. After I had to perform a quick, but courteous brake check on this turd one evening he decided to follow me. Why? Not too sure considering I could be bat shit crazy and have a gun. So I decided to scare him a little. On the closest street I pulled up right along side of him and I lowered my window and the said the following (excuse the sailor language).

“What the fuck is your fucking problem, asshole.” You see adding the asshole at the end was more powerful than saying fucker because I’d already used two allotments of the F word. That’s all you’re allowed in the Rage language (a mixture of f bombs, ridiculous yelling, and often times spitting – but I think the latter is gross and can get you pummeled).

With the bass in my voice, and lets face it the blackness of my skin. The guy (who was a small white guy speed off). This gave me new ammunition. All I have to do is show these crazy drivers that I mean business!

But, what do I say to bus drivers – who in my opinion are THEE worst drivers in LA. Bar none. They straddle two lanes, get over unexpectedly and my favorite they run you off the road – especially those big ones with the middle that looks like an accordion. I hate those damn things. I hate them so much I hope they all break down over night – or blowup (not while people are in them of course). The roads would be much better.

Until that happens I have one hell of a filthy mouth…

Thank you for NOT smoking

2009-09-20T16:02:00.000-07:00

The most unfortunate things happen to me in my bathroom...

I realize that read awkwardly but no, it's true. For the past two weeks each time I go to take a shower or brush my teeth, or sing in the mirror I smell smoke. Cigarette smoke - the worst offender of them all. Sorry to anyone who smokes but you can tolerate the smell. All of us non smokers generally hate the smell. Anyone who pretends they aren't bothered are big dirty liars.

It was easy to figure why my bathroom was now smelling like a hole in the wall bar. There is this little vent above my shower - the purpose I have no idea. But I climbed right on top of the tub to peek in. (Would have suck if I fell and died cause I was as naked and smelly as a newborn). I shouted stop smoking as loud as I could. No response.

Then I realized the offender probably can't hear me. I imagined him sitting on his toilet smoking. You smokers do that right? Then I decided maybe I should write him a note, and slide it under his door. So I crafted the perfect little passive aggressive note in my mind, it was along the lines of:

Stop smoking fucker.
Or be like normal smokers and smoke somewhere that only you can smell it.
Why should I have to die of lung cancer while I'm showering or pooping?
Besides don't you realize how expensive cigs are. If you stopped today, you could probably afford a brand new Saturn.
Thanks,
Your neighbor.
PS. I'm really sorry your girlfriend dumped you last Tuesday.
PSS. I'm really sorry I listened through the vent. That was me seeing if the smoke was coming through the vent. I could have left when she started screaming at you. But I didn't. I even laughed a little bit. Again I'm really sorry. But yeah, can you stop smoking in the bathroom. Or open a window. I know you'll be lonely, and ergo smoking more. But, um - air freshener is cheap. Smoking in the living room is popular, there is tv you could watch as you puff away. Just no Lifetime, since you know - you got dumped a week ago. Very loudly. God that was really embarrassing. I'm sorry again. For listening.

G's True Hollywood Story

2009-09-08T23:04:00.000-07:00

The craziest thing happened to me this weekend …

I had a friend in town, which naturally meant I was on tour guide duty. So what better way to spend the weekend than going clubbing?

And, it was only appropriate to show my friends a night out on the town in West Hollywood, because I knew we’d get a healthy dose of the following:

- hot ass messes who have no idea they are hot ass messes
- hot ass messes who know, accept and love the fact they are hot ass messes
- out of touch, on the verge of rehab queens
- and a few slimy studs to round out the night

Yeah, that sounds about right. We made our way to the Abbey and of course the line was down Robertson Blvd. with all the fabulous trainwrecks trying to get in.

I prayed that my friend wouldn’t act like he was in Ohio. I don’t really know what it means to act like you’re in Ohio, but I warned him not to just in case. He did. After seeing the amount of travestives and trannies inside, I did as well. I love me a good tranny, if she has her life together. Not tonight. Cakey makeup, too tight dresses, heels with your toes grinding the floor. All around hot ass messes.

