GARY GYGAX SAVED YOUR LIFE

by Mr. N.

It’s true even for all you “cool” people who have no idea who Gary Gygax is, he saved your lives. You “cool” folks are probably asking: How did some asshole who I’ve never heard of saved my life? He was the co-creator of Dungeons and Dragons, now your next question is how the fuck did Dungeons and Dragons save my life? That shits for dorks and I never played it. Well, when you “cool” kids were going “outside” and playing “sports’ or going to “parties” and getting “laid” us social outcasts were sitting in our rumpus rooms around a table playing D &D.

You are probably still wondering how this pertains to your life being saved. D & D gave us sexually and socially frustrated misfits some sort of outlet for our rage rather than opening up on you assholes with a high powered, magazine fed, semiautomatic rifle at the Sadie Hawkins dance. It’s simple as that; if we weren't casting magic missiles at the Goblin Lord we would have been casting Molotov cocktail into the gym class. The more time we spent our time planning the perfect adventure or re writing our character sheets was less time for us to be planning the best sniper location to shoot into the quad.

I find a corollary between the fall in popularity of D & D and the rise of school shootings. So show some god damn respect, perhaps a national holiday. You will be missed Mr. Gygax, may all your rolls be natural 20’s, goodnight sweet prince.

DOES THIS WOMAN LOOK PREGNANT TO YOU?

While the general lack of etiquette and manners on the part of all humans continues to astound our gentle sensibilities, there is nothing more appalling to us than the "baby bump" phenomenon that seems to have afflicted all celebrity news outlets of late, from print to cyberspace. It's become so widespread that it appears to be spreading to non-celebrities, perhaps the result of general ignorance on behalf of the public at large and general affinity for chocolate, wine, and other fine foodstuffs on behalf of the victim.

For the purposes of blogging anonymously, let's just say that we have a friend in the business, by which we mean not hollywood, but another "business" that requires much wining and dining and not nearly as much dieting. Well, no dieting at all, to be exact. The occupational hazard of said business just happens to be the equivalent of the freshman 15...only it doesn't exactly go away when you're working 60+ hours a week and traveling to exotic locations where people bend over backwards to feed you 7-course dinners.

Said friend has been asked multiple times in the last six weeks if she is expecting. "Expecting to eat?" she replies, coyly trying to suck it in for all she's worth. The embarrassed interrogator usually changes the subject at that point, to the weather or some other asinine topic that has nothing to do with reproduction, but the damage has been done. For the record, said friend has now abandoned all blousy shirts in her wardrobe, no longer leaves the house without her trusty Spanx on, and has made considerable efforts in proper posture and ab positioning techniques, but to no avail. Tonight someone asked her, YET AGAIN, if this is her first baby.

WHY DO PEOPLE THINK IT'S OKAY TO ASK A WOMAN, ANY WOMAN, IF SHE IS PREGNANT/EXPECTING/ FOR HER DUE DATE?

NOTA BENE: UNLESS YOU SEE A CHILD CROWNING FROM BETWEEN HER LEGS, ASSUME SHE'S GOT FUPA ISSUES AND MOVE ON.

And that, people, is your friendly public service announcement for the day.

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE DOUCHE THAT TURNED INTO THE RITE AID ON FAIRFAX THIS MORNING

Dear Douchebag,

There is a handy feature installed in cars called . . . A TURN SIGNAL. I know, I know I should be equipped with a jack off mind reading device so that I know you intend to turn right, but that hasn't been invented yet. According to my research Buick introduced the first turn signal around 1940.

Howstuffworks.com shows these things are pretty simple:


See. Neat right? I realize that means you'd have to put down your phone and continue that text you were composing later, but let's face it, whatever you were saying wasn't that interesting anyway.

OH SHECKY'S WHERE DO I BEGIN . . .

Shecky's Girls Night Out came to the Santa Monica Hangar (map) this week. Having been to the previous two events, I'd have to say this one was my least favorite. The venue was spot on, and a welcome change to last seasons cramped quarters. It's starting to feel like the same thing over and over again. However, in the spirit of shopping and free booze, I offer the Shecky's highlights:

Cool Vendors:

jodibwise - I bought an awesome shirt from her for N

DeLaLuna Designs - Virginia designs the most original handbags and pieces I've ever seen.

