Close the win-dah

I wish more people remembered the specific reference I constantly say when I go "Casper...close the window..its cold." And now everyone will. So if one day I tell you to close the window and then curl up like a little kitty cat at the end of your bed....you'll know why. Finally.

Hooka

I think I just made the barista at this Starbucks think I was a stripper when I handed her a bunch of singles and said, "Tips right? What are ya gunna do?"

I actually wish that I was a stripper because I am certain they make a hell of a lot more money than I do. This coincides with a conversation I recently had with my friend, where I was arguing that I really didn't think that doing porn was that big of a deal, that I would (mom don't read this) probably consider doing it if I weren't wanting to become an actor, because it's a seemingly simple job for lots of money. It's just another job! And his rebuttal was, "Well yes Riley but you could say that being a drug dealer is just another job." To which I retorted, "And if I knew how to make crystal meth, do you think I would be folding towels for pennies?"

Set. And. Match.

For those of you who don't know, the way I have been sustaining myself out here in Vegas is by being a Spa Attendant/Receptionist at one of the big ol' hotels. When I'm actually an attendant I work on the men's side of the spa, which is essentially a locker room, and I clean up after the old naked men that walk around and drop their dirty towels on the ground. Naked...yes, naked. My job is essentially penis. Penis all day. Yes, I expect the obvious responses to this statement being, "Oh, you must be in heaven." or "Isn't that what your people like?"....to which I reply, "If I could...I'd pay midgets to tie you down and chew off your feet."

But I digress.

Tying this all together, I think for some of the patrons of the spa, I might represent some kind of porn fantasy. "Spa Boys 7: Steam Heat" or something of that nature. I was giving a tour to an older gentleman (crackhead) one day and showing him the couples spa and the following conversation ensued:

Crackhead Jim: What time y'all close?

Me: 8 pm sir, every day.

CJ: Ok...I see I see....and is this where y'all keep the hookers? (indicating treatment rooms where services are performed)

Me: Um.....no. No, we don't have hookers here.

CJ: OH...You know, that was a big thing back in my day.

Me: ....Hookers?...or hookers giving massages?

CJ: Yes.

Me: .......alright then. Whattaya know.

CJ: What time do y'all close?

So that was my experience with crackhead Jim. I know that doesn't tie into my porn fantasy theory...but this one just might.

A customer had just left the spa, tipping me five dollars, and going into the lobby to see if his wife was there. After seeing she was not, he came back inside and whilst I folded my towels the following interaction ensued.

Man: I guess I'll just wait back for her inside here.

Me: Aw, you just knew I was the more entertaining option in here.

Man: Yeah....why don't you get on the table and dance for me?

Me:......................................

Man: ........................................

Me: Ha.....heh.....uh....maybe if you had more singles! (internal "ba-bum-bum chhhhh")

Man: Well do you have any change?

Me: I....you know...alright, this is getting a little too real right now.



So....I'm a geisha.

Too Cute for Japan ^-^

Living at home with a minimal amount of friends around me has definitely made me more independent. Not that I wasn't when I was in college but I for sure do a lot more things alone these days than I normally have done in the past. For example, seeing Harry Potter, eating out, going to get coffee, reading David Sedaris at bookstores because I refuse to buy books when they are there to be read for free, sex, etc.

It is no surprise to me, however, that when I woke up this morning with an amazing hangover, that my solution was to drive down to a little chinese restaurant called Pei Wei (you probably haven't heard of i,t it's really underground) and eat some beef and rice as a cure. Now, I don't know if you, mistress reader, have ever woken up hungover and still drunk at the same time, but for me personally, it causes me to speak in a very drawn out, raspy, slurred sort of speech that probably makes everyone I come into contact with assume that I am either high, or brain damaged. And the latter is probably entirely true.

So this jaunt to Pei Wei followed an hour spent on my couch, not moving my head, watching the second half of Hook. I really don't know whether it was the remaining alcohol in my bloodstream, the pounding headache, or what...but I have never been so invested in a movie before. I cried. God, did I ever cry. I cried when he flew, I cried when Julia Roberts got huge in that bubblegum princess dress and kissed Robin Williams, I cried when Rufio died, I cried when Maggie Smith said "Boy, why are you crying?" I cried, cried, cried, cried ,cried. Am I embarrassed? Yes, 100% and yet here I am writing about it. Get at me. And I'm sorry, this is one of my top three favorite films of all time but good God, Robin Williams just looks creepy in that Peter Pan outfit. Could they not have done away with the tights? Were they absolutely necessary when no one else in the entire movie was wearing any? Come on Spielberg.

So I arrive to Pei Wei, still partially intoxicated, and proceed to try and bargain with the counter girl on my meal. Something like,

Me: Look...I just want Mongolian beef in a rice bowl, just hook it up."

Girl: Um...I'm sorry sir, I can give you mongolian sauce on the side?

Me: WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?! I'm sorry I'm really hungover.

Girl:.........yeah I could tell. I thought you were on something actually.

In retrospect, chinese food was a bad idea. It's not that I was embarrassed that only half the food was making it into my mouth when I tried to maneuver chopsticks around, it's that I was within eyesight of someone fairly attractive who was watching me do it.

Cry.

It's Hard To Be A Bug

My dear friend named Christy Coffey is a film major at UNLV. She had to do a still shoot for her cinematography class and she asked me to be part of it. I played a cockroach. This she titled, "It's Hard to be a Bug."

OKAY

So, I feel like I owe it to myself, and for whoever else could possibly be wondering (hoping its more than my aunt), to explain what happened after I lost my wallet on that just as fortunate second time running the naked mile whilst I was abroad. And yes, this was a month and a half after my foot injury, and immediately following my jump into poisonous shrubbery and naked run in with the assistant dean of students....it gets better.

So immediately after I had found out I lost my wallet, my first initial (drunken) response was to put on clothes, first and foremost, and then head back out into the pitch black night. Need I remind you, dear reader, this was the end of fall/start of winter in the English countryside. Why I thought this was the best strategy...well, I still don't know. So I head right back into the poisonous bush. And when I say bush, I mean it in the Australian sense, like the wild wild outback/jungle/wilderness sort of bush. I spent probably an hour out here, in total darkness might I add, to no avail. Especially since my method of searching was basically kicking the ground and hoping to hit something soft and leathery. But this was a NECESSITY! I needed my credit card and second form of photo ID to be let into another country! And considering I was heading to the home of my ancestors, the plush green countryside, the immaculate stone structured country of IRELAND....I was taking no prisoners. Except maybe some pheasants that got in the way of my determined legs.

