Matthew J.'s Profile

Plenty of people have done plenty of moronic things in Vegas but I'm prrrrrretty sure one of my actions this past weekend takes the cake.

"Did you drink a liter of vodka, John M?"

Well, yes, but I don't see what's so bad about that other than me trusting the shady Strip Liquor store guy who promised me Svedka "svould teste just like zeh Grey Geese wodka."

He was lying.

"Did you knock somebody up at the club, John M?"

No! They didn't even play Slow Jamz... and you know that's my song.

"Jesus John, now you're worrying me. Did you buy an Affliction t-shirt?"

Tried, but the clerk told me my IQ was too high.

"Well, wtf did you do then that could be so moronic?"

I. Left. My. Wallet. In. My. Cab.

Let's ponder the implications of this for a second. Initially, it doesn't seem so bad. Ok, so you lost maybe 2 hundo in cash, gotta call the bank and get a few cards canceled and withdraw a little bit for the weekend... not so bad, right? Except that I couldn't pull money out from the bank without my ID. Nor could I prove to the front desk that Suite 5111 belonged to me and get a new room key. Worst of all... sans ID, I wouldn't be able to hit the club the next night where they might play Slow Jamz!

A Saturday night spent alone is a sad thing. A Saturday night spent alone in Vegas watching True Lies with a tub of consolatory Dreyer's (while your friends are out living it up) would Guantanamo-esque. So what's a drunk, disoriented guy to do when he realized the cabby's pulling away with his wallet in the back seat?

Run. After. It. Screaming. Like. You. Don't. Have. A. Shred. Of. Dignity (which in Vegas, without cash money, do you have any dignity?). I'm sure it was an entertaining scene for the taxi stand people and other cabbies seeing this grown man run down the valet circle (drunk!) and down the street, flailing his arms, shrieking like a little girl:

*Running down Desert Inn Road* "AAAAHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!" *breath* "AAAAAHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"

But he drove off toward the haze of neon that was the Strip.

*John M then screams F word at the top of his lungs* (I yelled this so loud that if it were a movie, the cinematography would show me from above, then zoomed out to the city, then zoomed out to a shot of Earth, all while I yell this).

Defeated, I told my story to the hotel front desk. Luckily, I'd been able to catch the name of the cab company (though not his license plate... I was shithoused, remember?) so the front desk called them. The operator on the other end told us he'd dispatch all cabs who'd recently been to my hotel to check if they'd have it. Hopeful, I asked the front desk clerk how many times people who'd done this successfully got their wallets recovered. She kind of looked at me, then looked away.

Say  no more.

The clerk feels bad enough for me that she takes my word on what room I'm in and gives me a new pass. I go upstairs -- in the pit of despair -- when somehow, beyond all comprehension, cab-man comes back to the hotel 20 minutes later looking for me...

WITH MY WALLET! Broski could have taken my wallet and lived it up himself, but instead, not a single dollar was missing. I, of course, paid him $20 (not nearly enough in retrospect) and thanked him p-r-o-f-u-s-e-l-y. Then I went back upstairs and passed the f out, hugging/spooning my wallet.

Mignon McLaughlin once said "anything you lose automatically doubles in value." This is an under-appraisal.

A commercial once said "whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." I'm unspeakably glad a driver at ABC Union Cab made my wallet the exception.

Yelp is funny because occasionally, you run into reviews where a writer's ability to contextualize is about as successful as the Titanic's maiden voyage, with a dash of Chernobyl sprinkled on top.

Take my fellow reviewer who calls Overland's all-you-can-drink champagne brunch a "cheap gimmick," before thumbing their nose at the place's ambiance. I'm sorry, but going to a place that's famous for bottomless champagne (for only $5!) and saying the ambiance wasn't up to par makes about as much sense as going to 2-for-1 lapdance night at Scores and complaining their club sandwich was too light on the bacon. Oh, I'm SOOO SORRY, other reviewer, that you were surrounded by boozy UCLA sorority girls. Because you know what REALLY sucks when you dine out? Hot, educated, drunk women being all around you. How awful you had to endure that! Que pobrecito mi amor!

