Pet This

I'm going to get into a lot of trouble for this post, so before we even get started, let me make this as clear as possible: I Love Animals. I do. I love dogs, I love cats, I love bunnies. I'm about as pet friendly as you can get.

However, after years of careful study, I have come to one conclusion:

Most pet owners can go to hell.


Now don't get me wrong: I'm not talking about the normal, responsible people who are caring, loving moms & dads to their four legged critters, all while somehow being rational human beings... like Fightin' Mad Mary, who's lovely dog Day-Z is featured above (via Banana Surprise!) To you guys, who have a normal grip on society, I send my heartfelt kudos and all the pet-friendly flea-dip you could ask for! Keep up the good work... You're dismissed.

To the rest of you: Sit. Stay. Heel. If you pay attention, maybe I'll give you a treat. Huh? Would you like that? HUH??? Now sit your tail down and listen up.

You know who you are. You're the ones who say things like "The more time I spend with people, the more I like my pets!" Guess what? It's your fault. And furthermore: Fuck you.

A perfect example of this type of wasted human: The DogLady. We all have them in our neighborhoods. Mine lives directly below me. She's an aging pile of misery whose acting career never took off. Depressed and single because she's too horrible to keep a mate and so she's turned to her puppies for unconditional love. This woman owns anywhere from two-to-twenty yippy little shitdogs that Never Ever Stop Barking Under Any Circumstances Ever. And, since my "luxurious" Hollywood Hills Apartment faces a courtyard, every single noise that anyone or anything makes any time of the day or night is instantly magnified and projected directly into my brain.

And while most of the people who live facing the courtyard are quiet, because they know how to behave, this woman allows her horrible little dogs to roam around in the courtyard where their piercing yelps shatter my brain on a near-constant basis.

It's the perfect antidote to enjoying a quiet weekend at home, or, say, an uninterrupted nights' sleep. My personal favorite is when she joins in the noise chorus and begins to argue with the dogs for hours on end in a misguided attempt to quiet them down, using a high-pitched voice that only encourages her hellions to bark louder and at a higher frequency than before .

I'd complain to the apartment manager except, of course, she happens to be the one who the owns these furry little shit-storms. Twist!

If a non-pet owner dares to ask her to keep the noise down, even after hours upon hours of patiently putting up with it, the DogLady hisses and snaps: "They're dogs, they're just having fun!" Apparently the residents who pay far too much in rent to "live in luxury" aren't allowed to have a moment of peace if God's Creatures want to have a poopenanny. I can guarantee that if I started running around the courtyard screaming and defecating all over everything under the guise of having fun, she'd have something to say about it right quick.

But her precious dogs can do anything they want, and therefore, by extension, she's somehow entitled to the same privileges as well. If her animals get to have poor hygiene and smell bad, then so does she! If they get to have bad attitudes and snap at you for daring to go near them, then so does she! If they get to sniff asses.... well, you get my point.

You see, she's one of Those People who thinks only dogs, and, to a smaller extent other pet owners, are worth her time, which is a problem since she is supposed to be managing a HUGE FUCKING apartment building.

Unfortunately for me, I don't have a pet (other than my roommate, of course.) And, since I ask her to shut the hell up on occasion, that's two strikes against me.

And, as I've said before, I love dogs. And generally they love me. But not her dogs. They can tell I'm not a pet-owner, and therefore, I am the devil. The final straw came last night, when there was a package that had been delivered for me. Here in the Luxurious Hollywood Hills, if there's no one home to take the delivery, the mailman will leave it with Cruella DeVille downstairs so that you can retrieve it later. Despite the presence of shelves designed specifically for holding such things, she had, for some reason, left mine on the floor. Just as my roommate was looking for the package, one of her little angels went right up to it and peed all over the box.

Very professional business you're running here, thank you. Is this why my rent just went up? So that I might enjoy a bonus serving of dog urine with each home delivery I get?

Again, I don't blame the dog. I'm wise enough to know it's the owner who is pure evil. She didn't even apologize for the incident. So for those of you who are like her, take heed and learn from her mistakes. It's not too late to change. Train your dogs and at least treat your neighbors like human beings. Because if you don't change your ways... and you end up old and alone because you chose creatures over people, remember this: When you fall and break your hip, it's people that will help you. And if you can't get a hold of anyone because they all hate you... Your dog's gonna eat your face off.

And then I'm gonna pee on it.

Unlock This

A few weeks ago, Lucia Pamela and I went to dinner (drinks) then took in a sketch comedy show (drunk), all within a half a block of my Luxurious Hollywood Hills Apartment.

