Fewer Bars in Fewer Places

The title of this post actually works on a lot of levels, since not only am I writing this post before we have internet hooked up at our house (i.e. fewer bars of wi-fi), but now that we live in a less downtrodden, much nicer/safer part of LA, our apartment doesn’t have and/or need cast-iron bars on all the windows, doors, etc. to prevent people from breaking in and robbing us blind (at our old house on USC campus, even the little window on the stove had bars on it…although how someone could break into our house from inside the stove is still a mystery to me, but better safe than sorry, I suppose). Conversely, an initial scouting report of the area reveals that there are actually more bars (that is, the kind that serve delicious and refreshing alcohol to patrons over 21) in more places around here than at our old house, so that’s a definite boon as well.

-Stating the Obvious-
So it’s been a smidge over a week since moving into my new abode, and as you shouldn’t be surprised to hear, I love it. Literally. I both love and am in love with it. My roommates and I are the only male residents of the entire complex (bonus features!) and every single characteristic about this apartment pleases me to no end. I made one of my now-frequent trips to the beach yesterday, chatting up a lovely blonde female who was reading the same thing I was (that is to say, we were both reading a book — not the same book, mind you — but still, what are the odds?), had myself a nice Jamba Juice, made some phone calls and just had a splendid time. On a minor downside, I put on some SPF-8 sunscreen yesterday, but missed the spot right underneath my left eye, so now it’s sunburnt and red-ish, and it looks like I got into a wicked fight with someone who got a direct hit to my left eye. Oh well, maybe I can tell people I joined a Redondo Beach Fight Club and I’ll get mad amounts of street cred. But probably people will just assume that I got tipsy and made some unwanted sexual advances to a girl who then proceeded to knock me out with a single punch to the eye. Which, truthfully, is much more likely.

-Panda Watch-
At the sacrifice of less-important things such as clothes, gas, and food, I have been spending my money by going to see at least one awesome movie each opening weekend (minus the one-weekend hiatus I took when Sex and the City came out*), and this week, Kung Fu Panda was the movie du jour (…du week?). In keeping with the tradition of most of the summer’s fare, it was awesome. The animation is obviously amazing since it was produced by Pixar (the world’s only company to make their entire fortune of a singular curiosity-ridden, bouncing desklamp) and the story is an uplifting one that will appeal to chubby kids everywhere. As well as their chubby friends, chubby families, chubby coworkers, chubby neighbors, and (probably also chubby) pets. All faux-fat-jokes aside, the movie is good, and the only thing that baffles me is the casting: you obviously see/hear a ton of Jack Black and Dustin Hoffman in the leading roles, but it took me until the end credits to realize that their costars were bigtime names such as Angelina Jolie, Seth Rogan, David Cross and Lucy Liu (minus David Cross, whose voice I recognized after the second syllable of his first line…a side effect of being an Arrested Development obsessee, no doubt). The reason for this delayed recognition wasn’t because their voices were disguised or unrecognizable, it’s just because they really didn’t have that much dialogue in the movie. I bet cumulatively they had fewer than 11 pages of scripted lines that made it into the final cut of the film. This is pretty much par for the course for David Cross, whose Hollywood niche seems to be the perpetual sidekick, but was especially surprising for the others — especially Angelina Jolie and Seth Rogan, both of whom have major, recent hits under their belts with more on the way in the near future. So my question to you, the Hollywood movie producer, is this: in an industry as budget-driven as film-making, why pay Jolie/Rogan/Liu/Cross-sized money when their parts are so secondary that you could’ve cast nobodies in the same roles without a noticeable difference? If you’ve got an answer for me, I’d love to hear it, but until then I’m just going to add it to the ever-increasing list of things I don’t understand about “the biz” (a list which includes such conundrums as why hasn’t Brad Pitt aged in the past two-and-a-half decades, why people find Sarah Jessica Parker attractive but not Lindsay Lohan, why everybody doesn’t own an iPhone, and whether or not Haley Joel Osment is actually a genetic clone of Macaulay Culkin sent in by the U.S. government as a spy to steal the fabled “Secret Scroll of Movie-Making” from James Cameron).

-Somehow I Still have $4 Left on My AMC Giftcard-
On the new-movie dossier for this week: The Incredible Hulk (aka “The Incredible to Think That They Just Made This Exact Same Movie a Couple of Years Ago, But Are Pretending Like That One Never Happened Since it Was So Dreadfully Bad Hulk”), and The Happening (aka M. Night Shyamalan’s last chance at salvaging his career). I’m excited for the new Hulk because the immensely-talented (and my favorite actor and personal hero) Edward Norton is involved, and he’s been fighting with Marvel Studios to make sure this movie comes out exactly how he wants it to (you wouldn’t like him when he’s angry). I’m less excited for The Happening, but like everybody else in the world I’ll go see it with the hope that M. Night (the “M” stands for Magic, but he didn’t want people to confuse him with the former NBA great) can repeat the critical and financial success he had with The Sixth Sense and Unbreakable (although Signs, Lady in the Water, The Village and Stuart Little hardly make a compelling case for that outcome).

=w=
Weezer released their third self-titled record this week (their sixth album overall), and like its color-coded predecessors (The Blue and Green albums), The Red Album is some of Weezer’s best stuff, and is going to do a lot to put their glasses-clad, perpetually-dejected founder/frontman and the rest of his emo-rock quartet back on the map of relevance. I like the album, is what I’m saying. It’s got the right amount of catchy vocals, the right amount of pensive sadness, and plenty of Rivers Cuomo’s trademark musical talent mixed in throughout. It doesn’t quite recapture the musical genius of the life-changing Blue Album (and at this point, it’s hard to think that any of their offerings ever will) or the grungy goodness of Pinkerton, but it’s still a good listen and definitely worth your time and money. Oh and get the Red Album Deluxe Version — those four extra songs really help add a lot more depth to the record and it’ll be cheaper than downloading them on iTunes later.

Well believe it or not, I STILL have more to say…but at this point even I am losing interest in reading this thing, so I’m going to wrap things up for the moment, grab some In N’ Out Burger, and get on with my evening. See you on the flip side, as the cool kids say.

Cheers,
Dustin


...i think that might be too many bars. And yeah, I admit this is a pretty weak photo and/or caption, but I've been busy...cut a guy some slack, ok?


*During a recent trip to the theater with my roommate, we had a lot of time to kill before our showing actually started, so I briefly poked my head in to an in-progress showing of the Sex and the City movie across the hall from our theater. And wow. I mean, good Lord, I expected it to be pretty bad — but this was just downright horrendous. I only saw about 90 seconds of it, and it was the scene where the ladies are laying out at some kind of resort and discussing waxing, and then the next scene where they go to the resort’s restaurant. I was appalled. The dialogue was weak, the acting was sub-par at best, the one liners were as jagged and lifeless as the movie’s leading ladies themselves, the jokes (if you can call them that) came off more like post-menopausal bitchiness than anything intended to be funny, and the characters’ motivation was nonexistent. Obviously I can’t fully judge a movie without seeing it in its entirety (though that’s never stopped me before), but let’s just say my first (and probably last) impressions of this film and this franchise were not particularly favorable. That said, I can see why this series and film is so popular within its demographic (well-funded middle-aged and quarter-aged women who desperately want/need a feminine mascot to rally behind), but I hope that we (as the viewing public) have gotten the taste for the sickeningly sugary and shallow SATC out of our system and are ready for something with a little more substance that everyone can enjoy. I propose margaritas. On the rocks, no salt. Now that’s a meal.

LA-isms

As Abraham Lincoln once said, “cocaine’s a hell of a drug.” It’s with that in mind that I bring to you today’s educational tidbit in a segment I like to call “LA-isms.” After six months out here, I’ve noticed some things in life that are unique to Los Angeles and her residents (FYI all cities are female — except the overly-butch city of Pittsburgh, which is definitely male…my condolences to all the Penguins fans out there, by the way. As much as I dislike the Pens, I’d still rather see them win than Detroit. Oh well), and since a ton of you non-Californians are planning on visiting me over the summer (the official Californian word for non-resident is “sucker”), I want you to be educated on what people mean when they say certain things, so you’ll fit in right from the start. Let me preface this by saying that everyone who lives in Los Angeles is in the entertainment business or wants to be in the entertainment business. Even the people who swear that they’re not trying to get into the entertainment business (like doctors, firemen and the mentally challenged) are still connected in some way. I know a doctor who is also trying to be a screenwriter; a fireman who does stunt work on the side, and a mentally challenged individual who’s trying to make it as an actor (his name is Vin Diesel). With that in mind, I’ll start by translating some industry-related LA-isms and then work my way to the others…

Question: “Are you in the industry?”
Phrase 1: “I have some projects in the works”
Actual Meaning: “I don’t have any projects in the works, no agency representation, no completed screenplays, no connections in the business and no discernable talent of any sort.”

Phrase 2: “I’m Taking Meetings”
Actual Meaning: “My broke-ass, stoner roommate and I managed to crank out one 45-page, grammatically-embarrassing, inside-joke-laden script that’s basically just a Juno rip-off, and now we want someone to show up on our doorstep and offer us $20 million for it.”

Phrase 3: “I’m an actor”
Actual Meaning: “I’m a waiter who once got paid to be an extra in The Mighty Ducks 4.”

Phrase 4: “I support the strike”
Actual Meaning: “I was guilted into supporting the WGA strike in exchange for a false sense of self-righteousness, and because I was so pompous during that strike, now I’ll look like a hypocrite if I don’t support the SAG strike even though it is less necessary, will be less effective, and will needlessly put me out of work for another six months…forcing me to go back to my job as a waiter.”

Question: “Do you smoke?”
Phrase: “I’m trying to quit.”
Actual Meaning: “I started smoking in the mid-90’s because everyone said it was cool, then in the mid-2000’s, everyone suddenly changed their minds and decided that it was actually UNcool to smoke; but now I’ve been smoking for almost a decade, I’m legitimately addicted and have no intention of quitting. But I can’t tell people that because I’ll sound uncool, so instead I’m going to tell people that I’m trying to quit while simultaneously smoking just as much (or more) than I ever have until smoking becomes cool again sometime in the mid 2020’s.”

Question: “Are you guys dating?”
Phrase 1: “We’re not dating, but we are going on dates.”
Actual Meaning: “We are hooking up like mad, with an occasional trip to the movies mixed in just so we don’t feel like total whores.”

Phrase 2: “We’re dating, but we’re not exclusive.”
Actual Meaning: “I think he/she cheated on me last weekend, so I’m going to cheat on him/her this weekend out of spite, and either way the whole thing will be over a month from now with nothing to show for it except more frequent visits to my therapist.”

Phrase 3: “We’re talking.”
Actual Meaning: “We’re dating.”

Phrase 4: “He/she and I didn’t really vibe.”
Actual Meaning: “I either got shut down hardcore when I asked them out, or I’m a closet homosexual.”

…Speaking of closet homosexuals, Jimmy Fallon came by work for lunch the other day, and I just felt the need to point out that he’s significantly taller than I expected. Usually when I meet people in real life that I’ve only seen on the screen, they’re shorter than I expect, but Fallon had a good few inches on me (in more ways than one… hey-o!), so maybe you can’t judge people entirely from how they are on TV after all…although he did giggle through our entire conversation like it was an SNL skit, so I could be wrong.

Last (and probably least), I moved into my NEW APARTMENT in Redondo Beach this week (that’s the southwest side of LA for you outsiders) and it is absolutely baller. It’s a little over a mile from the beach, it’s close to a really nice movie theater, a really nice mall, a lot of my friends, and I even get my own garage. Truly, it is paradise. Pictures to come as soon as we get moved in (and internetted), and you locals should keep your eyes peeled for some kind of social gathering there in the neat future.

That’s all the big news, be sure to check back in next week for how YOU can win the opportunity to cook dinner for me for the next several years. Also, does anyone who reads this (and lives nearby) know how to sew a button back onto a shirt? I have need of those services and would be willing to trade goods or services (wink wink) in exchange for your sewing expertise. Hollaback, grrrl.

Cheers,
Dustin



...Nothing says "LA" like attending a $250 per plate charity dinner...for free. Tasty.

Indiana Jones and the Imaginary Sideburns

I can’t grow facial hair. Can’t. Cannot. Not physically possible. This is frustrating for me since I’m almost constantly trying to prove how masculine and macho I am…because it destroys all my street cred when even Ryan Seacrest can grow a better goatee than mine. However, about once every 18 months or so, I manage to convince myself that I’ve finished going through puberty, and that NOW if I tried to grow something, I could. I’ve been on this 18-month cycle since I was about 16 years old, and as anyone whose known me for any amount of time will tell you, failure has become the norm in my facial-hair-related endeavors. The closest I’ve come to success was a kind of amish-looking, chinstrap thing I had going on that I grew for Isaac’s wedding last year (you can’t be in the bridal party of a Mann wedding and not at least TRY to grow something). As the many attendees of those nuptials can attest to, it wasn’t a pretty sight. From a distance it probably looked more like the night before I’d passed out at a party and forgotten to take my shoes off, and that some people had used a Sharpie marker to draw a cartoon beard around my jawline. Classy. But right on cue — like the Alzheimer’s patient I am — here I am a year and some change later, finding myself once again tempted into the realms of fuzzy scruffiness. The tempters this time? New Zealand comedy duo Flight of the Conchords, famous for their self-deprecating humour and their perpetual 5-o’clock shadow. A buddy and I are seeing them live in LA this coming Sunday, and I thought it would be an appropriate homage to how much I love their brand of tomfoolery if I grew out some tributary sideburns of my own to match theirs. Now I’ll be honest with you for a second here when I say this: I’m a good-looking man. I really am. Good bone structure (albeit a bit pointy in the shoulders area), tan complexion (now that I’m back in Cali, at least), decent bod, great fashion sense, and the deepest, sexiest brown eyes you’ve ever seen. I used to be a model back in the day, and I probably shouldn’t have quit because if I’d stuck with it I’d probably be on the cover of Orgasm Magazine right now, looking wistfully into the camera and selling out issues by the thousands (for the record, I have no idea if there’s any such thing as “Orgasm Magazine” or not, but I strongly encourage you not to find out). But even with all that going for me, my “sideburns” are shamefully unattractive. They’re all patchy, thin, poorly shaped, and I’m pretty sure one of them is about six inches longer than the other. As we all know though, I’m not one to admit defeat or give up on an idea of mine just because it looks awful (I think we all remember the red/blonde swoop haircut from a while back…I liked it, damnit all! You can all kiss my black arse), and since my love for FOTC is greater than any level of shame or embarrassment, I’m sticking with the ‘burns (that’s slang for sideburns. I’m really hip) until after the show on Sunday, and I’m asking you all to just use your imagination when you see me and pretend that there are awesome sideburns adorning both sides of my face next time we run into each other. You and I will both know that that’s not the case, obviously — but come on, do it for me. Maybe even toss a kind word my way when you see me with the ‘burns. Perhaps something like, “Your beard is good. That’s just a compliment for you — your beard. Just a compliment about your beard being good.” Or I don’t know, whatever comes to your mind at the time. Together, we can get through this difficult time in my life until I remember the horrible truth about my facial hair (or lack thereof).

I saw the new Indiana Jones over the weekend, and was pretty disappointed. Don’t get me wrong; it’s not a bad movie and you should all go see it in the theaters…it’s just not a great movie. Harrison Ford is a great actor, I really like what that Shia LaBeaouieuioaueauf kid brings to the table, the production value is great, and the score is classic. Even the effects don’t feel too overkill (except for some CGI’d prairie dogs that look about real as Jar Jar Binks on an MTV dating show). No, sadly, the biggest problem I had with this movie was the story itself. Even for a franchise that has built itself on the arcane and impossible, the storyline was just a little too much for me. It’s one thing to see a shaman rip people’s hearts out, or an ancient crusader heal himself and others with a holy grail, but I just couldn’t suspend my disbelief enough to enjoy or get into the story they cooked up for this one. That and the fact that the “near miss” factor of this movie is way beyond the acceptable limit as well. He dodged more incessant gunfire, survived more giant waterfalls, and was more unaffected by massive nuclear explosions than any person could’ve…even if that person was Indiana Jones. All that aside though, it’s still worth your $15 to see — especially if you need a halfway decent alternative to the “you go girl” estrogen-fest that the Sex and the City movie premiere will be. Although it’ll be nice to see Sarah Jessica Parker finally achieve her dream of being the least attractive person ever to get 300 million women to all cycle at the same time. You go girl.

…If you need me, I’ll be at the bar swapping out cosmos for dirty martinis instead. Ketel One vodka, extra dirty and maybe an additional olive or two. Now that’s a meal.

Cheers,
Dustin


...I'm dropping $20 just so I can see if these two get married? No thanks, we've already got plenty of crazy in this town.

I Am Ironman

Who is Dustin Heveron? And why does he smell so good, but look so bad?

Basically, that’s my way of apologizing to you for taking such an abrupt hiatus from keeping your mind-stomachs filled with humorous blog entries. My life has been crazy with all the typical stuff: work, play, sleep, and meeting celebs (ask me if you want a list of who I’ve met), so I’ve neglected to write things. On the downside, that trend of blog-irregularity is probably going to continue for a while longer as I’m getting ready for a big move (not as big as the last one though), continue to nail down work stuff, and just a lot of other things that are either too complicated or too boring to discuss here. That said, let’s talk about movies!

As you may or may not know, some of my favorite things in life are loud noises, dark rooms, folding seats, and paying people $12-$18 for 2.5 hours of their company. So naturally, going to the movies is one of my favorite pastimes. I’m pretty much always in the mood for a movie, and I usually enjoy the typical lineup of summer blockbusters and industry mathematics (Will Smith + Fourth of July Weekend = $300 billion). But this summer looks even better than most summers, as there are already a ton of movies I’m pumped to see, and a host of others that I’m looking forward to a lesser degree. I won’t give you the full rundown here, but basically there is one movie that I want to see coming out every weekend from May 4th until sometime in early September. Here are the ones on that list so far:

May 2nd — Ironman
May 9th — Speed Racer
May 16th — Narnia

For the sake of getting you up to speed, I’m gonna give you a quick blurb on what I thought of each of these flicks. And don’t worry, everything’s spoiler-free if you’re concerned about me divulging the endings.

Ironman: Amazing. This is one of the best superhero movies of all time, and easily the best movie of 2008 so far (though with the new Indiana Jones and The Dark Knight both due out soon, it probably won’t hold this title for long). The effects enhance the movie without taking over or distracting you from the story, the acting is spot on for this kind of film, and aside from having a minor gripe about the ending, there was nothing I disliked about this film. If you haven’t seen it yet, go see it. Now. If you have seen it already, go see it again and maybe buy an Ironman helmet to wear to the theater this time. And make sure to stay for the credits. Wink.

Speed Racer: I wouldn’t say I was truly excited for this movie, but I was really just hoping the Wachowski Bros. would write something awesome to restore the general public’s faith in their ability. Sadly, this appears to not have happened since the movie was panned by movie-goers and movie critics alike. Oh well, maybe they can drag some extra street cred by getting Matrix 4 produced. Not likely though.

Chronicles of Narnia — Prince Caspian: A relatively slow start and some spotty acting in the first half hour made me worry that the sequel machine was going to ruin another decent franchise, but those fears were quickly abated when the rest of the movie kicked in and I was drawn into the world and characters like a kid to a wardrobe full of fur coats. It’s good. Probably not as good as the first, but this movie is a different kind of story, so that’s ok. The production value alone is worth the price of admission, and it’s probably the first family/kids movie I’ve seen in a long time that doesn’t condescend to it’s target demographic. If you didn’t like the first one, or haven’t read the books, or are a generally negative and grumpy person, then you should probably save your money and just Netflix this one. But if you’d enjoy a fun romp through a land of talking animals and are a fan of short-people jokes, then bust out your “I Liam Neeson” t-shirts and check it out. I hear you get a discount on admission if you bring your own lion.

Alright chums, that’s it for now. As always, I have a ton of things brimming just beneath the surface that I’ll be excited to share with you in the coming weeks, but until then, I hope you can survive on a steady diet of my biased movie reviews and stereotypes about centaurs (I hear they’re hung like horses. …Kids, don’t repeat that in front of your parents, I don’t need any more angry emails this week).

I might not be Ironman, but I still have buns of steel.

Cheers,
Dustin


Chipotle Costumes for Halloween? Or the original Ironman prototypes? You be the judge.

Famous Last Words

Good evening, comrades. I write you on the brink of what will undeniably be my last few days among you on God’s green earth. For you see, starting tomorrow morning (Thursday, May 1st) I will begin a journey of sheer madness whose end result can only be my utter and complete demise. I’ll spare you the gruesome details, suffice it to say that the combination of starting my new job while still working my old job, plus the wide array of social activities and Mexican holidays on the horizon make for an almost omnipotent opponent. With that in mind, I thought it might be wise to put my last wishes into writing, so that way when you find my charred and disfigured remains (probably still clutching my iPhone) among the wreckage, you’ll know how I wanted things handled. And so we go.

The Last Will and Testament of Dustin Heveron:
I, Dustin Heveron, being of sound mind and body, heretofore bequeath my estate to be distributed among various parties of my choosing as outlined below.

To my beloved father and mother, Phil and Connie, I leave my secret, underground lair and adjoining launch pad. I’m not going to divulge its location or entrances, but if you can find it, the access code is 8675309…I was going through a big Tommy Tutone phase when I built it.

To my beloved father and bass-guitarist, Phil, I leave my bass. Not my bass guitar, but rather the six-foot, stuffed and shellacked fish I have hanging above my bed. His name is Danica, but he doesn’t need food anymore because he’s not alive. In addition to that, I also leave you my other bass. Again, not my bass guitar, but rather the plastic, singing novelty bass I have hanging in my shower so that I have thing to harmonize with when I’m singing in the shower or entertaining people…in the shower.

To my beloved mother, Connie, I leave all my laundry. And if you could have that done before the viewing, so I could be buried in my favorite t-shirt and jeans, that would be great. Don’t worry about the ironing though, I’m saving that for grandma and grandpa.

To my one and only beloved brother, Jared, I leave all my outstanding debts. These include (but are not limited to), the remaining payments on my 2007 Ford Focus SE, the remainder of my collegiate student loans, the balance due on the lease of my apartment and/or house, payments and past-due charges for my credit card(s), whatever money I owe to the bank in overdraft fees, and an undisclosed amount to someone I know in Vegas who will only refer to themselves as “Client X.” Mind you that you won’t actually take possession of any these things, you’ll just be responsible for paying them off in a timely manner. I figure you’ll be the best-equipped person to handle large-scale debt management in my stead, since you should be approximately seven-figures in the red by the time you read this.

To my beloved sister and youngest sibling, Alissa, I leave my entire wardrobe and clothing collection. This is actually not a bad deal since – due to my affinity for undersized and effeminate clothing – you will probably be able to fit into most everything I own and actually put my garments to their intended use.

To my beloved Nick Caruso, I leave my entire collection of alcohol; all my wines, liquors, regular and light beers, wine coolers, jello-shots, moonshine, 151, and that tank of homemade sludge from Davis Hall, spring ’04. But I’m not leaving you my stockpile of alcohol out of kindness, I’m leaving it as a final test. You see, I imagine by the time you read this, you’ll be somewhere between steps 5-8 of the 12-step program, and you’ll need something to convince you to loosen up a little bit and come back to the cool side of life. I figure leaving you my collection of approximately 47 FedEx-boxes of beer and enough liquor to open your own drive-through shop ought to do the trick.

To my beloved Jason Kientz, I leave my half of the intellectual property rights to the entire catalogue of our music. This includes (but is not limited to) The Paige Davis Song, The Isaac Mann Song, The Olsen Twins Song, and any others we have written or will write between now and my passing. I also leave my half of the copyrights to our band names: Common Identity, Second Best, The Dustin and Jason Laugh-Riot Polka-Orchestra and Kazoo Ensemble, and The Duet To-It. I also leave the total amount of my half of all our music-related earnings, a sum totaling approximately 12.5 cents.

To my beloved former roommates at Quail Hollow Drive, I leave the various assortment of smells, stains and bodily fluids that accumulated in and around the house while I lived there. Even the ones I blamed on Gatsby the dog. I also leave each of you one string of my acoustic guitar, so that in order to play it effectively, all of you have to be awkwardly huddled around it as one giant mass of fingers, hands, and arms. To Phil I leave the A and G strings, to Matt I leave the low-E and high-E strings, and to Joe I leave the B and D strings (note: Joe does not get an extra string for songs that are played in drop-D, that string remains Matt’s, regardless of tuning).

To my beloved UALC youth and staff I leave my entire collection of made-up games and wacky, church-appropriate catch phrases. These include games such as Dustin-ball, Ultimate Dustin-ball, Extreme Dustin-ball, Dustin-trivia, Dustin-frisbee, Dustin-relay, Dustin Dress-up Relay, Dustin-challenge, Dustin-tag, Dustin-Capture the Flag, and Blind Herpes Mormon Hunt.

To my beloved, loving (and probably really really hot) wife, , I leave my whole, entire heart. Not metaphorically, but literally. I have left instructions with the coroner to remove my heart, place it in a large jar of formaldehyde, let it set, then mount it on some kind of plaque or bowling trophy. I figure you can keep it on the mantle, above the fireplace, so that you can make some jokes about how my love still burns for you or something. That’ll be doubly funny if one of the kids accidentally knocks my heart into the fire when they’re cleaning.

Finally, to my beloved children, I leave my superior genetic makeup, and my social networking profiles on facebook, myspace, blogger.com, and any others that I’ve forgotten about or haven’t signed up for yet. If you could, try and change the profile pictures every few weeks or so, preferably to something really awesome, like me holding a beer or a guitar or a woman (or all three, to really show what a baller I was). Also, you should probably update the “About Me” section to something befitting my current state like, “Dead.” Or, “The least deceased in the East.” You know, to show that I’m still kicking ass and taking names, even though I’m not alive anymore. And it could kind of be a double joke if the Eastern Conference of the NBA is still pretty weak, because it would be like even a dead guy has a better shot at winning a championship then some of the Eastern Conference teams. I don’t know, just go with whatever seems funniest after I’ve died a horrible, premature death. People love to laugh.

Cheers,
Dustin

Han Solo Says: Patrón Tastes Even Better When It’s Free

It’s 7:59pm on a Monday night. Do you know where your Boston Celtics are?

Wherever they are, they certainly weren’t on the court tonight. Because the top seeded, over-60-win Celtics were just beat for the second time in a row by the eighth seed Atlanta “We Hope to Win Break .500 Someday” Hawks. Mind you these Celtics are the same team that some have hailed as “the greatest team in the league…and possibly NBA history,” (quote courtesy of ESPN writer and Boston-ophile Bill Simmons). I don’t care one way or the other about Boston-area pro sports teams (although I’ll root for Tom Brady any day), but it certainly doesn’t do much to refute talks about how Eastern Conference NBA teams are less-talented than their western counterparts when the supposedly best team in basketball history drops two in a row to the 2,749th-best team in basketball history (right between the ABA’s ‘74 Virginia Squires and some guys from a pickup game in North Dakota in the summer of 1991). However, I can’t be truly unhappy after the Cavs snagged another win from the Washington “Bark > Bite” Wizards on Sunday, and are prepped to close out the series with another one back in Cleveland on Wednesday.

But enough banter, you’re here for the same reason I am: because you love me and you love hearing about me. So with that in mind, here is what you need to know to be in the now. As in, “now go get me some coffee.”

-I’m Not in it for You, Princess. I Expect to be Well Paid-
I went in for my first day of training the other day, and so far the new job looks like it’s gonna rock. For those of you who didn’t tune in last week, I recently secured a job working for Harrison Ford’s son, Ben Ford at an upscale restaurant in Culver City called Ford’s Filling Station. The people are awesome, the atmosphere is just right, and I really feel a connection with this place. And they bought me a $35 steak for dinner last week. Very cool. I’ll keep you updated as I settle in more and learn the nuances and intricacies of saying complicated phrases like “welcome to Ford’s, how many?” It’s going to be rough.

-Great Kid, Now Don’t Get Cocky-
Had a very busy week, capped off with an equally busy weekend. And it’s looking like this week is going to follow suit. I’m overlapping my last week at UCLA Medical with some training shifts at Ford’s, so that is going to make for one very tired Dustin starting Thursday night. But oh yeah, I just remembered, I’m a baller and I don’t need sleep because I kick ass, so it’s not gonna be a challenge. Whew, good thing I thought of that ahead of time.

-Traveling Through Hyperspace Ain’t Like Dusting Crops, Boy-
I finally got a haircut from a stylist named Rhonda over the weekend (who is as talented at haircutting as she is portly. Which is very, if you didn’t know). I asked her to give me a shorter, more summery haircut than the one I had, and she kind of took that to mean that I wanted something that if I got drafted into the Army tomorrow, I’d fit right in. My hair is short, is what I’m saying. But in her defense, it did feel light and summery when I was on the beach, and I probably won’t need to get it cut again before I visit home and have Irene do it properly.

-So What Do You Think? A Princess Like You and a Guy Like Me-
I saw that movie Forgetting Sarah Marshall with a few people last night, and I must say, it was decent. Which was better than I was expecting. By far the best character in the movie was the self-centered, oblivious British rockstar character. He was more of a second-tier character, but the movie would not have been the same without him. The second best part of the movie was costar Mila Kunis. Longtime fans of That 70’s Show (not I) will probably already know this, but Mila Kunis is really really hot. I don’t know if I never noticed because she’s the voice of the very un-hot Meg on Family Guy, or if I overlooked her because I thought That 70’s Show was anT abomination, but the fact of the matter is: she is really really hot. There was a bit too much male nudity for me to give the movie an A+, but that British dude’s performance coupled with the fact that Mila Kunis is really really hot pretty much make the movie worth the price of admission right there. Also, Mila Kunis is really really hot, you guys. Seriously.

-She May Not Look Like Much, But She’s Got it Where it Counts, Kid-
Ok, so this isn’t interesting, but too bad, I’m telling you anyway. On nice, sunny California days, sometimes I like to fire up the ceiling fan in my room to help circulate some air. But for some unknown reason, my ceiling fan doesn’t work. Don’t get me wrong, it turns on, it spins the blades, it even makes all the appropriate ceiling-fan-related noises. But it just doesn’t generate any wind or breeze or cooling sensation at all. I’ve tried reversing the rotation on the fan, in case it was set wrong, I’ve tried it at all the different speed settings, but nothing helps. All my ceiling fan is really good for is taking the all the dust that’s been collecting on it since the 60’s and evenly distributing said dust around the room.

Ok, I’m off to catch a show at The UCB Theater (using acronyms gives me a false sense of superiority), so I’m outie for now. And remember, don’t drink expensive tequila unless someone else is paying for it. Conversely, if you’re a random stranger and you offer to buy me and my friends a round of fancy tequila at the bar to prove what a badass you are, really all you’re doing is spending $85 to have us mock you all night.

Cheers,
Dustin


We already have a lime tree, now all we need is a tequila tree to go along with it...

Gang Green is Here to Stay!

Hello, friend! If you’re anything like me, you’re an attention-starved 6’2” Caucasian male that weighs a little over 150lbs and has a love for asparagus that’s almost as odd as the matching, circular birthmarks on my upper chest (I’ve just been informed that in the world of medical science, these are referred to as “nipples.” Fascinating). As a fellow graduate from a small, private liberal arts college, I’m sure you’re as excited as I am that Earth Day is finally here, and that we can finally do our part to help the environment. By planting a tree. Yep, that’s all you have to do. Planting one small sapling is all is all it takes to reverse the effects of hundreds of years of modern industry that has ravaged our planet – not to mention the irreversible damage that each of us does every single day, simply by continuing to exist. Sounds wacky, I know, but all it takes is planting that one tree, or riding the bus for one day, or blah blah blah…I’m just kidding. No one gives a rip about the environment, and Earth Day is for suckers. My contribution to my grandchildren’s future is going to be paying for a lifetime of swimming lessons for them in advance. That way, when the polar icecaps finally go all Wicked-Witch of the West on us, my progeny will be the ones who can hold their breath the longest and talk to dolphins, while your guys’ grandkids are gonna be the chumps who are drinking their own urine out of a Brita filter, Waterworld style. There are billboards scattered all over LA telling us to leave our cars at home today and not to drive anyplace. Um yeah, I don’t know what day it is on your “Girls of the Greenhouse” calendar, but out here in the real world, it’s Tuesday, and that’s a weekday, so I’m driving my car to work. End of debate. If you want to pay me what I would’ve made at work to stay home for the day instead, or call my boss and explain why I was two-and-a-half hours late because I took the bus; then we’ll talk. But other than that, I’ll see you on the 405 along with the hundred thousand other heartless bastards out there who care more about contributing to their 401k than to their children’s future environment. Cheers.

Now that we’ve cleared that up, on to things that people actually care about.

-It’s Business Time-
If you have ever laughed, smiled, smirked, grinned, giggled, guffawed, chortled – or are ever planning on doing any of those things at some point in the future – then do yourself a favor and go buy the Flight of the Conchords CD which is in stores as of today. I’m a mere 11 minutes from sprinting out of the office to my nearest Barnes & Noble to pick up my own copy. If you’re not a total masochist, you’ll purchase season 1 of their equally-hilarious HBO sitcom as well. Laugh your arse off, amuse your friends with bad impressions of New Zealanders’ accents, and behave pretentiously to your friends who think “According to Jim” is a funny show.

-The Humans Are Dead-
If you still want to ease your Earth Day-related guilt, maybe try eating at Chipotle – they’re known for killing animals and pinto beans in as environmentally-friendly way as possible. And I’m pretty sure their paper products are printed on material that’s entirely recycled from the ashes of the Native Americans whom we killed in order to colonize this great country of ours.

-Leggy Blonde-
Finally, in my last piece of mood-elevating advice for the day, go buy Thrice’s new CD, The Alchemy Index, Vols. III & IV (Vols. I & II came out late last year, but are also worth picking up). Even if you haven’t been a fan of their stuff in the past, let me assure you that everyone can find something they like about The Alchemy Index, and it’s great music to simultaneously reflect upon your life with, or rock out if you looking to get pumped up. If you buy it and aren’t 100% satisfied, just come track me down and I’ll switch out your copy with Ashlee Simpson’s latest release – since you clearly have no taste in music and probably wouldn’t know the difference. We’ll save Thrice’s art-rock masterpiece for someone who doesn’t know all the words to the song “Get Low.”

That’s it for now, see you little rascals in the future.
Dustin

So Basically I Have a Mullet

…No time for preamble today, there’s too much good stuff, so let’s get to it!

-New Warden-
The biggest piece of updatedness I have for you is that Friday, May 2nd will officially be my last day at UCLA Medical. And no, I’m not simply predicting the day that my boss will finally fire me for “one too many herpes jokes,” I actually have another (much better, for me) job lined up to replace this one. Starting the first week of May and continuing on until I get fired for making “one too many herpes jokes,” I will be working for LA-based restaurateur Benjamin Ford (Harrison Ford’s son) at his upscale Culver City restaurant, Ford’s Filling Station. You don’t have to be Dr. Phil to realize that even though the lovely folks at UCLA Medical were wonderful people, that job was simply not an ideal fit for me or my schedule. Working at Ford’s will not only pay better, but will also offer me better hours and much more flexibility and fun compared to the more rigid world of corporate health care. The people there are awesome, the food is amazing (and expensive…I’m glad I don’t have to pay to eat there), the location is ideal, and my boss is a total hottie. I’m pretty pumped to get back to my roots as the no-responsibility ass-clown that people know me for being.

-Movin’ On Up, to the…Westside?-
In other news, our landlady is losing her house (either to foreclosure or some overkill Vegas betting) at the end of May, which means that my roommates and I have to find a new place to live starting June 1st. This kind of sucks for our landlady, but is actually pretty ideal for the roomies and I, since we were all looking for someplace better, cleaner, and closer to the beach to live starting in the summer. The only slight downside is that now, instead of us trying to find a new place by June, we HAVE to find a new place by June — so it adds a little pressure, but I’m not really worried. We don’t really know how things are gonna shakedown yet, except for that we all want to live with people we know and be somewhere on the Westside of town (near the beach, preferably). I’ll keep you posted as our options reveal themselves.

-What Happens in Vegas, Stains in Vegas-
If you checked my facebook at all over the weekend, or were any of the hundreds of people I called to kill time on the five-and-a-half hour drive home, you know I spent the past few days visiting a friend in Vegas. I’ll spare you the gory details, but I came out even on the trip, had a lot of fun doing normal Vegas things (getting dressed up, hitting the strip, etc.), and had an equal amount of fun doing more abnormal Vegas things (hiking in Lake Mead and Red Rock Canyon, relaxing, etc.). But the most fun was spending the weekend with a friend from back in the Midwest, and getting to just kick back and catch up with an old buddy. An old buddy who made about $500 more than I did on the trip. Jerk.

-This Guy Loves the Wine…and Gold-
I like the Cleveland Cavaliers. I mean, really like. You could even say that I LIKE like them. But even though I’ve been to several Cavs games live and in-person at Quicken Loans Arena (aka The Q…and the namesake of the house me and the fellas used to share on Quail Hollow Dr. in Hilliard, Ohio), acquired plenty of Cavaliers swag, ogled the Cavs Girls on numerous occasions, and watched the Wine-and-Gold on TV countless times; I realized that my fandom had hit a new (and potentially unhealthy) level of addiction when I found myself cheering on the Cavs from the bar of a Las Vegas-based Chili’s at 9:30am on a Saturday morning. Even in the face of what will almost certainly be a second-round elimination from the playoffs (maybe third if we’re really lucky and the Pistons keep laying eggs like they did against the Sixers this weekend), I couldn’t help but get way too excited about LBJ & Co. laying the smackdown on a weaker (dare I say, overrated, Deshawn Stevenson?) Washington Wizards team. Seeing the Wiz lose by 30 tonight was even awesomer as King James pretty much put on a clinic on how to shut down a D.C.-based pro basketball team. A fortnight from now, my favorite small forward and his posse might be hanging up their jerseys until next season, but that’s what makes the playoffs so great: right now, in this moment, the Cavs are in the hunt for a championship just as much as Boston or LA; and as a fan, that’s all you should ever need to get excited about your team (…unless you’re a Bengals fan, in which case I’d settle for just ending the season above .500 for once).

-Credit Where Credit is Due-
A few posts ago, I relayed my thoughts on defining relationships via facebook as a guide to the clueless masses (that’s you). Now, not even twelve days later, almost a dozen of my friends have gone from “single” or “hidden” to “in a relationship.” Obviously I can’t take full credit (my good friends Cupid and Jack Daniels helped quite a bit, too), but I just want to take a second and give myself some serious props for hooking my peeps up with the pertinent information they needed to make mature, well-informed decisions about who to love. Great job, me. You guys can all buy me a round next time we go out (or at the very least name your first child after me. No? Well how about middle name, then? No one cares about those anyway, and “Dustin” goes with just about any other name — guy or girl! Don’t make up your mind yet, just think about it and get back to me). So with that in mind, I’d like to offer up a toast. A toast to me. As the famous poet/philosopher Sir William Smith once said:

“Let’s make a toast to never lie, steal, cheat or drink.
But if you must lie, lie about your age (it almost always helps your situation to be a few years older or younger than you actually are).
If you must steal, steal from your family, friends and acquaintances…they’ll be less likely to press charges if you get caught.
If you must cheat, cheat the blind, the homeless or any other sect of people who would have difficulty identifying you in a police lineup.
And if you must drink, drink tequila. No sense destroying your liver and/or your future just you can knock back a few Mike’s Hard Lemonades, right? You don’t want people to think you’re a wuss, after all. On second thought, better make it a double.”

…With insights like that at his disposal, it’s no wonder they crowned him the Prince of all Bel-Air.

Cheers to me,
Dustin


Not a bad place for a vacation, says I.

Wally Szczerbiak is a Good Looking Man When He Scores 28pts

Howdy! Sorry I’ve been so lax in posting for you guys, I’ve had a very busy week or so, and it’s not looking to let up anytime soon. On a related note, I have a semi-big announcement coming about a couple of things…but I’m working on trying to pack for Vegas this weekend among other things, so the news will have to wait until I get back. In the meantime, please enjoy this filler post.

A lot of you have asked me, on several different occasions, “Dustin, what exactly do you do for work?” I usually try and deflect the question by firing off a few quotes from Office Space, or changing the subject or something; but the truth is, there’s no real way to explain what I do for work by just using words. So to help you grasp all the nuanced intricacies of my job, I’ve decided to use a couple of visual aids. The first is this:

+Picture taken at 8:03am Tuesday morning+



As you can see, this is a bucket of rubber bands. This rubberband bucket (rubbucket?) was here on my desk long before I started working at UCLA Medical Systems HR, and in all likelihood, will be here long after I’ve lost my job due to larceny accusations and a pending sexual harassment lawsuit. How this rubbucket came to be here, why this desk’s previous owner felt the need to keep such an expansive collection of rubberbands when he or she clearly never used them, and why they didn’t take them along when they left if they felt so strongly about rubberbands; are all questions that I can only hypothesize an answer to. What I do know, however, is how these rubberbands represent the amount and depth of work that is required on me during a typical day at UCLA. Let’s say each of these rubberbands represents one minute of time where I don’t have any work to do at my job. And I’m not talking about times where I have work, but am procrastinating it (and I’m also not counting the 60-90 minutes I take for lunch on any given day). I’m just talking about the minutes that I spend at my desk with nothing — literally nothing — to do that’s work-related. Now let’s say that for each of those workless minutes, that I do something with the rubberband to mark each unproductive minute. Fast forward into my day a few hours, and this is the result:

+Picture taken at 2:47pm Tuesday afternoon+



That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. This is no camera trick or cheap prop, this is that exact same pile of rubberbands, in that exact same rubbucket, approximately seven hours after I took the first picture. This would be amusing — almost funny, even — if I didn’t have a little over two hours left in my day at this point (keeping in mind that I also took an hour and a half lunch consisting of Chipotle, Starbucks and Pinkberry…all of the essential food groups).

So the next time you’re sitting at work and thinking about how boring your job is, or about how boring the class you’re in is, I want you to envision this rubberband-ball, and know that out there, on the fourth floor of an eighteen-story skyscraper in northwest Los Angeles, there sits a young lad who is even more bored and getting even less out of his job/class than you. And I want you to think on that, and smile, and count your blessings. Then I want you to bounce between espn.com, facebook, and cnn.com the rest of the day like I do. It will be like we’re conquering the world of boredom together, one workless-rubberband-minute at a time, nine hours a day, five days a week, at six dollars an hour.

Cheers,
Dustin

P.S. Every morning on the way into work, I spend the first main chunk of my time sitting in traffic on Interstate 10. During rush hour traffic, the 10 is kind of like an abyss: upon entering, you immediately lose track of how long you’ve been there, how you got there, and you’re instantly filled with a general hopelessness that there’s no escape or that you’ll never know any reality outside of coarse pavement framed by an endless sea of brakelights. This is the second-worst part of my commute. The worst part of my drive comes during the half-mile interchange where the 10-W merges with the 405-N. For those of you unfamiliar with how this intersection works, this interchange takes about three lanes from the 10 West, and T-bones it into about five lanes of the 405 North. I say “about” because during this particular stretch of freeway, there are no — none, zip, zero — lane lines. That’s no typo. In fact, there’s nothing to indicate that there ever have, or ever will be any kind of lane indicator during this multi-freeway merge. Furthermore, the traffic on the respective on-ramps loosens up enough for you to get going to about 60-75mph — just enough to do some real damage when you inevitably lose control and fly into the median and/or your fellow commuters. Add the extra two lanes of traffic merging in from the 2 (Santa Monica Blvd.), and you have yourself what is literally the deadliest half mile of pavement this side of the Rio Grande. Now picture yourself going from the braindead monotony of the 10, instantly into the frenzied, uncontrolled chaos of the 405 at 7am, with the sun directly in your eyes the whole time. Suffice it to say, I don’t drink coffee nearly as much as I used to — because after I’ve survived that gauntlet, I’ve got enough adrenaline pumping through my system in the morning to wrestle a coked-up hippopotamus and win. According to scientific research done in the same field, I’d have to drink 17 cups of coffee, nine espressos, and do three shots of tequila each morning to get the same effect. And it doesn’t make me urinate nearly as much. So the moral of the story is: if you’re trying to give up coffee drinking, your best bet is to load up on car insurance, move to southern California, and spend 45-60 minutes trying to get yourself killed on the freeway twice a day. I did, and I’m in the best shape of my life!

Sharing the Laughter and Love, as the Seavers Might Say

If you’re not married, your lovelife probably isn’t perfect. If you are married, then your lovelife definitely isn’t perfect. As someone whose IQ score soars well into the double-digits, my family and friends have always found me to be the perfect confidant and counselor for the trials and tribulations that arise in their lives and loves. It’s with this in mind that I’ve decided to publicly answer some of the oft-repeated questions that have been asked of me over the years. Today’s question comes to us in a letter from Eleanor Rigby of Boise, Idaho:

“Dear Dustin,
I was with my boyfriend recently, picking up the rice in a church where we had just attended a wedding, and I wondered, when’s the appropriate time to change my facebook (and less importantly, myspace) relationship status from ‘single’ to ‘in a relationship’? We haven’t been going out for a terribly long time (just about eight weeks or so), and we’re definitely a long ways off from classifying ourselves a serious relationship, but we’re also past the point where we’re truly single (i.e. neither of us would consider going on a date with someone else). So how should we be classified by social-networking-website standards? Are we still single? In a relationship? Is it complicated? I need your advice!

On behalf of all the lonely people,
-E.R.”

Well Eleanor, let me preface this by saying that no two couples (or relationships) are exactly alike, and each couple should discuss and use whatever relationship status-setting makes them feel most comfortable about their relationship. That said, here are some general guidelines to help bolster the lines of communication between you and your significant other.

Single:
This should be everyone’s default status, and is acceptable to use from dates 0-8 or any relationship less than five weeks old. As a “single” you’re free to date whoever you want, whenever you want, in whatever quantities you want. But, while your status is single, you also waive your right to not be hit-on and/or flirted-with by your peers, friends, teachers, homeless people, family members and various government officials (I’m looking at you, Spitzer).

Hidden Status:
This is where you take down your relationship status entirely, so that it doesn’t even show that part of your profile. Though most people assume this means you are taken — or at the very least aren’t looking for anything romantic — the handful of people who have an entirely delusional and unfounded/unreciprocated crush on you will still assume they have a shot at dating you if this is your status.

In A Relationship (no name):
This is the next level of progression, and is ideal for dates number 8-20 or any relationship that is between seven weeks and three months in length. It is mostly used as a deterrent to other would-be suitors, but is also ideal for people who don’t want everyone on the internet “all up in their business,” or judging them for who they’re dating. It also applies to people that are dating someone who doesn’t have a facebook (the poor schmucks who only have myspace don’t know what they’re missing. If you’re going to enter into a relationship with someone who is a myspace-only person, you should try your absolute hardest to convert them to facebook before you make anything official. I know, it sounds petty now, but trust me, this can be the exact kind of sticking point that can lead to an ugly divorce 20 or 30 years down the road. I’ve seen it happen a million times…poor schmucks).

In A Relationship (showing other person’s name):
This is the biggest social-networking relationship step yet; it’s a public and legally-binding declaration of your commitment to one another, and is perfect for any relationship between three months and three years in length. At this point in the relationship, it’s pretty standard etiquette to also change your “Looking For” section to just friendship — and maybe networking, too — but nothing more than those two, max. It should also be noted that anytime you see two women who are in this kind of relationship status, it almost always means that they are either recently-single and/or mildly-insecure, so they use this as a means of overcompensating and feeling better about themselves. They also manage to convince themselves that they are the first pair of women to have ever come up with this idea, and that it is hilarious and original. Sadly, this is not the case. Unless both chicks are hot.

Engaged:
If you’ve been dating someone for longer than three and a half or four years (mind you, this count doesn’t start till after you graduate from high school), then you should be engaged. Or at the very least, pre-engaged. A standard-length engagement is somewhere between 8-18 months. This gives the bride the requisite three weeks to make all the arrangements and plan the wedding, accompanied by the mandatory one year or so to constantly complain that “things will never be ready in time,” “I’ll never fit into my wedding dress,” and that she has “had to plan this whole [expletive] wedding by her [expletive] self because she can’t get any [expletive] help from anybody” (if you are married and you took offense to any of that, then you are the exact kind of bride I am describing).

Married:
If you’re on facebook and you’re older than 34 years old, this should be your relationship status, regardless of whether you’re actually married or not. Because if you’re in your mid-to-upper 30’s and you’re single AND you spend your free time on facebook, then you are a pedophile, plain and simple. Switching your status to “married” will prolong the amount of time it takes for the feds to hunt you down and lock you up for being the sick, pokemon-loving son of a B that you are. Note: the same tirade from the previous paragraph also applies to any two obviously-straight women who are listed as married to one another.

It’s Complicated:
This is not an actual relationship status, and everybody knows it. Anyone who legitimately tries to pass this off as their relationship status is either,
A) in the process of breaking up, and it’ll be changed to single or hidden within a week,
B) in the process of getting back together, and it’ll be changed to hidden or “in a relationship” within a week, or
C) are cheating on their partner and/or are in a long distance relationship, but don’t want to fully commit. This is also the preferred status of overly-emo kids who think that they’re the first people in the history of all mankind to ever experience unrequited love or a bad breakup. Look for lots of black-and-white profile pictures from these kinds of people, as well as depressing song lyrics in their “About Me” sections.

…And that just about covers it. I hope this guide has provided some helpful insight for everyone, and remember: it isn’t true love until it’s been posted on one or more social networking websites. Just like the Bible says.

Until next time I solve all your problems,
Dustin “I Put the Sing in Single” Heveron


...ladies? Surprisingly, this man is still available...