Fine, fine, I know I should be reviewing other reviews. I'll extend an olive branch by even acknowledging that non-stop champagne IS a cheap gimmick... a cheap gimmick that gets you absolutely sauced!

"Shut the fuck up, Matthew J. Did you just say endless champagne for only $5?" You bet your too-sober ass I did! Plus you can even get rolling while you wait to be seated:

"Why hello there, bartender. Here's a Hamilton. I'll take two tickets to sozzled-ville, please. ...Oh, you'll even give me a free pitcher of OJ to mimosamize this party? And you'll just add it to the table's tab even though we don't have a table yet? HELL TO THE YES. Sunday officially just became fun day."

More seriously, you might be wondering about the food (in which case, I question your judgment considering whose review you're reading). But my omelette was more than passable -- much more. As were my potatoes, english muffins, and the rest of my meal. No really, it was good food, and wholly unexpected. Then again, I was a bottle or two deep into the classy, classy champagne they kept bringing, so take that for what you will.

I don't even know why I'm talking about the (admittedly excellent) food because did I mention... FOR THE PRICE OF PARKING IN WESTWOOD, YOU CAN GET ALL THE CHAMPAGNE YOU WANT?! ...I did? Oh. Well it bears repeating. Turning Sunday into fun day is Overland Cafe's raison d'etre, and it pulls off its mission with aplomb. Downright, unimpeachable, sorry-I-missed-your-call,-mom,-I-was-taking-a-midd ay-drunken-nap aplomb.

Adieu, productive weekends. I hardly knew ye.

I'd always wondered what Peet's tasted like, ever since interning at the Beverly Hills Branch of the Swiss bank UBS and hearing a wealthy broker remark dismissively, "Starbucks is for the commoners.  The people who go to Peet's tend to be more classy." And then he followed it up with "now go copy these reports, slave!" No, he really didn't... but you know that's what he was thinking when he said "Now go and copy these reports, intern!"

Anyhow... really? I mean really! Starbucks, the place that charges me $4.20 for my daily coffee/kick-in-the-balls, is only the drink of the proletariat? I've been so wrong all these years. Find me some aristocrats in need of illegal tax havens 'cause I want to work for UBS and piss on Starbucks too -- stat!

The University of Chicago sells t-shirts that proudly boast "UofC: the place where fun goes to die." I say Peet's should cop that and rework it into their merchandise because, judging by the Westwood location, it's where joy in any form goes to flatline.

Put another way, it's easy to see why a Beverly Hills broker said what he said. Walking in, one trades the upbeat urban jungle of  Westwood for the gerontological-palooza of stuffiness that is Peet's. Is that chick in the corner *really* reading Goethe while Vivaldi's Concerto No. 2 in G minor plays over the speakers? Is that dude over there composing an opera libretto in a moleskine notebook? Am I overhearing a conversation about Friday's event at the Jonathan Club? That's reeeeally fucking stuffy. A little too much so, in fact. And this is coming from someone who can be one stuffy motherfucker. For example, earlier, I bought a loaf of bread that came wrapped -- TWICE.  Suck on that, oxygen. Let's see you try and stale my bread now. Degelatinization of starch molecules into moistureless, polysaccharidic carbohydrates MY ASS.

Back on point, this particular Peet's has the ambience of a hospital waiting room, combined with festiveness of a funeral. Despite the place being entirely packed, I've taken final exams in libraries that were less quiet. Downtown Montrose at 2am is less quiet. Death is less quiet. So needless to say, I grabbed my medium latte with a quadruple shot and peaced on out of there back into the jungle that is traffic-tied Wilshire in the mid-afternoon.