Jenni - They weren't selling anything but were giving away boxers

Page Hamilton Designs - Jane loved one of her bags

Goodie Bag Highlights:

Free Underwear!

Redken Products (not full size like the 1st Shecky's but better than the spring's Sunsilk offering)

Full size Aveeno sunscreen

Sample Arbonne body lotion (it smells nice)

I'll still go to the Spring event, but I'd like to see some denim dealers, more underwear, and less jewelry that looks exactly the same as the next booth. Also will someone please tell the Seasonique people that unless they give us something for free we aren't interested in hearing about new birth control (that is what magazine inserts are for).

L.A. Traffic

Just a quick post to end the work day:



That's L.A. traffic on a Thursday at 7 p.m. By the way, red=bad.

Happy travels!

BOMBAY GRILL WHERE ARE YOU?

I call your number, no answer. I drive by, night after night, and the lights are out in your kitchen. I'm a jilted lover on a chicken tikka masala stalking spree and nothing compares to you.

Mr. N is ready to kill someone for some good Vindalu, and he's so devoted to your magical dishes, he refuses to step foot in any of the other thousands of choices for Indian fare in our neighborhood. But seriously, this has gone on too long. At least install an answering machine so we know when you'll return to our sweet loving arms and where we can leave you obsessive messages of curry desire in the meantime.

PS: We are happy for you that you're finally able to visit friends and family in India, but 3 weeks is a long time and we have no idea when you're coming back. Hope you're having fun. Send us a postcard. (map)

CELEBRITIES = BAD NEWS

We here at Pico, as stated in our mission statement and charter, strive to bring you only random crap, and not celebrity-soaked blather, as we feel that a) there are lots of other blogs that do so with more aplomb and dedication than we care to apply (and which we read daily) and b) celebrities are generally, well, dumb, and not worth any more attention than the world already gives them for saying such horrible lines as "this is where it all began for me; this is where it ends." Seriously, Matt Damon, what happened to the artistic vision and genius we saw in Good Will Hunting? Has it all really come to this? Sadness all around about such a disappointing final piece to what was otherwise a rather fun and refreshing triptych, but we'll save the review of "The Bourne Ultimatum" for someone else's blog, one focused not on random crap, but well, atrocious movies and other ways to waste millions of dollars. We really did have high hopes.

Anyway, on to our point about how celebrities are not the sparkly, stardust-laden beings worthy of our worship and harrassment, but, rather, HARBINGERS OF DOOM. Case in point: Last night we went to the Arclight, one of the last bastions of the belief that an outing to the movies deserves as much respect as does an outing to say, church--really where else can we all laugh and cry (and as in the above case, gasp in angered disbelief that this thing ever got made into celluloid) without having to bear the idiocy of laser pointers and cell phones and what have you brought along by the heathen masses. Upon arriving, we learned that the Arclight restaurant, where we'd planned to fill up for the journey of un-suspended disbelief ahead, is closed due to a private event, a.k.a. special party for the special screening of something special for special people. We head to the bar upstairs in search of nourishment. We can't find a waitress, waiter, you name it, anywhere it sight, but we do see Tony Hawk and Vince Vaughn, each with their own entourage. We should have seen the bad moon rising. Behind them were the missing waitstaff, standing against the wall, watching each celebs' every move. We order a beer at the bar and head to an empty table on the patio, knowing full well that now that celebs are on the premises, it's a self-serve situation. Whatever. We go to the movie. It sucked. We leave the movie, and head across the street to The Hungry Cat for oysters and maybe a pug burger or two to cheer us up.Those hopes are quickly dashed as well. Adrian Grenier is in the restaurant, and we're seated on a side patio. After 15 minutes, we're told we can order just drinks for now and food later. Another 15 minutes go by, drinks come. Adrian and friends are having a blast. Everyone around them is eating. 15 more minutes go by. Our waiter is gone. So is our love for Hungry Cat, which we've recommended to more people than Adrian ever will. Which brings us to our point, 45 minutes later: while the presence of a celebrity in your favorite restaurant or bar may bode well for the chef with stars in his eyes (which, let's face it, these days they all do), it means very bad things for the common man, foodie, barfly, chowhound and joe schmo left to languish in the wake of servers who leap to an A-lister's every beck and call. Or simply stand against the wall and stare. Either way, we're fucked.