The Work, She is Over

Today was my last official day in the Los Angeles office. Following a short sabbatical, I'll move back down to part-time from Oklahoma, where the wind truly does come sweeping down the plains. Now that the nastiness is behind us, blogging shall resume in high fashion. Topics to look out for in the following weeks are:

• Driving 20 hours straight with two dogs
• My students are stupid, here’s why
• Bee-Spot & Mr. Shain do yoga (with pictures)
• Milwaukee and me, a retrospective

Also, thank you for all of your letters and phone calls asking if I was okay. Indeed I am. Also, screw you for not calling.

Happy Belated Birthday Blythe

I still got nothing here (see last post). The work situation still keeps me busy about 70 hours a week. If I'm not at work, I'm home drinking alone with my dogs. Sorry this is impacting you, the reader. So, Sunday was Bee-Spot's twenty-sixth birthday and she got loaded, wore a low cut dress, went to trashy bars, and still go no play. Sad for Blythe. However, X-tina (a friend from high school) sent her a power point (download here) with this disturbing picture of me and B-Murph from a debate tournament in Phoenix (I think). Enjoy.

Hostile Takeover (of Mr. Shain)

Sorry that *The Life & Times has been content-free for the last couple of days. Things at the offices of *The Life & Times have been a bit busy. And by busy, I mean employees getting sacked, people crying in the bathrooms, directors drinking in their offices, screaming fights on the conference line, profanity, and lastly a hostile takeover. Yes, my company (rather the company that owns me) is being bought-out/purchased/paid-off like a cheap hooker who’s seen too much. Things were accidentally leaked on a call Tuesday morning and it’s been a nonstop riot here ever since. The best part? Oh, did I mention the new owner of my company is 26 years old? Because he is. He’s twenty-six. He’s two months younger than I am. Also, did I note that I am the youngest employee at my firm? Because I’m not anymore. Well, maybe I still am since He is not really an “employee”. I can’t say anymore right now, but if I go missing, you can unravel the clues left in this message to discover the location where they’ve likely dumped my body. Also, I think you people know too much about me already after certain yearbook photos and messages written by Mr. Shain were leaked on the Bee-Spot. We’re not speaking to Blythe right now.

The Simpsons Movie (Gone Wild)

What was originally supposed to be brunch and matinee showing of The Simpsons movie, somehow turned into brunch followed by mimosas followed by mojitos and spending the entire afternoon at the bar. By the time the 7:00 pm showing of The Simpsons rolled around, it somehow seemed like a great idea to go to the movie completely faded.

Things were jolly good until we got in line for concessions. A standing-on-one-leg contest was initiated, ending with Shemeka falling into the couple behind us. Jose tried to buy cigarettes with his popcorn from the concessions lady. Steven hit on a couple gave them his phone number. Once we made it into the film, Jose fell down getting to his seat, although once seated, he prompted fell asleep—only waking when the woman behind him kicked his seat because he was snoring. Shemeka also fell asleep, though did not snore. Good times.

On the way home Steven admitted that he’d forgotten to “tidy up” this morning before his housekeeper came over. After she left, Steven went into his bedroom to discover that she had organized his collection of cockrings. He’s looking for a new housekeeper now. Am I the only one who’s embarrassed about his friends?

Friday Confessional: U wunt a cord Ramuné?

First off, let me say that I love the Japanese—the food, the electronics, the fashion, the Shintoists. So when first learned about the cultural phenomenon of Ramuné, I had to try it. Ramuné is a Japanese lemon soda sold in a Codd neck glass bottle sealed with a marble. What’s up with the name? Well it’s transliterated from the Japanese bastardization of the English word “lemonade.” Get it? Ram-u-né… Lem-o-nade. Love it. But the best part of the drink is definitely the bottle. To open the drink, you have to push in a glass marble jammed in the lid. The marble drops and is caught in the neck of the bottle. There are two small nodes in the neck of the bottle where you have to balance the marble while drinking so that it doesn’t roll back into the opening and block it. It’s a drink, it’s a game, it’s a blast.

