Funny Strange is Lori Culwell's blog.

Why do you think they call us "Fighting Irish?"

  First of all, if you subscribe to the Feedburner feed, I know it sent you a post from the other blog yesterday, and I'm sorry.  I told it not to, ok?    Sometimes Feedburner just has a mind of its own, and what the hell?   Maybe that post reminded you to sign up for a Health Savings Account at work.  So, no need to email me.

This hilarious photo is of Shane McGowan from The Pogues, who I think might go down in history as being the Ugliest Person Alive.  He has no teeth because of drugs, and he doesn't care.   Having no teeth and being so ugly makes it easier for him to just go ahead and be a junkie, perhaps.  And, in case you're thinking this-- yes, I believe this is what Pete Doherty from Babyshambles is going to look like in ten years.  Or maybe Amy Winehouse.

Anyhoo, I included this picture because sometimes, this is what my surly Irish temper feels like, and I am compelled to yell at total strangers.  You see, despite constant evidence to the contrary, I am an ardent believer in the continued civility of human beings, and since I couple this belief with a "change starts with you" mentality, I am often the one who will take action when other people are scratching their heads or trying to just learn to live with the problem, or burying their head in the sand.  To me, there is nothing sicker than looking the other way when you could make a difference by doing or saying something, and I am 100 percent sure that not talking about the problem is not going to make it go away, and I don't care if this makes me unpopular.    I would give you some examples of societies and situations that fell into disarray because of people"s general unwillingness to leave their comfort zones and speak up, but I am sure you can fill in the blanks for yourself.  Maybe you'll disagree and if you do that's totally fine, but I actually think there's a rather short distance between general civil disregard and all-out anarchy.  So, let's just start there.

You might have already come to the conclusion that this has gotten me labeled a "total bitch" on more than one occasion, which I'm fine with.   Because I have no problem telling a customer service person "You need to be nicer," or yelling at a guy who is letting his dog do the poop and run in front of my building, or telling people point-blank that they are talking way too loud on their cellphones, and that they should not be discussing confidential legal cases or their uncle's colonoscopy while they're in public places like the Acela train or the post office.   I will also yell at a person who lets their off-leash dog run up to my dog on the street (though, let's be honest, my yelling is going to be nothing compared to the pain and regret that idiot is going to feel when their poor dog is run over by a car on my busy Brentwood street, or bites a child, or kills another dog.  Not even close).

My single-handed effort to hold the fabric of society together can often also be observed in crosswalks, where I have no problem yelling at people or kicking their bumpers when they roll through and almost run over me and my dog.  You see, there are a lot of rude people in L.A, and if someone doesn't say something to them, one day something worse might happen, or at least this is what I'm thinking when the yelling starts.  

Here's a good example-- I was out walking the dog one night and seriously came withing two inches of getting hit by a woman in a minivan who was not looking at all as she pulled around the corner.  Because I was close enough to be able to slap the side of her car, I did, so she pulled over to see if she hit me, at which time I wrote her license number down and told her I was going home to call the police and report her as an unsafe driver.  Was I yelling during this time?  Yes, I was.

You're rolling your eyes now and thinking I should lighten up, but guess what?  She started crying, and told me that she needed to do something, because her husband had Alzheimer's and she couldn't see and wasn't supposed to drive at night, and that she'd almost lost her license before, and that she actually was afraid that she was going to hit someone.   I don't know if she  got someone to help her after this, but I like to imagine that almost hitting me and my subsequent yelling was just the impetus she needed to finally arrange for some alternate transportation, but this is my point-- what if I didn't yell at her and push her out of her comfort zone, and the next time she hit a kid?  I take laws and stuff really seriously, because they are what hold society together, and when people get lazy and complacent, it makes me upset.  Not because it's bothering me personally, but because I honestly believe that if we don't take it upon ourselves to be our best, eventually, as Schopenhauer pointed out, we will start to descend back into being animals.  Because really, what is a red light but a mere box with a light in it, unless we all agree to stop when we see it? 

