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Archives: Jan 2007

I’m spying on Scientologists so you don’t have to

The Scientologists almost got my friend Matt once. He was working on the set of a TV show when a man offered him some voiceover work at the Scientology center in Los Angeles. My friend declined the offer, but the man was insistent on getting his phone number and address anyway. He would not take no for an answer. Finally, my friend gave him some fake information and the man cackled loudly, transformed into a bat, and flew away.

Sometimes my friend Matt makes things up.

I just moved into an apartment two blocks from the Scientology headquarters, so Iím in their territory now. I canít say Iím a huge fan. Religion in general turns me off, but at least Christianity has some history to it. Scientology was created by a science fiction novelist 50 years ago. McDonaldís has been around for almost 70 years. Canít I just go there on Sunday mornings instead?

Around lunchtime my new neighborhood becomes flooded with little nerds in navy ties and sportcoats. These are the Scientologists. They look exactly like you and me, except much dorkier. Itís like if the guy who wrote ìBattlefield Earthî started a religion, and all his nerdy fans followed it.

George Will writes excellent haiku poetry

When something new is happening in a columnist’s life, they tend to write about it often. For instance, years ago when Dave Barry had a child, he wrote about his baby constantly in his column, to the point where all of us wanted the child to go live with its grandparents for a few weeks so he’d write about something else.

It happens to every columnist at one point or another. Remember when George Will got a newborn puppy for Christmas, and the next 13 weeks of his columns were just haikus about its cold nose?

My sweet puppy boo
wakes me in my bedroom when
wet nose hits cankles.

It’s funnier if you imagine George Will saying it.

MLK 2007

It’s 10:58pm, Monday’s column is due in an hour, and I’ve been drinking heavily all day. The easy ideas are all played out, reader. I actually have to write something original. All I have left in my “easy ideas arsenal” is this photo:

The Bumble. It’s cute, but it has no purpose, much like my life. This isn’t a normal Sunday for me. While my writer’s persona paints me as a stinky old drunk who boozes so much that the toilet gets drunk when I pee, drinking on a Sunday is usually not my style. The film studio I temp for has forced me to drink by requiring me to take Martin Luther King Day off.

Apartment searching: More painful than dying in a house fire

Searching for an apartment is not a sexy affair. It’s not a fun time, a night at the disco, or a makeout session in the closet of your parents’ house while they’re gone on vacation for Martin Luther King Day. It’s a lengthy, tiresome hassle that could kill you if you’re not careful.

Kill you!

I’ve been searching for an apartment since December, when my fartbag landlord raised my rent. When I say “landlord”, I actually mean the realty company that owns my building. I hate them like I hate mimes. Their office has had three secretaries in the year I’ve lived here, and not a single one of them speaks more than eight words of English. Every time I call with a problem, I spend 15 minutes explaining exactly what the sentence I’m saying means. I’m pretty sure that’s intentional.

First-class is the only way to fly

The Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport is a good friend to drinkers. The bartender is fast, last call is flexible, and the bar sits right across from the security checkpoint, allowing those so inclined to turn their chairs around and drink while watching people get frisked. It made the two hours before takeoff seem too short.

You can’t get that level of enjoyment anywhere else. The big wigs behind television shows and movies haven’t yet realized that such simple things are the holy grail of entertainment. I could spend hours watching angry midwesterners getting their toothpaste confiscated, especially when the only football game on TV is some second-rate college in Michigan playing some technical school in Tennessee, with Second-Rate Michigan winning by 25 points.