Fandango gave me a map with every movie theater and Wendy’s in a 10-mile radius. So my question is: Can the internet tell when I’m high?

In the times of yesteryear, Benjamin Franklin invented electricity and Henry Ford invented the automobile. When Franklin sold his invention to Ford for 150 farthings (hence the Ford F150), the automaker used it to put light bulbs in all his vehicles.

-The Bible or something

I was making a right turn on my way to work last week (are you hooked yet?) when my blinker made that rapid-click sound indicating the bulb was out. My first instinct as a self-sufficient man was to take my car to Jiffy Lube and cry until they fixed it. While on my way, I happened upon an Auto Zone – apparently there’s a whole chain of these stores that sell automotive parts directly to the consumer (what?!).

I searched and searched for the aisle that sold “Light Bulbs for Ryan’s Honda Civic”, but there was no such product, so I was forced to debase myself by reading the car’s manual. Once I obtained the right bulb, I went to put it into the socket, only to find out that in addition to the light, I’d also need what are called “tools”. I’m the proud owner of a single wrench, but it turns out those aren’t made as a one-size-fits-all device. It was a little small for the nuts that held my light cover in place, but the right combination of elbow grease and profanity finally popped it off. After a simple bulb switch, the cover was back on and now I know I’ll never have to do this again. Because I can’t. Because the nuts are totally stripped.  

All of this so I can continue to be the only person in Los Angeles who uses a blinker.

jessfurmanwords:

• What’s This? “Leavin’” Official Music Video Release…Directed by Ryan Howard, Written by Jess Furman and Ryan Howard
• Inside Info: I remember standing in the vocal booth at Reed Vertelney’s studio where he, Marc Nelkin and I wrote this song…and thinking as I sang the line, “Like hanging onto a sinking ship all alone,” that I wanted nothing more in the moment then to re-enact the scene from Titanic towards the end, only have Kate push Leo off the raft from the start or have her swim away. It was a burning desire. The song wasn’t even finished yet and I needed there to be a video for it. All of these classic representations of love…of the way that things are supposed to be…the way that you want them to be, but aren’t with the person you are with. The scenes in the bedroom shows the reality…and each fantasy gets dispelled as it gets closer to the moment where its time to walk out the door. So many friends pulled together to help make this video possible…just for the sake of being creative…and I am grateful to them all…
• Fun Pics from the shoot:
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Those who can; do. Those who can’t; teach. Those who’d rather not; go back to school. 

A 26-year old on a college campus? No thanks, I’m not here to buy drugs. Well, since you offered…

Where was I? Ah – I’ve enrolled in a TV writing course at UCLA, and I’m stoked to be starting my career as a writer. I don’t do much need a lesson on the craft of writing – I already write good. I’m looking for a get-rich-quick job, and writing is it (or if that doesn’t pan out - painting).

I’m assuming that by the end of this introductory course, I’ll have a pilot deal with a major network. That’s generally the way it works with the first thing anyone’s ever written. Or maybe I could get hired as a writer on other shows. I’ve got lots of great ideas on improving current shows like Mad Men (needs more vampires!) or True Blood (needs more vampires!)

Class isn’t ‘til Thursday, though, so if anyone needs me I’ll be down on the quad, playing hackey sack, listening to Dave.

If a man’s home is his castle and his car is his steed, then his lawn must be his yard. I don’t have a yard of my own right now, so I’ve adopted one of my friends’.

Mowing the lawn is about more than spewing debris into the street and decapitating sprinkler heads. It’s about being outside and doing honest work with visible results. I work out of a windowless office all week staring at a computer and typing loud every time someone walks by. I like to get my hands dirty once in a while, and breathe in the smell of freshly-cut grass until I can’t breathe anymore (oh, right - allergies).

So thanks, Jeremy and Dave, for lending me your lawn. I’ve still got some of the trim left, so I’ll be back next weekend. Can’t do it now – my steed needs an oil change.

This weekend is Thanksgiving, a holiday that celebrates The Pilgrims and Indians commemorating the first turkey kill of winter by inventing football. They then played the historic first round of the game, and the astounding 47-3 victory by the pilgrims resulted in the Native Americans giving us the Louisiana purchase. 

The modern American man has evolved since that first Thanksgiving. We have fast cars, rocket ships and instant access to a colossal database of porn (thanks for stopping here on your way to that last one), but I feel that we are not nearly as industrious as our forefathers. I have decided to make an effort to get back to those roots by modeling my life more closely after those of the American yester-times. I don’t mean I’m going to start wearing a lot of buckles, I just want to become more self-sufficient. Since it’s Thanksgiving, I decided that, for the first time in my quarter-century on this planet, I was going to make my own food.

We had a big gathering of friends, and everyone was making a dish, so I got my Nana’s recipe for pineapple casserole, which, since it has fruit in it, I assumed was healthy. But this thing demanded more butter and sugar than anything else. In fact, the only more expedient way to a heart attack than this dish would be to inject bacon fat directly into your veins - which is stupid, because then you couldn’t even taste the bacon. The recipe also instructed me to use the oven, which I’m assuming is that warm metallic cube in the kitchen I always walk by on the way to the microwave. Since I just got around to preparing my dish Wednesday night,  I abandoned the pineapple idea in favor of something a bit more simple (or so I thought): a goat cheese dip.

I bravely pioneered new grocery store territory (anywhere but the frozen foods aisle) to forage for ingredients and set about making the dip from a friend’s recipe. The recipe calls for a lot of food processing, and since I don’t have a food processor, I spent most of the evening chopping up 3 cloves of garlic with a butter knife. I then put all the ingredients into a bowl and mashed them together with a spatula until I felt they were sufficiently mixed. The concoction was then poured into my classiest Ikea dish (presentation is everything) and left in the fridge overnight. I went to bed feeling pretty good about myself; it’s not a huge accomplishment, but I had made something I could be proud of. I imagined it would probably be the biggest success of Thanksgiving - everyone putting it on their turkey instead of gravy, lots of pats on the back, and maybe a chick throws some sex my way.

The first person to try my dip spit it out. As did the second person, on a dare to eat it by the first. I tasted it and, on principle, forced it down my thought. It was awful. The garlic burned inside my mouth. “How much garlic did you put in this?!” I was asked. I explained that the recipe called for 3 cloves of garlic, so I had gone out, purchased 3 garlics, chopped them all up, and put them in the dip. I was then given an explanation about the difference between a clove of garlic and a head of garlic. I had used 3 heads of garlic. We went into the kitchen and tried to dilute the concoction with a can of beans (garlic goat cheese hummus?), and then some cilantro, but the dip remained untouched for the rest of the day.

It’s sitting in my fridge now; this brown, lumpy mess. I can’t bring myself to throw it out. I’m still proud that I tried, and I’m strangely attached to it - much in the same way, I imagine, a mother loves her child even if it’s born retarded. I wonder if the pilgrims messed anything up this bad at that first Thanksgiving. Maybe that’s what caused our dispute with the Indians? Perhaps, if the American man were a better cook, we could have avoided the whole Civil War.