In Peet's defense, it was one of the better lattes I've ever had -- hence the 3 stars. It cost $4.55... but also a little bit of the youth in my soul though. That's a little too expensive, for me anyway. So sorry Peet's, I'll just have to hoof it to Starbucks with the rest of the poors, even though they write my name as "Jhon" on the side of the cup. At least they go about misspelling the most common name on earth with some liveliness and gusto. And I suppose this also means my short-lived affair with double-wrapped bread is over... which I'd ordinarily be a little sad about. Then again, forget bread; it's entirely ok by me. So long as it's my soul that never gets stale.

Why all the one-star hate? LA parking cops are the most competent, adroit, on-the-ball employees I've ever met.

For your consideration: Saturday morning I crashed at a friend's in lieu of driving home drunker than Bradley S. when he realized he wasn't Elite '09. Figuring that my parking faux pas (rear end extended into a red zone) would only last a few hours of the wee early weekend morning, ~1am to 5am to be exact, I thought I could escape the long arm of the parking violations law.

Wrong. Incorrecto. Faux. Falsch. Mali. [Chinese characters that Yelp doesn't support]. Ongwray.

Yep. Sometime between those four hours on a freezing, raining, Saturday morning, some diligent parking enforcement officer issued me a ticket... in a plastic zip-loc, no less to ensure I couldn't protest by claiming rain related illegibility.

Fuck the postal service. LA parking cops will do their jobs and ticket your ass in rain, sleet, snow, floods, earthquakes, riots, typhoons, biblical plagues as described in the Book of Exodus, and all other natural disasters/acts of God. That's how committed and skilled they are.

I don't know why we keep sending sending the same bozos to Washington as our elected officials. LA parking cops are SO damn competent, I'm convinced that if Congress were composed of them, we'd have universal healthcare and oil independence. For that matter, I bet parking cops could broker Middle East peace, decipher what herbs and spices are in the Colonel's recipe, AND help Jack Bauer save Los Angeles.

In twenty-three hours.

So on behalf of Yelp, dear parking enforcement officials, I apologize for the negativity you've garnered from other reviewers. You're better at screwing people than Peter North experiencing priapism (look it up) thanks to an ill-timed Cialis binge.

I've always wanted to end a review like that. *Checks off bucket list*

Things that are clutch: Michael Jordan, the morning after pill, and Rossi Auto Repair. Let me explain.

You're probably familiar with my predisposition toward shitty luck but I think I outdid myself recently when my alternator belt decided to just France it and give up on the freeway. "Where were you going, John M? Work?" Of course not -- that would be awesome. "Oh yeah hi work, I think I'll be 3 hours late and there's really nothing we can do about it. So sorry." The gym? Pfft, I wish I had such an excuse to bail on a workout... and extra points if I broke down in front of an In n'Out. Or the Pepperdine women's volleyball team, for that matter.

But no. I broke down on the way to my mother's birthday party. In the middle of south Orange County. Yes, Orange County! Now, I know you're rolling your eyes and thinking "Ohhhh nooo, John M, not upper class, homogeneous Mission Viejo! What an awful place for a motorist to be stranded!" But seriously, have you looked up the white collar crime rates for MV? Yeah, you think mail fraud's all fun and games until it happens to you. Plus those bitches on "The Real Housewives" scare me. They inject more botchulism toxin into their faces on that show than the Taliban has in storage!

Anywho, I'm forced to call roadside assistance who, in all their expertise, ask me where I'd like my car towed. Because, you know, I wrote the entire South OC Yellow pages and am familiar with all of the local grease monkeys. But after they read me a list of names of local mechanic shops (without even bothering to check if they're open!) I take a stab in the dark and pick Rossi because I like the name.

Now, a smarter person such as yourself dear reader, if you were in my shoes, would probably have a more sophisticated methodology for choosing a mechanic. In fact, it might even involve 1) calling ahead to make sure they're open on Saturday, and 2) making sure they know how to repair a German auto, let alone will take it in. But frankly, I was too worried about being racketeered ('cause MV's straight up white collar G like that) and it didn't occur to me until I was sitting in the Rossi waiting room an hour later going "... wait a second... did I just happen to be towed to a place that was open on a Saturday AND works on German cars?" It's enough to make you believe in the possibility of world peace and Christmas miracles*.

