AJ's Piece o' The Web

Keeping Promises. (Now with fancy movie poster)

At the behest of his misses (Her Lovely Self), Magazine Man was doing some basement cleaning. Rather than throw away his sweet swag, he decided to put the loot up for auction. But he wasn't looking for money. Oh no. In order to win an item, you had to do "something cool" with it. I assume he means have sex with it. Whatever.

Anyway, MM had a SWEET Han Solo Blaster water gun which we thought would be *perfect* for squirting the squirrel in my tree. As payment for the blaster, I had to make a video of myself soaking the little bastard.

Well, here it is. I'm paying it forward.

PC file (.WMV)    Mac file (.MOV)

Fan mail to: ajgentile-at-gmail-dot-com
Hate mail: magazine.man-at-gmail-dot-com

UPDATED: Movie poster genius courtesy of Shane Nickerson. "This time, it's FURSONAL." You MUST enlarge it and read it. MM as the Voice of Reason made me spit out my coffee.

I Want to Be the Chosen Sperm

The traffic is bad in Los Angeles, but I'm from New York City. I was prepared. But parking, frankly, is Hell.

Tonight, I decide run out for a quick burrito from Baja Fresh. It's only 5 minutes away, but I immediately start strategizing the parking situation. There's a lot across from the Tar Pits Museum, which has closed for the evening. Yes. That will have spaces. That's my plan.

I hop in my car, within 5 minutes I'm at the parking lot. Wilshire Blvd. is deserted. The museums are closed. Businesses are shut. There are no pedestrians on the sidewalks. And yet: *THERE ARE NO PARKING SPOTS*. (sigh) Of course. I've lived here long enough to expect this.

Getting a choice parking spot right in front of your destination is like being that one sperm who gets through: you never thought you had a chance but you still circle the ovum-like lot in the hopes of being The One.

Tonight, I am not The One.

I am forced to ascend the iterative levels of a Mobius Cube Parking Garage adjacent to the lot. Level One. Level Two. Three. Four. Four. Or is it Five? How many levels are there?? All full?? Why? Sheesh.

Around and up. Around and up.

I finally find a space and park. Time elapsed: 30 minutes.

I run down, grab my grub, get my parking ticket validated (always) and head back out.

Keys in hand, I bounce off the curb toward the Seven Circles of Hell Parking Facility; the smells of steaky goodness wafting to my nose. I peek in my bag and notice that some casual flirting with the Counter Chica has earned me an extra scoop of warm tortilla chips. Sweet.

Upon exiting the restaurant, I observe a middle-aged woman in a large silver Mercedes crawling through the lot. She, too, is trying to be The One. Tonight is not her night either.

The woman stops. Her passenger window buzzes down. She leans over and asks me, "Are you leaving?"

I respond casually, "Yes, but I'm parked way up there." I point to the Escher Painting Parking Structure.

"Oh", she says.

Buzzzzzzzzz Window up.

To get to my car, I have to walk around the ground-level parking lot. Being lost in my jealousy of their premium parking spots, at first I don't I notice that, as I'm walking, the Mercedes is stalking me. Maintaining a consistent 15 feet distance. Is she following me?

I test my theory. I stop.

She stops.

I walk faster. She follows, shadowing me.

Hm. Odd.

I stop and turn to face her.

She pulls a bit closer. Buzzzzz. Window down. "You're not parked down here?"

"No. I'm parked up there", I gesture toward the Evil Edifice That We Have Come To Hate.

At this point I'm more amused than annoyed.

All that is about to change.

She asks, "Are you sure?"

Wha? Is she for serious?

"Am I sure of what, ma'am", my condescending tone ringing through.

"That you're not parked down here."

"I'm fairly certain ma'am."

At my annoyed replied: Window up. Buzzzzz.

BUT SHE DOESN'T MOVE.

I stand there for a moment, astounded.

Time for fun.

I *could* just run up to my car and go home and have my dinner. But NO, I have to screw around with this annoying, idiot of a person with an $80,000 luxury sedan.

I start to slowly saunter around the lot, keys jingling.

I pick a car: a Prius, and pretend to insert a key into the door.

On cue, the woman puts on her signal. She wants to be The One.

After a moment, I fake a puzzled look and walk around the ENTIRE parking lot with the Mercedes in tow. I glance around like a lost tourist. My expression is that of a strange man in a strange land.

I select a different vehicle. A pick-up this time. Nissan, I think. Keys extended. Her blinker goes on. She wants to be The One.

I take a long, dramatic beat and turn to her, "I don't remember if I'm up there or down here! Damn it! Let's keep looking."

She doesn't look at me. She stares STRAIGHT AHEAD. Chin up, eyes glazed. I am not a person to her. I am merely a parking space.

Fine.

I stroll around a bit more. Mind you, it takes a good three minutes or so to walk around the lot. All this time, I am *amazed* that she continues to follow.

I go back to the first car, the Prius. I jingle the keys. Her blinker goes on. She really thinks she will be The One. Wow.

Dramatic pause, frustrated gesture, I say, "I don't think these are the right keys! Car won't open. Maybe the clicker's dead? Do you want to check my clicker?"

At this, she's fed up. Perhaps disgusted by my "clicker" offer. She punches the gas and spins around to the other side of the lot.

Satisfied, I take the elevator to my car.

Around, and around, and around… For 10 minutes, I corkscrew down through the lot and drive toward the exit.

Then, in the corner of my eye, I see it. Parked right in *front* of the Baja Fresh entrance. The silver Mercedes.

Well, I'll be damned. Turns out, she was The One after all.

Huh.

Internet Thief

Right now I'm sitting in my car waiting to go in for my Sitcom Class. (Yes, you need a *class* for that. Sigh) I'm across the street from my coach's house just hanging out with about 40 minutes to kill. See, in LA, you have to give yourself *2 hours* to get anywhere (especially around rush-hour). Sometimes you're still late. But sometimes, like today, you're way too early.

Anyway, I fired up my laptop to do a little writing while I had some time to spare and my laptop says: "Wireless Networks Detected." 

Really? Hmmm... let's see...

There it is. My laptop said "Wireless Network OscarAnne is not secure. Connect anyway?"

"Shit, yeah, connect."

Connecting...

Acquiring Network Address...

*connected*

I'm *totally* stealing internet from Oscar and Anne. Who the hell are they, you ask? I have no freakin clue. But now I'm sitting in my car in a nice residential area surfing on Oscar/Anne's dime. Sweet! It feels like stealing! Technically, it *is* stealing. I don't care.

You don't want to get mixed up with a guy like me. I'm a loner, Dottie, a rebel.

Lesson #1 to peeps with WAPs: SECURE THEM WITH PASSWORDS.

Next, I starting pinging around their network to see if there were any machines connected. Voila. Found one.

Feeling especially naughty, I fire up a CMD window and enter the old... "\\192.168.0.2\c$" to see if I can access the harddrive of the responding machine.

Bada bing. I'm in.

I'm now on the C: drive of some computer called "Spare Bedroom." I have access to all kinds of files: Quickbooks, Microsoft Word Docs, Family Photos, the works.

Hmm... I wonder if this is Anne... Kinda hot. She could do *so* much better than Oscar.

Lesson #2: SECURE YOUR COMPUTERS WITH PASSWORDS.

No, I didn't do anything malicious. I just wanted to see if I could get in. The point is, I could have ruined someone's day by trashing the system.

One of these days I'll tell you how I deleted a bunch of porn from my korean neighbor's computer back in New York. Oh my!

So, Cali kids, look out your window. That handsome fella with the laptop hanging around your block  wearing an evil grin... well, that could be me...

This happened.

Summer, 1994.

After 6 months of talking online, a few months of phone calls and one brief encounter, we agree to a first date. Your first "online" encounter. My second. We're nervous.

I pick you up and we go to the "fancy" Italian restaurant in your neighborhood. It's not easy to find *anything* fancy in Metuchen, NJ. But we find it.

It's a hot summer and entering the restaurant is like being wrapped in a damp, frigid blanket. It is FREEZING in here. The air conditioner is set at 11. Maybe the lobsters in the tank of murky green water need these conditions; I don't know, but I'm cold.

I'm further chilled by the upscale clientele. I don't remember what we were wearing, but a 20-year old nanny and a 22-year old bartender probably looked a tad conspicuous in this place of white tablecloths and tuxedoed staff.

I feel out of place.

Inside, I'm wishing we were at a diner. Outside, I'm Mr. Casual: I oft dine in this manner.

I stand up straight and attempt to exude sophistication. I'm certain that I failed.

Soft piano music plays as the host seats us in a corner booth. Conversations are hushed and the clinking of silverware is an elegant wind chime. I'm *so* out of my league.

You hop on the bench and shimmy against the wall until you come to rest at our corner. After the host leaves I think, "Should I have tipped him?" Everyone tipped in Goodfellas and this was that sorta place, but I had never tipped a maitre'd before. What if I did it wrong? How much? Ah well, the moment passed.

