Starstruck

So, I know this will pass...but I'm currently one of those schmucks making eye contact with every person driving a nice car in L.A., trying to see through the limo tint and catch a glimpse of celebrity. It's annoying...and pretty embarassing (wow...I don't think I know how to spell that word...that's embarrasing) to admit to. But I am. I make eye contact with every person in the supermarket, hoping that I'll catch a castmember of The Office...or something.

Just yesterday we decided to go to an Upright Citizens Brigade show in Hollywood...because it cost a dollar. I thought to myself, "Oh...a dollar. That's fine. We'll get to see some enthusiastic college-aged kids on an "improv team" do a harold-format show. It'd just be good to get out of the house."

Well, we show up, and there's a line filled with hipsters and their hipster girlfriends (many hoodies, casual neckties, uncombed hair, plastic rimmed glasses...that kind of thing). We get our seats (it's a tiny little theater that they jammed with at least a hundred people...which had "fire code violation" written all over it), and when the show starts, freaking Matt Walsh and Matt Besser, the two founders of the company, come strolling out and start warming up the crowd. Holy crap...these are two guys who I'd seen on TV and in the movies dozens times, were onstage in this crappy little theater...about 5 feet from me. I was tickled.

Then they introduced the "special guest," who was none other than Jeff Garlin. Again...my eyes were replaced by little cartoon-y stars.

The show itself? Freaking hilarious. Made me want to be all hip, and go get the original series on DVD.

But enough of that. Basically, the point is, there's famous people here...all over the place. Right now I realize that I'm being very un-cool and giggly, but in Seattle the closest I got to a bona-fide celebrity was seeing David Cross doing stand-up at Bumbershoot. I'm sure the "jaded" will appear sometime soon...but for now...I'm just tittering like Perez Hilton.

Here is Your Update, My Good People

It's been a while…I know some of you are starved for details. Some of you might be just idly curious. Some of you may not have heard we've moved to Los Angeles (well, we have). Finally, some of you don't even know who I am, or why I keep sending you advertisements for ringtones (sorry about those…but seriously, just check them out – they are pretty great deals. I mean, 49 cents? That's unbelievable!!!).

But for the "starved" or "curious" ones, I'll ladle out a healthy portion of "What's Up" soup. Hell, I might just include a hearty handful of "What's on Deck" to go with that ("I don't know – THIRD BASE!").

So, here's the skinny. First up, there was a little unfortunately nasty business with our landlord (or, more to the point, his assistant), regarding our departure time. We had thought it would be good to leave on January 4^th. We told them this at the beginning of December, and there were no problems with it at all…until the evening of December 31^st, when they called us in Idaho to let us know we had to vacate our place by January 2^nd. Of course, our apartment was not packed or cleaned, and all of our moving reservations were set on January 4^th. Needless to say, there was much gnashing of teeth, and rending of garments…before we finally settled on an uneasy truce.

Now, maybe it was my wonderfully optimistic (read: naïve), rose-colored outlook, but I had thought the move down was going to be a snap…maybe two snaps…maybe, if we were terribly unlucky, it'd be three snaps up. However, this move was not a snap, but rather a steady series of punches to the testicles…spaced about 2 minutes apart…for an entire week.

First off, I got sick. That happened around midnight of December 31^st (HAPPY NEW YEARZ!!!!). This sick wasn't the cute little sick that grandma knitted for you on the porch in late April. This was the kind of sick that boxes your ears, and makes your head ESPLODE!

And does so for two full weeks (I'm still sick now). And all the DayQuil and NyQuil in the world (and I feel like I ingested just that much) will only make you barely functional.

This means that I got to pack the house, load a small truck (up and down 4 flights of stairs), unload a truck, load larger truck (that's a whole 'nother blog entry), then load the large truck some more, spend 3 days driving down a snow/rain slicked I-5 corridor, unload the large truck (up and down 4 damn flights of stairs…again…no stairs at the next place; mark my word) while steadily coughing up most of my lungs through my throbbing throat, and dribbling out most of my brain matter through my chafed nostrils and into a waiting Kleenex. Sorry if that description was gross…but I wanted to give all of you fine people an inkling of the hell that has been the last two weeks.

