Not quite a tweet.

I’m not very quick to form opinions. I’m not quick to form opinions, I’m still not sure how I feel about Swiss cheese. I know deep down that it’s cheese and therefore, I should like it. I know that I love cheese, the Platonic form of cheese, but I just don’t enjoy Swiss. I’ve never, not a single time, have I put Swiss cheese in my mouth and said “this is a pleasant experience.” But I still grab a slice from the platter at every party.

The Pho King

I was sick the last few days, and naturally craved soup. I, being the well cultured individual that I am, decided that I wanted to get pho. My decision was 80% based on a joke involving being the "king" of pho.

My fever had lead me to an odd sleep pattern. I found myself waking up at all odd hours of the day. Seven, Eight in the morning. I finally managed to gulp down enough green-dyed jager-flavored cough syrup to pass out until a far more manageable hour. Nine PM. At which point, I made the choice to seek the aforementioned pho.

Fortunately, I found a 24 hour pho place that was only a few miles from my place. Pho Citi in Silverlake. I arrived to be greeted by the kindly gentleman behind the counter whose v-neck was deep enough it revealed his chest stubble. He asked me to wait a minute. It's cool, I get it. I've worked shitty jobs too. He's got shit to do. And I had to decide which type of Pho was acceptable to order. Trite and tendon? Really?

I figure out what I want and set the menu back to let him know, ya know, I'm ready to order. No reaction, but it looks like he's kind of busy, so I don't say anything. Another customer comes to the counter. He helps them and goes back to what he's doing.

"I think I'm ready to order," I say. And he gives me this look like fucking whatever. Look, dude. Your job sucks. Bummer. Do it anyway.

I order the rare beef pho and he places the order with the cook in the back. In the meantime, his shift relief arrives. "I had to deal with the bitchiest customer today. It was like you wouldn't even believe." They do their respective eyerolls and the cook puts my to-go container at the window.

The cashier hands me my bag with the soup in it. And in the most bullshit passive-aggressive voice says "Thanks so much for coming. Come again soon." I honestly think he does shit like that to get a reaction out of people. Because his job is so tiresome, he can't help but want to provoke people with his sarcastic crybaby bullshit.

Pho was great though. Good Pho and I passed right the fuck back out.

I woke up at like 1pm. I slept like a narcoleptic. No, like a narcotics addict. I finally came out of my small coma and wanted more pho. So I drove back to this place, figuring asshole's shift was finally over.

I was right. When I arrived, he wasn't there. Turns out, he doesn't work 18 hour shifts so his job isn't really as bad as he thinks and he needs to shut the fuck up and stop being such a little girl. Or just kill himself. Seriously. No one cares about how bad his job is in this economy.

I arrived back at the 24 hour Pho place. At lunch time. The door is wide open, so I walk in. Two dudes are sitting at tables doing paper work. One of them tells me that they're closed.

"What?"
"Closed. No open."
"You're... 24 hours... "
"No Pho."
"But it's lunch time. All you serve is Pho."
"No pho."
"I really just want some soup. Do you know somewhere else that sells pho?"
"I don't work there. Go now!"
"You don't have any like... in the back I could—"
"No Pho! Go now!"

So yeah. Things got a little heated. Turns out, passive aggressive is a better attitude than aggressive aggressive, but aggression has no place in a business model. Especially not in a food service job that lives on tips. You wanna be a dick? Get a real job. The rest of us have shitty jobs and we just have to deal with it cause we know we're not hot pho king shit.

Space Brain Fever

I've been sick the last few days, and that's my excuse for not updating. Please, enjoy the following images I made while succumbed by Space Brain Fever.

Prom Queen of California

Fuck this town. The stars are ground down to gravel and paved in the sidewalk for everyone to walk on. It’s a dying behemoth, heaving under the weight of its final throes. Everyday a hundred thousand small town prom queens from all over Nebraska, Idaho, and all the other loser states come here to pay homage to the letters in the hills. Tomorrow they’ll bring me my coffee when I’m too hung over to speak. Back home they were hot shit. Now they spit in my eggs cause they know they’re not going anywhere, but they can’t go back.

They write their letters home. How they saw a movie star. A real-life movie star. They don’t mention he was a shitty tipper. They don’t talk about how many promises they’ve been seduced by. Then they’re thirty and the game is over. Just another weathered face, tired of filling my cup. There’s nothing left for them but they can’t go home. This is just how life is sometimes. But they can’t go home. Then they’re forty. An old apron on laundry day, hanging on the rim of the hamper, stained by strawberry jelly and God knows whatelse.

