Off the bat: The Groundlings are hilarious. They’ve earned their reputation – and I’d be hard-pressed to find skits and improv of this caliber anywhere else in town. Complete with a live, spritely 3-piece band providing remixed and rearranged classics as set change music, your senses are titillated for a full 2 hours at “Space Camp,” their latest compilation of knee-slapping skits and improv concepts.

It was a privilege to see “Space Camp” on its opening night since I was able to observe Groundlings alumni come back and support the latest effort. There were tons of faces I half-recognized – and then there was Cheryl Hines who, last time I ran into her, I literally almost plowed over in a Johnny Rockets. But I felt a fly on the wall observing close family and was able to admire the tradition holding together the troupe for the past 35 years. After all, this was the training ground for a many present and past Saturday Night Live and Mad TV cast members (Jon Lovitz, Mike Myers, Conan O’Brien, Cheri Oteri, Will Ferrell, Maya Rudolph, Kathy Griffin, Chris Parnell amongst others).

Space Camp is a theme. Camps of people are involved in every skit and space is also used. Lasers are sometimes incorporated – and apparently there are lasers in space. Some character sets are “spacey” and… What does it matter, anyway? A personal favorite was the solo skit Welcome to Toastmasters featuring Tim Brennen, complete with shirt-stained armpits, who plays a nail-bitingly awkward Master of Ceremonies for a meeting of the infamous public speaking group.

Space Camp or not, the Groundlings also remain relevant. One skit spotlights a fan obsessed with Kobe Bryant in an interview after their NBA championship (Kobe) while another gives a protector gone bad in a Terminator-gone-back-in-time-to-save-me situation (The Protector), the latter of which had me almost rolling on the floor. And a great thing: The installment of physical comedy of the night didn’t disappoint. It came in the form of an America’s Best Dance Crew audition – but I won’t spoil the rest for you. You should see it for yourself. Ingenius choreography, outfits and music.

And when it came to flambouyancy in general, The Groundlings were spot on. From rico suave, foreign hostage holders (Hostage Situation) to gay parents (Principal’s Office) visiting their child’s principal’s office, the laughs never stop. The group’s talent also came through when it came time to improvise. I was impressed. Timing was on – as if they were performing a skit – and each improviser was adept at honing their ad hoc comedic intuition.

The Groundlings are a joy and non-stop fun. They’re your best bet in sketch comedy in this ever-competitive entertainment breeding town that is Los Angeles, which speaks volumes. I’d visit again – I’m certainly curious about their other shows. See below for details. At $15-$16.50 per show (or $13.50 for group rate if you can get a gangload of people together), it’s definitely worth your time.

The Crazy Joe Uncle Show
(The Main Company in a long form improv show)
Wednesdays, 8 PM

Cookin’ With Gas
(All improvisation show with special guest stars)
Thursdays, 8 PM

Groundlings Space Camp
Fridays, 8PM; Saturdays, 8 PM & 10 PM

The Completely Different Late Show
Fridays, 10 PM

Sunday of the Dead
Sundays, 7:30 PM

 Groundlings
7307 Melrose Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90046
323.934.4747

“…I’m the kind of person who…”

I tuned out.

“When x happens, I y…”

I tuned out yet again. Until I realized he had stopped talking about himself long enough to feign interest in myself. Yes, he made an inquiry:

“So describe yourself.”

I guess it was my turn.

I wouldn’t say I feel exactly pretentious describing myself – but I think I’d rather hang out with a person who could, who might even prefer to, figure me out himself. That – or stop faking the opportunity to keep talking about himself.

There is an art to quantification and articulation, I’ve always believed, but then there is an art to knowing when to let things stand as they exist because talking about them would ruin mere comprehension and interpretation. It’s the art of knowing when to shut up. For cryin’ out loud, just let it be.

Talking should be saved for work purposes – because that’s just expected. There exist incentives for efficiency. Snap, snap.

Snap. I gave “describing myself” a hack anyway.

“Well. I’m real easy-going. I -”

He responded, “I can totally see that,” before continuing on.

I tuned him out yet again.

That was even before he asked permission to drunk dial me – while swearing he was “entertaining” on the drunk dial. He wasn’t. I mean – I don’t expect you to be the next Richard Pryor or anything but it’s another thing to chalk up the hype on a veiled attempt to make me an enabler to your addiction.

Yawn. Next.

There was this other line were these other lines I got from somebody else.

I had to have “a talk” because although I had seen him twice – total – the 1am, 2am, 3am and 4am texts were a tad much. A tad. As were emails with a singular You Tube link to a music video in each, which I suppose were meant to artfully and lyrically convey messages to me through the rhymes of another being or artist who had once felt exactly the same way he did at that moment.