Luckily for me I have an awesome wife, two awesome roommates, and a rotating cast of awesome friends and family who helped at every step of the way. To those of you who took time out of your day to help us, holy crap, thank you for the depths of my soul…and I'm sorry if I accidentally got any of you sick. Helping people move is analogous (in my mind) to providing an alibi to a friend who was recently brought up on murder charges. Anyone who does either of those things is a-ok in my book. Thanks, especially, to you ..>Mr. Dennie…who helped us two nights in a row. You're a saint, my friend…and one of the good ones.

Long story short (too late!!! HA HA!!! Get it!!?? Because I've already been talking for a while…and for me to say…um…), we're here now. We made it, and the house is almost completely unpacked/assorted/decorated/stored away. Where, you may ask? Good question! Here's a shiny blue star that you earned for asking such a good leading question! Well, it's in Silver Lake, and (according to Wikipedia) it's the home of many musicians and homosexuals. Though, I don't believe he was either one of those thing, our apartment (at one time or another) was the home to this guy:

And this guy:

(he'd be the one on the left)

And this guy:

And, if he was here, she was here too:

But, best of all…currently, this guy lives below us:

Now, he's not actually a homeless guy, he just plays one on TV. Here's what the handsome devil actually looks like:

Of course, I don't know if any of you watch The Wire (if you don't you should...because it's fantastic), but he's a cast member on that show. Like, a real, bona fide, honest-to-god working actor, living right below us with his wife and kid. It's pretty cool. If he ever gets big (he loaned us the first season of The Wire…and I must say, he's actually very, very good…so I think it's quite possible), then I can sell some seedy stories to the Enquirer for serious cash. Like…for example…he listens to some kind of hip-hop music! And he plays it LOUD! And…um…he's really into Asians (he even MARRIED ONE!). And he owns golf clubs! GOLF CLUBS!!! Oh boy…that payday is going to be sweeeeet…

As for us? Well…we don't have any internet connection (we're "borrowing" a signal temporarily) or television until the 21^st. We've all decided to take this first week (we arrived on the 8^th) to just acclimate ourselves to this wacky city, and get our house in order. But starting on Monday, we're going to start doing what we came here to do – try to make money from acting before we all go broke. That's the plan, anyway…we'll see how that turns out. Wish us broken legs…but not real broken legs, because we have no health insurance. I'm talking about the wacky broken legs that you wish upon people who pretend to be other people for money. Mmmmmm…

Well...It's Official

I have a Bacon Number of 3. Booyah.

Stuff Happening

I have a few things on my mind today…none of which would be interesting enough to sustain their own separate blog entry…so what I have decided to do is just mish-mash-mosh-smoosh them together in one long-winded, uninteresting diatribe. Who knows, if I feel spunky, I might just use "bullet points" to separate each thought. But, being as I'm rarely ever spunky, I'll probably just hit the "Enter" key after each thought is completed. Unfortunately, MySpace's useless blog interface makes bullet points more exciting than they really are. Anyhow, on with the banality.

First up, for those of you who haven't heard (and there shouldn't be too many of you…but…you never know…), I'll be moving to Los Angeles with my lovely wife, and two of our lovely friends. We're all going to try to become actors of some kind. Or, at the very least, appear on some form of media created in Los Angeles. Now, this move could mean that I'd actually have something to blog about in the future…like LucyInLA, except you won't have to gaze at my gorgeous video visage. Yes, I made a YouTube reference. I'm sorry. Now, the four of us have the same agent in Los Angeles (who, apparently, has a really neat flash intro to his website). We also know several former classmates who are trying to make their own way (including fellow blogger and aspiring screenwriter Matt Owens, who runs a similar "Oh crap I'm in LA" blog, which I find very entertaining). We've also just secured a place to live in what is called "The hip Silverlake area." So, with all that support in place, we decided to have a go at it. It should be fun – even if you never see any of us on any kind of screen (silver or otherwise), it will be an adventure. So stay tuned for the trainwreck…

Second up, for those of you who haven't heard (and there are probably a lot of you), I'm in a musical right now. It's called Gifts of the Magi, and it's playing at ArtsWest Theatre in West Seattle. It's based on the old O. Henry story. I play the character of Soapy Smith, who comes on comedically (or as close as I am able to achieve) intermittently throughout the play. He's basically a homeless guy who is trying to get arrested so he can be somewhere warm for the winter (because nothing is funnier than homeless people and crime). Anyway, it's a pretty good show, that features the directing of this guy, and the acting of this girl…and (as the back of the script says) it's a "good family show" that is a "singing and dancing Christmas card." If that sounds like it's up your alley, you should come watch me mince about onstage.

