You're Driving Me Crazy--or Should I Say "Me Crazy Driving . . . you're. . " (If I were Irish and didn't know how to finish that sentence)

I was zoning out today, staring out my passenger side window while I raced down the 10 Freeway in LA. Watching all the buildings pass by made me kind of tired, and I would be lying if I said i didn't close my eyes a couple of times--just for a few seconds. Or minutes--it's really hard to tell how much time passes by when you are asleep, especially while behind the wheel. It was a restless sleep, though, more of a snooze because there was a lot of honking and screaming all around outside my car, for who knows what reason. I tried to ignore it and let my eyelids fall as heavily as my foot was on the accelerator. I finally woke up because I got that weird spinning feeling you sometimes get when you are aspleep while driving a car.

Anyway, when I did wake up, I realized I was driving on the wrong side of the 405 freeway (I have no idea how I got there), with cars swerving out of my way and a trail of fire and explosions behind me. I got off the freeway at the nearest on-ramp, disgusted at the recklessness of the cars coming towards me, waiting till the last second to swerve out of my way. It got me thinking about how many bad drivers there are out there.

Take me, for example. That story I just told isn't true, but what if I told you Im 24 years old and have gotten 75 driving-related tickets so far in my life--more than 3 times my age? You would probably say, "that isn't true either." And you'd be right. It's more like 10. Which is still a lot if you think about it, considering I've only been driving legally since I got my learner's permit at age 15. I'm not trying to imply that I drove illegally before that. I didn't drive at all. I just meant that all of the driving I have done since age 15 has been legal. Unless you count the 10 instances that I got ticketed, I guess. That driving was illegal, according to the law. And then there's all the times that I drove "illegally" and didn't get caught by the po-po. (That's 5-0, to the layperson). When you think about it, I've probably only driven legally for like 17 minutes in my entire life. That's less time than most people with Irritable Bowel Syndrome spend on the toilet in a single day, on average (I have no data to back this up). Think about it.

It's not that I'm a bad driver. It's that I sometimes get a little too creative on the road. I'm left-handed, and if there's one thing I've heard about us lefties it's that we tend to think "outside the box." I guess my out-of-box thinking expresses itself on the road when I'm behind the wheel. It's not usually intentional--let me give you an example--I've driven with my feet before because I needed my hands to hold a book I was reading. In my defense, it was a big book--one of the ones you need two hands to hold, especially when you are at the beginning and the weight of the pages isn't evenly distributed. You can see the creativity here--I wanted to read the book, and rather than let the fact that I need to drive somewhere stop me, I came up with a solution that worked. It's called resourcefulness.

Ok, that didn't happen either. You might be getting annoyed here, with the bait and switch. But seeing how at this point in this blog the "you" I'm referring to is like 3 people tops, I'm going to take the liberty of drawing this out a bit. Ok, before "you" get so irritated that "you" sign off and go goggle more articles about the legal battles over Michael Jackson's estate, I'll give you a true list of all of the things that I have gotten tickets for over the years, in chronological order (not in order of seriousness): reckless driving (on the 3 month anniversary of me getting my license), speeding (55 in a 35), driving without headlights during a blizzard, driving without a seatbelt, speeding again (95 in a 65--this was when I was driving from LA to Pueblo, Colorado, by myself, in order to see the final concert of my favorite band ever, EVE 6. It was totally worth it), driving in the carpool lane without another passenger (I was hungover and late picking my parents up from the airport), reckless biking (that's bicycle, not motorcycle, and given to me by the same exact cop that gave me the seatbelt ticket a year and a half earlier. He also kept asking me how many speeds my bike had--"what is that, a 10 speed?" Asshole, right?), and speeding again (75 in a 50). You're probably wondering how I still have a license.

But wait, there's more. In addition to those tickets I got, I have also been pulled over (but not ticketed) several times. I once got out of a ticket by telling the cop that I was driving fast because I was looking for a gas station with a restroom and "it's kind of an emergency." When he asked me what I meant by emergency, I said "number one and number two." He just looked at me for a minute, said the nearest gas station was 10 miles down the highway, and let me go. I was pretty proud of that because usually I just take the ticket, and I can't believe it worked.

