I don’t even know where to begin listing my problems with Sacha Baron Cohen. Is it because he wants so desperately to go down in history as the new Andy Kaufman? Who was also unfunny? Is it because everyone in the world is frothing at the mouth over his antics, and not getting what everyone else loves makes me angry? I guess it’s me. I don’t “get” him, and I don’t get why his MTV Awards thing was anything other than yawn fodder. (If you have no idea what I’m talking about, it’s here maybe.)

Nope, I don’t get how practicing a stunt with technicians, all who have cleared the stunt with the show’s producer Mark Burnett and the “mark,” Eminem, can be considered “stuff of award show legend for the next 20 years” (“source”). Even if it WASN’T staged, how is it hilarious? Or even mildly funny? I imagine the thought process of the audience went something like this: “Oh, no, did something really bad happen with the cables? Gosh, I hope he doesn’t hurt him– Oh, wait. It’s that guy. That guy who always pranks everyone. Ah, I see. He is pulling a prank. He very slowly “fell” on someone. Ah, Eminem. A macho-type guy, perhaps homophobic; the last type of person who you’d think a gay character like Bruno would be 69ing with. Okay. I see. So…what, uh…what’s happening next?”

I will admit also…I have not seen his movies, nor do I plan to. They stress me out. I have been forced “Clockwork Orange”-style by friends with otherwise-normal senses of humor — senses of humor I respect and that are similar to mine — to watch episodes of “Ali G.” I didn’t get it then, either. Okay, so he has a funny accent. Check. He wears silly clothes. Check. So, far, he’s achieved circus clown hilarity. Oh, and he’s a rapper/talk show host, I guess, so, what, is he holding up a mirror to rappers? To people who try too hard to be cool? Or is he doing a brilliant parody of the tiny subset of delusional rappers who take themselves way too seriously who occasionally trick members of high political office into doing inane interviews? I guess is it straight-man comedy? Like, “look at the stuffed shirt talking to the silly rapper about ice cream gloves. This is funny because the person does not get this joke!”

Sorry, I’d rather hear a joke.

And I haven’t seen “Borat,” because it came out in an uncomfortable post-9/11 time where it was suddenly super hip to HATE America. And he went out and tricked a handful of nuns and rednecks, and all of his sycophants LAUGHED and laughed at how stupid America is, without realizing that they themselves were examples of how a tiny microcosm doesn’t reflect the exact feelings of the whole. It’s the same reason I didn’t want to see “Religulous,” but I eventually did. I saw it and thought: Okay. Bill Maher raises some interesting points. But…I’ll bet I can find 20 dumb atheists to say something stupid, too. Does that mean all atheists are dumb and no one should be atheist if they feel like it? If I quote a vegan saying something silly, can I finally crush veganism for good, with a legion of ass-kissing followers behind me?

And I don’t want to see “Bruno” either. Let me guess. He’s going to put non-gay people in uncomfortable situations. Maybe he will hand a dildo to a shy grandmother. Wouldn’t that just be hilarious? Get it? Old, meek people. Hardcore gay sex. They conventionally do not mix! And yet here he is, juxtaposing them right here for us! The jokes write themselves! I guess that’s my problem with him.

When my roommate informed me that our new and improved air conditioning system can get down to 40 degrees and said she can’t imagine a situation where anyone would want it that cold, it probably would have been a good idea to NOT exclaim excitedly that if we ever had a dead body in here, the police wouldn’t be able to accurately determine the time of death.

In other news, I really love “Forensic Files.”

I have a strange technological problem. A mystery, really.

About, oh, 6 months ago, I started getting personal mail to my gmail account. To a Lauren who is not me. A few things became obvious fairly early on. This girl is in a “school” of some kind. She has many friends. None of them are very bright. And neither is she, for apparently giving them my address instead of her own.

I wish I had copies of them, but unfortunately I submitted them all to spam because they would not stop forwarding me chain letters asking how much I loved Jesus. The first of these was just such an email, to which I replied to the sender, “Hi. Who are you?” She responded “Only your biggest, bestest friend Jennifer [lastname]! I guess you don’t recognize my school address, lol.” I responded, “Sorry, I don’t know a Jennifer [lastname]. You must have the wrong email.” To which she replied, “HAHA, Lauren, such a kidder! See you in class!”