Third up, for those of you who haven't heard (and that would include everyone reading this, because I've told no one), I just realized recently that two of my MySpace friends "un-friended" me. And I'm not talking about the "Top 4/8/12/16/20 Shuffle" (which I'm sure plent of people have agonized over, for whatever reason). I mean that these two individuals went to "edit friends," took a peek at my handsome default picture, un-checked my name, and hit the save button. Now….I mean…friends come, and friends go…people change…and so-on and so-forth…but…I mean, is my digital friendship really all that much of a burden (this is directed to the remaining 158 of you…a fantastic bunch, I must admit)? Especially former friend 2…who I did a show with me my freshman year at WWU…who still lives in Bellingham…whose name is Darby…and whose MySpace profile is here (don't worry…we have exactly 0 mutual friends…so I figure it's okay for me to drop her real name). I mean…I barely ever crossed digital paths with the woman (as you know I generally eschew posting bulletins, leaving lewd comments, etc.), but I had thought that Darby and I were somewhat friendly in real life. Heck, in the summer after my freshman year, I even drove down to Tacoma to see her production of Little Shop of Horrors (which was actually a fairly awful production of a show that deserves better, now that I think of it). But suddenly, without warning, I was evicted from her friend list. I don't get it. I have MySpace friends I haven't spoken to (in person) for over 10 years…and one in particular that I have never even met (props Mrs. Elizabeth I-Don't-Think-I-Ever-Learned-Your-Last-Name). But, ol' Darby decided it was not in her best interest to retain that "zero-obligation friendship" that MySpace affords. Oh well…as you can tell, I've moved on, and it doesn't bother me at all. But…actually…this reminds me…I'm thinking about starting up a MySpace Group called "Darby Is Not My Friend." You all are welcome to join…unless you're reading this, Darby…and if you are…then you can hit the bricks, because you don't belong.

(wow…isn't that funny that the most inconsequential topic I had to write about got the biggest paragraph? Man…there is something wrong with me)

Well, I think that's all I had to cover. A normal person could have written a 12 word blog: "Moving to LA. In a play. Un-friended by my new mortal enemy." But that's me…Sir Types-a-Lot.



But hey, I realize there are some of you out there (Sharla in particular) who haven't subscribed to my blog. This may be because some of you (Sharla in particular) may not be the most technically savvy people in the world. Now, if you'd like to subscribe, and get informed whenever there's a new post (Sharla in particular…hmm…that usage doesn't quite work, does it?) then all you need to do is click on that "Subscribe To This Blog" button on the left. You won't regret it…and who knows, if I get any nibbles here, I'll be sure to include you in an upcoming post. Such a deal, yes? Just ask Elizabeth. Well, until next time…hopefully coming to you live from Los Angeles…this is Tyler. Happy Holidays. Season's Greetings. Merry Christmas. And all that…

What’s That Smell...?

I'm back home Sunday night from a five day vacation visiting the In-Laws in Idaho. Flight was nice and uneventful. Cab ride smelled like wet socks. Apartment smells like gasoline. Kitties need to be fed...

Wait. The apartment smells like gasoline. That's weird. Did I leave a gas can out, or something? No? Why the hell does my apartment smell like gasoline? Maybe one of those propane tanks in the closet downstairs sprung a leak or something. I check those out. Nope. It doesn't smell like propane, stupid...it smells like gasoline. Or exhaust smoke. Uh oh...I hope that's not carbon monoxide. Do I feel light-headed?

I check on all the kitties...they're alive, and pissed off that I'm not feeding them. Later, friends, later.

I guess I'll ask the downstairs neighbors if there was some kind of gas leak while I was away. A gas leak shouldn't smell like gasoline (plus we don't have any gas appliances in our place), but maybe they spilled gas in their house, or something. Or they're planning on torching the place for insurance money. Either way, I should speak with them.

I knock. No reply. I knock again, louder. No reply. Crap. All their lights are off, but I think I can see a flicker from their TV set. I walk around the yard...there's no smell of gasoline or exhaust anywhere. I walk by the garage, and put my ear to the door.

I can hear the sound of a motor running.

Dammit.

Dammit.

That's not a good noise.