Dim Sum Combo B

Last night while waiting in line at Famima!! (the Japanese style convenience store of magical dim sum delights and bento box lunches) I stood behind a tall, well built guy about my age who was purchasing sushi, Pom tea, and some kind of protein business. After the cashier rang up the total, $17 dollars, this dude pulled out a wad of cash from his front pocket and paid the entire bill in singles. Damn strippers. Front pocket not shown.

Becoming Eleanor Abernathy

Most of you know Ms. Abernathy as the Crazy Cat Lady on The Simpsons. What most of you don’t know is that Ms. Abernathy was a child prodigy turned Ivy League grad turned burned out casual alcoholic turned psychotic cat lady. What some of you do know is that I’m currently transitioning into stage three: burned out casual alcoholic (yes, I’m typing with one hand whilst enjoying glass of cabernet with the other—sue me). Sunday night’s two hour block of Simpsons reruns included "Springfield Up" the episode where we learn Crazy Cat Lady’s gripping back story:

Eleanor, age 8: declares feminist ambitions

Eleanor, age 24: graduates from Havard & Yale

Eleanor, age 32: burns out, turns to wine

Eleanor, today: throws cats for fun and profit

This clip really, really spoke to me, and made me want to hang out with her after work. Alright, we all know this is actually Blythe.

Tammy Faye

Hope you're in the big gay discotheque in the sky Tammy Faye.

Friday Confessional: I Heart Beckham

The truth is 99% of the time I don’t give a damn who Colin Farrell is fucking or how many DUIs Paris, Britney, and Lindsay have this week. I’m rather immune and uninterested in Hollywood at large. I once had a twenty minute conversation with Jaclyn Smith on set before asking her what she did for a living. That was awkward.

But there are those rare moments when the confluence of Access Hollywood, libido, and second hand fame cast a magical spell over me. Such is the case with Mr. David Beckham and his wife Mrs. Posh Spice. I am in love. Which is why it’s so ironic what Mark did to me this week. Tom and Katie (yes, that Tom and Katie) are throwing a “Welcome to LA” party for the Beckhams, and it will be the event of the summer in Hollywood. When Mark told me he scored a rare and coveted invitation to the dinner, I was elated. I was ecstatic. I was over-stimulated frankly.

However, the euphoria was short lived. Sober in the face of fame, Mark decided he didn’t want to go. “It’s going to be insane,” he insisted. And with that, all of my hopes and dreams for this world vanished like so much smoke. I was empty, alone, and now hungry. I had some ice cream. The worst part is, I’ll never get to blog about how big Victoria’s head really is. I’ll never get to blog about David’s alleged botox injections. And I’ll never get to blog about how Tom tried to convert Posh and Becks to Scientology. I guess I’ll just spend my weekend looking at this:

I Miss Blogging, Blogging Misses Me

Work has been a ridiculous crazy bitch this week and has prevented me from participating in the blogosphere, where I have little or no influence. Touché. After work, my time is split between my meth addiction and yoga. I know, wacky. Here are the things I would have been blogging about if I had the time to be funny:

Kelly Rippa’s Husband:
Today, my Managing Director and I had lunch as Asia de Cuba. I had the lobster club. Kevin had the calamari salad. But yummiest part of the lunch was sitting next to Kelly Ripa’s husband, Mark Consuelos.

Férfiakt: Possibly the Worst Movie Ever?

Outfest provided this gem of Hungarian cinema. The English translation of the title (which is just “Men”) is “Men in the Nude.” Let me tell you, there’s not even one goddamned cock shot in the whole fucking movie. WTF? Seriously, WTF?!? Worst movie ever.

