Yesterday Naomi and I found a pair of roller skates and a pair of rollerblades. Amazingly, the roller skates fit her, and the rollerblades fit me. So we headed outside, wearing said shoes with wheels, even though neither of us had used these modes of transportation in years. Naomi stayed on the driveway, which was very smart. I, being young and influence able, decided to be like those cool x-games guys and jump off the curb. So I did just that...jumped off the curb...only I didn't look cool. Most likely because I fell. Now I have a big hole in my jeans, and a big hole in my knee. I got out of the shower last night and as I was about to get dressed I thought to myself, "hey...I should take a polaroid and post it." I took said polaroid, but it's at a funny angle (try taking a picture straight down of your knee) and happened to get a little more than just my knee and leg in the shot...if you know what I mean. Hint hint. Wink wink. Nudge nudge. My goodness, you still don't know what I'm talking about? It was my....*cough*penis*cough*....no, I'd better not say. So no picture of my bloody wound. Sorry.

I hate it when people will do anything for attention. There is something to be said about true depression/helplessness. There is also something to be said about those who place themselves in a position of wanton pity...parading around in a robe of discomfort...holding a magnifying glass up to the tear dripping from their eye. There are plenty of people who take on the wanna-be-goth culture and start listening to the Cure and writing bad poetry. There are plenty of people who break rules, but only in front of the one who made the rule. It is known that anyone with an obsessive problem will do anything to make him/herself feel better. An alcoholic will fill your glass, even if it's not empty, before filling his own glass...that way it looks like he's being generous. In reality, he's just making it seem less obvious that he's on his 9th glass. In the same way, so many people are willing to listen to a sad story...or read a truly heartfelt poem...but only so he/she can pretend to understand and tell his/her own story full of pain and anguish. More ego stroking. More blatant narcissism. I dated someone for a year and a half who blamed everything on manic-depression with a side of bi-polar. Can I super-size that please? Anyone who offers up their tales of anguish is only looking for a handout. Anyone who brings up how they used to cut is asking for attention. Anyone who shoves their deepest pain in your face isn't sincere. The true pain is only understood through close friendship and utter trust. I have stories that would make anyone do a double-take...so keep your self-served pain to yourself.

i don't want to post anything

We humans have some pretty odd pastimes. Shouldn't it be considered strange that hundreds of people will dress up differently from their normal attire, drive long distances, and pay lots of money to be admitted into a small, dark room with music playing so loud it feels like you're losing brain cells with every thud of the bass, with the intent of dancing either by themselves, with friends, or with total strangers, and most likely get completely intoxicated in the process?

Needless to say, I went dancing last night. Since I'm nearing the revolutionary age of 21 (what's so big about 21 anyway?) I thought it would be fun to go to an 18 and up place to pay my respects to the good ol' days of huge black sharpie x's on my hands, and wristband-less wrists. My brother and I met some of his friends at The World...home of every club stereotype in LA. Let me explain: when you have a club that allows anyone in who is willing to fork over $10, you get all kinds. Here are the club stereotypes I saw in a mere three hours last night:

the wheelchair person - that guy or girl who gets on the dance floor and rolls around
the stripper/belly dancer - obviously wearing a tiny bra and mesh/metal skirt that jingles
the transvestite - complete with hairy legs and fake or real breasts (I can never tell)
the black guy with no shirt - no explanation necessary
the girl on crutches - being at a club on crutches would just make me depressed
the flamboyant goth - wearing just a mesh shirt and tight leather pants
the James Bond villain - wearing an Armani suit and an eye patch
the pimp - wearing leopard print jacket and no shirt, always on his cell phone
the white guy - once again...no explanation necessary

Now don't get me wrong...I have nothing against these people...this is just a list of the people you see at every "all admitted" club.

I ended the night by moshing to some oversaturated, angry industrial music

Hey...I'm now a certified bartender.

Ever had a situation where you felt really stupid, and were angry at yourself for being so stupid. And then to top it off, you find out that you were/are even more stupid than you previously thought?

This morning I woke up early to take my last class at the National Bartending Association. I groggily got ready and drove to the school, walked up to the door, and tugged effectlessly at the door handle until I realized that there were no lights on inside. This meant one of two things. 1) Someone was getting it on inside and didn't want anyone walking in on them or 2) The NBA was not open yet. Though I was still 3/4 asleep, and what little brain cells I had working were plowing through drink recipes, I chose option 2. So as I was walking back to my car, I had a realization.

Grant: "Wait, what day is it?"
Grant: "Isn't it Wednesday?"
Grant: "Oh my gosh...yeah."
Grant: "And I'm supposed to be here Thursday!"
Grant: "I am SUCH an idiot!"

I got in my car, drove home, and went back to sleep in all my clothes.

Later, I was talking to Naomi...telling her my story of stupidity...and as I got to the part where I said, "and I totally thought it was Thursday!" she interrupted me and said, "Grant, it IS Thursday." I just stopped talking. I got up, checked a calendar, and by George...it's was (and is) Thursday. Suddenly, my previous stupidity was trampled and spit upon by my newfound uber-stupidity.

This, in my opinion, is why I should never be forced to do any thinking at all before 10:30am.

This is a test from the Grant Broadcasting System. I repeat, this is only a test. If a real emergency were to occur, I probably wouldn't be posting about it. Thank you.

Popcorn. Popcorn is good. Mmmm popcorn. Popcorn popcorn popcorn. Do you like popcorn too? How about flavored popcorn? I like popcorn, even when it is not popcorn flavored. Popcorn for everyone!

(if you haven't figured this out yet, I'm trying to see if this appears at the top of the page as a 'google ad')

As was just pointed out by Christina...there's something really odd going down here at 50fifty. If you look up at that Blogspot add thingy, you might notice something strange. It's a sentence that goes like this:

Related Searches: "wet knickers" "stupid people" "pee" "girls peeing"

I decided to check this out. I mean...really...what could this mean?



"What does 'Ads by Google' mean?

It means that Google uses proprietary technologies to match advertisements to the content and context of web pages - so the ads you see are related to the information you are viewing. The ads come from Google's base of more than 100,000 AdWords advertisers. These advertisers range from global brand name companies to small local businesses."


So let me get this straight. Google has decided that people who read my site not only want to know about diapers (the upper right ad) but would love to do a search for "girls peeing" ??? The only thing I can guess is that I've talked about my friend the urinary tract infection so many times that Google thought I must have a thing for girls peeing. Since um...I uh...ok so I really have no clue.

click here----> MOHAWK!!! <----click here



As for a topic for the evening...

skidmarks

Now there's a topic that nobody talks about. Am I right? Of course I'm right. How many conversations have you had about skidmarks? And no, I'm not talking about the kind that cars make. I'm talking about the kind nobody talks about. "Now Grant," you might say, "why in the world would you talk about skidmarks?" "Well faithful reader," I might respond, "because nobody else tackles the really tough issues...so I thought that I would.

I have overheard a conversation or two that went like this:

girl 1: "Why do guys leave skidmarks in their underwear?"
girl 2: "I have no idea."

I also saw an episode of Sex and the City (shuddup) where a conversation went like this:

girl 1: "Why do guys leave skidmarks?"
girl 2: "I don't know, I guess they're just too lazy to wipe or something."

Well my lady friends...or guy friends...or nobody in particular...if you would like to know the truth, there is one reason, and one reason alone that guys, and not girls, leave skidmarks sometimes.

Hair.

It is at least a somewhat well known fact that guys are a wee bit more hair-covered than girls are. And, for most guys, this includes that area of the body that is usually adorned by said underwear. As to not make this too graphic...I will be incredibly vague and just use comparisons and hope you understand. If you were to take a dog and shave it, then roll it through the mud, then clean it...it would not be too arduous of a task. A simple hose and a towel will do the trick. If you were, however, to take that same dog...unshaven...and roll it through the mud, and then clean it...it would be a much more difficult task. You would really have to scrub the dog to get every last bit of mud from the hair.

Ok, this is just getting out of hand...and if you don't understand...wait till your older and I'll draw you a picture.

Two days ago, mild mannered Grant Paige went to LA to see his brother. Last night, Lobster Boy (Keeper of Peace, Defender of Justice, Really Really Sensitive to the Sun) returned in his place. How did this happen? It's a long story...that you only get to hear part of.

I just leaned back in my chair with no shirt on and it caused me to scream.

My brother's birthday is July 3rd. He, Chad, wanted me to go camping with him and his friend Josh for a day or two. "Sure," I said, not understanding the implications of the term "camping." I went to LA and we spend the night eating meat and watching the movie American Pimp. I had always seen this video on the shelves, but never even considered renting it. But it seems that this movie is not some horribly done movie about a pimp's life...it's a documentary about real pimps. They interviewed them, followed them around, and learned the philosophy on life that pimp's have. After watching this I have decided two things...one, my new life goal is to be a pimp and help girl's turn tricks, and two, is to call everyone "bitch" instead of any other name or pronoun. One of the pimps was on a phone, and here's how the conversation went: "Yeah, bitch? Ok bitch, what did I tell you? Exactly. Now bitch, I told you that all you need to do is to get out there, right bitch? Bitch you better trust me."

That night I slept on the hardwood floor in a house that was 85 degrees.

Six O'clock in the morning rolled around (the devil's time), and Chad's alarm clock went off, Josh's alarm clock went off, and Chad's wrist watch alarm clock went off. It was like the alarm clock's were rising up in power. Gaining more power from their fellow alarm clocks. I decided then and there that all alarm clocks needed to be silenced. We stumbled out of our various "beds" (Chad's the only one with a real bed there) and got ready. We drove an hour away to Lake Piru, pronounced pie-rue (which I thought would be cooler if it ended in "t" or "na") Once there, we rented a boat. I'm not talking a speed boat, or a pontoon boat, but a boat in the simplest sense of the word. It was blue, it held people, it had a motor (called a Johnson 4 Stroke, which I thought sounded more like a technique than an engine type) We then set out to watch my brother fish from about 10 to 7 with an hour lunch break. This meant I was face to face with my mortal enemy...the sun. Why do I dislike the sun so much? I'm pale. If you met me for the first time you would probably say, "Hi Grant...wow, you're pretty pale." This means that the sun and I do not mix too well. Like cream and liquor.

Needless to say (wow, "needless" with one less "s" is "needles", cool) I came home with a very very red back. Somehow only my back got burnt. This means that for the next week or so, everyone I see will, totally out of character, slap me on the back really hard when they say hi.

Quote of the week: "I could fit God in this backpack."

Oh, and everyone needs to check out Sigur Ros (pronounced see-yer-oh-s) They are this incredible band that sings totally in Hopelandic. Worth your time.