Shaky Jake Writes Farce.

For those of you who enjoyed reading about my real-life adventures in Hollywood, you can now direct yourselves over to my latest blog, Pop Farce, where you can read some fake stories about the happenings in show-biz.

Back Again,
Shaky Jake

Leaving Los Angeles.

"Don't wait up, we'll be fine.
Somehow we might get it right in our finest year.
In this moment, while you're breathing.
If the future leaves you needing,
Will you be the one who stayed?"
- Better Than Ezra, "Our Finest Year"

As I sit here typing this, my final entry in The Hillbilly Takes Hollywood, my heart is split in two; both weighted down by an overwhelming sadness and jittery with anticipation. Today is the day that I knew was coming since the first day I crossed the California border. Today is the day I leave Los Angeles.

With any great change, this moment is bittersweet. For the last twelve months, Los Angeles has been my home and there are things that I will miss. I’ll miss the big events. The great musicians performing at The Troubadour. The trips to San Diego, to Malibu, to Anaheim. The movie premiers on Hollywood Boulevard. The chance encounters with B-list celebrities. The Oscars. The Pig N’ Whistle. The Palladium. The Sunset Strip. But maybe even more than those things, it’s the little things I’ll miss. Laying on the beach. Overlooking all of LA from our rooftop. Weekends in the park. Reading a book on the train ride to work. The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. Miyagi’s. Universal’s City Walk.


Knowing that on any given day at any given time, magic is happening in this city. And knowing that I’ll no longer have it surrounding me breaks my heart.

But as the sun sets on our final days in the city, I realize that I have a whole year’s worth of memories and experiences to take with me for the rest of my life. It’s something that I will never regret.


Goodbye, Hollywood. You will be missed.


This Entry In Song:
Aaron Sprinkle - "My Own Chapter"
Guster - "So Long"
Matt Nathanson - "Gone"
Better Than Ezra - "Our Finest Year"

Completely,
Shaky Jake

Persuing An Idenity Crisis.

"I've got all these thoughts just floating through my brain.
They bump and they collide and cause a flurry of confusion.
And it's getting on my nerves...
...What's going on? Is this where I belong tonight?"
- Motion City Soundtrack - "Where I Belong"

Moving to Los Angeles was partly inspired by a desire to grow as a person and find myself. Instead, I seem to have completely lost myself. Or at least, I think that’s the case. I can’t seem to locate myself entirely so I’m guessing that I’m lost. I sense this because the question that has been running through my head evermore is “when people think of me, Jacob William Trowbridge, what do they think of?”

One particular article in the recent LA Times Magazine struck a cord with my current identity crisis. The article centered around the idea that purchasing a new car can cause the buyer to ask a lot of questions about the type of person that they are, as well as what type of person they want to be. I, for one, would have no clue where to start with a new car, in part because I have no passion for automobiles. They are silly and overrated. But this begs the question: what do I have a passion for?

The obvious first choice in passion-picking is the almighty word. Writing is what I do the most of in my spare time. (In fact, it happens to be what I’m doing right now.) Putting pen to paper—or rather, fingers to keypad–provides a great release for me. You could say that it’s a cathartic joy. But even this, my most enjoyable of hobbies, is still just that: a hobby. I don’t carry notebooks with me everywhere I go in case of sudden inspiration. I write when I think I need to, not when I feel inspired to.

The more general question to ask might be: what type of person am I? I’m certainly not much of a man’s man. Though I’ve come to appreciate a good brew, I’m far from a beer snob. I’m no hop head. I don’t have a strong case of lager lust and I’ve never gone on a quest for the Holy Grail of pale ales. Besides, I much prefer fruity-flavored rums to any dark beer you’d put in front of me. I like to cook on the grill, but no one’s lining up to taste my man meat. (...) I know diddly about fixing cars and even less about household appliances. I also don’t “do” sports. I don’t watch them and I don’t play them. The last time I swung a bat was when I found one sleeping in my closet. (But boy did I make that bastard pay.)

I’m not an artist, per se. Sure, I love music or, more specifically, finding new music and categorizing it into play lists. (You’d think this would make me an organized person, but that character trait still avoids me.) I own three guitars and haven’t played one of them in the last year, which goes to show the dedication I bring to my art. Even when I do pluck around, I always play other people’s songs. I’ve only written two songs in my life; both of them were for my girlfriend...and both of them were terrible. I also doodle the same picture of a stereotypical black man (with Afro) from the 1970's over and over.

I am a dork, but I can’t quite call myself a full-on nerd. I know a little about computers, a little less about programming, and I’ve never played World of Warcraft or Halo. So, I’m really more of a doofus than a geek, I guess.

I’m not strikingly handsome. I resemble a cross between Zach Braff and David Archuleta, which is to say that I’m “interesting looking.” I’m not bound for Muscle Town, but I like to workout occasionally. I’m not much for fashion, though I believe I rate higher than the average Midwesterner. (No offense, Iowa, but c’mon. We both know it’s true.) I don’t have strong opinions about things–specifically political things. I can rattle off my Top 5 list for everything ever but would never be able to pick an absolute favorite from any category.

I have what the French call a certain “meh-ness” about me. I’m a dabbler.

If this spewing of thoughts has taught me anything, it’s that I have many likes and dislikes, but no passions. I’m a hobbyist. I do a little bit of this and (if I’m feeling extra spiffy) a little bit of that. I am, by all means, a man without a country. I am mediocre, bland, average, banal, and ultimately middle-of-the-road. I am completely and disappointingly normal.

The good thing is that it's apparently never too late to change. So maybe moving back to Iowa is a better path than I originally thought. Maybe I'll find what I left back there.


This Entry In Song:
Guster - "Manifest Destiny"
The Pixies - "Where Is My Mind?"
Novel - "I Am..."

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #14.

T-minus 5 days until we drive back to Iowa and I have yet to pack a single item. It's all part of my plan to make the move more of an adventure.

15 Hours In Disneyland: An Amusement Challenge.

"Too much fun? What's that mean?
It's like too much money. There's no such thing."
- Daryle Singletary - "Too Much Fun"

For millions of tourists every year, Disneyland is billed as “the happiest place on earth.” Whether you’re 2-foot-tall or just too big to fit into your favorite Winger t-shirt, this park of amusement is supposed to put a smile on your face and a skip in your step (and maybe even a Pooh in your backpack). But what I wanted to know is if it’s a place that you could actually spend an entire day at without wanting to vault yourself right off of the Matterhorn and onto Goofy’s oversized head.

THE CHALLENGE: spend 15 hours at Disneyland.

A few guidelines were put into place to make this thing official. First, time was split between classic Disneyland and its next-door offshoot, California Adventure. Thanks to the “deal” that is Disney’s 1-day Park Hopper ticket, this would only cost $186 and the donation of my liver to binge-drinker Captain Hook. Second, absolutely NO stepping off the premises of these adjoining theme parks, even if only to go back to the parking lot. Third, while sleeping is not permitted during this day of fun, the occasional (but brief) squat underneath a shaded tree is allowed. And finally, no matter how excusable, I cannot accost any working member of the Disneyland staff. With the rules established, it’s time to survive Disneyland.

Hour 1:
From the initial trolley ride to the park’s main entrance, my eyes were wide with curiosity and the front of my pants were a tad moist. It was just like being a kid again. Nine o’ clock in the morning and the first thing you see is a giant, garden flower-version of Mickey Mouse, so the expectations for the rest of the park were set pretty high.

Real magic DOES exist.


Hour 2:
Since Emily had never been to a Disney theme park and the last time I saw Mickey face-to-face was when I was thirteen (and didn’t have the balls to kick him in the knees), we decided early on to do everything we encountered that seemed even remotely interesting. This lead us to waste invaluable time in Tomorrowland, with such stinkers as Star Tours (a Star Wars “ride” that hasn’t been updated since Return of the Jedi hit theaters) and Autopia, which can only be described as “go-karts for kids with serious energy deficiencies.” Thankfully, it also landed us on Space Mountain. Unlike Star Tours, this shoots you into a galaxy far, far away so fast you might actually see Princess Leia’s boob in hyper-speed.

I love Disneyland!

In space, everyone looks this cool.