Speaking of Hungary:
In Hungary, when shopping for produce in the market, you must weigh your own fruit, print out a bar code label-sticker, and attach it to the bag for the checker. This proves to be quite a challenge for foreigners because A) they don’t know they’re supposed to do it, and B) it requires knowing the Hungarian word for the item you’re purchasing in order to press the correct key on the machine. For those of you who’ve been to Central/Eastern Europe, you know that although they’ve discovered democracy, they’ve yet to master capitalism. That said, I was once in the supermarket, in line to check out, when the woman in front of me hadn’t weighed her bananas. The checker lady yelled at her in Hungarian, to no avail. I explained the checker’s tirade in English, to no evil. Charades were played, to no avail. It was at this point that the checker lady picked up the bananas and slung them across the store and shouted “NO BANANAS FOR YOU” in Hungarian. Does this remind you of something?

Visit My Company's Website

Context is so important to everything we do. What seems like a killer company name on the new bone-white letterhead, could turn out to produce unwanted google hits as a web address. This is the case with the following REAL businesses and their unfortunate websites:

1. Who Represents is where you can find the name of the agent that represents any celebrity. Their Web site is www.whorepresents.com

2 . Experts Exchange is a knowledge base where programmers can exchange advice and views at www.expertsexchange.com

3. Looking for a pen? Look no further than Pen Island at www.penisland.net

4. Need a therapist? Try Therapist Finder at www.therapistfinder.com

5. There's the Italian Power Generator company, www.powergenitalia.com

6. Don't forget the Mole Station Native Nursery in New South Wales,
www.molestationnursery.com

7. If you're looking for IP computer software, there's always
www.ipanywhere.com

8. The First Cumming Methodist Church Web site is www.cummingfirst.com

9. The designers at Speed of Art await you at their wacky Web site,
www.speedofart.com

Breaking News: B&S Boring

Some of you might be under the impression that Bee-Spot and I are purposefully zany in our comments as a way of garnering attention. I assure you, we're always like that. Submitted for evidence, yesterday's gmail conversation. Blythe is trying to convince me that we should also venture into writing a joint blog:

me: uhm, in other new, i hate blogging. so why do i want to write for 2 blogs now? news flash: i dont

blythe: news flash, you do love blogging, so why not have two? well, i know that we'd have a good joint blog

me: this just in: shain quits, bee-spot blog without readers

blythe: you're so mean

me: news flash: blythe realizes, shain is mean. also: sky is blue

blythe: but still…

me: i'm ready for a nap

blythe: it's only 11.30

me: ONLY 11:30? what's that supposed to mean

blythe: nap time already? didn't you get up about 2 hours ago?

me: so?

The point is, we're really this boring in real life... it's not just on the blogs.

Help Fight Pediatric AIDS

It has recently come to my attention that a certain, twisted group of people has begun to regularly engage in the reading of this blog here at *The Life & Times. I, Mr. Shain, am truly thankful for this. Looking at Sitemeter gets me off better than [redacted].

However, upon further investigation (also known as blog-stalking) I have come to realize that many of my loyal readers/gawkers/angry commentators do not include this blog, *The Life & Times, on their own blogroll. This makes Mr. Shain sad… very, very sad. I think it also might cause babies in Africa to spontaneously develop pediatric AIDS. And a puppy dog gets hit by a Fedex truck every time you read *The Life & Times without adding it to your blogroll first. The point is:

Add Mr. Shain’s *The Life & Times to your blogroll today, and help stop pediatric AIDS and the needless killing of puppy dogs. Only YOU can stop the madness.

*The preceding has been a paid advertisement and does not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of the management of this blog.

Sunday Fun Day

Friday Confessional: Random Crap

Mr. Shain in the news: Sometimes other bloggers read this crap and realize what a brilliant and talented writer I am. Sometimes they don’t. But here are three that really get me:note: this is a picture of me that was in the news

Welcome to the Tiki Hut!: Just for Shain
World of B: The Cooler
Bee-Spot: Pure Drivel (classic)

