Oh Sweet Sweet Olympia

I've been in a bit of a rut. Life has been one task after another, mixed with booze and socializing. I make a front. I have a good time, but I have been feeling lost. On Monday I got the call. It was Poot, who I had not seen in a few months.

"What's up man, are you busy tomorrow?" He asked. I replied "I have nothing important to do," which was true. "Come to Olympia and we'll hang out." It seemed like a good idea. The next day I was on the 592 express to the 512 park and ride in Tacoma.

The ride was beautiful, looking out through the wooded areas. I couldn't help but smile.

Then, at the park and ride I chatted it up with an Evergreen student named Julianne. We talked about graphic novels and sustainable farming. While on the bus our conversation was continually interrupted by a woman in her fifties, but I couldn't help but laugh.

I got off the bus and said "later" to Julianne, knowing I would probably never speak to her again in my life. Poot called and said he was on his way, and while I waited my brother Patrick called.

There was an electricity in the air, I could feel the energy and good will of Olympia, my smile held strong. Then, it got bigger, as I saw the mid-nineties Jeep Cherokee roll into the parking lot across the street.

Poot and I smoked a cigarette and decided to wing it. As we walked down the street we ran into Olympia local and West Seattlite Afton. Afton was standing there smoking a rolled cigarette and taking about print making and opening a restaurant. We made eye contact as I walked towards her and she let out a loud "HOLY SHIT!" and from there the night continued with a mixture of good vibes and "Holy Shit has it been that long?"s.

We ate at a wonderful place called "Le Voyeur" and drank (fittingly) Olympia Beer. We talked about dreams and the collective consciousness. We ate French Fries with special sauce. Afterwards, we headed over to Afton's friend Miranda's house.

Miranda's is a traveler's place. The back yard is covered in tents. There are punk rock kids passed out here and there, some sharing recently dumpstered food. There are a plethora of random dogs with bandannas around their necks. Poot, Afton, and I headed up to Miranda's room and talked more about Art and Music.

We drank wine from the bottle and I played guitar. I made sure everyone sang along.

Then, weary and bleary eyed, Poot and I hit the road; we were off to Delphinia, the 36 acre farm his girl lived on. Poot and I stayed up till five o'clock drinking tequila and running through the underbrush.

As I lay there in the guest's sleeping nook I reflected on my day. I had spent all my money, my lungs felt heavy from all the cigarettes I had smoked, and I was dog tired. I felt like the happiest man alive. I was glad to be back in Olympia, and glad to be going home in the morning, a little tired and a little refreshed.

Peso's Kitchen

This week of drunken debauchery started with a night out with Jessica (from the Lyon Rouge) and two Russian dudes.

After a bizarre (though fun) night over at the Elephant and Castle I decided to head over to my buddy Anderson's place. He had to run shortly after and Jessie gave me a call, so I was back off to downtown. We met up at the Lion and then headed over to a little joint called Peso's Kitchen.

My first impression was not a good one. Peso's comes across as just another overdone meat-market. The walls were all done in a "traditional" stucco, there were candles everywhere, not to mention the servers were all buxom and disinterested. I looked up at the red, and white over-sized pseudo abstract ceiling sculputure tile things and was worried I had died and gone to my own private hell.

We sat down in a booth in one of the back corners and while Jessie chatted it up with one of the Russian boys who went by Sacha/Alex/Alejandro (suspicious much?) I chatted with the other Russian about moral relativism and the Soviet Union.

After a shot of tequila (or three) I decided to give the place a shot at their food. The majority of the menu was "Mexican influenced" American fare, but after perusing the happy hour menu I saw a few things that sounded promising. Namely, the traditional Carnitas and the Rock Shrimp floutas.

Holy shit. The Carnitas were fresh, traditional, and amazing. The floutas were perfectly cooked and the accompanying sauces were brilliant. I was honestly a little pissed. I was mad that this place that I wanted to hate was turning out to be awesome. The drinks were made well, were moderately priced, and were stiff as a twelve year old boy reading the J.C. Penny's underwear catalog.

With my amazing Carnitas (traditional tacos) I drank a Dos Equis and a little Sauza tequila. Genius. After my meal I chatted it up with the waitress who seemed less snobish, less unapproachable; and as I left I grimaced at the fact that I knew I would be back for seconds.

Overall Ian Prebo Rating: 3 and a half shots of bourbon.

G'night, see you in the mornin'

Hey! Tony!