Maybe it amuses you to consider the mental picture of me yelling at an a-hole fratboy while he is talking on a cellphone and his dog is pooping and he clearly has no bag and no intention of picking it up.  And maybe my making you laugh will have helped the world in a whole different way.  Who knows?  I just want people to stop almost running me over and letting their dogs crap in front of my building.  Is that too much to ask? 

I also would like to take this moment to mention that, just one month ago, my father and I had a conversation where we discussed how much we like calling bullshit on lazy people. 

Fro-Yo Really Needs to Be Gayer

We celebrated the move into Brentwood by going to Pinkberry several times over the past couple of weeks, which is a huge departure for my all-time favorite fro-yo-- the one you get right before you go into Costco to buy your bulk protein bars and paper towels.    Overall, I like the Pinkberry thing-- techno music, pastel colors, tart and fruity yogurt with fruit toppings, but jeez.....just when I thought fro-yo couldn't get any gayer.....hello Pinkberry!

Don't get me wrong-- it's good yogurt, but for $4.50, I half expected Cher to pop out and sing me a song while they mixed in my topping.

Am I alone in my nostalgia for the frozen yogurt of the 80's?  When I was in high school, there was nothing quite like hanging out at the Penguin's on Hwy 111, right across the street from the mall.  Yogurt was chocolate-vanilla swirl, not GREEN TEA.  Why do kids need caffeine in their yogurt?  Why do they even know about GREEN TEA?  I think when I was a kid, the only time I'd ever had green tea was in that ice cream they serve you for dessert at Kobe's.  Also, what exactly is lychee?  I wasn't brave enough to actually get it IN the yogurt, but the Pinkberry guy made me try it.  Overall, it had the consistency of sushi, and tasted like a plum.  THIS is what kids are eating?  Wow.

And that, my friends, was my old lady moment.  Pinkberry has got to be the gayest fro-yo store I've ever seen.  It couldn't be gayer even if they had chandeliers in the bathroom, if you know what I mean.  I see what they're going for, but I have to say that given a side by side comparison, I'm still picking the Costco swirl fro-yo.

Video Girl Continuum

This post has been delayed for awhile, due to my inability to create a chart that’s appropriately funny to support the concept. Oh, and before you start reading, this is DEFINITELY going to be a post that will either make you laugh, or make you go right over to my MySpace page to send me a nasty message. I’m looking at you, Gloria Steinam. That said, it’s all for funny—just another one of those random things that starts out as a comment someone makes or something I overhear, then ends up something I think about and bring up at dinner parties and expand upon until it has enough "meat" for a long post.

Also, if you’re a woman who’s in the professional world, or a stay-at-home mom (a job that is about 1,000 times HARDER than working in an office, from what I understand), you are not going to see yourself on the list, because this post is all just about women who, despite the women’s movement, women’s rights, etc, are still choosing to sell themselves, and therefore making the rest of us look bad.

Ok, here goes.

The Video Girl Continuum

A couple of months ago, I was sitting behind these two girls at a show I was covering for Fashion Week here in LA. They were obviously stylists (they had that look), and were having what turned out to be a hilariously snarky conversation about a certain celebrity that they’d both worked for, but that didn’t like (let’s call her April). Here’s about how the conversation went:

Stylist A: “…..such a bitch. I mean, not even civil. Made me drive all over town to find a leopard sarong that didn’t even make the cut for the shoot.”

Stylist B: “…I know! She did the same thing to me. I had to go out and get her a latte at 4:00. 4:00, dude. In LA. Prime stuck in traffic time.”

 

Stylist A: “It’s such bullshit….everyone knows she’s just a video girl who got lucky and f*&^d her way to the top.”

 

This is when, being myself and being curious, I lean over and go “Excuse me….what’s a video girl?” They were extremely accommodating, explaining that a video girl is a girl who is not tall enough or pretty enough to model, and not quite a good enough dancer to actually DANCE in a video, but who is just shameless enough to be one of those girls by the pool in a rap video, shaking her ass in slow motion and letting Jay Z put his hands on her boobs. Video Girl.