Actually. I don’t remember what I said – admittedly, I buffered the whole “I’m just not into you” mantra with a predictible sprinkle of “I’m into being single right now.” But I’ve been all about seeking out the truth recently – while honoring others with the truth as well. After all, the truth sets you free. So does compassion and tact, however. So I managed to avoid covering the whole, “I want to never see you again because you creep me out” premise with an untruthful “we need to slow things down.” But it left things open a bit, because he tried to make his case.

“You’re really cool…”

“I have no expectations, no – none at all…”

“You can do whatever you want – you can call me, you can not talk to me ever again…”

“Yeah … I’ll take whatever I can get.”

What. What? Seriously.

Vouch for yourself for cryin’ out loud. It may be true that yes – you will take whatever you can get – but don’t actually say that. Don’t show all your cards at once. I don’t even want to play my best a good hand so I’d rather bow out.

Contact again on Facebook. Via text message. How are you doing? Really, guys and gals. And I’m not talking to them; I’m talking to you. It’s just not that hard – spare more time and pain in the long run. I wrote it out in a message, over text – in the same format it was sent – and there would be no mistake.

“I’m sorry – I’m just not interested. Just thought you should know.”

You don’t need a movie to teach you what should’ve been learnt in normal human interaction since the age of 5. Why is common sense not so common, anymore?

Next.

The thing about Los Angeles is, it can be 80 degrees in the day but at night, you’ll still be wishing you had a sweater, jacket or wrap. The reason for this I’ve always thought was, since we’re essentially in the dessert, there exists so little moisture that the heat from the day doesn’t stay around like it would in a more humid climate – for example, the Midwest. However, I also noticed that in Austin last week, the nights were also very hot even though the air seemed dry – so there goes that argument. The type of dry in Texas, though, seems to be of a “Savannah” kind, if that explains anything whatsoever.

Either way, the large difference between the high and low of the day in L.A. always takes visitors by surprise. Almost always expect a “chilly” night in the 60s, even on more than half our summer days.

As for me. I have a hooded, camel-colored shawl that I sometimes keep in the Mini. It’s acrylic. It’s got a loose diamond weave. And my girlfriends have made fun of me for wearing this – my “grandma’s shawl” – before.

I got it on sale a few months back. But that’s not the only reason I bought it. I actually really like it. I don’t think I’m usually too far off when it comes to clothes or accessories; but there have been instances where I’ve had cause to question my own judgment.

Like the time when, two nights in a row, I was told by two different guys, “You’re brave to wear that.”

What?

I’m “brave” to wear this shawl? What gives? I mean, you can insult me – I can handle it. All I ask, though, is that you just give it to me straight. No need to make it veiled or underhanded. What would make me so “brave” so as to wear this thing that I’ve paid with my own good money? That’s like saying, “Wow, you’re so brave to be seen out in public with that third eye on your forehead.”

I was thinking that maybe what they meant was that the shawl isn’t exactly “L.A.” enough. As in, you only really wear that heavy sweater material stuff in cold climates. Not L.A. (Like how you have a really nice coat if you live in New York. Our version of that would be perhaps 3 different colors of Members Only jackets – I kid.) They could really be saying, “You’re really brave to think bringing your grandma’s Midwest fashion sense is gonna work.”

What’s strange is that both conversations that ensued actually evolved the same way. They both repeated, “You’re wearing a shawl!” But then it turned complimentary - both times. “It’s so high fashion,” they’d explain. High fashion? Okay, are you really mocking me now?

I’m just gonna stop thinking about it.

Unique taste, maybe.

Dark taste, maybe.

Good taste, MAYBE.

But not odd. I mean, maybe it’s not inherently clear that since I am broadcasting over Adium what track I am playing at the moment, it’s an expression of my individuality. My personality. In short, it’s the only thing I’ve got. So, newsflash: the expression of your opinion that my music taste is odd may not do anyone in the room a whole lot of good.

Maybe unless you get some sort of sick gratification out of it, somehow.

A question: Am I supposed to go jump off a cliff, now, if I can’t get my taste to be … what’s the opposite of odd, now? … common?

Or to match yours?

What bands do you like? (Wait, let me get a pen.)

And what is it exactly, that you know about the music I listen to in order to draw that sort of “odd” conclusion?

I also thought that was a nice touch, too, how you signed off immediately afterwards. Like, Here! A little zap of insight! And then you’re gone. I never knew what hit me with that drive-by – a gratuitous, ingratiating comment dripping with condescension. Oh, no.

What did she say about my music, again?

By July 3rd, I met someone who had already gotten a ticket. The cost? $25.