Anthony Bourdain is my fucking hero. I remember the very first episode of "No Reservations" I ever saw. It was the Pacific Northwest episode. I was a little miffed about the lack of detail and time he spent in Seattle, but what I saw was a brazen asshole who loved food and knew what the fuck he was talking about. And, not only that, he wanted to eat the bizarre and wonderful local things such as the Geoduck (pronounced gooey-duck for all you non-northwesterners.)

(I have no fucking clue who this yokel is)

There was something that this crass son-of-a-bitch had, a certain je ne sais quoi if you will, that I found intriguing. I had to watch more, and I did. I watched hours of this guy travel the world making an ass out of himself drinking too much smoking too much and generally making an ass out of himself. I loved it.

I loved the fact that there was someone out there on those stupid ass food and travel channels that I could identify with. Someone who loved punk rock and hated dumb-ass people and, furthermore, loved food.

My love of Bourdain continued, and with that a Tivo subscription.

Then, one about a month ago, Drew said to me "Anthony Bourdain is coming to town, and I got us tickets." I practically shit my pants. After jumping up and down like a thirteen year old girl I calmed down and accepted the fact that I would actually be in the same room as one of my heroes.

Fast-forward to this evening.

The man came out and killed it. He talked about everything I wanted him to talk about. He was as funny and interesting as I thought and hoped he would be. I won 't go into it, suffice to say he was exactly who he presents. Or something like that. . .

There's a First Time for Everything

Recently I re-acquainted with a college friend of mine, Huma. We would hang out by the smoking deck (never on the smoking deck as Huma is a voracious non-smoker) and chit-chat about life and how she would have "talk sex" with the instructors.

Well, recently after hanging out it came to light that Huma had never gone bowling. Ever. In her life. After getting over the initial shock I decided I had to immediately rectify the situation. As my home town of West Seattle has one of Seattle's last awesome bowling alleys (aptly named West Seattle Bowl) I had no other choice than to invite Huma out for an awesome round of bowling.

I arrived at our designated meeting spot, the Tulley's on 4th and Union. A few minutes later Huma showed up and we were off. But, shortly before our bus arrived Huma realized that she had forgotten her socks. If there is one thing one does not want to forget when bowling it is socks.

After a quick parley we decided to catch the next bus and go to the most depressing store on the planet for some much needed sock. Ross Dress for Less is where everyone would go if the Nazis had won the war.

Huma quickly spotted a sweet pair of Liz Claybourne socks for a whopping $1.99. Then it was a waiting game. While in line we played a little game of "name everything ridiculous in the store" where we spotted such items as a polka dotted suitcase, Legally Blonde 2, and atrocious hair (the saddest nappiest white guy dreadlocks I have ever seen), along with bumble bees (in store security) and depressing people.

Then it was time to go bowling.


After renting our lane at and picking up our shoes I gave Huma a brief explanation of the game and it was time to play. I had not been bowling in a long time, and it showed. I still had the essential idea of bowling, but lacked my previous "mad skills" from when I was in a bowling league.

We started our first game, and Huma seemed to get the basic hang of the ancient art of bowling. Shortly after we started our game we were joined by a group of wee baby children who were also enjoying their first game of bowling. After seeing the bumpers Huma commented "We should have gotten those."

Part of me agreed as my first game I bowled an 85 (Huma bowled a 48, which is good for a first timer). I know, I know, for someone who is such a fan of bowling I should have done better. If it were Wii bowling my rank would have dropped. But, Huma seemed to be having a good time and the wee children, while causing us to censor ourselves, added a great deal of humor and cuteness to the ordeal.

I had some amazing bowling moments such as falling on my ass and getting a spare at the same time. While my knee was injured my pride was not. . . mostly.

The thing that was really amusing and mocking was the video monitor that would remind you of what you bowled. A kitty would run into a set of pins and knock half of them and a mocking "Open Frame" would appear. If you got a gutter ball a hot lady would give you a condescending look.

After slightly reclaiming my masculinity in the second game (scoring a cool 95) we decided to grab some food over at West 5, a slightly swank restaurant and bar, located in the Alaska Junction.
We chatted more about school, music, past relationship, and as Huma caught the 54 back to Wallingford I took a deep breath (and deeper drag of my Marb) and was glad to have reconnected with an old friend.

What next "first" will I share with someone? Today I will eat bone marrow and see Bourdain with Drew of OMSTV!

Science Fiction Will Soon Be Science Fact

After reading an interesting article about monkeys with bionic capabilities I began thinking about what this means for the human race. Where will this amazing new brain machine interface lead us? I was instantly reminded of my childhood and teenage years.


I remember playing RIFTS (buy books here) as a young lad and almost always playing as a bionic character. The only human part of my body was my brain and the parts of the digestive tract needed to keep my brain alive. The rest of me was metal and guns. The idea of being a nearly indestructible super mercenary always gave me a warm feeling.

But now, being older I know that that I am not the only one to get the warm and fuzzy feeling from big metal super soldiers. It seems to me that while the medical applications of this interesting, though still fledgling, discovery are wonderful, the military applications are somewhat terrifying.

I would like to think that the military is not already jumping down these scientist's throats trying to make the next super-soldier. But it is a possibility, no matter how far off it may seem today. We're only one or two major advances away from some crazy science fiction type shit. Although, it would be cool to see Seattle protected by Robocop. . .

101st Post!

Well folks, I broke the triple digits on the blog posts and to celebrate I will first thank all you readers out there for supporting me in everything I write. I would like to thank Drew from One More Salute to Vanity for getting me into blogging in the first place. And, finally, I would like to thank Henry Miller, Robert Heinlien and Jack Kerouac for being great inspirations to a mediocre writer.

Last night was interesting. Sort of a mini-reunion of the 2007 class of SCCC film school. I was especially glad to see Marcus Curlee, who threw the event as a fund raiser for his trip to China. Marcus and I were close in film school. We shared the same opinion of many films and often had great discussions about films we had recently seen.

We made a short film called "Pictures" that was an amazing piece, but in the process of making the film we lost sight of many things and had a falling out. Now, almost a year later to the day Marcus and I had our first real pow-wow over the events and everything else that had happened in film school. Needless to say there was many apologies, especially from yours truly, and forgiveness all around for any past transgressions. It was cathartic to say the least.

Afterwards we had an in depth discussion on "The Darjeeling Limited" Wes Anderson's most recent film. We both agreed it was a great film, but had different experiences when we saw it in theaters. He saw it opening day, so he missed "The Hotel Chevalier" which I saw preceding the film because I saw it the second week of release. We concurred that this would dramatically change the viewers experience, essentially making it a very different film.

It was good to have a talk like this again, with someone whose opinion of film I so deeply admire.

But I digress. After many a beer and good chat with people I had spent two harrowing years of my life with I was off to West Seattle. But in those few hours I received a new vitality, and have been given a boon of inspiration.

Mid-day Reflection on Lost Sleep

Life seems to be on the down swing lately. I'm unsure of what I am doing with my life. I have two jobs, but still seem to never have enough money. I'm depressed. I don't want to work on anything. I just want to exist in a state of self-loathing. I wish that I could love the people who love me properly, but I can't seem to do it right.

I couldn't sleep last night. I was up until almost 4 in the morning cleaning my room. I moved back in with my parents after living with Drew for almost a year. It is hard coming to terms with my own state of reality. I'm almost 25. That's almost 30. I have yet to finish my degree, I live with my parents and I don't have a driver's license.

I couldn't stand the room anymore. A collection of useless crap that has amassed over my 24 and a half years. Huge piles of random garbage, bits of paper with forgotten phone numbers, thousands of Marlboro Miles, a pile of rubber bands the size of K-2.

I rooted through the flotsam and jetsam of my life. There was catharsis. It is time for a new alignment in my life. I need to refocus and gain new direction. I want to be happy. I want to make films.

Like communist Russia I need a five year plan.

I dread turning 30.

Foxing Bracture

The only downside to the 21st b-day extravaganza is that I think I have a "Boxer's Fracture". Seeing as it's not a full break, but most-likely a hairline fracture I think I'll let it be. For now.

Akilah is 21!

What do you get when you mix booze, co-workers, and red-neck assholes? Akilah's 21st birthday party.

On the 19th after getting off work me, the boss lady, and one of the supervisors went out to meet Akilah (of Lyon Rouge fame) in Federal Way. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Fed-Way it is like the inside of a Wal-Mart. Only an entire city.

So, setting my own prejudices aside I agreed to go and we ventured down south (insert various cunnilingus jokes here). We met Akilah at a bar and pizza joint called "The Rock." It reminded me of a U-District bar, but filled with hillbillies. After the initial culture shock I settled down and bought some booze.