As I scramble back upstairs, I create the scenario in my head. Originally there was a couple living below us, but the guy hasn't been around for a couple of months. They probably split up. The woman had been living their alone, but just couldn't take it any more. In despair, she got into her car in the garage, turned on the engine, and was sitting there now.

Meanwhile, I'm upstairs, trying to figure out what to do with the cats. They're still hungry. Doody is laying on his back in the living room. Frenchy is meowing at me from the kitchen. No time. Got to save a life.

I call Erika, who's still at her parents' house in Idaho. "Hi. Sorry, I can't talk right now because I have to call 911 to let them know the girl downstairs is sitting in her car in the garage with the motor running." "The cats are fine." "No, babe, I can't stay on the line...I've got to call 911." "I'm fine. The flight was fine. I've got to go. I'll call you back."

I head back downstairs. I call 911 on my cell phone (the fourth time I've ever called 911... I'm always afraid that they're going to think it's a prank call). "Hello, I just got back from a trip, and my entire house smells like gasoline." "Okay, but I live in a townhome, and I listened through the garage downstairs, and I heard an engine running." "I don't have access to the garage -- it's only being used by the downstairs unit." I give them my name, address, and telephone number. They say that they're sending over police and the fire department. I hang up. Then I scurry back upstairs because the phone is ringing.

It's Erika again. "No, I have all the windows open -- the cats are fine." All three cats are now by the open window, spying (as they always do) on birds. "Yes, I'll get them outside...I'll put them in my car until this gets figured out." "I'll call you back when I have more news."

Downstairs. In desperation, I pound on the door. I hear noises. The door unlatches. Through the door I hear a male voice, "What's up?"

"Um...hey, what's up? Is there...uh...I just got home from vacation..."

"Right on..."

"And...um, my entire apartment smells like gasoline. Is...was there a gas leak or something while I was gone?"

"Oh, it does? Well...I just got a motorcycle, and it's got a leaking fuel gasket."

"It does? Is...is it running or something?"

"No, I don't think so."

"I heard the sound of an engine in the garage."

"Nope, nothing's running. We have a washer and dryer down there."

"Oh." I'm dumbstruck. "Okay, cool...I just thought a car was running, or something."

"Sorry about that...I'll go take care of the smell."

"Oh, no worries. It's cool. Have a good night."

Dammit. There are about to be at least three emergency vehicles pulling into my driveway to investigate a leaky fuel gasket and a washing machine. Dammit. I call 911 back.

"Hi, this is Tyler. Um...I just called a couple of minutes ago about a car running in our garage?" "Yeah, yeah, that's me. Well, it turns out it was just a motorcycle with a leaking fuel...thing...in the tank. There was a fuel leak." I look down the street and see a firetruck navigating around the traffic circle at the end of the block, lights flashing. "So, they were home, and it turns out there's no problem." She tells me that they're going to cancel the call. "Okay, thanks."

The firetruck gets about 20 feet from my driveway, then flips its lights off, and hangs a right past our apartment. I go upstairs. The place still reeks of gasoline. The cats are still planning on assassinating birds (somehow) through the window screen. I feed them, and scoop the box.

As I'm taking the crap out to the garbage can, the guy is there, covering up the bike with trash bags. He points to the leaky valve/o-ring/motorcycle doohicky. He tells me that he has almost completely lost his sense of smell, so he didn't know that it was so bad. I tell him that I actually called the cops, because I thought they were dead. We share a good laugh. I drop the poo in the garbage can and bid him good night.

I call Erika back, and explain everything. She's still sorta' freaked out, as are her parents. I assure her that everything's fine. I'm fine. The cats are fine. We're good. It just stinks in here -- I'm going to air out the apartment. She's glad everything's all right, and reassures me that I did the right thing by calling 911. I'm still pretty embarassed.

After I hang up, I log on to MySpace, and I realize that I really should blog what happened tonight...so...

My First Girlfried, Part Two: The "Relationship"

This is a continuation of an earlier blog here. Normally, I say that "this is the first part of a continuing series," and then promptly never actually write the second part. But this time...I did it. A second part. Booyah.

As far as I was concerned, the hard part was out of the way. I had asked a girl to be my girlfriend, and she'd said "Yes." Awesome. Now, generally, news of a new relationship was something to be shared with the masses. And share I did.

That night, I casually brought it up to my mother and sister...who seemed pleased, but ultimately uninterested. My mom asked me about her...and I mentioned that she played flute in the band. And that she was pretty. And...yeah. Blonde. And...um...I dunno'. There was a long silence, and eventually, mercifully, the subject changed.

Myself and May...back in the day...

So, my breaking news turned out to be a bit of a bust. But I was undeterred -- now I decided that I had to tell all of my friends at school. The only real problem with that idea was that I really didn't score any of those "good" friends until late in the 8^th grade, or so. And I didn't really see much of my elementary school friends any more...so I had to share the news with the people I was closest to: my Home Ec table. These included Jessica Simpson (not the Jessica Simpson...but a reasonable facsimile), a kid named Jaurdey who was born in Kuwait, and someone else whose name, face, and personality escapes me at the moment. The conversation where I broke the news pretty much went like this:

Me: So, I'm going out with May Jensen.

Jessica Simpson: You are?

Jaurdey: Who cares? (Jaurdey didn't like me very much)

Jessica Simpson: How long have you guys been going out?

Me: For about a week now.

Jessica Simpson: That's the girl with the huge bangs, isn't it?

Me: Yeah, they're…I think that's her.

Jessica Simpson: Wow…that's great. What do you guys do for fun? Does she let you surf on her bangs?

This was met with gales of laughter from the entire table. Well...at least, from half of the table. Of course, in retrospect, it really wasn't that funny of a joke...or even a remotely well-crafted dig. To this day, I'm not sure if she was making fun of me, or May. But, either way, Jessica Simpson's (something about typing out that full name just makes it better for me...I don't know why) wisecrack did the trick...and I was shamed into silence for the rest of the class period.

not

On Monday of the following week, I was heading to my English class, and I happened to be walking next to a girl that was heading in the same direction...someone I knew from the class we were headed to. I'll call her Jennifer, because every other female at my junior high school had some form of the name Jennifer, so the odds are pretty good that that was her name. Anyways, I had been feeling pretty confident around the lady-folk as of late, and I decided to strike up a conversation:

Me: So, I'm dating May Jensen now.

Jennifer: You are? I hadn't heard anything about that.

Me: Yep, we're dating. We've going on for almost a week.

Jennifer: That's weird...she hasn't mentioned anything.

Me: Well, I asked her, and we're dating...so...I'm pretty sure we're dating.

Just then, I saw May approaching the two of us, walking in the opposite direction. I seized my opportunity:

Me: Hi May.

May: Hi Tyler.

And we passed each other. The fact that May had said Hi to me was all the evidence I needed...and I basked in it. Jennifer lapsed into an indifferent silence, but I think my point was well taken.

So, after two weeks had gone by, I realized that those two glorious words were all that passed between myself and May. Not much in the way of a "relationship." At that point I decided that it was time for me to take it to the next level. Yes, I needed a full-on conversation with the young lady. I would need to suppress all my fear of the opposite sex, but I would do it. I had to do it. And to hell with Jennifer and Jessica Simpson – they'd be eating their words when I totally started holding hands with my woman all over school.

So I scouted around to find out where May "Hung out" before first period. I couldn't find her, so I asked around. I was pointed in the direction of the bus loading area, near the front of the school. The crowd around there was pretty thick, and a little more "popular" than what I was used to, but I tried to look as casual as possible. I found May in one of those massive "talking circles;" facing in. I didn't personally belong to any circles myself – I usually wound up sitting in the cafeteria, either finishing up my homework, watching my fellow nerds play Magic the Gathering©, or reading a fantasy (or sci-fi) novel by myself.

But here I was, peering creepily from a distance at May, as she chatted with her friends. Taking a few deep breaths to calm myself, I made my way over to her and stood awkwardly behind her, trying to look as casual as my terrified mind would allow. She didn't notice me. I stood there for about a ten-count...willing her to look over at me. I imagined her eyes locking with mine...followed by a warm smile...or maybe an embrace of some kind...then maybe I could get her phone number so I could call her. Or something. Even a friendly look would be fantastic. Of course, I didn't want to get my hopes up too much...but damned if she wouldn't turn around.

I decided that the time for action had come. I was a man now. A man with a girlfriend. No more sissy bullcrap -- it was high time that I started acting like a boyfriend. I tapped May gently on the shoulder. She turned around (finally), and looked me in the eyes:

Me: Hey, what's up?

