Vacation Time Part 1: Intro / Don't Play "Juicy" or You'll Die / Hot Tub Time Machine / Area Codes

On Thursday, I received a surprise visit from two of my BFFFFFFFFs (all the extra F’s are for more and more fun!) Emily and Jon. Having pretty much spent the majority of my time in LA working, it was amazing to have finally had the “LA experience” and, more importantly, have fun. Here’s the first part of a couple of stories from the vacation. There’ll be plenty more to come in the following days.

Note: These are not in chronological order.

“Is it Okay to Play This Song in CA?” asks Emily Noonan

There’s nothing wrong with being precautious. But there’s a fine line between being overly attentive/alert and not really understanding how the world works. When Emily and Jon first got into their rental car, they turned on the radio to find the song “Juicy” by Notorious B.I.G. playing. And once those grooves hit Emily’s eardrums she realized what exactly they have just done. She had to say something to Jon, otherwise who knows what consequences there could have been and Emily Noonan wasn’t about to have her vacation ruined by senseless violence. She exclaims:

“Wait! Are you sure it’s okay to be playing this song in California?”

Emily is of course referring to the brutal hip-hop rivalry between LA’s Tupac Shakur and New York’s Biggie Smalls that divided rap fans into “east coast” and “west coast.” It was a brutal, senseless war that resulted in terrible things like someone saying “I like Tupac” only to be countered with something as disgusting and devastating as “Oh yeah? Well I kinda like Biggie.” It was awful. And it’s probably something we shouldn’t be fearing our lives over 15 years later. Call me glib, but I’m pretty sure it’s safe to play music that was made in a recording studio on the other side of the country without having to worry about whether or not someone is going to murder you for it.

Then again, when I get drawn and quartered for being a little bit country in a place that’s a little bit more rock’n’roll, I’ll admit that I should’ve heeded the warning from Emily.

Hot Tub Time Machine Makes Our Insides Sad:

Maybe because of sleep deprivation or maybe we needed to find a place to hide from the angry mob of people who heard us blasting “Hypnotize” in our car, but for some reason we all made the decision to actually pay hard earned dollar to see Hot Tub Time Machine.

Have you ever been talking with a friend, and one of you makes a joke that’s so bad you actually lose your faith in humanity for a moment? Well seeing Hot Tub Time Machine is like that moment only 90 minutes longer. It’s the kind of experience where you’re not too sure if you’ll ever be happy again. The movie is so bad I don’t even want to make fun of it, as much as I want to bury it deep down inside of my memory and hope it never comes up again. I’m not sure if there are any blocked-out memories of me being molested somewhere deep in my conscious, but I’d much rather have to deal with that than the memory of actually seeing this movie. Hot Tub Time Machine would be the perfect film to torture terrorists with if it weren’t for the fact that the torturing supervisor would probably kill himself too. If any country wanted to stop our military, all they would have to do is show them this movie because it will cause anybody who sees it to lose their will to fight for anything they’ve ever believed in. It’s that bad.

If anyone out there is even considering seeing Hot Tub Time Machine, please just say no. You have family and friends who love you. Consult suicide hotlines if you need to, just please don’t ever watch a minute of this movie. Chose life!

Area Codes = CITY PRIDE!!!! But no, they don't.

Our friend Helena wanted me to write about people who refer to the place they live by the first three digits you'd have to dial on a telephone if you wanted to actually contact them. You know what I mean. Every now and then one of your friends who lives on your floor will tell you that they are "going back to livin easy in the 978 for the weekend" (Lazares, Facebook) and you're left pondering what exactly these numbers mean and why it makes life so easily livable.

The problem I have with these people is that they expect me to do too much work in order to find out where they live. I have to either a.) look it up on google or b.) ask them where the "978" is and probably have to listen to more stories about it. And I sure as hell don't care enough to do either.

So seriously, as Helena says, just say you're going home for Easter and stop talking.