At last call (which at this place is 11:40 p.m.) I bought a Long Island and two shots of Tequila. I figured the birthday girl needed a drink that rhymed with her name. Having sucked down our respective drinks it was time for another bar.

We headed down the street to the only bar in Federal Way to be open until 2:00 and proceded to drink some more. The bar was mediocre, but cheap, and there was some semblance of Karaoke, so I made the best out of it and had a good time.

As I walked up the stairs to the Karaoke stage I saw none-other than A-ron Thompson, of Federal Way and his room-mate Joey (not to be confused with another Joe who will be mentioned shortly). We exchanged some male greetings along the lines of "What the fuck are you doing here!?" and shared a man embrace.

After singing "Touch Me" by the Doors, and nailing it, I decided to go have a smoke with the birthday girl. As we were chatting one of her friends friends decided to get a little fresh with Akilah. Normally, when I see a woman "fondled" against her will, I react rather rashly. Akilah, however, handled the situation and all seemed well.

Pulling me aside she said "Don't worry about it, I told him to stop, you can let it go." And I did. We continued to drink, and I even had a chat about classic rock with the White-Trash offender, whose name for blog purposes will be "Joe-py Grope-y."

After a fairly sociable chat with the Groper-ton Akilah and I sang a bit of Al Green and went to have another smoke.

That is when our cheese-ass white-trash friend decided to have another go at "showing Akilah a good time." Having already been more polite than any woman should be in said situation Akilah asked me to kindly "save her."

I put my body in betwixt the offender and offendee and calmly said "Look man, she's already asked you not to touch her, and she already has a boyfriend, so why don't you leave her alone." Our good friend Joe-py replied "You tryin' ta touch me son? I will fuck you up."

I wanted to punch this skinny dweeb in the nuts and stomp on his chest, but my therapist says I should try to resolve disputes with words. So I did. "Look, dude, I don't want to fight you, I just want you to leave my friend Akilah alone."

"I will fuck you up son!" he said to me with a vile stench on his breath "I will beat your mother fucking ass." At this point Akilah grabbed me by the arm and led me away. "Thanks," I said to Akilah, "I was about to punch that guy in the dick."

Meanwhile, my two compatriots A-ron and Joey had seen this unpleasant gentleman get into my face and did not like it one bit. Joey walked up to Mr. Grope-y and explained to him that he should not treat either Akilah or me in such a manner. Grope-y had another idea. A fist to Joey's face.

I used to fight. A lot. I would fight anyone who pissed me off. I fought my friends, sometimes for fun, but also sometimes out of anger. I have won, and lost, many fights, but I have been trying my best to stay "fight free" as violence only begets violence. Another nugget of wisdom from my therapist, which was in this case, true.

This rather unpleasant hillbilly had the audacity to start a fight with not only one of my friends, but a friend of the birthday girl. As he grappled with Joey I moved at his back and started to pummel him with my fists. While this was happening A-ron also came into the fight, with his own swings.

The bouncer was in there fairly quickly, and I immediately got back in the bar. After a long discussion with the bouncer Joey, Grope-y, and A-ron where officially bounced. When the rather large bouncer, J-Rock, came back in he said to me "You got out of there quick and listened to me, thats why you can stay."

"Really?" I said with astonishment. "Yeah. You was just helping out your boy. I'd a let him stay too but he was runnin' his mouth at me. You was calm." So, with a mixture of adrenaline, awe, and booze I closed out my tab and finished my beer.

"Preebz." Akilah said, "I didn't want a fight on my birthday, but that was gangster." I smiled and thought about the end of "It's A Wonderful Life" I felt like Clarence had gotten his wings.

In hindsight I realized that, my own desire to not get in a fight does not always pan out. Sometimes, you see your friend get hit, and you react. It's an instinct thing. I stayed out of a fight, because I knew that there would be no good coming from it, and then that fight found a way to wrangle me in.

Was it the right thing to do? If I hadn't jumped in how would I feel about it? I would feel bad. Whether that is a good thing or not, I don't know. I know that as a male of the species there are certain things that we have a drive to do. We have a drive to hunt and kill to provide food. We have a drive to keep our mates safe. We have a drive to fight each other, for dominance or what ever other bullshit evolution wanted us to fight for. Not in our sweet, art loving, philosophical outer cortex, but in that iddy biddy reptile brain. The brain that is all fight or flight. Sometimes, we can't fight off 100,000 years of evolution. Then again. . . sometimes I don't want to.