Upon exiting the theater (still drunk), I noticed my keys were no longer in my pocket. Panic immediately surged through my wine-soaked veins. Clearly, this was a problem. They were the keys to my apartment building, my apartment, my mailbox, my car, my roommate's car as well as several small "mystery keys"* that somehow sneaked onto my fucking awesome, irreplaceable key chain.

Lucia and I went back in and searched the theater for the wayward keys, crawling on our hands and knees as the impatient usher told us that seating for the next show was about to begin. While she didn't specifically address us as "You Drunk Idiots" at the end of the statement, it was certainly implied.

As Lucia and I visited the other restaurants & stores on the block, asking the shopkeeps (shopskeep?) if anyone had found them, she assured me that the keys would turn up, that someone would turn them in. After all, who wouldn't turn in a gigantic set of keys that doesn't belong to them? I mean, we live in a polite, evolved society. What would someone do with anonymous keys? They don't know where I live, or what those keys unlock. Will they just try every door and car and locker in the city until they find a match? Why not just turn them in? That's certainly what I would do. Because THAT'S WHAT YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO DO.

Sadly, no one had done this. The store owners were kind enough to offer me sympathy, which I accepted, and most took down my phone number in case they turned up. A few hours later, the theater called to tell me that they had located my keys. "HOORAY," I shouted! I was half way out the door, thanking the caller profusely when she said, "Yeah, it's a Mazda key and a few others." I stopped. My heart sank: "Mazda?" "Yeah, Mazda."

"Are you sure it's a Mazda key?"

She assured me it was, in fact, a Mazda key. She knew this because it said "Mazda" right on it.

I let her know that they weren't my keys and thanked her anyway.

The next 24 hours were pretty hellish. Not only could I not go anywhere, but the sheer amount of false hope was enough to crush anyone's soul... even a charred, black one like mine. When it opened, I went back to the theater, where I waited in the lobby with a man who had lost his phone the night before. Apparently, the theater is a black hole of lost objects. As the searcher came back, she announced: "I have good news, and I have bad news."

With that, she handed the gentleman his phone.

I figured if the keys didn't turn up within 48 hours, I was totally screwed. The next day, I expanded my search. On my way out to do another lap around the neighborhood, I wondered if perhaps I had dropped them in the halls of my apartment building. I asked the manager if anyone had turned in a set of keys. This didn't seem to phase her at all, even though I've technically put every one of the residents in danger. She said "Oh yes, we found them. They have a little police man key chain on it, right?" I said, "Uhh, no. Those aren't mine." She said, "Are you sure? They have a Petco club card on them!" I stared at her blankly as she realized, "Oh. You don't have pets." "No," I replied, "I don't have pets. Or a police man on my key chain."

I was desperate. I looked everywhere, tried everything. I even went to the Post Office, on the slim hopes that someone may have dropped them into a mailbox for some reason. The clerk told me the Post Office sends any miscellany downtown to get destroyed. I asked, "So... you don't have a lost and found here? At all?" "No," I was told. Who the fuck doesn't have a lost and found?

I knew there was only one thing left to do:

I posted signs in the neighborhood. Big ones that announced that I had lost my keys. I also included my phone number. This, as it turns out, was a bigger mistake than losing my keys in the first place. Not only was I getting lots calls about everyone else's fucking keys except for mine (including a call about the policeman/pets key from my apartment building, thanks) I also began to get random text messages from people harassing me about losing my keys. One girl texted me to let me know that, although she thought I was stupid, that she thought my sign was funny. Thanks. Glad I could entertain you. Now go find my fucking keys.

I took the signs down after a week, once I received this message:





...because that's helpful. Let's put on a fake accent and harass the suicidal guy who can't get into his house or car! What. The. Fuck. Just because you're waiting in line for a comedy show does not make you hilarious. And whatever fucking character you're doing on that call isn't fucking funny. Shouldn't you be at a Lame Convention with Dane Cook screening Paul Blart: Mall Cop instead of fucking calling me up? Imbecile.

I accepted my fate and began the long, fucking expensive task of replacing the keys. The standard keys were easy--even the ones that say DO NOT DUPLICATE caused no problem whatsoever. The car keys, however, will cost more than Five HUNDRED dollars to replace. $500.00. Because they are "Smart Keys." They are called this because the car companies are smart enough to charge you whatever they want because they know you're fucked if you need a new one. Fucking key extortionists.

I sincerely hope that whoever stole my fucking keys enjoys them. I hope they go fuck themselves with them and then I hope that they trip, fall, and have both of their eyes gouged out by them. Also on the Fuck Yourselves list: The Text Message Harassers, The Car Companies, and most of all, The Post Office.

For the rest of you, fucking turn in keys if you find them somewhere. Don't be an ass.

Good Day.