If that wasn’t enough the go-go dancer who used two support beams in a whole new way gave me everything I needed to solidify that this was officially a hot mess event of the ages.

That was, until I spotted him.

My first thought was, “he looks familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.” The closer he got, the more my wind tried to figure out what alphabet on the food chain of celebrity he was. Certainly not A through D. Hell, he wasn’t even F.

AH HA! I realized who he was the second he stepped on my toes and I was subsequently forced to hold him up. He was the man from “How Stella Got Her Groove Back.”

No not Taye Diggs in the film. But the actual inspiration from the novel. And here he was bracing himself on my ass, or copping a feel (I’m not so sure which). Either way I was more concerned for my shoes (lord why did I have to wear the Louis to the club. FML) and less concerned about this G Lister who clearly had too much of the sweet stuff, or too much of the white stuff. I make no assumptions. He had drastically lost weight from when I saw him last – on Oprah going a few rounds with his ex-wife about why he prefers the boys. How embarrassing because if anyone thought he was straight (this includes you Terry McMillian) then you’re dumber than shit anyhow.

I lost count with how many ass grabs and random make outs there were. For a moment I got distracted at his public sense of debauchery. Negro you had TAYE DIGGS play you in a movie, Taye Diggs!!! I still remember the ladies sweating in that movie. Then I realized …the fuck? I saw that movie in theaters with my mom, like more than ten years ago. I was what 9, 10 at best.

So how old are you?

Definitely too old to be dancing all drunk feeling up on 22 year olds in the club… Should that concern me, or should the lack of a shirt, nipple piercing on display, raggedy ballcap, clear sense of falling off that he was displaying.

For the guy that went home with him that night. Bet the morning after was a bitch. Hell, I still feel dirty…

... the fuh?

2009-09-08T13:26:00.000-07:00

So the worst thing happened to me the other day...

I was all prepared for my little vacation. Time off, relaxation. Me
sitting in my drawers playing the sims, watching movies - NOT being
productive.

But no, my computer decides to crash on me. After spending more than a
few hours on the phone with tech support (they charged me $49.99.)

First fuck my life moment.

Second fuck my life moment. I finally gave in to send in my computer
to get fixed. Because one, my life revolves around a computer. Two I'm
tied to the hip to technology and I hate it, but I'm cool with it.
Three I hate having to do so much work on my laptop. Granted its a Mac
- but so what. I miss my desk top. Not having this heat on my thighs
as I write.

So we'll see where this $350 gets me, I do want HP to know, however,
if they don't fix my shiz, I'm burning the place down.

Just sayin...

Hollywood, I hate you.

2009-09-02T18:14:00.000-07:00

If only I could control celeb coverage...

The one tragic thing about being addicted to all things that go POP, is reading and juggling your attention to numerous blogs. Let alone right one. I knew early one that although I love celebrity drama/dirt/trainwrecks and would report on them in a heartbeat because the chances of me running their lives are high. I decided to not spend too much time talking about them.

Unless of course I see one of their asses out at Ralph's getting groceries or calling AAA to two away their classic oldie (that means you Christopher Lloyd or scarily related doppelganger).

But every now and then there are a few celebs who grind my gears enough I want the world to come crumbling down. So out of boredom I made a hate list. Yes, a hate list. These are the ones who seriously need to QUIT making headlines. I hate you. America hates you. Life hates you. Now go lay down. And this list is in no particular order. Some I hate more than others, but I hate them all.

Jon and Kate...plus the 8. I know they are kids but if they never had so many they wouldn’t have a show. And then we wouldn't have this foolishness. I don't know who I hate more: Jon is a big douche, and Kate has that damn hair both of which make me want to jump off of a cliff. Here's an idea....QUIT THE SHOW. WORK ON YOUR MARRIAGE. RAISE YOUR DAMN KIDS, OFF OF TV.

