How'd it get burned??

What is it with southern California and fire? It's just not a day out there unless something's going up in flames - trees, houses...or Courthouse Square from Back To The Future. I mean, have you people no sense of decency?

Apparently the Universal Studios backlot burned down earlier today.

A couple of years ago, when Chris was working on the lot at "Crossing Jordan," we commandeered a golf cart and did our own little private tour. Our main motivation was (obviously) that golf carts are really fun, but there was the added bonus of getting to see most of the sets, evidently for the last time.

So here's to you, Universal backlot...that fake plane crash was pretty sweet. Bummer.

On the occasion of my (almost) on-time departure

The Borders bookstore was woefully unable to meet my needs. I don't like bookstores in general. anytime I go into the massive Barnes & Noble in Union Square, I feel like the huge stacks are going to overwhelm my psyche. There is just too much inventory, and I need to employ blinders just to get what I need and escape with my sanity.

But in my slapdash preparation this morning, I completely forgot to bring any reading material for the plane. I had read my monthly regiment of fashion magazines at the nail salon on Tuesday, and I dislike magazines generally. Once I'm updated on shoes and lip gloss for the season, I'm good to go. I had meant to look through Leslie's collection of books that she keeps under the TV - there's quite a variety, from analysis of sex workers to Hemingway - but I didn't think of it. I had gotten home late last night, and I was mentally wringing my hands over what I had decided to bring to LA for the weekend. I almost forgot underwear altogether, and it's really not that kind of trip.

We haven't had Internet at work for the last few days, and the new server was being installed this morning, so I wasn't in too much of a rush to get to the office. Still, I forgot to grab a book, which left me wandering through the annoyingly tiny Borders in Terminal C, across from the duty-free store.

I stood in the Biography section, since that's always my preferred genre. Fiction is hit-or-miss, and there are too many choices. It's like trying to pick an album based solely on the artwork and that rarely works out. Books are about as expensive as CDs at this point. Either way, I was not in the mood to take a $20 crap shoot. There was much less selection in Biography - I didn't want to read the David Hasselhoff autobiography, nor the life and times of Ghandi or that girl who gave blowjobs to all those rappers. And those were pretty much my options. There were a few books by authors whose names I didn't recognize, but I'll pretty much read anything about anyone's life. On the other hand, they all seemed to be very serious and "inspiring," according to the press blurbs. I really wasn't in the mood for that either. So I went to my gate with no book.

No luck on distraction from the movie - it's that one with Hilary Swank that's exactly like the one where Michelle Pfeiffer teaches the ghetto kids the importance of book learning. Except Hilary Swank doesn't get the benefit of cred in the form of Coolio. I do not doubt that someone will get shot and that person will be a completely innocent party. I've seen "Lean On Me." I know how this goes.

These flights seem long, even though it's really only 5 hours or so in the air. We left about an hour late, but the pilot promised that we would have a close to on-time arrival regardless. Something about being re-routed to fly over Iowa. Whatever, I'll take it.

Chris is supposed to take me to some bar that's "completely awesome."

I asked if I would need to change since I'm wearing the decidedly unglamorous staple of jeans, sneakers and one of my 6 American Apparel v-neck t-shirts.

"Oh, it's in a mall in the Valley," he assured me. "You're fine, don't even worry."

"So when you say it's awesome, you mean that ironically." In college, we used to say that TJ's bar was awesome, and TJ's was filled with was depressed travelling salesmen and had a terrible jukebox, filled mostly with Celine Dion and Richard Marx. But they didn't card, which was nice.

Chris considered this. "Yes and no."

So that will be interesting. Going to visit Chris has become more routine over the last year or so. Not that I don't look forward to it, but we do much less planning and hyping in the preceeding weeks. In fact, I haven't really talked to him at all until I called him from the Borders to say that we were (supposedly) going to leave on time. It doesn't matter - he had cleaned and bought liquor. We're all set.

Aim low!

There are certain things you'll never know you're terrible at until you try them. For instance, I never knew that I couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a 9MM Glock until recently.

One of the things Leslie and I were keen to do on our vacation in Las Vegas was to shoot guns, which of course we said with the same gravity as "get drunk" and "ride rollercoasters." Whoo! Party! Actually, I'm surprised that there's not somewhere to shoot guns on a rollercoaster that serves top shelf liquor. We would have definitely signed up in advance.

The next best option is The Gun Store. It's kind of a surreal experience and perhaps one of dubious safety. After all, given that the rallying cry of Las Vegas is "open container," it's a little uncomfortable to stand in line with a pack of guys who YOU KNOW have just finished a Yard of Margarita as they're handed automatic weapons and live rounds. The staff at The Gun Store, all of whom carry holstered weapons like they're some kind of on-call, volunteer SWAT, are a combination of chipper and stridently official. They seem to take the business of weaponry quite seriously, considering their clientle are basically people who are making a pit stop between the titty bar and the all-you-can-eat buffet at Barbary Coast.

I decided on a semi-automatic handgun for two reasons - first, because I didn't want to blow my entire stock of ammo in two shots and second, so that I didn't dislocate my shoulder with some wicked recoil. Also, Glocks are pretty bad ass guns. Truth be told, the selection of guns was somewhat overwhelming and I felt safer sticking with what I knew. If it's good enough for gangstas, it's good enough for me.

The selection of targets is pretty extensive as well, although the popular favorites are undoubtably those in the Terrorist Collection - Osama, Saddam, random brown person, etc. As the guy behind the counter asked our friend Gwyther, "Which A-Rab did you want there, buddy?" This probably makes more sense as Gwyther was renting an AK-47 (he had a coupon). By far the most awesome choice - Chris and I both picked it - was the target featuring a guy holding a cowering flight attendant hostage ABOARD AN AIRPLANE. So let me get this straight: I can't bring my hair products in my carry-on luggage, but packing a handgun in the overhead bin is a logical scenario. Naturally. Leslie chose an armed mugger who looked strangely like Mario Lopez.

After a cursory yet Very Serious overview of how to load and handle your gun ("Don't point it at your head!"), we were pretty much left to load and fire our weapons of choice. For no reason in particular, I walked into the shooting range having never even touched a gun before in my life and still somehow secure in the idea that I was an expert shot. This was primarily due to the fact that when I walk around New York City at night, I listen to the soundtrack from "The Matrix" and pretend I'm a secret agent. No, I'm not kidding. So naturally I assumed that I possessed some innate marksmanship. This is not the case. Not only was I caught off guard by the kickback but, let's face it - I'm painfully nearsighted. Aiming is not really an option. I couldn't even tell if I was hitting the target at all, never mind where on the target. My terrorist was not in a whole lot of danger. A little late in the game, I realized the trick is to aim low to compensate for the recoil. This was after I had emptied most of my rounds into the ceiling or the floor.

As a nice bonus, you get to keep your target as a souvenir of your experience - or, in my case, as a record of your total incompetence. By comparison, Chris - who, keep in mind, had the same target and nearly the same gun that I did - managed to take out the terrorist without a single shot in the flight attendant. As we were walking out, he said, "I guess any time I want to go into business as a hitman, I'm good to go." Someone passing us replied, "There's a lot of money in that."

Nice to know that Chris at least has some lucrative career options. Maybe I can be his booking agent - 10% of death is fine by me.