Ok...So I gave up after an hour.


My next solution...wake up at 6am, look again.

Hell, why not? It's not like I was going to bed at 4 and had a whole afternoon and evening of traveling planned beginning less than 12 hours later.

So, up at 6 and my first stop was into the manor to ask the security guard if they had heard anything, and this is how the conversation turned out.

Me: (To 60 year old security guard reading the paper) Um hi...yes, hello...excuse me. Has anyone happened to turn in a black leather wallet?

SG: Wassthat you say?

Me: Um...did anyone happen to turn in a wallet..you know..that they might have found outside along the driveway?

SG: ......................................................Go to Student affairs. (back to newspaper)

Me: Oh....ok.......um thanks.

So, obviously he was just shrugging me off and getting back to his early morning business which I just had NO time for. So, back to the bush I went. But this time, I was prepared for the stinging nettles. I put on actual pants, pulled my socks around the bottom of them so no ankle flesh was visible, put on a black fleece jacket zipped up to my chin, black gloves, and beanie pulled down over my forehead. I wasn't letting any goddamn thing touch me this time.

I thought, hmmm well I put my pants down while I was in the middle of the stinging nettles....I better start there. So I spent the better part of an hour thrashing through the gardens/wild shrubbery of the manor drive, kicking and shredding my way through anything that might be concealing my wallet. I then decided to walk back down the entire mile since my ravaging of the manicured garden yielded no results. After one unsuccessful look up and down the driveway where I had such fond memories of breaking my foot, I thought I better double back around and try again. If you didn't conclude it yourself, you will now know that this calculated an entire four miles of walking, in the early winter air, up and down a gravel driveway.

This was fucking it....I was done. So over it. So over this god forsaken naked mile that just had no mercy upon me.

I took to the stinging nettles. It was their fault. They were the reason I was so hasty, so rash, so entirely instinctive like a wild animal in my naked plight. I started tearing, clawing, biting, raping any part of that damned patch I could find, probably yelling obscenities and verbally accusing wild plants for my misfortune. It was then, that the security van pulled up. It turns out they were called by that very special co-star in my humiliating moments (the assistant dean of students, Bronwyn) most likely because I was dressed as a bandit, tearing up plants, and swearing like a sailor at 8 in the morning on the school's front lawn. And this is the next conversation I had with the security guard...which I hope will be just as amusing.

SG: Oy.....what are you doing?

Me: Oh sorry....I'm just looking for my wallet.

SG: Is that you? I told you to go to student affairs.

Me: Oh, I just thought it'd be easier to look for it myself.

SG: No...no. I said go there, because they had a wallet turned in this morning.

Me: (standing in the middle of a patch of wild weeds, dressed like a snowman robber, red faced, panting) .............................................................................................................................................................................................ok.

So.....now is the time he decides to get SPECIFIC ABOUT THE SITUATION.

I walk back into the manor and before I get two steps in I hear a voice behind me, which happens to be my biggest fan.

Bronwyn: Riley!

Me: Oh...hi Bronwyn.

Bronwyn: Was that you outside just now?

Me: Yeah....sorry. I was just looking for my wallet.

Bronwyn: Oh God...I was just out walking and thought you were a terrorist.

Me.....oh yeah...ha....if I had a nickel!....right....heh...

Bronwyn: Well I have something for you!

(Extends her arm holding her baseball cap with my wallet sitting inside of it)

Me: OHHH MY GODDDDD. thank you so much!

Bronwyn: Oh yeah no problem, some man walking his dog found it along the side of the road.

Me: Weird I don't even know how that would have happened...crazy.

Bronwyn: Riley....um...do you remember seeing me last night?

Me: Yes. Yes I do.

Bronwyn:...right then. Thought you would have blacked that out. Well, off to bed with you!



And so concludes this tragic tale.

like whaaa?

I appreciate nothing more than the times you are in a completely random situation and you have an equally, yet somehow polar opposite thought. For example

1. Whilst bathing myself in the shower: "I wonder what Pippi Longstocking is doing right now..."

2. Whilst looking for a fudgsicle: "I wish I were a dragon..."

3. Whilst tinfoiling leftovers: "I wonder what would happen if I pretended I were deaf next time i went out to a club..."

These are questions that NEED TO BE ASKED GODDAMIT

TFRP: (texts from riley's phone)

Riley (702) : Its 11am and the bar in the airport has a beer and shot special...think I should do it?


Derek (702) : I think youre asking the wrong person because you know what my answer would be....your pilot is kind of like the DD in this situation.

James

At my job at the spa, I sometimes work with a 69 year old Filipino man named James. James is an attendant at the spa and when it gets busy, and honestly just for my own enjoyment, I go to the men's side and help him keep things clean and tidy so he can have a chance to sit down. In return, he always gives me chocolates and crackers. Today, this conversation ensued.

James: Riley, have you ever heard of the little girl singer from the Philippines named Charice?

Riley: Oh yeah, she was just on Glee right?

James: Yes, oh yes, yes she was on Glee. You should come to Japan to see her concert with me.

Riley: .........I'm sorry, what?

James: Yes! Yes, come to Japan!

Riley: Um...Japan?

James: Yes! yes, why not?

Riley: James...Japan is on the other side of the world.

James: Well its only a 16 hour plane ride. You know what you do? You drink a bottle of wine on the plane and by the time you wake up you'll be there.

Riley: But you can't open a bottle of wine on the plane.

James: Then you drink 16 little wine bottles on the plane my friend!

Riley: Ah yes....such a simple solution.

James: I told my cousin, I said, I told him...okay, if you get me front row ticket, I'll fly.

Riley: Seriously??

James: Yes, you know why, its because I saw her at Mandalay Bay when she come here and she was so far. I say, I don't want to be so far away! I want to be right in the front so I can say (lifting up his arms) OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU!!!!!

Riley: ..............

James: (laughing) My wife get so mad. She say "James, I am ashamed of you!"

Riley: Oh James.....you should write a book.

James: I do! I do write. Screenplays! They have been made into movies in the Philippines!

Riley: .......well......can I be in one?

Skoobidee bop

After a brief stint of a. being convinced no one read this and b. being annoyed this blog looked like shit...I'M BACK BITCHES.

