One reason is that my life's not all that scintillating or interesting or even amusing. Take, for instance, the following long, tedious account of this past Thursday.
Wake, piss, brush, shit, shave, shower, lotion, clothes, hair. I've got the morning routine down to the point where out-of-bed to out-of-door takes about 20 minutes.
Arrive at a sound design company which is working on a project for us. The first thing I do is walk into their kitchen and pick out a bagel. This is much harder than it sounds 'cause to this day I have no idea what flavor a bagel is just by looking at it. I reach for the least offensive-looking one and pray it doesn't taste like chewy anus. I slather some cream cheese on it, just in case. When I bite into the bagel, I'm pleasantly surprised: The little dark raisins turn out to be jalapeno chunks.
One of the main reasons I'm at the sound design company is to fix a drum beat during a certain driving sequence. Both the client and creative director found it "too techno." After an hour of trying out dozens of different drums and electronic beats, the sound designer and I finally find something that everybody in the room is happy with. At the end of the session, the producer asks to hear the old drum beat again. To my fucking horror, it sounds exactly the same as the new one. We spent all morning replacing a beat that client hated ... with the same beat that the client hated. I head back to the office.
I am stuck on the 405 heading south. Why the hell are there so many drivers on the freeway on an early Thursday afternoon? Shouldn't these assholes be at work instead of greatly inconveniencing me?
A company's reps are showing off their products, which I can't disclose right now. I found these guys at SIGGRAPH and introduced them to my boss as a possible solution to one of the projects we're working on. After the presentation everybody walks away adequately impressed. I debate grabbing a third cup of coffee (My daily limit's two).
I drink some green tea. I usually drink green tea around this time to help soften the blow of the end-of-work-day crash.
I drive off to Hollywood for a client meeting to present sound design along with film, figuring it'd take about 45 minutes to get there.
I arrive in exactly 45 minutes. Would've arrived at least 10 minutes sooner, but goddamn Highland Avenue.
I meet the head CGI animator working on our project for the first time. Up to this point, we'd only spoken over the phone. She had the deep, asexual, emotionless voice of an overweight, nerdy man. So you can imagine my shock when I saw that the head animator was a hot woman. Blessed Mother of Softcore Porn, if Cindy Crawford and Marissa Miller had sexual relations and somehow gave birth to a succulent lesbian, this was her. Whenever she spoke, it was like someone was dubbing over her real voice with an ugly chick's.
The client arrives and watches the video screen. Somehow he doesn't mind my sound design fuck-up from earlier that day. In fact it turns out to be the only track he even tolerates. "More upbeat," he says repeatedly. Looks like we'll have to basically wipe the slate clean and do this shit all over again.
Get home, eat an overcooked take-out steak from Chandara, and read several text messages on my phone. Guys want to go out. I am quite beat and ready to call it an early night, so I find it strange that I want to go out too. I've been like this all summer.
I'm at a table in Blink with Daniel and Rob, who are there to finish off a bottle that Daniel had started on the previous night. Goose on the rocks #1. They're planning to head out to Loft. I call up J, a recent i-banker transplant from NYC, and Paul, a recent single male, to see if they want to join us. J, still being the New Yorker, is always up for going out - but Paul is hesitant. I explain to Paul that he needs to play and get severely intoxicated, because that's the cliche thing guys say to their depressed newly-bachelorized buddies. In my absolutely worst Vince Vaughn impression, I end the conversation with a "Vodka, baby! Vodka!"
We're inside Loft, which is essentially the lower back space of the Highlands club. It's not that packed tonight, which is how I like it. No wait at the bar = no wait for the alcohol to embrace the contents of my skull. Exhausted, I plop myself on an outdoor couch with J, who reveals to me that he has lady troubles ... is there any other kind?
I get a call from Paul telling me that he's coming. After hanging up, I see that I'd received a text message from him an hour earlier: "Hey man, sorry can't make it."
I'm back on the couch again, enjoying my third Goose of the night when out of nowhere an arm slams a giant whiskey shot on the table in front of me. It's James, who's visiting from Philly. As a courteous gentleman, I cannot turn down a free shot and throw it back. Turns out it wasn't whiskey, but 89 octane. Not a pleasant sensation. I use my vodka as a chaser.
Paul arrives and I introduce him to J, Daniel and Rob. Introductions done, they then head to the bar and immediately do Patron shots. Still feeling the whiskey burn, I decline. Or did I? Can't recall.
We leave Loft.
While heading home, I get an enormous craving for chili cheese fries. This late on a work night, eating that hot, greasy crap is a very dumb idea.
I walk into Big Tomy's on Pico and walk out with a large styrofoam container filled with chili cheese fries.
I go to bed, wondering why in the name of Moses I went out when I had an early morning conference call in a few hours.