Day of the Transformers

Today is an exciting day. Just how exciting really depends on when you were born, and how much you've got going on in your life right now. If you answered "late 70's-early 80's" and "not a whole lot", respectively, then this just may be the biggest day of your year. Maybe your whole life.

As I'm sure you know, today is the day "Transformers: The Movie" comes out. I know a lot of people are excited about this, but sadly I'm not one of them. I would be excited, but I'm too nervous. I just know they're going to screw this movie up. This is how parents must feel as they drop their kid off at college: all these new people, money flying all over the place, you know your baby's coming home all effed up and crazy, and it's completely out of your hands.

Before we continue, it's important to note the somewhat misleading title of this movie. As you may remember, there already exists a "Transformers: The Movie". It was a feature-length animated movie, it came out in 1986, and it was awesome. The highlight of this movie, a sentimental favorite in the Rosenthall household, is the unexpected profanity. Nothing catches you off-guard like a cartoon robot yelling "damnit!" or "oh shit!" when his plans go wrong. These things aren't officially ranked, but when it's all said and done, a robot swearing in a children's movie may be the funniest thing ever.

Anyway, back to my problem: I'm pretty sure they're going to screw this up, for two main reasons. ¹

1. Bumblebee. You've seen the commercials, right? That's not Bumblebee. I can't stress this enough. That. Is. Not. Bumblebee. They shouldn't even call him that. That should've just called him Frank or something, and said he was Bumblebee's cousin, like when they replaced the original guys on "Dukes of Hazzard." Think I'm making too big a deal out of this? Okay, well how about this: I'm making a movie with the Miami Heat. Instead of Shaq, I'm just going to hire a Puerto Rican midget² and hope nobody notices. Same thing?

It's extremely easy to mess this movie up. Why? Okay, I'll tell you. But first, take a deep breath and relax, open your mind. Okay. Ready? Here goes:

2. Transformers is a really stupid idea for a movie. Seriously.

Okay, caaaalm down. I knew this would happen. Let me explain. I'm not saying it was a stupid show, because it obviously wasn't. The show? Awesome. The concept itself? Very, very stupid. Say I made a movie that I want you to see. Here's my pitch to you: "Okay, there's these giant space robots, right? They fly down to Earth for some reason, and they fight each other. Also, they all have the ability to turn into various modes of transportation, like jets, cement mixers and what not. I call it 'Car-bots'. Taa daa!" See? No way in hell do you see that movie. It's all in the presentation. I could (and in all likelihood, probably did) write one of the dumbest songs ever. It really sucks. Give it to say, Mariah Carey, get the Neptunes on the beat, and next thing you know, "When we gonna start humpin?" is certified 5 times platinum. See, you just need the right people taking care of your project.

Like I said, I'm certainly nervous. But I'm excited too, and I'll definitely be in the audience as soon as the movie is out. I didn't think I'd be able to sleep tonight, but luckily I spoke with someone who helped me put things in perspective: my mother. I told her how worried I was, how I wish they hadn't even made the damn movie. She wiped the tears away from my cheek, sat down, and said "Honey, I'll tell you exactly what I told your father the day you were born: 'It doesn't matter what you want; it's here now, and you need to get over that shit'". In just one conversation, good old Mom took care of that issue for me. Might've created some new ones, but we'll deal with those later.

¹There are actually three reasons, the third being the mere presence of Anthony Anderson.
²This was originally going to be much funnier, but a Google image search of "Puerto Rican Midget" was quite fruitless. Thanks a lot Google. Dicks.

Maine

So I just got laid off. 2/2 was my last day at work. I'm now officially a bum.
Instead of moping around and feeling sorry for myself (or getting a new job, which may have been the best idea), I decided to have a good time and do some traveling. Early last week, I loaded up the car and made the easy 10 hour drive to Saco, Maine, home of Brock.