You know what I am doing right now, sweet reader? I am, for reasons unbeknown to myself, watching the Nostradamus Effect series on the history channel. AKA the shows where theorists talk ever so nonchalantly about the godforsaken end of the world that apparently is juusssstttt upon us. Now, I have some few choice words for those scientists that think its okay to pour this hulabaloo into my daily coffee. My one constant response to this 2012 theory always is, "Listen, the world can't end yet....I have SO MUCH LEFT TO DO!" And while I think that should be reason enough for the cosmos to comply with my simple request, I thought...why not make them a list to reinforce my complaint. So for this holiday season, I'm forsaking my list to Santa in order to write a list to the aliens/antichrist/comet/jesus/osama/whoever could possibly be behind this pre-planned ultimate buzzkill. My bucket list if you will:

1. Go to Spain...if the end of the world doesn't kill me, Stacey Mead certainly will if her and I don't finally end up there.

2. Be in a re-enactment on either animal planet or discovery channel. Preferably a shark attack victim, but I will accept tiger attack, elephant attack, chimpanzee attack, or random worried onlooker.

3. Pet a tiger....in the WILD.

4. Time Travel..... and witness these events:
a. Dinosaurs
b. I think just Dinosaurs will suffice
c. No wait! I'll go punch Nostradamus in the face for all these doomsday prophecies that I, quite frankly, find rude.
d. Meet Jesus, ask him what's up.
e. Stand at the entrance to the Titanic with a sign that says "Free Hugs!...oh yeah and YOUR BOAT IS GOING TO SINK."
f. Try to steer Amelia Earheart onto a different career path...maybe cooking.
d. Beat Columbus at his own game.

5. Present Anderson Cooper with a Powerpoint presentation on why he should date me.

6. Be naked in a play. Get at me.

7. Live in a tree.

8. Be part of a flash mob.

Are all these not reason enough for the world to keep going? What am I doing...this is so masturbatory...I'll write a funny story where I was naked and embarrassed tomorrow instead.

poo

I havent felt particularly witty lately.

I write poems at work part 2

Lisa in the Ring:

The girl with golden hair
ain't singing the blues, reds or browns.
Keeping her chinny chin up,
but no wolf's blowin down her house
with life's hard knocks knocking
on her door through the evening air.
She lazily strokes a coffee mug
full of fresh brewed dreaming on a Sunday,
and she'll down it all,
with always enough room for dessert,
sprinkling her life with a changing tide,
sending her off to new horizons
with only the stars as her map.
Blowing in the wind,
with an autumn leaf's understated elegance.

attempt 3 at: So Cold it Stings

apparently my blog didn't want this story to be revealed...this is my retaliation

Part 2:

So as I said in my “Buck Neked” entry, that was my “first attempt” at the naked mile. I used the word attempt because two more would follow the first. I invite you to drift back into a wavelength dream sequence with me and observe my second time running the naked mile. Now, after the 4-5 weeks it took my foot to heal, I for some reason thought it was high time I strip down and run this mile again. This time, I was influenced by one Lauren Klingman. For a mental picture, see photo above and below below.



Now, Lauren and I had first met each other during our first week of college orientation, and struck up an immediate bond over the fact that we were both from the west coast and said “hella” in our daily vocabularies, teaching me to never under appreciate unintelligible slang, and its power to bring people together. The two of us also seemed to be the only two freshman that weren't intimidated or ashamed to put our pocket change together and have an upper classman buy us a handle of vodka for the first party, which would later result in me being walked home by two noble do-gooders, followed by a quick vomit in the dormitory bathroom, and to finally fall asleep with my contacts on, disabling my eyes' ability to shut all the way during sleep, causing my new roommate to contemplate whether or not I was lying on my bed, breathing heavily, and staring at him for over an hour. But I digress...


Lauren and I are hella west coast beszties for realzies lolz xoxo 69@aol.com


And after that little tangent, I steer my ponies back on track.


So, it was now October... or November...the whole abroad experience is a little hazy due to the unnatural amount of substance abuse, but whatever month it was you can be sure that it was capital F Fucking COLD. And interestingly enough, Lauren Klingman, also known as Miss Cleavage California 2006, had yet to run the naked mile. Judging purely on the fact that Lauren's breasts tread a fine tight rope almost daily at whether or not they will reveal nipple, I was shocked. SHOCKED. So naturally I adhered to her request of me running the mile with her on a cold, and yet again, drunken night.


And this time...I was prepared. I had on tennis shoes, I held my briefs and sweaters tightly in my hand, and fit my pants snugly into my mouth.


It. Was. on.


I will reveal at this time that Lauren didn't run the mile completely nude. So she was just trucking along beside me in her bra and panties, which I think is cheating but that has nothing to do with the unfortunate events to follow. This run was going along quite smoothly, and we almost completed the whole mile...almost. Right near the end we saw a shadowed figure walking towards us, and in his hand he held a flashlight. Instinctively thinking that this was one of the manor's security guards, Lauren and I made a mad dash into the wild English shrubbery that littered the side of the road. If anyone has been to the English country side, you may have encountered a certain plant known as the stinging nettle. For those of you that haven't, here is the wikipedia definition of it:


Stinging nettle or common nettle, Urtica dioica, is a herbaceous perennial flowering plant, native to Europe, Asia, northern Africa, and North America, and is the best-known member of the nettle genus Urtica. The plant has many hollow stinging hairs called trichomes on its leaves and stems, which act like hypodermic needles that inject histamine and other chemicals that produce a stinging sensation when contacted by humans and other animals


So...


Naked.


Stinging Nettle.


Lauren and I had been crouched next to a small brick wall when we realized our new found predicament. I wish I had an appropriate analogy to describe what crouching naked in a patch of stinging nettles felt like....it's like...as if tiny tiny bees were tap dancing on your skin, while stinging you, and their tap shoes were also stinging you, over and over and over again. So, we were torn. Do we risk getting caught by the possible manor security guard, or do we sit in this patch long enough to dress and sneak away. For me, being COMPLETELY naked, despite a pair of tennis shoes, the answer was clear.


Riley: ow...whatthe...WHATTHUFUCK...no fuck it...FUCK IT LAUREN I'M GOING I DON'T CARE!


It was like an acrobatic, top secret spy escape. With one sweeping aerial movement I slid on my boxer briefs, threw my pants in my mouth, grabbed my sweater and was on top of the short brick wall. I ran like there was no tomorrow, up the road to the part of the manor grounds where my dormitory was located. It was at this point that I realized I had no idea where my key was, and therefore no idea of how I was going to get into the building. Fortune seemed to be with me, however, as I saw a slender girl in a baseball cap heading for the front door. Surely she'd be sympathetic to my plight. Certainly she'd laugh, maybe make a joke, maybe threaten to not let me in and then proceed to open the door with a smile and a quick slap on the ass. This was a study abroad experience after all. So without hesitation, as I made it to the gravel pathway that led to the front door I yelled out, through a muffled, pant filled mouth, “Hey!! Wait! I need to get in!”


