That Time I Answered a 'For Rent' Ad for a Haunted Bungalow in a Cult Compound

[Wanted: A renter for a bungalow on a century-old estate. Must be cult and ghost hunter friendly.]

The Boyfriend has a weird sense of what constitutes entertainment.

I say this because a month ago, he decided I should pose as an interested party in the rental of a bungalow on a dilapidated estate in the hills of our hometown. Before I remembered that The Boyfriend takes open houses very seriously, I thought he was joking.

He then informed me that he had contacted the real estate agent and set up a viewing.

It got worse, because the heiress - who, in a Grey Gardens-like twist, still lives in the salmon-pink manor at the center of the property - wanted to show us the bungalow herself.

I can't even afford this bungalow, I complained. This is really disingenuous!

Shut up, The Boyfriend said. This is going to epic!

And so we went.

As it turns out, the estate is located smack dab at the zenith of The Land That Time Fucking Forgot (capitalized for super extra emphasis). I'm pretty sure we drove The Boyfriend's sports car through a rift in the space-time continuum and into the lair of a voodoo priestess (or maybe I've just been watching too much True Blood), because suddenly there were houses on stilts and pottery hanging from trees and peacock feathers tied to gateposts.

Apparently, the entire neighborhood is exempt from the architectural approval procedures and housing standards administered to the rest of the community. And we all know what happens when there are no laws: everyone abandons broken-down fuel trucks in fields and installs mailboxes on abandoned lots, right?

[Apparently, time also forgot this truck.]

So, why is this gated neighborhood a lawless parcel of insanity, you ask? Well, because the neighborhood is on a giant landslide and is therefore gliding into the ocean at a rate of several feet per year. So everyone that could move to a house that wasn't on a giant slip-'n-slide did so; the rest became ungovernable hermits.

Hence, I was now trapped in a car with The Boyfriend, navigating a 20-mile-long driveway in the middle of a forest of pepper trees and 12-foot-tall desert agave plants. And I'm not really happy about it.

After driving for what seemed to be an hour, we reach a huge peacock-blue gate topped with barbed wire and security cameras.

Wait, I say. I'm supposed to pretend to want to rent a bungalow...in there?!

The Boyfriend excitedly confirms this as the gate rolls open and then falls off its track.

I figure this is probably a good thing, because it will be harder for the crazy people that live here to lock us inside if the gate is malfunctioning.

The heiress comes to greet us, and The Boyfriend quickly launches into a discussion about the history of the estate. I'm peering through a vine-covered gate at a contorted Greek statue when I hear the heiress respond to one of The Boyfriend's ten thousand questions.

Oh the barbed wire and cameras? We have those because the house is haunted.

Excuse me, what?! I whirl around. This is just too fucking awesome.

Well, everybody just says it's haunted, she clarifies. We have the security system in place because people try to get in to see the ghosts.

Of course. You live in a gated estate in the middle of an already-gated community to keep out ghost hunters. Why am I not surprised?

She leads us around the outskirts of the estate's inner-sanctum - the main house, which, ridiculously, is also gated. Now I'm certain this heiress is hiding something - probably pirate gold or the preserved head of Joaquin Carrillo Murrieta in a jar of gin.

I mean, I wouldn't be surprised.

She leads us to one of the property's 11 bungalows, which were built in the decades following the construction of the main house nearly a century ago.

Everything is a cheery pink and covered in vines. There are lemon trees, an abandoned chicken coop, benches constructed from scalloped tile and gardens in every nook and cranny. And wedged in every enclave is a Greek goddess, crumbling ceramic bird bath or a screeching live peacock.

[Ghosts need seating too, yo.]

I'm beginning to think we somehow ended up in the ruins at Delphi instead of modern-day California.

My assumption is proved correct a few minutes later when a tattooed Canadian artist - who is in the process of moving out of bungalow I am supposedly considering - asks us, offhandedly, if we've been up to the temple yet.

The...temple? I ask.

Yes, he says. It's at the very top of the estate.

Well, color me intrigued. The heiress leads The Boyfriend and I to the base of giant stairway and points. It's up there, she says.

We are left to stumble up 200 crumbling steps. Sure enough, at the top of the hill, there is a smattering of Ionic columns (of course) and some sort of alter, which looks ripe for goat sacrifices.

[My potential neighbors are probably planning on sacrificing goats up here on the full moon.]

Oh, fantastic.