Hour 3:
By this time, the sun had officially begun its assault on my skin. One thing about the California sun: it takes pity on no one. Crippled Vietnam War veterans will feel its shiny hate just as much as the little girls singing “A Whole New World” into their ponytails. Thus, rotating between water rides and indoor attractions seemed a good plan. We got soaked silly on Splash Mountain (where I made sure that the ride’s photo station caught me molesting my own nipples in mid-fall). Then we took our wet bottoms over to the Matterhorn to air-dry, where I finally got to witness a middle-aged Asian man hit on three American women while his teenaged son watched and hopefully took mental notes. (“But what do I say after I tell them hair on head smell like boo-tiful cactus melon?”) Also, we stopped to commemorate our Disney day with Disney Fun Hats. This way, everyone else at the park knew that we meant business.

I want Mickey Mouse to father my first child.


Hour 4:
Our first food break was upon us. A stop at the over-priced Café Orleans made me realize why mixing ham, cheese, and funnel cake into a sandwich is never a good idea. The grapes were delectable, though.

Disneyland is overpriced and stupid.

Hour 5:
Learned of the wonderful invention called “Fast Pass,” which basically allows you to hold your spot in line while you wander off to look at and do a bunch of other crap. Probably the most useful hour of the entire day.

Disliking Disneyland less once again.

Hour 6:
Switching gears, we shot over to the California Adventure section, which overtly enforced the idea that we were, in fact...in California. The rides were super, though, and made for my favorite part of the day. Mulholland Madness snapped my neck around like I was actually riding around Mulholland Drive, California Screamin’ made me hoarse, and Soarin’ Over California was the most intense HD IMAX experience I’ve had since that educational video on the female anatomy I watched in college. Mind-blowing hour.

I have a renewed sense of wonderment!

Hour 7:
The sun is really starting to get to me. I think some stuff happened at some point during this hour, I just can’t be sure of exactly what.

Disneyland: home of death itself.

Luckily, The Roadrunner had provided a way out of this heat trap.

Hour 8:
It's the halfway point and the sun wants to end my life. It’s tried on several occasions to break my spirit and has all-but-succeeded most of those times, leaving me to wonder if I’ll want to leave my apartment ever again after today. I sip a non-alcoholic margarita underneath a canopy while Emily catches a quick nap, thus eliminating herself from the challenge (that she was admittedly unaware of), proving that I am all that is man and she...not so much.

Fuck you, sun and thank you, slushy drink.

What's inside that butt cup? You'll never know...

Hour 9:
Sleepy time is over and will be replaced with crap your pants time. Onto the Tower of Terror! Honestly, I’m glad that we did this one during daylight as I needed the extra rays of sun to dry my pantaloons. Definitely left a part of myself on the top floor of the tower.

Feeling good but still hating the hell out the goddamn sun.

Has anyone seen what used to be inside of me? I'm going to need that back...

Hour 10:
Grabbed a quick bite at something called Taste Pilot’s Grill which, contrary to popular belief, does not serve its food by launching it at your face. I do not recommend the Tangy Bleu Burger. It tasted like bitter ketchup and feet. After suppressing my gag reflex, we ventured back to Disneyland proper, catching up on some popular rides that we missed the first go-round. One question: why has Pirates of the Caribbean not been updated with all the success of the movies? I recognized not one set piece on this lazy canoe ride. Arrrrgggguably the greatest disappointment of the day.

Jake’s forecast: irritable with a chance of punting the next person who stops directly in my path just to put their thumb up their butt.

Hour 11:
If Tower of Terror was the Sixth Sense of Disneyland, Haunted Mansion was the...well...Haunted Mansion of Disneyland. I half-expected a holographic version of Eddie Murphy to appear midway through the tour as an old, fat, black woman ghost and I fully-expected to punch that hologram in the face as hard as I could if it happened.

I’m beginning to grow a tad disenchanted with this whole Disney experience.

Hour 12:
Two words: Fast Pass. Two more words: Indiana Jones. Two more, less interesting words: The Ride. Put those words together and you get a surprisingly mediocre ride on a fake Jeep. We brush it off and rush to get some ice cream before the official nighttime festivities can begin.

The excitement builds in me once again like a childish geyser. Rumble, rumble...

She can physically contain her excitement no longer.

Hour 13:
The point behind spending an entire day at Disneyland is to experience the daytime AND nighttime activities. Once the sky goes black, a parade of flashing bulbs fills the streets. My favorite Disney characters (namely Dopey, Pinnochio, and that big dragon thing) came rolling by in what is called the “Electric Parade.” I call it “Good Luck Snapping a Picture of These Friggin’ Things That Won’t Come Out Either Blurry or Remarkably Dim." Sure, their name is catchier but mine speaks the truth.

Pretty lights.


Hour 14:
When the parade passes, we scurry over to the castle–along with literally every other person in Southern California–to witness the famous fireworks display over the castle. I can’t even make a joke about this. It was breathtaking. The sappy, inspirational music coupled with the image of AN ACTUAL REAL-LIFE TINKERBELL flying over the castle in front of a spectacular fireworks display damn near brought a tear to my eye. It made me miss being a child in overwhelming awe of the simple things.

Once again, I find myself believing that magic really does exist. I thank you, Disneyland.


Hour 15:
We did it! To wrap up our marathon Disney adventure, we watched a water spectacle featuring most of Disney cast that was essentially Fantasia: H20. But we couldn’t rightfully leave Disneyland without seeing the jaw-dropping racial stereotypes encompassed by It’s a Small World and spinning ourselves sick on the Teacups.

It was now time to say goodbye. And at that point, even though we had seen and done just about everything Walt Disney had to offer, we were still just a little sad that it had to end. I’d gladly return next year to do it all over again.


This Entry In Song:
Guster - "What You Wish For"
I Can Make a Mess Like Nobody's Business - "The Best Happiness Money Can Buy"
Michael Jackson - "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough"
Panic at the Disco - "Nine in the Afternoon"
Modest Mouse - "The Good Times Are Killing Me"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Ninja Turtles, Meet Your Sworn Enemy.

"They're the world's most fearsome fighting team.
They're heroes in a half-shell and they're green.
When the evil Shredder attacks,
These Turtle boys don't cut him no slack!"
- TMNT Cartoon Theme Song

Hollywood Boulevard is always home to what I politely refer to as "freaks." Dressing up as cartoon characters (and sometimes Jesus), these people clog the sidewalks and make the average tourist feel remarkably uncomfortable. Well, today I got to be a part of the sidewalk freakshow.

An open casting-call was held outside of the Hollywood & Highland Center for the forthcoming Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie. The parts being filled were that of the Turtles' nemeses, masked ninjas known collectively as The Foot Clan. Each participant was given about 30 seconds to impress the judges--the producers, director, and martial artist extraordinaire Ernie Reyes Jr. (who appeared in the 2nd Turtle film)--by kicking, flipping, and generally lashing out with all limbs.

My judge was this guy...only 15 years older.

I waited in line for more than 2 hours to do a 30-second demonstration for the chance to be one of 300 masked bad guys in a children's martial arts movie. Somehow, I've decided that this makes me cool.


This Entry In Song:
Lily Allen - "Knock 'Em Out"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Climbing My Personal Mountain. Physically.

"Ain't no mountain high enough..."
- The Temptations, "Ain't No Mountain High Enough"

I'm not sure how I've contained my excitement for as long as I have without spilling it out onto this screen. It is, quite frankly, a miracle by all definitions of the word. (Three. There are three definitions. I looked.) Ladies and gentlemen, this past weekend, specifically on Saturday the 11th, I climbed my mountain. And I don't mean that in the sappy, metaphorical way that means I really just conquered my addiction to drugs and alcohol, but in the true, God's honest way. I climbed a mountain.

It was my Everest. Though, really, it was pretty petite in comparison and was beaten in a matter of perhaps 17 minutes. Nevertheless, it made me a man--scratch that, a man's man--and I can now cross that daunting task off of my Epiphony List. (The mountain-climbing, not the man-being.) If you need any further proof that my testicles are bigger than most people's heads, just have to ask the doctor that did my last physical.

While I do not have pictures (yet) I did have three witnesses...one of whom climbed that rocky incline with me. In your face California. I have now defeated you. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go eat a meat cookie and nail up some drywall.