Fucking Hell

Last week sucked. This week is turning out to be okay. Last night was awesome. More on that one latter. Gotta go poop.

Of Late Night Evenings and Inablility to Sleep. Part 3

I can't seem to sleep. It's not even that late, but it is late for me now. My life has been reorganized due to my new-ish job. I wonder if I am doing a good job. I wish that I could talk about it, write about it, tell people anything. I can't. Contract and confidentiality blah blah blah. I'm too honest to break something like that.

I remember getting Drew to break her agreements of the sort, just to hear what she was doing at work. I promised her I would tell no one, and I did exactly that.

I feel old, or at least some semblance of old. I'm almost 25. That's halfway to 50. This though terrifies me. I feel like I should be getting married or starting a family or some bullshit along those lines. I still feel like a kid.

The scariest thing is seeing people my age who do have kids. So many of them have all the joy sucked out of their lives. "I'd go out tonight. . ." they say with that pathetic glazed over look "but I have to get home to my kids." I can barely take care of a pet, let alone another human being.

I understand why my father spent so much time being there for me. It was the right time for him to have children. He was 36 when I was born. He's old now, I guess, but with so much love of life still in him. The hard part is seeing him when yet another one of his friends die of cancer, or suicide, or heart attack. . . it keeps on going. Life, I guess, but more than that death.

I'm 24 and my two preoccupations in life are sex and death. At least it is some real life shit I worry about, not fashion or architecture, but the continuation of life and it's inevitable end.

More Music Videos. . .

Having re-found YouTube and all it's glory I would like to share with you some interesting videos of music I like.



(Jeff Mangum from Neutral Milk Hotel)

and. . .



(Paul Simon "Boy in the Bubble" music video. . . or as I like to call it "Some Freaky Deeky Weird Shit")

and finally. . .




Protect Ya Neck!

My Sweater is Way Cooler than Your Sweater

I love Argyle almost to a fault.

Pretentious?

I was talking to a barista at the Online Coffee Company about blogging when I was met with this response: "What would I ever read a live journal or a blog? I think that it is pretentious to say your life is any more interesting that anyone else's. What's so important about you?" Then she followed it by the good old fall back "No offense."

Admittiedly there was some offense taken, and I think for good reason.

1) My life is more interesting than most people's lives because I am in constant need of stimulation. . . and I'm crazy.

2) A good blog is well written and contains more than journal entries of the blogger's life. It should contain observations about life, music, and art (depending on subject matter of said blog.) In this case a blog is read for it's literary merit.

3) A "Live Journal" while being a kind of blog is not a blog. It is a Live Journal. Maybe I'm being pretentious when I say that, but I feel that most people (bloggers) will agree with me.

4) You're a bitch. JOKES. . . Kind-of.

I just said to her "My life is waaaaaay more interesting." And left it at that. If you know me, you know I'm right.

Take One

I feel sad. The lack of intuition and abundace of booze is getting to me. I've finished Naked Lunch. I feel apathetic about the whole ordeal. I read Anthem by Ayn Rand. I'm happy and surprised that Ayn Rand does not get flagged as an improper spelling. Makes me feel like things aren't so bad.

Don't start me trying now. Cause I'm all over it Angeles.

I don't think I'll ever be satisfied. I feel as though my secret wishes are too dark, too destructive. I don't know whether or not I'm glad to meet you.

I guess Either. . .

While looking for a decent video of "Lost and Found" by Elliott Smith, I found this incredibly depressing video shot in front of the wall on the cover of Figure 8.


As well as this awesome Elliott Smith video for "Angeles." Enjoy being Emo.



AND as I final side note, doesn't Elliott Smith look like Geoffry Rush?

Hanging Around in the Lost and Found

Last night at work, while going for a smoke and showing off my Eagle Scout card, I realized that I had lost my ID. Needless to say I flipped my neurotic shit.

Waves of paranoia washed over me. "What if someone steals my identity?" I thought. After scouring my office, the bathroom, and calling every department in the hotel I calmed down. "If its not here, I must have dropped it at a coffee shop or cafe." I reassured myself.

But then, a whole new set of worries grabbed me. What would I do without an ID? I would be unable to go to bars or liquor stores. I would be caught in the throws of sobriety, a very sobering thought indeed! "At least there is always the Maja." I was fighting back worry.