I choose "sparkling" water because I think it sounds classy. I'll probably ordered a "Coke" with my dinner. For every classy move I made, there was an inelegant one waiting to take its place. But I was *trying* so hard.

The waiter drops a basket of warm bread, fills our water glasses and leaves two heavy, vinyl-clad menus. The gold tassel from my menu falls into my water glass with a "bloop" and we laugh.

We're starting to relax now.

We playfully bicker over who's going to get the heel of the bread as it's both our favorite. After some faux-pouting, I acquiesce.

A perfect gentleman, I butter your [my] heel of bread, and offer it to you very formally. You giggle and smile and over-dramatize how wonderful it tastes.

We peruse the menu and you quickly decide on Manicotti. I remember teasing you for calling it "man ah cot ee" when it's *obviously* pronounced "mah nee got." I still remember what I said, "You're half Irish, half Mexican. How the hell would you know? If there were Corned Beef Burritos on the menu, I'm sure you could have said *that* properly."

You giggle again, but the giggle is stifled by small cough. I'm scanning the menu now, thinking… "Veal Scaloppini? No veal. Don't they stuff them in little boxes, or something? I thought I read that. Chicken Pecata… Naah… too much lemon. I'm not crazy about lemon in my food. Gee, she's quiet." I look up and…

Your mouth is open but: no sound. Your chest is heaving. You're trying to cough, but… nothing. Your left hand clutches your throat while the right flails violently before striking the table with a *CRASH!*

Oh my God. You look like you're…

"Are you choking??" I blurt out, doing my best to thwart the panic that desperately wants to seize control of the situation.

You nod wildly. I'm watching you turn deep red as carbon dioxide builds up in your lungs. In kind, I feel my face flush as adrenaline courses through my body. Again you slam the table. *WHAM!* Your water glass capsizes, tumbles to the ground and shatters.

I can't believe this is happening! You are BLUE!

How much time has passed? One second? Two? It's slow motion. Hours. A day.

I jump up from the table, but I can't get to you. I can't get around the…

I throw our table aside with a bone-shattering CRASH. Drinks and bread and a half-order of Clams Casino scatter and crash across the crowded restaurant. I grab you by the waist and spin you around.

It is surreal. It's happening, but it's as if I'm watching from a distance.

I make a fist; bury it in your abdomen.  Doing my best to imitate an eighth-grade safety video, forcefully and yank my fist in and up.

Nothing.

Oh my GOD. Did I do it right?? Heimlich Maneuver. I can't do it harder, I'm sure I'll break your ribs.

You are flailing in my arms now; feet dangling in mid air.

I suck in a deep breath and hold it. I set your feet flat on the ground, regain my balance and steady my grip. I let my arms go slack for just a moment, but I keep you close. Your body is a puppet.

With all the force I can muster, I tighten my arms, pull you to me and jerk my fist through your diaphragm in the hopes of pushing air up and out.

With that, you spit food about four feet from the pile of silverware and stained white linen and dishes and broken glass; all of which had once been our quiet first date.

You collapse into my chair coughing, head buried in your hands.

In seconds, I feel my body convulsing: shaking itself back to reality and realtime. My hands tremble visibly.

For 10 seconds, there is no sound. I only hear the tympanic rumble of blood rushing through my ears. Slowly the rumbled fades into…

Applause.

We slowly look around. The restaurant is cheering and clapping and laughing.

A woman rushes over and kneels beside you. "I'm an EMT", she says frantically, "I can have an ambulance here in 30 seconds. Do you need one?"

I look at you. You shake your head "no."

"No, thank you", I pant, "I just need a minute."

Both women laugh. I couldn't help myself.

"I'm ok", you say, "Just scared."

"Ok," says our EMT gently, "But I'm sitting right over there if you need me."

We thank her and she scurries off.

"Come on, let's get out of here", I offer.

"But, what about dinner?"

"What? You want to stay? We just trashed this place. Everyone is staring at us. I'm mortified."

You ask our waiter, who is standing by, "Can we stay?"

"Of course!" he laughs, "We'll set you up over here. A hero's table."

We're given another table and finally served our food. Over the course of the meal, patrons pat me on the back and check on you. I make the "dinner and a show" joke at least twice to concerned customers.

I'm still shaken: astounded at the events over the past hour, embarrassed at ransacking the restaurant. But you… you seem fine. As if it never happened.

I can hardly speak.

I drink two glasses of sparkling water, but hardly touch my food.

You clean your plate of Manicotti and ask for the dessert menu.