This Entry In Song:
Jane's Addiction - "Mountain Song"
Red Hot Chili Peppers - "Higher Ground"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #13.

It's so hot in The Valley that you could burst into flames just by thinking of about the inside of an oven for too long.

Tears of Stone Turn Liquid When Reading One Woman’s Deal With God.

"I'll take fate, I'll take fate on a day by day basis.
I will not wait, I will not wait for what the world may not create."
- Mieka Pauley, "Fate Day By Day"

A lot of people claim to have had a hard life. Their parents scarred them emotionally or they lost a close member of their family at a young age or they become middle-aged un-employees, etc. But very few people (that I know) have had all of those things happen to them during their lifetime. And even fewer come out on the other end still being able to smile.

When Estherleon Schwartz, a regular patron at my place of work, told me she had written and published a book, I was excited and of course, very happy for her. After a small mix-up with Amazon.com (the fault of yours truly, not the online book store), I eventually received my copy of the book entitled “Tears of Stone And My Deal With God.” It’s Esther’s autobiography. Now, before I go any further, I have to say this: if you have not had an interesting life and/or haven’t reached celebrity status, you should not have an autobiography. Period. With that said, Ester deserves to have her life story printed on those 133 pages.


Prior to reading the book, I only knew of Esther as an interesting customer dedicated to keeping her finances in line and putting a smiley face on my day. When I finished her book, however, I couldn’t help but think of how a person struck by tragedy after overwhelming tragedy could remain so positive. A small checklist of her heartbreak: child holocaust survivor, lost two close family members at a young age (her father and brother), left with a chastising and unsupportive mother, closed up life’s work of clothing stores, etc. It goes on to become a substantial what's what of depressing circumstances rolled up into a big smack in the face.

The book is full of Esther's conversational essays and snippets of her own lyrics--from her time as a cantor/singer extraordinaire--and is a surprisingly quick read. (I finished the first half of my copy on the bus ride to work.) Though I can't say that it changed my perspective on life or love or God, it certainly gave me a newfound respect for people who remain faithful after such cumulative adversity. The next time I reflect on my crappy day at work, this book's cover will probably accompany it with a message reading: "quit your whining, ya baby."

I recommend this for people who might need a little reminder of how good they have it.

Check out Esther's website where you can order a copy of Tears of Stone.


This Entry In Song:
Mieka Pauley - "Fate Day By Day"
Carbon Leaf - "Life Less Ordinary"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #12.

Pushing the button at a crosswalk 43 times within a minute does not make the pedestrian crossing light change to "go" any quicker. So stop it.

John Mayer Re-visited.

"And if I ever want proof, I find it in you.
Yeah, I honestly do. In you I find proof."
- Coldplay, "Proof"

This past couple of weeks I've been struggling with the fact that the two niftiest moments to have happened to me since I moved out to California--receiving The People's Eyebrow from The Rock and seeing an impromptu John Mayer concert--are completely without proof. I have no pictures. I have no autographs. I have nothing.

...UNTIL NOW! (Too dramatic? I debated for a long time whether or not to use that lame device. Decided it was ok...)

Thanks to a YouTuber with the handle BrittneyCA, I now have a sliver of proof tying me to the event on June 14th, 2009:



Did you see me? No? Really? Seriously, because it was pretty apparent. I'm the guy in the green and gray flannel shirt against the wall in the far background! Starting at 19 seconds and ending somewhere near 21 seconds? COME ON, ARE YOU BLIND? All right, well my girlfriend and former roommate are in there too at the 23 second mark...

In any case, I can now rest better knowing that I've been captured on tape being a mere 3 feet from Mayer. So kiss my grits, people.


This Entry In Song:
Ace Enders - "I Told You So"
Motion City Soundtrack - "This Is For Real"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Like It Or Not, It’s Transformers...in IMAX.

"Does it feel familiar? Are you comfortable with this?"
- Kristeen Young, "Comfort Is Never a Goal"

I saw Transformers 2 at Universal Citywalk’s IMAX theater last night. It was huge, it was loud, and it was explosive-y. It’s pretty much what you expect from every Michael Bay movie, with the sole exception here being that I didn’t walk away from the theater having already penned a detailed drawing on how I could turn Bay’s major body parts into a stocking cap. I’m still having difficulty accepting the fact that I didn’t completely loathe Transformers 2. If I liked the movie, that means that I must admit to hating Michael Bay less. And quite frankly, that’s just not something I'm ready to do.

So I’ll settle for this: if Michael Bay showed up to my doorstep holding an autographed copy of Miami Vice, I would hesitate longer before shitting in his mouth. Of course, this still doesn’t mean that I’ll be camping out for the midnight showing of Transformers 3: Bigger & Transformier. But, I'll have to consider renting it.


This Entry In Song:
Better Than Ezra - "Hollow"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

...And Then There Were Two.

"The clock's running down..."
- Fountains of Wayne, "All Kinds of Time"

The original threesome that made the move to California was broken apart yesterday. Our friend returned to Iowa, leaving only me and my girlfriend to hold down the fort for the remaining two months of our lease. However, the two of us will be cutting our winnings and leaving at the end of July, in one month.

One month to go. That leaves a lot of unanswered questions to think about.

Have I done everything that I've come out here to do? Is there time to do everything that remains on the list? Will I ever get the chance to live in California again? What should I do with this final month?

A sadness has crept its way into my heart, seeing the apartment removed of all the roommate's junk, becoming empty and lonely in a way. Though we had our differences (many of them, in fact), she was still a third of the California experience. A third that is now gone. That's a third of the memories, a third of the days, and a third of the reason we came out here in the first place. It's a hard thing to deal with.

Our stay is ending.


This Entry In Song:
Jack Johnson - "All At Once"
Motion City Soundtrack - "Can't Finish What You Started"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

R.I.P: King of P.O.P.

"They lied when they said the good die young."
- Anberlin, "Godspeed"

It's true, not all of the good ones die young. Some die middle-aged. But Michael Jackson wasn't just one of the "good" ones, he was one of the great ones.

Everyone has a favorite Michael Jackson song. And the best part is, no one has to scour their brains to think of it. One millisecond after I'm asked the question, I can respond "Billie Jean." His music had that much of an impact on people even as young as me. At almost every wedding I go to, if the DJ spins one of his greatest hits, I move my way to the dance floor and do my best to imitate MJ. Moon-walking, crotch-grabbing, finger-snapping, the whole thing. Now...it will just seem too sad to do it.

With the upcoming tour, a lot of people thought Jackson was on his way to re-launching his career. I guess we'll never know. But I don't suppose that matters much. It may be better to realize that a lot of great musicians never get to see how much of a legacy they left. Michael Jackson got to see himself on top of the world. He lived 50 illustrious years, the majority of them as The King of Pop. He was and is a music legend.

He will be missed.

My final dance tribute to Michael Jackson:



This Entry in Song:
Michael Jackson - "Wanna Be Startin' Something"
Michael Jackson - "Billie Jean"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #11.

The TV show Friends is actually a lot more unique than most people give it credit for. I mean, seriously, could it be any funnier? Well...yeah, I suppose. But it's still a good watch, even after the 4 dozenth viewing.

A Politically-Charged Rant On Foreigners in America.

In this blog, you'll usually find me making paragraph-long jokes about celebrities or musing on slightly sentimental topics...but not today. Today I'm tackling something a little more serious and controversial: foreign people coming to America and pissing me off.

WHAT?

Yeah, I know, bare with me. Or don't. It's up to you, because you're living in America and have the freedom to click your way to another blog or go peak in on your neighbors next door doing it like coked-up rabbits instead. The choice is yours.

If you're still here, I'll issue a straightforward warning: you may agree with me on these things and you may not. If you don't, that's cool. (That means you're a dick...but whatever.) And just so you know, I'm not going to be one of those Southern prejudiced caricatures that screams "if you can't speak English, you don't belong in this here country!" at every off-white person he encounters. But, over the past few months, I've had my head shoved into the (at-times counter-intuitive) melting pot that is Los Angeles, and I don't always like what I see.

The population of "out-of-towners" in L.A. is mind-blowing. If I had to guess, less than 30% of the people that live here were born in America. That other 70% is very, VERY proud of their ethnic heritage; proud to the point where they refuse to learn English because it might "taint" their own cultural identity. Instead, these people will look at you like you're from fucking outer space if you can't speak their language. Like they're offended. That you can't speak Spanish in America. What...the...fuck?

If I go to Panama, and the Panamanians don't speak English, I think, "yeah, that's about right. Boy, I wish I'd stopped to learn a little of the native language before I decided to live here." It sucks, but it's fair. I don't think, "what a bunch of cocksuckers. Learn to speak English you idiots. [Scoff] Arrogant Panamanians." And yet, that's what I see happen nearly everyday in California.

Message to all foreigners: If you don't want to speak our language, or participate in our culture, or "American-ize" yourself too much, then stay in your own country. It's pointless for you to be here if you're not going to try grow as a person, and it's just plain rude to expect everyone to cater to your every whim because you don't understand what the hell is going on. Get over yourselves.

Drunken Cartwheels: An American Tradition.

Sure, America is a great place to escape all types of persecution and we welcome the "tired...poor...huddled masses yearning to be free," but that comes with restrictions. You can't just come here to piss on our heritage and do exactly what you did in your home country (with better pay and benefits). Doesn't work that way. Granted, American flag apparel is not necessary (for anyone...ever) and you don't even have to know all of the state capitals. But being able to pronounce the president's name and having an English vocabulary greater than Hellen Keller is a must! They are pre-requisites, not options.

Please attempt to learn the basic words and phrases that are needed in important situations--like, I don't know, working and stuff. You can certainly come to America and you can absolutely take a job away from a lazy American who thinks that working at a McDonald's is below him but beating his wife and starving his kids is an Olympic event. That's fine. But if it's truly that hard for you to understand simple things like "how are you?" and "this isn't supposed to go in there" and "put that down before you hurt somebody" you may want to consider picking up an English dictionary to have some alone-time with. And you absolutely, positively, without a single doubt, should NOT hold a job which requires you to speak to customers over the telephone. That's just being silly and makes it seem as if you're trying to piss Americans off. We don't like it! (So...job well done?)

If you don't like this country, the people in it, and its culture, why would you want to live here? And if you're going to stick strictly to your own ethnic circles, speaking in your foreign language at all times, couldn't you be doing that back home? With people that do that same thing and won't get furiously annoyed with you when you think that "orange" is a number?

Just something to think about, foreigners.


This Entry in Song:
Anberlin - "Foreign Language"
Better Than Ezra - "American Dream"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Who Can Argue With a Free John Mayer Concert?

"I have been a douche at times."
- John Mayer @ Hotel Cafe on June 14th

A couple of nights ago, I had an experience that I can only define as "completely unique to Los Angeles." A friend had heard from a friend who had heard from his sister who had read on Twitter--yeah--that John Mayer was playing an impromptu set at the Hotel Cafe. Big whoop, right? But his Twitter note came with another descriptor: "5 dollar show." Annnnnnd, now we're talking. Because whether you like John Mayer or not, you're not going to pass up a $5 concert on a Sunday night. Especially when it's a hugely successful musician like Mayer. Because I may be a music snob, but I'm not a general retard.

As four of us stood in a line of at least 100--and growing--I contemplated the schematics of this situation for a moment. At 8:55 PM, John Mayer posts on his Twitter page that he'll be playing at 11:30 PM. At 9:33 PM, we find out about it. At 10:28 PM, we arrive at Hotel Cafe, in Hollywood. That means, in 93 minutes, John Mayer rallied over 100 people via the Internet to see him play a show on a Sunday night. At 10:29 PM, I start to re-evaluate my opinion about the usefulness and popularity of Twitter.

There was a cog in this little scheme, though, which turned out to be the patrons already inside Hotel Cafe at the time John announced his show. Once word crept in, those same people decided to stay, which meant that only a handful of us outside were getting into the already packed bar. And yet, we all held onto faith. On three separate occasions, a promoter/bouncer/manager/dipshit came out of the club to tell the line (rapidly lengthening to something of a riotous mob in line for a Harry Potter movie) that "the show is all sold out. No one else is getting in. So go home. Please." And each time, a few of the lesser fans would fall away, letting us inch closer to the door.

(Note: fans in this sentence relates to fans of cheap shit, and not necessarily John Mayer's cheap shit. Though it's possible.)

Photo Courtesy of Just Jared.

And then...the man arrived. The man who was advertising a "5 dollar show" was here to play that very same 5 dollar show. The coolest thing? He drove himself into the little back alley where we stood, parked his car beside the line, grabbed his own gear and headed inside, leaving his Porsche parked in a back alley...alongside a hundred star-struck fans. He must have had a separate guitar case for his balls somewhere in the back of that Porsche. Paparrazi flashes be damned if I didn't get a good solid glimpse of "that guy who played that song about bodies being wonderlands." Neat. But he didn't say a word to anyone, didn't look toward the general direction of the crowd, and didn't respond to my announcement of "fuckin' Twitter. Yeah!" What...a...douche.

Having witnessed Mr. Growley-Face mope his way into the venue, I was less concerned about seeing him play. My posse stood strong, though, and that meant that I did too. We stood that way for another half an hour after the show had started. In the alley, talking to the paparazzi. Fuck me. No, wait, fuck John Mayer. I doubted we would even catch him coming back out, let alone see him sing any chords. I'll tell you this, though, I was this close to peeing on his windshield wipers. Thankfully, after a few of the longer moments a person can have had passed, an incredibly pierced hostess came to let the stragglers hear the remaining Mayer-time. "He's not done yet, but I don't know how long he'll keep playing for." The crowd of now perhaps 14 scurried inside.

I thought to myself, "Self, I'm not paying 5 bucks to hear this newly-proven d-bag maybe play half of a song." And then the hostess said, "You don't have to pay. You can just go in." At least, I'm assuming she said the second thing, I'm not really sure because I was already standing 20 feet from John Mayer inside Hotel Cafe.

Dimly lit and intimate as all get-out, the inside of that place was cool beans. John was mid-solo in some bluesy little jam when I entered. Being a bit of a guitar nerd, hearing him bust out some cleanly-plucked blues ditties made me smile and like him just a little more, but not as much the story he was about to tell would. In between songs, he spoke to the crowd with a sense of humor--though, thankfully, not from his stand-up act--and introspection. These two things mixed in a coming-of-age story, wherein he admitted (wholeheartedly) to the small audience that he had been a huge douchebag in the past, and that he was working on it. In the same story, he told us not to be the "beta" to anyone else's "alpha," meaning that we should not take guff from people. He relayed the much-recounted TMZ segment, where Mayer came stumbling out of a bar with lipstick marks covering his face and slurring about how drunk he was, which--spoiler--turned out to be a prank. And while I had previously fallen on the side of the TMZ reporters who lauded Mayer as "lame" and "sad," the argument Mayer gave for himself was hard to counter. He said in plain terms that he had fun and no one should judge him for that. He did something he thought was enjoyable and then had a good chuckle over it. You can't get much cleared than that.

Photo Courtesy of Alejandro De Cruz.

I enjoyed his insightful musings on life, but that's not what I (hadn't) paid for! I (hadn't) paid to hear music! So he played some things old, and some things new, some things borrowed, and some things blue. And, fine, I'll just come out and say it: he was fucking goooood. He may not be Eric Johnson, but he's pretty damn solid. I want to share with you a small, lyrical snippet from a new, in-the-works song he played. It goes:

" Anything other than yes is no. Anything other than stay is go.
Anything less than 'I love you' is lying. "

Whether you like John Mayer or despise the very fingers he uses to play the guitar, you have to agree that those are words to live and breathe by.

After the show, he continued the slow dropping of his cape of douchi-ness and stayed to sign tons of autographs and take what felt like thousands of pictures. He defaced Emily's wallet (don't worry, she asked him to).

I walked into the alley behind Hotel Cafe a fan of cheap, live music and went home a pretty sizeable fan of John Mayer. I won't be asking him to autograph my genitals or see him star in a summer action movie anytime soon, but I think I'll consider picking up his next album.


This Entry In Song:
John Mayer - "Heart of Life"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Kyle Cease Gives Crowd Collective Swamp Ass.

"Does anybody here [insert question]? You're actually shaking your head no, like I should just look around at everyone and see which answer they're nodding. Like it's process of elimination. There's got to be a better way!"
- Kyle Cease, owning Emily at the Jon Lovitz Comedy Club

You may know him as Bogie Lowenstein in 10 Things I Hate About You (as my girlfriend does) or "the Slow Clapper" in Not Another Teen Movie. But I simply know him as "the guy who made my pants incredibly damp." He's Kyle Cease biz-nizzles!

I caught Kyle's show at the Jon Lovitz Comedy Club (recently opened at Universal's Citywalk) last night and have to say this: if you watch the following clip and don't laugh at it more than three times (once right away and two more times in the days following when you stop to reflect back on it), you cannot be my friend. Not now. Not ever.



That kind of rapid-fire joke spillage is usually reserved for 3-year-olds who haven't grasped the fact that their overuse of knock-knock jokes makes them sound even stupider than they actually are. But when Kyle Cease does it, it's funny (and way cuter than some asshole 3-year-old.) (Also, are you getting tired of parentheses yet? Because, really, I feel like I might be using them too often but don't want to stop...)

Last night I laughed so hard that I cried...twice. And I don't mean that thing where you're just laughing and tears are coming out, I mean actually, physically sobbing because the laughter was overwhelming. I left the Jon Lovitz Comedy Club with a joke-induced stomachache and very sweaty ass. I'm serious with this--my ass was sweating so bad that it may have looked like I peed my pants from behind somehow.
And that's the true benchmark of comedy: giving someone swamp ass from telling jokes.

Kyle Cease is highly recommended for fans of: jokes, joke telling, strongly-worded insults, grandmothers, comedy, pianos not really sounding like pianos at all, backwards hats, slow clapping, sideways hats, and beautiful tirades about inept parking garage attendants. And things like this...




This Entry In Song:
Fountains of Wayne - "New Routine"
Lionel Richie & The Commodores - "Easy Like Sunday Morning"


Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

How Hard Is It To Remember Iowa?

Iowa and Ohio should just merge to form Ohiowa, if for no other reason than so people in California will actually be able to remember where the hell I'm from.

"You're from Ohio, right?"
"No, but close. Different state, similar name."
"Oh, that's right, my bad. Idaho..."

Yeah, we might as well toss Idaho into the name combination, too. Make it a tri-fecta. It's going to save a lot of time and confusion in the end. So from now on, I'm referring to myself as an Ohiowaho-an.

Unless, of course, that's too hard to remember?


This Entry In Song:
Dar Williams - "Iowa (live)"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Wishing For Muscles While Sipping Protein Shakes.

"Pump it up until you can feel it.
Pump it up when you don't really need it."
- Elvis Costello, "Pump It Up"

I'm saying goodbye to being skinny, people. That's right. The fingers that are currently typing this will soon be replaced with muscular sausages the girth of The Hulk's penis. (Probably...I'm not an expert on the matter...just seems like it would be impressive...ya know?) So where a strong breeze may have pushed me off balance in the past, I will now be able to grab that wind by the testicles and toss it overseas where it belongs.

It's about more than just lifting weights, though. You gotta do more than just pick up some dumbbells and dance around with them in your hands, after all. That's why I'm not gargling with mouthwash, but pure protein whey. I'm injecting whole pieces of chicken directly into my pecs, baby. Six-pack? Please. I'm talking about Taco John's Six-Pack and a Pound, at the very least. In the coming months, if you look directly at my abdomen, your eyes will bleed the fat tears of the unfit. Getting excited? Just wait.

I offer a series of analogies to help you understand just how maddeningly ripped I am about to become: (1) my physique will make Hugh Jackman look like Martin Short in the cartoon version of Ed Grimley, (2) my arms will have to be separated into 2 different time zones--my triceps will be Central, my biceps Eastern Pacific, and (3) the skin on my body is going to become taught like a large rubberband being stretched to full length...by a hot piece of buttock meat. (Chew on that last one a little while longer. All right? Thinking of the image? Cool...then let's move on.)

Bottom line is this: God willing, I won't be mistaken for Mary Kate Olsen ever again. If anything, I'll have to beat fans of Lou Ferigno off with a stick. And by "stick," I mean an arm's length of muscle pulp. 'Cause that's what I do.

Well, that's what I'll do when I eventually make it down to the gym.


This Entry In Song:
Elvis Costello - "Pump It Up"
Muse - "Muscle Museum"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Rejected CRACKED Article #2.

Because you were totally asking for it, here comes another failed article from Cracked.com's wannabe writer:

*****
THE MOST IRONIC WAYS PEOPLE DIED.

A lot of people have died in silly, obscure, and even unbelievable ways. But it takes a real champ to go out in a way that can be considered truly ironic. These are the people who made Alanis Morrisette want to pen a follow-up hit and were ultimately the lightning rods for God's worst sense of humor.

• Red Foxx

The Jab:
After his days on “Sanford & Son” ended, Foxx returned to television many years later–he needed some time off to dedicate to his family and cocaine (70/30, respectively)–in a show called “The Royal Family.” The original name for the show was supposed to be “Chest Pains,” but producers eventually decided that it sounded too much like something associated with a gag Foxx used to pull on Sanford & Son. Either that, or producers peered into the future and knew that eventual confusion among viewers as to whether they were watching a show about Fred Sanford or Mike Siever would create a strange dip in the target demographic.

The Irony Blow:
A month into the show, Foxx died of a heart attack during rehearsals. Rehearsals for a show previously named “Chest Pains.” Now hearing Fred Sanford breathily gasp "Oh this is the biggest one I ever had! You hear that Elizabeth? I'm comin' to join ya honey!" is just sad.

• Mel Ignatow

The Jab:
Ignatow escaped a lengthy jail sentence when he was acquitted of murdering his wife. Due to something called Double Jeopardy, he was then unable to be re-tried for her death once certain proof was found against him. (This, coincidentally, was the same way Alec Trebec was aquitted of his moustache.) The aforementioned proof? A videotape showing Ignatow as the obvious killer wherein he had his wife bound to a glass coffee table.

The Irony Blow:
Any guesses as to how this cancerous mole died? Yeah. Fell through a glass coffee and cut himself up so much that he bled to death. Revenge is a dish best served with shards of itself lodged in uncomfortable places. (Hopefully his penis).

• George Story

The Jab:
In 1936, Life Magazine premiered. On the cover of the debut issue was a newborn baby by the name of George Story. The headline read: "Life Begins." Over the course of the magazine's tenure, it updated readers on Story’s life from the first time he got married all the way through his retirement, providing a detailed human profile of a single man. It was a beautiful way to tell the story of...well...life.

The Irony Blow:
A few days after Life announced that it would no longer continue its publication, George Story died from heart failure. In its final issue, Story was featured in one last article. The headline read: "A Life Ends."

Now, I know what you're thinking: Wait a minute? His name was actually “Story?” And his life was featured prominently in the stories in “Life?” It's enough to make anyone call "bullshit!" But this sentimental tale is actually true. In fact, I would like to believe that somewhere out there is a man named Gary Cracked who will not only be high on cocaine 24/7, but who will also spend his days telling his friends about the 29 Most Awesome Ways a Robot Could Kill You until he finally passes away from looking at too many pictures of Photo-shopped boobies.

• J.I. Rodale

The Jab:
Famous for promoting a healthy lifestyle and organic foods, Rodale was the publisher of Organic Farming and Gardening magazine. He didn’t believe in pesticides, artificial fertilizers, fat, animal products, nicotine, caffeine, and basically anything else that has any traces of “yumminess” attached to it. I’m willing to bet that he didn’t believe in irony, either.

The Irony Blow:
On a 1971 broadcast of The Dick Cavett Show, Rodale participated in an interview wherein he bragged up the pay-offs of healthy living stating such soundbite gems as “I’m in such good health that I fell down a flight of stairs yesterday and I laughed all the way” and “I’ve decided to live to be a hundred.” Almost immediately after completing the interview, Rodale died in his chair of a heart attack. While I’d like to think that if I were host Dick Cavett, I’d be able to come up with a suitable one-liner, I’d assuredly say something like “it's not the first time I've bored someone to death!” Then I’d gurgle a bit and ask “is it hot in here or is it just this guy’s decaying body? Zing!”