And this, dear reader, is the poetic way my life often goes.


The slender girl in a baseball cap that turned around to greet the stranger yelling at her in the night, turned out to be none other than the assistant dean of students at Harlaxton College. A tiny, athletic woman by the name of Bronwyn. Her smile disappeared as she looked at the image in front of her. A panting, 19 year old boy standing before her in his tennis shoes, white boxer briefs, holding a clump of clothes in his hands, while his pants hung loosely in his mouth. She then heard him exclaim through a muffled denim filter...


“ Awwww FUCK.”


And this next moment, I will never forget in all my life. She looked me up and down, let out a heavy sigh of annoyance, covered her eyes with her left hand and flagged me forward with her right while saying, “Alright....well...you made it this far, you might as well go all the way.”


No need to tell me twice. I shot past her, through the door, down the hall and into my room. Where I would find out in a matter of minutes, that somewhere along that naked jog through hell, I had lost my wallet containing all of my credit cards and my only other forms of Identification besides my passport, with a plane trip to Dublin coming up the following afternoon.

To be continued...

Evening Kitchen

My favorite part of the Band of Horses concert.

teetee. i write poems at work

Titus At the Helm:

The rat-a-tat philosopher
knick-knacks on my paddy
WHACK!- hands meet
at the highest of fives
past two's in the A.M.
When light beer flows
like a dark horse
trotting to the beats
of a heart beaten bass drum.
He's holding the reigns,
while I ride shotgun,
Coasting on the sounds
of his Pentecostal percussion,
preaching through the night,
like a break-dancing Buddha.
He kicks life up a notch
with a southern charm
and a devil's snare,
Opening my eyes to a
rat-a-tat world,
with a tat-a-rat beat.

Buck Neked

Yes, it has been too long since I've updated this blog with another fantastically interesting story of my embarrassing life. This one, however, is one for the memory books, or, the scrapbooks if you will. Can you imagine the joy that would come out of keeping a scrapbook of the most embarrassing and inconvenient moments of your life? I guess that's what teenage girls' diaries are for though right?

Are you there God? It's me, Period Polly.

Onward and upward.

So, once upon a time, as I've mentioned in my "Stacey" essay below, I spent a semester abroad living in Grantham, England and living in an over sized English Manor house that was turned into a University. Judging from the outside appearance of this building, you would think you were going to Hogwarts, or a "castle" as so many eager young students label it on their facebook photo albums. The interior, however, with its minimal furniture, monotonous dorm rooms and defaced, graffitied piping leaves something to be desired. Dumbledore would know how to interior decorate, especially with the revelation of his homosexuality. Girlfriend would at least put up some warm toned drapes and not skimp on some cute Persian rugs. But I digress...

At this University, there is an unspoken (or entirely spoken, let's be real) tradition of what is called, "the naked mile." This is supposed to take place on drunken nights, where the students will run from either the entrance to the manor, or the end of the mile long main road leading up to the manor, completely in the buff. Sounds fun, right? Sounds downright crazy, sure. Sounds erotic, naturally. Either which way, like so many one night stands, it sounded like a good idea to me...at the time.

My first "attempt" (yes I said attempt) at the naked mile occurred no more than 3 days after arriving to Harlaxton College in the end of August, when the weather was still warm and nothing was at risk of appearing less than impressive in the bitter winter cold. As my friends and I were walking back from the closest pub to school, conveniently at the entrance gates to the Harlaxton grounds (where the mile in question began) my friend, and professional over sized Olympian, Nick Steen, saw my inebriated state and used this to his advantage.

Nick: Hey Riley...you know what you should do right now? You should totally run the naked mile.

Riley: What?.....Really?......O-FUCKING-KAY!!!! HOLD MY PANTS!

(at this point, while my back is turned, Nick takes a picture of me disrobing, which he will still use as blackmail to this very day)

And off I go.

Now this was the first weekend everyone arrived to school, so everyone was entirely down to party, and had been at that same pub this evening. This resulted in me, and my penis, making many cameos in about eight different couples' walks home. All to which I would shout out, "ALOHA!" "COMING THROUGH!" "LEFT.....LEEEFFFTTTT!!" "I KNOW RIGHT?! IT'S ALLLLLL REAL, TOO!"

After about half way, I had just passed a couple and was making my way through an unlit part of the run, when I turned my head back around to see how far away I was from the nearest couple, and made the one naked mile fatal flaw. I was not prepared for neither speed bumps, nor pot holes.

Now, entering this school and whispering with your friends about the naked mile and when you'll actually complete it, you hear stories about stories that Lauren heard from Ben who heard from James that once a girl broke her foot while running the naked mile, or that some boy fell off the bridge into the stream that passed under the mile long road at a certain point. And everyone laughs together at these strangers' inconveniences and shameful attempts at a nude jog in the middle of the night.

It was because of this that as I stepped into the pot hole on the other side of the speedbump, and my ankle rolled as my entire weight fell upon it, that life suddenly moved at a glacial pace, and I was suddenly crumpling/flailing in slow motion with the one thought circling around my head...

(spoken in slo-mo voice)

"IIII CAAAAANNN'T BEEEE THIIISSSSS PEEERRRSSSOOOONNNN"

Thanks to man's natural inclination to protect the source of his offspring, I luckily rolled the bottom half of my body into a ball while the entirety of my body weight fell upon my right ankle, and my upper body crashed onto the gravel road beneath me, hands and face first.

I lay there in shock. My first priority was checking to see if everyyythiiing (wink wink) was intact. Score. I contemplated my next move...do I keep running? Am I broken? Why is my foot numb? Should I roll into a pond and kill myself now? But before I could think of a logical thing to do I heard voices coming up behind me. Luckily I had my boxer briefs crumpled in my hand. I threw them on and in my state of bodily shock, sprinted back to my dorm room, sat in my top bunk bed, and observed the blood spewing from my palms. As I got up to go find a band aide I collapsed due to my newly broken foot.

