Recently in Stupid Things That Happen In My Apartment Category

Last Friday, in an effort to save some money, I decided to stay in and watch the National Spelling Bee, thus turning down the many, many invitations I had received to go out to the hottest clubs and party with the city's celebrity elite. It was a hard decision, for sure, but sometimes even I must find refuge from the flashing lights and gliteratti. However, as exciting as watching awkward middle schoolers was, I still felt like the night needed some sort of augmentation — a little pizazz to keep things interesting. What better way to spice up the festivities than by making my first ever batch of muffins? After all, B-Side Blog reader SpecialK had so kindly purchased me a muffin tin after having seen my previously misshapen baking exploits; so why not put it to use?

And so with a shopping basket in hand and a dream in the heart, I happily bought a packet of mix and plunged down the rabbit hole that is homemade muffinry. Photos after the jump.

Living in West Hollywood, my neighborhood is routinely patrolled by parking enforcement officers, who quietly stalk their prey from the comfort of their white, eco-friendly Priuses — waiting for that orgasmic moment when they can slap a ticket down on a permit-lacking vehicle and tow it away. Their Orwellian presence rivals a godlike power to be everywhere and nowhere all at once, and should you find yourself on the wrong side of their unflinching Maglites, you'll soon be treated to a stiff fine and a towing charge. It's because of this that residents and visitors alike tend to view parking enforcement with a measure of disdain. Like an army of money-eating pests, they never go away, and sooner or later, they get you.

Occasionally though, my friends and I find ourselves siding with parking enforcement. While I'd like to think that no one deserves the hassle of being towed away, truth is that it's also perversely glorious watching the bridge-and-tunnel folk descend on the nearby Sunset Strip and try to park in front of our apartment building, arrogantly thinking they can park their dumb car just ANYWHERE without checking the signs first. Trust me when I say it never gets old watching these people's stunned reactions upon return to the empty spot that used to hold their car. Just this past weekend, my friends and I enjoyed the sight (from our balcony) of one shirtless, long-haired, drunken fool stumbling up and down the street, bemoaning the sad fate that had befallen his now-missing car. "Duuuuude, I got towed!!!" he lamented to no one in particular, his long frizzy hair flowing in all directions like Troy Polamalu after a roller coaster ride. This continued for a few minutes until his buddy picked him up and ferreted him off to who knows where — hopefully Supercuts. This cruel turn of events was nothing short of hilarious for us as we watched yet another douchebag fall victim to The System. Of course, he was probably too drunk to drive anyway; so the towing was good in many ways.

Still, watching one idiot get his just desserts is never enough. We always want more; so imagine our thrill when moments after the drunken troll doll departed, two new teenage douchebags pulled up and parked their red mustang without even checking the parking rules. Surely parking enforcement would have their way with them...

Anyone want to have some nonsensical, Dadaist fun? Then by all means, watch me take on the beast that is MY KEYBOARD!

It's very fashionable to hate McDonald's. To some, the fast food chain represents the simplification and destruction of American culture by corporate giants. To others, they are sly enablers and profiteers of this country's growing obesity epidemic. But me? I LOVE THEM. That's why I was only too happy to march down to the local outpost and try the company's newest offering: iced coffee.

To be fair, McDonald's has been offering this beverage for a few weeks now, but today was the first time I actually felt motivated to take on the caffeinated beast. My thoughts after the jump...

Sad.

A few nights ago, an innocent little spoon fell undetected into the dark abyss that is my In-Sink-Erator, soon become the latest victim to the monster's gnawing teeth. Yes, this wayward piece of flatware endured an unceremonious demise as I flipped on the food disposal switch and heard all too late the loud clattering of a utensil in peril. I immediately shut down the operation and plunged my hand into the depths of my sink, hoping I'd find nothing more than an errant bottle cap or two. But as we all know, I was wrong. My heart sank as I discovered the mangled and thrashed spoon, its head bent backwards as if it were Kristin Scott Thomas at the end of The English Patient. Poor guy never had a chance.

I sort of knew something like this would eventually happen. The spoon was actually one of many diminutive utensils donated to my apartment by my friend, IndianJones, who was in the process of upgrading his kitchen inventory. I mocked him for ever having such tiny — verging on baby-sized — spoons, but my roommate and I are never ones to throw away free items; so we took on the pint-sized flatware, knowing full well that the risk of some dreadful In-Sink-Erator tragedy would increase tenfold. And now it has happened. If only the spoon had been a little bit bigger — it would have stuck out of the drain! I would have seen it! I could have saved it! But alas, it was not meant to be. A sad day for all.

