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

Climbing My Personal Mountain. Physically.

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

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

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

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


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

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #13.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #12.

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

John Mayer Re-visited.

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

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

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

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



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

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


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

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

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

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

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

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


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

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

...And Then There Were Two.

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

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

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

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

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

Our stay is ending.


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

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

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

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

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

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

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

He will be missed.

My final dance tribute to Michael Jackson:



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

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #11.

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

A Politically-Charged Rant On Foreigners in America.

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

WHAT?

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

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

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

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

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

Drunken Cartwheels: An American Tradition.

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

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

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

Just something to think about, foreigners.


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

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Who Can Argue With a Free John Mayer Concert?

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

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

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

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

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

Photo Courtesy of Just Jared.

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

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

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

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

Photo Courtesy of Alejandro De Cruz.

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

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

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

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

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


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

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Kyle Cease Gives Crowd Collective Swamp Ass.

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

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

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



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

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

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




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


Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

How Hard Is It To Remember Iowa?

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

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

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

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


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

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake