My interview with Taylor Swift

I called Taylor Swift's manager hoping to get an interview with her for this blog. I figured that I'm just a budding star, not yet a superstar, so I had to concoct some kind of fib in order for her to allow me the interview. I told her I was a writer for a new celeb magazine called "Reach for the Stars." Here's how it went...

Me: OMG Taylor! This is such an honor.
TS: The pleasure is all mine.
Me: Did you just say pleasure?
TS: What?
Me: Nevermind. That song about Romeo and Juliet is so HOT! How do you remember all the words?
TS: It's all about practice. My band manager is a real sweetheart and he helps me out a lot.
Me: In what ways?
TS: Well, we sit down together and go over the chords and lyrics and I tell him what exactly I'm looking for out of each instrument. We make a great team.
Me: What else do you two do together?
TS: What are you talking about?
Me: Nothing, nothing, forget it. So you're what, like 15?
TS: No, I'm 18.
Me: You look like you're 15. So what's the best thing about being famous?
TS: It's the fans. They are so great and supportive and I wouldn't be here without them.
Me: What about the free liquor?
TS: Oh, I don't drink, besides I'm not yet 21!
Me: That shouldn't stop you. Well, thanks for the time, Taylor. You're a real babe and sweetheart. Maybe we can get a drink sometime.
TS: You're creepy.
Me: Tee Hee

I just did 450 pushups

I'm thinking about changing my name. No, not my screen name, not my Hebrew name, my real name. Gabriel is my name now. It's fine - but it's like Pictionary. It's fun but then after a while it's like, how many pictures of an airplane can you draw with your eyes closed? You know what I mean?

But if I'm going to change my name, it has to be worth it. Like I wouldn't change it to Dale or Norm or Gregoire. Not that there's much wrong with those names, it's just I can choose any name in the world, so why go mainstream? I want a name that shows who I am. And considering I just did 450 push ups without a break and then ran 30 miles and beat up Mike Tyson, I need a name that reflects that kind of badassery.

Here are the names I've come up with so far: Strongbow Arrow, Pterodactyl, Piston Pistol, Tanker Thompson, George W. Bush, Bark, Mess With Me Not, Chuckster, Rutherford B. Hayes, Vanilla the Thrilla, Rabbi Ezekiel, Beeswax in Yo Face, and Your Majesty.

I can't quite decide. This is where I ask my readers (that means YOU) to help me out. What do you guys think? Which is your favorite, or, perhaps, you are smarter than I and can think of something better for my new self. The ball is in your court...

FYI, there's a comment section...use it.

Oogadee Boogadee!

I used to hide in bushes and backseats of cars. It was exhilarating to scare people. When someone would walk by I would jump out and yell "Oogadee Boogadee!" The person would flip out. Half scared and half angry they would chase me down the street. Not only was it a great way to meet people, it was a great way to get exercise.

I once scared a kid. It was awesome. Kids are so easy to scare. I once waltzed my way onto a playground on a Saturday morning with a ski mask on. I would climb the jungle gym and jump up and down screaming, "Snakes! Snakes! There are snakes everywhere!" Kids don't like snakes - except for the weird ones.

Don't Come a Knocking.

I was waiting to make a phone call today at a phone booth (I got rid of my cell phone, read "34,000 feet") and the gentleman who was inside using the phone was taking forever. After 5, 10, 15 minutes, I didn't know what to do.

I remembered that in movies and TV shows, people knock on the phone booth when they want people to hurry up. So I knocked. The gentleman ignored me. There's no way he didn't hear me because it's a goddamn phone booth and I knocked hard. I didn't want to be Rude Jude so I didn't knock again. I decided to wait. I waited for another 5, 10 minutes. Then I just had to knock. I didn't care if I was Rude Jude or Irritating Ira or Annoying Alex, I was going to use that phone.

The gentleman slid back the door to the phone booth and said, "What do you want? Can't you see I'm busy?" "Who are you talking to for so long?" "My girlfriend. We're being intimate." I could see that his face was red and his knees were buckling. "Gross, dude." I said.

I immediately went to the Verizon store and bought a cell phone. The moral of the story: don't come a knocking when the knocking is a coming.

34,000 feet

So I'm back from vacation (true). Thanks for all your patience as you undoubtedly were screaming at yourselves daily, "WHERE THE HELL IS HE?" Well, I'm back. And do I have a story for you!

So I took a flight through Philadelphia to get to the Caribbean (true) and the plane had one of those phones that are on the back of the center seat in front of you. Since I was young I always wanted to use one, but I was told how expensive it was to use so I never did. It always looked like fun. Talking on the phone from 34,000 ft.? Uh, yes please!

So right before I went on my trip I won a settlement of $5,600. I signed up for a credit card with a limit of - you guessed it - $5,600. So anyway, I get on the plane, I see the phone, I see my credit card and I did some simple math and figured out that if I was on the phone from take off to landing, all 3.5 hours, I would spend - you guessed it again - $5,600.

As soon as Sandy, the flight attendant, told us we could use our portable electronics, I picked up the phone, slid my Amex and called everyone in my rolodex - from Aunt Alice to Ziggy Ziggerson. The woman next to me was clearly annoyed, but if she understood how long I've wanted to do this, she would have understood. I didn't have enough free time off the phone to explain it to her.

I've decided to keep suing people and ditch my cell phone. Once you go center seat in front of you plane phone - you never go back.

Negotiating with Terrorists

So if you aren't hibernating you know that President Obama gave the go-ahead to take out the Somali pirates that took the American hostage. What a bad ass move. I can't believe I didn't immediately remember the time when I had to take down the pirates, but last night in my dreams, it came back to me.

It was probably 1976 or 1977 (those were some rad times, brother) when I was working on a cargo ship delivering medical supplies to Hawaii when a pirate ship came and ordered us to go ashore. My captain, Captain Gertrude, gathered the crew onto the poop deck and said, "Listen men, we do not negotiate with terrorists." We all agreed. We would win as a team or go down as a team. We drew our swords.

The crew chose me as a representative to go talk to the pirates. I swam out to their boat, climbed aboard and listened to what they had to say. "Hi there! My name is Brent," said the pirate. He didn't seem like your typical pirate. He had neither a peg leg or a parrot on his shoulder. Both eyes were intact. "Hi Brent, I'm Gabe." We shook hands. "Do you want a Little Debbie Cake?" "Sure," I said.

I swam back to my crew and told them not to be worried. The pirates meant no harm. All they wanted was to be towed the rest of the way to Hawaii. One of their engines blew out. We agreed, but under one condition: unlimited Little Debbie Cakes the rest of the way. They agreed.

(Editor's Note: For your enjoyment ) - http://14.media.tumblr.com/oaDQWwRAbm98xg3mZqG8JbV2o1_500.jpg

?

Putting a period in the place of a question mark is a bold statement. Example: What the hell? vs. What the hell. That's a pretty clear example. Another: Where's my money? vs. Where's my money. See? The period creates an entirely different emotion than does the question mark.

It works reciprocally. Example: My bag is on the ground. vs. My bag is on the ground? The period creates a statement of truth. The question mark inherently denies truth. Another: I ate the last olive. vs. I ate the last olive? In this case, the question mark creates a vision of a buffoon who doesn't know his left from right or up from down. The period creates certainty. And tampon sales.

The Final Four Series: Part Two

So Machy and I woke up early the next morning after the PHBB and went to this place - The Northside Grill for a greasy filling breakfast before we departed for Detroit and the Final Four.
We sat at the table and sketched out our game plan: first we would look for Michael Jordan, then we would go to Ford Field and watch some basketball.

We drove to Detroit, parked the car, decided whether or not to bring our jackets or leave them in the car (we left them) and started our search for MJ. I had read a few days before that Jordan would indeed be in the D to root on his Tar Heels, so we thought that if there were anyone on the planet who would find him, it would be us. We asked several people on the street if they knew where Michael Jordan was, but none of them knew (or thought we were sane). So we ventured on. We stopped at the Renaissance Hotel, where a Final Four staffer told us he may be staying. We walked around and stared at everyone who walked by. No, not him. Nope, that's not him. No, that guy's white. Is that him? Dude, it's a 4 year old girl. Haven't you seen the Benjamin Button movie? Benjamin who? Nevermind.

The search for Michael Jordan was looking bleak. But we are not quitters. We went to this thing called "Hoop City," a little kids event where you could meet various celebrities (Lil Bow Wow and the Clemson head coach - uhhh no thanks) and we continued to look. He wasn't there. I even went into the men's bathroom to see if I could find him there, but all I found was a note on the side of the stall that read, "For a good time call 555-6501." I called and asked for Michael Jordan. He wasn't there either.

We gave up. We got to the stadium... stay tuned for Part Three coming soon.

The Final Four Series: Part One

Last Thursday my friend Machy and I ventured to Michigan for the Final Four. I have a friend, Josh, who lives in Ann Arbor - about an hour outside of Detroit, the site of the tournament. Josh is in college. He had planned for us to go to his friend's house for a party that night. The party was called the "Pre Hash Bash Bash." Needless to say, Machy and I were psyched. We've been out of college for a handful of years now and we were both itching for a college party.

We get to the party and the host of the PHBB - this kid Rikki - is your stereotypical college kid. Glazed eyes, full heart, and drunk as a skunk. What's not so typical about Rikki is that he's an astrophysicist. I kid you not. This kid has space posters all over his house. Josh tells me that Rikki will probably make millions of dollars one day from the U.S. government from his astrophysicist hypothesis or whatever. I had to find out for myself.

I went up to Rikki and said, "What's up Rikki, I'm Gabe, Josh's friend." "Heeeeeeey mannnn what's crackin, yo?" said Rikki. "What are you studying?" "Space Aerodynamics and Astrophysics." "No shit? So like what exactly are you working on?" I asked. "Satellites," he said. "So you're going to send satellites into space?" Rikki puts his hand on my shoulder and says, "No brah, I AM putting satellites into space...small satellites."

God Bless America. Stay tuned for part two of the Final Four Series.