This got me thinking – to a certain extent, if you’re a woman and you’re not on the professional track or raising kids, you’re probably doing some level of this. I’m not going to try to account for the logic of this—maybe you were the prettiest girl in your high school and never went to college. Maybe you’re accustomed to getting things for free, so when someone tells you that you actually have to get up every day and go to work, you go “Um…..no. I’m going to explore other alternatives.” And, because there is still some level of patriarchal dominance in society, this means that there are still some women who are still selling themselves—now it just depends on the price.

Crack Ho: Sells her body, just to get more crack. The lowest on the spectrum, because she’s basically just treading water until the inevitable crack overdose.  A closed cycle of prostitution, if you will.  Here is a crack ho Barbie I found on Google images:


 

Streetwalker: Walks the street, gives most of her money to her pimp, but maybe she has a heart of gold, or big dreams, like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Because really, so many of them do.




Porn Star: Yeah, yeah, they “get paid to have fun and do what people do anyway,” or they’re “just using porn as a stepping stone to get their film career started.” These are the lines they use so they don’t want to kill themselves every day, anyway. As far as I can tell, they’re having sex, on film, and they know that men are the primary audience for the product that makes them all the money. So…..there you go. I’m not saying that Jenna Jameson isn’t a gazillioniare with her own management team at a Big Five agency that I’m not supposed to name, but she’s the ONE exception to the thousands of girls who do this every day. Even Traci Lords—still known for porn, dude. 

Paid Escort: This is the girl who shows up when you call the concierge at the hotel, or respond to the late night tv commercial advertising “dates.” This is definitely a girl who has always been so pretty, she’s gotten away with everything, has never paid a parking ticket, and who could easily go out to dinner with a studio executive. In fact, I was having dinner with my lawyer friend B. at the Ivy by the Shore, developing these very ideas, we saw a really, really gorgeous Asian woman who was out at dinner with a very old man. Since there wasn’t any obvious conversation going on (like, at all), and since she was cutting his meat for him, and she had on a very low-cut dress. So—you be the judge. I’m positive she wasn’t his daughter, just back from Harvard for dinner.

Stripper: Since most of these girls will tell you they’re just working at Jumbo’s Clown Room to pay for their Sociology degree, I’m putting them above the paid escort. In my estimation, though, simulating sex for money gets you just about the same placement on the chart.

Las Vegas-type showgirl: Not just a stripper. A dancer who also shows her boobs.

Paid Girlfriend: This is the girl who lived in my building in

New   York

, who was the girlfriend of a prominent businessman. Basically, he set her up, paid all her expenses, and stayed the night a few times a week. She seemed to divide the rest of her time between working out, shopping, and going out on “auditions.” Someone else in the building also said that they thought they’d seen her in porn, so maybe she got promoted up the chain at some point. I don’t believe the paid girlfriend goes out in public with you (at least not on your wife’s side of town), but for a girl with a good body and zero professional ambitions, this seems like a pretty sweet gig. Not that I would be somebody’s paid girlfriend, but you know what I’m saying.

Model: Mostly I mean “model who is willing to do just a little too much to be successful,” like appear in provocative swimsuit ads, and/ or Playboy, or Hustler, or whatever. We’re going to hope they’re investing this money, because once a model is 30, unless she's Elle McPherson, she's done.

Actress: Mostly I just mention this because, as well as know, there is a certain age past which it’s tough to get acting jobs. So, you see a lot of actress-types in their teens, twenties, and thirties, who either “make it,” or have to find a guy to settle down with. I’m including the actress in the chart because some of them are actually desperate to go out with Phil Spector, even though his parents were first cousins and he’s known for chasing women around with guns, just to possibly get roles in films. And, to my knowledge, Phil Spector doesn’t even make films. You see what I’m saying.

