Dude, where's my blog?

It's 4/20 today and I imagine there are stoners throughout the city either desperately trying to score weed before 4:20 pm, or looking for the *perfect* outdoor venue to celebrate this magical time that only happens for one minute once a year.

I don't even know where 420 comes from, besides an urban myth perpetuated by a death rocker from my high school which consists of a group of surfers going up on a mountain somewhere on April 20 and smoking, like, 420 bong hits each. And I just realized that I wasted about five minutes of my life rehashing a faulty theory perpetuated by someone who loved Slayer and would later get busted for breaking into a university facility to swipe some peyote, but then realized that in the past two weeks, I have wasted valuable writing time due to the following obligations:

Jury Duty: 12 hours (over five day period)
7 hours in deliberations of listening to juror who fancied himself Perry Mason and apparently had admitted imagined evidence into his mind, and then explaining to said juror that while he had an active imagination, that that wasn't what *really* happened
3 hours of listening to the lawyers fumble and call expert after expert who all repeated themselves
2 hours daydreaming about Cop Rock and thinking that at any moment the bailiffs would spin around one of the lawyers, break into song and initiate a musical rendering of the facts of the case.


Watching Eurotrip: 1.5 hours (not funny, even in the bad/good way)
People from the US are so cute, especially the male college-age ones who chase tits all day and refuse to contemplate the fact that some people in this world actually don't know and don't care to know English. And speaking of English, did you know that everyone in the UK is a huge drunk with fucked up teeth prepared to kill for Manchester United?

Explaining to my mom (for the fifth time) why I refuse to read The Da Vinci Code: 30 minutes

Pausing from cleaning my room when I realized that my roommate was listening to the new Mariah Carey album in the other room: duration of entire album, plus five minutes spent thinking that she truly is a golden, human koala bear

By the way, I love Rufus Wainwright. I've loved him for years, but I think it's growing stronger and stronger every time I listen to Memphis Skyline or his lyrics about not wanting to be John Lithgow. I think my love for him is growing at such an exponential rate that it will soon eclipse my long-harbored admiration of Morrissey, as he does live in LA and his last album was a bit disappointing.