Lindsay Lohan. Why are you still in the news. You don't do shit. And the last movie I saw of yours I had to drink through just to not change the channel. Yeah, you're shit was on TV, boo. Not in theaters.

Heidi and Spencer. I hate you both. You are the only two on the list that if something bad happened to you, I wouldn't blink. You both live for fame, and I sincerely hope you enjoy it. You have the rest of 2009.

Levi (whats your last name). You know, the guy who knocked up Palin's daughter with a gut full of human. I want to like you because you of course go out of your way to sling Sarah in the mood. But you are a little late boo. You could have been doing that shit when she was acting a fool during the campaign. No wait, I remember. You were playing the good little boy. Acting like you only chopped ole Bristol down ONCE. I'm over you now. And you're doing Playgirl. I hope you realize woman don't actually read that magazine (is it even a magazine anymore). No matter what they tell you.

Who else do I hate? Oh yeah...

Lil Wayne. You are a mess. Why are women still having your babies.

The Duggar family. I think you all are disgusting. No one else will say it. But I will. You are disgusting.

And more people I hate but choose not to even say why. They know what they did.

The cast of Twilight.
Katherine Heigel.

All of the Kardashian’s.
Tori Spelling.

Tori Spelling’s husband.

The execs that work at whatever channel airs Tor Spelling’s show.
The entire Hogan family, especially Brooke and minus Linda (she ain’t that bad)
Cast of The Hills.

Cast of any Vh-1 show.
Denise Richards.
Kevin Federline.
Tila Tequila.
Cast of High School Music.
Joe Francis.

Dr. Phil.

The last ten casts of MTV's The Real World.

Taylor Swift.

Miley Cyrus.

1/3 of the Jonas Brothers (this changes by day).

50 cent.

Eventually I'll remember more....

Let me clear my throat.

2009-09-01T15:21:00.000-07:00

Look, I understand that I may be a little plump...

Even considered overweight or obese if you looked at the lil BMI index thing, or what I like to call the reason our country is so screwed up when it comes to food.

Anyway, before I get started up. I recognize this. BUT, I'm not a smoker. While, it wasn't until I got to LA and discovered this little phenomenon called wildfires.

For more days than I care to remember there have been a number of blazes torching the mountains.

"Oh it's so far from your house, you can't tell."

That's what people told me when I first moved here. Yeah no. I can tell. My lungs can tell. This lil chunky boy has been struggling to breathe when he gets downtown. God forbid I go near the mountains.

So I'm stuck in a rut. First I thought maybe if I lost enough weight then maybe my lungs would somehow be more fabulous.

Then I realized I wouldn't have results quick enough. SOO I thought maybe if I joined the club and became a smoker then it would balance out. Well not only do I hate cigarette smoke, but I don't have the patience to smoke. Plus I hear Cali air is already the equivalent of smoking two packs a day - so adding the smoke from out of control fires brings me to how many packs a day?

What do I do? If Gerrickwood begins to burn down I won't be quick enough to outrun the flames. I'm screwed...

PS The photo above is the view I get at night if I play my cards right.

If it smells like a rat...then maybe its a mouse?

2009-09-01T11:06:00.000-07:00

So, I've always wanted to be a tutor...

I don't know why, I just thought it would be kinda cool to help someone out. Hell I had a tutor. And it made life easier, even if it made my personal life a living hell but that's neither here nor there.

Now after two friends telling me about getting hired at this tutor service, I thought "what the hell." It's $17.50 an hour, and with a name like Adademic Advantage and a trustworthy web site it couldn't be wrong. Who turns that down. I can work flexible hours, and I can meet the kids at a library. This was sounding so perfect I couldn't contain myself.

Then I remembered, this ISSSS LA. All that glitters ain't gold baby, and if it's too damn good to be true chances are it is too damn good to be true. Didn't stop me from applying though. Because we all know once you decide to do something you gotta do it.

