Interests:masterpieces, balance, destinations, time machines, Saturday morning REM, and Trojan football. Expertise:explosives Occupation:being kind of a big deal Industry:rockstardom
“Oh I’m a portfolio analyst, and I manage money on the side.”
“The market’s been pretty tough, hasn’t it?”
“Well, there’s always ways to make money if you know where to look.”
“Pretty stressful though, yea?”
“Sure is.Good thing I get to go home pretty early when the market closes.”
“You live in Irvine?”
“Yea, Woodbury.It’s a pretty new neighborhood, and some places still smell like fertilizer.”
“Ok. So do you have any lumps in your testicles?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Going to the doctor’s office is always a weird trip.My recent visit was the first time in about 6 years, so based on solid statistics, I could say with 100% confidence that it’s always weird.I think it starts with the way they send a young nurse to set you up in a tiny room, taking your measurements and asking about your allergies and any possible diseases. She's 6 inches away from you, all up on your business like it's totally natural, and you're just trying not to breath so hard that you both could hear. There’s something about a girl that assaults you with personal medical questions in an authoritative tone that breaks any guy’s guard down in an awkward second.When approached by a sleazy guy at a club or a bar, girls should just take his pulse and ask about his cholesterol level and family history of diabetes to get rid of him.In any case, then the nurse leaves you in that cold, sterile room for at least 15 minutes (didn’t they know I was gonna show up at 4PM?!), forcing you to feel isolated from the world and ultra-paranoid about nothing.It’s a tactic akin to those used by federal agencies or detectives to break you down before bursting through the door for hours of hard-core, in-your-face interrogation.The doctors and nurses probably have cameras hidden behind those anatomy charts and “Your Digestive System” posters—that haven’t changed in the last 70 years—and two-way mirrors, wondering who would play the bad cop and who would play the good one. And would it kill to have some music while making you wait?Some Stevie Wonder would be nice and cheerful at such a dreadful place.You just sit there in silence, in nothing but your boxers and a hospital gown, wondering if they’re gonna pile in any second with knives and just start cutting you open.Those beds are always covered with butcher-paper sheets, possibly for all the blood that will spill over.It doesn’t help that the room always smells as if there was some mafia "negotiation" gone bad and they had to wash it down with buckets of Clorox.
But, all the uncomfortable questions aside, the doc turned out to be a nice guy, and we’re actually neighbors in the same vicinity.It turns out, my throbbing headache with every pounding heartbeat wasn’t anything serious, and all my levels are normal.So I won’t die tomorrow or need a triple bypass, like I knew I would from my self-diagnosis and WebMD research.
Speaking of Stevie, I got a lead on this Stevie Bizarro—a younger version of him, but on a guitar and with funky teeth.
Ok, for those of you still on the "Maybe" list on my Facebook invite...
PRINCE HAS BEEN ADDED TO THE SATURDAY LINEUP!!
I was kinda bummed since the headline list seemed a little weak this year, but dayam. Now it's gonna blow up. C'mon... Portishead? Death Cab? Kraftwerk? Goldfrapp? Chromeo? MIA??!!
It's only 2 weeks away, so let me know ASAP if you wanna come with. If enough ppl go, I'll take the Sequoia or the pimp limo van (for the lucky few who've had the pleasure).
I'm going for the Saturday show only, leaving around 8 in the morning.
In case your morning commute was cut in half, got a free lunch from your boss, had some money in the laker game, you're an Obama fan, and you just got back from a wedding where you ran into your psycho ex who turned out fat, ugly and poor... let me give you one brisk, exuberant slap of reality on the face and ruin your perfect little day.
It's because most of you who are 30 and under don't think of about retirement in these days of fast and furious lifestyle. Yea, retirement. I know you're getting all hot and bothered already.
Say you're about to retire this year. You'd want at least $75,000 a year, depending on where in the States you live, of course. But considering a membership at a casual-but-clean country club, a decent sedan to take you to all the Zagat-rated restaurants and whatever hobby you have to keep you occupied, $75k in a major metropolitan area today is not that much money to carry you over. So if you want the kind of lifestyle $75k could afford today in about... 30 years, you'll need about $182,000 (using a conservative 3% inflation rate) per year to spend.
To get a $182k annual income from an age-appropriate, low-risk investment at about 5% annual payout, and you think you could beat what all the great investors claim to be a very reasonable rate of return (8% without taxes), you'd need to have approximately $3.63 MILLION dollars by the time you add 30 extra candles on the cake.
Here's the question of the day: How much should you be putting away every year, starting this year, for the next 30 years?
By doing a simple future value calculation, you get...
$32,000
Is that the amount you're shaving off from your paycheck this year?
Now think twice before getting into that DB9 or a pair of Manolo's. Unless it makes you feel good, of course... then you have to buy it.
Early birds are overrated. They can have the worm. Why don't they have such an adage for night owls? Let's hear it for those who refuse to give into sleep and burn the midnight oil to do abosolutely nothing productive, only to be utterly deprived of rest the next morning while putting the phone on mute to not let the others hear that you're falling asleep snoring on a very important conference call. And let's hear it for run-on sentences.
It's been a while, my friends, lovers, stalkers.
Just wanted to peak in and let you know that I'm alive. Been writing. Maybe one day you'll get a CD in your hands with my fulfillment of one of my 50 things to do before I die #27: be a rock star. Started a company. Been working long hours (12hr shift is a half-day, literally. I mean literally literally.) and surviving on cheese sticks and granola bars (snacks of choice in the kitchen). Both of the things mentioned above force you to expose yourself to the limits you've never exposed yourself to before. And I've exposed myself before in many interesting ways. But you don't really know your limits unless you throw yourself into something that challenges every ounce of what you're made of. Many times, you'll feel like a badass. Most of the time, you'll chew the dirt on the sweat/blood-soaked floor in catastrophic failure and misery, licking the wounds that remind you not to make such a dumb move again. But then again, it's times like these that carry you into greatness... again. It's time like these you learn to live again. Time and time again. I love the Foo Fighters (who are, coincidentally, playing at the Forum on March 6th). I would marry them, except for the dudes thing.
Speaking of dumb moves, marrying and fighting, Valentines is coming. But this time, go find yourself someone to surprise with a long, deep, big, passionate kiss. Every one of you. High quality kisses are a forgotten art. Not too quick, not too sloppy... just a long single note that bury you like an orchestra and then blow you away like a rock band with very loud drums (like the Foo Fighters). Still one of the most underrated gestures of all time. I read somewhere that a person needs at least 7 meaningful touches and five meaningful words a day to stay healthy. I forgot what I was gonna say next, but just shut up and kiss me.