But – early cell phone citation bragging rights aside – I thought this story especially awesome. My roommate’s friend Tee was over for her birthday this week and she told the story of her getting a ticket despite that “she had a hairband ready in her car.” On July 1st, exactly.

A hairband?

“Yeah, the cop pulled me over and I had the hair-head-band around my head and I stuck my cell phone underneath it like this.”

She proceeded to demonstrate how she had a cell phone tucked underneath an elastic headband just above her ear.

The cop said, “You think this is a joke?”

Tee said, “What! It’s hands-free! I ain’t using my hands!”

I think that at this point in the story I couldn’t stop laughing and doubled over on the couch.

Cop: “That’s not a real hands-free device. That doesn’t count.”

The ticket might have cost $25, and if Tee keeps using her particular “hands-free” device, it will be $50 if she gets pulled over again. But the story? I thought it was priceless.

So the lesson for all you Californians out there?

The lawmakers of California are in bed with Bluetooth device manufacturers.

[FAIL] [/FAIL]

Location: The main bar at Nic’s - a martini bar on Canon in Beverly Hills
Day and Time: Friday, 11:39PM, summertime
Music: Live jazz
Characters: B – married friend of E; Joe – guy in workclothes
Bystanders: E – friend of B; John – guy in workclothes, friend of Joe

JOE offers a handshake to B.

JOE
Hi, my name is Joe.

B shakes Joe’s hand.

B
Hi, I’m B.

JOE
What do you do?

B
I’m an actress and personal trainer.
[pause]
And what do you do?

JOE
I work in private equity.

Joe proceeds to give B a schpiel about what private equity is.

B
…Oh I know what private equity is.

JOE
Do you? Are you sure you know what private equity is?

B looks at E and shrugs.

B
I don’t know. Maybe not.
[thinking, "Maybe I just said that to get you to shut up."]

E finishes the last of her drink.

We zoom in on E.

E
voiceover
This is interesting, because my initial reaction is to pass off this guy with one of those “Wow, what a jerk” dismissals. And then I think about the core of what he said and it’s actually pretty intriguing. I mean, Joe apparently is in need for us to understand the magnitude of private equity, truly. Not only that, there is a crisis ensuing because of the mere prospect that my friend B might not really know what he does for a living as she says she does. That would make B out to be a liar.

It is up to Joe, here, to inform us either on our ignorance or praise us on our still-scant knowledge of private equity. Clearly, we only qualified for the former. I know, somewhere, the vast divide between the expectation that B and I be impressed at his career thoroughbreeding in contrast to our bleak knowledge on private equity is lost upon us and I order another drink instead of searching for where that flying something flew off to.

As the importance of being impressed by matters of private equity is lost on B, I note that my friend Sean had said that that field was the thing to go into after B-school. After all, it’s supposedly the most lucrative. Yet, I’m not really buying into this “should” business. I’m just not feeling it, and we are both feeling especially disgusted by Joe. The type of guy who’s defined by his career, by his spending power, by matters of prestige – matters of which “private equity” is to be included. Typical. After all, we were in Beverly Hills. Still, disappointing.

I’d take interesting over prestigious, any day.

Thankfully he wasn’t talking to me.

END SCENE

…or don’t do it at all. Actually, yeah. Don’t do it at all. Because some things just shouldn’t be done – period.

And you know, with the advent of my admission to 9rules, it’s that time when I relate Louis Vuitton-branded SUVs to blogging. So yes, I’m going there.

You can learn a lot from Louis Vuitton SUVs.

See, Louis Vuitton doesn’t make SUVs. Handbags, sure, but automobiles? Never. But sometimes we just can’t help making the stencil, getting out the spray paint and rolling one of these babies out of the garage and parading it around for awhile. We think that patterns – yes, even styles, trends, you-name-it – applied to anything else is an instant signal that whatever lies underneath, too, deserves notoriety and respect.

Louis Vuitton SUVs are just like disingenuous posts in blogging, name-dropping in networking.

All I’m saying is, in all things, be the best you can be. But be the best *you* that you can be. Don’t be tracing stencil and don’t be comparing and copying color swatches with anyone else’s crap. Find out what you like. Sometimes people just think that because something gains notoriety or even respect in one arena, applying that principal to anything else (or yourself) will do the same thing.

I won’t lie – we all want notoriety and respect and the easiest, quickest way to get there. But – to what extent do you apply formulas to yourself as if you had all the business using them or pretending you came up with its proof to have people, after coming up close, disappointed that you didn’t have the brainpower or substance to back it up? That whole time you dedicated to copying could have been used honing your own skills the best way you know how.

There’s nothing wrong with solid paint, y’see. Because Louis Vuitton never made SUVs. And the deeper the right people look into your true, solid paint, the more they appreciate the little specs that make up your solid color. It’s a lot cleaner and done better than a paint job with gold LV monograms bleeding into the brown - which actually gets uglier and less refined the deeper people look. You won’t be able to back it up.

Sure, we all like to take shortcuts, use soundbites and affiliate with the already-recognizeable. But that’s not forward-thinking; that’s just following the status quo and quite frankly, not doing yourself a lot of justice. You’re just going to fall behind.

Seriously – you’re not fooling, much less impressing, anyone with that fake paint job. Be authentic. Find Create yourself. Because you can’t do LV monograms on an SUV “well.”

I looked as I passed and sure enough, it was him – complete with yarmulka covering half his head. He was the same coworker who had just started snowboarding this year and rode the lift up with Brad Pitt, Maddox and Pax Jolie a month ago.

Thought I would let him know of my “spotting” him via SMS.

Me: Just passed you.

Him: Lucky you. How’d I look – good?

Me: Like one of those assholes who drives a Bimmer.

Him: Bitch.

Take my word that imaginary laughter followed on both sides of the conversation. There are just some kinds of conversations (or even friendships) where there’s an unspoken, agreed refusal to take oneself seriously.

Of course, what I didn’t realize til soon after was that the irony of the text conversation was now, I also drive a Bimmer.

Yes, I own a BMW.

It was easy to pretend I didn’t have one. Call it denial because it certainly was. I reassured myself that having a Mini is worlds away from owning a BMW.

Besides, I’m nothing like a M3 owner*.

And then, I develop this habit of staring at the side doorsill whenever I step out of the car. It makes me frown, actually. The kind of frown that’s kind of an upside down smile but really still a frown. And there’s this tinge of self-loathing about it. The label containing the VIN, the recommendations on tire pressure, high octane fuel – and of course the make and model of the car is there on that sill. And mine says, “Bayerische Motoren Werke.”

I went from owning “The People’s Car” to owning a piece of snooty, elitist German luxury hunka metal the automotive pride and joy of Bavaria. Granted, when you’re actually in Bavaria and own a BMW, it’s like owning a DeVille in Detroit. I was surprised – but not really – to notice in the Munich leg of my Europe trip last fall, that even the police cars were BMWs. And to be honest, you see, I feel now as though I was meant to have visited the homeland so that I might leave the country less biased about it.

I really and truly do enjoy my car. She’s my Chelsea. Why ruin it?

Back to that notion of not taking myself seriously…

Q: What’s the difference between a porcupine and a BMW?

A: With a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside.

* If you own an M3 or a BMW, please know that I hold nothing against you but please also don’t pretend that you guys we are the friendliest guys in the automotive enthusiast world. At least you we’re not in the Supra club, right?

You’ve undoubtedly seen young gentlemen and young women wear sunglasses all hours of the day as if they never go out of style. I won’t lie–it’s rampant around here.

And sometimes it looks kind of ridiculous. Like you wanna point two finger guns at the suspect on the dance floor while mouthing to your friend, “Probably allergic to disco ball reflections.” Or green flood lights, if that’s suitable. I mean, these guys are wearing 100% UVA/UVB-blocking pupil protectors inside nightclubs. Or simply at night.

And then other times, you just want to thank The Accessory Gods for giving us a gift as versatile as The Sunglasses. At no other time in history has one accessory had the capability of single-headedly rectifying any disastrous outfit.

A Haiku To Sunglasses

Chanel, LV, Coach
Bigger they are the better
I could wear just sweats

But you know, there are plenty enough reasons why people wear sunglasses inside nightclubs. In Southern California, the sun is not only at its brightest. Our days are the longest–in fact, it is out practically all hours of the day. This just means that we need to protect our precious eyes that much more zealously. Other Americans may be jealous of “our” sun, but what they don’t know is that sometimes we are simply at war with it. Yes. It’s a battlefield out there. If our vision is at stake, who cares that we get everyone looking at us because they’re just jealous of our style? (Similarily, who cares that we’re in Iraq for oil if it means we’re finding Saddam’s WMDs?)

Don’t think it’s not about utility. Research has shown that the sun is so bright ONLY in Southern California, in fact, that sunlight makes its way into specific nighttime business establishments and straight into the eyes of only the hottest of hipster trend hos. And if you have style, your eyes are at stake. And there’s something to be said about wearing sunglasses at night, period. You can capture my feelings on this subject by listening to the lyrics of late Corey Hart’s song from 1983, “Sunglasses At Night.”