Italian Explosion, Part III: I’m so not good with my kitchen appliances right now. This, unlike the fridge, was totally my bad. I just wanted to throw the whole thing away.
Fourth of July addendum: I almost forgot about this text Bryan got on the 4th. Turns out, sometimes domestic violence is funny. Note to readers, Matt is Brandon’s boyfriend. They were vacationing in Palm Springs until the fistfight broke out. They don’t really remember what started it (the booze does that) but Brandon spit toothpaste in Matt’s face, Matt shoved him back, and then the punches flew. Hotel security was called, and Matt was removed from the hotel (but was the one who drove). Oh, those gays!
Meth addiction: Recently, there's been a lot of blog "chatter" about my alleged meth addiction. You know who you are. For the record, I'm not a meth addict, and I have a very nice, very expensive smile. I also sleep A LOT and am always exhausted. How many meth addicts can say that?
I am being monitored: Yesterday I got a hit from Kuwait. Okay, fine, but this hit was actually from the "Kuwait Ministry of Defense". Okay, a little weird. But this comes after a mysterious flurry of hits last week from Israel and the Palestinian Territory. I think spies might be communicating via my comment section. Has anyone actually ever met Blythe or Cherry Ride? Hmmm...

Wii-mbledon Champ

note: I've reposted this blog to fix the comments section. Please comment away now. Please.
I’ve recently been asked by readers to blog about the man behind Mr. Shain, the real Shain. To these readers I say, “Fuck off, this isn’t a diary.” Instead, here’s a blow-by-blow recap of my July 4th holiday.

7:30 am Wake up, look at clock, go back to bed.

8:00 am Get out of bed. Read blogs, CNN, and New York Times. Check sitemeter.

10:00 am Breakfast at Eat Well with Bryan, JB, Robert, Steven, and Mark. I order an omelet with cheddar, mushrooms, and spinach—they don’t have green onions. I also drink a coke. Whole wheat toast on the side, but I don’t touch it.

12:30 pm Spin class; vomit.

1:30 pm Walk over to Jose’s BBQ. We buy beer, Red Bull, and macaroni on the way.

3:00 pm After a few beers, the Wii-mbledon doubles tennis tournament begins. I’m partnered with Brendan.

4:30 pm Brendan and I place second after a final round match against JP and Steven (2-6, 6-4, 7-6). There were 8 match points. It was crushing. Also, we are sweating like pigs at this point. There was a minor wii-njury during the tourney.

6:00 pm Bryan, Mark, and I spend quality time in the garden together. More typical fag conversation about shit… I don’t remember. Rum and coke now. Gourmet burgers with blue cheese stuffed in the middle are grilled by Robert. We love Robert. Also, amazing guacamole is prepared by JP. We love JP. Mark heads to second party; I stay.

8:00 pm Seriously, I have no idea where the last two hours went. Meeka, Bryan, Brandon, Dan, and I talk about [insert intellectual topic here]. I think Scooter Libby came up. Steven and I have a meaning conversation about losing faith in government. Red Bull? Yes please. Meeka, Dan, JP, and Brendan get really, really into playing Super Mario Brothers.

9:00 pm We head to the roof to watch fireworks. West Hollywood is a horrible place to do this—too far from both downtown and the beaches (where the good shows are) and it’s so smoggy you can’t really see shit. We get locked on the roof. Brendan, Steven, and Dan are really fucked up now. JP is picking up cigarette butts. Steven almost drops his iphone off the roof. Meeka and I watch the mess.

10:30 pm Wii-mbledon singles tournament ends in my triumphant defeat of Brandon (6-3, 6-2) and being crowned wii-champion. I get a wii-trophy. I suffer from wii-elbow.

11:30 pm Brendan has his first-ever deposition in the morning and is still a little bit sloppy drunk. JP attempts to hydrate him. Dan is not helping. I decide this is the end of the road for my holiday—I still have to get home and blog. This shit doesn’t blog itself.