For a fraction of a second, I saw her blue eyes widen in surprise. Or alarm. Or fear. Or…something. Then, without saying a word, May right back around and continued talking to her friends. It was as if I wasn't even there. I had become invisible. I really didn't know what to do. Do I tap again? Suddenly, overwhelmingly, I felt my face flushing with embarrassment. Little beads of sweat formed on my brow line, and I realized, very quickly, that I was way, way, way out of my element.

So I did the only thing that made any sense to me...I melted into the crowd and returned to the safety of the cafeteria. I didn't feel sad, or angry, or anything other that a cutting sense of humiliation. From what I can tell, I'd been pretty stupid...I'd actually gone and thought that I had a girlfriend, going so far as to tell a bunch of strangers that I had "hooked up" with someone. But in reality, I'd just been fooling myself. There was no girlfriend. There was no relationship. It was either a misunderstanding, or an especially cruel practical joke. Either way, my confidence was shattered. I slunk back to the den of the "unpopular smart kids." These were my kind of people. Of course I never really considered myself a real nerd (then again, my sordid history of Dungeons and Dragons, Sci-Fi fandom, scholastic achievement, and lack of athletic prowess would beg to differ), but I did enjoy their company. They were some of the funniest, least discriminating people I knew, and their unbiased friendship kept me going whenever I'd try and fail at being popular.

So, I don't know if it was that episode, or some other aspect of my life (parents divorce, big brothers moving out, a general feeling of social alienation), but I didn't have more than a sentence-long conversation with another female until the summer after the 9^th grade, where Derek Roger and Jeff Pohl taught me how to talk to women (first big realization: don't be terrified of them) at a Lutheran gathering in San Antonio. Which means that, women-wise, Junior High was a complete and utter wash.

I don't remember ever talking to May…or even being in the vicinity of May ever again. I transferred out of 7^th grade band at the end of that trimester (to join the 9^th grade "symphonic band")…and when that happened all my entire schedule shifted (so I didn't have to deal with that clarinetist, or Jennifer, or Jessica Simpson, or Jaurdey, or any other person whose name started with a "J"). I don't even recall her being at my high school, though my yearbook seems to have a difference of opinions on that one.

As for me…well…I ended up winning in the end after all, I suppose. I married a super-smoking-hot former high school cheerleader who is very kind, and has an amazing sense of humor (in fact, I can guarantee she would have come up with a better dig than Jessica Simpson did)…which is pretty cool. I don't know what happened to May. She's got a MySpace account, but like all good people that you're curious about, but were never really "friends" with, it's "Private."

15 years later...my first girlfriend and my sexy self...

Robots In Disguise

So, I just got finished watching that Transformers movie...and (sorry Korby) it was not good. In fact, it was pretty much the "opposite of good" in my mind. Double-in-fact, I go so far as to put it in the loathesome category of, what I like to call "Michael Bay Movies." There are only a couple of other films in there...but trust me, it's not a category you want to be in.

In fact, it was so bad, I spend the last 2 hours "Photoshopping" this fake movie poster, which uses the actual poster from the movie...with a few pretty hilarious changes:



See what I did there? Man, I should have been a graphic designer (yes, Kellie, this means I'm after your job -- be scared).

However, this posting is not a movie review, because people who write movie reviews (or even people who have opinions about movies) are stupid, ugly, and smell like Corn Starch. No, I realized watching this movie that I needed to add two more phrases to my "list of phrases I'd like to be able to say before I die."

First up:

"Let's get the hell out of here!"

Because it implies not only immediate danger, but the fact that you're the only one who recognizes the danger. And that...is awesome.

Secondly:

"Take the shot."

(and I'm talking in the sniper-y fashion, not the inspirational basketball coach-y fashion) This is because, if I'm issuing this order, not only am I talking to a sniper, I'm freaking in charge of a sniper! How awesome is that!? The answer: "15 Awesome."

One final piece of business...there were 29 damn people who looked at my blog today. Did I miss something? I mean...God bless all of you wonderful new people...you make my life worth living. But...I mean, the last thing I posted was some retarded story about how I'm a total scaredy-cat wiener...and it was, like, 7 days ago. Did I get hurled onto digg.com or something? Because, if so...awesome (yes, if you can't tell, I like that word), and how can I start making money off of this? Do I need to start selling t-shirts, or mugs, or Tyler Rhoades lapels, or what? I'm willing to listen to suggestions...