Now, This wouldn't have been as big of a deal as it was, except the next morning was the entire school trip to London, where everyone saw me boarding and exiting the bus on my new antique wooden crutches. Now, I'm all for going vintage in Europe but this wasn't the accessory I had in mind. And what made it all the more poetic was that i couldn't even grip the support handles because my palms were still bleeding.

After finishing my pb&j on a lunch break bus stop on the way to London, the Headmaster of the college, walked up to me and my crutches, patted my back, and said..."gotta watch out for those potholes next time."

Awesome

Hugz befo u go?

This evening, one of my best friends from Las Vegas is making his exciting move to New York City to further pursue his acting dreams. His name is Jon. Now, if you saw Jon and I together I think it would be perplexing as to how we've been best friends for so long. If there was a police line-up showing those responsible for being the complete opposite of me, Jon could be picked out by that big-ass grinning Stevie Wonder swaying his head from side to side, while on the phone with Little Richard.

Jon is 24, cruising at an altitude of 5'6 while I fluctuate between 5'11 and 6'0 depending on how positive my day was. Jon is the type of go-getter personality who will be the first to introduce himself to you, manage being a trumpet player, drum major, theatre president and tenor in two different choirs while I'm the type of boy who will call my roommate out of her room to turn off the air conditioning, because this episode of “I Shouldn't Be Alive” is just too captivating for me to be bothered with chilly room temperatures and getting up to get a blanket, sweater, or adjust the heat myself. And while Jon is the type of person that will always let you know he thinks of you as amazing, talented, wonderful, and his best friend, I'm the type of person who makes nearly everyone feel ambivalent about our friendships due to my inability to not tell someone if they are, in fact, slutty and boring. Furthermore, Jon tends to be a gentleman who respects those around him, including their personal space, while I am someone who, when my friends were asked how they would impersonate me, said “Well, I'd probably try to unhook someones bra, grab their boobs, and then lick their face.”

But lo and behold, Jon and I have been best friends for about 5 years now. I call him to complain, laugh, annoy and frustrate. He knows more about me than most, which makes me feel naked in his eyes...which could also be attributed to the fact that when I get drunk I find it funny to try and slap him with my penis, but... as they say...toMAYto toMAHto.

What I envy most about Jon, however, is his forward nature when it comes to hugging people. Jon is the type of person who you know is always going to hug you when he sees you. Whether it be the second time you have met him, hell, even the first more often than not, you just have that knowing feeling that he is walking towards you for a hug. I wish I had this quality more than ANYTHING sometimes. I cannot begin to count the amount of awkward encounters I have with people including friends, elders, past coworkers, cast members and family members in which we both just sort of stand that awkwardly close distance to each other, kind of smiling, kind of shifting back and forth, maybe lifting up a hand and placing it on the shoulder because that in some way seems less uncomfortable than high fiving or shaking a hand, even though it ends up being more awkward than an Eskimo kiss could have been for chrissakes. I have no idea where this amazingly awkward tendency comes from. Its as if I have no middle ground when it comes to personal boundaries of people I know. There is a fine, fine line between completely awkward and unobtrusive, and then completely inappropriate and invasive. With people who I know are my good friends and best friends...well, good God all bets are off. My hands are on their butts, breasts and crotches while my tongue is most likely in their mouth. I pick them up when I see them, wrestle them to the ground, club them with a wooden stick and carry them back home to my cave for wild primitive sex whether they like it or not. Then, when it comes to those who are my friends in that way where its like, “I mean we're friends...but...not the 'you've seen me naked' kind of friend..sooooo...” I just wave to them from a distance of maybe 1 ft. apart, proceed to laugh uncomfortably, stare at the ground, put my hands in my pocket and look any way which is not in their face. In all actuality, I'm surprised I haven't been asked if I have autism by those who have to endure this side of me.At least it's all out in the open now...and anyone who reads this can now choose which side of the line they want to be on. It's like...you're signing a waiver that will hold me unaccountable for sexual harassment. So I cannot be held accountable for the following photos citing examples of said non-awkward behavior.

Perfect.

Straaight Fighting..I mean Street Fightin

Whenever I get punched in the face, I hope I'll look this cute.

There was this one night, my second semester of senior year in college that two of my best friends, Titus and Alex, as well as myself decided to get amazingly drunk. So much so, that when walking from my house to Titus' house, Alex thought it'd be funny to try and jump on my back in order to get a “piggy back ride” on the walk over, and when he attempted this I simply fell face forward into the concrete and proceeded to bleed from the fresh gash over my left eyebrow. Before making it all the way to Titus' house, naturally the three of us got distracted and changed our game plan to sitting outside Alex's house (which was between the two) to drink some beers and pee on some walls. Out of the clear blue fucking nowhere comes a man, even more drunk than the three of us put together (which is sad that in my bloody, bruised state I could conclude this), who starts making his way towards us asking for a cell phone. I'm going to name him Chet. Now Chet was certainly a stocky individual, especially in the upper body department. By this, I mean he was pretty tall and fat. Chet seemed like the kind of guy that had a hard time stringing sentences together on a sober day, which just made his communication with us all the more indecipherable, leaving him only with ape like hand signals and chest beatings, besides a few choice, classy words. Like “Fucking” and “faggot.” Needless to say, Chet was a charmer.

Now, I like to describe myself as a primarily non-confrontational person. When I get intoxicated, however, I assume I am equipped with super human strength and rage that can only be tapped into when a friend of mine is being attacked. No, not even when I'm being attacked. I'm fiercely loyal...like a Schnauzer on crack. Whereas, when my friend Titus is drunk, he believes all of the world's inhabitants, including Al Qaeda I'd assume, are his best friends, to which he must offer alcohol or cigarettes to ASAP. Chet was no different. Though he be mumbly, smelly, stumbly, and bigger than any of the three of us, Titus invited him over to our stoop to begin a dialogue with this man, despite Alex's and my own very loud verbal protests. So, the conversation started with Titus asking, in a charming southern accent I might add,

“Uh, hey man..what's going on tonight”

“Ineedafone,” Chet chirped back, swaying from side to side.

“Oh, sure, well you can use my phone. Hey, whatchu been up to tonight?” Titus asked.

“I'm agunna kick your ass. Ima gun kick all of your asses!@#Wxd” was Chet's precious response.

And so begins my straight fighting tactics.

I jump up and yell, “Who's ass did you fucking say you're going to kick?”

You see, because I believe that when dealing with King Kong Karl over here, clarifying the situation may 1. give him time to reconsider his gracious proposal or 2. confuse the remaining brain cells he has operating at this point.