A few more gut wrenching photos after the jump. Viewer discretion is advised...

Well, that was unsettling. It's 2:15 AM, and I just heard a loud, echoey explosion outside my window. It sounded like it was about a mile away. It was very disconcerting. Plus, I was playing a game of Scramble on Facebook when it happened. Needless to say, I became very distracted. My score was undoubtedly affected.

Now I hear people's voices down on the street below. I can't tell if they're talking about the random boom or if they're just drunk. Oddly enough, I have not heard any sirens. Is it possible that I'm just going crazy?

Pending...

There are tons of very scary movies out there, and when you're someone like me —  prone to jumping, shaking, and mild paranoia —  even the most innocuous films can be a bit harrowing at times. However, nothing is quite as frightening as some of the more mundane things that can happen in an apartment. I know what you're saying: how can the guy who got scared (a little) during Monster House be the authority on what things are truly scary. Point well taken. Still, I know what gets the heart racing, and these terrifying incidents — which have happened to nearly everyone, I'm sure — can hardly be refuted. Read on... IF YOU DARE (insert Vincent Price laughter here).

Back in December, I decided that one way to save money would be to cease all haircuts until the strike ended. Well, now it's over, and I've decided to extend my moratorium until I receive my next paycheck, which could be who knows when. While the inner-pride I maintain in the face of such an ascetic lifestyle is a neat perk, the truth of the matter is that my hair is rapidly becoming more and more unwieldy with each passing day. It seems to be speeding through any "birds nest" sort of stage and heading directly for "voluminous tragedy," although, to be fair, it's really not that out of control just yet. Plus, the good news is that if my will-power remains strong, there's an outside chance that the hair could grow out of its awkward phase and into a luscious mane of black wonder, but I tend to think "greasy Antonio Banderas disaster" might be a more realistic outcome. Nevertheless, I'm slowly learning how to deal with the expanding beast on my head, and after the jump, I've included some photos that detail this daily, self-imposed battle.

A few months ago, I saw Giada De Laurentiis making a most peculiar sandwich on the Food Network. It involved brie, chocolate chips, basil, and a panini maker. Everything about it seemed wrong, but I couldn't help being intrigued —  especially when Giada insisted that the sandwich was delicious despite its unconventional ingredients. Ever since then, I've wanted to give the chocolate and brie panini a whirl, but I just couldn't bring myself to buy a whole wedge of brie and a bag of chocolate chips for one sandwich experiment. There was something about it that just seemed entirely too indulgent. As a result, I waited around, knowing that eventually, the ingredients would somehow someday find their way into my kitchen.

Recently, during my travels through the Internets, I came across a blog, Dessert First, that among other things, features a nifty section devoted to dessert recipes. Now, I'm no cook, and I'm certainly not a baker, but when I saw an entry devoted to chocolate tartlets, I became intrigued. Over the past few months, I'd become increasingly enamored with this simple pastry, and so it was with a ravenous curiosity that I clicked the link to see just how these tiny morsels of heaven are made. To my surprise, the recipe seemed startlingly easy —  so much so that I thought even I might be able to do it. Nothing is ever as simple as it seems though, and knowing this, I was sure to whip out my camera and document this culinary saga.

So, I hate this car that's parked in my garage. I could go on a rant about it, but what's the point when pictures are so much more effective?

Full disclosure after the jump...

Every now and then, I think I'm the toughest person in the world.  And then I find a dead bird on my balcony and realize that in a fight between me and a cotton ball, the cotton ball would win.  Yes, my squeamish side (a side which covers about 95% of my body) emerged the other day when I discovered the lifeless corpse of a sparrow lying uninvited on my balcony chair (from Costco, no less!).  You see, for whatever reason, sparrows absolutely adore that Costco chair — something I wouldn't mind if they didn't ceaselessly register their pleasure with constant bodily emissions in the form of white goo.  I find myself in a constant, tireless turf war over that chair, and no matter how many times I bust out the Clorox, those damn birds come back time and time again to peck away at the fabric and shit up a storm.  So normally you'd think I'd be thrilled that for once, a sparrow found death on the chair, but instead, I was grossed out.  After all, I'd be the one who'd have to clean the damn thing up; so once again, sparrow wins.

In an effort to keep my day carrion-free, I first attempted to ignore the bird, thinking that sooner or later my roommate would return, and I could pawn all crime-scene cleanups onto him.  However, my roommate was mysteriously absent that day, which meant the responsibility of dealing with the bird fell squarely on my shoulders.  Needless to say, I was not particularly happy about this, especially when the task took a gruesome turn for the macabre...