If you've never been, Maine is really far away (500 miles to the north) and really cold (-3 degrees on Tuesday night). I find it impossible to believe a settler found this the optimum place to live. There's no way a guy was in Northern New Hampshire and thought he needed to go about eighty miles further North before setting up camp. I don't have anything against Maine itself, I'm just not sure why America goes this far. I think we should trade it to Canada, can we still do that? Listen up, Canada: We'll give you Maine for Steve Nash and the naming rights to your delicious circular bacon. Deal?

Before getting to Brock's neighborhood, I had to pass through a region I'll refer to as "The dark recesses of my nightmares". I know I've spent too much time in Northern Virginia, because dark open spaces now apparently creep the hell out of me. Every road I turned down, I thought I was going to die. If I was on The Sopranos (back when it was good), somebody definitely would have ambushed me. Since I'm not, I just assumed a moose would be the one to take my life. I turned on my brights, but immediately turned them off, because I didn't actually want to know what was surrounding my car. Anything I did happen to catch under the moonlight just made me more nervous. There were broken swing sets, abandoned barns with their doors falling off, basically if the Blair Witch made sweet love to a Yeti, their kid would live here. But I'm happy to say I got through the area, and arrived at Brock's house without dying a single time.

On Wednesday morning (I say morning but we obviously never woke up before noon), Brock and I drove up to Shawnee Peak resort for some snowboarding. Something you may not know about snowboarding: if you've only done it three times, apparently riding a halfpipe is not an easy thing to do. It may prove to be even more difficult when your foot is not properly attached into your bindings, which was a little discovery I made on my own. I dropped in the halfpipe, my front foot rose about three feet in the air, and the next thing I know I'm auditioning to be the new "agony of defeat" guy for Wide World of Sports. Other than that, it was a great day of snowboarding.

Brock is a sports writer for his local newspaper, meaning we had to attend various high school sporting events during the week. We went to two basketball games and a hockey game, where interestingly enough they actually played "Who let the dogs out" before it began. I don't know who was in charge of that, but I hope someone punched them in the face. Now, as I already mentioned, Maine is bitterly cold. The low temperatures and harsh wind chills are extremely harmful to a dry-skinned gentleman such as myself. I'm outside for 20 seconds and I turn into Pookie from New Jack City (what's my demographic here exactly, does anybody get that?) Anyway, now I'm going to the local High School girls' basketball game, licking my lips like LL Cool J on ecstasy. It's not a good look. I brought along a notepad and jotted down fake notes whenever a young girl appeared concerned/interested by my presence (the breakdown was really about 70-30) so I looked like a reporter. Paranoid? Yes, but the smartest decision I've made in a long time. When we went back to the newspaper after the game, Brock worked on his basketball article while I did some work of my own. Brock reviews movies as well, so I decided to write this letter to his editor. Apparently it was printed, copied, and passed around the office, but sadly it didn't work. By the way, Brock: Almost $37 million this weekend, #1 movie in the country? I rest my case.

One of the finest vacations I've ever had got a whole lot better that night, when we stumbled across what some call the greatest band ever. Their name is The Watson Mill Gang, and good God they're awesome. Check them out, just let that funk marinate on you for a while. I got home on Saturday night, and now I've got just enough time to unpack, do my laundry, and re-pack. Next stop: Mardi Gras in New Orleans. After that, I'll get back to work and officially retire from being a bum. I promise. Probably.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

A lot of you have been asking what I've been up to. It seems I haven't been around that much as of late, and I certainly apologize for it.
Fortunately I wrote in my journal every day this summer, and I figured I'd share a few entries so we're all caught up.

June 7th: I just sold my first commercial jingle. They start shooting the first music video for my "klee-nex mafia" song at the end of the week.
I can't believe they paid me $1 million to write a song that goes:
"Ever since I can remember, I've been wiping my nose,
every time it gets runny, in my hand."
As soon as I get that check, I make two promises: To spend it wisely, and never change because of it.

June 8th: I just bought a set of gold-plated platinum grills with fur around the gums and spinners in the canines.
$850,000 and worth every penny.