As for Mr. Rossi the expert mechanic, his wife does all the English translating but aside from not being an anglophone, he knows what he's doing. He discovered that a bearing within the primary pulley of my alternator belt system had failed, destroying both in the process -- not to mention my plans to visit dear old mom.

This, understandably, makes me a little angry so I have to rant now. ... ... Bavarian Motor Works MY ASS! More like: wait for it... waaaaait for it... Bavarian Motor ***DOESN'T*** Work! Ahahahahaha! Get it?! I put the "doesn't" before the "work," and hooooo-ey! Oh man. Lookout Seinfeld because I am just killin' it on Yelp today!

Ahem. Despite that it took maybe two hours for him to diagnose/repair, and that several parts needed replacement, he only charged me for the belt and an hour of labor. I'm used to paying out the nose for repairs but luckily, Rossi saved me enough so that my $$$ could go to even more important things -- flowers for Mrs. M. for being late.

Rossi was so great that I'd even consider taking my car in to him again, even though he's 70 miles away. But I'd check the State Dept's Travel Advisory website first. There's so much botox in the OC, I'd think there'd be at least a few bioterrorism advisories from time to time, right?
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*Technically, December 20th miracles. But that doesn't roll off the tongue as easily so just roll with it, aight?

$11.50

That's how much my bill was for having three shirts washed. (Note that the industry standard is somewhere in the range of $1.50-$1.75/shirt). Granted, that's not a big sum of money and it's not like I went hungry as a result, but at that price per shirt, I expect the clerk behind the counter to be Kate Beckinsale... and for her to blow me and then afterwards, tell me "You're looking particularly dapper this morning, Mr. M." And I think these are completely realistic expectations, given the prices that Sterling charges.

Don't get me wrong, the clerk I had was really pleasant and maybe even a little cute with that latina accent of hers. But she was not Kate Beckinsale, nor did she perform any acts of fellatio, nor did she comment on my appearance in a positive manner, so... whaddya gonna do? *shrug*

Oh, you think I'm being unfair do you? Well life's not fair! That, and one of my shirts wasn't so clean afterward. AND they lost the collar stays in all of my shirts. Now don't worry about me too much, I survived. Fortuitously, and perhaps even a little presciently, I happened to have a box of extra stays in my car, which I was able to slip on in the elevator without having to unbutton... and can we all just admit that was pretty MacGyver?

I suppose that kinda sums me up. Everyone else hoards water and canned goods in preparation for when the big one strikes... while John M stockpiles shirting accessories (ahem, necessities?) for when sartorial disaster rears its ugly head. Don't look at me, I didn't choose these genes.

In Sterling's defense, they do offer free pick-up and delivery which is why I'm guessing their prices are so high. But I hiked my ass down Westwood Blvd myself -- and if you drive on the Westside, you know rich people drive like idiots. Also, they give you cool little working cufflinks with your shirts... which are obviously cheap, but hey, free cufflinks! And one of my shirts came out whiter than when I bought it... which is cool because I'm wearing it right now and it's so white, I look Canadian. What's that all aboot?

Lose some collar stays, get some cufflinks... that about sums Sterling up. Yes, it was $11 for what should have been a ~$5 cleaning bill... but then again, free pickup/delivery. And really, raise your hand if you've muttered a few colorful words upon discovering that the shirt you thought was in your closet was, in fact, still at the cleaners (because those bastards close early and you couldn't drive over) and, as a result, your date tonight gets to see you in a wife beater. Sometimes, $6 isn't a lot to pay for convenience. Though if they DID hire Kate Beckinsale, it would make the bill easier to swallow. Wow, now that wasn't subliminal diction choice or anything...

You'd think I'd give take some stars away for the wireless internet being spotty, but no, I was really, really thankful actually. I perhaps even thought God may have been smiling on me.

