From IA to LA: The Hillbilly Takes Hollywood

Shaky Jake Writes Farce.

2009-08-30T10:07:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-08-04T12:08:00.001-07:00

"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.

2009-07-23T21:03:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-07-23T20:56:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-20T23:33:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-07-18T14:34:00.002-07:00

"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.

2009-07-16T21:44:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-07-13T21:54:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-12T20:20:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-07-05T13:26:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-05T12:54:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-07-03T19:23:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-06-28T12:01:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-06-25T20:17:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-06-23T18:18:00.001-07:00

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.

2009-06-20T12:52:00.001-07:00

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?

2009-06-16T17:03:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-06-14T13:36:00.000-07:00

"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?

2009-06-13T17:13:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-10T21:12:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-06-07T10:57:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-06T19:13:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-05T00:07:00.000-07:00

"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 San Diego Zoo Contains Awesome. Also, Animals.

2009-06-02T21:17:00.000-07:00

"Someone told me it's all happening at the zoo.
I do believe it. I do believe it's true."
- Simon & Garfunkel, "At the Zoo"

There's something spooky about being separated from nature by a thin sheet of glass. All that zoo just a few, clear inches away. Oh my. I'm sure that everyone, at some point or another, has wondered what it would be like if the roles were reversed. That Planet of the Apes situation where the animals watched us. Would they judge us the way we judge them?

Orangutans with their goofy faces and disregard for anything loosely related to hygiene. Thumbs up their asses, those ones. The giraffes that feel so superior to everyone because they can grab an apple off a tree without having to use a ladder. Warthogs with no ambition. Turtles with plenty of motivation, but not enough time to do everything they want to do in life. Misplaced ducks. Sensitive pandas. Elephants that are dumb, but in that cute kind of way that doesn't make you want to hurl things at them. Peacocks that, evidently, own the place. Such a variety of creatures to gawk at, all the while making you feel better about your lifestyle.

The most frightening gang you'll ever meet.

The San Diego Zoo was a terrific place. Seriously, just wonderful. But what's with all the birds? They're all the same. Does anyone really want to see 160 different types of birds? Doubtful. Take a hint, San Diego Zoo and kick some of those winged bastards out. Then you'd really have something.

One thing's for certain, after visiting the San Diego Zoo, the expression has permanently been changed to "hung like a zebra."

Seriously.

This Entry In Song:
Simon & Garfunkel - "At the Zoo"
Fall Out Boy - "Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

The Least You Can Do Is Stop Re-producing.

2009-05-26T22:22:00.001-07:00

"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.

2009-05-21T23:16:00.000-07:00

"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

2009-05-21T23:10:00.001-07:00

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.

2009-05-19T23:04:00.000-07:00

"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!

2009-05-16T19:31:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-05-12T23:26:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-05-11T22:31:00.000-07:00

"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.

2009-05-09T17:29:00.000-07:00

"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

Fast Fact #8

2009-05-09T16:37:00.000-07:00

I saw X-Men Origins: Wolverine last night. It is a complete mess. I suggest that no one go see this movie, especially if you are a fan of the X-Men franchise, superhero movies, or general enjoyment. It would not be a wise use of your time.

Remember When This Was All New?

2009-05-05T19:40:00.000-07:00

"Walked away to another plan.
Gonna find another place, maybe one I can stand.
I move onto another day. To a whole new town with a whole new way...
...I pack up my belongings and I head for the coast.
It might not be a lot but I feel like I'm making the most.
The days get longer and the nights smell green.
I guess it's not surprising, but it's spring and I should leave."
- Modest Mouse, "World At Large"

I wake up earlier than usual. I have nearly an hour before I'll leave for work; it's just enough time to sit around and consider doing something, without actually doing it. Shower, don't shave, change clothes. Wrapping a tie around my neck, I leave the apartment and let my legs guide me down a memorized series of footsteps toward the train station. North Hollywood, Universal City, then Hollywood & Highland. My stop. I wait 14 minutes for my bus. I ride 17 minutes to the closest stop it will let me off at. Another 9 minutes of walking and then it's work.

"Hello, I can help the next person in line. How are you today?" Deposits, withdrawals, transfers, payments. "How's the day treating you so far?" Transaction histories, statement inquiries, cash advances, MoneyGrams. "Did you get everything figured out with your account since the last time you were in?" Check photocopies, money orders, split deposits, auto loans. "You're welcome. Have a good one."

Between customers, I think of my own finances. Have my student loans been paid this month? When does my next paycheck hit my account? I need to stop spending so much on coffee. When will my tax return be sent to me? I think of the next concert I want to catch or the next must-see movie coming to theaters. I think of what I did last night, the night before, and the night before that. I don't think of what I'll do tomorrow, the day after, or the day after that. Constantly reflecting, never predicting. My girlfriend comes to mind at least twice, even on a busy day. Other things breeze through on regular occasion: My family, my friends, the pet dog that used to be alive, the pet donkey that still is, a list of MP3s I should download, a list of grocery items I forgot to pick up, and whether I hate a snowstorm or a heatwave more.

A different hairstyle crowns my head--this time a slight faux-hawk. A "slow-hawk." I receive a compliment from 3 customers, all of them hairstylists. The compliments aren't for me so much as they are for the person took a scissors to it. 500 gay men give me the flirtatious eye. One girl tells me I look great in glasses. Strange ratio. My co-workers ask favors of me, I oblige. I ask favors of them, they hesitantly do the same. I document arrival time, lunch time, and departure time on my time sheet.

I leave work. Goodbye teller window. I get a ride or I catch the bus. The air is probably still warm, but the sun is becoming less noticeable. Train ride to North Hollywood. Walk to the apartment. Couch or chair? Drink or piss? Pool or fitness center? It always ends up with sleep.

Then it's tomorrow.

Regretful realization: there comes a point where even the exotic becomes mundane.

This Entry In Song:
Jack Johnson - "Adrift"
Sondre Lerche - "Dead Passengers"
Modest Mouse - "The Devil's Workday"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Ben Lee, You Don't Suck.

2009-05-01T23:24:00.000-07:00

"I never met someone so jaded. Your music's really overrated.
Nothing but a lot of pretentious noise...
...I wrote this song to tell you that your 15 minutes of fame are almost up.
Yeah, one more thing: Ben Lee, you suck."
- The Ataris, "Ben Lee"

If you're one of my readers who tends to skip over the opening lyrical snippets that I use to lead in to each post, you may want to reconsider that pattern for this post. The above-mentioned lyrics are from a "diss" song about one of my favorite troubadours, Ben Lee. In it, they describe all of the reasons that he sucks, both personally and professionally. So, let's say that you were in Ben Lee's shoes. You hear this song that was sent to you by one of your close friends that was passed onto them by one of their friends and...etc...etc...you're listening to your reputation being dragged through the mud in a very brash manner. What do you do?

Well, if you really were Ben Lee, you would cover that very song at each and every one of your concerts from that point on.

Thursday night, I saw Ben perform at the aptly named Troubadour venue in West Hollywood and was treated with a fair number of surprises. Firstly, the opening band Low Vs. Diamond--who seemed to be genuine d-bags from the moment they stepped on stage--grew on me with every song they played. By the end of their set, I was honestly thinking of buying their album. (Or at the very least downloading it for free off of Elbo.ws) Also, I was shocked and floored to hear the words "Ben Lee, you suck" come from Ben Lee's throat. Too cool, Mr. Lee. Too cool.

But aside from the aforementioned embrace of his own hate song, Ben surprised me with how genuinely excited he seemed to be about playing with a truly proficient back-up band (being the rhythm section of Low Vs. Diamond). He was constantly giving them a thumbs up and giant kid-like smile as if to say "this is totally cool." Yeah, the smile said "totally." That's how dorkishly cool Ben Lee was.

So to all of the naysayers who call him "pompous," or "deluded", or even "a giant, smarmy bag of taint" I say to you: buzz off! He's a fine musician, a wonderfully entertaining stage performer, and a sincerely nice guy.

Also, he looks just a little bit like a hobbit child.

This Entry In Song:
Low Vs. Diamond - "Killer B"
Low Vs. Diamond - "Heart Attack"
Ben Lee - "Catch My Disease"
Ben Lee - "Numb"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Organic Schmorganic.

2009-04-26T23:12:00.000-07:00

"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"

There are two things that I am unable to deal with in this world: pomposity and pretentiousness. And God help the person who displays both with equal aplomb, because my wrath is far-sighted and narrow-minded. The people who fall into these categories include "indie" foreign film devotees, Whole Foods proprietors, most Saab owners, and anyone who thinks that a band's b-sides are superior to anything they put on an actual record. Also, people who constantly misuse the word "organic." Allow me to focus in on this last breed for the remainder of this rant.

Organic can be used to define food, chemistry, and the French law known as Organic Articles. Aside from that, it's not to be used. So the next time that I hear some hipster doofus on a behind-the-scenes film commentary refer to the production process as "being so organic," I'm taking a knife and going straight through the TV screen. I hear this all the time and it genuinely makes me vomit in my mouth. It wouldn't be quite as bad if I didn't hear the word being tossed around like a hot potato during an Irish famine, but the fact that every actor, director, writer, producer, third lighting backdrop engineer, and whoever else feels the need to drop this already trite line every time someone asks them a simple question about their movie...well, it makes me hate cinema just a little bit more each time.

The following phrases involving the word are to be abandoned immediately: "the idea came out of me so organically...", "it was really organic how it was filmed...", "the actors meshed together in a very organic way...", and worst of all, "the verbiage in that scene grew organically out of conversations from my own life."

Fuck you all, destroyers of the English language. Douches of the cinematic world. Stop organic-isming at the sound of your own pretentious schlock. This type of speak does NOT make you an intellectual, nor does it make anyone any more impressed with your uncanny ability to direct a shirtless Matthew McConaughey on how to elongate his syllables. So please, find a new phrase to demean with your hypocrisy and arrogance.

