GooseTown: The Official Blog of the Memorial Day Weekend (TM)

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That's right kids, I've cornered, sponsored and trademarked an entire weekend. Get ready for some swearin' and some rantin', because, for Christ's sake, I have to make like I'm actually at the family picnic.

--Here's one thing I never want to hear from anyone again, ever: "You're going to wear THAT to the gym?" Never. Hear again. Ever. Who gives a crispy crap what the f*ck I wear to work out? My dad was classic for this. "How can you go out like that, in a maroon shirt and green shorts?" Are you kidding? I'm going to sweat and be nasty and stew in my own filth. The last thing on my mind is my textilular blending of the chroma scale. It's exercise, not an official Convening of Parliament.

--Two interesting Blog-related items:

1) Thanks to VP Walling for this link, which details the plight of the Blogger addicted to Blogging like Blogging is digital crack. He he he, losers.

2) Have you guys seen/read about this guy? He calls himself "Rance" (get it, Rance? Rants? F*ck off then) and is causing quite a stir here in town. Rance claims to be a very famous actor - once pointing out that he's seen he's face quite a few times on magazines - and wants to anonymously detail little interesting nuggets about Hollywood culture. People are taking this seriously, and industry opinion, by and large, is that this guy is for real. Guesses have been thrown out as to his identity, which he closely guards. These hypotheses run the gamut but the most popular seem to be Matthew Perry, Jim Carrey, George Clooney, and Ben Affleck. I spent an hour reading every post last night, and whether or not this dude is actually an actor, this stuff is fascinating. My guess? If he is what he says he is, I'd put my money on Jon Favreau. Just seems like his style.

--Next entry in my Why Would You F*cking Do That, You F*cking D*uchebag? Category (TM): the tool set I just purchased. Got this cheap 105-piece tool set over Amazon, $9.99, just in case things slip up around the house and I need to pretend like I know how to fix them.

OK, here's a simple question, kids: if someone were to buy a tool set, what would be their most likely reason?

Wait for it...

Wait for it...

Right. Because they don't have tools. Makes sense, no? There are no tools in my apartment. I order some. Tools arrive. I'm happy. Little snap case, everything I need, perfect. There's a rigid piece of plastic covering the open case. No problem, I'll just snap it off. I'll just sna...come on motherfu...why won't you...you've got to be kidding me. In a fit of genius, possibly to prohibit shifting and spiling of contents while in transit to my apartment, some gloriously fabulous motherf*cker took occasion to SCREW THE EVERF*CKING PLASTIC TO THE TOOL CASE. The problem, dear sir, lies in the fact that the very screwdriver needed to undo the deed is SEALED UNDER THE EVERF*CKING PLASTIC.

To call whoever did this the Prime Minister of Insane Clodhopping D*uchebags is an insult to clodhoppers, mental patients, d*uchebags, and Canadia. And I know exactly who this guy is. He's the same guy, who I've mentioned before, that designed the photo label on a folding chair I bought in college. Simple canvas folding chair with a cupholder. Hung on one arm was a photo label (which included the price tag) that had four time-lapse photos on it: 1) a person holding my chair; 2) the person unfolding my chair; 3) the person setting my chair on the ground; 4) the person SITTING ON THE GROUND NEXT TO THE F*CKING CHAIR.

It's the same guy, both times. I can just see this assh*le right now, sitting at a dive bar in Florida somewhere regurgitating ill-advised West-Virginia-incest jokes and bragging to three locals and a goat about what an assh*le he is. And he's right.

--My buddy Johnny One Lung is in a band. You should care.

--This week the Wednesday Night World Dive Bar Tour took a stop at The Starlight Room in North Hollywood. The best part of the night took place in the midst of a heated discussion. Before I get into the story, take into account that the place takes no credit cards, is roughly equivalent in space to a medium-sized apartment, and has a schizophrenic dartboard that shuts down for roughly five minutes after every game, refusing to start another unless someone agrees to push the "League" button, which as far as we could tell did absolutely nothing but extend the non-playing of darts further. Also take into account that, out of roughly 40 people in the joint, the Dive Bar Aficionados (mostly industry folk) made up a little over half of the crowd for most of the night.