None of this is helped by the fact that all the bungalows on the estate are occupied solely by artists and hippies.

Wouldn't you love to live here?! The Boyfriend exclaims. It's amazing!

I turn to look at him. You know what? I'm pretty sure this compound is home to a cult.

He doesn't seem convinced.

No really, I continue. The cult of Aphrodite or something. They probably run around naked on the full moon.

[Ye ole goat sacrifice alter?]

He is glaring angrily at me now.

Hey, if moved here, I would not accept any Kool-aid from my neighbors.

The Boyfriend throws up his hands in defeat and starts walking down the stairs.

As it turned out, however, the haunted bungalow in the cult compound was a sweet deal. We were halfway out of The Land That Time Fucking Forgot when we spotted an overgrown road that made up for its lack of pavement in a whole lot of creeptastic ambiance.

Want to walk around? The Boyfriend asks.

Umm, no? I say. But somehow I end up following him.

We turn the corner and find this:

[I'm no architect, but I'm fairly certain houses are not supposed to be balanced on a pile of 2 x 4s.]

As we're trying to figure out why someone would take the time to dig their own house out of the ground, The Boyfriend and I continue down the road.

Maybe they're making a moat, I say. That's probably an effective method of keeping the cult members out.

We both stop dead.

What. The. Fuck. Is. That? The Boyfriend asks.

[Is that a wall...made out of ceramic heads?]

You know what? I think I prefer the haunted bungalow.

P.S. If I mysteriously disappear from the Internet, assume the voodoo priestess who lives in the house full of clay sculptures turned me into a zombie. Because that happens, you know.

My Top Secret Half-Uncle Likes the Smell of Burning Villages

[The astounding accuracy of my fortune cookies really freaks me out sometimes.]

(Yeah, I totally suck. This is one of many posts I wrote months ago but never posted because, as I mentioned, I suck.)

If there were a terrorist alert-type system for likelihood of accidental incest, my family would now be hovering somewhere around orange, or “high risk”. I say this because my family tree is pretty prone to sprouting branches when I’m not looking. Basically – as recently pointed out by my good friend Kirin – whenever things start getting quiet around my household, some long-lost and semi-insane relative pops out of the woodwork.

I’m becoming increasingly concerned that I might be related to a very large number of people running around Middle America. It appears that every male member of my family has at least four mysterious ex-wives that I never heard of. And they’ve all had children. And then mysteriously died in terrible ways. True story.

[My apologies for the insanely ugly family tree diagram. I have become much too lazy to draw properly. But I think it gets the point across.]

And now, because of the internet, none of these secrets are safe.

On a Friday night a few months ago, my unsuspecting brother made the mistake of Googling our great-grandfather, once advisor to the Bank of China and economic guru under the Roosevelt administration. Instead of finding a few tidbits about great grandpappy’s friendship with Chiang Kai-Shek, Topher discovered the social network profile of a man who claimed to be our great grandfather’s eldest grandson.

After doing the math, Topher realized this simply did not fit into his current understanding of our family tree. He began to furiously text our mother.

At this exact moment, I was sitting next to our mother, trying to tolerant a particularly cheesy episode of a BBC mystery miniseries. I had been hurling insults at the television screen for some time – but I quickly realized that my mother wasn’t listening. I had turned to her to make sure that my witty comments were being properly appreciated when I noticed she was in a deep text message conversation with someone on her iPhone.

That was unusual.

What are you doing? I asked.

Oh nothing, she said. Topher just found my brother online.

See, my mother had a plan. She thought that if she acted like nothing was amiss I would turn around and continue yelling at the stuffy British detectives on television. Unfortunately for her, I can smell a family catastrophe from a mile away.

He found Uncle Porn ‘Stache online?

[I recently nicknamed my batshit crazy, estranged uncle ‘Uncle Porn ‘Stache’ when I realized he had the mustache of a 1970s porn star. My mother was instantly overcome with grief because it had never occurred to her that I would even know what a porn star looked like.]

Oh. Umm, no. My brother Trucker*, my mother replied.

She said this so casually, I almost thought that I had, through out the entire course of my life, simply misunderstood the number of brothers my mom had. But wait. That doesn’t make sense.

WHO?

My brother. Trucker. From your grandfather’s first marriage.

My grandfather’s WHAT?!

This is how it always happens. Somebody says, Oh yeah Brittany, that dude in that photo is your brother! And I’m like, Huh?! And they’re like, Yeah, from your Dad’s second – or maybe third – marriage! And I’m like, HIS WHAT?!

Except this time it was my grandfather. And now I have an uncle.

Oh, my mom adds, and McWittle.

What?

My other brother.

STOP. THIS. RIGHT. NOW. MOM.

Well, put simply, I have two half uncles that in my 23 years on this planet I have never heard of. My mom’s excuse? She forgot. But now, Pandora’s box has been opened. I need to know more.

So here is an open letter to my Uncle Trucker, which I am considering sending to him, via a social network (perhaps with some minor alterations).

Dear Uncle Trucker,

Hi. I was checking out your profile on some social networking site that I’ve never heard of, and it’s pretty obvious we’re related because you seem completely nuts. Your “About Me” section was a bitter rant about how our mutual relation left the entire family fortune to a liberal arts college (the one I attended, in fact). Yeah, I complain about that a lot too. See, we already have something in common!

Your self portraits remind me of a cross between the happy, bumbling British neighbor that turns out to be a murderer in every BBC miniseries and Michael Moore of Bowling for Columbine fame. With perhaps some Santa Claus thrown in. I don’t know what that really says about you. Actually you kind of look like Mr. Finney from Boy Meets World.

Your profile says you’re a member of Islam and you use your blog to write sci fi fantasy about moon colony revolts and other futuristic space problems (in 30+ installments, no less!). I’m impressed. That’s not normal behavior for a 60 year old.

Through some quick Facebook stalking, I’ve discovered you enjoy a Farmville-like game called Kingdom of Camelot, you don’t trust the government, and you were recently assaulted in a public library.

But I have to say, my favorite thing about you are your indescribable Facebook status updates. A selection of my favorites:

“Oh the humanity! The lamentations of the women. The smell of burning villages just makes the day!”**

“I just lost most of my army attacking a fortified barbarian camp. Great.”

“I am loyal to my friends but I make a dangerous enemy.”

Clearly, dear uncle, we are going to get along famously.

XOXO

Your niece,

Brittany

*The names in this post have been changed to protect my unsuspecting blood relations.

**These are all real quotes. For reals. My uncle is potentially awesome.

And Then Apple Destroyed My New Years Resolution

It was the year I went on a road trip with a potential serial killer. It was the year I ate dog soup. It was the year I became the editor of a magazine. It was the year I fought a woman with terminal cancer. It was the year I lived with a paranoid schizophrenic. It was the year I illegally disposed of human remains. It was the year I learned I was Rambo.

Basically, I rocked this year so hard it died of an intracranial injury.

Now, 2010 in review:

I survived Americorps. Barely. One of the various inane requirements at my alma mater was a career aptitude test. Our high school guidance counselors supposedly used this test as a means of pointing wayward students in the direction of a viable career. Unfortunately for my counselor, I very quickly realized that this test was a sham – surely, no one could fall for questions like, “Do you want to rescue infants from burning buildings?” No, I didn’t want to rescue infants from burning buildings. It would be nice if someone rescued infants from burning buildings, but it would not be me. Were they trying to be sneaky? Clearly, this question really meant, “Do you want to be a firefighter?” Why wasn’t the test a piece of paper with a box that said, “Write your desired career here”?

I deemed that the test had no intrinsic value and answered the questions accordingly. When it came time for my parents to meet with my counselor regarding the results, the appointment was a somber one.

“Well,” said my counselor, “Brittany seems to be equally disinterested in everything.” This was not what my parents had been expecting of the daughter who was on the high honor roll and a member of the California Scholarship Federation.

“Although,” – we waited with baited breath for the good news – “She really, really doesn’t want to help people.”

As it turns out, I should have heeded the results. After college, I had one of those typical what-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life panic attacks and signed up for the Americorps VISTA program – as suggested by my mother, who, as it turns out, is in complete denial about the type of person I am.

While everyone’s Americorps experience varies, the general consensus seems to be that the VISTA program in particular is a soul-sucking hell hole. In the end I learned a very important lesson: organizations only value what they pay for. Also? I am terrible at working with wealthy housewives. In conclusion: my year in Americorps helped me come to terms with the fact that there are many jobs I would immediately be fired from. Most of them include ill-behaved homeless children and fundraising events.

[Sometimes, you can only afford Mexican goat milk caramel spread.]

I lived in a two bedroom apartment with three other people. My measly Americorps stipend was meant to force me to live in poverty, and that I did. My roommates and I quickly learned that some things were worth splurging on – bleached toilet paper and quality cuts of beef, for instance – while other things could be purchased at the local Mexican market. Most of our income was reserved for alcohol.

My roommates were so awesome that they made up for the fact that we were collectively starving to death. That is, with the exception of one roommate who taped a piece of paper over her laptop’s webcam “to keep the Feds from spying on her.”

Cancer Dad was cancer free. In a surprising twist, my father didn’t get cancer in 2010. He had spent the past few years being diagnosed with cancer on three different occasions and then subsequently declaring that his death was imminent (usually in public places). In 2009, he very nearly became the Bionic Man when a surgeon decided that the best course of action would be to replace Cancer Dad’s entire sternum with a titanium plate. That didn’t happen, and the doctors never did figure out what kind of cancer he had. Yet, he’s still here.

Grandma only made it to 99 years of age. While Cancer Dad surprised us all by not getting cancer, Grandma surprised us by passing away. We thought she would live for eternity, so it was all really quite shocking. She didn’t go silently though – rumor has it that some hospital employees might be filing lawsuits. You see, she didn’t kick the bucket. She kicked an orderly. In the face.

I illegally disposed of my grandparents' bodies. Because Grandma passed on, we finally carried out Grandpa’s wishes to have their ashes mingled together and spread over a horse corral. As it turned out, this was the worst plan of all time. However, I am determined to make this a tradition. Yes, that’s right. I intend to dump human remains behind the same house in the future. Although Cancer Dad disappointed us by not keeping his word and dying, I intend to forge his Will so that he, too, can be mixed with horse manure when he finally does pass on. And then I will make my children do the same to me.

[I really think that is supposed to read, "God Forsook Texas."]

I went to Texas and it was every bit as awful as I suspected. I still cannot comprehend that there is an entire state comprised of strip malls, vacant lots and herds of cattle.

I took The Boyfriend to South Korea and we survived. Barely. The Boyfriend is the worst traveler of all time. But he decided to take our relationship to the next level by inviting himself on my second Korean excursion, possibly as a romantic gesture. He packed for our journey while downing Four Lokos and the next thing I knew, we were in Bucheon and he had only one pair of clean pants.

I got a job as a writer. Though my mother constantly bemoans my "Que Sera, Sera" attitude, it tends to work for me. Despite the economy, I was only unemployed for a week and a half after the end of my Americorps service. I threw a bunch of resumes out in cyberspace, and now I'm a full time assistant editor for two trader magazines (and I have fun benefits like health insurance and a 401k plan). The whole thing is really surreal. You work for some newspapers, maintain a terrible blog, and then people are all, You should be a writer! And I’m like, That’s kind of hard to get into, yo. And then I get this job and people are like, What’s a trade magazine? And I’m like, It means I’m the reigning expert on bus chassis and mass notification systems (well, maybe not)! And they’re all, Wait, you don’t get paid to write about zombie cows?!

I got my own apartment. One of the huge upsides to being paid a living wage is that you can afford to live on your own. I now reside in a kick ass apartment walking distance from the beach. And although I’m too much of a bum to ever actually go to the beach, I do reap the other benefits of single living. Those include watching Netflix in my underwear and drinking wine in my bathtub. Judge away.

I discovered that I have two secret half uncles. Turns out, all the men in my family have been married multiple times to women who mysteriously died. Subsequently, the offspring resulting from these unions were abandoned. Said uncles were discovered by my brother Topher, via Google.

I found a 200-year-old book in the trunk of my car. I’m on the verge of being signed up for the television show Hoarders, but my pack rat ways have led me to several exciting genealogical discoveries. Turns out I’m the descendant of the commander of the IX Corps of the Union Army (Civil War, yo!), Brigham Young, and the founders of Parkesburg, Pennsylvania. I am also a descendant of Peter Gunnarsson Rambo, a Swedish immigrant who came to the New World in 1640. Turns out Sylvester Stallone's Rambo character is Peter's namesake. Basically? I'm awesome.

[Cat? Or space mutant?]

I was deemed responsible enough to adopt a furry creature. Three weeks ago, I adopted an Ewok from a rescue agency. Okay, so maybe it was a Himalayan cat. Either way, she looks like a space alien, performs complicated aerial assaults, and has the uncanny ability to look exactly like Jabba the Hutt when necessary.

In summary: I have no idea how it happened – but I started 2010 as a confused, poverty-stricken recent college grad and left it a self-sufficient professional writer with a pet Ewok and a roof over my head. It’s astounding how quickly things can change.

I conquered 2010, bitches.

And then, with astounding speed, 2011 conquered me.

That's right. I already failed to uphold my one new year's resolution - to eat breakfast. But I'm going to have to blame Apple for this one.

On Monday, January 3rd, all 15 of the alarms I had set for myself failed to go off. Apparently, Apple experienced a massive failure in which iPhone alarms malfunctioned in the new year (how is this shit even possible, yo?). It was like Y2K all over again. Except it really happened this time.

In summary: I was late to my first day of work in 2011, and subsequently I did not eat breakfast.

That's got to be a world record in resolution breaking.

A Starving Dog, a Sharp Stick, and a Thought on Family at Christmas

While I was abusing my stomach and ears this morning with a gingerbread latte and some seasonal music, I caught the tail end of a conversation in the next cubicle:

“…Like my dad always says, ‘it beats a sharp stick in the eye’!”

I can’t help but think that our families have way more to do with who we are than we would like. But this season – while I watch my sexist, alcoholic grandfather hit on waitresses, and tune out my Paraguayan aunt’s lecture on the herbal remedies she sells out of her compound in Pahrump, Nevada – I will be thankful.

I will be thankful for my cousin who was arrested in Columbia with thousands of dollars in her shoes; for my (secret) half uncle who posts science fiction about moon colonies on his blog; for my 6’7” great uncle who robbed an ice cream parlor at gunpoint; for my grandmother that was committed to an institution after she hallucinated that there was a flock of ducks in her living room.

All these people make me who I am. (Which – in the case of my mental health – is probably not a good thing.)

I am also thankful for all the relatively useless advice they have provided over the years. (As my late paternal grandfather used to say, “Never hire an architect who wears a cape.”)

Despite their best efforts to the contrary, my family makes me proud. Their endless antics, absurd secret lives, and collective arrest record are not to be dismissed. Thank you guys for everything.

But, as my dad always says, “Brittany, you need that like a starving dog needs two assholes!”*

Well, merry Christmas and a happy new year!

*Clearly, I win the “as my father always says” contest.

Someone Owes Me a Million Dollars (and it Might Be Sylvester Stallone)

First of all, apologies to the blogosphere for my overwhelming lameness as of late. I have become very busy and important, and therefore unable to blog with pathological frequency. I will try my best to get back on the bandwagon.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

I am wildly unhelpful if you have real life problems. This is mostly because my family taught me that if you are experiencing serious issues, you should probably just shut up about it and quietly plot your revenge. Which means, really, that I am never going to give you sympathetic or useful advice during the terrible, dark periods of your life.

Take today for example. The Graphic Designer, a former squeeze of mine, has been experiencing some unemployment-related issues since the economy up and died. I could offer some nice, supportive banter. Or I could offer something semi-logical that is based on my actual life experiences:

Me: Don’t worry. It's impossible that you won't get a job for the rest of forever - unless, of course, you're one of my insane relations. In that case, you’ve blown millions of dollars on a koi pond, an assortment of rare cacti, and a home theater system and now you live in someone's basement in Chicago. But that's totally different.

The Graphic Designer: Oi vey, how is it I know that YOU KNOW somebody exotic like that?!

Me: Dude, you have no idea. Last week I traced my family back to a guy who came to the New World in 1640. He has an apple named after him.

And so forth.

Now, it may surprise you, but everything I said in this excerpt from my ill-fated gchat with The Graphic Designer is quite true. I am related to an eccentric former millionaire who spent all his money hand-building a koi grotto next to his swimming pool and installing a custom recliner in his living room that doubled as a huge remote for his theater screen. (He very kindly offered to let me “party at his place” whenever. Shortly thereafter, he filed for bankruptcy. Oh the devastation.)

I am also the descendant of a Swedish immigrant who ventured to New Sweden (now known as Delaware) in 1640 and consequently witnessed William Penn’s treaty with the Lenape Indians for the acreage that now constitutes the city of Philadelphia.

Peter Gunnarsson Rambo traveled across the seas onboard the Kalmar Nyckel, quite inexplicably, with a sack of apple seeds. He subsequently planted them all over New England, and the resulting variety of apples was dubbed “The Rambo Apple.”

Now here’s the important part.

If you’re thinking The fuck, the dude’s name was Rambo?!, you might be onto something.

Back in the day (circa 1970), a writer named David Morrell was trying to come up with a name for the protagonist of his latest novel. His wife came home with a bag of apples that she claimed were particularly delicious; he asked what they were called.

If you guessed “Rambo apples,” you are now displaying signs of average intelligence. Congratulations!

Morrell’s book was called First Blood and it inspired the infamous Rambo film franchise starring Sylvester Stallone.

So.

Yeah.

Bitch, where are my royalties?!

I mean, hell, Sylvester Stallone’s character was indirectly named after my ancestor. Are there no benefits in that?! You mean my poor great great grandfather Ezekiel Rambo Young (I couldn’t even make this shit up) had to live his whole life with that ludicrous moniker and it means nothing?! (Unfortunately, Peter’s descendants were really into naming their sons Ezekiel. And my poor great great grandfather was named way before they knew our family name was going to become an 80s cinematic sensation.)

(Thousands of angels are playing their tiny violins as we speak.)

So, basically?

The estate of David Morrell can send me a check (or money order!) for a million bucks and we’ll call it even.

Aunt Fanny, A Brass Bed, and My Potentially Dangerous Bathtub Problem

Once upon a time, I thought I was normal. That is, until my mother started a llama farm in an abandoned neighborhood. More on that later.

Anyway, as I've gotten older, I've also grown increasingly eccentric. I thought this was a common occurrence - until I figured out that other people weren't obsessed with Mexican water salamanders, phallic Bhutanese wall paintings, and giant squid. But, in the tradition of basic human nature, I'm going to blame all of this on something besides myself. Yes, that's right, I'm blaming it on genetics.

It all started a few weeks ago when I woke up at four in the morning freezing my ass off. This wasn't very surprising, since I was submerged in a tub of frigid water.

But wait, I thought. Why am I in a tub of cold water?!

See, I couldn't really remember at the time - due to a developing hangover - that I had drunk perhaps a bottle and a half of red wine earlier that evening. It was all part of my participation in a party I shouldn't have even been at, considering I had work the next day. But none of this really explains how I got to be in the bathtub.

At some point during the evening, I had decided that I was going to be responsible and go to bed. The party was at The Boyfriend's house, so this wasn't a major inconvenience - I just crawled under his covers and prepared to block out the noise coming from the living room. Unfortunately, I had not been responsible enough. I was already so drunk that the very act of lying down made me feel like I was on the deck of the fishing boat in that George Clooney disaster, The Perfect Storm.

I got up just in time to relieve myself of the contents of my stomach in the proper receptacle.

Immediately afterward, my eyes fell upon the bathtub.

Let me explain my drunken logic. Everyone in the known universe understands that to avoid hangovers, you must take the proper precautions by drinking a lot of water. I considered my science lessons from eighth grade, and the word "osmosis" seemed particularly appropriate (and amusing). Why yes, I thought, I will absorb water through my skin! Like in osmosis! It didn't occur to me that no one ever talks about taking bubble baths to cure hangovers. I didn't care. Osmosis is a natural scientific process, and therefore it was sure to work!

Shortly after drunkenly clambering into the tub, I was interrupted by The Boyfriend who had noticed I was missing from the party.

"You're in the bathtub?!" he asked incredulously.

"Yes I am!" I replied.

He saw there was no getting me out, so he returned to his other, non-bathing party guests.

Now this is where The Boyfriend fails as a boyfriend, and I fail as a human being with at least an average amount of intelligence, because - no joke here, kiddies - I completely fell asleep.

For three hours.

Yes.

THREE HOURS.

When I awoke at four in the morning, I had been sawing logs in the bathtub for 180 minutes. I somehow dried off and put on something resembling pajamas, dragged myself to the bed, and promptly passed out again.

When the sun rose and work beckoned, I wanted to die. I pulled on my clothes and drove to the office, and then spent the remainder of my morning trying very hard not to puke on my keyboard. Clearly, osmosis does not apply to drunk people.

Suddenly, The Boyfriend appears on gchat. The following conversation ensued:

Now, the worst part about all of this is not that my boyfriend left me drunk in a tub to die, it's that I had done this sort of thing before. Only the other time, I was alone in a hotel room. During a conference.

But anyway, my bathtub obsession is well documented. Ask anyone that knew me in high school. Or middle school. I was very prone to taking phone calls in the bathtub. Death was not a concern then either - clearly I wasn't worried about electrocution. My bathing habits had gotten to the point that my dad would knock on the bathroom door and ask if I "wanted to take a call." Lately I've even gotten in the habit of taking a glass of wine and my ebook reader into the tub with me - a deadly combination that has not resulted in my electrocution or drowning - yet.

But anyway, back to genetics.

Yes, I blame this on genetics. After the unfortunate "my-boyfriend-left-me-in-the-tub-to-drown" incident, I recalled a story about some relatives that I had heard a very long time ago. I have since verified this story with my grandfather, so what you are about to hear is all true. Beware. You might not want to be friends with me after this, because I'm probably going to turn into a crazy drunken hermit with 800 pet llamas and a half ton of gold bricks under my floorboards. (You might want to stick around for the gold bricks though.)

So. Here it goes.

Oh yeah, I haven’t changed the names. Because they are awesome.

Once upon a time, circa the late 1800s, my great-great-great aunts, Fanny and Emma, were taking the word “spinster” to a whole new level.

Neither sister had ever been married, so they did the logical thing and lived under the same roof for their entire lives. This was the same roof that their mother, Grandma Lurch (once again, these are real names) lived under.

Anyway, to make matters worse, Aunt Fanny and Aunt Emma also shared a bed. Not in a sexy way. In an it’s-the-1800s-and-my-sister-and-I-share-a-bed sort of way. Like in all those period drama mini series on the BBC.

The bed shared by Aunt Fanny and Aunt Emma was a big old brass bed with metal posts and decorative knobs and all that crap. But the bed wasn’t always big enough for the two of them – sometimes the sisters would get into terrible fights.

Fanny and Emma’s battles have become legendary. Over a hundred years later, my family is still talking about them.

Why?

Well, because, when Aunt Fanny and Aunt Emma would get into their dramatic screaming matches, the altercation was apparently never resolved by bedtime. And since the sisters shared a bed, well, something had to give.

What gave was Fanny.

Aunt Fanny – according to numerous sources – would get so hopping mad that she would gather up her blankets and pillows, march down the hall, and…

…make herself a bed in the bathtub.

Now, surely, you must understand where I’m going with this. See? It’s genetic, people! I can’t help that I have DNA-based bathtub problem! This can undoubtedly be proved through science!

Now stop making fun of me.

And stop leaving me in the bathtub to drown!

But back to the story - luckily, this story has a happy ending.

Fanny and Emma, the extraordinary stay-at-home spinster duo, were entirely supported by my great-great grandfather, as he had married a close relative of theirs. (Why, I cannot imagine. Would you marry a girl if you knew she was related to a pair of crazy broads that shared a bed and occasionally slept in a bathtub? Oh wait. Shit. No, come on now, I’m only distantly related. Sexy male readers, fear not!)

Well, after the pair passed away (probably from whooping cough or the plague or something) my great-great grandfather went to their former home to clean out their belongings. Halfway through cleaning up the mess, a workman disassembling the big brass bed calls out to him, “Sir! You should come look at this!”

So, my befuddled relation makes his way to Fanny and Emma’s bedroom, where the workmen have pulled the knobs off of the bed posts. Stuffed inside the frame are wads upon crumpled wads of cash!

They pull the bed apart and discover that Fanny and Emma have hidden seven thousand dollars in the frame of their big brass bed!

Keep in mind this is still the 1800s, and seven grand could probably pay a laborer’s salary for a year, or buy you a huge piece of property. So like, CHA-CHING.

Like I said. You should probably stick around for the gold bars I will be hiding in my crawl space in 50 years.

Really.

It’s genetic.

P.S. This post is dedicated to Matlicious on Twitter, who got my lazy butt to stop neglecting my blog. And he did it using the phrase "awesome sauce". Clearly, this guy is fan-fucking-tastic!

P.S.S. I swear I had good reasons for my blatant blog neglect. I moved. I got a new job. Shit be crazy up in here!

P.S.S.S. I promise I will explain the llamas. Soon. I swear.

My Friend Turco is Looking for Groupies to Have Sex with His Band

Remember my friend Turco? The one who doesn’t have herpes? Well, apparently, the post I wrote to get him laid was so successful that I am now being bribed to pimp his band.

And when I say successful, I mean that a handful of teenyboppers replied to it on Facebook with gems like, “Wait, did you really crash your bike?”

I was certain the dead fish and pink deer would tip people off that I cannot be taken seriously.

Which is why I was confused when I got a Facebook message from Christoff – self-appointed manager of the band Tangent – with the subject line that read: “Blog Skillz?”. The message asked me to pimp the band in exchange for mind-altering substances and a subsidized cover charge.

Well, here I am again, throwing my integrity out the window, because what Christoff lacks in managerial skillz, he make up for in rad faux-velvet rock star wear. And bribery.

[If you are looking for yuppie pirates, fake basketball players, and preteens, then Tangent is the band for you!]

Chrisoff has offered me (and my nonexistent friends) free admission to Electric Haze: DJ & Rock Band Event at The Waterfront Concert Theatre in Marina del Rey. He has done this so I will take photos of Tangent free of charge. To sweeten the deal (and get shittier photographs?) he has offered me “a few drinks”. A.k.a one drink. If he’s not too busy dedicating songs to his girlfriend.

These bribes, as it turns out, are much more tangible than the pizza and $30 check that I was promised by Turco if I got him laid.

So cheers to Christoff’s terrible business decisions. (Which include, but are not limited to, asking me to write this blog post in hopes it will attract attendees; changing his name to Christoff to “increase business” which apparently it did – according to Christoff. Since, you know, he’s an economist. Apparently we live in an age where you can be an economist without an Econ degree. By the way, I’m a neurosurgeon.)

But if you’re someone who can tolerate trance music and dudes that spell the name Christoph/Christof/Kristoff wrong, this might be the show for you!

If you’re still not sure, let me give you a few reasons to attend even though you will not be receiving free alcohol and admission like myself:

1. Turco’s orgasm face. If you were at all tempted to sleep with Turco after that other post, this is definitely the show for you! Turco plays the drums like he’s having sex with them. His face is contorted by spasms of pleasure at being able to beat his drums like he beats other things. After watching several Tangent shows, I have become convinced that this is what Turco looks like in bed:

However, you are going to have to verify that for me.

2. T-shirts. Tangent sells shirts at their shows, and I know you’ve always wanted a shirt that will make people ask you if you’re really into geometry.

[Neither of these groupies managed to properly display their band shirts. FAIL.]

3. Drug taking opportunities. The show has two stages, which means that one is purely manned by DJs. The DJs at this show are named DJ Tyler Larkin and DJ INF3CTION, and they will probably be spinning some serious trance music. This can be effectively coupled with ecstasy, so I hear. I don’t know who these DJs are. The first one obviously forgot that DJs can pick cool names. And the second one wanted people to associated him with preteen text messaging and/or terrible graphic designers.

4. Fartbarf. THERE IS A BAND NAMED FARTBARF. Need I say more?

5. Me. If you’re a fan of this blog, I will totally autograph a body part of your choosing. Also, if you promise to buy me booze, I will claim that you are one of my close personal acquaintances and I will demand that Christoff let you in for free.

6. Vice Versa. The Boyfriend is the lead singer of Vice Versa, and he sometimes performs in his socks. This can be amusing. Blake also plays in this band, and he makes cheesy grits, which taste delicious. Also, he is recently single, and will probably go on a date with you despite your halitosis and obvious drug problem. Turco plays drums for Vice Versa as well as Tangent, which means reason number one (orgasm face) also applies. Matt, the bass player, wears a woman’s jacket with fuzzy cheetah print sleeves to every show – mention to him that you know this, and I will buy you a soda.

Now that you've been totally convinced of this show's worth, you can click here for details.

P.S. In all likelihood, Christoff will immediately realize that asking me to promote this event was a catastrophic idea.

In that case, you will probably not get not get free admission in exchange for booze, my autograph, or a soda in exchange for mentioning the cheetah coat because I will be banned from the facility. If I am correct, that means half of the awesome reasons to attend are now void, and you should immediately commence a boycott.

UPDATE: The Boyfriend has informed me that Matt wears a cow print jacket, not a cheetah print jacket. I tried to argue, but apparently The Boyfriend gave the jacket to Matt and should know. In hindsight, I should have realized that this jacket was The Boyfriend's, since A) it is a piece of women's clothing, and B) it is horrifying, and C) he was quite upset that I didn't get the animal right. My apologies.