Pompous pricks.

This Entry In Song:
Foo Fighters - "Wind Up"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

The Song You Hear Before You Die.

2009-04-22T21:56:00.000-07:00

"Well I wonder which song they're gonna play when we go.
I hope it's something quiet and minor and peaceful and slow.
When we float out into the ether, into the Everlasting Arms...
...Did you hear the old gospel choir when they came to carry you over?
Did you hear your favorite song one last time?"
- The Gaslight Anthem, "The '59 Sound"

I was listening to my MP3 player on the subway, as I often do on my way home from work, letting the music sweep through my head and clear the cobwebs out after a long day. Not thinking, just listening. And then some grim lyrics started to stab at my brain, making themselves difficult to ignore. It was the above mentioned lyrics from The Gaslight Anthem's "The '59 Sound," which begs the question: what do you hear just before you die?

When you see the clouds part and a bright light floods your vision, the warm embrace of the afterlife severing your connection to the world, is it nothing but silence? The optimistic part of me wants to believe that everyone has the choice of what they hear before departing. A pre-death playlist, if you will. You get to hear one--maybe two--songs of your choosing, so that like a movie soundtrack, your life receives the perfect sonic conclusion. A musical summarization.

Disregarding the obvious--which would include preferential hints on which way you want to go, such as "Stairway to Heaven" or "Highway to Hell"--the decision would be tough. What's the last song you'd want to hear...ever? It really sheds light on the type of music that is important to a person. I mean, would you really want to hear Weezer's "Buddy Holly" or Kanye's "Gold Digger" if it was going to be the last thing you ever heard? Personally, if the theory that your life flashes before your eyes holds any water, I'd like to listen to something that would fit with that montage. Perhaps Simon & Garfunkel's "The Sound of Silence" could gently blend into Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World" as my slideshow played out.

The more I think of it, though, the easier the decision becomes. I would want to hear the one song that could give me chills for the last time. The song that I could hear a thousand times on repeat without giving in to nausea. I'd want to hear "Everlong" by the Foo Fighters. Not only is it a fitting tune to float along with, but it's the greatest song I've ever had the pleasure of listening to. And as the credits roll on Jacob Trowbridge, I'd like "Everlong" to accompany me into the beyond.

This Entry In Music
Foo Fighters - "Everlong"
The Gaslight Anthem - "The '59 Sound"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

The Los Angeles Metro Ruins My Life.

2009-04-21T23:11:00.000-07:00

"I almost broke my neck tryin' to get out the door. And I chased the bus 'til my feet was sore. On the trail--the tail--but I couldn't catch up. I guess it must have been my day for me to have bad luck."
- Kris Kross, "I Missed the Bus"

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the Los Angeles County Metro Transit for making everyday an adventure and an overall pain in my neck. (And by neck, I mean ass.) Because of the "well-timed" and "not-at-all random" timetable that your aptly-named "Dash" system provides, riders get the thrill of chasing down a bus that wasn't supposed to show up for another 5 minutes, or waiting for a bus that was marked to stop half an hour earlier.

"Maybe it runs on Central time..."

When I think fun, I think L.A. Metro.

Because it just wouldn't be Los Angeles if you could only sit next to a homeless man that smells like stale farts and old hats while being on time for work. No, in L.A. you only get the pleasure of hearing Toothless Paul rant about the obvious connections between Jesus Christ and Sponge Bob Square Pants after having sprinted for the 6:45 bus at 6:29. If you're extra lucky, you may get the bus driver whose mother didn't love him enough and therefore won't stop for you even while you chase after him. Then you can just walk the 4 miles to work.

Warning: This Bus Does Not Stop For Passengers

Los Angeles Metro Transit, fuck you very much. I hope your drivers all die of terrible hemhorroids.

This Entry In Song
Modest Mouse - "Missed the Boat"
Against Me! - "Stop!"
Gym Class Heroes - "Catch Me If You Can"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

An Open Letter to Eve 6.

2009-04-18T17:46:00.001-07:00

"I quit lookin' at the clock. It'll only bring me down and it won't bring you here.
If I pulled out all the stops and a little less of my hair, could I bring you here?"
- Eve 6, "Without You Here"

Dear Eve 6,

Guys. Pals. Slutty gentleman of the pop-punk world. You know why I'm doing this and you know that it's necessary. You've finally finished your too-long hiatus as a band and are now beginning to play some gigs together again. But I noticed that you aren't going to be playing near L.A. What's up with that? Am I not deserved of your terrific rock show? Let me explain to you, in depth, why that's just not true...

Our relationship started out as most of mine do. I heard your song on the radio, I sang along with it, and then danced around my feelings for you for quite awhile. I wasn't sure if I could fully give myself to you as a fan, but was willing to do a casual listen. Nothing too involved, just playing the field and sewing my musical oats. After all, I had other bands in my sights, too. But then I caved and made a mixed CD of your catchiest pop gems and had them drifting around my ears every time I got into my car. You reeled me in and wrapped me up in catchy hooks, creative wordplay, and a rapid-fire delivery. I finally declared my musical love for you by becoming a diehard fan, ready and willing to take a bullet for the band if ever a harsh word was shot in your direction. And what did you do, just as my feelings for you grew to be the strongest they had ever been? You broke it off without so much as a warning of things to come. It was "Think Twice" and then it was quits. No more Eve 6.

I spent years trying to get over you. I stopped listening to you on a regular basis, only putting you in the playlist if I wanted some delusional touch of nostalgia. I met other bands--Anberlin even sought to replace you completely. And now, all of sudden, you're back in my life and back together as a band. You simply can't toy with a man's heart like that. It's not fair.

But I'll be damned if I can't stop thinking of what could have been. What it would have been like if our relationship hadn't been put on hold for those couple of years. Well, I'm tired of wondering. I want to see you again, but I can't have it be in the canned tunes of another one of your albums; it has to be in person. So that I can know if this is for real. I need closure.

The easiest way to settle this would be a concert setting. It might be good to have a lot of other people around to save us from the awkward silences if things didn't quite mesh between us. And let's not make any eye contact, either. Because, to be honest, you seem like kind of a sleazeball. No offense.

Come to Los Angeles. Let's make things right. What do you say?

This Entry In (Your) Song:
Eve 6 - "Without You Here"
Eve 6 - "Anytime"
Eve 6 - "How Much Longer"
Eve 6 - "Sunset Strip Bitch"
Eve 6 - "Promise"
Eve 6 - "Still Here Waiting"

P.S. If you do perform here, please don't play "Here's to the Night." That song is pretty gay.

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

My Very Own Album (...Not Available On iTunes)

2009-04-17T22:56:00.000-07:00

No foreboding quote. No fancy lead-in about some special situation that recently happened in my life. Just a make-believe album cover, inspired by this Album Generator game that I stole from Nick Kocher's blog (who himself stole it from someone else).

It cured a few minutes of boredom and killed some of my spirit. Good times!

Good, clean, slightly depressing fun. For the uninitiated, it's easy to make your own album cover. Just follow these simple steps:

1) Go to a random Wikipedia page: Random Article
The first article that comes up is the NAME of your band.

2) Go to a random quotation: Random Quotation
The last four or five words of the very last quote on the page is the TITLE of your album.

3) Go to flickr's Last 7 Days: Last Seven
The third picture, no matter what it is, if your album COVER.

Repeat, if necessary.

If you liked this entry, feel free to stop by next week when I take a picture of myself kicking someone else's dog, then turn that photo into a mural and hire someone to paint it on the wall of my kitchen.

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Long Live The Summer of Live Music!

2009-04-12T22:45:00.001-07:00

"By the time we got to Woodstock,
We were half a million strong
Everywhere you look there was a song and hope and a celebration."
- Joni Mitchell, "Woodstock"

It’s concert season, people. And that means music! And what else? More music! Coming from Iowa, concert season isn’t exactly the most spectacular time of the year. Generally, it just means that we’ll be getting regular visits from early 90's alternative has-beens (hello Gin Blossoms) and mid-80's pop-rockers (how do you do, Loverboy?). It’s not usually a Grammy Award-winning list of artists that’s flocking to the Dubuque County Fair.

But this year I’m going to take full advantage of living in California and get my rear in every front-row seat possible. I’ve scoured the lengths of the Internet to get some live music flowing through my veins and I’m determined to take it all in before it’s time to head back home. And luckily for me, SonicLiving has made it much easier for me to organize which of my favorite musicians have shows coming up.

For anyone who's interested, here is my summer concert wishlist.

The highlights will definitely be Rufus Wainwright, Jack's Mannequin, and--bum bum BAH--Anberlin!

It's going to be a great summer, everyone!

This Entry In Music:
Blink 182 - "Rock Show"
Plain White T's - "Sing My Best"
The Gaslight Anthem - "Great Expectations"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

BriTANick: Infinitely Amazing.

2009-04-08T23:08:00.000-07:00

"Don't bring any cocaine or hookers to my party."
- Brian of BriTANick, Taint Monopoly Sketch

Tonight I had the privilege of viewing a top-notch, first rate, premium quality, 100 Proof comedy act known as BriTANick (which rhymes with Titanic for proper pronunciation) at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater. For the second time in one week. And both times were well worth the cheap admission.

Though I've never been much for sketch comedy outside the basic realm of Saturday Night Live or, at my artsy limit, The State, these two guys (Brian McElhaney and Nick Kocher) have shed much light on the endless possibilities that exist for pure laughs when a couple of guys act silly on stage. I've seen their newest show, The Infinity Prison--which meshes themes of time travel, friendship, cocaine, time cops, clones, cocaine sales, and the insult "chicken faggot" seamlessly--twice thus far, and would gladly pay another $5 to see their happy-go-lucky shenanigans a third time. Sadly, BriTANick rarely makes it out to the West Coast, so I may have to wait a long time before I get the pleasure of seeing their faces again.