Now I’m getting annoyed, as apparently according to everyone I’ve ever MET, I am severely wont to do. Ahem. I now reply, “I am serious. I am an adult who lives in California. I haven’t been to high school in over 10 years. Please tell your friend Lauren she is giving out the wrong address.” And then, drawing upon years and years of undercover detective lessons taught on Nickelodeon and Disney Channel from 4:00 PM until bedtime, Jennifer LastName responds, “Oh, YEAH? Well, if you’re not my friend Lauren, how did you KNOW I was looking for someone named LAUREN, HUH?! And how else would you be accessing her email, lol!” After facepalming, I decided to let it go and spam it. Until the next day. And the next. And the next. Chain letters upon chain letters, angels, kittens, jokes about Bush. I couldn’t spam them ALL, because they were all different people. And I can’t figure out anything about any of them (and obviously, her) because NONE of their emails were searchable on google. No facebooks, no myspaces, nothing. I didn’t even know this doppleganger Lauren’s last name. Did they all literally JUST discover the internet?

And not only friend emails, verification emails to websites. “Lauren! You have just tried to join Team Disney! Click here to activate!” “Lauren! You want to join the Penguin Parade! Click here, so we know it’s you!” It’s not her! It’s me! Wh- Is she not noticing that none of these emails go to her? Does she just give UP and do something else? Clearly NOT, because *I* keep getting them.

I’ve “Who are you?”d a couple of her friends now, but there’s not much use. It’s the same dialogue. I’ve gotten her last name, and one of the girls mentioned what school *she* goes to, but it’s not necessarily Mystery Lauren’s school. It got to the point in the last “Who are you?” string of emails where I really thought I was gaining ground, being really polite with the “Gee, I’d hate to have your friend Lauren be missing all these important emails! You may want to mention to her that she’s giving out the wrong address! To apparently everyone on the planet!” And the girl was responding with a hopeful, “Well if u don’t know how I can find her real email, I guess I’ll ask next time I talk to her.” I thought I had won. Then she asked me to chat on MSN. I told her I was at work. Working. She responds with, “Can we chat whenever u get this message since u r hopefully my friend.”

I. I don’t even know. Is she accusing me of being her friend Lauren all along? Does…does she think *we’re* friends now? It boggles the mind. I guess nothing can be done with this gaggle of schoolchildren begging me to end the ruse and admit I’m their friend. Hopefully, this doesn’t end Highlander-style with my teenybopping doppelganger attacking me with a sword before declaring herself the One True Lauren and then taking in a Jonas Brothers concert.

Starting about three years or so ago, and with slowly rising frequency, I have been getting what I thought was a very nice compliment.

“You remind me so much of Tina Fey!”

My friends said it, my family said it, people I joked with at parties said it. It was nice. I mean, I sort of do pride myself on my lovable awkwardness, my well-intentioned schemes that never seem to go right, the Star Wars reference uttered at the least appropriate time. Tina Fey chic. The Naughty Secretary glasses helped. But, yes, it was nice. I’d cock my head sideways and crack a sassy joke at dinner with my parents, and my mom would should out, “You are SO Tina Fey!” Which is quite a compliment, as hers is the only hard-core liberal name my mom will utter without subsequently making gagging noises.

Recently, though, I’ve been noticing a disturbing trend. My brother’s girlfriend, funny though she may be, mentioned that people constantly compared HER to Tina Fey. I saw a facebook wall post of a friend of mine, where several people referred to HER as Tina Fey. Now, this girl is very funny, but it is not in a Tina Fey way. Actually, if you want to get technical, my brother’s girlfriend reminds me more of the women from “Absolutely Fabulous”. And my facebook friend is closer to a Maria Bamford or a cleaner Sarah Silverman.

These four women are no less funny but very different comedically from Tina Fey. So what really grinds my gears is that Tina Fey is, like, THE funny woman in America’s eyes. It actually reminds me of when I started comedy in 2003, and everyone compared me to Ellen. I didn’t understand it at all. She was clean and hilarious. I was telling dick jokes at open mic nights in Pittsburgh. She dressed in snazzy business casual on stage. I dressed like I held a stock in silly t-shirts and ill-fitting jeans. Oh, you mean we both have female reproDUCtion systems. Why didn’t you say so?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we’re finally getting recognition as a sex that is capable of telling a joke, but…like…you wouldn’t go up to a random black person and go, “You know who you remind me of? Obama!” Actually, in Japan they would probably do just that, but not here! I don’t know. It’s weird.

Whatever. I’ll keep taking it as a compliment, even if every girl who’s ever told a joke is a Tina Fey. It could be worse. They could call me Kathy Griffin.

Look. There are a lot of things I could say.

I could say, “Hey, due to things I’d rather not get into, I wanted to keep a low internet profile. No, Twitter and FB status updates don’t count. Shut up.”

I could say, “I found out I have a [ed. note: harmless] disease, and it hurt so much that my [ed. note: herculean, super hot] body was fallible and human [ed. note: and I wasn't secretly a robot, as I'd hoped] that I didn’t want to be creative and witty.”

I could say, “I’m so busy writing other things that it took the wind out of my blogging sails.”

I could say, “I’d love to blog, but I’m watching the entire series of ‘Twin Peaks’ with Melissa.”

I could say, “The Me that my friends from Japan helped me discover has finally emerged in Los Angeles, and not only have I gotten back into stand-up, but I spend my evenings and weekends being social and hanging out with new and old friends and going to parks and playing sports, and, yeah, the unfortunate side-effect of all that is not being around rule the internet, as I once did.”

I could even say, “I usually just blog about the latest thing that infuriates me, but now that I’ve met someone really amazing, it’s hard for me to find things wrong with the world, which now, to me, just looks like a chorus line of kittens and puppies dancing in front of me and brushing me lightly with their soft fur.”

But no one likes excuses, so I’m not going to say any of that! That you’re here at all is a testament to your enduring patience and forgiveness, and I’ll try to be better. I even have the daunting task nagging at the recesses of my mind of uploading the last [ed. note: "last" 3/4, that is] of my pictures from Japan, so if that’s your thing, look, um, look forward to it.

I’ve missed you. Let’s be friends still, okay?

Why does it gross me out so much when out-of-touch media reports on things they don’t understand to out-of-touch viewers?

I just watched this video, and I could barely contain my hair from bursting into flame. It got me that mad. I disagree with almost every word said here in this video.
Go on, watch it. I’ll wait here.

Let’s start with the host. She makes me angry because her demeanor just screams “Aw, shucks, America! I’m using lingo I don’t understand and wildly inaccurate statistics to disarm technophobes into using this new hip thing someone told me was popular, but I’m still going to look smug about it!” I don’t know if I’d call people NOT twittering in the minority, lady, but, hell, why would Joe Luddite ever want to use something that’s not already been wildly popular for years before you happened upon it? Right?

She goes on to introduce the Data Doctor because wacky nicknames and middle-aged people never fail to lull other middle-aged people into a sense of comfort and belonging. Far be it from the average curious middle-aged American to actually fucking go to twitter.com and read the FAQ or see some examples themselves. Oh, and she’s “following him,” she brags, proud of her ability to click the pretty gray button that said “Follow” that some 20-year-old intern likely helped her to locate. She also says there’s “lots of good stuff on his site,” which I assume she means his twitter page, but terminology, sherminology, right? Just memorize the words “tweets” and look pretty. I really pitied her in this interview, for looking so proud of herself while reporting things she clearly doesn’t utilize herself. It reminds me of those awkward moments when you offhandedly reference a personal joke to a friend, laugh, and a third, unrelated friend joins in the laughter to prove that he got it, only there’s no way he could have, and you share a look with the original friend that says “Just let it go. Let him laugh. It’s better that way.”

Of course you’re following him, dear. *pat, pat* Of course you are.

Now, the Data Doctor — who did not spend 4 years in Data Medical School to be called “Mister,” thank you very much — I have no doubt that he knows his stuff. I’m not ageist! Good for him for bucking the trends of the majority* of middle-aged computer users (*see, I can make up statistics, too!), and NOT using his computer solely for Minesweeper and sending chain e-mails about angels. I’m sure he’s a great guy and a lot smarter than I am. And, hell, I’m certainly not telling CNN my opinions about things, although it’s probably because insulting hosts and sprouting hair-fires are probably frowned upon in the Nielson ratings for legitimate news shows.

But I have to say I disagree with a lot of what he says. He gives a few real-world examples — mainly because the host’s journalistic digging for the truth consisted of asking the questions “What is twitter,” “What is twitter for,” and “Really, tell me another way, what is twitter for?” — and I gotta say that these reasons are not why I, anyone I follow, or anyone I have ever heard of uses twitter.

