let the bodies hit the floor*

yesterday i was virtually useless. i'm pretty sure i was still mildly stoned, and possesed the energy of a bumble bee that clearly already stung some poor sap and is about to die, so i'm not quite sure what motivated me to get off the couch at 7:15pm in hopes of making it to The Echo with Danielle by eight o'clock. but something did - clearly.

for a good part of our drive, i force Danielle to listen to Movin' 93.9 - it was awesome. i think she loved it. correction. i know she loved it.

after a patch of weird traffic, we arrive at The Echo. or at least we arrive in the vicinity of where The Echo should be. you see, neither of us had ever been there before so we're basically driving up and down Glendale Boulevard looking for any sign of a show - boys in tight jeans, underage kids coughing as they don't inhale their first drag of a Marlboro Light, anything. i tell Danielle to turn down an alley that i hoped would mysteriously lead us in the right direction, but it actually turns out to be an odd, long driveway to a Christian Education Center. we turn the corner into the actual parking lot where we find a small Asian boy with a gun. no, it was not a real gun (at least i told myself it wasn't real), and no, in no way did i make any sort of connection between this little boy and the Virginia Tech shooting. but yes, i was honestly scared. i got hot in the face, the whole nine yards. how would you feel if you saw a kid holding a fake gun in a dimly lit parking lot in Echo Park? that's what i thought...

we manage to escape the clutches of the armed child and realize that we need to enter on Sunset - NOT Glendale (thanks, Patrick) - but the line is already huge. i'm talking over the bridge, around the corner, that's what she said HUGE. so we did the only logical thing that we could do - we cut. and not just a few people. we managed to become like the 15th and 16th people in line. Danielle was flawless. i on the other hand was visibly nervous, but looking back, i'm once again going to blame the child with a gun and maybe some pot-induced paranoia. but seriously, all it took was a little talk about an ice cream truck, how we used to like the Pink Panther things with the gumball eyes, lo and behold some dude is actually eating a Pink Panther thing with the gumball eyes. i don't know how it all worked out so perfectly, but it did. except for the whole waiting thing. that wasn't very perfect, because we stood outside for a good two hours. but let's not talk about that anymore.

once inside, we proceed straight to the bar. Danielle orders us doubles, and we start the night off right: sipping a glass of vodka. The Deadly Syndrome are already playing, we start dancing, and i begin to forget that i could have been shot (with water, a nerf missile - WHATEVER).

but also at this point, i decide the pain in my feet is no longer worth the extra two inches of height which my shoes are conveniently providing, so i take them off. i know what just went through your head: i'm standing in a crowded bar/club/show with weird creepy people and am now barefoot. disgusting. trust me, i wrestled with the idea in my head for a good twenty minutes before throwing in the towel. had i not stood in a line for two hours outside waiting to get in i'm confident i could have withstood the entire evening in those heels. but i did stand in line for two hours, and i was well into my second drink so i felt ok with the idea of being sans shoes.

that is, until i stepped on broken glass. once Klaxons came out, the already creepy crowd grew progressively creepier by starting a faux-mosh pit. the three hundred pound man to my left started throwing his weight around, and the possibly-gay-possibly-straight thruster to my right kept on thrusting. Danielle and i are wide eyed and giggly, spilling our drinks on anyone within a five foot radius when all of a sudden i feel a sharp pain in my right foot. i'm debating if this is an aftershock of my pre-existing foot woes, or if this is brand new. oh, it's brand new. i quickly realize this when i look down and see glass shards on the floor. in the midst of all the moshing-but-not-moshing, some one apparently got excited and threw their beer bottle on the ground. so i tell Danielle "i think i stepped on broken glass" which led to the best line of the night: "are you sure it's not ice?"

wow, this is really taking a lot out of me. a lot more happened than i originally remembered, and sitting here detailing the events to you has opened the flood gates in my head. i wasn't prepared for this. i've probably slept a combined total of 7 hours (if that) the past two nights. this is too much. i quit.

* the title of this post may not seem relevant, so allow me to explain. last night when i was stuck in the middle of the sea of pseudo moshing, that Drowning Pool song "Bodies" popped into my head and has been there ever since. don't ask. i never do.

420: the aftermath

wow. what a night. what a strange, glorious night.

first, let me start by recognizing that at more than one point last evening i was definitely not ok. like wickedly bugging out not ok. luckily, i managed to stay awake and some how rallied through a self imposed state of dementia. but seriously... so not ok. almost to the point that i feel inclined to apologize to any one that saw me. or not. maybe not that not ok. but almost.

some of my favorite moments (that i can actually remember) in no particular order:

- Miles and i were outside on the front balcony smoking a cigarette. both of us were so beyond stoned that we just stood there in complete silence for what seemed like 25 minutes (in actuality, it was probably two and a half - three tops) before he managed to speak. i don't remember what he said exactly, but i laughed and then ran away giggling "i have to get out of here".

- Chadrock bought pizza. a lot of pizza.

- Katie was telling us how she's going to record an internet game show today where she has to answer true/false trivia and hope that the World's Smartest Chicken doesn't show her up. Nikki and i found this to be hilariously retarded. and then Nikki asks, "what happens if the chicken gets it not wrong?" umm... you mean, what happen if the chicken gets is right? maybe you had to be there. or maybe i conjured the laugh. i don't know. i think i'm still stoned.

- we had kiwi strawberry jello shots.

- Chad the cousin passed out for an undisclosed amount of time on the couch. he also cradled a roll of paper towels as if it were his first born child.

- Dave kept eating the pot candy even though he was already fucked up. at one point, he pulled a melty wrapped candy bar out of his pocket and offered me a bite. i accepted. but it was weird and melty from being in his pocket and after it was already in my mouth i wished i hadn't accepted.

- every one kept telling me that my eyes were small. "Cori, why do you look so Japanese tonight?" or "Cori, why aren't your eyes open?" were some FAQs thrown my way. none of which i had an answer for.

and that's about all i can recall. i know a lot more happened (for heaven's sake, you people didn't leave my house until 4:30am), but as previously stated this is what i can remember.

scheming is believing

let me preface this entry by stating for the record that i love my new job. i really do. i feel so fortunate to have found a position with a company that put it's employees first - a difference that is night and day compared to my last gig. don't get me wrong, rolling in the Sequoia was nice and all, but the dozen or so daily tirades weren't exactly worth the migraines and my no longer recreational vicodin addiction.

BUT (you all knew it was coming...) the one thing i can't stand is the fact that they have communal music blaring all day long. and i know what you're thinking - if the only thing i have to complain about is the music then i should shut the hell up, especially because i am a lover of (just about) all music. i'm talking Hot 92.3 Jams type shit ALL FUCKING DAY LONG, though. and if it's not Joe's "I Wanna Know"-esque type songs, KBIG 104/Kelly Clarkson and Beyonce ballads for eight consecutive hours. much to my displeasure/delight, i now know every word to "Irreplaceable". the first week was... ok. second week, eh, started nervously tapping my nails on the desk. and now... now i want to gouge my eyes out with a paper clip. i live/eat/breathe/sleep/sing these wretched songs day and night. the soundtrack to my dreams has shifted from Ben Gibbard singing sweet nothings while i frolick in a field of sunflowers to Ginuine screaming "ride it, my pony" as the masked killer from the Scream movies chases me into a Radio Shack.

i've spent the past four hours trying to come up with a way i could inconspicuously climb to the rafters of the building and disconnect the speaker system. i've pictured myself in an all camo outfit shimmying from beam to beam, snipping wires with the scissors that are conveniently located in my top desk drawer left and right. i then thought i should try and utilize my former Girl Scout archery training (yes, i was a Girl Scout) and shoot out each speaker individually from the comfort of my own desk. only problem is, i don't have a bow and arrow set, nor know where to get one that isn't plastic. and now that i think about it, i'm pretty sure i failed the archery patch...