Furthermore, I had no idea how I would replace said ID. What would I need? What if "they" would not reissue me an ID? This post 9/11 world is a pretty crazy place, after all. How would I survive without my happiness fuel?

I called my mom. What else is there to do when one is in need of expert calming? I chatted with her for a bit and described the situation. She agreed that it was frustrating, and that I would need to search the last places I was prior to going to the DMV.

I got off work, and for a while forgot the whole problem. Reading Ray Bradbury's Martian Chronicles helped keep my mind away from my worries while riding the bus home. I felt my panic and paranoia creep back on the walk home from my bus stop, but as I went to sleep I resolved to search high and low (Seattle's Best Coffee and Specialty's Cafe) for my missing Identification.

After work this morning I went downtown. I wanted to kill some time so I wasted time at the Online Coffee Company and then at a Lark in the Morning, a wonderfully esoteric music shoppe.

I used the old "in the market for a new guitar" line and played for an hour and chatted up the clerk (mostly folk music.) After playing about half the guitars in the joint I set off to (hopefully) reclaim my lost ID.

I set back out through the market and being hungry ate some extremely spicy Texas Style Chili that just about gave me a panic attack. Then, feeling the need to waste a little more time, wandered the market for a bit.

No longer able to delay the dreaded inveitable I set off for SBC. I steeped inside and stood at the counter. For TEN minutes. I stood there for ten minutes watching the baristas chat and pretend I was not there.

This increased my chili induced panic. Was I there? Was I just a vapor or a brume? Had I died and continued about my business unaware of my own death? Thankfully, no. Feeling my glare one of the baristas came up to help me. It was Christa, a mousy-bookwormish barista with whom I spoke about books on my occasional visits to Seattle's Best Coffee.

"Can I get a drink started for you?" she asked, smiling.
"Do you have a lost and found?" I asked in return.
"Do we have a . . . lost and. . . " a light clicked. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "You're IAN!" I was both worried and elated at this minor fame.
"Yeah, I'm Ian."
"I have something for you." I prayed it was not a severed head.
"What is it?" a silly question, because I knew immediately what it was.
"This." She handed me a piece of paper with my ID taped to it. There were various phrases written on the sheet. "Help! I'm lost!" A speach bubble said. In another person's handwritting it said "REGULAR. He will be back."

"Thanks," I said feeling much better having attained my lost ID.
"So. . . do you want a drink in celebration!" Christa made me a coffee smoothie and I was on my way. Next stop West Seattle.

Steve Martin is not Leslie Nielson

While riding the lovely 49 bus up to Capitol Hill to get some Pho, the Vietnamese noodle soup which is the main fuel for yours truly, I heard some interesting conversation that a mother and her two daughters were having.

I love America. It is the only place you can get such wonderful gems as these.

DAUGHTER: (pointing at American Apparel) See mom, the 80's are coming back.
MOM: It's so horrible that the 80's are coming back. . . those. . . those were my high school years.

and

MOM: Area 51. Thats where they keep them alien spaceships. If you go there they kill you. I think it's by Reno.

and the true gem:

DAUGHTER: Naked Gun is such a funny movie, it's got that one guy. . .
MOM: Leslie Nielson?
DAUGHTER: No. . .
MOM: O.J. Simpson?
DAUGHTER: NO! That one guy. . . from Cheaper By the Dozen. STEVE MARTIN!
MOM: Oh, that's right.

I just want the record set straight. Leslie Nielson is not Steve Martin. Leslie Nielson wishes he were half as cool as Steve Martin.



Side Note: "Groovin'" is playing on the radio now. . . Life would be exstasy. You and me and Leslie (Nielson) Groovin'

My Bum is on The Swedish

While walking down the north end of Broadway, up by Swedish Hospital I saw a camera crew filming a man standing at the hospital's sign. He was rubbing his butt against it. As I approached I saw that it was none other than Tom Fucking Green of MTV and film fame. I smiled at him as I was walking by and he started to talk to me.

TOM: Excuse me sir, Do you remember me?

ME: Yeah. I remember you.

TOM: I'm rubbing my bum on things. I did it ten years ago. It was really popular. Do you remember it?

ME: Yeah, it was really funny back then.

TOM: So now I'm taking a trip down memory lane. (While rubbing his ass on the Swedish sign) My Bum is on the Swedish.


Then he came over and we had a little chat. He seems like a nice guy. One thing I did not know about Tom Green is that he is a fucking giant. He must be 6'6" or 6'7" at least. I felt short standing next to him.