Rich Guy’s Wife. I don’t mean “stay at home mom,” or “equal breadwinner,” because like I said, those women don’t appear on the continuum. I mean “woman with a stockbroker or movie producer husband, may or may not have a kid, who doesn’t work and also has a full time nanny,” or “woman who stays home all day and still needs a personal assistant and tells you how busy she is all the time.” Like, what are they doing? Charity work cannot take up that much time. Examples: Those Orange

County

Housewives

. Many of my neighbors in

New York

. Some of my neighbors in

Santa   Monica

. Karen from Will & Grace.

Old Rich Guy’s Wife. I’m talking about Anna Nicole Smith right here. Also known as “goldigger.” I’m not saying Anna Nicole Smith didn’t love that guy, but come ON. I might put “The Girls Next Door” girls in this category as well, cross-referencing them with “paid girlfriend.” Oh, she’s earning that money all right—one Viagra at a time.

Rich Guy’s Ex-Wife. Hopefully with a divorce settlement so big that they don’t have to work anymore, because you can DEFINITELY not start the continuum over when you’re 50 years old. Nope. Examples: Diandra Douglas (replaced by Catherine Zeta-Jones), Nicole Kidman (replaced by my best friend Katie Holmes), Robin Williams’ first wife (replaced by the nanny—ouch). I prefer not to use the term “Starter Wife,” because in my mind a starter wife is just your first wife and doesn’t necessarily get rich in the divorce, but if YOU’D like this to be the “Starter Wife” category, then ok.

Rich Guy’s Widow.  The motherlode of the video girl continuum—truly the end of the marathon, especially if, like Anna Nicole Smith, you advanced from “Old Rich Guy’s Wife” to “Rich Guy’s Widow” while still under 30, and were married for less than three years, and UNLIKE Anna Nicole Smith, actually collect the money.

If you fall into this category, unless you end up in court like Anna Nicole Smith, you’re still young, you never have to work again, and you have your pick of eligible guys. Of course, most of this guys are on the “male model continuum,” meaning they are looking for someone to take care of them. But, you’ve got your health, a gazillion dollars, and access to the best plastic surgeons, so you’ll be just fine. Even better if the situation isn’t complicated by ex-wives and their children.

Examples: Courtney Love, if she wasn’t quite so insane. Yoko One, if she wasn’t quite so Yoko Ono.  Also known as “Cougar.”

There will certainly be more additions to this list, as I think of them.  Just wanted to put something out there for Monday!  I'm working on one for guys.

Hey, you can't rush it, man

I have actually gotten several emails about my recent lack of posting frequency.  Hey, man....you can't rush the funny.  It comes, it doesn't come, and I know you don't want me to post every single day about what I had for lunch.

Or maybe you do.  I could start doing that.  Some people find protein bars absolutely hilarious.

Here's something that everyone can agree is funny-- a song that I haven't been able to stop singing since it aired last night. 

"Dick in a Box"

Jobs I Would Not Want

I know, jobs are hard to come by, and we should all be grateful for the gainful employment that we have.  But for the record, here is a list of jobs I would never do, even if the money were outstanding. 

1.  Tow Yard Attendant.  Everyone you help is always mad, 100% of the time. This is why they make you work behind bullet proof glass.

2.  Correctional facility nurse.  Good....GOD.  The horror of your every day work situation.  These people are freaking saints, in my opinion.  "Nurse, I've got this sore," takes on a whole new meaning.

3.  Meter Maid.  You drive around in a little golf cart, ruining people's days and probably racking up bad karma points to boot.  Oh, and if the person happens to be there, then you also get to fight with them.  This happens, say, 50 times a day. 

4.  Flight attendant.  Some people really love this job, and I'm glad, because I consider flying one of those unpleasant things I have to do in order to get to the things I really want to do.  Keep your free travel, I say.  Flying is scary.

5.  Roto-rooter person.  Yes, I knoew, they make really good money, and everyone always needs one of these, but I just wouldn't want to be on call at 3 am to go unstop someone's doo-doo filled toilet, ok?  I just wouldn't.