I wear my sunglasses at night
So I can so I can
Watch you live and breathe your storylines

(And) I wear my sunglasses at night
So I can so I can
Keep track of the visions in my eyes

While she’s deceiving me
It cuts my security (has)
She got control of me
I turn to her and say

…

Don’t switch the blade on the guy in shades, oh no
Don’t masquerade with the guy in shades, oh no
I can’t believe it!
Don’t be afraid of the guy in shades, oh no
It can’t escape you
‘Cause you got it made with the guy in shades, oh no

I said I wear my sunglasses
I wear my sunglasses at night
Wear my sunglasses at night…

Corey Hart was on to something. It only took almost 2 1/2 decades for the rest of us to catch on.

Protect the environment. Wear your sunglasses. Because your eyes are an “element” of the environment around us. In fact, forget your suncreen entirely and wear only sunglasses. Sunscreen does nothing for fashion*.

Thanks for listening to my thoughts on the matter. Sport your shades with pride. Inside and on the outside. And don’t switch the blade on the guy in shades, either. Also, if you don’t live in Southern California (or even if you do), yet see this fabulous, protective trend catching on in your area, don’t forget to report here. You heard it here first.

Love,
*e

I present to you a totally uncomprehensive gallery of images showcasing sunglasses at night:

* e*starLA is not responsible for sun damage caused by blind compliance with this advice.

def. tailgating // tāl’gāt’ing v.

The practice of driving on a road too closely behind another vehicle, such as less than the travel distance in two seconds or equivalently, one vehicle-length for every 5 mph of the current speed. It is generally considered to be impolite behavior, and may also be illegal in some jurisdictions due to its increased potential for causing a car accident.

-wikipedia

Why tailgate? Oh honey, allow me to count the ways…

1. It’s a good way to support your local gas station and gas stations everywhere. The more you ride the arse of the car in front of you, the more you need to step on that gas pedal. Coming close but don’t want to hit them like a good tailgater? Step on the brakes! Repeat. And make sure you’re creeping up as close as possible or it’s not actually tailgating, you cheater. The closer you need to get, the more you need to step on that gas, then brake…over and over, again!! Is your car’s momentum slowing and that car getting away? Step on the pedal as many times as you need to, homeboy. Get right on up there–use that gas! Show your support. Exxon Mobil, Chevron Texaco, British Petroleum and Valero can use all the help they can get.
2. Because you can never change your brake pads enough. Even though the labor may cost a little more to change them out, brake pads themselves are cheap! So go on ahead and have fun tailgating. Braking only to initiate complete stops is boring. Properly regulate your erradic accelerations with whatever decelerations you need.
3. When traffic stops suddenly and you’ve expertly avoided hitting the car you’re “riding,” effectively eliminate any gaps that would allow you to merge into any other alternate lane. Merging is overrated–who needs alternate ways out? Commit to the lane you’re in. Commit to stay with the traffic you’ve been destined. Don’t be a wuss. Go big or go home.
4. When traffic stops suddenly and you’ve rear-ended kissed the car in front of you in the be-hind just the once, the only comparison I have to draw is this: Notches on one’s belt are as multi-colored scuff marks on a tailgater’s front bumper. Collect all paints! Think it’s a hassle to pull over to investigate the minimal damage time and time again? You ain’t even a real tailgater. Get off the road if you can’t take the heat! Wear that scuffed-up front bumper with pride.
5. Because you can read lips. And who wouldn’t want to know what conversation his tailgatee’s having, if he or she could just simply get close enough to see those lips in the rearview mirror…?
6. Sharpen your reaction time. Nothing sharpens a tailgater’s reaction time like always potentially causing a rear-end collision anytime, anywhere. Let big consequences hone your skills. Get bigger payoffs by sharpening your reflexes. Your reflexes are invaluable–who knows when you’ll need them in countless other areas of life?
7. Because getting there two car lengths earlier saves at least a whole second and a half. Don’t let your slacking off cost you. Ride that arse. Time is money. Money is time. And a second and a half per destination, when you add up all the destinations you’ll be headed to in a lifetime, is quite a bit of money and time. Get there, already.
8. Tailgating equals aggressive driving, and aggressive driving means you own a fast car. Only people who drive like wusses drive like wusses because their car ain’t fast enough. They’re not real drivers. If you tailgate, everyone around you in traffic and out of traffic knows you mean business. And only people who mean business own a fast car. Don’t be afraid to floss a little. Don’t hold back–do something in your life just because you can. Own the road. Cuz there are passengers, and there are … you get the point. Besides, tailgaters are feared, everywhere. Own the road!!

Welcome to the L.A. life.

Love,
*e