---

*Whenever I mention the half-sized keys to people, they impatiently tell me that they are for items such as padlocks and gym lockers, of which I own none. Then I'm forced to roll my eyes and tell them I think that the regular-sized keys are having sloppy and inappropriate relations while in my pocket, resulting in the creation of these baby keys, because they are drunk metal whores.... Then I have to politely remind them that I LOST MY FUCKING KEYS, so unless you know where they are, keep your "thoughts" to yourself and let me complain. Ass.

Mind Your Manners

An Open Letter to the Governor of California:

Dear Mr. Schwarzenegger,

I've been wanting to say something to you for a long time: Go to hell!

Before you get all riled up, no... this isn't some political rant where I complain about your policies or my taxes. I'm not even complaining about Jingle All the Way or Twins (although both are more than enough reason to hate you like poison.)

No. I'm talking about something far more personal, Arnold Schwarzenegger: You stole my cookies.

That's right. You stole my cookies, and I want them back.

Let me set the scene for you: It was 2001. I was but a young, fresh-faced boy just trying to make it in this business we call "Show." I was working on the First Annual World Stunt Awards (First WorSt, for short) which were meant to celebrate the achievements of Stuntmen and Stuntwomen in movies & television. Instead it was a night of disappointment and shattered dreams.

The production staff had been working day in and day out for six solid weeks in preparation for the big show where you, Mr. Schwarzenegger, were scheduled to receive a very special Honorary Taurus Award. On show day, the whole city was abuzz while gifts & congratulatory notes came pouring into the cramped production offices for you.

The biggest present came from the Manner Wafer Company who dropped off a massive case (about 3' x 4') of their famous Hazelnut Flavored cookies. The box was cleverly decorated to be a giant replica of their packaging (left) but with one major difference... the popular Manner Logo was altered to have your name printed in its trademark(™) blue script:

As a long-time fan of the sophisticated, worldly flavor of Manner Wafers, I was blown away by this gesture. After all, to have one's name emblazoned on such a well-respected product is an incredible honor!

Not trusting anyone else with the task, my boss and I brought the bulky box of Manner Wafers to your trailer ourselves (Yes, it took two of us. As it turns out, hundreds of light-weight hazelnut wafers are pretty heavy to us scrawny non-body-builders.) We then set it up on the sofa directly across from the entrance to your trailer to ensure you would see it immediately upon entry.

The show and ensuing party went off without a hitch (if you don't count the dozens of injuries to various production people, the two audience members who were struck by swords, or the guy who died.) When I arrived the next morning, the cleaning crew was already sweeping up the remains of the show... and guess what I saw sitting atop a mountain of trash in the middle of the venue.

I couldn't believe my eyes--you had discarded this one-of-a-kind gift as if it was a common box of Chips AfuckinHoy. Seeing no alternative, I rescued it from the rubble heap, brought it home and proudly hung it on my wall as a unique piece of pop art, where it would be kept safe from the ravages of the landfill.

My heart was filled with joy until a couple of days later, when the calls started pouring in from your office. We were told that you somehow managed to remove the cookies from the box without realizing that your name was emblazoned on it.

Really? Because I'm pretty sure that if someone scrawled my name in letters that were one foot high across a giant box of hazelnuttiness, I'd likely notice. And so, I can only draw one conclusion: You, sir, the Governor of California, are illiterate.

Hmmm.... seeing that in print makes me realize that perhaps an open letter to you was not the way to go. Nevertheless, I shall continue--but I will do so by addressing the literate:

Hi! So as I was saying, this saga went on for days, with my boss and I keeping our mouths shut. All was well until an evil French Producer somehow got wind of the situation and discovered that I was harboring this foreign box top. She aggressively "suggested" that I return it to the office, ignoring the "Finders Keepers" stance which most of the staff had adopted.

It was exactly like the eight years I spent in a Catholic grade school: I was being picked on by the big, burly bully... only this time, not even Jesus could save me.

Eventually, I was forced to relent. I was accompanied to my apartment by a European production assistant who took the cookie box from my home... leaving behind a bare dining room wall, and a pink rectangular hole in my heart.

Thanks a lot, Arnold. I hope you enjoyed devouring my hazelnutty innocence, surrounded by a scrumptious flaky crust.

Oh wait, I forgot... You can't fucking read this. BAH! You screwed me again, Schwarzenegger!!!

Not a Toy

I like children. I’m more of a dog person myself, but I can see their appeal. Sometimes they say the darnedest things, and if you are either exceptionally nice or horribly mean to them, they will be riddled with guilt and take care of you when you get old. In any event, though I don’t plan to have any children of my own, I would never kill one, at least not in public. Which is why I was so appalled at what I witnessed at the Trader Joe’s near my apartment a few weeks ago.