6.  Monkey handler at the zoo. Again, some people love this job, so don't email me if you're from the National Association of Monkey Handlers.  But man, monkeys through poo when they get upset, which I bet they are all the time when they're locked in a cage for twenty years with the same monkey friends.

7.  Professional food contest eater.  I actually think you have to be genetically predisposed for this one, with a huge stomach and a very relaxed esophagus.  There is just something so foul about eating 100 hot dogs in a row, I just don't know how those guys do it.

8.  Personal assistant to someone like Britney Spears or Lindsay Lohan.  Total golden handcuffs job-- they have to pay you a lot of money to keep you quiet, but then you can't share the secrets of the absolute, crazy insanity that is your job with the rest of the world.  Too bad, really. 

9.  ER Doctor.  I hate being startled.  Hate it.  And, like, being startled is all those people do, for twleve hours a day.  Drug overdose!  Shooting!  Stabbing!  Broken leg!  Everything with this job is a big fat exclamation point, all the time, and I don't think my nerves could take it, even for one day.  I'd be like "eight years of school...that's fine.  I quit."

And speaking of nerves, I must include as last but not least the job of psychiatrist, a job I thought I actually might want for one desperate six month period in the eleventh grade, until a career counselor (sort of an amateur psychiatrist, perhaps) informed me that psychiatrists have the highest rate of suicide of anyone else in the medical profession.  And why wouldn't they, come to think of it?  They have to sit and talk to depressed people all day.  Crazy!  Depressed!  Anxious!  It's got to be hard to feel like you're making any progress at all when people come back year after year with the same problems.  That's all I'm saying.

This is Just Tragic on So Many Levels

When I was in grad school, I took this course called "Philosophy of Comedy," which was, frankly, not funny.  Because, you know, there's really nothing less funny than discussing what makes something funny.

One of the essays we read was by Umberto Eco, and he defined comedy as "the encrustation of the mechanical upon the living," like when you see an old person fall down, you inadvertantly laugh, because in your mind that is never, never supposed to happen, or like, that's what a machine would do.  Or something like that.  I didn't FINISH my PhD. 

Anyhow, I saw a sign yesterday, and I think it's all becoming clear now. 

  I don't even know where to start with this.  So many levels of tragedy, I think there may be humor in there, somewhere at the very bottom.  You shouldn't think this is funny, but you're probably going to.  Blame Umberto Eco.  I do.

Too far?

My Religion Mandates I Fly in First Class

Last Thursday afternoon I got on the 1:15 flight from New York to Los Angeles (a flight I
take all the time). The plane was filling up, but there were two empty seats next to me.
Finally, two Orthodox Jews (men) came to stand next to me. One of them said I'd need to move.

"I paid for this seat," I said. "Is there some problem?"

He explained that it was against their religion to be seated next to a woman, and that I'd need
to swap with a man so that they could sit down. I kept questioning this until a flight
attendant came up, ascertained the problem, and ASKED ME TO MOVE. Then a guy two rows back
said "Why don't you just move.....I'll switch with you." Finally I switched.

This is the part of the story where everyone says: "You shouldn't have moved." I totally
agree, and you all know me to be mouthy, but I didn't want to start a big fight on an airplane,
and also, the flight was delayed as it was, and I didn't want to become the bad guy by holding
it up even more. So, that's why I didn't.

I'm saving up my "mad" for when the flight lands, so when it does, I go up and talk to the
gate agent. I tell her what happened, and she says "some people just have different
beliefs," but doesn't offer an apology. Then I chase the two Orthodox Jews down and yell at
them for awhile about how they should be ashamed of themselves, this is not what God wants them
to do, etc. They refused to acknowledge me at all, saying only "we're sorry for you," and then
returning to their conversation in Hebrew. Obviously, I didn't get their names.

The bottom line: I really think that if it's against their religion to sit next to a woman, then they should have bought three seats on the airplane (thereby guaranteeing that they wouldn't have this problem). Having to move to another seat because you're a woman is archiac, humiliating, and should not be advocated by the airline. This is tantamount to me belonging to some "white power" religion, and refusing to sit next to someone of a different race. I think this might be something that airlines do on a regular basis, since both of the representatives were so blase about it. Neither of them even THOUGHT to mention to the men that it might be inappropriate to ask me to move, or suggest that they be the ones to re-seat themselves.