My boss poses a simple question for me: "Geoff - Brad Pitt in Seven: Serviceable or Brilliant?" Some other people answer before I get the chance, but I agree with my buddy Rainbow Room Nathan, the biggest Brad Pitt fan alive (he's not gay, but...well, that's a story for another day) that he was serviceable only because Morgan Freeman stole the show. Twelve Monkeys? Brilliant. But while the room is embroiled in controversy, someone calls out, "WHAT'S IN THE BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOX?" This starts a chain reaction. Suddenly, you have ten or so industry males recreating arguably Brad's most famous line in front of a bunch of burly (and rather stunned) locals. Immaculately entertaining.

This outburst is rivaled only by my buddy Kowabunga Dave who, upon Jeff Weaver's headshot filling the big screen at the Dodger Stadium, shot out, "It puts the lotion in the basket!" You can't beat that ad-libbing.

--I've begun tripping more often than I ever have in my entire life, and I'm not talking in the cool Jerry Garcia way. Like every remotely exposed crack in the sidewalk nearly puts me on my ass. Someone help.

--You know what? I'm going to talk about it and I don't give a f*ck who calls me a pedophile: I have seen the Lindsay Lohan breast pictures. I stared. I ogled. I was at first elated, and then I realized that her breasts are quite clearly of the silicone persuasion. People (including Lindsay herself) have decried that they could not possibly be fake, as she's only 17 years old. Guess what? Bullsh*t. It's not routine, but there are doctors that will put fakies in a 16 year old. And if you're famous? Get on the reality train, people.

I will say that, if they're real (and Christ knows there's every chance I'm wrong, I'm wrong a lot) they are the most impressive and beautiful mammary glands I have ever seen, and I yearn to touch them on any day of my life after July 2, 2004.

--Hot? How about every female in Troy, save for Hector's wife. Not that there was any thing seriously wrong with her, but she was too skinny and had this elongated neck-thing that made me uncomfortable whenever she was onscreen.

Speaking of movies, go see The Terminal. Absolutely phenomenal, save for the last five minutes. I won't spoil it for you, but suffice to say that while the God-awful ending doesn't spoil the rest of the fantastic film, it get agonizingly close. I actually sat through the credits, loudly voicing my displeasure and begging for the real ending to be shown. I even know of a perfect way to have done it, and Spielberg, much as I love him, screwed the pooch.

Seriously, is Big Steve slipping or what? His last three films (this, Catch Me if You Can and A.I.) have all looked so strong and then staggered into the last five-fifteen minutes. In particular, Artificial Intelligence (which I loved, much to the chagrin of...yeah, everyone I talk to) could and should have been one of the best movies of that year, if not ever, and Steve f*cked it up by adding an extended homage to Close Encounters, stealing away from the darkness and grit that Kubrick had intended for the film, and closing it with a sappy, family-friendly ending. Has anyone besides Jenna Jameson and Ron Jeremy blown more film endings recently? Methinks no.

Someone get the man an Aderol and tell him that we don't always expect films to end with the moon and stars perfectly aligned.

That's all I've got for now, except to tell you that this only the second cloudy day to befall Los Angeles since my arrival nearly two months ago.

Come On, People

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Alright, this is not something I usually care about, and Christ knows one of my least favorite things on the planet is Soulless Celebrity Gossip (TM). But this isn't really gossip, it's just a statement of fact, and frankly, I think somebody needs to f*cking say something.

In the last few weeks, two of the bigger stars in Hollywood have had babies. Helen Hunt had hers today, a girl, and named her Makena'lei Gordon. Makena'lei. Gordon. The first name is that of a town in Maui. The middle is that of her father. All of this is bad. But not near as bad as...

Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin (who, in case you've been living under a rock for the last five years, is the lead singer of Coldplay) had a baby girl. Apparently, both in a fit of Post-Natal Depression or suffering from severe PTSD, they named her Apple*. Apple*. That's not a typo. Apple*.

Can we make this stop? Someone should start a service for wayward artists and other lightheaded peoples of the world to counsel and, if necessary, shoot them when they fabricate and/or allow ridiculous names for their children. I mean, don't you hate it when people name their kids after fruit? Hey, I'm the last person in the world to stifle creativity, but come the f*ck on; if we're talking about your kids, who clearly have no say in the matter, how about you make a decision based on their best interests rather than your drug-induced impulses?

F*ck it, I'll start the service myself, set up right here in Hollywood, and make millions. I'll call it Disassociative Nomenclature Services (TM). If you know someone who's thinking about laying a f*cked-up name on their unborn child, let us know. If you know someone who says, "Oh, we're going to wait until the baby is born and decide in the birthing room," call us f*cking immediately. These people are prone to wild fits of pseudo-euphoria and end up naming their kids Ja'QuanDanian, La'Erique, Rumer, Scout, and Bjardkir. Case in point, File # A.1: there was a guy who (at least in recent years) played basketball for Pitt and then for the Golden State Warriors. His name? Vonteego Cummings. Von. Tee. Go. His mother told ESPN on a nationally televised broadcast how she came up with the name. Vonteego was born at home, and his aunt (the midwife), looked out his front window immediately following the labor. In the neighbors driveway sat two cars: a Volkswagon and a Monteego. Vonteego. SHE ACTUALLY ADMITTED THIS ON ESPN! I mean...are you serious?

Case File # A.2: In second grade there was a kid in my class named Geoff Letcher (good name). His older brother? Fletcher. Fletcher f*cking Letcher. Swear to God.

I could help these people. We could help these people. It's so simple. A concerned friend brings the person to our offices. A conversation as such follows:

DNS: What can we do for you?
CRAZY: Well, my friend brought me here.
DNS: Yes. Tell me, are you about to have a child?
CRAZY: As a matter of fact, yes.
DNS: And what are you planning to name this child?
CRAZY: Dweezil.
DNS: No. You are naming this child Thomas and you will report to thrice-weekly counseling for a period of one year.

We will then execute a contract wherein the friend to the party (heretoafter referred to as "The Client") in question will sign a waiver allowing Disassociative Nomenclature Services (TM) to murder the client(s) if he/she/they proceed in naming said child something out of reasonable human context or fail to complete their requisite counseling sessions.

This can work, I'm telling you. Possible exception: you can prove your last name is Costanza and you want to name your first born son "Seven".

* - Denotes the fact that, in case you were wondering, this is not a typo.

Look Ma, I'm Pretty!

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Figured this joint needed a new look. I have been on a neo-classical, German Expressionist binge of "Imperfect Perfection" lately, and this new template espouses the themes of 1970's "art" that I so despise. God, is this thing ugly or what? Wonderful.

There are two "Comments" boxes right now, one from Blogger and one from HaloScan. Pick either for your musings. Eventually I will disable to the HaloScan set but right now they're important for posterity.

And go.

Watch as I Turn Into "That F*cking Creepy Guy" Before Your Eyes

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OK, so it's been a while since I wrote anything. Tough. I've had lots to do. Here's a rundown of the last month:

--Worked
--Beached
--Golfed
--Moved

So I'm in my own place, I've got my own internet connection, things are going swimmingly. For the most part.

I'm going to tell you a story that, for anyone who knows me personally, is direct proof that I am neither becomeing a man nor maturing in any sense of the word. Do I have other things to talk about? Sure. Is this better than other things I could talk about? Absolutely.

Background info:

A) I am a lightweight drinker. Seriously.
B) I just moved in with two 20 year-old females. I have known them for a total of five days.
C) Some people from work take part in the Wednesday Night World Dive Bar Tour, which takes them to a different sh*tty bar in the Hollywood area each week. This week was my maiden voyage.

This week's event was at the Powerhouse bar on the corner of Hollywood and Highland. In supreme throwback fashion, this bar has three taps that serve nothing but Natural Light. The good stuff. Pitchers are a steal at $9.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: I can hear some of you scoffing at that last remark "...a steal at $9". Consider that, in Los Angeles, you're lucky to find a bottle at a bar under $6. So a pitcher for $9? Heaven, yet I have to admit I miss terribly cheap pitchers at Dave's in good ol' Harrisonburg.)

The place is a hole but not in a dangerous way. They've got an old-fashioned juke box that spits out three songs for a buck. It's a blast. Like a hundred people in the place last night.

Now some sad b*stard before me played 18 songs in a row for his $5. The problem is that they weren't good bar songs. They were ratty Zepplin numbers and the occasional Billy Joel B-Side; not the fare you're looking for whilst throwing darts and ogling women. So I took it upon myself to play three songs that I knew would set the room on fire. The place was relatively quiet before my first song started, no one singing along or giving any indication that they were there to rock. Then "The Safety Dance" by Men Without Hats begins. There are cheers. People sing along. I dance like a robot. Good times. But it's not nearly over. "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey hits the speakers. Near madness. Clapping, people really singing. Then we drop the bomb: "Livin' On a Prayer", Bon Jovi. The place goes f*cking apesh*t. Loudest singing ever. They actually mute the juke so everyone in the bar can sing a line of the chorus. Pandemonium. So what do I do? I drink.

I think I had put five pitchers away by myself by the end of the night. I have no way of knowing because I remember little to nothing after Jon Bon. What I do know is this:

I wake up in my room this morning with my roommate Liz standing in front of me, saying she's going to get ready for work. I have no idea why she's in my room much less telling me this info at eight in the AM. Then, through a searing headache the likes of which I have not been afflicted with in ages, I look around the room. It ain't mine. It's Liz's. Confused, I inquire as to what I'm doing in her bed in her bedroom. Apparently, I had taken occasion to walk in at four AM, refuse to answer questions, and immediately pass out.

NOTE: I've known this poor girl for five days. Five. Days. Now I'm Geoff the Creepy F*cking Roommate. Good times.

Liz takes everything in stride and doesn't seem totally disgusted/frightened. I, on the other hand, am rather worried. Searching for answers, I look through my call log from the previous night. This is ALWAYS a disaster. Always. Mortifying, like, "Oh no, I should have deleted that number for this exact situation. Dear God." You know you have to look, and you're dreading it like there's a plane crash and you're looking for your parent's names on a victims list. So I scroll through the numbers I called (it was a doozy, and factor in that most of the calls are made to the East Coast, so I've called people between the hours of 5-7 AM their time) and talk to the last person on my list. This person wishes to remain anonymous because...well, because he/she was the reason I became Sketchy Geoff.

I relate my story to the person. The person says I was "slurring like crazy" and "barely understandable". At one point I remarked that it was "cold in my room". Jokingly, my friend suggested I climb in bed with one of my roommates. I declined. Still joking, this person said, quote, "I dare you." There was a click and I was gone. You do not dare someone who is drunk out of their mind. You simply do not. Let's make this a rule: no Drunken Dares (TM) unless you are willing & able to clean up the mess that this person will undoubtedly create.

Other than that, things are peachy. The women are insane, though if hell freezes over at some point and I'm actually in a position to invite a girl back to my place, the phrase "My car does not exist" is going to pretty much destroy the whole charade. And for those of you who are asking, here is a list of celebrities I've met/seen so far:

--Joan Rivers
--Joe Pesci
--Schuyler Fisk (she was in Orange County with Jack Black...I actually talked to her - again, drunk - and said told her, literally, that she was "in luck" because "I only need to sleep with someone kind of famous." Again...good times.)
--Nicole Ritchie (physically ran into her near my office in Beverly Hills. Was looking at my phone. Was very sweet about the fact that I nearly killed her.)
--Tommy Lee
--Andie McDowell
--Brendan Frasier (who is like 30 feet tall and getting fat, which is fun)

Also, a very nice girl I met out here named Jen Morrison (a friend of a friend, she was in Grind and Final Destination II) just got her pilot House picked up by Fox for the fall season. Congrats Jen. When I tell people from back home about this she will be known as "my friend Jen". Inaccurate, but do I seem like someone who cares?