But for those of you who live in or near New York, take advantage of them. Watch them! See them! Enjoy them! Make sweet, comedic love to them in your minds!

In the meantime, for the benefit of anyone who hasn't seen or heard of these guys, I take you to my favorite clip from their sketch comedy website. It's basically a snapshot of everything I love about their humor smooshed into a single clip.

There's plenty more where that came from at BriTANick.com.

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #7

2009-04-08T00:01:00.000-07:00

The concept of sleep sounds like something out of a science-fiction novel. Try explaining the idea behind it to a child and see what they say.

"So basically Jimmy, you close your eyes and let your brain slip into a deep state of unconsciousness for several hours. During this time you don't talk, you lay stoic, lifeless, and stay generally inactive. When you wake up, you feel recharged and better than you did before you started. If you don't do this every night, you can become very sick."

There are less creepy explanations for crop circles.

Everything In Transit, Except the Glass Passenger.

2009-04-05T13:42:00.000-07:00

"Fuck yeah, we can live like this."
- Jack's Mannequin, "Holiday From Real"

Long before I packed my belongings and left the isolation booth that is the Midwest, before I ever came into direct contact with the ocean, I had dipped my toes into the sandy saltwater of the West Coast via one very important album: Jack’s Mannequin’s “Everything In Transit.” It let me live in California before I ever stepped outside of the cornfields and cold winters. I blame this album for making my last automobile get smashed in the face by a truck (who wasn’t playing anything nearly as cool as this album and, in a jealous fit of rage, succeeded in taking care of my car for good). Yeah, it’s that awesome.

What happens when you listen to awful music.

Everything In Tranist made me feel warm on days where temperatures dipped below zero. Each song depicted a different sunset that I could drive into while I actually drove toward a ranch-style house on a grassy hill. When I listened to that record, I could actually feel the sand between my toes and see a version of Santa Monica Boulevard that was much more satisfying than any street could ever be.

And more than two years after I first listened to it, I found myself on California’s doorstep, looking for the very things that Jack’s Mannequin had promised. I continue to seek them out like a checklist.

Everything In Transit is littered with lyrics that appear as deja vu, as if I’d already written them down in my own mental journal. Whether it be from the start of my time out here (“oh, California in the sun and my hair is growing long. Fuck yeah, we can live like this”) or from a time more recent (“on Third Street the freakshow thrives. Santa Monica’s alive but something’s not so right inside”), every song targets my experience in a different way. It’s even made some predictions about it. So far, it has predicted a mini-vacation (“the road we drove last night stretched from the desert to Las Vegas”), my encompassing sense of boastfulness (“there’s so much sun where I’m from, I had to give it away”), an impending near-future (“you’ll give up your job at the bank, proving money’s not fun when you’re gone”), and possible circumstances if we were to extend our stay (“I never thought that I’d be living on your floor, but rent’s are high and L.A.’s easy”).

Everything In Transit brings in the sunshine. Their second album, The Glass Passenger, sends in the rain.

The Glass Passenger is the dark to Everything In Transit’s daylight. The stormy skies to its puffy clouds. After having lived “the California dream” for a few months, I caught wind of the new album. I waited with baited breath to hear the latest rays of sunshine come out of the lead singer’s mouth; to be in the moment with the record and feel a connection in a way that I hadn’t been able to with the first album. That moment didn’t come. Because it seems that by the time I was able to live the dream, Jack’s Mannequin had already swept it up and tossed it in the nearest garbage bin. I listened to the stream of disenchanted lyrics and wondered how long it might take for me to feel the same way about this place. How long until I say “I don’t think that I’ll close my eyes, ‘cause lately I’m not dreaming. So what’s the point in sleeping?” How long until my motto becomes that of the song Swim: “I swim to brighter days despite the absence of sun. Choking on salt water, not giving in. I swim?” Or latch onto the words of Suicide Blonde as I become homesick: “Watched the planes landing from the roof of my treehouse in Burbank. I had that dream I was taking off...” Could that ever be me? It’s a question of following your hopes and relishing the small things that make life emanate sunlight or sinking into the big picture and falling victim to doubts and disenchantment. The light side or the dark side? Good...evil?

All that I can do is continue enjoying the lifestyle that California has to offer, so that when I return to the Midwest, I can say that I lived this one year to the fullest. No regrets. Hopefully, in the end, I will still relate most to that first album of good times and sandy beaches. Hopefully, everything will remain in transit.

This Entry In Song:
THE SUN: Jack's Mannequin - "I'm Ready"
THE RAIN: Jack's Mannequin - "Annie Use Your Telescope"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Vegas, Baby!

2009-03-22T12:29:00.000-07:00

"Hey you, up in the sky learning to fly.
Tell me, how high do you think you'll go before you start falling?"
- Oasis, "Up in the Sky"

A couple of weeks ago, me and Emily made the 4-hour trek to the land of luminescence: Las Vegas, Nevada. We met up with my brother and his wife (my sister-in-law for those of you following the basic concepts of a family tree), who had flown in from Wisconsin. So, you could say we met in the middle...but you'd be a liar. My kudos go out to them for enduring the long travel into the desert.

And it was exactly what we expected Las Vegas to be. Lights, casinos, lights, drinking on the street, buffets, shinier lights, and a little thing called "vast spaces of barren land." Cacti everywhere in that friggin' place. So had we experienced just the usual perks of Vegas, I may have walked away from the vacation unaffected, if not a little disappointed. But not to fear, because this trip to Vegas also included the thrill of being thrust above (and nearly into) some massive canyons 600 feet in the air on a zip line at up to 65 miles per hour. Oh yeah. Oh fuck yeah.

* Vegas in a Nutshell.

Before I go on, I want to say that I liked pretty much everything about Las Vegas. I did. The sights oozed extravagance, the people were all qualified nutjobs, and you could literally go anywhere--at anytime--with a drink in your hand and not be called an alcoholic. And seeing my brother and sister-in-law again made any small wisps of homesickness go sailing off into the wind. All good things. But that zip line...

The intial hike up to the top of the mountain may have been one of the scariest moments of my short life. I'd get so caught up in the painstaking process of carrying our heavy load of equipment up to the top that I'd temporarily forget just how high up we were climbing...until I looked to either side and saw a falling distance that would make even an eagle shit themselves. And when I finally got strapped into my harness for that first run I saw the majesty of those rocky red hills ready to smash my teeth into the back of my head.

But the release that I felt when I was zooming through the air--cheeks wide with toothy happiness--the fear went away and the adrenaline mixed with a strange sense of euphoria that I've rarely had the pleasure of feeling. It was awesome! Not so awesome: getting stuck a dozen or so yards out on a very thin line because my scrawny bones couldn't make it all the way to the end of one particularly slow zipping. For about 60 seconds I was Shaky Jake: Damsel in Distress. But nevertheless, this was an incredible 4 hour series of ups and downs (literally) that had me running the emotional gamut from terrified, relieved, energized, worn down, and ultimately nostaligic for a time that had only just passed.

So, while some other stuff took place--sightseeing, nighttime explorations of old and new Vegas, a trip to the Hoover Dam, not nearly enough drinking, etc.--the highlight was soaring majesticly over the mighty cliffs of the desert and living to tell the story.

Truly a once in a lifetime experience.

This Entry in Song:
The Killers - "Joyride"
Yellowcard - "Lights and Sounds"
Foo Fighters - "Learn to Fly"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Spotting The Famous: The Rock Says...

2009-03-11T23:08:00.000-07:00

"The Rock says this: if the Rock hits you, he'll kill you. If he misses, the wind behind the punch will give you pneumonia and you'll die anyway, so the choice is yours, jabroni!""
- The Rock on WWE RAW

Everyone has an idol. Someone they look up to. Someone they admire perhaps a bit more than they should. From the moment I saw this man...nay, from the moment I heard him verbally abuse one of his "coworkers" up and down an arena...I've been obsessive for the guy. I used to memorize his put-downs and catchphrases so that I could spew them at my friends the very next day. I even dressed up as him for a skit that I performed back when I was on a martial arts demonstration team. (Yes, a martial arts demonstration team. Deal with it.) If there is one single being on this planet that I would want to catch a glimpse of in person, it would be this man. And tonight, I got that chance.

I'm talking of course about The Brahma Bull. The Great One. The People's Champion. I'm talking about THE ROCK.

What's not to like about The Rock? He's witty, charismatic, and can body slam a motherfucker to the ground. Who doesn't want to meet that guy?

As luck would have it, the bus that I take home from work everyday drops me off just in front of the Hollywood subway station, which happens to be on the same stretch of street as The Kodak Theater and El Capitan Theater. Both of these cinemas consistently show big movie premiers. And on this fine day, when I stepped off the bus, I noticed that the huge lights that were flashing were doing so in front of giant posters promoting The Rock's latest Disney flick, Race to Witch Mountain. And as luck would have it, the lights that were flashing were also doing so on Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson.

I stood across the street from my idol of more than 10 years. He was within a few yards of my own two feet. Smiling, chatting, generally oozing more charisma than I've ever thought of having. And surprisingly enough, there weren't too many people lined up at the barricades to see The Great One arrive. The lines were perhaps two rows deep at their thickest, so I easily merged toward the front to nestle along the barricade. I was literally directly across from him. He was even facing my direction as he talked to the reporters.

At first, I was so starstruck that nothing besides the big dude standing 20 feet away registered with me. After a few moments when this feeling subsided, I realized that to be this close to one of my favorite people in this world was truly a once-in-a-lifetime chance. I had to do something. At first, though, I was too shy. "People will stare at me if I do something to ridiculous," I thought. After this thought passed, I noticed that The Rock was moving down the Red Carpet and out of my direct line of sight. So I moved with him.

Once again, he stopped to do another interview with a different reporter. So I stopped across from where he did, mimicking his location on my side of the street. Again, I had a pristine view of him as I looked directly at my idol. A second chance for me to do something. Anything. "If I don't do this, I know I'll regret it for the rest of my life," I said to myself. So, without giving it a third thought, I tipped my head back and let it flow...

"If ya SMELLLLLLLLLLLL...what The Rock...is cookin!"

His head twitched. He heard. His eyes were now darting over toward my general direction, inspecting the scene. I nodded my head feverishly and let my uncontainable smile do the talking. And then it happened: he cocked his head slightly...and raised the eyebrow. The People's Eyebrow. And without missing a beat, he turned his head back to the reporter and continued talking as if he'd never stopped.

"Unbelievable." "Too cool." "Surreal." "Batshit insane." A lot of words came to mind, but none of them could do the scenario justice. This was a moment that was incapable of being captured by words. It...it completely made my year worth it. Regardless of whatever else has happened or will happen, that will always make me glad that I came out to California. It will be something for me to remember forever.

Finally, Rock, I got to smell what you were cookin'. And ya know what? It smelled pretty good.

The Rock's WWE Theme Song

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #6

2009-03-10T19:49:00.000-07:00

When this author wants to be, he can be goddamn sexy.

Right? Right?

...You bet'cha.

I Think This Horse Wants Me Dead.

2009-03-04T19:38:00.000-08:00

"I like beer and I like cheese. I like the smell of a westerly breeze.
But what I like more than all of these is to be on horseback."
- Mike Oldfield, "On Horseback"

What do you get a lady for your 3 year anniversary? Is it diamonds? Fine china? Tickets to go see her favorite musical? If you're a chump, maybe. A real man sets his lady atop a stallion and rides her off into the sunset with a six-shooter in one hand and his genitalia in the other. I'm talking a galloping ride of epic proportions through terrain so breathtakingly beautiful and transcendent that it would make God himself smack his forehead and say "I'd love to meet the guy who made that!" Or, if you're a real man on a budget, you take your girlfriend to ride some pretty tame/smelly horses underneath the HOLLYWOOD sign at a place called Sunset Ranch. But, hey, that scenery was pretty nice to look at.

Meet Sawyer. That's him, right there. He's got a great sense of humor.

Look at me when I'm mocking you dammit!

This one time, about halfway through the ride--while straddling the edge of a cliff that would have surely killed a lesser man had he fallen off it--Sawyer thought it would be a hoot if he bucked me around like I was a piece of unpopped corn and he was a microwave with a vendetta to settle. Ha! Like Jim Carrey, this horse. Oh! And then there was the time where he considered it a real riot to turn around and bite the face off the horse behind him. Of course, the other horse didn't find it quite so hilarious, but me and Sawyer had a good laugh over it. Then I think I passed out for a few minutes due to terror. But when I woke up, I could see for miles and miles...

The mountains were breathtaking. And so was the sight of the city from a far distance. It really makes you feel so small and unimportant.

That ass makes a guy feel pretty small, too.
(Sidenote: that ass belongs to a horse named Tiny. Nice!)

Lest you think we were in any real peril on those bucking broncos, we were wearing adequate protection as provided by Sunset Ranch. Because when you fall 10+ stories onto a bunch of jagged, unforgiving rocks, this is what's going to save you.

And if I might add, I felt the helmets gave us a Rain Man-esque element of style that was really lacking in our ensembles. Two points for headgear!

But really, the experience was all-around enjoyable. We saw a piece of L.A. that we never knew existed while making our spirits high and our butt cheeks numb. We battled ferocious, hairy beasts and lived to tell the tale. And we capped the night off with a romantic dinner, dressed in our finest attire and only smelling slightly of horse remnants. (And fear. It took me a while to calm down from my near-death experience.) Good times.

Now, the true question is: what do you get a lady for your fourth year together? Pearls? Perfume? A trip to a Mexican apple orchard? Only time will tell...

This Entry In Song:
Modest Mouse - "Gravity Rides Everything"
Rufus Wainwright - "King of the Road"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #5.

2009-02-25T19:00:00.001-08:00

Today celebrates my 3-year commitment to Emily, and hers to me. This is what's known as an anniversary. How she ever put up with my shenanigans for 3 years still remains a mystery.

Spotting the ACTUALLY Famous: Oscar Edition.

2009-02-25T16:58:00.000-08:00

"All that you will see is a celebrity.
When I'm riding in my limo, I won't look out the window.
There's nowhere that I can't go, and there's no one that I don't know."
- Barenaked Ladies, "Celebrity"

I never saw myself as the type of person to be enthralled with meeting celebrities. Even when I moved to Hollywood, I made a vow to myself that I wouldn’t get caught up in “star stalking.” Hell, they’re just normal people, right? I mean, sure there’s a certain neatness to being able to tell your friends that you passed (insert random famous person here) on the street, I guess, but it’s not something to get worked up over. Now getting up on stage and a guitar solo alongside Kirk Hammett...that’s cool. Talking about your favorite movie endings over breakfast with Johnny Depp...that’s very cool. But to just see somebody that you could have just as easily seen on your television? I never thought of that as the end all/be all of life’s happenings.

Hey, wait, is that...is that the guy from that movie? Sweet!

And yet, when it came Oscar Night guess who was standing 50 feet from the Red Carpet entrance, using the zoom lens on his camera for all of its might...

Though we didn't get as many glimpses from as close as we wanted to (or as many pictures as my low-pixel camera should have), it was still neat to see the whole spectacle happen. Howling fans, paparazzi climbing trees to get better views, giant gold Oscar statues. Awesome.

So no more messing around with these "almost famous" or "kind of known" bastards. It's time for the real deal. Adding to the list of fame-ridden faces are:

Brad Pitt
Angelina Jolie
Diane Lane
Meryl Streep
Josh Brolin
Anne Hathaway
Anthony Hopkins
Mickey Rourke
Cate Blanchett
Emile Hirsch

A lot of limousines passed by with the tinted windows rolled up, so we may have been a few yards away from the likes of Robert Downey Jr. and Halle Berry without realizing it, but so be it. Most of the people in the list above at least had the decency to roll down the window and wave; even Meryl Streep! And she's been to like 30 of these things. I applaud them all a great deal for that decency.

Anne "motherf'ing" Hathaway

Hannibal "motherf'ing" Lector.

The night would have been much better had I been nominated for my breathtaking role in "Guy Sits On Couch and Types Stuff," but whatever. There's always next year.

This Entry In Song:
Alien Ant Farm - "Movies"
Foo Fighters - "Stacked Actors"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

I've Made a Dent: An Epiphony List Update.

2009-02-21T21:09:00.000-08:00

"I ain't done here enough...but at least I'm feelin' better. What the hell, it's a good start."
- Hank Williams Jr., "It's a Start"

Back when I first had the idea to start this little online journal, one of the main reasons I had in mind to bear its existence was to not only provide insights into my year in California (while simultaneously making jokes about the non-famous people I meet along the way) was to chronicle me completing goals that I set for myself. Out of this came what I called an "Epiphany List"--essentially The Bucket List, but with a much younger version of Morgan Freeman and less dying.

Since I first wrote that list of 20 goals, the only one that I've been able to cross off was "Start a Blog." But now, finally, I'm proud to say that there is not just one, but TWO items that can be digitally scratched off that list.

Fully watch the sunrise/set.
Take the girlfriend on a romantic beach picnic.

Two birds with one stone on these. For Valentine's Day I took "the little lovely" to the Santa Monica beach just before sunset with a basket full of strawberries, sushi, and individual salads (that came packaged with their own plastic forks!). We also would have knocked out "having an alcoholic beverage on the beach" if somebody (me) hadn't forgotten something very important (corkscrew) at a certain place (the drawer at home). Oh well. Another time.

Unfortunately, February isn't the optimal time to lay on the sand after the sun has dropped, especially not in bare feet. It was an abrupt end to the day, but it was a beautiful Valentine's Day and an honest achievement nonetheless.

This Entry In Song:
Foo Fighters - "February Stars"
Zebrahead - "Just the Tip"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

What's That On My Sleeve? Oh, Right, It's My Heart.

2009-02-15T12:46:00.000-08:00

"When I wake up you look so pretty sleeping next to me.
But there is not enough time. And there is no song I could sing.
And there is no combination of words I could say,
but I will still tell you one thing. We're better together."
- Jack Johnson, "Better Together"

Today, I will be writing about the most important part of my life. Her. If you easily give in to the weepies upon seeing overly sentimental schmaltz, grab a box of tissues. If you’re easily disgusted by seeing the words “love” and “heart” written repeatedly and without irony, click on another blog.

First: who is “her?” Well, “she” would be the apple of my eye--that is if I liked apples more than the normal amount. She’s more like the caramel apple of my eye when I stop to consider it. Or perhaps the peach ice cream of my eye? She’s the Chicken Parmesan of my being...

The truth is, without her, I wouldn’t be the same person that’s writing this journal entry. And I suspect that would be for the worse. I’m sure I would be the same hopeless romantic and soul bleeder that I am today, but I doubt that anyone else would know that. Without her, I would still be hiding entirely behind a shield of jokes and jocularities–instead of doing it only some of the time. She opened up a more sincere part of me. She’s the reason I wrote my first love song. I even sang it...out loud. (Only to her, but a big step for me nonetheless.)

She is the barricade that all of my tears must first pass through, only after determining whether or not they’re the good or bad kind. She takes care of me in a way that isn’t motherly; nor is it the way that a good friend would. It’s something beyond that. She is the bubble wrap that lets my heart keep bouncing back and landing softly.

My days with her will always be better than my days without. My chin will never feel as good as it does than when her head is resting right beneath it. After almost three years with her, it feels strange to be in a room where she isn’t. I find myself missing her after being at work for only a few hours. I know that this most likely makes me the world’s most pathetic boyfriend. And I think I’m okay with that.

She is Emily Leibold. She is the biggest reason I can think of to roll out of bed in the morning. She is the very reason I smile so wide, so frequently. She’s my girlfriend, my best friend, my valentine.

She’s perfect and I hope she knows it.

This Love in Song:
Ben Folds - "The Luckiest"

Happy Valentine’s Day,
Shaky Jake

Spotting the Semi-Famous: Part 2.

2009-02-09T21:32:00.000-08:00

"Who are you? Are you famous? Important?"
- Finger Eleven, "Famous"

I saw another B-lister walking the streets of Hollywood Boulevard the other night. As I was crossing the intersection at Hollywood and Highland, I glanced at the portly man with spiky hair walking toward me. His name is Tyler Labine, otherwise known as "Sock," otherwise known as the pudgy, bearded man from that funny show about the devil. He's the co-star of Reaper and I had to look him up on IMDB to even see what his name on the TV show is. I've seen it only a few times, but he's got a memorable look about him.

Certainly no Zach Braff, but at least he's been on television.

On a side note, I also saw Jesus that night. Seriously. Tall guy, heavy beard, straggly hair, burlap sack for a robe. Penchant for getting pictures taken with drunk girls. Had to be Jesus...

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #4

2009-02-07T21:05:00.000-08:00

There are fewer things that can make a person feel more "with the times" than listening to Motley Crue while driving down Sunset Boulevard at night...in 2009.

Motley Crue - "Kickstart My Heart"

Fast Fact #3

2009-02-02T21:10:00.000-08:00

Rap music is slowly creeping its way into my playlists. Will this make me feel any less white? Possibly. Will this make me actually BE any less white? Not a chance.

Seasonal Memories.

2009-02-01T10:28:00.000-08:00

"I am a new day rising. I'm a brand new sky to hang the stars upon tonight. I am a little divided... It's times like these you learn to love again. It's times like these, time and time again."
- Foo Fighters, "Times Like These"

You know how certain times of day and certain types of weather make you remember different things? Or make you feel a certain way? For me, sunsets in the summertime always make me think of playing basketball as a kid in my driveway and trying desperately to shoot a 3-pointer.
On the other hand, crisp, sunny mornings in the Spring make me think of sitting in my bedroom--either first learning to play the guitar or playing with my G.I. Joe action figures (quietly, though, so as not to wake my parents in the room across the hall).

But here's a question:
Why do these certain times of day or season bring back those memories?

For instance, right now, I'm sitting INSIDE typing this blog entry as the sun partially makes its way into the bedroom. It's cool outside, sure, but it's not cold. Yet, I don't really know that. I'm inside.

So does it matter that it's a cool, crisp, Spring morning? It shouldn't, right? Especially here in California where there really are no seasons and the only way to determine which one you're in is by the month on the calendar. January, April, August...they all mean sunshine out here. So
why wasn't I thinking about launching plastic missiles with Commander Cobra on a different sunny morning in a different month of the year? I'm not doing anything special to make that memory dawn on me (such as surfing e-Bay for vintage Joe toys, for instance...), so how come it happens now. At this time. During this part of the day. And how come I couldn't imagine this memory creeping up on me in any other type of setting?

This memory fits this moment, and this moment is unique to this season. It's something that I'll never be able to adequately explain...or even understand. Still, whenever a cold chill passes through my body as I stare up at the dark clouds forming in the sky, I'll always think of nights playing baseball against our town's rival team. And when I smell freshly-cut grass mixing with a slight whiff of smoke, I'll think of climbing the monkey bars in my backyard.

Though I don't know why these memories occur to me the way they do--at the times they do--I do know this: I hope they never stop. I'd miss them.

This Entry In Song:
Albert Hammond, Jr. - "In My Room"
Eric Hutchinson - "Back to Where I Was"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Past Lives Re-visited Through An E-mail Inbox.

2009-01-29T14:23:00.000-08:00

"I can't make you walk away. I can't wash you off my skin. Outside the frame is what we're leaving out. You won't remember anyway."
- Queens of the Stone Age, "Go With the Flow"

I was recently scrolling through my Hotmail Inbox and came across quite a few blasts from the Internet past. Old e-mails from old friends, relatively pointless forwards from distant relatives. It’s amazing to think that in one year’s time, the people who you centered your life around can be seamlessly pushed to the outskirts. Relationships change; that’s no big revelation. But I can't help but think that those people who drift in and out of our lives can often have a much greater impact on who we become than we might realize.

“Hey, it's good to hear from you! College is going really well. I love it! I don't like having roommates at all, though. It sucks. My one roommate never talks to me, the other sleeps around with everyone, and the other one makes me want to rip my fingernails off. But I guess I gotta deal with it. How are things going with you?...”

The first girlfriend. The one who broke your heart before you really even believed that you had one to break. She taught you that there’s a big difference between love and lust; between a crush and a soul mate. You thought she was perfect. As it turns out, it took breaking up with her to see the imperfections you were too love-drunk to see while you were with her. She opened the door for other love to filter through and is part of the reason you were able to find your true companion.

“I read 10 words into this e-mail only to discover that the author had attempted to use the word 'hepatitis' as an adjective. Then it hits me...only one man could be so bold. What's up man? Long time no talk. I'm transferring to University of Iowa in the fall. Apparently intelligence, effort, and the ability to read at a fourth grade level don't factor into their admissions process... Don't be a stranger..."

The grade school pal. You and him were inseparable during your formative youth and were one surgery away from being joined at the hip. You both had the same sense of humor, but you were polar opposites in almost every other facet. You grew up in different types of families, you listened to different types of music, and you applied yourself to different subjects in the classroom. You stayed in contact off and on throughout high school, but once college hit, you realized that most of the reason you stayed friends for as long as you did is because you spent most of your time in the same building. He kept your sense of humor fresh and you wouldn’t have made the long-term friends you’ve made today if it weren’t for him.

“Your latest draft shows a strong progression in the story's narrative. You obviously know how to get into your characters' heads and it shows in the dialogue. Though I can't come up with many suggestions, one thing you may want to keep in mind is that sometimes simpler is better. Not always...but sometimes. Keep pounding away and this will be fantastic.”

Teachers. They may not be at the top of anyone’s list for open influences, but like it or not, they probably molded you more than anyone else did in your teenage years. For me, it was a Senior Year duo: the Video Productions teacher and the English Composition teacher. Since I was 5, all I’ve ever wanted to do with my life is write, but I never knew what the outlet should be. Children’s stories? Poetry? Together, they helped me realize that I should “go big or go home.” Without them, I doubt I would’ve ended up drafting my first screenplay.

"You are in violation of the Brothers Act of 2001. After reviewing your case file, I have found that you have not contacted your brother in over a month!"

Siblings. You don’t always like them. In fact, sometimes you’d go so far as to say that you downright hate them. But like it or not, they’re always there and they’re always family. They can be totally immature, completely incompetent, or incredibly bighearted—sometimes all at once. They give advice, they give grief, they give headaches, and they might even give you a good interest rate when they cosign for your student loan. All in all, they might be part of the biggest life lessons you ever learn.

And then there are those little acquaintances that are scattered all throughout your life. They’re so forgettable but can turn out to have such an impact. No person plays too small a role not to make some sort of difference in where you turn out to be.

Who knew that Hotmail could be such a time capsule? I look forward to cleaning out my e-mails again next year.

This Entry In Song:
The Zutons - "Remember Me"
The Bronx - "Past Lives"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #2

2009-01-29T11:46:00.001-08:00

My urine smells like turkey after I drink too much coffee. Try the sniff test on yourself after your next Starbucks run.

Working Part-Time, Hating Work Full-Time.

2009-01-27T20:39:00.000-08:00

"Work sucks, I know."
- Blink 182, "All the Small Things"

I’m going to sound like just another sky-collared (that’s a mix of blue and white collar, by the way) jackass plaintiff here for just a moment, so please humor me.

...Bosses are the worst, aren’t they? Especially the ones who never really let you know where you stand with them or the company that they are such a detestable cog in. The bank I work at (which shall remain without a name, at least while I’m still employed under them) recently gave me the big thumbs-up on a promotion that had routinely been hinted at “unofficially.” Well, it wasn’t so much a promotion as an advancement in hours–moving from part-time to full-time. It was great! Not only could I enroll in all the sweet benefits that a full-time employee was allowed to roll around in but I would also get a bigger paycheck every couple of weeks.

Ever since I moved to California, I’ve been hoping for a position where I could work 30 hour weeks. 30 hours. Such a perfect amount of time. 20 hours left me with too much time on my hands (which made me a lazy lump) and not enough bread in my pantry (which left me hungry for entertainment). But 40 hours would be too much. I would have almost no time on my hands and all the bread I could handle–but not enough time to enjoy it. It’s a Goldilocks “too hot” or “too cold” porridge situation. So when I landed the 30 hour workweek prime time spot, I was amply excited.

A bit of the back story: a fellow employee was downgraded and eventually terminated due to a few insubordination issues. This left a vacancy on the schedule and her hours up for grabs. The boss told me to grab them.

Then, as if by magic, the same woman who was fired the previous week suddenly showed up at work the very next Monday to go about her usual day of not knowing how to do things. No one said a word about it. Now, I may not be a rocket scientist (or even a rocket enthusiast), but I feel right in assuming that when someone is fired, they generally stay away from the place they are fired from. And don’t...ya know...continue to work there. Maybe I’m being too old-fashioned, I haven’t decided yet. What I have decided, however, is that bosses who don’t live up to their promises need a good, solid whollopin’.

The rest of the story: I received a copy of the schedule this week which has the fired/rehired woman’s name on it, and a baffling “20" featured beside my name and under the column labeled “Standard Hours.”