I filed a complaint with the airline, as well as calling the National Organization for Women and
Gloria Allred's office.

I wasn't even mad or anything- really!

I Called the DMV

Remember that 94 year old man who mowed down all those people at a Farmer’s Market in Santa Monica a couple of years ago?

Yeah, neither does the DMV. Which is why, even though it should be, it’s not as easy as you might think to get an elderly driver off the road.

The Department of Motor Vehicles doesn’t have an “old people hotline,” even though they probably should. When I call up, I have to keep saying, over and over again, “Hello, my grandmother is too old to be driving, and I think you should revoke her license.” “Hello, my grandmother is 95 and she still has her license, and I think you should retest her.” “Hello…..can you transfer me to the right department? My grandmother is too old to drive.” The longer I stay on the line, the more I start to feel like I’m in some kind of qualifying round for “World’s Worst Granddaughter” reality show. I have to keep reminding myself that every time I tell someone she still has her license, they actually ask me what town she lives in, so they can stay away from there.

To clarify, she was supposed to stop driving seven years ago, when my grandfather died. Apparently, though, no one told her this. She was 88, and I guess my uncle just figured it was the thing to do to take her car and sell it. Not sure how he pulled this off, but I guess we all just figured it was for the best. Not her, though. Since no one had really consulted her on this, she took a cab to the dealership and bought a new car. In cash. So, apparently I come by this “no one tells me what to do” streak honestly. Anyhow, the licenses keep coming, and now even she keeps saying

Years go by. The license renewals keep coming. Now even SHE keeps saying “Wow, Lori---I can’t believe they keep renewing it.” The only reason she’s 93 and still driving is because she’s my mom’s roommate, and we can keep an eye on her. Then suddenly, tragically, my mom passes away at 59, leaving her alone in a big house with her own car. The social worker at the hospital takes me aside and tells me I need to “deal with the situation.” Two years later, all I can think of is this—maybe call the DMV, casually mention she’s 95 and still on the road, and let them take the action. Then I’m not the bad guy, and she’s out of harm’s way. A great plan—in theory.

When I finally get to the “Defcon 5” department of the DMV, I’d told that it’s not as easy as you might think to get an elderly driver’s license revoked. “Just because someone’s old, doesn’t mean we can just take her license away,” says the voice on the other end of the line.

“It doesn’t?” I say, absolutely incredulous. These are the people who keep sending her the license renewal—I thought they just did this until someone pointed it out. Apparently not. When I suggest that maybe it would be a good idea to test the old folks every year after they turn 90 and no longer have all their motor skills, she also balks. “That would take a lot of paperwork, you know.”

Should I be scared that the DMV doesn’t have a sophisticated enough computer system to ALOER them when a person it over the age of 90? We go back and forth in this manner until I ask point blank what it’s going to take to get them to retest my Nana. “Well,” says the clerk after some thought (and what sounds like a Cheeto). “You could send a letter to the Department of Safety, saying that you think she’s an unsafe driver and that you think we should re-test her. For this, we’ll need her name, address, and driver’s license number. You can do this all anonymously.”

But, how am I supposed to get her driver’s license number anonymously? I feel like I’m trapped inside a Dostoevsky novel. “Don’t you have a database for this?” I ask. She chortles, eats another Cheeto. “Oh, we can’t give that out. That’s private information.”

Now I’m not just the granddaughter that called the DMV. I’m about to become the granddaughter that snuck into her grandma’s purse to look at her driver’s license number in order to rat her out to the DMV. Good times.