He really seems to pitch that twitter fills a void that text messaging, e-mails, and blogging (and actually also “cellphones,” but my team of researchers are trying to figure out what he meant by that) leaves in the void of data communication.

He and I agree on the first thing, which is that twitter is NOT for updating people on your whereabouts all day long. I am about one tweet away from deleting a few friends who really think it’s intriguing to share with the world their breakfast menu or the new pants they bought.

He then says something not too far off the mark, which is that it’s a good source of instantaneous communication, which was proven pretty publicly in the last couple months, with tweets broke the news of bombings in Mumbai and the Hudson Crash long before media had any information. I don’t appreciate that he spun his personal role as a twitterer as the one to save and warn people of looming tech evils in the days between his radio shows, but however you want to say it, yes, it gets information to people who want to read it. Done.

I don’t like his real-world example of a family utilizing twitter to get up-to-the-minute info on an ailing family member because, while you can lock your tweets to be seen only by people you approve, you probably have a host of other friends or followers you’ve also approved that don’t really need to hear about grandmama coughing up blood. Dude, send a mass text or something. It’s not hard.

He also says if one sister asks a question, another sister can see it being asked and also see the answer, which I’ll give you is helpful, but could be done just as well with a gmail conversation log or a forum. I’m not saying I’d rather use those routes mySELF, I’m just saying I don’t buy the fact that twitter is the only thing ever that can accomplish these goals, as he seems to suggest.

Next, he goes on to talk about a small wine company twittering about some new purchases, which, okay, cool, I’ll give him that one. I might personally want to put that in a blog post or website content page for easy reference for when you want to read it, I don’t know, any time AFTER the exact minute it’s tweeted, but for the sake of argument, yes, if I cared about wine acquisitions, that might be something I’d follow.

Following CNN for breaking news even, sure, I’ll give you that, although I would probably be bored several minutes after the first 30 stories about Angelina Jolie or if I’m SURE I don’t want a CNN.com t-shirt telling me that 1 in 3 workers hungover at the office. Yes, CNN, I’m sure. And I resent you setting my default shirt size to large.

At last, he finally touched on the one thing I 100% agree with, and maybe I’m a bit biased, but when people ask me what *I* think twitter should be used for, I have the same answer. Jokes. Comics. Interesting and humorous thoughts. Mmm, viral media to an extent. Life updates. I’m not a huge stickler. Every post doesn’t need to be steeped in hysteria or mind-explosions. I don’t mind if my friend Ryan updates me about his trip to his niece’s karate class because he has other interesting things to say. I don’t feel my time is wasted when @wilw posts about looking at the moon because he posts other neat things about his life. I look forward to huge things like the election or the Oscars because I’m following some pretty funny people who make it more enjoyable to me — like a pop-up video. Yes, @PFTompkins, that host guy from “Slumdog Millionaire” DOES look like the Indian Dennis Miller! You, sir, are amusing to me.

I don’t know why anyone would ever follow a politician, as I can only imagine their tweets would be like “Vote for me!!11″ or “I’m in your Senate, making your laws, ROFL!” but to each his own. I’m sure there are people out there who DO care, and THIS is where blogs and text messages can’t hold a candle to twitter.

Me? I try to tweet when I think of something amusing. 140 characters is pretty much the ideal length for random thoughts that come to me while jogging or showering or before I fall asleep. I tweet when I find an amusing link on the internet I think the people who follow me would appreciate. I try to tweet in cool places, just for neatness’ sake, like in the studio audience for the taping of a show or while riding a horse through a nature trail. Or sometimes I have an idea for a really short blog, and it seems like a waste to make a whole post, so I see how I can parse it and publish there.

I don’t know. When I mock my co-worker Danny for having the most boring tweets ever (example tweet: “waking up. deciding if I want to eat eggs or french toast”), he replies that his are no less interesting than Lance Armstrong, who wavers between posts about what’s playing on his ipod to various races he’s winning, so he can probably get away with it.

I suppose I shouldn’t be so ornery. If anything, this new wave of twitterers will likely end up the same way any of my family and real-life friends end up when they start blogs that I read religiously. It becomes more of a hassle than fun, the updates get further apart, and I eventually reluctantly remove them from my daily bookmarks. It’s sad, but they’re not trying to win at the internet like I am, so I’m sure they could care less. Pretty soon, it’ll be just one more fad that’s over, and left in the rubble will be those of us who cared about it before the national news told us to.