On top of those tickets and getting pulled over, I have also backed into 3 cars (4, if you count today), backed into a garage door (and broke it), run into a guardrail on the highway, and ran out of gas to the point where my car stopped . . . twice.

If you think that sounds bad, consider the worst (and first) driving story I ever had, which set the bar pretty high if you ask me or anyone else. (SPOILER ALERT: This story includes several of the incidents I just listed above. For fun, why don't you try to guess which ones before you read on?)

On the 3 month anniversary of me getting license, I was driving with my best friend, at night, on an empty road. Because I had been driving for 3 months and because I was 16, I was more than a little cocky when on the road. So, for fun, I said to my friend, "Watch this--this will be fun," and I started swerving between lanes. I did this several times.

Rewind about 3 hours here. Before I even left my house to go out that night, my car was parked in the garage. It was a beautiful car--a silver Jeep Grand Cherokee named Sonja (she has since died via being rear-ended). Anyway, I was late going out that night, so I pushed the garage door open button and hopped in my car. My car wasnt usually parked in the garage, and I was used to hopping in, backing up immediately and going. So I did. But the garage door wasn't all the way open yet. I felt this bump, heard this horrible grinding sound, and realized what was going on--I backed into the garage door and broke it. I examined the problem, determined that the door was indeed jammed out of the track and into the frame, and weighed my options. I could call my parents then, get in trouble and miss out on the night with my friends, or, "fix" the door, and leave a note for my parents saying "I'll explain about the door when I get home." I chose the latter. I used a hammer to beat the door back into the frame so that it could close manually and wrote my parents the note.

Fastforward to swerving in the road. You would think that breaking my garage door 3 hours earlier would have urged some sort of prudence on my when driving the rest of that night. Au contraire. Swerving while driving is fun--I will stand by that to this day. The problem was that the road wasn't completely empty--there was another car there. A police car. After swerving about 6 times, I saw the sirens and pull over. The cop was FURIOUS as he stormed to the car and asked me what the Hell I thought I was doing. At first he thought I was drunk, but I explained that no, I wasn't, I was just a dumb 16 year old fooling around. I think this made him more mad because he wrote me a reckless driving ticket--8 points. (In colorado, when you first got your license, you only were allowed 5 points before your license is suspended. In otherwords, I was pwned). So, I drove home, trying to figure out the best way to tell my parents not only how I broke the garage door, but how I got an 8 point reckless driving ticket as well.

I decided humor was the best approach. I walked in the front door, and my parents were sitting at kitchen table. Before they could say anything about the garage, I said "hey mom and dad--remember that time I got the reckless driving ticket after breaking the garage? Well you will after this." and I laid the ticket on the table. Their guts were not busted, so to speak. My parents are pretty cool though, and realizing that I was a dumb kid, kind of learning, not really putting anyone in real danger, they decided to give me another chance with driving. I had dogdged a bullet.

Four days later, I was late again. This night, my car was parked on the driveway (we all learned our lesson). Being late was especially bad this night because I was going to a friend's surprise 16th birthday party. So I hopped in the car, and backed up. Now, I live at the top of a cul-de-sac, so in order to get out, I have to turn almost completely around when backing out before I can drive forward anywhere.

Normally, this is fine. But that night, my Grandma's mini-van was at my house, parked along the sidewalk. Mind you, it was also dark that night. I pulled out of the driveway, continued backing up and turning around when all of a sudden, I heard a thud and my whole car LUNGED. I looked back and saw my G-ma's car and realized what happened. Being young, dumb and 16, I thought maybe there would be no damage, and I would get away with it. But just to be cautious, I thought I should check rather than assume. I flipped the car around so I could shine my headlights on the mini-van. Sure enough, there was a dent the size of my head in the sliding rear door.