Key words for the day: Heineken, Mexicans, Degas, constitutional law, Nintendo, manchowder, Kathy Griffin, iPhone, Honduras, French post structuralism, chasm, awkwardness bomb

The History Channel Will Blow You

So maybe I’m spending my Tuesday night alone (with the kids) enjoying a bottle of Cabernet and maybe a few Rx pharmaceuticals—prescribed by a doctor thank you—and watching the “Universe” marathon on the History Channel. I’m kind of an astronomy/physics buff… so I need to watch these things like Blythe needs to watch Paula Deen. Anyway, the History Channel just ran a promo with the following tag:
Maybe this is just more enjoyable now than it will be when I wake up on Wednesday, but still I wanted to share it with you. Because that’s what I do, I share. Sharing means caring. At least that’s what this doctor thought. God I love live blogging. We should do it more often.

Update: Perhaps it's too small to read, but the History Channel tag is "Get Your Mind Blown." They actually said this on TV people. It's funny. Don't make me explain why.

Apple iPhone - Yeeeah Bitches

I'll be reading your blogs exclusively from the iphone.

Friday Confessional: Savasana

I’ve become a raging yoga fanatic. For years, I’ve rolled my eyes and thrown rocks at people that have extolled the benefits of yoga to me. Now I’ve somehow become the douchebag toting around the sticky mat and spouting Sanskrit like a goddamned hippie. Last night I spent five minutes in vrischika-asana. Now my neck hurts.


Speaking of Sanskrit, one such word I love to say is “Savasana,” which means corpse. At the end of our practice, we lie on our backs, palms up, motionless, like a corpse. Supposedly you meditate during this time. Instead I pretend to be dead. After many nights pretending to be dead, I’ve decided that I want to die outside, in the rain, during a summer thunderstorm. Nothing crazy, no tornados, just a strong shower with healthy thunder. Preferably with a light towel over my face. No rocks underneath either. Please don’t tell my yogi, she’ll make me do breath of fire until I pass out.

Is Your Boss Wearing Leather?

Most of us* spend our days at the office wasting our lives surfing the internets, pretending to read super-lame blogs just because they link to ours, and making banal conversation with the douchebags we have the misfortune to call coworkers. The relationship with our coworkers is tenuous; there’s a delicate balance between friendly and friends. Our knowledge of their personal lives should be limitted to their partner’s name, kids or no kids, and maybe where they’re from originally. Sometimes the coworker-relationship line is crossed. Maybe you find out Susan’s husband is leaving her because he’s hitting some 20 year old blond intern at PWC. Maybe you find out that Aaron’s brother is slowly dying of AIDS in his guest bedroom. Maybe you find out that Trish is a size 2 because her husband kicks her when she eats. All these things are fine, but it really puts a damper on the workplace banter.

Yesterday I was in my associate’s office, shooting the shit about baseball and (etc.) when I noticed a nail file sitting on his desk. “That’s odd,” I thought to myself. You don’t meet a tremendous amount of straight men who keep nail files on their desks. Then I noticed a website printed on the file… something with the word “leather” on it. Curious. When he went to lunch, I snuck back into his office to get a better look at the website (NSFW) and then threw up all over myself. I thought the "Boy Butter" he kept in the fridge was for his english muffins.



*Blythe excluded.

Annie Leibovitz & My Boyfriend's Groupies

Last night, it was my distinct pleasure to spend time with the great American photographer Annie Leibovitz. She was invited to speak about her most recent book, A Photographer’s Life 1990 – 2005, at the Art Center College of Design by her contemporary and friend Matthew Rolston. The evening went smoothly; Matthew’s speech was simple and glowing, and Annie’s talk was revealing and surprisingly frank in regards to her relationship with Susan Sontag. However, the entire event was marred by a posse of Art Center students who endlessly fawned over my boyfriend Mark. Mark is Matthew’s producer, and Matthew is a god to some of these budding photographers. Once these kids discovered who Mark was, they latched onto him like a leach to a baby calf. There was drool; there was gushing. I threw up a little in my mouth. On the drive home I reflected on what had become of our simple lives in Oklahoma. I decided that I was okay with the groupies; I decided I was okay being a trophy wife.

UPDATE: Italian Explosion

The bitch fridge froze again yesterday. My milk is an icy block. My eggs are rocks. My temper is short.