I drive to her house like I’m some catburglar. She’s making me tuna salad on wheat toast at exactly 1:30pm (the time when she eats her supper every day). I see her purse on her bed and walk toward it. Slowly, I take out the wallet. If she sees me, what am I going to say? On the other hand, if I don’t do this, she’s going to keep driving until they take her license away, which at this rate is going to be when she’s 100 years old. I think back to all the people who’ve been telling me I have to “deal with it,” and how they would feel if they had to go into their grandma’s handbag to get the driver’s license number in order to rat her out. I quickly memorize the number, noting the irony inherent in the fact that it actually does note on the license that she was born in 1901. This makes me start thinking about the fact that when she was born, nobody even had a car. I cannot sink any lower. I am about to ruin my Nana’s life.

The letter is short and sweet. It contains the number. It says what the DMV told me to say. I slowly type “Anonymous” at the end. Anonymous, apparently, is code for “I don’t have the balls.” That’s fine. I don’t need the balls. I seal it, put it in it's envelope. I put it on the piano, which is where outgoing mail goes in my house. Somehow, it stays there for a week, then two. Apparently the mental hurdle wasn't overcome with the phonecall to the DMV. The actual life ruining action is something that needs follow through.

I cannot send the letter. After the whole process, it’s too much to set the wheels in motion for a old woman who lost her husband and her daughter, all in the span of five years. The letter sits on the piano. It’s no longer just a letter. Now it’s a symbol—of too much responsibility, of a decision, once made, that cannot be unmade. An action, both outcomes of which just suck.

Finally, mercifully, my grandma agrees to move to a small, senior-type apartment that is closer to my uncle, meaning there is no longer any reason for her to drive. She keeps the license, but agrees to limit her car use to “rarely.” My family sees this as a great improvement. I’m not 100% satisfied, since I suspect she will use “rarely” as an excuse to drive herself to the casino as long as she still has a license, but at least I can take the letter off the piano and throw it away.

I still say they should implement an “Old Person’s Hotline.” I mean, really.

Bang Bang, He's Dead

OK, I know I said I was only going to mention my own experiences, but this one is too good to pass up.  This is from "Snopes":  it's called Dead Stupid, and it's about a theif who is shot dead while trying to rob a gun store.  http://www.snopes.com/crime/dumdum/gunshop.asp

Good stuff. 

Me Love You Long Time

Last Thursday, in a bit of "passing conversation in the lobby of my building, " one of my new neighbors informed me that my apartment, up until we moved in last month, was inhabited by not one, not two, but three coked-out Asian prostitutes.   It always seemed suspicious, she said, because the three girls clearly weren't "roommates" living in a one bedroom apartment.  Apparently they had so many gentleman callers, they taped the front door of the building open so the guys wouldn't have to call upstairs to get buzzed in (no pun intended).  Six weeks ago, as rumor has it, there was a big raid, complete with cops, flashing lights, and handcuffs for the hookers.  The building management apparently spent four days cleaning the place, and then rented it to us.  Good times.

This makes me wonder several things:

1.  Where was the pimp in this operation? I was not aware that hookers could operate without some kind of supervision.  Were these freelance hookers?  Fascinating.

2.  How did all three of them, PLUS clients, fit in my apartment?   We feel bad leaving the dog at home because he might feel "cooped up."  Also, wouldn't a nice massage parlor have been a better, less expensive option?

3.  How come the hookers never get any mail?  If you're a hooker, does this mean you just don't bother with PG & E?  Do they have a hooker exemption?

4.  Isn't there some law that requires building management to at least MENTION what went on in your apartment just days before you move in?  This reminds me of an article I read recently about people moving into houses that used to be meth labs, but that they didn't know were former meth labs because, in fact, there is no law requiring that you inform people that their new residence used to house something illegal.  So, those people are now living in former superfund sites, and I'm living in what used to be "Madame Chang's House of Sin." 

Really, I thought the place had sort of a sexy vibe, but this is ridiculous.  By the way, to everyone who is about to email me in outrage, let me just clarify now.  The  woman in the photo is not, to my knowledge, a prostitute, nor does she have any relation to any illegal activity occuring in my building prior to June 15th, 2005.   She is cute, though.  Maybe she should come work in my building.