However one of my best friend's had already done so and was sitting in orientation. She would serve as my informant. She shoots me a text along the lines of "this sounds fishy."

Uh oh. What could be fishy about a tutoring service? Actually a lot:

$80 to get fingerprinted that they take out of your check. And just in case you quit before they take out the dough out of your check, don't worry they ask for your credit card. So either way please believe they gettin' paid.

You aren't allowed to help the kids on homework.

You sign a contract to work a certain amount of hours. If you don't complete them by April 2010 they charge YOU $27 an hour for every hour uncompleted. Again they have your credit card.

...the fuck?

Let's talk about the problems here. I can ignore the fingerprints because you are working with kids. They want to make sure you don't plan on having carnal relations with them or locking them in your backyard for 18 years, wait was that too soon? But getting my credit card? Um, no. Usually places that vet their potential employees take care of that.

But, since I can't help kids on their homework what the hell do I talk about? PS, you can't talk about school either, or what they are learning in class. I guess you are supposed to just teach them something and pray to the high heavens that it relates to what these lil guys are learning.

Next issue, and this is major. I have to pay you for the remainder of my jobs. Hmmm, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were getting over on me. And wait, I'm paying you $27 an hour. Umm. How in thee world does that make sense.

Guess I'm not gonna tutor anyone, anytime soon ...

Umami burger was good, the hot mess nearby was better

2009-08-31T12:13:00.000-07:00

The funniest thing happened to me while I was out the other night…

I’ve been having a rather, I dunno, special time of navigating LA nightlife. So, I jumped at the opportunity to spend an evening with some of my closest friends.

First stop was Umami Burger. Now, everyone who knows me knows that (A) I love burgers, (B) love trying new things – especially those I can’t pronounce and (C) love most, if not all things foreign. We get to the burger joint and I’m all prepared for this. Their hook is this whole “fifth taste” mumbo jumbo. Yeah, I checked the web site. It’s true, or at least I think.

The place was cramped, but uber chic. Totally pretentious in it’s presentation. These burgers weren’t bigger than an iPhone, but they were tasty. However I was constantly distracted by the trainwreck to my right. Shifty from Celeb Rehab (yes, he had hits. But you’re only as good as your last hit and for him that was ummm…).

So Shifty from Celeb Rehab (who looked deliciously messy with his signature black tank) had this little gem of a young lady on his arm. The hair was big, the makeup was cakey, the weight was dire, the outfit was trashy (ladies, tank tops are not the sole outfit). Miss Thing was giving me everything a night at the Circus couldn’t.

What I loved was watching them destroy these little Japanese burgers. Which by the way they bring you a little white spoon for ketchup that they make. Let’s cut the middle man and put a bottle of Heinz on the tables. I mean he had three of these little things. There was a part of me that wanted to give him my fries, or invite them to the Denny’s that me and my friends subsequently devoured later on.

Just another night…

Why am I here again?

2009-08-31T11:26:00.000-07:00

I hadn’t really figured out why exactly I’d blog. So many of my friends told me to do so, maybe because they were sick of seeing my facebook updates litter their home page, or they got tired of seeing my twits throughout the day (if you don’t know what Twitter is at this point, use that rock you’re under to kill yourself).

But, after a string of unsuccessful blogs (unsuccessful because I’d allow months to pass between entries), I thought lets give this a shot. I’ve decided to simply not try that hard. Just write what I see, maybe what I feel should I be so lucky to care enough to do so. I have no idea who’ll be reading this little piece of online fodder, but for those who do that’s pretty sweet.

As evidenced by the title I live in my own world. One where the simple things go noticed more than the over-the-top excesses of life. In Gerrickwood nothing, or no one for that matter is safe. Hell I’m that guy who laugh at himself after falling down a flight of steps. What makes you think I won’t laugh at you?

That’s the best intro you’re gonna get.