You see, I had this test which a certain newspaper calls "the Mt. Everest" of what I do and my total study hours fell far short of the minimum recommended 350 -- because, oh, about 300 of them had been spent on Yelp Talk arguing about everything from if chivalry was dead or not to the in's and out's of erotic asphyxiation. Oh. Hey. Unintentional pun. 'Love those!

No, really. If you're not a Yelper and someone who's actually just looking for an honest appraisal of the Radi-Covina (because countless families in Florida must be drooling over brochures sent to them by the C-Town Chamber of Commerce), stay off -- I repeat -- stay off Yelp Talk! You'll find yourself postponing gym appointments because you're caught up mid-discussion. Significant others will leave you when you stop paying attention to them, and you won't call your parents back. You'll say "oh, wow, is it 2pm already? I guess I forgot to eat" because you were on Talk and you'll convince yourself that that blurriness and nausea isn't REALLY an ambulance-necessitating stroke because, hey, you just made a really good point in that fake boobs thread and you can't wait to see how _______ __. responds to that infallible logic. Yeah, suck it ______ __!

What's worse, that wasn't my only distraction. Everyone kept wanting me to go out and drink, and while my best college testing was done while drunk -- since, like driving, you do it extra, extra well to overcompensate (not that I drive drunk!) -- I think I've killed a few too many neurons in the interim and am off my game.

So aaanyways, what does one do when they need to get away from it all? Why, hole them self up in a hotel in the middle of BFE (apologies to all Covina residents), far, far from anything that would even resemble nightlife, alcohol, or women.

Or so I thought.

Now, it could have been delirium from not having slept. It could have been the neurological reaction to unprecedented levels of BRC (blood-redbull content). Or, maybe it was a mirage because a twenty-something male can only read about Macaulay Durations for so long before his mind reverts back to the default male thought of ........... boobs. ("So long" meaning roughly 10 seconds or so). But I swear to you at about 11pm that Friday, that hotel turned into South Padre as a group of 30 high schoolers/college kids rented out several suites and decided to throw a de-facto poolside kegger. What people were doing having fun in Co-fucking-vina on a Friday night I have no idea, but I saw it with my own two eyes. Which is just what I need when I'm coming back from my car where I left my calculator. Girls saying they have Jack and that I should stop by suite ###.

Scratch that part about God smiling down at me. He was doing the usual pointing and laughing.

"What the fuck, John M, I'm a family from Orlando and I got this glossy brochure extolling the beauty of the Eastern San Gabriel Valley and I'd really like to know what you thought about the hotel already!" Oh, sorry. Umm, service was about on par for a 3-star, rooms were quaint and have been renovated, use Hotwire to book it ($60/night = score!), yell at them if they say all the double Queens have been sold out, yadda yadda yadda, photos here: http://www.expedia.com..., sleep number bed is comfy (I like setting 7), apparently people throw hotel parties on Friday nights in December... WHY ARE YOU STAYING IN COVINA WHEN L.A. IS 30 MINUTES AWAY?!

Long story short, I gave into temptation. *Sigh* I know. I know. But thankfully, the internet was spotty so even though I desperately tried to get on to Yelp Talk, it was too much of a hassle. What, you thought I was talking about the girls? Pshaw, no, they were from the Valley! Well, A valley anyway, but close enough. Didn't want to risk it.

PLUS I was too distracted with a certain exam. And by that, I mean constantly clicking http://yelp.com/talk. Here's to hoping the success rate there isn't a foreshadowing.

One star?! I haven't gotten to do this in awhile. I'm kind of excited. *Cracks knuckles*
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LA Fitness? More like "LA F-you, valued member." Nothing says "we appreciate your patronage" more than when your gym decides to close down for a week and doesn't care to inform you. Oh, ok, I'll just go back up to my office in these awesome basketball cutoffs and this Hanes wife-beater. "Uh, excuse me Mr. Client? Why are we superior to all the other finance firms out there, you ask? Because we're mother****ing cholo bankers, holmes!" *gang sign* (specifically an 'X'... to represent the supply and demand curves)

Ugh.