That's probably why I don't have my own talk show.


*For less gruesome humor, check out my last rejected article about the worst online advice columns ever put into print.

Fast Fact #10

I sometimes stop to think about where I am today and wonder if it's real--living in California, that is. It just...it doesn't seem very "me."

Anatomy of a Rock Concert.

"In concert tonight, the bass drum was quick.
If you've got things on your mind, shake them off."
- The Faint, "In Concert"

Standing in line for hours and minutes and seconds too long, accompanied by die-hard fans and bandwagon jumpers. Protein bars and bottled waters, or a quick trip to McDonalds to satiate your growing appetite for live music. Thousands of people wearing the t-shirt of the band that they're going to see, while dozens of others don a design that loosely resembles something associated with the general idea of music. (A cryptic guitar logo, perhaps?) If it's a punk rock concert, you may be the oldest person within eyesight...and you're twenty-two years old.

Prepare for an opening band that takes themselves way too seriously but doesn't recognize that dreadlocks, constant spitting, and shoeless feet are not the key ingredients for "serious music." (A bassist that apparently moonlights as a snake charmer doesn't help, either.) Whether you're there for the headliner or for the supporting act, chances are, the rest of the audience will be split between the two. And whichever group you fall into, the people standing around you will more than likely be on the opposing team.

It's a rock show, so expect plenty of moshing/pushing/crowd-surfing/fist-fighting to be present. If you're anti-aggressive listening, front and center is probably not the place for you. And if you expect the insanity to let up during the ballads, you would be sorely (in the morning) mistaken. And since it's "today's" rock show, get used to the idea of flashing strobes of light coming from behind you instead of up on stage. Cameras, camera phones, and camera shoes (they're coming soon) will be abundant and constantly flickering. Speaking of the audience, there are usually a slew of variables that make it difficult to predict exactly how a concert will go, but there are three things that always remain constant: 1) no matter how early you get to the show, you will always be standing behind a towering brick wall of a human; 2) they will smell like a combination of piss and vinegar; and 3) there will also be someone standing directly behind you who is way too into the band and knows every word to every song...and thinks they sound better than the person being paid to sing in front of the audience.

One of these people is the reason your pillow will smell like death in the morning.

If the lead singer doesn't also play an instrument, he's going to fall into one of the following categories: microphone swinger, over-dramatic poser, or shoe-gazer. If he's the last kind of singer, expect to go home that night discussing how amazing the light show was or how the keyboardist "really knew his shit." Hopefully you get a showman, someone who knows how to rile a crowd up and also calm their asses down when they get out of hand. (Also hope for a stageman who considers spitting into an audience member's lungs a concert foul.)

I prooooomise not to spit into yoooooour mouth.

With any luck, you'll have survived the show without coming away on crutches and trying to guess whose sweat is all over your shoes. And if you're still able to hear the radio on the way home, you weren't at a real rock concert. Go back and try it again.


This Entry In Song:
Envy on the Coast - "Temper Temper"
Anberlin - "Godspeed"
Taking Back Sunday - "MakeDamnSure"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

The Least You Can Do Is Stop Re-producing.

"You're coming off kind of contrived and pretentious.
You're not saying anything we haven't heard before."
- Against Me! - "Don't Lose Touch"

You might recall that I recently launched a verbal attack against the language-abusers who drop the word "organic" at every wrong turn. I take this opportunity now to downgrade those people on my "list of people who deserve anal leakage" and add a new group of offenders to the throne. After all, it's the least that I can do.

Anytime someone offers a hand, whether it be to help a friend move furniture or possibly a dead body (thanks again, Tony), the gesture is usually met with a sincere debt of thanks. That gratitude is then returned with a casual remark, something like: "it's the least I could do." Pleasantries all around. But most times, remarks like this don't come off as pleasant. As a matter of fact, they come off as smarmy and obtuse.

Because, in the grand scheme of things, whatever you've done to reciprocate that phrase--"it's the least I could do"--chances are, there's something much less that you really could have done. After giving a friend a great recommendation to your current boss, trying to help them get back on their feet after a recent lay-off, the friend might say "thanks a lot, Jim. You've really got my back. I appreciate it." Seizing the opportunity to sound humble, you casually drop the phrase. "It's the least I could do," you say. But it's not. It's not, because the least you could do is NOTHING! You could have kept your mouth shut and never uttered a word to your boss in regards to your friend. And nothing is less than what you did. Nothing is the least you could do.

So the next time you find yourself about to lay this line out there--presumably just before you cut yourself a fun-sized slice of humble pie--think about what you're saying and then stop. And then kick yourself in the balls.


This Entry In Song:
Barcelona - "Response"
The Bravery - "Every Word Is a Knife In My Ear"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

An Open Letter to Ben Folds.

"The secret life and he leads it."
- Ben Folds, "The Secret Life of Morgan Davis"

Dear Ben Folds,

I know your secret identity. Oh? Surprised? You may have fooled millions of other shoe-gazing listeners who are intent simply listening to your slightly melancholic, sarcasm-coated piano pop gems without a thought directed toward the skill behind the music. But I know better. I know that pounding those keys in the way you do has to take some sort of superhuman gene, or at the very least, a very strong daily multi-vitamin. So the truth has been uncovered. It's time to out you...Wolverine.

Awwwwww shit! No he didn't! (And yes, he did.) That's right, Ben, or should I say "Logan?" There can't be many possible explanations for bitch-slapping the ivories in such a manner that don't involve Adamantium. Fingers of steel, they are. Your callouses have callouses, which then mated to have tiny baby callouses. But hardened skin notwithstanding, you show such little regard for you own appendages on stage that--if you weren't of superhuman capability--would greatly worry your audience, and subsequently create a less enjoyable atmosphere. But since you do have superpowers...

The venue didn't allow cameras inside. Perhaps so as not to reveal any secrets?
So this is what we documented.

You put on a show that makes every geek proud. You allow the rest of us to unleash our inner dorks in a comfortable environment, knowing full well that dorks can rock the fuck out too. You're a gifted pianist and songwriter. You know your way around a lyric or two. And you're no longer ashamed to play your big hits, a quality I find admirable in a semi-indie darling.

But, so...can you also fly? Or are your superhuman abilities limited to music? Because, I think if I had to choose, I'd go with invisibility or x-ray vision over steel fingers. Oh, and you make poke fun at some of your more terrible songs. I like that, too.

I wonder, though, do you know of any other musicians that are superheroic? If so, do you have annual meetings wherein you put all of your superpowers toward crafting an insanely good mega-hit song? Sort of a "We Are the World" for the cape-wearing crowd? And is Bono a part of it? Because, as far as I can tell, his only superpower would be his uncanny douche projection. Seriously...what a fucker.

Inside: capes, plasma guns, and Bono's dead body?

I hope you don't feel betrayed by me outing your real identity in this way. It's a sign of affection, I promise. I just find it hard to believe that someone could pound away on a piano for 3 hours like they were exorcising a demon from it without showing a little fatigue. You know?

Anyways, you've made an even greater fan out of me because of it. If you ever come around to my area again, I'll have to buy 3 tickets: one for me, one for my girlfriend, and one for my giant boner. 'Cause you're pretty great.


This Entry In Song:
Ben Folds - "You Don't Know Me"
Ben Folds - "The Secret Life of Morgan Davis"


P.S. Say hello to the rest of your Super Music Friends. (Dave Grohl, Kirk Hammett, and Elvis Costello?)

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #9

It's impossible to miss a high-five if you stare at the recipient's elbow during the motion. True story. Try it for yourself and try not to feel like you need a pocket protector.

Reminiscing About the Neighborhood Ruckus.

"That knock at the door calls the crowd to quiet.
The neighbors have complained damn near every night."
- The Academy Is..., "Neighbors"

A good night's sleep. Periods of deep reflection. Taking the security guard's phone number off of speed dial. These are the things that are afforded to you when you no longer have noisy neighbors living directly above you. And you don't realize how great those same things are until they're gone.

Months ago, The Running of the Bulls was replaced with The Gentle Whirring of Dishwashers when we accomplished the at-one-time unfathomable: kicking the silence-ophobes who lived above us out of the apartment complex once and for all. And though I was all somersaults and high-fives on that wonderful day of excommunication, I can't help but to occasionally miss the midnight Riverdancing or the 3 AM body slam wake-up calls. Call me crazy.

