Dreams of Waiting, Certifiable Roomates and Shotgun's Deathmobile
Shotgun picked me up on Sunset Boulevard this evening. I know I know what it sounds like but I was merely on my way home from Spags. Now I appreciate the rides home, but riding in the PO6K at night is for thrill seekers only. Why do you ask? The PO6K has no lights! That's right. Pedestrians leap out of the way as they see Shotgun's car pull up to a crosswalk just in front of them. One man tonight almost collapsed from fright because he didn't see the ghost car until we had hurtled to a stop two feet from him. Most of the time it is not too big a deal since most major LA streets are very well lit. However this evening Shotgun decided to take the back streets to my house. I believe we may have run over two small children and an opposum. I'm not really sure it was so dark. Cars flashed headlights at us, which Shotgun can't understand. "Haven't they seen Urban Legends?" The best part about it is that the cops don't seem to care. They look at the poor PO6K with no headlights, a smashed in frontend, the hood held down with a wire coat hanger, and the cracked windshield from said hood flying open on the 405, and they shake their head, "Poor Fella. He looks like he needs a break." And these are LA cops. They are supposed to be the toughest bad ass cops in the country. The cops in my podunk town would pull Shotgun over and beat him senseless for driving that wreck around with no headlights. The man has luck for sure. As I write this he is driving the 2 1/2 hours south without headlights to San Diego. In the dark. I hope I don't get another late night phone call.
Last night at 3:30 in the morning my cell phone rang awakening me from my slumber. In my haze of confusion I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Bad Meat, AKA The Bad Chef, calling. My first instinct, as is the case most times when I am awakened at such an ungodly hour, was to hit mute and then call the bastard at 9am in the morning to awaken his sorry ass. However being the concientious friend that I am I thought maybe just maybe this could be an emergency. Maybe Meat had amputated finger while slicing pepperonis at his new pizza chef job, perhaps he had missed his bus back to his abode in Burbank and needed a place to sleep for the evening. So I answered the phone sounding as much as I could like a man who had just been awakened from a fitful slumber, "Hellloo." Incredibly Meat seemed to be surprised that I was sleeping at 3Am. "Oh my God are were you sleeping, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry go back to bed." And then he hung up. I would come to find out later that he was extremely drunk and I had been on his list of people to call. He called Shotgun as well. Shotgun received a voicemail with a lot of yelling and Bad Meat saying that he wanted to make Shotgun happy in life. I am not sure what that means, but I told Shotgun that he should stand with his back to the wall when Meat was around.
This morning when I awoke, I realized that Meat had actually done me a favor. It was not a fitful slumber that he had awoken me from, but actually a waitering nightmare. I remember the very first time I dreamt about waiting tables. I awoke in a cold sweat after dreaming about thousands of angry patrons at Arclight Hollywood demanding more breadsticks. I knew then that I was officially a waiter. For those of you that do not wait tables, bless you, dreams about waiting tables are never good ones. I've never dreamt about that table that leaves me a $100 tip. Or a table of buxom brunettes that give me their number and $50 and tell me to call them when I am finished. No it is always me with hundreds of tables all giving orders and me never getting any of them right. They are stressful and frankly worse then any scary nightmare. Give me a werewolf or demonic brain munching alien anyday of the week. After hanging up on Meat I remember distinctly thinking that I needed to get back to my dream so I could bring the 4 top in section 12 their bread and appetizers.
My roomate sent me a cerified letter today. The same roomate that sleeps 30 feet away on the other side of my apartment. She sent me a letter to tell me that she was giving 30 days notice of moving out. I found this a bit strange. She could have handed me the letter. Heck she could have just walked over and told me...."Hey I'm moving out. It's been fun." Actually she did tell me that she was moving out in person, but after she sent the letter out. This is the same girl who when she first moved in felt she needed to tell me everyplace she was going. She would leave me notes, "Mike went to the grocery store." "Mike went to hang out with a friend, be home around 11." Did I look like her father? I finally told her that I really didn't care where she was going or who she was going with, just pay the rent.
So now I need a new roomate. Again. Four in four years. Any takers?
I've been talking on the phone alot lately, with Lisa. This is new for me. I hate the phone. I despise the phone. These last few days I've had to actually charge my cell phone every night. I am not sure what is going on here but I am going to figure it out, besides I don't want to get one of those cell phone brain tumors.
Last night at 3:30 in the morning my cell phone rang awakening me from my slumber. In my haze of confusion I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Bad Meat, AKA The Bad Chef, calling. My first instinct, as is the case most times when I am awakened at such an ungodly hour, was to hit mute and then call the bastard at 9am in the morning to awaken his sorry ass. However being the concientious friend that I am I thought maybe just maybe this could be an emergency. Maybe Meat had amputated finger while slicing pepperonis at his new pizza chef job, perhaps he had missed his bus back to his abode in Burbank and needed a place to sleep for the evening. So I answered the phone sounding as much as I could like a man who had just been awakened from a fitful slumber, "Hellloo." Incredibly Meat seemed to be surprised that I was sleeping at 3Am. "Oh my God are were you sleeping, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry go back to bed." And then he hung up. I would come to find out later that he was extremely drunk and I had been on his list of people to call. He called Shotgun as well. Shotgun received a voicemail with a lot of yelling and Bad Meat saying that he wanted to make Shotgun happy in life. I am not sure what that means, but I told Shotgun that he should stand with his back to the wall when Meat was around.
This morning when I awoke, I realized that Meat had actually done me a favor. It was not a fitful slumber that he had awoken me from, but actually a waitering nightmare. I remember the very first time I dreamt about waiting tables. I awoke in a cold sweat after dreaming about thousands of angry patrons at Arclight Hollywood demanding more breadsticks. I knew then that I was officially a waiter. For those of you that do not wait tables, bless you, dreams about waiting tables are never good ones. I've never dreamt about that table that leaves me a $100 tip. Or a table of buxom brunettes that give me their number and $50 and tell me to call them when I am finished. No it is always me with hundreds of tables all giving orders and me never getting any of them right. They are stressful and frankly worse then any scary nightmare. Give me a werewolf or demonic brain munching alien anyday of the week. After hanging up on Meat I remember distinctly thinking that I needed to get back to my dream so I could bring the 4 top in section 12 their bread and appetizers.
My roomate sent me a cerified letter today. The same roomate that sleeps 30 feet away on the other side of my apartment. She sent me a letter to tell me that she was giving 30 days notice of moving out. I found this a bit strange. She could have handed me the letter. Heck she could have just walked over and told me...."Hey I'm moving out. It's been fun." Actually she did tell me that she was moving out in person, but after she sent the letter out. This is the same girl who when she first moved in felt she needed to tell me everyplace she was going. She would leave me notes, "Mike went to the grocery store." "Mike went to hang out with a friend, be home around 11." Did I look like her father? I finally told her that I really didn't care where she was going or who she was going with, just pay the rent.
So now I need a new roomate. Again. Four in four years. Any takers?
I've been talking on the phone alot lately, with Lisa. This is new for me. I hate the phone. I despise the phone. These last few days I've had to actually charge my cell phone every night. I am not sure what is going on here but I am going to figure it out, besides I don't want to get one of those cell phone brain tumors.