June 10th: Since I quit my job today, I finally got around to starting that one-man band I've been planning.
I named it "Snarl Malone" and recorded my first single, "Insane." It's already gotten 768 plays on myspace; I knew I was awesome.

June 14th: I used the rest of my money to finally build that tv studio I always wanted. My first show is called "Alexandria".
I'm going to follow a bunch of high school kids around and record their lives, just like "Laguna Beach". I think it'll be a big hit.

June 23rd: The "Saved by the Bell" exhibit finally opened at the Smithsonian, so I went down and entered the Zack Morris look-alike contest.
I finished 38th out of 14 people. I don't know what I was thinking.

July 4th: Went to the Nationals game. During the 7th inning stretch, I decided to fiddle around with some molecular research, ya know,
see what the big deal is behind this whole "bird flu" thing.
By the bottom of the 9th, I'd developed a vaccine that would be easy to produce if it ever mutates into a widespread human form.

July 20th: Gave a speech at the Center for Disease Control on my human bird flu vaccine. It turns out that my "human bird flu" is really just
"the flu", and all the scientists laughed at me. Why did they let me talk for two hours before they told me that?
Scientists are jerks. I made slides and everything. I'm so mad.

August 8th: With Snarl Malone (over 500,000 myspace views!) doing so well,
I was invited to give the commencement speech for the summer session at Lincoln Technical Institute.
I completely forgot to write a speech, so I just recited the theme song to "The Facts of Life". Worked like a charm.

August 15th: Got a call from my lawyer this morning. Apparently some band wrote a song called
"Crazy" earlier this summer that sounds just like "Insane", and now I'm getting sued.
Also, it seems that I didn't fill out any permits or waivers before filming those kids on my "Alexandria" show,
and, well, long story short, now I have to register with some people anytime I move into a new neighborhood.

August 29th: Well, looks like the summer's over. I can't believe how quickly it's flown by, but I'm ready for it to end.
I really need to relax, get my act together, and get back in touch with some of my old friends.
I'm in debt, plus I've got a criminal record and what not, but I wouldn't have done anything different. Well, I would've fed my gerbil.
Other than that, not a damn thing.

The State of the Peppers

So I'm sitting at home by myself on a Saturday, as the cool kids tend to do, when the Red Hot Chili Peppers hop on stage
as the SNL musical guest. When it comes to the Chili Peppers, I'm usually on board no matter what.
They're incredible musicians and one of the few bands with a live act that sounds better than their studio work.
Like I said, I'm usually on board. This was not one of those times.

The guys were playing "Dani California", the first single off of their new album, and something wasn't sitting right.
It's not that the song's first solo is basically just Led Zeppelin's "All of my love", and it's not that the second
seems pretty heavily inspired by "Purple Haze". Both are possible coincidences,
and quite forgivable. Suddenly the real problem hit me, and I will not ignore it any longer:

Why do the Red Hot Chili Peppers keep singing about states?

It all started innocently enough back in 1999 with Californication. What seemed like just a clever pun was a red flag in hindsight,
and the band has insisted on bludgeoning us with states ever since.
They mention five in the album's first song alone, and it just kept coming from there. "Dani California" features six states
(five of which they hadn't mentioned before), and they throw in a song with Michigan in the title a few tracks later.
I don't know if they have kids in elementary school, I don't know if they're auditioning to be the next Rockapella,
I don't know what the hell's going on. But enough is enough.

Since they've been making albums since I was three, I'm not going to tell the Red Hot Chili Peppers how to do their job.
But I will say this:

Guys, if you're reading this (and I assume you are), please stop singing about states. I get it, there's a lot of states.
Damn near 50. How about you sing about some other places you've been.
Ever been to Canada? They've got all sorts of provinces you could sing about.
Here, I'll get the ball rolling. The capital of Saskatchewan is "Regina". It rhymes with "Vagina". You're welcome.

Listen, I understand it's tough to stay fresh for decades, so I won't give you that hard a time about this.
Just admit you've been slacking, promise to try a bit harder, and we'll be just fine.
Well, while you're clearing the air, why don't you also admit Will Ferrell's your drummer.
After that, all is forgiven.


vs.