“I'm gunna kick allz ur ass$es” says Chet.

Shit.

Next, I don't say a word, but rather stare Chet in the face, lift up my beer bottle and throw it on the asphalt by his feet. This is a tactic I would assume works out in the nature as well, when trying to scare bears or sharks away by being loud and spectacular. Like...banging sticks together, or shooting off fireworks on a mountain top.

Chet seemed rather dazed and confuddled by this shocking exchange, which Titus saw and brilliantly used to our advantage.

“You see that guy over there who just broke the beer bottle? You don't want to fuck with him man...he's an ultimate fighter.” Titus said.

“What thuhhh fuxx you tuckin bout” Chet managed to deliver back.

“Im serious dude, look at him...he's bleeding from the face. He's fucking nuts” Titus continued.

“Wut? oh...oh shit. Hey man I wuz jes kiddin round. I dun wanna fight. We coool.” Chet said as his tone and attitude “subtly” shifted. And while he imagined me in a cage match putting the sleeper hold on an opponent with my two baby toes, Chet realized that my antlers were stronger, my roar was louder, and most importantly...mah dick was bigger.

So there you have it. Gimme some smoke, mirrors, blood, spectacle and pizazz and I'll rumble with you any day of the week Hetero Harry.

Wait

Alexi Murdoch. I am going to pay you to soundtrack my cloudy, windy days and car rides home at night.

Stacey On All Fours

I have a friend named Stacey, and though you would assume a girl with a name like Stacey to be a bleached blonde Barbie in high heels, strutting her stuff in front of any and every doctor or lawyer; My Malibu Stacey Doll looks her best as a granola eating, barefoot running, flower picking, tequila drinking, pot smoking, hair braiding, tye dye wearing love muffin. As such:




And for the most part, our relationship is clearly represented in the following three photographs.



I am in the mood, however, to recall a specific story that happened to the two of us on one of our many adventures.



It was a crisp, autumn day in the city of Grantham, England, and many students attending Harlaxton College were traveling down to the train station to go off on many exciting trips around the European continent. Stacey and Riley had decided to rendezvous with their two good friends, and professional street walkers, Lauren and Meredith in Barcelona, Spain for the long weekend. Also accompanying them on this trip was the he-man-woman-hater, Nicholas Steen, who was traveling separate of the duo due to tardy trip planning and travel booking. It was minutes after all of their fellow classmates, including Nicholas, boarded the train heading to the airport, of which Stacey and Riley were not scheduled to travel on, that Riley posed an innocent question to Stacey.

"Did you double check to see if a train was for sure leaving here at 3? You know, so we get to the airport in time for check in."
"Well....I mean...There's always usually one at 3..." replied Stacey.
"Well...Stacey. It doesn't look that way right now does it?" Riley hastily responded.
"Oh, who cares, we'll just take the train at 5." Stacey retorted.

After spending an hour joking about bombs in the train station trash cans, and doing their best to plan out nights of drunken debauchery and anonymous sexual encounters, Stacey and Riley finally boarded the 5 o'clock, Stansted Airport bound train. When they finally realized the train was going to arrive at the station after the ticket counter closed, Stacey pulled aside the ticket taker and demanded, in a very calm and nonchalant manner,

"I'm going to need you to tell the driver to go faster."

You see, because in Stacey's head, the two of them were merely on a magical pony that was trotting along at a leisurely pace, rather than a locomotive heading full speed towards an airport.

"I'll.....um....do my best ma'am. But I believe the driver is going as fast as he can." The ticket taker replied, with a confused eyebrow raise stamped on his forehead.
"Alright, well I'm not joking." Stacey called after him as he walked away, at what seemed like a quicker pace than when he approached, as if this demand would psychically force the train to lift off its tracks, fly to the airport, grow arms and set the two delicately into their airline seats, hopefully with a cocktail in all four of their hands.

When they arrived to the airport, simply five minutes past the allotted ticket counter check-in time, and were told by the robotically pleasant Easyjet Airline employee that they would not be allowed to collect their tickets, Stacey promptly burst into tears, as they were asked to step aside so that the next customer in line could be helped. To all of this Riley simply remarked,

"Stacey, I don't want to make this awkward...but crying girls make me really uncomfortable."

Stacey paused for a moment, tears streaming down her face, looked Riley dead in the eye, and, without moving her gaze, proceeded to wail at a decibel loud enough for Barcelona to feel her pain.

The End

The preceding story was entirely factual. Here is the photo that was taken as all of our friends left the train station.



Its as if Stacey was blinded by the dream of Spanish men, as I already foresaw the imminent events to follow. And this is the poem I wrote about the entire situation:

Missed Plane to Spain: inspired by a true story (and Stacey Mead)

You left us.
bread in hand,
bags packed,
sweat drip-dropping down my forehead.

Take off and soar Mother Bird.
Two chicks left in your nest
that you never taught to fly.
Not I-
at least.

We sit in the rain,
dreaming of heading South,
for the Winter.

But you wouldn't wait.

Just two minutes late.

Coooooooooool

Upon leaving my last night in acting class...

Female Classmate: Bye Riley, I'm sorry we didn't get to work together!

Me: Yeah...me too.

FC: Well good luck to you, you're really talented.

Me: Thanks you're really pretty.

FC: Oh.....thanks. (exit)


Hurrumph. I feel as if awkward exchanges such as this define myself better than anything else I could possibly write. A part of me wants to start practicing writing these sorts of exchanges in something closer to a novel or essay format. I spend my free time/ down time/ all time creepily meandering around Barnes and Noble book stores, picking up satirical authors' books of essays, or autobiographies, then placing myself in a corner, on the floor, chuckling all too loudly for someone who is alone on the floor in the corner of a bookstore.

I have moved back to Las Vegas for a period of time to save money and clear my head. Am I okay with this? Yes. Am I embarrassed? Partially. Am I an alcoholic? Completely. Am I available? 24/7

well, tits.

Lockne O Brien: You remind me of Gwenyth Paltrow

Me:............what?

Lockne: Oh, sorry, I mean your acting reminds me of Gwenyth Paltrow.

Me: What movie are you watching right now?

Lockne:.........Shallow Hal.



Good god.

Michael Davies: Because He Can

This is my grandpa.

Can we just...breathe this in.

Beebee

Man outside Ralph's: Excuse me sir, do you have a minute to talk about business ventures?

Me: Me? What? No........I'm like twelve.


I've always postulated that I stopped aging at 19...I guess I overestimated.

Poochie Poo

Question: Does a person above the average human size and height have poops larger than the average human poop? Bigger dogs have bigger poops, it seems to me that human poopology should fall in line. Right?

Seeing Shaq on the TV brought on this question.

For my career I have two scheduled auditions this weekend, one for a webisode and one for a musical. Let's see where this leads.

I need money so goddamn bad it is not at all funny in the least. I, at my own discretion, choose to make it funny. Lately I have been contemplating moving home in the fall, in order to save money and move to another city next fall because the employers of Los Angeles are in cahoots together to keep me not working. I.E. one Universal Studios who has hired me, and then taken it upon themselves to not schedule me, return my calls, or give me any sort of inclination of whether I'm going to start work, or am just plain old fired.

Something, somewhere, is about to burn. Other than the remaining protective layers of my liver.

I am getting sneaking suspicions that I was not prepared to so spontaneously make this deep end dive.

WHY DO I NEVER LEARN? I'm so fucking floopy-flimsy about important life decisions. When it came to college, Evansville accepted me and my exact response was, "Yeah...ok, sure." and yet I never visited, or explored any other options. And when it came to life AFTER college, I just thought, "well, the weather is nicer in California" and HERE I AM!

I'm a child. A tall, ginger child...that can barely string a sentence together without swearing...and didn't learn how to loop swoop and pull his shoelaces tied until he was 14...and thinks its funny to sneeze on his friends...and is DYNAMITE in bed.

Those are all true.

ALL.

MEnLiLa4EvR@yahoo.com

Last night, I had a dream that I was baby sitting 9 children in a mansion with the help of Lindsay Lohan. Later, when I went home she talked to me on AIM under the s/n "LiLa" and asked my a/s/l.


Yesterday I went to an acting class where we did mock auditions for a TV show and the class voted that in the end, I would have gotten the part.

I would celebrate, but then again if I celebrated every time my life worked out in "Imagination Land" I would be a non-stop shit show, dancing in my underwear and high tops to Ke$ha's "DinosaUR" 24/7.

...maybe that's how I'll be discovered...

Nom Nom

Career: Acted in a play. It was a small theatre, non-paying, and minor part in a series of vignettes...but it was better than nothing. More so better than sitting on my ass and starting to drink at 7pm. Tonight I moved it to 10pm.

What I did for myself: Mixed vodka with Mike's Hard. Yeah..I sure showed that sissy drink a thing or two bout a thing or two.

God...

Ima Starz

What I did for my career today: Got advice from an old friend that knows a lot more about this business than I do.

What I did for myself today: Drank an Iced coffee with nonfat milk, because it reminds me of studying bartender terminology late into the night with my best friend during the summer of 09'.


So, this evening I saw a show at a planetarium for the FIRST TIME EVER!! Now, I don't know what fucking lame ass elementary school I went to, but one that does not take its students to travel through both space AND time while leaning back in a comfy recliner...well that's just no elementary I want to be part of. Ya heard?

Speaking of field trips, I was reminded (while at the planetarium, naturally) of an instance in fourth grade, when I showed up to school, excited out of my tighty whiteys to go to the natural history museum of california that day. After showing up at school, however, my teacher took one look at my noticeably pink and crusty eye and sent me straight to the nurse's office. It was here that I would find out I could no longer go to the museum because of that silent elementary school inconvenience known as pink eye. I don't know what I expected to see at the natural history museum...but it gave me reason enough to bawl and bawl and bawl.

Until I went home and ate popsicles on my trampoline...that's what's up.

Hold Up...EYYY-eyyyyy

I have an idea. It isn't as terrifying as this picture, however.

I'm going to redirect this blog into a more concise direction so it's not just "my life in LA...blahblah bitch bitch I'm blogurbating"

I was having a conversation today over some coffee..and the advice was given to me that you have to do one thing everyday for your career, or it isn't going to happen.

So there. I shall chronicle each thing I do per day in mah blog for my acting career. This way, I'll be forced to write more, and hopefully it will show the benefits of constantly working. Right...ok. Totes.

So that coffee conversation was the thing for today. Donezo.

In other news...google image search "light bulb!" if you are ever bored. There's a cartoon lightbulb that continuously appears doing various activities including playing basketball, riding a bicycle, and, my personal favorite, hugging a business man.

Where are you going light bulb? And why is your life so much more active than mine?

A Question (XXX)Posed

As an actor...yes, I've come to terms with the fact that one day I may or may not have to be naked in a play, picture, movie, tv, or (if all else fails) PORN! These are things I know and have accepted. Hell, I've even crafted a theory that if (by the grace of heaven) I do enough work to attract interest from the general world public, I am going to CHOOSE to do an artsy naked photo shoot just in case I pull a Vanessa Hudgens and "accidentally" give the media a picture of me naked, it will be old news by then, and nothing everyone wouldn't have already seen in a much more artistic and airbrushed way.

Sly, right? LIKE A FOX.

I do question, however, when a play is ovvvverrrly gratuitous with nudity and simulated sex, if it is a bad idea to do.

Case: A play I was considering auditioning for where I would be reading for a gay male prostitute that has to get completely naked and simulate sex multiple times. Not just sex, graphic sexual acts that even make me uncomfortable to talk about in a public forum. And I am a very candid man. Seriously, I would rather my roommate tell me his door is locked because he is masturbating than him saying he's simply "reading Harry Potter." If the former was admitted I would at least know to come back in 5 minutes to borrow some kleenex, because at least he'd have it handy.

I'm giggling after writing that.

So, the question I ponder is how far can a play go before the "art" is compromised by the "penis?"

I think if any one decides to read this post, you should leave your opinion in the comment section.

In other news, I just scheduled an audition for "Happy Days: A New Musical"

IMA CHAMEEELEON

A Gripe

When I'm sad I look at this picture and marvel at the amazing, life-size puppet on my arm.

I was perusing YouTube today, following a link off of the witty and beautiful Amanda Facemire's blog (follow her, she's meandering through India), and was taken to a variety of video bloggers that have like...made themselves internet sensations because they happen to own a flip cam and video editing software. One dude had over 2 million views on each of his 120someodd videos, and had been nominated for a teen choice award because of this. He was A. not funny B. not talented and C. just...fuck it, he was dumb as shit. I simultaneously hated and envied him. I have to give him some respect because he is making a name for himself all on his own, and I admire that. This topic has been on my mind a lot as of late. Probably due to my mother repeatedly telling me to write my own movie to be in and call it “The Life of Riley.” Look at the blog Robyn, my play is as good as gold, obviously.

I should call it “Confessions of a Ginger: A Dying Breed” or maybe “Why I Wear SPF 45, and other Musings from a Freckled Perspective”

I am still waiting for my day job to let me start working, and I am surviving off of macaroni and I Love Lucy re-runs.

It's strange, I expected to feel quite self-conscious and insecure after moving out here, regarding my acting ability and promise and what-not. After viewing the caliber of other actors out here, however, at the few auditions I've actually attended, that isn't the case. I, in fact, feel more confident about my acting ability than I even might have felt at school. That's not saying much though, I'm not the most self-confident penguin in the pack (or whatever colloquialism would actually be appropriate to use in this instance). People really do just decide, “I'm going to be an actor” but do NOTHING to actually train themselves and learn how to be a real person. And you know what the BITCH is? Some of them are never going to have to, because they are pretty and will have a part written for them in their own voice, giving the illusion that they are natural and subtle actors when they are doing nothing BUT BEING THEMSELVES, THEREBY DEFEATING THE ACTUAL PURPOSE AND DEFINITION OF “ACTING.”

I'm not annoyed.

It's alright though, “luck is when preparation meets opportunity.” I have learned that getting my BFA gave me the preparation I think is necessary...now about that opportunity. Seriously, I'm about to start sleeping my way to the top.

Jambo

So, I deleted my last post just in case it aides to any sort of termination from my job. oops.

The last two days i have been orientating at my new job at Universal, which has been pretty damn cool, i'm not going to lie. I have to join the union AGVA which means after a year I will be able to qualify to join SAG, AEA, or AFTRA since AGVA is a sister union. THIS means if I don't bust my ass and get into one of those unions by myself, I at least have this option to fall back on, as long as I don't fuck myself over and get fired! Pressure...pressing down on me, pressing down on you..skee da da doo. Whatever the next words are.

My highlight of the day: I inadvertently was leaning back in my driver's seat, only one hand on the wheel, listening to a rap song on the radio, and absent-mindedly bobbing my head. After about a minute of this I nonchalantly look to the right, to find two black men, in a white cadillac, chrome wheels, silver grills (teeth), eyes covered by aviators, both staring at me, laughing/smiling, bobbing their heads and encouraging me to continue my unintentional "gangster lifestyle"

get at me.

I'm in the Pretty Union

Riley: I think I'm going to audition for Aladdin the musical at Disneyland!

Sam Kraus: Ok...one question. Exactly what part would you play in "Aladdin: Arabian Nights" ?

Riley: .............................................. the monkey?



It's because of friends like Sam that my fantastical and grand celebrity lifestyle remains grounded and modest. No Lohan am I.....I'm just being Miley.

My partner in crime, Becca Euliss, and I have begun writing a play inspired by our life here thus far. See what you think of it. Comments and criticism are welcomed and can be expected to be disregarded immediately because it isn't like you're getting off your lazy ass and WRITING A PLAY.

Scene 1:

Lights up on Becca and Riley, sitting next to each other on a love seat staring blankly at the television. The blue light illuminates both of their faces.

Pause.

Riley: I can't watch this anymore, it's stressing me out.

Becca: Wait, the tv show, or your life?

Cable goes out. The stage is black except for the static color shit illuminating becca and riley.

Becca and Riley: (sideways glances at each other)

Becca: So...i'm assuming you didn't pay the cable bill this month?

Riley: (staring blankly at the screen) ...no...

Becca: ....Now what?

Riley: Sam wake up

Sam: Noooooooooo

Riley: Get up bitch, the cables out.

Sam: I just had the funniest dream. I was sitting next to a black woman and a dog that looked like a human. And every time it would laugh it would roll onto its back and go haahahaahahaha and roll back up.

Riley:....What?

Sam: (laughing) it would roll on its back and go hahahahaaaaa and then roll back up. It was so funny.

Riley: Perfect.

Lights Out.

Scene 2:

Lights up on Becca and Riley sitting on a bench, outside, the sound of traffic driving by in the background.

Riley: huh...I thought it was cloudy outside.

Becca: Nope, not even a little bit.

Riley: Weird.

Becca: Check it out..those two little kids are playing tether-ball.

Riley: where?

Becca: Right over there.

Riley: Ohhhhoho sweet. Maybe they'll let us play.

Becca: Yeah right before they register you as a sex offender.

Riley: You mean again?

Becca: shut up. You want to make a bet?

Riley: I mean, sure. You want the chola or the fat little asian?

Becca: You know I don't like sushi.

Riley: annnnnd she kicks it up a notch.

Becca: Just keeping you on your toes.

Riley: I'll keep you on mah dick.

Becca: fuck off, they're starting.

Riley: Maybe we should get some beer?

Becca: I'm sorry, did you find the money you've been hiding up your ass?

Riley: Yes, actually, right next to that perfume you wear.

Becca: What?

Riley: You smell like shit.

Becca: I hate you

(to be continued)

Bow Wow Wowwwwww

The sentence, "I mean, I haven't had sex in forever...I'd date a dog if it humped me," just left my mouth.

I can't find a job to save my life. And I say that for both the "old timey saying" feeling as well as the complete and utter truth in every part of that sentence. I ate bread and stolen alouette cheese for dinner last night.

I'm going to a job fair at Urban Outfitters on the Wednesday of next week. You might know, all 5 of you who potentially read this, that I have written a blog commenting on the complete pompousness and uselessness of the typical Urban Outfitter employee, and I now hope to join their ranks. I actually will beg to if it comes down to it. And let's be honest, I'll probably get on my knees and beg whether it's necessary or not. Call me a hypocrite if you want...it has a certain ring to it. But if a good outfit that compliments the outwardly shallow and material part of yourself isn't worth compromising your morals, then really, what is? Do share.

I have attended two auditions this week to no avail I believe, and I blame it on the fact that they both took place inside churches. God likes to play little tricks on me where he sees in how many ways he can inconvenience my life in completely non life threatening and harmlessly frustrating ways...and these two times he had the home court advantage. Much like the LAKERS, who are a BASKETBALL TEAM, that I WATCHED win a COMPETITION...of sorts...I believe. I'm now a "dude's dude," if you will.

Examples of the aforementioned fun of God include one Riley McIlveen getting his hand stuck between his car seat and the middle panel, alone, while lost, while in a running car, at a stop sign in the middle of Little Mexico, Los Angeles., while the car is still in drive.