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Lost in Highland Park / Eagle Rock / Glassel Park / maybe South Pasadena? Don’t chase, please call!
Spread the word, Angelenos! Find this pup!
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Int. 1960s Mad Men Style Office - Day
Mr. Hedge, the boss, leans against his desk, glass of bourbon in hand.
MR. HEDGE: Alice, would you come in here?
Alice, his assistant, enters.
ALICE: Yes, Mr. Hedge?
MR. HEDGE: Alice, take a letter.
She nods and heads to the typewriter.
MR. HEDGE: (dictating) “Hello, dear wife. I’ve had a few things I’ve been meaning to say. Primarily, I’m wondering how long your tennis instructor, Kurt, is going to be staying with us. I only ask because my back has been hurting lately from sleeping on the roll out cot in the garage. I understand that his medical condition requires him to sleep in bed with a woman each night, and that the condition requires me to be out of the house between ten thirty and one AM every night, which seems reasonable-“
ALICE: Mr. Hedge? Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable writing this letter yourself?
MR. HEDGE: Of course not! I plucked you out of that secretarial pool for a reason. You’ve got a real future here at Hedge, Westington, Cruikshank, and Pheeb.
ALICE: Oh, well thank you—
MR. HEDGE: (continuing) “At first I didn’t mind being asked to leave my own house, because I got to explore the neighborhood, and one time I saw a skunk and followed it really far, but I haven’t been able to find it since. Also, I’ve begun to notice that Kurt has brought a lot of furniture in our house for someone who’s only staying until they finish fumigating his condominium. I’m assuming Kurt must have an inordinate amount of bugs. Triple the amount of bugs that would be considered normal. Which brings me to my main order of business: Are we still on for fondue next weekend? You and I, and Kurt and his wife. Just four friends, some bamboo skewers, and some melted cheese! It’ll finally give me a chance to meet this mystery woman who has captured Kurt’s heart. I never have seen her and every time I bring her up, he tells me she’s ‘at a bridge game or fuckin’ whatever.’ He literally says that! Also, I’ve been meaning to ask why our beautiful children have been referring to Kurt as ‘Daddy’ lately. Not like ‘Daddy-O’ like a cool beatnik guy, but rather ‘Mom, when’s New Daddy coming back from the Tennis Club so we can eat dinner?’ Actually, now that I’m committing it to paper I’m realizing that it must be an old Army nickname and I just wasn’t in the room when it came up in casual conversation. Now I’ll know to call him that as well.” (Then, to Alice) You know what? Probably best to just strike through that whole section. No need for that part. Omit that whole paragraph.
She strikes it as he takes a deep, thoughtful sip of bourbon. He continues to dictate.
MR. HEDGE: “So, let’s see: Kurt, the ‘bed vs. couch’ thing, seeing a skunk, I guess that’s it. Actually, one more thing: could you clarify what you meant when you said, ‘I want you out of the house by the end of the week, and if you stay any longer than that, I will literally have sex with Kurt in front of you. Also I hate your tiny barely functional penis.’ That’s all my darling. Yours in love, devotion, and fondue? Parentheses, you know, the double date idea? End parenthesis. Comma, Gregory.”
Finished, Alice takes the letter and puts it in an envelope. She hands it to Mr. Hedge.
ALICE: Here you are.
MR. HEDGE: Thank you, Alice. Oh, some of us were going to head down to the bar to watch the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show tonight. Join us if you’d like.
ALICE: The Beatles? Wow, times really are changing!
Look at this majestic creature.
This is me. See me? Great. This is a picture of me with an Apple product in my lap. Not pictured? An Apple product in my pocket. Now, notice the pants? The crisp, new-ish pants? A modern, potentially urban (or even urbane?), dare I say hip take on the khaki pant? With a skinny twist? Like that cool barista that serves you your $5 cup of coffee went to grad school and said, “I think maybe I’m gonna start introducing khakis into the rotaysh?” That’s these pants. They are currently in the possession of the owner of an AirBnB in WIlliamsburg, as they were accidentally left in a drawer early this July. Now, after said pants were confirmed in said drawer by the apartment owner, we have radio silence. This dude knows how to reply to one email but not two, it seems. This could be classic supply and demand. He knows I want them and this dude is being coyer than a uke player with a choppy haircut brokering a complicated trade at a vegan clothing swap. This is the only known photo of me in these dare I say PERFECT pants. A great fit in every way and in every below-belt area, this is a huge loss. So, I guess what I’m saying is I am a consumer whore and I miss my Comune Khaki pants size 32 and they appear to be discontinued and I want them and I ain’t too proud to beg.
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I went to St. Louis for the first time and saw this, so now it’s my favorite place ever.
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One magical evening in January of 2013, Charlene DeGuzman (creator of I Forgot My Cell Phone and being of pure light and wonder) and Dave Horwitz (TV writer, expert level procrastinator, new to wearing shoes without socks) went to a Taco Bell drive through at 2 AM and had to wait in a line of cars for 8 minutes before ordering. In that 8 minutes they recorded a one time only podcast that stayed on Dave’s phone for a year and a half as a voice memo. Until now! Now it’s on Soundcloud for the world to hear. If you ever wondered what two happy people sounded like when they were still miserable jerks, this is the poorly recorded streaming audio file for you.
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Working on a love story.
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Guess I have to record an EP of painfully sensual slow jams now that the album cover’s already been shot.
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INT. TENT - NIGHT
Billy Ray Cyrus stands at the craft services table backstage at a large music festival. In the distance, his daughter Miley humps a teddy bear in a kiddie pool full of liquid MDMA while Odd Future Vines it.
Wayne Coyne walks up wearing a long sequined cape and a sock over his penis and grabs a veggie hot dog.
Both men look on as Miley continues to go wild.
BILLY: So, you and my daughter are friends, huh?*
(*The subtext here = “you are two years older than me.”)
WAYNE: Yeah, brother. She’s a real space angel.
Billy Ray winces.
BILLY: Um. What kinda stuff are you guys like, um, into?
WAYNE: Threesomes and psychedelics, man!
BILLY: Yeah, no. I figured.
They both keep staring forward, not making eye contact.
Cue “Cats in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin
Fade To Black
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