So rather than just throw away an entire half hours worth of psyching myself up to go to the gym, I decided to jog around Westwood... which takes on an entiiiiiirely different persona after dark. By day, it's an upscale retail area home to roaming groups of young professionals and Cal extension campus-ers who can't quite figure out the complicated formula that underpins blue man=walk/red hand=don't walk. At night though, it's home to packs of loud, crazy people.

Please don't misunderstand my lack of political correctness. No one tugs at my heartstrings more than the homeless, and on my long-term list of life goals in between "date a moneyed divorceé who's just using you" and "have *someone else* write an article about you on Wikipedia" is "get rich and use proceeds to fund a foundation that examines the social causes driving homelessness in efforts to eradicate it." Seriously. There aren't many who have a softer spot in their hearts for the homeless than I.

But these were some angry bastards! You'd think that instead of donating what spare dollars I had that I'd instead mugged them! I promise you, there's a certain dude who's always in the same light blue shirt/dark gray sweats who's constantly (CONSTANTLY) yelling at the top of his lungs -- enough to halt traffic on Wilshire Blvd. as confused drivers wonder if some kind of crime's being committed.

Actually, my colleagues and I have seriously pondered outfitting him in a [John M's firm] t-shirt... not only because giving clothes to the needy is always a good thing to do, but also because he also get's so much attention. And what kind of brand representation beats a screaming homeless guy wandering in the middle of the street causing traffic jams? Sure, Staples may have a state-of-the-art sports arena with their name tacked on, but screw them because we've got a loud crazy man yelling at unsuspecting housewives on their way to Whole Foods in the left-turn median.

And of course, predictably, I had the good fortune of running into him on my improvised workout jog... alongside a whole other cast of characters that, while I'm sure are wonderful people with beautiful souls who only need society to stop pretending they're invisible, cut a pretty threatening figure. Especially when they're screaming at you. Life's funny isn't it?

If any good came of this fiasco tonight, it only underscored my desire to do something that effects positive change, in lieu of selfishly turning a blind eye to people in real need.

In the meantime, I know another way that lets me change things for the better -- something that's far more immediate. I can switch gyms.

...while informing everyone else who, like me, didn't get the memo: WESTWOOD LA FITNESS IS CLOSED THROUGH 11/21.
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*Long, post-coital-esque sigh of satisfaction* There. I feel better now.

To: Proprietor of Tommy Taco (I'm guessing your name is Tommy)
Re: My breakfast burrito orders
CC: http://Yelp.com

Look Horace Engdahl, I know my sophomoric ranting peppered with dashes of portmanteau'd swear words like "asshat" hardly qualifies my linguistic machinations as Nobel worthy, but I'd like to think I have AT LEAST a basic, working command of this chundergust of a language despite my "Umm, Mrs. Thompson? I think the 17th Street Diablos are shanking Danny in the quad again..." public education.

So forgive me if I'm in awe that something, yet again, got lost in the translation of:

"I'll take a breakfast burrito -- just bacon, eggs, and cheese. No pico de gallo, salsa, or anything else. Just bacon eggs, and cheese. That's it."

Tell me if I'm way off base here, but I was reasonably sure I had communicated my wishes rather unambiguously. But apparently I might as well have been speaking East Timorean because I got a breakfast burrito with bacon, eggs, cheese... and refried motherfucking beans. Because that's what anyone who has to pitch clients later that afternoon wants: Exxon ass.

You'll of course recall that the last time I ordered said burrito, I merely stressed "just bacon, eggs, and cheese" once... and ended up with a breakfast burrito with pico de gallo -- to which I'm allergic. And the time before that, me stipulating merely "no pico de gallo or salsa" landed me a breakfast burrito without the bacon, which is about as great as lovemaking without the woman. Because yes, I'm a guy and I equate women to bacon and if you don't appreciate being compared to hickory-smoked, center cuts then I don't know why you keep drunk texting me, Julie.  