shit. [sung] to the left, to the left. everything you own in a box to the left.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!

ok, this is probably the most useless information i've ever written in my blog, but i have to share it with you because i need a shoulder to cry on. and if i actually picked up the phone and called (you know, you. the one reading this shit.), you would undoubtedly laugh in my face. i'd rather you laugh behind my back (assuming i'm not sitting next to you when you read this.)

all day at work, i've randomly been playing games of Free Cell. i don't know if any of you are Free Cell geeks like i am, but if you click "File" then "Statistics", it will (obviously) show you your current win/loss stats. i was on a twelve game winning streak. T-W-E-L-V-E. that might not seem like a lot, but i dare you to shout "victory is mine!" twelve wins. consecutive wins, damn it.

i just lost. i hate you, thirteen. i hate you. unless of course thirteen is referring to Michael Cammalleri in which case i love you, thirteen. love, love, love you.

is it 6:00pm yet?

side note: i'm really into parenthesis today. who knew?

shameless plug

for those of you who are in the know or simply in the dark, i'm currently completing an internship with advice guru E. Jean Carroll. part of my first task is to help promote her new site, so without further ado...

ADVICE VIXENS!
check it before you wreck it.

and while you're at it, add the newly formed AV myspace to your ever growing list of myspace friends. AV on MYSPACE!

(and no, i'm not the one monitoring the myspace site so please don't post stupid comments specifically about me b/c it will actually in fact post directly to AV site)

ciao, bella.

i'm goin' down to South Park gonna have myself a time

i swear on the un-holy bible that the cabbie we hitched a ride with on Friday night believed that he was Eric Cartman from South Park.

at first, i thought it was a funny joke and that he'd drop the Cartman voice and weird South Park references; but after he called Nikki a redneck, and Katie a hippie and wished that he had some cheesy poofs for the ump-teenth time i about peed in my pants (skirt) due to uncontrollable laughter.

did i mention he drove like a maniac and there were multiple times i was sure the van was going to flip over?

luckily we got his card.

it's a sad, sick time

Kings fans, take a moment, let's bow our heads and mourn a great loss.

rarely do i write anything but cute anecdotes of drunken/high/silly times because let's face it - i give the people what they want. but for the sake of my father, my brother, myself and any other true blue we'll stand by you even when you're second to last in the entire NHL Kings fans, i feel this post is justified. not a sports fan? you can stop reading. i won't take it personally. not a hockey fan? definitely may want to stop reading.

you're still here? you like me. you really like me.

my heart has once again been ripped out of my chest and stomped upon by the Los Angeles Kings organization. it was announced yesterday that the Kings captain Mattias Norstrom was traded to Dallas for none other than Jaroslav Modry. Modry, who four short years ago the Kings said "fell short of expectations", which resulted in his own trade to Dallas. Modry, who was booed out off of his home ice by disgruntled Los Angeles fans (though i personally never had any real problem with him and firmly believe that you never, under any circumstances, boo your own team). Modry for Norstrom?

and don't get all technical with me and say that we also got two draft picks and Johan Fransson because really who the fuck is Johan Fransson? maybe he'll come here and do great things, but the bottom line is he will never fill the skates worn by El Capitan. never.

you couldn't get me a Chara or a Phaneuf? the loss of Matty would still sting, but at least i'd feel a little better. MODRY? i will never understand. at least Matty will have a chance with Dallas to do something, because unlike our depleting, disheveled bunch, Dave Tippett's team has the potential to go somewhere. i may become a Dallas fan...

so Dean Lombardi, you build your dream team of "youngsters" who will be future stars. after all, isn't that what the Kings have been doing all along? look what a super star Jamie Storr is... oh wait, he is now in the German Elite League. and Jared Aulin... don't get me wrong, he was a good looking kid, but what benefit was he after we got rid of Blake for him? if we're all about the young talent then where is Gleason? Corvo? Belanger? Avery? gone, gone, gone and gone.

for the first time in my life, i uttered the unspeakable. last night i told my dad "i hate the Kings". and i meant it...