At that point, I was pretty sure I needed to call my parents. So I hopped back into my car, and began backing up so that I could pull into the driveway again. It was only about 4 seconds before I heard ANOTHER loud thud and my car lunged forward AGAIN. That's right, I had backed into my neighbor's station wagon which was parked along the sidewalk in front of their house across the street. I got out and examined. ANOTHER head-sized dent in their car. Aawwwkkwaarrrdd. My parents took my car away for a while after that. I was pretty bummed out and feeling hard on myself until my dad told me that when he was my age, he totalled both of his parents cars in one weekend while they were out of town. Guess it runs in the family.

I think it's a combination of one or all of these incidents (maybe) that give me no credibility among my family and friends when something car-related happens that's not my fault. For instance, senior year of college, I lived in a house with my 7 best friends. We lived in South Central LA, so there was a gate around the house. We all had cars, so the parking got pretty crowded. One time, I was late (again), and needed to back my car out of a weird spot and get out the gate. I opened the gate, and was angling the car out--doin pretty well, too, considering my past. The gate usually has a sensor that makes it automatically reopen if something (like a car) is in the gate's path. However, I think because of the weird angle I was at, the sensor didnt sense that my car was half-way out when it started closing. The gate closed right on my left back door and stopped, and for some reason, didn't reopen. So, I had to drive out, with the metal gate still pressed against my car. Ya, there were a looooooot of scratches along my car from then on. No one believed that it was the gate's fault, not mine. Talk about the boy who cried wolf.

I think the worst driving thing that ever happened to me was when I was driving with my girlfriend up to the mountains on New Year's Eve, and the car spontaneously caught on fire. That is another story for another day. I promise I will tell that one and all of these others in more detail soon, but I feel like this is getting a little long.

I guess you could say I have car trouble. Some might say I am reckless, careless, un-fit to drive, more dangerous on the road than Hellen Keller (although I can proudly say that I have NEVER tried to read brail while driving). But you and I both know the truth--I'm really just a leftie.

All right all, thanks for reading. Until tomorrow, here is some more random great stuff that I reccommend to all.

Amazing and Totally Underrated Movie--Sorority Boys

TV show that all dudes, but really everyone, should watch--The Wire

Really Random but Awesome and Catchy Song--"Waiting for a Train" by Flash and the Pan

My favorite book in the world that I think everyone should read--Catch 22 by Joseph Heller

I hope to catch all of you on the proverbial flip-side.

Mikee P

Who Is Really the Father of Michael Jackson's Kids?

I dont know, to tell you the truth. I have no idea. At all.

I mean, does anyone ever really know who is whose father? The answer is yes, yes they do. Most people know who their father is--the older dude who lived in your house growing up who wasn't your brother is usually a safe bet, especially if you kinda look like him. Like, for me, I think I can say with like 99% certainty that my father is my father--I look literally exactly like him. It's actually really kind of weird. I've looked at old pictures of him before, and it's kind of like looking at a picture of me with a kind of blonde semi-fro (as was the style at the time). I also distinctly remember this one time that I went with my family to visit some of my parents' friends who they hadn't seen since college. I was 18 at the time, so about the same age as my parents when these friends knew them. I walked in the door, and the friend talked to me for about 2 minutes because she thought that my dad hadn't aged a day since college--because I look so much like him. It's kind of weird knowing that you could steal your dad's identity if he was roughly 20 years younger. I mean, I could use his ID no problem, and we even have the same first initial, so I think I could easily forge a lot of his documents. My credit would immediately get boosted, since mine is worth zippo right now, as I am closing in on $150,000 worth of debt. Frickin law school.

If my dad were 20 years younger and I were inclined to steal his identity, I could add Dr. in front of my first name without even stepping foot in medical school. That last part's a good thing for everybody--they would not want me setting foot in medical school since I wouldn't know calcisic bursitis from a colonoscopy (That's pretty bad considering that one is a small fluid filled sac that helps prevent friction forces between tissues of the body and the other is a procedure where they wash out your butthole).

Ok, that's a bit of an exaggeration I guess--I wouldn't be that clueless. I mean, if I had to, I think I could kind of wing it from time to time--like I would probably be able to figure out the left kidney from the right kidney, but I would need some subtle way to get someone else there to tell me which of the bulging masses I was looking at was the kidney. And this would just lead to too many questions, like "aren't you a little young to be a doctor?" or "Doctor, don't you already know which organ is the kidney?" or "Doctor, why are you asking about the kidney when this patient is here for a sprained ankle?" or "why are you operating on that patient while he is still awake?" And my cover would be blown.

So I think for now, I won't try to fake being a doctor (even though somehow it seemed to work for Frank Abagnale). Anyway, I think I was talking about knowing if your father is really your father. There are also all of the people out there who know for sure that their father is their father because of paternity tests. This method has been largely proliferated thanks to great humanitarians like Maury Povich and Jerry Springer. These kids and parents are especially lucky if you ask me--not only do they to get to find out the true identity of the father through the wizardry of science (something many of us never get the pleasure of), but they get to do it on national daytime television. How awesome is that--sharing the joy with everyone. Or the extreme awkwardness.

The problem with those shows is that no matter what the results are, someone is always unhappy. I mean, we all know how every single one of these episodes go: there is about a 10 minute set-up where Maury interviews the mother. Sometimes the kid is there. Either way, there are picutures of the kid posted up on the big screen. The father is in the studio, in a back room, listening. His picture is up on the screen next to the kid. They never resemble each other as much as me and my dad do because that would take all the mystery/drama out of it.

The interview usually goes something like this:

Mother: "I know he the father because I ain't slept with nobody else, Jerry."

Maury: "Actually, I'm Maury, Floesha. You're on the Maury Povich show."

Mother: "Oh sorry Maury, I'm jus trippin cause he all actin like Jaquon aint his kid, but he IS, J-Maury. He look just like him, and I ain't slept with nobody else."

Maury: "All right, let's bring out the man and see what he has to say."

Audience: "Boo/yay!"

Potential Baby-Daddy: "Yo Maury, check it. He ain't my kid. He don't look nuthin like me. The nose is all diffrent, the eyes is wrong. He ain't mine. She be all up in here actin like this my kid when she been ***^$#@ around the whole time we was together."

Floesha: "*(#$# you! You know he your kid! Look at him!"

Potential Baby-Daddy: "#$# that Maury, she lyin. She aint nuthin but a #$$%#."

Floesha: "#$#$_$%"

Potential Baby Daddy: "##$)@!"

(Usually here the whole sound goes out on the episode because there is a string of creative expletives shouted out by both guests).

Potential Baby Daddy: Na, na he ain't my baby!"

Floesha: He your baby!

Maury: "All right. Well we have the test results here. Are you ready?"

Floesha/Potential Baby Daddy: "Yes Maury."

Maury: "Floesha . . . . it turns out Potential Baby Daddy is . . . "

This sentence can go one of two ways.

1) ". . . IS the father of young Jaquon." If this is the sentence, Floesha is happy but the Potential Baby Daddy (Who is now Actual Baby Daddy) freaks out, cusses some more, and often runs off stage.

OR

2) " is NOT the father of young Jaquon." If this is the sentence, Floesha runs backstage crying, usually collapsing somewhere in the hallway. Sometimes Maury goes after her and hugs her. Meantime, Potential Baby Daddy jumps and dances all over the stage, sometimes getting right in Floesha's face before she runs backstage.I mean, why is there never an episode of these shows where both parents are happy that Potenital Baby Daddy is the real father?

This is why I prefer the episodes of Maury entitled "Man or Woman?" These are where they parade out women and the audience tries to guess which are real women and which are transvestites. Everyone wins in these episodes--either you guess right, or you are surprised/impressed with the skills of some of the sex-change doctors out there. There is no sadness involved, unless, I guess, if you are a dude and you become attracted to one of the "women" only to find out that she is one of the trannies. If this happens to you, I guess you have some reflecting to do.

So, in the end, I don't really know who the true father of Michael Jackson's kids are. I guess they could try two of the methods I discussed here--the look-a-like method or the Maury/Springer method. The look alike method is difficult, because the kids kind of look like Michael. But bear in mind here that Michael Jackson was originally (and probably still genetically) black. The kids aren't. This brings fuzziness into this test, so it may not be reliable. I guess they could go with the Maury/Springer method, but I think we can all agree that we would have rather seen Michael on the Man or Woman episode of Maury than the Baby-Daddy episode.

Anyway, that's it for What It Is today. I think I might start ending these blogs with sharing some random stuff that I think people should check out, since that is why I started this to begin with. Submitted, for your entertainment, are some random movies/TV shows/songs or artists/books/comedians that you might enjoy. As always, feel free to share with me as well--I'm always on the lookout.

Underrated Movie Everyone Should See: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

GREAT TV Show: Eastbound and Down

Artist/Song: Blue Scholars (artists) "The Ave" (track)

Book: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (the original Pride and Prejudice re-imagined to include scenes where the characters fight zombies)

Comedians: Louis CK--this guy cannot get enough credit for how frickin hilarious he is, and I feel like he is underrated. I have never laughed to the point of tears so many times when watching standup, and I love standup. Check him out--he is crude, for sure, but it is hilarious.

As Kip would say, "Peace out."

Mikee P

What It Is

This blog is called "What It Is." Its called that because once my dear old grandpa named Pops, when I said hi to him, responded with "What it is?" He meant it as a joke, as he usually means everything he says. For some reason I never forgot it. Now out of habit, I greet almost everyone with "What it is." Except in my professional life, but I usually try to keep my professionalism to a minimum for many reasons.

I do that with a lot of quotes I pick up--work them into my everyday vocabulary almost to a point of where it becomes a reflex. These quotes come from movies or God knows where, but once they are in, they are in and I almost can't stop it. Some other ones that almost anyone who has ever known me hears multiple times a day "sounds cool" (Zoolander), "Thats what I'm talkin about" (Napoleon Dynamite--said in Kip's lisp), and "'Did he just say rings are cool?' 'No, he said they were stupid.' 'Cool!'" (Futurama). I admit that there really are very very few opportunities to use this last quote, especially because it is a dialogue requiring 2 speakers, and it requires that the other person both be aware of the quote and say the right thing. So I think that I've really only used it once in a real conversation. But I always have it ready just in case. To be perfectly honest with you, whoever you are, I have no doubt that I could carry on an entire conversation in only movie quotes. Sometime in my life, I hope to test that theory.

Anyway, the blog is also called "what it is" because its the most random title I can think of, and this blog is going to be about the most random crap since, in the end, I am a damn weird and random person. I knew I wanted to write a blog, but I couldn't think of any kind of topic or theme. I didn't know if I really had anything to offer--I am a 24 year old law student from Denver who moved to California for college and stayed. I'm not an expert in anything. I'm not really that interested in current events or politics, and wouldn't know enough about them to have any kind of opinion that people should or would want to read about.

Just about the only thing I really think I have to offer is some of the random shit I've seen or done or heard about so far in my life. I have traveled a lot to many different places, I love movies and have seen a lot of them (and I recall a disgusting amount of information from most movies I've seen), I've gone through a lot of phases, and I pretty much listen to all kinds of music, except country--that is, I'm sure, until I get my first pickup, cut the sleeves off my flannel shirts and start acting like a true Amurrican.

I know a little bit about a lot of things, and am interested in a lot of different things and meeting a lot of different people. I love finding out about and collecting random, quirky or unique movies, songs, books (and of course quotes) that go under most people's radars. And I think more people should know about and appreciate some of this stuff. Youre life will be better, and often funnier, because of this blog. If it's not, then I don't want to know you because you sound kind of uptight. Or we just have radically different tastes, which I guess I can get on board with, as long as you're not an asshole.

If you're reading this, feel free to share random shit with me, as I always am interested in new weird and different stories, events, movies, songs, et al (i.e. etc.). If you're not reading this, then you most likely can't share anything with me since you don't even know I exist or that I am writing this. If you're blind and someone is reading this to you, please feel free to share with me via the person who is reading this to you or some brand of Speak 'n Type software. But please, do not attempt to type brail because I can't read it, and it would probably damage your computer by pounding on it with an awl or screwdriver.

At this point, I think I'll discuss the first piece of randomness, just to get us started off on the right foot. This should lay a pretty good foundation. I've always kind of had this plan that, whenI'm old and senile, I'm going to hijack a Coke truck, drive for Mexico, and see what happens.

Now, let me clarify a few things at this point. First, I don't think I would really do this, and it would be years off if I did, so this does not amount to a clear and present danger and it certainly is not meant to incite any action, it's purely theoretical, meaning I should be safe under the First Amendment to say this (I guess I learned something in law school). Secondly, I mean Coca-Cola, not coke as in cocaine. See, I really like Coke. Aways Coke, never Pepsi--Pepsi sucks (I will debate you to death on this). I drink Coke all the time. Back in high school, I would often drink about 5 a day, now I have it down to about 3.

My dad is a dentist and frowns upon gratuitously rotting our teeth, so when I was a kid, I had to sneak down to the teacher's lounge in the elementary school and buy up Cokes (which were only 50 cents, so it was pretty awesome as a young lad who really only had loose change). Then, I would hide them around my room so they wouldn't be seen by my dad. I got really creative with hiding places--one in the pillow case, one under the stuffed animals, one in a mini mailbox my parents had given me, one in a drawer.

The best hiding spot I came up with was the vent in the floor under my bed. This spot was clearly overkill because my dad actually didn't really care that I drank Coke, and there was no way he would ever think to look around my room for stashes of them--he isn't crazy or strict at all--I think it was just more exciting and fun to hide the stuff. The other problem with this hiding spot is that it was a heater vent, so I sometimes had to endure some pretty hot Coke. But, you have to entertain yourself somehow when you are a kid. I do think that my dad caught on to all the Coke I was drinking when he had to give me 6 filling before I was age 12--once having to do 3 in one appointment. Yeah, it was bad.

Anyway, when I am old, I don't want to just sit around in some nursing home waiting to die in my sleep--I believe in going out with a bang. At some point I figured, that if I'm old and lived long enough and don't have much left to do around here (Earth), I might just hijack some Coke delivery truck, head for the America/Mexico border and see what happens.

There are a lot of advantages to this plan--no one would suspect an old man wandering up to a Coke truck of planning to hijack it, so the element of surprise is palpable and I almost certainly would get away with that part of the plan. Also, if I got arrested (but be assured I would do my best not to get caught as long as I could, this means off-roading, plowing through barricades, driving to the point of getting gunned down) I feel like there would be a great insanity defense in a criminal trial. I could play it off like I didn't know it wasn't my car because I was old and senile, or something like that. If I did get convicted, no one in the "joint" (this is what some people call prison) would mess with me, because I would be that crazy-ass old man who hijacked a Coke truck with only his cane.

If I didn't get arrested, I would definitely drive as long as I possibly could--I would bring supplies with me, including food, water, and, of course, Depends, so that I could drive all the way to Mexico if it worked out. I would even be OK getting gunned down by American authorities at the Mexican border--I mean, I'll be old anyway, and like I said before--go out with a bang. Whatever happened, it would be a great story--a great one for me to tell if I made it, or a great obituary if I didn't. Way better than playing bingo and line-dancing every night until I died in my sleep.

Ok, well I guess that pretty much sums up an introduction. Sorry, I've never blogged before and don't quite know the blogger-blogee protocol. I hope this is sufficient to have gotten you interested enough to keep reading or sharing. If not, refer to the end of paragraph 5 so I don't have to type it all out again. I don't know about you guys, but right now feel like I've known each of you my entire life, which is a pretty cool feeling. We're bonding. It's a good thing.

Peace out.

Mikee P