During the last 15 or so years that I have lived in my neighborhood, it has grown increasingly wealthy, white and straight - in every sense of the word. The Mayfair Market was long ago replaced by the Tiffany’s of supermarkets, Gelson’s. It’s parking lot, once full of old VWs and Volvos bearing bumper stickers begging us to free Leonard Peltier and Mumia, is now littered with fancy SUV’s, Lexus’s (Lexi?) and Mercedes too pristine to be sullied by arcane adhesive causes.

The owners of these vehicles are what I refer to as Bohipsterans. They are rich, but don’t like the Westside. They send their children to hideously expensive and permissive private schools where shoes aren’t required, and neither is learning. You know, if little Mabel Starlight isn’t feeling arithmetic, she isn’t feeling it. And if she hits another kid, she is expressing a healthy hostility toward our current administration and the war in Iraq. Besides, Mommy is late for Pilates and Daddy has a very important pitch meeting at Sony. They don’t have time for this shit.

So, these are the people who have co-opted my neighborhood. And, they not only shop at the Gelson’s, they sometimes slum it over at the Trader Joe’s across the street, which is where my story takes place. I walk in one weekday afternoon, pick up a basket and head over to the produce aisle. There, I see a little Bohipsteran boy, about two or three, sitting in the front of his Very Busy Yet Jobless Silver Lake Mother’s grocery cart. He is wearing the prerequisite Ramones t-shirt and he is looking right at me with a giant grin on his face. Very cute. I smile back. I start to wave, when he reaches behind him and pulls a clear plastic produce bag over his head. Ahhhh! His mother isn’t looking because she is preoccupied with selecting organic Japanese eggplant or something. By the time I realize what is happening, the kid has pulled the plastic bag back up onto his forehead and he is laughing. Oh, I get it; he’s playing Peek-a-Boo Russian Roulette. Mommy certainly won’t like this when I warn her. When the boy pulls the bag back over his head again, I start to walk over to their cart, but just then his mother looks over. Phew! Surely Mommy will rip that bag out of his hands, say something like, “Where did you get that? This is not a toy! Never, never, ever play with plastic bags like that! You could suffocate!”

Alas, no. Mommy glances over at little Eucalyptus Tree, or whatever his fucking name is, for one bored moment and casually turns back to picking through the specialized vegetables. By the way, when Mommy turned toward her son, not only was the bag still over his head, he was experimenting with the fun of gasping for air, enjoying the warm sensation of soft plastic as the bag gently encased the inside of his mouth and blocked his windpipe. What a cool mom.

I am ashamed to say that I didn’t say anything to the woman, although I did make a couple of frantic gestures at the boy, miming pulling the bag off my head, crumpling it into a ball, and tossing it over my shoulder. See? That’s fun too! I think I was just too stunned to react rationally. I didn’t believe it was really happening. Who doesn’t know you don’t let kids play with plastic bags?! It says so right on the side! I looked around and no one else seemed to notice what was going on, so I thought maybe I was crazy.

As soon as I left the store I started having visions of Little Euke toddling toward the recycling bin at home in his mid-century modern kitchen, alone, while Mommy is upstairs fucking her life coach. He opens the lid and, lo and behold! A treasure trove of his new favorite toys!

You can guess the rest.

A few days later, I was at home writing when I heard a little kid screaming and crying. I wasn’t alarmed. I knew the new neighbors in the next house over had a baby. He was probably just teething or had diaper rash or something. But then the crying continued for what seemed like a half hour. And the crying was really frantic. Remembering how mad I was at myself for not rescuing poor Euke, who was probably dead by then, I decided to investigate.

I walked down the back alley that runs between my apartment and the neighboring building. The new people lived in the smaller back house. The kid was still screaming his lungs out, so I tentatively shouted over the fence, “Is everything OK over there?” A wary male voice shouted back, “Who’s that?” “I’m your neighbor? I just wanted to make sure everything is OK?” (When I’m anxious and trying to sound non-threatening I turn every statement into a question.) A head popped over the dilapidated wood slat fence: Feckless Silver Lake Dad. Medium height, too thin, shaggy hair, scruffy beard, baggy ironic t-shirt. As the baby carried on wailing, FSLD somewhat defensively explained that the family had gotten home from somewhere late and missed the kid’s scheduled meal. The child was starving, so he was hysterical. “It happens every time.” At this point, I was done with FSLD. As I started to head home, I assured him I wasn’t complaining, just concerned, and was glad everything was ok. While his kid continued to cry bloody murder, FSLD apologized about the noise, and with a shrug concluded, “But when he gets to this point, it’s really out of my hands.”