I just have a whole collection of random Jimbo shots for you. This is an MTV entry. It's Short Attention Span Theatre for my life. And if anyone other than Sarah Brown understands that reference, you, like me, spent way too much time watching late-night TV in college. It's basically just a whole bunch of individual blog entries rolled into one. My gift to you after a week of relative silence.

Well, as silent as I can be.

Down on ups.
I just realized that I can't for the life of me remember when I last had the hiccups. And I don't mean that I forget the totally useless minutia of my life. Ask my ex-girlfriend or read this blog - that CLEARLY isn't the case. What I'm saying is that it's been so long that I can't remember the experience. It's gotta be close to a decade. Is this strange? I really haven't the foggiest.

Jerkwerks?
While discussing the intricate details of porn with Halcyon today, I came to the conclusion that branding is perhaps MORE difficult in that industry than any other. If Anderson Consulting became "Accenture" and all they do is consulting, can you imagine finding the right name for your company when you deal in smut? Let alone an available domain name. The MO for tech companies is to take some technical or scientific term and combine it with another. I'm not sure "Smutech" or "Cocknet" or "Snatchsys" or "Bangworks" looks all that good on the side of a building. It's worse if you are peddling the uber-popular "teen" porn. "Hotwetteens.com" might raise some concerns with the association committee. And I'm fairly certain that "Pedo-files" isn't gonna be any better.

And all of this makes me wonder how "Winger" managed to release "17" back in the 80s and still turned it into a hit. How did that not raise any eyebrows? "She's only 17. She'll show you love like you've never seen?"

Christ, I can feel the mullet growing in again.

THICK.

I so need to add this to my life's "to-do" list.
A certain person who for obvious reasons will remain nameless "accidentally" wrecked her ex-boyfriend's $90K Porsche last week. How totally fucking rock-star is that? I love her so much more.

Buzz worthy.
I am an agent of change. A force to be reckoned with. And the tireless supporter of the female orgasmic experience. I convinced a friend of mine to purchase her first vibrator last week. Her battery-powered "Blueberry" boyfriend arrived last Thursday. Sales of "Eveready" batteries skyrocketed last week, sending the stock price into the stratosphere and bolstering the recovering US economy. Investors around the world responded and global markets have been climbing steadily, fueling the growth of new jobs and feeding families and children the world over. Aside from her neighbors who haven't had a good night's sleep in several days and her next lover who is bound to have a helluva a time living up to her new expectations, the world is a better place today. And it's all because of me and a vibrator. I'm doing the Lord's work here, people. And I'm proud.

I'm Going to Memphis.
I have found my favorite bar in Orange County. For years I have lamented the fact that I haven't had a place in OC that I could drink and meet pretty girls and genuinely enjoy myself. Orange County has two types of bars. OC has loads of dive bars for people who want to watch sports and drink beer and play pool, but frankly I'd rather sit home alone and masturbate than spend any extended amount of time in that kind of place. What the hell do I have in common with those people? I don't regularly drink, I don't like sports, I think cigarettes ought to have MORE cyanide to speed their inevitable end result, and I couldn't win a game of pool if you gave me a geometry lesson and paired me against a one-armed tweaker with AD-HD and an advanced case of Parkinson's.

Alternatively, OC has a handful of pretentious restaurants and lounges filled with strenuously glamorous, animatronic versions of Ken and Barbie only with less personality and more plastic. And less realistic bodily dimensions. Like I really want to spend time with Chet and his meticulously sculpted locks held in place with no less than 12 applications of Bed Head's "Uber Sheen" made with 100% natural buffalo semen and jojoba oil and all the shiny party girls with their haughty yet vacant expressions and surgically enhanced bodies - now silicone AND personality FREE.

And people wonder why I'm single.

So I have going to Memphis, a bar in Costa Mesa (which is rapidly becoming my favorite city in OC). Memphis is a tiny little place on Bristol with a few tables and friendly bartenders in black who serve a wonderfully tasty cocktail and a hipster DJ spinning funky, eclectic stuff that you will not find in any juke box in OC. The people are generally a little cooler, a little artsy, a little more punk, if a little more jaded. Think Huntington Beach - only with a higher IQ. I have met more friendly people and received more phone numbers and had more interesting conversations and laughed more there in the last two weeks than I have at any other bar I've been to in Orange County - period.

And this week I met a woman in a green velour jump suit. Any woman in OC with the balls to wear something so wonderfully tacky it's cool is OK in my book. Her number is OK in my book as well.

And for the record, my roommate Carrie is the best wingman EVER. You can't have her. I'm totally keeping her.

Duh.
To my new neighbor: Welcome to the neighborhood and I appreciate your holiday spirit and all that, but perhaps midnight isn't the best time to break out the staple gun and hammer to hang your Christmas lights. Just a suggestion.

Duh again.
I'm not sure Jackson Brown is the right choice of music for the gym. Tender might be the night but it sure isn't a hard squat set.

And finally, it's time for me to fly.
"Finding Nemo" made me happier than any movie I have seen this year, and I am not ashamed to admit that. I'm also not ashamed to admit that I have seen REO Speedwagon in concert twice and consider "Roll With the Changes" to be one of my all time favorite songs.

But perhaps I should be.