fat free!

that's right folks: fat free water.

and thank god, you know?

no more worrying about all those empty calories every time you down a glass of nature's finest. binge to your bladder's content, and fear not about the pending inflation of your hips, ass, or gut.

thank you Coffee Bean!

found the dress!!

*fancy dress courtesy of preownedweddingdresses.com

Say it loud, I'm Canadian and I'm Proud

You know what I just heard?
In the U.S. South, it has finally become socially unacceptable to refer to African-Americans by the "N" word in public. Which is progress, I suppose, even if it comes along pretty frickin' late in the game. Of course, that doesn't mean the haters have stopped with the hatin'. They just picked up a new "code word" they can use when standing in line at the Cracker Barrel, trash-talking our chocolate colored brothers from other mothers.
Can you guess what it is?
I'll tell you. The Official African-American Racial Slur for 2008 is...

"Canadian."

Seriously, dude.
I have no idea why. But it must be true, cause I read it right here on the Internet. Kind of makes you look at that song from South Park in a whole new light, eh?

and on a related note: SOUL TRAIN!

WHERE?!?

where the fuck are we going to get married? seriously, dude, do you have any idea how many options there are?

suggestions welcome. Actually, make that required.

hurry, before something like this happens:
notice that Darth Vader is the priest. awesome.

raindrops is falling

who says rain boots don't come in handy in LA? (thanks mom!). this ain't no lake, kids. nor the ocean (though it's not so far off in the clarity department). that's a pretty little puddle i found on my way home from work. i actually couldn't see the bottom before i stepped into it, which was kind of exciting. and also stupid. i also didn't see the emerging car that quickly contributed to my already preposterous pose (i.e. standing calf-deep in a murky pool of god-knows-what at a busy intersection while balancing an umbrella on my shoulder and taking pictures of my feet) by sending a 6-foot spray of gutter goo all over me. serves me right, i guess.

crazy is as crazy does.

still, there's something liberating about a pair of wellies in the rain. it's like the first time i discovered the beauty of neoprene's magical forcefield against cold water. i really don't know how i lived without them for so long - especially in vancouver. (and to think of all the wet-jean-leg i could have spared myself!). it should be some sort of mandatory government subsidy: one pair of boots per citizen. classify it as a mental health provision. or new-age regression therapy. how else can you explain my instant and dying need to pounce and wade through any splash-worthy body of water in sight? and all with a huge shit-eating, or rather puddle-stomping grin plastered across my face? sometimes i even squeal a little, too. which might explain some of the looks i was getting tonight.

in any case, good times.

sunday surfing

okay, this really isn't a photo of us. and there weren't quite that many... but somehow all the cranky of dragging your ass out of bed at 5:30 for a dawn surf and all the cold from sitting and waiting for your dawn surf to actually do something goes away when you find yourself floating five feet from a real live dolphin. just a'swimin' in the sea. there were two of them, actually. and they swam in and around us for, like, 15 mins. one of them even did some fancy jumping through the waves (see borrowed photo*). i think he was showing off for steak. together with the little seal head that popped up to say hi about 50 yards away, sunday was probably one of the most amazing experiences i've ever had.

we won't talk about whether or not i actually caught any waves.

*thank you maztravel.com

magnum, en francais

rad:

how much is that fire-breathing robot dinosaur in the window?

When I was 9 years old, I would have killed you to get one of these for my birthday.

Forty-foot tall fire-breathing Robosaurus for sale!
"Wanted: good home for 31-ton robotic dinosaur, completely up-to-date on all immunizations and oil changes. This frisky 40-foot tall, fire-breathing bot answers to the name Robosaurus, and a traumatic youth spent crushing cars in front of thousands of rednecks means this guy needs a lot of love and attention -- along with plenty of open space to graze. All manuals, kits, and accessories are included with adoption, although new owner will assume responsibility for any damage caused by Robo's jaws and their 20,000 pounds of crushing force. Interested parties can bid on this one-of-a-kind companion at the 37th annual Barrett-Jackson auction in Scottsdate, AZ starting on the 12th."**

I shit you not, this fire-breathing, car-chomping mother is actually for sale.
And yes, Nathan, that is an airplane it's eating in the photo.

**being that i'm extremely lazy and supposedly working on an important deadline, instead of doing my own typing, I stole this from engadget.com. thanks, dudes.

monkeys and robots together at last!

this is a cool article

The roof the roof the roof is on fire

Dude, an apartment building just around the corner from us is on fire!

Right now, as we don't speak, that mother is burning down. All the way down to Chinatown. Streets are blocked off. Smoke pouring into the sky. Firetrucks all over the place. I didn't see any dalmatians, but they're probably busy running around the inside of flaming apartments saving old ladies and babies and half-eaten egg salad sandwiches.

You ever wonder why firemen like to party with dalmatians? The other day, someone told me that it's because they're prone to deafness. And, you know, cause they don't hear good, they don't get all scared by the sound of fire. Which makes a lot of sense, cause if my job involved busting into burning buildings, I'd totally want my parter to be four-legged, high-strung and deaf.

Anyways, there are also 4 or 5 news choppers hovering above the neighborhood, likely hoping to see a bald Suzanne Somers or Britney Spears come running out, covered in coke and lighter fluid. Personally, I'd like to imagine that Jack Johnson or Sting will be carried out of the flames in the arms of a big, strong, mustache-sporting LAFD officer, crying over his lost yoga mat and macrobiotic grow-op in the basement. Damn, I am such a hater.

Seriously, though, it sounds like no celebrities or regular people were hurt and they've got the fire under control.
Alright, I have to go hose down all of my belongings now.

the secret of time travel

the CIA doesn't want you to know, but sang told me that if you put bacon bits on a strip of bacon, you can travel back in time.

from this distance

when this is your view, life down here ain't so bad.

of course, for people of my socioeconomic standing , this perspective is only attainable after parking illegally on some winding hollywood hills street that doesn't belong to you, sneaking past a "private property" sign, and hiking for 45 minutes up the side of a hill after sunset.

still, not bad.

girls and squirrels

they both love shiny things.

also, she said "yes."

After the deal was sealed, I called the parents to give them the good news. When I got my moms on the phone to tell her that we were engaged, she said, and I quote:

"About fucking time."

it's ok to cry a little. I know I did.

good advice

One time, I got this note in a box of Cracker Jacks:

I didn't get a spy scope.

jumping in

over breakfast this morning at a culver city diner, tony and i decided to start our own blog. in tribute to the meal i was so gleefully enjoying at that moment, we've titled our new foray into the blogosphere "steak&eggs," an apt summary of our philosophy on life, love, and lazy weekend mornings. tony will henceforth be known to these pages as "steak" (don't tell bacon), while i will assume the (somewhat scrambled) identity of "eggs." with a little luck, and a little more effort, this will become a semi-regular account of our life and times amidst the wilds of LA. happy reading!