As you know, there are a lot of benefits that come with home ownership. And I just discovered a new one today: upscale junk mail.

See, instead of your usual you-may-have-won bullshit, you get these plain white envelopes with scary words on them that say stuff like “Important Mortgage Information Enclosed” and “Financial Information Inside” from places like the “Mortgage Fulfillment Department.” What’s worse, the paper inside is pink. And we all know that when it comes to business-oriented mail, pink ain’t good. It’s bad. Very bad.

Which means, I have no choice but to open it. So I do. Every time. I mean, what if it was really something important? How would I know?

Mortgage insurance? Shit, do I need that? I don’t know. Maybe I should look into it. After all, they promise to pay off my mortgage in the event of my death. Plus, if none of the benefits are used by the end of the mortgage term, I get all my premiums back, tax-free guaranteed.

Of course, additional premiums may apply. But isn’t it worth it to not burden my family with my horrific mortgage payments? These people are so nice to do this for me. I don’t know how they even make money. I better fax this form over tonight.

There. I just signed my name on the dotted line. Now, I’ll just feed the paper into the fax machine, and. . . Oh shit! I did it again. I mixed up the fax machine with the paper shredder. Why do I keep doing that? Damn! Damn! Damn! I am such a dolt. I don’t deserve to own a home.

Those of you who read my blog religiously are quite aware of my hatred for the city I currently reside in. You also need to get a life. Because while my blog may be amusing at times, it certainly is not material worth building a religion on. I’ll leave that to Mr. L. Ron Hubbard.

In any case, a not-so-funny thing happened to me tonight. I needed a quick dinner, so I thought I’d call the local Baja Fresh and order something to pick up. It’s all very routine for me. I call in the order, take my special shortcut to the parking garage where I can park free for one hour with validation, pick up my order, hand the ticket to the parking attendant, and I’m back home in about ten to fifteen minutes. Well, that’s the way it’s supposed to work, at least.

Everything went according to plan. I parked in the parking garage, picked up my order, got my ticket validated, then drove up to hand the guy my ticket in the garage. Only instead of looking at the ticket and saying “thank you” and opening the gate for me to leave, he just stared at the ticket. And I waited patiently. Until he informed me that I owed him two dollars.

“Two dollars? I have a validation.”

“But you’ve been here for over an hour. The ticket says 18, it’s now 19.”

“I just got here. I’ve been here maybe five minutes!”

“The ticket says you’ve been here for over an hour.”

“I don’t care what the ticket says! I just got here. Trust me, I’m not trying to pull a fast one on you!”

In any case, the line of cars started getting longer behind me, and I realized how it must have looked to the drivers that followed me: Some asshole disputing a couple dollars. But I didn’t owe those fucking dollars. I didn’t owe him shit. But I paid him anyway, because it was obvious he was an idiot and he wasn’t going to budge.

Fuck you, too, Hollywood. Motherfuckers.

Here are a few words of advice: If you drive one of those cars with the fancy remotes built into the key, don’t lose your key. I usually have my key in the change pocket of my jeans. Well, somehow it fell out in my apartment complex. And knowing the type of people who live here, I’m fearful of someone taking my car out for a joyride, or possibly taking it out and never returning it. So I called the dealership this morning and asked if they could reprogram my keycode. No. They have to replace the entire onboard computer and order a new set of keys. The cost? $760. The moral of this story: Don’t lose your key.

I spent my afternoon in Seal Beach celebrating my friend’s daughter’s birthday. Mind you, it’s not a short drive from Seal Beach to Hollywood, especially when there’s traffic. And, yes, there was traffic. Tons of fucking traffic. I was dying in the traffic. My ass was starting to get sore from lack of circulation. I couldn’t wait until I got home.

But when I got home, I had a surprise waiting for me: Someone was parked in my parking space. They just backed their car in there as if they paid the rent. Only they didn’t pay the rent. I pay the rent. Because it’s my fucking space!

That just meant I had to park in the guest parking. But, of course, the guest parking was full. Which meant I had to park on the street somewhere.

Have I mentioned before how fucking popular my street is? Every goddamn person from Eagle Rock to Culver City drives up here to walk their fucking dogs. In other words, it’s impossible to find a parking space. Impossible. I drove around for a good twenty minutes trying to find a place to park. I ended up parking six blocks away. Six blocks!

If you haven’t guessed by now, I was pretty irate at that point. I vowed revenge. I wouldn’t damage their car, but I would make sure that it got towed the fuck out of my space.

But, of course, when I finally got home and went downstairs to write down the information on the vehicle, it was gone. Gone! FUCKING GONE! AGGGGRHHHHHHH!!! If I was ever going to have an aneurism in my life, I would have had one then. So there’s your fucking silver lining.

Here’s something else you don’t know about me: I come from a long line of mumblers. My grandparents mumbled. My dad mumbles. My sister mumbles. And yes, I even mumble. And it really tends to irritate people. Here’s a recent example:

I’m went to the Verizon Wireless store on 3rd and La Cienega to look at some phones. I spent a long time pushing buttons and listening to ring tones. Nobody ever came up to offer any assistance. I actually liked that. No hard sell. They wait for you to come to them.

Anyhow, I decided I was finished doing my research, so I walked up to one of the sales people, lifted up my parking ticket and asked the guy to validate it for me.

I wanted to say, “Could you validate this for me?” But because of my mumbling problem, and the fact that I was chewing gum at the time, it came out sounding more like this: “muh. . .”

The sales guy took my ticket and just looked at me. Then this other woman took the ticket from him and said something along the lines of “Usually, people ask to be validated. You don’t just hold up the ticket.” I said that I did ask, but I was chewing gum. She said she was looking at my lips and they never moved. (Yes, she really said that to me. I guess she didn’t want the sale that bad.)

She was probably right. I mean, isn’t that what mumbling is? You don’t move your lips and you just let your tongue and teeth do what they can to make everything clear.

So shoot me. I mumble. I’m sorry. I do it when I’m nervous. Or when I’m feeling a little too relaxed.

There is one exception, however: When I’m presenting my work to the client, I make a conscious effort to enunciate every fuck-ing syl-la-ble. Of course, it makes me sound like an annoying 50s radio announcer. But it sure beats sounding like the goddamn Hamburgler.

Okay, let me ask you all a serious question. Well, it’s not exactly a serious question. But I am being serious when I ask it. You ready? Okay.

Am I the only person who knows about Clam Chowder Fridays? I used to think it was common knowledge. On Fridays, most American restaurants serve clam chowder (usually New England style). But every person I mention it to looks at me like I’m insane, or I’m kidding. But I’m not. Well, I’m not kidding at least. The jury’s still out on the first one. So am I the only one who knows about this or what?

Even if you don’t normally respond to my posts, I’d appreciate it if you chimed in. Thanks.

You know how on TV they say “Don’t try this at home”? Well, I tried it at home. And let me tell you, it’s not a good idea.

The first thing I tried was jumping a rocket powered car over Snake River Canyon. Boy, talk about difficult. Do you have any idea how hard it is to even find a rocket powered car? None of the major auto manufacturers sell them. And I couldn’t even find one on eBay. What the fuck? In any case, I had to make my own.

That led to another problem. Ever since the heightened security, it’s become pretty difficult to get your hands on major explosives. Believe me, I’ve tried. I even went down to the dark streets of Koreatown and asked the guys who sell the bootleg DVDs if they could hook me up. No such luck. So I had to settle for what was around the house.

I went to Costco and bought a case of Pam non-stick cooking spray. Then I fashioned two jet packs by taping six cans together and then welding each “jet” to the side of my car. The idea was since the warning says to keep the cans away from open flame, I would set them on fire, jump into my car, and hope for the best.

Did you know that a welding torch is considered an open flame? I didn’t. There I was, welding away, when BLAM! The next thing I know, I’m in the hospital having can shrapnel removed from my face. I suppose I should’ve used a welder’s mask. But I thought my sunglasses would be enough. They have that U.V. protection.

Anyhow, I never did get around to jumping Snake River Canyon. And I doubt I’ll ever try anything I see on TV again. Seriously. As soon as I finish this bowl filled with razor blades and milk, that’s it for me. Oof, talk about indigestion.

Today I signed all my loan documents. Oddly enough, it was the first time I met face to face with my mortgage broker. She has one of those cute little names that sounds like it ends with a Y, but really ends with an I. And she really lives up to the stereotype: blonde hair, overly manicured nails, and lip liner (PS: The lip liner thing ain’t workin’. Give it up.)

So we sat down at the table to do some serious business, and suddenly the air wasn’t as pure as I remembered it. It smelled a little sweeter, a little thicker. What exactly was I smelling? It wasn’t expensive perfume. It was. . . vanilla. Vanilla? Is that an appropriate scent to wear to a document signing? I mean, there she was talking about annual percentage rates and all I could think about was heating her up in the microwave and dipping her in my coffee. [rim-shot] Thank you. I’ll be here all week.

Well, I’ll be closing escrow in about a week, and now I’m starting to wonder why. I mean, sure I hate the heat and the traffic up here. But Hollywood does have its redeeming qualities.

Why, just last week, I was driving down Highland, passing by the famous Hollywood Bowl, and I thought to myself, “Self, that’s an impressive concert venue. Why don’t you ever go there?” And I really didn’t have an answer. I live so close to it, i could walk there. Maybe it has something to do with my extreme anxiety of going out with anyone to anywhere. But I’m not sure.

Then I crossed Wilshire and drove by all these classic homes with beautifully manicured lawns and nicely trimmed rose bushes. And I thought, wouldn’t it be wonderful to live here. That’s when I noticed an older man standing on the sidewalk, admiring one of the home’s nicely trimmed hedges. He apparently shared my admiration for the finer things.Then I looked a little closer and noticed a stream of yellow liquid spouting forth from that old man’s crotch. And as the excess fluid ran down the sidewalk and off into the gutter, it all started to come back to me.

The city of Hollywood is a lot like its films. At first, you see this amazing place with beautiful homes and dark green grass. And then you look a little closer and you notice that the homes are made of plywood and the grass has been spray painted. And some homeless guy is relieving himself in the driveway.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some packing to do.

It’s been over a year since I submitted my manuscript to the top publishers in New York. No one has even bothered to reply. It’s a story about unrequited love, but I won’t bore you with the rest of the plot. Anyhow, here’s a sample. Any suggestions?

CHAPTER 1: ONE HOT MAMA

I sashayed down the sidewalk that night, staring at my shoes. That’s when I ran into her. I mean, literally ran into her. I really should’ve been watching where I was going. In fact, those were the first words she said to me, only not quite as eloquently: “Hey, watch it, asshole.”

I looked up and I was in love. Her eyes were the deepest brown and sparkled like two open septic tanks in the moonlight. My face flushed like an erect penis, and my anus shrank to the size of a pinhole. Never before had I laid my eyes on such a vision. I smiled at her and a thin thread of saliva appeared between my upper and lower lip. I found myself drawn to her bosom. Not because she was so well-endowed. Because there was a large mole right in the middle of her cleavage. It had a long hair growing out of it, which seemed to dance as she spoke. When she told me her name, I nearly melted: “Helga.”

Helga. When she said it, she expelled a scent from her mouth that made my eyes water. I wasn’t sure what she had eaten, but without a laboratory analysis, I would venture to guess the excrement of a dead cow. And yet I wanted more.