See? Look. I’ve calmed down now. All isn’t lost. Soon, we’ll get twitter back from the out-of-touch, video games back from frat jocks, and sexyback from Justin Timberlake, and the world will be bright again. Oh, but the next person who uses the word “tweetheart” is getting slapped across the mouth.

My Writers’ Group Homework. Prompt Word: Bell
———————————————-
“The bell’s Broken, Come on in!”

The blue post-it note fluttered precariously off the phone box, and I sighed as several things irritated me at once. The comma splice, the random capitalization, the fact that some moron lived in these lavish apartments and barely spoke their native language, and I, an English major, forced by a series of happenstances outside of my control, worked as a delivery boy and lived in a shack where I was grateful if my Mexican neighbors refrained from throwing their plates at my house for one day.

And there’s nothing wrong with run-on sentences, so I don’t even want to hear it. Comma splices are a hard and true error of humanity. I see it as a little lit-up arrow that appears over the heads of stupid people, blinking, that reads “I also probably confuse ‘your’ and ‘you’re’!” as they neglect to tip me. Imbeciles.

My major frustration, however, as I kicked the pinecone keeping the door open out of the way, was that I had called this very woman minutes before. My delivery company serves especially in small businesses within the confines of LA county, and in an effort to shine above the corporate sycophants at FedEx and the nature-boy Neanderthals of UPS, we call our clients when we are moments away. For me, though, it’s at my previous stop, because I optimize my route to make the most stops in the least amount of time.

But I could make one delivery a day and probably make the same wage on my hourly salary. So, yes. I was a little angry that I had called one street away, and the woman took it upon herself to write up a grammatically incorrect note, tromp down here, stick it on the phone box, and hold the door with a damn pinecone, when she could have simply met me at the door within my foretold one minute of travel time, and I could have handed the package off to her.

Whatever, she was the last stop of my day, and since these are the caliber of things that often get my goat, I have been trying of late to let my inner goat roam free, relax, graze on the lush grass of apathy and blissful goat ignorance. Maybe get him a nice new brass bell.

These were the thoughts I was thinking in an effort to calm myself as I waited for the slow, decrepit elevator installed, I can only imagine, the week after elevators were actually invented. When it finally arrived, and I entered, I must have been lulled into some sort of goat-like stupor imagining the dull clank of a shiny brass bell, because – Butterfingers McGee here! – I dropped the package just as the doors were closing. I hadn’t even pushed the floor selection yet!

Where exactly were the sensors on this ancient torture contraption? What if that had been, I don’t know, a baby or something?! Anyway, the point is, the parcel, which was apparently packaged in light cardstock, for all the structural integrity IT maintained during the ordeal, had all but accordianed down to ¾ its original size once I wrenched it from the door. Trepidation turned to fear, which turned to MacGuyver, as I desperately searched my pockets for…I don’t know. Tape? An ironing board? Another cardboard box? There was nothing available in my truck, and I took a modicum of solace in the fact that the packaging hadn’t actually been breached. I could still maybe actually pass this thing off.

I got to the door, unconsciously smoothing the package nervously, as a young boy on the front step of his first date unconsciously smoothes…well, his package, and my heart thumped just as loudly. A large, matronly woman answered, wearing modest business attire I wouldn’t be surprised to see on Laura Bush if she gained a few hundred pounds, and I smiled weakly.

“Mercury Messenger Service, here to deliver your package, ma’am.” Yes, I was deviating from the script, but I didn’t have the energy to do our quirky singsong motto AND keep my face straight in front of what I was conveniently just now remembering was a “high-priority client.”

“Yes,” she sneered, eyeing the package, “when you called earlier, I couldn’t imagine what it was I had ordered from you folks, but I certainly wasn’t expecting this.” The string of pearls around her neck looked as if it were about to explode like a supernova in all directions from her rapidly expanding jugular.

“I’m really sorry about this, ma’am. It must have happened somewhere along the delivery line. It was like this when I got it.” If she couldn’t grasp the simple concept of a small business delivery company, I was counting on the fact that she didn’t realize no one along the line would have allowed this to pass without repackaging.

“Well, I’ve had issues with broken deliveries before, and in the state of California, you can only return delivered items if you refuse delivery,” she stated, actually turning up her nose a bit, which up to this point in my life, I had thought was just a figure of speech.