Fuck this town. If you’re not drowning you just haven’t realized it yet. So breathe in deep as you get off the bus. That haze is your life now. Fingers to the bone every day and you think you’re ready. Ha.

But buy that ticket, because fuck this town. Ain’t anywhere else on earth that’s got what she has. She’s the brightest star in the sky and you know she’ll kill you but the glint in her eye seduces you. She reels you in and sets you down on that couch. She’s all “ra-ra” and kisses your wounds and whispers those promises in your ear as you’re about to fall asleep. She’s a tease, but you’d do anything to have her. She’s the prom queen of California and God you want her so bad. Give it to her hard. Fuck this town.

No Careers for Young Men

In an interview yesterday, I was told that I wasn't interviewing for a job, or a career. I was interviewing for a lifestyle. It's an unrelenting force. You take it home with you. Your vacations become time with clients. Your hobbies become golf with executives. It consumes you and never lets you go.

Honestly, that sounds amazing. I want a job like that. I need something that I'm so passionately possessed by, I can't let it go. I don't want a job that I leave at the office. I want something that takes up all my time and grinds me to bits and leaves me wanting more.

Because I don't want a Hollywood career. I want the Hollywood life.

I've known it since I got here, that this is a beautiful city of people willing to help if you can help them. I'm always trying to help. You put enough in and you start to get returns. I've seen it already, and I'm gonna keep seeing it.

I don't know if I got the position. But I do know that if I did, I'm gonna be the best damn assistant possible. Not because it's good for my career, cause that's not a thing. And not because it's what my boss wants. I'll be the best damn assistant possible, because I have to be. I refuse to settle for anything less.

I'm not gonna stop till I'm more than everything I want to be.

Fuck you. And your little dog, too.

I don't mean to sound like a stand up in 2004, but God dammit if people haven't let this tiny dog shit go.

Seriously, what the fuck do you think you're doing? When your cutest accessory is a canine, you need to rethink your life. I'm tired of you coming into the store, holding your little yappy piece of shit chihuahua-doodle. And I shouldn't hate on the dog that much, cause it's staring at me like Jeff at the end of The Fly. It's all your doing. You've ruined two, no three lives every day that you do that. Mine, the dog's and your own.

You claim that it's a helper dog, that it assists you in living. But we know that your pathetic dog can hardly bare to get out of the sad little bed in the corner of your room, let alone do any worthwhile task that helps you. When your dog needs a baby bjorn, it's not even laughable. Your dog caught your celiacs? How's that even possible.

They say that dogs start to look like their owners.

Your dog's not gonna be a good attention whore, like a sad old woman that slops into her fuck-me pumps and hits the club like no one notices she's not twenty-two anymore.

You can't bring it in here, we sell people food. How's that not clear to you?

Papa's New Bag

After many fruitless attempts applying to jobs with a pussy piece of shit cover letter, I wrote this monster last night while drinking my second Mickey's.

To my potential future employer:

My name is Tony Tallarico and I'm perfect for this job.

I’ve got a degree in English from the illustrious San Jose State University where I ran writer’s workshops, worked two jobs simultaneously, and still found time to get a bachelor’s degree. I’m serious.

What do you want to hear? That since I’ve been in LA, I’ve found an internship, worked a day job, taken improv classes, and been a volunteer PA on a couple sets? Well, good news. I was just listing shit I’ve done. I’m busy seven days a week trying to hustle this town. Ryan Daly’s office at Zero Gravity Management wishes I had more time that I could dedicate to interning for them. Word around the water cooler is that I'm the best intern they've ever had. 

It's been said that I write epic coverage. Samples are available upon request.

Look, there are two things about me you need to know. The first of which is that I’m amazing. I’m the best person for this job because I crave the satisfaction of approval. The second of which is that everyone else is an idiot. Let’s be honest, you wouldn’t still be reading this if I hadn’t caught your attention. Everyone else is busy telling you about how they “completed tasks in a goal oriented fashion,” or whatever, and I’m here giving you the straight dope. 

I’m sick and tired of stocking shelves to pay my bills. I’m a grown man and I’m willing to work damn hard to make myself a somebody. Give me an interview. You’ll love me. 

Best,

Tony Tallarico

925.989.1007

I don't give a fuck. I am the best.