Is this a joke Tommy? Do the chefs snicker in the kitchen over chcukles of "heh heh, pinche honkey gringo!" as they mix in/leave out necessary items in my burrito? Because I just Urbandictionary'd those words and let me tell you, I don't think the chefs are taking into consideration my fragile feelings when they say things like that. Or, how awesomely disappointing it is to look forward to a breakfast burrito all day, only to have one marred by unnecessary additives that only end up contributing to methane production and subsequent global warming. Was it a little unseasonably warm for the end of October last week? Sorry, you can thank Hummers, the systematic destruction of the Amazonian rain forest, and my post Tommy Taco ass for that. My bad.

In closing, I hope this sternly worded letter is more effective than the ones Grandpa writes to 60 Minutes because he thinks the show is getting too risqué. Oh, and if you fail to make me a breakfast burrito per my instructions the next time around, I'll shake my fist angrily and lament how this never would've happened in the good 'ole days, I swear I will. Don't make me.

With Arms Sternly Folded,

John M

I recently got a new roommate (Bradley S) and for those of you who know him, I'm sure a lot of you probably thought this was generally going to be a positive thing since he's gay and I'm not. I could teach him the in's and out's of how to throw a tight spiral and why you twist your key 90 degrees when cutting a to-be-shotgunned Pabst while, in exchange, he could try and convince me that Project Runway is really a competition as trying as man's greatest sporting events, with sophisticated character arcs and plots/motifs sheer Hemingway in magnitude, yet grounded in reality.  

Well you thought wrong.

How do I know this? I just gave four stars to Pinkberry. I'm looking at it with my own eyes and I'm still in a little bit of disbelief, hoping it's really just the psychological side effects of material sleep deprivation or caffeine poisoning leading to questionable (if not downright shitty) judgment. But no, people. First you think "ooh, having a gay apartment mate is the best of both female and male roommate worlds because the apartment won't smell like an emasculating guava-kumquat field in Provence in the springtime... yet at the same time, won't smell like the men's bathroom at the Chevron on Westwood and Santa Monica." Yeah, I thought so too. But that idea's tanking faster than Wachovia stock as I've come to realize there are unforeseen consequences of having a gay apartment-mate. Like coming around to liking Pinkberry. Yes. I like Pinkberry. Eh, eff it. I'll even say I love Pinkberry.

Quick, someone run up, say "whoa, is that Blake Lively?", point over there, and then kick me in the balls. To make sure I still have them. Come to think of it, does the fact that I know who Blake Lively (of Gossip Girl fame) is mean I have no balls? No, wait, if I still want to do non-PG things with her and all her female costars (at the same time), I think I'm still good.

*Relieved sigh*. Ok, I think I can write about Pinkberry now. Like you're really reading this because you've never heard of/tried Pinkberry before and you're looking to someone whose highbrow epicurean tastes range from bacon mac n'cheese to those crackers with the cheese that you spread with a red stick. Is the Michelin Guide hiring? I obviously have a palate as discerning as Jonathan Gold's, and I think my writing style would be perfect for them.

Whatever. Here's all you need to know about Pinkberry in three words:

Wonderfully tangy. Addictive.

Yeah, I seriously can't stop eating this shit. The worse thing is that it's not even voluntary. Last night, I woke up shaking violently in a nightsweat because it had been more than 72 hours since I'd had a hit of that tangy smack. No really, I seriously need to Google if there's any P.A. Chapters offering 12 step programs before it ruins me on the inside, as well as the relationships I've built with those whom I care about. Speaking of you guys (yeah, I'm looking at you), where the fuck is my intervention? I'm beginning to think you don't give a damn about this downward spiral Pinkberry's got me on.

After calming down, I stared at the ceiling for a few minutes before eventually being lolled back to sleep by a tousled-haired Blake, whispering "I can show you something even sweeter than a medium original with strawberries and blackberries," and making a "come hither" motion with her finger. Utterly perplexed, I asked Blair, "Boo, what could possibly be sweeter than Pinkberry?"

Look, at least SOMEone was caring enough to try and get me off this stuff. And for the record, what Blake had in mind *was* much sweeter, but not nearly as delightfully tangy. So there's that.