(Ever see Will Ferrell at a Chili Peppers concert? Didn't think so)

What Cinco de Mayo means to me

I'm sorry, I just don't get Cinco de Mayo. I never have. People ask me what I'm doing for it, and my answer is the same as it would be on any other day.

For some reason or another, I never got on the Cinco de Mayo bandwagon; it just felt like a dumb holiday. But I didn't want to dismiss any of my Mexican
fans out there, so I decided to throw my full enthusiasm into Cinco de Mayo, 2006.

First on the list, I decided to do some homework about the holiday. Of course, everybody knows it's the Mexican independence day, but what they may not know is they're completely wrong.
Mexican independence day is Sept. 16th. THIS particular holiday celebrates one time when the Mexican army beat the French army in a battle. Don't I mean a war? Oh no, just a battle.
They'd been losing all along,  but the Mexicans won on 5/5/1862. And only on 5/5. Of course the French came back on 5/6 and beat the hell out of them. Hey, what a great holiday.
Let me give an updated NBA analogy: the Milwaukee Bucks squeaked out one win on the Pistons before losing the next games, and eventually the series, by an average of 20 points.
I can't say the Bucks won't throw a party to celebrate their one win, but it's pretty sad if they do. Okay, so history says this is a dumb holiday. No matter, I'm moving on.

Suddenly it hit me: I know what this holiday needs, a good carol! Nobody sings Cinco de Mayo carols, and it's a damn shame.
So I decided to write one. All I got was "Something something maracas, something B.A. Barracus", and I left to buy some M&Ms. I'm ashamed of my lack of resolve; Mexico was counting on me.

At this point I had to come clean: I just didn't care. But why? Oh yeah, because it's a Mexican holiday and I'm not a Mexican. I've never been a Mexican. I don't even know any Mexicans.
I know a Peruvian, I had some Puerto Rican friends at college, I met some nice Salvadorians during my stint in MS-13, but I don't know a single Mexican.
If I did, maybe they'd get me in the spirit. But I don't, and I'm not.

I suspect a lot of us don't know any Mexicans, but we still love Cinco de Mayo. If I learned anything at all today (which I didn't), it's that Americans don't need justification to celebrate your silly foreign holiday.
Whether it's St. Patrick's Day or Cinco de Mayo, all we really need is alcohol. That's what it is. Holidays are like college keg parties, and foreign ones are the shady kids nobody invited.
We're not too sure about you, but if you're here to get us nice and drunk, I guess you can come in too.

So it's 9:15pm and I'm going out to celebrate after all. Don't get me wrong, it's still a dumb holiday, I just happen to have a serious drinking problem.

My Trip To New Orleans Pt. 2

January 1st, 2005
3:00pm - I just woke up with a mild case of paralysis, and I think Rich is dead.
4:00pm - Rich is alive, which is nice to know. I'm still on the couch.
7:00pm - Still on the couch. Rich on the chair.
8:00pm - A pizza comes. We sit up and eat it.
8:30pm - Back lying down.
10:00pm- The cab is here, and we're back to Bourbon street.

By the way, have I mentioned that the Sugar Bowl was taking place
in New Orleans that Monday? Tons of college co-eds down for the big game.
In the immortal words of our cab driver, a charming young man from a country
who's name I'm sure ends in 'Stan',
"There's so much college girl pu--y in the air you can taste it".
There's no way to follow that sentence, so this paragraph is over.

A half hour later and we're out of the cab. The bad news? I've left my wallet
in my pants from last night, all the way back at Rich's place. The good news?
We're in New Orleans, and apparently laws don't apply here.
You know how some bars have UV lights they shine on your ID,
and some bars ask you for backup ID? Nope, not New Orleans.
The guy at the first bar we went to just said "eh, come on in". Seriously.
The second bar's bouncer stared at me for about five minutes
before he decided I looked old enough. The only real problem came from
the bartender at the third place. Since I unfortunately didn't catch his name,
we'll call him "Jackass wasting Chris' time".
Jackass..: You got some ID?
Chris: Oh shit, I left it in my other pants. Can I come in anyway?
(Any other city, and that's literally the dumbest question on earth)
Jackass: Nope, sorry.
Chris: C'mon, I've got other stuff, school id, credit card.
Jackass: Nope, needs to be government issued
Chris: Okay, what else could I give?
Jackass: Passport?
Chris: Man (gives look that says "That's the dumbest shit I've ever heard"),
why would I have my passport?
Jackass: Hmm...I dunno
Chris: Yeah.
So I gave him a health insurance card with birthdate and no picture,
and my college ID, and we were in. So just to recap,
I got into every single bar I wanted to. There are some I didn't mention,
and that's because some didn't even check, or even have somebody at the door.
Once you're in the Bourbon St. area, you can go anywhere.
It's like Disneyland, with probably more sex and booze.

Now believe it or not, Jan. 1 was actually crazier than Dec 31st in New
Orleans. Everybody was out partying: A man with no arms, a man with no
legs, even a man with no face. Well, about 1/3 a face, But when you're that
close you're not really trying to do fractions. And at the same club as my
buddy without the face, I saw two guys on a double-date with two midgets.
Easily the "car-wreck" moment of the week. The whole club was staring. And not
because the guys were double dating with midgets (okay, that had a lot
to do with it) but because they were getting really nasty. And let me tell
you, it takes a LOT for a club full of people in New Orleans to be like "oh
come on, have some class". Ever heard (or made, although I'm far too high-brow
for that sort of thing) a joke about a midget girlfriend being a perfect
height? Well, rest assured it's apparently no joke. I wish I had an explanation
for you as to how this whole thing went down, but I don't. Rich and I had a
theory that they rented midget whores for the night. If you've got a
better theory I'd love to hear it. But before you chime in with something like
"Maybe they're just nice people who met nice girls who happen to be
midgets, you asshole", I'd just like to add that we ran into one of the guys
later in the night with an even smaller midget, carrying her down the street as
she hung around his neck like a chimp. So, you were saying?

I was supposed to head home on the 2nd, but my flight got cancelled.
With all the VA Tech and Auburn fans in town, all flights are booked.
So I was stuck in New Orleans for a few more days. But really, it's not
quite fair to call it "getting stuck" here. You get stuck in traffic. You get
stuck in quicksand. You don't get stuck in New Orleans.
Unfortunately Rich is back to work in his graveyard shift, so all I can do
is hang out, watch tv, and try to stay out of the way. I call Mitch to tell him
I'm not coming home for a few more days, and he says the 5 words I least needed to hear:
Scotty P's in New Orleans. When I heard that, my liver cried a little bit. Or
maybe I've got cirrhosis.  Regardless, on Tuesday night I was back on
Bourbon. And I stayed there. And drank. We drank until everything shut down. That's
very late. Rich picked me up when he got off work at 6:30 am. My only train
of thought on the ride home: "How do I get out of a jeep wrangler to puke
as quickly as possible? Open the door? I can't unzip this dumbass plastic window
on time, can I? Eh, the seat's waterproof, maybe I'll just do it in here".
Luckily I fought through, and didn't learn a single lesson from the
experience.

It's the next morning and I'm on my way home. I've got to get back to
work early tomorrow, my rent's late now, my car needs to be repaired, and
I'm completely broke. But for the past few days, none of those things mattered.
Nothing really did. Remember how when you were a kid, you didn't care about
anybody's job, income, status, etc? You just asked if they wanted to play,
and if they said yes, you guys were friends. Well that's the way things are in
New Orleans. I love the place, and can't wait to come back. In fact, I
might take another vacation and come back for Mardi Gras in 4 weeks. And
let's be honest: if I did, you couldn't blame me one bit.

My Trip To New Orleans

My Trip To New Orleans - Intro (December 27, 2005)

Almost exactly one year ago today, I flew to New Orleans to spend New Years with my college roommate Rich. I wrote an email newsletter at the time, so I decided to document the trip. Since Hurricane Katrina has (temporarily) destroyed much of my favorite city, I decided to re-print my letter a year later in it's honor. Hope you enjoy.

My Trip To New Orleans - Pt. 1 Ladies and gentlemen, once again it's on. Not only is there a new edition of The Comet gracing your computer screens, but this is a very special edition, coming to you live from New Orleans, Louisiana. Needing a change of pace from my boring old Northern Virginia lifestyle, I've decided to spend a few days down here with old college roommate and longtime Comet reader Rich Kiss. Since everyone can't be here with me, I've decided to keep a journal of whatever goes down. So without any further ado, we proudly present: The Comet - How I spent my New Years. Decermber 30th, 2004 My plane takes off at 7:30 pm. Apparently we're importing the hot people to New Orleans this year, because there's a ton of hot college girls on my flight. In the immortal words of Herman's Hermits, something tells me I'm into something good. I find my seat (which is sadly nowhere near the hot girls), sit back, and do some writing. I'm minding my business for about ten minutes, and then I hear it: screaming and crying from the three kids sitting right behind me. Their mom is across the aisle, doing her best to shut her rotten-ass kids up. Guess what? It's not working. First they scream because they're too short to see the safety presentation. Then they scream because the lights on the plane got turned off, and damnit, they want answers. But here's the highlight (?) of the flight with these kids: When the snack tray comes around, little Jack starts screaming "I want a soda!! I want a soda!!". When the cart gets to us about five minutes later, the flight attendant says to him "what would you like?" to which he responds, "I want a soda!!!". Finally he concludes that Jack is an idiot, so he asks his mom. Sprite it is. Jack gets a sprite, and then about 10 seconds later, I'm treated to this exchange: Jack: I WANTED SODA!!!!! His sister: That is! Jack: NO!!! I WANTED SODA!!!!! Mom: Do you want a coke? Jack: NO!!!! I WANT A SODA!!! Mom: Honey, what kind? Jack: SODA!!!! Needless to say, mom hadn't really taught Jack about synonyms, subcategories, and what not. Just so you know, here's the final tally. (Before soda) I WANT A SODA!! = 11 times WHAT KIND!!! = 6 (Afer soda) All-out crying = 3 I WANTED SODA!! = 16 (I'm not kidding) IT IS!!! = 6 On a certainly unrelated note, I've got a new invention: It's called the R.A.K. (Rotten-Ass Kids) card, and it should be mandatory on all flights. The card reads something like "Dear everybody, I'm sorry for my rotten-ass kids ruining your flight." and so forth. The pilot would come on and say "We've arrived in New Orleans, but nobody's going anywhere until the lady in 17D comes up to front and reads this". Anyways, that's all for today. Rich is off at work, so tomorrow the adventure really begins. I'm thinking maybe a trip to the finer libraries and museums that New Orleans has to offer. topped off with a quiet night of scrabble here at the house. Stay tuned. December 31st, 2004 New Year's Eve and it's my first time out in New Orleans. It's early in the night, but so far, the greatest part about this city is that the local men dress like 1920's street pimps, the women like whores, and nobody says a word. If I may go off-topic for a moment, Tyson's microwave chicken nuggets are the bomb. And I'm not one to throw the term "the bomb" out on just anything. We get into the heart of the French Quarter at about 11:45. First stop is a private party in some building with Rich and a bunch of his tv studio friends. It's us, about 20 people we don't know, and about 5 of their friends. I stood out on a balcony with a ton of people and made some phone calls. If you're reading this, there's a mighty fine chance you got one. The boring time did bring one highlight of the night though, Rich's first move. Now I'm not gonna get all in ALL of our business, but I really have to praise this one. Always one to make lemonade out of some stank-ass lemons that nobody wants, Rich used the recent theft of his cell phone to his advantage. Said Rich to a hot-ass weathergirl from another station: "Hey, my cell phone got stolen, let me get your number again!". The beauty? He never had the number to begin with. I don't know what this says about Rich. I definitely don't know what this says about that girl. But it worked like a charm, and with about five minutes left in 2004, we hit the streets. Having left everybody with a girlfriend or boyfriend behind at the old party, about four of us stroll down the street to the main celebration. There's a huge stage, about 800 people on it, and about half a million people dancing and screaming below. Some guy strolls up to the mic and starts singing and dancing. Drunken jackass? Somebody important? You're both right, it's the MAYOR! If anyone, other than myself, should have their own reality show, it's probably the mayor of New Orleans. Just think about it: I bet he works mon-wed, 12:00-3:00, and spends the rest of his time taking bribes, partying with random women, gambling, and eating crawfish and gumbo. But I digress. Let me get back on track. Ahem. If you're looking for a truly great ice-breaker line, there are no three-words better than "Happy New Year" (Or my patented variation, "Happy New Year, Darlin'). If you know any better ice-breaker, I'm dying to hear it. It's really a shame you can use it so rarely, but once that ball dropped, it was open season. Anybody who walked by got the greeting. Here's a 100% true re-enactment: Guy walks by. Chris: Hey, happy new year's bro! Guy: Hell yeah man, same to you. (Hand-shake/hug thing. Does this have a real name yet?) Guy: This is gonna be the year, man! We've got to come together, no more violence, it's all good. Chris: Yeah! 2005 man, it'll be all good. Guy walks away, I check my pocket to make sure my wallet's still there. Another re-enactment, this one from a club later that night. Girl walks by. Chris: Hey, happy new year's, darlin. Girl: (Like she just ate something good) Mmm...You too. (Hugs Chris, kisses him on one cheek, eh, kiss on the other, why the hell not, kisses him on lips for a while,) Chris: Duh... Girl smiles and walks away, I check my pocket to make sure my wallet's still there. After the smoke clears from the New Years stage, and after we've already made a few friends, it's time to head down to Bourbon Street, also known to me as "Heaven". Now, if you've never been there, it's no coinscidence that the most active street in New Orleans is named "Bourbon". You've got to know what you're getting into when you walk down there. Just imagine if there was a street called "Cocaine Lane". What do you think goes down there? If my car breaks down on "Asswhup Drive", I'd consider calling AAA as soon as possible. Regardless, Bourbon street is something else. I don't know where it starts, where it ends or anything, but you walk around, and all of a sudden you're on Bourbon street. On Bourbon street, it's perfectly legal to walk around with open containers of alcohol. You can even go into a bar, and then get your drink to go. Essentially it's the world's biggest block party, and we've got to make our presence felt. Now, we did way too much at way too many places for a complete run-through, so here's 5 things I learned that night: 1) In New Orleans, nobody's out of your league. This was actually a slogan a guy told me, but turned out to be 100% true. 2)In New Orleans clubs, every girl knows every word to every song by Juvenile or the Cash Money crew. I'm not exaggerating. "Back that ass up", "Slow Motion", "#1 Stunna", you name it. They must do it in schools like the Pledge of Allegiance down here. 3)In New Orleans, everybody is your friend. Call it the booze, call it the Southern hospitality, call it the Mississippi River air, call it the booze, or just call it the booze, but strangers instantly bond, and hang out together for hours. 4)In my arsenal, I have an unstoppable move simply known as "The Move". I look at a girl, and when she looks at me, I shrug my shoulders, hold out my arms, pop one eyebrow, and the deal is done. 5)Get your own move. At about 2:00am, we went to an amazing club called "Razu's", where interestingly enough, some guy was murdered the night before. And yes, we knew this before going there. It didn't matter though, because Razu's was the place to be. Somebody got shot at the Subway sandwich shop by my apartment in December, and I haven't been back since, but for some reason we had to go to Razu's. And it was well worth it. I broke out my move a few times, Rich works some nice ones of his own, and at about 6:30am, we finally headed home. That's all for this edition of the comet, but stay tuned for the sequel, featuring a stunning plot twist, and a special guest appearance.