I also find myself wondering what happened to our alcoholic, heroine-shooting, face-punching friends to the north once they left. Where did they go? Where are they now? Are they still slamming each others heads into de-plastered walls in a cheap motel somewhere? Maybe at this exact moment, an anguished neighbor is banging on their door to stop screaming about "that bitch who doesn't deserve to breathe" who just so happens to be passed out on their patio. The optimist in me likes to think that maybe the majority of them are sitting in a cold jail cell being as loud and rowdy as they want, taking turns taunting the guards who, in turn, take turns beating them senseless with nightsticks. But the more sensible person inside me knows that the most likely scenario is the same as it was 5 months ago, just in a different apartment building that hasn't yet been fed up with their insane shenanigans.

To you calm-haters who once inhabited the space above: thanks for making me ever-more grateful for the peace and quiet that comes with normal, well-behaved neighbors. You taught me many valuable lessons, none more important than to always deal with people--no matter how unreasonable and ignorant--calmly and humanely. And when that doesn't work, call the cops on their noisy asses and report possible domestic abuse and illegal drug sales. It's a lesson I'll carry with me always.

So thank you, former residents of apartment 8-322. You won't be forgotten. (Or forgiven.)


This Entry In Song:
The Academy Is... - "Neighbors"
OK Go - "Oh Lately It's So Quiet"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Movies and Concerts and Miscellaneous Extracurriculars...Oh My!

"But this is more than entertainment...
...this is the only thing that's real or true."
- Rise Against, "Entertainment"

We're in the middle of an entertainment frenzy here, folks. It's live music, it's blockbuster movies, it's wild animals...basically, it's family-sized fun in the sun.

As of last count, me and the missus have seen several cinematic stinkers (The International, X-Men Origins: Wolverine, Duplicity) and encountered a couple of knock-outs (Angels & Demons, State of Play, Watchmen). We've heard some magnificent bands and smelled some tremendously foul smells at the hands of poo-splashing hippos. All in all, this is shaping up to be a solid summer. And the fun has just begun.

Lined up we still have the possible musical stylings of Ben Folds, Anberlin, Green Day, Gavin Rossdale, Third-Eye Blind, Incubus, and Augustana. And the rest of the must-see movies? TERMINATOR: SALVATION, bitches! Also, Public Enemies and Funny People are going to be note-worthy additions to the bright, flashing lights schedule. Plus, since we conquered the Los Angeles Zoo in one clean swoop, it's time to move onto bigger game: San Diego. (I've heard they have animal crossbreads. Hello, Kaola Penguins!)

Our ultimate goal is to be beaten to death with entertainment. But maybe that's just the optimist in me talking.


This Entry In Song:
The Bravery - "This Is Not the End"
Foo Fighters - "Another Round"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Chad Michael Murray Shops at Target.

Murray, of One Tree Hill, in Burbank, shopping for bottled water and beach towels at Target. Am I supposed to care about this? My girlfriend seems to think so.

...I'm indifferent.


Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Watching Trains and Feeling Small.

"I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean."
- Lee Ann Womack, "I Hope You Dance"

As I waited for the subway the other day, perfecting the art of staring blankly into space and wearing earphones like an introspective dunce, I couldn't help but let a smile slip across my face. A child--perhaps 7 years old, perhaps not even that--was waiting anxiously (and dangerously) near the edge of the platform, watching for the train to come. His anticipation building with each weary look toward approaching headlights, he could barely contain himself long enough to shout his excitement at his grandfather.

"It's coming, it's coming! It's almost here!"


I watched his hands grasp at his face, trying to figure out the best way to greet the arriving train. Should he run alongside it? Air five it? Attempt to hop atop it and ride it into Universal City like a bronco? Ultimately, he decided on a mixture of awkward flailing and whimsical jumping. "It's here! The train's here, grandpa!"

As this scene unfolded--the child seizuring at the sight of a dirty subway train, his grandfather bemusing interest--I wondered if I would ever get so excited over something so small again. As corny as it all is, the little things in life often pass us by. And as the great Ferris Bueller once said: "Life moves pretty fast. You don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."

So to all of us workaholics, thumb twiddlers, and shoegazers: slow down and watch for the trains.


This Entry In Song:
Barcelona - "Lesser Things"
Jack Johnson - "While We Wait"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Rejected CRACKED Article #1.

"Adjectives on the typewriter, he moves his words like a prizefighter."
- Cake, "Shadow Stabbing"

As some of you may know, my original purpose behind moving out to California was to fulfill a lifelong dream--as an aspiring writer--to get published. I didn't care how, I just wanted it to happen. The format didn't matter; screenwriting, magazine articles, telenovelas...whatever. I just figured that being here in L.A. would light the fire under my bones that was necessary to get my written words in print and out to the masses. And it did. Sort of.

Yes, I have finished a short script. (And no, I will not be publishing it on this blog. Thanks for asking.) However, I don't know anyone in the industry and, unfortunately, am unwilling to perform sexual favors for Vincent Gallo to get it made into a feature. This leaves me at a disadvantage. So while it remains on the back-burner, my main focus in writing has changed. Along with writing this very witty and (not) well-publicized blog, I've been making constant attempts at getting articles published at the premier online humor magazine, Cracked. So far, no good.

That's why I'm hoping to gain a little support from my readers. Write your congressman, call your grandparents, sell a kidney, do whatever you can to persuade the staff at Cracked.com to give this guy a chance! And just in case the snooty humorists at Cracked happen to peruse the blog listings on Google, I'm going to publish each of my failed article attempts here at Hillbilly Takes Hollywood. So...boo-yah.

Failed article #1...

*****
THE WORST ONLINE ADVICE ARTICLES
EVER PUT INTO PRINT.

The art of advice-giving is a tricky game that should be handled with a certain amount of delicacy and care. As we all know, the best advice-givers on the planet have had plenty of life experience to help connect with the person in need of help. And from Ann Landers to Dear Abbey, there is no shortage of advice in the printed word.

There is also a big handful of dorks and perverts who should never be trusted to give advice to people or inanimate objects at any time. These are those people.

• Offender: AskMen.com

Though no one specific person can be pinpointed to place blame, this website is at fault for dishing out some of the corniest, most awkwardly delivered tips ever. Especially when it comes to women.

WORST ARTICLE:
The Top 10 Ways to Flirt Sexually

The title pretty much gives it away. The Top 10 Ways to Flirt...Sexually. The only more literal that title could be is if it came attached with a winky face and a parenthetical If Ya Know What I Mean at the end of it. And even then, I’m sure the writers would feel as if their intended audience “might not really get what we’re trying to say.” I assure you, AskMen, we get it. We get it hard.

This advice isn’t directed toward a single moment or situation, but rather the whole gamut of possible chances at sexual innuendo. (...in her end-o.) It covers the delicate and subtle art of seduction, the sly conveyance of charm and wit, and the mastery of cunning observation. And it does it all in a way that makes Andrew Dice Clay seem like the utmost authority on feminine intellect. The bits of sample dialogue they use would make both soap opera AND big-budget porn writers cringe in empathy. Understand, AskMen, that most of the people reading your article have seen a vagina before (if only at the movies) and can probably understand your ever-so-subtle ways of pointing out all things related to S-E-X.

SAMPLE ADVICE:
BRING SEX INTO THE SITUATION
For example, let’s say you get a woman a cup of tea; you can follow up by saying: "Looks like you’re on the receiving end today. Do you always receive or do you like to give at times too?" Crack a slight smile and she will know exactly what you are talking about.

LET HER KNOW YOU KNOW
Many women feel compelled to vacuum their house when they're ovulating. Some experts believe it has something to do with wanting to "clean the nest" before laying her "egg." So, when a woman tells you she is vacuuming, say: "Vacuuming? Are you ovulating or something?" She’ll be stunned that you know this and wonder what else you know about female sexuality. Of course, if she doesn’t know what you mean, fill her in. Women love it when you teach them something new -- especially about themselves.

These columns were most likely written by the guys who didn’t understand the subtleties of a good “that’s what she said” joke.

