The San Diego Zoo Contains Awesome. Also, Animals.

"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:
Fall Out Boy - "Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Shaky Jake Writes Farce.

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

Back Again,
Shaky Jake

Leaving Los Angeles.

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

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

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


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

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


Goodbye, Hollywood. You will be missed.


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

Completely,
Shaky Jake

Persuing An Idenity Crisis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #14.

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

15 Hours In Disneyland: An Amusement Challenge.

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

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

THE CHALLENGE: spend 15 hours at Disneyland.

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

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

Real magic DOES exist.


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

I love Disneyland!

In space, everyone looks this cool.

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

I want Mickey Mouse to father my first child.


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

Disneyland is overpriced and stupid.

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

Disliking Disneyland less once again.

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

I have a renewed sense of wonderment!

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

Disneyland: home of death itself.

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

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

Fuck you, sun and thank you, slushy drink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She can physically contain her excitement no longer.

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

Pretty lights.


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

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


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

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


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

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Ninja Turtles, Meet Your Sworn Enemy.

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

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

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

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

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


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

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake