Steve just told me that his Homie got SNATCHED. He received an envelope with my note, but with no Homie. I’m really sad. And in addition angry. If you have to steal and be a jerk, then take money or drugs or some electronic equipment that you can actually GET MONEY FOR, YOU MORON. LEAVE THE HOMIES ALONE.

So now I worry that all the Homies I have sent off in the world are going to be Homie-snatched too. And all of you will remain homieless. I’ll have to start some kind of fundraiser for the homieless. So to my human homies, I apologize that New York-based United States postal workers cannot be trusted with toy Homies, I’m sorry if you don’t receive yours because of some filthy Homie pirates.

I will be mad pissed if my Homie doesn’t make it to Australia. Can you imagine? It takes like a hundred years for crap to get there, and then on the other end, you just get a stupid note without a Homie. Like what is the point of even living.

Boo.

I am cleaning out my apartment in order to turn my 187 square foot COMPARTMENT into a PALACE. How do I do this? I’m glad you asked! It is a very complicated process, but I like to think of it more as a voyage of discovery. I am thinking that as I clean out my junk, my crap, my shit, my detritus, and my late 90’s and early ought clothing, I will actually find a door that leads down a hallway into ANOTHER ROOM and I will discover that this entire time I was actually living in a ONE BEDROOM PALACE and not a COMPARTMENT. Then all of the sudden I will realize I am getting a very, very good deal on my PALACE. By the look on your face, I see that you are very excited.

What I discovered on my voyage of discovery is that I am really just keeping the same amount of shit, but reorganizing it so they are in different boxes. This creates a problem. In order to turn my compartment into a PALACE I actually have to get rid of things, as in move items from my compartment to a location off the premises, most likely the trash or Goodwill. What I found is that I actually don’t have a lot of stuff. My apartment makes it seem as if I have two tons of shit crammed in a one ton truck. But actually, I have probably half a cup of shit, but my apartment can only take 3 teaspoons of it. Therein lies my problem.

I wish that as a like, totally famous writer, oh my god, I lived in more glamorous conditions, but instead I live in a compartment surrounded by my own shit. I have to say it’s really nice shit though. I mean look at my table. It’s from IKEA. Nice right? It even has a funny name. I also found a big bag of Homies which I decided I could not part with and instead, I will be giving them away to my peoples. If you want a homie, email me and I will mail you one for the low, low price of free. Because, like I said, you are my peoples.

I am walking down the street with Mr. Morrison. We are discussing dry cleaning for some reason. Since my family is Korean and know the owners of every dry cleaner in the greater Los Angeles area, I wait until I visit to dry clean EVERY ITEM OF CLOTHING I OWN. Seriously. I hate paying for dry cleaning. It’s like paying for toilet paper. I wonder, why the hell do I have to pay for this crap if I’m gonna wipe my butt with it? Seems unreasonable. It should be free. Everyone uses air, and that’s free. Why should toilet paper be any different? If you vote me president, I promise free toilet paper and in addition, ending the war. I’d also levy a huge fine on people who don’t pick up after their dogs and people who do not laugh at my jokes. You think I’m joking? Being president is a very serious job, I don’t know if you know that. That’s not to say that I use my dry cleaning to wipe my ass, but I could since my dry cleaning is free and therefore cheaper than toilet paper. I think I’m overexplaining here, I hate when I do that. OK back to the story.

Anyway, a late nineties Civic is stuck in traffic on Sixth Avenue (ha ha ha I mean Avenue of the Americas). There is very bad music coming out. It sounds like Korn or something like that. I don’t even know what Korn sounds like, but I’m 99% sure it’s Korn. Korn is really hardcore because of their use of the K. All really hardcore things use a K, like kasserole, kite, kanana, and kookie. So you know Korn is like, wow, you guys must really rock. Not like that fake Led Zeppelin “band,” I mean they don’t even have a K IN THEIR NAME. Maybe if they were Ked Zeppelin they’d be a lot bigger and things would be different. Anyway this dude in the passenger seat rolls down his window and yells at us, HEY! YOU READ MUCH?

I am like, huh? So, I say, Huh? I SAID, DO YOU READ MUCH? Then he laughs and they drive off. I kind of don’t get it, until Morrison points out that we both wear glasses and that the car is from Jersey. Because most people who drive up Avenue of Americas (ha ha ha I mean Sixth Avenue) in my hood, are coming from the Holland, which is like a big urinary tract that empties in Jersey. That is to say, if you are from Jersey you might think reading is, like, a bad thing and you should make fun of people who might actually do it and, holy shit, actually enjoy it. OH MY GOD YOU TOTAL LOSER. And if you wear glasses you must read “much” and therefore you should be stuffed in a locker. The point is, I don’t think everyone from Jersey sucks, but that if you are listening to Korn and you are from Jersey and you might, just might, BE A TOTAL DOUCHEBAG.

And the sad part, is that I don’t read enough. I don’t even write enough. Given that is what I do for a living, it is a very complicated and sad situation.

OK I said that the G.I. Joe on my fridge was Lifeline, but he is in fact Dial Tone.

Lifeline was the pacifist medic.

I apologize for any inconvenience this might have caused you.

Both of my lightbulbs went out. When I say “both” I really mean “all the lightbulbs in my apartment.” (Not counting the lamp on my dresser, which is also my nightstand, because that’s how small my apartment is.) I have “track lighting” which is a total joke because A) the track is like five inches long, why even bother and B) my apartment is so clearly a dump and my landlord thought that track lighting would make it “more inviting and therefore more profitable” which is totally absurd because it’s like putting a Band-aid on a broken leg. OK this is not the point.

Both the lightbulbs went out so I grabbed a step stool to unscrew the dead ones and I realized, HOLY CRAP I CAN’T REACH. So then I went on my tippy toes which is hard because one toe is hozed (bone bruise by the way, not broken, but it still sucks) so I had to just do tippy toes on one foot which is a very dangerous situation. But that didn’t work. So I grabbed a chair which is only slightly bigger than the step stool and oh what’s this? I STILL CAN’T REACH. I guess all the years I’ve been living here I’ve gotten some kind of giant manslave to change it. So then I got my animal encyclopedia which is about 2-3 inches thick and stood on top of that and then went on my tippy toes and then I could just barely reach. I am pathetic. PATHETIC.

So in conclusion: I am short.

And in addition: My apartment sucks.

Thank you.

Today at the office we got an email from a kid asking “What did dinosaurs eat in 1778?” That pretty much made my day. I can’t remember the last time my day was made this damn hard. Once we got an email asking “What is sexual airforce?” and it took about four hours and five people to figure out the kid meant “sexual intercourse.” Sexual Airforce is the greatest band name ever and I HAVE DIBS DO NOT POACH. Anyway back to the first question, I have no idea why it’s 1778. I’m not sure why that year is particularly important. I mean 1776 yeah, but 1778? It was more of the same as 1777. Seriously. According to Wikipedia, in 1778 Captain Cook discovered Hawaii. I love the whole idea of discovering a place where people already live. Can you imagine some dude coming to New York City and being like “HOLY CRAP I JUST DISCOVERED NEW YORK CITY! WE SHOULD NAME IT AFTER ME. LUCKILY MY NAME IS NEW YORK CITY.”

Anyway, I don’t answer emails from kids because everyone agreed that my answers would be inappropriate. But here are some answers I came up with.

What did dinosaurs eat in 1778?
-children who did not study
-god, and then Darwin
-Kashi Good Friends
-astronauts
-peas
-dodos and giant pandas
-kittens
-trans-fats
-Primal Strips brand vegan ‘beef’ jerky
-Santa Claus
-your parents

Anyway I could keep going but I shouldn’t. OK I will.

-loner socks
-the oeuvre of James Patterson
-children named Hudson, Goethe, Amadeus, and Apple
-children named John
-people who have arguments loudly on their bluetooth headset
-refried beans
-David Caruso
-carbs
-the lost city of Atlantis
-philosophy

See? This is why they won’t let me answer kids’ emails. Or go near kids in general.

And in other news, “Dear Architects” has given me another opportunity, this time away from architecture and toward something else in which I have no background and yet still gets my panties in a tweest: Design. I’ll be a contributor for a blog by a company called Emeco, which produces high-end chairs. The kind you see in museums. All very fancy. I’ll post links when it’s up.

My friend Aura sent me this today and thought I should share. Because it’s important to share, my kindergarten teacher taught me that. Sharing is caring, sharing makes the world go around, it takes a village, two birds with the stone is better in the bush, if you see something, say something, etc.

I can totally imagine the mom sitting down with her son and being like, hi Scout, your father and I love you very much but we think you might have a camel toad problem and need help. We are not judging you, we love you and want to help you with your camel toad. It’s tearing our family apart. And of course the son would be like, no one understands me, I’m going to my room. And then blast his music and play Halo 2. And then the parents will be concerned that the music and video games are what’s causing him to hit the camel toad hard. Then maybe the father will think, well when I was his age I experimented and certainly had a few drinks and listened to the Beach Boys and my parents thought I was high on LSD all the time, even though I was just drunk. And the mother will think, but that was different back then. This is CAMEL TOADS.

Also does anyone want a kitten? My co-worker really likes to take in stray animals, and a cat in her backyard just had five kittens and they are super cute. The mom is grey and the dad is black and white. But one of the kittens is Siamese. I guess mom…gets around.

In high school I had to go to SAT prep classes once a week, mind you this was after I had already taken the SATs and received a good score but my mother was like listen up little girl, Harvard doesn’t accept anyone with less than a 1300. I had gotten 1200. These numbers mean nothing now because I hear 1200 will get you your own country complete with your own army and a castle with a little hole where you can pour hot oil onto ne’er-do-wells. Anyway, in class I sat next to this kid who was a typical Korean dude from the Valley. I don’t know if these “kinds of dudes” exist outside of the Valley, but he had this SOUPED UP car that was lowered and a big stereo system through which he and the rest of the neighborhood could listen to Warren G and the windows were tinted so dark he could barely see and in fact got a traffic violation for it and he had crazy rims that were always clean as if he only drove his car on carpet. The point is, he had these huge Chinese characters screened on his rear window and I asked, what do they mean? He said “Big Korean Guy.” Obviously this kid was a total douchekit but he saw my question as an opportunity to “get fly” with me and wanted to talk about his car all the time. How mad SOUPED UP his car was and how FRESH his system was and how he BEAT this Corolla in some street race on Ventura (which I’m not kidding has like a stoplight on every corner it is the worst place to race.) Anyway then he wanted to MAD SOUP UP my car, which was a Volvo. Yo, yo, we can get a spoiler on that, it will look FLY and TIGHT, I know a guy who’ll give you a good deal. What? A SPOILER FOR A VOLVO? Does that even exist? And I am not sure why it’s called a spoiler anyway. What is being spoiled? No idea. It makes more sense to call it “a tail for your car that will let everyone know you are a douchebag”. Obviously I said no thank you and then later the Volvo caught on fire because of a faulty oil filter. The bumper actually melted to the car.

I just had so much Mexican food it is shameful. And beautiful. But also shameful. I am, in fact, ashamed. You might be asking, Donde esta la fiesta? The answer is in my stomach.