I’m still waiting for an explanation. It’s my hope that by this time tomorrow, I’ll have something to report back regarding the phenomenon that is my changing work hours.

This Entry In Song:
Ben Folds - "Fired"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #1

2009-01-24T14:58:00.000-08:00

The myth that all black men are hung like horses was debunked today after I saw a black man jogging in ridiculously short shorts. Unfortunately, he and his red 'dukes ran directly into my eyeline while I sat drinking coffee outside of Starbucks. It appeared to extend not more than the length of a bottle cap. I'm fairly confident that the girl he was running with had a bigger penis. And that's just unfortunate.

Why Is the Last One So Good?

2009-01-13T21:49:00.000-08:00

"Because we do not know when we will die, we get to think of life as an
inexhaustible well. And yet, everything happens only a certain number of times. And a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood? An afternoon that is so deeply a part of your being that you cannot conceive of your life without it? Perhaps 4...5 times more? Perhaps not even that. How many times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless."
- Brandon Lee, interviewed on the set of The Crow

The last performance. It’s something that I’m sure every entertainer nearing the end of the road thinks about. “When is it going to be the last one?” The last film. The last album. The last time that they will be able to stamp their work into the collective notebook of artistic culture. It isn’t difficult to imagine an eighty-something performer hovering over a script, prying apart every syllable of his dialogue, making sure that every word he speaks on screen will translate into a career-defining film; probably his last. When you know it’s your last, how could you not want it to be perfect?

But what about the people that don’t know it’s their last?

How come the last performance before an actor passes on always seems to be their best? Perhaps it’s just the natural progression of things. After all, most actors should only get better with each film because they are evolving and growing in their craft. Still, I can think of a great many names that peaked early in their career and started slowly dropping off from there. Maybe they knew subconsciously that it was going to be the last one; the whispers of death came long before the rattle. Whatever the case, there’s no shortage of phenomenal last performances. In fact, a lot of “last ones” are also the “best ones”—not just of their particular career, but in the history of the medium as a whole.

Of course, the name that should already be on the minds of those of you reading this is Heath Ledger. His final performance as the disturbingly sinister/psychotic Joker in The Dark Knight will no doubt become one of the most revered performances of all time. A lot of critics have said that it’s hard to take your eyes off of Heath while he’s on screen. No, it’s impossible, actually. The one thought that swept through the canals of my brain during my first viewing of The Dark Knight: “This is the same guy that was singing ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ to Julia Styles on a set of bleachers while simultaneously Three Stooge-ing his way through a police officer foot chase in 10 Things I Hate About You?” How does one transform oneself from the simple, Australian heartthrob of romantic comedies to an unsettling, stringy-haired menace that has haunted every nightmare since the film’s release?

But Heath Ledger isn’t the only shining star to be ripped from the sky just after lighting a whole new path for itself. A father and son became a part of this unfortunate blueprint not all that long ago. Bruce and Brandon Lee, martial arts superstars, passed away during the filming of two separate-but-equally groundbreaking movies. Enter the Dragon singlehandedly brought the fast-paced kicks and punches of Hong Kong to American cinemas. The Crow paved a path for the darker, dirtier type of superhero franchise and may have quite possibly allowed Heath Ledger the opportunity to be the type of character that The Joker became. Both careers were jumping out of obscurity and into a major spotlight.

It’s not just in film that “the last one” seems to overshadow everything that came before it. Louis Armstrong’s last recorded song was “What a Wonderful World,” a quintessential ballad of optimism that detailed the simple and pure things in life as well as the bright future beyond the horizon. He passed on less than 3 years later. Kurt Cobain released his most artistically-praised album with Nirvana in 1993, less than a year before his death. Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix each made some of their most memorable music just prior to packing their bags and heading for the clouds. Johnny Cash’s final album, American V: A Hundred Highways, ranked #1 on the Billboard Charts, the only time since 1971.

*

So what is it? Is there some rule that God has stating that a man cannot live through his own legacy? It’s all probably a little idealistic. To hope that everyone gets such a great send-off into the afterlife. To think that “the last one” is always the best one. But perfection speaks for itself and, in some cases, performers are lucky enough to have their final work become what they’re best known for. It’s just a shame that they didn’t get the chance to see how much impact they had.

This Entry In Song:
3 Doors Down - "It's Not My Time"
Louis Armstrong - "What a Wonderful World"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

* Individual images obtained from Creative Commons search via Google Images.

Spotting the Semi-Famous: Part 1.

2009-01-10T20:33:00.000-08:00

"Who are you? Are you famous? Important?"
- Finger Eleven, "Famous"

If you recall the list I posted a few weeks back--the one that makes people say "okay, sure"--you know that I have had almost zero celebrity sightings. The ones that I do see aren't always considered "A-listers." But, in honor of "those" people, I'm going to clear some space for a regular section here at From IA to LA. Anytime I see someone that is mildly, mediocrely, somewhat, almost, modestly, or possibly famous, I'll make a note of them. Because who knows, maybe some day they'll be wedged somewhere between Hugh Jackman and Steve Buscemi on the Walk-of-Fame.

Today, I'll start the list by cheating a little bit. This man isn't famous, but his brother is:

Keith Hefner, sibling of Playboy creator and cradle-robber Hugh "motherf-ing" Hefner.

To get an image of this man, picture Hugh wearing a trucker hat and sporting a very gentle mustache. Granted, he probably smells less like a blonde girl's vagina than his brother, but you get the idea. I saw him at my bank. And it was good.

Think I can score an invite to The Mansion?

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

A New Year. A New Face.

2009-01-08T13:55:00.000-08:00

"Get 'em up, put 'em up. Get your dukes up now."
- Modest Mouse, "Dukes Up"

It’s story time, readers. So make sure you’re sitting in a comfy chair and have plenty of fluids on hand. You're about to hear how this blogger's face became the target of hillbilly hatred on New Year's Eve.

After returning to the grand state of Iowa for Christmas after having been a few hundred miles away for about 3 months, I realized why I only keep in contact with family and a few select friends. This realization struck me like a fist to the face. Why? Because I realized it after I had received a fist to the face. Allow me to set up the scenario.

Balltown, Iowa. You might say that it’s the epicenter of drunken hillbillies and warm beer. (And you’d be correct.) This is not exactly the type of place you would want to be on New Year’s Eve, when the warm Busch Light is flowing like tap water and every walking heap of cow dung is trying their hardest to start a brawl. I know this now. The intent was to stop in and say a few quick hellos to a few distant-but-not-forgotten friends. A short, 30-minute detour. Well, 45 minutes later I was walking to the car with a wad of tissue paper stuffed up my nose to stop the bleeding while my glasses lay helpless somewhere on the moonlit gravel.

I was dressed in a snazzy pair of dark blue jeans, a black button-up shirt, and a pair of black leather shoes that might as well have said “come hump my leg.” In short, I was looking good. The rest of the basement-dwelling chug-a-lugs were outfitted in shit-kickers and old-pig smell. So, yes, I stood out from the pack. On the way up the stairs and out of the party, one rosey-faced intoxicant grabbed me by the collar (presumably to make me one of his own kind…a redneck) and insisted that I was looking for a fight. Now, being in the martial arts for nearly 10 years has taught me how to handle just about any situation that a guy could throw himself into. And it’s because of that decade of hand-to-hand combat training that I was able to freeze up and yelp that I was, in fact, not looking to engage in fisticuffs.

Not Pictured: An Opponent.

But, when that didn’t work, I reciprocated this kind man’s gesture and grabbed him by the throat. Knowing that there were several of this pit stain’s buddies within a few feet of our scuffle waiting to knock me into a hay bale somewhere, I didn’t throw a punch or lift a leg—partly because I was smart, and mostly because I was terrified.

When I was finally able to shove this scrawny tobacco spit of a human being away, I grabbed my girlfriend, Emily, and headed out the door. The problem was, a few of my more inebriated friends from inside had witnessed my scuffle and there was now a full-scale riot erupting in the garage from which I had emerged. But it was hard to thank them for their loyalty because I was too concerned about finding my best friend—and my ride—Tony, who was lost somewhere inside the mutiny.

If I had walked back to his car, right then and there, a beautiful face would have been salvaged that night. Instead…

By this time I was shouting for Tony at the top of my lungs in some twisted game of Marco Polo…a game he didn’t know we were playing. At this point, I stood more than 50 feet away from the Balltown Massacre taking place inside the garage and it would seem that I made it out of the scuffle unharmed. But wouldn’t you know it, another partygoer noticed this too and decided that just wouldn’t do.

WHAM!

I was sucker-punched by “some fat, pansy a--hole” (Emily’s description, not mine). When you’re punched in the face, not much goes through your head except a lot of question marks. That considered, I believe the first words out of my mouth were “what the f--k just happened!?” Tears came to my eyes but surprisingly, I was still on my feet. Since I saw no blurry figure standing in front of me, I assumed that the portly coward had run back to join the brawl. Perfect. Not even a chance for redemption?

The rush of adrenaline I felt at that moment is probably comparable to being shoved out of a plane or chugging a few pints of Red Bull. I wanted someone else’s blood on my knuckles. It was at this moment that my inner macho man took over and I turned from a lover to a fighter. Rational thought was fleeting at a rapid pace and if it hadn’t been for my wonderfully sensible woman pulling me away, my feet would have surely led me back into the hillbilly tussle because…let’s face it…men are stupid. We are crotch-grabbing cavemen with something to prove. When we get dethroned (a.k.a. face-punched) we want to forcibly take our crown back (a.k.a. kick the other guy right in the balls). Even me, a generally sensitive type of fellow, can fall victim to those super-masculine, my-dong’s-bigger-than-yours urges. And while I’m not necessarily ashamed of it, I’m not all that pleased with it, either.

Eventually, we found Tony (granted, a little later than one would hope) and we scurried off to his car and, later on, to a hospital. Tony felt bad because he was the one who suggested leaving an earlier party to pass through this one. Emily felt sick because she heard the crunch the fat guy’s knuckles made with my nose. I felt shaky because…well…I still wanted to kick some hillbilly ass.

Needless to say, that night didn’t end well for any of us.

The epilogue goes something like this: I visited a doctor who told me my nose wasn’t broken. For the next few days, I spent most of my time recounting that story for family and friends. I initially lied to my worry-wart of a mother about what happened to my face but eventually spilled the beans. I got a new pair of glasses. I had to catch a plane back to California a couple days later, where I chugged Sudafed and Ginger Ale to stop my sinuses from screaming at me. And now, I sit feeling the bridge of my nose and realizing the doctor I visited is probably incompetent and my nose is most likely broken.

What did I learn from this experience? Cowboys don’t like suave men. So next time I should dress down and bring several of my largest friends with me. Or perhaps just stay away from Balltown, Iowa.

New Year's Resolution: Don't get punched in the face again. It hurts.

This Entry In Song:
Reel Big Fish - "Beer"
Modest Mouse - "Dukes Up"
The Pixies - "Broken Face"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Turning 22 Is Just Like Turning 21. But Less Eventful.

2008-12-14T13:26:00.001-08:00

"I'm not the same boy I was before. But I've not changed my desires. I've not extinguished the fires. I haven't lost wide-eyed wonder. I haven't lost the stupid fear of thunder."
- Oingo Boingo, "Same Man I Was Before"

Birthdays are an odd thing. When you're a kid, they are officially the coolest day of the year. Birthdays beat Christmas, Easter, and Halloween hands down. And it's because your birthday was the one day of the year where everything was about you, but you didn't really know--or care--why. All you knew was that you got to take treats to school, eat cake, and get money from grandparents.

But somewhere along the line birthdays stop being that really cool, super special day that you look forward to all year long and end up being an "event" that you forget about until two days before it happens. The only exception to this rule is probably the grandiose 21st BIRTHDAY EXTRAVAGANZA, because once again, it's all about you. It's about you getting plastered, you singing Poison's "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" at the top of your lungs, and you waking up in the morning missing a shoe and having your pants half off for some reason.

So what happens the year after the 21st BIRTHDAY EXTRAVAGANZA? You turn 22. You still go out to the bars and you still get more than a little plastered, but it all just lacks the flair that your 21st had. For me, maybe it's just because I was in a different part of the country without the usual ragtag group of fun-loving people to surround my shananigans...whatever it was, it just wasn't quite the same. Who knows, maybe I'm getting too old for those shananigans? Probably not, but it's always a possibility...

I did find a new favorite bar hangout. And I did have my favorite type of cake baked for me by my favorite type of girlfriend (i.e. the baking type).

So. I'm 22. What now?

This Entry In Song:
The Killers - "When You Were Young"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Where Has All the Fame Gone?

2008-12-10T21:54:00.001-08:00

"When I look at the stars, I see someone else."
- Switchfoot, "Stars"

HOLLYWOOD. Those big block letters sitting on top of a mountain are supposed to mean something to the casual passersby. It's supposed to stand for the giant personalities and outrageous fame contained within its city limits. So then how is it that after I have lived here for 3 months, the list of "famous" people I've encountered reads like one giant list of "huh?"

Let's analyze:

Dian Bachar
Kate Flannery
John Melendez
Craig Ferguson
Zachary Levi
Joshua Gomez
Lauren Graham
Magic Johnson

Out of all the names on that list, how many do you recognize? If your answer is anything more than 2, congratulations! You might as well be a genius. Everyone that I've ever told this short list of people to has given nearly the same response: "Huh. Cool." Add a few long seconds of silence and you've got yourself one awkward phone call. To those of you who dont' know these "famous" people I've spotted, I'll guide you along:

Dian Bachar is better known to South Park side-project enthusiasts as "Squeak" from BASEketball or "Choda Boy" from Orgazmo. Kate Flannery is "Meredith," the red-headed drunkard from the American version of The Office. John Melendez is "Stuttering John" to all Howard Stern followers. Craig Ferguson you should all know and love as the host of The Late, Late Show. Zachary Levi and Joshua Gomez are two of the main stars of "Chuck" (the former is the title character). Lauren Graham is the hot mom from Gilmore Girls and also the receiver of Billy Bob Thorton's Santa screwing in Bad Santa. And Magic Johnson is, well...Magic "f-ing" Johnson.

That long-winded explanation should not be necessary for describing the "famous" people I've seen! And that's not even a lot of "famous" people to have seen in 3 month's time! (I'd like to take a moment to apologize for putting the word famous in quotes when I talk about these people. I mean no disregard and love them all in a very non-sexual way.)

Where are all of the damn movie stars and mega-musicians at?

Dave Grohl, Dane Cook, Vince Vaughn...show yourselves!

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Adaptation Is For Suckers.

2008-12-03T15:12:00.000-08:00

"Getting used to it when it's all so new. Getting more of it when none would do."
- Citizen Fish, "Getting Used To It"

Adaptation is the key to the survival of any species. That's about the only thing that science has ever taught me that I can still remember, but it's an important fact nonetheless. If you can't change and grow with your environment, you're bound to end up in a heap of regret and permanent nostalgia. Part of the challenge in moving out to California has been adapting, not so much to the physical landscape (warmer climate, crazier traffic, lots of orange...everywhere) as to the human interaction process.

For instance, in Iowa, if someone were to ask you to try a sample of something--let's say the Bath & Bodyworks store in the mall--and you tried it, you either A) bought that product or B) thanked them for the sample and kept moving. Out here, there seems to be far less of a chance for option B. As a matter of fact, scratch that, THERE IS NO OPTION B. Street vendors selling food, street performers selling CDs, mall kiosks offering lotions; it doesn't matter who it is, if you stop for longer than 3 seconds to answer their question, they take this is as a sign that you need to have their product. And a lot of it. I suppose this all goes along with the idea that "nothing is for free," but it can get tiring figuring out the best way to maneuver around these people. I'm still slightly clinging to my Midwestern manners in that I think altogether ignoring somebody is kind of rude. But boy does it work a lot better than trying to coerce your way out of buying something! A strong "no," an obvious look in the complete opposite direction, even a stiff-arm if need be; you do what you have to do to have your day uninterrupted.

Don't be fooled by the hot pink tights. She'll shake you down, punk.

Contrary to popular belief, a large part of the population out here is actually pretty nice. It's true. Stop gasping. Granted, as with any city, Los Angeles has its share of d-bags, a-wipes, and MF'ers, but those people you deal with by spitting in their hair after you walk past them. (Kidding, mostly.) But really, I've met some very kind, generous people since I moved. And get this, a few of them were even born AND raised in California! Who knew? So there hasn't been much adaptation needed in most social interactions. Key words: much and most.

At bars, however, the atmosphere is less relaxed than I'm used to. To me, going to a bar is a lot like hanging out at a wedding reception: get a few drinks, do a bit of dancing, maybe puke on your own shoes...it just depends on the night. No pressure.

Not so, says NoHo!

People out here don't go to bars to hang out and relax. They go to network and sell themselves. It's annoying, really. "Look guy, I don't want your business card, I just asked what your favorite shot is." I don't want to be on my A-game everytime I step foot into a drinking establishment. In fact, the very reason I go to bars is to be on my C or even D-game. And I've decided that's not going to change this year. I'm just going to have to show these Coasties how we do it in Cornland.

Pictured: Me at my D-game.

Maybe this should be an experiment? Let's see how I survive in California with the least amount of adaptation possible.

This Entry In Song:
Antennas - "Adapt!"
Lostprophets - "We Still Kill the Old Way"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

An Epiphony List.

2008-11-30T23:29:00.000-08:00

"It doesn't make a bit of difference if you start what you can't finish. Every story needs an ending, after all."
- Motion City Soundtrack, "Can't Finish What You Started"

Working graveyard shifts as a security officer isn't as bad of a gig as it might sound. Sure, there may not be much to secure overnight, necessarily, but simply being awake and knowing that almost everyone else in the city is sleeping puts the mind into an odd place. It was at 6:30-ish AM at the tail end of a recent shift--while watching the sunrise behind the Hollywood Hills--when I had an epiphony. I took out my Post-It Notepad and my black ink pen and started scribbling frantically on page after page of tiny orange paper. For one half of an hour--until my shift had officially ended--I poured over those little scraps like it was my job. (I should probably take this opportunity to point out that I wasn't guarding anything of much importance, just the backstage area of an empty concert arena. Nothing that would deserve my full attention.)

By the end of my scribbling session, I had produced several barely articulated ideas. One of which was a list of all the things I wanted to accomplish in the 9 months I would be here on the West Coast. And because I know you will all riot in the streets if I don't post it, here is that list:

Climb a small mountain.
Complete a screenplay.
Audition for at least 3 real acting roles. (Not as an extra!)
Learn to ride a bike.
Go to a taping of Jay Leno.
Play guitar in a subway station.
Learn to swim.
Visit the LA or San Diego Zoo. (Or Both.)
Play beach volleyball with a group of people.
Get at least 1 piece of writing published.
Fully watch the sun rise/set.
Drink a frozen alcoholic beverage on a beach.
Purchase an item of California memorabilia.
Have a conversation with a famous person.
Start a blog.
Make a collection of California photos.
Get a tattoo.
Gain 15 pounds.
Take the girlfriend on a romantic beach picnic.
Take a long walk on the beach.

There. Not such outlandish goals, are they? Now, one of the things on this checklist can already be checked off. (Can you guess which one? Hint: it's the one with the word "blog" in it.) And a couple of these can easily be combined and completed in one single swoop. For instance, I could pack a picnic basket with some margaritas (in thermoses, of course), take it to the beach, and sip them while watching the sun go down. And if that lovely lime drink hasn’t hit me too hard, we could follow it up with a nice, romantic walk along the shore. See? I'm multi-tasking already.