I stared at her blankly, trying to formulate my next lie. If she refused delivery, I could give her my cell as customer service and simply repackage it myself and deliver it tomorrow, easy peasy. Maybe even later tonight. I was already buzzing on an impending high that I could get away with this without an angry call to my manager. A smooth smile crept across my face, as she deliberated her course of action. Ah, sometimes rich cows are too easy to manipulate. It’s the sneaky poor people you have to watch out for, like me.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

My jaw dropped almost imperceptibly. I certainly didn’t want to coax her into refusing delivery, but was there some other option I was supposed to be taking?

“Open it!” she demanded, looking as though she might pop out of her dress and scar me for life.

I’m sure somewhere in the back of my head was echoing some regulation about not touching the contents of our clients’ property, but my mind’s regulation rolodex was spinning off its hinges trying to keep this lady calm. I considered for a millisecond working the same charm that came so easily after hours in dark bars, but no. Business ethically and stomach churningly, no. While I could certainly use a Sugar Mama, that well had no doubt dried up years earli– ew, ew, ew, stop even thinking of it.

I shook myself out of my disgusting thoughts in the half-second of non-deliberation, promising silently to drink heavily later to wash that mental picture away, and I nervously pawed at the sides of package.

And perhaps she was right to almost refuse delivery, at least initially, because the package was now so easy to open, its contents slipped out of the thin hole I had torn and dropped to her hard wood floors. Vibrating.

On the ground, between us both, was an enormous, hot-pink, rabbit-shaped vibrator. Vibrating. I guess the drop had, uh, you know, triggered it. Or whatever. The woman’s suddenly large eyes belied any backpedalling she could spit out about a daughter or sister ordering this instead. The fear and shame on that enormous face told me that she was the – oh, God, no. No, why am I imagining this? What? She’s wearing nothing but the pearls? Oh, god, why was I blessed with such an overactive and crystal-clear imagination? Every contour, every crevice, dear God, make it stop.

And since neither of us could think of anything to say, stupid, stupid me — I tried to break the silence with what may have somehow made the situation worse.

“Looks like it works as intended. Well, not as, um, intended. Yeah. So. Please do business with us, uh, again real soon! I mean, not that…Yes. Thank you. Goodbye.”

And I ran the hell down her hall, hoping the elevator would have pity on me and take my life as I attempted to enter.

I’ve lost my wallet now twice in my life, and both under similar circumstances.

The first time was back when I lived with two people who now inexplicably hate me, regardless of my charm, wit, and dashing good looks. I had a wallet I had fashioned myself out of duct tape, and because I was working three jobs at the time, I sort of had about $300 in it, and it didn’t fit so wonderfully in my back pocket. So when I was lifting my leg to hop into my enormous car, I heard a soft splat and thought nothing of it. It was a wintery time, and bending down in a dark parking lot with a huge puffy coat on is pretty annoying, and plus the sound was so quiet, I couldn’t imagine it being anything. I’m actually amazed that I remember hearing it at all. Anyway, all these thoughts shot into my mind in a millisecond, and I dismissed them as I zoomed off with ex-friends in tow for a movie.

When I got to said movie, of course, I couldn’t find my money, and I had to awkwardly break to my friends that, Look, you guys can totally stay here and watch, but I have to go home and get my wallet with way too much money that I now realize is in the sketchy parking lot where we live. They opted not to make me drive back to get them, which I TOTALLY would have done — a testament to my great-friendness, and all the more odd that they should hate me right now. Amazingly luckily, I got back to my spot, and there was my wallet, gleaming in the orange light, not stolen by the scores of rapists and thieves that routinely traversed the parking lot where I used to live.

Then, last Monday night, I decided that my parking space was just too good to give up, and I biked to the nearby grocery store. However, my eyes had apparently been larger than my backpack, and I had bought too much foodstuffs, requiring me to balance a cube of cokes on my handlebars. As I was crossing the street, I heard a thump, and I knew that my bike lock was also balanced precariously in a plastic bag. But the sound was distinctly NOT a bike lock hitting the ground, so I continued on my merry way.