OVERALL TONE:
Demeaning to both a man’s sense of dignity and a woman’s restraint to not kick a guy in the balls. The men at home who stare in awe at their computer screens as they feverishly take notes off of this website will turn out to be the same men who are eventually convicted of statutory rape. And further down the road, they too, will surely end up with their own advice columns.

• Offender: Ask the Bartender

This one comes from the deep sections of a blog called “Our Wonder World.” The main attraction for readers is the author’s advice column, cleverly titled, Ask a Bartender. (Because who doesn’t like getting advice from the guy who constantly provides you with the inability to see colors?) I would like to believe that the author is not actually a bartender, but from their sheer obsession with booze-talk, my heart knows that just can’t be true.

WORST ARTICLE:
Advice Column #24

SAMPLE ADVICE:
In response to...

Hey Bartender!

I'm getting married in the fall. However, I'm having increasing tensions with her mother... She's trying to help but winds up causing more issues than she solves... I mentioned once that I liked Apple Cider, and her mom had a case of sparkling cider special- delivered to me about a week later. There were two issues here- 1: The logistics of getting the cider delivered was a hassle for myself and my landlord and 2: It was more cider than I could possibly drink, and a lot of it just got thrown out.

...How can I communicate to her that I know she has the best of intentions, she really needs to just leave me alone most of the time?

After much lengthy, insightful consideration in how to adequately respond to the mother-in-law, the Bartender throws away all sense of credibility like a tattered shot glass at the end of the night...

I've thought about giving you recipes for punch with cider, or drinks with cider, but what I think you really need to drink is some whiskey and cider. While I think any bottle of Maker's Mark can give you a decent mixed drink, I'm going to list you a bunch of whiskeys, bourbons, and scotches that you might consider adding to your registry.

OVERALL TONE:
Thoughtful, easy to understand, and all in all a Budweiser executive’s wet dream. Generally, the Bartender gives suitable tips on how to deal with common situations. (Which is strange, because the last bartender I sought advice from told me that in order to win back my ex-girlfriend I’d need to be at least seven inches taller and arm wrestle my way back into her good graces. It was like seeking advice from a Roadhouse marathon on TNT.) But at the end of every single article, the Bartender retreats into what he knows best: booze, booze, and recommending booze. I’m not sure if Jack and Coke is the official sponsor of Ask the Bartender or not, but I’d like to think that this is a picture of the author at work:

"You say your best friend punched your wife in the jaw?
Solution: Put me in your mouth."

Oh, and an ironically fun drinking game idea: take a shot of alcohol every time this guy mentions a type of alcohol. You're all but guaranteed to be reading his advice at the level of a third grader in no time. Unless, of course, you already read at a third grade level, in which case you'll just take a nap.

• Offender: A Girl's World

Ripped from the bedazzled diaries of every tween girl to ever be called "a total cock tease" by her totally jealous and like, pretty much flat-boobied peers, A Girl's World aims to conquer the problems of youth with insight so covered in pink lollipops that it actually gives you several tooth aches while reading it. And it makes your eyes bleed unicorn tears.

My favorite part of the website is the corner of the page where things get real. It's called "Tuff Talk," and it gives these little bitches the hard truths that their parents won't spoon-feed them. Truths like...

WORST ARTICLE:
Oh No, I Have Braces Now!

Of all the horrific things that kids have to worry about when it comes to school--bad grades, yucky green bean casserole for lunch, unpredictable boners for the boys and lopsided chest development for the gals--one thing they absolutely should not have to deal with is having their teeth straightened by shiny strands of metal! Or glasses. Glasses suck sooooo much. But luckily, counseling is available.

SAMPLE ADVICE:
Okay, what your problem is is that you want to fit in!

So my advice is, act like you always do. I know this may be hard, but eventually you won't mind! If your already popular, why should braces change it? People will get used to it, and hey, in two years you'll be the envy of every girl in school!

Listen to her, Louise. She's older and wiser than you are. By almost a year, bitch. Been around the block a few more times...

Though it's important for kids to be spoken to at their own level, it's also important to note that kids are primarily retarded beings and shouldn't be allowed to give advice on anything unrelated to kickball. When I was a child, my proudest intellectual thought came in the realization that I shouldn't pick things out of my taint and then smell them. And even that took me a while to fully understand. So I find it fitting that the eleven-year-old grief counselor extraordinaire featured here has all the common sense of a running shoe. And she doesn't give much in terms of guidelines or examples. She basically just says, "deal with it, fuck face." It's like telling someone who's in a wheelchair to "just roll around wherever possible" or telling a television set, "hey, it's okay, people are going to watch you." That's not advice. That's just a series of unfortunate facts about unfortunate circumstances.

Also, this is a ten-year-old seeking advice from an eleven-year-old on an honest-to-God internet publication. Instead of braiding her friend's hair and pointing out how much hotter Owen Wilson totally is than Christian Bale. Something's wrong here.

OVERALL TONE:
This website should be typed entirely in purple glitter fonts. It's the ultimate "oh my God, this stuff happened at school today and it so sucked" conversation, but it's aired out on the internet for every pre-teen to nod along with in disgusted agreement. And just when you think that one of the tweeny-boppers actually made a genuine point, you see the words "Boy Zone" sectioning off a whole other portion of advice columns, with a headline just beneath it that reads "He Makes Fun of My Room!" And then you realize that the only thing more pointless than this advice is a marathon race between Stephen Hawking and a toothbrush.

Two points for effort. Zero everything else.

• Offender: Planet Abiola and the Goddess Factory

There's something to be said about being a confident, black woman. Being a mediocre white male, I can only imagine the power that one must feel when they defy racial barriers by thrusting their beautiful bounty of black feminism into the ether, having it be received with open arms by the universe. It is women like this that give other black females something to look up to. And then there's Abiola.

For the uninitiated, Abiola is to the internet blog-osphere what Tyra Banks is to daytime television land. She's annoying. But she's not just annoying, she's annoying and she wants you to share in her unnerving ability to be more self-centered than anyone else has ever dared. Sounds like the perfect person to have their own advice column, right? But not to worry, Abiola has written her own fictional novel, so she must be suited to dish out the ol' tips and tricks on real life situations!

Disclaimer: if you happen to peruse her website and manage to find a picture or article that doesn't contain an image or reference to her book, Dare, what you are experiencing is an illusion. It will likely go away soon. Also, expect to see words like "awesome-a-licious" pop up far too often.

WORST ARTICLE:
Backstory: Writing Your First Book

If you are an attractive person, and you want to give advice to someone who finds themselves unattractive--even ugly (though we at Cracked have never experienced such a personification)--you might do your best to help this person out with their insecurities without gloating and pointing out how much of a smoking hot piece of ass you are in your new, especially tight jeans. That's common decency, really. And it's exactly what Abiola is unwilling to do.

SAMPLE ADVICE:
This article, though labeled under the general umbrella of "advice," really fits more into the category of "shameless plugging" or "delusional self-advertising." She takes an opportunity to inspire her reader by connecting with her and sharing keen insight into how she can get her own creativity flowing into a book...and then decides that was a stupid idea and turns into a promotion robot. She goes deep into a "Behind the Music" version of her last few years, detailing her book promotions, her show on BET, and her slutty dancing ways via unnecessary photos. She also, for reasons unbeknown to the world, compares herself to "a hip-hop artist of the literary kind." And she says things like this:

Now, I am not the picture of what you may imagine a hip-hop lover looks like. I have two degrees, grew up in a mostly vegetarian family and am the first generation American daughter of immigrants. My goal was to give birth to a “chick lit” story for the demographic-breaking women of my generation.

At this point, two things are clear. 1) Abiola is confusing the word "advice" with "auto-biography." And 2) She's being more of a hindrance to womankind--specifically black women--than a help. In a nutshell, she just told all of her strong, black readers that if you have a degree, you probably aren't listening to hip-hop. And if you're listening to hip-hop...you probably don't have a degree. Take that, Malcolm X!

OVERALL TONE:
Arrogant, arrogant, arrogant. With a side of ignorance-a-licious. You and Tyra can both go straight to hell.


*****

Well, there ya go. I hope you enjoyed my first rejected Cracked article. Tell me what you thought of it. I'd be pleased to hear positive (and negative) responses.

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake