a quitter by any other name....

No, I didn't quit my job. I quit going to improv class. I like UCB and all, but for some reason, was overwhelmed by 2nd level. I felt unfunny and the class felt unproductive. Not 'cause of the teacher, who seemed good and on-the ball. It just seemed like a lot of dudes competing. For whatever reason, I've stopped going to my improv class mid-way through. And I'm not the big guy in "Summer School" who goes to the bathroom for the entire length of the movie, only returning for the final exam. J-Hath, my buddy from Level 101, was in the class with me. And he was really nice about trying to get me to come back. But I held my ground and tries to explain that this Level 2 wasn't working for me, for some reason.

On Thursday night, I saw P-Wortham put on a mostly-one-woman show. P-Wortham was in my college improv group. I met up with Boaz & Mo at the show, two other friends from my 116th and Ivy days. Anyway, I went home so inspired to keep pursuing creative work (screenwriting, the rap game, filmmaking, etc.). The show was (unexpectedly... I mean, this is P-Wortham) incredible, awesome, and hilarious.

Friday, we moved offices. I had to pack everything in my cubicle and filing cabinets into boxes. the day got super busy, and i didn't finish packing 'til 8:30. I went home and fell asleep.

On Saturday, I woke up early, drove to Santa Monica and picked up ice-cream at Cora's coffee shop, which I then delivered to A-Scards, who had just gotten her tonsils out. Maybe you'll read into this and think I did it completely out of kindness. WRONG. I also wanted to blow Adelaide's mind with the awesomeness of Cora's burnt caramel ice cream (the peppermint is also solid, btw). I also brought her dvd's to help in her healing process (Better Off Dead, 40 Year Old Virgin, Coming to America). At noon, I bolted out, and picked up Anne (my friend who's flown to L.A. from Berlin for a film job....) She's going to live with P-Getz, it looks like, when he moves here. First, I drove her to look at an apartment on Beachwood Canyon, shown to us by a Sarah Silverman doppelganger, but not nearly as foul-mouthed. The apartment was strange, dated, and overpriced. The back of the building looked rusted. Then, we drove to Los Feliz and found an amazing apartment. It's expensive, but seems worth it, so P&A our gonna try to get it.... I'm very excited about the idea of having two more friends living in Los Feliz. Today we saw dumpy apartments left and right. Apartments that look fit for people who want to suffer through life. Awful shitty places to live. At one place, the Armenian landlord wouldn't let us on the carpet because it had just been cleaned, so we couldn't even see the place. "You should come back tomorrow and see the bedrooms," he told us. "Each of the bedrooms has mirrors". What the fuck? Since when have mirrors been a huge selling point for anything? "Sir, this car is nice. It even has mirrors so you can see what's behind you." The little house on Hyperion seemed nice, but Hyperion is too busy a street to live on. New Yorkers, living on Hyperion is like an apartment right on 7th avenue. Lots of traffic driving by.

I dropped Anne off at her hotel and went to the new office to start unpacking boxes. I lasted about an hour and then headed home. Where I fell asleep. And now, I'm awake, posting here, just to tell you, even 'though my postings have been infrequent, I haven't quit the blog game. About to jump on the elliptical, imagining that I'm cross-country skiing up the side of Mt. Fuji.

- Eric

P.S. Last night I took Anne to Sushi Komasa in Little Tokyo. It's always pretty good. The bill came. 58 bucks. I offered to pay. I put down four 20's, in hopes they'd break one of the 20's. But they only came back with 2 dollars. I told our aged waitress, "I think I gave you 80 dollars" and she was like, "No, you gave me 3" (as in 3 twenty-dollar bills). I didn't argue, left a tip, and took Anne to Mixville on Rowena for a drink. At Mixville, the valets lost my car. First they tried to give me a sedan, then a Volvo wagon, before they got it right. This isn't the first time in L.A. this has happened. Out for dinner once, they brought me a Porsche (not just any porsche, a silver type-996 turbo). My first reaction was to take it for a spin, and then come back, explaining, "I just realized, this isn't my car), but I went the cowardly route, and complained, "this isn't my car". But it's nice to know that the valets of Los Angeles think I deserve to be driving the top of the line Porsche.

P.P.S. My FLAMING LIPS/OS MUTANTES tickets arrived. Thanks for sending them Ticketmaster. But Ticketmaster, I still hate you. Paul Allen, I know you're a good guy. You love music. Please make Ticketmaster into a company that plays nicely, charges non-ridiculous prices, and prevents scalpers in every way possible from having first dibs on popular tickets.