But in all honesty, I hope I'm able to slice my way through the entirety of the twenty items. It would provide me with a great sense of accomplishment and complete my voyage into this vast unknown that they call Southern California.
Wish me luck.

This Entry In Song:
Jack's Mannequin - "Resolution"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

A Few Thanks, A Little Giving; Not At All a Bad Time.

2008-11-28T14:34:00.001-08:00

"Turkey lurky doo and turkey lurky dap. I eat that turkey and I take a nap."
- Adam Sandler, "The Thanksgiving Song"

Yesterday, the day of giving thanks, would be a day that firmly broke years of tradition. Instead of spending the day in Madison, Wisconsin surrounded by family, a slight dusting of snow, and food that I didn't have to cook, I spent it in California, where the company was small, the sun was shining, and hours of food preparation needed to happen. And you know something? It was pretty great. The three of us recent Californians crafted our own Thanksgiving meal from scratch. This was the menu:

Turkey (of course)
Garlic mashed potatoes
Sweet potatoes with brown sugar and marshmallows
Green bean casserole
Pumpkin pie

And yes, all of it was homemade and all of it was delicious. Even more surprising than the fact that no limbs were burned or bruised during the course of preparing the meal was the lack of homesickness that I felt while eating it. Sure, I still wished that I could have been back in Wisconsin, celebrating with the family (and a rousing pool tournament to boot), but it never detracted from the overall feeling of joy I got from having Turkey Day with two of my best friends.

So what do I have to be thankful for the day after Thanksgiving? Well, I'm thankful that I could still enjoy some sweet potatoes in 70 degree weather.

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

This All Looked Better in the Brochure, Sir.

2008-11-24T23:37:00.000-08:00

"So just lay your head down low. Don't let anybody know that it's hard to live in the city."
- Albert Hammond, Jr. - "Hard to Live (In the City)"

The first month of California living: an overwhelming discomfort and displacement.

That's the reality of "the dream." For the first brief while, this place was absolutely everything that an outsider could imagine it as, at least on a physical level. The palm trees, the intense sunshine, and the overall rosy tint of the landscape were all too easy to become absorbed by. The fact that our apartment building offers a large swimming pool and hot tub also lent itself to that special secluded resort ambiance; our own piece of paradise. But those things slowly became overshadowed by the bigger issues.

Jobs were hard to come by. Also, there is no such thing as "easy" or "quick" travel in Southern California. Everything is a process within a process wrapped in a debacle.

Let's start with the job hunt. I'd spend hours online applying to literally hundreds of jobs that were posted on the major career search sites. Then I'd spend a few more hours driving up and down the streets of North Hollywood looking for any door that had a "We're Hiring" sign posted behind the glass. And when none of that was successful, I even resorted to using Craigslist. I need not tell you at this point that situations were dire. But with a bit of persistence and a couple of fruitless interviews, I was finally able to land a job as a security officer for Universal Studios. The hours were meak, the pay was mediocre, and the job description read like how-to guide on death by sheer boredom. But it was a job that let me afford to live in my little resort. And I suppose I could have done worse. As it is, I have the privelage of just patroning In-N-Out Burger instead of donning a paper hat and stepping behind the fryer. That I could be thankful for.

Also, my place of work afforded me the rare occurance of being able to use public transportation instead of my car to travel. This is lucky because I'm compelled to say that if I had been forced to take the 101 or the 405 to and from work everyday, I would have long ago ceased to be. Coming from the Midwest, I'm used to driving 10 miles in roughly 10 minutes. But "no way," says LA. On the contrary: I'd consider myself lucky if I could get to the city in less time than it takes to catch, kill, and cook a turkey.

But those are the prices to be paid for living in such a "happening" place, I suppose. And, again, things could be much worse. I could still be unemployed and without any mode of transportation whatsoever. Or I could be blind.

That would probably be worse.

This Entry In Song:
Albert Hammond, Jr. - "Hard to Live (In the City)"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

I'm Pretty Sure This Might Be the Life.

2008-11-24T17:39:00.000-08:00

"We'd waste our weeks beneath the sun. We'd fry our brains and say it's so much fun out here. And when it's all over, I'll come back for another year."
- Jack's Mannequin - "Holiday From Real"

The first day of California living: a late-night slumber party of excitement.

I'll consider the "first day" here to be the day after all of the bags were unpacked, all of the groceries were bought, and the general living area was situated enough for us to call our apartment something more than a large storage bin. Those first twenty-four hours were actually something I'd deem "splendid."

It was a miniature vacation, really. It was a day at the spa...

...combined with a Hollywood tour...

(Clockwise from top left: Tiny HOLLYWOOD Sign, Mann's Chinese Theater, Richard Pryor's Star, Hidden Spider-Man.)

...placed neatly overtop lots of lounging in the sunshine.

Quite frankly, it was a bit like being a kid in a candy store; that is, if by "kid" I meant "legal drinker" and by "candy store" I meant "debauchery-ville." Because let's face it, you can't really enjoy LA unless you're also enjoying a good hangover the next day. And there was plenty of that, too.

They were all of the fantastically empty experiences that I thought I could have out here. And nothing more. And I was happy with that.

This Entry In Song:
Jack's Mannequin - "Holiday From Real"
My Favorite Highway - "Simple Life"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Long Distances For Small Spaces.

2008-11-18T17:59:00.000-08:00

"All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go."
- Peter, Paul, and Mary - "Leaving On a Jet Plane"

Sunday, September 14th, 2008. It was moving day. Packed into small and flexible groups were the essential items that I'd be needing for both the road trip as well as our ending destination in North Hollywood. These tiny subsections of my livelihood contained just enough to get me by: clothing, kitchen supplies, and your average odor-defying bathroom products. My lady friend (or "girlfriend," in case she reads this and gets upset that I called her my lady friend), Emily, did not share my sense of petite packing. I have confidence that if I had let her bring her actual bedroom closet, she would have.

But let's move on, for fear of digressing.

The drive from the Midwest to the West Coast qualifies as my first "real" road trip. For the first time, I crossed more than one state boundary in a single sitting. And for the most part, it was enjoyable. Four of us braved the everlasting stretches of roads: accompanying me and my better third was Emily's father (who supplied his truck to tow our spiffy Nissan Sentra packed to the brim with "essentials") and sister--a pair of kind souls if ever I'd met any. There were plenty of sights to be seen, plenty of songs to be heard, and the frequent stops for gas gave us opportunities to interact with the locals.

It was also 28 hours in a car.

In my head, I envisioned the trip going something like this: "Look, there goes the Iowa border! Look it's the Rocky Mountains! Hey, it's Las Vegas! What's that? We're in California already?"

(Now Entering: Warp Speed)

In reality, it was closer to this: "Why in the hell does it take so long to pass through Utah?"

(Not Pictured: Fun in Utah)

But when we finally saw the official road sign promising us that we had entered the boundaries of California, I can safely say that the excitement was palpable...and probably just a little sticky. We had arrived to our destination in four separate pieces...as four separate persons are inclined to do.

Having never seen our apartment in person before, I was prepared to be overwhelmed. I was also prepared to be underwhelmed (just in case). I wasn't prepared to be just whelmed, which is exactly what I was. I didn't have strong feelings either way about our new living set-up. The place was a 1-Bedroom but would have 3 people (including our mutual friend, Molly) living within its walls, which makes for a very cramped Three's Company scenario. It looked beautiful, clean, and generally welcoming, but its diminutive stature simply didn't lend itself to being a habitual resting place for large parties of people--or even just a few, large party people. Let me say it another way: if I lived in the apartment alone, I'd be singing to the ceilings that I'd "moved on up." Instead, I realized how individual cashews must feel in those small little cans.

On the other hand, my previous apartment was a studio and it featured what my girlfriend and I lovingly referred to as a "bedcouch." So, it was still a step in the right direction. Plus, I'd be living with a good friend and a girlfriend. And I'd be fulfilling my dream to start living my days without being steeped in regret over the things that I hadn't done. And that's worth a long drive in a cramped car and a year in a cramped apartment.

Because sometimes in life, you have to deal with cramps to achieve your dreams. And that's a phrase worthy of its own bumper sticker if ever I've heard one.

The Three Stages of Travel (In Song):
The Happy Start. Stone Temple Pilots - "Interstate Love Song"
The Long, Long Middle. Modest Mouse - "Out of Gas"
The Big Arrival. Phantom Planet - "California"

Be Back Soon,

Shaky Jake

A Preface.

2008-11-18T10:22:00.000-08:00

For the past two months, I have been living "The California Dream." On September 14th, I moved from the little ol' Midwest with a friend, a girlfriend, and an ambition to entertain the masses on the West Coast. It was not a move made in a moment of spontaneity or out of fleeting excitement, but rather a long path of decisions leading up to one strong jump across many boundaries--of family, education, and of course, states.

It was also decided that the move would not be a permanent one. It would last for just a year.

The purpose of this online journal is to chronicle the events that happen within that year under the California sun and to hopefully provide an interesting spin on what it is to "live the dream" from the eyes of a Calif-Iowan. I will recount my trials and tribulations of attempting to thrive in the entertainment capital of the world while also detailing the general quirks and various tidbits of everyday life: work, play, relationships, et cetera...

There may not be an entry every day--or for that matter, every week--because it is unrealistic to assume that something of note will happen at all times. Still, I will try to put aside my prejudices on what is and isn't interesting to give as full an accounting as possible. It is my hope that once the year has passed, IA to LA will be the bearer of much insight.

It is my hope, too, that it won't bore you to death.

Enjoy.

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

* Because I have waited two months to come up with this brilliant (?) idea, the initial few posts will be more retrospective than in-the-moment. Bear with me. I promise that they will be just as enthralling as the entries that are to follow. I pinky swear.