BerkShares Say F-You to US Dollar

United States separatist in Great Barrington, MA have begun to print and circulate their own currency, know as the BerkShare. After almost a year since its inception, the BerkShare is accepted at over 280 local businesses. “I just love the feel of using a local currency,” said Trice Atchison, 43, a teacher who enjoys the contact high from handling BerkShares, which are laced with LSD. Over the last ten months the BerkShares have become a regular part of the local economy and are one-to-one convertible to US Dollars.

This is not the first time a private American group has printed its own money. Most notably, Halliburton introduced a currency known as the “Iraqi Dinar” to the formerly independent country of Iraq. A spokesman for Halliburton explained that, “the best way to exploit an oil-rich nation is to control its economy—and now we f*cking print the god-damned money!”

Making Daniel Cry

As many of you know, today is the one year anniversary of my friend Blythe’s breakup with her long time high school boyfriend. Let’s call him D. Phelps to protect his identity. No, that’s too easy to figure out. We’ll call him Daniel P. You can read about Blythe’s reaction here: Bee-Spot.

Frankly, the break up with Daniel might have been the best thing to ever happen to Blythe. Believe it or not, Daniel was a douche bag. Hardcore. Seriously, biggest douche to graduate an Oklahoma high school in 1999. Douchey. Now, Daniel and I go way back, like elementary school and gymnastics way back. Yeah, Daniel did competitive gymnastics in a teal leotard—I have pictures. We never really liked each other. Rather, I was nice and Daniel was a bitch and that failed to foster a healthy relationship. He was the kid who said shit like, “What’s wrong? You’re just upset because you took a piss out of your first pube.” Seriously, where did he get this material? By the time high school rolled around, I was in good company hating Daniel. He’d really stepped up his game and alienated most of the people who pretended to be his friends. However, our mutual hatred for one another was palpable. Blythe, being the fledgling masochist that she was at 16, decided she’d love to be verbally abused on a fulltime basis, and thus began dating Daniel (I was only available for part time abuse).

Blythe and I had developed a healthy working relationship in Yearbook class our freshman/sophomore year. Yes, yearbook, really. We won awards damn it. It was hot. Okay, so Blythe and I are friends, and maybe she had (has) a little residual crush on me (like most girls I went to high school with) even while she was dating Daniel. This fact was not lost on Daniel (to my delight). My senior year I made Blythe go with me to some random art lecture at OU. She lied to Daniel, telling him she was going to an SAT study session with Lacey. The next day he found the program from the lecture and confronted her. When she told Daniel that she was with me all night, he broke into tears. Yes, for the record, I made Daniel Phelps cry like a mother fucking baby. So congratulations Blythe, on the one year anniversary of your successful break up!

The Old and Homeless Hate Me

It’s only noon and already this has been a busy Friday. Around 9am I was hit by a car. While coming back from our little office café (Normandie—where Pete Sampras and his wife often have breakfast together) an elderly man in his late 100s took his foot off the brake right as I was crossing the street in front of him (in the crosswalk bitches). This happens; people get bumped, no big whoop. But this time he didn’t stop, he tried to mow me down, like a fucking hit man. With cat-like reflexes, I jumped onto the hood of his car and did a dive roll to safety. Senile-hit-man just kept rolling, confused and possibly rolling, until oncoming traffic had to stop and yell profanity at him. Some coffee was spilt. Later on, a nice homeless man, dressed in a white (formerly) shirt and black slacks walked into our office to request a key to the bathroom. We work in an adorable little office suite with shared (and locked) bathrooms—very freshman dorm situation. Well, the bathrooms are locked for a reason, mainly to prevent nice homeless men from moving in. At first we were confused about why he was asking us for the key—he wasn’t here to see anyone from our office. Then we caught the smell and it all clicked. All I could think about was that Will Smith movie where he’s a homeless Wall Street intern sleeping in the bathroom… because that was what was about to go down here. Eventually I made up a lie explaining that we didn’t have bathrooms in this building but that he should try Sotheby’s across the street. With candidates interview this afternoon, I can only imagine what the rest of the day will bring.