I was so merry in fact, that I didn’t notice anything amiss for quite some time, not even noticing the fact that my cellphone’s battery was so low, I couldn’t receive calls. Well, when I finally recharged it around noon the next day, I found a call from a man named Joel made around the time I was biking back, saying that he had found the wallet I didn’t even know I’d lost. Feeling pretty stupid that I had apparently not noticed up to this point, I called him back, leaving a message, and thanking him profusely, saying I could pick it up whenever. That was at noon. By 5:00, I still hadn’t heard back, but I figured normal people in Hollywood don’t get out of work until even later, so I kept waiting. 9:00, I called him again, trying not to sound desperate or worried that he had somehow renegged on his generosity. After all, I had his name! I had his phone number! I looked him up on imdb! He’s an actor!

All day today, Wednesday, nothing. I felt sick at work (unrelated to wallet mishaps, but I’m sure it didn’t help), and came home at noon to rest. The whole time, I had dreams of some dastardly duo of thievery, one who had a conscience and wanted to warn me of my lost property, but the other was down-and-out and needed to use my meager bank balance to feed his starving children. The dream culminated in a final call to me, explaining the situation that they could no longer return my wallet, and apologizing, oh, and, no, I also couldn’t even have back the tiny pictures of my friends from Japan I keep in there.

I was awakened from this dream by a phone call from Joel himself! Who sounded very sorry for being so busy and was probably about to tell me how he knows how much losing your wallet sucks, but my cell decided to take that moment to die again because I accidentally talked for 2 hours last night to ANOTHER friend I had to convince not to hate me anymore. (I think it worked?)

But yes. So Joel now thinks I am some irresponsible, lame-phone-having twit, and he’s probably right. Yesterday, Kevin pointed out how odd it is that I’m so OCD about many things, including filing and cross-referencing every receipt I have ever owned, and yet things like THIS and losing my damn passport the week before traveling from Japan to the US keep happening to me. I say that I HAVE to be OCD to prevent things like this happening to me on a damn daily basis.

Anyhoo, after my dumb phone decided to take the delicious electricity I was giving it, I got in contact with delightful Joel, who actually lives two buildings down from me and was running off to his second job, but would I like to stop over and rendezvous? I sure would, I told him, and I threw on my clothes (I was sleeping, if you recall), grabbed $20 my roommate left for me to give as a reward, and asked myself how weird it would be if I also tried to give him my fresh baked brownies as super thanks. Pretty weird, but brownies are brownies, I decided, so I threw them on a napkin and ran down the road, debating all the while if joking “they’re definitely not poisonous, I promise” would help or hurt my case of not looking like a weirdo.

He met me outside, and was, well, dashingly handsome. I was so caught off guard by his striking similarity to a cartoon pilot, that when he extended his hand to shake mine, I responded by placing the brownies into his hand. We joked and small talked, and I thanked him profusely, and he said to stop by any time, which I’m not really sure what that means, but it was nice of him to say it.

So that’s my day. The moral of the story is, when you hear something that sounds remotely like a wallet dropping, you should go get it. The second moral is, if you are my friend, don’t suddenly hate me for no reason. I am nice!

Hey, guys. My friend Greg has graciously been working bee-hind the scenes here to help me move on from the Japanese chapter into my life back to my honey-filled roots. We’re probably gonna be fixing links in the background for a little while, but I just couldn’t contain my excitement, and I had to launch just as soon as I was happy with the layout.

I wanted to title the page “OH THE BEEMANITY,” but far be it from me to steal google traffic from Something Awful, so I just went with a provocative bee pun. Because that’s what I do.

It’s wordpress. That means it will be infinitely easier to change layouts, and all of my pages are backed up and recategorized very pleasingly instead of the mishmash dump heap they were in. And also no more spam, if all goes to plan, which was basically the whole reason I did this switch. Apparently “I” was using over 4,000 times my allotted usage (yes, 4,000 times) with my webhost because of a malicious spammer pinging some blog entry likely about cats and unicorns. So I switched. And made Greg hand delete 1,350 comments. He wants everyone to know that.

Anyway, enjoy! Don’t fear change, like I usually do, with every aspect of life. No. Embrace it. As I embrace my body pillow. Because it’s 3:30 in the morning, and that’s my goal for several minutes from now.

In case you can’t read his chicken-scratch:
Thank you for your thoughts and prayers being dumb and smelling bad for me and my family imaginary friends during my deployment to Afghanistan Azeroth. We’re making a big difference there. It’s great to be home. With love and appreciation. Blood Elfs FTW!!
Thanks for the DVD [Dr. Horrible] and [Legend of Zelda belt] buckle for Xmas. Mom stole the DVD so make her give it back.
Addressed to:
Lauren “Stupid”